The American Spread-Eagle
by John Undermeyer
DAWSON KENDALL, senior executive of Supremacy Studios (Hollywood) spoke tersely into his car telephone. ‘We shall be home in 20 minutes,’ he told his butler. ‘Please see that Amelia and Romy are prepared, and waiting for me in the Blue Room.’
Prepared was a euphemism. It meant undressed – stripped to the skin, showered, lightly dusted with powder, and with a touch of expensive perfume to the nape of the neck, the inside of each elbow, behind the knees and at the back of each ear. It was important to Dawson that girls smell nice. Clean, fresh, wholesome, even toothsome, he thought, and swallowed some saliva that had gathered in his mouth.
If Dawson’s 28-year-old beautiful driver had overheard the telephone call she showed no sign of it. Dawson dressed her all in black, with calf-length boots, breeches and a wide, tight-fitting waist-belt. He did not permit her a cap, however, lest it partly hide her beautiful face. She kept her gaze strictly on the road ahead, handling the limousine with a smoothness that came from eight years of loyal (and almost silent) service.
This Saturday morning, he had been watching the rushes of the studio’s latest film. It was a pot-boiler; put together by a minor director on a low budget. Low, that is, compared to the cost of most films Supremacy turned out. Three million dollars was enough, he thought, but then the film should recoup several times that much, bearing in mind the scenes he had just approved.
They showed the two juvenile leads in a bedroom, indulging in love-play which led to a passionate consummation of their desire. Since the two minor stars involved were genuinely attracted to each other, they played their parts with conviction. Dawson felt himself aroused at the climax of the scene. The two stars were with him, together with the director, lighting-cameraman and other senior studio officials and he knew none of them were totally unaffected. Yes, he mused, with a love-scene like that in the movie it would pull at the box-office. Critics might carp, but the public knew what it wanted.
Dawson turned to congratulate the nymph who played the female lead. ‘A great job… most professional,’ he beamed at her. She smiled her thank-you, but behind those perfect teeth and sapphire eyes he caught the flicker of dislike. In a few years that flicker could grow to outright insolence, he knew. Even now he was certain she despised him in private conversation with her film-star lover. Only his seniority in the studio made her defer.
Oh for 20 minutes with you in the Blue Room, thought Dawson. He had a few implements there, a short-handled six-thonged whip, for example, that would bring this proud filly into line. Good actress she may be, and valuable to the studio with her lithe, nubile body, pert little breasts (always carefully outlined by a silk-cupped bra) and her immaculate clothes. But she had no respect. Dawson insisted on respect; especially from pretty young women who, without the backing of his studios and publicity machine, would be nowhere.
The car was slowing now, outside a small but impressive high-fashion shop, the public face of a much larger company that supplied costumes to his film-makers. On display were clothes from the famous names in Paris, New York, Milan and London, but Dawson did not linger among the cat-suits, party dresses and lingerie. He made his way to the private office to collect a special order, placed several weeks ago with the woman who owned and ran the company, a long-time personal friend in her forties who rose to greet him as he tapped and walked through the door.
After the pleasantries she turned to her office desk and unlocked one of the drawers, taking from it a tube about three feet long, capped at both ends. ‘I think you’ll find this will answer your needs,’ she said, her voice silkening. ‘I had it specially made by one of our best people, skilled at his craft and a man of the utmost discretion.’ Prising the cap from one end, she slid a long, thin, crop-like instrument into her hand and with a teasing grin whipped it downwards through the air. ‘So light and easy to handle,’ she said, ‘with such a well-designed grip. I only wish I could be there when you put it to use. But tell me what you think.’
She handed the rod to Dawson, and as he inspected it, went into her professional sales-pitch. ‘Basically it is whalebone, thin, strong and pliant. But it is wrapped tightly by the thinnest strip of superb quality leather, starting at a fine point and spiralling down to the handle. The handle, with indentations to guarantee a firm grip, is also leather, but much harder, and with a rondule at the holding-end so it fits snugly into the heel of the hand. Originally the maker put a tab at the point but on reflection I asked him to remove it and taper the end; the slap sound did not seem appropriate for one who, I know, prefers sibilancy in the drive downwards. Ah, incidentally,’ she let one eye drop in a knowing wink, ‘I’m told the designer tried it out on his au pair before despatching the order. She had misappropriated some money he had left lying around. And I am assured he believes it to be one of his best, most efficacious creations. Would you care for a few practice swings? I have a recalcitrant salesgirl in the front shop who… but perhaps not; there’s the question of noise.’
