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Tuesday, 30 July 2019

A Slavegirl Atones

A reader’s fantasy by B.J.J. of London from Janus 44
Naked under her housecoat and slippers, her newly set hair wrapped in a towel for protection from the bathroom steam, trembling and heart thumping with anticipatory fear, Rosemary hurried out of the bathroom, along the thickly carpeted landing and into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and glanced nervously at the clock, the accuracy of which she had carefully checked while her bath was running. Only then did she manage to relax just a fraction: better than she thought — she still had an hour before she had to report to her husband in the Punishment Room downstairs to receive her flogging.
Ever since their wedding two years earlier Robert had treated his beautiful 28-year-old wife with loving but firm and masterful domination. She didn’t mind that, indeed she expected it, his dominant nature had been one of the things which had first attracted her to him. Now she often received corporal punishment at his hands for minor peccadillos or household inefficiency, to which she submitted with ready and obedient acceptance of her just lot. On these more routine occasions appropriate justice was administered summarily and immediately in the bedroom, after which they kissed and made love and all was forgiven and forgotten. Occasionally, however, when Rosemary really stepped out of line — and particularly for offences involving disloyalty or disobedience to her husband, or for repetitions of offences previously dealt with summarily — she was sentenced to receive more formal and much more severe punishment.
Robert deliberately reserved the latter sessions for really serious offences in order to make the maximum impact on his erring wife when they did occur. On such occasions sentence was always passed at least 24 hours in advance of its execution so that Rosemary had ample time to think about what was coming to her — and why. She also needed enough notice to ensure that the prescribed regulation uniform which she had to wear for her thrashing was complete and immaculate, and to allow her to prepare herself physically and mentally for the coming ordeal.
Tonight was such an occasion. Robert had caught her red-handed in heavy petting with another man while under the influence of drink at a party. It had been, Rosemary admitted ruefully to herself, a ‘fair cop’ — she knew she would have been in bed with Bill in another five minutes if Robert hadn’t surprised them. To make matters worse she knew, and Robert suspected, that she had made most of the running and she accepted that she richly deserved everything that was coming to her. But that didn’t make it any easier to contemplate…
Now, alone in the bedroom, she quickly checked each item of her punishment uniform carefully laid out ready on the bed. Robert was a stickler for smartness: every item had to be perfectly prepared and correctly worn, and her personal grooming and deportment must equally be of the very highest standard. Her lord and master would thoroughly inspect her in formal military fashion as she stood rigidly to attention in front of him before she received her flogging, and an awesome special additional punishment lay ready in reserve if there were the slightest shortcomings in the high standard of turn-out expected of her. She nervously contemplated the lustrous black satin brassiere with the matching suspender belt and skimpy G-string which preserved her modesty at the front but offered no protection whatever to her bare bottom which was so soon to be the focus of attention. Then she examined the brand-new, sheer, fully-fashioned plain black stockings; the two-inch-wide polished black hide slave collar with its brass studs, to be worn with the matching wristbands which would be tightly buckled on over the close-fitting long black leather gloves.
Rosemary’s eye moved to the elegant sleeveless long shiny black leather cloak, to be fastened with a single neck-clasp and hanging over her shoulders open at the front, which she would wear initially over the rest of her uniform. Finally, at the foot of the bed stood the full knee-high gleaming plain black leather boots with their elegantly tapered toes and three-inch heels, fitted with gleaming brass dummy spurs. She had polished those boots over and over again in the last 24 hours in the traditional manner, with wax polish, brushes and hard work, afterwards breathing on them and buffing them to final perfection with a clean soft duster. Their spurs, and the studs of her collar and wristbands, had to be carefully polished with metal polish — and woe betide her if Robert found at inspection any trace of blacking on metal, or of metal polish on leather!
