Another Country - Part Three

OK, it’s high time we caught up with our English tourists and their rather shy but curious maid.

If you haven’t read part one or part two yet, then please do – else you won’t have a clue what’s going on! **************************************************************************

Richard Wallace stood, stripped of all his clothes, with his nose in the corner of the hotel room while his wife counted to ten. The young African maid Dupé was counting too, silently. She had never seen a grown man spanked. She had never seen a grown man naked.

Richard's agitation increased with his wife's count. By the time she reached the number eight he had begun shifting from foot to foot, and Dupé thought for a moment - was afraid, she had to admit it - that he was about to give in, and she would be deprived of her promised role. But the man did not give in. He could not.

"Please, Em," groaned Richard in an anguished tone.

"Please, ma'am," his wife reminded.

"Please, ma'am," echoed Richard.

"Nine," said Emily.

Finally the Englishwoman, after an exaggerated pause that Dupé thought would never end, uttered a curt "ten". As she did so, the naked man's hands dropped suddenly to his crotch and he swivelled awkwardly on the spot, revealing a face the colour of chilli pepper and probably as hot, and he gingerly stepped forward towards the two women as though treading on broken glass.

Emily let him get all the way to the bed before lazily extending one hand and using a perfectly manicured fingernail to draw a semicircle in the air. Her husband stood uncomprehending for a moment before turning to face away from them once more.

"Back you go," said Emily mildly, and he did, reclaiming his position in the corner. "Hands on your head," she said, and a second later they were. "Now try again," said Mrs Wallace.

He really did look as though he was trying, thought Dupé, as Richard Wallace's hips twisted back and forth in an agony of conflict. It was as though he were tethered to the wall by the very part of himself that he was so reluctant to expose. Finally his wife exhaled noisily through pursed lips and said, "My patience is at an end, Richard. I suppose Dupé will have to fetch you after all, since you're being impossibly silly. I'm quite sure she has seen naughty bare boys before."

If only that were true, thought the maid, her heart would not be beating so hard. Still, she had already been given Mrs Wallace's blessing, and she was pushing herself to her feet almost before the older woman had said "Dupé, if you wouldn't mind..."

In a few strides she was standing just a foot behind the man - close enough to detect the faint smell of his perspiration, and indeed to watch a drop of it trickle down the small of his back and disappear between his bared buttocks. Close enough to touch him. And my God, she was actually doing it, her small dark hand reaching up and encircling his pale wrist. "This way, Mr Wallace," she had intended to say, but her mouth was dry and she knew that the tremor in her voice would betray her. So she simply applied a little light pressure, and almost miraculously the man turned as though released from a spell - turned and stood there fully exposed, defeated, with no more defence but to tell himself that this would all be over soon.

Oh Lord, thought Dupé. Nineteen years old and suddenly there is no more secret. So this is what it's like to see a man undressed. Then she walked him over to where Emily was sitting with a raised eyebrow and an undisguised smirk.

"Not such a big boy now, are you?" said Emily. Leaning forward to take both of his hands, she waited until he was forced to meet her gaze and told him, “I do love you, you know, in spite of your little tantrums and your antiquated world view. But we are going to drag you into the current century. Kicking and screaming as necessary.” Then she briskly tapped her thigh and instructed "Over you go."

The maid returned to her chair while Richard leaned forward and draped himself awkwardly across his wife's lap, the bedsprings creaking softly as he added his weight to hers and placed his hands upon the carpet. Dupé slyly attempted to catch his gaze as he positioned himself, but it was locked steadfastly on his splayed fingers and she knew he was trying to pretend that she was not there. And so she cleared her throat a little more loudly than was necessary, and then began to sing softly - perhaps to herself, perhaps to Emily Wallace, perhaps to the oh-so-haughty man now draped so humilatingly across his wife's lap - the lullaby her mother had taught her as a small child.

The jackal and the lioness both sit beneath the sun
But he must watch and wait while she devours the wildebeest
If he should try to eat before the lioness is done
He knows the lioness will gladly add him to her feast.
They say the male, he rules the world as far as he can see
But she has all the power that her lion mate possesses
A man is not a lion 'til he proves himself to be
And many men are jackals, and must yield to lionesses.

Mrs Wallace smiled absently and traced slow, careful circles over her husband's pale pink buttocks with the back of the clothes brush while Dupé sang. She seemed in no hurry, and Dupé was sure that - unlike her ignorant pig of a husband - she knew enough of the language to pick up its meaning.