The suggestion of practice swings brought Dawson’s mind back to the starlet who had displeased him at the viewing session earlier. He recalled the image of two writhing forms on golden satin sheets, actor and actress locked together in heaving pleasure. How he would like to make that disrespectful young madam writhe for a different reason! He brought his attention back to the chastising rod, off-white in colour, with a grey handle and perfectly smooth rondule. The air sang as he swathed down with the aerial-thin whalebone. Once, twice, and a third time for good measure. The eyes of the shop-owner widened and her lips pursed at the sight of Dawson’s strong right arm plunging with full force against an imagined target. But she knew her role.
‘I can see you like it, my friend,’ she whispered. ‘Allow me to return it to its case, which you may carry from the shop as openly and innocently as if you were taking a roll of special fabric to enhance one of your film sets.’
Back in the limousine Dawson checked his watch. Only five minutes to his home in the ‘Hills’; acres of verdant garden, fishponds stocked with golden Koi Carp, a swimming pool which was admired even among the set he mixed with for its size, concealed lights and room-temperature water, all surrounded by a high brick wall turning his home into a fortress, so necessary for security these days. He knew his wife would be at the poolside, cooling off before lunch in one of her favourite white bikinis. He loved Alice to wear white bikinis which set off her tan so perfectly. Alice was his second wife, 26 years old, intelligent and graceful. His first wife had died in a car crash (mercifully he had not been driving) and he had loved Alice almost from the day he met her. But before lunch with Alice he had Amelia and Romy to attend to. In the Blue Room, with its padded table and dimmable lights, and with this brand new instrument which lay on the car seat beside him. It had felt so novel to his touch, to hold and swish through the air, and he could not wait to try it out.
His chauffeuse closed the limousine door and a pretty maid opened the front door without any need for him to press the bell. He strode through the house and out to the verandah and pool. Alice sat cross-legged at the pool-side, her arms resting on her thighs, eyes closed, her body drying in the sunshine. He bent to kiss the nape of her neck, letting his tongue flick out under the lobe of her ear. She opened her eyes, stretched her long, lithe legs and lifted her arms to pull him down.
‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘let me get changed first. And remember, after the indiscipline of last night, I have an appointment to keep with two lying young misses in the Blue Room.’
Yes, Alice remembered. The butler had reported to her that Amelia and Romy had been proved to have lied to him. She had not asked for details, his word was enough, and she had assured her chief servant that the master of the house would administer punishment at the earliest possible opportunity. Alice put aside her thoughts of lunch; she knew that when Dawson had finished his task in the Blue Room he would want to make love to her. She debated with herself whether she would ask him for permission to be present to see the little liars suitably chastened, but decided she had better go quietly to her shower-room and rinse away the smell of the swimming pool before Dawson came to her. And check that the bed had been made with clean sheets and the air conditioning turned to Cool.
Dawson took the open staircase two steps at a time to change clothes. He never went to the Blue Room improperly dressed. Two minutes later he wore slacks, an open shirt and costly sailing pumps with non-slip soles.
While he removed his rings and then dusted his palms with powder, he mused on how he had come to meet the girls who were shortly to be disciplined. Amelia was born in Mexico, 18 years earlier, from a native woman and a white man. The melding of their two colours gave the lass a distinctiveness amongst her people, her delicately-hued skin and finer features setting her apart. A few months ago she had slipped across the Mexican border into Texas. Most of these immigrants were quickly caught and returned to their home country. But Amelia had been lucky; her guide had taken her by a safer route and once in the USA she had been passed into hands who promised to find her work. In fact this meant that messages had travelled through the grapevine about a very beautiful teenaged girl, with maidenhood intact (a doctor who worked for the escape committee had checked that) who might interest a tycoon with the means to look after her. After the appropriate negotiations Amelia had been delivered, under cover of darkness, to the Kendall mansion. Next morning the butler had presented her to Alice, with whose approval she was taken on to the Kendall staff.
