(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
The secret to Neumeister's musical genius, many said, lay in his dominant erotic tendencies. He manifested these, they said, in front of his orchestras--but he could do so only because in his home he had constant practice in dominating the girls he called his Muses, whom he had bound to contracts of servitude.
Every day, one of his Muses, dressed appropriately, would be appointed to play through the score Neumeister was preparing to conduct. As he listened, shouting comments to another Muse, who sat naked at a nearby desk, he would savagely punish the girl who had played the day before, for the faults in her performance. Neumeister would alternately thrash the Muse he punished and make her stand with her face to the wall so that he had a beautiful work of his own to look upon.
Neumeister's admirers claim that in the spankings, whippings, and canings he gave to his Muses he learned to channel his dominant eroticism into his conducting. When he stood before his orchestra, they said, he dominated his musicians in the same way: his baton seemed to them to become a new sort of cane, with which he put his imprint upon musical history just as he daily put his imprint upon his girls' lovely bottoms.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
Conchita smiled, because her master had spanked her.
She smiled, because after he had spanked her over the spanking stool, he had lowered her to her knees before him.
She smiled, because she could, leashed and collared and cuffed though she was, still put her arm around his leg, and feel his right hand upon the back of her neck.
She smiled because under her right hand she could feel his arousal, and because she knew that his arousal came from spanking her, and from knowing that she wanted nothing more than to submit to him.
Conchita smiled because she knew the next thing her master would say was "Mouth, Conchita. Open my fly, and let me take my pleasure."
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
The last thing Kathy had expected, when she called Tod an idiot, was to have to take her lacy panties down in her own living room, and receive a sound spanking from Tod while her husband Hank watched.
Yes, she was wrong to insult him--especially when all he had done was to ask how to get to the highway from there--but how could she ever have known that Hank would choose today to start putting his foot down with her, the way he had been threatening to for months and months?
"Tod," he had said, "I think Kathy needs a spanking for what she just said, don't you?"
"What?!" Kathy had cried.
Tod's eyebrows had gone up in surprise, but he had said nothing.
"Furthermore," said Hank, "I think that as the aggrieved party, you should give Kathy her spanking."
"No! Hank!" Kathy wailed.
"I certainly wouldn't mind," said Tod, drily.
"Kathy," said Hank, "go over to the end of the sofa. Take off your skirt and drop it to the floor, then take down your panties, and bend over. Tod is going to spank you now."
"Hank! Not on my bare bottom! Please!"
"I've had it with your disrespect, Kathy. It's time for you to learn your lesson, and having your panties down in front of your husband and the man you insulted will help you understand just how ashamed you should be of yourself."
"Those are cute," said Tod when he saw the white lace Kathy had worn to drive Hank wild, later.
"Take them down, Kathy," Hank said. "I'll play with your panties after Tod goes home, but at the moment it's punishment time."
Now, with her bottom blazing, Kathy turned her head, hoping to see that Hank was relenting now that she was crying out at Tod's hard hand-spanks. All she saw, to her dismay, was her husband looking satisfiedly back at her, his arms crossed over his chest.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
"What will happen next," said Master Frederic, raising Maria's chin upon the fingers of his left hand as he spoke, "is that you will be beaten."
There was silence in the cavernous room, of which Maria and Master Frederic were the only occupants.
"You will be taken from this room into a theatre, of sorts, where you will kneel upon a block. Should you try to run away, or should you move too violently under the lash, you will be held down by our strong servants. You will be beaten, Maria, because in this house we consider the beating of girls to be indispensable to their becoming better at pleasing us, and because we like to watch girls being beaten. I am not saying that you will not be punished, from time to time, but it is important that you know that this first time you are not being punished, but simply beaten, to remind you of what you are, and where you are."
Maria felt Master Frederic's fingers upon her chin as a restraint beyond any of the leather straps with which he and his associates had bound her hitherto, since they had brought her to their atelier. She had known--of course she had known--that they would beat her soon. But as they had bound her to benches, and pillars, and tables, and had her in every way a master can have a girl, they had never yet beaten her.
Truly, had there been any need? For when they wished to enjoy her, they simply positioned her as they liked, and did so.
