In At The Deep End - Part Two

Hello again, everyone.

Thanks for all the comments on my recent picture post, and especially to those of you whose naughty imaginations fuelled a number of associated narratives.

As promised, here's my own take on preceding events. Hope you enjoy it!

************************************************************************************ Robert was prowling the bedroom, naked, engaged in a frantic search. As he always did when he couldn't find something, he was cursing steadily under his breath. He'd already tipped two drawers full of clothing onto the bed, and now began to rifle through a third.

"Debora," he yelled in the direction of the en-suite bathroom, "have you seen my trunks?"

His wife appeared at the doorway, dressed in her underwear and with her blonde hair wrapped in a towel. She regarded the tangled jumble of garments with a sigh.

"Right there," she said, pointing with her toothbrush at a pair of swimming briefs atop one of the piles of clothing. "There. Look."

Robert looked. "Not those," he said, irritably. "The shorts."

Debora had returned to the bathroom to spit toothpaste into the sink. "Oh, those," she called back. "I dropped those nasty old things into the clothing bank yesterday morning, while I was down at the supermarket - you know, buying food to make sure we don't starve, while you were still snoring in bed."

She leaned out beyond the door jamb. "And before you ask what's happened to that hideous shirt you brought back from Jamaica, I'm afraid that's also been donated to the homeless. God help them. As if they haven't suffered enough."

Robert looked dismayed. "I don't care about the stupid shirt," he said. "But I needed those shorts. You knew I only had those, and... these things... for swimming." He held up the trunks by one corner, and eyed them as he would something he'd found forgotten and putrefied at the back of the fridge. They were blue, but covered in a pattern of smiling yellow emoji. "And you know I've never worn these," he groaned.

Debora reappeared. She had thrown on a t-shirt from the airing cupboard.

"Well, it's about time you did wear those," she said. "My mother bought them specially for you two Christmases ago."

"Two Christmases ago I was thirty-three years old," Robert complained. "Not twelve."

He examined the trunks, front and back, with a scowl. The emoji grinned back at him. "These are like something you'd buy for a child - a very, very uncool child. In fact," he said, peering suspiciously at the label, "I'm guessing they are from the kids' section - they're at least a size too small."

Debora shook her head and began to towel her hair vigorously, her face now stern. "Then you should have taken them back or given them away, like I told you at the time, instead of leaving them in the drawer. That way I'd have known not to get rid of the other ones. Anyway", she said, "Here's an idea. How about you just try them on and stop being a crybaby? I think they're fun. And hurry up - we're already late."

She disappeared off down the landing in search of a pair of jeans.

With a deeply unhappy expression, Robert stooped to slip the briefs over his feet and then pull them up. They were already tight by the time he'd got them to the tops of his thighs. He winced as he worked them over his buttocks, and that made another thought occur to him - a fluttery, panicky kind of thought.

When Debora returned she found Robert with his back to the full-length mirror, craning his head around to study his behind. "Oh shit," he said. "Shit. Debs, we definitely can't go to the pool."

His wife stopped in the doorway, jeans in one hand and a disbelieving expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, theatrically tilting her head to one side and and waggling a fingertip in her ear, "maybe I got some water in here and it's affected my hearing. Because I'm pretty sure - especially so soon after last night's little discussion - that you didn't just say something about not going to to the pool."

"But that's the thing," said Robert, waving his hands ineffectually to indicate the livid cane marks traversing his buttocks and extending well beyond the edges of his improbably skimpy costume. "Everyone..." His voice trailed off into bewildered silence.

"Well, yes. I expect they will," said Debora, stepping into her jeans and sliding them up her long legs. "But since it was you who earned a whipping by breaking your promise again about going to the gym this week, and you who swore you'd come swimming with me to make up for it, I don't really see how that's any of my concern."

"But, honey..." began Robert, and then stopped short as his wife approached him and reached up to put a finger to his lips.

"Shush," she said, and Robert did.

Debora leaned in close to his ear. "I don't want to hear any more about this. Are we clear?"

Robert nodded.

"Good boy," smiled Debora. "Now I am telling you for the last time that we are both going to the pool and that you are going to wear those trunks, and there's nothing at all that you can do about it. And when I remove my finger, there are only two words I want to hear from you. Are we also clear on that?"

Robert nodded again.

Debora dropped her hand to her waist and waited while her husband's shoulders slumped and he looked at the floor and said quietly and with some difficulty, "Yes, Ma'am."

Then after a moment he said, "Honey, I've said I'll come, ok? So please don't be angry." He gestured again at his vividly striped bottom. "But is there something we can do to cover up these marks?"

Debora finished fastening her jeans and glanced over at the dressing table. "I suppose we could find time for that," she said. "What would you like me to use - the strap, or the hairbrush?"

Ten minutes later, in the car and en route to the pool, Robert pointed hopefully towards a side-road and said, "You know, we could swing by the supermarket and get me some new swimming shorts. It's only ten minutes that way."

Deborah sighed. "Except that it's Sunday, and they don't open until eleven."

"Oh. Then maybe they have some for sale at the pool."

"Maybe they do," said Debora, "but we won't be buying any there. The mark-up on the stuff they stock at reception is nearly three times what they pay for it, Chloe said."

That only added to Robert's unease. He tried to think of all the Chloes that his wife might know.

"Chloe?" he asked. "You mean Chloe-on-my-team-at-work Chloe?"

Debora watched the road. "Yes, my young friend Chloe, who also has the misfortune to report to you as her boss. I met up with her for coffee yesterday."

Robert had the distinct sense that his woes were piling up in some way that he didn't yet fully understand. He tried out half a dozen questions in his head, and finally settled on "How was that?"

"Not bad," said Debora, "only she was a little bit subdued, which isn't like her. You know, she's normally such a gossip. But she did tell me about the public dressing-down you gave her last week for being all of three minutes late for a meeting."

Debora slowed the car momentarily to let another driver pull out at a junction, and took the opportunity to give her husband a cool sidelong look. "Three minutes! The poor girl was trying to make light of it, but it was obvious you'd upset her."

"It was a key meeting," Robert grumbled, "with a new client."

"But still just a meeting," said Debora, "and still just three minutes."

She acknowledged the other driver's thanks with a nod, and put her foot back on the accelerator. "Don't you think you could have cut her some slack? Maybe had a quiet word in private, or said nothing at all? She's still finding her feet, Robert. She's twenty-two years old."

"I guess so," admitted Robert. "Did you manage to cheer her up?"

"Oh, yes," said Debora, with a sly smile that Robert didn't like the look of.

"What did you say?"

"Hmm. I don't recall exactly. I think something about you not getting away with speaking to me like that."

"You're kidding," said Robert, his eyes widening.

"Why would I be kidding? It's true, isn't it? Oh, and I might have said something about you maybe being a bit of a bully at work because you don't get to wear the trousers at home."

"Oh God," said Robert. "Why would you say that?"

Debora reached down to change gear and said, "I may even have mentioned that you might not be sitting comfortably on Monday. But you know, Chloe just giggled at that, so I guess she assumed I was joking. After all, no little woman is going to be taking big, bad Robert Saunders in hand, is she?"

"Um," said Robert.

They drove on for a few excruciating minutes in silence, until finally Robert asked the question he'd been avoiding because he was now almost certain he wouldn't like the answer. "So how does Chloe know about the mark-up? I mean, about the stuff at the swimming pool."

Helen brightened at that. "Oh, didn't you know? She works there on Sundays."

"In reception?" asked Robert, as casually as he could muster while his heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest.

"Sometimes," said Debora. "But today I gather she's on lifeguard duty." She waited a moment while Robert considered this and then, as though the thought had only just occurred to her, said, "Oh! Just your luck that it's her who's going to be keeping an extra close eye on all the swimmers this morning. I mean, on the very day when you turn up with your well-wealed behind hanging out of your cute little swimsuit."

