Over the last three years we have added more than 150 spanking photo stories and over 1000 original photos to our news page. We’ve created this page to provide easy access to all the free spanking photos on our site. We hope you enjoy browsing through these images from the Janus and Februs archives.
You can purchase high quality scans of the original magazines these photos appeared in by following the links on each page or by visiting the Janus Online Shop.
Spanking Photos from Janus
LITTLE LIZZIE – Janus 9
AN ELEGANT CANING – Janus 12
The Master - Janus 14
THE WAITING IS THE WORST PART… – Janus 14, 16 and 18
HEAD GIRL NORTON – Janus 15
THE TREATMENT – Janus 16
KRISTEN AND NORELLE – REVISITED – Janus 18
SCHOOLGIRL SCREEN TEST -Janus 19
ANTONIA DU BOIS – Janus 20
ENCORE JANUS 2 AND OTHER DIGITAL DOWNLOADS – Janus 20
COMING SOON…ENCORE JANUS – ANTONIA DU BOIS – Janus 20
ENCORE JANUS 3 AND OTHER DOWNLOADS – Janus 20
ENCORE JANUS 4 AND OTHER DIGITAL DOWNLOADS – Janus 20
PAULA MEADOWS – Janus 21
PUNISHMENT BALLET – Janus 22
PIPPA MARSHALL – BURNING INJUSTICE – Janus 23
ALL YOURS – FREE SPANKING PHOTOS - Janus 24
THE MORAL WELFARE SERVICE – Janus 26 and 28
EXACTLY SO… – Janus 29 and 30
NEW DIGITAL DOWNLOADS ADDED – Janus 34
ANDREA – Janus 35 and 54
THE CHAIR – A CANING PHOTO FANTASY - Janus 35
PAULA MEADOWS – PUNISHMENT SERIES – Janus 38
WENDY EAST – Janus 39 and 45
A PECULIAR STATE OF AFFAIRS – Janus 44
THE ‘PAGE 2 BOTTOM’ – Janus 44-48
NICOLA AND PRISCILLA – Janus 46
NICOLA AND PRISCILLA – A MEMENTO – Janus 46 and 48
CLASSIC READERS PHOTOS – Janus 46
NICOLA AND PRISCILLA – Janus 48 and 68
Sarah Jane - Janus 49
Sarah Jane…Again - Janus 49
Looking for Lali - Janus 49 and 50
ENCORE JANUS 5 AND 6 DIGITAL DOWNLOADS – Janus 53
BELINDA LAINE…AGAIN – Janus 53, 55, 56 and 65
SOPHIE FENNINGTON – Janus 53 and 60
The Exhibitionist - Janus 58
Double Incentive - Janus 59
SHEENA MCBRIDE – Janus 62 and 66
Last Resort - Janus 64
UNSEEN IMAGES OF NICOLA REDWAY – Janus 68
GO TO YOUR ROOM! – Janus 70
THE TROUBLE WITH JACKIE… – Janus 73
WHAT SHE WANTS – Janus 88
CLASSIC READERS PHOTOS – Janus 91
THE AFTERMATH – Janus 125
Taking it Lying Down - Janus 127
A Day to Remember - Janus 128
THE CLEANSING – Janus 131
NAOMI SMITH – JUST ASKING FOR A SPANKING – Janus 131
TWO CHEEKY GIRLS – Janus 132
HAPPY NEW YEAR! – Janus 134
DEALING WITH DOWLING – Janus 143
NIKKI DOWLING – FREE SPANKING PHOTOS - Janus 143
HARD ACTION – Janus 144
CANDICE LAVELLE – Janus 146 and 150
DEUX FILLES MÉCHANTES – Janus 147
AGAINST THE RULES – Janus 148
A GOOD SLIPPERING – Janus 149
HELEN DANIELS – BROUGHT TO ACCOUNT – Janus 152 and 154
SPANKING DELIGHTS – Janus 154
Dress Code - Janus 154
ACQUIRING THE TASTE – Janus 156 and Februs 3
Spanking Photos from Februs
The Art of the Impact Shot - Februs 16
PERMANENT POSSIBILITY OF SENSATION – Februs 19
TRINDA MCGARRETT – FREE SPANKING PHOTOS - Februs 24
Risky Business - Februs 27
Spanking Photos from Privilege Club
The Misadventures of Christina Winchester - Privilege Club 9
The Further Misadventures of Christina Winchester - Privilege Club 9
Christina Winchester – Unseen Images Recovered! - Privilege Club 9 and 13
Spanking Photos from Roue
EPHEMERA – Roue 6
THE UK’S ONLY FEE PAYING REFORM SCHOOL – Roue 20
NEW JANUS AND ROUE DIGITAL DOWNLOADS – Roue 21
Readers Spanking Photos
Miscellaneous Spanking Photos
This free chapter is taken from the new novel ‘The Bottom Man’ by longtime Janus writer Stephen Sims.
She could smell the hay. Heat hung heavy in the stable. Sparrows fluttered about the wooden cross-beam above the woman’s head where she towered, glowering, a riding-crop flexed in her fists. Horses snorted. Tamar was on her knees. The fearsome face floated closer, the rod lifted to strike her flinching form – and she was looking at the curtains, gently moving where the air from the open window stirred them.
Geoff’s mouth was open in the darkness. He was snoring, his breath fragrant from spirits and beer. Tamar struggled from the duvet and stepped to the floor, half-stumbled out on to the landing in her shortie nightdress, tousle-haired and bleary, heading for the bathroom.
On emerging, Geoff’s snores sounded louder. Tamar saw no solution, short of waking him, which she didn’t want to. Instead she trod along to the small room she called her office on the other side of the stairwell. It was meant to be a child’s room, and when they decided to try for a baby it would be converted to that use.
Switching on the desk-light she thought again of Mr Blezard’s oil-lamp and his spooky schoolroom from another age. What was that about? Had the loss of his wife turned his mind in some way? An oval mirror framed with driftwood hung on the wall behind the filing cabinet. Tamar stepped over to it and studied her puzzled face in the reflection. “Christ,” she muttered to the mirror’s image, “I dreamed I was the girl on the cover of that stupid mag…”
She stepped away till she could see herself full-length, then lifted the nightdress so the light glowed on her lower back and bare behind. Perhaps hers wasn’t quite as peach-perfect as some she’d glimpsed in Claire Higson’s mag, but at the age of twenty-six, with visits to the gym and swimming pool keeping her toned, she felt she couldn’t complain.
The girl in the mirror raised an arm behind her and brought it down, palm open. The impact made a surprisingly loud sound, and stung, making her bottom wobble. She repeated the experiment a second and third time. The brief pain-flashes made her wince. Already the skin was pinkening there.
Feeling a bit ashamed at her antics, Tamar let the nightdress fall back in place and returned to the desk. The clock showed five past three, and she wondered if Geoff had stopped snoring yet. She lowered herself on to the swivel chair, feeling a not-unpleasant smarting where she sat. She opened the drawer and brought out the magazine. There was the girl, whose being she’d briefly inhabited in her weird dream. Printed above the woman’s head was, in forward-sloping letters: BRAZEN, with teasers down the side of the pleading victim: Women’s punishment fantasies revealed; Hot bots in the movies; More confessions of a female sub.
“What’s a ‘sub’?” murmured Tamar to herself with a quiet laugh. “Substitute? Submarine?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” The voice was grating, sleep-slurred. Tamar slid the magazine back in the drawer and slammed it shut, glad that her back was to the door. She stood and switched out the light.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Take a pissing pill,” said Geoff. She approached him where he stood in pyjamas in the doorway. He’d started a moustache, blond like the rest of his well-trimmed hair that was starting to thin at the front. Tamar wasn’t sure whether she liked the moustache. He’d be twenty-seven next time and his body was starting to store fat. By thirty he’d be portly unless he worked out.
