“The subject of his dilemma is domestic discipline. Now, I always take a keen interest in the lives of my protégés – after all, if a man can’t control his own household finances he’s going to be no good at controlling my firm’s assets.
“Although not an exact requirement it’s certainly an expectation that if a guy wants to get on at my company he needs to have his home life firmly under control.
“Mine is still a private firm, I don’t have to answer to the politically correct or fashionable whims of shareholders or the public. I don’t advertise posts; new staff is invited to join and senior management roles invariably go to men.
“As I understand it Neil’s enquiry encompasses two issues.
“Firstly, when dealing with an errant wife, how best to punish a persistent offender? Now we can of course take it as read that we are talking about corporal punishment.”
“What!” Nula was shocked. “Neil you’ve mean you’ve been discussing our private arrangements …”
“It’s all right, Nula,” Judy placed a reassuring arm around her shoulders. “No need to be embarrassed, I’m subject to exactly the same regime. You’ve already noticed that I’ve remained standing so far this evening?”
“Why, yes,” Nula replied with an uncomfortable feeling she knew what the next revelation would be.
“That’s because when your bottom’s been as soundly smacked as mine was shortly before you arrived sitting is to be avoided for at least an hour or two.”
“To return to my theme,” Rod continued his monologue, “I take it you’ve already employed the usual methods?”
“The cane, a sound strapping – yes, of course,” Neil confirmed.
“Then allow me, with Judy’s assistance, to demonstrate some alternative ways of enforcing your message,” said Rod.
Judy threw her husband an anxious look. “Darling, must I...?”
“Yes, you must,” answered Rod with unwavering determination. “We have already established that Judy received a spanking earlier …”
Fidgeting awkwardly, his young wife nodded in mute affirmation.
“Which will have amply prepared her for a humiliating deterrent to future wayward behaviour.”
Nervously Judy wrung her hands, no longer able to look Nula and Neil in the eye she instead turned her gaze downwards.
“Kneel on the seat of the chair please, my dear,” Rod instructed firmly. “Lift your dress to the waist and put your hands on your head.”
Judy swiftly did his bidding, her raised hem revealing perfectly sculpted thighs and prominent bottom neatly framed by a white suspender belt and matching stockings. Through the translucent fabric of her expensive French knickers Neil and Nula could easily make out two blushing red cheeks and the imprints of livid crimson finger marks. Well spanked indeed, Nula could almost sense the throbbing smart Judy must still be experiencing.
“If you don’t already possess one of these,” Rod was brandishing a small multi-tailed, short handled whip, “I’ll put you in touch with my supplier. He imports them from France,” he continued, conversationally. “It’s a handy sized martinet, easy to use, extremely accurate and, according to Judy, stings like the very devil.”
The expression of apprehension on Judy’s face as she looked apprehensively over her shoulder confirmed she was no stranger to this particular instrument of correction.
Swit, swit, swit. Nula and Neil watched, entranced, as Rod expertly began to chastise his wife’s errant posterior; each cocooned in their own inner world, both, if they but knew it, already feeling the first flush of incipient sexual stirrings.
“Oof … ah,” Schooled in obedience Judy had been trained not to deviate from the prescribed position, instead rotating her hips under the whip’s unforgiving onslaught.
Neil discreetly attempted to adjust his stance to accommodate a growing bulge in his trousers; Judy had a perfectly delectable arse. Nula, as if to prove women have a better innate capacity for empathy, was both imagining the increasing heat being stoked in Judy’s unfortunate hindquarters and aware of a dampening between her own legs.
“Judy, drop you knickers to your knees please.” With a satisfying swish of silk against nylon the flimsy covering was surrendered. “Lean forward and reach behind you,” commanded Rod.
Judy’s manicured red-painted fingertips alighted on each tender globe, even this mild contact enough to cause her to wince.
“Pull your bottom cheeks wide apart and hold them open.”
