Photo-story from Janus 92
‘All it would have taken was a simple phone call. Now you’ve blown your chances yet again!’
Nick Dickson raged as Lisa quailed. His anger came in waves at her down the length of the alienating table. Her dynamic, self-made, hard-bargaining, go-getting partner simply could not understand her hesitancy and lack of drive when it came to putting herself forward.
Well, maybe he did, and better than she realised. Which is why he knew exactly what had to be done now. The thought of it excited him, despite his justified wrath.
‘You should have gone for the job, Lisa!’ he thundered. ‘You have the qualities and the qualifications. You say you want to improve your work situation — well, the only person stopping you is you.’
On this last word Nick surged to his feet; and even as she recoiled from the fury of this working-class boy made rich by guts, dedication and will, Lisa felt borne up and carried along by the sheer force of his primal male energy. The sensation was both frightening and exhilarating. Their position at opposite ends of the table somehow reflected the opposing poles to which each had drifted in the last few weeks: Nick’s raw masculine power which carried all before it, her shrinking attitude which consistently retarded her own progress in life.
Living with Nick was fine, but she had made it plain from the start that she had no wish to be merely ‘kept’. Her job as a computer clerk doing routine, repetitive tasks was unsatisfying and not well enough paid, and she was fully aware that she could do better for herself. Nick knew, too. If she refused to get motivated, then he would have to do it for her.
That was why Lisa knew that their unique ceremonial was about to be enacted again. She could see it blazing in his eyes, hear it in the terrible timbre of his voice. The knowledge both appalled and elated her. If the ritual failed she knew that they would break away from each other forever — but if it succeeded, they would be drawn once more into the tender, positive, almost mystical union they had enjoyed at the start of their relationship.
‘Go and fetch the instrument.’ Nick Dickson pointed, leaning forward, glaring at his woman.
Lisa went cold. She could hardly find the strength to push herself to her feet. For a moment her breath would not come. ‘Please, Nick…’ she began.
‘Go and get it! You know perfectly well why!’
She turned and walked from the room. Minutes passed, the tension mounting. Then, fraught with apprehension, Lisa reappeared. In her hand was an instrument with a short wooden handle from the end of which hung nine thongs of hard leather. Nick had bought it from a village hardware shop in France as they had travelled south last summer, and since then she had several times felt the ferocity of its sting across her bared behind. It was a martinet. The very name made her shudder, never mind what it could do!
‘Come over here, girl, and hand it to me!’ Lisa obeyed, watching his strong fingers close around the shaft.
Then he set it down and took off his jacket with slow deliberation, fixing her with an ominous stare.
Equally slowly he rolled up his shirt-sleeve. It was the right sleeve, the arm he used for chastisement. Lisa’s mouth was dry, her pulses raced.
She continued to watch, frozen with fascinated dread, as he removed the vase of flowers from the table and reset the two silver candlesticks in their respective positions towards either end of its glass-topped surface.
At last Nick Dickson stepped back. ‘Take off your jacket and lift up your skirt,’ he said in suddenly quiet steely tones. Lisa did so, aware that her fingers fumbled and that her knees appeared to have turned to water. She tugged the tight skirt up over her thighs and hips to expose long black-stockinged legs, her buttocks and upper thighs bared, black G-string dissecting the luscious pink orbs.
The next words were delivered in a low firm voice that sent shivers to the roots of her soul. ‘Approach the table and prepare for the whipping you have so richly deserved by your continuing laziness, hesitancy and wilful lack of attention to your own betterment.’
‘Please, Nick…’ she faltered. ‘Can’t we —?’
‘No!’ he roared. ‘You will approach the table and bend over!’
Lisa stood agitatedly against the table where he indicated. The air felt cool on her bare flesh. Exposing her intimate parts in this ritualistic way never failed to make her thrill with a weird, wanton pleasure; though the pleasure quickly transmuted to dread when she thought of what it preceded.
‘Bend over the table!’ he repeated.
Keeping her feet together and legs straight like a soldier at attention, Lisa leaned steeply forward so that her plump bare bottom was prominently presented, the silky skin stretching over the mounds of each generously proportioned buttock.
And, in that subservient posture, Nick made her wait. He made her wait while, taking his time, he set a flame to either candle.
Lisa glanced up as the two tiny flames sprang into life. Each one, in the ritual, represented their individual lives, and would continue to burn throughout her ordeal in affirmation that they were, as yet, still together.
Lisa’s suffering beneath the burning strokes of the martinet would ideally be the fusion which drew them close again. She saw the painful and humiliating ceremonial as the ‘rule of the master’ to which she willingly submitted — but if, at the end of it, either she or Nick were to blow out their candle, it would mean that this time the mysterious alchemy of dominance and submission had failed.
From her bent position across the table Lisa trembled, her buttock muscles jumping and clenching in terrible anticipation. Time ticked on. This waiting was always the worst, making her almost welcome the moment when Nick ended his silent deliberations and rapt contemplation of her proffered rear.
Then, at last, she heard him growl, ‘Right!’
Glancing round, Lisa saw that he had stepped up behind and to one side of her. Seeing that his right arm, martinet in hand, had risen above his shoulder she shut her eyes, gritted her teeth and gripped the table-edge. She heard him grunt as the martinet flashed through the air — and the surface of her bottom flamed with devastating fires as the whippy thongs splashed burning streaks across the taut skin.
