Diary - Chapter 2

In the middle of the night I woke, remembering the shattering events of the evening before. I reached for her and she came into my arms. I put my hands on her buttocks. They were ridged, like corrugated boards, and they burned, red hot under the palms of my hands. I thought of the cane causing these ridges, and I was hard again.

I re-lived the caning, visualising the cane impacting into those fleshy buttocks. I could feel the cane with a life of its own, twisting and twitching inside the palm of my hand. I heard again the words which had galvanised me.

“Harder! Are you a wimp or something!”

And I remembered my reaction; to wield the cane harder than ever before, almost at full strength. And I remembered how she had loved it. How ready for me when the punishment was over.

And Joan must have been remembering too. I heard her whisper “Harder, my darling!” So I drove in deep, roughly, and we climaxed again. Her orgasm came even quicker than mine.

In the morning we made love quietly, lovingly, like two normal people. It was slow and smooth. Nothing like the violence of the night before. When we had satisfied each other Joan slipped out of bed. As she walked across to the adjoining bathroom I lay back on the pillows, hands behind my head and watched her buttocks as she walked away from me. The stripes were vivid. I was aghast at the damage I’d done, and wondered if she would ever forgive me. The ridges were multi-coloured, every shade of red and purple, with thin streaks of yellow and black. As the buttocks plopped up and down the stripes jumped and twisted as if with lives of their own.

It came to me that when she realised what damage I had done she would be furious. Just then she stopped at the mirror. Turning her back to it and looking over her shoulder she said, “Ah! What a lovely job you’ve done, John!” She came over to the bed and kissed me hard on the lips. “Lovely! A real work of art!”

When she had finished in the bathroom she told me to stay where I was, and she would bring breakfast up to me. “After all, you are in charge in the bedroom.” She went downstairs, still naked, and soon lovely smells of cooking filtered into the bedroom. I was presented with the most splendid breakfast, my darling sitting naked on the edge of the bed whilst I ate.

When I had finished I attended to her rump. Joan lay face down on the bed while I covered the ravaged area with cream, smoothing it and rubbing as gently as I could. She lay passively, purring in her throat like a cat. The sore places had become more colourful during the night, and the skin was hard and glossy. After a while she edged her legs apart, and I slipped my creamy fingers between. It was warm and damp in there. I could have sworn she had another little cum while I worked.

As the weeks passed we established a routine. Monday to Friday lunchtime we were absolutely professional in school. We worked together a lot, but never mentioned anything but school affairs. The school continued to run well, and discipline improved gradually. The number of canings declined; a great relief to me and, I think, to Joan. I lived at my own flat during the week. After our usual meal out on Friday evenings, I went home with Joan and spent three nights with her.

Her home was an Edwardian detached house in a nearby village. It was warm and private, with a large garage big enough for Joan’s modern saloon car and my banger. She could never have bought and run this place on a teacher’s pay, even a Head’s salary, and it seemed her father had bought the house and provided a goodly allowance to supplement her income. There was enough money for a gardener two days a week, a cleaner two half days, and a housekeeper who came in most days to organise the kitchen, do shopping and generally run the place.

This represented wealth beyond my wildest dreams. My own salary was enough for the rent on a small flat, the running expenses of my car, one evening at the restaurant each week, and little else. This was one of the reasons Joan had seemed out of my league. Together with her seniority over me, her natural poise and my humble upbringing had made it impossible to think of her as other than a good person to work for.

But everything had changed. For part of the week at least, I was in charge. I was quite able to work for her in school, even let her pay most of the bills, so long as Joan was happy to submit to me for a different but important part of our lives. It was paradise. Except for one thing. Joan had told me she would never cane me again. Quite right, if in our sex-lives I was to be dominant. But sometimes I felt the need for a thorough beating myself. That I was to be denied. Well, OK, perhaps that was a small price to pay for an otherwise superb partnership.

Even then I was unable to think of marriage.

At school everything continued to go well. Our relationship was absolutely professional. Except, that is, for some minor incidents which always seemed to occur on Friday afternoons.

The following Friday Joan had me in the study to show me some circular or other from the Ministry. “Come round her and look at this!” she said. When I tried to look over her shoulder at the document I couldn’t help but notice her blouse had sagged away from the front of her body. She wore a much looser one that day, and quite obviously she had removed her bra. She was giving me what vulgar people might call an eye-full. I could even see the nipples, and suspected they were enlarged. The little minx was enjoying this.