Nula gasped and Neil hastily coughed to conceal his astonishment. Judy’s most intimate secrets were now clearly displayed to her rapt audience, the dark star of her tightly puckered anus and a glimpse of her dewy labia lips peaking out from curly wisps of auburn pubic hair. She’s getting off on this too, thought Nula, recognising the tell-tale evidence and feeling similar sensations herself.
“When punishing naughty bare bottoms proves insufficient then naughty orifices must be bought to book,” explained Rod.
Swit, swit swit, once more the stinging tails fell, cutting deep into the bottom cleft. Nula didn’t need Judy’s plaintive yell to underline just how painful those half dozen measured blows to her intimate parts must be.
“All over now,” announced Rod solicitously helping his delectably submissive wife unsteadily onto her feet. Gingerly she eased her knickers up over her swollen derriere, hesitantly smoothing her skirt into place and clutching her expertly whipped rear.
“No lasting damage but an eminently effective chastisement,” concluded Rod affectionately, “Judy certainly won’t be disobeying me for the foreseeable future, whatever I request,” he cast a conspiratorial glance at Neil, “she’ll agree to.”
“And for my wife?” Neil asked, breaking the spell, which seemed to have rendered him and Nula temporarily speechless.
“Neil, you can’t be suggesting …” Nula’s anguished complaint wasn’t faked.
“We can take a prior smacked bottom as read can we?” asked Rod, paying her objections no heed.
“Like Judy, Nula was dealt with before we came,” replied Rod lifting Nula’s skirt in illustration.
“No!” Nula squealed at the indignity.
A familiar hand touched her shoulder. “Hush, darling,” whispered Judy, “the men won’t be gainsaid, better to accept their will with dignity, you’ve just seen what happens when one rebels,” she added pointedly.
Rod showed no sign of having heard this covert exchange but instead stooped to examine the evidence. Nula had dressed to impress, classy but not too provocative she’d decided, opting for an expensive Jersey wool dress that discreetly accentuated her figure. Beneath Nula was ashamed to reveal her modesty covered only by a pair of ultra fine tights.
Catching her off-guard Neil had pulled her over his knee and briefly spanked her minutes before they’d left the house earlier that evening; retaining her skimpy kickers in his pocket in order to ensure she sat circumspectly during their visit. Nula had a tendency to flirt after a couple of drinks and he didn’t want his boss to think her cheap.
“To answer your question, Neil, I’d begin by curbing this young lady’s unfortunate and annoying tendency to contradict and talk back.”
Turning his domineering attention to Nula he fixed her with a frown, which turned her stomach to jelly. “Smacked legs, treated exactly as you’ve behaved, like a naughty child,” said Rod slapping the fronts and backs of her thighs and making Neil’s recalcitrant spouse dance and squeal,
“And for very serious offences?” Neil persisted.
“Try this,” Rod appeared inured to Nula’s protests. “My dear kindly kneel up on the arms of that easy chair, a leg on each side.”
Wide-eyed Nula remained transfixed. Quickly Judy moved to her side. “Come on, darling,” she cajoled, “let me help you, it won’t be so bad,” all the while guiding the confused woman into the required disgracefully revealing and inelegant stance.
“Elevates and spreads her haunches,” explained Rod, and Neil, impres
sed by the ease with which his boss had assumed control, simply nodded his approval.
“Normally I insist that the target area is completely bare, Judy would never dare wear tights anyway,” Rod went on. “However in deference to the fact that Nula is our guest I’ll allow her to retain them on this occasion.
“This position affords unrivalled access for punishment of most intimate areas, you’ve already observed Judy’s inner thighs and exquisitely sensitive and tender bottom cleft under the lash. In this position, Neil, you have but to bring the tails of the martinet smartly up from below and you can soon whip that wicked little pussy. Even used softly it really stings and smarts doesn’t it, Judy?” The remark was clearly rhetorical since she stoically kept her counsel, cradling Nula’s head in her bosom.
“Makes subsequent walking, sitting and, above all, sex an extremely memorable sensation. Sparingly, mind, Neil. May I demonstrate?”
“Of course,” Neil didn’t hesitate.
Nula’s anguished dissent was muzzled between Judy’s ample breasts, then she wrapped her arms round Nula’s shoulders and ensured her silence by kissing her long and hard.
As the cruelly questing tails swung across her now sodden sex so Nula experienced the contradictory sensation of her first tongue-probing Sapphic kiss. In truth, Rod’s punitive attentions to her pussy were nothing more than a token, the ritual sufficient to make his point plain. Men gave; women received, and were grateful.
Her martyrdom was mercifully short-lived and, pubic mound smarting, Nula stumbled down off the chair reluctant to surrender Judy’s embrace.
“Neil, your second query?” Rod enquired briskly.
“Simply this,” answered Neil, somehow managing to find his voice, “how should the punitive session conclude?”
Rod, apparently anxious to move on, cut him short. “You mean should you have sex – having thrashed her, should you fuck her?”
Judy and Nula exchanged glances, both thrilled by the crudity and directness of his words.
“The short answer old chap is yes. What better way to re-establish normal relations? I don’t accept this holier than thou denial of any sexual element to CP. The object of your affection, preened and polished, prettily dressed and presented – I insist on stockings and heels – has presented her most intimate parts to you. Of course you’re aroused, you’re a red blooded male. Don’t add insult to injury and ignore her charms.”
“And if I might,” added Judy, “once a real man has imposed his domain over me I feel cherished and desired. Certainly the punishment’s painful, but it is also arousing. We invariably conclude with sex and I recommend you both do likewise.” Far from cowed Judy looking lasciviously at Rod. “So I’d like to claim my reward …”
“If you’ll excuse us,” concluded Rod firmly. “Thank you Nula most, erm, stimulating; close the door quietly after you and I’ll see you in the office first thing Monday morning, Neil.”
It was a few minutes into their drive home before either of them dared speak.
“I’ve been good,” ventured Nula seductively, “endured my punishment properly, didn’t show you up in company.” Turning to face him from the passenger seat, she guided his free hand to her crotch.
“You’re wet.”
Nula slid a hand between Neil’s legs. “And you’re hard as an iron bar.”
Neil pulled urgently into a quiet turning, no streetlamps, just trees and the light of the moon. “I can’t wait until we get home.”
“Nor me,” gasped Nula, leaping out and leaning facedown over the bonnet tearing down her tights as she did so. “Now Neil – from behind …”
Later they basked in the afterglow, sharing a cigarette.
“Sunday tomorrow,” observed Neil, “what shall we do?”
“I’ve arranged with Judy to go shopping together,” giggled Nula. “I’m sure that can’t harm your promising career.”
“But I Meant To Pay For It!”
by Teresa Joseph
As Mrs Chantelle Templeton was escorted to the manager’s office, it was all that the poor woman could do to keep herself from bursting into tears.
She had tried to explain that she must have absentmindedly put the bottle of vodka into her handbag whilst she looked for her purse, but of course, the security guard had heard it all before.
It was all a terrible mistake. She’d never steal anything! She was a respected pillar of the community, a devoted wife, member of the parish council and treasurer of the local Christian women’s association. If the fact that she was being arrested for shoplifting, for stealing vodka no less, ever got out, then her reputation would be completely destroyed. If only the security guard had been a man, she might have considered showing a bit of leg in return for his turning a blind eye. It would have worked, but unless this woman was a lesbian, it didn’t look like anything was going to go her way that day.
For all her prim and proper suburban reserve, the fact was that despite being nearly thirty, Chantelle was still very attractive. Tall and slim with a gorgeous figure, if only she’d stopped dressing like such a fuddy-duddy and let her long chestnut hair down once in a while she would have been a real show stopper; more than enough to talk her way out of a little misunderstanding like this. As the situation stood though, she had to endure the public humiliation of being marched past the tills to the manager’s office by a life size ‘security guard Barbie’ who was probably only just out of school. Then, to add insult to injury, her next door neighbour, Mrs Robins was stood in one of the queues, and though she tried to cover her face, Chantelle was sure that she’d been spotted.
“I can explain everything,” blurted Chantelle as she was led into the office, baring her soul to the woman who sat behind the desk. “It was an honest mistake. I must have put it in my handbag when I …”
“What, so you’re not going to blame it on PMT, then, are you, madam?” interrupted the manager sarcastically. “Do you have any idea how many times we hear that in one day? The fact is, whether by stupidity or design, you left a shop with a £27 bottle of vodka concealed in your purse without making any attempt to purchase it. Anything else is a matter for the police.”
“Please no!” said Chantelle, leaping forward to stop the manager from picking up the phone. Then looking down at the name bar on the desk, she made a feeble attempt to connect with her. “Look … Ms Crosby. Surely there must be some other way to settle this?”
The manager pondered for a moment.
“Sonia,” she said finally, addressing the security guard. “You can go back to work now, I’ll handle it from here.” And as Sonia left, closing the door behind her, the two ladies looked at each other for a moment as if they were each waiting for the other to blink.
The manager sat thoughtfully in her leather swivel chair, the very embodiment of calm; resting her fingertips together as she decided whether or not to give this haughty little mare a second chance.
Wearing a well-tailored two piece navy blue skirt suit, white blouse, opaque tights and black court shoes, she was as smart and well groomed as the woman who stood before her. But whilst Ms Crosby kept her long red hair in a bun to denote her authority, this woman who stood awkwardly before her with her hands in her lap did so solely to impress the neighbours.
Yvette Crosby hated women like this. She was dressed like it was 1958 in a ‘lady-like’ calf-length skirt and white cotton blouse, pearls and four inch black stilettos. They were nearly the same age, but whilst Yvette had climbed the ladder and been put in charge of a large supermarket, this woman’s highest achievement was probably getting a new kitchen before anyone else in her street. As far as Yvette was concerned, this type of woman’s entire life could be summed up with one phrase; ‘dull women have immaculate houses’.
Smiling politely, Yvette decided to have some fun and hold out an olive branch for the little tealeaf.
“Well, Mrs Templeton, is it? If you feel that it’s not necessary for the police to get involved, then I’m sure that we can come to so
me sort of an arrangement.”
Chantelle felt her heartbeat return to normal as a wave of relief washed over her. She was just about to thank Ms Crosby when the manager issued her terms.
“Let your hair down, take off your skirt and your knickers and lay yourself across my knee.”
Chantelle stared in disbelief. Had she heard her correctly?
“Let your hair down, take your skirt and knickers off and lay across my knee,” reiterated the manager, speaking slowly and clearly, as if patronising a wayward toddler.
Chantelle obviously refused. There was no way that this cow was going to treat her like a twelve-year-old. But of course, the second that the manager reached for the phone to call the police, the steadfast, prim and proper housewife couldn’t get her knickers off fast enough.
Naked from the waist down, Chantelle then delicately lay across the manager’s knee, resting her hands on the floor and presenting her firm ripe bottom to Yvette like a trophy.
“Now I understand that you are going to have to spank me,” she stuttered nervously, brushing her chestnut long hair out of the way and looking over her shoulder at Yvette. “But I must insist that you …Oww.”
“Quiet you pilfering cow!” snapped the manager, obviously losing her patience with her. “You’re in no position to make demands. So stay quiet and take what’s coming to you. And don’t be such a baby. I only gave you a little smack and there’s plenty more where that came from.”
Coming to terms with her situation, Chantelle bit her lip and did her best to be brave as Yvette began to put some colour in her cheeks. Not since her twenty-first birthday when her Auntie Sylvia had caught her drinking had she been spanked by a woman, but Yvette’s firm manner and swift, expert strokes soon brought it all flooding back to her.
On her birthday, with her parents away and Auntie Sylvia in town shopping, Chantelle had felt free to invite three of her less respectable university friends to come and celebrate with her. After a quick set of doubles tennis however, this had soon degenerated into a drinking binge, care of the mini bar in her father’s study.
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