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Authors: Justine Elyot
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service.”
Michelle listened to all this carefully. As usual, the suggestion of failure caused her spine to stiffen and her heart to race. I will not fail. I will perform as well for two as I do for one. I am certain of it.
“Miss Object, you have this one chance to make an objection to the proposed joint ownership scheme. Do you wish to take it? Remain in position if you do not object.”
No. I will not object. I am still half Charles’, and that half will have to do. It is still better than living in suburban suffocation with my ex-husband. Charles has changed my life and I will always be in debt to him for that .
“Good. Well, then. Part one of the ceremony. Miss Object, please place yourself on the whipping bench.”
She knew this bench of old so it presented no challenge to her. It was almost comforting in its familiarity, and she knelt on the padded leather, placing her wrists inside the restraints and making sure her bottom was high and straining, peeking out from beneath the abbreviated white slip of a skirt.
“Councillor, as Miss Object’s new part owner, it falls to you to prepare her for this ritual.”
The councillor appeared at her flank. He tugged the skirt sharply up to waist level, then untied the floppy black bow at the rear of her knickers. As the bow unfurled, the knickers fell away, floating silkily down to the floor. Now her taut white bottom was on show and, after the councillor had pulled apart her ankles to clip them into their cuffs, so was everything between her thighs.
She pictured the six beady eyes in the darkness, as well as those of her masters on either side of her, homed in on her shameful bareness, anticipating a swift change of skin colour from pale to deepest red.
“Now, this is not a punishment, of course,” murmured Charles, close to her ear, his hand resting on one of her shoulders. “This is a demonstration of your submission to us. Of course, it must hurt, but it will not be…excessive. We will, however, expect you to receive it with due decorum.”
“Due decorum” meant in silence, with the minimum of wriggling and gasping. She considered asking for a gag, but she knew that would disappoint him. Instead she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists and imagined that her flesh was iron.
Each man took up a strap, identical strips of black leather, slit into a trio of tongues at the end.
“We shall take turns,” decreed Charles. “As the new owner, you may lay the first stroke.”
The councillor was more tentative than Charles. He did not have the diabolical flick of the wrist with which Michelle’s master intensified each crack of the strap, and he seemed to be going deliberately gently. When Charles was sole administrator, she could breathe through it, knowing that he did not hold back, knowing that she needed every sense at full alert, but this two-handed bottom-warming was harder. It made her want to cry out to the councillor, “Harder. Don’t hold back.” but, as you might imagine, topping from the bottom was quite strongly frowned upon here. So with every other stroke she pushed out her bottom in a vain attempt to convey that it needed to fall with a louder, fatter slap, then she tried to regather herself for the searing artistry of Charles. But she could not. Her breath was all over the place, and despite her usual expertise, she began to squeak and pant. After fifty strokes, the straps were laid aside, and Charles cautioned her that she had earned six with the cane for her unseemly squirming.
She took these six in an almost joyful spirit, knowing that they came from Charles and would be suitably punishing—six burning stripes to remember with fondness every time she sat.
“Don’t think you are doing her a favour by holding back,” Charles advised the councillor, fiddling with Michelle’s cuffs to release her. “She needs it hard, and she won’t learn from a simple tap.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” said Trewin, and she wondered if he
Michelle listened to all this carefully. As usual, the suggestion of failure caused her spine to stiffen and her heart to race. I will not fail. I will perform as well for two as I do for one. I am certain of it.
“Miss Object, you have this one chance to make an objection to the proposed joint ownership scheme. Do you wish to take it? Remain in position if you do not object.”
No. I will not object. I am still half Charles’, and that half will have to do. It is still better than living in suburban suffocation with my ex-husband. Charles has changed my life and I will always be in debt to him for that .
“Good. Well, then. Part one of the ceremony. Miss Object, please place yourself on the whipping bench.”
She knew this bench of old so it presented no challenge to her. It was almost comforting in its familiarity, and she knelt on the padded leather, placing her wrists inside the restraints and making sure her bottom was high and straining, peeking out from beneath the abbreviated white slip of a skirt.
“Councillor, as Miss Object’s new part owner, it falls to you to prepare her for this ritual.”
The councillor appeared at her flank. He tugged the skirt sharply up to waist level, then untied the floppy black bow at the rear of her knickers. As the bow unfurled, the knickers fell away, floating silkily down to the floor. Now her taut white bottom was on show and, after the councillor had pulled apart her ankles to clip them into their cuffs, so was everything between her thighs.
She pictured the six beady eyes in the darkness, as well as those of her masters on either side of her, homed in on her shameful bareness, anticipating a swift change of skin colour from pale to deepest red.
“Now, this is not a punishment, of course,” murmured Charles, close to her ear, his hand resting on one of her shoulders. “This is a demonstration of your submission to us. Of course, it must hurt, but it will not be…excessive. We will, however, expect you to receive it with due decorum.”
“Due decorum” meant in silence, with the minimum of wriggling and gasping. She considered asking for a gag, but she knew that would disappoint him. Instead she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists and imagined that her flesh was iron.
Each man took up a strap, identical strips of black leather, slit into a trio of tongues at the end.
“We shall take turns,” decreed Charles. “As the new owner, you may lay the first stroke.”
The councillor was more tentative than Charles. He did not have the diabolical flick of the wrist with which Michelle’s master intensified each crack of the strap, and he seemed to be going deliberately gently. When Charles was sole administrator, she could breathe through it, knowing that he did not hold back, knowing that she needed every sense at full alert, but this two-handed bottom-warming was harder. It made her want to cry out to the councillor, “Harder. Don’t hold back.” but, as you might imagine, topping from the bottom was quite strongly frowned upon here. So with every other stroke she pushed out her bottom in a vain attempt to convey that it needed to fall with a louder, fatter slap, then she tried to regather herself for the searing artistry of Charles. But she could not. Her breath was all over the place, and despite her usual expertise, she began to squeak and pant. After fifty strokes, the straps were laid aside, and Charles cautioned her that she had earned six with the cane for her unseemly squirming.
She took these six in an almost joyful spirit, knowing that they came from Charles and would be suitably punishing—six burning stripes to remember with fondness every time she sat.
“Don’t think you are doing her a favour by holding back,” Charles advised the councillor, fiddling with Michelle’s cuffs to release her. “She needs it hard, and she won’t learn from a simple tap.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” said Trewin, and she wondered if he
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