She pointed out the salient points in the document, I replied as appropriate, and left the room. It wasn’t until we were together in the restaurant that I mentioned the incident. “Didn’t you like it, John?” she said? “I’ll be more careful in future, if you like.”

“I ought to give you a good spanking,” I replied.

We both knew that was impossible, since we had agreed on no more bottom-warming until the stripes had disappeared. And quite obviously that would take another week, and probably a good deal more.

So in the bedroom that night we played a different game.

I had sent Joan upstairs by herself. She was to remove all her clothes and stand in the corner, hands on head, and wait for me. I decided to let her stew for a while. After ten minutes, though, I was unable to control my impatience, and went after her. She was indeed standing in the corner, but had failed to remove the last garment, a very fetching pair of French knickers, black with lots of lace.

“What did I tell you, my girl?” I asked, trying to be stern.

Without looking round she said, “To take off my clothes, Sir. But you didn’t mean all my clothes, did you Sir? It wouldn’t be decent, Sir.”

“When I tell you to take off all your clothes, I mean exactly that. Now, my dear, you’ve been naughty once today, for which I’m going to punish you. And now this! Something else to punish you for!”

She bent over as she slid the knickers off her legs, pushing her bottom towards me in a provocative manner. I looked at the stripes from the previous week. The violent colours had abated, and the stripes were now black. They had also widened, with fuzzy edges, and merged with adjoining stripes. I passed my hand over the cheeks. The ridges had almost flattened, and her bottom was warm and smooth. But it was still off-limits as far as punishment was concerned.

“Turn round and face me!” I ordered.

She did as she was told, and I continued, ”No, I’m not going to cane you today. But you have to punished, my dear.”

“Yes Sir,” she said, looking at me coyly. She still thought I would have to let her off, but I had other ideas. I took off my jacket and, standing close in front of her and staring hard into her eyes, rolled up my right shirt sleeve. My hands went to the buckle of my belt. Unfastening it, I drew the belt with a flourish from its loops. I doubled the belt and held the two ends in my right hand.

“Hold out your hand, my darling!”

I put my mouth against her ear and whispered, “you may pull your hand away at the last moment,” and I kissed her. This was to be a ‘pretend’ punishment.

“Two strokes on each hand for your lewd display this afternoon, my girl, and one on each hand for failing to carry out your instructions just now.” I was already confident in my new roll as Dominant Master, and gave orders as if I’d been doing it for years.

I drew away, and when she reached out with her hand I placed my own under it. I was looking forward to experiencing the pain myself when she withdrew her own hand, and I determined to strike as hard as I could. It was a thick leather belt, much heavier than the one I usually wore. I gritted my teeth and swung the belt with all my strength.

Joan did not remove her hand, and took the whole impact of the belt. I was staggered. A red flush appeared almost at once across the palm of her hand. I looked at her, and she was gazing at me. A grimace was giving way to a proud smile. Without being told, she withdrew the hand and held out the other.

Placing my left hand under hers I swung the belt behind my shoulder and unleashed another mighty stroke. I quickly looked at her face. There was no doubt she was badly hurt. Joan’s mouth was open and she took in several gulps of air. She gradually composed herself, and looked at me, flashing me the same proud smile.

I wondered if she would be able to take a second stroke on the right hand. Joan was in no doubt though, and again, without being instructed, held out the hand. She took a second stroke on the left hand, too, and this time she couldn’t help putting both hands under her armpits, though how much relief this afforded I didn’t know.

“If you had been obedient, if you hadn’t tried to defy me, your punishment would have been over now, wouldn’t it!” I couldn’t resist rubbing it in.

She looked at me, less defiant now. Perhaps this time she would take the easy way out, and pull her hand away at the crucial moment. “One more on each hand!” I said. “I’m waiting. Hold out your hand!” Joan held out her hand, less confidently this time. I was sure she would let me take the lash; I hoped she would. Something inside me wanted to share her pain. Joan had other ideas. She took both strokes. After each one I looked at her face. She was obviously badly hurt, but she soon came round and gave me a cheeky grin. My heart went out to her for her courage.

