Reformed Characters

by Sarah Veitch

  'I'll do anything for you, Mistress,' he gasped, looking ruefully at his glowing bottom. 'Anything you desire.'

  Well, being a virgin, I wasn't too sure what I wanted him to do to me, so decided to tease him further - after all, it was good literary research!

  Now we'll test your self-control, slave,' I said and fastened a training device onto his straining phallus. His owner had shown me how to use it to best effect. I don't know if you've seen one, Maddy, given that you prefer girls, but it's a leather and metal contraption which tightens over the penis every time it swells.

  Anyway, I tied my new slave down on his hot little bottom and proceeded to tickle his balls and anus with a feather whilst watching his excitement rising. Every time he got too aroused, the cock device tightened and made him groan.

  After half an hour of this he was almost wild with frustration and I told him that he'd have to be chastened for getting an erection without permission. 'Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress,' he whispered as I untied him, after which he got obediently onto his tummy and buried his head in his hands.

  I caressed his returned-to-pale buttocks for a few moments whilst warning him to be a good, brave slave for me, then I fetched the rosewood paddle from the wall and made him kiss it and ask for fifty strokes. Thereafter, I whacked the reformer into his naked arse every thirty seconds or so whilst he jerked, gasped and moaned. But he always got back into place for me, though his ever-reddening buttocks testified to his distress.

  When his derriere was the colour of a red delicious apple, he began to beg and shortly afterwards he used his safe word. 'May I please you with my tongue, Mistress?' he asked gutturally as I returned the paddle to its hook on the wall. I said yes and lay back on the bed with my very wet thighs spread wide.

  Maddy, a man's tongue on your clit is the most wonderful experience in the world! He licked so softly that I kept lifting my pubis to his mouth to increase the contact. But he knew what he was doing and teased me for what felt like hours till I was begging for release. Only then did he take me over the edge so that I came and came, crying out into Shady Nook and doubtless to the village beyond.

  That night at the dinner table, your mother hinted that she'd like to borrow him for an hour or two, but he's mine, mine, mine!

  Regularly sated,

  Claire

  Temping Agency,

  London

  25th August

  Dear Claire

  Congratulations tin your advance from a publisher. Unfortunately my own publisher has decided not to commission my Sapphic Gothic novel - and indeed has decided that my mainstream Gothic novels aren't mainstream enough to warrant further volumes - so I'm having to take temping work to make ends meet. Perhaps you could send me a few of those sought-after first edition stamps?

  I'm also concerned that Mother is spending a significant sum on stockings per week out of her widows pension. Do your parents always have to tear them from her? Such behaviour is fine for the young, but for a mature woman it may well end in tears.

  Here's to a sense of social responsibility,

  Magdalene

  The Cottage,

  1 Shady Nook,

  Near Exeter

  15th September

  Dear Magdalene

  Excuse the delay in writing, but Daddy, Mummy, your mummy and me didn't get back from the Arse Over Tit fayre until Tuesday. We just went there to have fun but ended up running a stall selling stockings that could be ripped from our bodies for an extra fee.

  First edition stamps and a spare pair of suspenders enclosed.

  Claire

  PS: Your mother went down a storm at the fayre, selling used panties for those who are into granny fanny - in fact she was so successful that she's doing it by mail order from now on.

  The Retreat,

  Lindesfarne

  20th September

  Claire

  As you can see from the above address, I've decided to eschew this mad world in favour of the spiritual life. The nuns think its best that I don't write to anyone whilst I'm here, so this will be my last letter to you. Perhaps when my mother recovers from this second childhood, she'll join me for a month of meditation and herbal tea.

  Sincerely,

  Magdalene

  Seller Beware

  Patsy's shadow merged with the shadows of the men in the Auction House's front row. She hoped that one day she would share their obvious riches. This new career that Sir Kempton had offered her was a stepping stone to such success. The twenty-three year old rubbed her naked arms with her hands as the gold-cased clock struck midnight. 'You're on. Make your debut,' Sir Kempton hissed.

