by Sarah Steel
Miss Pringle. Now slavishly in her thrall, he found it difficult to trespass on her image. His mind wandered down along the corridors of his immediate surroundings, trying to escape from her dominating image. An image he now both feared and adored. Rollo wondered how the other young residents were progressing. He saw them several times each day, dining in subdued silence. He found their wet towels in the showers, overheard their soft screams of torment as their trainers plied the crop and cane.
And what about the Greek girl, the girl with the frightened almond eyes? Did Miss Pringle punish her? Rollo lifted his sheet up and watched his shaft thicken and engorge. Yes. The Greek girl. Bare-bottomed and bending, proffering her peach cheeks up for the kiss of Miss Pringle's strap. Yes. Rollo grasped his hot erection and started to masturbate, slowly, luxuriating in the fantasy of the naked girl - in his mind, seeing her pinned across the stern blonde's lap, being strapped. He saw the girl's squirming buttocks reddening; heard her shrill squeals of suffering; relished the snap-cracking of the burning leather. Yes. This was it. This was the fantasy that would fuel a successful explosion of hot seed.
Out of bed, he stumbled to the wall, turned, and edged backwards until his buttocks crushed up against its cool stretch. Pumping fiercely all the time, he followed the delicious sequence of images behind his closed eyes. The almond eyes wide with fear, the perfect cheeks crimson with pain.
With his buttocks splayed against the cold wall, and his feet planted wide apart, he whispered aloud, providing a feverish soundtrack to the silent film flickering behind his eyes.
The Greek girl. Smooth-buttocked. Olive-skinned. Softly fleshed. The cherry-red leather. The strap. Crack. Crack. The kiss of the cruel strap. Jerking hips and writhing thighs. A shrill squeal. Miss Pringle, superbly dominant. Miss Pringle, thumbing the red weals of pain on the helpless cheeks of the girl she had just lashed...
Rollo slumped, grunting aloud, and collapsed against the wall. Arching his hips forwards, he came, a fat squirt of exquisite liquid release. Pitter pat. Pitter pat. Like the hot raindrops of a sudden summer shower, his semen rained down in the darkness before him.
Nine feet. Oh, please let it be at least nine feet, he whispered aloud, balancing unsteadily as he trod the bedroom floor - one foot in front of the other - measuring the distance to splashdown.
Miss Pringle pounced, dragging him from the toilet seat. It was Sunday evening. The rest of the residents were either being punished by their trainers or tackling a variety of humiliating household chores. Rollo had secreted himself in the loo with his Latin dictionary.
'I distinctly told you that you were not to read or study until I gave you permission to do so.'
Rollo hung his head down penitently - just as he had done when he had been caught by his nanny reading a copy of Hide and Sleek, his father's favourite journal of leatherwear.
'No studying until your initial training is complete. Come with me,' she said angrily, snatching up the Latin dictionary.
Moments later, they were in Dr Breunig's study.
'I found him disobeying clear instructions. I wish to dispense the maximum punishment. Have I your permission, Dr Breunig?' The doctor's tongue darted out between thin lips, wetting them expectantly. The gloved hands twitched. He merely nodded his assent.
'Bend over, laddie. Bare-bottomed. Remain in the punishment position while I fetch my strap.'
Breunig picked up Rollo's copy of Liber Linguae Latinae and approached the bending youth. Thumbing the lexicon with his leather-gloved finger, he conducted a brief vocabulary drill. 'Colaphus?'
'A striking blow, or stroke,' Rollo murmured.
'Flagello?'
'To whip, to lash.'
'Plausus?'
'A smack, a spanking blow,' Rollo whispered.
'Punio,' Breunig countered quickly, his voice tightening with gathering excitement.
'I punish, I correct, I chastise.'
The pages rustled softly. Rollo tensed. The softly leathered knuckles of the crippled hand swept up fleetingly against the swell of his bare buttocks.
'Punit,' Breunig said softly, gulping on the word like a bulldog on a bone. 'Punit. She punishes. She corrects. She chastises.'
Rollo gasped as the gloved knuckles - now a tight fist - dimpled his left buttock.
'Flagrum?'
'A whip, lash or strap,' Rollo hissed.
'Very good,' Breunig nodded, shutting the dictionary with a loud snap. 'A strap.'