Rubbing soothing cream into her hands was less erotic than attending to her bottom, but I enjoyed the quiet intimacy of the moment. Perhaps it was a form of grooming. I sat in the big upholstered armchair in her bedroom and she kneeled astride my legs, holding out each hand in turn for the cream. We chatted. I told her how surprised I was that she hadn’t pulled her hands away.

Joan smiled and said, “Ah, but I have quite a history of having my hands strapped.”

I asked her to go on.

“Well, we got a new Headmistress at my school. We were sure she was lesbian, and even more sure she was sadistic. The standard punishment involved holding your hand out for a dose of the tawse. All the girls hated it. Somehow it takes a lot of courage to hold your hand out, watching the Head getting ready to hit you. Girls thought their hands were delicate. Not like your bottom, which can absorb quite massive punishment, but the pain soon dies away and there’s not much damage except for a rainbow-hued posterior.”

I thought about it, and agreed that I wouldn’t fancy it on the hands myself. And I said there seemed to be no sexual connotations when a lover strapped his partner on the hands.

“Ah, but at my school the bitch of a Head really did appear to be getting something sexual from it. You see, it wasn’t just a matter of thrashing a girl on her hands. None of us found it easy to hold the hand out for six or twelve strokes. And if you pulled your hand away, she hit herself on the leg. Then you were really for it. Punishment stopped at once, and you were in for a “Special.”

“What did that involve?” I asked.

“You had to report at nine o’clock at night (it was a boarding school, of course). You had to be in gym clothes, just a pair of shorts, vest, gym shoes and socks. You were allowed to wear a bra. At least when you went into her study you could wear a bra. She had a thing about your hair. She wanted it to be gathered at each side with two ribbons each tied in a neat bow. Goodness knows where she got this fetish from. Most girls in for a Special were trembling so much they had to get a friend to tie the ribbons. Maybe it just made the girls look younger; maybe it awoke some childhood memory for her. We’ll never know.

“She inspected us, especially the hair, and checked our hands for cleanliness. She touched us a lot, especially our hair and faces. The girls used to say she almost slobbered over us. When she was satisfied, you had to get ready for the strapping. You won’t believe this, but you first had to take off your vest and bra. It wasn’t so bad for the younger girls, but a lot of the older girls went in for a Special, and they hated this part. By seventeen or eighteen most of us were developing pretty well, and we were very, very sensitive about our boobs. Especially the big girls. Can you imagine an impressionable young woman standing there in a pair of shorts, under the gaze of this monster!

“Then you had to go to her desk and fetch a tawse. You felt her eyes on your back as you went. There was a drawer full of them. They were all numbered, and you had to select the one she wanted. She was still watching you as you walked back and handed her the strap. Then it all happened. The Head would say how many strokes you were to get. It was the original sentence plus two strokes. And any strokes you had survived didn’t count. She would start again. So if the original punishment was six strokes, and you had taken four before pulling your hand away, you would still get eight that night.

“Only this time it was special, indeed. You had to raise your left hand so the palm faced forward, fingers pointing straight up. And she positioned the hand so that it was exactly in front of your left tittie. Then she stepped back to your side, and slashed the strap savagely at your hand. Then you had to raise your right hand in front of your right breast, and she hit you again. If you took your hand away at the last moment, as you desperately wanted to do, then you got it right on your boob. I know one girl who was in for six strokes. She just could not stand the idea of being hit on the hands, and she took her hand away every time. She got all six on her breasts. I saw them afterwards. Both titties were red raw with weals where the edge of the strap had cut into her.

“And did this happen to you?” I asked.

“Actually, no, I was never in for a Special. I mostly kept out of serious trouble. On the few occasions I was strapped, I was so scared of the Special that I managed to hold my hand still. Just! But several of my friends were. In fact . . .”

I waited for Joan to continue, but she was looking thoughtfully into the distance. “Go on, Joan,” I said. “What were you going to say?”

Eventually she turned and looked at me. “Well, there was one occasion I’m not too proud of. Jill, a friend of mine, was caught with me. We were both smoking. I managed to dodge round a wall and escape before the teacher could see me properly. A lot of pressure was put on Jill to split on me, but she wouldn’t say anything. I think she got extra strokes as a result, and I know she couldn’t last out, and got a Special.”

Joan stopped, looking thoughtful again. I waited for her to continue.

