Photo-story from Janus 61
Selina’s excitement steadily mounts. The chastising hand which has just dealt so vigorously with the seductive bottom of her meek maiden Alice, trembles — and the previously flint-hard gaze softens to musings of a very different kind. While the soundly whipped Alice waits in mute submissiveness for her mistress’s return, that lady is in her dressing room, changing… and transforming.
Selina’s excitement is a conflict of confusing emotions. She knows that she has reached this peak by the simply physical act of punishing the devoted girl. She has taken advantage of Alice’s ‘heroine worship’, imposed impossible standards upon her and chastised the girl’s willing flesh when she fell short of them. Elation is tempered by guilt. Guilt, because in Alice she sees something of herself.
The aggressive make-up is wiped away and replaced by subtler and softer tones. A diamond necklace takes the place of the harsh brass collar and the strict black outfit of the unrelenting disciplinarian is removed. A beautiful purple evening dress now adorns Selina’s voluptuous form. Finally she unknots the severe bun at the top of her head and a rich cascade of scented hair floods down to her shoulders. The transformation is complete.
Selina puts on a top-coat and white high-heeled court shoes, then quietly leaves the house. Minutes later she approaches another. A mansion, only a taxi ride away, yet in which another world awaits her. The great door stands ajar: she is expected. She pushes through into the imposing hall and her nerves spark with thrills as she climbs the staircase.
In the bedroom he is waiting, his gaze as bleakly unapproachable as ever. Ultra-fastidious, censorious. Selina realises she is shivering helplessly under that soul-probing stare. He does not speak yet, but takes a seat with impassive dignity and, with the briefest finger-summons, indicates that she approach him.
‘Take off your coat.’ The voice is hard, dry. Selina quails, and a vortex of alluring dread begins to spin in her bowels as she removes the outer garment and stands to attention before him. All evidence of the rigid dominatrix has dissolved. She quakes beneath the icily critical gaze which slowly scans her body from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, appraising every nuance of her appearance. He does not touch her, but flicks out small and telling rebukes, getting her to smooth the material over one hip, tuck in a seam, straighten her stance and hold up her head. Just as, in some other dimension of space and time, she made Alice do.
At last, coldly and without expression, he nods his approval. Selina bows steeply from the waist in humble thanks. She needs his approbation, for inside her inmost secret self she is afraid and insecure. Straightening up, the magnificent young woman raptly folds her hands and awaits his next instruction.
‘Show me what you’re wearing on your legs.’ There is a sting in that lashing command. He is not pleased after all! With trepidation Selina hitches the purple dress-hem up her long, graceful legs, enticingly disclosing for his forbidding assessment the pale pink tights of which he so clearly disapproves. When an instinctive modesty causes her to stop, he snaps, ‘Lift it further.’
Cheeks flaming, Selina raises the skirt up over her hips as high as the waist, showing that beneath the transparent pinky fabric she wears no panties. Selina dares a shamed, flinching look at his expression, which is superciliously scathing, draining all will and resistance from her. It is this extraordinary sensation of absolute helplessness he is able to provoke in this normally self-willed and self-assured young woman that brings Selina back to this seemingly arctic-emotioned man time and time again. The release, when it happens, is monumental: no one else in the world has this power to make her feel like wilting, weeping, surrendering utterly, abandoning all inhibition.
‘You must be punished.’
‘Yes.’ Hardly a word, more of a sigh.
‘Turn around.’ Selina does so, presenting her lovely back. He notes how the long, rich hair flows almost down to her slender waist in scented silken strands. A connoisseur of beauty, he knows he is right: the ugly vertical seam of the tights mars that perfectly proportioned rump. ‘Push down the tights far enough to expose your buttocks,’ he rasps.
Her hands shiver as she slips them inside the waistband and eases the flimsy fabric down over the jutting rotundities of her posterior, the intimate flesh springy and cool to her touch. It is always a strange, dizzying pleasure, this total unveiling to his aloof eye of her unadorned derrière. In that, she knows, he can find no fault. It is to him the quintessence of visual delight, two magically-rounded robust softnesses, ripely plump and infinitely inviting.
‘Bend forward,’ he commands primly. With a sigh Selina stoops, pushing her buttocks eagerly out for she loves this first tactile connection as his palms cup each splendid nether-cheek, perhaps enjoying the intimate satiny texture of the pliant feminine bottom. At the touch of those dominant masculine hands, Selina closes her eyes and savours the unique sensuousness that this contact never fails to arouse in her. Of his reaction she is not sure. There is no sign, just the objective assessment of her flesh. He takes no advantage of her inviting posture and total vulnerability. Selina trembles.
Finally he removes his hands, stands up and walks over to the bed. Inflexibly zealous, puritanical. And all Selina’s everyday guilts accumulate suddenly like a swarm of bees inside her, restless for the release and absolution that only those hands, this man, can bring. He seats himself at the end of the bed and pats his thighs ominously. ‘Keep your dress well up above your waist,’ he orders, ‘and get across my knee.’ The voice is, for the moment, coldly quiet. He knows how willing a victim this normally haughty woman can be. As she tugs the dress up even higher, baring her bottom and the base of her spine, a puzzled look brushes Selina’s handsome features: puzzled at the immense allure this simple act has for her.