The second miscreant, Romy, was a year younger. Her mother was Swedish and had come to Hollywood to act. But the pressure of film-making and the intense competition, combined with a liberal income, had led to drugs. Dawson had taken charge, and through his own doctor, and at his own cost, was paying for the mother to be cured of her addiction. In return for secrecy and the substantial medical bills, he had asked for the care of Romy, to provide her with a home and to ensure, he said, that she did not follow the same route. Both girls were now part of his household and his butler took care to remind them of what could happen if either showed signs of rebellion.
Comfortably dressed now in an all-white ensemble, Dawson Kendall took up the innocuous-looking three-foot tube he had collected at the fashion salon and made his way to the Blue Room. The padded door sucked gently at the air as he opened it. He turned the dimmer-switch up so that the room was filled with light, then faced the waiting girls, searching them with his eyes to ensure they had been prepared as he expected. What he saw pleased him.
The Mexican wore raven-black hair which fell to her shoulders and shone in the intense light of the room. Her breasts were well-formed and distinctly separated at the cleavage, but not over-full. She normally wore a bra, he knew, but the skin was sufficiently taut not to need one. And the skin-colour: that was what made her exceptional; a mix of olive and gold, unblemished and smooth. Her limber figure tapered from broadish shoulders towards the gentle incurve of the waist, then out again at the hips, over welcoming thighs, finely-toned calves and delicate feet. Another feature that attracted Dawson was the hands. Narrow palms, tapering fingers, well-suited to the sewing needle, perfectly manicured nails. This could have been an Inca Princess from another age, and he wondered how so lovely a creature had escaped the hungry young Mexican bloods who surely had pursued her from her early teens. Her decorous shyness was the only clue.
He turned to Romy, inches shorter, a year younger, with hair as fair as the other’s was black, cropped into a boyish cut, fringed over the eyes and dove-tailed at the back of the neck. Her breasts were like fine, shallow champagne-glasses, round and with more growth still in them; no bra was needed here either, but Alice had insisted. Firm healthy support for a 17-year-old would make sure that beauty was not allowed to fade prematurely. Only here, in Dawson’s sound-proof chamber, was her brassiere dispensed with. But where the Mexican could have been a Princess, this young minx was a pixie, quick of movement, with darting eyes and small hands, and a mouth that rarely stopped talking unless it was in the presence of Dawson and Alice, or, of course, in the Blue Room.
He knew by the perfume that drifted from their bodies they had been bathed and prepared. Moreover both were without clothes, save for one garment which Dawson always demanded. They each wore a brand new pair of white cotton briefs, elasticised at the waist and legs. Every time they presented themselves the knickers had to be completely new, taken freshly from the pack after their shower, and stepped into carefully, pulled tightly to fit, pristine clean and so snug that the groove that lay centrally between the thighs was visible to view. No wisp of hair showed itself at that point however; that was for later, when the uncovering took place and punishment was about to begin.
Careful thought had been given to designing the Blue Room. Dawson liked to flog his virgins as they lay face down in the spread-eagle position. To arrange this Dawson had caused a special bench to be built, in the shape of a stretched ‘X’, so that arms could be laid either side at one end, and open legs stretched out at the other. The top was padded in blue leather (as were the walls) and it had one exceptional feature. In the centre of the cross a deep indent had been made, so the spread-eagled girl would touch the leather everywhere save at the precious point where the legs joined. That delicate area touched nothing, and for a very good reason. When punishment began, and a writhing body pressed itself against the leather, there would be nothing down there to press against. Bare flesh would wrestle against blue leather along the whole length of the body save where (some might say) it was needed most. Dawson had colleagues who believed that girls should be allowed to press that special place against some firm surface, as compensation, however slight, for the pain. But why, Dawson replied; surely punishment was the infliction of pain, very severe pain that had to hurt, to burn, inflame, torment. Retribution for bad behaviour was the purpose, and there could be no relief from the bite of the rod.
