by Various
‘Yes, Dr Flint.’ Rebecca’s penitent whisper was scarcely audible.
‘Well, that all seems fine,’ Emma conceded. ‘There’s just the credit card. My instructions –’
‘Ah, yes. The credit card,’ the Head broke in, once again marginalising Emma. ‘Where exactly is it, girl? No. Let me think. In your swimsuit?’
Rebecca glanced up, amazement battling with fear in her dark eyes. ‘Yes. I hide it in my costume, Dr Flint.’
‘Carefully tucked away in your locker, I presume.’
Rebecca merely nodded.
‘Then we shall have to go down to the pool together after I have punished you and destroy the wretched thing.’
Punished you. Emma’s tongue worked busily, trying to lubricate her dry mouth. What precisely did the stern Head mean by those delicious words. More strange forfeits? Early Beds? What if Rebecca was about to be spanked? Emma supposed that she wouldn’t be around to witness it this time.
‘Place that chair over there, in the centre of the carpet, Rebecca.’
The girl picked up the chair and obediently positioned it on the spot indicated by the Head’s jabbing forefinger.
‘Across the chair, girl. I am going to cane your bottom.’
Emma clenched her hands into tight little fists of excitement. Her nipples stirred, thickened and kissed the lace of her taut brassiere cups. A caning. It was going to be a caning.
‘Hadn’t I better –’ Emma murmured.
‘Stay where you are by that nice warm fire, girl. Much more comfortable, I’m sure, than out in the nasty rain.’
Stunned – but secretly thrilled – Emma slumped back down in her chair. She watched, somewhat shyly, as Rebecca bent down over the chair, planting her hands, palms down, on the polished seat. Head bowed, thighs squeezed together, she presented her rounded buttocks up for their impending pain.
‘Laments,’ the Head purred, approaching the gleaming walnut chest of drawers, ‘dispenses all discipline immediately. Instant punishment could almost be our motto. It’s the best way, I find. Sometimes, of course,’ she added conversationally, ‘the miscreant benefits from waiting anxiously for an hour before being beaten. Endless moments of delicious dread. Sixty minutes of sweet torment. Such waiting heightens the girl’s anxiety and foreboding. Before I bare the naughty bottom, the wrongdoer has already imagined and suffered every stinging swipe, every searing slice, of the cruel cane.’
As the Head paused to open the second drawer down, Emma clenched her buttocks furtively, inching them up from the seat of her chair to ease her soaking panties clinging to her flesh.
‘But in this particular case,’ the Head grunted, rummaging in the deep drawer, ‘prompt punishment is called for. Ah, there it is.’
She had been pawing the interior of the drawer. Emma heard the dry, eerie rattle as the Head’s fingertips encountered the length of bamboo. So did Rebecca – who whimpered softly. The cane was extracted from the darkness of the drawer and brought out into the light. It sparkled beneath the electric lightbulbs above: twenty-two inches of venomously supple wood. The Head closed the drawer with her elbow. The smooth, worn wood slid home silently. Emma watched, more openly and with lively interest, as the Head shouldered her cane, stepped up to the framed photographs of the last generation of female tennis champions, smartly saluted them with the quivering stick, then turned to address the proffered buttocks of the bending girl.
‘Shall we say six for actually using the credit card, such usage being, as you know full well, Rebecca, forbidden during your stay here at Laments and six,’ the Head added, inspecting her cane closely for a few seconds then swishing it down to test its whippiness, ‘for risking the good name of your family by flouting the credit limit and failing to make provision for repayments?’
After the flurry of words, a loud silence filled the study. Suddenly, a pearwood log settled in the embers, sending a shower of orange sparks whirling up the dark chimney. Emma, spellbound as she followed the pre-punishment preparations, almost toppled from her chair.
‘But first,’ Dr Flint murmured, reverently placing her cane lengthways down across the polished leather surface of the desk, ‘I require you to give me full details of how, where, when and with whom you used the credit card.’
Stepping forward two paces, she reached down and placed her capable hands at the waist of the bending girl. Rebecca eased her tummy down, bent her knees a fraction and jerked her bottom up obediently to allow her tiny shorts to be dragged down slowly. The Head’s slender fingers left the shorts at the lower thighs. They remained there, binding the soft flesh in a restricting band, clamping the bare-bottomed girl’s legs together and rendering her exposed cheeks above perfectly poised and positioned for punishment.
