Woman on Woman

by Hilary Chale

  Title Page

  WOMAN ON WOMAN

  by

  Hilary Chale

  Kinks Books is an imprint

  of W&H Publishing LLP.

  Publisher Information

  This ebook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2011

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Previously published by The Olympia Press PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.

  Copyright © Hilary Chale

  The right of Hilary Chale to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  Confessions

  It had been a flying visit from London to Copenhagen, and then Susan had crossed Denmark in the bullet express to catch the Leith boat at Esbjerg. There had been another woman, a fair almost ash blonde in the compartment, but they had kept themselves to themselves. For one thing, the blonde paged ceaselessly through books, as if she were a publisher’s reader, and for another Susan had, apart from business, another preoccupation. Her bottom hurt.

  It was painful to sit even on the well padded seats and though in one way it gave her a thrill, the dull aches made her restless. She was continually getting up to admire the view from a window. When the train was making the Great Belt ferry crossing, she got out to walk about the deck, and then, of course, on the second part of the overland journey, the same old round continued till they reached the port.

  The boat was comfortably full. Susan went to her cabin (she had a bunk in double one), deposited her things and went on deck to watch the lights of Esbjerg receding in the gathering evening. Then she had dinner. The chairs were considerably harder than the seats in the train, but this did not, in fact, hasten her excellent dinner. The sea was smooth, so she drank Aquavit and chased it with beer. By the time that she paid the bill, she was suffused with a well-being in which her aching buttocks played a not disagreeable part. After a further brief excursion to the upper deck, she found her cabin.

  The upper bunk was occupied.

  There was a detail which Susan now overlooked. She undressed circumspectly enough and then, on her bunk, she raised her nightie in order to look, Narcissus-like, in the mirror opposite, at her cane stripes. They were still blue and spectacularly raised upon her white skin and she looked at herself first left-handed and then right. It was, she thought, a sight worth seeing, so she looked again. Then she dropped the skirt of her nightie while still looking back, glanced upwards and made mirror contact with the candid gaze of her companion in the top bunk. She had forgotten the potential of a tall sleeping cabin mirror. She felt a spasm of panic and then the reaction. She would brazen it out.

  “Hello,” she smiled, and raised the nightie again, this time to her waist. The reflected face came nearer. The handsome ash blonde of the train was perhaps thirty years old. She groped back for the switch and turned up the big top light.

  “D’you mind my looking?”

  “Er .... “

  “What happened? You don’t look as if you’re still at school.”

  Susan was twenty six.

  “No. Don’t even teach.” She went on examining her buttocks and then, because the other made no further comment and some explanation seemed to be called for, she added “I’ve just been to my Confessions Club.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “The night before last, actually.”

  She lowered her nightie a second time.

  “May I see again? I’ve often wondered ... name’s Fiona, by the way.”

  “Susan,” said Susan, and once more uncovered her hinder parts, but this time in something of a daze. What on earth was happening to her? She glanced at the door to make sure that it was locked.

  “Didn’t you have corporal punishment?” she said to Fiona.

  “My schools had it, but I was a bit goody-goody and people never showed me ... “

  “Not at home either?”

  “Parents didn’t believe in it ... You?”

  “Only a bit at school, but my step-mother caned me. In fact she caned me until I was over sixteen.”

  “Step-mother’s blessing?”

  “Not really. She thought it was quicker and cleaner.”

  “How did she do it?”

  “On the bare.”

  “But wasn’t it awful ... or not?”

  “We got on very well, actually ... and she introduced me to the Confessions Club.”

  “I can imagine what that is about, but does your step-mother ...”

  “Oh no! She makes a point of not going when ...”

  “Yes, I see, or I think I do.”

  “... when I’m being done.”

  “D’you go often?”

  “It varies. It’s quite entertaining when one isn’t, er ... you know ... and even when one is ... sometimes hilarious. I’m not very good at accumulating, so I try to go at short intervals.”

  “And if you don’t go for a long time?”

  Susan was beginning to feel a rising uplift somewhere above her belly, like the feeling of a well-launched flirtation.

  “Supposing you don’t go for months or years?”

  “Nobody can make you go, but you get a polite letter from the secretary, asking if you are well and untroubled, or saying that someone thinks you have something on your mind. I’ve had one of those ... I’d lost my fixture list.”

  “A sort of Big Sister thing?”

  “I don’t think of it that way.”

  “How many members are there?”

  “Not sure. A couple of hundred, I suppose. Meetings every three weeks, between fifteen and twenty at a time and then there’s the Men’s.”

  “Women only?”

  “There’s also a sort of mixed group, but it’s not the same sort of thing.”

