Rosalyn Beauchamp carefully placed on foot in front of the other as her stylish high heels clacked their way down the parquet floor. This gave her a sashaying gait that coupled with her expensive skirt suit made her feel like a model on a catwalk. Judging from the glances of the older boys and masters alike she guess she also looked the part and the expression that lightly touched her lips was bordering on smug. At 40 you still have it, she thought, her smile now barely contained by her full pouting lips.
To avoid meeting any male gaze she kept her eyes and nose turned upwards in a gesture of aloofness as if eye-contact might break the spell and give her away as a fraud. It was a posture that drew her glance to the high school windows that were set too far from the ground to see out of. This and the airy wide corridor added to the feeling that the school was turned inwards and remained an elite haven from the world. And so it should be, Rosalyn thought, her step-daughter’s school fees certainly cost her enough.
She smelt the old wood and polish, a scent to take her back to her own school days and a building much like this one. The only difference was that her alma mater had no boys. Catherine must be having a high old time, Rosalyn thought, and that was the trouble.
She was just pondering this as she arrived at Catherine’s house master’s study door. Rosalyn’s tummy did tumbles as memories came flooding back and her bottom twitched against the fabric of her D&G pencil skirt. Unconsciously she fussed with her auburn red hair as if to be certain that it did not reach her collar, but catching herself on she pressed her tongue to her cheek and remembered her business.
The door was cold and hard to her knuckles and she still couldn’t quite supress the apprehension of old; perhaps with good reason.
She was admitted by a handsome rugger type pushing 50. His smile was genuine and for once she made an effort to remember his name, as if being bonkable rendered him more significant than being the mere guardian of Catherine’s education.
Peter she thought, her mind in a scrabble, “Mr Trent,” she managed, but saying it a shade too quickly.
“Mrs Beauchamp,” he said warmly as he ushered her in.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling in, I know it isn’t really done,” she made a grimace. “But I gather our Catherine has been rather troublesome.”
Peter Trent pulled a chair from the desk and gestured her to sit. His smile became relaxed and he made a dismissive gesture. “No more so than any other spirited 18-year-old about to leave us,” he chuckled. “When faced with their final term these eager young people do tend to jump the gun when it comes to obeying the rules and imagine themselves immune.”
“I am so glad you put it that way,” Rosalyn said with an emphasis on the relief, “You know being a widow now… well Catherine can be quite a handful… so I have nothing to worry about?” she asked as if she didn’t already know that.
“Not unless recent events are troubling you?” As Trent spoke his smile tightened around the eyes. Some parents could get a little precious about their daughters when it came to discipline.
“Recent events?” she asked blankly, although she knew exactly what he was talking about. In a roundabout way it was why she was here.
“I have caned Catherine twice this term already and I rather suspect that I am about to see her again regarding another matter,” Trent said in a firm baritone voice.
Rosalyn felt her tummy flip and she had to moisten her lips with a quick darting tongue before she could speak.
“I am sure you know your business; why should that have troubled me?” she asked casually, but not so casually as to put him entirely at ease, after all she wanted to hear a little more.
“She was somewhat resistant at our first meeting and I had to apply eight tight ones,” he said sharply.
“A rebellion,” Rosalyn matched his tone.
“Not quite, but… well having raised the bar and to be tested so I felt that another eight were needed at our next encounter, although she was rather less fractious then,” Trent explained.
“Well… we usually give four or six to girls, well I do anyway, especially as… well delicate skin and all that,” Tent coughed.
“Oh that, I was quite startled when I heard that bare benders, as we used to call them, were the custom here,” Rosalyn said in faux horror, “but not as startled as Catherine was. The price for coming to a school formerly an all-male establishment, I told her. She was offered Cheltenham or… that other place in Sussex…”
“And she favoured us?” Trent chuckled again.
“Girls never think it will happen do they? I know I didn’t,” Rosalyn matched his laugh.
“Forgive me, but you were coeducational too?” Trent asked in some surprise.
“Oh…” she gasped modestly, “Hardly anything so progressive, but despite being all girls, my school was somewhat strict and traditional along much the same lines as here. So Catherine isn’t getting anything I didn’t have. In fact…”
“Oh how remiss,” Trent interrupted, “I haven’t offered you tea…?”
“No thank you,” Rosalyn said.
“Sorry you were saying?” Trent frowned.
“Only that… well girls don’t break easily, so don’t stint your duty and don’t worry about raising the bar, as you put it. It will do her good. It did me good, even if I didn’t appreciate it at the time. Furthermore, I think she is so much better off under a man’s hand, she will later have fond memories I am sure…” Rosalyn averted her gaze as she broke off.
“I hadn’t realised that gentile girls’ schools were so… instructive,” Trent chuckled.
“Oh believe it,” Rosalyn said in a tone approaching eager. “I miss it in many ways and would have given anything for the experience that Catherine has received.”
“What even the swishings?” Trent said in surprise.
“Especially the cane and how… uncompromising you are,” Rosalyn blurted.
There was an uncomfortable silence and Trent coughed.
“I suppose it is never too late though,” Rosalyn prompted him.
“Well… indeed not but…” Trent worked his mouth and tried to get the conversation grounded.
“After all I don’t really like authorise such a regime for my step-daughter when it is so long since I experienced it myself, besides I am hardly a saint.” Rosalyn could hardly believe what she was saying; although she had planned it, but now she had openly spoken…
“Are you suggesting…?” Trent spluttered.
Rosalyn took a deep breath and then drawing herself upright in the chair she said, “I rather think I am.”
“You think it a jape?” Trent said sternly.
Rosalyn trembled and whispered, “Oh no.”
Rosalyn stood shivering, and not just because she was half undressed. She was now in just her blouse and underwear, with sheer black knickers pulled up over her matching stockings and garter belt.
The rest of her clothes were now neatly folded on a chair by the door while she faced another padded armchair in the centre of the room.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Trent asked, although most of his attention was on a selection of canes hanging in a now open cupboard.
Rosalyn nodded to the desk on which lay a piece of paper. In her own hand and at her own suggestion was a short signed note absolving him from any future complications and outlining her voluntary submission.
“You have my carte blanche,” she said, swallowing nervously.
“Are you sure about the 12 strokes?” Trent pressed her as he made his selection.
The cane was long and rapier thin, it seized Rosalyn’s attention and she quailed.
“If I rebel in any way as Catherine did then you can…” she gulped and made herself add, “You can start over and give me double.”
“Very well, but once I begin I will press on to the bitter end,” he said sharply.
“Now I want you to take down your…” he coughed, “And then bend over the back of the armchair.”
She took a deep breath and then stooped to obey him. Although she paused for a moment, she quickly drew her knickers down and stepped out of them. Shyly she cupped her hands to the dark triangle of hair framed by the stocking belt, but as if quelling a personal rebellion she deliberately removed them again before facing the back of the chair.
Then with a determined nod and a double air punch with her arms, she bent over.
Her elbows found the seat of the chair, but the roughness of the upholstery against her sex was disconcerting. So too was the thought of the exposure of her bare bottom which was now uppermost to this man’s gaze.
“How long is it since you have been in this position?” he asked as he lined up his arm.