Quickly, but carefully and thoroughly, she uncovered her hair and put the finishing touches to it, and attended to her manicure, discreet jewellery and perfume. Then she slipped out of her housecoat and slippers and put on her uniform piece by piece, painstakingly checking each item in turn for smartness and correctness, both directly and in the mirror. She spent a long time over her stockings and boots, ensuring that the stocking seams were absolutely straight up the backs of her legs and that they in turn then ran straight into the back seams of the boots in a perfect, unbroken vertical line. Next, her gloved hands slipped the cloak over her bare shoulders, fastened the clasp and adjusted the hang of the elegant garment as it swung attractively across her bare buttocks and caressed with its hem the tops of the gleaming boots which fitted snugly around her stockinged legs. At last she was ready, perfectly groomed and smartly uniformed, a delinquent slavegirl ready to submit to her master’s discipline. As she gave her appearance a final overall check in the long mirror, pirouetting in front of it to examine herself from all angles, she felt a strange feeling of exultation in spite of her very real terror.
One more thing remained to be done before she went downstairs to meet her fate. Her instructions required her to carry in her gloved hands, ready to hand to her master with a curtsey at his bidding, an instrument of punishment of her own choice — although she knew that she would not necessarily be punished only, or indeed at all, with this. She went to the cupboard in the corner of the bedroom where Robert kept his considerable armoury of canes, paddles, tawses and whips. She trembled more violently than ever as she saw, alone in pride of place at the top of the carefully arranged display, the as-yet-unused sinister black leather cat-o’nine-tails, with its nine tough springy hide lashes, which it was her duty to keep well and regularly oiled so that it was always in readiness at the peak of condition. This was the instrument specifically reserved for lapses in turn-out, and so far by dint of diligent preparation she had thankfully managed to escape being punished with it. Quickly, with a shudder, Rosemary passed over the cat and selected a beautiful long thin riding whip with a little whipcord sting at the tip.
Whip in hand, head held proudly high but frightened inside, she marched smartly out of the room, along the landing, down the stairs, through the hall and at length stood trembling before the oak door of the Punishment Room where she knew that her husband would be waiting. Here she hesitated, trying to still her rapid breathing, literally quaking with fear. She raised her right hand to knock on the heavy door, but lowered it again. After an aeon of turmoil compressed into a few seconds her leather-clad knuckles did what they inevitably had to do and rapped smartly on the wood. She was just in time, she reflected, as she stood nervously awaiting his summons to enter.
The Punishment Room was a medium-sized room, bare and functional with white walls and ceiling and a plain black thick-pile carpet, lit by florescent strips. It was reserved exclusively for these rare special disciplinary sessions, and kept securely locked by Robert at all other times except when Rosemary was cleaning it. There were only two items of furniture. Right in the middle in pride of place stood the heavy four-legged whipping horse with its firm padded black leather top. It had been made precisely to measure for Rosemary by Robert himself, designed so that it would support her full weight when she bent over it with her feet still firmly planted on the carpet. The only other furniture was a king-size padded leather couch over against one wall, which doubled as an alternative whipping bench and as a bed on which a suitably disciplined and chastened slave would later be made to submit to her master’s will. Round the walls hung a comprehensive duplicate set of instruments of punishment.
ENTER GIRL!’ rapped out Robert in answer to Rosemary’s knock, after letting her stew for a few seconds. Rosemary smartly opened the door, marched into the room, closing the door behind her; then swept immediately down into a magnificent deep curtsey of submission to her master and remained down, head bowed, awaiting his pleasure. Robert secretly thrilled at the beautiful sight before him, and felt his manhood harden under the tight riding breeches he was wearing. He quickly controlled himself, however. He had work to do: his naughty wife required strong correction and she was going to get it. But by George, she looked wonderful!
On your feet, girl, at attention!’ he ordered sharply. She obediently complied; booted feet together, gloved arms and hands straight down by her side under the cloak, whip held vertically between the leather-sheathed fingers of her right hand, shoulders back and chin up. He scrutinised her for a moment, concentrating at this stage chiefly on the cloak, and then commanded: ‘Right, remove your cloak and lay it, neatly folded, on the couch. Then resume your present position.’
