This short story conflates a couple of real events and three real characters....
It was a quarter to eleven when I went upstairs to change. I slid into the long black dress I wear for performing... full-length raw silk, low cut at the front and with a cunningly engineered internal structure that lifts and squeezes, making my modestly-sized breasts look larger than they really are (and dispensing with the need of a bra, thank god!). The nubbly texture of the material made me shiver slightly as I moved against it, making the butterflies in my tummy even more active.
Marie was waiting for me in the study wearing her navy blue cocktail dress whose somewhat severe lines totally failed to mute her vibrant sensuality. “You'll have gin and tonic?” she asked, as I sat down.
“Thank you....” I sat there feeling a little awkward while she made my drink. I could not take my eyes off the quarto notebook bound in red leather resting on the arm of her chair. She passed me the glass with a smile, and I grasped it eagerly. With more restraint, she sipped at her dry sherry, then put her glass down and reached for the notebook.
“Well, Christine, let's take a little look at where we are today...” She did not search for a page, she simply opened the book-- I do not believe that notebook would dare open at any page save the one she was looking for!. She frowned slightly as she scanned the hand-written notes. “Let me see... we have that silly business about the parking ticket... and you forgot to pick up the dry cleaning...” she shook her head and smiled. “Pretty trivial-- scarcely worth a single demerit.... but this...” the smile faded, “you missed your hair appointment-- which I had made for you--”
“I'm sorry about that-- it was just all the trouble with--”
“And ,” she continued, ignoring ,my interruption, “you were half an hour late for your coaching on Wednesday. That was discourteous and unprofessional, especially when Bram had rearranged his schedule at the last moment to fit you in.”
“Yes...” I mumbled, acutely conscious that I had absolutely no excuse, save my chronic absent-mindedness.
“So...” she looked up from the notebook, “I assess that at a total of four demerits for the week, plus an extra two because of your persistant forgetfulness.”
“Yes, Marie,,,” I sat very still and wait for the final verdict
“And that comes, in my estimation, to six strokes with a light cane, and six firm strokes with a dense one... would you agree?”
I nodded, wordlessly. She passed me the notebook and a her elegant silver fountain pen, and I signed my name beside her handwritten note, formally accepting her estimate. As I did so the doorbell rang.
“That must be David and Adrian!” Marie got up and took the notebook, waving it the air to dry the ink, “and just in time for lunch.”
Lunch went by in a daze for me. David and Adrian were good company as always, and Marie was witty and entertaining-- rather more animated than usual. In contrast, I felt a little tongue-tied-- I could not take my mind off what was in store for me, nor could I stop my eyes moving to the canes neatly arranged on the welsh dresser. Everyone else was studiously ignoring them. At last, with dessert out of the way, Marie put down her coffee cup the way a chairman brings down a gavel to call a meeting to order. “I think we should go into the living room and sit down comfortably, don't you? David, if you could bring the bottle...”
We all got up from the table and I was about to pick up my glass, when Marie touched my arm. “Christine, will you bring your chair in, and place it in front of the coffee table, please?”
Somewhat encumbered by my long dress, I manhandled the rather heavy straight-backed chair into the living room. David and Adrian were sitting on the sofa, while Marie settled herself in the big armchair, the red notebook in her hand. I positioned my chair, then looked towards Marie for instructions. She rose, and turned to Adrian and David.
“As you know, Christine and I have reviewed her behaviour for the week, and have agreed that she will receive a formal caning from me, with you as witnesses. David, you are free to take photographs, of course.” I remained standing still... though the butterflies in my tummy were now working overtime. “Christine.. will you face the chair and raise your skirt please...” I turned to face the back off the chair, reached behind me, and lifted up my skirt, then too late, remembered--
“Christine!” Marie's voice cut through the air like a whiplash, “why are you still wearing your undergarments?”
“I....erm... forgot,” I mumbled. I felt my face heat in a blush of confusion, furious at my forgetfulness.
“Remove them right now, please,” Marie ordered. Sliding my hands under my skirt I wriggled the offending red lacey knickers over my hips, let them slide to the floor. There was a short silence, broken only by Marie tapping her pen against the notebook. “You remain very forgetful,” she remarked, opening the notebook, “how, I wonder, can we improve your memory...?” Her hand holding the silver pen hovered over the page.
