"Well, I do get into the habit of slagging off men when I'm with the girls. It's so easy when we're just girls together. Seems to come so naturally you know."
"I do know," Henry assured her firmly, "and I'll take that into consideration too."
He thought a moment, looking her half naked and totally desirable body up and down in a mixture of sexual interest and calculation.
"Four or six would suit normally for a livener, or just to remind you that you are a woman but tonight, I think something a little stronger is called for. Would you agree that eight of the very best across that pert bottom of yours would help you to do better and be no more than you deserved?"
She nodded silently.
"Then bend over the chair and grip the seat please. Usual rules apply; take the stroke again if you let go, caned on your palms if you touch yourself behind and start all over from the beginning if you get up before permission. Now hold onto your skin. I'm going to make you feel these."
This was different again. Over the gate was total confusion and bewilderment, while the repeat that evening was a matter of sheer lust; a swift and ruthless fanning of her sexual flame until they were both consumed in white heat. This time it was deliberate, foreseen and fearfully anticipated, a carefully prescribed punishment to help her to be a better loved mate for her man.
He didn't start immediately, but stood gazing lovingly at the peach halves of his girl's cringing buttocks, the resemblance to that delicious fruit not only in the exquisite texture of the succulent flesh, and the neat cleft that divided them but in the delicate in-sink of the wrinkled anus, exactly like the scar where the real fruit parted from its twig.
It was not a big bottom. Covered, clothed, it was neat trim, svelte, undulating languidly with her walk, a motion becoming ever more sensual with her increasing sexual arousal. Bare and bent, it took on another dimension, flaring generously, presenting an ample target for rod or cane, strap or crop. The firm flesh seemed made to absorb whatever cuts he gave it while the flawless alabaster made the perfect parchment on which to write in letters of fire.
How he loved this woman. So brave and intelligent. Her fear was evident in the little fatty quiverings at the tops of her thighs, where they framed the pouting fig of her vulva, the site of so much pleasure for them both with its hot humid sheath fringed with russet hairs. For all her fear she did not leave her position, but waited submissively for what was to come. He would do anything for her, he vowed. With all the power of his shoulder and wrist, he lashed the bitter length of straw-coloured rattan into the quivering cheeks.
It was a ferocious stroke, slamming into the soft flesh just below the absolute centre of the tautened mounds, sending a shock wave through them, visibly lifting the meaty globes. He gave her a ten second interval to fully absorb the disciplinary effect, then delivered another searing cut, equally biting. Each stroke had her gasping and hissing as she clung to the seat for dear life. Fear of earning extra, and a determined pride in her ability to endure, served to keep her in place, although the strokes slicing into her tender taut buttock cheeks at nerve stretching intervals were a whole world harder than anything she had had so far in her brief experience of bare-bottomed caning. For a start this was a proper professional punishment cane, a lean and hungry rod with length, whip and weight to it, an instrument meant to hurt, and wielded by an athletic man who had promised her he would make it do just that.
Each cut raised an immediate finger thick track across her milky white globes, a track that felt as if it were made of fire. When he lashed the fifth of the awful octet into the tender flesh at the top of her legs, just where the 'thigh-high' stocking tops ended, she whimpered and writhed in place. On six he repeated the cut and she bent one leg at the knee, rubbing it against the other with a susurration of nylon threads fretting on each other. He waited until she put the shoe back on the ground and struck again, a little higher mercifully, but also a little overhit, and the tip wrapped itself round her side to bite deeply into her flank. She twisted away from him and clung onto her perch with her hips askew, her left leg pointed down to an extreme as she struggled to stay put. With a growl he ordered her straight and she moved back with obvious reluctance. The last stroke fell full and true across the lower part of the cringing buttock cheeks and she stamped and hissed as she fought to hold on until 'permission' was pronounced.