Smartly and quickly Rosemary obeyed, and stood before him again in brassiere, suspenders and stockings, boots, gloves, collar and wristbands, whip still in hand. Her beautiful full, tight round bottom stood out in its frame of uniform as if it knew what was coming to it. The inspection was long and rigorous. ‘Good girl,’ thought Robert to himself, ‘a first class turn-out.’ He sometimes wondered if she used a plumb-line to get her stocking seams so straight! But wait — what was this? He stiffened and his voice, which had hitherto been simply strict, firm and commanding, now held a new note of steely menace.
Rosemary sensed the change and quaked in her boots as he rapped out ‘Give me your whip, Madam!’ In frightened anticipation and with a submissive curtsey her softly gloved hands offered up to him the three-foot-long thin and swishy equestrian rod. ‘Now go and stand in front of the couch with your right foot up on the seat.’
Trembling, she obeyed. Whip in hand Robert strode after her and examined more closely the exquisite boot thus placed up for his inspection. Yes, there it was: a faint and small but now quite unmistakable smudge of powdery white on the otherwise gleaming jet-black boot leather, immediately below the point where the spur was fitted to the inner side of the boot. She had been careless with the metal polish when cleaning her spurs; it was so faint that she probably hadn’t noticed it (he had nearly missed it himself), but that was no excuse. He stepped back and raised his right arm, whip in hand.
SWITT…! SWITT…! The vicious whip whistled down at maximum force and thrashed mercilessly full across the crown of Rosemary’s as-yet-virgin buttocks, leaving two sets of fine crimson tramlines on the rosy pink globes. Although she had half expected some form of punishment during the inspection itself, Rosemary was still taken by surprise when it came. With one foot up on the couch she kept her balance only with difficulty and she gasped aloud in pain as she received both lashes.
‘Look at that, young lady!’ — he pointed with the tip of the whip to the minute offending smear — ‘How dare you report to me for punishment with your boots in that filthy state?’
‘I… I’m sorry, sir,’ faltered Rosemary lamely and quite inadequately, desperately wanting to massage her smarting bottom but not daring to.
‘You will be! Right girl, you have exactly four minutes to go back upstairs, clean that boot properly and get back here,’ he paused ominously ‘…with that cat-o’nine-tails in your hand! Move!
With a swift curtsey to her master Rosemary hurried out of the room and back upstairs to the bedroom. Oh hell, how could she have missed it? Now she was really for it. But worse than her fear was her feeling of shame over letting her master down in this way. Quickly she grabbed the duster and polished out the offending mark, after which she rapidly re-checked her overall appearance in the mirror — after one such fault it was absolutely imperative that she now be perfectly groomed and dressed. Then she went to the cupboard and gingerly took down the terrible nine-thonged whip. ‘Well, pussy cat,’ she said to it with a forced gaiety which in truth she was very far from feeling, ‘you’re going to be christened at last!’
Then, just in time, she was downstairs in the Punishment Room on her knees before her lord, offering the leather whip up to him in both gloved hands with her pretty head bowed and her eyes submissively fixed on the carpet as she uttered the ritual words: ‘My lord and master, I am a wicked and slatternly slave girl and I humbly beg that you will inflict upon me the punishment which I richly deserve.’
Robert took the cat from her uplifted hands and lashed it twice through the air before bringing the nine tails down with an awe-inspiring THWACK! on the firmly-padded leather top of the whipping horse. Rosemary nearly fainted at the terrifying sound. He then addressed her from a great height.
As you have not received the cat before I will be as lenient with you as I properly can be this time, but you will learn beyond doubt that I will not tolerate slovenly dress. For the offence of being improperly turned out for the receipt of punishment you will receive four lashes of the cat over the whipping horse. You will now stand in front of the whipping horse, feet one pace apart and hands on head.’
THWACK! The nine tough, springy tails lashed down full across his wife’s posterior, each making its individual telling impression. Rosemary jerked and gasped audibly, feeling the full effect as though a raging fire had suddenly been lit all over her bottom, and she gripped the legs of the horse even more tightly. Oh golly, how could she ever take three more of those?