“She couldn’t last out in the Special. I know that, because she showed me the marks afterwards. There was bruising on both sides, and she must have taken three or four strokes on her breasts. I’ve never forgiven myself for that. I’ve re-lived the episode a thousand times, and each time I owned up and spared Jill at least some of the strokes. Perhaps, if she had only been given six for the original punishment she could have avoided the Special altogether.”

“So you blame yourself!”

“Yes I do. I’ve been blaming myself ever since. And that’s why, when you took off your belt today, I felt a tremendous urge to be punished on my hands. Do you see?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I thought about the turmoil that must have been in her mind all these years. No wonder she had wanted to take all six strokes herself. To pull away and let me take the punishment would only have reinforced her guilt. “Perhaps you would like to lay this ghost once and for all, then?”

“Yes, I would.” She was said this very firmly. “Yes, John. I want you to give me a Special. One day. Not just yet. Let me get used to the idea. Give me a few weeks and then spring it on me one day, without any warning. Will you do that for me?”

I was staggered. “Well, if you are sure, yes, I will.”

I thought about it for a while and said, “But in the meantime you must make sure you have everything you need. Hair ribbons, for instance. And gym kit. Everything from shoes to vest. Get everything together this weekend. You can go shopping on Saturday by yourself. Put everything together in a drawer you don’t normally use, so that when I tell you to go up to prepare for a Special, its all there ready for you. Meanwhile I’ll get hold of a tawse somehow. Or make one. OK?”

“OK!” she replied. “You’re a good organiser. Just like me! We make a good pair.”

I picked up one of her hands. The cream was well rubbed in, but the palm was red and angry-looking. I put it to my lips. Then I reached between her legs to see if she was wet. “Clearly its time for bed,” I said.

Time rushed by. My first summer term would soon be over. I was busier than ever, organising exams and planning for the following term. Joan and I played spanking games every weekend, and recently I had caned her just as hard as on that first famous occasion. Joan’s backside was once more a mass of weals.

On the last day of term I got a horrible shock. Things had been going well, and not a single pupil had been caned for several weeks. That was about to change.

We were about to close for the summer holidays, and there were lots of leavers. Most quietly played out their last few days, but one little madam had decided to play a prank. Perhaps she wanted to be famous; part of the folk-lore of the school. She had somehow smuggled a dustbin lid into school, and during break she managed to balance it over the door into the lobby leading to the staffrooms. As it happened I was the victim. I’d been in there checking something with one of the teachers, and as I came out the wretched object crashed onto my head. There was no lasting damage, except a bump on my head and a blow to my pride. I was angry, though, and when I learned the miscreant’s name, I knew what had to be done. A teacher on her way to the staffrooms had nearly collided with a girl running round a corner of the passage. Of all people, it was the Head Girl, Jennifer Williams. I soon found her and escorted her to see Miss Harding.

We had to wait. The Head was interviewing some parents, so the girl Jennifer and I sat in the Secretary’s office. We waited ages. Jennifer was sobbing, and I didn’t like it. I felt bad that the girl would be punished on her last day. Was it all that serious an offence? Well, yes it was, however you looked at it. The news would be all round school by now, and I would be a laughing-stock if an example were not made of her.

When the parents had at last departed, Miss Harding’s head poked round the door. She beckoned me into her study, and I explained what had happened. Joan was as surprised as I had been, but she agreed it had to be the stick for Miss Jennifer. “Alright, bring her in, please, John!”

Jennifer was most reluctant, having worked herself into quite a state. Being summer, jackets had been left at home, but there was still the skirt to be removed. After some coaxing Jennifer eventually removed it, and I lead her by the arm over to the horse. Naturally, considering the state she was in, this girl could not be relied on to stay bending, so I strapped her firmly in place. There was some resistance, and I had to use some force to get the straps properly tight. Going round to the other end of the horse, I grasped Jennifer’s wrists. She was still struggling. Meanwhile, Joan had selected a cane; one we believed to be the most severe, suitable only for older pupils who had earned a stiff flogging.

When I saw Joan preparing to take aim I remember feeling awful. I so hated inflicting pain on reluctant pupils, and a year’s experience had not cured me of that. I felt particularly bad about this girl, who after all had only damaged me, not some vulnerable junior teacher. Irrational, I well knew, but the guilt hurt me. As I watched Joan in action, I longed to be the one being caned. I imagined myself bending over the horse, and tried to shut my mind from the girl’s predicament.