Moreover, Dawson insisted that when flogging was over there must be no masturbation; this sly practice was utterly forbidden. The instruction was instilled into the girls, and would never be forgotten by the butler into whose care they were passed directly afterwards. Dawson did not trouble to see how the butler enforced the rule; he assumed his orders were obeyed automatically, as they were at the Hollywood studio. However Alice, who sometimes visited Amelia and Romy as they lay sore on their beds after whipping, assured him there was no way even the most urgent need could be satisfied by straying fingers. Why go to all the trouble of having the cross-bench specially designed if its effect were to be negated afterwards?
There was one further refinement that made the Blue Room perfect for Dawson’s needs. Next to where a girl rested her chin on the leather, a mirror was inset, catching the light from the fully turned-up bulbs, so that the young and anxious face could be seen clearly by the chastiser. Dawson knew his canes and straps bit deep, but he could not be satisfied unless he saw the face contort, the eyes screw in pain, the mouth open to gasp out and shriek. And he knew his rod was doing its work well when tears dropped on to the mirror and formed salty streaks or even tiny pools of proof of her suffering.
Dawson now unsealed one end of the tube he had brought with him into the Blue Room. Both girls eyed the package curiously, anxiously wondering what it could contain, and eyes widened and mouths fell as they saw the very long and extremely slender ivory-bound instrument with its shaped grey handle slither on to the bench. Setting aside the tube, Dawson raised the superlative rod and presented it for inspection. Surely, the girls thought, he will not use this on us. But even before the thought could fully register, he held it out in both hands towards them.
‘Naughty little liars who deceive their betters deserve to see what is in store for them. You will both kiss my new tormentor to acknowledge your fault before we begin.’
The raven-jet hair swung round Amelia’s face as she fearfully bent forward to touch the terrible instrument with her tawny lips. Her head stayed hung in shame as she stepped back and Romy bowed down to press pale pursed lips against the leather.
‘Formalities are now over,’ declared Dawson and he signalled Amelia to the waiting cross-shaped bench. As she went, her elegant thumbs slipped themselves into the elastic waistband of the gleaming white knickers and began to push the cotton downwards, over the olive hips, stroking the thighs, rippling gently over the knees, sliding the remaining distance over golden calves, and finally lying forlorn on the floor as Amelia’s powdered feet stepped out of them. There was almost a kind of dignity in the descending movements; a dignity and assurance that would very soon disappear, Dawson thought determinedly.
The sight of her delicious naked form lowering on to the trestle brought his pulse-rate up a notch. He had caught a whiff of that same insolent self-composure from the actress in his film this morning: the expensive whippy whalebone rod would dissolve that. His anger at the rebuff suddenly burst forth; he could wait no longer and even before the Mexican girl was fully in the spread-eagle position he lashed down.
Amelia’s arms and legs, which milliseconds before were about to settle on the leather top, exploded outwards, fingers leaping forwards, toes doubled back, the perfectly-developed body stretched to capacity. The scream came next and Dawson’s nostrils flared, breathing in the expensive perfume that seemed to puff from the girl’s body. Loud though it was, it could not ring round the room for the walls were lined to absorb and soften shrieks. Her head was flung backwards as she howled, in an unavoidable reflex action.
Dawson’s arm raised again and he drove a second blow into the immaculately-curved olive-skinned bottom. The crack! of the rod impacting into her rebellious flesh was most satisfying to him, but only whetted his appetite for more. His eyes on the mirror saw lips pull back in frenzy to reveal perfect teeth as a second sound shrilled from the contorted mouth. Tears, which had taken her eyes by storm at the first stroke, now ran down her cheeks. I want that mirror soaking, he thought, wet with salty tears.
