Whip Hands (22 page)

Above their heads a girl with her back to them was supporting herself on the suspended rings, her bare arms quivering with strain. Then, with no noticeable effort, she dropped to arms' length and swung a few times backwards and forwards before flipping herself over to end up in the previous position.

She repeated the routine, her long black hair streaming out behind her. This time she released the rings to somersault in mid-air and land almost perfectly, needing only a slight adjustment to her balance. Keith and Harry broke into spontaneous applause. Turning round and seeing them, she smoothed down the extremely brief pleated gym skirt, which had ridden up over her thighs.

The two members of the film crew stopped filming and added some wolf-whistles. They both looked barely out of college.

‘Keith, meet Maria.'

Still red-faced, the girl approached Keith. He noticed her handshake was firm. She was obviously fit and also close to his height. Unlike the other girl, a bottle blonde with a pinched look to her face, a Gothic-style tattoo on one shoulder and a nose ring. She, too, was dressed in a thin blouse and pleated skirt. She had barely any figure and was without a bra. An ill-assorted pair, he thought to himself.

‘And you must be Julie, then?' He smiled encouragingly at the skinny girl, who gave him a dismissive look. She seemed vaguely familiar. He would enjoy taming her later. He could imagine it already. He would have her across his knees in no time with her panties around her ankles, screaming for mercy. He was getting a hard-on just thinking about it. She should be no trouble, but he wasn't so sure about the athletic Maria.

‘Time for you to get changed, Keith. We'll go through to the locker room. Strictly it's for girls, but I'm sure you won't mind.' Harry smiled and waved his cigar in the direction of a door opposite. Keith thought he heard a stifled titter as he walked off followed by the camera crew. He didn't dare look back.

Harry was right: the changing room was a gem. It was roughly square with lockers and benches round the walls. To one side was a large shower room with a skylight.

For some reason the crew came in with him, the red light on the video camera glowing, just as he was slipping into his tracksuit trousers. He played to the camera, flexing his pecs as he pulled on his jacket. He left it unzipped to show off his gleaming chest in all its smooth novelty.

He was even more startled as the two girls strode in, looking far from friendly in their neat gym outfits and ankle socks.

‘So what are you doing in here?' Maria strode up to him and confronted him, hands on hips. He resisted the immediate urge to back away. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Julie had taken up a position blocking any direct escape.

‘Boys aren't allowed in here. It's the girls' changing room,' Julie brayed in a voice that belied her diminutive appearance. ‘Now you're for it, you little pervert.'

‘How do you mean, I'm for it?' Keith found his mouth going dry.

‘You know the school rules. Any boy found in the girls' changing area gets punished.'

This was Maria.

‘Oh, yes? Who says?' he riposted with a show of bravado.

‘I do. And you know who I am, I suppose.'

‘Do I?'

He began to suspect they were acting from a different script.

‘Oh, come on, he's just playing for time,' Julie chipped in, employing a sneering, nasal tone. She had crept round behind him and now she suddenly pulled the jacket down off his shoulders before yanking it free of his wrists. It must be her nursing training, he reckoned, that made such a chit so sure of herself.

Keith stood facing his two antagonists bare-chested. If Harry hadn't told him to go easy he would have grabbed one of them right now and had her skimpily covered arse over his knee in no time. Instead, he found himself being swivelled round to face the lockers.

‘Arms out to the side,' Maria ordered.

The next minute he found his head being pulled back as she grabbed his curly mane and tugged it strongly to one side. This would have been alarming if it weren't so laughable.

‘I said arms out, you Peeping Tom.'

He raised them slowly, and both began a thorough body search from his ankles upwards.

‘I'm no Peeping Tom,' he ventured, starting to extemporise. The crew was still filming, so he thought he had better earn his fee by taking up Maria's cue.

‘So just what were you doing in here, snooping around the girls' lockers?' Maria had slipped her hand under the waistband of his jogging pants and was squeezing his cock through the satin briefs. ‘Eh? Cat got your tongue?' She put her face close up to his and blew gently on his cheek. He moaned with pleasure.

