Part 5 - Pinky & Perky's Story

Part 5 - Pinky & Perky's Story - The Dungeon

By Adrianne Bloom
bloom10001@hotmail.com

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Pinky & Perky’s story.

The Dungeon

Part 1

I recognised them straight away. It had been seven or so years since I had last seen them and they had both changed considerably; one was now a redhead whereas before she was blonde, the other had lost her teenage plumpness and grown much taller and was slender; but they were unmistakeable. It was the way that they positioned their bodies in relation to each other that convinced me, as though each depended upon the other, one moving away and then the other being drawn towards her; and this caused them to move along as if connected by a strong elastic band.

I had known them before as Pinky & Perky; but their real names were Deborah and Elaine. Deborah, now the redhead, had been Pinky, Elaine had been Perky.

I could not believe my eyes, here of all places, three thousand miles and an Atlantic crossing away from where I had first met them; seven years and a university degree away from when I had last known them; but I had no doubt, no doubt whatsoever that it was them. I could not believe they would still be together after all this time. Inseparable and insufferable, that is how we had described them then and here they were, still united by a common bond after all this time, standing before me right now in the Museum of Modern Art in central Manhattan. What strange twist of fate had brought us together again I wondered; from the suburbs of London as teenaged members of a troop of Scouts and Guides, here to the Big Apple?

Were they tourists I wondered? They certainly looked like tourists with their day sacks, cameras and comfortable shoes. They were also studying Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Munroe collection with the intensity of those that had never set eyes on the original articles before. Most New Yorkers would be so familiar with Warhol’s work that they would have tended to just skip past this fourth floor collection on their way to something more spectacular and enigmatic like Mark Rothko’s huge canvases.

If they were tourists, I wondered, how long would they be in New York and would they have time spare to spend some with me? Would it be worth my while renewing our acquaintance?

I pretended to be examining some Jackson Pollack’s while really I was studying the antics of these two elastically conjoined companions. Somehow the swirls of daubed colours on Pollack’s canvases reminded me of the way that these two ladies were interacting. Their fluidity of movement resembled that of a jellyfish, or an amoeba expanding and contracting in its manifestation of life. If you were to film this using a microscope and time-lapse photography I thought, you would see a cohesive cell made up of two nuclei searching the Warhol collection as though looking for somewhere to settle prior to mitosis.

I was amused as I thought of this analogy; but then another image flashed into my consciousness; an image that had no parallels with Pollack’s drizzles but that took me back to the days of Pinky and Perky all those years ago and to the Ruislip Scout Group. This was the image of two pairs of scantily glad teenaged, girl-guide buttocks ascending the steps to the top deck of a bus. That experience had been so significant to me at the time that I was surprised I had not thought of it before. That one single event had fundamentally influenced my sexual behaviour from then on and these ladies had been crucial to it.

This latent image of ascending cheeks, now so vivid in my mind, caused me to watch them with avid intensity. They both wore tight denim jeans so I was able to scrutinise the attributes that interested me with a practiced eye. I appraised their rear ends. Both girls were the same age and similar in size; but even so their bottoms were quite different. Deborah was the slightly shorter of the two and her buttocks filled her denim jeans to a tightness that stretched the fabric almost to the extreme. The rear seam cut into and separated the two globes all the way from the top of the back pockets to where her legs divided. She was moving energetically around the gallery between Warhol’s lithographs comparing this image with that and this shade of colour with the other and, as she darted about her rubber trainers squeaking on the wooden floor, each mass of buttock muscle was lifted and then would bounce back down as her leg relaxed.

These are much more viable as works of art than anything from Jackson Pollack I thought; God’s own creations displayed here in man’s own temple of visual expression.

Deborah had the kind of posterior that you would take a paddle to, I mused. Elaine had a more elegant bottom. Her legs were longer and slender and her cheeks formed like round hard melons at their tops. These were the kind of cheeks you would want to see bared and bent tightly over your knee changing colour to a pillar box red as a hairbrush was brought sharply down. Oh how those long legs would kick frantically I imagined.

It might be rewarding to renew our acquaintance after all I decided, who knows what the outcome might be. Fate had brought us together again; let us see what it promised this time around.

They both had their backs to me as I sneaked up to them as quietly as I could. They were scrutinising the red on magenta version of Marilyn.

“That colour reminds me of Kimberley Stanton-Granger’s face as she served for match point,” I said, referring to our mutual acquaintance and their former guide leader who was also a champion tennis player.

They jumped around, startled and both began staring at me.

“Excuse me?” they both said in unison.

“Think back to the girl guides in Ruislip, you may recall a scout that followed you up to the top of a bus one morning on the way to a jamboree.”

They paused to gather their recollections.

“Oh my God” said Deborah.

“And that is the colour your bottom became after a session with her in the scout hut, we were told,” said Elaine who had always been the brighter and the quicker of the two. Her sharpness surprised me and I was slightly embarrassed.

“So what are you doing in New York?” she continued, saving my chagrin.

“I live here; have done for the last two years, ever since I left uni. I work as a translator at the UN”

“Oh you lucky thing,” said Deborah. ” I’d love to live in New York. It’s so exciting. What language do you translate?”

“Italian, you probably wouldn’t know it but my mother is Italian, so I am bi-lingual.”

“Do you live in the city,” Elaine asked, “actually here in Manhattan?”

“Yes, I rent a loft conversion on lower east side. Hey, have you got some time? Why don’t we go and have a drink somewhere and catch up? Look it’s nearly four-o-clock; even though I live in the States now I haven’t lost my English love of a cup of tea in the afternoon. What do you say?”

Elaine answered for both of them.

“Actually, there’s a few things here we’ve really got to see yet. I’m sorry I cannot remember your name”

“Robin”, I offered, “or Rob I’m called over here.”

“Well Rob, you see Debs wants to see the Lichtenstein’s and I really must see some Rothko. But why don’t we meet up later? We’re staying at the Holiday Inn on fifty-seventh, do you know it?”

I nodded. So they were tourists.

“So can we meet you in the lobby there at, say, seven? We can go and have a beer then, if you like.”

I actually wanted more than just a beer and to catch up.

“Or, if you have nothing planned for this evening” I responded, “we could do more than that. New York has great restaurants and some really cool clubs. I know this city, we could have some fun.”

They agreed rather readily which surprised me.

“See you later then”.

I left them to continue their tour of the museum and went downstairs for a cup of tea and to contemplate what this encounter might lead to.

While gazing through the window at the MoMA courtyard over a cup of Earl Grey, I gave some thought to what I might like to happen this evening should the opportunity arise. There are a few clubs in down town Manhattan in the Battery Park area that are unknown to tourists and I was a member of nearly all of them. They offer a side of New York that the city fathers would rather remain hidden to outsiders. These are the clubs that cater to a darker side of humanity; to the Goths and those into S&M and BDSM.

My intuition told me that Elaine and Deborah might be into such things, but I was still not sure. Being the brighter of the two and so probably more curious, Elaine would probably be keen to see this side of New York; Deborah though might be too naive. No doubt she would be intrigued; and would go along with whatever Elaine wanted to do; but I really wanted them both to take part enthusiastically. If only I could get them to participate, then I might get the chance to know them both more intimately. I needed to broach the subject carefully as I did not want to frighten them, so I decided I would sew the germ of an idea in Elaine’s imagination first and then allow Deborah to pick it up and encourage her when she did.