“What were you doing in here, swatting fucking flies? It woke me up.”
“Get back to bed, Geoff.”
She took his arm and led him back along the landing. At five-foot nine he liked to think of himself as tall, but wore thick-soled shoes to enhance his height. Now, without slippers, he seemed to have shrunk. She steered him back into the bedroom, glad to see his eyelids drooping. On the bed he rolled to his side nearest the wall and she slipped in beside him and turned off the lamp. The alarm-clock glowed, faintly phosphorescent.
She closed her eyes, sleep took her quickly, and she started to dream again…
The gate squeaked as she pushed through it and hurried up the path. She was late, charged with terrible thrills. There was no bell, just a brass lion’s head knocker which she swung against the door, a single ‘crash’ that shocked the quiet garden and echoed away towards the hills beyond the fence.
She was wearing a dark-blue satin blouse and white pencil skirt, and carried a shopping bag filled with things other than shopping. She had to wait at least a minute, gnawing her lip with wonderful apprehension, before hearing his deliberately deliberate tread in the hall. The front door swung open.
He said not a word, but stood back to admit her. She meekly entered the imposing hallway and walked directly into his schoolroom. He followed her in and closed the door, then turned to face her.
“I presume I need scarcely point out that you are twelve minutes late,” he curtly reproved.
She fidgeted, breathing in the room’s unique fragrance of furniture polish, chalk-dust and fabrics. The smell made her weak with delicious terror. “Sorry,” she replied, breathless. “Th-there was a meeting, I had to take notes, sir.”
“Prepare yourself, I’ll fetch my gown,” he said bleakly, “and select a suitable implement. I feel perfectly certain it will be required. Would you agree, Miss?”
She could hardly get her breath. “Y-yes, sir – I’m sure it will be.”
She saw a frail, diminutive man of seventy-four with sparse silver hair, thread-veins on his nose and rimless specs through which blinked two watery myopic eyes; but all that was about to change. As she moved towards the ante-room with her shopping bag she felt his gaze follow her, blinking down the curve of her spine to her neat waist and the skirt’s provocative outswell, and she hastened from the study as though he had touched her there.
Minutes later she reappeared. Even the quality of the light from the window seemed to have altered: evening sun-shafts burnishing dust-motes seen with young frightened eyes, dust raised by flapping black gown and heavy tread, carpet yielding to fear-filled feet as she approached the dreaded desk, gulping in the smell of tobacco and tweed, burned matches, polish and chalk.
All traces of her make-up had gone. She wore flat shoes with white ankle-socks, a navy-blue pleated gymslip that showed most of her thighs, a crisp white blouse with red-and-blue striped tie knotted at her throat. Her palms felt clammy and her shoulder-length copper-coloured mane, which usually tumbled in burnished coils around her face, was gathered into a tail and tied severely back with a pale-blue ribbon; while the fringe that flopped over her forehead, and the gym-trimmed slenderness of her nimble-neat body, completed the illusion of youth.
“Come forward, girl!” His voice, bleakly authoritative, was deceptively quiet.
She shuffled forward, subdued and pale, head down-hung. He was standing stiff-backed behind his desk, a schoolmaster’s black gown over tweed jacket and flannels, mortar board on head. He stepped across to the cupboard and took from inside a crook-handled cane some three feet long, which he swished experimentally through the air with a loud whop.
Solemnly he turned to survey her with hot, bright eyes, gripping the cane in both hands and flexing the thin shaft into a quivering arc. Her mouth was dry and she felt her heart pounding. “Well, Tamar Linden…” His voice was icily severe. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, sir. I have no excuses.”
She was staring at his midriff. The bottom button on his jacket was unfastened. The cane came into focus, supple and whispery in his grasp.
“Speak up, girl!” he said tartly. “I can’t hear you.”
“No excuses, sir! I’ve been wicked!”
“And you deserve to be punished?”
“Yes, sir!” It was a hoarse, defiant shout. “I fucking well do, I deserve it, okay?”
“Miss Linden!” The elderly face was stiff with shock. “How dare you use that disgusting expression!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She gnawed at her lower lip, quailing.
“You have clearly been a disgrace to yourself and the entire school,” he said tartly. “Is that not so?”
“Yes, sir.” She was unable to meet his piercing glare.
“Such behaviour is deserving of the sternest retribution. Do you have anything further to say before I administer punishment?”
“No, sir.” The sound was a half-sobbed sigh.
“I will cane you over one layer of clothing. Six.” Her gasp and flinch were expressive. “You will raise your gymslip to the waist, Tamar Linden, and bend across the desk.”
The schoolgirl-woman walked to the side of the old oak desk and stood against it. Then, wretched with embarrassment, she hoisted the pleated skirt up to her hips to display shapely legs bare from the white ankle-socks to the undercurves of her navy-blue knickered behind. She spread her feet to lower her waist to desk height, then bent forward to lie along its polished surface, reaching out to grasp the further edge, feeling the coolness of the wood against her tummy and thighs.
In the silence she could hear him breathing, then the rustle of his gown as he took up position behind her. She could feel how her bent posture had tightened her knickers, the thin fabric sinking between each buttock and clinging to the soft curves. She knew that his eyes were gloating lasciviously on her there, and the fact excited rather than repelled her as she clenched her eyes shut in petrified anticipation, buttock-muscles quivering.
His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a snicky-whick and leapt away. Tamar’s body convulsed on the desk-top, her fingers scrabbled and wrenched, she gave a piteous mew, then settled again, ready for the next stroke. He had put power into it, and she’d taken it well.
Five times more he swung the cane, while she jerked and shuddered to the sharp detonation as it met its target, marking the visible flesh with streaks of white which turned to red, a burning epitaph to her self-acknowledged waywardness.
The cane ceased its activity and hung limp in his hand. She was sobbing harshly, slumped lewdly across the desk.
“Your punishment is over. Stand up.”
Shaking, tear-drenched, she pushed herself up from the desk and tugged the gymslip back into place. Her face was flushed, with swollen eyes and runny nose. She produced a tissue from her sleeve and blew noisily into it.
“And kneel,” he commanded.
She sank to her knees, palms kneading her punished bottom. He took the cane in both hands and held it horizontally out to her. She kissed it, wetly, then pressed her lips against the hand that had wielded it.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered.
* * *
Tamar turned into the modern cul-de-sac of orange-brick houses, eased the car through the open gates, triggered the garage doors and drove inside. There was usually a scramble in the morning: she had further to drive to work than Geoff, but sometimes he liked to get in early. So they were used to jockeying each other’s cars.
For mid-September it was unseasonably warm. Although gone seven there was still no Geoff, just a message to say he’d be back around ten. Tamar felt too agitated for more than a snack, poured herself a red wine from the open bottle, and took it into her little office room.
She’d decided on the drive home that whatever was in Claire Higson’s magazine needed to be confronted more fully. Her vivid dreams last night had disturbed her, especially the one about Mr Blezard caning her on the arse across his desk. In the dream he’d left her panties on. Parts of that dream had kept straying into her mind during the day, it was time to draw a line under it now – its contents were starting to bug her more than she might have expected and she didn’t know why.
Tamar stood up and shrugged off the jacket that matched her black skirt. The turquoise silk top with Chinese patterns shone where the light caught it in the mirror. She pulled open the drawer, took out the magazine, braced herself, then began to leaf through it. There was the expected pageant of well-toned female rears, faces stern and pleading, implements of discipline, surprisingly civilised letters from readers, contact ads. The ‘dominant’ men in the photos looked wholesome and well-groomed, the girls on the receiving end of their punitive attentions were all attractive with good figures, while the text accompanying the photospread was literate and sensitive.
