A spanking story from Fessee 8 by Nick Fowler
IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS WIFE’S BEDROOM Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!
‘Father,’ he said, ‘Sally has been smoking!’
‘Er, ah, what’s that?’ exclaimed Commander Fenwick in surprise. ‘Are you sure? I carried out a thorough search of this room only this morning, as you suggested.’
‘Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?’
‘Of course, my boy!’ snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘Very well, Sally,’ said Marcus, turning to the apprehensive, but very attractive young blonde who was standing between them. ‘Where are they, and why was I disobeyed? You know that I will not be thwarted in my wishes, especially when they are in your best interests – and mine! If I send for you to come to my bed, I do not want you smelling like an overabused ashtray!’
Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.
‘Well, if they are not in your room,’ said Marcus logically, ‘they must be on you. Take your dress off!’
As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband’s disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her ‘warder’, while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker. His students would have been astounded at “Don Marcus’s” other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally’s eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his “executioner”. Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an ‘old lag’ who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!
Sally pulled the short black dress over her blonde curls, and stood, shivering and vulnerable, in her bra and nylon panties, stockings and suspender belt. She might just as well have been naked, as Marcus reached inside her bra and produced a packet of cigarettes from one cup, and a box of matches from the other, like a conjurer working ‘magic’.
‘It would seem, Dad, that you are becoming blasé to Sally’s undoubted charms if you are failing to notice such changes in her delightful contours. I noticed immediately!’
‘You would!’ thought Sally resentfully. ‘All you do is watch! What did I see in you, you cold fish? At least your father is human. He’s stern, even brutal, but at least he fancies me!’
‘Well,’ said Marcus, turning to her. ‘Now that you conveniently have your dress off you had better be punished. Will you fetch the hairbrush, Dad, and give Sally a thorough spanking for her deceit and disobedience! It is time that she learned that orders are made to be obeyed.’
The chastisement that followed, with Sally bare bottomed across the Commander’s knee, and Marcus observing from the comfort of an armchair, was a particularly severe one, as Fenwick Senior felt that he had been let down by Sally, and had been made a fool of. He had begun to feel that there was a bond of trust and affection between them, and that although he needed to be strict for her own good, he was a father figure to her, as well as a relation by marriage.
So now his resentment showed in the severity of the punishment, as the ebony-backed hairbrush rose and fell stingingly on Sally’s tender buttocks, and she yelled aloud her doleful remorse at being detected in transgression.
The Commander spanked hard and deliberately, letting each firm wristy impact sink in for its full effect. Sally howled from the very first stroke, not only because it stung dreadfully, but because she had learnt that to be vocal was better than stoic suffering. If you remained silent they just went on until you did yell, and only gave you more for being stubborn. She had learnt that lesson while still quite a small girl, and much painful spanking experience since had done nothing to change her views. Besides, there was an undoubted relief in being able to open your lungs and howl blue murder! It seemed to take some of the sting out of the proceedings! It was as if the burning smart of the hairbrush was soaking into your cheeks, up through your pussy, and into your guts, and needed to find an outlet through the larynx. Otherwise it built up intolerably.
After some six of these scalding collisions between tropical wood and soft flesh, Sally burst into tears. There was nothing feigned about this, and after about ten more she was crying so hard that she imagined that even the neighbours must hear – and the nearest house was two hundred yards away! She kicked her legs and squirmed furiously. She tried to plead, and promised to be good, to give up smoking, and never start again, but the face of Marcus remained coldly impassive, and the Commander took his cue from his son.
Sally began to wonder if he was ever going to stop. Long before he did, her bottom and thighs were beet red, and felt as if they were burning with incandescent heat. At one stage she tried to reach down to protect her ill-used posterior, but the Commander barked, ‘Sally, do you want the cane too?’ and hastily she jerked her hand away.
But at last it was over, and she sobbed her relief as Marcus nodded, and her mentor laid the wicked brush aside and replaced her panties over a hot, prickling bottom that felt twice the size of normal.
The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug. ‘Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!’