Later that afternoon, back at my apartment getting ready, now that I had a plan and a vision of how things might turn out, I was beginning to feel quite excited about the evening and was pleased that they had arrived in my life once more. I decided that I would dress appropriately for the kind of club we would no doubt end up at, not as some outrageous Dracula in a red cape, but totally in black. That way I would remain inconspicuous at the club but would be perfectly respectable anywhere else in the city. Black suited my image anyway, with my long dark hair, dark eyes, pointed goatee beard and moustache.

I arrived at The Holiday Inn a few minutes early, but they were already there seated on the sofas in the lobby, waiting. They still looked very much like tourists. I would have to get them to change into something more respectable before we ventured far from the hotel I thought.

We greeted each other and I sat down. Elaine explained that they had only just got back, that they had explored just about every gallery at the MoMA and still managed a sneak preview of Saks.

She asked what I had planned for the evening. They were quite willing to follow my suggestion of sitting there with a drink while each in turn went up to the room to get ready. I explained that Manhattan was a sophisticated city and that some of the places we would go to were quite classy. They both loved the idea of dressing up a bit and began conferring excitedly to each other about what they were going to wear. I mentioned that there was a current trend towards a Gothic style in New York, Deborah remarked about my all black attire, and this seemed to help them decide. Elaine was the first to leave to get changed, Deborah stayed with me in the lobby and we continued talking.

“Do you like oysters” I asked, “because there is a famous oyster bar at Grand Central Station where the oysters come in fresh daily from the Atlantic coast? There are just so many varieties and it is such a great place to sit among the hustle and bustle of the station while the world rushes by.”

“That sounds great” she responded. “I love oysters. Do they serve Guinness as well? We could start out there but, what we’d really like to do after is go to Greenwich Village to eat. Maybe to one of those places made famous for its jazz. Is the Village Vanguard in Greenwich Village?”

“Well it is”, I replied, “but you’d have to have a reservation, or be prepared to stand in line. Unfortunately the Vanguard is one of those places on the tourists trail now, so sometimes you can wait for hours to get in. The best thing that you can do is get the hotel to make a reservation for a few days time then walk right in. Look, there are other clubs I can take you to; clubs that you’ll have never seen in any tourist’s brochures but that nevertheless provide an important view of Manhattan’s night life. We can still eat in the Village somewhere; there are restaurants of every kind and nationality there and in Soho, then I can get you in to some places that will absolutely astound you. The sort of places that I’ll bet you’ve never been to before.”

“Ooh, I’m intrigued. But you do mean music and dance clubs? We wouldn’t want to go to any strip joint or anything like that. What are these clubs like?”

“I doubt if you’d find any strip clubs in New York anymore, what dirty old men in raincoats? No New York is much more sophisticated and exclusive than that. You’d probably describe these clubs as members clubs rather than discos or dance clubs; but at least you can hear yourself speak there. These are the sort of places that it’s not easy to become a member of, you have to be proposed and seconded, so you certainly get no casual visitors and you can be sure that everyone there is totally committed to whatever the ethos of the club might be. Quite honestly Deborah, you would really miss out on something very special if you did not visit say The Dungeon, now that’s a great place, and I have membership, so I’d sign you in as my guests. You’d not get the opportunity otherwise”

“Alright, let’s see how we get on and what Eli wants to do when we’ve finished eating.”

Just then Elaine came down from her room looking absolutely fantastic. She looked like a cover girl model. With the benefit of foreknowledge she had dressed in black. Over a pair of tight leggings that enhanced the shape of her long slender legs, she had on a pair of expensive quality black leather knee high boots. Above this she was wearing a long tunic top that came down to mid-thigh. This top was made of a multitude of different fabrics and textiles sewn together as a patchwork, but expertly done. Some of the patches were shiny like satin and leather; others were soft like wool, cotton and fur; but they were all black. This was certainly designer attire and I had never seen anything like it. Neither, I expected, would anyone else in Manhattan that night, so she was certainly going to be the cause of much attention. Her blonde hair was combed out straight. I had not realised how long it was as, previously, she had it gathered on top, but it came down way beyond her waist and was absolutely straight. She was made up like a film star. The overall effect was outstanding.

Deborah finished her drink and made to go to get ready, but not before she turned to Elaine and said,

“Rob has a great idea of where we should go, get him to tell you about it”, and then hurried to her room.

I described to Elaine the variety of restaurants in Soho, told her about the difficulty of getting into the Village Vanguard and then explained about the clubs around Battery Park. I was careful not to give too much away but I wanted to intrigue her so talked about the dark side they catered for and the cool clientele. She became more and more fascinated the more I told her and she was positively bubbling with excitement and enthusiasm and determined that we should definitely go there by the time Deborah came back fully dressed for the evening.

She was stunning and dressed in an entirely different style to Elaine; just as appropriate and equally as attractive, but much more feminine. She entered the lobby against the light and was wearing a skirt that was as thin as silk and almost transparent; I could see her shapely legs beneath. I just wished that she would turn around so that I might see the shape of her bottom as well. The skirt was a shimmering silver colour and tightly pleated; over it she wore a gunmetal grey scooped necked top knitted out of flattened cotton that made it look like chain-mail. It only just touched the waist band of her skirt, so as she moved and particularly when she reached up, a few inches of a slim sun-tanned abdomen with a pierced navel became visible. Her red hair was gathered on top revealing much of her face. She was beautifully made up, if slightly over-the-top, with lips that matched the colour of her hair and with green eye shadow to bring out the colour of her eyes.

This was going to be a good evening I told myself. I would have been proud to be seen with either the way they looked; but to be with two beauties like this, whoa! We certainly must have looked the elegant threesome for, the moment we stepped onto the sidewalk, two Yellow Cabs screeched to a halt, a thing normally unheard of in New York.

Later that evening at a small family run Italian bistro in Lafayette Street I was able to find out more about my beautiful companions. They both currently lived together near the sea front in Brighton some fifty miles south of London. Apart from when they were at different universities, they had stayed together as friends ever since their days in Ruislip. Deborah had studied the performing arts at Harrow which was part of London University while Elaine had studied art history at Sussex University in Brighton, hence the connection. She had remained there after graduation and Deborah had joined her later. They had been shacked up together ever since.

So they were lesbians I assumed. They had not actually said as much as our conversation had skirted any mention of sexual preferences all evening; but with the degree of closeness that these two ladies demonstrated and with no mention of boyfriends or other partners, it seemed perfectly reasonable to me that they should be. Now I understood the elastic band that joined them together.

It was getting on for midnight; we had just finished our espressos and cappuccinos and were now drinking Sambuca when Elaine who, by now like all of us, was feeling in the party mood, asked me more about the club I was intending to take them to.

“Do you ever feel like extending the boundaries of your personal safety zone and experimenting with something a bit risky?” I asked.

“Well I’m not too sure what you would classify as risky, but I would say yes, all the time,” she replied.

“And would your experimentation take you into the realms where you might get hurt?” I pressed.