Tamar began to relax. Even the woman with the riding-crop betrayed, in the shoot with the very pretty girl who looked like a fashion model, a vulnerability of camera-
consciousness. Her snarl as she upbraided her quailing victim looked posed, while the shots of the half-nude ‘stable-girl’, now out of her jodhpurs and draped over the side of a stall with her shapely rear uppermost, seemed unconvincingly staged.
An item by a contributor put a name to the apparent ‘need’ being exploited by the magazine. Apart from the fairly routine ‘buttock fetishism’ possessed by many (‘including females,’ it added) was a condition called ‘algolagnia’, from the Greek for ‘pain’. Algernon Swinburne, whose florid poetry Tamar could remember Mr Blezard eulogising over, was reportedly prey to this and his ‘constant craving’ in this respect was kept in check by his cousin, Mary Leith, who gave him regular whackings. Even Percy Grainger, who wrote ‘In An English Country Garden’, was seemingly at it, flagellating himself when he wasn’t making music. Decidedly odd, all of it, Tamar decided.
Then an article written by a female caught her attention.
by Sarah Veitch
Recently I read a book review which claimed that sad men in raincoats were the only ones who bought this kind of literature. I don’t know where that reviewer shops – but it’s definitely not at the same book stores as my friends and I. The reviewer portrayed the usual reader of magazines such as Brazen as a lonely bachelor who has never had a relationship.
The reality is very different. Most of the dominant men I know are married, separated or divorced. Admittedly they haven’t all found a woman who wants to be willingly treated in this way – but that’s because there are relatively few of us out there. Why? Because although many women like to fantasise about the submissive role, fewer understandably have the courage to act these desires out.
So my married male friends find erotic satisfaction in books or magazines like this. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that? It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a brutal sadist or a cringing masochist. One woman’s pleasurable pain is another’s visit to hell; but tone it down and ease up, apply with consideration and care and true respect, and the landscape becomes very different for that second woman…
Tamar took another sip of wine. It was floating into her senses in a delicious way.
The reviewer implicitly made the assumption that anyone who seeks out erotic literature per se is sad. If that’s the case, then we’re an entire nation of inadequate bastards, for the number of people buying arousing materials is very high. Millions of us obtain explicit magazines and books by mail order, via the Internet or from specialist shops.
Our sexual desires shouldn’t be a source of shame. We are all here as the result of a sexual act (you can tell I was top of my Biology class) and most of us will go on to become sexual beings. So long as it is legal, gives harm to no one and is consensual to the adults involved, why shouldn’t we seek out printed stimulus to enhance our fantasies?
There are still too many Thought Police around. They decide that only a very narrow number of sexual responses is completely acceptable. Usually they favour vaginal intercourse in the missionary position with a spouse, preferably for the purpose of creating a child. The further you deviate from this, the more they want to stop your fun.
Yet the fantasising dominant man is surely the least harmful creature on earth. He’s probably asked his wife if he can give her a loving spanking and she’s laughed dismissively or said not in this lifetime. He’s a nice man so doesn’t want to embarrass her by broaching the subject again. So he buys an erotic flagellation novel, locks himself in his study and lets nature take its course…
Tamar laughed, accidentally splashing wine on the page. “Lets nature take its course?” she said out loud. “He has a wank, you mean?” For some reason this amused her. She realised she was feeling woozy. Her eyes were hectic when she glanced in the mirror. She began leafing through the photos again, drank more wine, then started to read an illustrated fiction story which drew her into its fantasy scenario till she was fully immersed.
Strangely enough, it wasn’t the graphic images so much as the emotional sensations inspired in her by the words which triggered the erotic surgings that tickled and grew as her fingers worked, the floaty daze as her gasps came quicker and her knees spread wider…
She heard the front door slam. Slapping the magazine shut and tossing it back in the drawer, Tamar stood up hastily, knocking over what was left of the wine, grabbed tissues to mop it up. The television began to blare downstairs.
Geoff was standing in the lounge in his business suit, still holding his briefcase. He smelled of beer and smoke, swaying slightly as she came in.
“Oh there you are!”
“That’s nice,” she said.
“The tender greeting from my adoring husband.”
“Don’t you get clever with me, girl. You always were too clever for your own good.” He peered at her. “Are you pissed?”
“You’re a fine one, look at the state of you. I thought you wouldn’t be in till ten. And why are we shouting?” Tamar searched for the zapper. “What’ve you got it on so loud for?”
“I’ll get in any time I fucking want,” he yelled.
“Stood you up, did she?”
Tamar turned the sound down. Her head was swimming. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard. It’s wha’ you are!”
He was fumbling for cigarettes. She slapped them from his hand. “Don’t you dare start smoking in this house. It’s disgusting!”
“Disgusting?” he sneered. “You talk to me about disgusting?”
“And forgive me, please, for seeming to suggest that your increasing latenesses getting home might imply dalliances elsewhere.”
“Fuck you!” He hurled the briefcase across the room.
“Geoff! Please stop… I’m sorry.” Her hand was on his arm, he shook it off. “Just calm down a minute,” Tamar pleaded. He stared at her, his face hating. “You always seem to think I’m getting at you. I’m not.” He was breathing heavily. “Anyway, I want to ask you something. If I don’t say it now, I never will.”
“What?” He was peering suspiciously at her.
“Couldn’t we sometimes make-believe a bit?”
He was frowning. “What’re you on about?”
“Be friends like we used to be? Maybe – I don’t know – play a game sometimes.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Tamar swallowed hard. “Like… I don’t know… pretending I’m naughty sometimes.”
“Naughty?” He spat the word out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t ask me to spell it out, Geoff. Use your imagination – please. I only want to try it, I don’t know why…” He was staring hard at her now. She turned side-on to him and pushed out her bottom. “Just for fun, see what it’s like…”
He ran at her and kicked her there. She shrieked. It was a full-blooded kick that almost lifted Tamar from the ground and sent her slamming against the sideboard, smashing one of the glass panels and causing the crockery displayed inside to jump out, crashing to the floor in pieces. The furniture rocked and threatened to fall, dislodging framed photos and other items from the top and sending them groundwards to shatter.
Tamar was on the carpet, crawling, dazed with shock and aching with hurt from the impact, crying rawly, her left arm bleeding from the broken glass.
“You dirty-minded cow!” he was yelling. “I saw it, that fucking disgusting magazine in your drawer after you went off this morning. Thought you were up to something last night, and I was right. I’m married to a fucking freak!”
She was sucking in air, coughing it out in harsh croaks. “It’s not, Geoff, not what you think.” Tamar clawed at his legs, hauling herself up. Her hands reached for him, he swung a fist that hit the side of her head and sent her sprawling back to thump face-first against the side of the settee. Blood gushed from her nose.
“Slag! Fucking slag!”
Tamar was wailing, sobbing, choking for breath. As she tried to stand, blood smeared the furnishings she’d chosen with such care. At last, on her knees, she twisted her body and slumped weakly on to the cushions, gulping harshly. The front door slammed. Vaguely she heard his car start up, reverse with a shriek of tyres and roar off up the road.
The television muttered. The ceiling blurred through her ever-welling tears, swirling spots obscured her sight, there was a buzzing in her ears and her senses left her.
‘The Bottom Man’ is now available to download from the Janus Online Store by clicking on the highlighted link.
You can also read a full interview with Stephen about his time working for the magazine here.
