Edward paced the kitchen of his cliffside home, the distant crash of waves against the rocks below providing a rhythmic backdrop to his unease. Eleise had left for a weekend retreat with her book club, leaving him alone with a list of chores and a lingering ache from the group punishment two nights prior. The welts from Eleise’s cane had scabbed over, tender purple lines crisscrossing his buttocks and thighs, a constant reminder of the women’s inspections and his humiliating service afterward. He rubbed his lower back absentmindedly, wincing as fabric brushed the bruises, and glanced at the clock, mid-afternoon on a crisp Saturday.
The doorbell chimed, sharp and insistent, pulling him from his thoughts. He smoothed his shirt and jeans, expecting a delivery, and opened the door to find Victoria standing there, her tall, slim frame silhouetted against the coastal sunlight. At 32, she was the vivacious blonde from Eleise’s circle, her sharp features softened by a playful smile that didn’t reach her ice-blue eyes. She wore a black above-the-knee pencil skirt that hugged her hips, accentuating her long legs clad in sheer black stockings held by suspenders. A pale blue and white vertical-striped long-sleeved blouse tucked neatly into the waistband, its crisp fabric contrasting her confident posture. Black high-heeled shoes added inches to her already imposing height, clicking authoritatively as she stepped forward without invitation.
‘Edward,’ she purred, her voice laced with amusement as she brushed past him into the foyer. ‘Eleise isn’t home, is she? Good. I didn’t come for tea.’ He closed the door, heart pounding, the scent of her perfume, something floral and sharp, lingering in the air. Victoria turned, appraising him like a specimen, her heels echoing on the tile. ‘I’ve been thinking about you since the other night. The way you bent over that chair, your bottom all marked up for us to poke and prod. It was… inspiring. And since Eleise is away, I thought I’d drop by for a private session. Just you and me.’
Edward’s mouth went dry. ‘Victoria, I, Eleise wouldn’t,’ She cut him off with a raised hand, her manicured nails glinting. ‘This isn’t about Eleise’s permission. This is for my pleasure. I enjoy punishing men like you, watching them squirm, hearing them beg. You’ve got that perfect mix of defiance and submission. Strip from the waist down, Edward. Bare your bottom yourself. Do it now, or I’ll make it worse.’ Her tone brooked no argument, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms, leaning against the wall.
His fingers fumbled with his belt, the buckle clinking as he unfastened it. He kicked off his loafers, then shoved his jeans down his legs, stepping out with a shuffle. The briefs followed, pooling at his feet before he bent to retrieve them, his bare skin prickling in the cool air. He straightened, hands instinctively covering himself, but Victoria tsked. ‘Hands at your sides. Turn around and show me what Eleise left behind.’ Edward pivoted slowly, presenting his naked buttocks, the skin still mottled with fading bruises, thin scabs from the cane strokes dotting the curves. The exposure burned, his cheeks clenching under her gaze.
Victoria circled him, heels clicking, her fingers trailing lightly over a purple welt on his left cheek. He flinched at the touch, the tenderness reigniting. ‘Still healing from the group fun, hmm? But not enough to spare you today. I brought my own tools.’ She reached into her oversized holdall, pulling out a thick leather tawse—twin tails, supple and oiled, the split ends frayed from use, and a curled rattan cane, dense and whippy, about three feet long. Edward’s stomach twisted; he’d seen her eyeing Eleise’s implements during the inspection, but this was different, secret, personal.
‘Living room,’ she commanded, striding ahead, her skirt swishing. Edward followed, naked from the waist down, the hardwood floor cold against his soles. She arranged the space efficiently: the plush armchair pulled to the centre, the coffee table cleared. ‘First, the spanking. Over my lap, right here on the sofa.’ Victoria sat, crossing her stockinged legs, patting her thigh expectantly. The pencil skirt rode up slightly as she adjusted, revealing the lace tops of her stockings. Edward approached, lowering himself awkwardly across her lap, his torso draped over the cushions, legs dangling, buttocks elevated over her right knee. The position pressed his stomach against her firm thigh, her blouse’s fabric brushing his side.