What happened next was executed with a speed that took him entirely by surprise. Almost simultaneously, a set of handcuffs was slipped on to each wrist, then he was pinioned as one arm was locked behind him. He turned to see the other arm being attached to one of the locker handles by Maria. She darted round to help Julie as he began to struggle. But he had left it too late.

‘Now, now, big boy. Don't make a fuss about your punishment,' Julie sneered. ‘You're not thinking of running away.'

The two of them heaved at his free arm and attached it to another locker handle. He was at full stretch with his left cheek hard against the scratched paintwork. What the hell was going on?

‘Cut!'

Thank Christ, Harry was here. He'd put these two hard-faced bitches back in line.

He felt Harry's hand on his shoulder and his breath at his ear. ‘How's it going, Keith, old pal!' he whispered. ‘I think this may possibly be the last movie we make together. I just can't afford you any longer. But never mind. Let's make this one to remember, eh, girls?'

‘Harry, what the hell's going on? What kind of movie are we making here? Give us a break for old times' sake.'

‘Don't worry, my son, you'll be getting plenty of breaks. Look in his bag, girls. I think you'll soon find what you're looking for.

‘You see, Keith, this is the same only different. We're calling it Pussy-whipped. It's a punishment video, all right, but this time it's fem dom. I trust you're familiar with the term; if not, you're about to find out the hard way. That's the reason I asked you to get your chest waxed, by the way. We didn't want you looking too butch.'

‘You bastard, Harry!'

Keith rattled the locker doors as he struggled, but his wrists were firmly attached to the handles.

‘Bad language forbidden in the locker room!' Harry laughed. ‘Ah, Julie, I see you've found the strap. By the way, Keith, I'm surprised you don't remember Julie from Caned To Prefection. One of my more inspired titles. If I remember you were brunette then, isn't that right, Julie?'

‘Yeah, and I couldn't sit down for nearly a week afterwards without wincing. All because of that sadistic prick.' She slammed the three-tailed leather tawse across the bench by his knee, making a loud crack that caused him to start. ‘Let's move it. I can't wait to get even.'

‘So I'll send you a cheque for the two-fifty when I've seen the rushes, Keith. And don't worry, you can scream as loud as you like. There are no neighbours to disturb. Sorry I can't hang around to see your arse glowing red, but I've got a deal to complete with a new leading man before the day's end. See ya.'

He heard Harry's departing footsteps, then the purr of the video camera as the crew came in close behind him. Keith tried to look over his shoulder. He saw the contents of his kitbag were spread over the floor.

Next minute he felt the jogging trousers pulled to his knees, to be followed in quick succession by the scarlet pouch that had enough stretch to accommodate a full erection during those scenes when he was administering a hard dose of punishment. It was the appearance of the stroke marks that really aroused Keith. Now he was only too painfully aware that the camera was trained on his own haunches in the same expectation.

‘Ready for your punishment, boy?'

There was barely a pause for his reply before he was aware of a searing pain that spread from the upper slope of his buttocks, followed by two more. By the third he was writhing and tugging fruitlessly to free his arms.

‘Keep still,' commanded Maria. ‘My, you are going red, you naughty boy. Now…' she pulled his thighs away from the lockers towards her ‘…get that pretty little bum stuck out a bit more so we can see what to aim at. Julie's got a leather paddle in a most attractive shade of scarlet. I don't think she'll stop until she has an exact match with your arse cheeks.'

‘Right on, sister. I'd thought of starting with this black hairbrush, but that's a bit girlie for a big hunk like yourself. Agree, Keith? I'm sure you remember when you punished me you were on to the strap quick enough. God, you hurt me.'

‘I'm sorry, love. I didn't realise...'

‘Didn't realise? I was begging you to stop, but you had no pity. I was stripped of any dignity on that video. Now I'm ready to get my own back.'

Keith's heart sank to his tanned ankles. The punishment started in earnest. They took it in turns to give him a dozen or so at a time. Then, to save their strength, they hit him alternately from left and right. He heard a terrible howling echoing through the changing room as the two instruments merged into a single searing sensation.

They stopped once for the cameraman to load a fresh cassette. Keith smelt the acrid tang of cigarettes, then the flowery tones of a deodorant.

‘Quite a pong in here,' Maria observed. ‘Do you want some?'