Fiona Lewison concludes her account of a weekend of continuing therapy in an old house in the country with creaking stairs, draughty corridors and a menacing figure of authority watching her every move…
7.15am I’ve had a shower and I’m ready for Susan to bring my breakfast. It’s a Sunday, but it doesn’t feel like one. I have work to do. I have a battle to win.
7.25am A new list of instructions has just been shoved under my door. Susan doesn’t work on Sundays, and I have to make my own breakfast. I’ve got to report to the study at 9am for another task, and my final treatment is at 11am. The task gives me another chance to shine, and I’m incredibly grateful.
8.10am I’ve had my breakfast. Maurice was nowhere in sight downstairs, so perhaps he went back to bed. Three hours till my caning. At least I’ll be busy doing something, whatever it is.
10.05am I scored 9/10 and was given a spanking. It was entirely in accordance with the rules, and I’m not complaining. I’m disappointed with myself, but Maurice was right to punish me. I was careless, and I deserved it. It’s fair, and that’s what matters. The spanking wasn’t particularly hard or long, and I’m sort of getting used to it. I know what to do in my head, and that’s what counts.
My task was to tidy up the study. I had to dust all the surfaces, arrange everything neatly on the desk and hoover the carpet. The hoovering and desk-tidying were deemed “highly satisfactory”. Then Maurice ran his finger along the surface of a shelf and thrust it under my nose. I’d missed it. Now I see a pattern to all this. I’ve been a secretary, a cook/serving girl, and finally a cleaner (or more likely a ‘housemaid’ in Maurice’s mind). It’s Janus, isn’t it? OK, no schoolgirl, but I can’t believe that fantasy isn’t on his mind. The old rogue! I shall have words later!
Oddly enough, this realisation has lightened my mood and I feel pretty confident. If I had difficulty with the strap, the cane is going to be a thousand times worse. But all I have to do is take 10 strokes (presumably). If I behave well, that’s all I’ll get. If I behave badly, I could get a lot more. I don’t know how hard Maurice is going to do it, and I don’t know whether I’ll cope, but I’m going to try my best. That’s all I can do.
10.55am OK, I can do this. I’ve spent 10 minutes on the bidet, and I’ve been to the loo about six times. I look as good as it’s possible to be in this bloody housecoat, and I’m as ready as I’m going to be.
11.35am I did it! I’m ecstatically happy! My bottom is a complete mess, but I don’t care. I’m going to use the rest of the arnica cream, and throw the tube out of the window. Hopefully, Maurice will be in the garden and it will land on his head. I can do anything now. Anything I like. I tore off the housecoat, and I’m going to burn it. And dance round the fire like a deranged witch. Then I’m going to run naked through the town. OK, I’m not. But you get the general idea.
I got 11 strokes. I messed up on the first one because it hurt so much, but I took the next 10 strokes with a resignation that I didn’t know I possessed. It was an intensity of pain that I’ve never experienced before, and the build-up was just as difficult to bear. Unlocking the cupboard and taking out the cane was enough to induce a trembling panic, and I could quite easily have fled the room, packed my bag and ran screaming to the station. All 14 miles of it.
Handing the cane to Maurice was, as you might imagine, difficult. For a split-second I held on to it with a pretty obvious reluctance to let go. A reluctance to let Maurice take the driving wheel of this very powerful car. If I’d had a choice, it would have been left in the garage. The odd thing was that this otherwise innocuous piece of wood looked much more comfortable in Maurice’s hands than it did in mine. I realised that I had held it softly and tentatively, perhaps in a female way, and that its owner had treated it much more casually. Like an old friend. The cane looked like it had been deserted for a while, and was pleased to see its master. Pleased to be back in familiar hands.
This odd series of thoughts, which ran though my head in only a moment, helped me to understand what was to happen. It was like delivering myself into someone else’s hands, and knowing that the cane belonged to Maurice and not to me. It was going to grace my bottom in an unfriendly way, but somehow I saw it not as an inanimate object with a hateful mind of its own, but as a necessary extension of Maurice’s arm. He had smacked me with his hand, and now he was going to smack me with his cane. Simple, really, and nothing to be afraid of.
The problem was that the first stoke shocked me so much that I jumped up and clasped my bottom. I imagine there might be some gentlemen here who were caned at school, in which case they will recognise the odd sequence of events. There is a very obvious moment when the cane strikes, then nothing. Then suddenly there is a tearing pain. It was that moment that induced the panicked response. Understandable really, for someone who has never experienced it. From that moment on, I knew what to expect. I knew what was required of me to survive and, more importantly, to get the benefit of such a punishment. It’s supposed to hurt, and that’s what makes it worth undergoing. I survived. It wasn’t easy, but I found I could do it. I’d got my head round it, and was unreasonably happy with myself. I said “Thank you,” and I really meant it. I felt grateful and happy and amazingly self-assured.
So I bounded up to my room and fell on the bed and cried. I had done it. I had been though something that I knew would help me and make me feel better. And it had. I was already thinking about the future and what I could do to influence it. I was also thinking about the enormous gin and tonic I was going to pour myself.
12.30pm One lingering rule remains. I’m not allowed to go downstairs till 1pm. I’ve had a shower and peered closely at my bottom. It’s covered in red marks that have already turned into bruises, from about half-way down to the tops of my thighs. It doesn’t hurt at all, but I’m going through what I suppose every woman goes through in this situation. I’m worrying whether the marks will ever go away. They look deep and angry and like they’re cross with me. But I know that they’re not self-inflicted and that I can blame someone else. My bottom will still love me. Stupid, I know, but very important right now for some inexplicably female reason. I feel a great urge to bake a cake and iron a man’s shirt and do some tidying up. There, I’ve said it.
1.35pm I’ve popped up to my room to get my things before we go to lunch. Having not had a drink for a while, I feel light-headed. OK, drunk. Oddly, I feel uncomfortable in my ‘human’ clothes. Constricted, somehow. Maurice is back to his normal charming self, and I feel hugely relieved that we will be able to talk about what has happened. I need a breakdown of events to understand more about how I behaved, and how Maurice felt. I need a debriefing so that I can assess fully whether I met his expectations. I need to make sure that he got as much out of this as I did.
7.30pm I’m back in London. Maurice and I had a long talk over lunch and back at his house, and I can say unequivocally that the weekend has been a huge success for both of us. Maurice said that he has never experienced such a prolonged and intense pleasure, which made me very happy. My attitude and behaviour were “perfect”, and I am a “very attractive woman”. It was sweet of him to say so. And I was right about the series of Janus characters. Maurice looked a little embarrassed when I pointed this out, but then we chatted for ages about our favourite covers and models and I think it was a great relief for him to talk to a woman about his passion. It was my passion too, so we had nothing to hide from each other. This, inevitably, brought us to the ‘schoolgirl’ question and – surprise, surprise – Maurice is rather keen on the idea. I protested that I’m far too old to look the part, but it didn’t seem to deter him. Men are very odd like that.
Maurice also questioned me at length about whether I’d got everything out of the weekend that I’d hoped, and I was able to say that I had. I had gone through a range of emotions from loneliness and exasperation, to anger and happiness, but most importantly I had completely immersed myself in the role of a submissive woman, and I had enjoyed it. I feel a huge sense of achievement, better about pretty much everything that lies ahead. It’s been an extraordinary experience. An exercise in yielding to another’s will for my own benefit. The concept is very strange to a modern woman, but I know one thing: I’m going to do it again.
You can read all of Fiona’s wonderful contributions to Janus on our Spanking Stories page.