When the song reached its end and the young girl looked shyly up at the beautiful Englishwoman, Emily said "Shall I tell you something funny, Dupé? On the dresser at home I keep a big, heavy hairbrush of which I'm very fond - Richard rather less so. It hasn't been used to brush hair in fifteen years, but it still comes in handy at least once a month. Richard assured me that I wouldn't need to pack it, which is why we've had to rely on your services this afternoon." She reached over to stroke the back of her husband's neck, almost affectionately. "Just think, sweetheart," she said with mock regret, "If you hadn't persuaded me to leave her at home it'd be just you, me and our old friend Betty Blister about to have this little discussion. It's really your own fault that we're having to improvise - and thus that we have company."

For the second time Dupé wondered if she shouldn't be somewhere else. "I should go, ma'am," she offered, but without conviction. "Not at all," smiled Emily, transferring her hand to the maid's bare arm where Dupé could feel the dampness of the man's sweat upon her fingers. "In fact, I forbid it. We've spent two weeks enjoying your wonderful African traditions, and it'd be a terrible shame if you were to miss out on one of ours."

Dupé suspected she was being teased a little, although not unkindly. "You don't mean that all..." she giggled.

"Well, not in every household," smiled Emily, "more's the pity. There are a good many English men who would benefit from some old-fashioned discipline, even if they're think they're too big for it - which, of course, they usually do until they're shown otherwise. Make no mistake, Dupé - Richard would like to believe he outgrew this kind of punishment thirty years ago. But that only makes it all the more effective. As you're about to see."

Emily raised the brush to shoulder height, and her husband's glistening bare bottom tensed visibly as if in anticipation. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turned her head towards the maid, an amused smile playing across her lips. "Do you know what makes for a good, memorable spanking, my dear?"

Dupé would have replied had she not been so intently holding her breath. She shook her head, no, but the other woman had already turned her gaze back to the soft flesh presented for her attention. Emily's mouth tightened in concentration and she slowly drew in her breath. "It has to really, really hurt," she said.

And then she began.

Another Country - Part Two

Way back in August, we left a guy called Richard standing naked in the African hotel room to which a young maid had just delivered the instrument of his correction. Now, even for a spoiled bigot like him five months is probably too long to be stood in the corner - so it's high time we found out What Richard and Emily and Dupé Did Next.

Before diving unprepared into this month's thrilling episode - actually, on re-reading it, it's something of a slow burner! - you might like to catch up on what happened in Part One.


Part Two

Dupé's mouth opened wide, but all that came out was a small, quiet "Oh." She glanced down at the limply held brush before relinquishing it to the woman, who turned it over and slapped its polished walnut back against her own palm with a satisfied smile.

"This is perfect, my dear - Dupé, isn't it?"

The maid turned her head slightly to acknowledge the question; but her eyes were already back on the shockingly naked figure in the corner, and now she found she could not look anywhere else.

"Of course you've met my husband, Richard," chuckled the Englishwoman, "although you may not recognise him from his bare backside."

The man said nothing, but stiffened visibly and seemed to press himself even further into the corner. "And I'm Emily Wallace," said the woman.

"Ma'am," was all Dupé could manage in response. She knew she was staring. But how could she not? In the nineteen summers of her sheltered upbringing, she could not remember having seen any man naked, even within her own village; and yet here was a pink-skinned Englishman stripped of all his clothes and deposited in a corner as though he were no more remarkable than a hat stand. Dupé stood transfixed.

"In or out, dear," Mrs Wallace was saying with a good-natured smile; and Dupé realised that, wavering on the threshold, she was blocking the door.

"If it helps," prompted the older woman, "and if you'd be so kind - I believe the bed needs to be remade."

Dupé knew without looking that the bed did not need remaking, that she had no reason to linger, that this was not her business. Two floors down - and yet a world away - the lobby mirror was still half covered in polish. Mr Mbulu, the housekeeper, was probably frowning at it now and wondering where Dupé was. She should get back to her duties. She should make an excuse. She should offer to come back later.

She took two steps forward into the bedroom, and Mrs Wallace closed the door behind her.

The room felt suddenly very small and very hot, and Dupé herself no longer an observer but an actress in a bizarre play that she had not rehearsed. As if in a dream, she made her way over to the couple's king-sized bed and began tugging ineffectually at the covers until Emily Wallace put a hand on her arm. "Don't worry about that, dear," she said, turning to lift a bag of market purchases from the chair next to the bed. "Please just make yourself comfortable for a few minutes. This won't take long, and then you can return the brush without the need for a second trip."