A stern talking to during operations helped keep the student unresisting he always found, but in Rosalyn’s case he had nothing to draw upon except her past.
“Twen-twenty… 22 years I think,” Rosalyn said breathlessly.
Trent lined up the cane to the target and tapped the woman’s bare bottom with it.
“Ooh,” Rosalyn gasped at this first touch.
Trent smiled and shook his head before giving it to her in earnest.
“Ahhhhh,” Rosalyn hissed, her eyes as wide as cognac glasses.
Trent studied the pink line of pain developing on the woman’s magnificent bottom and gained an insight into why some of his colleagues enjoyed this work.
He placed another stroke on hard below the first, aiming at a point just beyond the curve of the bottom so that she could feel the benefit.
Rosalyn met the impact with a panicked gulp-gasp as she bucked in place.
Trent waited. The two red lines were stark on the white flesh and although clean, looked sharp and swollen. It was an easy matter to add a third and then a fourth while Rosalyn Beauchamp rocked and clawed at the padded chair and made distressed gurgling noises in her throat.
“You’re doing well,” he said as he moved around to her face to see how she was doing.
Predictably her eyes were rimmed red and pooled with tears. Confusion danced on her face and no doubt she was regretting her request about now. He noticed how she was breathing raggedly and was clenching and unclenching her small fists.
He waited until she nodded. Then he moved back behind her and tapped at her behind so that she startled and made anticipatory jerking movements.
“Wait for it,” he said still tapping her bottom.
He placed five, six and seven on hard and fast, he did sometimes as changing the pace suddenly took away control and let the miscreant know who was master. In this case Rosalyn was shaken and made to yell out as she bucked violently. At seven she jumped up and slapped her hands to her bare stinging bottom as a prelude to a ridiculous dance around the room.
“Bastard,” she hissed.
“You’ll take two more for that insolence,” he said in a calm stern voice.
“Oh please…” she sniffed, “I couldn’t take another…” she was about to say a number but had lost track. All she knew was that a total of 14 was a bite beyond a chew.
“You will take another 14,” Trent told her and waited for that to sink in.
Rosalyn’s eyes flashed in horror and she worked her mouth. But he was right; this was a rebellion he had warned of. Had Catherine reacted the same way?
“Bend back over,” he said and swiped the cane through the air.
Rosalyn wondered at the sawing pain in her bottom and posited that she might not be able to sit down for the drive home. But fair was fair and one look at the man told her she was overmatched.
Obeying him was perhaps the hardest thing she had ever had to do and she couldn’t help some pride as she did so.
The eighth, the first of a restarted and enhanced caning, made her yell. She was also crying freely if not quite openly sobbing. She was still marvelling at his mastery of her at this when he added number nine.
“I can’t, I can’t, I…. ahhhhh,” she exclaimed as he proved she could.
“Now you have 12 to come,” he warned her.
“Oh fffff-thanks,” she muttered bitterly.
Rosalyn was shaking a little as she got to her feet. Her bottom felt like sword slashes had cut through it and it was a sting that grew rather than diminished.
“Th-thank you Sir,” she said unsteadily as she proffered a meek hand to shake his. It was an old tradition she had practiced at school and she knew from Catherine that it was the custom here.
“Don’t mention it,” Trent said breezily.
Then all at once Rosalyn broke to sobbing and rushed into his arms.
“Now, now,” Trent soothed, “It was only what you asked for.”
“I know,” Rosalyn sniffed, “N-now, now fuck me you fool.”
Filed under: DJB stories, education, M/F, spanking stories | 1 Comment
Tags: 1980s, caning, college, spanking, submission, the cane
Emily understands how people could sell their souls. There is a kind of wanting that is so severe that the possibility of its being unfulfilled is unthinkable. Any price is reasonable, any demands will be met, and failure is not an option.
That is why it took roughly fourteen seconds to smile at, befriend and plead with the girl at the table next to her to provide a cigarette. By the fifteenth second she was inhaling, and with her exhale came the first genuine relaxation she had felt all night.
It was a perfect moment. The gin and tonic had a neat slice of lime in it, the evening was politely cool, and the river flowed beneath the edge of the pub providing a perfect view of the city she was being introduced to.
Earlier in the evening they had walked along the edge of the river, dipping in and out of streets, finding a path to the water and back again. He had pointed out buildings that he had shown her days before from a distant hill, the major landmarks of a great city. She had tried her best to commit each detail to memory, to build an inner map; she wanted to know what he knew, she wanted to know him as he knew the city.
Emily knew that no matter what happened between them, this city would forever be him. She would see its towers and streets as tales from his life always. And as she walked she was finding her own story in this place.
The view in front of her as she smoked was an illusion. It had taken Stephen ten long minutes to explain how the river twisted behind the buildings she saw in front of her.
He had not said that at first. He had said, “That is not the other side of the river.”
She had squinted and laughed. It had taken time, but eventually she managed to wrangle meaning from his explanation. They laughed at themselves and each other, each thinking the other slightly silly for not being clearer in the first place.
Each time she touched the glowing stick to her lips, a delicious sensation ran through her. It could have been the nicotine easing itself into her cells, it could have been the relief of getting her own way, or it could have been the final element of a perfect evening slipping into place. She briefly toyed with the idea of flicking the cigarette into the river after three drags, but realised that there was no hiding this from him. Vehement anti-smokers were always excellent detectors of smoke, so he would smell it on her. Emily’s smile slipped from her face as she realised she could not kiss him for at least an hour. It would take that long to get back to his place and to her toothbrush. No pushing herself up on tip toes and reaching for his lips, no tempting him into returning her passion. She dejectedly put the burning stick to her lips, a poor substitute for his mouth. But still, she inhaled the smoke into her lungs and exhaled the pale cloud into the indigo night.
Stephen came back far more quickly that she could have ever expected. The bar had been busy, she was sure. He should have been at least ten more minutes. She sat stock still, her hand holding the cigarette right by her face as she smiled at him. It took him a full five seconds to see it.
They were good seconds, but too good to last. He looked at the smoking evidence and incredulously at her. Emily smiled a hopeful smile.
“It is a lovely evening, isn’t it?” she said. “No, you can’t …” as he reached across the table and took it from her hands. She looked briefly at the next table, “They will see …” she started and stopped as she watched him inexpertly stub the cigarette out.
He looked at her, holding her eyes with his as she struggled to free herself. After a few moments he let her go, a subtle gesture that allowed her to wrestle her eyes away from his and look at the river. It was dark inky blue now, with the yellow and orange lights of the city reflecting on its moving waters. She glanced back at him.
He had not moved. “You are in so much trouble.”
Stephen did not even bother to lower his voice, and blushing as she was she could not look at the girls on the next table for fear they had heard him. Emily wished she could hold his hand and hide from him. She wished she could find a switch somewhere and turn him off, or down, or something to alter this part of him. She tried twice to explain why she had succumbed, but each time he responded that he did not care, and Emily let it go because she knew he would have no qualms about explaining loudly and clearly just how much trouble she was in.
And that is how she found herself later with her chin in his hand, trying desperately to avoid looking at his hard blue eyes as he spoke in a calm, quiet voice about her attitude. He told her she had been childish, and his words twisted into her. He always treated her like a woman, like the woman she had always wanted to be, and yet here he was, telling her how childish and silly she had been.