She wasted no time, her right hand, palm broad and callused from gym sessions cracking down on his right cheek with a resounding smack. The impact jolted through the healing bruises, reigniting the deep ache. ‘One,’ he grunted, voice strained. ‘Count them all, thank me after each ten, and don’t you dare kick.’ Her left hand pinned his waist, holding him steady as the second slap landed on the left, crack, symmetric and stinging. ‘Two.’ The slaps built rhythmically: full-armed swings that flattened the flesh before it sprang back, pink blooming anew over the old marks.
By ten, heat radiated from his skin, the scabs pulling tight. Smack-smack-smack, three quick ones low on the right curve, compressing the muscle. ‘Ten. Thank you, Victoria.’ he gasped, toes curling. She rubbed the warming globes roughly, nails digging into a tender spot, drawing a hiss. ‘Good start. This is for my enjoyment, every wince, every tear.’ Resuming, she targeted the undercurves where thigh met cheek, crack-crack, the slaps echoing off the walls. Edward’s breaths came in short bursts, legs tensing. At twenty, sweat beaded on his forehead, the pain layering like hot coals.
Victoria varied her technique: slow, deliberate swats that let the sting sink in, then rapid-fire barrages, five per cheek, smack-smack-smack-smack-smack, overlapping the handprints. ‘Thirty. Thank you.’ His voice cracked, the room filling with the sharp reports and his mounting whimpers. She paused at forty, prodding the inflamed skin, feeling the heat pulse under her fingers. ‘Look how red it’s getting, fresher than Eleise’s work.’ The second half intensified: heavier swings from the elbow, focusing on the sit-spots, thud-crack, making his hips buck involuntarily. By sixty, tears welled, blurring his vision of the rug below.
‘Keep still,’ she warned, delivering ten across the full cheeks, alternating sides without mercy. The friction built a blaze, old welts splitting slightly under the pressure. ‘Seventy. Thank you, Victoria.’ Edward sobbed softly, body trembling over her lap. She shifted him slightly, her heel digging into his calf to anchor him, then unleashed the final thirty: a mix of thigh slaps that made his legs kick despite himself, and cupping slaps that clapped loudly, sending shockwaves deep. The last ten were the hardest—full force, SMACK-SMACK, ending with a double on each cheek that left him howling. ‘One hundred. Thank you.’ He sagged, chest heaving, ass a uniform scarlet, throbbing with every heartbeat.
Victoria pushed him up, her skirt smoothing back into place as she stood. ‘Up. Show me.’ Edward rose on shaky legs, turning to display the fresh glow, the skin shiny with sweat. She nodded approvingly, circling once more. ‘Not bad with the hand, but I prefer tools for the real fun. Bend over the arm of the sofa, bottom out, legs spread.’ He complied, draping his upper body over the cushions, buttocks thrust high, the position stretching the spanked flesh taut. The air cooled the heat momentarily, but anticipation knotted his gut.
She picked up the tawse, flexing it with a snap that made him jump. ‘Eighty strokes with this beauty, just for the thrill of it. Count, thank me after every ten, and if you break position, I shall start over.’ The first lash whistled through the air, with a resounding thwack, the twin tails slapping across both cheeks, the split ends curling to bite the far sides of his tender flesh. Fire erupted in dual lines, deeper and sharper than the hand. ‘One.’ he yelped, his knuckles whitening on the sofa. Victoria swung the supple strap again, horizontal and full, the leather conforming to his curves before snapping back. ‘Two.’
The rhythm was methodical: strokes across the meatiest parts, building parallel welts over the spanked base. Each crack left broad, raised bands, the tails leaving stippled marks at the tips. At ten, the pain throbbed in sync with his pulse, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Ten. Thank you, Victoria.’ She traced a ridge with her nail, scraping lightly to elicit a groan. ‘These will bruise nicely. Ask for the next set.’ ‘Please… continue,’ he whispered, his voice breaking.