  “Where does it meet? Presumably not in Copenhagen?”

  “Oh no. That was business; no, I’m visiting friends in Edinburgh. The Club’s near us at Wesbiton.”

  “Fascinating! Probably need some such thing myself. Not a very active social life.”

  “One does get to know people rather well, quite quickly.”

  They were both silent for a minute.

  “Is that it, on the floor?”

  Susan looked. It was her fixture list. God knows how she had dropped it (again) but somehow she felt under a compulsion of good manners to hand it up to this interested stranger.

  It was actually a leaflet of rules with the fixtures inserted loose. There was no heading or address. It simply began:

  1. A membership candidate must be introduced by a member and before a vote is taken on her admission she must publicly promise to obey the rules andreceive six of the best.

  2. A member must not tell or set a lie, or suppress a truth on club business.

  3. A member must not hazard the confidentiality of the club’s business, save to recruit a new member.

  4. A member who is ashamed or breaks these rules, must confess to a meeting of the club, or to one or more members privately, or by letter. A m
eeting decides if she shall be punished.

  5. Punishment shall be executed at meetings, with six cane strokes on the bare or more as the meeting shall decide.

  6. In letters and records, members must be identified only by numbers. Their confessions and punishments must be minuted.

  Fiona handed the leaflet down, remarking that she supposed that Susan had broken rule three.

  “‘Fraid so ... not for the first time either.”

  There was another pause. The ship’s motion suggested a change of course; and then Susan made up her mind.

  “You sound as if you might like to join ... might you? It won’t get me off, because I couldn’t know that you might be interested till after you saw my end ... but all the same?”

  “I’d like to think about it. I’m very attracted. The trouble is that I only go south occasionally.”

  “I could enquire for you.”

  “You know, this is the most extraordinary experience in my life?”

  She started to climb down to floor level. Susan, from her bunk, saw well manicured toe-nails on the ladder, followed by slim legs through a flimsy veil and then a dark seductive triangle furrowed at the lower end; next came a smooth belly, a pair of tight breasts and finally the intense blue eyes from the mirror. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked seriously down. She was wearing some faint but evocative perfume. A draught from somewhere stirred her fair hair.

  Susan, her ordinary mind in suspense, put her back against the wall to make room. Fiona was moving in. Susan, against all rules, was offering something which Fiona had not got. Who was seducing who?

  “Better turn the light out.”

  The blanket and top sheet were folded back in the dark and Fiona slipped her way into the narrow bed. It was more or less wide enough for two, face to face. Susan felt a hand under her nightie, gently and deliciously caressing the lines of her bruises. Fiona’s lips were close to her ear, into which a whisper stole through the movements, air-conditioning and engine noises.

  “How many?”

  “Ten.”

  “Cane.”

  “Yes.”

  “It feels pretty fierce.”

  Susan began empathetically to feel Fiona’s rather flat haunches; the sort of which would go well in a kilt, she thought. To spank her would resound through the thin steel bulkheads and there wasn’t room to swing a cat.

  “I wish you would,” Fiona said, divining her ideas.

  “I know.” She held her tightly and patted them.

  “I’m in a state ... probably always have been ... I’ve got a tawse at home.”

  “I thought you said your parents didn’t believe in it.”

  “This has nothing to do with them.”

  Susan kissed her very deliberately on the cheek and said: “The thought of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never used?”

  There was a long pause. She felt Fiona suddenly go cold.

  “I sometimes do it ...”

  “In front of the mirror? People do, you discover that sort of thing at the club.” She squeezed the buttock as a gesture of sympathy, “it’s a bit like gratifying oneself. Everyone does it, but nobody can bring themselves to speak about it.”

  Fiona nodded.

  “That’s another thing ... “

  “A need for closer intimacy?”

  “Companionship.”

  “Do you do it much?”

  “It comes and goes. Sometimes not for months and then ... “

  “Randy all day?”

  “Me too.”

  Just after the ship made her final course alteration for Leith, Fiona said;

  “It doesn’t really work ... I mean with a mirror. Does it? I wish you’d .. “ and then with a rush, “I was wondering if we could meet while you were in Scotland. I mean, could you come to my place? It belonged to my mother ... just off Prince’s Street. Secluded and I think soundproof. Good solid Georgian. Certainly I’ve never heard the neighbours. I shall be there for at least a fortnight ... it’s a large flat.”

  It all seemed breathless and unexpected.

  “Have you a ‘phone? I’d rather ring you. My friends might have fixed things for me that I don’t know about.”

  “Sure,” said Fiona.

  And so it was left, while they dozed, mounds pressed together, till the pale dawn warned Fiona to climb her ladder for the edification of the stewardess.

  ***

  Three days later Susan rang.

  “Fiona.”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’ll come and spank you tomorrow.”

  “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice ... Er, fine, what time.”

  The atmosphere of the call was extraordinarily business like.

  “This is like making an appointment to have your hair done. About two thirty, OK?” Then she giggled.

  “Y-yes.”

  “I gather that you must be alone.”

  “They’re out shopping.”

  “Are you sure I’m not imposing? Perfect stranger, casual conversation etc, etc, etc?”

  “In the first place, they have to visit an aged relative on Tuesdays and secondly, well, how intimate does one have to be to cease being a perfect stranger?”

  There was a further giggle at the other end.

  “All right” said Susan.

  “Fine.”

  “And put surgical spirit on your bottom before I come.”

  “I think I hear them coming. See you tomorrow.”

  So on the Tuesday, after lunch, Susan found the place and climbed the stairs. Fiona was standing at the open door.

  “One more staircase I’m afraid, up to the studio.”

  She was wearing a white blouse and jabot above a dark Hunting Stuart kilt, white knitted stockings below the knee. Susan remembered what she had thought about kilts. The get-up made Fiona a very striking figure.

  “There’s coffee and, of course Scotch, quite a good Glenfiddich actually or I’ve got oatmeal soaking for Atholl Brose, if you like.”

  “I’ve never had Atholl Brose.”

  “Oh well, come into the kitchen and talk to me while I make it. Musn’t leave Scotland without trying Atholl Brose ... won’t take long.”

  There were pots and things at the other end of the large deal kitchen table. Its drawer was half open.

  “The tawse is at the back of the drawer. Perhaps you’d like to take it upstairs. There’s another table very like it up there.”

  Susan rummaged it out. It was a heavy two-foot affair, two and half inches wide, doubled along half its length, with the business end divided into two over the last six inches. She cocked an eye at Fiona and then made another quick decision.

  “I think it’s a mistake to wait. Bend over this corner of the table and throw your kilt up; and if you’re wearing any pants, take them down.”

  An anxious hunger flickered in Fiona’s eyes.

  “This is it,” she said. She came round, bent over it, and put her head on her arms. Then she said, “it’s tidier for you to peel the kilt up my back, than for me to throw it. It’s not like a lady’s tartan skirt.”

  Susan took the hem and laid it right back to her shoulder blades. Fiona was bare from the top of her knee-length stockings right up to the dimples of her pelvis. Her naked presentation glowed palely, like steam on silver gilt.

  “Six now and then we go upstairs, OK?”

  “Mm-mm...”

  Susan made experimental flourishes in the air, to learn how it felt in the hand. It was more supple yet harder than anything she had ever used. The distinctive sound did not deceive Fiona; she remained passive. Then Susan adjusted her mind and struck. Her ten years’ experience with club canes undoubtedly
helped. Obviously, if a cane curled onto the outer thigh when you stood too close, a tawse would do so even more. She was not trying to be merciful. It came audibly in the air, and landed with a sharp thump. In ten seconds she could see that the broad red stripe was high and short on the left cheek, but lower and longer round the curve of the right. She stepped back about a foot and tried again. It struck so that the end came only a little further than the muscles of the farther buttock. This seemed about right. She waited fifteen seconds by her watch and struck again upon the same broad scarlet band and did so for the remaining four at fifteen-second intervals. One did not need to be as accurate with this instrument as with the cane.

  “Six,” she said, “stay where you are for a moment ... got a tape measure?”

  “In the drawer and I’m bending over it.”

  “All right. Can you stand up without moving your feet?”

  “I think so,” and she did. They opened the drawer and got it out.

  “If we measure from my right toe to your left heel, it will probably be right every time. You see this is meant to hurt, but I don’t want to injure you. The harder I hit, the less control, so a fixed distance is a good thing.”

  By the feel of that first stroke round her right thigh Fiona realised what she meant.

  So they measured as proposed. Fiona, her reddened buttocks in the air, holding one end of the tape against her heel, Susan pulling it tight.

  “We have a measuring circle at the club,” but she did not elaborate.

  “May I finish the Brose?”

  “Sounds like a good idea, but I’ll give you another six if it takes too long.”

  Fiona laughed. “Continuity, I suppose,” she said, as she stood up and let the kilt fall. So, after a time, which was not too long, they went upstairs, Atholl Brose, tape measure and tawse. It was a much used, lofty studio. Fiona put the tray down near a corner of the table and without more ado, bent over the other. Susan threw up the kilt, stretched the tape, put her feet in the right place and beat her bottom a second time. It made Fiona gasp.