Gazing at the dark cleft between the perfect peach-cheeks, Emma was struck by a sudden thought, prompted by a glint from a pearl button on the Head’s bloused bosom. She had known all along, Emma realised, watching the Head roll up the unbuttoned sleeve of her blouse. She unbuttoned that cuff five minutes after I came into this room. Rebecca’s fate had been sealed – and her punishment decided – even before the dark-haired girl had been dragged from her Early Bed by the eager Miss Watson.
The double echo of a blisteringly spanking hand rang around the spartan study. Emma blinked, almost angry with herself for not concentrating properly and, in consequence, missing the first two spanks. The echo had died. All that remained to attest to the fact that they had occurred were two pink blotches which deepened to a darker crimson before Emma’s wide eyes. Smack. Smack. The Head stood up after delivering two more crisp spanks across the soft cheeks. Rebecca mewled in response, her buttocks reddening angrily as she squeezed them.
‘Well, girl. Speak. I’m waiting.’
Under the threat of the hovering hand above her bottom, Rebecca quickly confessed to using the credit card in Brighton. Two more severe spanks elicited two shrill squeals and a full confession. Times, dates and places all spilled forth. Names were named. Less than half of it made any sense to Emma, although she was able to work out that Rebecca had taken three of her friends from Laments in a hired car to Brighton and back – before dawn – on at least a dozen memorable jaunts. Lavish meals washed down by champagne had been enjoyed. The hire car, plus waiting time and tip, must have cost at least a hundred. That, Emma realised, calculating rapidly, accounted for the earlier cash withdrawals before the hole-in-the-wall had dried up.
The Head ran her fingertips lightly over the punished rump, then briefly thumbed Rebecca’s hot cleft. ‘Vintage champagne? Lobsters?’
Under a staccato of five more merciless spanks, Rebecca yelped out her guilt, confessing unreservedly more details, more damning facts.
Stepping back from the spanked girl, Dr Flint rubbed her hot palm against her thigh before snatching up the bamboo cane.
‘Twelve, we agreed, did we not?’ she whispered, depressing the spanked cheeks under the thin whippy stick’s yellow length. ‘Legs straight. Up on your toes, girl.’
The Head raised the cane. Emma saw the white line its pressure into the hot flesh had left slowly fill with crimson.
‘Bottom up a little more, girl. Come along. Get it up,’ she rasped, tap-tapping the curved flesh mounds imperiously with the quivering tip of her cane.
Rebecca, sniffling, obeyed instantly, straining to present her smacked bottom up to her punisher’s satisfaction. Dr Flint took a half pace back, levelled the bamboo in against the swell of the beautiful buttocks, swept the whippy wood up then lashed it down. Emma’s soft gasp was drowned by the sound of the slicing swipe across the soft cheeks, and the loud sorrow-sob from the lips of the punished girl. A second, a third and then a blistering fourth stroke followed. Rebecca’s squealing became one long howl of anguish. Emma held her breath, painfully, until the fifth cruel stroke had whipped down, bite-slicing into the striped buttocks. Criss-crossed with vivid weals, the flayed buttocks jerked and writhed. Emma glimpsed the wet fig of the thrashed, bare-bottomed girl as
she twisted across the chair in an agony of torment. Emma breathed out softly, surrendering to the ache in her pent-up lungs. Her loud sigh was silenced by the brutal swish and searing swipe of the sixth stroke.
Rebecca screamed softly, wriggling and writhing as if in orgasm, bucking her hips and squeezing her cheeks as if sucking up a ribbed anal dildo into the wet warmth of her sphincter. Emma sat still. To move an inch – dragging her wet slit against her cotton panties – would, she knew, trigger a climax almost at once. Ashamed, deliciously disturbed and sexually aroused by the strict discipline being dispensed to the bare-bottomed girl across the chair, Emma was filled with the pleasurable discomfort of her new found self-knowledge: she enjoyed watching another female being punished. She found strict discipline delightful, and took pleasure in another’s pain.
Rebecca wriggled frantically, her striped bottom describing erotic arabesques as her slender hips writhed.
‘Stop that at once, girl,’ Dr Flint snapped, trapping and taming the whipped cheeks beneath the yellow cane she had just lashed them with. ‘Now get down right across the chair for the next six strokes. Hurry up, girl,’ she thundered impatiently, ‘you know what I want.’