Robert stared. He opened his mouth to make one last plea to his wife, but what came out of it was little more than a noise something like a whimper. He sank a little lower into his seat and looked sideways out of the car window at the street signs as they passed. They were almost at the pool. He hoped against hope for something - a puncture, a prang, anything - that would curtail their journey.

"Oh dear, oh dear," his wife was saying. "Whatever will Chloe think if she notices? Perhaps she'll realise that I wasn't joking after all. Perhaps she'll tell the other people at work what happens to mean Mr Saunders at home when he misbehaves."

Robert looked dazedly through the windscreen. They were just pulling into the pool's car park. "Christ, I hope she doesn't," he said.

But Chloe did.

Cross Country

The glider is high up - maybe three thousand feet over the hilltop, which is itself a good six hundred above the sea. Had he not been lying on his back and gazing contentedly into the late summer sky, Frank would probably not have noticed it at all. Now he is transfixed by the lazy progress of the slender machine as it climbs in a slow circle, riding a thermal, neatly framed by the circle of long grass in which he and Mary are hiding.

"Think he can see us?" Frank asks, shifting his position a little to escape a stone that's digging into his bare backside. His shoes, socks, jeans and briefs are in a tangle at the far corner of their picnic blanket.

"'He'?" asks Mary - up on one elbow now, straw-coloured hair in disarray, breasts revealed invitingly by the scooped neckline of her yellow cotton dress. "Stop press, sweetheart - just occasionally one of us little women gets out of the kitchen and all the way up in one of those things, you know. Sometimes," she says, reaching over to take a soft, teasing grip on her husband's penis,"they even let us handle the controls."

Frank closes his eyes at her touch. "They do?"

"They do, and have done for quite a while. Amelia Earhart? Ring any bells?"

"Sure it does - oh God, honey, that feels good - she's the girl from way back who flew across the Atlantic - or was it the Pacific? And then -"

"It was both."

" - and then took a wrong turn trying to find some island, and was never seen again." Frank opens one eye mischievously. "Probably got into trouble while she was fixing her makeup in the rear-view mirror."

Mary withdraws her hand abruptly, and uses it to brush crumbs from her skirt. "You'd know all about getting into trouble," she says.

That produces an uncomfortable smile. "Hey, sorry about earlier, love - but let's not spoil the mood. Look, the sun's shining. It's not supposed to be a school day." Frank puts his hands beneath him and slides his torso over until his head is resting on her lap. "Or if it is, how about you carry on with the history lesson? You know I have a thing for you intellectual schoolma'am types."

Mary regards him coolly for a moment. "Amelia Mary Earhart," she says. "No relation, before you ask. American, born around the end of the nineteenth century. Learned to fly. Set quite a number of records, became a celebrity proponent of female equality. And disappeared, like you said, in mysterious circumstances - most likely after running out of fuel. Which, by the way, as well as any 'wrong turns', would have been down to her highly experienced, and very male, navigator."

Frank is sceptical. "Male navigator, oil changer, heavy lifter, engine starter..."

Mary squints up into the sunlight. "Maybe so. But our friend up there doesn't need an engine," she says.

"I guess not," says Frank, eager to keep the mood light and the subject safe. "So, do you think he - or she - can see us?"

"I should certainly hope not," Mary says. "And if you mean, can he or she see your frisky little cock - since you're the one lounging around partly tumescent and practically naked - I'd say probably not without a very low pass and bloody powerful binoculars."

Frank looks hurt. "I thought you liked my cock," he says.

"Oh, I do, sweetie. But I like dragonflies and bumble bees and dormice too. Doesn't mean I'm in a hurry to put one in my mouth."

Frank sighs and sits up. "Guess I might as well get dressed, in that case. And then we can head back home to mother."

"Not just yet, I don't think." Mary makes a show of gathering up his discarded clothes and pushing them into a corner of their wicker picnic basket, where the plates and glasses and leftover food have already been put away. Then she fixes him with her gaze and says, "Not until we've had a little discussion about what happened this morning."

Frank rolls his eyes. "Come on, darling. You could see how she was needling me."

"'She' is my mother, Frank, and a guest in our house. Yes, she can sometimes be a little forthright. But she is not an 'interfering witch'. And next time you're tempted to address her as such, I want you to be thinking about the consequences."

Frank blinks. He opens his mouth to speak, but then thinks better of it, and in any case Mary is busy rooting inside the basket again.

"Let me tell you what's going to happen," she says. She retrieves the large, folded penknife whose corkscrew attachment they'd used to open the wine, and points it toward him for emphasis. "You are going to cut me a switch. Not too thick, not too thin, say the diameter of your little finger. Make it about a foot-and-a-half long. Nice, pale wood with plenty of spring - hazel or hickory or birch are all good."

Frank looks warily at the knife for a moment and doesn't move, almost as though he were considering saying no. Then he reaches out and takes it, as they both knew he would.

"Honey, she really was needling me," he says again, but this time without conviction.

"Less whining," says Mary. "More switch-cutting."

Mary's hunt for the knife has also turned up an uneaten banana. Now she uses her long nails to pry open its skin before peeling it slowly, thoughtfully. "Look on the bright side," she says, "Once we've got this unpleasant business out of the way, who knows? If you've shown me you can do as you're told, and after I've had the satisfaction of whipping your bare little behind, I might even be in the mood," - she slowly slides a good third of the banana between her full lips, bites off a mouthful and talks around it - "to show you some forgiveness."

She picks up the paperback book from the blanket beside her, opens it at the bookmark and reads half a page before looking up again as if in surprise that Frank is still in the same spot. "Or," she says, "we can head back to the car right now. And we'll do this at home, with the hairbrush, and with mummy listening in the next room."

Frank's face flushes instantly. "Wait... okay," he says.

"'Okay', what?"

"I mean, I'll do it. The switch thing."

"Yes," says Mary, still chewing, "you will."

Frank glances over to where one trouser cuff is protruding from the top of the basket. "I'll just put my..."

"No," says Mary, "you won't. Not until after you've been dealt with."

Frank lowers his gaze and pushes out his bottom lip, like a scolded child. He spends a minute or so fiddling with the knife, popping a blade in and out. Stalling. Finally he looks around, and nods hopefully at the small stand of bushes a few yards behind them. "Are any of those hazel or... what was it again?"

"Those are laburnum," Mary says, and points over his shoulder. "Try there."

Frank turns and gapes at the open ground between their hidden location and the wooded area that Mary is indicating. "You're kidding, right?"

Mary ponders briefly. "Nope," she says.

"But that's miles away. What if somebody walks past?"

"Then you'd better be busy inside that wood, or safely back here with my switch, when they do."

"But what if they're around when I come out?"

Mary sighs and closes her book. "I suppose we mustn't frighten the locals. We'll need a secret signal, to spare your blushes."

"Secret signal?"

Mary raises her eyebrows. "Did you read even a single adventure story in your youth? Or did you progress straight from picture books of moo-moos and baa-baas to the lingerie pages of your mother's catalogue?" Frank begins to protest, but she cuts him off. "Yes, dear, a  secret signal. Like an owl hoot, or a cuckoo call. Or a whistle."

"A whistle?"

"Good God," sighs Mary, "I've married a parrot. Yes, a whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you Frank? You just put your lips together, and blow."

"I know how to whistle," says Frank. "But how will this work?"

"I'm coming to that. Once you've cut yourself a switch, you stay nice and hidden but you give me a whistle. Like this." She  demonstrates, with a low sound that glides up and down in pitch. "Now you do it."

Frank looks pained, but manages a fair imitation.

"Hmm," frowns Mary. "Well, that will have to do. Now, when I hear that, I'll stand up and have a little look around. If the coast is clear, I'll answer you with the same whistle and you can come scurrying back with your weapon of choice."

"And if the coast isn't clear?"

"Then I won't answer you."

Frank looks unhappy. "We don't need to do this, honey."

"Fine. Then you can take a chance on an impromptu audience."

"Um, I actually mean...we don't need to do this at all."