Then, this evening at sunset, they had taken the leather away, and given her the thin white shirt, and brought her to this cold, echoing hall. Maria had stood there, waiting, for a time she could not measure, until at last, in the gloom, she had heard the echoing footfalls of Master Frederic's shoes.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
Philip opened the door to the bedroom, not knowing what he would find, or what exactly it might have to do with the leather paddle that had arrived at his office, via courier, in the company of the key to the hotel suite. The note with them, in Claire's handwriting, said only "2pm. Curry."
The night before, he had been racing to finish up a big report--the report he had just submitted when the strange package reached him. Before she had gone to bed, Claire had come into his study. She kissed him on the cheek, and said, "I think you deserve a special present for all the time you've put into this report."
Philip replied, distractedly, "Thanks, sweetheart," and Claire gave him a strange, penitent look in return that suddenly reminded him that earlier that evening he had come home to find that she had gotten him a meatball sub for dinner instead of the Thai curry he had texted her to ask her to get. He hadn't been angry--frankly, he was just too busy to be angry--but he really had wanted that curry.
On the table in the living room of the suite was a take-out package that, from the smell, could only be his favorite Thai curry. Next to it was a note that said, "Congratulations, my love. Take your pick of what you want first. Your other present is in the bedroom, waiting for a spanking."
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)Chester was at his wits' end. No matter what he said, he couldn't seem to get through to his wife Maude that having tea ready when Chester got home from work was Maude's responsibility, and that Chester, coming as he did from a traditional household, was unable to tolerate such a failure in his wife.He hesitated a very long time before he finally decided he would have to use his cane upon her bottom, but when he had at last made up his mind that he must, his voice made his resolve plain. "Maude," he said, "it is time you understood that I will not tolerate this failure to fulfill your duty to me. I am going to cane you, now.""What?!" Maude cried."Go into my study. I have put the desk chair in the corner, and you are to spread your legs, and get over it, and lay yourself over the back. I will come and raise your dress and give you your caning in a little while."Chester raised her dress, as he had promised, but then he went to return a phone call, while Maude looked desperately behind her, blushing furiously at the way Chester was looking at her bottom, clad in her satin knickers, and even at the private place between her spread thighs, barely covered by the sheer fabric."Alright," Chester said when he had returned, with his cane in hand, "perhaps twelve strokes will help you remember to have my tea on the table in good time tomorrow."He laid his hand on Maude's shoulder, and gave her the first stroke; she cried out, and, with her eyes closed in pain and humiliation, turned her face back over her shoulder, perhaps hoping for clemency.Sadly, though, the sight only inflamed Chester more, and made him think that Maude should perhaps feel a great deal of his cane in future.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
On her 18th birthday, Mariko's fiancé took her to dinner at a fancy hotel restaurant. As they were finishing dessert, he took out a box, and handed it to her, wordlessly. Inside the box were two cuffs, a collar, and a leash, along with a room key.
"Go upstairs," he said, "to that room, and take off your skirt and panties. Unbutton your shirt. Then put on your new things. I will be up to spank you in a few minutes."
Mariko's face grew hot with shame. "But. . . why?" she whispered, as her heart beat faster and faster.
"Because it is time for you to begin to learn about what pleases me. After you have spent the next two days serving me, wearing your new things, and I have trained you to obey me as you should, you may not get spanked quite as often, but tonight your bottom is going to pay for how long I've had to wait to enjoy you the way I'm going to enjoy you tonight."
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
"I suppose you actually went into a shop to buy these disgraceful. . . things." Anne's mother's voice was like ice.
"No! He gave them to me!"
"Do you think that makes it better, you hussy? I only wish I had given you this paddling years ago. Perhaps then you might understand what a man means when he dresses a young woman up this way!"
"I know what he means! He loves me!"
Her mother laughed, ruefully. "And he's going to leave his rich wife for you. Of course."
"Yes! She never pleases him the way I do!"
"The way you do?!" She heard the horror in her mother's voice. "What do you let him do to you, when you put on these slutty things?"
Anne stayed silent.
"I suppose you suck his cock with those red lips of yours, don't you?" Anne blushed, remembering how she had done just that in the hotel room the day before. "And, looking at this impudent backside in these wicked panties, I'm sure he can't resist making you take him there, can he?"
Her blush grew deeper, but she kept silent, still.
"Well, Miss Anne, it's time to learn the price of your behavior."
(Picture from Mister Lamour Photography.)