“That depends. Physical hurt I can take as long as it’s not too extreme, but I can’t take emotional hurt. As long as I can still maintain control I think I would, yes. I’m certainly not averse to a bit of pain if that’s what you mean; pain does have the effect of reminding you that you are very much alive.”

So far I liked the way that the conversation was going. I turned to Deborah.

“What about you Deborah? Are you averse to a bit of pain?”

“Oh definitely not, I love it. The more the better, but like Elaine I would still need to keep control”.

“Look Rob,” Elaine drew me towards her conspiringly, “there is something that you need to know about us that we have not told you. Deborah and I are lesbians. But more than that, we are also practicing sado-masochists. I am the dominant one and Deborah is sub. We have been ever since the days when you first knew us. Even back then we would play at spanking each other, and we realised then how much we both liked it. Why else do you think we have remained together all this time?”

I was dumbfounded. All evening I had been pondering on how I was going to introduce the subject of S&M, afraid not to go too far, and here I was with two girls that had probably been slapping each other around enthusiastically for eight years.

“I had no idea” I lied. “Well, in that case, you’re both going to really enjoy where I’m about to take you. There’s no one that does S&M like a New Yorker, believe me.”

“Let’s get going then” we all agreed in unison and headed for The Dungeon.

Part 2

If you did not know this place, you would never find it. Half way along a narrow but otherwise featureless alley between two brick built warehouses from around the turn of the last century, you come to a single black church door set into a high wall. The door itself is quite new, but styled as though it were antique. It is studded with the ends of black metal bolts and in the middle, at eye height, is a closed speakeasy hatch. There is no indication of what might be behind the door which is tightly closed. There is no bell-push, knocker or apparent means to gain entry. Entry is achieved, in fact, simply by banging on the door with your fist; but with a coded sequence of knocks: one two, three, pause, one two.

The hatch slid open instantly. I gave my pseudonym, Boy Scout; the ladies chuckled at this, followed by my membership number. There was a pause of a few seconds while my credentials were checked, then the door opened.

I signed my guests in as Pinky and Perky; they were also amused by this, no doubt they had been aware of the nick name given them by the scouts all those years ago.

I sensed their nervousness as we entered; they clung even closer together almost holding hands, and, apart from the way that they were inclined to giggle easily, they hardly spoke except in whispers. So, despite the confident admission from Elaine about their sexual inclinations, it was unlikely they had ever visited anywhere like this before.

The layout of The Dungeon is an auditorium surrounded by a gallery along all sides reached by a long flight of stairs. The gallery is also the saloon and the bar from which you can observe the area of activity below. Although voyeurism is discouraged and prevented by the membership protocol, and most of the clientele will go there in order to take part; active participation is far from compulsory. Many are there just to be stimulated by the perverse and will sit, drink and chat to other members while acts of bizarre depravity are going on around them.

I led the way up the stairs, with Elaine and Deborah attached to each other behind. The walls are a dark burgundy colour; the stairs are carpeted in black, electric mock candles flicker to illuminate the way. So immediately you begin to feel that you are entering somewhere sinister. This feeling is enhanced as you begin to reach the top of the stairs that open to the gallery and the auditorium below: first by the smells of leather, rubber and expensive perfume that seem to permeate, and then by the sounds of slaps, whistling whips, rattling chains, gasps, moans and groans that reach to the gallery from below. Elaine and Deborah, I could tell from the way they behaved, where becoming more apprehensive and probably more excited, as we ascended. At the gallery we hung over the banister to observe what was going on below.

It was not a busy night at The Dungeon, so less intimidating to my first time guests with fewer people. No doubt it would get busier later but, even so, there was enough going on to make it interesting.

The programme at The Dungeon is very much whatever you want it to be. Security is discreet but extremely effective, so things never get out of hand; but there is no master of ceremonies taking charge or controlling the proceedings and it is largely left to the members to create there own entertainment.

In the auditorium is a central area with a raised stage. Usually only those that are particularly exhibitionistic or have something special to offer will draw the attention of the audience by ascending this platform. There was nothing happening there at this time. In other areas around the room though, couples were engaged in various acts of bondage and submission.

A girl in a leather mask, tied to an inclined Saint Andrew cross, was being whipped on her bare breasts with a light chamois whip by a muscular male. She was moaning and gyrating about as if it hurt, but I would suspect from her rosy but otherwise unmarked breasts and the lightness of the whip that it was more erotic than actually painful. A rather overweight middle-aged man, looking ridiculous dressed as a schoolboy in grey short pants, was having his backside soundly thrashed with a cane wielded by a formidable looking dominatrix dressed as a headmistress in a gown and mortar board, but not much else. She was someone I had not seen around before, no doubt a visiting professional seeking to extend her client base. She was really laying into him and it looked very painful, but he was accepting it rather too stoically to be spectacular. An outrageous looking gay man in latex was being anally shafted by his partner in full Jean Genet gear, leather cap and all. This did not turn me on in the least and neither did it appear to stimulate the audience much judging by the total disregard they had for it. He was enjoying himself though.

To me it all looked a bit tame and uninspiring, this was normal behaviour for a quiet night at The Dungeon; but I did not want my disappointment to show, for Elaine and Deborah were clearly fascinated by this display and the devices and instruments of torture around the room. They stood with wide eyes, aghast peering over the balcony.

I looked for a table from where I could parade my beautiful companions and found one on the other side of the gallery. As we made our way heads turned, I nodded and gestured proudly to those I knew as we went.

I noticed Katz, a slim lady in her thirties with a good figure and a well padded, nicely rounded backside. She was there nearly every night and seemed to have an insatiable appetite for being paddled. Her bottom must be constantly bruised. I mentioned this to Elaine who responded by insisting that I introduce her later. Then there was Patsy who was there with Wolfeman. They had become an item a few months back and were a popular couple at The Dungeon for their imaginative sub/dom routines, particularly Wolfeman’s speciality of using needle claws that attached to his fingers. Poor Patsy’s back would always be bleeding quite profusely by the end.

“So, first impressions,” I quizzed my companions once we had sat down. “Have you ever been anywhere like this before?”

“This could only happen in New York” Elaine exclaimed, “and certainly not in England. The English have ridiculous delusions of respectability. Even though behind closed doors they might be indulging in the most outrageous acts of depravity; to the outside world they want to give the impression that they are perfectly proper. So they would never enter a place like this except in disguise, or hidden behind some mantel of propriety, and only so long as no one noticed. So, the answer is no, we have not. There are some clubs we have been to that pretend to offer something a bit more risqué; but not like this and no one ever gets hurt. These are obviously consenting members taking part here and not paid performers. In England you might get performers like pole-dancers, or lap dancers; they might dress up a bit and do a bit more than just dance, but they do it for tips, not because they enjoy it.”

“Oh these folk really enjoy it.” I said, “Something I like about New York is the honesty of the people here”.

Elaine and I shared feelings about the English. We discussed the reasons that I moved to New York so willingly; but I also wanted to express my view of New York Americans.