I watched Joan reach out with the cane and touch the girl’s rear. Jennifer gave a terrified moan. I heard something else, soon recognising the sound of falling water. Jennifer had lost control of herself.

Joan waited for the waterfall to stop, and went into her private bathroom for a towel. “Here,” she said. “Undo those ankle straps. We’ll have to take off those wet knickers.” She pulled the soggy thing off, and I was able to refasten the straps while Joan dried the girl’s flanks.

Jennifer was in floods of tears now, but when Joan delivered the first stroke, there was a howl which must have chilled the blood of Mrs Joyce, listening in the adjacent office. She continued to sob and scream throughout the beating. Eight strokes with that cane was a formidable punishment, but Joan had no hesitation. I watched in awe as her lithe body was thrown into each stroke. Everything conspired to etch the scene into my mind. The powerful smell of oiled leather mingled with the odour of the girl’s urine. I struggled throughout as Jennifer tried to pull her hands free to clasp her bottom. And the sight of Joan’s agile body and the flash as the light caught the fast-moving cane. The scene is vivid in my memory to this day.

When I had unfastened the straps I went to fetch Mrs Joyce, who helped Jennifer off the horse. The girl was taken painfully into the Secretary’s office, where she was helped on with her skirt, and allowed to sit for a while to recover herself.

Joan turned her attention to me. There had been a small escape of blood from a scalp wound, and that she cleaned up. I was trembling, not so much from my wound but from the awful experience of the caning. I wanted to talk about it, and I heard myself telling Joan how much I regretted having to cane the girl, and how much I had longed for it to be myself undressing for a beating.

When I had come round a bit, I realised I shouldn’t have said all that. It must have sounded pathetic; not what a headmistress wants to hear from a redoubtable right-hand man.

There was one last job that day. Joan had me in the study to help interview a new teacher. When the woman had gone Joan said, “It's your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it.” I was amazed she had taken the trouble to find out my birth date, but she was quite right. I hadn’t given it a thought.

“I have a present for you,” she said. “It’s a secret. You’ll find out all about it on the day.” And she wouldn’t tell me any more.

Joan had insisted on my moving in with her for the holidays, which I was delighted to do. When I awoke on my birthday morning it was breakfast in bed. The right royal treatment. The night before, though, I had been asked to sleep in a spare bedroom. “We don’t want you exhausted on your birthday, do we, darling!” So it had been a bachelor night. There had been a good breakfast for me, though. And late morning Joan made me go for a shower and put on some smart clothes. “Wash thoroughly between your legs, my darling! Your bum, too! Clean undies, mind! Clean white shirt, and wear those black leather trousers for me, will you?”

She made me get into her car, still without telling me where we were going. We drove some way, to a small town, where we parked. I was escorted to an odd-looking building. To my surprise a maid opened the door to us. “Madame is expecting you,” she said.

The maid let us in. She wore the trappings of a French Maid; black dress with frilly white trimmings, a white lace apron, black stockings and shiny black shoes with fairly high heels. Not suitable for doing the housework, I thought. Her skirt was below the knee, quite modest, but the neckline was far from modest. There was a shiny black belt around her midriff. She was not very tall, and rather plump in a sexy sort of way. I was very taken with her, but couldn’t imagine what sort of establishment this was.

When the maid told us to follow her and turned away, I was even more amazed. The back of her skirt had been lifted and tucked carefully into the belt. A glorious bottom was revealed, clad in the briefest of lacy white knickers, and all framed in the folds of black skirt. Above her stockings a set of black suspenders crossed the white thighs. I watched her buttocks plop up and down as she walked. I still had no idea where I was.

We went into a sort of office, where Joan was invited to sit down. The maid sat at a desk, leaving me standing in the middle of the room.

“Madam will be with you shortly, but in the meantime, will you please take off all your clothes, sir!” In my astonishment I just looked at her. “Don’t delay, sir! She could be here any minute, and if you aren’t ready for her she will be very angry. Angry with me as well, so come on, take your clothes off, quickly!”

“Do as she says, John,” said Joan. “This is your birthday treat. I’ve made all the arrangements, but you have to play along with it. Come on, do as she says!”

So, in front of the two women who were both watching me closely, I stripped off all my clothes, pausing before removing my underpants. This provoked an annoyed “Go on, those too!” from the maid. I found it highly erotic; naked in front of two clothed women. There was a pause as we waited for madam. It was becoming clear to me that something violent was going to happen to me. I was beginning to regret this outing.

