Naughty Spanking Three

by Miranda Forbes

  The rattan whipped across their soft cheeks in a searing streak of fire that hit unerringly on the ‘Sweet Spot’ in a jolting explosion of pain. Both shot bolt upright, clutching their burning globes, eyes closed, mouth open in silent agony. For a moment, they made no sound. Then they screamed …a piercing cry of pain. They rubbed their bottoms feverishly at the angry scarlet stripe that appeared across their cheeks as if by magic. I had now left a burning red line as my marker.

  “Resume your position immediately or I shall add strokes for being uncooperative!”

  “One! Thank you, Goddess!” Adelaide murmured as they draped themselves once more over the altar.

  I stepped forward to run my hand over the angry weals I had just raised on the two bottoms, feeling their heat before stepping back and taking aim again.

  Crack! Crack!

  A second scarlet line seared its fiery path across their buttcheeks, just above the first. The miscreants grunted but steadfastly maintained their position, despite the pain I was inflicting.

  “Two! Thank you, Goddess!”

  Crack! Crack!

  I delivered the third stroke with a wrist flick that etched a painful crimson welt above the second. Adelaide shrieked at the burning agony I had inflicted upon her gorgeously plump booty. Three parallel red lines now scorched the dimples of her now involuntarily twitching cheeks.

  “Three! Thank you, Goddess!”

  Crack! Crack!

  I whipped across another stroke, eliciting a further anguished scream from them. They were now panting, beads of perspiration dampening their faces as the shock of pain coursed through their bodies.

  “Four! Thank you, Goddess!” Adelaide sobbed.

  Crack! Crack!

  It was the hardest stroke yet. Serena screeched and started to rise, intending perhaps to shield her tortured rump from the rattan’s scorpion-like sting, but thought better of it.

  “O-oooh” Adelaide cried, as a fifth angry welt joined the others across her curvaceous bottom, now quivering in spasms of pain. I paused to caress her ravaged cheeks, luxuriating in the feel of heated stripes and her helpless squirming; movements I found most sensually arousing.

  “Five! Thank You, Goddess!”

  I glanced at my acolyte. She stood mesmerised. While not erotic for the victims it was certainly arousing her, judging from the growing bulge of her pussycock pinioned inside her knickers beneath her robe.

  I positioned myself for the final stroke, cutting diagonally across the five parallel welts; the infamous ‘Gate’ cut.

  Crack! Crack!

  Scarlet lines of pain on each butt joined up a pattern of livid agony; a fiery crimson memento that would turn to deeper shades of purple by morning.

  “Six! Thank You, Goddess!” Adelaide broke into a deluge of tears, thankful that her ordeal was over.

  I admired the colourful picture I had etched and stepped forward once more to caress the heat of the raised welts, running my palm lovingly over the results. I surveyed with pride the sharp parallel lines of pain crossed by the final diagonal cut I had scored across the tortured plumpness of Adelaide’s rump and the daintier spheres of Serena’s Tranny arse.

  Candy stirred herself and swung the sensor again to sanctify the girls’ tortured flesh with Kyphi incense .

  “Rise now and kiss the Scourge of Nemesis!”

  The girls rose painfully, turned and knelt to kiss the scourge. I laid it on the altar, where it would lie until next required.

  I took Adelaide and Serena into my arms, holding them close, kissing their tears away. Caning those bottoms had made me wet with desire. My throbbing cunt ached now for the orgasmic release that I always need after the power surge of such a ‘Domina High’. No caning is complete without that release, for both caner and caned. It was high time for ‘Afterglow’ party play! I never waste good playtime! I led my hot threesome out of the Temple and up the Stairway to Heaven!

  ‘Afterglow’? That’s another story! But I will tell you that Adelaide milked two pussycocks to their desired release while I gave her the thrusting pleasure of my strap-on dildo! Then we really got down and dirty!

