Sixteen of the Best

by Sarah Veitch

  'But she's there, normal, like? She'll have to be told.'

  'But...' Michael began feeling sick.

  'No buts,' the sergeant said. 'Right, we can settle this soon enough.' He tapped his pencil on the desk. 'The court's sitting. You'll be taken there right after your statement.' It was short, and Michael signed it shakily, pleading guilty.

  The sergeant leaned forward. 'I hope you get a damned good thrashing if the beak decides on it - and he will, mark my words! I just hope your mother's got the sense to give her permission. It's needed - you're under twenty-one, worse luck.'

  Michael's throat was parched. His brain wouldn't function, but surprisingly he heard himself saying, 'My mother - what's she got to do with it?'

  'I just told you, cloth ears!'

  What happened next had a dreamlike quality. His mother arrived looking pale - she'd been picked up in a police car. She avoided his eyes and he said nothing. In the courtroom there was a sea of blurred faces. He was told to stand behind a table - not in the dock - his mother just behind him.

  The charge was read, Bill gave his evidence and the Magistrate stared at Michael grimly. When he learned Michael's mother was present, she was told to stand. 'Madam,' the Magistrate said, 'I'm now going to sentence your son. I shall ask you if you are prepared to sign a form agreeing to the punishment I shall pronounce.'

  He stared at Michael again, intoning his full name. 'You have been found guilty of the sort of mindless vandalism which this Court will not tolerate. I intend to make an example of you. The sentence of the Court is that you receive eighteen strokes of the birch, which will be administered with your parent's permission, tomorrow afternoon in the police station adjacent to this courtroom at precisely 2:30pm.'

  Michael's excitement at this left him faint with relief.

  The Magistrate addressed his mother again. 'Madam, I strongly advise you to permit this punishment to be exacted - the pain and the humiliation may teach him a lesson he'll take note of. I wish every house had a cane or a birch in the corner and save the taxpayer the cost of the police doing the job for them. The Court is adjourned!'

  Was she going to sign? The question drummed in Michael's head as he followed her out. She looked at him and spoke for the first time, her eyes glittering in anger. 'I don't know why you did what you did, but I'm going to sign the form.'

  Michael's penis jerked.

  'Well?' she demanded. 'Haven't you anything to say to me?'

  Michael shrugged, trying to restrain his excitement. 'I... I...'

  'That's enough.' She walked into the glass cubicle whilst Michael stood in the doorway. The words hammered in his head: You're going to be birched. Tomorrow. At 2:30pm. Eighteen strokes. His buttocks quivered. He heard his mother's firm voice. 'Where do I sign?'

  A male voice: 'As your son is under twenty-one, Madam, you have the right to be present when the punishment is carried out. Do you wish that?'

  His mother nodded. 'Yes, I wish to be present. Where and when?'

  The sergeant wrote on a card and handed it over. 'The police station just across the way. Give this to the desk sergeant. Get there about a quarter-hour before so a doctor can check your son is fit enough for what he's going to get.'

  'Thank you.' Putting the card away, Michael's mother brushed past him and he followed her out, his temples pounding.

  Michael struggled to maintain his decision not to arouse himself. His mother was tight-lipped. He had little supper, and curled up in bed, kept his hands well away from his cock.

  Not much was said next morning at breakfast, either. He ate cornflakes, crunched some toast and drank milk. His mother looked tired and strained. At one point he asked her briefly, 'What are you going to wear?'

  'Black,' she replied curtly. 'What else? Get these things cleared up, then tidy your room.'

  Finally it was time to go. After his bath, he'd put on another pair of tight underpants - dark-blue this time - and the same shirt, tie and suit he'd worn the day before. At the police station, his mother handed the card over. 'Someone'll take you down,' the officer said gruffly, pressing an intercom button. 'The two-thirty party's here.' He flicked the switch and there was a thin-lipped grin on his face as he nodded at Michael. 'Sit down, son, might be the last time for a spell.'

  After two or three more minutes of agony for Michael, a uniformed sergeant emerged, glancing at a clipboard. 'Come with me.'