Dupé lowered herself uncertainly onto the chair - she was forbidden to sit down in the guest rooms - and waited with nervous anticipation while Emily Wallace, who was smiling and softly humming, busied herself removing more items from the bed and placing them out of the way on the floor. Dupé could only watch and wonder at the scene unfolding around her. The window was open, and she could hear one of the staff - probably William, the new boy - raking the gravel in the courtyard below while a dog barked in the distance. Just a normal afternoon, she said to herself: the staff doing their chores, the dog, and in here a man stripped and shamed in front of a servant. And made to stand just so: his outstretched elbows lifting his shoulder blades; his broad, muscular back giving way to a trim waist and then to the swell of smooth, pale buttocks untouched by the sun. His bare backside, Dupé repeated to herself giddily.

How could he just stand there, posed like a mannequin, with a strange girl in the room? His thighs were pressed tightly together as if trying to salvage some modesty, and Dupé had a startling and unbidden vision of herself stepping up behind him, delving between them and guiding them apart. If she did that, what would he do? If she... my God, if she were to turn him to face her... would he cover himself? Would he resist? The young maid pushed the thought from her mind. What had got into her? She felt a tense giggle building in her throat and bit down on her lip to stifle it.

Finally Mrs Wallace sat upon the bed, smoothed her skirt across her lap, peeled off her white silk gloves and picked up the brush once more. "Alright, Richard," she said briskly. "Let's have you."

The man flinched slightly at the sound of his name, but did not otherwise move. "With the maid here?" he said, into the corner.

"Certainly, with the maid here," replied his wife. "And if that notion embarrasses you, perhaps it will help you to think about how Dupé felt this morning when you belittled her in front of the whole restaurant."

"I'm sorry about that," mumbled Richard with obvious difficulty.

"What's that? Dupé can't hear you."

Louder this time: "I said, I'm sorry."

Emily Wallace looked sceptical. She studied her dim reflection in the varnished back of the clothes brush. "What do you think, Dupé? Do you think he's learned his lesson? Do you think after his behaviour this morning we ought to spare him the brush?" Dupé looked at the hard wood of the brush and then again at the soft white skin of the man's bottom. She remembered his explosion of rage at breakfast, how he had actually caught and held her by the wrist while he berated her over the spilled juice. Called her a little black bitch, in front of all those people. When she spoke it was as if she were listening to someone else reciting the words. "No, ma'am," she said; and then, having found her courage and unable to stop herself, "I think he should get the brush. I think he should have it hard."

The English woman laughed in delight. "Well, now. You're not such a timid little thing after all, are you? Did you hear that, Richard? Our sweet young maid believes you ought to have your behind blistered. And I'm not going to disappoint her. In fact, if you're still skulking in that corner by the time I count to ten, I'm going to invite her to come over and escort you from it."

Dupé's head swam at the very idea of fetching the man for his punishment. Her fingers gripped the arms of the chair, and she felt herself squeezing her thighs together beneath the prim uniform. Even as she told herself that she could never dare - that it was a ridiculous fantasy - she was already in her mind's eye standing next to the man, smiling at his embarrassment. She would take him by the wrist, yes, just as he had done to her not six hours ago; and he would meekly follow her to where his wife sat with the brush. And the other woman - so beautiful, so self-assured - would smile her approval.

Dupé held her breath as Emily Wallace began to count.

"One," she said. The man's knees flexed a little, but that was all.

"Two," said Mrs Wallace. "Three."

Dupé sat and bit her lip; wanting to look at the man, not wanting to look at the man. Suddenly willing the count to reach its conclusion before he gave in.

For his part, Richard Wallace's eyes were screwed tightly shut - so even had he turned his head he would have not seen the young girl's expression, somewhere between desire and disbelief, her mouth silently forming the same word over and over.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Another Country, Another Picture

Some of you wanted an illustration for my story Another Country, so here it is. For those of you who didn't want an illustration, tough - here it is anyway ;).

This may well be my first 'historical' drawing. I hadn't really decided when the story is set and I've deliberately kept it ambiguous, but I thought a little period glamour might be nice for the picture.

In general my fantasies (and thus my works) are contemporary, because I find it easier to project myself into them that way.

I know some of my fellow artists, for example RedRump, have a thing for the fifties and sixties as a kind of golden age of spanking.

But how about your daydreams? Are you a modern day mistress/ miscreant, or a Victorian vixen/ victim? A wild west whipping boy? A medieval martinet?