  The Psychiatrist

  by Heather Davidson

  I sat nervously in the waiting room, occasionally flicking through the various lifestyle magazines on offer or simply watching the pretty receptionist as she dealt with the constant stream of people and telephone calls. I glanced at my watch. It was now ten minutes past my scheduled appointment time. Dr Black must be running late. I was suddenly reminded of my paternal grandmother. When faced with a similar situation, she would always go up to the reception desk and ask, rather pointedly, whether the doctor had “forgotten” her. I laughed out loud. Several heads all turned to look at me. They probably thought I was mad. My GP obviously thought I was. Just lately, I’d had difficulty sleeping. I’d become forgetful, unable to concentrate on things. My GP had listened sympathetically and then suggested that I see a psychiatrist. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he’d said. “Just someone to talk to. Someone who might be able to find out what it is that’s bothering you.”

  I was suddenly brought back to reality by the voice of the receptionist. “Mrs Davidson? Consulting Room Five.”

  Dr Black was exactly how I’d imagined him; tall, distinguished and in his mid to late fifties. With his half-rimmed spectacles, he looked every inch the psychiatrist or even, I thought, an old-fashioned schoolmaster. He had my GP’s letter of referral on his desk and we began by chatting about my recent problems. Then he suggested that I might like to “pop myself” onto his couch.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls!” I quipped.

  Dr Black peered at me over the top of his half-rimmed spectacles. “Please try and take the session seriously, Mrs Davidson,” he said sternly.

  Shut up, Heather, I thought. Just shut up.

  So I went and got on the couch and the good doctor came and sat beside me with his notepad and pen.

  “We’ll start with a simple word association test,” he said briskly. “I’ll say a word and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes into your head. Right?”

  “Left,” I answered automatically.

  “I haven’t started yet, Mrs Davidson,” he sighed.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Now, here we go,” said Dr Black. “Eggs.”

  “Er, Bacon,” I answered.

  He sniffed and made a note on his pad.

  “Carpet?”

  “Slipper.”

  “Monarch?”

  “Ruler.”

  “Leather?”

  “Tawse.”

  “Garden?”

  “Cane.”

  “School?”

  “Discipline.”

  Dr Black paused for a moment and rubbed his chin. “Come and sit back down at my desk,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “I now know what is wrong with you, Mrs Davidson,” he continued a few moments later.

  “You do?” I asked doubtfully, sitting down opposite him.

  “You have a spanking fetish,” he replied. “Every answer you gave me was in some way related to corporal punishment. You are completely obsessed with the subject.”

  I buried my head in my hands. This was most embarrassing.

  “I’m going to refer you to one of my colleagues who specialises in this sort of thing,” said Dr Black, pulling open a drawer and extracting a small business card which he handed to me. “Dr Lambert. You can make an appointment with the receptionist on the way out. Good day, Mrs Davidson.”

  So exactly one week later, I found myself sitting in the same waiting room, staring at the same people and wondering how you could be cured of a spanking fetish. One of the consulting room doors opened and an attractive brunette, probably in her early thirties, poked her head out.

  “Mrs Davidson?” she called.

  I rose to my feet.

  “Please come through.”

  She shut the door behind me and grasped me warmly by
the hand. “Caroline Lambert,” she smiled. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” She gestured towards the empty chair on the other side of her desk. “Please sit down.”

  Once I was seated, Dr Lambert looked down at a folder on her desk. “Now, I’ve been reading your case notes and I think I can help you,” she said. “Although the treatment might be a little … unorthodox.”

  “Unorthodox?” I prompted.

  Dr Lambert leant back in her chair and put her hands behind her head. “The conventional approach would be regression therapy. You know, take you back to your childhood. See if there’s some past event that triggered your fet– ... problem. But you’re basically a spankophile and I intend to treat you the opposite way to how I would treat someone with a phobia.”

  “Sorry?” I asked.

  “Let’s say that you had a phobia about … snakes for instance. I would take you to the reptile house at the local zoo. Show you lots of snakes. Let you hold one, caress one, fall in love with one.”

  Somehow I couldn’t quite see myself falling in love with a snake. And why the hell had she picked snakes? Everyone knows what they symbolise. Perhaps she needed to see a psychiatrist.

  “I intend to prescribe a course of severe corporal punishment,” continued Dr Lambert. “By the end of it you will have come to hate spanking in all its forms. Words such as slipper, tawse and cane will become associated with terrible pain, and thus you will be cured.”