Finally, after what seemed an age, she heard the blessed word and straightened painfully. Henry held her in his arms for a brief moment, his lips pressed to hers in a forgiving kiss then pushed her from him.
"Get dressed," he said. "Friday girls go on their dates hot bottomed. Besides, those witch friends of yours will be waiting at the Trident to see the damage."
In unquestioning obedience she slipped the mini dress, which was all the covering she was allowed, over her head and followed meekly out to the car.
The beating left her soft and pliant, she found. Not frightened or driven into obedience by terror of another punishment, but dissolved, submissive, malleable. As she entered the car some instinct made her flip up the abbreviated skirt of the mini-dress that was the recognised uniform of a chastised Friday girl, and set her bare welted behind on the cool hard leather. Henry looked across at her and nodded.
"Good girl," he said approvingly. "We'll make a Sexton wife of you yet."
She only smiled and leant against him, not really taking in his words but gripping his thigh in both hands as if in need of an anchor.
As Henry had forecast, no great feat of prophesy under the circumstances, her two closest friends were waiting at the Trident. Their eagle eyes did not fail to note the pride in her carriage, the slight stiffness in her walk, the tightening of her lips as she set her bottom on the stool, that showed as clearly as if she had walked into the room buck naked that beneath the inadequate pelmet of her skirt she was as hot and sore as either of them, and just as bare.
"So Henry granted your wish," Renee said with a grin, watching the pressed lips and agitated manoeuvring as she took her seat on the tall hard stool.
She had the grace to blush, but it was from pride not from her welts.
"And did you two settle for telling tales out of school?" she wanted to know in exchange.
Laura laughed wryly.
"Did I ever. George decided that the only way to curb my tongue was to give me something else to think of. I'm like raw steak down there."
"Me too," Renee said ruefully. "Hamburger steak in my case and as hot as if just off the barbecue."
She was all contrition.
"I'm so sorry," she cried, "I didn't mean to get you into trouble."
"You didn't," Laura assured her, "we did it all for ourselves with our runaway tongues. Besides," she added with a sly grin, "it'll all be worth it when George takes me home tonight. Lovely lovely loving. So hot and satisfying. Mmmm," and she licked her lips in anticipation.
"Makes the men as hot as it does us," Renee agreed. "Tom seems to get twice as hard and half as big again, when I come to bed with a flogged bottom. I can't make my mind up whether it's the sight of my roasted rump or the fact that I'm practically ready to rape him that turns him on so. Doesn't matter really, either way we win. It's the end result that counts, and that's pure heaven."
The newest Friday girl pursed her lips in doubt.
"You know," she said, "it doesn't make sense. These beatings are meant to be punishments, to keep us in order, curb our runaway tongues, straighten us out, but here we are literally licking our lips over them. Seems to me they're a waste of time."
"You think so?" Renee queried. "Would you really like another caning just this moment?"
She squirmed in her seat.
"Eh, no," she admitted. "Not just now. I think I'll stay out of trouble a little while longer."
"There you are," Renee said, triumphantly. "It does work. Enough to keep us in check
, not enough to cow us, and lovely hot sex all round. What more can a girl ask?"
They all three dissolved into hysterical laughter until warning glances from their men, chatting further along the bar reminded them of the danger of another dose on their hot throbbing bottoms, and they hurriedly suppressed their mirth.
The three pairs of hot welted buttocks pressed their naked swollen flesh against the unyielding mouldings of their barstools, writhing a little as the heartless plastic aggravated the throbbing soreness in their tender girl meat
Three diverse beauties, blonde, brunette and redhead, in heightened states of excitement, though with just discernible traces of puffiness round their eyes to register the severity of their ordeals. They sat together in sociable conversation, squirming collectively on their hard stools their short skirts sliding up with their movements to reveal the tips of the livid marks that ran across their bottoms and just presented themselves on the fleshy buttock masses where the pressure of their seats forced them sideways. It was a fleeting pageant of welted girl that aroused the undisguised pleasure and interest of Charlie the barman, not to speak of several dozen other visitors to the pub.