‘No, I'm dry. But he's sweating like a pig. Here, give me the roll-on a minute.'

Julie approached Keith, who was trying to rest his aching arms. The pain from his biceps at least counteracted the stinging sensation around his haunches. He felt a coolness under one arm and then the other.

‘There, that should make the second half a bit more pleasant, eh, Keith?'

‘Are you ready yet, boys?' Maria enquired. ‘Not quite? Let me have the roll-on, then.'

‘What are you going to do?' he asked in a small voice.

He felt a cool sensation first on one buttock, then on the other. Ah, that was better. But then the skin started to smart, finally to sting. He couldn't see what effect these two harpies had made on his buns, but he suddenly became aware that damage must have been done.

If only he could see or feel! He struggled to release one hand at least, but to no avail. The lockers were constructed to resist unauthorised access.

‘Okay, second take!' announced the sound man. ‘Let's make this one even better, girls. Everything okay with you, Keith?'

Again there was that barely suppressed snort of laughter. Which of the girls was it? Or worst of all, which of the crew? He groaned and braced himself for at least another twenty minutes of stinging humiliation.

He was earning his increased fee with interest. That bastard, Harry! He had got one up on him again. Keith sensed his glorious film career was about to come to a premature end.

 

 

 

Jane hardly remembered how she came to be involved with Lashings. It had been three or four years ago now.

A perfectly judged turn across the oncoming traffic took her blue BMW into a service road leading to a handsome terrace of houses with impressive colonnaded entrances. The houses were set back from the main road and shielded by a line of mature trees. As Jane knew only too well, the respectable exteriors were misleading. At least two of these solidly panelled front doors kept the activity behind them a dark secret.

Jane found a residents' parking space and used it. She was about ten minutes late, according to the dash display. If the client was here Vanessa would still be entertaining him with drinks. She ran up the few steps and let herself into the corridor hallway. It was not nearly as imposing as the one at her home, being mainly occupied by the stairwell. Maybe it was more welcoming to apprehensive punters. The poor dears, she crooned to herself as she closed the door softly behind her and made her way to the basement.

There she found a note from Vanessa, the soul of efficiency as ever. Jane, honey, low-down on tonight's shrimp. This one's something special. This is Raymond's first visit to us, but I think he's been around. Anyway, he's got a thing about being punished, despite being in the business himself. Hence the impressive wig and gown. You'll look lovely in them. See you afterwards, honey.

It was typical of Vanessa's ironic approach to the business to call them ‘shrimps'. Not to their faces, of course. The men who got to hear about this place and the particular services on offer were usually well-connected and well-off. Shrimps were men who wanted to be dominated by women, usually punished into the bargain, craving the sensation of being treated like dirt. They paid handsomely for their thirty minutes of pain and humiliation, their darkest fantasies brought to life by dominas like Jane.

She absorbed the information in the note as she changed into a black basque and stockings. The scarlet gown and wig were hanging up behind the door of the dressing room. She had never used this costume before. She looked at the effect in the mirror and added the wire-rimmed spectacles which, she was relieved to discover, were of plain glass. They gave her a frighteningly intellectual appearance and the cloak added authority. She felt powerful. She wasn't so sure about the full-bodied wig, which was tight over her springy tresses.

A red light above the mirror winked on. Immediately she felt the adrenaline rush that always preceded a session. Sometimes she would visualise a figure crouched on the floor before her, begging for mercy. Yet she looked forward to the commencement of such scenes. When did she become like this? Or had she always been a woman who gained pleasure from inflicting pain?

It was time to move next door and await the penitent Raymond. In her killer heels she moved down the short corridor, atmospherically lit with a pair of fake wall-torches, and pushed open a door that was distinctively marked with diagonal lines of rivets.

The lighting inside was low. There was no reflection from the black-painted walls. She could smell floral air freshener: soon it would be submerged by the saltier odours of sweaty, chafed flesh.

Knowing that her victim was genuinely sweating with anticipation gave her a kick, even if sometimes the smell was overpowering. After a good session Jane expected her labia to be well-creamed. She rarely felt any pity for her victims. Instead, she sensed their longing for pain.