It was only then, when he spoke, that she wanted not to behave as she had. She wanted to have been better, she wanted to separate herself from the girl he described, but it was too late. He had her.
Hideously he tipped her forward, over his knee so she faced only the carpet. He always spanked her like this when she was in trouble. She much preferred the bed, where she could rest her legs and her top half in comfort. There was more dignity in that, unlike this tentative position, this (she squeezed her eyes shut with the realisation) childish position. The first strike of the heavy, long leather paddle made her screech out.
It had to be the fact that it was the first one, she thought. It will get easier.
But it did not get easier, and her position was not in the least tentative. She kicked and pushed against his calves she begged and bucked up and down; she cried out and tried to prise his left hand from her waist. The strokes were hard and each one burned her swollen bum. She twisted and turned as well as she could, and used all her strength to get away from his punishment.
“I can’t,” she begged at last, “I can’t take it.”
But Stephen said nothing, abandoning words in preference for the piece of leather that was an extension of his arm.
There was more afterwards. There was much more. There was time in the corner, an ignoble waiting room where she submitted, fidgeted, raged, and submitted all over again. There was a settling of an overdue account by the cane method.
The cane was long and wicked, and the strokes were more than she ever thought she could have taken. But she took them because he would not let her do otherwise. There was nothing complex about the situation.
But if you could have held Emily as Stephen did, if you could have let her head rest on your shoulder as he did and listened to her as he did, you would have heard her. She would have clung on tightly, tenderly whispering a thousand apologies and conciliations.
And much, much later, had you held her eyes with yours and looked deeply there, if you had silently asked what it was that had reached her, she would have blushed and smiled at the floor. She could not tell you, so deeply does the moment still hold her. She waits for the moment to release her.
She suspects it may never release her, but she does not struggle anymore.
Filed under: Indigo Sigh, spanking stories | 7 Comments
Tags: corner time, spanking
I unearthed a slightly new take on the spanking and caning of wrens prior to them being incorporated into the Royal navy proper. I also came across a new expression, ‘marrying the gunner’s daughter,’ as opposed to kissing it, which means getting a caning. There was also some light shed on the official position.
The last big debate on corporal punishment in the Royal Navy took place in the House of Commons in 1949. It was reported that up to 1/7th of boys were caned at training establishments but other sanctions were preferred.
However, many such sanctions were not available for the discipline of female personnel. Therefore “it is likely” (although not proved) that caning “was more often applied to females” (both officers and other ranks) than “would be otherwise be supposed.”
It was reported in committee that no direct figures were available as women are not considered part of the “official establishment” and that most evidence was anecdotal. During recent hostilities it did not “seem prudent to interfere with naval traditions in this regard and in any case why shouldn’t an errant female continue to ‘Marry the gunner’s daughter,’ to borrow a naval expression,” said one committee member.
No investigation was deemed necessary as no complaints had been received in verified cases where corporal punishment had been used. However as a side note, “it has been supposed that future guidelines will provide that wrens should no longer be caned on the exposed backsides, especially by male officers.” However, as at that time women remained “outside any official military establishment” it was considered “beyond the jurisdiction of this current discussion.”
This report was referring to the fact that the WRNS were established in 1939 under the Civil Establishments Branch at the Admiralty. They were therefore considered civilian workers rather than naval personnel. However, wrens could be punished in various ways, including discharge from WRNS, disrating, suspension, stoppage of leave and deductions from pay. They could also be charged in a civilian court, but they couldn’t be “court martialled”, even if absent from duty or AWOL. As a consequence often officers using irregular methods of discipline could not be court martialled either in matters concerning their dealings with these women. In fact wrens remained free of the Naval Discipline Act until 1977.
Nevertheless the ATS and WAAF, because the army and air force became worried about wastage in their women’s service, were given full military status in April 1941. Interestingly, despite being regarded as “civilians”, only 37 wrens out of 11,000 deserted between Dec 1940 and March 1941.
Here is an example of some anecdotal evidence of the type that was referred to, some of which may have been published here before.
“I once heard about a wren of 23 who sent out a letter to the wrong person causing a bit of an incident for the war office. She was summoned to the Sgt’s office and made to undress, right down to her stockings, suspenders and bra, she was bent over his knee and had her bare bottom spanked. This wasn’t normal but it happened occasionally because men were well and truly in control and they could get away with it.”
“I asked my mother-in-law about this topic. She’s an old lady, but quite open about worldly subjects. When she was in the Wrens in WW2, was there corporate punishment for minor offences?
“The procedure was always the same. After ensuring they had understood the offence, he would to tell them to ‘take down your drawers,’ a quaint old-fashioned expression. The woman was expected to pull down her service knickers to her ankles. Then, ‘bend over.’ At this point he would lift her skirt over her back and clear any other clothing to completely bare her bottom. A two foot wooden ruler was used.”
“Surprisingly, my mother-in-law, who says she was punished in this way twice, also reminded us that in the UK in the 1940s you couldn’t vote until you were 21 and indeed this was often thought of as the age of ‘growing up’. Too many older people, young service women aged 18-20 were still children and to be treated as children then were.”
Gina K wrote:
“Gran joined the Wrens when she was just turned 18 and after a few months training in England was posted to Malta where she worked as a clerk/typist at a large base near Valetta. She said that once overseas the discipline was a lot stricter than in England. And that Wren ratings were subject to corporal punishment in the form of caning if they misbehaved.”
“My Gran’s first experience of such naval discipline was soon after her arrival in Malta. She and three of her pals were not back to base before the time were supposed to be after being out one night. They were caught trying to sneak back on to the base through the fence. Appearing before the commandant the following morning she ordered all four of them to be given six strokes of the cane on the seat of the knickers. The punishment was carried out nearly straight away. Gran and her three co-offenders who were all a similar age to her were taken to an adjacent gymnasium and had to change into their PT kit. Each in turn then had to bend over a vaulting horse and were given six strokes of the cane on the seat of their gym-knickers. The canings were administered by a
Chief Wren (equivalent to Chief Petty Officer). Gran described her as being a very stout woman, quite masculine looking with a very sour face. She tanned their arses using a slim and whippy crook handled cane of the type normally used on the backsides of juvenile boys in the navy.”
“Gran and her four mates had to get back to work soon after their punishments. Gran said she couldn’t sit down afterwards her bum was so sore. She had to stand at her desk for the rest of the day. This brought a few wry comments from the people she worked with and visitors to her office. It soon became common knowledge that she had recently been caned. She couldn’t sit comfortably for days and it was a few weeks before marks faded altogether.”
“Gran also told me of another caning she witnessed some time later. This was of three young Wrens who had been found guilty of stealing stuff from the stores where they worked and selling it on the black market. The commandant thought in this case an example needed to be made. The three were sentenced to a period of detention. But the commandant also ordered that they would be caned in front of the whole Ships Company.”
“All the Wren ratings on the base were assembled in the same gymnasium where Gran had been caned to witness the punishments of the three miscreants. There were two younger girls who were about 18/19 who were to get 10 strokes of the cane each and an older girl aged about 20 who were considered the ringleader was going to get 12 strokes. Gran said punishments were carried out by the same Wren Chief Petty Officer who had caned her and her gang. She was also using a similar cane to one that she had felt on her own backside.”