Mary greets this suggestion with an icy stare. "I do hope we're not entering a period of defiance, Francis. But if we are, I daresay my mother might enjoy hearing it brought to an abrupt end."

Frank's shoulders slump visibly. "No," he sighs. "It's just... could you point? I wouldn't know any of those types of tree..."

"...if they bit you on the ass?" Mary allows herself a smirk. "Tell you what, we won't worry too much about the species. You just keep examining nice, whippy little branches until you say to yourself, 'That one looks like it'd really, really hurt.' Then you deliver it back here and we find out how right you were." She leans over and places a finger beneath Frank's chin to lift his face toward hers. She's no longer smiling. "You'll want to take your time and choose carefully, little man, because if I don't like the switch you bring me then you'll be going right back to cut another. Now, do we understand each other?"

It's the question Frank always struggles with, even though it has only one permissible answer and he has had plenty of practice at providing it.

"Yes, ma'am," he says with difficulty.

"Good," says Mary, "then there'll be no more debate."

Frank would like more debate - a whole afternoon of it, if he thought he could wear Mary down; which long and painful experience has taught him he cannot. During three years of courtship and another two of marriage he's lost count of the number of times she's found it necessary to 'deal with' him - never quite without reason, but always with an enthusiasm bordering on glee. Mary has made good and frequent use of the hairbrush, the belt, the slipper; in the bedroom, the lounge, the kitchen and, on one occasion that he still blushes to recall, the rear patio of their semi-detached surburban house while their neighbours entertained friends on the far side of their six-foot fence. Are his wife's ministrations good for him? Do they strengthen their relationship? Frank doesn't know, and has long since given up wondering. He does know that the force of her personality intoxicates him in exactly the same way as it did in their first few months together; and that when she instructs him to do something and she means it, he cannot say no.

Frank does not say no. Instead he rises cautiously to his knees, and peers across the space between the edge of the long grass and the woods. Lord, that's got to be at least a hundred-and-fifty yards. He eases himself up a little further, self-consciously tugging down the hem of his t-shirt as he does so. He cranes his neck to look up the path as far as he can see, to where it disappears over the rise. He turns to his left and for a few moments watches the opening at the far corner of the field. Nobody appears, but that doesn't mean nobody will.

Mary glances at her watch. "The village market closes at four, doesn't it?" she says casually. "Probably be quite a few people heading home this way soon." Frank doesn't answer, but pulls harder on the fabric until he more-or-less manages to cover his crotch. "What I mean is," continues Mary, "if I were you I'd stop making like a meerkat and run, rabbit, run. Oh, you'd best leave your shirt here too. I paid good money for that, and you're stretching it all out of shape." She extends a hand. "Take it off please, and give it to me."

Frank stares at her in dismay. "I can't," he says, feebly.

"'Can't'?" says Mary. "Of course you can, sweetie. Just pull up that hem...come on, up, up, higher... now over your head... there you go."

A minute later Frank, perfectly naked now except for the running shoes that Mary has tossed him at the last moment - "We can't have you scratching those pretty feet" - is crawling to the edge of the long grass. Slowly, head on a swivel, he rises to his knees and finally balances on his haunches.

For a few moments he just crouches there, swaying slightly, caught between the resolve to get this over with and the queasy fear of putting distance between himself and the dignity of his clothing. He looks back at Mary and opens his mouth to say something - anything - but she's already engrossed in her book.

"You're supposed to be keeping a look out," Frank hisses.

"I am. Off you go, nature boy."

Frank's mouth tightens and he closes his eyes for several long seconds. When he opens them again he is still there, still naked, and still - but not for much longer - hidden from view. Reluctantly, giddy with adrenaline, he gets to his feet and then catches himself momentarily, ridiculously, looking for a pocket in which to stow the knife. Finally he grips it between his teeth. Then, genitals clasped in one hand and with the other trying ineffectually to cover his bare bottom, he begins to run.

Frank makes it halfway to the trees before he falls. A rock, or a root, or something - he's not about to stop and investigate - catches his toe, and he loses his balance and sprawls full length in the dirt. Cursing, he scrambles to his feet and then stumbles on, one hand still cupped over his groin and the other rubbing at a graze on his knee. The knife has been jettisoned ahead of him, and he scoops it up without breaking his stride.

As he nears the treeline he realises the way into the woods is blocked - stinging nettles, hundreds of them, standing chest-high along the perimeter as far as he can see. His pace slows to a stop and he backs up a little to get a better view. "Shit," he says. "Shit!" Hands jammed between his thighs, bouncing on his toes, he turns this way and that in an agonised fit of indecision.

The barking of a nearby dog breaks the spell. There's no telling where it's coming from, but every chance that the animal and its owners are heading this way. Alarmed, Frank plunges straight ahead through the dense vegetation, ignoring the hot sparks of the stinging hairs breaking over his skin.

Now inside the wood Frank feels a little better, if not exactly at ease. The trees are densely packed and there's plenty of low-growing foliage, and once he's a few yards in, the field is completely hidden from him - and thus he from it. He crouches experimentally, and decides that he could probably make himself mostly invisible if anyone came along the path within the wood. Probably. Mostly. "Shit," he says again. Best to keep moving.

At first Frank can't find what he's looking for. There are branches everywhere, of course, but all of them somehow wrong; too thick, too thin, too bent, too dead. "Choose carefully, young man," he reminds himself bitterly. He rubs vigorously at the nettle stings peppering his thighs, and watches his exposed penis bobbing in response as if mocking his predicament. Twice he's heard voices within the wood, thankfully none of them nearby but more than enough to make him jittery.

After several minutes of activity, much of it spent ducking into bushes at the slightest unexpected noise, Frank comes across a promising-looking tree with a dozen small branches radiating out from its trunk. Crouching, he bends a couple of them to test their flexibility and then chooses one. After a furtive glance over each shoulder he uses the knife to saw away at its base, twisting and tugging at it until it suddenly comes free. He topples backwards onto his behind, not hurt but nonetheless left with a dismal vision of himself - a thirty-four year old man, stripped to his birthday suit in the middle of a public wood, holding the instrument of his correction in one hand and using the other to pick away the dead leaves that have attached themselves to his bare buttocks and scrotum. The knife has skittered away into the undergrowth, and after a brief search Frank resigns himself to having lost it. Sullenly, he hacks at the undergrowth with the switch, and it cuts the air with a menacing thwip. At least that will help to fend off the nettles for the return trip.

Frank makes his way carefully back to the spot where he entered the wood - or thinks he did, since it all looks the bloody same by now. He finds a patch of bracken and hunkers down within it, as close to the tree line as he dares. If he can make it back to Mary without being seen, then at least he's past the worst of this. He might even laugh about it later, especially if the promise of that thing with the banana comes to fruition. He's not looking forward to the whipping, of course, but it will hardly be his first.

It's only when Frank attempts to whistle that he realises how dry his mouth is. He swallows hard and tries again, and this time the result sounds, if anything, too loud. At least that ought to do it, he thinks - except that it doesn't. Only sporadic snatches of birdsong break the stillness of the afternoon. Frank tries again, then suddenly thinks: shut up, you idiot - no response means the coast isn't clear. And here you are drawing attention to yourself.

Frank squats and listens and waits, fingers drumming against his pink-skinned knees, until eventually he can no longer bear the suspense. Creeping forward, he straightens up until he can just see over the top of the nettle bed. There is indeed someone walking there, out towards the stile at the far corner of the field - a young blonde woman in a yellow dress, carrying a picnic basket.

"Mary!" Frank exclaims in an absurd stage whisper.

She has to be teasing him, of course... doesn't she? She's heard him whistle, probably guesses that he'll be looking, and she does have a fondness for pranks. Any moment now, she'll look round and flash her trademark grin in his direction.

Any moment now.

Frank waits for Mary to turn back at the stile. Then he waits, a little less certainly, while she hoists the basket - the basket containing his clothes - and climbs over it into the roadway. And then she is gone.