Rebecca squirmed as she lowered her breasts over the far edge of the polished wooden seat and sank her belly into the shining wood. Her bottom, now horizontal, was deliciously poised, forming a tempting target for the cane. The bamboo twitched eagerly in the Head’s firm grasp.
Struggling to avoid coming right then and there on her chair, Emma gazed directly on Rebecca’s repositioned buttocks: longing to kiss each perfect peach-cheek then bury her hot face down between the hotter twin mounds of red-wealed flesh and tongue the deep cleft between them.
Almost swooning, Emma gripped the sides of her chair to steady herself. She felt her pulse plucking at her soft throat, sensed the hammer of her heart. Her swollen tongue seemed too thick for her mouth. She sat, her brain spinning, as the Head commenced to administer the second stage of the punishment.
Dr Flint gripped her cane firmly and angled it above the bunched buttocks directly below. The first six strokes had been swift and searing, planting scarlet stripes across the helpless cheeks in rapid succession. The concluding strokes were, Emma felt intuitively, to be slow; more deliberate and more measured.
One. Emma counted silently, surreptitiously smoothing her fingertips down over her pubis as the thin cane sliced into the rubbery spasms of punished flesh.
Two. Emma whispered it softly, her dry lips peeling slowly apart as she murmured the count. Two. Two nipples, now burning peaks of pain, aching for the fierce cupping of her crushing palms.
Three. The third stroke instantly conjured up three sounds: a shriek from the punished; a snarl from the punisher; a moan from the voyeur.
Four. The cane whistled down, kiss-lashing the upturned buttocks savagely. Rebecca slammed her hips four times into the chair in a frenzy of violent ecstasy before the Head planted her white pump firmly down on to the whipped bottom. Writhing beneath the pinioning pump of her dominant tormentress, Rebecca squirmed in agony, sobbing aloud. Emma, her slit now weeping freely, yearned to bring her fingers to her wet heat.
‘Come here,’ the Head instructed, shouldering her cane and summoning Emma to her side.
As if in a trance, Emma rose from her chair and approached. Dr Flint took her pump away from Rebecca’s bottom and replaced it on the carpet. Emma glimpsed the chevrons of the ribbed sole working a herringbone pattern against the crimson flesh. Shrinking back slightly from the sight, at such close quarters, of the cane-striped cheeks, Emma looked up into the Head’s clear gaze.
‘Here. Take it.’
Emma was offered the cane.
‘The girl is due a further two strokes. She has caused you a good deal of inconvenience. Her bottom is yours. Stripe her. Stripe her well.’
Gripping the cane and thrilling to the potent malice of the whippy wood, Emma succumbed to hesitation, guilt and indecision. She wanted to administer the two remaining strokes, wanted to swish the bamboo down across the already striped buttocks of the bare-bottomed, bending girl. She yearned to hear the thin whistle of the slicing strokes, and ached for the grunts from Rebecca’s lips as her soft cheeks suffered. But, inexplicably, Emma found, to her frustration and confusion, that her arm could not raise the length of cane up above the shivering buttocks below.
Felicity Flint, scrutinising Emma carefully, nodded judiciously and stepped in, smartly retrieving the situation. A true dominant, she was anxious to maintain control at every stage of the discipline. Any lapse – or unscheduled pause in the proceedings – could shift the carefully orchestrated balance of power between the punisher and the punished.
‘You are tired,’ she murmured.
Emma, with a fleeting pang of reluctance, surrendered the cane to the Head. She nodded, avoiding the piercing gaze of Dr Flint’s pale blue eyes.
Swish, crack. The remaining two strokes were delivered instantly with consummate skill, leaving Rebecca squealing and writhing in renewed anguish.
‘Remain exactly as you are across the chair for two minutes, girl,’ the Head instructed. ‘Gin and T or sherry?’
Emma, lost in her own thoughts as she gazed down intently at the red-wealed buttocks still wriggling in pain, did not think the partly heard words were being addressed to her.
‘I could get some tea or coffee rustled up, of course,’ Felicity Flint continued.
‘Oh,’ Emma blinked. ‘A G and T would be fine.’
The Head, after carefully returning the cane to its dark lair in the polished walnut drawer, fixed two gins, splashing the tonic in expertly. Emma heard the ice cubes clinking against the sides of the tumblers.