Fiona Lewison shares more about her weekend of continuing therapy in an old house in the country with creaking stairs, draughty corridors and a menacing figure of authority watching her every move…
6.30am I slept really well and I’m in a more positive mood. My breakfast will be brought to my room at 7.30pm, by which time I have to be showered and in my housecoat and knickers, so I’ve got a bit of time to reflect on last night. I think the initial feelings of unhappiness and isolation were quite understandable, but they seem to have lifted with the new day and I feel much better. I had a look at my bottom in the mirror as soon as I got up, and it’s fine. There are no marks, not that I was really expecting any after a spanking. No doubt tomorrow morning will be a different matter.
I opened the curtains and there’s an extensive garden at the back which I would love to explore. Perhaps it’ll be a reward if I behave myself and do well in the tasks, whatever they may be. I realise now that I want to do well, not because I’ll be punished if I don’t, but because I want to impress Maurice. I want to be a good girl. It sounds silly, but it means a lot to me right now.
I also realise this morning that I got a lot of satisfaction from obeying Maurice’s instructions last night. I did everything exactly right, and I think I’m justified in feeling proud. Like I’ve accomplished something. I’m one of those women who enjoys the company of a sensitively dominant male, and I suppose this is just an extension of that feeling. OK, it’s a little extreme like this, and the circumstances are not what you’d call ‘normal’, but it’s nevertheless the same thing. I’m taking it to a much higher level, and it excites me. It fills me with dread too, but I guess that’s the point.
I must get ready now.
7.35am Susan has just brought my breakfast (a boiled egg, some toast and a pot of tea), and informed me that Maurice will see me in the study at 8.15am. She was briskly efficient, but kind and friendly, and asked whether I had everything I needed. I still feel embarrassed in her presence, but it was nice to have some contact with another woman, however brief. Of course, I can’t help wondering what she thinks of me. Mildly ‘kinky’? An outright pervert? Or perhaps a lucky girl? I have simply no idea. More intriguingly, is she into this too? Is she punished by Maurice when she slips up? Goodness me, what a thought.
8.40am I’m back in my room with a list of today’s instructions and tasks. I have to report for treatments 2, 3 and 4 at 9.30am, 2.30pm and 6pm respectively. I’m not afraid. I’m going to do well. I have two tasks. Maurice has a collection of around 300 rare books, and I will have to sort them into categories and arrange them alphabetically on the shelves in the study. I like books, so this is not too onerous. And this evening, I have to serve dinner as it’s Susan’s night off. Again, I can do that as long as it’s not too complicated. It’s my chance to shine. If I’m careful and methodical, I can score 10 out of 10 in both tasks.
I’ve just had another mad session on the bidet, and I’m ready to go downstairs. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I feel OK. I suppose it’s going to be more serious than a spanking, so I know it’s going to hurt, but I’m absolutely determined to bear it with as much dignity as possible. It will be a challenge, I have no doubt about that, but I am ready for it. In fact, I want it.
10.20am I’m back from treatment 2, another spanking on the bare bottom and 10 strokes with a rubber-soled plimsoll. I’ve only got 10 minutes before I have to start the first task, so I’ll have to be quick. If I had any lingering doubts about Susan’s complicity, I have none now. A tube of Boots’ Arnica Bruise Cream has appeared on my table. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
11.35am I’ve done the first task, and I got full marks! I’m so pleased with myself! My reward is 30 minutes of free time from 12.30pm to 1.00pm, when my lunch will be brought to my room. As I’d hoped, I can go into the garden if I want. I’m allowed to wear a coat and put something on my feet. I feel like a good girl, and I’m really happy about it.
Treatment 2 wasn’t too bad at all, and I remembered all the instructions from last night. I showed Maurice my knickers and a bare shoulder, then fetched a chair and stood obediently with my hands on my head. The spanking was very painful again, but I suppose in some ways I’m getting used to it. In any case, I kept still and took it well. I now know that every treatment will begin with a spanking, and after what I’ve been shown this morning it seems a blessing that my bottom will be warmed up first. I had to open a drawer in the desk, take out a key and unlock a wall-mounted cupboard. Inside were “the implements”: a man’s gym-slipper; a thick leather strap about two feet long and an inch and a half wide; and a crook-handled cane straight from the pages of Janus.
After taking out the plimsoll, I had to lock the cupboard and put the key back in the drawer, then hand the plimsoll to Maurice. The position I had to adopt involved bending over the back of the chair with my forearms flat against the seat. I’m not particularly tall, and it’s quite a high-backed chair, so it meant going on tip-toes. And this, of course, made my bottom stick up in the air very prominently. I had a picture of two gigantic red balloons, and it made me very self-conscious. But I suppose that was the general idea. It’s a very submissive position, like you’re bottom’s not yours anymore and you’ve given it to someone else. I felt in some strange way detached from it, and I think that may have helped.
I had to bare my own bottom for this punishment, and it’s the first time I’ve ever done such a thing. I’ve always had my knickers yanked down for me, so it naturally felt very different to follow a command and do it myself. It is, if I think about it, the most submissive thing I’ve ever done. And part of me liked it. Part of me hated it too, but that mixture of emotions goes for pretty much the entire weekend so far.
So, I put my forearms back on the seat of the chair and waited. I could sense that my legs were trembling, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. It couldn’t possibly count as disobedience. Then something very unexpected happened. The slipper landed on my right cheek with a noise so loud I could hardly believe it. It was an almighty ‘thwack’, like Maurice had put every ounce of his strength into it. But it didn’t really hurt. I mean it stung, but it was surprisingly bearable. I was overjoyed! I could take this easily. I could keep perfectly still, I could behave myself in every respect, safe in the knowledge that the noise and the force of the impact would convince Maurice that it was a dreadfully painful punishment. It would convince anyone. OK, it stung rather more towards the end, but I took all 10 strokes almost as if Maurice was striking a lifeless pillow rather than a woman’s bare bottom, and I felt inordinately pleased with myself.
And now, I confess, I did a little acting. When I was told to get up, I turned to Maurice and thanked him, then asked if I could rub my bottom. When he said yes, I clutched both cheeks and did a little hopping, just-been-whacked-on-the-bum dance in front of him to ‘prove’ how much it had hurt. It was very wicked of me, but I couldn’t resist. I had my free time to look forward to, and I was feeling happy. And ever so slightly mischievous.
Eventually, Maurice handed me the slipper, and I had to put it back in the cupboard, lock the door and put the key back in the desk. Then I was sent to my room.
1.00pm I’ve had a lovely half-hour in the garden, just sitting by myself and reflecting on things. There are apple trees bursting with fruit, and I thought for a moment that I might pick one. But I decided it could well be a test, so I didn’t. A glance up at the house showed no-one overtly watching me, but it was as well to be safe than sorry. Heaven knows what might happen if I stole an apple. It is the forbidden fruit, after all. (Were any Janus readers punished at school for scrumping, I wonder?)
Susan has just brought my lunch. A chicken sandwich, with a small bowl of salad and a glass of water. Joy. With my new-found confidence, I took the opportunity to thank her for the Arnica cream. I thought it might be a good starting point for a conversation. Her response nearly made me fall over: “That’s alright, dear. Can you manage to put it on yourself?” I replied hastily that I’d manage fine, thank you very much, and she left the room. Was she really offering to do it for me? Like I couldn’t reach, or something? She must have been a matron at a boarding school in a former life.