Oh, God.

Suddenly gripped by anxiety, Frank briefly considers making a break out of the trees and straight through the meadow, and dignity be damned - but that's before a brown labrador, nose to the ground, trots across his field of view. Following it are a middle-aged man and woman, deep in conversation but still unlikely to miss a stranger clad in running shoes and nothing else sprinting across an open field - so Frank stays put. Cursing furiously under his breath, he peers through the leaves and watches the dog walkers saunter along the path, taking their time; for all the world as though they were only out for a pleasant stroll and not actually intent on ruining his life.

Finally, inexorably, the walkers disappear from view. Frank counts to ten, glances briefly behind him and begins to swing at the nettles with the switch. Twenty seconds later he is edging sideways through the gap he's created and thinking, thinking hard. The car is parked about half a mile away and Mary has a head start of five or six minutes, which means she'll be most of the way there by now. It's unthinkable - isn't it? - that she'd drive off without him. So yes, yes, she'll be waiting in the car. He won't want to waste any time, though - the field has been quiet enough for most of the afternoon, so he'll cut across to the far hedge as fast as he can go, and then be more careful once he gets to the road.

For a while, Frank is lucky. Nobody yells or screams as he races across the field, arms and legs pumping, testicles bouncing uncomfortably. Next he follows the line of the road but keeps within the edges of the fields as best he can, hurriedly pressing himself into hedgerows whenever he hears an approaching car. At one point he spots a farmer's tractor in the distance, but there's not much he can do about that. Probably doesn't care so long as I'm not trampling his crop, Frank thinks - then, a second later: who am I kidding? More likely he's on his cellphone to the police right now, reporting a dangerous pervert in the top pasture.

As Frank watches the tractor it seems to turn in his direction, which gets him moving again. He vaults over a gate and out into the lane at the same moment that a blue Toyota convertible, top down, is rounding the bend. Frank gets a glimpse of the driver and her passengers - three young female faces, all sharing one astonished expression and all turned in his direction - as the car cruises past. He turns away and retreats down the lane at a brisk walk, as if to run would make him somehow more conspicuous. Behind him the Toyota slews to a stop, and from within it come a shrill wolf whistle, raucous laughter and a girl's voice. "Hey, sexy! Need a lift somewhere?" No, thinks Frank - just a sack to cover my head and a hole in the ground to swallow me up. He quickens his pace and after a few seconds hears the car pull away again, a double tap of the horn and more laughter fading into the distance. At least, thinks Frank, they probably don't have room to turn around.

Another five hundred yards, another bend in the lane and there, thank God, is the couple's white Ford saloon. By ducking his head Frank can see Mary in the driver's seat, one foot propped up against the dashboard, reading her book. She looks up as he approaches, her expression hard to read except that there's a definite hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth.

Frank stalks up to the car, yanks at the handle of the passenger door and finds it locked. His wife cocks an eyebrow, but makes no move to open it.

"Christ, Mary," Frank says through the closed side window.

She's smirking openly now, and when she speaks her voice is muted by the glass. "Enjoy your walk?"

"No, not really. What the hell were you thinking?"

"That you'd like the chance to show off your superior male navigation skills. What happened, did you take a wrong turn?"

"Very funny."

Mary taps the face of her wristwatch. "Anyway - ten minutes, I said. You were fifteen, at least. A girl gets bored, left alone for too long."

Frank scowls, searches his memory. "What do you mean, 'ten minutes?' You said no such thing!"

"Didn't I? Oh. Well, I meant to. You probably distracted me with all that sulking."

Frank pulls at the handle again, uselessly. "Could you open the door?"

"What's the magic word?"

 "Please," sighs Frank.

"And where's your magic wand?"

Frank stares at Mary for a moment, and then lifts the switch for her to inspect. He'd almost forgotten he had it.

"Very nice. Very nice indeed. So, are you ready for your whipping?"

"What?"

Mary reaches over and cracks the window an inch. "I said, Frank: are you ready for your whipping?"

Frank shakes his head weakly. "Please, love. Look, I'll apologise to your mother. Unlock the door and let's go home. I've... learned my lesson, alright?" He looks up and down the lane and then takes a step back, spreading his arms to indicate his nakedness. "Hey, I've spent the last half hour like this. I've hidden in bushes. I've been stung to buggery by nettles. I've been chased by farmers. I've been damn nearly abducted by predatory women. Now, come on. You've had your fun."

Mary sits back, opens her own door, and swings her feet out onto the dusty unmade surface of the lane. She pushes herself up from her seat, steps around to Frank's side of the car and takes the switch from his hand, flexing it until it forms an almost circular frame behind which her pretty face resolves itself into a tight-lipped smile.

"No," she says. "No I haven't."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The hilltop is bathed in sunlight - maybe four hundred feet below her, Margaret calculates, with a glance at her altimeter. The shadows are longer than they were on her outbound trip, but it's still a beautiful afternoon and the sky is a flawless azure bowl stretching from horizon to horizon. She studies the aviation map on her lap: six miles back to the airfield, which at her current glide ratio should leave her about two hundred feet of altitude to spare by the time she crosses the perimeter. Cutting it a little fine, admittedly, but then twenty years' experience has given her plenty of confidence in the cockpit. She checks her watch. She'll be in the clubhouse by six and she's already looking forward to flirting with the new bartender, Matthew - twenty-three years old, and with a cute little arse that has her adding snacks to her order just because he has to bend down to get them. He lives locally, too, and he did blush very prettily when she told him what happens to naughty boys who miscount her change. Perhaps she'll take him to bed at the end of his shift - his bed, that is - and then he can bring her back to pick up her Jeep in the morning.

A glint of reflected sunlight below her catches Margaret's attention.

Down there in the lane, pointing off towards the distant town, is a solitary, white parked car. Probably a couple out for an intimate drive, Margaret smiles to herself, although it seems they might be having some trouble. He, shirtless by the look of it, is bending over the front of the vehicle as though to inspect the engine - but the bonnet is closed. She, a couple of feet behind him, seems to be gesturing with something. No, she's swinging her arm rhythmically back and forth.

As the glider draws level with the vehicle, and just before the scene disappears from view beneath her starboard wing, Margaret sees that the man isn't only bare from the waist up. He's actually... and the woman appears to be... "Oh my," she says aloud, "Well, there's one for the log book." Intrigued, Margaret considers going around for a second pass, and even as she looks behind her the glider begins to drift a little. Best not to risk it, she decides after a few moments. Not so many thermals at this time of day to help her home, and in any case she'll have a young man of her own to play with before the evening's out. She spots the drift and applies some corrective rudder and stick, and the aircraft obediently responds. Smiling, she pats the control column with a gloved hand. "Good boy," she says. "Good boy."

Firm Discipline

"It's not about the money, Stuart. It's a question of trust."

Miranda Wells - fifty-two, sharply suited, severely beautiful - sifted through the collection of expense receipts before her.

"Lord knows," she continued, addressing the young man standing awkwardly on the far side of her desk, "on a good day you're already making more profit for this company in ten minutes' work than this little lot amounts to. You certainly have the talent. But then I think it's fair to say - especially at your tender age, especially at the start of your career - that I'm paying you handsomely for it."

Stuart Freeman - twenty-two, expensively coiffured, boyishly good-looking - said nothing. He studied the carpet at his feet with apparent nonchalance, although he was somewhat betrayed by the flush rising to his cheeks.

After a few seconds Miranda stopped shuffling and began to lay out the incriminating sheets of paper in a neat row, face up, with the solemn formality of a fortune teller dealing from a tarot deck. Each was turned towards Stuart as though to encourage him to think on his betrayal; each foretold a gloomy future.

Miranda carefully straightened up the last sheet. Then she leaned back in her padded leather chair, folded her silk-sleeved arms across her ample bosom, and let her cool gaze rest on her newest and youngest employee for a long, long moment.

"So," she said presently. "Promising future, enviable salary, and yet..." - she waved an elegant hand dismissively above the offending paperwork - "And yet, this. The question is, Stuart... the question is, why?"