With a whistling zing, the leather-bound whalebone took a third bite and now the mirror was shimmering. Not glistening enough for his liking, but there would be more salt water where that came from. Three lashes were the normal punishment for lying (albeit the fault happened very rarely) but Dawson reckoned he could safely administer a fourth. Dignity was all spent now, in the brilliant movements of her body, but he was still remorseless and as his stroke fell the howl that came from the cross made him draw in his breath. The pitifully bruised bottom was churning as the hips crushed into the leather and the arms and legs stretched against the tormenting blow. He noticed how that oh-so-sensitive centre point was clear of contact with anything, and was now pulverising space. The bench was well-planned indeed: no satisfaction was possible in that area. Punishment had been called for and now it had been administered. The mirror shimmered with moisture; gulps and sobs huffed from those erstwhile-pretty lips.
Gradually, the girl’s body fell limp, jerking just a little as it fully absorbed the pain. Dawson spoke in his sternest tones. ‘That will do, Amelia. Stand when you can. Pick up your knickers and go immediately to your room where you may conveniently be attended to.’
Paying no more attention to the ‘Princess’, Dawson turned to the smaller girl. This normally playful nymphet was already weeping, so awstricken was she by the effect his new-bought rod had wreaked on her olive-skinned companion. The water-magnified pale green eyes, pleading so pitifully, made not the faintest impression upon Dawson’s resolve.
‘Come forward, young woman,’ he commanded her. ‘Remove your protection as Amelia has done before you, and position yourself on the cross-bars, for you must pay for your untruthfulness and I impatient to begin.’ But Romy was too afraid to take her new white cotton briefs down gracefully. She tried, but much too slowly for Dawson, who wrenched at the protesting elastic. Desperate to please she moved to help but Dawson slapped her hands away. He dropped his rod, and with both hands free he swiftly and mercilessly unpeeled his victim, tossing the white material aside to watch it slide across the polished floor. Pushing the girl forward, he reached greedily for his instrument of discipline.
Romy stumbled to the crossed-bench, and in her forgetfulness (or perhaps because she remembered) she tried, for a brief instant, to place her pubis in contact with the padded blue leather. Dawson caught the movement. ‘For that you will have two more cuts. When I say position yourself carefully, you must be careful with every part – especially with that golden treasure-trove.’ And it was true, for Romy’s golden mop of hair was reflected perfectly above the join of her thighs. She was pure, natural blonde, and Dawson was momentarily tempted to touch that secret place with the tip of his malign switch. But decorum forbade it. He must be content to lash. And to be thorough, also: the excess chattering, the skittish laughter was fine enough when she was allowed to play on his tennis court, using racquets he paid for, sports gear charged to his account. But there was a price to pay for ingratitude and disrespect.
He placed his rubber-soled sailing pumps firmly on the floor, feet well apart. His arm stretched back until his elbow bent entirely over his shoulder. Fingers clenched round the shaped-leather handle, he swathed the air and made agonising contact with the pale, creamy, tightly-stretched skin of Romy’s mounded buttocks. The girl’s head flew back, her spine arched, her head jerked violently and the shriek of a tormented mink rent the air. She began to scrabble in an attempt to move off the cross, crying, ‘No! Oh please no! I can’t bear it!’
The move caught Dawson unawares. His new plaything with its ronduled handle must be even more effective than he had dreamed! Now we shall see a really wet looking-glass, he thought as with a firm hand he pushed her downwards, far too strongly to prevent any escape. Beyond pity, he felt his pulse grow even stronger and noticed with swiftly rising pleasure giant tear-drops splashing on the mirror beneath the tousled head.
That pool of tears would grow to a stream before he put his pliable persecutor to rest. He drew breath for the next stroke and the tang of perfume filled his nostrils; his senses always heightened so acutely in the Blue Room. With full force the whalebone thrashed again and the pale, sexy buttocks leapt painfully in the air, jerking atop spread-eagled thighs. This proof that the pain was taking effect was endorsed immediately by tearful pleading: ‘Spare me, please. No more. No more!’ No rippling laughter in that voice now, no sidelong flashes of the emerald eyes. Just slack lips and the threads of running water dampening flushed cheeks.
When you have paid enough, thought Dawson; and when I am ready for Alice.
