At the end of my last ‘confession’ I admitted that I learned something on that day which I have turned to my advantage ever since. I think its now time to tell you what use I’ve made of that discovery. If you remember, I told you about the time when at the age of 18 and looking forward with eager anticipation to a hot date after school, I was indiscrete enough to allow myself to be caught masturbating in class at the sight of one of my classmates getting ‘the stick’ on her bottom. I myself received ten strokes on my bare bottom and subsequently had to cancel the date and also had to confess why. The intensity of the sexual activity (starting with an impassioned request for an inspection of the aftermath at first indignantly denied and then allowed after the promise of some TLC and application of cold cream directly onto the target area) which immediately followed this confession amazed me and made me realize the power which ‘submissive’ women can hold over the male sex!
After my time at St Margaret’s, I went up to Oxford where I read English and with my ‘First’ came down to start a career in advertising. For reasons which are irrelevant here, this did not work out well and I found myself in my early thirties with a failed marriage, expensive tastes and an insufficient income to support them and me. Casting around for inspiration I thought of my relationships and how being spanked was always the spark which gave an intensity to matters. I also considered how from my reading of eroticism and spanking literature it seemed that there was always a shortage of women willing to submit and from that decided to provide a service to meet this gap in the market.
Firstly, a short descriptive passage about me as I was at the time of the events in this story and also, I am proud to be able to say, now! I am around five foot eight, have greenish hazel eyes and am size 14 and usually find a 36C bra fits nicely over my full breasts with large brown nipples. I have a well padded but nicely rounded bottom (so essential in my line of work!) and just a suggestion of a tummy which makes for (I’m told) a pleasing bounce at the right moments. My natural shoulder length hair colour is chestnut and I hate shaving ‘down there’ so I have a very hairy pussy and am very proud of the way my bush swells the front of my knickers. I enjoy wearing 10 denier black/barely black stockings or hold-ups and almost never wear tights. Although I do own a few thongs I prefer to wear ‘high leg’ nix in silk/satin with lace fronts usually in black or white. Get the picture?
I am willing for a fee to be anything anyone wants me to be. I have been spanked as a business woman, a policewoman, a member of all branches of the services (and at most ranks!), a nun, a traffic warden, post-woman and of course as a nurse. But my most common request has been to dress up as a schoolgirl; sometimes in short white socks and baggy school knickers, but far more commonly in stockings, suspenders and seductive lingerie. For this reason I decided to call myself “The Bottom of the Class”, and being the bottom of the class has given me a far more comfortable (if that’s the right word here) existence than I could have ever hoped for in advertising.
I advertise in all the best magazines catering for the needs of men (and women!) requiring the sort of services I offer. Occasionally I allow matters to take their natural course when I have provided the service for which I am paid; but that is always on my terms by which I mean that I fancy taking things a stage further. It goes without saying, I should hope, that I expect no payment for taking matters this extra distance. As this ‘confession’ is not an advertisement for my services I shall not disclose any details of my professional fees nor any way in which I may be contacted for my services.
My very first assignment represented a very sharp learning curve for me. I was asked to visit a barrister in his chambers at one of London’s Inns of Court and was requested to attend as a sixth form schoolgirl. It was a cold foggy day in November and I wore a smart overcoat and outwardly at least looked like the businesswoman I thought of myself as. Underneath, however, I had more the look of a ‘St Trinian’s’ schoolgirl and this proved to be a serious error. My client was not impressed and told me that his tastes did not ‘run to the burlesque’ and that he had ‘no intention of paying for the services of a caricature’. I was faced with the option of losing my fee altogether or accepting a reduced one and putting it down to experience. I chose the latter. It didn’t make much difference; I still found it hard to sit down in the taxi afterwards. After this episode, if anyone asked for me as a sixth former I wore my old school uniform which was at least genuine and discretely enquired beforehand if my client would prefer me in tights or stockings or had any preference in knickers!
Today, I’m going to tell you about another member of the judiciary who engaged me professionally. He was a well known High Court Judge and he asked for me to call on him dressed as a barrister. Reading between the lines, I think he had either had a female barrister before him in court who had irritated him or had had one who he had had fantasised about. Whatever his reasons, his solution for his problem was to request that I wore black suspenders and black stockings with scarlet silk knickers under my severe black suit knee length skirt.
When I arrived at his chambers he was in his ‘working clothes’. He ordered me to stand before his desk while he lectured me on court procedure. He then leaned back in his swivel chair and told me to slowly raise my skirt to my waist. I was then told to turn very slowly in a full circle before pulling my skirt down again. He rose from his chair and walked across the room to a cupboard and returned with an object which at the time was strange to me, although I have seen many of them since. It was black with a handle some eight or nine inches long out of which protruded what looked like a bundle of thin black leather tapes or strands each some twenty four inches in length. It had the appearance of a rather sombre party streamer. However, I soon found out that it had a far more sinister use.
‘From the look on your face’ he said, ‘you haven’t seen one of these before, have you?’
I had to confess my ignorance, and was thus introduced to his ‘flogger!’
It looked such an innocuous instrument and it was with some complacency that I obeyed his command to pull my skirt up over my back, my knickers down to mid thigh and bend over. On the instruction to grasp my ankles and open my legs wider I was instantly obedient. Even when the first lash flashed across both bottom cheeks I did not comprehend what a severe whipping would be like. You see, although one speaks in a generic way of school whippings it’s something which has not actually happened in English schools since Victorian times and no 1950’s era English schoolgirl (or boy) would have experienced such punishment. After thirty or so lashes I could see why! My arse felt as though I had gone for a wee in the woods, pulled my knickers down and thoughtlessly crouched down in a bed of stinging nettles!
I started to make some sort of protest but was told, quite curtly to shut up and take my punishment. I tried weaving my bum from side to side but his aim was constant and the flogger lashed down on one cheek or the other or both and sometimes on my lower back or on the backs of my thighs until the whole area was a mass of miniscule angry red wheals with occasional small pinpricks of a brighter red. Putting my hands in the way only resulted in a reminder of that form of school beating which I’d always hated and which I didn’t want to be reminded of too many times… ‘handers!’
I suppose he must have given me fifty lashes before he stopped and told me I could stand upright. I did so gingerly. Sudden movement of the buttocks and thighs seemed inadvisable. He suggested that I pull my knickers up and my skirt down. Painfully I obeyed, wondering if it was all over. He kept me wondering.
‘Would you care for a sherry?’ he asked as if this was a normal business meeting.
‘That would nice’ I replied. I could be as suave and urbane as he if that’s what he wanted. ‘a dry fino if you have it?’
‘Certainly my dear, please sit down’ he waved his hand towards a soft leather armchair.
I sat down carefully.
The next twenty minutes or so were very strange. We discussed the state of local and national politics and the weather and its effect on the test match currently being contested at ‘Lords’. He lit a cigarette and offered me one and seemed pleased when I told him I didn’t smoke. Imagine my surprise and shock when he crossed to that cupboard again and returned with crook handled school cane some four feet long. Certainly the longest I’d seen but I somehow didn’t feel inclined to make jokes of that genre at this time.
He sat down having placed this fearsome instrument across my lap, and continued to smoke his cigarette after which he stood up and motioned for me to do the same, saying in his beautifully modulated voice,
‘Well my dear, if you are ready……… shall we continue?’
Despite my ‘experience’ in these matters I immediately began to feel mixed emotions and my pulse rate quickened when he stood behind me and casually ran the stick over my rump. My pulse acceleration rate increased when he told me in a quietly authoritative voice to walk over to the leather armchair I had so recently vacated. He handed the cane to me and invited me to flex it between my hands and generally get an idea of what sort of treatment it could mete out. I handed the cane back to him and the expected order was not long in coming.
“You will assume the position over the arm of the chair”.
I assumed it. My legs stretched out on the carpet with my heels firmly embedded in it; my face resting on a velvet cushion on the seat and my bum tilted up across the leather roll of the arm. My skirt had of course ridden up my thighs a little and I eased it up further by spreading my legs as far apart as possible. I was still quietly adjusting my position and getting quite excited at the thought of what he would be able to see of the backs of my nylon clad legs and presumably my ‘visible panty line’ and probably the outline of the suspender belt when without warning the stick cracked down on my backside.
Like the reflex action of the kneecap when tapped by a hammer, my rear end jerked up from the arm. And then a strange question….
“How many do you think you should have?”
Well, it’s not a question which one expects to be asked and I had no ready answer.
“So you will have no objection to whatever sentence I impose on you then?”
I tried to introduce a lighter note into this….
“Oh I think I’ve learned my lesson already….Sir”
“Oh surely not” he replied pleasantly, “I think you will have to get far better acquainted with my learned friend ‘QC’ here”
I was beginning to get a little concerned, wondering in which direction this was going. Well as you can probably guess, I didn’t have long to wait to find out. He gave me a brisk five further strokes of medium strength across the seat of my skirt. I say medium but in school they would have counted as severe, but adult ‘girls’ expect to be caned much harder than their junior counterparts.
I was ordered to stand and pull my skirt up around my waist and then get back over the arm. I could hear his breathing increase in intensity as he examined the state of my bottom, swollen from the recent flogger lashes and cane strokes and ran the cane lightly over my curves. His hand smoothed the silky material across my bum and lingered just too long for me to be reminded of school days! I felt rather than heard him stand back and then heard the cane swish through the air a few times before my bottom bounced under the first cut of the next onslaught. He was certainly experienced in these matters and this next session lasted sufficient time for me to receive a further five buttock biting strokes across the complete spread of my bum. God! I could really feel the heat from my swollen throbbing cheeks and reaching behind for a surreptitious feel I became aware of the raised welts forming across my arse where the harder strokes had landed. I was also aware that my fanny lips were swollen and that in all probability they were gaping wetly open. I certainly longed for some attention down there. He paused after the last stroke and watched me squirming on the arm before gently stroking and caressing my tortured bottom. His stroking became more intimate and he began probing between my cheeks and pulling them gently apart to allow his wandering fingers more scope. I was beginning to think he had, at last, beaten me enough for his satisfaction and so I looked cautiously up at him over my shoulder.
‘I have to ask you this’ I said ‘What does QC stand for …apart from the obvious, that is?’
“Well”, he said with a smile in his voice, “It could mean ‘Quality Control’ but you can be ‘Quietly Confident’ that you are just about to receive ‘Quite a Caning’ and because I have already taken silk, I’ll have these as well”…so saying he yanked my knickers down and off and without further ado gave me a rapid two dozen hard strokes across my bottom and thighs.
Afterwards, when we had concluded the business side of things, and I had accepted his invitation to join him in a glass of Moet, he commented on the rather obvious damp patch I had left on the arm of the leather chair when I had arisen from my thrashing. I smiled at him and said that as he was a ‘Queens’ Counsellor, I was surprised he even noticed that sort of thing.
He laughed and suggested we took a Quick Canter into his ‘Robing Room’ where over the next hour I was subjected to the maximum penalty of the law…………..twice!