At last we heard the clip-clop of shoes in the passage. The maid jumped up and opened the door, the displayed bottom-cheeks quivering in her haste. My jaw dropped open when I caught sight of the magnificent woman who came in. She was nearly as tall as Joan, with a fuller figure. She made the most of her legs by wearing glossy high-heeled shoes with black net stockings. Each stocking was supported by six black suspenders which were attached to a garment looking to my innocent eye like a corset. This, too, was black, but with red trim around the bust line and at the bottom. The top of the corset supported madam’s sizable breasts, but did a poor job of concealing them. Or a splendid job of displaying them. The nipples disported themselves above the corset, and I suspected they were coloured red by the same lipstick used on her mouth. Below the tight-laced corset Madam’s buttocks bulged extravagantly. Black gloves extended well above her elbows. It was hard to make out if she was wearing panties. If she was, they were very brief indeed; just enough to conceal the pubic hair. Altogether a most theatrical vision! What chilled me, though, was the horsewhip she carried. It was of the type known as a schooling whip, as I found out later. It was much longer than the usual riding crop, made of black leather. Very slender and tapering almost to nothing, the handle ended with a polished silver knob.

I imagined what it must feel like, and cringed.

“So what have we here?” enquired Madam. Looking at Joan she said, “This is the man you want me to flog?”

“Yes, please!”

Madam circled me, and pointing to my buttocks she said, “Not much flesh on those! We can get through to him easily enough, I’m sure.” She flicked at my cheeks with the whip. There was little or no pain, just a quick sting, but she had me very much on edge. “He’s in for a stiff caning, then, is he? Well, we’ll soon have him grovelling.”

The whip was by now flicking at my prick. To my surprise, the thing jerked wildly and rose sky high. I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. All three of the women were watching me. It was like being on show as a freak.

“Put the straps on him and take him up to the punishment room, Samantha! I’ll be up when I’ve talked to the lady, here.” The maid took some leather straps from a desk drawer and fitted them to my wrists and ankles. I knew what the ankle straps were for, and guessed that my wrists would also be secured to the horse or whatever contraption Madam owned. Now I knew for certain the nature of my birthday present. A stiff flogging from Madam! The way these women were discussing my treatment had an erotic effect on me, and my erection was higher than ever.

I was very excited, but at the same time dreading it.

The maid said, “Follow me!” Watching her buttocks was a treat as I followed her into the passage and up the stairs. The entire house was floored in some hardwood, which allowed high-heeled shoes to clatter, a sound which I have since always associated with Madam’s establishment. The room we entered had a huge mirror on one wall, which doubled the apparent size of the room and allowed me to watch proceedings.

“Stand here,” she said, pointing to the very centre of the room. Above my head were pulleys and ropes suspended from a ceiling beam, and the maid clipped two ropes onto my wrist straps. The ropes lead across the ceiling and down the wall, and she was able to haul my arms above my head, securing each rope to a cleat on the wall. A pole was brought over to me, and fittings at each end were clipped to my ankle straps, forcing my feet well apart. I was totally helpless, open and exposed. I was facing the mirror, and watched the maid busying herself around me, making everything just so.

The clip-clop of heels on wooden flooring heralded the approach of Madam. I watched in the mirror as she came in and walked close up behind me. She no longer carried the schooling whip. She passed her hands over my rump, considering it carefully. “Its very lean,” she said. “No spare flesh on it at all!

“Samantha, go downstairs and fetch me a number four cane and a number five.”

While the maid was away Madam nuzzled up behind me, reaching under my arms and searching for my nipples. I could feel her breasts flattening against my back, and the roughness of her corset. My imagination was working overtime, and it was lovely. She found the tiny nipples with difficulty, gripping them with her fingernails. She nipped me suddenly and I cried out. “Oh, sensitive this morning, are we?” she said. “Good! I want you to be receptive to the cane.”

She walked round to my front and bent down, placing her mouth on my right nipple. I felt her suck it into her mouth. Teeth next, as she prepared to nip me again. I tried not to cry out, but the woman was clearly out to hurt me. And was succeeding. She transferred to my left nipple, and bit hard. She pulled her head away and looked down. “Yes, I can see you enjoyed that,” she said, pointing to my cock. Sure enough, it was rampant, though why I should find it so erotic I don’t know.