She gasped at the impact, clenching and shuddering, but did not cry out.
Nick noted with approval how Lisa took the pain to her through those soft delightful rumps his hands had so often caressed, took and held it and expelled it with a long hiss through clenched teeth.
To keep her hips from shaking he clamped a hand on the small of her back, swung high and whipped the martinet down again to curl its fiery fingers around the curvaceous bottom-flesh, causing her knee to jerk as it struck and bringing forth a shrill gasp.
Again the leather flicked and flew, back and high, paused to gather energy, then flashed in, and Lisa yelped loudly as the searing fronds exploded pain low on her left buttock and leaped away, and she gripped the table-edge in frantic fists, hearing him step back a pace and pause.
‘Nick…’ She was looking over her shoulder. Pleaful, her eyes sheened with damp.
‘Face the front!’
Lisa did so, not daring to move as the martinet hissed down once more, splashed scalding tracks and flicked away. The sensation was agonising, and amid the pain Lisa imagined that her bottom was being simultaneously struck by a dozen stinging tendrils from some ferocious creature that Nick’s hand had brought to life.
Again he saw the plea in her eyes, but far from relenting his rage seemed to grow. ‘Spread your legs, girl!’ he snarled. ‘Come on, get them apart!’ The shaft of the martinet, impatiently tapping the back of her thigh, prompted action.
‘Wider, wider!’ Lisa squirmed her upper body on the table as she hastened to comply; there was a hiss and an ear-splitting crack and that same thigh-back blazed as the pliant leather strips curled around it.
The martinet leaped again, lashing the back of the other thigh; flung high and whistled in for more of the same. Lisa howled as the thin, multiple strips of pain coalesced into throbbing sheets of fire on her skin, and candle-flames wavered wildly in the disturbed air caused by the instrument’s brisk passage.
Blinking back tears, Lisa straightened. For several seconds she rubbed at her ferociously stinging buttocks, hoping that it was over — yet aware that, if it was, there was an undeniable sense of anti-climax. It was not enough. She would blow out her candle, collect her belongings and…
‘Take off your top.’ The master’s command. Relief and dread. ‘At once!’ he shouted. The candles still burned.
Lisa unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. ‘The skirt, too. Off, and quickly!’ Lisa stooped, hastily wriggled the tight sheath down her legs. ‘And the bra…’
Nick’s instructions were curt and cold. Lisa felt flustered and confused. But when she unfastened the bra to release her breasts, erotic thrills surged through her, the nipples stiffened and her breath quickened. Her emotions received a new jolt as Nick now ordered her to remove her G-string.
With that skimpy barrier gone she was open and available, her reddened bottom swarming with icy tinglings. Between her legs felt suddenly damp and warm.
‘Nick…’ Lisa moved against him, her hands on his body, wanting him there and then.
With a roar he thrust her from him. ‘How dare you approach me before your punishment is over!’ he thundered. ‘Get back over that table!’
Lisa’s bottom and the backs of her thighs were hurting. They prickled and stung as if phantom hedgehogs were gambolling there. She gave him another pleading look, which only enraged him more for he knew that, had he relented, she would have thought the less of him.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ he roared. ‘Get back over that table! Now!’
Lisa turned and bent submissively again across the glass top. ‘Push out that arse!’ he shouted, and she arched her spine and heaved her bottom obediently backwards just in time to meet the flying downsweep of the martinet’s thongs which struck against the out-jutted buttocks with such force that she wrenched her head around with a cat-like yowl.
More fierce stings ate into the mounds of flesh already aggravated by the martinet’s attentions. Again the leather tails smote, and again: they wrapped, snapped, whipped and curled setting the soft curves of Lisa’s bottom into ripples and shudders.
The pinkness intensified to a bright glow, smarting and burning as the thongs flew and struck, flew and struck, each whippy strand plying her buttocks with a deep, collective, escalating heat which burned, froze to ice and burned again.
Yet after a timeless while it seemed that the leathery tails began to tease as they swished and lashed — as hot and hard as ever, but subtly losing their venom as they danced upon the punished buttocks, caressed the crimsoned mounds with hot intrusive fingers as if they loved instead of hated them.
Lisa realised that she was moving her thighs against the table, her breasts brushing its cold glass top to stimulate the engorged nipples.
Each stunning crack of the martinet against the swaying curves of her bottom was now, instead of increasing the scalding anguish, striking with an imploding sensation of pain and heat turning back in on itself. The feeling was as extraordinary as it was unexpected: terrific waves of fire and ice which spread across the surface of her bottom like hot coals that burned with soothing coolness — a literally sensational paradox.
She became aware that she was groaning, moving her hips from side to side to prolong the ecstatic sensation as, each time the martinet struck, the feeling was somehow electric and sparkling, heightening and deepening the pleasures which had transformed the pain.
Nick had stopped, but Lisa remained lying across the table, gasping and murmuring. ‘Stand up.’ His voice was husky.
For several moments longer she lay there. When, at last, she rose to her feet, squeezing and stimulating the incandescent buttocks, she saw that his own rage was spent.
Transformed by their ritual of power and submission.
This time when Lisa came up to Nick and held herself to him, eager and prepared for what would happen next, he was ready to receive her.
Neither of them turned to blow out the candle. Their ‘ritual of conjunction’ had succeeded. Until the next time…