  Down a flight of stone steps, in a white-tiled corridor, a door was pushed open.

  'In there.'

  Michael, whose feelings were now so tangled that he couldn't make sense of them except for the word 'birching' ringing in his head, saw a small and largely bare room apart from a couple of chairs and a plain deal table. High on the wall was a barred window. A row of coat-hooks lined one wall of bare brick. Surely it wasn't going to be done here?

  A second door on a far wall opened and two men came in. One, whom Michael would forever-after think of as Waxed Moustaches, had a red face and, under the glory of his upper lip, a full, ripe-looking mouth. He wore dark-blue uniform trousers, toe-shined boots, a blue shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Muscled forearms were layered with black hair. Michael knew instinctively this was the man who would whip him.

  Thickness rose strong in his throat.

  The other man was dressed in a dark suit and carried a black bag. His thin face was lined, his eyes sad and with bags under them.

  Michael confirmed his full name and his mother, in a quiet but controlled voice, her status.

  Waxed Moustaches read the charge from a sheet. 'You have been sentenced to eighteen strokes of the birch and that sentence will now be carried out.'

  Michael cleared his throat. 'In here?'

  'No, next door. Now, get undressed, and be quick about it.' He turned about and disappeared.

  The doctor, for that's what he was, opened his bag.

  Michael asked, 'Do I have to strip completely?' He could scarcely get the words out.

  'I'm afraid so,' the doctor said, bringing out a stethoscope.

  'Is that really necessary?' His mother's voice was none too steady.

  'Those are the rules, Madam,' the doctor confirmed, a sad note in his voice.

  Michael, scarcely able to believe his wildest hopes were all coming true, crouched to untie his laces, slipping his black shoes and blue socks off. After he'd removed his jacket, his fingers fumbled so hopelessly with his tie that his mother helped. He got his trousers down and off and now there were just his bulging dark-blue underpants. Rapidly he eased the waist over his glistening cock, let them drop, and kicked them aside. Naked and unashamed, shaking with fevered anticipation he stood there, staring at the wall.

  After the doctor had checked him over without apparently noticing the strutting cock, he said quietly, 'I don't agree with this, but I follow the rules, I'm afraid. Look, son, it won't take long but it's going to hurt you a lot. I shall test you after each six strokes and if I feel you can't take any more then I shall order the punishment to stop.' He glanced at Michael's mother. 'Madam, are you sure you wish to view this? You can wait in here...'

  'No!' Her voice was sharp. 'If what's going to happen to my son is partly my fault, then I should be there to suffer along with him mentally.'

  The far door swung open. Waxed Moustaches stood there in a flood of white light.

  The doctor nodded at him, and Waxed Moustaches crooked a finger at Michael. 'Come on, you.'

  Stumbling, his cock bobbing, Michael knew he had reached his Mecca at last. There were others in the square room which he entered, but his gaze was focused on the structure which dominated it beneath a cluster of bare light-bulbs. It was shaped like a giant easel, a towering A. Halfway down the front of the A, a wide, leather-topped bench was set at right angles. From each edge dangled thick leather straps, two on each side, and at the base of the A, a solid metal bar joined each leg from which more straps hung loosely.

  Michael heard a chair scrape across the stone floor, and gla
nced round. His mother was seated a few yards back, a uniformed constable standing beside her. Ahead of Michael stood Waxed Moustaches, a birch gripped firmly in his right hand. Michael's gaze was riveted on the instrument. The thick bunch of raw twigs was some three feet in length, drawn together in a stout wooden handle. Beside the frame stood a bucket containing three more birches soaking in water.

  'Right, get over here.' As Michael shuffled slowly forward - already, he noticed, a thin thread of pre-ejaculation semen hanging from his stretched foreskin - others came into focus standing to one side, another sergeant, an inspector, a man in plain clothes, and the doctor.

  Before he was forced face down onto the bench, Michael gave a quick glance over his shoulder. His mother was sitting motionless, her black-clad legs crossed.