“The three were marched into the gym under escort dressed in their PT kit. Each girl was then in turn was held bent over a gym horse. But unlike gran and her mates once over the horse these three had their navy gym-knickers pulled down! Their bottoms bared for all to see. Each girl raised as they got their arses tanned good and proper, naval fashion.”
“Gran said by the end of their punishments the trio were bawling as though they would never stop. All three were lined up handcuffed with their arms stretched up on gym’s wall-bars with their caned backsides on display for all to see as the rest of the Wrens filed out of the gym. Witnessing the canings and the sight of the three red-raw striped backsides they produced certainly had the intended deterrent effect on the rest of the young women.”
Alice J K wrote:
“The cane was very much in my day during the 1950s and into the 1960s even. I got it several times and it was an easy way to escape worse punishments like confinement or being put on a charge, which could result in docked pay.”
“During the war my eldest sister got far worse and far more often than I. At least I was caned on my pants; she was caned several times on the bare bottom and on one occasion couldn’t sit down for several days. At least she only had a female CO, mine were all male.”
“I think it did us no harm and things might be better if they still caned today.”
(Mrs) Jean S, Gloucester wrote:
“During the war I served in the WRNS, which is where I met my husband, and in all the years since various people have joked to me about ‘rum the other thing and the lash’ an old Nelson quote I think. I have always blushed, but for years only my husband knew why.
When I was at Dartmouth in 1940s I had an experience with both rum and the lash, so to speak. I noted after all these years with some amusement the recent debate in the national press about the subject of caning women in the navy, because that is what happened to me.
A friend and I drew the short straw one night and had to stay behind when the others had leave. My friend thought it would be a good wheeze for us to share a bottle of rum while we were on duty, but of course we were caught. We were lucky and avoided 30 from the CO but both took 24 on the bare from our own officer. I could not help think that she enjoyed it, even though we did not, but it was better than seeing the CO and we both deserved it.”
Here are those now famous Daily Telegraph letters:
May I recommend that the Army instructors who cannot enforce discipline because they fear being accused of bullying (News, January 15) adopt the system used at the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, when I served there in the 1920s?
Cadet captains administered a “tick” for any breach of discipline, such as being late on parade or a fault in our uniform. Acquire three ticks in a term, and you received six of the best on a bare behind. It worked.
I wonder what they do at Dartmouth today – now that there are female recruits too.
Douglas D, London, Daily Telegraph Jan 29th
If Douglas D is interested, I attended a Wrens’ Naval Cadets training school in London, in the early 1950s. We were subjected to similar discipline, which did sometimes include being caned on the behind, though it wasn’t bare but over our knickers. I don’t think it did me any harm, but I don’t think it did me any good either. What I do know is, bullying still went on, but we did tend to show more respect to authority and we were certainly not as rude as our modern-day counterparts, male and female.
(Mrs) Gwen L, Kent, Sunday Telegraph Feb 5th
Your correspondent who as a Wren was caned over her knickers had it easy. In the 1940s, it was a daily routine for cadets at the Royal Naval School in Portsmouth to be beaten on their bare buttocks.
Once, for carelessly discharging a clip of live ammunition, the commanding officer gave me 30 of the very best and I could not sit down for five days.
Mavis P, Leicestershire
Like Mavis P, I did my Wren training at the Royal Naval School in Portsmouth and made numerous visits to the staff sergeant’s office to have my bare backside welted with the “knotty” – a big bamboo cane.
I was a wilful cheeky girl and usually deserved my regulation 12 strokes, often with six extras for “lip”. I did manage to avoid the dreaded CO’s 30 strokes given to Mavis P, but in one week received 12 strokes on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday for smoking in the lavatories.
Doris B, Bristol
Filed under: articles, history, military, real life | 4 Comments
Tags: 1940s, 1950s, can't sit down, caning, college, spanking
I am not exactly up to speed with the writing but things are progressing story-wise. I even have another true life tale about Indigo and I, although I want this one past her first.
I did notice that Kia has written a piece about the convent, she should write more.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 2 Comments
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
Megan was in freefall. There had to be a way out, but just then she didn’t see it. Maybe the king was just trying to scare her and she could cut a deal. Maybe if she agreed not to write an exposé or perhaps she could get word to the US embassy and… she sighed. Surely all of these had been considered by the king and his people already. If they were just trying to scare her then it had worked and she just needed to sit tight. But why go to all the trouble of kidnapping her if they meant to let her go? She was definitely way out of her league.
Perhaps if she could talk to the New Yorker she had seen whipped. Maybe she could tell her more and help Megan decide how to play it; maybe? Megan didn’t feel that hopeful just then.
An opportunity came a few days following the punishment she had witnessed. The women in the house mostly used a communal shower room in the spa area. Megan had steered clear for the first day or two in case the large mirror was a one-way window, but then she realised that she was not going to get far hiding in her room. Sooner or later the king would send for her and she would be told her fate without really knowing all her options.
So Megan braved the spa room and made full use of it while she watched the others and tried to talk to the Western-looking girls.
A Swedish or Norwegian girl was aloof and in a heavy accent shrugged off most of Megan’s questions. A redheaded English girl with an accent like Daphne’s from Frazier was more help. She was friendly too, but her story was of no particular help.
“It’s no big deal,” she told Megan while uninhibitedly soaping her breasts in the shower, “I came here as a dancer and the palace here made me a better offer. I’ll go home in three years with more money than I could have earned in 20,” she said enthusiastically.
“But isn’t that a bit like being a… well you know?” Megan asked aghast.
The woman shrugged and giggled. “It’s better than giving it a way and besides, I don’t have to do much. I hardly ever see anyone outside of this place, and I hardly ever get to see the king.”
“What about the punishments?” Megan asked.
The Englishwoman pulled a face and shrugged again. “It is easy enough to avoid if you don’t make trouble, but it kind of goes with the territory if you know what I mean. It’s not so bad.”
“So you’ve been, I mean…” Megan whispered harshly.
“Half dozen times or so, so far,” the woman shrugged again.
She turned away in the shower as water fell copiously not quite drowning the conversation. Megan eyed the splendid bottom offered to her and wondered at it whipped. Then she sucked in a breath and a hand stole to her own naked behind.
“What about the American? You know the New York girl?” Megan pressed the English girl.
“Nancy? Yeah she has a mouth on her,” the Englishwoman laughed, “She gets her backside striped rather a lot. Just between you and me, I think she likes it. She and Benji have some sort of thing going I wouldn’t wonder.”
Megan got some small talk out of the girl but not a whole lot more and was just about decided on leaving. Then she saw Nancy walk over.
The American too was uninhibited and dropped her towel without a thought as she took a turn in the shower room. Megan saw the bruising at once and allowed herself a slow whistle.
“Quite a stain this time eh?” Nancy giggled as she shoved her behind out in Megan’s direction. “That Benji has a heavy hand. Only this time I didn’t do nothing,” she said wearily.
“I think it might have been my fault,” Megan said with a wince.