Madam stood very close to me, looking up into my face. I tried to meet her eye. I felt her hand cupping my sack, and she started to squeeze. I knew this could hurt, and I didn’t want them damaged. Something must have shown in my eyes, because she suddenly let go and stepped back half a pace. Her fingers took the end of my prick, very gingerly, and suddenly she unleashed a hard cuff. She lashed my prick. I cried out, so unexpected was it, and she smiled. We both looked down, and sure enough, my prick was harder and higher than ever. “Loved that, didn’t you , my dear!” she said. “Well, so did I,” and she cuffed me again. Two or three times more she smacked me, all the time looking into my face, smiling, clearly enjoying herself.

I was glad to hear footsteps approaching, and the maid came in carrying two canes.

Madam took one of them and said, “Let him down and put him over the trestle.” The maid released the ropes and I was able to lower my arms, which were aching a little from being stretched so high. She unclipped the ropes from my wriststraps and took my arm, guiding me to a wooden device I hadn’t noticed before. It was an old trestle as used by joiners, and someone had added some padding and a leather cover to the top bar. The maid pulled it from the wall and positioned it in front of the great mirror. She gently urged me to bend along its top bar. There were cords attached to the thing, positioned for securing my wrists and ankles, and the maid knew just what to do. When I was firmly in place she fetched a heavy leather belt which she fastened round my body, holding me firmly.

As the maid stepped away Madam came forward holding the cane. “Your lady has asked me to flog you without mercy.” Madam was clearly relishing this, and I knew she would not hold back. “Twelve strokes! Twelve of the very best! And no codeword! That is most unusual; do you agree to commit yourself to twelve strokes without any possibility of ending the process early?”

I thought hard. I didn’t know about codewords, but I could see why they might be used. But the children at school had no recourse to codewords, so why should I? “I agree to the full punishment, Ma’am,” I said, feeling brave. And immediately regretting it.

When the cane tapped urgently at my exposed bottom I suddenly felt anything but brave. Madam tapped several times, and the hairs bristled at the back of my neck. The pain of the first stroke took my breath away. It was quite as hard as anything Joan had done to me. Twelve! This was going to be an ordeal, indeed.

She flogged me relentlessly. After each stroke she paused. I felt the impact, savage, and for an instant there was no pain. Then it struck me, a mighty sting, the pain level shockingly intense. After a moment the pain decreased a lot, and the relief was intense, too. Was she teasing me when she waited several seconds? I was grateful for the pause, but very soon the cane was tapping at my rear and the cycle began again.

For the first stroke I was ready and determined not to cry out. She had already caught me out by nipping my breasts unexpectedly, so I pursed my mouth and nose. At the second stroke she had already got a gasp out of me, though, and I went downhill from there. I regressed to grunts, little curtailed cries, later to undisciplined shrieks.

After the sixth Madam told me she would give me a rest. I was glad of the respite, though I told myself it would only prolong the agony. I watched her in the mirror, fascinated by her breasts. She was looking at me, too, in the mirror. She was smiling. I looked up ad down that wonderful figure. But I always came back to the breasts thrusting above the top of her corset. The scarlet nipples were firm. Very large! She was evidently turned on by this. For some reason this pleased me. “Yes, my dear,” she said. “I am getting through to you, aren’t I! And I’m only on the Number Four!” She ran her fingers gently across my rump. It was lovely. “Yes, I think your lady is going to be very pleased when she sees this. It’ll look like a Turner sunset by the time you get back to her.”

She walked to the head of the trestle and crouched in front of me, her breasts thrust almost into my face. She was a glorious creature, and I adored her; adored what she was doing to me. “I see you keep looking at my boobs, young man.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied. “They’re wonderful! And it makes it much easier to bear the punishment.”

“Well, I think we can do even better for you, my dear. Samantha, come here!”

The maid clip-clopped over and Madam undid the back of Samantha’s frock, pulling it down over her arms so that it fell to her waist. The bra was unclipped too, and a pair of splendid, if rather over-full breasts fell heavily out. Samantha sat on a stool close to my head and leaned forward, hands cupped under her breasts, lifting them to form two great mounds and pushing them into my face. They were soft and yielding, and moulded themselves into the contours of my face. I loved the warmth as well as the smooth texture. I was being subjected to a series of the most intensely erotic experiences, and I was happy.