“This is a very compact, densely populated city; everyone lives and works on top of each other, especially here in Manhattan. So natives are only too keen to announce to the world if they are different to anyone else. It’s the being different that’s important to them and not what the difference might be. And a place like this is somewhere they can come to share that difference with everyone else. They are all inclined in the same way and this unites them. No one asks personal questions or cares who you might be outside the club, so they feel comfortable with that.”

While I was chatting to Elaine like this Deborah was eagerly engrossed in what was going on downstairs. The school boy had been disciplined, much to his satisfaction apparently, as he walked gingerly back up the stairs to his place and remained standing once he got there, and now Katz was up and about to get her backside soundly warmed by the same dominatrix now holding a vicious looking paddle.

“They use the paddle quite a bit in the States, don’t they Rob?” Deborah enquired. “Is it still used in schools?”

“Yes, I believe so.” I did not really know to be honest, but wanted to appear that I knew the answer to all things related to corporal punishment, at least for this evening. “Maybe in some states they don’t. Certainly in the Deep South they still do, and in their penitentiaries. American children generally are certainly no strangers to the threat of a good paddling, or the hairbrush from mom, sons as well as daughters.”

“I’ll bet it really hurts;” Deborah put the emphasis on really, “the paddles are so big. Some have holes drilled through them don’t they? What are they for?”

“Ah, that is called a Spencer paddle,” I knew about this, “probably after the fiend that invented it. The holes allow the passage of air through as, when it is drawn fast through the air, pockets form on the business side and will cushion the impact on landing; the holes prevent that from happening.”

“So it stings more?”

“Oh yes, and causes more damage too. This is sometimes considered a bonus of course, for the holes also have the effect of drawing the skin into them on impact and it causes blistering. So when they threaten a blistering paddling, they really mean it”.

Katz was getting a blistering beating right now; you could hear her gasping as each crack of the paddle hit target.

“Ouch. I’d love to feel what it’s like though” Deborah continued.” The idea of having my entire bottom covered with one stroke is intriguing; especially as all strokes after the first then land on the same spot. I wonder how many I could take”.

I felt I could not let this remark go without some encouragement.

“Come on then, let’s find out. One good thing about The Dungeon is that they have a good choice of implements. We could test the effects of different paddles. Are you up for it?”

Deborah was hesitant.

“Oh go on Debs” Elaine was also encouraging her; maybe she was enforcing her status as the dominant by granting permission, or perhaps she just wanted someone else to go first, “I’m sure that Rob will treat you right.”

“Let’s just wait for these to finish first.” Deborah replied,” I want to see how many she can take.”

Katz was on about her tenth stroke by now and I knew this would inspire Deborah to take as many as she could. I did not tell her though that twenty plus was quite a normal dose for Katz most nights of the week.

Katz was dressed in a red and white cheerleaders costume; a white vest top with red edging, a short white skirt of multi layers trimmed with red edging, ankle length white socks and red knickers. The whole ensemble was something that I found incredibly sexy and was a popular outfit with subs all over the US. She was bent over an ordinary sturdy flat table that she was clinging to the end of for dear life. The dominatrix was about to remove her panties and we were all eager to see how red her bottom had become. We all moved to the balcony and strained to get a better look.

As the panties came down we could see little difference between the red of the garment and the red of her bare skin except that, with panties off, only the area of her buttocks was coloured.

“Oh my gosh that looks really sore” said Deborah, and began stroking her own bottom in sympathy.

The dominatrix was making great play of adjusting the girls gathered knickers so that they looked just right around her ankles, then picked up the Spencer paddle and began to set up her shot just like a golf pro. She measured the distance for the two handed technique she was about to use, got her feet well planted astride, and began to swing her hips, more for the amusement of the audience I supposed, to continue the golf pro parody.

Then she led go an almighty smack that landed full square across both the girls proffered bare cheeks. It reverberated around the room; some in the audience gasped. The girl cried out in full voice and began to jump around on the spot.

“Oh boy,” Deborah shot a glance around at all of us. “I felt that. I’ll bet it stings incredibly. Ooh, I must have a bit of that. I’m getting horny just thinking about it.”

She was getting quite excited, so was I; especially when I imagined how, quite soon, I would be colouring those chubby cheeks of hers with that same stout paddle.

Katz was still hopping about and gasping when the dominatrix started to set up the next shot. She waited a while until she had settled then drew the paddle back and struck again with all her might. Again the sound echoed around the open space and brought a hush to the audience. People were taking notice now; this was a serious punishment going on. Poor Katz jumped and howled, but somehow still managed to cling on to the table.

I watched Deborah to see her reaction while more spanks reigned down. She was leaning right over the banister, her eyes wide and she was chewing on her bottom lip, absolutely riveted to the spot and totally absorbed by this spectacle. I took a step back to see her whole figure. The leaning over position had thrust her bottom right out and her thin skirt was clinging to her body. I could clearly see the line of her hips and the luscious curve of her bottom cheeks. There was a gap of bare skin showing at her back above the waistband of her skirt. Her skin had a soft pinkness in that light and I could easily imagine what her naked buttocks would be like. I tried to find the line of her panties; surely the silk skirt was thin enough for it to be visible; but I could not. She was either wearing a thong or nothing at all. I longed to be able to touch those lovely soft mounds and run my finger along the crease of the divide, but I had to be careful and resisted the temptation. Even so, I could hardly wait to see the hard paddle slapping down onto those soft cheeks and I could imagine the colour they would soon become. My penis was responding to these machinations and I was becoming anxious to lead her downstairs and get to work on her.

My reverie was distracted by the sound of applause from below signalling the end to Katz punishment. It was unusual for the audience to express their appreciation in this way. This dominatrix certainly knew how to please the crowd.

She and Katz were holding hands and taking a bow like principals in a pantomime at the final curtain. It was such a bizarre display, even for The Dungeon, and was even more ridiculous as Katz, still with panties around her ankles, was bawling her eyes out and trying to wipe away the tears, hopping on the spot while frantically rubbing her bottom and holding the hand of the semi-naked, gowned headmistress, all at the same time.

Deborah was spell-bound, with bright eyes full of admiration for Katz. Then she turned to me.

“Rob, I really do want to feel the paddle; but, as this is my first time, I’d like to get it from an expert. I’m sure that you would do a great job, but that lady really knows what she is doing. What do I need to do to get her to give me the same kind of treatment?”

My heart sank. I had been anticipating the thorough spanking I was going to give Deborah; but she was my guest and I had to allow her the choice.

“Oh just go and ask her.” I hoped the disappointment did not show in my voice. “Would you like me to take you down there?”

“Oh would you? I’m sorry but I’ve never had this kind of opportunity and I’m a bit nervous of what to do.”

“Look, you don’t want to appear a novice, so we can make this part of the role play if you like. I’ll take you down there as if you were a naughty girl needing to be punished. Then hand you over to the headmistress and keep watch to ensure that she spanks you properly. Does that sound like a plan to you?”

“Oh yes, I really do feel like I need a thoroughly good spanking and, having just seen what she can do, I’m just desperate to have my bottom warmed like that. I’ll see what Ely says and what she wants to do while I’m being dealt with.”

This lady could be a contender for the Katz crown, I thought; she wants it so much; and even though I won’t be wielding the paddle myself, I’m going to be up close watching and I’m going to relish it when those gorgeous globes turn red. My cock gave a jump of delight.

What was even better, Elaine also wanted to take part as it turned out.

We made our way down to the auditorium and to the headmistress who was, still, amiably chatting with Katz, probably to arrange regular sessions with her.

We had planned our scenario. Deborah had stolen some jewellery from Elaine, I was her class teacher and I was bringing her to the head for punishment. Elaine, as the injured party, was there to see justice being done; I was there to ensure it was done properly. I had hold of Deborah by the ear and was forcibly marching her towards the dominatrix; Elaine was a few steps behind giving a Hollywood performance of looking smug. The audience, always pleased of some fresh stimulus, especially involving two attractive ladies like these, began to take an interest and began to assemble around the gallery.

The dominatrix was much taller than she looked from up there, standing some four inches higher than me and six or more inches taller than Deborah. Deborah was struggling and feigning innocence; but was otherwise looking up to her in awe and admiration.

The dominatrix immediately went into character when I described our proposed scenario. She turned to Deborah and glared.

“So we have a little thief in our midst do we?” Deborah was still in awe of the headmistress and hesitated

“Well! Do we?” she barked.

“I wasn’t intending to steal it miss, I promise I was going to give it back. I was just borrowing it”

“Oh how many times have we heard that, just borrowing it indeed? So, we have a little liar as well as a thief? Well young lady, we cannot abide thieves or liars in this establishment. Thieving is bad enough, but to lie about it as well. Well, you are going to be punished and you are going to be punished good.” She put the emphasis on good.

Deborah jumped back at this.

“I am going to paddle you hard and on the bare bottom young lady. Do you understand?”

Deborah hung her head and whispered “Yes miss.”

“What? What was that? We need to hear you. What did you say? Speak up girl.”

“Yes miss,” Deborah uttered in a much louder voice.

I had been watching this exchange, but turned to Elaine to see her reaction. She was beaming, partly in character as the aggrieved victim I supposed, but partly, I suspected, at the thought of witnessing what was about to happen to her companion.

“So come on girl, get yourself across this table and we can get started; quickly now.”

Deborah did not hesitate and demurely took up a position draping herself across the sturdy table and clinging on to the far end. The roundness of her bottom lifted her skirt a few inches and a gap of bare flesh showed above the waistband.

Her meaty bottom, clad only in a thin material that clung to the curves, stuck out inviting a good hard spanking with some hard wood.

I could not imagine what Deborah must have been feeling right then knowing that she was the centre of attention, offering herself so submissively and anticipating the initial sting to her scantily clad proffered rear end; but I was tingling with expectation. I glanced across to Elaine. She had stopped acting and was now a picture of wide eyed attentiveness, rigidly alert, chewing her bottom lip and with both hands clasped between her legs. Then I looked up to the gallery. A mass of faces peered down from every available vantage point. This event had certainly grabbed the attention of everyone here tonight and I felt proud, important and thrilled to have been its instigator.

The dominatrix did not lift Deborah’s skirt, neither did she select the Spencer paddle to start with; but took up a stout length of leather strap. This was about a quarter inch thick, three inches wide and three foot long, attached to a wooden handle.

She measured her distance, tapping Deborah’s luscious cheeks with the end of the strap and an extended arm.

Then she brought it back, swung forward and, with a deft flick of her wrist, smacked it down hard across Deborah’s bottom. The leather flattened the pleats of her thin skirt and buried into her soft flesh, then sprung back. A sharp crack echoed around the auditorium. Deborah gasped but did not move.

The dominatrix repeated this same action; and again and yet again in a steady stream of stinging slaps. After the initial gasp Deborah hardly uttered a sound except to quietly exhale breath after each spank. She was clearly no stranger to pain of this kind and how to manage it.

The dominatrix was gently increasing the speed and force of each slap as she progressed so that, by the tenth, Deborah had emitted a gentle squeal and moved her position to grab hold tighter to the end of the table.

The dominatrix took this as a sign of acquiescence and changed her position to add more force to the delivery. She moved closer to Deborah and to the side so that their hips were touching. Then she placed her left hand in the middle of Deborah’s back to hold her down. There was now an intimacy that existed between the two as though Deborah had been placed over the dominatrix’ knee. I had seen this kind of move before and knew what was coming. It made me feel both sorry for Deborah for what was about to come and glad that she was now about to experience the thorough spanking she craved.

“So young lady, you should be nicely warmed up by now; are you ready to get the spanking you deserve?”

“Oh yes miss, please,” Deborah replied.

With that the dominatrix raised the strap high and then proceeded to slap it down hard onto Deborah’s cheeks faster and faster, crack after crack, time and time again.

This had an immediate effect on Deborah who began to squirm and squeal. Her legs began to kick around and she began pushing up from the table in a vain attempt to release the pressure from the dominatrix’ strong left arm pushing her back.

“Enough! Oh please enough” she cried. But this made little difference to the dominatrix who proceeded to spank her with renewed vigour.

“Yow, oh please no more, ow that stings, that’s enough now. Oh stop”, Deborah continued to yell, becoming more desperate as it went on.

I looked at Elaine. She was becoming quite concerned for her companion now and was moving towards the dominatrix, I supposed to stop her. I put out my hand and gestured with a nod of my head that she should not interfere. This had the desired effect, albeit with great reluctance, as I sensed that Elaine was very protective of her partner. .

Then with a final few wallops, the dominatrix finalised the onslaught. I had completely lost count and had no idea how many spanks had been delivered.

The dominatrix released her grip, but even so Deborah remained passive across the table, panting.

“So young lady, what did you think of that? Have you learned your lesson?” The dominatrix asked.

“Oh that was fantastic”. This was choked out, for Deborah was hardly able to speak. “I feel that I deserve some more though; this time can you use the other paddle, the one with the holes in it?”

The dominatrix seemed offended at this remark as though she had been accused of not doing the job properly.

Oh dear, now you’re for it Deborah, I thought.

“Oh yes, you bet. We can make this as hard as you like my dear.” The dominatrix spoke harshly, her American accent sounding hard against the sweet, well spoken soft tones of Deborah’s English.

“You’re going get some really good hard whacks now my girl and you’re going to get them good, on the bare. But I’ll need both my hands for this and I’m not sure that you’ll stay down unless someone holds you there. So, I’m going to call on your two friends here to help me.” She indicated to Elaine and me.

“Now, you two, I want you both either side of this table here holding her down. Be sure to hold her down firmly now, I want no struggling or kicking about.”

We went either side as instructed and took hold of Deborah’s arms, pulling them behind her back and pushing down flattening her breasts against the table top. She did not protest, but uttered a gasp as the air was forced from her lungs.

The dominatrix began to slowly lift Deborah’s thin skirt. I wished that I could have been behind to witness the reveal of her scorched cheeks.

As the skirt came up a gasp went out from the crowd of faces all peering from the gallery above. I was disappointed for I was only able to see her flaming rear once the skirt got to her waist; but the sight was both delicious and horrifying at the same time. Two rounded globes were swollen and coloured deep scarlet red all over. Thick rectangular welts covered the side where the strap had curled around her hip. It looked extremely painful and I had nothing but admiration for Deborah who was now prepared to submit to more, simply because she wanted to experience the Spencer paddle for the first time.