  When she didn't move, he flicked his walking stick against her pantied bum. Ow, that really smarted. Blushing at his sexism, Patsy took the stage. Was she about to sell antiques or oil paintings? Her new boss had refused to say.

  She mounted the stairs, the high-heeled shoes that she'd been given ensuring that each upward step was small and careful. The black rubber dress that her boss had contributed skimmed the very tops of her black silk accentuated thighs. Forgetting to smile, she took her place on the stage's centre and perused the slender auctioneer's catalogue. 'We start off with lot 139,' she said spiritedly into the mike. She turned towards the bearded assistant she'd been introduced to earlier, and was unnerved to find that he held a leather whip.

  'This is a...' Patsy started in her squeakiest voice, staring more closely at the devilish punisher. She cleared her throat. 'It's a... riding whip.' Desperately she signalled for the next lot to be brought on. Oh no - it was a swishy cane lying on a plump red cushion, a cane that could make an erring girl's arse equally red. 'This is a... is a slender yellow gentleman's cane with an ivory handle,' Patsy whispered, feeling her eyes go glassy. She knew that each item required a five minutes sales pitch, but her mind had gone totally blank. The seconds ticked by as she tried to think about a non-flagellatory use for a thin cane, something which wouldn't further embarrass herself or her audience.

  Think, think, think, she told herself but no thoughts were forthcoming. Say something. But her lips felt numb.

  She watched mutely as Sir Kempton took the stage. He sighed. 'Gentleman, I'm forced to bring tonight's auction to a premature end due to Patsy's behaviour, but if you'll be kind enough to stay you can witness some strict staff training,' he said.

  'She deserves the sack. She was useless,' one of the men in the front row said.

  'Nevertheless, I'll be merciful,' Sir Kempton answered, tapping his walking stick against his leg with blush-making inference, 'I'll just publicly bare and thrash her lazy bum.'

  He'd publicly bare and thrash her lazy bum. Patsy stared at her boss, and felt a strange pull go from between her soft round breasts to just above her neatly-trimmed pubis. Her vulva gave a little twitch of anticipation. 'You... you can't be serious,' she said.

  Her boss smiled enigmatically and ordered his male assistant to bring over the whips and canes. 'You're the one who hasn't been serious, Patsy. You didn't even attempt a decent sales pitch. Your bum must pay.'

  'Indeed it must,' one of the men concurred. 'I've travelled a hundred miles to hear this wench's mutterings. Couldn't get a feel for the goods at all.'

  'Same here,' said another, leaning forward. 'I'd be more than happy to pull down the girl's pants.'

  'And I'll palm her bare bottom and tell you when it gets hot enough,' a third gentleman said.

  The twenty-three year old looked from one rich buyer to the other. A pulse started up between her legs. She could feel her facial cheeks reddening hotly. 'Which whip would you like to taste on your backside, sweetheart?' Sir Kempton asked.

  Patsy stared at the implements the assistant was holding. 'None of them,' she said faintly, unable to make eye contact with the older man. Inside she was curious to know what such punishment felt like, but mortified at becoming such a public display.

  'If you don't choose one I may use them all,' her boss continued smoothly. He widened his eyes in an
obvious query. 'But if you'd rather leave my employ I'll understand.'

  'No - I don't want to leave.' She badly needed this job. 'I guess I'll take the first cane,' Patsy said falteringly. She looked at its cruel power. But please, sir - not on the bare.'

  Sir Kempton put his head to one side and was obviously considering leniency. 'She deserves it on the bare,' said one of the watching men. 'Call that a sales pitch? She really wasn't doing her job.'

  'I was. It's just...' Patsy couldn't admit that, when she'd seen the horse whip, her clitoris had tingled and all rational thought had gone out of her head.

  'Yes, she needs it on her naked arse and with that arse bent fully over,' a second buyer added.

  'And a nice thick buttress under her belly to push her hips up,' a third attendee said.

  Meanwhile Sir Kempton was walking to the side of the Auction Hall. 'Take your seats in the Disciplinary Chamber, gentleman,' he murmured, pulling back a heavy red curtain. 'Our young friend's baring awaits.'