When Madam resumed the beating my cries were muffled in the Samantha’s flesh. I was made to wait for the next stroke, not that I was complaining. I revelled in the experience. Somehow I wasn’t thinking of the pain. I’d switched off that part of the experience, and I relished the close attention from these two women. Madam I saw as a sex-goddess, Samantha an erotic plaything. I longed for the next stroke. They couldn’t hurt me now.

Madam struck me again. I was triumphant. I twisted my head to drag my mouth out of Samantha’s bosom, and shouted “Harder! Harder! Please!”

I regretted saying this when Samantha pulled away from me.

“So! I’m not getting through to you, after all! We’ll see about that. Samantha, fetch me the Number Five!”

Samantha handed the new cane to Madam, and (to my relief) resumed her place on the stool, pushing her boobs comprehensively into my face. It was pure joy in there. I was unconcerned when I felt the cane tapping at my rear. Only five more, and the longer Madam took between strokes the happier I would be.

The reality struck home with a vengeance. My bravado was not justified. The cane hit me like a stick of dynamite. This time my cry burst out in spite of the boobs moulded into my face. Samantha pulled my head back into herself and stooped over me. “There, there,” she whispered as if to a suffering child. “Its all right, my brave one. It’ll soon be over.”

I wanted to be brave, but the last four strokes were wicked. I squirmed painfully on the trestle and ground my face inside Samantha’s breasts. It was a minute of purest pleasure alternating with a few seconds of hellish pain. Afterwards I thought I had the best of the compromise. When it was all over Samantha was the first to praise me. “Well done,” she said. “Well done, you’ve made it. That was a terrible caning, and you’ve taken it, every bit.”

I wanted to bury my head in her breasts for ever, and she let me for a while, letting the worst of the pain die away. Madam sent her away for some cream, and came round to my end of the trestle for a chat. “Thank you, Ma’am. That was wonderful. So accurate!” I realised she was an expert. Only one stroke had fallen low, right at the top of my legs. All the others were on target, on the lower part of my buttocks, where they belong. I was aware how difficult it is to be as accurate as that when you are laying on at full strength. I told her so, and she said, well, she’d had plenty of practice.

Madam told me her Number Five was supposed to be the type used in Singapore prisons, where men and women are flogged without mercy. The Singapore Judicial Cane. Not for the squeamish. “Actually, you are the first person I’ve used it on. At least with full effort. Effective, isn’t it!” I had to agree.

Samantha came back with the cream. When she first slapped on a handful the cold was a shock. She smoothed it all over the sore parts of my cheeks, and it was lovely. Her hands were gentle. She stroked the cream into me for five delicious minutes while I chatted to Madam.

“Alright, its time to go, my dear,” said she.

They unstrapped me and I stiffly eased myself from the trestle. The scene was still erotic. Samantha, dress still draped about her hips, still boasted naked breasts, while Madam’s nipples still jutted above the top of her corset. To stand before them quite naked was as stimulating as ever, and my prick revealed my feelings. They guided me downstairs to the reception room, where Joan still waited. She smiled when I entered, obviously enjoying my condition.

“Turn round!” said Madam. “Show your lady what we’ve done to you!”

I turned my back to Joan and bent forward, thrusting my bottom towards her. “Mm, you’ve done a splendid job there,” she said. “But I’ll have to take him home and do something about that big red object,” They all laughed. I struggled into my clothes and we hurried out to the car.

Back home we hurried upstairs. “Oh, you poor darling!” she said. “What have they done to you! I never thought they would do more than a token caning. Will you ever forgive me?” In the bedroom we both ripped our clothes off and I lay on the bed. I was still in shock, and wasn’t in dominant mood. I just wanted Joan to relieve me from the erotic plateau I’d been on for the last two hours. I was beginning to ache for release. She threw a leg over me and thrust herself down on my erection. She was wide open and wet, and enveloped me smooth as silk. The minx was as turned on as I.

Joan jigged frantically and we both came within seconds. The first frantic passion over, she lowered her body to mine and we rested, hugging each others’ warm sweaty bodies. After a while we came again, more slowly. We spent the afternoon locked together, alternately resting and making love. I slept for a while, and when I woke Joan was wiping my brow. I was weak as a kitten, utterly relaxed, and happy.

“Thank you, my darling,” I whispered, “Thank you for a perfect birthday.”