THWACK! The second lash fell, and she began to whimper quietly and wriggle and squirm against the padded seat of the horse. It took all her public school training and discipline to prevent her from crying out loud.
THWACK! The third cut heightened the smouldering legacy of the previous two, and now she jerked violently over the horse and moaned more loudly. Robert lifted the cat for the last time, he would really give her something to remember with this one.
THWACKKK!… He brought the lash mercilessly down with the entire and considerable force of his strong right arm. As she received the nine simultaneous lashes Rosemary could no longer contain herself: she yelled and screamed at the top of her voice like a wretched little third form schoolgirl at her first strapping. At length gradually she subsided and lay limply across the supporting horse, gasping heavily. ‘Oh God, th… th… thank you, sir!’ she managed to gasp out dutifully in her agony. She remained obediently down, for she knew better than to move before she was told to do so.
‘Never let me catch you improperly dressed for a flogging again, my girl.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Now get up and go and stand in the corner facing the wall, hands clasped behind your neck. You have fifteen minutes to pull yourself together before your main punishment.’
As his uniformed slavegirl stood in disgrace in the corner, exhibiting her whipped bottom and trying to control her snivelling, Robert considered her further punishment. He had originally intended to give her a really severe thrashing with the heavy three-tailed leather tawse; her offence of grave disloyalty well deserved it. However, she had now already been memorably punished for the relatively minor dress offence and he decided that he could properly mitigate her principal correction just a little in consequence. After all, he didn’t want to do irreparable damage to that ravishing behind! He would use the medium weight two-tailed Lochgelly tawse instead, and finish her off with a good swishing from her own riding whip. That ought to be sufficient to bring her firmly back to heel.
At the end of the allotted quarter-hour she took down from the wall and handed to him at his command the beautiful craftsman-made tawse, humbly kissing it in submission before proffering it to him with the required curtsey. Then without having to be told she bent obediently over the horse again to receive her further correction. Although still smarting from the cat she was now once more composed and ready to take her medicine. She knew that her bottom would soon be stinging to hell and gone, but she was equally as sure that no matter how unbearable the pain became she would remain obediently in position as long training and self-discipline had taught her.
The fine-quality tawse began its evil-cleansing disciplinary work, swishing smartly and pliantly down again and again; the springy hide firmly and vibrantly chastising the proud buttocks of the naughty young wife with ruthless efficiency as she moaned, gasped, panted and pleaded ever more violently. Her bottom wriggled and cavorted on the padded horse as each new stroke fell, but all the while she submitted herself dutifully to the at once terrible and strangely exhilarating punishment from the hand of the one whom she worshipped and adored. Gradually the worst shock of the pain receded and sheer ecstasy and yearning gained the upper hand. ‘Whip me, darling master! Whip me well… please!’ she begged in gasps as the leathering continued at full pelt.
Now he threw down the tawse and, seizing the swishy riding whip, he began to flick her crimson buttocks with it — gently at first, then with increasing severity and swing as he thrashed the thin crop mercilessly down into her mortified breech. After about 30 whipping strokes he sensed that the psychological moment had arrived for both of them: the proper requirements of retribution and deterrence had been satisfied, and now her newly re-disciplined state needed to be consummated. Besides, she looked damnably sexy in her smart punishment uniform, unquiet and dishevelled across the horse in her ecstatic agony.
Rosemary was briskly ordered up to stand before him. Her master swiftly removed her G-string and commanded her to remove his breeches and riding boots. Panting and whimpering with lust, sore beyond belief but flushed and strangely radiant, she complied — her fingers working urgently at the zips and straps. Her soft, sensuously leather-gloved hands caressed his body as he compelled her firmly and masterfully to lie spreadeagled on the couch, bearing himself down on top of her and entering her forcefully as her gloved arms and booted legs entwined around him. Kissing him long and passionately, the delinquent and soundly whipped slave-girl gave herself up completely to receive the climax of her master’s discipline…

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