  The leather was cold on his naked flesh, his penis painfully but ecstatically crushed into the surface. Straps buckled his wrists tightly, others bound his waist, and still more secured his ankles. He was helpless; beautifully, nakedly helpless. His buttocks, raised slightly by the tight belt around his middle, were poised, quivering for the first stroke. He could turn his head slightly to the side and the watching faces were set, intent. He had his audience!

  A voice behind him: 'You know what your punishment is... eighteen strokes as ordered by the bench. I shall wait fifteen seconds between strokes. Are you ready to take your punishment?'

  'Yes,' Michael gasped, his throat thick. He felt as if he might come even before the whipping began. 'Come on, please do it!' He heard boots scraping behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut. A swish in the air and the birch struck the centre of his buttocks with a slashing whip-like crack. An exquisite lance of pain seared across his behind and he shuddered with pleasure.

  The fifteen seconds seemed an eternity, then the second stroke whistled down with expert accuracy just below the first. The third stroke seemed harder and below the first two.

  Now his bottom was becoming alive with fire and the familiar glow was spreading over his body. He knew he couldn't hold his spunk much longer. How many to go? Another cut into him - the fourth?

  The fifteen seconds between each blow appeared to be shrinking.

  'Come on, number five! Harder... harder.' The fifth did seem more powerfully struck, and at last he could hold out no longer. Crushed to the leather, the eruption from the head of his twisted cock flooded hotly, soaking his upper thighs, muscles jerking spasmodically, the itch through the stem exquisite, and the birch cruelly lashed across him again and he let out a low moan of animal pleasure.

  Then the sixth struck, searing the tender area below the curve of his bottom. He could smell his own semen and his sweat. The doctor was close, feeling his pulse, checking the artery in his neck.

  'I'm... all right,' he panted, longing for the flogging to continue. Even though he'd come, he still thirsted for more. Waxed Moustaches appeared to his right, picked up a white cloth and wiped the twigs up and down. Some were broken, others bent. Bright red blood appeared on the cloth.

  He was bleeding - and there were twelve more to go! The bent and broken birch was flung into the bucket and a fresh one brought out and wiped.

  The boots shuffled again, getting a firmer grip he supposed. The flogging recommenced, fiercer now, the sharp bark of the twigs on Michael's tortured, swelling bottom accompanied grunts of effort from the flogger.

  The doctor again - so that was twelve, only another six, worse luck. The thirst for more, many more, was unbearable. Michael gripped the wooden legs to which his wrists were bound, and prayed. 'Please! Harder!'

  His buttocks screamed with pain as the lashing continued, and mentally he screamed with joy. His penis was growing again as the last stroke whistled into the spreading welter of unbelievable, unimaginable pain and pleasure. It was over.

  Waxed Moustaches, breathing hard, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with the stained cloth, dropped the second ragged-twigged birch into the bucket. The room was still, so still that Michael could hear the clink-clink as the straps were unbuckled.

  'Get up. I hope that's taught you a lesson you won't forget.'

  Licking his dry lips, Michael managed to say hoarsely, 'Uh, I won't forget it but not in the way you mean. You're a good whipper, you should do it more often.'

  When Michael pulled himself stiffly to his feet, his bottom felt twice its normal size, throbbing, pulsating, dancing with erotic waves of fire. His punisher gave a long look at Michael's cock - it wasn't fully up, but nearly - and thin spunk still dripped from the tip: a pool gleamed on the black leather of the flogging bench. 'Most of them piss before it's finished, even do a crap sometimes - but I never seen anyone shoot their load before.'

  The doctor was by Michael's side. 'Go back in the other room and I'll do something about your bottom.' As he began to move, Michael heard Waxed Moustaches saying to the watching group, 'Didn't you see his cock when he came in here? For Christ's sake it was hard as a rock before I even got going. And look at that spunk all over the place.'

  Inside the little room - how long ago it seemed - ointment and plasters were applied to the scarred swell of his behind. 'Your bottom will take some time to recover; some of the cuts are quite deep. Sometimes there's delayed shock after a whipping like this.'

  Michael began to dress, pulling his pants up tightly. Emotions whirled: joy that he'd been flogged, disappointment that it was over, not disappointed though at the result. He could admire those welts and lacerations for weeks, masturbating and reliving the delight.

  The Key to the Unknown

  Sarah Dean

  LEO examined his motives for one last time while he observed her through his open bedroom door. She was kneeling in front of the plate glass window, the evening lights flickering on her golden skin, her nudity invisible to the multitudes far below. She fidgeted with an auburn curl that had escaped from behind the blindfold. In the year that he'd known her, she had exceeded all his expectations. But he had to be certain that her obedience was beyond question, and for that she must pass his final test - however arduous. He closed his suitcase before he joined her in the drawing room of his penthouse apartment.

  Beth reclasped her hands over her bare bottom and craned her neck while he sealed the three cream envelopes.

  'Come here.' Her body rippled like a wild cat as she crawled across the pristine marble, seeking him out by his sound and smell, and knelt up to nuzzle lithely against him. She stayed still while he fitted the stainless steel chastity belt that she wore whenever they went out in public. She didn't flinch when the hinge sprang open and he snapped down the metal shield and drew the two thin chains up over her buttocks to hold it in position. He checked that the lips of her labia protruded through the narrow slot that allowed liquid to pass but prevented penetration. The flexible steel traced the contours of her pubic mound perfectly, invisible under her clothing to all but him.

  'There's been a change of plan. I'm leaving tonight,' he stated bluntly as he used the silver key to secure the padlock. She sprang to her feet, smiling broadly. 'You won't be joining me,' he added.

  It gave him some satisfaction that she betrayed herself so readily but still her unbidden tears touched his heart.

  They dined by the river. The owner gave them a discreet table - the talented artist and the millionaire industrialist had already caused speculation. Leo ordered and offered no explanation for his change of plan and she didn't question him. Her courage in letting consequences take their course singled her out from other women he'd known. He'd recognised the same boldness in her work the first time he visited her warehouse studio behind Kings Cross Station.

  They drove away from the restaurant and turned north, in silence.

  'How long will you be gone?' she asked as evenly as she could when he stopped the car but an overhead train drowned his muttered response and she was disinclined to repeat her question - or ask him for the key.

  'Get out,' he said flatly and rammed the powerful car into gear. He screeched away, leaving her on t
he pavement, the sobs tearing at her chest.

  It would be two days before the first cream envelope dropped through her letterbox.

  This afternoon you will compete in a tennis match. You must seek out and provoke the holder of the key. The metal belt will be removed while you find the full meaning of SURRENDER. When you have learned the lesson, it will be replaced and you must write to me.

  I read your letter several times, trying to understand your motives. I have become so used to you that my banishment is like an open wound. Have I not given myself to you unconditionally? But to know you have parted with the only key is my worst pain. Your map was precise and the club was small and exclusive - but you know that. I wore the white pleated skirt that you like.

  The match was mixed doubles. The other woman was a leggy blonde and the men, tall and athletic. Any one of them could have held the key. My partner was a skilful player - and a perfect gentleman. I have never worn the belt for so long and it chaffed my skin as I bent provocatively to retrieve stray balls, letting my skirt flick up, giving them all a perfect view of my knickers. But none of them could be diverted. We won the match but I returned to the locker room, dispirited by my failure to find the keyholder.

  I was drying myself when there was a rap on the door. At first I didn't recognise the man who had umpired the match when he stepped into the room uninvited.

  'Just locking up,' he excused himself but his eyes ogled me as I clutched the towel. 'Not so shy on court, were you, miss?' He came closer and I flushed with embarrassment, reminded of my flirtatious displays. 'Nearly lost the match with your little exhibition.'

  I had paid no attention to the small wiry man, perched high on his umpire's chair. He introduced himself as Jock. His face was weathered from years outdoors and his legs bowed beneath his white shorts. He was in front of me before I dared speak. 'Perhaps I need to learn some discipline.' Although still unsure, I tossed my head insolently.