The Red Collection (3 page)

I start to shake as her deft hands go about their business. My Master has not exposed me a great deal to the eyes of strangers, so this is relatively new to me. There was of course the time he invited a few male friends around to watch him cane me, but then I was blindfolded, and the resulting darkness calmed my shame.

Nevertheless, I don’t resist as Florenza eases my panties down my thighs, revealing my belly, and the silky blondness of my pubic grove. I am tempted to try and cover myself, but I fight the need. As if sensing my discomfiture, my Master says, ‘Hands on head, Susan. There’s a good girl.’

Florenza is crouched beside me, seemingly intent on adjusting the position of my bunched white panties, but what she is really doing, I guess, is studying the sight her Madame has not yet seen. A phenomenon that will soon embarrass me even more. As the pretty servant finally straightens up, my Master abruptly calls out, ‘Turn!’

I obey.

‘
Quel cul ravissant
!’ cries Madame, as her eyes light upon my mortifying secret. A naked bottom that’s already a brilliant pink.

I feel the scrutiny of all in the room fix on me. They study my soreness, the warmed state of my buttocks. The evidence of my intractable behaviour … There is silence for a few moments, then Madame dismisses Florenza. That she has allowed the maid to see me at all is a punishment in itself.

‘Yes, I have already had to deal with her,’ observes my Master as the door quietly closes. ‘Susan is often disobedient and disrespectful in public, but I find a smacked bottom tends to settle her somewhat. We never leave the house without making sure she’s nice and red.’

How true that is! I think if my Master had his way, I would spend my whole life with a hot, crimson bottom. Dinner parties, the theatre, the ballet; every function I attend, I attend it feeling sore. Every time I sit down, I’m reminded of his preference.

Today is a typical example of my life. My Master came to collect me at my work place, and when he was ushered into my office, and we were alone, he locked the door. Within moments, I was face down across my own desk, skirts up, pants down, whilst he belaboured my bottom-cheeks with my own plastic ruler. The snapping impacts soon raised a glow of stinging pain.

‘An excellent regimen,’ comments Madame, her voice approving.

‘You may move to the corner now, Susan,’ says my Master.

Again, I obey, my steps rendered tiny and awkward by the pants that are bundled around my thighs. I hear the tinkle of spoons and china, and smell the delicious aroma of fresh coffee. As Madame and my Master enjoy their refreshment, she outlines the facilities offered by ‘Maison Guidetty’.

‘As I described on the phone, Monsieur, we provide a service to dominants like yourself, who, for one reason or another, are unable to attend to their charges themselves. Whether it is due to family circumstances, or to foreign travel or work commitments, we administer discipline, in your stead, and to your exact specifications.’ She pauses, then goes on with pride, ‘Or if you prefer, we will create an appropriate programme for you … We – that is my husband, my son, my daughter and myself – are all extremely experienced with all devices, and conversant with all classic scenarios.’

I can well imagine. Madame is very handsome, with her elaborately chignoned hair, and her Parisian clothes, but she exudes an exciting air of hidden strength. Beneath her hand, a hapless bottom will sting and burn furiously, that’s evident. And her eyes, beneath her long, dark lashes, are those of a true, impassioned zealot.

‘And we offer a variety of arrangements to suit every need,’ she continues, warming to her theme. ‘For instance, a charge may simply attend once or twice a week for a sound punishment to see them through until the next visit. On the other hand, we also offer boarding facilities, for those submissives who require continuous attention.’

‘I think an arrangement somewhere between those two will suit Susan best,’ interposes my Master. ‘She has
commitments
… Employment of her own. I wouldn’t want to interfere with that … Perhaps she could come to you each weekend?’ he suggests.

Yes, employment of my own. How ironic. What would my colleagues and subordinates think if they knew I was chairing a meeting with a bottom still raw from the lash? That beneath my Ralph Lauren skirt I was pantieless, because my inflamed cheeks could not stand the slightest brush of underwear? That my buttocks were bruised and wealed by the man I love?

‘Of course,’ says Madame, concurring. ‘Many of our clients specify “weekends only”. I would say it’s our most popular option.’