Everything seemed to be in place. Sometimes the other girls borrowed important items like the nine-tailed whip or one of the leather school straps, carefully graded from light to severe. These were kept in a special wall cabinet between the frames. This evening there were no gaps; even the canes, kept innocuously in a wrought-iron umbrella stand, had been replenished.

Jane heard sounds approaching along the corridor: Vanessa's encouraging blandishments, the other voice more hesitant. There was a slight pause before the man entered. He was thinning on top, clean-shaven, probably in his late fifties. His face was well-rounded, from too many client lunches, she assumed, but otherwise he was not unpleasant to look at.

Then he saw Judge Jane. His jaw dropped open and his eyes, adjusting to the sight of a gowned figure in a dungeon, were drawn almost as wide. He stood his ground uncertainly.

‘Raymond is your name?'

‘Er, yes. I mean yes, ma'am.'

‘Close the door, Raymond, and get undressed.'

Jane adopted her character right from the beginning. That was how most shrimps expected it to be.

‘You know where to go? Good. Hurry up, then. We don't have all evening.'

Raymond darted for the small screen in the far corner. He obviously knew the ropes; he was peeling off his suit jacket as he went. He looked as if he'd come fresh from the office.

‘Do I take everything off, ma'am?' An anxious face popped up from behind the screen.

‘Everything.'

This was greeted by a soft whimper. She seemed to be pressing the right buttons, Jane congratulated herself. She switched on the ceiling spots that illuminated the two punishment frames, one in the shape of a St Andrew's cross, standing against the back wall.

He re-emerged holding both hands over his groin. They always did that, as if it gave them a sense of security.

‘Hands on top of your head, prisoner at the bar!' Not much to hide there. The man's white, fleshy body was almost entirely hairless. He must have been plucked or waxed. A few stray wisps of pubic curl sprouted from the very base of his penis but his belly was quite smooth. It reminded her of a piglet. She wondered what his wife thought of it.

‘Look at yourself in the mirror.' He turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall with the figure of the judge behind him. His prick began to stiffen within seconds.

‘Now, I gather you have been before this court on similar charges before,' Jane said in a loud, hectoring voice. Whatever volume his reply might be, she would tell him to speak up. In her stilettos she was an inch or two taller than him and he was beginning to cower already. ‘Keep your hands on your head when addressing me.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am. What are you trying to say?' She moved closer to him, letting the gown part to reveal the sculptured contours of her lacy basque and stocking tops. ‘Speak up so I can hear you.'

‘I think it was for being a Peeping Tom, ma'am.'

‘A Peeping Tom? I don't think I am quite familiar with that expression. Perhaps you could explain.'

‘I... I suppose it means looking through windows at night, those with the curtains open at least.'

‘To what purpose?' She would make him squirm. She could tell Raymond was enjoying being made to feel small. She went over to the wall cabinet and selected a studded leather paddle. This produced a good, loud report when delivered flat against ample buttocks such as he had. He eyed her nervously.

‘To watch women getting undressed, ma'am.'

‘Getting undressed, did I hear you say? Only getting undressed, just taking off their clothing? Surely you hoped to see a good deal more than that? Come now, a bit more frankness if you please.' She struck him a wristy shot, coming from slightly below the overhang of his white cheeks.

Raymond let out a gasp and straightened his posture, arching his back and bunching his bottom in the aftermath of the stroke. She immediately gave him a backhand across the side of his buttock. He yelped in surprise.

‘Ow! I am telling you the truth.'

‘No, I don't think so, Raymond. I wonder if that's your real name? Never mind. If I need to know I can find out. Anyway, you are due further punishment, aren't you?'

Two more sharp thwacks with the paddle. She could see him stealing quick glimpses in the mirror. Despite his protests the shrimp was enjoying himself, she was sure of that. He was beginning to feel totally subservient. The first few strokes always established who was boss. If they were too hard you could turn them off. So it was best to break a shrimp in gently unless he was a real hard case. Now it was time to up Raymond's pain threshold a little.

She gave a few quick strokes with the paddle, to which he hardly made any objection. Raymond's cheeks were beginning to look decidedly flushed. His prick was standing out rigidly and she saw that his balls were completely hairless, emphasising their pink fleshiness.

