Story from Privilege Plus 9 by John Undermeyer
The judge pronounced sentence and Selina hung her head and wept. Her guardian, sitting in court, squeezed Laura’s hand — his wife had been beside him throughout the trial. He said in a deeply satisfied tone: ‘She’s to be caned… and not before time! If she’d been raised properly, had her parents been strict with her, it wouldn’t have come to this.’
‘Don’t speak ill of the dead,’ the woman squeezed back. ‘Think of your own girls, both as well-behaved as you could wish.’
‘Thanks to the rod. Which, in Selina’s case, was not applied long enough. Or hard enough. Well, there is time enough to make amends.’
‘Let us go down. We may be allowed to attend the punishment. Then we’ll take her home, where we can keep an eye on her.’
‘You’d better keep me away from her. You know what I’d do!’
‘Why keep away, Geoffrey? I have no quarrel with discipline.’
Laura smiled, showing even teeth. She was younger than her husband by sixteen years and patted his arm soothingly as they stood up.
Geoffrey and Laura arrived in the disrobing room and the doctor moved to them.
‘I shall be watching carefully as Selina takes her punishment. I shall stop the caning if it is more than she can bear.’
Geoffrey’s face assumed a not-if-I-can-help-it scowl. Damned do-gooder! But a moment’s thought convinced him this quack would stop nothing. If he did, he’d have to admit he’d misjudged how fit Selina was, and he couldn’t see him admitting that. When the doctor left them Laura said, ‘I’ll inspect her when we get home. Make her show herself to me. If they haven’t given her enough, you can do the court’s work for them.’
Selina was in the cubicle with two nurses who she knew would strip her if they had to. One nurse peered out at a tall, thin man, his black clothing making him easy to spot. He could have been a dancer, except he was too old. In evening dress he could have passed as an orchestral conductor, except he had no music in his soul. And he was humourless — a memo when he was being interviewed noted he never smiled.
He moved to a door at the far end, flipped a switch and went in. Neon strips filled the punishment room with eye-blinking light; it reverberated off the distempered walls leaving not a hint of shadow. On a board facing the door hung three canes, in full view to frighten prisoners, for they prompted the thought, could he possibly break one on me? The doctor told him Selina was in peak condition so there was no reason to do less than his best. He touched the padded table where she would lie and his hand moved to the wooden bar. With her feet under the bar, her buttocks protruding well out and her legs spread she would see him and he would see all of her.
The thin man took down a cane and, grasping it tightly, tapped it a few times into the palm of his hand, sucking his teeth with a feeling of grim satisfaction. Once he had grasped the lethal wood and flashed it through the air to loosen his wrist, his mind took on a set that meant he could not be lenient. Legs placed carefully apart, he would hold her gaze for a good ten seconds. She would tremble, see him draw a deep breath, raise his arm, tighten his lips, sway back on his feet, and swing in.
His duty was to extract the full penalty. He thought of the number of strokes he must administer. Eight, the judge said; it was more than enough, he could create a masterpiece with eight strokes, an array that would have the girl at the pitch of pain, mouth agape, eyes wild, salt tears cutting runnels down her ashen cheeks.
The nurses came into the punishment room, a naked Selina walking between them. The thin man looked up, directly into her eyes. She dropped them but he continued to stare, taking in her body. Small breasts for her age — the court documents told him she was nineteen — trim waist, flat around the abdomen, attractive legs, dainty feet, she was a dish to carve carefully. He looked back at her face, which was damp with weeping. She was better-looking than most girls he had to cane — women like her normally were given less fearsome sentences — but then he knew this judge and expected to be asked by him afterwards for details of the whipping.
The nurses walked Selina to the couch, turned her, took her shoulders and laid her back on the padded surface. It was too short to lie flat, her buttocks dropped off the edge, but they took her feet and bent her back on herself, knees over breasts. When her buttocks were at the high point they grasped her ankles and drew them under the bar, hooking it with her heels. Now her centre parts were spread before the thin man; bottom, anal sphincter, bush, and the almond cushions of her vagina. The nurses indicated a metal bar behind the girl’s head and told her to grasp it.
The doctor came in and took her pulse. He set his hand briefly on her brow, then moved to where he could see what was going on but wouldn’t be in the way. Geoffrey pushed in, and was eased back by the leaving nurses, who explained he wasn’t allowed to witness the event, but could wait in the disrobing room. The thin man moved to face Selina, his black form framed between the creamy pillars of her legs. Lifting the cane, he flexed it with both hands before her face, and she howled out loud as he knew she would. Now, my weeping beauty, he thought, let me survey my canvas.
