Search This Blog

Tuesday, 6 August 2019

Lieutenant Rosemary

By B.J.J. from Janus 51. A sequel to A Slavegirl Atones.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning and beautiful 28-year-old Rosemary, looking very fetching in her PVC pinafore apron and household rubber gloves, was sitting at the scullery table diligently cleaning and polishing her magnificent pair of high-heeled, rich brown leather thigh-boots. Not that by any normal standards they needed cleaning, but normal standards would not be nearly good enough to pass at inspection tonight.
As Rosemary worked her mind flashed back to the previous evening’s scene with her dominant husband Robert in the lounge of their large detached house. She had been caught out in her third identical failure to polish his study table once every week as was her tiresome duty: an offence for which she had already twice before received summary punishment in the bedroom. She had stood demurely and shamefacedly before him in her pretty afternoon frock, sheer brown stockings and smart court shoes, her hands clasped behind her back and head bowed like a naughty schoolgirl whilst he had lectured her. Robert had reminded her that he had already been overly lenient in letting her off with another summary punishment, albeit more severe than usual, on the second occasion: there could be no third chance. ‘Yes, darling,’ she had murmured submissively, resigned to her inevitable fate.
‘Therefore, young lady,’ he had rapped out, ‘you will receive a formal flogging tomorrow evening. You will serve my tea formally and properly in here at five o’clock sharp, after which you will prepare yourself for punishment. At seven o’clock you will be standing in the penitent position in the Punishment Room, wearing your number two punishment uniform, and you will wait there in disgrace until I come to deal with you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she had whispered obediently, trembling inwardly.
Robert was a strict and indeed severe disciplinarian when the occasion demanded it but he genuinely and deeply loved his beautiful young wife, of whom he was quietly very proud, and he was not cruel or mindlessly sadistic. He was also scrupulously fair and would never try to catch her out just for the sake of it.
Although his expert punishments could be agony beyond belief at the time, Rosemary knew that they were for her own good. He was moreover a firm believer in the disciplinary value of strict personal grooming and dress standards.
Rosemary received a very generous dress allowance, and her husband expected her to be groomed and attired at all times so that she was a credit not only to him but also to herself. ‘Choose, look after and wear all your clothes,’ he had told her, ‘so that on you they are no longer just clothes, but become an integral part of your body, expressing your whole personality and being.’ These principles were never enforced more strictly than on the occasion of a formal flogging following a serious breach of discipline on her part.
Rosemary at last finished her boots, wiped her perspiring forehead, and then began to see to the rest of the elegant punishment uniform which she was to wear that night…
Some six hours later, immaculate in full French maid’s costume complete with cap and apron, sheer fully fashioned dark smoke-grey stockings with straight-as-a-die seams, and smart plain polished black court shoes, Rosemary came out of the kitchen carrying her lord and master’s perfectly arranged tea tray. She stepped smartly along the thickly carpeted hall, paused before the closed lounge door and then, precisely as the hall clock began to strike five, she tapped lightly on the door and went in.
‘Your tea, sir,’ she said softly. She moved noiselessly across the room, as a well-trained maid should, and quietly placed the loaded tray on the low table beside the deep leather armchair where Robert sat reading. Then she stood back, curtsied to her master, and awaited his further orders.
Robert looked up and his appraising glance swept quickly but comprehensively over her, from the top of her neat little cap to the gleaming black leather toes and high heels of her smart shoes. ‘Pour!’ he commanded. Rosemary obediently bent forward, poured milk into the fine bone china teacup and then took up the teapot; but as she began to pour she momentarily lost her balance on one of her slender heels in the thick carpet, and she sent the tea slopping over the side of the cup into the saucer. Robert looked up at her sternly, and in the terrifyingly deceptive icy quiet calm tone which she knew so well said, ‘Take that mess back to the kitchen, girl, and bring a clean cup and saucer.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rosemary responded, biting her lip nervously. When she returned a minute later with the clean china her tummy turned over as she saw Robert standing masterfully with legs astride in front of the fireplace, flexing a medium-thickness whippy crook-handled rattan cane between his hands.
‘Now do it properly this time,’ he said sternly.
‘Yes, sir… I’m sorry, sir,’ she faltered, and this time she poured the tea perfectly.
‘That’s better. Why couldn’t you do that the first time, you clumsy girl? Perhaps a good brisk 24-stroke caning will help to buck your ideas up!’ She swallowed hard. ‘Bend over the back of the sofa!’ Her heart in her mouth, Rosemary crossed obediently to the thick, rounded back of the heavy padded leather sofa.
Heavens! she thought, this is going to be a night to remember and no mistake — I’m not even in the Punishment Room yet! Bracing her lovely stockinged legs and high-heeled feet, she bent right over the sofa with a little moan and placed her hands on the seat in front of her, looking nervously round to see what Robert was doing.
Get your head down, girl! In that position the short black satin skirt of her maid’s dress was already sliding well up her beautiful bottom, revealing the pretty matching French knickers which encased it underneath; but her husband completed the preparation by lifting the back of her skirt completely clear of the punishment area. Then his firm hands pulled her knickers down, leaving them hanging around her suspendered thighs and stocking tops, thus revealing in all their bare glory the twin rosy globes of her perfect buttocks ready for chastisement.
Rosemary stood, tensed and still, as Robert slowly and carefully measured the cane across the top dead centre of her uplifted posterior, and raised it in his strong right arm.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! … 24 times in all, laid on in rapid-fire succession at the rate of one stroke every other second. The pliant cane swished down at full force and thrashed hard across the naughty maid’s pert bottom. Rosemary panted, wriggled on the firm leather sofa-back over which she soon lay limply, her legs having failed her, and gasped more and more violently as each quickly succeeding stroke added its cumulative contribution to those which had gone before; until by the end she was groaning and pleading for mercy.
Get up! snapped Robert sharply, abruptly cutting short her pleas. ‘Pull your knickers up and adjust your dress. Let that be a lesson to you.’ Red-faced and smarting, but struggling to regain her composure, Rosemary obeyed.
‘Right, you can carry on now.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Rosemary said. She curtsied, turned and left the room; then, rubbing her hot and savagely-tingling bottom, she scampered upstairs to undress and run her bath …
Promptly at three minutes to seven an even more excitingly different Rosemary walked carefully downstairs, along the hall and passed into the Punishment Room, switching on the lights and closing the door behind her. She was now thrillingly and erotically dressed in her lustrous number two punishment uniform, made to measure entirely in the finest quality shiny mid-brown leather. Its design had been inspired in part by army battledress-blouse uniform, but it was a very considerable improvement on that. Close-fitting and designed to show off to perfection the contours of Rosemary’s superb figure, it comprised firstly a sleeveless leather tunic worn over the bare upper body, with a built-in brassiere, the cups lined in the softest glove leather. The tunic had a high collar fitting closely round the neck, and fitted snugly round the waist where it ended. It was fastened right up the back, from the waist along the spine to the top of the high collar at the back of the neck, by a single discreet zip fastener. This gave a completely unbroken appearance at the front and facilitated its quick and easy removal if, for example, a sentence of whipping was to be inflicted to any upper part of the body. On the top of each shoulder were two gleaming brass lieutenant’s pips — a rank to which Rosemary was entitled by virtue of her former short service commission in the Women’s Royal Army Corps — and the high stand-up collar had brass studs all round; all of which of course had to be polished to perfection, with no cross-contamination of metal polish on to the gleaming leather. She shuddered as she remembered what had been her fate last time as the result of just such a lapse of attention to the black knee-boots of her number one uniform.
The tunic was teamed with a smart matching knee-length tight leather skirt which fitted neatly over the waistband of the tunic and clung to the contours of the bare bottom and thighs, moving sensuously with Rosemary’s body as she walked. The fastening of the skirt was likewise designed to permit its quick and easy removal for punishment, without having to disturb the tunic which could remain in place. Running up under the skirt, so that at the moment they were only visible from the knees down, Rosemary wore the magnificent gleaming thigh-boots with their smoothly pointed toes, three-inch-high slender heels and with polished spurs. The uniform was completed by full elbow-length soft, shiny brown leather gloves having polished studded hide wristbands tightly buckled on top; and by a neat air-hostess style matching leather hat with two polished lieutenant’s pips as a badge, neatly held in place on the front of the head by discreet hairpins. In her gloved hand she carried a three-foot-long, matching brown leather-covered swishy riding whip.
Shuddering at the sight of the heavy four-legged padded leather whipping horse (or flogging block, as Robert was fond of calling it) and the fearsome and comprehensive array of canes, whips, paddles, tawses, birches and riding crops arranged ready to hand in wall racks, the stunning leather-clad Rosemary crossed to the far corner of the room and composed herself standing obediently and submissively in the corner facing the wall, booted feet together, gloved arms down by her side with the whip in her left hand and head meekly bowed, nervously awaiting her master’s pleasure. As she did so she vaguely wondered why the horse had been moved from its customary position in the middle of the room, and placed nearer to the wall at one end…
There could be no anodyne for her mounting anxiety. Her nerves were being stretched to a higher pitch. After she had stewed for about 20 minutes she heard the door open and then close again as Robert entered the bare room. She stiffened involuntarily, but remained perfectly still facing the wall until he gave the crisp, ringing order: ‘About turn, Lieutenant: two paces forward, march!’ Rosemary wheeled smartly round on stiletto-booted feet and then came smartly forward to stand at attention before her master. She saluted smartly in military fashion with her gloved right hand, her whip still held in the left, and reported formally, using her maiden name: ‘Lieutenant Davis ready for inspection and punishment, sir!’
The inspection was long and rigorous, with every last detail of her uniform and grooming subjected to microscopic examination. From time to time Robert ran his hand over her leather-clad body, savouring the feel through the tunic of her firmly-disciplined breasts, of her tightly-skirted bottom and hips and the exquisitely booted legs and feet. Rosemary now sensed more strongly her predicament, of being completely and literally at his command, her master’s minion!
She thrilled inwardly at the thought and the sensation: oh, how she loved him even more than ever before. At last he declared himself satisfied with her turnout at inspection — and Rosemary almost sighed out loud with relief! More than that, however, she felt pride: pride in herself and her own attributes, pride that she had passed her husband’s most stringent inspection, that her turnout and presentation were a credit to his authority over her. Robert noted Rosemary’s flushed and excited face, her quick breathing through parted lips and her bosom heaving under the tight leather tunic as she stood obediently at attention before him. alert and perfect and ready to respond at once to his further commands.
Wipe that smile off your face, Lieutenant!’ Robert suddenly said very sharply. ‘I won’t have you running away with any ideas above your station. Have you forgotten why you are here?’
‘No, sir.’ Rosemary went pale and hung her pretty, hatted head in shame.
‘No indeed!’ he replied. ‘A good sound thrashing is what you need, girl, and that is what you are going to get. You will now prepare to be flogged for neglect of domestic duties. Put down your whip and take off your skirt, Madam!’
Rosemary laid the whip on the couch with a trembling hand. Then her gloved fingers loosened and unzipped the fastenings of her tight skirt, and as elegantly as she could she slid it down over her boots, carefully negotiating the spurs, and stepped trimly out of it. Without having to be told she folded the skirt neatly, laid it on the couch and placed her whip on top of it, and then returned to stand before her master. Now for the first time the full gleaming length of her exquisite polished thigh-boots could be seen right up to their tops which fitted snugly round her upper thighs, close in to the crotch. Perfectly framed by the tunic and boots, her lovely bottom — still showing evidence of her earlier caning in the lounge — was laid bare for punishment. Front and rear, she was naked between these garments; a glorious sight.
Robert now carefully inspected the upper legs of her boots to make sure that they were polished up to the required standard and then, satisfied, he ordered:
‘Bend over the flogging block, Lieutenant. Feet a pace apart and grip the front legs with your hands. I’m going to give you a good sound birching, my girl, followed by 18 lashes of the bull-whip. Perhaps that will help you to learn that it is simpler and far less uncomfortable to polish a table when you are told!’
Rosemary nearly fainted. Oh God, so that was why the horse had been moved — to allow the extra room needed for efficient application of the wicked long plaited, oiled leather whip which Robert so rarely used that she had forgotten its existence, but with which he was an expert. As she moved to obey he went on: ‘In the event of any “problems” I should have to increase your sentence by a third; but I hope that you will maintain your position voluntarily and take your punishment bravely like an officer and a lady.’
‘I…I’ll try, sir.’ faltered Rosemary, settling herself over the horse with her tummy firmly supported on the padded leather top. ‘But please may I have something to bite on, sir?’
‘Very well.’ Robert placed a tough rubber bit between her teeth as she lay stretched right over the horse in the punishment position. She bit hard into it and her gloved hands tightened their grip on the legs of the horse as Robert took down the regularly soaked, high quality pliant birch rod. He was nicely toned up now, and he would proceed swiftly and thoroughly — he couldn’t wait much longer…
SWOOSH! The birch swished down with all the very considerable power of his strong right arm, sounding as only a well-made and expertly handled birch can, and splayed with full force right across the lovely broad expanse of Rosemary’s beautiful bare buttocks, superbly uplifted and presented to receive it. She winced and bucked as the thin whippy twigs viciously bit into her round bottom, their tips wrapping sharply around her hips on the opposite side. The penetrating pain lit a blazing fire all over her backside. Oh God, oh England!
SWOOSH! … SWOOSH! … SWOOSH! … Rosemary gasped and panted through the bit, and wriggled and jerked more violently with each successive stroke, but by a great effort of will-power and self-discipline (salutarily reinforced by the thought of the extra suffering she would endure, to say nothing of the shame, if he deemed her submission to his correction inadequate) she managed to stay submissively down for the rod. Heavens, she would polish his bloody table every day in future, never mind once a week: anything, just anything to avoid having to endure this again!
SWOOSH! … SWOOSH! … The merciless birching continued; the combined sounds of birch cutting the air and contacting bare bottom, and of the stray twigs snapping into the leather of her tunic and boot-tops, making a thrilling harmony. Rosemary’s booted legs drummed on the floor, or jerked up backwards from the knees, at each new stroke. Her pain and humiliation, but at the same time also her discipline and resolution to do better in future, increased with each succeeding infliction of her burning punishment. At last, after she knew not how many strokes, her master hung up the birch and slowly, deliberately, took down the awful coiled bullwhip and showed it to her. Smarting limply in agony over the whipping horse, Rosemary looked up at him dumbly, moist eyes pleading, but there was to be no mercy for her yet.
Robert stood back and uncoiled the terrible whip with a flick of his wrist. Then he drew back his arm and sent the long lash snaking out across the room towards her, jerking his wrist sharply and expertly back to crack the biting end of the whip unerringly across his naughty young wife’s already crimson, mortified breech. CRACK!
‘Aagh!’ she half panted and half screamed in agony, writhing and humping over the horse. ‘Ooh, help!’ CRACK! ‘Oh please, Master!’ CRACK!Oh no, no more!CRACK! … CRACK! … CRACK! … CRACK! … But now she was crossing the threshold of pain and the powerful stinging lashes were becoming a pleasure and a deep, almost spiritual fulfilment. She panted, transfigured in mounting ecstasy and desire with each further blow.
‘Pull down the tops of my boots, Master, and whip my thighs!’ CRACK! … CRACK! … ‘That’s it…’ CRACK! … ‘Aaahh!’ CRACK! … ‘Lovely… oh Master!’ Rosemary moaned. CRACK! …
Four more, Lieutenant!
‘Oh thank you, sir!’
CRACK! … ‘Oh darling, whip me harder!’ CRACK! …Harder!’… CRACK! … ‘Take me darling, plee-a-s-e.’… CRACKK! … ‘Take me… NOW!!!’


  1. Ah yes. I remember this one with great fondness from back in the day.

  2. Splendid, truly the best way to keep a young wife in line!

  3. I am in favour of this treatment in general

  4. Great story.Poor Rosemary...birched and
    bullwhipped in one session.I imagine she must have found the whole experience most instructive.