They go on to discuss the finer details. And money, which seems so meaningless in this strange and special world. My Master specifies Madame herself to be my disciplinarian, and that my ‘treatments’ be morning, noon, and night. Especially night. It seems that even though night will not occur at the same time for us during the next few months, he wishes to dream of me lying in my bed with my buttocks scarlet.

Madame coughs delicately. ‘And is she to be provided with …’ Her voice lowers. ‘With “release”?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ replies my Master. ‘Perhaps Florenza could oblige?’ he suggests, his voice playful.

I shiver in dread anticipation. The dark-eyed servant does not look very kind to me. Pleasure with her might be as testing as the pain.

‘A splendid suggestion,’ agrees Madame. ‘And perhaps I might supervise, to ensure it is correctly dispensed?’

‘Of course,’ concurs my Master suavely. He well knows how it shames me to be watched while I lose control.

‘And now, perhaps a brief tour of the facilities? And
a
demonstration?’ offers Madame, her soft voice full of anticipation. My instincts tell me she can’t wait to get her hands on me.

‘Yes! Capital!’ My Master can’t wait for her to get her hands on me either. ‘I would like Susan to be fully acquainted with the tests that lie ahead of her.’

With that, Madame escorts us from the room, still describing the many advantages this establishment offers. I follow, at a slower pace, hampered by my underwear around my thighs, my pulses racing at the prospect of further treatment to my already smarting rump. Progress up the stairs is particularly difficult for me, with my hands still on my head, but my Master gently guides my faltering steps.

The first room we enter offers quite a sight. A young woman, completely nude, is draped over a thickly upholstered couch. Her bottom is a blazing pink, all over, and she’s sobbing. Behind her stands another young woman, a breathtaking beauty; her face is flushed, her arm is high, and in her narrow, patrician hand she grasps a paddle.

‘My daughter, Mariette,’ announces Madame proudly, and the enchanting disciplinarian bobs a curtsey.

‘Charmed, Monsieur,’ she answers prettily, her fingers moving on the paddle she still clutches, as if she is anxious to continue with her task. Her fine eyes settle momentarily on my semi-nakedness, and her lips – so like her mother’s – quirk with longing.

‘Pray do not let us disturb you,
chérie
,’ encourages Madame. ‘Monsieur here is anxious to see how we deal with our charges … He will shortly be putting Susan into our hands.’

‘Of course,
Maman
,’ says the young woman pleasantly, returning immediately to her task. She lifts her arm and
the
paddle descends with unexpected force. Mademoiselle Guidetty is far stronger than she looks. The owner of the unfortunate, becrimsoned bottom wails piteously, her hips shifting and weaving against the surface of the couch. She bears a fresh patch of deeper red on her rounded left cheek, and beneath her pelvis the moquette upholstery is visibly damp. I bite my lip to contain my moan of sympathy.

In the next few minutes, the younger Guidetty treats us to a virtuoso display with the paddle, whilst her charge puts on a show of equal vivacity. The round tongue of leather crashes down with almost metronomic regularity, its point of impact constantly circling its chubby target. The punished girl bucks and heaves across the couch, her strident squealing unrestrained and deeply stirring.

‘Valerie has much to learn,’ observes Madame Guidetty, and just as she speaks, Valerie howls loudly, her torso stiffening.

It is clear what has happened. Remaining rigid for a couple of seconds, the girl then flails her legs and pumps her crotch against the edge of the couch.

‘Oh, Valerie,’ murmurs Mademoiselle, accusingly, as the body she has been chastising jerks in orgasm. As we leave the room, she is lifting a cane from a selection in a drawer.

‘My daughter is quite a stringent disciplinarian,’ says Madame fondly as we move along a corridor. ‘I believe she inherits her gift from me.’

My Master nods discreetly, in congratulation. I hobble behind them, my bottom bare, my flesh aroused. Other rooms pose other tests to my frazzled nerves …

In one, an exquisitely good-looking young man is hand-spanking an older woman whom I seem to know. I start to sweat again and I gasp, recognising her as a formidable
adversary
across the bargaining table – my opposite number in another prestigious company. Briefly craning her neck she looks up at me, her eyes languorous, her mouth working as the pretty youth pounds her cheeks. If she recognises me, it seems to be of little importance to her. All that matters now is the growing torment of her reddened bottom.

As we leave, Madame names the gorgeous boy as her son, Jean-Louis. I feel a sense of awe that in just one family there could be such fearsome gifts.