The dominatrix selected a paddle. It was not the same one she had used on Katz, but heavier and of darker hard wood. It looked well used and I tried to imagine some of the bottoms that had tasted a stinging from this beauty over the years.

It was about four inches wide and two foot long from a handle that had been carefully crafted with ornate carvings and roundels etched into the wood for a good grip. Many holes had been drilled through the flat surface mostly either side of the centre line with a border of un-drilled wood at the smoothed off edge. The holes were about a one quarter inch in diameter. This was certainly no crudely constructed device; much thought had gone into the design of this weapon and it represented a work of art in the category of punitive implements.

The dominatrix took a firm hold of it with both hands and positioned herself carefully for a good swing. It was clear that she was intending to put everything she had into this stroke; she was certainly not going to have some soft spoken English girl asking her for more.

At first she tapped the paddle a few times against Deborah’s bare cheeks. From my side I watched the flesh indent slightly, it had a springy soft texture and turned white momentarily where the hard wood pushed the blood away from the surface. Then the dominatrix swung the paddle back. I sensed Deborah’s tension as she readied herself for the impact, her bottom already well punished and sore; but this was what she wanted, a taste of the Spencer paddle.

The spank landed with an almighty crack, the dominatrix grunting with the effort. I felt it as Deborah attempted to straighten up, but we both held her down.

“Yowl”, Deborah filled the air with an ear splitting howl, “oh fuck, God that hurt. Oh no, that’s enough, that’ll do thank you very much.”

But the dominatrix was no where near satisfied with just one spank and declared that there were many more to come yet.

CRACK.

“Oh jeez, oh shit, oh shit, shit, shit.”

Deborah was stomping about now and desperately trying to stand up.

“Be quiet girl and stop that blaspheming, or I’ll give you something to really complain about”, this from the Dominatrix.

CRACK

“Oh no! No more! That’s enough now please, I won’t take any more.”

“Be quiet girl”.

CRACK

“Ow, ow ow”

CRACK

Deborah began to snivel

CRACK

I was beginning to feel quite sorry for Deborah now; she was clearly getting beyond her limit.

CRACK

“Stop that snivelling”.

I glanced across to Elaine. There was a look of serious concern on her face. She was ready to intervene and bring a halt to the proceedings at any moment.

CRACK

Deborah was howling and crying quite openly now, I could feel spasms running through her body and she was gasping for breath. When would this stop I thought.

CRACK

Deborah was wriggling uncontrollably, absolutely desperate to get up and draw an end to her suffering. I became inclined to allow her up and relaxed my grip somewhat. Perhaps Elaine had been waiting for such a sign, a yielding in my resolve, for she immediately let go completely and Deborah shot up like a coiled spring and began rubbing her bottom frantically.

“Now that’s enough.” Elaine stepped forward forcibly admonishing the dominatrix, pointing an aggressive finger at her. Deborah moved towards her and Elaine opened her arms to hug her poor suffering partner.

They stood there, before the entire gathered Dungeon audience in sweet embrace, Deborah crying in Elaine’s arms and Elaine patting her on the back saying “there, there my poor little darling”.

Rather than applause, a collective sigh and slow hand clapping went around from the gallery above. Whether this was in sympathy or cynical I could not tell, but I felt a bit embarrassed for Deborah, and felt that I needed to alleviate the situation.

“Well I think we can safely assume that she’s learned her lesson.” I addressed the dominatrix. “There’ll be no more thieving from her again. Well at least not for a while anyway.”

“Well I would disagree with you there.” The dominatrix responded. “My feeling is that this session is not yet over. It was ended prematurely, without my permission I might add, and there is still some punishment due. Whether she takes it, or you or your companion take it, is no concern of mine; but it’s due and must be paid. So who’s it going to be?”

I was certainly not going to submit to her, not in front of Elaine, Deborah and the assembled audience of The Dungeon, no way; so I just stood there looking dumb.

“I’ll take it for her.” Elaine heroically declared. She still had hold of Deborah’s hand in a big sisterly sort of way. Deborah was still snivelling but drying her tears and rubbing her bottom.

“But I’ll not be spanked with that ridiculous plank of wood, leave that for your sorority sisters. If you’re going to beat me, you’ll do it the English way, with a good length of stout rattan cane.”

A cheer went up from the gallery. I felt proud. Elaine’s defiance had vindicated our Englishness; it also brought a smile to the dominatrix’ face.

“Well, someone here has some guts at least,” she glanced towards me.

“What you did not know of course young lady, is that I had only intended to give your friend ten swats, a nice round number; so there was only one more to come. What a pity it ended so abruptly as it would have been all over by now. But for that defiance my girl, you’re going to get a damn good thrashing. I assure you that you’re going to be very sorry you dared to test me my girl.”

Oh dear, it looked like Elaine was really in for it as well now. We had all seen the dominatrix at work with the cane earlier on the school boy and knew what she was capable of. It made me wonder though if Elaine was just being brave or if she secretly wanted a good caning from this lady.

“I will give you a choice though,” the dominatrix continued, “you strip off, we secure you to a bench and you take exactly twenty-four strokes, no more or less; or you bend over with your panties on, touching your toes and stay there until I say you’re done. What’s it going to be?”

Oh dear, Hobson’s choice for poor Elaine, either way she gets a thorough whacking; but which is worse? Twenty four strokes from this professional are going to be extremely difficult to endure, but at least Elaine will know when it is going to end. And, to be naked and bound down in front of the entire assembly all hanging on every stroke, is going to take every bit of dignity that she possesses. On the other hand, the price of retaining the minimal protection of a pair of thin panties will mean that she will be totally at the mercy of this dominatrix who is clearly intent on a vendetta for her bruised pride. Elaine took no time at all in deciding.

“I’ll take the twenty four, naked over the bench”. Her defiance maintained throughout. I was proud of this lady.

A cheer went out from the gallery.

“Very well, let the stage be set. You have fifteen minutes to prepare and present yourself, naked, up on the stage”.

This was going to go down in the annals of The Dungeon history as a memorable evening. I could imagine the members talking about it for many months to come.

We were making our way up to the stage; Elaine, now totally naked and walking head held high, escorted by Deborah who by now had just about recovered and me. The audience had used the recess to recharge their drinks, make themselves comfortable and were now all settled, with the best views they could obtain, peering down over the balcony. I felt that I was leading Elaine like a lamb to its slaughter. What she was feeling I had no idea, but anxiety, fear, dread, anticipation, excitement tinged with a hint of bravado must have been there within the cocktail of her emotions.

The stage had been prepared, furnished with a formidable looking whipping bench. It was a sturdy, box like structure with a thickly padded leather top that slopped down at one end. At the high end a small platform low down was there for kneeling on. The padding at this end was bulbous and designed to support the hips, presenting the buttocks high in the air and absorbing all movement from the body it supported. Where the box was low, attached at the head end, were leather cuffs for securing wrists to. A wide leather waist strap was hanging loose down one side near the middle.

The dominatrix stood on the stage next to the bench in obvious command. She had changed out of her head-mistresses outfit and was now in a leather corset, fish net tights and high boots. A selection of canes was standing in an urn beside her.

Deborah and I escorted Elaine to the three of four steps the led up to the stage and remained there not feeling that we were allowed up to the hallowed ground or, in my case, not wanting to, less we get brought into the proceedings as well.

I watched Elaine’s ascent from the rear. Her long legs were strong as she mounted the steps, her buttocks soft and round as they curved to lift her up. She was beautiful in her elegance and stature, perfectly poised with her long blonde hair, now loosely gathered flowing from her proud head.

She did not hesitate at the top; she did not wait for any instruction from the dominatrix, she was in total and calm control knowing exactly what was required and went straight to the bench, laying herself across it. Her knees found the kneeling platform and she stretched out over the padded top.

The dominatrix wasted no time. She first produced a board with semi-circles cut out of one side like a pillory and fixed this behind Elaine’s knees into grooves at the side. This would prevent any movement of her legs except a minimum of up and down action from the lower calves and ankles. Then moving forward along the bench she pulled the wide waist strap over Elaine’s back at her waist and secured this as tightly as she could. At the head end she attached the cuffs to her wrists. All this was done expertly, efficiently and in total silence; not a pin dropped nor a murmur uttered from the assembled audience. The atmosphere was electric with anticipation.

I admired the nude Elaine as she lay there. Her position was absolutely perfect for the administration of an extremely sound thrashing. Her bare buttocks were round and presented high for good hard strokes of the cane. The waist strap held her in place with an arched back and the leather padding prevented any movement at all. Her head was low and her wrists were secured at the floor in line with her shoulders. She could move only her head slightly, to beg and scream, and her ankles to wriggle and dance; but was otherwise powerless to prevent or hamper in any way what was about to happen to her. I and every one there assembled at The Dungeon knew that, in view of what had taken place, Elaine’s defiance and bravado, that the dominatrix would show no mercy. She selected a vicious looking weapon from the urn. It was not a crook-handled cane; this surprised me, but a straight, dark, hardwood flexible wand, thick at one end, tapering to the thickness of a pencil at the other. Like the paddle she had used on Deborah previously, this was an object designed with one purpose in mind; the administration of maximum pain with the most precision of effort. She swished it through the air a few times to allow the audience an insight of its power and potential impact and, no doubt, to enhance the fear and dread that Elaine must now be feeling.

The sound it made was truly terrifying.

She then addressed Elaine in powerful voice for all to hear.

“You are to receive judicial punishment. Twenty four strokes of the cane are to be administered across your bare bottom at maximum impact. The strokes will be delivered methodically, dispassionately and regardless of any protestations from you, until the full number is given.”

Then she began the ritual of lining up the shot; positioning her body with slow practiced movements with an extended straight arm from over her shoulder; and then she was ready.

She drew her arm back, paused for an instant, and then drew the cane in an arc through the air at a terrific speed with all her weight behind it. There was that horrifying sound again as it cut through the air followed by a sharp whack.

It bit into Elaine’s soft butt cheeks and sprang back. A white line appeared in her pink skin that instantly began to turn purple.

Elaine exhaled breath sharply; it came out as a throaty grunt. Her toes wriggled.

I heard someone from the crowd above say “Jees”, otherwise not a sound.

The second stroke followed in much the same way causing another grunt and more toe wriggling from Elaine.

Two parallel lines, deep and purple with dark knotted lumps at the end, now decorated both the crowns of her cheeks. They looked livid and sore. I could not take my eyes from the sight of Elaine’s beautiful bottom marked in this way. From my view point, below the raised stage, my field of vision included the soles of her feet, the cruel pillory board holding her knees forward and legs in place, the backs of her long thighs leading to the delicious curve of the soft under flesh of her buttocks and then the rounded curvature of her two globes now etched with these two crimson stripes and still quivering from the effect of the last one.

The dominatrix continued to draw livid wheals across Elaine’s creamy cheeks, all absolutely parallel to the one above and spaced no more than an inch apart. By the fifth and sixth stroke she had ventured into the softest and most tender region where buttock joins thigh. These strokes brought a howl from Elaine and launched her ankles into a frenzy of jittering. Her buttocks quivered and the muscles on the inside of her thighs were a spasm of activity. She was pulling on the cuffs at her wrists and her head was rolling, spinning her long hair at each viscous impact of the cane.

The dominatrix was, without doubt, an extremely skilled exponent of caning technique. This was further illustrated as she now changed hands and began the process afresh from the other side. The fearsome onslaught continued, this time starting from higher up the curves at the point where the mass of the two glutei muscles depart. Six strokes from this side came down with painful accuracy, each one lower than the one before, the last few merging with the ones already in place. The ambidexterity of the dominatrix was unquestionable as these strokes were administered with all the force and just as much accuracy as the previous six. The cane whistled through the air striking with a sharp whack, momentarily curving around the contour of Elaine’s cheeks, before snapping back and leaving the painful imprint behind. Twelve red hot ridges now marked her flesh, their alternate dark bloody tips symmetrical on both sides.

Then the dominatrix changed sides again. On her way through she paused to examine her handy work, pinching and squeezing the punished flesh. She went to the front of the bench, took hold of Elaine’s hair and pulled her head back so that she could see her face and, seemingly satisfied with the effect, resumed her stance at the rear to continue with the thrashing. Any stripes that landed on Elaine’s poor sore bottom now would be on top of others. The dominatrix was well aware of this and determined to make the most of the opportunity to teach this posh English girl a lesson.

She took a more solid stand a step or two closer to the head of the bench, making sure that the tip of the rod was correctly placed. Drew it back to way over her shoulder and then, swinging her entire body and grunting with the effort, slashed the cane down with viscous force. It travelled beyond the surface of the offered cheeks and buried deep into the flesh before continuing onwards. I had heard of this technique but never seen it in action before. It is called following through, where the exponent aims for a spot beyond the intended target. It is as though the surface interrupts the arc of the swing and, where it lands, the tip of the cane penetrates deeper causing excruciating pain. This kind of action is usually considered much too severe for consensual practice; but the dominatrix had warned at the start that this was to be a judicial punishment.

A collective murmur went out from those in the gallery. No doubt some there also knew of this technique and considered it breaking the rules.

The skin on Elaine’s bottom opened up immediately and a fine gash of deep red blood appeared. There were eleven more strokes like this to come.

The dominatrix continued administering the strokes, following through with each one. Elaine was magnificent. She howled, oh how she howled with voluminous open mouthed barks from the depths of her lungs; but she did not beg. Not once did she ask for it to stop or to say no more. She certainly wriggled; she wriggled with every muscle that the confines of her bondage would allow. Her lower legs were frantic, beating a rhythm in the air and her head and shoulders were a spinning frenzy. By the time the six strokes had been delivered from this side Elaine was sobbing bitterly and her bottom was a mass of welts, some bloody with the blood flowing down her thighs.

On her way to change sides, the dominatrix took a surgical wipe from a first-aid box and, with surprising gentleness, wiped away the worst of the blood. Then she squatted down close to Elaine’s head and, with great care and affection, stroked her head, wiped her brow and a whispered conversation exchanged between them.