Stuart's mouth tightened a little and he offered a small, apologetic shrug - a gesture that had served him well during the schooldays to which he felt himself suddenly transported.

Miranda waited. She studied her fingernails. She let the silence build. Then she sighed. "I have a theory, if you'll indulge me. It's not enough for you to be young and successful and rather pretty, is it? No, you're one of those young men who's happiest when he's breaking the rules. Playing the chancer. Being a bad boy. Are you a bad boy, Stuart?"

That produced something dangerously close to a smirk.

"I'd straighten that face if I were you, young man," said Miranda, "because otherwise I'll happily do it for you." She drummed her fingers briefly on the desk. "Oh, and I'm still waiting for an explanation, but since I've plenty of paperwork to do here then I'm also happy to keep you standing there all morning if need be. What's more - since it's company time you're wasting - every minute you do stand there is another minute you'll be sat at your desk this evening making up for it."

She peered at him over the steel frames of her spectacles. "Assuming, that is, that you're lucky enough to have a desk to go back to."

That, at least, had some effect. Stuart cleared his throat.

"Miranda, I..."

"...mmm sorry I falsified my hotel claims?"

"Well, yes, but I..."

"...never imagined I might get caught?" Miranda retrieved one of the receipts and glanced at it briefly before holding it out towards her young underling. "You know, considering how much Mummy and Daddy must have spent on your top-flight education, you can't spell for toffee. It's been a while since I stayed at the Hilton, but I'm pretty sure that the last time I did they were still only writing the name of it with one L."

Stuart's face reddened further. "I was going to say that I... made a mistake, it won't happen again. And I need to be getting on with that report."

Miranda continued to regard him evenly as though he hadn't spoken at all. Then she reached across, slid open a desk drawer and began to extract its contents. Stuart watched as a pen holder, a glass paperweight and a pocket calculator appeared on the desk before her.

"You know," Miranda was saying as she worked, "there are many different approaches to people management. Some bosses, for instance, are rather squeamish about discipline. Theirs is a warm, fluffy world where incentive is all about praise and reward - the proverbial 'carrot'. Personally, I've always been more of a..." - and here she retrieved what she'd been hunting for, and laid it flat upon the desk - "...stick girl."

Stuart gazed in confusion at the pale wooden paddle. It was about eighteen inches long, drilled with a neat grid of circular holes and coated in a thick varnish that gleamed under the flourescent light. It held his attention all the time that Miranda was uncrossing her long legs, rising from her chair and stepping out from behind her desk to stand behind him.

It distracted him so completely that he jumped a little when she spoke again.

"The fact is, I'd been thinking of awarding you a little bonus after the way you turned around the Williams account last month. But sadly it now seems rewards are not appropriate." She paused to pick a fleck of lint, real or imaginary, from his shoulder, and as she did so her mouth came within an inch of his ear. "No, it seems you've already been a greedy little donkey," she said. "No carrot for you."

Miranda took a step back and was busy rolling up her sleeve when Stuart summoned the courage to turn his head and glance behind him. Miranda caught his gaze and said, "Take off your jacket and hand it to me."

He opened his mouth to say something, to be the bad boy, but nothing came out of it. Instead he slipped the garment from his shoulders, passed it into Miranda's oustretched hand and watched as she deposited it on a coat stand in the corner of the office. As she turned to retake her position behind him he found himself unable to meet her eye, and faced the desk again. He felt a little dizzy, and pressed his fingertips against the cool wood to steady himself.

The paddle tugged at his gaze, but he made himself concentrate on a large painting hung behind the chair that he had never studied before. It featured a somewhat familiar depiction of a Biblical scene: to the left were Adam and Eve, falling prey to temptation; to the right, the same couple being banished from the Garden. "The Fall of Man, by Michelangelo." Miranda was at his ear again. "Somewhat appropriate, don't you think?"

She placed a proprietary hand against the small of Stuart's back, and used it for support as she leaned past him - one firm breast brushing his arm as she did so - to separate the papers on the polished walnut desktop. She arranged them in two columns, with a space between them the width of a man's torso. "As I'm sure you're aware," she was saying, "You're two weeks from the end of your probation period. And you were doing so well, too. I think it's possible you still have a bright future - yes, even in my employ. But that does depend upon us understanding one another."

Stuart braced himself as she leaned further, stretching to reach the paddle before turning it over appraisingly in her hand.

"It'd be a pity to lose you, Stuart," said Miranda.

Janine Peters - twenty-seven, bespectacled, vacantly pretty - sat at her computer in the outer office, ignoring the thirty-four unopened emails in her inbox but paying rapt attention to the telephone conversation she was having with a friend. She held the receiver expertly under her chin so that she could paint her nails while she talked. "Yeah, he's in there now... yep... oh, he said to discuss his salary. Yeah, he's a cocky one - told me he'd mailed Miranda this morning to set up a meeting - told her that she could either pay him an extra ten thousand or watch him walk. Funny thing is, I checked her calendar this morning? And he didn't make that appointment. She did."

She switched the receiver to her left ear and began to work on her other hand.

"What's that, Kel? Oh yeah, he's pretty cute. If he gets that extra ten thou then I might just let him take me out to... wait, hang on a sec."

Janine held her breath and listened, one nail half-painted, the brush poised in mid-air. Yes, there it was again - somewhat muffled by the thick office door, but unmistakable. Like a firecracker being let off in the next street.

Janine shifted her bottom on her chair, as if at some uncomfortable recollection. "Kelly," she said, "I have to go. No, I'll call you tonight. No, really. Kel... later. Later. Bye. Bye." Janine hung up the phone and cocked her head, mouth slightly open, for a few more seconds. Then she turned back to her computer and started to work, harder than she'd done in weeks.

Within the office, Stuart's customary smirk was long gone. Had you been able to see his expression - and you'd need to have positioned yourself carefully, since his forehead was pressed against the desktop and his formerly perfect fringe was in disarray around his eyes - then you might have called it a grimace.

Miranda's features, by contrast, were set in a serene smile as she drew back the paddle again and cast an approving eye over the tight trouser seat to which she had already applied it, five times, good and hard. Thirty years in executive roles had given her an appreciation of a well-cut suit.

"Burns rather, doesn't it Stuart?" she smiled. "At least, that's what they tell me."

Stuart said nothing, but panted his agreement. Sucking air through his clenched teeth, he lifted his head just far enough to allow a small double-nod - also just far enough for him to bump it against the polished wood as Miranda swung again, the shock of the impact propelling him momentarily forward onto his toes and taking his breath away.

Miranda watched patiently as he absorbed the agony, fingers clenching and unclenching, knees flexing unsteadily.

"I hope we've cleared up any misunderstanding," she said. "I employ you to take money from our clients. Not from me." Then she gently placed the paddle back onto the desk next to her prone employee. "Alright, up you get. You may go back to work."

When Miranda's office door opened again, Janine made sure that she could be seen tapping diligently at her keyboard. However it was Stuart who emerged, red-faced and somewhat dishevelled. Closing the door carefully behind him, and with the briefest of glances in Janine's direction, he made his way - somewhat stiffly - past her desk.

"Get that raise?" asked Janine, not too loudly, and with a barely suppressed smirk.

"She's... thinking about it," replied Stuart, a little more shakily than he'd intended. "She says I..." He stopped, for the door had opened once more behind him.

"Janine, while it's fresh in my mind," said Miranda, "I'd like you to make some adjustments to Mr Freeman's salary this month. One day's pay deducted... no, better make it two. Just add a note against the alteration - 'Company time and materials wasted'. Oh, and Mr Freeman's expense claims have been rejected for this month. All of them."

Janine shot a glance at the young man, who had stopped in his tracks. He did not return her gaze.

"Oh, and Stuart," Miranda continue from the doorway. "If I have to do this again... bare bottom next time."