  He jerked a finger at the newly-visible doorway and Patsy preceded him through it, glad of her tight silk panties. She sensed that most of the men were staring at the dress-skimming lower curve of her bum. The girl walked into the Disciplinary Chamber, and stopped, scanning the large warm room with its muted pink lighting. Dressage whips and martinets and tawses were displayed in long glass cases against the nearest wall.

  'Some Auction House,' she muttered. 'This is a club for... for degenerates.'

  'Degenerates who like to genuinely buy goods at my private auctions, though they also enjoy whipping insolent buttocks,' Sir Kempton said.

  He paused as all of the men took their seats, facing the front of the room with its various bondage racks, whipping posts and trestle tables. 'Patsy, take a gentleman's cane from one of the glass cabinets and bring it over to me.' Then he smiled. 'Unfortunately you can't be thrashed by the rod that you failed to sell tonight. It'll go forward for re-auctioning in another few weeks.'

  'And will I be the auctioneer?' Patsy muttered stallingly. 'Please, sir - I'll try harder with my sales pitch.'

  'For now just try not to moan as we lift that rubber skirt and pull down your pants,' her employer said.

  He dimmed the overhead lights but centred a spotlight so that its main glow focused on a trestle at the front of the Chamber. Patsy knew that her bare bum would soon be tellingly displayed over that same trestle. She knew that it would also be striped a shameful red. But she wanted to keep her job and had often wondered what an erotic caning would feel like so she walked tremulously to the relevant show case and slid the glass door along to reveal the first of the canes.

  She stared at the corrective long rod which was displayed on a royal blue satin cushion. 'Shall I bring the cushion?' she whispered uncertainly.

  'Speak up, girl,' her employer said.

  'Shall I bring the cushion, sir?' If she got the protocol right she'd hopefully earn herself a milder caning.

  'Yes, we'll need it to put under your wriggling tummy,' one of the watchers murmured with a wink.

  Sir Kempton walked up to her and tilted her chin. 'Don't worry; we have a law here that says those who lay on the rod too hard receive the exact same punishment. We're very strict, but measured. If you can't bear one particular implement we'll let you try something else.' He jerked a finger towards the front of the room. 'Carry the cane on its cushion, but take care not to drop it. When you reach the front, lie flat out on the rosewood trestle. We'll take it from there.'

  Slowly Patsy walked towards her fate. She held the cushion with the cane right out as if it was an offering. She tried not to look at its severe slender lines. When she reached the restraining furniture she knelt and set the implement down then clambered awkwardly onto the trestle. She lay there, the wood hard against her rubber-clad turn.

  'George - do you want to assist?' Sir Kempton asked. Patsy looked at the mirror in front of her and saw a tall somewhat angular man approaching the trestle, his face betraying nothing of what he felt. Was her rubber-sheathed body pleasing to him or repugnant? Was he looking forward to watching her being soundly whipped?

  The man knelt down by Patsy's face. 'Just relax into the machine. I'm going to press a button and a support will be mechanically raised to elevate your tummy. I'll put the cushion under you first so that it doesn't scrape your belly no matter how much you squirm.'

  'Have other people in the club squirmed a lot?' Patsy muttered ashamedly.

  George grimaced in sympathy. 'They have when they've chosen the cane.'

  The girl quivered with apprehension at his unexpected words. 'But I... well, figured the cane wasn't too bad. I mean, people always talk about six of the best with some affection.'

  'Yes, they do so thirty years after they left school,' the man replied. He looked back at the rod. 'At the time they probably tried to lessen the pain by wearing two pairs of underpants. And when the cane swished down they still went wild.' He put the pillow in place and obviously activated some unseen button, for Patsy felt her hips rise higher in the air. 'Don't worry, love,' he continued, 'if your arse really can't bear it you can choose the whip, the strap or the leather paddle instead.'

  The twenty-three year old watched in the mirror as he reached for the cane. He weighed it in his hands then whipped it lightly through the atmosphere. The girl shivered. 'Reach your hands back and lift up your dress, dear,' Sir Kempton said.

