A touch of menace in the music - no, not so much menace, as a hint that there is an Event Looming, that slight increase in tempo that warns the viewer things are going to happen. Our heroine turns the pages of the old western she is reading in the seclusion of her bedroom.
A line leaps out, edged in flame, touched by insanity. It reaches into secret places, sends a thrill through her that is unexpected, unexplained, unimaginable in its excitement.
‘Ma’am, I reckon you need a spanking.’
She reads the line again; and then reads the remainder of the book as if it were about to self-destruct: but the heroine, haughty self-centred daughter of the rancher, never does get the spanking.
Does that Event warrant a change of tempo, a sense of Happening? Yes, for it marks the beginning of her sexual awakening, even though this is a long time in the making, a long time in the happening. We mustn’t rush. Things take time, after all, and adolescence is a long and painful journey we all have to travel, to look back on, grateful we have made it safely to maturity.
One more Event and I promise you Action to see you through until this story increases its sex quota; or, if you prefer, the Action for which you began to read it in the first place. Or more simply the M Factor (Masturbation).
We move to a ‘family’ magazine, full of stories, funny items, puzzles, crosswords - and find a story about a man baby-sitting a precocious young girl, the detail of the relationship escapes. Is he neighbour, uncle, family friend? Whatever, she sets out to seduce him by trying a cigarette and looking closely into his eyes; but she winds up over his knee being spanked with his slipper. While the detail escapes, the illustration doesn’t, nor does the feeling reading the story roused in this immature but rapidly changing female. Such a story today would not appear in a family magazine, could only be found in a specialist magazine. Such are the changing times in which we live.
From here on out, the girl we are looking at indulges nightly in a strange fantasy in which she is the wife of a film star, kidnapped and treated abominably by her captors.
We have to FAST FORWARD some years, as I do not think you will be interested in the details of a fantasy. I am sure you would prefer facts - in the scene everyone needs to think - to know - people exist who walk the left hand fork, people who can and do take beatings from those who walk the right hand fork.
Put the music on HOLD, send the pianist out for a drink, come with me into a different time, a different place. Press EJECT and take the cassette out of the machine.
Choose one of the others, stacked by the side, yes, the black one without labels.
It is time for some M Factor to enter into this tale.
My master is displeased with me. I have been arguing with him by post over the tights/stockings issue, preferring tights every time. He has had enough, has decided that I am far too ‘bolshie’ for a slave and has ordered me to his presence, telling me to wear a black lace suspender belt, and black, seamed stockings beneath a straight black dress and high heeled shoes. In his presence I quake a little in those high heels, for my list of misdemeanours is lengthy. Oh, how easy to argue by letter and discount the possibility of all sins being one day expiated on my bottom! The lecture is endless. I squirm and wriggle, am ordered to be still.
My Master produces a short chain with which he secures my wrists. My Master has always said that slaves look good in chains, which also render them helpless. They add to my feelings of submission. Chained, I am totally at his command. I know that punishment is close, I feel -
Sentence is pronounced. A stinging hand spanking, followed by ten strokes of the tawse which I have brought with me as ordered, and finally six hard strokes with a malacca cane, the last two portions of the punishment to be given while I am secured over a stool, unable to escape a single stroke.
My master sits in the high backed chair and waits. There is no need for command. I know what I have to do. I walk over to him and lie down. Over his knees, feeling foolish as always. My bottom is prepared, knickers carefully lowered, skirt raised and tucked out of the way. The air is cool on exposed skin, the waiting agonising. My Master has a hard hand and he applies it vigorously, before too long I am struggling and pleading for mercy; but none is to be found. Only when he is satisfied that I am well and truly spanked can I go and stand, sniffing and fighting tears, in the corner.
Ten minutes’ respite. It isn’t long enough for the burning to disappear, it isn’t long enough before I am ordered back, to have my wrists unchained so as to allow me to put myself over the stool and be re-chained, with the addition of a large strap around my waist. There is, and will be, no escape. Ten strokes of the tawse, delivered with strength, with pauses between each one, with ears deaf to my pleas and cries. Bands of pain shriek at me, but I have to stay there. I have to take them, every one.
Another ten minutes’ respite, standing in the corner holding the cane in trembling fingers, reflecting on the sins which brought me here, vowing aloud never to do it again, to obey my Master in all things and in all ways.
It isn’t enough to deflect him from the final stage, the caning.
My ten minutes is up; with tear-streaked face I return to the stool and prostrate myself over it. Chained in position again, I await with fear and apprehension of the stomach sinking kind, the kiss of the cane. Before that I have to kiss it, the instrument of so much pain.
Then the caning begins, slowly. Measured, calculated to hurt in the extreme, every stroke placed so that none overlaps, and I have six burning lines.
And then I am given over to my Master’s love slave for cream, consolation and comfort.
It almost makes the punishment worthwhile.
REWIND. EJECT. Replace the original cassette in the machine, recall the pianist from the bar, and resume story.
PLAY.
Cue Music.