They had been comparing notes on how many strokes each hot bottom carried; ten for Renee, eight for Laura, just like her own.
"God, they didn't half hurt at the time," she said, "but now. Well, I feel as if I'd had at least three large gins before I even got here. Somehow it's not hurting any more, just exciting."
Laura nodded in agreement.
"Wouldn't it be cunt clenching if we knew we were going to get them all over again, before the evening was over," Renee said in a dreamy voice.
The other two looked at her in amazement.
"You're nuts," Laura said without emotion.
"No, no. Think about it. Going through the evening, having dinner together late, feeling your bottom hot and sore under you and knowing it was going to get another pasting as soon as dinner was over. Wouldn't that make you really feel alive?"
Red and blonde heads shook slowly in silent sadness at her apparent lunacy.
"Oh, all right, have it your own way. Have another drink. It's my round any way. Charlie! Three more Vodka tonics needed here to soothe injured feelings."
"Oh. Thinking of rubbing them on your pretty pink bottoms are you?" the barman asked with a leer.
"Cheeky monkey," Renee replied with no bitterness, "keep your eye on your bar and leave our arses out of it."
With the new drinks the conversation turned to the usual feminine stuff; gossip of all kinds, from who was sleeping with whom to the colour of this season's fashions but when the new dose of potent alcohol had warmed their bellies, Renee went back to where she had left off.
"How about a little dare?" she suggested. "How about we deal the cards to see who's going to repeat their stripes tonight, and who's going to lay them on. Carrot and stick approach."
Laura still looked doubtful, though weakening under her third Vodka; in Sexton the drinks were as generous as the beatings. Her companion was also prey to ambiguous feelings. Of course it was out of the question. Bend and bare to be whipped again on her already unbearably sore bottom but, on the other hand... There was this rising warmth somewhere below her navel, and it wasn't all Vodka. Something was stirring in her womb at the though of what might be. She was beginning to see what Renee was after. It was cunt clenching, as the tall brunette had so elegantly put it. She could feel the excitement rising. Somewhere she heard a voice saying, "OK, let's do it."
With a jolt, she recognised it as her own!
She couldn't believe her ears, but it had been her. Laura looked at her with wide eyes then sighed elaborately.
"Oh well," she said, "if you two are going to make idiots of yourselves, I suppose I'm in too."
On the surface it sounded like a reluctant gesture of solidarity with her friends but they were not fooled. Laura was as excited by the prospect as the others.
"Got some cards, Charlie?" Renee called and, when he produced a pack, began to shuffle them. The young man seemed intrigued and wanted to know what they were playing for.
"Can I join in?" he asked.
"Strictly female business," Renee told him, "and you wouldn't want it if you won it, though it might do you a power of good," she added.
He went off back down the bar looking very disappointed, leaving Renee to explain the nature of the game.
"First thing is," she told them, "we want to drag it out a bit. Sudden death is no fun. It's watching the cards fall, seeing yourself sliding towards a beating, winding up the fear in your belly that makes it worth while. Like a roller-coaster, where the girls all shriek in fear but wouldn't miss a ride. Here's what we do," she explained, "we deal out the cards and each of us keeps the first card to fall in front of us. We go on dealing and if the same card comes up again in our pile, we keep it. Otherwise it's discarded and we go on dealing. At the end of the pack, if no-one's got four of a kind, we keep what we have but give the rest another shuffle and the next girl takes over the deal. We go on that way until one of us gets the fearsome foursome and she's 'it'. OK?"
The others nodded and Renee began to deal.
Ten for the blonde, knave for the redhead and seven for herself. The dealing continued and the tension mounted.