Miranda made to turn back into her office, but was struck by another thought. "Oh, and Janine - the phone bill arrived this morning. I'd have thought you'd remember our little discussion about private calls on company time. But if not, I'll be happy to repeat it."

Then she turned on her heel, leaving her employees to exchange astonished looks, and closed the door behind her.

Sore Losers

'And the Triple Word Score makes it thirty-three,' said Peter, nudging the last of his letter tiles into place.

'Funny,' mused Alan from the other side of the table as he studied the playing board. 'When I was at school, zero was zero whether you tripled it or not.'

'When you were at school multiplication hadn't been invented,' retorted Pete, despite the fact that at forty-two he was barely three years younger than the other man. 'In any case,' he continued with exaggerated patience, 'I'm not tripling zero. I'm tripling eleven.' He tapped each letter in turn. 'Three, four, eight, nine, eleven.'

'I can see the numbers,' said Alan, 'and I can see the letters. What I'm not seeing is any English word that exists outside of your wishful thinking.'

'Let it go, Alan,' said his fiancée Lucy - lightly, but with just a hint of warning in her tone. Although she enjoyed having her friend Jenny visit, the childish sniping between their menfolk was always wearing and tonight it had reached fever pitch.'We don't have a dictionary to hand, so you boys are just going to have to play nicely and give one another the benefit of the doubt - for once. Which would be a welcome change, wouldn't it Jen?'

'A welcome change and a bloody miracle,' replied her friend wearily. 'I don't know that word either though, Pete. You sure it doesn't have an A after the O?'

Her husband scowled.

'Jesus, Jenny. Whose side are you on?'

'Mine, sweetie. Last time I checked, this wasn't a team game - if you're losing then it's all your own work. And if you're going to sulk about it, then we'll be having a little discussion regarding that when we get home.'

Peter's mouth opened but then shut again, and he coloured visibly. A moment later he reached out to retrieve two of his letter tiles and closed the gap to form a shorter word.

Alan studied his rival's offering with a smirk of derision. 'C-O-N, con - how appropriate - and worth a frankly underwhelming six.' He retrieved the pencil from the centre of the table and neatly wrote the figure under Peter's name, overscoring it several times for emphasis. 'Not exactly a winning word, ladies and gentleman - but at least this time he had some kind of a clue how to spell it.'

'Here's a clue for you,' muttered Peter evenly, as he reached for the bag to replenish his pieces but found it empty. 'This one's two words. Starts with 'f' and ends in 'uck you'.

For a moment nobody spoke. Then 'Enough,' said Jenny, pushing her chair back from the table and turning to her friend. 'Lucy, honey, do you have somewhere private I can take my husband for a few minutes?'

Peter blanched. 'Ok, sweetheart,' he said quickly, his hands raised in a gesture of supplication. 'Forget I said that. I take it back.'

Jenny placed her own palms flat on the tabletop and bent so that her face was level with his. 'I'm not your sweetheart right now, and you're certainly not mine. And it's a little late for you to be taking anything back, but just exactly the right time for me to be taking something down. Lucy, sorry to be a nuisance...'

'Not at all,' said her friend with a small shake of her head that made her pony tail bounce. 'You can use our bedroom, second on the right. There's a straight-backed chair in the corner that tends to come out when necessary.'

'Ooh, that sounds perfect. And I don't suppose you have a...'

'Top drawer of the dressing table,' said Lucy. 'Always close to hand.' She laced her fingers beneath her chin, rested her bare elbows on the table and cocked an eyebrow at Alan. 'Isn't it, young man? Needed it quite a lot lately yourself, haven't you?'

Alan, apparently absorbed, slid his letter tiles carefully from side to side while he studied the tabletop. 'Mm-hmm,' he said.

'Speaking of which,' said Jenny, 'I believe it's your turn to play, Luce. And you can take your time. There'll be no rush.' She reached over and used two fingers to issue a brisk tap to the back of Peter's wrist. 'Follow me, mister,' she said. Turning on her heel, she strode purposefully from the room. Peter sat frozen for a moment until Lucy caught his eye. 'Off you go, little boy, and get your medicine,' she chided, and he reluctantly stood and made his way out. Moments later there was the sound of the bedroom door closing softly behind him.

For almost five minutes Lucy sat studying and rearranging her letters while her fiancée fidgeted in his seat and their guests were occupied down the hall. One might have expected the noise issuing from the couple's bedroom - the lengthy scolding, the muted apologies and the eventual rhythmic thwop of hairbrush against bare skin - to spoil her concentration. Yet it only seemed to inspire her. A small, amused smile played across her lips whenever the brush found a spot that produced a muffled yelp from the other room. 'Con,' she half-sang under her breath as she considered her move. 'Con, con, con...' Finally she sighed happily and began to transfer her tiles to the board, appending them to the three that the luckless Peter had already put down. 'T - R - I - T - I - O - N,' she recited. 'That makes twelve altogether, plus the fifty point bonus for using all of my letters at once.' She sat back and regarded Alan with a satisfied expression. 'Bingo,' she said.

A few moments later their friends reappeared, Jenny with a contented glow and Peter looking red-faced and flustered. His arms were held stiffly at his side and his fingers waggled involuntarily as though he were fighting the urge to rub his behind. He spent an agonised few seconds lowering himself back onto his chair.

Retaking her own seat, Jenny looked over the board. 'Ooh, you are a clever old thing, Lucy. That's a great word.'

'Glad you think so,' smiled the other woman. 'It's one of my favourites.' She turned to her fiancée, who seemed to be taking surprisingly little pleasure in the other man's discomfort. 'Your turn, Alan,' she said.

'But the game's over,' he replied a little uncertainly. 'You've won.'

'Oh, I'm not talking about the game,' said Lucy.

'I had a hunch,' chuckled Jenny, 'so I've left everything out for you.'

'Thanks, Jen,' replied her friend with a wink. 'The only question is - shall I make coffee now, or after we come back? I have a feeling we may be some time.'

Equipment Failure

I've been meaning to follow up this post in which my stepsister Wanda was going on about the disciplinary training at her office - and now I have! :)

*********************************************************************************

Kevin Peters could scarcely remember spending a more uncomfortable morning at OSIRIS. Wanda, his overbearing and frankly sadistic line manager, had insisted he facilitate that day's course - Disciplinary Techniques - for the new female intake. Given just a day's notice Kevin had booked the training room, printed and bound manuals, sourced equipment, attached diagrams to whiteboards, and sent out invitations. With an empathetic shudder he had secured two well-used caning dummies - stitched and stuffed, he knew, by inmates of the local men's prison - to heavy tables.

Finally satisfied, if more than a little apprehensive, he had waited at the door to distribute the course books and the long, whippy OSIRIS-issue canes to the arriving trainees. Here they came, giggling in anticipation, one or two of them taking the opportunity to upbraid him for no good reason - trying out their newly-appointed roles as managers of men.

The air of expectation only increased with the entrance of Dana 'The Caner Trainer' Balewa. The statuesque and beautiful Nigerian, five-inch heels clacking on the linoleum, swept through the doorway and homed in on Kevin without breaking stride. Leaning so close that the heady mix of her perfume and her warm breath made his head swim, she reached around the bundle of canes in his arms to straighten the knot of his tie.

'You're one of Wanda's, aren't you?' she mused as if to herself. 'Yes,' said the young man; and a moment later added a hurried 'ma'am', in response to an almost imperceptible raising of her eyebrow.

Sliding one of the wicked implements from his grip, the tall woman flexed it appraisingly until it formed an almost circular frame for her steely gaze. 'I just met her in the canteen. She said she'd be along shortly to see how well you've done. Or... not.' She approached one of the dummies and, frowning, traced a long fingernail over the threadbare fabric stretched across its rump. 'This naughty boy's seen some action, hasn't he? I'd say he's just about to go pop!' She leaned over to examine the other dummy. 'And if anything, this one's even worse. You do have replacements lined up, I take it?'