The scene - London; the time - ‘60’s. Swinging, love, drugs, freedom, money, adventure.
The fantasy is wearing thin, there are times when it no longer works. There are just so many variations on a theme when it is a mind game. Since we last looked at this video, our heroine has been through a traumatic marriage and divorce - the whole episode lasting just three years - and has tried without success to coax different boyfriends into spanking her by saying ‘I had a dream last night, I dreamed you spanked me’ and waiting for their response. One boyfriend irritated her to screaming point by saying - without prompting - ‘I think you need a spanking to knock some sense into you but I think you’d like it so I won’t’. The relationship collapsed shortly after that. Increase music tempo just a little - a hint of something - pan camera along Fleet Street to The Strand, see crowds of people, girls in mini skirts and bouffant hairdos, men in long jackets and flares, close in on a stall selling newspapers and magazines.
Up in the top right hand corner is a magazine with the lovely basic evocative title, ‘SPANKING’. It is a whole pound. Before you laugh, remember our heroine is earning only around £10 a week right now. But the cover, a lady kneeling on a chair, bottom bare and waiting, overcomes the twin reservations of spending a whole pound on a magazine and asking a man for it. Close camera in on the knowing lustful look he gives her as he hands over the magazine, without a word passing between them.
It isn’t easy being female and wanting to buy a spanking magazine. It isn’t easy at all. Even men who aren’t interested in the scene are capable of looking with lust at someone who obviously is.
Today, in the ‘90’s, it is all right to walk into a Private Shop and spend £10 or more on a C.P. magazine. It is all right to come out with a brown paper bag covering your purchase. It is hard to remember in detail the feelings at that time, buying a magazine with such an erotic title and cover from an open news stand in Fleet Street, with half London walking by. Yet - the memory stays, after all these years, the memory of buying the magazine, the man’s look, the one-po
und note that bought erotic dreams that night.
There weren’t many magazines. Memories recalled of reading the headlines in someone’s newspaper on the tube, a spanking case brought to court, buying the paper on leaving the Underground, savouring it over lunch - what a lunch! - being grateful my parents had the News of the World come Sunday only now asking why and what they got from reading such salacious stuff.
We have moved on. Our heroine is older, wiser, and about to become involved in a relationship that will change her life.
Before then, we need a little more of the M Factor.
Press STOP, remove video, replace with another of the black unlabelled videos.
PLAY.
There are times when my rebellious nature seems to take over and determine that I will end up in trouble, whether it is my intention to do so or not.
My Master asked me in a letter for my neck size so he could acquire the appropriate collar.
I didn’t send it.
He asked again, adding that I would be punished for inattention.
I sent it, but then asked in a subsequent letter if he had the collar for me.
‘Did I ask you to return to the subject?’ came the swift response. And new orders are given to punish me for my insolence.
I stand before my Master, my skirt pegged firmly to my collar, knickers lowered to my knees, hands chained before me. My Master walks around me, lecturing me non-stop on the stupidity of slaves who forget to do something and then argue about it later. Each walk around me is accompanied by a sharp stinging stroke of the cane - not hard, but surely marking me. And preparing me for punishment to come. I am shaking inside, wet, biting my lips to stop myself crying out for a protest will result in a further dozen added to the sentence - it is, every time, and having experienced being chained to the stool and punished, thinking the punishment is over only to have my Master say ‘there’s the small matter of -’ and receiving a further dozen, I dare not protest now.
It is a sunny day. Hobbled by a chain, I am led into the garden, blindfolded and secured to a large tree, my arms firmly fastened around the trunk, the rough bark pressing against my stomach and thighs. No words are spoken, I have no way of knowing where my Master is, what he is thinking, what he is doing.
There is no human sound, only the birds and insects are noisy and the occasional plane flying overhead.
Would that the pilot could look down and see me, bottom bare, helpless, waiting.
For what? And why should I want someone to see me?
Because what is on display is fit for viewing, large, round, shapely (I quote my Master, not my mirror) and it is a pleasure, if not a real thrill, to be on display.
Time goes by, time eternal, time which seems as if it will never end, this waiting, this apprehension. It ends suddenly, with a switch across the cheeks; hard, cutting. I cry out, and am rewarded with three sharp strokes in succession, each hurting more than the one before. Pause, a respite, then twelve sharp strokes, bringing tears.
‘Useless slave! Argumentative slave! You will not argue with me again!’
The switch changes to something larger, heavier, wider. The paddle? The three fingered tawse? After the switching it is hard to tell, all that is certain is that the pain leaps through me with every stroke. I am longing to be free, the rough bark scratches and chafes, the wetness trickles. It is over. I am allowed my freedom, only to be swung over a knee and spanked over the top of the weals already there.
And ordered to kneel on hard flagstones and beg forgiveness.
Which I do.
REWIND. EJECT. It is time the pianist earned some of that money we are going to pay him (aren’t we?) for providing the tinkling background music to lull the senses, increase the sensations, touch the parts my words might not reach - on the other hand, if I am not reaching you, you’re not reading it, so why am I paying this pianist?