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
Elsa knew what the diamond necklace being fastened around her neck meant: she had been awarded to the highest bidder, and he had come to claim her. She might have been the most expensive of the treasures auctioned that night, but she was still, dressed only in the lacy black lingerie and the strange wrap with the long ribbons that symbolized her bondage to the corporation and would soon be removed by her new owner, merely another treasure.
"Elsa," came the voice of her new owner, behind her, "the list of lots specifies that you are a very naughty girl." His voice was educated, and very deep. "I shall not bother to ask you whether it is true, so as not to give you the chance to begin your service to me with a falsehood. Instead, I shall ask you to stand up and go to the auctioneer's dais, in front of all these people, and bend over the block there, with your backside facing the bidders. Then I shall pull these lovely panties down to your knees and cane you, to show you and everyone here that a man who buys a naughty girl knows what to do with her.
"And then. . ." Elsa trembled with lust and dread. "And then I shall myself auction the right to use you after I take you for the first time, over that same block, right then and there, as a way to recoup some of the enormous investment I just made in my new concubine."
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
Shannon couldn't bear to look at the MP to whom the Lord Chancellor had given her. But she complied with his command nevertheless, taking down the left shoulder strap of the lacy black bra.
"You are being punished," the Lord Chancellor had said. "John is well known as a very thorough spanker, and so I have asked him to take you to his discipline room in Southwark for the afternoon. You will wear the black set, under a long coat. As soon as you step into the cab, you will remove the coat, and John will tell you what to do from there."
"Look at you, you naughty girl," John Embers, MP, said. "In your wicked black things here in a respectable cab."
Shannon still couldn't look at him, but she felt her body responding as the elegantly dressed gentleman continued, "Shall I tell you what will happen to you when we reach my discipline room? You are going to climb the stairs dressed just as you are now, with me behind you so I can watch your backside move in those wonderful knickers. Then I am going to lead you to the spanking bench, and strap you to it.
"And then, I am afraid, it will be the cane for you. The Lord Chancellor was very specific on that point--he said that you require the strictest discipline, and I can see from the way you have shamelessly exposed yourself right here in front of me, in a cab, your legs spread to show me all your charms, that the Lord Chancellor, as in everything else, is correct in his judgment of your lewdness, and its need for chastisement."
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
"You know the panties I mean, Jennifer. The seatless ones. The ones I bought for you and put out on the dresser this morning."
Jennifer blushed crimson.
"You're going to put them on under your dress, and go to the living-room, and get over the coffee-table. You're going to pull your dress up just enough so that when you look back at the mirror, you can see yourself in the panties, and think about what's going to happen when I get home. Then you're going to wait, just like that, until I arrive."
"Wh-what's going to happen then, Wes?"
"I think you mean 'Sir'."
Jennifer swallowed hard. "What's going to happen then, Sir?" she whispered into the phone.
"I'm going to spank you, for spending so much on the credit card. I'm going to spank you right on that delicious bottom of yours, so nicely exposed in those special panties. I'm going to use my hand, and then my belt. And then. . ."
"Yes, Sir?" Jennifer could barely breathe, thinking about it.
"Then I'm going to show you why I really bought those panties for you."
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
The most humiliating part of the ritual that led up to a spanking for Jennifer was the household duties she was made to perform in the special punishment-uniform Leo had given her.
Early that morning, she had told Leo to go fuck himself when he told her she needed to get out of bed--though she, just the night before, had begged him to help her get up earlier. He had immediately said, "Get into your punishment-uniform, Jennifer. You're going to get a spanking after breakfast."
With her face glowing red, Jennifer had had to get out of bed, and take off her nightgown, and put on the lacy blue lingerie, and the black stockings, and the heels, while Leo watched.
Then he had said, "Go make breakfast, now, please. Before you do, please get the spanking chair and put it in the living-room, so you'll be able to see it from the breakfast table."
Standing in the kitchen, at the counter, cracking eggs, dressed only in the sexy things Leo liked to see her in when he punished her, she knew that his eyes were on her, and above all on the shapely bottom he loved to spank until it was bright red, while Jennifer cried, "I'm sorry, sir!"
Somehow, the beautiful lingerie, which would have made her feel so sexy and desirable if she wore it for him to come to bed on a Saturday night, where he might rip it off her and fuck her senseless, felt shameful here in the kitchen. The thought of the spanking made her shift from foot to foot, as the warmth grew between her thighs.