Does period even feature in your fantasies?

By the way, this is the first time I've uploaded a picture as a .png. It might take a little longer to download, but I'm hoping if it keeps Blogger from compressing it to within an inch of its life it will be worth it!

Oh, and part two of 'Another Country' is almost ready. Hopefully it'll hit the blog in the next few days.

Another Country (Part One)

It was an uncomfortable ride in every sense: hot, and jarring, and filled with foreboding.

Emily was wearing the low-cut navy dress that Richard liked so much, and he absently watched his wife's full breasts swaying to the rhythm of their ancient taxi as it bounced along the rutted track that led to the hotel. Emily herself stared dismissively out of the dust-yellow window: but from the set of her jaw, Richard knew that she was barely keeping her temper in check.

As they neared their destination, his wife finally turned her elegant face towards his. "How dare you?" she demanded. "First that poor young girl at breakfast, and then twice at the market this afternoon."

"I'm sorry, Em," Richard replied unhappily.

Emily returned her gaze to the African grassland scrolling past outside. "You can save that for when I get you indoors."

Richard shifted in his seat, as if anticipating further discomfort, and tried a meaningful glance to remind her they were not alone. "Darling, please..."

There was an audible snort from the front seat, and in the rear view mirror the driver's eyes signalled his amusement. That devil, thought Richard bitterly. All the bloody same. Couldn't speak a word of English when we asked him about the fare, but oh, he's having fun at my expense now.

He glared at the back of the man's muscular brown neck as the vehicle found another pothole.

"Slow down." The driver ignored him. "Nciphisa ijubane, you idiot!"

The man broke into a grin, but kept his foot down.

At last the Victoria Hotel swung into view within its oasis of palms. Its grandeur had faded since its Empire heyday, but even so the three-story white stuccoed walls gleamed imposingly in the afternoon sun. Richard peeled one sweat-adhered arm from the cab's leather seat cover and fumbled for his wallet in the pocket of his slacks. The smirking driver took the offered notes with a mocking "Thank you, boss." He made no attempt to open the doors - but in any case Emily was already gone, striding purposefully across the gravel driveway.

In the hotel foyer, 19-year old Dupé stiffened slightly as the well dressed English couple appeared through the revolving door. She used the mirror she had been polishing to smooth the black skirt of her maid's uniform and straighten her white lace collar - and also to steal a glance at the foreign visitors.
They looked to have had some sort of argument, she thought, and that was not surprising. In the two weeks since their arrival she had grown to like the woman well enough - but the man was a pig who just that morning had publically shamed her over a small accident.

Her face grew hot at the memory of the spilled orange juice, the man's snarl and public scolding - and the words he had used when his wife had told him to calm down.

The woman was retrieving their room key from reception while her husband stood grim-faced behind her. A thought seemed to strike her as she turned away from the desk: "Oh, and do you have a large clothes brush I can use?"

"Certainly, madam," responded the receptionist brightly. "I'll have the maid bring one up to your room. Of course, if you would prefer, we do provide a full laundry and valet service."

This offer brought a smile and a shake of the head. "Thank you. Just the brush will do nicely."

Ten minutes later, Dupé was riding the hotel's clattering elevator to the top floor with the requested implement in her hands. Although happy to escape her cleaning duties for a few moments, the young maid was apprehensive. She did not want to have to speak to the man again.

She paused outside the door of room 306, turning the heavy hardwood brush over and over in her hands. It occurred to her that she could simply leave it outside, knock quietly and be gone: by the time anyone answered she could be taking the elevator back to the safety of the ground floor. As she bent down to lean the brush against the door frame, she heard the English woman's voice through the heavy oak panelling.

"...nt to hear from you right now is 'yes ma'am or 'no ma'am.' If we're to have a lesson in respect - and believe me, we are - then you can start with me."

The man's response was barely audible: perhaps he was in the bathroom.

After a furtive glance along the corridor, Dupé rested one ear lightly against the door and waited guiltily for the conversation to resume. When it did not, she straightened, took another deep breath and knocked.

After a few seconds, the door swung open and the pretty English woman stood backlit by the afternoon sun from the window. When she saw the heavy brush that the maid was cradling, she smiled broadly. "Special delivery, Richard!" she called over her shoulder.

Following her gaze, Dupé saw that the man was not in the bathroom after all. He was stood in the far corner of the room with his face to the wall, his hands were clasped behind his head, and he was quite, quite naked.