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Wednesday, 4 April 2018

Timber Treatment

From Blushes Supplement 27
The whirr of the fan heater was counterpointed by the occasional creak of the mounting bearings as it rotated in a small arc above Juliet’s head. The warm air seemed to do little to raise the temperature in the chill basement, and as the fan’s warmth caressed her bare shoulders once again she shivered involuntarily.
It must have been fifteen minutes since she had come down here and stripped to her panties. The fear she had felt when she first entered the room and saw the broad based wooden trestle and the thick leather strap had receded a little. Not much, but a little. An air of unease still prevailed, but it was countered by the discomfort of the room’s subterranean dankness, despite the bright fluorescent light.
Juliet cleared her throat. The sound echoed round the bare room. Squatting momentarily by the angled mirror behind the trestle, she saw the anxious face looking back at her and grinned despite herself. The click of metal heels on the tiled corridor outside, and she scurried to stand by the trestle.
‘Juliet Mayer?’
‘Yes sir.’ He made a note on the clipboard.
‘Stand inside the crossbar, hands behind your back.’ He admired the plumpness of her derriere. Shortly to be a particularly sore derriere.
‘Stand up straight, hands on your head,’ he snapped, and Juliet tensed, sensing irritation. She noticed him admire her breasts.
‘You’re down for some timber treatment, I see.’
‘Timber treatment, sir?’
‘Yes… the trestle,’ he pointed. ‘Just my little joke.’ A smile. Juliet did not show evidence of her amusement, perhaps because she wasn’t. Amused, that is.
Less than thirty seconds later, she lay spreadeagled over the hard timber, and discovered what the orange-handled scissors hanging on the wall were for. A barely discernible snip dictated that she was entirely exposed, the waistband cords of her knickers cut and the rear panel of fabric sliding down to hang like a miniature flag of surrender under the trestle.
‘Feet outside the legs… hands holding the other legs, not the crossbar. I want you fully stretched for this.’ Juliet wriggled and shuffled into position, conscious of her spread-legged lack of modesty. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem important. She saw the tawse hanging by his side as he replaced the scissors, and her bottom tensed in response to the threat.
‘You’re down for fifteen, young lady.’ He was disappointed that she didn’t protest. The reason, had he realised it, was that Juliet was speechless at the severity of her sentence. She managed a gulp, that was all.
‘Not on my thighs, please sir,’ she asked quietly.
‘I shall decide where to strap you. And with fifteen strokes, it’s going to be bottom and legs.’
He was true to his word, the smarting leather scything down for each stroke to explode first across soft cheeks and then firm thighs. Juliet could not hold back the cries, and the tears followed as surely as the next stroke.
The fan did not pause in its side-to-side observation of the scene, blowing unnecessary warm air on the glowing posterior below it. Juliet’s buttocks were now producing enough heat to warm a chilled pair of hands in winter. His left hand rested lightly on the small of her back, and she felt his right lift again, a short swoosh and another blinding, burning slash across her nether regions. Jerking forward, her hands slid slightly on the leg, and a painful sliver of wood found its way into her palm. This was timber treatment of the most uncomfortable kind, she thought, as the tawse continued its work.
Juliet had lost count. But as suddenly as it had begun, it was over and the strap was tossed idly onto the chair. Her body wracked by sobs, Juliet could not find the strength to push herself up, and hardly heard the door click shut behind him. Above, the fan continued to shake its head slowly as if in disbelief at the scene played out before it.

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