Marcus said nothing but was pleased nevertheless. It was all highly satisfactory, this wife training. At the university functions he attended alone, he sometimes was tempted to tell others of the glowing success of his marriage. He did not, however, for that would have tarnished his image as a humane and kindly man, a liberal with a small ‘l’.
* * *
During the weeks that followed, more ‘good old fashioned spankings’ came swishing home to roost in Sally’s reorganised life with painful, and surprisingly satisfying regularity. The Commander scolded her often, while he forcefully reminded her of her many shortcomings. However she was quick to notice that when Marcus was not present to witness her bottom smackings, the hand that was then so firm with her could be amazingly gentle as it stroked and patted her outraged flesh. Then her crying soon subsided, and she discovered, with a sense of shock, that she no longer felt resentment towards him. In fact, at such times, she felt better than she had at any time during the life she had spent alone with Marcus.
May 20th, some three months later, was the Commander’s sixty-first birthday, and Marcus was away, attending a seminar at Cambridge. Sally announced that she had a surprise for her father-in-law, he was to sit at the breakfast table and read his Telegraph, and not move until Sally returned. ‘Right?’
‘Right’, agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son’s absence, to indulge her. Ten
minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.
‘Enter!’ barked the Commander.
The sight that entered took his breath away. There was Sally smartly dressed in WREN uniform, the blue serge immaculate, the seams of the black nylon stockings guardsman straight, the saucy little cap jauntily perched on her blonde curls. She saluted. ‘WREN Sally reporting, sir. Er, the O.C WRENS said that I should come to you for corrective discipline, sir. She said that I needed a man’s touch! Er, have you got a cane, sir, or should I get one?’
The look of delight on the old boy’s face told Sally that her birthday present was an inspiration. She well knew the Commander’s nostalgia for the distaff side of the Senior Service, and his joy in recounting his punishments of sundry naughty WRENS, who had fallen foul of him during his long and distinguished service, was quite tedious.
‘Ah well,’ Sally thought, ‘It’s all good fun. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ That it was to her advantage to win the Commander as an ally was obvious, and should be well worth the expense of the uniform, plus a caning or two!
‘Humph!’ grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. ‘Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.’
He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy malacca. ‘Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!’
Not without difficulty Sally hitched up the tight blue uniform skirt and bent herself over, presenting a pretty sight in seamed black stockings and suspenders, yet it appeared that the effect was not entirely to the Commander’s satisfaction.
‘And where,’ he barked, ‘are your regulation knickers?’ It was a good question, because Sally’s delightful bottom was attired in white frilly panties. Indeed, the Service outfitters, from whom she had purchased the uniform by phone and credit card, had said nothing about naval underwear.
‘Er, sorry, sir! I forgot,’ stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.
‘Then two additional strokes to remind you!’ said the Commander joyfully. ‘Get up, while I find you some.’
He rummaged in a seachest and finally came up with a pair of navy blue Directoire knickers, perhaps the trophy from some long gone disciplinary encounter, and handed them to Sally. ‘Put these on.’
Sally removed her own un-WREN-like frillies, and placed her high heels into the elasticated legs of the nylon bloomers, pulling them up snugly over her thighs and bottom. They felt constricting but quite comfortable, and would, she told herself, be some protection from the bite of the cane – if she was permitted to keep them in place over her rounded bottom.
‘Now,’ resumed the Commander, ‘back down again for eight of the best. That’s what delinquent ratings deserve!’
He had laid two well-placed strokes on Sally’s knickered bottom, which stung despite its tight fitting and silky protection, when the phone rang. Signalling to Sally to stand up, the Commander picked up the receiver.
‘Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick…’
It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties. ‘I’ll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick,’ he told her absently.
‘Permission to go outside, sir?’ asked Sally impishly, an idea already hatching in her mischievous imagination. What fun it would be to go out in her uniform, and pretend to be a real WREN! Even to take the Commander’s Cavalier for a spin. Of course, there would be a spanking when he found out, but he couldn’t be too severe after the birthday present, and it would be worth it.