She heard Leo come up behind her, and gasped when he rested his palm upon the bottom from which he would soon strip the lacy panties. "What kind of naughty slut makes breakfast in her punishment-uniform?" he asked.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
When they brought Sally to the little room on the third floor, they told her as soon as the door was shut that she was there for a spanking.
"Oh, please, no, sir!" said the terrified housemaid.
"You know," said Mr. Higgins, that disciplinary consequences were an important part of the contract you signed, "do you not?"
"Yes," sobbed Sally.
"And I venture to say you won't try to deny what Mrs. Higgins discovered about your lack of underwear?" said Mr. Loren, invited by Mr. Higgins to witness and to participate in Sally's punishment.
"Yes, but. . ."
"But what, Sally?" asked Mr. Higgins.
"But the laundry wasn't done, and. . ."
"And all your knickers were too soiled to be worn again?" Mr. Loren said, scornfully. "That's rather shameful in and of itself, isn't it? In addition to it being your responsibility to make sure you have sufficient knickers to uphold the clause of your contract that requires you to be properly dressed at all times."
In reality, Sally's knickers had been taken by the butler, after he had had her in the pantry, but that was of course not an excuse she might use.
"At any rate," said Mr. Higgins, "I suppose it spares you the embarrassment of having them removed, doesn't it?"
"And us the inconvenience of removing them," added Mr. Loren.
"Now get over the cot, Sally. Right this instant," Mr Higgins said, assuming his place in the chair against the wall, where he might hold Sally's hands tightly to prevent her interfering with her chastisement, and watch the maid's face as Mr. Loren spanked her. "You are a very bad girl, and now you must learn the price of indecorous behavior."
If only that nasty Mrs. Higgins hadn't raised her skirt in the middle of the drawing-room, suspecting her of doing exactly what she had done with the butler, and saying, "Oh, dear, this is very bad. George, I'm afraid you must come see this."
Mr. Loren pulled up her skirt, as Mr. Higgins tightened his grip on her hands. She would receive no mercy, she knew. No girl taken to the little room came out without a bottom that stayed red for days.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)She had arrived at last just where she needed to be.Jeanne kept repeating it to herself, trying desperately to quieten the frantic beating of her heat: I have arrived at last just where I have always needed to be. I have arrived at last. . .Was it, in the end, really so strange that that place, and that position, were kneeling, clad only in a long, gauzy initiate's robe of white, in front of the order's Master of the Lash?Surely it would not seem strange to anyone who could have read through the record of her dreams and fantasies over what seemed to her the whole of her life: the longing to kneel, to be marked, to be owned, to be hurt by those who claimed the right to hurt her even as they declared their intention to prize her and care for her. Surely the braided lash in the Master's hand was only the symbol of the deepest reality of her life: that she should be given the great gift that he was now about to bestow upon her.The lash, in the Master's hand, approached her. She closed her eyes, and prepared to kiss the back of that hand that would at last make her feel the things for which she had yearned for so long: the bite of the leather upon her bare bottom, her thighs--even within her open thighs, upon her sex, where they had also assured her they would whip her tonight.And then. . . beyond the Master of the Lash, in the darkness, she knew he waited: Blaise, the man who had brought her here, the one who would rip the robe from her, and tie her to the block, and watch her whipped; Blaise, in whose power she would be left when the Master of the Lash departed, to be done to according to his will; Blaise, who would take her back to their life of suburban joys and sorrows when this initiation was over, marked forever, nevertheless, as an initiate into his ways.And they would return, Jeanne and Blaise, a wedded pair, to the order's house, to re-enact these rites. For she had arrived at last just where she needed to be.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
Mr. Wetherall's strap was very old. It had been passed down from Latin master to Latin master for at least a hundred years, along with the injunction that it was to be used upon the bare bottoms of the most recalcitrant girls.
Sarah Jane Truitt had confused the ablative with the dative daily for the past month, and Mr. Wetherall was at his wits' end. "Miss Truitt," he said at last one morning, "you will see me in my study after the lesson."
Her tears were of no avail. Only one pupil in her memory had been punished with Mr. Wetherall's strap, and that girl had slept on her stomach for a week, and eaten standing up. "I'm so sorry, sir. I. . . please. . . agricolae from the farmer, agricolā to the farmer. . . I can do it, I promise!"