Kevin felt his face flush crimson and his jaw slacken. There was no chatter in the room now, and one or two of the delegates were openly smirking at the exchange. His mouth was still working ineffectually several seconds later when Wanda appeared at his shoulder. 'All set?'

'I... think so,' faltered Kevin. 'Shall I just leave these things here? I do have that report to be getting on with.'

Wanda wagged a finger in mock rebuke. 'Before we've even started? Which part of 'facilitate' don't you understand, Mr Peters? No, you can stay put for the duration. You have the whole evening to make sure that document's on my desk first thing tomorrow.'

And so Kevin did stay put, as Ms Balewa laid stroke after laser-guided stroke across the first dummy's bulging behind while her awestruck students watched and learned and eagerly awaited their turns.

When the time came, some of those young women were suspiciously adept. Others were hopelessly off-target. All were wildly enthusiastic, and every one of them terrified Kevin Peters. Gradually the damage to the dummy's rear became untenable. Kevin watched, dismayed, as a tiny opening appeared in the tortured material and a single white feather worked its way through it and floated ominously to the floor. It only took another two strokes for the fabric to split completely, disgorging its downy contents into the air and prompting a triumphant cheer from the assembled women.

And Dana Balewa had been right about the other dummy - it didn't even survive her second demonstration, bursting at an overstressed seam as the cane thudded home. This time the applause was short-lived, the trainees sensing an early end to their entertainment; and as it died away Kevin became aware that Wanda was speaking into his ear in the sing-song stage whisper she reserved for such occasions. 'Oh dear, Kevin. A little lacking in preparation, wouldn't you say? We have the whole afternoon reserved for practice, and nothing to practise on. Do you have any suggestions?' She leaned a little closer, and used the palm of her hand to deliver two sharp swats to the seat of his trousers.

'Any ideas, Kevin?' she said. 'Any ideas at all?'

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.

Zero Tolerance

Evenin' all. Now this scenario is a little darker than most, so before you read on I thought I should make clear that I abhor all real-world abuse of power - yes, even by sexy female police officers. But in imagination? Well, bring it on...

Zero Tolerance
Fanta City, 2019. In the six years since its inception, the metropolis's now largest police department, F3M - popularly known as FemForce - had amassed an impressive record of success. Staffed exclusively by female officers, its origins lay in a 2013 initiative of recruiting and training all-women teams to defuse hostage and domestic violence situations. When not negotiating with criminals, the department had toured schools and colleges educating the city's youth about the perils of crime. 'Let's talk' had been its oft-derided motto, with firearms being rejected in favour of a less lethal combination of baton and extensive body armour for protection.

Meanwhile, massive budget cuts reduced traditional policing to a minimum.



F3M's original ethos was short lived: it turned out that the city's criminals were not open to reason. A more robust approach was called for, and with a track record of innovation FemForce was moved up to spearhead it.

The department's autonomy allowed it to evolve at a remarkable rate, unfettered by bureaucracy. Within three years it had outgrown its 'softly, softly' legacy and developed a fearsome reputation for zero-tolerance - some said outright ruthless - policing.

The standard-issue baton became the 'shock stick' with the addition of a cattle prod-like function, and many officers also began to carry a shortened version of the judicial cane recently introduced into men's prisons.

Over time reports began to emerge of summary corporal punishment being administered, often in front of bystanders, for petty offences like littering. Meanwhile it became routine for those arrested for more serious crimes to be publically stripped - 'to check for weapons' - before being cuffed, caned and escorted naked into the waiting police trucks; and, particularly in cases where female victims had been involved, those same trucks were taking ever longer routes back to the station.



Eventually the city mayor announced an investigation into F3M's methods, declaring them 'wholly unacceptable', but by then it was too late - the citizens, tired of rampant criminality, had already taken the new FemForce to their hearts thanks to its winning combination of efficiency, glamour and legendary exploits.

In 2017, the department's reputation had been cemented in the public consciousness by a TV news report on the apprehension of a suspected serial sex attacker. On hearing the distinctive banshee wail of F3M's sirens, the man had fled the scene and squeezed himself several feet into the end of a sewer pipe where, stuck fast and regularly doused in effluent, he had repeatedly offered a full confession in return for being allowed to give himself up to male officers. No such concession was made, and in fact it emerged later that Captain Helen Petersen had seen fit not to forward the request: her girls had worked hard to chase down their quarry, and she was not about to disappoint them by handing him over to another section.

Following a seven-hour standoff, the suspect had finally relented and let himself be extracted, stripped, hosed down and disciplined for wasting police time. His confession had come anyway, of course, so he could have saved everyone a lot of trouble - or so remarked Sargeant Lucy Wells to the assembled onlookers before she went on to administer the final 20 strokes to the man's already ravaged behind.

Rumour had it that there had followed a brief debate about who was to ride with the nude and chastened prisoner on the way to the police station, but this was unnecessary. Remarkably, once he was secured it turned out there was still enough room for a total of eight policewomen to accompany him in the back of the truck.

Perhaps it was the ensuing commotion that distracted the driver and caused her to make a series of mysterious wrong turns. It took the vehicle a full two hours to arrive at its destination.

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.

Dinner And A Show - The Itch

Finally! The second and concluding part of this story. It's quite a long one, and I've illustrated it, and I've animated the illustration (at the bottom of the post, if you're running Flash). I hope those factors go some way to excusing my tardiness.

If you haven't read Part One yet, it's just here. Probably worth a refresher even if you have read it before. It's been a long time!

********************************

Jeff Williams had enjoyed more relaxed restaurant dinners. Having spent much of the evening listening to his wife and her best friend Susan discussing how we was disciplined at home, he had finally persuaded them to leave The Queen Bee and had driven them back to the Williams' Springfield neighbourhood, where Susan was to be their overnight guest.

A light rain was falling as Jeff guided the black Subaru into the couple's driveway, echoing his damp spirits.

"Springfield House of Correction," giggled Susan as their three-storey property came into view. She'd found room for another three glasses of Chardonnay before leaving the restaurant, and had become a little more vocal with each. Although dreading their arrival back home, Jeff had been relieved at least that talk of his "well-earned whippings" would no longer draw stares from adjacent tables.

He watched as his wife eased herself from the car's passenger seat. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Lovely, Jen," said Susan. "And then down to business, eh, Jeffie?" She swung her long legs out and slid from the rear seat, her short skirt sliding up her thighs and drawing Jeff's helpless gaze.

"Gentleman avert their eyes, Mr Williams". And ladies don't show off their underwear, thought Jeff, but he actually heard himself mumbling "Sorry". Susan tilted her face towards his. "Oh, I think you're guaranteed to be, my dear."

Once indoors, Jenny busied herself at the stove while Susan ambled from room to room calling out her admiration for her hosts' latest decor and furniture.

"Love these new curtains!" she gushed. "And ah, this must be the flogging bench!"

"Well, most of the time it's just a regular coffee table," laughed Jenny, "but it does have its other uses."

A brief pause, and then Sue's voice again: "Jeff, sweetie, would you come here a minute? I want to show you something."

Jeff shot a hopeful look at his wife. "Don't you need help in here?"

"No. you run along and keep Sue entertained."

Traversing the hallway, Jeff saw that Jenny's thick leather razor strop was conspicuously absent from the hook that she'd had him fit under the stairs a few weeks earlier. With a sigh of trepidation he passed on through to the couple's well-appointed living room. There he was confronted by the startling image of Susan bent over on top of the coffee table, her knees spread wide to its corners and her skirt pulled right up to her waist. One hand supported her weight at the far end, and with the other she reached back to tap the wicked leather strap payfully against the taut seat of her pale pink cotton panties.

"Oh, Jenny, honey," she cooed over her shoulder as Jeff stared from the doorway. "I'm sorry I was a naughty boy. Please don't spank me any more. Please, no, I can't stand it!"

"Um," said Jeff.

"Ouch!" giggled Susan. She bucked her hips provocatively in time with the gentle rhythm of the strap. "Ooh!" She thrust her undeniably beautiful behind towards him, positively writhing in a pretence of agony.