‘Yes, carry on,’ said the Commander, his mind on the phone conversation. Sally skipped out, picking up the car keys from the sideboard as she did so. Little did she know…
* * *
His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his ‘unfinished business’ in mind. Where was she? He recalled her asking permission to go outside – into the garden, he had assumed – but she wasn’t there.
Half an hour passed, and then an hour. It was then that he discovered the absence of his car. She was gone! Scarpered, deserted! Well, absent without leave, at the very least. God, what would Marcus say when he returned? Thank goodness that he wasn’t expected back until later. But where was she?
* * *
At that moment Sally was in a layby, being questioned by two burly Naval policemen. The sight of a pretty young WREN rating proceeding in a leisurely fashion in a smart new Vauxhall Cavalier GL, had aroused their suspicions, and they had become even more suspicious when their jeep had flagged down the car and they discovered that the WREN driver had no identification, no license or insurance, or even a handbag. They came to the conclusion that the young woman was A.W.O.L., and the car stolen. Nor would she give the name of her unit. What she did do was to become increasingly angry and abusive and call them names, finally kicking the Master-at-Arms, Taffy Evans, painfully on the shin. After that they put handcuffs on her for their own protection.
Finally she calmed down enough to tell them some cock and bull story about being on a ‘secret mission’ for Commander Fenwick of Queen’s Cottage, Bramblehurst!
‘Right ho,’ said Taffy to his assistant, ‘Barnacle’ Bates, ‘we’ll take her there. I served under a Commander Fenwick once, finally swallowed the anchor about three years ago, but it can’t be him, or can it? He’s hardly the James Bond type. You take the jeep, I’ll drive the Vauxhall with Mata Hari in it.’ And bundling Sally, her wrists still locked behind her, into the back seat of the car, they set off in convoy for Bramblehurst. They entered the gates at lunchtime, which was the identical time as Marcus’s M.G. His university seminar had finished unexpectedly early!
* * *
In retrospect, Sally considered that the sight of Marcus’s face, on seeing her marched in, in WREN uniform, between two matlows, her wrists locked behind her in bright, steel fetters, was almost worth what was to follow. She only wished that the neighbours had been on the look-out, but, disappointingly, they weren’t. However, that was the rosy view of nostalgia, after the stripes had faded. At the time it was all quite horrendous.
There were redeeming features, but hardly from Sally’s point of view. Bos’un Taffy Evans was an old shipmate of the Commander’s, and that made things easier, especially when his old C.O. produced a bottle of Lamb’s Navy Rum. As for A.B ‘Barnacle’ Bates, the other member of the patrol, he was happy to go along with anything, it was all better than touring the sodding Motorway, and so long as Petty Officer Evans was happy to carry the can…!
‘It’s my birthday today, lads,’ said the Commander expansively. ‘Would you like to come back here for a meal and a yarn tonight? If you are both off duty, of course.’
‘That we are, sir,’ said Taffy, always happy for wining, dining, and a pipe of shag. ‘Er, what about the young lady, sir? Hadn’t we better take the cuffs off her?’
‘I suppose you’d better!’ said the Commander offhandedly, glaring at Sally, ‘Not that it would hurt her to be kept in irons for a few hours. She’s due for a Court Martial after you leave, and without pre-empting the verdict of the Court, I’d guess that she was in for a flogging and a spot of jankers!’
‘Tell you what,’ broke in Marcus, who had said little until now, preferring to leave it all to the Senior Service, ‘she owes you something for that kick on the shin, Bos’un Painful, is it?’
‘Oh, very, sir!’ grinned the Master-at-Arms, rubbing the offended spot, and trying to recall which leg had received the impact of Sally’s small shoe.
‘Well,’ said Marcus, ‘if you’d like to carry out the sentence of the Court, we’ll hold over punishment for you to administer. I believe that traditionally it was the duty of the Master-at-Arms to give floggings!’
‘Quite right, sir,’ said Taffy. ‘Er, will the sentence be carried out on the er – bare er posterior of the young lady, sir, like they used to do with Midshipmen?’
