The thirteenth lash. Gretchen shivered as she heard the wooden stocks creak and strain as her victim writhed in agony. Kneeling once more at his blazing cheeks, she nuzzled the tip of the cane between the ravished buttocks. Slowly twisting the thin bamboo, she guided the quivering tip to the dark circle of his sphincter – and probed.
Up in her attic, her gold coins and stolen recipes tucked away, Gretchen nestled down at her spy hole. She knew that she was going to the Hildburghausenplatz kitchens tomorrow, and for another week or so. She would quietly depart one night, at nine, for ever. To leave Vienna too soon would arouse suspicion.
Gretchen peered down through the spy hole at the naked patissier in his yoked bondage. She counted the red and purple cane strokes across his punished buttocks. Had she really given him such a terrible thrashing?
Timing. Gretchen giggled softly. The empty wallet and gutted recipe book were waiting – waiting for Frau Kitzler to discover on her arrival. Gretchen had given the messenger boy two notes and the remaining half of the sachertorte. One note to Frau Kitzler, summoning her immediately to her sick husband in Kapellstrasse. Another note to be handed to the police, an hour later. The boy had taken both notes and the sachertorte, solemnly promising to deliver the notes on time.
Timing, and careful preparation. Gretchen pressed her dark eye to the spy hole, glimpsing the dog whip she had left at her master’s feet for the convenience of her mistress. Frau Kitzler, finding her foolish husband cheated and robbed, would no doubt seek vengeance.
Timing. The nearby clock struck sweetly in the chill night air. The rattle of an approaching cab. Gretchen tensed excitedly. Footsteps thumping up the stairs. The door would burst open. Soon, Gretchen grinned, she would be witnessing Frau Kitzler lashing the dog whip. Then, more footsteps on the stairs. The black uniformed police would tumble into the prostitute’s lair. The sweet-toothed Kitzlers would taste the humiliation of public ridicule and shame – adding the cherry to Gretchen’s perfectly baked cake.
7
A Penalty to Pay
The student hall of residence echoed to slamming doors and running footsteps as unshaven, unbreakfasted young men dashed out to catch their early morning lectures or to secure a computer terminal in the IT block ten minutes away across the park.
Luke opened a bleary eye, yawned and rolled over in his bed. He had a five-thirty deadline to meet that evening – the completion of his musicology assignment. An essay on the French pianist Satie. It would be his first tutorial. He needed to make a good impression. And he hadn’t written a word.
He groaned, resolved to get up at once and take a brisk shower and some black coffee – then promptly fell asleep.
An hour later, the drone of a hoover woke him. Face down in his pillow, he tensed expectantly, spreading his thighs wide so that his cleft began to ache. As the hoover whined, he wriggled, crushing his fat cock into the mattress below. The domestic who came to clean his block each morning was a mature brunette. Luke was eighteen. The cleaner was twice his age. She was a strong-thighed Spaniard with glossy dark hair, full red lips which were always wet and parted. Luke adored her large bottom as it strained at the stretch of her pale green nylon overalls. He had been watching her furtively for some time, often shuddering with pleasure as she bent down to unravel the hoover’s trailing flex. Yesterday, he had found and kept her yellow rubber glove.
The whine of the hoover became a shrill snarl. Luke strained up on his elbows, listening intently. The Spanish domestic was almost outside his room. His fingers stole under the pillow at his hot face, scrabbled blindly then emerged, clutching his secret trophy. He drew the yellow rubber glove up to his nose and inhaled deeply. His cock thickened. His mouth was dry and swallowing became difficult. He bowed his head down in reverence and slowly kissed the yellow rubber. As he tasted the haunting tang, his trapped cock pulsed against the firm mattress.
The throb of his shaft synchronised with his thumping pulse. He closed his eyes. In his fantasy, he willed the mature brunette through his door and into his room. He imagined her standing, dark-nyloned legs astride, by his bed. Her ripe breasts bounced as she tossed her glossy black hair in a contemptuous flounce. Chiding his laziness, her full red lips twisted in scorn.