Her skin was firm, pale, and quite flawless. It was as if her flesh was upholstered in the most lovely creamy satin, without the slightest hair or mole to disfigure the scene. It would mark wonderfully. Eight strokes. Eight whippy cuts, all soundly placed. The picture would be different then, and no less attractive in the eyes of the judge, the doctor, Geoffrey and Laura, or the man in black. He paused for some twenty seconds, breathing steadily, and Selina’s heart began to race as she saw him step back, eye her carefully and raise his hand for the first stripe. Only when she sensed the stick begin to descend did she look away, screwing up her face. A split second later it fell and she felt searing pain across her trembling flesh, pain which took only an instant to double, redouble and redouble again.
It was the noise that dismayed the doctor. Of course he knew the girl would cry; he’d yell himself if the cane cut across his bottom the way it had cut over hers. But the shriek rang round the bare walls and the room being small didn’t help to disperse it. It had occurred to him, since he’d sat through canings before, to bring ear-plugs, but they might spoil his judgement. Though he was sure Selina could take eight strokes, he must listen to her properly and all the time, to know how much she was affected. At least her uncle would hear she was being brought to account. The man in black lowered his arm — he might have been an automaton for all the emotion he showed.
The breath had left Selina’s body and she sucked it back in again to let forth a prolonged wail. She had known when the judge passed sentence that the punishment was serious, but nothing could have prepared her for the stroke she had just taken. Her haunches juddered and she felt the bar press on her ankles; then there was only blackness and she heard herself crying, a baleful protest that she could be stripped, laid out and forced to take the worst this fiend could deliver.
But she had to know what the beast was doing, and opened her eyes to see his arm sweep across the distance between them, gathering speed, fast enough to make the air sound, too fast for her to follow. A second streak of fire broke across her white pillows and began to eat deep down, gnawing its way to her centre. She was too distraught to know it but the blows had marked both cheeks. Every stroke was being used to best effect.
Geoffrey, outside the door, stood up as the second great cry burst from Selina’s lips. He turned to his wife and what passed between them was akin to an electric shock. Hurriedly she rose, kicked off her shoes, took his hands and pulled them down by his sides, moistening her lips urgently as she whispered:
‘Yes, dear. She feels it now! You would have shown her too, if her wretched boyfriend hadn’t kept her out of the house.’
There was a third shriek, and the young wife shivered, whispering, ‘Listen… she feels it! Her bottom has taken three and she’s on fire.’
Her breath tight, the woman lifted her face and crammed her mouth against his, at the same time moving their locked hands until they nestled in his crotch. He gasped, and she felt the thick, blind snake stir, knew that blood was flooding the stem and in moments would engorge the purple crown.
She had watched it happen when they lay naked in bed and she knew, too, both their heads were filling with memories of how they made love after the man had administered the cane. He was always rock hard, she was always wet; hungrily they tore at each other, shedding their clothes as they moved to couple. There was no foreplay; none was needed. He could not wait to erupt inside her and she could not wait to receive him, her succulent vagina gorging on his urgency.
The man moved to shut the disrobing room door. There was a key in the lock and he turned it. There was a bolt and he threw it across. A fourth cry reached them as Selina was caned again and the couple threw themselves on each other. She had his belt undone instantly, he hauled up her skirt, underpants were torn down to knees, her panties were kicked across the floor. She leapt, her arms round his neck, legs round his waist, clinging like a monkey to a stick. There was a bare table in the room and moving with a hobbled quickness he sat her on it. She spread her legs and chewed hungrily at his mouth. He munched back and while their heads writhed and twisted, and their tongues filled each other’s mouths, he lowered one hand to his cock and placed the engorged purple mushroom against her love-lips. There was no pause in their kissing, no acknowledgement he was at the gate, she wrapped her hands round his head and gnawed. Sure he was rock hard, he clenched his buttocks and punched his way home. She was more than ready and the sluicing walls welcomed him. Upwards he thrust, hungry to have every part of his cock inside her, bucking and shoving lest some of his base might remain outside. She wriggled him in, right up to his hilt, locking her heels, spurring his arse, saying ‘more, more’, because she wanted all he could give and would have been willing to take his balls too if she hadn’t been youthfully tight, or either of them had thought it possible.