Voluptuously, yet conscious of the acute humiliation, Selina eases herself down across his lap, moulding her naked belly and thighs to him and involuntarily straining her bottom upwards, one hand braced on the carpet, the other tensed on the bed. For several breathless moments he gazes down at the succulent, ivory-hued rumps which soon will jiggle, jump, bounce and flush scarlet. Her body heat warms his loins though his eyes remain cold, his aloof and dispassionate expression rigidifying into a mask of disdainful primness at the sheer physicality of the girl. He raises his hand, as if in salutation, for the first blow, feeling her exquisite body squirm and stiffen.
Smack! Pain-splinters like a shower of needles spurt deeply into Selina’s right buttock at the first meaty impact, causing her body to convulse as the flash-heat sears and spreads. Almost instantly he strikes down again, clapping with stinging vigour on the same awakened area of her naked bottom. Pink, hand-sized blotches at once stain the skin, discolouring the cool flawlessness of Selina’s luscious bottom.
Warming to the task, his palm wallops down a third time, landing with flame-hot intensity on the adjoining unmarked, ripely-curvaceous bottom-cheek. Selina screeches. She cannot help it, can hold nothing back. In the academic circles this brilliant girl normally inhabits she is regarded as an impeccably erudite, formidably intellectual ally or adversary, exuding an intimidating unapproachability to most men attracted by her dramatic allure. Yet sprawled across his thighs, with his palm spanking loudly, rapidly down on her raw, bared posterior, she has become a very different person altogether.
She gasps again as the weltering pain blasts across the rippling buttocks, inflaming not only the surface of the skin but her emotions as well. She yowls and squirms, energetically shaking her hips as unleashed thrills begin to gather their own mysterious force in the depths of her.
He appears to take no heed of her urgent movements and cries, except to hold her down across him with an even firmer grip. He exists on a plane Selina finds it impossible to reach, just as she does for Alice. To her he is a stone-faced Buddha, remote and infinitely wise. The palm swings high and speeds to its target. Splat. Her hips heave as the right bottom-cheek flattens and springs back to a satiny sphere. The back of her dress falls open as he attempts to still her threshing body. Beneath it, Selina is naked. A breast pops free, her head slumps from the bed-end, angling the taunting globes of her bottom even higher; and again the hand whizzes down to land with an echoing clap on the tormented left cheek.
Smack! Selina’s right buttock distorts at the next sizzling smack; each increasingly roseate hemisphere is infused with a flickering, smarting pain till the cushions of her gorgeous posterior flood with stabbing heat. Whap — the left again; spank — the right. Left, right, left, right… with military precision and blurring speed his hand cracks sharply down from one bouncy globe to the next, sometimes igniting both together: spank, spank, spank, spank, spank. The insistent concussions of hard palm on springy-soft flesh go on and on, sizzling deeply into Selina’s bare buttocks. Her head is on the floor now; her hands claw at the carpet, the bed, the air. Saliva runs, her rump is aflame. How long the hand-spanking continues, Selina has no idea — only that suddenly, when she truly believes that her poor, tenderised bottom cannot possibly take any more of this cataclysmic walloping, it stops.
A minute or two pass as she hangs across his knees. He is breathing quite hard. At last Selina stands weakly up on tottery legs. She is palpitating, shuddering; wants to laugh, to cry. Delirious sensations swarm through her: thrills surge within, gathering charge. Her bottom, bare and round and peachy-firm, has been transformed to bushfire by his punishing hand. She wants to soothe it, ease the ache and heat from those choice erogenous globes of which she is justly so proud. But she knows he is by no means finished with her yet. He rises from the bed and towers in front of her, firm and invulnerable to her charms, and the tickling thrills deep inside Selina continue to multiply like ethereal spawn.
‘Remove your shoes and tights completely, and prepare for a strapping,’ comes the implacable voice. ‘You’d best kneel up on the bed when you’re ready.’
The instruction is like an arctic gale which, paradoxically, warms her to glowing. As Selina bends steeply and pushes the tights down her shapely legs, it is like an obeisance to her master as he, with aloof hauteur, gazes bleakly back. Then reverently, in trepidation tempered by that strange dark yearning, Selina crawls up on to the bed. Here, on all fours, bent at the knees with her head resting on her forearms, she arcs her spine and strains her bottom, high and tight. Her eyes are raptly closed. Her dress has fallen open to reveal both magnificently naked breasts, but the knowledge of such wanton exposure merely increases those deep thrills which are steadily overwhelming her senses and suffocating her with excitement.
Now, as silence again falls in the electric tension pervading the space between them, he removes his jacket. Purposefully, ominously. Just for a moment the frigid mask slips as he gazes directly down on the summits of the entrancingly upthrust mounds already rosied by the vigorous hand-spanking with which he has roused her ardour.