When they had started, she had been afraid it would turn out to be a mere childish game. She needn't have worried. As the cards fell in front of her she gazed at each as if it had the potential to strike her like a snake, expecting each piece of pasteboard to show another knave, as Renee turned it up. After half a dozen rounds it did, and her belly gave a flip that almost had her off her stool. By the end of the pack Renee and Laura each had only the one, while a pair of smirking jacks lay before her. She gathered the cards and shuffled as if her life depended on the result, then began to lay them out methodically. By the time she had finished the deck Renee had two sevens but she and Laura each looked with butterfly bellies at a trio of knaves and tens respectively.
When Laura began to slide the cards along the bar to each of them she was squirming in her seat, and not just because of the throbbing soreness in her bare buttocks where the hard plastic bit into them. The first to be hit was Renee and now each of them was looking at a threatening trio of cards, but that was it. The deck passed without further score and Renee was shuffling again. As she watched her deft fingers sliding the cards over and into each other, she tried to think what the odds were of getting the one remaining knave in the pack. Once, back in that far off world of business and deals (was it really only a few months since she had voluntarily left it to become one of the Sexton 'coven', as Henry had taken to describing her friends) she would have calculated the odds instinctively and made her investments accordingly, but this was different. Now her arse was on the line, quite literally, but her mind was a mass of other sensations and thoughts than the calculation of risk and she let it go, submerging herself in the womb warming thrill of danger, of putting her buttocks at risk of a new thrashing so soon after the last beating. Suddenly there it was! A grinning knave of clubs leering at her from the bar, as if looking forward to seeing her whipped. Slowly she picked it up.
"Guess I'm it," she said softly.
True to the spirit of the game, they had arranged to carry out execution immediately after dinner when they could adjourn to the ladies' room together without provoking comment. Meanwhile she would suffer/enjoy the excitement and fear of a beating to come on already tenderised flesh. Throughout the evening she intercepted glances from Renee and Laura that showed they too were constantly aware but in their cases with anticipation rather than apprehension. Even Henry's decision to reward her by hand-feeding her as she knelt in semi-public beside his chair, did not totally divert her from contemplating the fate of her already bruised cheeks, soon to writhe anew under the asp-like bite of a cane. Finally the meal was over and Renee swep
t up the trio by a glance and gesture they could not mistake, and the three of them made off, in invariable feminine ritual, to the powder room to 'freshen up'.
Women were treated well by the Trident and the powder room was large and well appointed with liberal space between the stalls and the vanity units with their bowls and mirrors for 'fixing' female bits.
"Stand back ladies," Renee announced boldly as they entered. "We need room to pay off a little wager. I promise you, you won't be disappointed."
The other women stood back, most with knowing grins, since, from somewhere, Renee had produced a whippy cane, which she swished in an unmistakable gesture. It was not as formidable as Henry's 'discipline' cane, the intended recipient thought, looking at it without enthusiasm but eight on sore buttocks, stiffening now, this far from the first infliction would not be comfortable, to say the least.
Under Renee's direction, she stood towards one end of the long room and bent to clasp her ankles. Renee flipped up the hem of the abbreviated dress to reveal the pale moons beneath, a paleness accentuated by the livid tracks that ran straight and true across it, from centre line to thigh tops.
"Whew!" Renee exclaimed, her eyes opening at the sight of the purple tracks, revealed properly for the first time. "You certainly caught it. You're definitely going to feel these. I'll take the first four, then you can get your breath back before Laura finishes you off."
She could have wished that Renee had chosen some other way of expressing it. Bending there, butt naked in front of not only her friends but a half dozen other acquaintances and a handful of total strangers as well, she felt more vulnerable than on any of the occasions so far. All these women didn't help. Somehow in front of a man, even if she was totally naked, it did not seem quite as shaming as having her bare bottom exposed to other women. Somehow it was natural for a man to see one and impose discipline while with women, it was an artificial concept resulting in degradation and shame.
"Let's see if I can lay it right on Henry's tracks," Renee said cheerfully, and lashed the cane into her cringing bottom cheeks.
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