Miss Pringle returned to the study, fingering her cherry-red leather.
'I think we should all retire down to the gym,' Dr Breunig remarked, his crippled hand gripping the dictionary fiercely.
Miss Pringle stripped off her tight vest and stood, bare-breasted and supremely dominant, over the bare bottom she was about to beat. The doctor sat some distance away, anxiously awaiting the punishment. Rollo, shivering, touched his toes and shrank before the promise of his impending pain.
The whipping with the strap was protracted - almost a leisurely affair. The crisp leather cracked down again and again: searing upturned buttocks with merciless accuracy. The silence in the gym was deafeningly loud, broken only by the soft grunt of the chastiser, the harsh snapping crack of the strap - and the sweet moan of the chastised.
Breunig was forgotten by both punisher and punished as they entered their private, intimate world of pleasurable pain and painful pleasure. But Breunig, avid voyeur, followed them intently, missing nothing of the drama of dominance and discipline as it unfolded before him.
Pausing to examine her writhing victim, Miss Pringle knelt down on one knee to peruse Rollo's whipped cheeks. She fingered them gently, tenderly tracing each scarlet weal, then suddenly taloned them in a fierce pincer.
Rollo screamed.
'Don't you dare come until I say so,' the blonde hissed, slapping her strap smartly up against Rollo's engorged shaft.
'Sorry, Miss,' he mumbled, cringing.
Rising up abruptly, Miss Pringle changed her mind. Anxious to display her prowess as an accomplished disciplinarian before her adoring employer, she tapped the strap dominantly against Rollo's buttocks. Driving him forward on awkwardly shuffling feet, she edged him onto the yellow chalk line.
'I have decided to let you try for the long jump, laddie, if you really think you've got it in you. But no silly thoughts of that stupid Greek bitch getting it hot and strong. I own your bottom, laddie, as I own your mind. You will think of me when you come - and you will only come when I give my permission. Understand?'
'Yes, Miss,' Rollo whimpered.'
Crack. Crack. The remorseless strap lashed down. With the soft muscles of her punishing arm rippling, and her ripe breasts bouncing in their naked freedom, Miss Pringle striped the buttocks before her ruthlessly. Rollo's whipped cheeks tightened in response to his gathering orgasm.
'Wait laddie,' she purred, 'I haven't given you permission.'
Rollo whimpered.
'Kiss the strap,' she commanded.
Rollo tongued the cherry-red leather hungrily.
Crack. Crack. Bending down, the blonde crushed her naked breasts into the cheeks she had just lashed, dragging the erect nipples across the vivid weals, then bunching the cool satin globes of her bosom into the blistered buttocks. Rollo screamed piercingly - and ejaculated. His spurt flew over the second yellow chalk line, with several inches to spare.
'Excellent,' Miss Pringle cried triumphantly. 'You did it, laddie. I knew you had it in you.'
Rollo collapsed down onto the polished wood, sprawled at her feet, spent and exhausted. She trod down dominantly onto his striped bottom.
'Dr Breunig,' she called, turning proudly to celebrate her conquest. 'Dr Breunig—' she gasped, in a tone of dismay and delight.
Sitting a little distance away, the feverish voyeur had managed - for the first time in nine years - to undo his trousers with his crippled hands and was masturbating furiously: sheathing his stiff shaft in a soft leathered fist.
Miss Pringle, exultant at
her twin triumph, knelt down and gently cupped Rollo's left buttock.
'Tomorrow,' she murmured tenderly, 'we will commence with your studies. Latin with Dr Breunig and Euclidian geometry with me. We shall,' she purred, palming Rollo's captive cheek, 'start with the properties of the sphere.'
Sweet Misery
Ann Hunter woke up tired. Like all single City girls - Ann moved millions around the money markets at her desk every day - she slept with one eye open. What if the price of Brent crude dipped? Would the yen creep up overnight against the Euro?
In her shower, she offered her breasts up to the fierce drumming of the deliciously warm water. It hammered down upon her wet, shining bosom, stinging her nipples slightly and thickening them up into buds of pleasurable pain. Palming the aromatic gel down across her belly, she shuddered as her oiled fingertips stroked her pubic fringe. Probing deftly, she prised open the tulip of her sensitive labia, then strummed the fleshfolds rhythmically. She raided her memory for a fantasy - but, like her diary and her after-work schedule, it was blank. It would have to be raw masturbation - flesh punishing flesh - with no haunting images to fuel her liquid fire.