But the strap is different. He picks up the sturdy, triple-thonged leather and contemplates the divinely up-straining targets for a few moments more. Selina is murmuring to herself, softly and fervently, as if in prayer. He draws back his arm, pauses dramatically, then strikes fiercely down. The accelerating flail swashes harshly and slaps solidly against the ultra-sensitive undercurve of Selina’s left bottom-cheek. Her face contorts at the agony-shock which burns like a flame-jet, hissing out through clenched teeth as her body absorbs the fiery stroke.
The punishing arm rises again, tenses at the top of its swing, then flings the strap hissing through the air to collide splattingly against both huddled, clenching undercheeks. This time she emits a moaning groan and waggles her bottom vigorously from side to side as if to shake out the excruciating smart — yet her eyes remain tight-closed as though to contain each resounding thrash which feeds deep into her, changing from that initial unbearable pain: to a weird damp warmth.
Hwashsplat! A third hearty lick from the singing leather blasts a white-hot blaze into the same delicate area of Selina’s lower left buttock. A keening sob sighs from the girl, then a shriek as another splatting whack sears yet again into that same tender area which already is glowing as if branded scarlet by the outline of the tawse-tongues. In an anguish akin to growing frenzy, Selina wrenches her head round to the right as her bottom recoils and her shoulders writhe. She claws at her hair, arches her spine, lurches back a little on her knees then lifts her head from the bed. The provocative rounds of her buttocks push urgently outward and upward, as if eager to meet the savagely hissing flail.
In the throes of what has now become a self-forgetful daze compounded of percussive, igniting bites and thrills of licking warmth, Selina’s fogged eyes briefly open to focus dream-like on her reflection in the bed-head mirror: abandonedly semi-naked, hands clawing, face contorted by agony or a growing ecstasy of a strange savage kind. She sees, in the mirror, his arm rise again behind her, the leather flapping briefly flaccid then firming as it whistles through the air towards her now frantically upheaving naked buttocks — achieving lethal hardness as it smacks loudly across the central summits of that furiously throbbing, ladylike arse.
And that is how she thinks of it now, an arse. All Selina’s refinements have flown: her luscious backside is a raw focus thirsting for more. No longer is it a plumply-sweet enticement to inflame men’s senses, but a crude gateway through which these transforming shockwaves are driven to the warm moisty depths of her inmost sexual self.
‘AH… ahh… aaahhh.’
He hears, and knows. Stooping forward with the force of his next blow, he lashes the hissing strap with agonising accuracy across both bottom-cheeks again, and at the unspeakable hurt of this muscular thrash her bottom jerks forward too. Her head slumps again to the bed, then heaves upright in spasms as the agony-flash fuels further the bonfire in her loins.
Whack! ‘Oooagghh!’ Yet another soul-jolting, scorching thrash splatters like boiling ice against Selina’s livid bottom-flesh. The pillowy, crimson-streaked mounds are alive with sensual throbs and flares. And again, before she can replace the violently expelled breath, her tormenting chastiser brings the leather whipping down against the delicious, twitching, jerking naked arse. Her head slumps down once more, she mewls and squeals, pants and sobs, shaking her ravaged and flaming bottom through which this feral joy infuses her senses with sparkling lightness.
Selina sucks in air, grinding her teeth as he pauses for what her instincts inform her, in her delirium of ecstasy, will be the final stripe. A little cry escapes her: ‘pup-pu-ple-e-ease.’ She is scarcely aware that she has uttered it, or precisely why, but then he swings his arm with undiminished power and flays the strap exactly across the one area of her bottom, between top and centre, that he has been reserving for this final strike. A shattering thrill of fresh, mind-numbing pain flames in. The howl she makes as her lovely bare bottom and beautiful body absorb the blow is almost unearthly.
‘Stand up!’ Somehow Selina is upright, the carpet beneath her naked soles. She is fighting for breath, for sanity, shaking all over. ‘You will thank me,’ comes the terse command, ‘for the thrashing you have received.’
‘Y-yes. Thank you, th-thank you, Master.’ The words flutter from the girl as she steeply bows, her welted bottom throbbing fiercely, richly textured by the strap weals.
He crooks a finger and beckons her forward, his eyes as dauntingly, gut-stirringly cold as ever. ‘Kneel up on the footstool.’
Selina does as bidden, and he places his hand in a gesture of absolute domination on the top of her head to force her into position. Her purple evening dress hangs like a rag from one shoulder, while cool air plays on the bare blazing mounds of her bottom, her thighs, her exposed naked breasts. The humiliation of her posture eats into Selina, the strong proud woman achingly subjugated. She has no idea how long she will be made to kneel here, balanced on the tiny footstool, and wait. Just as she has made Alice wait for her. And wait. And wait. Selina knows only that before he will allow her to leave, her limbs and joints will be cramped and burning from her long ordeal.
Softly, still unrelentingly stern, he moves away and leaves her there. Minutes crawl into an hour, two hours. Her lovely, near-nude body increasingly trembles, her bottom smoulders, swelling her senses with unappeased erotic craving. This final ordeal, this special quality of suffering, fulfils a deep need in Selina, both in her body and her psyche. It is why she will, must, return to him again and again.And so Selina kneels painfully and waits, and shivers, and yearns, incandescently tormented by her intense arousal. And still he does not set her free.