  “That is a novel approach,” I agreed, somewhat uncertainly. “So I’ll, er, make an appointment to come back next week then, shall I?”

  “Good gracious, no!” exclaimed Dr Lambert cheerfully. “I intend to start your treatment immediately.”

  “Immediately?” I shrieked in reply. I needed time to think this through properly. Get things sorted in my head. But Dr Lambert was having none of it.

  “Stand up please,” she ordered. I rose to my feet with some apprehension. “Now turn around.”

  What was this, I thought. A blooming fashion show?

  “That’s a nice dress,” commented Dr Lambert admiringly. “But I’m afraid it’ll have to come off. Remove it, please.”

  I hesitated for a moment, conscious of the fact that I was wearing no bra, before slipping off my cotton summer dress and draping it over a convenient chair. Dr Lambert cast an approving eye over my near naked body. It was then I realised that she might be a lesbian and the thought excited me.

  I soon found myself bent over the good doctor’s desk receiving a brisk hand spanking on my shapely rear. My skimpy knickers afforded little protection and most of the slaps landed on bare flesh.

  “That’s reddening up quite nicely,” remarked Dr Lambert, running a hand over my backside. “But I think we’d better have these down.”

  Immediately, my hand went to my knickers in an ill-judged attempt to try to prevent such a humiliation but a hard slap to the buttocks soon made me see the error of my ways. The good doctor pulled down my knickers and made me step out of them, which was easier said than done when the skimpy little things became entangled in my high heels. Finally they were tossed aside, and I was back over Caroline Lambert’s desk but now completely naked. She began to spank me hard on my bare bottom. It was an interesting technique: two fiery strikes to the right cheek followed by three quick slaps to the left. Then the ritual was repeated, only this time in reverse. It was painful, but in quite a pleasant way.

  “You like that, don’t you?” observed Caroline.

  “Mmm, yes,” I replied, until suddenly remembering why I was here. “Well, maybe not.”

  “Hmm,” said Dr Lambert, walking round to the other side of her desk, opening a drawer and extracting a long black leather paddle. “Then I think it may be time to move on to the next stage.”

  I glanced nervously over my shoulder as she walked back round behind me.

  It’s a good job that this was on the National Health Service, I thought to myself. Imagine having to pay for such treatment!

  I yelped as the leather paddle landed squarely across my bare buttocks.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” laughed Caroline, rather pleased at her own joke. She stopped laughing and started to thrash me with the paddle. I shrieked and squealed as the wretched implement found its target over and over again.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll soon be cured!” cried the good doctor cheerfully.

  From my position, I had an excellent view of the floor on the other side of Dr Lambert’s desk and rather fancied that the carpet needed a good clean. Caroline’s bag was placed neatly behind her desk but it had been left open and I could see a magazine stuffed just inside. A rude magazine! At least, I assumed it was rude; not many other journals would have a beautiful bare-bottomed girl adorning the front cover. My earlier assumption about Caroline Lambert was obviously correct; she was indeed a lesbian, or at least an aficionado of women’s bottoms. And who could blame her? Even I felt an intense attraction to the sexy cover girl and her magnificent rear.

  As these thoughts ran through my head, I began to realise that the paddle wasn’t hurting any more. Quite the opposite, in fact; I was actually looking forward to each stroke! The girl on the magazine cover smiled back seductively and I felt my nipples harden with desire. A wonderful feeling spread across my buttocks and threatened to engulf my entire body. The strokes were harder now but ever more delightful, and the final one brought me to a shuddering climax.

  “Did you just have an orgasm?” demanded Dr Lambert angrily.

  “Yes,” I blurted out.

  Caroline Lambert tossed the paddle away in disgust. “Then I’m sorry, Mrs Davidson, but there’s nothing I can do for you,” she said. “You’re a hopeless case!”

  Hard Times at the Nymphomaniac Rehabilitation Facility

  by K. D. Grace

  It could have passed as a coach excursion through the scenic Surrey Hills, but Sadie knew better. This was her bus to an indefinite period of miserable celibacy, at least that was what she thought when she and three other women stepped off the coach in front of the main wing at the Nymphomaniac Rehabilitation Facility.