"You have just repeated your mistake, Miss Truitt. Ab agricolā, from the farmer. dō librum agricolae, I give the book to the farmer." He looked into her terror-filled eyes. "Lay yourself over my desk, now. You won't forget after the beating you're going to get, I'm confident."
Sarah Jane laid herself down. Mr. Wetherall raised her skirt, and then, as she blushed in shame and fear, lowered her knickers to leave her lovely young bottom bare.
"You will count each stroke, Miss Truitt," he said. Even before her beating began, she tried to cover her bottom with her hands. "Get those hands away, girl," Mr. Wetherall said. "If I see them there again, it'll be an extra stroke."
Sarah Jane rested her cheek on the wood of the Latin master's desk, and looked out the window to where the other girls were enjoying their recess. Mr. Wetherall brought the strap down hard upon her bottom, and she cried out and, despite herself, put her hands back to try to ward off her chastisement.
"One extra," said Mr. Wetherall, with grim satisfaction.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
Gerard leaned back in the recliner and started the book from where he had left off, in the middle of his favorite part of Justine, where the heroine is introduced, with the utmost rigor, to life in the monastery. It was especially piquant because his own Justine, freshly spanked, waited holding his ashtray, dressed as he liked her best to be dressed--that is, only in her stockings--next to his chair.
He thought of the spanking he had just administered to her: how he had informed her that he did not find her submission adequate that evening and that she would have to pay a severe penalty to teach her to be more serviceable to him; how he had instructed her to fetch his paddle, and to kiss it and give it to him; how he had made her bend over the punishment bench and strapped her to it; how her lovely pink and white bottom had bounded under the paddle as it grew redder and redder.
He looked up from the page of Sade and over at her. He could see the desire in her eyes, as she held the ashtray perfectly still, at the same time involuntarily presenting her pretty little breasts with their pink nipples to his view and, should he wish, for his use.
"I need to spank you more often, I think," he said.
"Yes, sir," said his Justine.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
"That's the third time this month you've gone over the data limit."
"I'm sorry--it won't happen again. I promise."
"I think," said Stephen, "you're in need of an attitude adjustment. Take off your clothes. Everything but your stockings."
"Stephen, no--"
"Do you really think it's wise to disobey me, sweetheart?"
Gloria flushed, and reached behind her back to unzip her dress.
"Answer me, Gloria. Do you think it's wise to disobey me?" She looked into his eyes, and saw the answer, there.
"No, sir."
He would spank her, of course, but she knew that before he did he would adjust her attitude the way he knew she needed, with his fingers inside her bottom, and his other hand in her hair. Ashamed, but, as always, terribly aroused, she let her dress drop to the floor, then unhooked her bra and shrugged it off.
"Panties, too, Gloria," he said, when he saw her seem to hesitate. Unable to look at him, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the black lace thong, and bent to tug it down.
"Stand up and let me look at you," Stephen said. "Hands behind your head." She complied, blushing, and waited while he ran his eyes up and down her, lingering on the place between her legs that he had ordered her to keep bare, so that her little slit would have no covering when he wanted to look at it.
"Over my lap, now," he said.
After she had obeyed, there was a long pause, as he ran his hands over her back, her bottom, her thighs still in their sheer stockings. Then, suddenly, one of his hands was in her hair, pulling, not hard but authoritatively, and the other, as always, was upon her bottom, taking her right cheek in his grasping fingers, and working his thumb into the valley between the cheeks.
"Next time you get the warning about the data-plan," Stephen murmured, "what are you going to think about?"
Gloria gasped, as the thumb quested inward. "Your thumb, sir!"
"And my paddle," Stephen said grimly, and reached for it.
(See here for an explanation of this series, and here for an index to it.)
The placard on the post by the entryway that led into the gallery said "Please take one." It referred, as far as Natalie could tell, to a basket of beautifully-crafted, long-handled wooden paddles that sat next to the post.
Natalie looked at the placard and the basket in confusion for a long moment before she noticed that the gallery beyond was not entirely empty, as it had appeared at first. She felt herself growing faint before she even realized that she had gasped so deeply that she had forgotten to breathe again. There was a girl in there, and she was. . . she didn't. . .
"Do you like my piece?" asked a warm, feminine voice, in a French accent, from just above and behind her. Natalie felt the woman's hand on her shoulder, and she shuddered, suddenly wanting so much that she simply had never let herself imagine before.