“You…?” Nancy said in a puzzled voice as she gave Megan a questing look-over. “Oh I get it, I was the sacrificial lamb to put you in the picture.”
Nancy didn’t seem too bothered by the revelation and put one leg on the sill to begin soaping her leg for a shave.
“How did you get here?” Megan asked her.
Nancy made a scowl. “I was caught smuggling dope,” she said. “I guess they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Well three years here is better than 10 in one of those jails.”
“You don’t mind?” Megan exclaimed.
Nancy shrugged. “I guess I had it coming, how about you?”
“I was kind of hoping to duck out of the party and head on home,” Megan sighed.
“Listen sister, if you’re here, then you’re here, it doesn’t much matter why, if you know what I mean? Take the best offer you can get and suck it up,” Nancy said dismissively.
Big help, Megan groaned inwardly. None of this looked good
It was dark when Megan awoke. A side glance to the window revealed a hundred million billion stars scattered like beads of crystal water frozen in a snap shot against the deep black. She thought of Ahmed and their adventure and then for some reason of a show she had seen on the Discovery Channel about radio telescopes. The astronomer had made the myriad stars sing, billions of unique songs serenading the galaxy. It had made her feel lonely, but not as lonely as she felt now.
She imagined she could hear the songs and closed her eyes to listen, but all she could hear was the percussion. She opened them again. There was a faint rapping sound, a gentle tap somewhere near. She listened again, this time forgetting the stars and their brooding romance.
Someone was lightly tapping at the door, so gently it was as if a full knock would shatter the peace. Megan almost called out ‘come in.’ Instead she got out of bed and pulled on her robe to go to the door.
Nancy stood just beyond holding a hand to her lips and silently urging Megan to quiet with her eyes.
“Take this,” she whispered loudly, “Go to the end of the hall, that way, then turn right and through the first door you see. It will be unlocked. At the bottom is a parking garage and someone will be there to meet you. Go now and as you are.”
“What? Why? I mean…” Megan spluttered in confusion still half asleep.
“I like it here, they trust me, and so I get around. Someone wants to help you, I got word,” Nancy said quickly still keeping her voice low. “Maybe it is a trap, but I don’t figure that, they already have you and there isn’t much they can’t do already, if you get me. No maybe this is a game, but whoever wants you to leave is connected. Now get going.”
Nancy thrust a cell-phone into her hands with a key and then quickly turned to go.
“Come with me,” Megan urged.
“And miss out on all that severance pay,” Nancy winked.
“But what if they find out?” Megan hissed and gestured to the retreating Nancy to come back.
“I’ll get my tail end blistered is all,” she shrugged, “So what else is new?” Then she was gone.
Megan wasted no time and pulling the robe together tightly she paused only to put on the light canvas shoes they had given her.
Nancy’s direction had been simple and despite expecting a guard or some other hitch she made the stairs without incident and was soon four flights down in the underground car lot.
It was darker than it should have been and at first she could see nothing but a menagerie of expensive cars and some rather obvious security cameras.
“The system has been switched off for a little while,” said a voice. A man in a dark suit and wearing sunglasses despite the gloom stepped from the shadows. “Follow me,” he said, “Quickly now.”
He didn’t wait but cut a path through a row of white limousines and what looked like a 1966 E-Type Jaguar. Megan fancied it was red, but the light was too poor to see.
“Where are we going?” Megan called after the man using a stage whisper.
He just waved at her to follow and jogged on to a dark corner of the garage floor.
The man led her to a door in the far wall and opened it.
“Follow the path to a side gate,” he told her. “The key will open it and then you are on your own.”
Megan gaped and motioned to the phone.
“Don’t use it, someone will call you, there is no help in the city so do not get caught,” he said. “Keep out of sight until you get a call,” and then he was gone.
Megan had been running for streets; road after road had been empty and given her attire and the fact that she was western that was just as well.
“There is no help in the city,” the man had said. So what was she to do?
Finally she calmed down. A passing police car helped her focus. Running was only going to get her caught. She had a phone and although she didn’t know who to call, it was at least a comfort. So instead of running she ducked down an alley and hid in a dark door way and hoped someone would call.
She was convinced now that Nancy was an agent of some kind and that the American CIA or someone had a plan to get her out. But why leave her outside in just a robe for so long? She huddled down and wished she had brought some food or water.
Time drags in the darkness and like a teenager waiting for a date, the phone never rings. These two facts alone plunged Megan into a geological age of waiting and she had few personal resources left to stay calm.
Every passing car were the police and somewhere above a helicopter was hunting for her, this although it only passed overhead the once and did not linger in the sky. This was crazy; they couldn’t even know she had gone yet. She scanned the sky. The sun rose fast here, but there was no sign of the day yet.
Megan was still focussed on the last car receding into the distance and didn’t hear the tap of footsteps until the flashlight burst into her face.
“You finally decided to stand still long enough for me to get a fix on you,” the masculine voice chuckled.
“Ahmed,” Megan squealed and exploded into his arms.
“No time,” Ahmed told firmly, but he hugged her back nonetheless until it was Megan who let go. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. She realised now that all along she had been hoping that he would save her, but it had been too painful to think on it in case he didn’t care.
“My car is near and we have a long drive before daybreak.”
The drive across the desert in the Landrover was just like old times, but the sun had lit up the horizon before either of them had spoken. By then they were two or three score miles out into the wilderness.
“What happened, to me I mean?” Megan said at last.
“My grandfather happened,” Ahmed replied, his voice grim. “He found out about us and your book.”
“Does he kidnap and threaten all your girlfriends?” Megan said angrily.
“Only those who are American journalists who write books about his country,” Ahmed said bitterly.
“I wasn’t going to name any names, I only…” Megan gasped in exasperation.
“I know, I know, but he worked out that you and I were closer than just that, he was worried that you…” Ahmed grimaced.
“What do you mean closer? I was just another girl to you right?” Megan asked, but the moment hung on end and suddenly the next words from Ahmed’s mouth seemed more important than any she would ever hear.
“He knows,” Ahmed snapped rounding on her as if she were quibbling over details, “Don’t you know what that means?”
“Knows what?” Megan said as casually as she could. She knew, she thought she knew, but she couldn’t believe it. Maybe it was just wishful…
“That I love you,” Ahmed said, but his tone was of hopelessness.
Megan gaped and felt her heart race. She had thought of nothing else since their desert adventure but surely..
“You can’t, I mean, you just can’t… I am just…” she blurted.
“Oh I know you don’t love me, but my grandfather doesn’t know that,” Ahmed shrugged.
“How do you know I don’t love you? You haven’t even asked,” Megan yelled.
The car came to a screaming halt and Ahmed turned to face her.
“Do you?” he said sharply.
Megan gulped and bit at her lip as she pondered. Of course she did, she knew. She nodded.
“Well it doesn’t change a thing,” Ahmed said angrily and punched the steering wheel. Then the car pulled away again. “I have to get you out of this country and back to America.”
“You tell me you love and then you say I have to go?” Megan asked incredulously.
“You don’t get it do you, if my grandfather catches you now…” The car picked up speed and raced into the growing daylight.
Megan drew a line with her mouth and sat back in her seat in a state of consternation. She wondered if Ahmed had a harem like his grandfather, maybe they were hiring, she thought bitterly. For a moment the thought didn’t seem so crazy.