Resuming, she introduced diagonal upward sweeps that wrapped the tails around his hips, stinging the sides. Thwack-thwack, two in quick succession on the left, making his knee buckle. ‘Twenty! Thank you!’ Victoria’s heels clicked as she repositioned for better leverage, her stockings whispering against each other. The midway point brought vertical lashes down the cleft, the tails parting his cheeks briefly with each strike, exposing and burning the sensitive skin. ‘Forty. Thank you!’ Sweat poured down his back, soaking his shirt; the room smelled of leather and the perfume of her exertion.
She paused at fifty, tapping the tawse against his thighs, the cool leather a tease before the next barrage. ‘Halfway, feel how tight it’s getting?’ The skin had swollen, welts intersecting into a lattice. The final forty escalated: flurries of three per side, crack-crack-crack, targeting the undercurves and thighs, leaving wrap marks that burned like brands. Edward’s counts dissolved into sobs, body rocking with each impact. ‘Seventy. Thank you.’ The last ten were a storm: horizontals low, ending with a vicious figure-eight that crossed the entire expanse—THWACK. ‘Eighty. Thank you, Victoria.’ He collapsed forward, buttocks a swollen map of dark red welts, some beading blood where scabs reopened.
‘I’m not done yet,’ she said coolly, setting the tawse aside. ‘It’s the cane for the finale. Stay bent, grip the cushions, and spread your legs wider.’ Edward adjusted, fingers digging into the fabric, thighs parting to expose the ravaged undersides. Victoria selected the rattan, swishing it experimentally, the sound slicing the air. ‘Sixty strokes. Count each, thank after ten, and kiss the floor if you miscount.’ The first cane stroke sliced across the tawse grid, CRACK, a white line rising instantly, then purpling as agony lanced deep into muscle.
‘One!’ he cried, the pain electric, radiating outward. She laid the next parallel, precise and unyielding, the rod bending before whipping back into shape. ‘Two!’ The caning built a ladder: strokes two inches apart, covering the full cheeks in tramlines. By ten, the overlaps burned fiercely, skin tightening. ‘Ten! Thank you, Victoria!’ She prodded a fresh weal with the cane’s tip, twisting slightly to draw a sharp inhale. ‘These will last weeks, my gift to you.’
The second set targeted the thighs: low cuts that wrapped under, tips biting the fronts. Whip, CRACK, each one making him quiver, bruises blooming immediately. ‘Twenty! Thank you!’ Tears flowed freely now, his face pressed to the sofa, muffling sobs. Victoria’s voice held a note of delight: ‘Listen to you, your sobs are music to my ears.’ Midway, she shifted to diagonals, crossing the horizontals into a woven pattern, the intersections swelling highest. ‘Forty! Thank you!’ A stroke caught an old scab at fifty, splitting it, blood trickling warm down his thigh. ‘Fifty!’
The final twenty were merciless: verticals strokes down the centre, parting the cheeks with whistling force, then a flurry across the sit-spots, CRACK-CRACK-CRACK, that buckled his knees. Edward’s begs interspersed the counts, body limp and shaking. The sixtieth, a full undercurve lift, sent him sprawling halfway off the sofa, pain exploding like fireworks. ‘Sixty! Thank you, Victoria!’ He lay there, panting, buttocks a catastrophe of crisscrossed welts, deep bruises, and seeping lines, the skin hot and inflamed.
Victoria stepped back, admiring her work, the cane tapping her palm. ‘Stand up, slowly.’ Edward pushed himself upright, legs wobbling, turning to face her. She nodded, satisfied. ‘You’ve taken it well. Remember this next time you see me at one of Eleise’s gatherings, our little secret.’ Smiling, she gathered her tools, slipping them into her large holdall, and strode to the door, heels clicking triumphantly. ‘Don’t sit down today; let it throb for me.’ With a wink, she left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Edward sank to his knees, the pain a roaring fire, alone with the echoes of lashes and his own ragged breaths. The secret visit sealed a new layer of submission, one Eleise would never know about, unless he confessed.
The strapping pictures are courtesy Miss Jessica Wood