My next treatment is at 2.30pm, so I have an hour or so to relax and think about what I’ve learned so far. I feel quite confident that Maurice is enjoying himself, and that’s more important to me than I’d anticipated. He seems satisfied, even pleased, with my behaviour, and perhaps more crucially with my understanding of our roles and my co-operation with everything that’s happening. What I’ve noticed particularly is the extent to which I’m called upon to help in the preparation, execution and clearing away of every treatment. I have to fetch a chair when I’m spanked, I have to stay in the optimum position to receive any given punishment, and I have to replace the chair, or the implement, in its proper place. I don’t live my own life with that attention to order, so it doesn’t really come naturally, but I am certainly enjoying it here. It seems perfectly to tie in with the whole experience, and I’m going to have a think about how I could go beyond the commands and the obvious requirements. I don’t want to pre-empt Maurice in any way, but I could perhaps be even more helpful if I put my mind to it.
I’ve also noticed that I am not required to expose any more of myself than is necessary. When Maurice took my knickers down last night and this morning, it was to just below my bottom. I now realise that when I had to do it myself for the slipper I took them down much further. I’m not squeamish about what Maurice sees, and I certainly didn’t do it to entice or distract him, but I am pleasantly aware of the discretion being shown towards me, and of Maurice’s manners and motivations. I can remember photos in spanking magazines, not so much Janus, Blushes or Roué, where the girls were made to stand or lie with their legs wide apart. I know it’s attractive to some readers, and I’m not criticising it in any way, but I didn’t like those images. Or at least I liked them less. A glimpse of hidden treasures is lovely, of course, and inevitable, but anything too overt spoils the mood, in my view.
3.20pm I’m back from my third treatment, and bitterly disappointed with myself. I didn’t take it at all well. I was given the usual spanking, which was OK, then told to fetch the strap. I was to get 10 strokes, but I stupidly put my hands back to cover my bottom after the sixth stroke. And I wasn’t quiet either. In fact, I think I probably made a lot of noise. That meant starting again from the beginning, so I ended up getting 16 strokes. My bottom is covered in angry red marks, and I’m really upset. I just panicked because it hurt so much, and now I feel I’ve spoiled everything. I paid dearly for my mistake, but I know inside that I’ve let myself down. I’ll just have to try to make up for it somehow.
My main fear now is that I’m going to get the cane at some point, either this evening or tomorrow morning, and I don’t know how I’m going to bear it. If I make the same mistake, I could face a truly terrifying punishment. I suppose the spankings and the slipper have lulled me into thinking I can take whatever comes. I was wrong. I’ve got to get my head round this somehow. I need to be better prepared emotionally.
Susan has left a note in my room explaining what I have to do about dinner. She’s made a chicken casserole, so all I have to do is warm it up and cook some potatoes and peas. I’ve got to open and pour Maurice’s wine, and serve the dinner in the dining room. I can manage all this if I’m not too upset. I’ve absolutely got to behave myself during the 6pm treatment, otherwise I’ll make a mess of things. Susan has also written that Maurice likes a whisky before dinner. It’s in brackets at the bottom, so maybe she’s giving me a little tip. It’s kind of her.
4pm I’ve had another bath and feel a bit better. I used some of the Arnica cream, but I don’t know if it’s done any good. The room is tidy, and I don’t have anything to do for two hours except sit here and try to get my head round the next punishment. If it’s the strap again, I feel fairly confident. It will hurt just as much, but I’ll know what to expect and that will surely make it easier to bear. It’s the unknown that scares me, and if it’s the cane I honestly don’t know what will happen. I’ll try my hardest, of course, but perhaps I’m just not built to undergo such a punishment. What then? Will I have to stand up and declare the weekend a failure? I’d be distraught. It would have been a complete waste of time for both of us. The point is that I take what I’m given, and come out the other side with a more positive attitude. I’m now very aware that Maurice is capable of hurting me, but I also know that he is not capable of wounding me. So whatever happens I’ll be OK. I’ll have a sore bottom for a while, and some horrible bruises, but I’ll survive.
Is that my motivation? Just to survive? No, it isn’t. I want something out of this. If I got a sexual kick from being dealt with like this, and I know many women do, it would be an entirely different matter. But I don’t. Not really. Obviously there’s something sexual about presenting my bottom to a man in such a way, but it’s not essentially why I’m here. I’m fully aware that Maurice’s motivation is very likely to be in that direction, but I’ve seen no indication of it yet. Or perhaps ‘felt’ is a better word. I’ve been over his lap three times now, and nothing has been apparent. Do I want to provoke such a reaction? I think I do. I think it would give me a sense of pride, and it would be proof that Maurice is getting something out of this too. Obviously, the rules and the tasks and the general servitude are stimulating for him or he wouldn’t have insisted on them. He could be doing it entirely for my benefit, but that seems unlikely. He’s a bloke. And an old-fashioned one at that. In occasional private moments, he would probably like all women to be this subservient, at his beck and call and liable to a good ‘treatment’ every now and then. It’s a fantasy, of course, but I can see how it would appeal to a man of his age and generation. And why not? It’s a perfectly harmless dream.
So that’s what I’m going to do this evening: fulfil his idea of the perfect female. I will do my utmost to take my next punishment obediently, and I will be the best servant he’s ever had. I intend to outdo Susan by attempting to pre-empt Maurice’s every desire. I’m going to be cheerful and helpful, and I’m going to get everything right. I can do it. I will do it.
6.45 I’m back from my fourth treatment. A spanking and 20 with the strap. I was perfectly obedient and quiet, and I’m so happy with myself. I knew I could do it! It hurt like hell, but I was in a much better frame of mind. It’s astonishing what a difference that can make. I just gritted my teeth and took it. Like a pro. I feel fantastic! And Maurice praised me, which has made me feel childishly proud. Like a little girl being patted on the head by a kind uncle. “Very good, Fiona,” he said. I’m going to say that again in case you missed it. “Very good, Fiona.”
Dinner has to be served at 8pm, so I’ve got to get going in a minute. Maurice said he would be in the lounge, so I’ll get everything prepared in the kitchen then embark on my duties. I have a few tricks up my sleeve which I won’t tell you about just yet.
9pm Success! Well, I made one tiny mistake but it seems to have been overlooked. At least I think it has. I’ve been sent upstairs and told to get into my pyjamas straight away, so perhaps I can expect a room inspection. It’s immaculately tidy, so there’s nothing to worry about on that score.
I had everything ready in the kitchen by about 7.20pm. I tasted the casserole and decided it needed a little more seasoning, then popped it in the oven. There was a bottle of Chambertin next to the cooker with a note from Susan saying ‘This one Fiona’, so I opened it very carefully because I know it’s expensive. Then I went into the lounge and made the first move in Operation Outdo Susan. I hadn’t been into this room before, so I said “Good evening, Sir,” and quickly tried to find where the whisky might be. It was on a sideboard on a tray with two glasses. A 10 year-old Laphroaig. Serious stuff. It was my uncle’s favourite tipple, not that he could afford it all that often, and he always added a drop of water. I used to do it for him, so I had a good idea of how much to put in. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Maurice was reading one of his books, so I poured a generous measure of the precious fluid then went back to the kitchen to look for a small jug. It was a frantic search, but I eventually found one in the dishwasher. I went back to the lounge, handed the whisky to Maurice and stood by his chair with the jug poised. I was right. He did take it with water. I poured a small amount into the glass and stepped back. Maurice took a sip, and was obviously satisfied. My opening gambit had worked. I could have screamed out loud with happiness. I was confident, pleased with myself and enjoying my role enormously. I did things like this for my husband occasionally, but this was different. Very different. I felt liberated and enchained at the same time, and it was an extraordinary and unknown emotion. And I put it all down to taking my punishment well. It simply made me feel better, and more capable of doing what is right.