Then the dominatrix addressed the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure that you will all agree with me that this lady is amazing. I have never whipped a female as hard as this during my entire career. During the entire process she has maintained a level of decorum that is outstanding and her resilience is truly remarkable. I have just asked her if she wanted me to stop and she said that we should continue to the end. If I were to continue with the final six strokes in this way, I fear that I would cause some permanent damage, or at the very least some scarring to her beautiful rear end. So I am going to finalise this session now with two very hard strokes across her upper thighs. When I am done, I want you all to show your appreciation and give this girl the respect that she surely deserves.”

Then she turned to an attendant close by and I heard her summon a medic to look after Elaine when she was released and to make sure of her recovery.

The dominatrix took her position for, what was to be, the final two strokes. She took aim on a relatively unmarked area; but still an extremely sensitive part, of Elaine’s thigh just below where the curve of her buttocks began. Even though she had just proclaimed her admiration and declared mercy towards Elaine, the dominatrix had no intention of letting her off lightly with these final two strokes. She seemed to summon all her strength, rolled her entire body back and powered forth with an almighty crack.

In unison, and apparently totally spontaneously, the audience called out “one”. What made them do this I have no idea, there was certainly no prompting.

Elaine continued to quiver and pant.

The dominatrix readied for the next and final stroke.

Then it came, knocking all the air from Elaine’s lungs.

The audience called out “two” and an immediate applause went up; they were standing up and stomping the floor with their admiration and appreciation. I had never known The Dungeon to react like this and, even though I felt proud to have been a part of the cause of it, I also felt guilty that my part was insignificant and I had not suffered in any way to bring it about.

Elaine was released very rapidly. A medic was already standing by to help her to stand and with a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. The blanket did not cover her completely and I could not help noticing how sore her poor punished bottom looked as she straightened up. The audience were still in an uproar as she made her way to an anti-chamber still supported.

We fetched Elaine’s clothes and Deborah and I went to join her in the anti-chamber. She was lying on her stomach on a couch with surgical gauze covering her buttocks. A nurse was standing by but Elaine was talking and appeared in good spirits. Deborah ran to her in an emotional display of affection and began kissing her head, neck and shoulders.

“Oh you poor, poor darling, you were fantastic. I have never witnessed anything so amazing in my entire life. Was it dreadful for you, you poor dear? Tell me all about it.”

Elaine turned to reciprocate the affection from her partner, wincing somewhat as her weight shifted to the side.

“Oh Debs, it was wonderful. I have never experienced anything as powerful as that in my life. I loved every moment of it, every stroke took me to a realm of consciousness I had never been. It hurt, god it hurt, but it was amazing. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life. But what about you though? That paddling! That was really hard. Your poor lovely bottom must still be so sore.”

“It was horrible Ely. I don’t want to experience anything ever like that ever again. It just hurt so much. I know a canning hurts; the cane cuts and goes deep, but the paddle seemed to scorch the surface. It was like someone was holding a hot flatiron to my bottom, the heat just built up and up. I was desperate; I certainly could not have taken any more. Well, maybe I could, perhaps just the one. If I had known there was only one more to come, I would have taken it; but certainly no more than that. And you were so brave.”

They were both overcome with emotion and fell upon each other kissing and hugging. It was as though I was not in the room at all, I felt embarrassed and out of place.

“Both of you,” I felt I needed to make my presence known “I feel so proud of you. You were both absolutely amazing. You know that nothing has ever taken place like this before here at The Dungeon. They’ll all be talking about it for ages.”

“Oh Rob,” Elaine turned to me and opened up her arms “thank you for bringing us here. You’ve given me, and even Debs I think, an experience to remember.” We embraced as a threesome.

“So what did you think of that dominatrix?” I asked. “She was pretty powerful wasn’t she? But it really surprised me, everyone I think, how sweet she was to you at the end.”

“Sweet! She was a bitch.” Elaine surprised me with this re-action. “That was not being sweet, that was just so that she retained control to the end. I could have taken the next six and she knew it, but then I would have won. She knew after the first twelve that she would never break me and when she laid into me with the next six it just confirmed it. She just had to keep it on her terms and, by pretending to let me off, oh so sweetly, she was the one that kept control. If it had gone through to the end I would have been the one that everybody admired and she would have just become incidental“

Just then the dominatrix entered with one of the bar staff carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of Champaign and three glasses. At first I did not recognise her; she had changed and now looked quite demure.

“Compliments of the management,” she announced. “This is just to show mine and the manager’s appreciation of what you guys have given us here tonight. The folks back there are buzzing with excitement at what they’ve just seen.” She went up to Elaine. “How are you feeling darling? You sure did take a good hiding back there. Are you recovering ok?”

“Oh I’ll be fine. A bit sore, but heck, what do you expect. You really laid into me there at the end. Did you have to cut me quite so deep?”

“I’m sure sorry about that honey; but you were taking it so well and I thought, well this plucky English girl is no stranger to this, so let’s give it to her properly. I’ll tell you what though honey, I’ve had big strong men crying like babies after just six of those strokes I gave you at the start. You should be right proud of yourself; you put everyone here to shame tonight,” she looked at me again. I flushed. “That’s why I got to thank you and why the manager has decided to give you this bottle of bubbly. So you just enjoy.”

Then she turned to Deborah.

“And what about you honey? What do you think of your first taste of the way we do things over here? Would you like to have been a school girl growing up in this country?”

“No fear, no way. That was horrible”

“Ah that’s just because you’re not used to it. You know with your cute butt, there’d have been plenty of times when you’d been up in front of the dean for a paddling. They wouldn’t have been able to keep there darn hands off of you. You did fine though honey and I’ll bet you would have been able to take the last stroke if your friends had let you.”

“If I’d known it was going to be the last I would; but it seemed like you were just going to keep on spanking me for ever.”

“Well, your butt will be sore for a while, maybe a bit bruised as well: but by morning you’ll be as right as rain. I don’t know how you English girls can take the cane mind. I like to give it. I love it when I’ve got two meaty globes presented to me for a good whacking. But I tried it once; six of the best on the bare, that was enough for me, never again.” She turned to me.

“What about you though my lad; you were conspicuous by your absence up there tonight. You’re not averse to getting your butt warmed are you?” I felt embarrassed, not for the first time tonight, and stood there looking dumb. “I’ve seen you here before and I’m sure I’ll see you again. The management have decided to retain my services as a resident, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me here in the future. The next time we meet I expect, no I insist on it, that you present your butt up to me for a good paddling or maybe a sound caning.”

I said nothing, maybe she sensed my hesitation.

“Or how about over my knee in front of everyone here, with your trousers down for a good hard dose with the flat back of a hairbrush?”

I jumped back at the thought and already felt a stirring in my trousers. I wondered what it would be like to get such a spanking from this formidable woman.

She continued “Ah, that’s it isn’t it? That’s what you want my lad. You’ve been a naughty little boy haven’t you, and you crave what all naughty boys deserve. Well, I’ll be here again on Friday and I expect you to report to me then.”

I felt mortified in front of Deborah and Elaine, but already I was working out if I was free on Friday.

Then she made her goodbyes and left us to pop the Champaign.

13,003 words

(The End)