‘Naturally, Bos’un, where else?’ asked the Commander in surprise.
* * *
The Naval Police patrol having departed about its lawful business, taking the handcuffs with them, it took little time to decide Sally’s fate. After all, she was guilty, and with no mitigating circumstances.
‘Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!’
She was told that she would be given a dozen strokes of the riding crop, at dinner that night, to be administered by the Master-at-Arms, and, what was more, Sally would wait upon them at table – both before and after her punishment, which would take place sandwiched between the sweet and coffee courses. Naturally, all her pleas for clemency were rejected. The Senior Service is a tough taskmaster!
‘By the way,’ asked Marcus, ‘why the WREN uniform?’
The Commander explained.
‘Well, since Sally so obviously enjoys dressing up, she can dress in a maid’s costume to serve us dinner tonight. One of my girl students has just the outfit – won it as a bet in the last university Rag Week, I understand. I’ll give her a ring, and go over and collect it. In the meantime, you, Sally, can get out of that ridiculous uniform and start preparing the dinner. Er, sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean that the uniform was ridiculous, only on Sally!’
‘Humph!’ said the Commander. ‘I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business…!’
* * *
The maid’s costume which Marcus borrowed from his student may have been ideal for Rag Week’s Fancy Dress Ball, but would have given any self-respecting ‘nippy’ in Lyons’ a blue fit.
It consisted of a sexy little dress in black satin, cut so low at the bust as to be positively indecent, and so high at the skirt hem that it scarcely covered Sally’s bottom – and didn’t when she bent forward. It was worn with a frilly petticoat, which pushed out the short skirt even more, and black seamed nylon stockings held up by a black suspender belt. The miniscule panties were decorated with lace ruffles across the seat, and there was also a dainty frill of lace where they fitted snugly to the thighs. This travesty of traditional servitude was worn with a small white apron and a starched little cap which perched cheekily upon Sally’s golden curls. She looked delicious! The Commander said so, secretly Sally thought so, and Marcus – well, Marcus kept his own counsel! Sally would have enjoyed the charade if she had not been so apprehensive about her coming whipping. However often it happened to her, she told herself glumly, it didn’t get any better, or hurt any the less! She hoped that Taffy Evans was a kind man. He was far too powerfully built if he wasn’t!
Furthermore it was the first time that she had had her bottom bared and whacked before anyone other than family! She tried to tell herself that it was all utterly shameful – but had to admit that the idea sent little thrills of secret pleasure through her pussy-parts. She hoped that she wouldn’t be too much of a baby when the riding crop began smoking down on her tender situpon!
* * *
The Commander’s birthday dinner was a great success – mainly because Sally hadn’t cooked much of it! It had been delivered by a restaurant. Taffy and ‘Barnacle’ Bates could scarcely keep their eyes off Sally, as she moved around the table, serving from a hostess trolley, and it must be admitted that Taffy’s preoccupation with the disciplinary task ahead of him quite blunted a usually excellent appetite. He hoped that no one could sense his ‘hard on’ under the table.
After the sherry trifle had been appreciated, demolished, and cleared away, the Commander excused himself and returned dragging a large, pony sized, Victorian rocking horse which had long been in the attics of the old cottage. It was a beautiful beast, grey and mottled, benign and handsome, still polished in its varnished paint. How it must have delighted some long dead child. What a price it would bring in the sale rooms! But now Marcus and the Commander had another use for it.
The Commander led Sally across it. He held the horse’s reigns to keep it still, and indicated that Sally should mount. The stirrups were short, suitable for a child, but not a grown girl, and Sally had to bend her knees. Her bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches, the skirt of the ridiculous maid’s costume riding up. Sally’s plump cheeks were like full moons upon which the ruched knickers strained alarmingly. Marcus moved forward and with some difficulty peeled them down over the out thrust, pouting globes. ‘Barnacle’ Bates, whose erection was as rampant as Taffy’s, hoped that he was not about to disgrace himself beneath the linen table cloth!
Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.
‘I think,’ said Marcus, ‘that the chastisement will be more salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!’
‘Oh no,’ pleaded Sally, ‘It’s going to be bad enough as it is!’
The reply to this presumptuous comment was a warm up spanking from the Commander that lasted almost ten minutes, and brought a hot stinging glow in its wake. It was almost a relief when Marcus returned with the olive oil and quite impersonally coated the hot, scarlet flesh with it. He could almost be dressing a salad, Sally thought indignantly. How could she have ever thought that she loved such an unfeeling block of marble!
In the meantime, to complete his victim’s utter subjection to the prescribed punishment, the Commander slapped the deep, wide cleft of her buttocks, while Sally howled in protest, but to no avail.
The preliminaries over, the Commander produced a leather-bound riding switch and handed it to Taffy Evans, saying in judicial tones, ‘Right, Master-at-Arms, a dozen strokes, and lay on well!’ Then he jerked on the reins of the rocking horse, causing it to rear up and present Sally’s rump as target for the first biting stroke. Grimly she hung to the animal’s wooden neck, grasping its real horse-hair mane for scant comfort, and yelped as the plaited leather cut into her plump flesh.
Taffy took his time. Between strokes Sally looked over her shoulder, taking in the stern expression of the Commander, the gloating elation on Marcus’s face, and the pop-eyed disbelief of ‘Barnacle’ Bates. There could be no mercy expected there! Fortunately she sensed that Taffy Evans was not using his full strength, which was as well, or he would have cut her bottom into ribbons! As it was each stroke burned and stung abominably!
What a team the Bos’un and the Commander made! As each stroke fell the Commander would let the horse, and Sally’s whipped buttocks, down, only to rise again into the trajectory of the next downward stroke of the riding switch.
At the eighth stroke, Sally, who had tried to keep a count of the punishment, gave up, and just hung on waiting for it to end. If only, she thought between wails and gasps of pain, and pleas to be a better girl in future, if only she had never told Marcus that she had been brought up on smack bottoms! If only, just for once, she could be a distributor of punishment, instead of a victim! She owned to being a silly, reckless, little fool, but…
Taffy brought down the switch on an already tender spot and Sally howled, just howled. It was a combination of pain, misery, and a realisation of her ignominious position, dressed in a ludicrously sexy costume, and bent, half naked, over a rocking horse, having her bare buttocks soundly whipped for the gratification of four men, two of whom had been strangers until a few hours earlier.
Marcus watched the whipping with cold interest. That afternoon he had toyed with the notion of summoning her to his bed for an hour, as he had hardly seen her for several days, but he had decided that it might not be prudent. It might give his wife the wrong idea. Comforting her wasn’t in his interests. In his opinion any punishment to Sally’s deserving bottom should be painful, both during and after its application, and for as long as possible. His marriage was benefitting beautifully from these attentions to the defects in his irresponsible wife’s demeanour. What a good idea of his father’s to bring in an expert!
‘Last three!’ said the Commander to Taffy. ‘Excellent work so far!’
“Crack! Crack! CRACK!” As the horse rocked and reared in its final disciplinary canter, and Sally bawled to the full extent of her lungs, all others present enjoyed this finale, the salute to her welted behind of a skilled disciplinarian.
It was the most expertly delivered beating that Sally had ever endured, and was certainly far more than she had bargained for when she had set out, so full of mischief, in the Commander’s car that morning. Somehow she slithered off the rocking horse and stood swaying on her feet, moaning and sobbing as she clutched her palpitating, cringing hemispheres, the tears streaming down her face.
‘Alright,’ said Marcus unsympathetically, ‘You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!’
‘That,’ he thought smugly, as he saw his wife painfully pull up her panties and head for the kitchen, ‘is how married life should be!’ He was ‘Don Marcus’, university lecturer, master of his own life and family, in the most scorching and primitive way. And the lessons would go painfully on, for as long as he chose, and until he was satisfied. It certainly beat being a liberal with a small ‘l’!
More spanking stories can be found here.