He changed hands, holding the ivory-coloured crop in his left hand. His aim would not falter, he knew, and nor did it as the long, narrow wand shrilled downwards and cracked implacably across the twice-marked bottom. Mewls of helplessness rose from the blonde girl’s throat; golden eyelashes, already awash, blinked to brush away the flowing tears. Her well-proportioned, rounded beauty had never appealed so strongly to him. Yet only in one way would he ever acknowledge her charms – with the power of his punitive ardour.
The fourth stroke of chastisement fell even as the girl was writhing from the earlier blows. Her head shook wildly from side to side, her keening broken only by deep wrenching sobs. Her bottom was the source of unquenchable pain and the mirror was wet with brine. So plentifully did the weeping come now that drops were falling from the over-full surface of the glass on to the floor.
Three for the lies and two for the cheating; the fifth should really be the last. Dawson’s mouth fell dry as he studied the welted bottom carefully. Skin that had been washed, powdered and pale as alabaster a few minutes ago was now crossed with angry weals, bringing a crescendo of torment to this Swedish miss of seventeen. What a delightful canvas to work on. How receptive a surface. How firmly the strokes were applied. How right for the colours to be reds and purples, with white here and there. How the picture grew more interesting with each new touch. This work of art would be well remembered. What a shame only one person could enjoy the display. With these thoughts, he drove the fifth stroke down.
Yet Amelia had received one extra cut, just to please him. Now this deceiver deserved equal treatment. He returned his rod to his right hand, and paused to measure the final stripe. He flexed the whalebone to give himself time for breath, savouring the sixth lash even before it was administered.
When girls first lay on that blue bench there was resistance and resentment. Arms and legs were rigid; buttock muscles clenched to hide those central lips. But when five strokes had been laid on, trembling thighs fell open, spread-eagled legs splayed wider, and the whole body went into wild motion in a way that often suggested an activity that, by definition, would only be available to them after they had ceased to be virgins. Romy’s reactions were no exception; on the contrary, she was proving memorably athletic on the cleverly designed crossed-bench.
With firm determination the sixth and final stroke was driven home. Dawson’s rod rent the air and impacted noisily into the double moons. A howl of agony told him it was the coup de grace. The force brought her legs up at the knees. Arms dropped, this slender body lay in full submission.
The teenager’s bottom was trembling and juddering with shock. How tempting it was; how easily he could have laid more stripes on the tender flesh, watched the muscles contract with pain, the hips rise against the downward force of the crop, the buttocks cavort madly from unassuagable agony. But Romy had paid, and the contours of her face and the tears on the mirror confirmed that to his full satisfaction. Those six marks would go from crimson to purple tinged with yellow, the bruises would come, the ridged weals take days to disappear. He turned away to lay his instrument on a side-table, it had done its first stint of duty well. He pressed a secret button which would summon his butler to attend on the girls in their bedroom. There were special oils and ungents, healing balms which would cool and soothe their seared bottoms. Gently applied they would speed recovery and these virgins would resume their household duties. One tiny tender tip would not be attended to, of course, however urgently it demanded attention. Touch me, touch me, that secret place would urge them; the plea must go unattended, that tingling must not be relieved.
Dawson pointed to the pair of white knickers which lay on the floor. ‘Go to your room now, Romy – and take those briefs with you. After treatment you may rest, and only rest!’ As the girl struggled off the bench, he emphasised the point once more. ‘No touching! Or you will be back here for a further stretch’. The weeping maid acknowledged the instruction with a nod.
In another part of the house, beautiful Alice Kendall lay naked on the freshly-ironed sheets of a giant double bed, her body stretched langorously, hair flowing over the pillows, the breeze from the air conditioning sending her sweetly perfumed smell wafting towards the door. As her husband entered she twisted her limbs invitingly. She could also hear, in the far distance, the sobs and gulps of two well-flogged and penitent teenagers, now having their agonised bottoms more gently attended to. These noises, and the imagery they evoked, brought her to a state of wanton preparedness.
‘I hoped you whipped them soundly, darling,’ Alice smooched. ‘Did you give them full marks for bad behaviour?’ How marvellous to be made love to by a masterful male, so strict, so demanding, and who had just exercised his rod. ‘Now, my husband, it is my turn to be spread-eagled. Do not spare me.’