I always was a soft touch when it comes to a good little piano man.
And you can take that any way you wish.
Replace original cassette, yes, the one labelled Life Story of Josephine Scott -I think it’s becoming familiar by now, isn’t it?
PLAY.
There is nothing more annoying to someone submissive than to have a man slap her during a kiss and then when she confesses that she liked it, have him turn cold and hard and mutter things about ‘being a little blue about the arse’ and never calling again.
Men in the 60’s - more impossible than men now. Ego easily dented, he wanted to be the big macho man, dominating the little girl, making her accept what he wanted to give. And when she admitted to actually liking it - end of relationship.
Well, maybe he was no great loss. Trouble is, I’ll never know.
Working in a Solicitors’ office gives you the opportunity to meet all manner of people - including private investigators. The one our heroine is to meet is a short dark stocky man with an engaging smile and a winning way. She confesses to wishing to learn the basics, he invites her to his office and darkroom to learn.
She goes.
Here, with bows sweeping across strings, bringing heart-rending beautiful music to the background, our heroine stands in the cluttered untidy darkroom, adjusting her eyes to the infra red light, taking in nothing of what he is saying, knowing only she has been overwhelmed with a desire to have this man. It must be telepathy; he stops his talk of developers and paper to say: ‘I could sleep with you. Could you sleep with me?’
And hearing herself say ‘yes’, to the accompaniment of crashing cymbals and a roll on the drums. But he is married, dear viewer, he is married.
‘Don’t let that stop you,’ he says, smiling the smile that gets deep into her.
And then, when his wife is out visiting, they are on the settee, he is half naked, she is totally naked, eight stone two pounds of not very much, frigid, scared, in love-
Frigid. It hurts, the penetration hurts, she cries out in genuine fear and pain. He stops, rests on her, looks deep into her hazel-flecked eyes, says. ‘There’s a big stick coming, it’s coming now, it’s going to hurt, it’s coming!’
And with a rush and surge of feeling such as she has never known, ever, she does come.
‘How did you know?’ asked in a tiny whispery voice afterwards, sitting together, holding hands, exploring new feelings.
‘I didn’t; but I guessed.’
And a whole new world opens up....
EJECT. Put to one side, replace with another cassette. More M Factor on the way.
Ready?
PLAY.
Wearing a silky black knee length dress buttoned to the neck, with long sleeves over which I am wearing a white apron to symbolise my maid/slave status, I stand before my Master. I wear a lacy white slip and black seamed stockings are tautly suspendered to a corselette. A chain falls from my neck to the one linking my ankles, and my wrists are chained behind my back.
This is the moment to dread.
This is the moment when my Master spends time relating my sins, my crimes and a lengthy list they make too! Why do I do it? Naturally rebellious, naturally wishing to argue at every given moment, I suppose I will never learn.
(Do I want to?)
My Master doesn’t really think a punishment has taken place unless it starts with a prolonged and stinging hand spanking. The chains are unlocked, I am put across his knee and I wait.
The spanking begins. Oh how I long to be able to remain still, not to twist and writhe, not to try and kick - the chains prevent me - and not to put my hand in the way. Fatal mistake!
Nothing is said, but my hand is put firmly to one side. I know I will suffer for that later!
Allowed a rest, allowed a moment to sniffle and plead, ignored as always and made ready over the padded stool which I love and hate at the same time - love in remembrance of the s
ession when I am home and safe - hate while I have to lie across it and take what is given me; the paddle is applied steadily and firmly, reddening further the already red and burning cheeks.
Allowed a further rest, but not for long, for the cane has to be applied when the bottom is red and sore for maximum impact.
Do you have a favourite instrument?
What am I doing? This is my story, your favourites are for your mind and your slave. In remembrance I love the cane, long for the sting, the cutting sharp edge of pain, the weals; the bruises. At the same time I am in agony, longing for it to be over. Afterwards it lives on in memory and I am driven to insolence and cheek, driven to disobedience and misbehaviour just so I can feel its sting all over again.
I wish I hadn’t put my hand in the way.
Have you slotted the original cassette in the machine again?
Then let’s press PLAY and carry on from where we left off. Oh, just a moment. Does anyone know where the pianist went? Last time we had a touch of the strings, the wallpaper music that befits an urban/rural landscape. Come on piano man, I need a tinkling piano around here for this bit.
I am about to confess to a serious mistake.
We went to the cinema, friend, husband and me. We went to see ‘The Taming of the Shrew’. When we got home, my friend said. ‘What did you think of it?’
I said, without thinking. ‘I thought she should have been spanked.’
‘She was, in the original story,’ said friend, with the strangest of looks. ‘Is that what you’d like?’
Too late for lies, for cover-ups, for any kind of deceit.
I said ‘yes.’
And I asked where I could buy something, no, I asked what I could buy for games.
We had been to Spain, my lover and I, we went there to take someone who was going there to live for a while. We had a car loaded down with luggage all the way there, but on the way back there was room for another kind of luggage.
Cream of the Crop Page 16