  Slowly the new auctioneer obeyed. She felt vulnerably aware of her silk-clad bottom. She prayed that they'd let her retain the silken covering, at least for a little while.

  The college graduate winced inwardly as George stepped forward to drag her dress hem even further up her back. Now pull down your pants,' he ordered curtly.

  'Sir, couldn't I just...' Patsy started in a faltering voice.

  'Do you want to leave the Discipline Chamber this instant?' her employer queried.

  'No, please, that wasn't what I meant.' To leave meant that she'd lose her exciting new contacts and her job and never know how such punishment felt.

  'Then do what you're told without preamble,' Sir Kempton ordered.

  Nervously, Patsy reached her fingers back then edged down her close-fitting pants.

  She stopped when the material was just below the top of her silk hold-ups and put her hands to the front again without either man's bidding.

  'Good girl,' Sir Kempton said in a convivial tone. 'Now grip the bar.' Patsy stretched her hands out and took hold of the rosewood rod which had obviously been fashioned to hold on to. 'Keep your palms there at all times,' her employer continued, 'for if you suddenly reach back they may inadvertently taste the cane.'

  For the next four minutes Patsy lay there, waiting, with her bare bottom raised high in the air like a twin-globed sacrifice. Sir Kempton walked round and round her buttocks. George fussed with her rubber dress and half-mast pants. Finally, when her senses were begging for the experience to begin and thus soon be over with, her employer raised the cane.

  'Six strokes on the bare for failing in your official duties, Miss,' he said quietly.

  Patsy felt her bare bottom tensing. She closed her eyes as Sir Kempton pulled his right arm back.

  The first stroke went over the centre of both naked cheeks. It left a trail of virgin fire that seemed to burn deep into the centre of her buttocks. Patsy automatically started to scramble backwards from the rosewood length.

  'The first is the worst because you don't know what to expect,' George whispered, urging her back over. 'You're a grown woman. You can take the rest.'

  The second stripe went lower, about an inch below the first. It stung just as much. Again Patsy jerked wildly and yelled and began to leave the trestle. 'You're a third of the way through this,' Sir Kempton said reasonably. 'It would be a shame to start all over again with a different device.'

  'I didn't... it's just...' Patsy rubbed at her punished bum for an anguished couple of minutes then reluctantly put her hands back on the holding bar. She steeled herself to ac
cept the remaining four strokes of the cane.

  But the third stroke proved too much to bear. Her employer applied it near the tendermost tops of her thighs, where her hold-ups ended. Beyond rationality, Patsy howled then pushed back and up and levered herself off of the punishment bench.

  'It's too much,' she whispered raggedly, holding her sore bum in both hands and wishing that her palms were cooler.

  George nodded ponderously. 'As I said at the beginning, love, you can choose another implement of discipline instead.'

  Patsy looked over at the hundred seated men. All one-hundred looked impassively back at her. She knew that as she walked past them they'd turn to stare at her well-striped bottom and at the growing and surprising wetness that had somehow started to pool between her legs. 'Put the cane back,' Sir Kempton ordered, 'and select a different type of corrective implement from any glass case.'

  Patsy reached for her pants, but her employer told her to leave them at her knees. Ignoring the many stares and smiles, she shuffled up the Disciplinary Chamber till she came to the first of the display cases. It held a multi-thonged riding whip. Patsy remembered the thin cruelty of the cane, and walked smartly on, looking for a thicker implement. Maybe a wider surface wouldn't sting so hard. She stared nervously at thick straps and swishy martinets and merciless wooden paddles. Finally she chose a leather three-tailed tawse.

  This time Patsy knew to bring the cushion as well because George would want to place it under her writhing tummy. It was a circular-shaped cushion this time which admirably accentuated the deep brown straight lines of the tawse. The girl walked unsteadily to the front. As she did so, a thread of desire slipped from between her pouting underlips and disappeared into the soft red carpet. Feeling more ashamed than ever, Patsy shuffled to the front, hugely aware of her rod-reddened bum.