We do not see Monsieur Guidetty. Although we hear his work …

Before a closed door, we pause, listening to the sounds issuing from the hidden room beyond. I hear a heavy thudding slap, a ponderous doleful sound, then a low, weak groan. The slapping comes again, and the answering cry is ragged, extenuated, redolent with suffering. The slaps repeat. And repeat. The voice of their recipient gurgles. There is no way to tell whether the cries stem from agony or reflect a state of bliss.

‘This client has requested a closed room for his charge,’ says Madame in hushed tones. ‘And the severe attentions of my husband. No observers … No manual pleasure to be given.’ Although I am not supposed to, I look up and see her roll her expressive eyes. ‘Just the strap. Laid on with energy. For extended periods.’

‘And this will be Susan’s room,’ she says a little later, conducting us into a bedroom decorated in a delicate Victorian style. There is a proliferation of chintz, a very beautiful armless nursing chair, an elegant chaise longue. It is warm and cosy, and the air is rich with the essence of quiet, domestic discipline. I already see myself in a long, white nightdress of perfect purity, my buttocks uncovered as I lie
across
the bed, waiting to receive what is due to me.

The picture is so vivid, so meltingly appealing, that I long for it immediately to be real. Without thinking I gyrate my naked bottom, and my Master – ever watchful – notices the movement.

‘Perhaps Susan can be punished here now?’ he suggests, striding over to a dressing table cluttered with antique knickknacks. He lifts a simple wooden hairbrush from amongst the profusion of gilt and crystal, and holds it out towards Madame, whose eyes light up with undisguised glee.

‘Of course, Monsieur, I would be happy to accommodate you,’ she says gaily, already seating herself on the chaise and arranging her skirts. My Master catches my eye, then nods in Madame’s direction.

Silently, obediently, I shuffle towards her, and skilfully she tips me across her lap.

It takes just a few moments to position me correctly. Madame slides my knickers down to my ankles, but leaves them there. ‘I find that underwear left around the feet impedes kicking … Especially when tangled around high heels.’ My arms are forward, but she asks me to cross my hands at the small of my back. When I comply she firmly grips my wrists.

Waiting, I stare at the patterned carpet, aware that my Master has handed the brush to Madame Guidetty. I smell his cologne as he sits down beside us on the chaise, then feel the gentle touch of his caressing hand as he strokes my hair.

When the first hard blow smashes on to my bottom, I start to cry …

That was over a week ago, and now my Master is far away, and overseas.

I miss him, of course, but other pains are soothing the
pain
of us being apart. These pains are less abstract, and more absorbing; they divert the mind.

And this is why I’m lying face down, my buttocks bare, on my chintz-clad bed.

A little over a quarter of an hour ago, Madame Guidetty finished giving me a rigorous caning. My nightly punishment. I can still feel the savage line of each sharp cut she laid upon me; the grid of fire she worked so cleverly across my flesh. My snorts of distress are still ringing in my ears.

I cried pathetically, of course, but my Master will enjoy that. I can just imagine his secret pleasure when he receives the video.

Maybe he’ll find amusement in the interlude which followed too. The sight of my engorgement being resolved by Florenza’s tongue.

So, here I am, my dearest Master
, I think, mentally composing an intimate letter to accompany the tape.
My bottom’s hot, and it’s caned bright red, just how you like it. But because it hurts, it reminds me of you, and I don’t feel lonely
.

That’s true. Reaching behind me, I finger my weals, their fire my solace.

I miss you madly, but I know I’m in the best of hands
…

This Very Boutique

‘GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR
, and welcome to The Boutique. How may we help you this afternoon?’

Sir strolls into the showroom, then halts right in the centre and slowly looks around. His sharp gaze flits hither and thither, alighting on the various samples set out for display in a studiedly casual arrangement across the sideboard, the occasional tables and elsewhere. We offer a very personal hands-on service here in this bijou little establishment and we like our shoppers to feel as comfortable and relaxed as they would do in their own homes. So they’ll buy more …

It’s hard to tell what Sir really thinks about the risqué items we have on show. His expression is inscrutable, mutable, and hard to fathom. The only indication of any kind of emotion is the faintest hint of super-cool amusement. But even that could be a trick of the imagination.