  They were met by a tall woman dressed in a riding habit and a conservative tweed jacket that failed miserably to disguise her delicious curves. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Her boots were polished to a high sheen, and she carried a riding crop under one arm that made Sadie’s heart skip a beat. She certainly hoped the woman knew how to use it.

  “Listen up,” the woman shouted in a voice that was standard military issue. “I’m Ms Greuber, assistant warden.” Her face became earnest, like she was doing an advert for some local charity. “You may not know it, but nymphomania is nearing epidemic proportions in Surrey, and here at the Nymphomaniac Rehabilitation Facility, the problem is being dealt with discreetly, and thoroughly. You’re all here because you’ve admitted you can’t control your sexual appetites, and we’re here to help you curb those appetites and channel your energy in more productive endeavours.” She paced in front of the four women, stopping to inspect each one in turn.

  Sadie was already horny from the bouncy ride on the coach, and the big, beautiful woman standing in front of her so assertive, so tough, did nothing to ease her pussy or her distended nipples, doing their best to drill through her thin summer shirt.

  “You’re not wearing a bra.”

  Sadie shook her head. “It’s too hot.”

  Ms Greuber gave Sadie’s 38Cs a rough squeeze. “Nevertheless, in future you’ll wear a bra, or you’ll suffer the consequences.” She gave Sadie’s tits a smart flick with the riding crop that made them sting and bounce dangerously beneath her shirt. Her pussy got wetter. The woman then cupped Sadie’s breasts as though she were weighing them. “You’ll need proper coverage and support.”

  Ms Greuber turned and paced onward. “All residents will attend evening prayer. You’ll find it makes the nights easier. The dorm is in the South Wing. Your uniforms and new undergarments are on the foot of your beds. You will be unpacked, c
hanged and in the chapel in one hour.”

  Trussed up in a knee-length pleated skirt of some scratchy synthetic fabric, a heavy cotton blouse and a bra and knickers her grandmother would have found prudish, Sadie trudged off to the chapel, seriously thinking of running away, and she hadn’t even been here two hours.

  The chapel was hot and stuffy and full of sweaty female bodies dressed just like she was. She found a seat in the back and sat despondently while the organ blared something that wasn’t Bach. They had just stood for the processional when a dark-haired woman, breathing heavily, slipped into the pew next to her. She grabbed a hymnal, opened it and moved close to Sadie, holding it up for her. “You’re new,” she breathed. Sadie barely heard her over the voices, but there was no denying the feel of her warm breath against her ear, nor the way the woman brushed her small, pert breast against Sadie’s arm when she leaned in to whisper, “I’m Carol.” Her lips brushed Sadie’s earlobe.

  “I’m Sadie.”

  “Shortage of hymnals in the back rows,” Carol said, holding the book open for Sadie to share.

  “I don’t sing,” Sadie replied.

  Carol moved in closer. “Neither do I.” She turned slightly, insinuating her breast against Sadie’s arm once more.

  “You’re not wearing a bra. I got in trouble for that.”

  “No knickers either,” Carol whispered. “Want a feel?”

  Her proposition made Sadie forget all about broken rules. She pressed closer to Carol, pretending to be immersed in the words of the song. Slowly, carefully, she inched her fingers up Carol’s skirt until she felt her bare silken thigh and saw her eyelids flutter and her breath catch. She was suddenly very thankful for the long shapeless skirts. They made exploring easier, and the magnificent thigh was a promise of things to come. She felt Carol shift slightly, and she knew instinctively she was opening her legs just enough for Sadie to have a good feel.

  Sadie’s old-lady knickers were drenched clear through their practical cotton crotch as she slipped her fingers onto Carol’s smoothly shaven mound, even softer than her thigh. The woman shuddered at her touch. Sadie could smell the salty sweetness of aroused pussy, pussy other than her own, and her mouth watered for a taste. She was just about to slip her fingers into Carol’s waiting pout when the song ended and everyone sat down. The two breathlessly followed suit.