Everything went smoothly in the kitchen, and I served dinner in the dining room at exactly 8pm. Maurice looked surprised to see the casserole on the table with the vegetables in little bowls, but he didn’t say anything. I wanted to serve him at the table, so I draped a napkin over his lap and spooned portions of food onto his plate as carefully as I could. Then I poured the wine, and stepped back to wait for any further instructions. Maurice seemed pleased, but I was on a much higher plane. I couldn’t believe the pleasure this was giving me. I felt in some ways like a slave, but there was also a sensation of being a young girl in a sweet shop with an endless supply of pocket money. And, like a child, I gorged on the experience. It was a mad, ecstatic dream, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more absorbed in a fantasy.
Maurice’s glass was nearly empty, so I picked up the bottle and poured some more. In my delirious state, the bottle clinked heavily against the glass and I spilled a tiny amount on the table. I apologised and wiped it up immediately. It was a negligible amount, and I really didn’t think it was a disaster. I still felt happy.
Maurice went back to the lounge when he’d finished, and I cleared the table and put everything in the dishwasher. I thought he might like another whisky, so I went in and asked. That was when he sent me to my room. So I’m waiting for something to happen. It’ll be an inspection. I’m sure of it. In the meantime I’m going to get into bed and read my book.
10.10 Maurice has just left. It wasn’t an inspection. My slip with the wine was “intolerable”, apparently, and I’ve been spanked. It wasn’t particularly hard, and didn’t last all that long, but I’m upset and a bit shocked, because I don’t think I deserved it. He just wanted to sit on my bed, pull my pyjama bottoms down and smack me. That’s the only reason he did it. A gratuitous ‘bedtime spanking’.
11.05 I’ve had a long soak in the bath and calmed down. I’m a bit surprised at Maurice’s behaviour, but I’m not upset anymore. He was wearing a thin cotton dressing gown, and for the first time I was aware that he was aroused. I can hardly blame him, given what he’s seen of me this weekend and the fact that I’ve been sticking my bottom out at him so brazenly. I’d shown him mine, and now he’d shown me his. (Well, I didn’t see it, but you know what I mean.) It’s obviously why I was told to get changed. He wanted to spank me in my pyjamas, and found any excuse no matter how flimsy. For 15 minutes his libido took over. Like all men. Maddeningly simple and single-minded. My husband was the same. A lovely and very beautiful man, but a sight of me naked turned a switch in his brain and he became a worthy candidate for the village idiot competition all the way up to the championships. Men, even really good men, are extraordinary in that way. Mindless grunting idiots for a while, then they just disappear or fall asleep. I’m not complaining, but thank God for chocolate ice cream.
How do I feel about Maurice being turned on? I think it was risky to ‘punish’ me purely for his own erotic benefit, because it could well have detracted from his authority, but it was natural enough in the circumstances, and actually I’m pleased for him. And a little flattered too. Maurice is not a young man.
I’ve read my book for a while, but I can’t concentrate. My mind keep wandering into a reverie. I have to consider the fact that I’m going to be caned tomorrow. He (I can’t help seeing such an implement as male) is in the study waiting for me, and I’ve developed a kind of relationship with him. We have looked at each other warily every time I’ve unlocked the cupboard, and we don’t like each other. In fact, we hate each other. He wants to hurt me, and I want to show him I can take whatever he can give. My confidence is not well-grounded, but I can’t let him see that. He will pounce on any sign of weakness. He has an ally in Maurice, and that makes it two against one. Two men against a defenceless woman. But I have a mind, which I can use to my advantage. I have a bottom, with a layer of fat and tissue and some strong muscles underneath. It is also my last chance this weekend. If I screw this up, there is no way of making amends. That has to be my first line of attack. I have to go into the study knowing I’m going to win. It’s a simple matter of psychology. I can defeat this demon, and walk away a proud woman.
The final part of Fiona’s account will be published here next week.
When we last heard from Fiona Lewison she was contemplating a weekend of ‘continuing therapy in an old house in the country with creaking stairs, draughty corridors and a menacing figure of authority watching her every move’. She very kindly agreed to keep a diary of her experiences. This account tells the story of the first part of her ‘Janus Weekend’…
When I had my first punishment from Maurice, we agreed that it would be the beginning of a course of treatment designed to help me overcome certain problems and anxieties that had plagued me for a while. The spanking I received was a painful and emotional experience, and I can say without doubt that it helped me. Or at least that it had begun to help me. I can’t say that I actually enjoyed my time over Maurice’s lap, but I can say that it felt like a natural place to be, and that I felt more positive afterwards. I wasn’t ‘cured’, but it seemed to lead my thoughts in the right direction. So we both knew that I needed more, and that subsequent punishments would have to be different. Different in approach, different in nature, different in severity. I had no fixed idea of what this would mean, nor whether it would work, but I was very willing to give it a try.
The idea was that I would spend a weekend at Maurice’s house in the country, on the understanding that he would oversee all my activities and movements, and that I would remain in an entirely submissive role. I would have to discard my clothes and underwear and spend the weekend in a ‘uniform’. There would be regular, as yet unspecified, discipline to which I would be expected to submit without complaint. I would be set certain tasks, and given extra punishments for any failings or infractions. I would be allowed the use of my laptop to keep a diary for Janus, but I would be denied all other normal comforts or ‘necessities’. No television, no Internet, no mobile phone. I would be ‘in character’ from the moment I arrived on the Friday evening, to midday on Sunday when we would stop the treatment, have lunch in a local restaurant and behave like normal adults before I caught a train back to London.
To me, it seemed ideal. I could demonstrate my willingness to be obedient and take what I was given, I could push the boundaries of my punishment experience, and Maurice would presumably enjoy his autocracy and help me at the same time. I wanted to do it for him, as well as for me. It was a gamble, of course. I might not be able to stay in character, I might go stir-crazy, I might find the whole thing silly. I might not feel it was worth it or of any practical use. But it still seemed like an experiment that had no serious consequences if it didn’t work. I had, I felt, nothing to lose and really quite a lot to gain. OK, I could pretty much guarantee a sore bottom. But if I came out the other side a happier woman, it would be useful. Wouldn’t it?
And so it was that I found myself at Paddington station, sitting on a train waiting for it to leave and wondering whether I was an enlightened modern woman in charge of her own destiny, or a complete nutter. Believe me, I couldn’t decide. What I did know and recognise was an emotion that I’ve written about before: fear and excitement in equal measure. The roller-coaster feeling; it’s immense fun as long as the car doesn’t derail and send you plummeting to a certain death. The disaster is always at the back of your mind, but that’s what makes the ride thrilling.
The train was busy, full of commuters with that depressing air of resignation and helpless exploitation, and the mood affected me. I felt uncharacteristically alone and unloved, which was silly, and wished that I was going somewhere else, or at least to a place that would be warm and convivial and welcoming. I also had the distinct feeling that I was being watched, that my fellow passengers somehow knew where I was going and what I was doing. I was strangely conscious of my bottom, which seemed to have assumed a far greater importance than it would do normally. OK, women are always very aware of their bottoms, but this was more than usual. I was wearing a fairly tight skirt, which didn’t help, and that part of me seemed absurdly prominent even though I was sitting down. Stupid.
Matters were made much worse when I took one of those ready-mixed gin and tonics out of my bag and practically swallowed the thing whole. Now people really were staring. I was a frazzled alcoholic heading for an unsavoury suburban sex party. A prostitute, perhaps. At the very least, a woman to be avoided at all costs. Irrational paranoia, of course. Nobody knew where I was going and, more to the point, nobody cared. I was alone and heading into the relative unknown, and actually I felt good about it. Privileged, somehow. If someone had asked, I’d have said I was a freelance writer on an assignment for a famous spanking magazine. That would have shut them up. Small victories, even if only imagined, are so sweet.