‘Bottoms up.’ Dr Flint arched her right eyebrow up.
Emma blushed, then drank deeply. She watched over the rim of her tumbler as the Head raised her own glass up once more in a salute to the photos on the opposite wall. Emma, shaken by recent events, found herself toying with an empty glass.
‘Another?’
Coming to her senses with a determined effort, Emma shook her head. ‘Driving.’ She shrugged.
‘Let’s not even discuss your dashing back to London at this late hour,’ Dr Flint countered suavely, commandeering Emma’s glass and refilling it generously. ‘There. You’ll stay. It’s settled. We’ll have some supper when I have completed our business here.’
Settling down on to her chair by the fire, Emma realised that she was to remain at Laments overnight. Supremely confident in all her decisions, the Head had spoken with an air of finality without any discussion. Emma had not even agreed.
‘Come along, girl,’ Emma heard the Head admonish the snivelling credit card cheat, who was struggling unsuccessfully to yank up her tiny shorts over her whipped cheeks. ‘Take me to your locker at once.’
Emma watched as Rebecca wiped a silver tear from her eye with the back of her hand. Snuffling as she answered, her whispered words were indistinct.
‘Oh, come here, girl.’
Emma turned, alert to the new timbre in the Head’s voice. It could have been one of the tennis aces framed upon the wall speaking, encouraging a colt who had just missed an ace. Felicity Flint had spoken with an unsuspected tenderness.
‘Shorts down. Let me see your bottom.’
Rebecca obeyed, thumbing down her shorts obediently until the tight waistband cupped her punished cheeks – causing their swollen curves to bulge deliciously. The Head kneeled, her stern face a mere three inches from the buttocks she had just blistered with the cruel whippy wood.
Emma watched, fascinated, as the kneeling Head brought her tumbler of iced gin and tonic up against the naked bottom, pressing the cold glass into and then rolling it across the hot double domes. Rebecca gasped aloud, jerking her whipped rump back into the healing balm.
‘You have been a very naughty girl,’ Dr Flint murmured softly, removing the glass and, after raising it to her sensual lips, sipping slowly from it. Rebecca waggled her redde
ned bottom impatiently, signalling her desire for the return of the tumbler.
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Head.’
‘But you have been punished, and I note that you did not lie or attempt to deny the offence.’ The Head skimmed the frosted glass teasingly across the quivering cheeks.
Rebecca whispered her penitence softly. She inched her buttocks back, seeking the touch of the cold glass against her punished flesh. The Head crushed the tumbler along the dark cleft. Rebecca whimpered happily, shuddering at and basking in the delicious aftercare.
‘And you did deserve to be beaten, didn’t you?’
Rebecca remained silent. It was a sulky silence.
‘So,’ the Head whispered, her voice returning to its tone of velvety venom, ‘you resent your stripes? There will, I must warn you, girl, be more stripes for you, and your wicked accomplices.’
Emma saw Rebecca’s cheeks clench in fearful anticipation of further punishment.
‘But more of that tomorrow.’ Dr Flint rose, finished her drink with one hand and jerked up Rebecca’s tight shorts deftly with the other. ‘Now take me to that wretched card and let me destroy it.’
More stripes. Sitting alone by the glowing embers in the hearth, Emma nursed her second strong gin and T. She sipped from it meditatively, relaxing as the drink warmed her. She felt drained. Exhausted. Grudgingly glad not to have to take The Beast back through the rain to London. And her slit seethed. She must, she thought, get some privacy soon and attend to the heat that was becoming increasingly more urgent between the juncture of her slippery thighs.
Emma’s desire for the relief and the release of a climax clamoured loudly in her brain and at the base of her tightened belly. The roller-coaster events of the last couple of hours had left her with so much to feed her fantasies with, so much to fuel her scrabbling fingers frantic at her pussy.
One more peep at that cane. Dare she? Emma skipped across to the polished walnut chest of drawers and opened up the bamboo’s resting place. Her fingers found the thin length of cane and dragged it into the light. Glancing down, Emma shivered, vividly remembering Rebecca’s red stripes. Emma knew that she must hold the cane once more. It quivered in her tightly gripping fist. She swished it, thrilling to the vicious slice as the bamboo sang its cruel note of suffering. Emma’s mouth dried. She sipped her iced gin and T.