‘Now go over and stand by the mirror.'

She watched him waddle across the room. Very few of the men who came here seemed to retain any pride in their bodies. At times she felt she wanted to go on and on hitting these lumps of flaccid flesh. Maybe they might be knocked into better shape. It seemed to make perfect sense at times, even when her arm began to ache with administering such relentless punishment, blow after blow, until the tethered shrimp began to howl.

She selected a fresh birch switch. Then she shook it to remove the excess vinegar. This was one of the specialities of the house. The birches were cut and made by a farmer Vanessa had got to know. Fresh supplies arrived each week and they were kept in a green acid jar with an inch or two of vinegar to keep them supple.

You could always tell if a previous client had been birched. The pungent, slightly sickly reek of vinegar and fresh birch sap hung in the air for hours. The smell soon overpowered the air freshener. Jane smiled secretly to herself as she swished some more. The birch smell set her pulses racing in true Pavlovian fashion. Maybe it was the same for the shrimp.

‘Okay, Raymond, punishment time now. Hands down to touch your toes. Hurry along. What are you waiting for?'

‘It's my back, ma'am. I really can't bend over. I'd go into spasm for days.'

‘Och, the poor delicate wee laddie.' She adopted a broader demotic, moving swiftly over to him and grabbing him by one ear. ‘In that case we'd better have you over the whipping stool.'

Jane led him, protesting and feebly trying to free his ear, to a high padded stool. The idea was that the offender bent over the seat with legs at full stretch, his wrists tied to one of the horizontal spreader bars.

‘Okay, Raymond, get that glowing arse in the air. Stretch those legs, there's nothing wrong with them. Reach down and hold on to the bar. Make it sharp!'

He looked utterly defenceless, with his bald patch and his podgy hips, but she felt no pity. Instead she preferred to imagine what his pale flesh would resemble in a few minutes' time when the birch strokes had begun to chastise it. Already she could visualise the delicate red tracery that stood out sharply before fading to create the scarlet glow of birched buttocks. She was beginning to enjoy herself. This one wasn't putting up any kind of struggle, so with luck there would be no broken nails to attend to later.

She slipped her arms out of the gown and threw it over a set of stocks in the centre of the floor. The wig followed it. Now she felt free and unconstrained. A few more flourishes with the birch, sending its ferny twigs hissing through the air, and she was ready for action.

But instead of hitting him with it, she twitched it in front of his face. Then, moving round, she trailed its sharp twigs down his back. She felt him shuddering in anticipation. So she did it again, but this time, when she reached the cleft between his buttocks, she gave a flick that sent raw signals to the sensitive nerve ends around his anal ring. His hiss of indrawn breath told Jane she was doing the right thing.

‘Now, Raymond, I hear this is a repeat offence. You understand that your punishment must reflect this in its severity.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' the voice squeaked up from near the floor. ‘I understand.'

‘Good. Fifty strokes of the birch it is, then.'

‘Fifty?' This time it was a shrill cry as the head came up.

‘I shouldn't do that again. You could put your back out.' She pushed his head down again, gently but firmly. ‘Keep count. If you try to cheat we may have to start all over again.'

Jane ran a hand gently over the small glowing patch on each buttock. The advantage of the high stool was that it stretched the skin tightly, making the surface more sensitive to every sensation. Raymond winced at her touch. Removing her hand, she stepped back so his head hung more or less beside her stockinged thigh. The hand holding the birch went up to shoulder height and then she struck.

The essence of a successful birching, she had discovered, is to hold the spray of twigs for a few seconds against the skin after each stroke, ensuring the sharpness of the sting does not dissipate immediately. The first ten strokes were quite light and Raymond was only reacting with a slight wriggling.

‘How many?'

‘Ten, ma'am.'

‘Good. Forty to go. I'm just beginning to warm up.'

This time the arm went higher and the hiss was longer, giving tantalising warning of each stroke. She angled the strokes to fall diagonally across the man's naked buttocks, the ends snaking round to bite into the tender areas at the gluteal fold. His mouth was wide open as he tried to raise his head. She pushed it down and held it there while switching him across his back.