"Um," said Natalie, blushing to the roots of her brown hair.
"Aren't you going to take a paddle?" the woman asked, in Natalie's ear. Natalie smelled lovely perfume, and her faintness seemed to increase. "The piece is meant to be a sort of simple drama: you are the heroine."
Natalie reached down, and grasped the smooth maple handle of a slender one, almost as small as a wooden spoon, wishing. . .
"Of course," said the artist, "if you would rather not take a paddle, but would instead like to go join Jacqueline, there, you may also do that, and become part of the piece yourself."
Natalie let go the wooden handle and, telling herself not to think, but simply to act--no, rather, to submit--she walked into the gallery.
(See here for an index to this series.)Robert met Maggie at the door with the rope in his hand. "You're late," he said, without anger."Only five minutes!" Maggie protested.Robert looked at his watch. "Seven, to be precise, but if I'm not mistaken we agreed that you would suffer the consequences if you were home even a second after eight. Am I wrong?""No, Sir." Maggie hung her head. "There was traffic." Her voice was sullen, but it concealed a thrill of fear, and another of arousal, that went through her at the thought of the consequences they had agreed to."You should have anticipated the traffic, shouldn't you?" She looked down at his burgundy loafers. "Answer me." Casually, he reached his hand out and slapped her cheek.Oh, no. Her hand flew to her face, and tears formed in her eyes--but, of course, other moisture began to seep in other places."Yes, Sir."He slapped her again, on the other cheek. "You are mine, now, until dawn, as we agreed." Another slap.Her mind began to spin out of control. Why had she agreed? Why hadn't she anticipated the traffic? Why, of all things, had she, able to get home on time, stopped to buy a magazine?She turned to flee down the stairs, but Robert grabbed her easily around the waist, and hauled her inside, and slammed the door behind her. He threw her over a big chair in his living-room, and went to work with his rope.What had he said he was going to do, if she were late and had to suffer the consequences? What did being his for the night mean, again? Her thoughts raced to remember the list of things that had horrified her even as they had fascinated her.He was going to spank her, first. That's what he had said. With the big leather paddle he had shown her. He would not harm her clothing as he was removing it, he had said, except that he had promised that he was going to cut her panties off her with his penknife. . . but he wouldn't really, would he?. . . cut them off so that he could gag her with them, and then spank her bare bottom the way she deserved. Then he was going to teach her about his pleasures, and, he had said, she should make no mistake: those pleasures would involve possessing her everywhere her body could afford him an avenue of enjoyment. If she were late, she should give up any idea of having her modesty respected, for to be his meant that he would use her every way a man can use a woman.But first he was going to tie her up, so that she couldn't get any silly notions about escaping.She felt the rope winding round and round her ankles, and she realized that all the consequences were going to take place: Robert was going to give her exactly what she had asked for.
(See here for an index to this series.)
"Think about why you're here, Clara, being caned over your bed, and ask for the next stroke across your disobedient rump!" He tapped, the way he always did, to let her know that another terrible stripe was coming, as soon as she requested it.
She sobbed, and said, "Please, John, cane my bare bottom."
He did, and she cried out in pain, and said, "Four! Thank you, John! Oh. . ." She tried desperately to keep from reaching back to rub: she knew from experience that that would just get her hands caned, too.
"You are here because, as far as I can tell, you need a lasting reminder that calling to say you'll be home late is NOT OPTIONAL." He tapped. "Ask for it, Clara."
"Oh, John, please. . ."
He caned her. "Ahhhhh! John!"
"That one didn't count, as you know. Ask for it!"
"How many are. . ." The cane struck her bottom again, and then again. She cried out in terror and pain.
"Ask for it."
"Please, John, cane my bare bottom!"
"Very well," he said, and did, with the most force yet. "Five! Thank you, John!" Clara's tears were dripping down onto the bedclothes as she wept in shame and discomfort.
"Is this really the way you wanted your night out with the girls to end, Clara?"
"No!"
"Did you want to have to take off your party dress and put the pillows on the bed?"
"No! John, please. . . I'm so sorry. . ."
"Did you want to have to lie over the pillows in your underwear and ask for the cane?"
Clara decided, on a whim, just to be truthful. She said, "Yes! Please, John, cane my bare bottom again!"
He laughed, and gave her what she wanted.