“I am not going anywhere,” Megan said firmly.
“Oh you damn well are,” Ahmed growled. “In hour we will be over the border and you can take a plane from a neutral airport. I have a passport in an assumed name, so there is little immediate danger that my grandfather’s people will reacquire you. But once back in the states you will have to lay low for a while, not for too long hopefully. I have arranged some money and…”
“I don’t want your money,” Megan sighed, “Can’t we talk about this?”
“No,” Ahmed said, his eyes were iron.
To be continued…
Filed under: DJB stories, M/F, Romance, spanking stories | 6 Comments
Tags: love story, spanking
One way or another she fills my day. She goes out and I stay, working from the attic as I struggle with correspondence and a tricky client or two. Then breaking away I face the kitchen for the first tea of my morning. I find bottle tops not replaced and keys left discarded where no one will ever find them.
Sometimes it is like living with a teenager.
I think about the sofa and our next embrace, but there too she will be young. Pouring over i-pads, i-phones, i-pods, i-everything you can think of that leaves me behind. Sometimes she makes me feel old and young at once.
She plays games as she works on a business project and I am astounded. Even more so since Judge Rinder, Modern Family, David Mitchel, Stephen Fry or something else plays out on TV… sometimes I think she would watch them all at once if she could and she certainly could. Clever girl is she.
But still toothpaste tubes get unended and drape contents along Armitage Shanks. There is also a trail of discarded shoes marking the route she took to the bathroom or her little den where she sometimes sews.
She will ask me later where her shoes are; this as if I have some special powers in this regard. For one thing she has so many. Imelda Marcos would have been impressed.
The journalist who reported on that story was a single man. I remember I laughed along with all other single men at the monstrosity of a 108 pairs of shoes. Was it?
I know better now. After all she did, ‘you want to criticise her tiny shoe collection,’ women must have thought. But of course you can’t wear black shoes with that dress or those black shoes, they are the wrong shade. Everyone knows that, everyone who counts. She knows.
But I don’t care about shoes excepting that they are hers. She is all around me, inside and out. She is in the undiscarded food in the fridge and the extra bunch of uneaten bananas that I will someday throw away. She is in the painting on the wall that has followed her since she was a student. The antiques too we bought scream her name and reaffirm me in our home. Even if drawers earmarked by her for purposes unadhered to are left unclosed or sometimes scattered in giggled haste.
This girl-woman is a pretty mess in her sophisticated beauty; a contradiction to be wrestled with. All this and she is not even here.
My days are long and too short without her, but they are defined by her return.
“Where are my keys?” she asks on arrival.
I smile and count.
“Oh never mind, found them,” she giggles, where I put them away you will remember, as she well knows.
But sometimes there are other matters to attend to and she sees my face as peer down at her over my forgotten reading specs still hanging off my nose.
“Whoops, am I in trouble?” She is so cute.
Spankings are rarer than they should be, too rare she would agree if she could ever admit it. I should spank her for every little mess she leaves me, but then she would never sit down and the corner would be ever troubled by her nose. Besides, I like her little messes, they remind me that she has passed this way and will again all too soon.
Filed under: domestic, real life | 12 Comments
Tags: corner time, spanking
I have encountered a lot of woman at the stages I have been at, as though they are on the road I have travelled, the women are resting with tired feet and dusty clothes. I listen to them and hear every word I have said myself at their stage. It made me see a pattern in this for some of us. So I wrote this:.
At sixteen- you don’t understand any of this, do you? You look at the prefects at school with such longing. Why is that do you think? I am not teasing you, I just don’t want to ruin this for you, this gradual unveiling of who you are.
I am glad you do not understand yourself yet. I know you and you would hurl yourself into danger with an inappropriate man who would take advantage of a young girl. It is better that you wait. You hate to be told that you are too young but you are and if you learn too much now you will never be young again.
You rage an awful lot. You are surprised I know about this because you hide it so well. But you rage at authority, at kindness, at intimacy and at so many other things you have no name for. That rage you have is connected to those urges that will not let you sleep. You don’t like it when you are told what to do, do you? You respond so strongly when you are almost in trouble that it terrifies the masters at school. You know they cane girls, don’t you? You spend your life sailing so close to getting into trouble that it amazes you that you always win. You hate winning- you did not realise that and you don’t like that I said it. Don’t sulk. It doesn’t matter yet and when it does matter you won’t have to win.
Those daydreams are all following a pattern now, aren’t they? You misbehave, you do something shocking you get caught, you try to cunning your way out of it and sometimes you win and sometimes you lose and you get … you get … you don’t quite know what happens next do you? Just once the thought of spanking popped into your head as you day dreamed and you opened your eyes in shock. You laid there looking at the night for a long time, doing your best to forget and remember what had just happened.
You scour all those rude books. You look for hints of spankings and men who are in charge and throw the women they love over their shoulders as they stride off into the sunset. I know your secrets and it is ok, I will not tell anyone. It is ok that you find the spanking and you throw the book against the wall. It is ok you sneak back over to it to re-read and re-read. You are not bad, don’t be ashamed of yourself.
You spend your whole life in secrets and lies, an utter rebellion against nothing. This is not for nothing, I promise you. You will understand so much later that this tentative start is all worth it. I promise.
At twenty four-I wish I could comfort you. Your urges are strong now, they feel too strong for you to control, like you are on a panicked horse. You have started to explore. Some of those adventures have been amazing, some tawdry. But it is a secret still. Everything feels like a quest, like an adventure that you will lead you to the magical kingdom of answers but you never get them.
You have known some men who were unkind, some wrong men. You are starting to learn that unkind or uncommunicative is not dominance. Do you know the word ‘dominance’ yet? Have you learned it? Do you understand what it means? You don’t yet but you will.
You are starting to write, and you show your writings to just one man. You deliver your writings and yourself to him on a platter. You have no idea what you are worth. You suspect it is nothing. You suspect you are the worst of all things. You are a pervert but consequences be damned you will live your life as a whole or be killed trying. You think it will kill you, this hunt for what you need. But you will not stop.
If unkind is not dominant then kind must be dominant. That is what you learn- it is a hard lesson and a poor conclusion.
At thirty- this is fear isn’t it? Proper cold fear that keeps you awake at night. This is as bad as you ever thought it could be. I know you loathe yourself and you would strip this part of you away from yourself if only you could. You can’t, honey. I am so sorry. You can’t.
Your heart thuds the whole time, it does not beat. You still want to rip your life down and throw it away because that is the chance that you can ever get what you need.
How you loathe yourself. You are loved and adored. You have so much. You are given everything you want by a kind man, the kindest man on earth who encourages you to have adventures as he loves you and will not, cannot give you what you need. You try so hard not to want.
But like Cathy at the window your desires, your needs, your own self, scratches to be let in and no longer denied and, like Cathy, your penchant for self destruction is about to bring the whole house down.
You write now but every word is a last will and testament. It is the sound of your death knell. You spend your life seeing the death of those you love in your dreams. It makes you wretched and you weep constantly. You know the only way you can be free is if everyone that loves you dies.