Jeff had seldom felt an impulse as strong as the one he had now - to march into the room, snatch the strap from that woman and use it to turn her mocking parody into merciless reality. He knew from bitter experience that just one good stroke would wipe the smirk from her face. Christ, the consequences would be almost worth it. Almost.

Ever the mind reader, Susan smiled her slyest smile and said, "You'd love to, wouldn't you Jeffie?" Suddenly coy, she tugged her skirt back down, perched her now covered bottom on the edge of the table and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Sadly I'm not the one who gets spanked around here - speaking of which, I can hardly wait to watch you learning your lesson. I do hope Jen's not going to be a spoilsport - if I don't get to see a whipping, I'm going to have to stamp my foot. Or repeat to Jenny what you said to me just now."

"Said to you?"

"About what a bitch she's been lately. About how you're going to start putting your foot down."
Jeff snorted his derision, but at the same time he reminded himself how often his wife wielded the strap at the least provocation.

"I'd better be getting back," he said uncertainly.

"You better had. Don't want to keep the mistress waiting."

En route to the kitchen, Susan replaced the strap on its hook and ran a fingertip down the polished leather. "See you shortly," she said. "We're going to have some fun."

Jenny handed a steaming mug of coffee to each of them. "Take a seat, Sue. You too, Jeff - while you still can." Sue shot a glance at Jeff, who was flushing prettily at his wife's words. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten," she purred.

"Oh no, my dear," her friend assured her. "I never forget, and I never back down. If you promise punishment and don't follow through, they never learn."

"They?" Susan was more curious than ever.

"Well, let's see. First there was Tom, remember him? Wonderful guy, abs to die for, hung like a horse. But a little too alpha-male for my liking. He didn't take direction or correction too well, so I'm afraid that one was pretty short-lived. Shame, because I do miss the feel of that exceptional cock between my legs.

Then there was James, who was too far the other way - forever 'yes, ma'am-ing' and 'no, ma'am-ing' and generally enjoying being the subbie boyfriend rather too much. More or less creamed his pants whenever I raised my voice. In the end I let him down gently - told him if I'd wanted a devoted little puppy, I'd have gone to the pet store.

And then finally this one. Not such a bad catch, are you J? Can cook and clean and tie his own shoelaces, and for the most part does as he's told - in and out of bed. Looks pretty good too, especially with his face buried in my crotch or his bare butt nicely welted - preferably both!"

Jenny drained the last of her coffee and took the cups from the other two. "Speaking of welted butts, shall we retire upstairs?" No, Jeff wanted to say: but he went anyway, his wife leading and Susan at his back, studying his behind with a wry little smile. In the guest room, Jenny opened the base of the futon and withdrew clean bedding that she put to one side. Then she glanced around her. "Oh! We seem to have forgotten something."

"I'll fetch it," said Susan brightly, the hem of her flared little skirt swinging as she practically skipped from the room. She could be heard whistling to herself as she descended the stairs.

Jeff turned a forlorn face to his wife. "Please," he said.

"Please... publically whip some manners into you? With pleasure, my darling."

Sue reappeared at the door, carrying the dark leather strap that she then presented with a little curtsey to her grinning friend.

"Thank you, Susie baby." Jenny turned back to her husband who was standing, a picture of nervous apprehension, at the edge of the futon. He looked at her, his raised eyebrows asking the silent question whose answer he dreaded.

The corners of her mouth twitched as she held his gaze. "Every stitch," she said.

Sue's eyes widened. "Every stitch? Oh, my." And then, in reference to Jeff's suddenly scarlet complexion, "Sure is warm in here, hmm, Jeffie?"

For a moment the young husband stood paralysed, as if waiting to be released from a bad dream. He opened his mouth to speak, but his wife's crossed arms and raised eyebrows made him close it again. Then he bent, half-dazed, to untie his shoelaces with trembling fingers.

As he removed each item of clothing before the unabashed gaze of both women, Sue kept up an accompanying narrative. "Those socks have seen better days"... "Mmm, have you been working out?"... "Dig those tighty whities!"... and finally, as with a grimace he slid his underwear down and off, "Aww, look at his cute little pee-pee!"

Jenny allowed herself a smirk at her friend's comments, but said nothing until the moment that her husband was stood naked, hands at his sides as he had learned within the first week of their marriage. Then she simply instructed, "Over you go."

Susan's eyes followed the young man as he positioned himself at the back of the futon and leaned forward over it, placing his hands flat on the seat, his body already slick with sweat and the marks of the previous week's strapping still vivid across his muscular behind.

Jeff had never been a stoic under his wife's discipline. He knew from bitter experience that mute acceptance moved her precisely as much as sobbing and pleading; which is to say, not at all. Yet the sight of the gloating Susan, her head cocked expectantly and her hands resting lightly on her hips, made him bite down hard on his lip. He would give her as little satisfaction as he could - although, he thought grimly, having watched him strip bare and drape himself obediently over the futon she was already looking pretty pleased with herself.

Jeff closed his eyes as he felt the supple leather being tapped lightly across his cheeks: Jenny, lining up her aim. A moment later the strap was drawn back, and his wife's soft intake of breath made him squeeze his eyelids tighter and push his fingertips into the soft fabric of the futon.

With a practised arm Jenny went to work, slicing the air with the dark strap and snapping it noisily against her husband's drum-tight rear. It seemed to cling there momentarily, a black mamba delivering its venom, and left a bright red brand across both cheeks.

Jeff bore the first stroke well enough, although it hurt like hell. At the second he felt his eyes begin to prick, as though there were sparks being driven there from the fire building in his behind.

The third lash struck low and so painfully that a small groan escaped his lips before he could choke it off: this was met with a snort of amusement from Susan's direction.

"Something to say, Jeff? Smart alec remark, maybe? No?"

Jenny applied another stroke across the centre of his buttocks, and now his resolve began to break. He hissed through clenched teeth as the scalding sensation mounted. A single tear found its way between his lashes and rolled down his cheek. God, not already, he thought.

"Reckon he's feeling it?" chuckled Susan. She stepped around the edge of the sofa bed and leaned over, putting her face a few inches from Jeff's and providing him with a calculated view down the front of her top. "I'd say he is. Panting like an overheated puppy."

"Oh, I'm sure he is," responded Jenny, resting the strap on her shoulder once more in preparation for the next stroke. "But he'll feel it a lot more before we're done. After all, we're only just... getting STARTED!" She swung again, and the leather's bite forced Jeff onto his toes and produced an anguished yelp that Susan clearly found hilarious. Jeff rested his damp cheek on the sofa back and tried to ride the burning agony that threatened to engulf him. Just getting started, he told himself. Just getting started...

Two hours later - long after Jeff had begun pleading vainly for leniency in much the same way that Susan had parodied earlier that evening - all three retired for the night.

By then Jeff, forbidden yet to touch his ravaged buttocks, had stood hands on head in front of Susan to deliver a heartfelt apology for his behaviour at the restaurant. She had taken her time acknowledging it, all the while coolly looking the naked and chastened young man up and down. Eventually she had leaned forward, cupped his chin gently and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Apology accepted, little man. Don't let it happen again."

In the privacy of their room, Jenny now sat on the edge of the bed and hiked her nightdress up to her waist. She motioned her still-naked partner to his knees and guided his face between her thighs, smiling as he winced at the touch of his heels against his welted, scarlet buttocks. "Get to work, sweetheart. Nice and slow and gentle."

In the guest room, Susan lay restlessly on the futon over which she had so recently watched a good looking, naked young man bent to his wife's will. His really rather nice cock had been pressed into the back just here, while his beautiful bare behind had danced and squirmed under her friend's expert application of the strap. Susan rolled onto her belly and then lifted herself onto all fours, reaching between her legs to rub a fingertip against the crotch of her panties. There was an itch there that had been building since dinner. She had the rest of the night to attend to it.