The phone rang. Ann paused, her thumb at her clitoris. Probably work. Some surge in the markets. Like a gazelle at a waterhole leaping at the shadow of a lion, she sprang from her shower, grabbed a robe and raced to pick up before the answering machine kicked in.
It was only her market sector manager, warning her that the dollar might come under pressure. Ann sighed. Her teletext had told her that shortly after midnight. She snarled softly as she replaced the phone, frustrated by the elusive orgasm abandoned in the shower.
At her breakfast bar, she heaped apricot conserve on fingers of golden toast. The lightly toasted bread sagged under the heavy burden of jam. After her toast was finished, she dug into the jar and took another mouthful neat, sucking hard on her spoon.
She disrobed in front of her mirror, brushed her short golden mane of hair briskly, then reached down into a drawer for a fresh bra. It was a white, cotton sports style - sensible rather than sensual - but Ann liked the crisp cotton cups at her bosom, relishing their firm control as they firmly moulded and mastered her heavy breasts.
Frowning, she fingered the white strap biting softly into her right shoulder. The bra, an expensive Swiss model, felt unusually tight. It bunched and squeezed her captive breasts. Ann gazed down at her cleavage and noticed the prominent bulge. She un-clasped and whipped the bra off so quickly it swept down and lashed her hip and right buttock. Ann, now utterly naked before the mirror, shut her eyes tightly and inched up on her toes. The bra had striped her hard. Her punished cheek blazed. Turning, she peered down over her shoulder at the reflection of the deep pink stripe across her swollen buttock. Her throat tightened. She found the fleeting pain quite pleasurable. She found the thin whiplash across the curve of her exposed cheek curiously, deliciously, disturbing.
The climax she had sought - and had lost - in the shower reignited, prickling her moist pussy. But there was no time. The dollar could sink as soon as trading commenced. She had to get to her City desk. Turning back towards the mirror, she bent down, steadying herself by planting her hands down on the dressing table. Inching her breasts into the cold glass, she examined their bunched flesh intimately. Was she putting on a little weight? She waggled her bottom. The soft cheeks jiggled, their fleshy wobble suggesting some weight gain. Her nipples rebelled at the kiss of the cold glass, peaking painfully. Dragging her breasts away, she frowned once more, making a mental note to slip into Knickerbox at Liverpool Street Station and buy a size 36C.
Her office was open plan. At the next desk but one, Hazel was sending suggestive e-mail to potential one-night stands. Ann gazed around the busy dealing room. The men were young, softly scented and sharply groomed. Public school types who ran in a braying pack from work to the squash courts and then on to the wine bar. Ann either despised them, or simply dismissed them from her mind. Pampered and privileged, they held no challenge for her. She yearned for cruder, rougher pleasures, seeking a touch of dominance rather than their timid deference. Like an exquisite butterfly haunted by its inevitable doom, Ann Hunter quivered at the thought of being pinned down, splayed and displayed for the cruel pleasure of her captor. But none of these striped shirts with their hundred-pound haircuts held such menacing promise. She'd often overheard them all giggling in the wine bar - at how they would come at the thought of Nanny. And she knew that they could only manage a Christmas call-girl in pairs.
There were other men. Men with reddish brown London clay on their broad hands, or hands black with oil from throbbing engines. Men, stripped to the waist, clambering the spider's web of steel scaffolding spun around City developments. Ann often wondered what it would be like with these men, who shouted down appreciatively to her as she skipped along the lunchtime pavements below in search of sugared doughnuts. She wondered how it would feel to have their stale breath at her mouth, their soiled hands at her white breasts, their contemptuous splash of semen in her upturned face. Such thoughts left her wet. There were tissues, applied surreptitiously to her pussy when Helen wasn't looking, for that. But even as she dabbed her moist pubic fringe dry, Ann knew that she was destined never to know. They travelled into the City at 5am, huddled in mud-splattered Transits. She drove her sleek Audi in at eight. Only their eyes ever met.
After work - a busy day chasing the spiralling dollar - Ann went to the health spa for a swim. Sitting at the cafe-bar after five lazy lengths, she sipped her hot, creamy chocolate. From time to time, she thumbed her bikini bottom; it seemed to be biting into her deep cleft. She was putting on extra pounds.