“In my day it would be over to the stables, and three dozen with the crop on the bare!” Adrian observed in her pure Girton (or was it Rodean?) accent. Seeing that Adrian was barely three years older than me, I thought the “in my day” was a bit rich, but I kept quiet.
“No...” Marie mused, “I think an additional four light strokes of the cane will suffice...” The pen moved briefly across the page, then Marie looked up, “and perhaps as an additional reminder we should video record this so Christine may review it at her leisure. David if you would be so kind..?”
With an anticipatory smile, David retrieved the tripod with the little video camera attached from the far corner of the room and set it up. There was a click and a whirr, and a red light started blinking on the camera. I tried to ignore it.
“Now if we may proceed...” Marie snapped the notebook shut and put it down. “Christine, will you please raise your skirt again.” I complied quickly-- acutely conscious of the waft of cool air as I exposed myself. Marie deftly pinned the skirt up behind, leaving me completely exposed from the waist down. “Good...”she paused for a moment, checking that the pins were secure, “now please fetch me the light crook handle cane-- the Governess model-- you know the one I mean.”
I walked over to the welsh dresser, acutely conscious of my naked rear aspect, and picked up the cane-- long, slender, almost white, and sinuously flexible. Holding it in both hands I was about to present it to Marie when just in time I remembered to kiss it first, then held it out. She ran the slender shaft between her fingers, as though checking the smoothness, then nodded to the chair. “Bend over, please.”
I bent over the back of the chair with my forearms flat on the seat and my hands gripping the seat's front edge. I felt the tip of the cane tapping the inside of my left thigh. “Feet a little further apart please,” Marie murmured. As I shuffled my feet further apart, I heard the hum and click of David's camera as it focused and shot the “before” picture.
Marie drew the cane across my bottom-- it felt cool. I tensed involuntarily, anticipating the first stroke, then deliberately unclenched. As if this were a signal there was a brief hiss and with a snap the first stroke landed. That cane was all sting, and the sting was intense. I bit down a yelp, acutely conscious of the recording camera. Another hiss, and the second stroke landed, but I was better prepared for it, stamping my right heel to counter the sting. I drew a deep breath and held it for the third stroke. The third was the most intense so far, and I let my breath out with a gasp, then forced myself to draw a slow deep breath as I processed the burning sensation on the surface of my skin. Marie, observing me carefully, waited until I had taken my breath before she delivered the fourth stroke. This one I accommodated better, and I let my breath out slowly then breathed in again, triggering the fifth stroke and then, keeping perfect rhythm, the sixth. I heard a hum of approval from someone (I think it was Adrian). I heard Marie give a very slight sigh as she relaxed her concentration for a moment. Her hand, cool, smooth and unbearably arousing, slid over my burning skin. The stinging was almost like an itch-- on the edge of being infuriating as my body craved the deep throbbing ache of a firm cane stroke. “Four more to go, Christine,” Marie said, “and these are to help you to remember... “ I took another deep breath, then came the familiar hiss and a burning impact, low down, almost at the top of my thighs. I could not restrain a little “ugh!” at the shock of it, and my right heel hammered the floor again. Another deep breath,... another hiss, and yet another stinging stripe landed in almost exactly the same place. I hissed back, riding out the sensation. I took two shallow breaths, then a deep one, and held it... and the cane hissed down to land across the top of my right thigh. Careless of the recording camera I let out a shrill yelp and twisted my hips, partly bending my right leg in an effort to escape the sting. “Please don't move Christine,” Marie murmured, “or I'll have to give the stroke again.” I concentrated on staying still-- at least I knew where the next stroke was going to land. And just as I drew breath, the cane swept down onto my left thigh. I let out another gasping cry. I'm not sure whether I moved or not and, anticipating the worst, I slowly draw another deep breath-- then let it out in a long sigh as Marie's hand slid smooth and cool over my bottom and thighs. “You may stand up now, Christine...”
I straightened up feeling a little dizzy for a moment. Marie was holding the slender cane in both hands. Her eyes were bright and she was breathing a little faster than normal. I could see a couple of beads of sweat on her forehead and the distinct outlines of her nipples showed through her light cotton shirt. I was uncomfortably aware that mine, too, were highly visible-- raw silk without a bra is quite revealing. Marie handed me the cane and I raised to to my lips again-- it was noticeably warmer now.