When every part of him was encased, when she was as full of him as she could be, the battle began. He pummelled her, she tore at him. Harder and deeper he drove, faster and more cruelly she spurred his buttocks. They were locked, piston into cylinder, mutually ruthless in their search for a climax.
Back inside the ante-room Selina was lost to hope. A sixth vivid weal, slammed across both cheeks, made the doctor signal for the man in black to pause. Stepping forward he made a close examination of Selina’s buttocks. He noticed an involuntary flinch. The nerves in the tightened skin were frayed and stretched. White ridges were rising at the sides of the first three strokes and he knew it would not be long before all eight weals pulsed in unison, tramline edges forming which would catch on even the most silky panties and hurt the tender flesh. He was tempted to touch, but it would only make the girl buck more. There was swelling which would turn to bruising, but he could still see unmarked flesh — she could safely be given the remaining two.
‘Strike the white parts if you can. It might be too much if you cane over weals already placed. I know you sometimes like to give the last two over previous marks. Don’t do that… instead cover the white. It will mean she recovers more quickly. And anyway, I like to watch how accurately you lay them on.’
The man in black said nothing, but when he whipped-in for the seventh time it was to strike parts of Selina’s bottom which bore no marks; it seemed he could easily find space between the weals. If the doctor thought he was being merciful, Selina had no inkling of it. Her pain was at a pitch where it could not be any greater, although logic said extra strokes must make it so.
Her final cry penetrated the door just as Geoffrey came to the hairspring of his crisis. His hips jived, his head flew back, his mouth opened in a silent howl and he erupted into his mate’s soaking channel. He jived again, again, again and four times spunk ejaculated into the wetness his wife had prepared for him. He was ahead of her, as usual. She spurred him with her heels, avidly answering his pelvic thrusts. A whipping made him quite beyond control and in the early days of their lovemaking she had not been able to keep up with him, letting him empty into her and only afterwards asking to be brought off. But she had learned to be quicker, and now, heels spurring, thighs wrestling, pelvis pounding, she rode herself on his stationary, but still thick, weapon.
‘Stay still. Let me ride you. You come so hard when the whip is used. You want girls to feel it, don’t you? Feel it hard!’ And as she kept him hard, she started to come, a deep warm flooding, which made her open wide and gasp with delight at the wonderful, repetitive pulsing that resounded in her anus and made her feel so good.
He stayed firm as she bucked for more, but there was no time. Selina’s caning had stopped and they’d soon no longer be alone. At Laura’s nod of consent, her husband pulled out, although she was half done and he still hard. Pulling at her skirt she scooped her panties into her handbag. He hauled up his pants and trousers, pushing at his shirt, fastening his belt. She unbolted and unlocked the door. The tidying up process was completed a fraction of a second before the man in black appeared, the cane still swinging on the wall. He did not look at or talk to them, but hurried past, taking the stairs two at a time.
They waited to see if the doctor would emerge, but only the sound of blubbering came from the room. Slowly, making themselves seem concerned, they edged in.
The doctor was helping Selina get to her feet, and Laura went forward to take the girl in her arms. Geoffrey turned to the doctor.
‘You found no cause to stop the caning, then?’
‘No. She was fit for eight.’
‘We’re taking her home… she can travel by car?’
‘No medical reason why not. Won’t be comfortable, of course. I’ll see if I have some cream you can use before she dresses.’
Geoffrey moved so he could see Selina’s bottom. She was draped weakly against Laura, face buried in her shoulder, arms clasped round her neck.
‘Hush, darling,’ whispered the aunt. ‘You feel it, don’t you?’
Geoffrey caught his wife’s smile, then dropped his gaze to study the naked buttocks. Yes, it had been well done. Eight crimson stripes, French-blind parallel, tumbling from the hillocks, down over her curves, the last stripe ending just above the sulcus. Both cheeks were equally covered and he could see button-bruises, four on either side, where the tip of the cane had whipped in. Geoffrey was surprised the crease between buttocks and thighs had not been attended to — he might amend that when he got the girl home.Chastisement had been carried out by a master. Not surprising, he thought, since zero tolerance meant many offenders were caned and it would be strange for the professionals to be less than skilled at the job. Geoffrey felt himself stir down there — the well-whipped bottom of a pretty girl was the greatest aphrodisiac he knew. He must get Laura to take plenty of Polaroid pictures before she put Selina to bed — they could study them while they got down to some unfinished business…