A brochure at the counter caught her eye. The de Stael clinic. Ann made a snap decision. Fishing out her mobile, she made an appointment for the following evening. She really must watch her appetite, she decided firmly, signalling to the waiter and ordering a second slice of apple and cinnamon strudel drenched in double cream.
The de Stael clinic promised to help its clients lose pounds. Sterling, certainly, Ann thought as she surrendered her gold visa card to the receptionist, who sat at a desk of solid onyx.
After a brief wait, Ann was briskly greeted by a lithe, grey-eyed blonde. The badge at her bosom said 'Petra'. When the lipstick-free mouth spoke, the accent said German. Petra was a strawberry-blonde, paler than Ann's own honey-gold. The German wore her hair combed back into a severe bun.
In the private cubicle, behind opaque glass screens, Petra interrogated Ann crisply, recording intimate details of diet and lifestyle.
'Sugar? In your tea or coffee?'
Ann nodded. She found herself having to answer 'guilty' to all the incriminating questions.
'Sex?' Petra's silver pen remained poised for the response.
'No - not really,' Ann whispered.
'No orgasms?' The pen rose inquiringly, as if in disbelief.
'I - I - sometimes—' Ann mumbled, blushing deeply.
'Playing with yourself counts. A really strong climax, when you squeeze your thighs and bottom, you know?'
'I know,' Ann replied, managing a weak smile. 'Burns off several hundred calories.'
The probing questions continued. Fully clothed before the German blonde, Ann already felt stripped naked.
'Take off your clothes,' Petra instructed.
Ann looked up, and blinked.
'I need to examine you thoroughly,' the blonde replied, her grey eyes glinting as she snapped on a pair of clear plastic gloves.
Ann wriggled out of her clothing and presented herself, in her white bra and panties, for inspection.
'No, I want you naked,' Petra murmured, flexing her gloved right hand into a shining starfish of splayed fingers.
Ann brought her hands together up behind her back, finding it suddenly difficult to undo the clasp. Her fingers fumbled as Ann shivered self-consciously under the unswerving grey-eyed gaze on her bouncing bosom. At last, the white bra fell free. Her liberated breasts joggled softly. Ann swiftly d
rew her arms to her sides - to palm her tight panties down - causing her breasts to squash together and burgeon.
'You are heavily breasted,' Petra purred, approaching. 'Let me feel.'
Before Ann had been able to tread out of her knickers - they hugged her, binding her knees together - the German had placed her gloved hands at each swollen breast, weighing their captive warmth on her plastic sheathed palms. Ann froze, closing her eyes. The sudden intimacy at her neglected body almost overwhelmed her. The pulse at her throat quickened urgently; at her pubis, a gentle plucking sensation caused her to cream imperceptibly at the top of her labial fold.
Blushing at her own arousal - would she weep? Would Petra's nostrils catch the whiff of excitement? Ann panicked; she opened her eyes to find the grey-eyed German studying her face intently. The hands at Ann's breasts cupped and contained them dominantly. The tingle at her slit forced Ann to clamp her soft thighs together tightly. Her left leg trembled uncontrollably; the white panties slid down to her ankles.
'They are quite firm. Good muscle tone. But a little heavy, no?' Petra pronounced. '36C?' It was not really a speculative guess. Petra spoke her size with unerring accuracy. 'Now I will examine your bottom.'
Ann, thrilling to the cool, clinical tone, surrendered her bare buttocks up to the strawberry-blonde's stern gaze.
'Part your thighs,' the German instructed.
Aware of the wet drizzle at her sticky pubic fringe, Ann shyly inched her thighs apart.
'Now together, please.'
Ann's superbly rounded cheeks bunched as she tightened them for the German's close examination.
'Yes,' Petra murmured. 'Again, evidence of good muscle tone, but you certainly are carrying surplus poundage.'
'Can you do anything for me?'
'I am perfectly able to get you to shed that unnecessary weight,' Petra replied, briefly knuckling the soft buttocks. 'Some exercise, I think, and certainly a strict diet regime. These you will observe between weekly visits to the clinic. I will weigh you accurately and monitor your progress. For now, I think, a massage.'