Going easy

Abel Historical punishments, Perverting reality 1 Comment

The Russian page about judicial floggings that inspired my previous post had one other tantalizing sentence, which explained that the “varying degrees of rigour” of the flogging was dependent not only on the skill of the person administering it:

“but also – and perhaps most – of the value of the gift received by the executioner before whipping in the form of bribery”.

Oh, I wonder what a girl would offer the night before her punishment, in her desperation? I wonder what he’d request; what he’d take.

And I imagine two friends, apprehended and sentenced to be flogged, being beaten one after the other. The girl who was going second would watch the first punishment, aghast at the severity of the fate that she herself would endure just a few minutes hence. And then realising, as the first strokes of her own whipping landed, that he had been going easier on her friend – and that she must have succumbed to their gaoler’s advances the night before.

A cruel phrase floats into my mind: “No man of standing in the court will marry you now, after the Tsar has had you whipped. So there’s no reason not to be a compliant girl for me, and make tomorrow a little easier on yourself…”

Readied for her flogging

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I’m fascinated by a find on a Russian (NSFW) historical website (Google Translate, plus a little judicious editing, being a wonderful thing) about a public flogging administered to Evdokia Lopuchin, “reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in the court of the ruler”. She was convicted of treason, hoping to protect her lover, who served as one of the foreign envoys.

Lopuchin was led before the crowds to the whipping post in a flimsy dress, “which only increased her indescribable beauty”.

“Until the last moment she was firmly convinced that any of the many friends who admired her beauty and wit would suddenly appear to her aid. But her pleading eyes met everywhere people who were either totally indifferent or merely curious”.

When the executioner touched her clothes, she made an attempt to push him away – in vain, for after a few moments she was naked from the waist up, overcome “with shame and despair”. One of his assistants grabbed her, and tied her hands high above her head – “with her feet dangling in the air”, so the whipping could proceed…

Wanted: a girl to convict of treason…!

The Roman slaves

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Browsing idly, I discovered a fascinating (if rather badly-written) article about slavery in Ancient Rome. I thought I’d summarise a few extracts here: it scarcely needs me to add any more for your imaginations to wander as creatively as mine did.

  • Emperor Septimus build a special market for the highest quality slaves, known as the “saepta” – and this was a popular meeting spot for Romans.
  • So that buyers could check that slaves were healthy, “they were stripped bare of their clothes”. “The buyers could go up to them to take a closer look, to get a sense of what they were buying.”
  • “The auctions themselves were complex and, as for any other good, the seller had to guarantee the quality of his stock, declare their origins and state their skills, if they had any.” “Authorities would keep an eye out for a fair auction” and to ensure that the price paid was on a par “with the actual quality of the ‘merchandise’”.
  • “Those that were tamed and taught were valued the most and could reach prices up to 12 times higher than the other slaves. There were even closed auction for the rich…”
  • If the new owner had any issues with the slave that had not been stated by the trader at the time he purchased her, he had the right to return her.

And then, of course, girls who disappointed their new masters could be whipped.

I especially like the thought of a girl being told by her master to “be co-operative or I’ll return you to the slave market”, knowing the flogging that would inevitably result were she taken back. Having been purchased in the saepta, to work as a slave in a good household, she’d probably also realise that, bearing the marks of the whip, she would probably then be re-sold in a lesser market for use in one of the local brothels…

The post office

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There I was in the local Royal Mail sitting office, waiting while they hunted for a parcel that needed my signature.

Behind the counter, I spied a long, thin cardboard tube, addressed to a Mr Bramley. Picture the sort of thing a poster would be shipped in – only longer than any poster tube.

Yes, dear friends, the conclusion is obvious. ‎The man’s a pervert, having canes shipped internationally to him.

He’d send his girlfriend to pick them up, of course. Instruct her to open the package and to lay the new implements on the bed; to strip and fold her clothes neatly; to kneel on all hours on the bed to await his return home.

Still in his suit, he’d take them in turn, commenting on them and flexing them, cutting practice strokes through the air, before slowly and calmly measuring their efficacy as he applied them to their target.

And after, of course, he’d place them carefully away, as he made her touch herself before he thrust into her from behind.

My reveries were interrupted by the return of the assistant with my package. There are those who are perverts only in my imagination – and then there’s me. For, clearly marked on the outside of the padded bag she handed over was the one word: “Whip”:

Whip photo 2

 

She seemed very demure as she handed it over. Not surprising, really…

Celebrating her return

Abel Perverting reality 1 Comment

I picture a girl, back in the city after staying at home with her family for several weeks. Her boyfriend – much older – books a posh restaurant and hotel suite, so they can celebrate her return.

She dresses provocatively, wanting his eyes on her after so long. Senses the waiters mentally undressing her; loves it; knows he loves it too. Knows that the cute, smiling girls behind reception are in no doubt, as they walk past hand-in-hand towards the lift, as to what they will be up to just moments later.

Strips. Then, suddenly, panics. Prays that she can keep his attention, can distract him from other ideas, by kneeling and sucking him,,then lying on her back on the bed, stretching out her wrists for him to press down hard, and begging him to cum in her.

Knowing, though, that he would want to turn her over. To have her on her knees so he could thrust into her from behind. That, after time apart, he would want to use her arse.

Knowing that when he did so, he would inevitably see the marks of the belt buckle, left when she had been sent from the family dinner table in disgrace two nights before for her disrespectful attitude – and, after the longest hour ever waiting in her room, soundly whipped… And knowing that he too would then take off his belt, and add his own lesson to her father’s.

The wedding reception

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Such a cute lass opposite me on the train, snuggling up against her boyfriend. He must be thirty. She… quite a considerable amount younger.

The suit cover and luggage suggests that they’ve been to a wedding. Stayed in a nice hotel, no doubt. That, on Friday night, she willingly and naughtily seduced him. That, last night, both drunk after the reception, he took advantage of her more forcefully and more thoroughly.

But a different scenario plays out in my mind. For a prefect might well be given permission to leave her school ‎for the weekend and “visit a gravely ill Great Aunt”. And when her housemaster then bumped into her, giggling merrily, swigging champagne and entwined around a gentleman at a wedding reception at the opposite end of the country, at which he too was a guest as an old friend of the bride’s family – her rather different weekend plans would give her momentary cause to panic.

But he’d never know, right? He’d never check?

She wouldn’t find herself called out of her first lesson on Monday morning to report to her headmaster’s study. Lectured about lying. And given the inevitable six strokes on the bare – doubled as a consequence of, and price for maintaining, her prefectorial‎ status…

The gallery visit

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A quick pop into the National Portrait Gallery, for yet another look at Grayson Perry’s utterly magnificent “Map of Days” – a self-portrait in the form of a map of a walled city.

As ever, various school groups were touring the building. I imagined a couple of sixth-form girls, up from the provinces, deciding to sneak off back to the hotel in which the school trip was staying – perhaps via a hostelry or two en route.

They’d evade detection, if not suspicion. Until, that is, they handed in their essays the following week: “Describe the paintings in the gallery that had the biggest impact on you, and why you found them so impressive.”

Easy, you’d think – especially with the web to help them browse through the gallery’s collection. Unless, that is, they both wrote at length about a particular portrait that was out on loan in another city…

Called in in turn to the headmaster’s study. Mumbled excuses, contradicting each other’s stories. Both sent to wait outside, for five long, long minutes. And then summoned back in together to be caned – touching toes, side by side, trying to be brave as the strokes alternated between them, increasing in severity…

 

The charity collector

Abel Perverting reality 4 Comments

My beloved wasn’t feeling well, and I’d arrived late home from the airport after a work trip. “Takeaway?” I’d offered, and had duly phoned in an order and popped out to collect it.

At the end of our street, I noticed a group of four smart young people, wearing charity tabards, plotting their door-to-door campaign. Sixth formers out doing a good deed, I guessed. “Would you mind not knocking on number 36?” I asked. “My fiancee’s not feeling well and is in bed. I don’t want her to have to get up to answer.”

Such polite replies. Such nice kids.

Only… when, a few minutes later, I reappeared with the food, I found one of their number – a young woman – standing at our door. She turned, saw me, and looked suddenly crestfallen. “I am so sorry. I totally forgot. And now I’ve disturbed your girlfriend and… I am so, so sorry.”

She was so sweet and polite, and so pitifully apologetic, that I felt sorry for her and re-assured her that it was OK; that it was great to see them out collecting. She looked relieved, and headed on her way.

Relieved?

Indeed.

—

“Come inside.”

Straight into the nearest room. Straight over my knees. A hard spanking, accompanied by a lecture about good manners. Then the instruction to stand, take down her jeans and bend back over, before the spanking continued harder still.

Or…

“Which school do you go to?”

She named it. A prestigious one, a few streets away.

“Then I shall call your headmaster in the morning. What’s your name?”

… and the headmaster’s secretary arriving at the classroom door during a mid-morning lesson the following day. Handing an envelope to the teacher. Her heart pounding, already dreading its contents: “Could Miss Smith please go to see the headmaster.”

… where such a good girl would find herself lectured about her behaviour, before receiving her first-ever caning – four strokes for bringing the school into disrepute.

The audition

Abel Perverting reality 0 Comment

I ran an event recently in a rather nice training centre in London. Ours was just one of many events taking place, and the coffee-area melting pot of folks from widely different backgrounds made for some interesting conversations.And, needless to say, I corrupted the idea.

What of the girl in the corner, sitting nervously outside the room signed “Film Casting”?

What of the unmistakable noise – of a girl inside being caned?

And later, when we emerged to eat our sandwich lunch. The same girl we’d seen earlier: now tear-stained, fragile, curled up gingerly on a cushion on the armchair. The door opening once more, a gentleman appearing. “You’ve passed the first stage of the audition. Now come back inside for part two.”

Glancing through the door, as they pulled it to behind her. Three men, in smart suits.

And, moments later, her pleas clearly audible. A slap, resonating through the building. And then, plain for all to hear, the sounds of a girl sobbing as she was thoroughly and repeatedly used…

A visit to the headmaster – a scene

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I opened my study door. She was standing there, hands on head facing the wall, where my secretary had left her some minutes before.

“Come in.”

She followed, and shut the door behind her.

“Stand up straight!” She did. “I didn’t expect to see you here in these circumstances.”

“No, sir.”

“Would you care to explain yourself?”

See, Mr Taylor had set her an essay in History, asking her to describe high society in the golden age of the 1920s. Her contribution had dismissed the main topic, in favour of a diatribe about the plight of the working classes at the time, exploited by those ‘living it up’ at their expense.

She’d been given a C, in comparison the straight As usually attained by a scholarship girl hoping to gain a place at one of the better universities. And she’d argued back, ferociously.

“I didn’t agree with Mr Taylor, sir. He and I have different views.”

“You were disrespectful to Mr Taylor, Miss Stone. You argued with him in front of the class, to the point where he had no choice but to send you out for the remainder of the lesson.”

… where, as she waited, she would no doubt have started to panic, realising that any girl sent out of class was automatically then sent to the headmaster to be punished.

I continued: “I would advise you not to argue with me as well, or you will earn yourself extra strokes. You understand, I’m sure, that you’re going to be caned?”

“Yes, sir.”

My disappointment was heightened by the fact that the young lady in question was one I was tutoring for her university entrance exams. One I rather liked, respected. But I stood up from my desk and took the senior cane from the rack.

“Although I’ve not had to punish you before, I’m sure you know the position to take from other girls’ tales. Bend over the desk.”

Obedient. Scared.

I lifted her skirt; lowered her knickers. “Six strokes.”

Six punishing strokes, for a good girl. Enough time in between each for it to drive its message home before the next seared home. Six neat, parallel stripes.

“Adjust your clothing and stand up.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I should expect so. Now, I do not expect to hear any more examples of you being disrespectful, Miss Stone. Or I will have to punish you severely, and reconsider giving my time to help you with your studies. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Right, off you go. And close the door behind you.”

—

Off to her study bedroom. Where the head prefect would join her a few minutes later, teasingly demanding to see her marks. Where she would refuse. Where he would tell her that she shouldn’t be disrespectful…

…where we will draw a tasteful veil over what happened next!

Fabulous scene. Simple, at the very heart of my kink. And with Kay so delightfully in character in her uniform. Perfect!