The new empowered me got off the train at Maidenhead and waited for the connection to Marlow, the nearest station to Maurice’s house. I was about 25 minutes away. I was brave, I was comfortable, I was happy. I wasn’t thinking about my bottom at all. Well, not much anyway. I made a final check on my make-up. I looked fine. I popped a peppermint as the train pulled in.
It was getting dark as I stepped outside, but there was a taxi waiting and I jumped in. The driver watched me in the rear-view mirror as I fumbled in my bag for the address, and soon we were off. About a 20-minute drive, he said. We chatted for a while, then I switched off and tried to concentrate. What should I do when I arrived at the house? Be yourself, I thought. You can’t be expected to be ‘in character’ during the first few seconds. After that, I would do as I was told. Simple. I checked my mobile for messages and switched it off.
Suddenly the road surface changed and I realised we were driving over some sort of gravel. There was a porch with a lantern. It was an old house and it looked lovely, like something out of a novel. As did I at that moment. I paid the driver, grabbed my bag and got out. It was very quiet, and the windows at the front were dark. It honestly looked like no-one was at home. I rang the bell, and within a few seconds the door was opened. But not by Maurice. It was a plump, matronly woman of about 60 who introduced herself as Maurice’s housekeeper, Susan. My weekend had begun with a totally unexpected shock.
6.45pm Susan has just taken me straight upstairs to my room and said that I should come down to the drawing room, which she said is on the right at the bottom of the stairs, in 30 minutes when Maurice will be ready to see me. He made no mention of a housekeeper, and I’m disconcerted. In fact, I’m annoyed. I didn’t really know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Is she in on the whole thing? Does she know why I’m here? It’s a very odd feeling. She seems perfectly nice, but her presence has made me terribly embarrassed. A glance in the mirror shows that my face is bright red. I feel like an idiot, and I’m angry with myself. And with Maurice too. It’s not fair to spring this on me, and I will tell him so.
The room is comfortable and beautifully furnished, with a single bed, an armchair and table, and an en suite bathroom. It’s a bit like a hotel room. In the bathroom there’s a basket of individually wrapped soaps and shampoos, a hair-dryer, lovely big white towels and a bidet. And there’s most definitely a woman’s touch to it all. No question about that. I have to admit the room’s very nice, but there’s no TV or radio, and my laptop isn’t finding a W-Fi connection. I’m completely isolated, which is an odd feeling these days. I must freshen up and go downstairs now.
7.45pm I’m back in my room with a set of instructions and rules. I have to report to the study for my first treatment at 8.30pm. Maurice was perfectly civil, but he is behaving so differently that I hardly recognise him. Cold and unfriendly. And intimidating. I stood gormlessly in front of his desk like a schoolgirl in front of the headmaster. To be honest, that’s exactly how I felt. Irresponsible, powerless and incapable of doing anything but nodding stupidly. I hated myself, but I couldn’t seem to behave in any other way. I was uncomfortable and self-conscious. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I was constantly clasping them in front of me, then letting them hang at my sides, then clasping them behind me, then trying to do all three at the same time. Needless to say, I didn’t mention my annoyance about Susan. I didn’t dare. What’s the matter with me? Why am I so overwhelmed by all this? Why am I behaving like a delinquent teenager? What am I so afraid of?
The rules say I have to call him ‘Sir’. Apart from the treatments, I will be given extra punishments for breaking any of the rules, but I will also earn rewards for ‘good behaviour’. A plain dark blue housecoat and a pair of frumpy white knickers have mysteriously appeared on my bed. I was with Maurice the whole time, so Susan must have put them there when I was downstairs. Now I know she’s is aware of everything, and I don’t like it one bit. I’m already having second thoughts. I am to wear the housecoat at all times with just the knickers underneath. Nothing else. It’s very unflattering and I look terrible in it. I’m not allowed to wear socks or any footwear, in other words I have go everywhere barefoot. It’s obviously designed to make me feel vulnerable and trapped, and it’s working. Oh, and I’m not allowed to wear any make-up.
The rules cover everything, every moment of the day from the time I must get up, to the time I must take my meals (alone in my room) and the time I have to go to bed. I will be set certain ‘tasks’, as yet unspecified, which will be marked out of 10. If I get full marks I will be rewarded, if I don’t I will be punished. My room will be ‘inspected’ at random times of the day to see that it is clean and tidy. If it isn’t, I will be punished. There are detailed instructions about how I must take my punishments. I must show total, unquestioning obedience. I must be quiet, I must keep still, I must say ‘thank you’. I am strongly advised to pay close attention to ‘personal hygiene’. This is so humiliating I could scream. I feel like a child being told to wash properly. I hate it. But, despite this, I have just spent five minutes on the bidet washing myself as if my life depended on it. It’s nothing short of insanity. And now I have to go downstairs to the study. I’m hungry, I’m fed up and I don’t want to go. I suddenly thought of Sydney Carton’s famous speech from The Tale of Two Cities when he says: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.” But right now I don’t believe a word of it. I feel alone and utterly miserable.
9.20pm I’m back from my first treatment. There is now a tray on the table with a Thermos flask of soup, and some bread and cheese. A lonely and depressing supper, but I am nevertheless very grateful for it. The soup is hot and delicious, and it’s helping me to feel better. Somehow I wish I’d been in the room when Susan brought the tray. I have nothing to hide from her now, and it would have been nice to see a friendly face, even to have a chat. But it seems I’ll be denied anything so comforting. And if she can treat my presence in the house so nonchalantly, I can’t be the first woman Maurice has brought here to be punished, can I? That upsets me too. Irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.
The treatment was a spanking on the bare bottom over Maurice’s lap. It began with an inspection of my appearance and dress, which I now know will take place every time I am summoned to the study. I had to stand in front of the desk and lift up the housecoat to show my knickers, and bare a shoulder to show that I wasn’t wearing a bra. I have to do this without being told from now on. Maurice then explained what was going to happen and, more importantly, why it was going to happen. The reasons were entirely sound, in my view, so I considered it justifiable. Not that I’d have said anything if I’d thought it was unjustifiable.
The spanking was hard and painful, and much longer than the one I’d been given at my flat two weeks previously. It was also much more formal. I had to fetch a chair and place it in front of the desk, then stand to the right with my hands on my head. I was then told the rules for this punishment. I must lift up the housecoat before bending over Maurice’s lap. I must keep my hands and toes on the floor at all times, and keep my legs together and perfectly straight. I must raise my hips when my knickers are being taken down, then lower myself back again. I must maintain this position throughout the punishment, and remain still and silent. Any deviation from the rules will result in starting again from the beginning. So I could get two or even three spankings one after the other if I didn’t behave. That really brought it home to me.
It hurt terribly from the first smack, and it took a mighty willpower to stay still and not cry out, but I think I took it well and, despite still feeling miserable, I’m proud of my good behaviour and my obedience. It is, in some ways, why I’m here.
When it was over, I was told to get up and to stand facing the wall, holding the housecoat up so that my bottom was on show. I had to stay there for a full 10 minutes (an eternity, I can tell you), and I can say that this was the most agonising part of the treatment. I felt horribly vulnerable and exposed. What was even worse, I heard the study door open and close twice before I was eventually told to go to my room. I hoped that it was Maurice leaving the study then coming back to check on me, because I hadn’t moved an inch, but there is always the dreadful possibility that it was Susan popping in to do some tidying up or whatever. I won’t know till Sunday.
10.45pm I’ve had a bath, and I’m in my pyjamas ready for bed. The rules say the lights must be out by 11pm, but I’m going to switch them off now and try to sleep. I have to be up at 7am.
To be continued…
The second part of Fiona’s account can be found here.