“Please return the cane, and bring me the dark straight one, with the burgundy handle,” Marie instructed. As I crossed to the welsh dresser I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; the thin stripes were bright red and even-- yet I knew they would quickly fade-- there was no tightness of the skin a penetrating cane stroke leaves. I replaced the crook handle cane and pick up the straight handled one. It was a little shorter, but noticeably thicker and heavier-- a very dense piece of dark rattan. It felt as stiff as a rod of iron, yet I knew from experience how sinuously flexible this implement really was... I presented the cane , not forgetting to kiss it. Marie flexed it slowly between her hands a couple of times. “You may bend over again,” she told me.
As I assumed the position I felt the familiar ache – the urgent need to feel the internal throbbing heat-- a counter to that superficial irritation the light cane caused. I shivered as Marie traced the tip of the cane up the inside of my left thigh, then rested it across my bottom. I carefully relaxed my muscles and took a deep breath. I heard her sigh quietly. Then there was a short “whoosh!” and with a “crack!”a dark cold line of intensity blazed across my bottom. For an instant there was just the intensity- then the cold sting, and then... that deep aching throb spreading through me. As the stroke landed my hips jerked forwards-- there was nothing I could do about that-- and then as the first wave spread through me, I pushed my hips back and up to receive the next stroke. It took time-- at least five seconds... And just as I reached that position, hips back, legs and thighs straight, then I heard another sigh as Marie launched the next stroke. Once again there was the hollow whoop of the cane slicing through the air and the icy “crack!” as it landed. Again my hips jerk forward, and this time I give a slight moan. Now Marie and I were sharing the same rhythm, and are as closely connected as though we were making love. Which we were, I suppose. I stopped counting... all I could think as I pushed my hips back to present for the next stroke was that I needed her to strike harder. The sweat was running down my forehead and I knew my hair was lank with it. I could feel myself getting wetter elsewhere, but I no longer cared if anyone noticed. I no longer cared if the damned camera was recording my gasps and moans. I was lost in the exultation of that intense internal ache, reinforced by each stroke of the cane.
From a long distance away I heard Marie's voice. “You may stand up now, Christine.” I was vaguely aware of the hum and click of David's camera as he recorded my stripes. I slowly straightened up, swaying a little, and light headed. I stepped back from the chair and turned to face Marie. Her cheeks were flushed, there was a definite sheen of sweat across her forehead, and her usually tidy hair was disarranged. She was breathing hard, as though she'd just run up two flights of stairs, and her nipples were now even more clearly visible through the fabric of her shirt. “You may put the cane away now, Christine” she said, holding out the shiny dark rod. I kissed the warm rattan with perhaps more passion than an inert piece of giant grass deserved. As I walked across to the dresser the drum-tight skin over my stripes constrained me like straps on some kind of harness... I knew I was walking a little stiffly. These stripes would not be fading soon, I reflected happily. As I put the cane back I was vaguely aware of a hum and a click as the video camera was switched off. And of a slight rustle of movement as David and Adrian took their wine out to the verandah.
Marie stood waiting for me. She put her arms around me, hugged me tightly, and then let her hands slide luxuriously over my stripes, sending darting little messages into my loins. She unbuttoned my dress and let it fall to the ground. “Come over here, and lie down for a moment,:” she said, leading me to the sofa. I knelf on the soft cushions then, at her urging, slipped forward and lay flat on my face. I heard a faint rustle as Marie shed her dress, and then felt the indescribable joy of her cool skin pressing against me. “That was lovely....” she whispered. I mumbled “mmmmmkkkkk” and pressed myself up against her, delighting in the feel of her damp mound on my tender bottom. “Just a minute,” her weight shifted on the sofa as she reached for something. There was a little glooping noise, and a deliciously cool liquid trickled into my rear cleft. I spread my thighs wider and raised my hips a little. Then her hands begin their beautiful stroking and probing and, slowly at first, but with increasing speed and intensity, a hot velvet wave of desire spread through me, and expanded outwards to engulf us both.