I know it separates you from all morality, from spirituality, from your family and friends. You feel like the worst kind of hypocrite, you cannot find your people. You try so often to bring your needs into your life. You beg the kind man and he says he will but later. He said he will but tomorrow. He says he was just about to but now you have asked and so he cannot. He said you are too hard to spank. You know it is true. You know it has always been true.
If you leave him the world will hate you. He is your best friend. He is a wonderful man. You will never find another like him. This is all your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your choices are a noose around your neck and you call yourself an ungrateful bitch every time you breathe out.
But you know the truth, or you think you do. You are so vile, so unmanageable, and so devoid of soul that no man could ever lead you let alone love you for what you are.
You know that if you were better you would not have these feelings. You know if you were better someone could have those feelings for you.
You take risks you ought not to. You do what you can to destroy your life and then look at the ruins you made and wonder why it has all gone so wrong.
You did all the unthinkable things.
You still sometimes stop in the middle of walking or talking or breathing and wonder at what you did. You have left your old life. You left the man that loved you when you realised that he wanted you to, and that neither of you were happy in the ruins.
You changed everything, location, house, job and name- all to show it would not be like before. The fear and the horror of it, stepping off into the void, kept you awake for months. It seemed the only choice by the end though, the only thing you could do, not so much bravery as the choice to live rather than die. Your heart would not stop beating. You willed it to but it would not. You had no choice but to live.
Spirituality, that uneasy word keeps at you. You are part of this world, no one can deny it. Your body is part of this world, capable of pleasure and pain and you learn through both. You still struggle with the depth and height your sexual pleasure and submission can reach, you still feel the shame of it. You were always something old fashioned, and still something connected to the world. You are still. You are no better or worse than anyone or any creature. You know, if you allow it to, that deep understanding will come to you in time. All those ancient books you studied, all those wisdoms are starting to come back to you and to include all of you in their meaning, not just the scholar in you but the girl, the woman, the sexual being, and the submissive being.
Not a pervert- other people adore the word but for you it means ‘bad’, ‘wrong’ and ‘harmful.’ You are finding the words you are happy to use for yourself and this self acceptance helps you to accept others. You can toast another person’s use of the word ‘pervert’ and wish him every joy.
You can smile at the girl that shows her herself in ways you would never dare, seeing her pleasure in it, understanding the wide variation in nature and sexuality and accepting your place in the myriad of colours.
Your self is yours, not a kink, not an oddity, just a girl living as she must. You are learning to forgive yourself and see the meaning in who you are.
You can accept the trials along the way. The trials to submit, to accept criticism of others where it is valid and to ignore it where it is not, the patience as the man you follow learns his craft as you learn yours- all of these are part of this journey. There is no end, no moment when it is done.
You are writing this on a boat and trying to ignore the metaphor. He steers the boat as you ponder, he reminds you of Arjuna and his chariot, the struggle for control against worldly problems and against perceptions of the mind. He loves you and love him. He knows all of you and he has searched for you just as you have searched for him. You let your fingertips dip into the water as he glides you along it.
You watch the river go past knowing that he knows the route to take you don’t notice the forks and bends, instead you look up and watch the birds nesting along the banks.
We can never stop on this journey. It is all the river, water flowing from one place to another. The sixteen year old, the twenty-four year old, the thirty year old and the future you as you reach forty and beyond. You are all the same person. You cannot leave the river. It will never stop flowing.
All is as it should be. Let it flow.
Filed under: Indigo Sigh | 10 Comments
Megan felt groggy to the point of nausea, but she couldn’t work the spit up to swallow, let alone vomit away the dry bitter taste in her mouth. Even her eyes failed her as it was too bright to open them and the darkness only offered a spinning increase to her queasiness.
Finally she settled for sitting upright on some kind of bed and shading her face with her hands. There was a strange dry clean smell she couldn’t quite place as she strived to remember her name or anything at all useful, but none of this was as important as something she couldn’t quite recall.
Slowly she gained some awareness, noting a big window to her left through which bright sunlight rushed in, and to her right a sand brown tiled wall with tasteful Arabic patterns embossed into the glaze.
Memories of a smiling man unsettled her but she pushed them aside as she focussed on a jug of water beside the bed on which she sat, and an arch that led through to a bathroom. It seemed a major decision to her just then, which exactly did she need first.
“Oh my God,” she gasped as all at once she remembered being kidnapped.
This memory was incentive enough to stand up to grab the jug and then seek out the toilet in the other room. Then a brief inspection of the room told her there was nothing but a robe, a locked door and a rooftop view of an ancient brick-built city she didn’t recognise. Beyond this lay red and purple mountains and sand, lots of sand stretching out to the desert.
“Did you miss me?” she sighed as she tried the door again before heading into the bathroom for a shower.
The whole experience was too surreal to be threatening and given that she had silk sheets and a luxury bathroom she guessed she was in no immediate danger. Maybe Ahmed had missed her too. She snorted derisively at the ridiculous and childish thought, it just wasn’t his style.
“Any chance of some room service,” she yelled belligerently and flipped off the closed door.
Maybe someone was watching, but hell, she was an American and no one was going to fuck with her. The only trouble was… apparently they already had.
By the time she came out the shower a small dark woman with lose long hair and a long linen dress to her ankles was waiting to greet her. She was smiling broadly as she held out fresh towels, but all Megan’s questions were shushed aside.
“All I want to know is where the… the heck we are?” she protested.
The woman ignored her to clap her hands together twice and Megan could have sworn she barked, “Enchilada.”
“Is that a whole enchilada or just a half of one, because I am really not that hungry,” Megan quipped, “I was only kidding about the room service?”
The woman, still ignoring the American, might have said an angry, “Enshasha” and then “deppa,” but that would have only been a guess and in any case it meant nothing to Megan.
“Hey, it was just a joke,” she replied in an irritated voice.
“It is good that you are happy,” the woman said in English as three more women came in wearing the same full length linen attire.
The fabric of these dresses was stretchy and clung in all the right places, but there was something unsettlingly translucent about the clothing. Especially as it was obvious that none of the women wore anything beneath and their nipples and pubic areas were more than hinted at. Somehow it was worse that one of the women was of European appearance with straight natural dark blonde hair. Megan tried to meet her eyes but the woman’s deep blue orbits seemed fixated on the floor tiles.
“What is this place?” Megan asked assertively, “Is this some kind of maid service?” then she laughed mockingly.
Her tittering stopped as she was surrounded and taken by both arms and led out of the room.
“Where are we going?” Megan asked casually as she tried to bond with the first woman who seemed in charge. “I need a robe.”
In fact it was too warm even for the large bath towel she was draped in, but there was something improper about being almost naked out in the corridor. But what a corridor; it was as wide as most hotel rooms and was hung with expensive drapes with gold and stylish vases at intervals set into recesses in the walls.
“Hey neat place you have here, is it a hotel? It certainly beats the Holiday Inn,” Megan chatted. Speaking seemed as good a defence as any, but she only wished someone would answer her.
The passage led to a huge set of wooden doors that opened seemingly by themselves as the women approached. Beyond them was a pool and along the walls of what looked like a huge private spa were open shower stalls.
“Hey I showered already, maybe we could skip the…eh…” she saw massage tables that added to the spa feel, only some of them appeared somewhat clinical, “…can’t we just get to the hairstylist maybe?”