Luke trembled with pleasure as his furtive fantasy unfolded. He tried to slow his thoughts down, tried to imagine every dark, delicious detail perfectly. But the pulse in his cock quickened. The firm-thighed, swollen-buttocked Spaniard was becoming angry with him now. He squirmed. She was shouting at him in her husky voice, the vowels blurred. A pigsty. Why was his room such a pigsty? Why was he so lazy? Why was he still in bed when the rest of the world had gone to work? In his fantasy, Luke burned with shame, acknowledging all of which he was accused.
His room was a pigsty, with clothing, books, unwashed coffee mugs and cassettes strewn everywhere. He was in bed when he should be up and busy.
In his fantasy, Luke quivered as he imagined the mature brunette bending down, her strong fingers snatching away his duvet – exposing his nakedness to the stern gaze of her fierce Iberian eyes. He clenched his pale buttocks, squeezing his cheeks in delicious dread. Stretching down her yellow-gloved index finger, he imagined her tapping his bottom dominantly, dimpling the taut flesh.
Lazy. His room a pigsty. She repeated the charges, her red lips glistening as she spat out her angry contempt. Her dark eyes narrowed into fierce slits. Then he willed her gloved hand slowly down to clutch and talon his hair, forcing him face down into the pillow. He grunted as he imagined the weight of her nylon-stockinged knee descend to pin him ruthlessly – and groaned as he sensed her gather up the loop of hoover flex in her firm, gloved grip.
Outside his door, the hoover whined loudly. Luke knelt up in bed rapidly, his thick erection raking the white sheet then slapping his belly as he sank his buttocks down on to his heels. He drew the stolen yellow rubber glove up to his mouth and exhaled deeply into it. The fingers inflated and stretched, quivering, like the teats on a swollen udder.
Behind closed eyes, he drowned in the gathering vortex of his overpowering fantasy, letting himself be sucked deeper and deeper down into the swirling images exploding in his brain. The dominant Spanish domestic, pinning him face down into his bed. Snarling her contempt for him then announcing her proposal to punish him. Plucking at the plastic buttons of her pale green nylon coat, revealing her braless, heavy breasts, the nipples peaking darkly against the sallow, shining flesh. Dangling the looped flex across the curves of his upturned cheeks while tightening the grip on his neck.
Luke blinked. Outside his door, the hoover was moaning as it was patiently dragged back and forth. Luke sucked hard – the yellow glove collapsed, smothering him until he panted for air. He inhaled the sour tang of the warm rubber mingled with the trace of her cheap scent. His erection bulged and strained, aching sweetly. The veined cock now twitched impatiently. Shuffling on his knees, he parted them wide and thrust his hips forwards. He brought the glove down to the shining snout of his erection and, gripping his hot cock with his left hand, forced its length into the forefinger of the empty glove. Tightly sheathed by the clinging rubber, his shaft strained painfully for release.
He closed his eyes. She was whipping his bottom now. Luke could almost hear the cruel swish of every imagined, craved-for stroke. He was getting the harsh punishment he deeply desired. Swish, swipe. Each fierce stroke bit mercilessly into the flesh of his clenched cheeks, kiss-lashing them with a pinkish weal that he knew would deepen to a shade of red exactly matching his punisher’s wet lips. Again, and again, the thin black flex whipped down.
Open-eyed, he stared down at his yellow-gloved shaft. He moaned softly as he tugged and stretched the restricting rubber, dragging it down savagely into his coiled pubic nest. His unblemished buttocks spasmed as he imagined them seething under her strokes.
Behind closed eyes, he luxuriated in the dark-eyed Spaniard’s vicious domination, screaming softly as she dropped the electric flex down on to his thighs and f
irmly finger-stroked the sticky cleft between his freshly whipped cheeks.
Luke gasped aloud as he tossed his head back, gripped the rubber glove and pumped. He silently whispered his frenzied litany aloud. Stern domestic. Nyloned legs. Dark, cruel eyes. Whip me. Punish me. Lash my bare bottom and ignore my squeals for mercy. He pumped himself ruthlessly – seconds later, he buckled as the loud liquid squirt of his agonised release flooded the taut finger of the yellow rubber glove.
During – and immediately after – the exquisite agony of his spurting seed, Luke yoked fantasy and reality violently together. He saw her bending over his naked, punished buttocks, her bared breasts glistening with the sweat of her exertion. As she brought her face down to inspect his striped cheeks, her bosom bulged as it bunched against his thigh.
The soft rake of her stubby nipples was almost real, so vivid were his feverish longings. Luke slowly peeled away the rubber glove and stretched face down into his bed. Twisting his arm up behind him, he dangled the glove above his bottom – his outstretched arm aching as the yellow rubber danced. His warm semen dripped, smearing his buttocks which, in his fantasy, the Spaniard had just cruelly lashed.
Luke opened his eyes and yawned. His small white clock told him what he already knew. It was getting late. Half the morning had gone. He listened. The hoover was busy upstairs, buzzing softly down along the second-floor corridor, its distant drone like an angry wasp at a window pane. Guiltily, he buried the wet rubber glove under his mattress, blushing hotly with both confused delight and a sudden stab of shame. Up out of bed, he rinsed himself at the small sink and then shaved. In the mirror, he asked himself how the hell he was going to get that essay on Satie finished before five. The anxious face in the steamed glass could give no helpful answer. It was a course assessment requirement. No essay, no grade. Failure to submit on time would incur a penalty that could jeopardise the classification of his degree. Suddenly stung by this realisation, Luke resolved solemnly to get dressed and go straight to the library. He would skip breakfast and get down to work.
In the college canteen, halfway between his room and the library, Luke sat alone with his buttered teacake and glass of milk. There were plenty of pretty young girls in the canteen. Some sat alone, pretending to read and waiting to be approached. Others sat in pairs and small groups. Laughing, talking, flicking their hair. Smoking and eating toast, eyes ever alert on the door for the next young man to walk in.
Luke chose to sit alone. He felt shy in the company of younger women. Shy and awkward. When he flicked through his magazines to masturbate, he preferred not to look at the smiling faces of pretty young girls. For him, mature women held all the allure and excitement. Women whose breasts had ripened to a majestic fullness that strained their bulging bras. Women whose buttocks had swollen from their former girlish softness to stretch the panties that hugged them fiercely. Luke longed for the imperious, not the impish. He yearned to be in the thrall of stern experience, not the soft simper of innocence. As a growing boy, around at his auntie’s for Saturday dinner, he would reluctantly but obediently accept the moist, pale flesh of breast meat she would carve with her jewelled fingers – secretly, Luke had lusted for the taste of darker thigh meat. Once, arriving early, with the chicken browning in the oven, Luke had tiptoed upstairs and glimpsed his auntie naked in her bedroom after a bath. She had caught him kneeling, cock in hand, on the landing. Over her knee, bare-bottomed, he had howled as her spanking hand reddened his squirming buttocks. The chicken had burned to a crisp before she had finished the delicious discipline. She had made a cheese salad for them both, later, after towelling dry his semen-splash from her thighs.
Luke ate his toasted teacake in blissful contentedness. The butter glistened on his fingertips and chin. He had deliberately paid for the small breakfast with a tenner, emptying the change from the cashier’s till and leaving her very annoyed.
‘Nothing smaller?’ she had demanded.
‘Sorry,’ he had lied, hoping the pound coins in his pocket remained silent.
Flashing her eyes angrily at him, she had been forced to count out his change from the last of her float. Luke had relished her suppressed fury, squirming with delight as she snapped out a sarcastic thank you.
Nibbling at the last of his teacake, he wished that the canteen was empty. Just himself, the cashier and the two women working behind the servery. Capable, competent women in their early forties, probably chaffing at the heat of the kitchen in their crisp red-and-pink striped uniforms.
Alone, the door locked, with the three women. The cashier would summon him curtly to her till. Perched on the leather-topped stool, her glossy nyloned legs crossed, her curved buttocks taut in her uniform, she would call out to the two servers. At the till, they would stand and stare, nodding ominously. The three women would surround him in silence – a loud, menacing silence – while he submitted to their will, bending belly down across the leather surface of the stool still warm from the weight of the cashier’s plump buttocks.
Cool hands would loosen his trousers and drag them down to his ankles. Polished fingernails would rake his cheeks as his pants were roughly peeled away from their bunched flesh. Bare-bottomed and bending, he would cringe beneath their cruel gaze. Then the spanking would commence, the angry cashier claiming the lion’s share of his humiliation, suffering and shame. Red-bottomed, he would squirm under the harsh onslaught as their hot, firm palms savagely caressed his helpless cheeks. Writhing, he would shrink from the splayed fingers of the cashier as she dominantly inspected his hot, punished flesh. Moaning softly, he would endure their laughter and tormenting hands as they spread his buttocks painfully apart and thumbed his exposed cleft.
In the kitchen, the radio played a jingle for the half-hour headlines. Luke, who had finished his buttered teacake and milk twelve minutes ago, sat at his table, pretending to read. He could not get up just now. No. Not yet. His cock was engorged, straining urgently at his bulging trousers. He was so stiffly erect, he could not walk out of the canteen. Satie would have to wait. By the time the radio gave out the weather, leading up to the news on the hour, Luke rose up from his corner table and departed.
He walked through the streets of South Wimbledon, enjoying the late autumn sunshine. He knew he should have taken a bus to the library but he was feeling disturbingly aroused and needed to clear his head.
The reference library had been built in 1938. Squat and quite ugly, the red-brick building was imprisoned in a ring of shining black iron railings. Inside, Luke approached the polished wooden counter. It was an intimate library, specialising in musicology and providing an archive service of original scores. Knowledge of its existence was what had brought Luke to this sleepy part of London.
He waited to be served. He had three books to return, all overdue. He fingered the coins in his pocket, mentally amassing the fine, as he read the tariff neatly typed under the notice above. In large red lettering, it advised borrowers with overdue returns that there would be a penalty to pay.
From an adjacent office, the sound of a softly tapping typewriter filled the silence. Luke coughed – a soft, apologetic sound. The tapping ceased. A chair scraped. High heels clicked on the polished wooden floor. The glass-panelled oak door, already ajar, squeaked as it opened wide. Luke’s knees trembled involuntarily as the librarian stepped out of her office and approached the counter.
She was in her late thirties. Ash-blonde hair, cut chic and severe, framing her oval face. She had the eyes of a cat. Grey, wide and unblinking. Luke’s cock unfurled from its sleepy repose, surging up against his pants as it lengthened. Her nostrils, he noticed, were small and dark. Her broad mouth, curved impatiently, bore the faintest trace of pale pink lipstick. No make-up concealed the gleam of her faultless skin. Luke, pressing his erection in against the wooden counter he now leaned upon, thrilled to the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and pursed lips. She bent her head down. Her hair remained unruffled as she inspected his books.
‘Late,’ she pronounced,
her fingertip tapping the stamped date on the gummed issue page. She stared at him steadily as her straightened finger rose slowly to the tariff of fines.
Luke mumbled his apology, swallowing as her colourless nail varnish glinted beneath the neon light above.
‘There’s a penalty to pay.’
At his desk, four biographies of Satie opened out before him, Luke sat in a waking dream. The librarian – new, Luke had never seen her before – had just stepped out for a brief, tantalising moment from behind her wooden counter. Peeping at her furtively, Luke had glimpsed her small, firm breasts, slender hips and pert bottom. Svelte rather than thin, and not yet overly ripe and matronly, she had an athletic suppleness and grace beneath her beige cardigan and black pencil skirt. The hem of her skirt fell just above her knee. Turning on her shiny high-heeled shoes, she allowed Luke the merest glimpse of her deliciously nylon-stockinged legs. Slender, shapely legs, with a gently muscled hint of strength. Luke imagined being pinned and trapped across one leg – for a bare-bottomed spanking – as the other pressed in against his thighs. He noted the seams running primly from her ankles up to the slender swell of her tightly skirted buttocks above.
She had returned to her office, almost but not fully closing the door. Luke heard the soft tapping of the typewriter. Satie remained neglected as Luke drifted into an enchanted daydream. In it, the beautiful librarian slowly stripped herself naked before flexing her bare arm at the elbow to test the whippiness of the bamboo she gripped – gripped in readiness to administer a crisp caning to his bare bottom. As the thin wood whistled down, her small, rubbery breasts bounced.
Satie, Erik, b. Honfleur, 17 May 1866, d. Paris, 1 July 1925, remained neglected. The clock on the library wall reminded Luke that he really should try and concentrate. He picked up his pen and started to scribble. Dates of publications. Dates of performances. Twenty minutes later, he found himself doodling, sketching out a scene from his early-morning fantasy. His pen scratched frantically as he depicted the dark-eyed Spanish domestic sternly punishing his upturned buttocks with the looped hoover flex.
Brought to Heel Page 16