Megan was led to a large enamel tiled table which turned out to be a kind of very shallow bath raised to waist height. There were way too many shower heads and other nozzles available along the sides for Megan not to feel apprehensive as to their purpose.
“You will get onto all fours please,” the original woman spoke.
As Megan heard this, the towel was pulled away leaving her naked and it seemed to her that the woman glanced at a mirrored wall as if looking for something.
“Jesus,” Megan snapped angrily as she attempted to cover herself with inadequate arms.
The woman swatted her hard on the bottom and spat something in her own language. “Do not blaspheme,” she added.
“Hey,” Megan yipped and rubbed her behind. “What is this?”
The woman leaned in close and whispered harshly as she slapped the top of the wash station. “You will get on here, all fours, your backside towards that end of the room. Do it now.”
Megan swallowed hard and compared the woman’s determined gaze with that of the other women.
“Yeah, I can do that,” she drawled, “It might be fun, you know like back home in the spa,” and she moved to obey despite some serious blushing.
The woman returned a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Wash her,” she snapped, “Thoroughly, very thoroughly.”
Megan looked backwards from where she was kneeling and gulped at the sight of the odd lozenge-shaped shower head one of the other women was holding.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked nervously.
All Megan could think about as she was led from the spa room to yet another part of the palace, was the large mirror that had overlooked her rather too intimate cleansing. She had a queasy feeling that it might have been a one-way and that she had just been put on show for someone.
The continuing feeling of exposure was not helped by the fact that she now wore the same translucent clinging gown that her escorts wore and she let her hands clench and unclench as they hovered over her dark triangle seen through it at the top of her thighs. Nor did the dress leave much to the imagination about her breasts or behind, so clinging was it, Megan would have felt less naked if she had been fully nude.
“What do you want from me?” she asked her lead escort with rather less bravado than she had earlier mustered. She wasn’t quite ready to look any of the other women in the eye.
None of them answered her.
The long corridor from the spa room led to an open veranda overlooking the city. There were cooling fountains and pillars of marble framing the shaded expanse and Megan was put in mind of a biblical film set.
“Ah, Miss Kent,” said a voice behind her and she whirled around with a start.
The smiling man was quite old, but not wizen nor stooped. In a grey craggy way he was quite handsome and from the easy way he carried himself she could sense his authority even at a distance. He wore long patterned robes and a traditional headdress that suited him, but the most impressive thing about him was his unwavering eyes.
“Might I take a guess and suggest that you are Ahmed’s grandfather the king?” Megan said coolly and made a show of a bow before adding, “Your majesty.”
“An intelligent woman,” the man returned a warm smile with a gentle inclination of his head before adding too quickly for Megan to grasp a long string of words she took to be his name. Then he said, “I think both our reputations have preceded us.”
“You are well known Sir, although I am not sure my reputation matches…” Megan began.
“Tsk, tsk,” the king dismissed her with a hand wave, “Do not play the modest maiden with me…” the choice of words made Megan blush given her encounter in the spa, “…I have read the first draft of your book and much else of your work.”
“Oh did you like it?” Megan said cheekily, although it irritated her that he had read files not even her agent had seen.
“It has a certain racy colour, but in truth I found it rather vulgar,” the king said in a tone of regret. “But be unconcerned about that, I can think of so many ways to improve it… one way or another,” he added.
Megan tightened at the throat and she moved her arms again to ensure that they obscured her charms.
“For instance,” the king continued, “You could accept a three, four or even five year contract here in the palace, all on generous terms of course and then with some authorised edits you could release your book with a measure of authority.”
“A contract? Doing what?” Megan asked suspiciously.
“Why as a courtesan of course,” the king said warmly, “Why think of it, ‘my life in a harem’ or ‘discipline of the east’ or… well I’ll leave that to you, but I think you get the picture.”
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” Megan said nervously and trying to suppress her rage. “What makes you think…?”
“Now, now, I really should resurrect those charges against you,” his voice was sharp now, “You have already proved an embarrassment to your state department. Three years in prison and a public flogging or two… I don’t think you would have much credibility afterwards and you would be the author of a quite different book…”
“You don’t think…” Megan spat angrily.
“Oh I don’t think, I have so many people to do that for me,” he held up a hand. “… Lawyers, publicists and other interesting black-op types… You on the other hand have no one. I even took the liberty of dismissing your agent. Email is so useful that way is it not? No one will miss you and no one even knows you are here.”
“If you think…” Megan snapped, but she was silenced with a hand.
“I have told you, I don’t think, but I will give you time to do so,” the king said with a tone of finality and then he dismissed her with his fingertips.
Megan’s thoughts were in a spin as she was led dumbly back up the corridor, but this time it was not to her room or the spa, but to another large open chamber.
There were several women dressed as she was and others not so well clad. They all seemed at ease and gathered languorously in small groups on scatter cushions and marble benches set near yet more fountains. But at that moment all eyes were on a man and rather uncomfortable woman in the centre of the room.
The naked woman bent double over the fold-away rack was pale skinned and obviously European. Her tight bottom was uppermost and exposed and Megan was in no doubt to its fate. She swallowed hard and wished the scene was not so salacious to her.
“Goddammit, please it Benji,” the naked woman wailed out in a harsh nasal New York accent. “Not again, this is the second time this month, what did I do?”
Benji was a large dark-skinned man, naked to the waist and over endowed with muscles. He didn’t look particularly angry but the thin rod-like whip in his hand looked mean enough for both of them. A point was being made and it was being made for her benefit, right down to the fact that the woman was American.
“Benji, Benji please…” the woman yelled anxiously.
Some of the women laughed and there was a joshing incongruous sorority atmosphere to the occasion. Megan caught her breath.
“Keep still and take your medicine,” the man growled in English, again giving the impression that this was a show for the newcomer’s benefit.
The wand in his hand hissed out and lashed across the American woman’s bare flesh in a blink to be met with another hiss of a different kind emanating from the woman’s throat. The stinging red line grew at once forming a crimson clone of the whipping rod on her skin.
The American wriggled obscenely and at another stroke began to breathe heavily.
“How many strokes did I say?” Benji asked her casually.
“Thirty sir,” she panted and Megan saw her tense up.
“Relax now and count them even as you thank me,” Benji told her.
Then the whip cracked again.
“Aiiie…. Eehhhh,” the woman’s breath was strained and rapid but finally she managed to groan, “Three, thank you Sir.”
“You’re welcome,” Benji chuckled and whipped her again hard.
Megan realised she hadn’t been breathing and licked her lips as she steadied herself. She thought of her own flogging and of Ahmed… this was all about him wasn’t it?
To be continued...
Filed under: DJB stories, M/F, Romance, spanking stories | 5 Comments
Tags: corporal punishment, harem, sheikh, spanking, switching, the cane
This post should have been better entitled ‘The PC ate my article.’ This damn lap-top has eaten this week’s efforts along with two hours of my time and I had such dainty prose for you.
I don’t know where the images are from – the links too were lost. One of them is a message to Indigo, but I thought it was cute. The lap top – it can go far away.
More from her and from me during the rest of the week – I hope.
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 4 Comments
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs