Written by Sussex Spanking

Nov 2018

The spring morning dew settled on her body creating little drops of moisture which trickled off once  conjoined in to each other. Sun glinting off each drop suggestive of a minute night sky. Megan awoke, instantly concerned about her advertising revenue drying up if she didn’t post another blog soon.  Since Chester had left her for that trashy bitch Chantelle, she soon found that surviving on one salary was proving quite difficult and was struggling to make ends meet. On hearing a growl developing her stomach her thoughts turned to breakfast yet found the cupboard bare.

“Goddam it” she exclaimed and slammed the door shut.  

She dressed and headed out toward the bike wiping the settled dew off her prized Forty-Eight Special and rode into town to her favourite breakfast bar, Grumbles.  Megan never lacked attention: her impeccable size 10 frame standing a proud 6” adorned by jutting DD breasts, long blonde hair which voyaged to the small of her back, scintillating ever-deepening blue eyes, thick thighs which always held ones attention (perfect for embracing the bike, and Chester’s head – but that ship had sailed) which curved off to an impossibly flawless rounded bottom and the cutest doll like facial features.  Most women would have killed to look like her, but to crown it all off, Megan was a biker chick and her all her qualities were accentuated by her leathers taking her style to stratospheric levels. For some guys (and girls) it was the black leather jacket, for others the black leather tube top, or maybe the way her black leather trousers looked like they were spray painted on leaving nothing to the imagination. In truth it was a combination of all these plus the knee-high boots with 4” heels which folk were struck with, and so, as she walked into the small town’s Grumbles all eyes were on her, checking her out imagining what she’d be like to fuck.  Yet very few people were ever going to find that out because most were too intimidated to even engage in eye contact let alone speak to the her. She removed her jacket and sat with her back to the other patrons, not wanting to invite attention and gazed out of the window over the dusty road until she placed an order of black coffee and a toasted muffin.

In an effort to get her creative juices flowing she turned her attention back outside, her order now arrived, and she ate.  Bikes? Written about that too many times already. Small town gossip? Not really her style and she’d promised herself to never write about the townies again, ever she since blogged about the local photographer, who had a wandering eye, was found to have taken hundreds of candid photos of his buddy’s wives and posted them online – man, that took years to blow over. Beauty tips?  Ah, Megan rarely used makeup, she didn’t need to. The town’s resident women both loved and loathed her for her effortless attractiveness.

“Oh crap, I’m screwed,” she thought.  

Behind her, she heard the faint sound of horseshoes clopping against the dust covered road and turned around to take a look. She’d never really been into horses unless it was horsepower throbbing between her thighs.  Mounted on a rather large jet-black Arab was a short auburn-haired woman which framed the most striking face comprised of sharp green eyes, a cute button nose and high cheek bones which commanded attention and respect.  Megan watch her for a while as she rode closer to the breakfast bar and as she drew parallel, the rider tuned her head towards Megan and gave her a dazzling smile which caught her off guard. Megan, never one to usually be flustered, returned the compliment hoping that she didn’t look too stupid and watched her ride away.   

There was something about the rider which gave her a feeling which she could not explain, something about her apart from her natural beauty, it was more than that.  The way she elegantly carried herself maybe, or the rocking motion of her body and the rise and fall of her pert breasts though the white crisp long sleeved shirt as she moved in time with the horse’s steps?  She felt that there could be story here if she could only put her finger on what had captivated her. Finishing her meal, she left the bar leaving a generous tip and started the journey back home, taunted.

Riding back over the flat winding black top Megan was paying the minimal attention to the road, playing back in her mind over and over again what had enchanted her so, when she heard a woman shouting “What the bloody hell!” and out of the corner of her eye saw the Auburn rider being dismounted from her stallion and hitting the floor with a thud.  Megan, in her daze, had not seen the horse and had spooked it whilst coming around the corner at some speed. She slowed the bike and turn around and headed back to the scene of the incident.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” yelled the equestrian in a noble English accent.

“I’m s..so sorry, I don’t know what…” Megan replied, feeling flustered and terribly guilty and at the same time helping her back up onto her feet.

“Are you OK?” Megan asked.  

“I think so, no thanks to you; you could have killed me.”

“I wasn’t thinking… distracted… by…” Megan stopped suddenly.  The English woman dusting herself down, settled her horse and strode over to pick up her riding crop, gripping it firmly in her hand.  “…that,” she continued. She finally realised on seeing it again that it was the riding crop which had transfixed her, subtly yet so authoritatively held in the hands of a beauty.  

“What are you talking about?  My crop? What about it?” said the rider in a haughty tone whilst noticing Megan gaze at the implement, not being able to take her eyes of it.  “I’ve a good mind to spank you with this, put you over my knee and all,” Megan’s eyes lit up as the realisation of such a prospect, her pulse racing faster.  

“Would you?” Megan asked.

“What.  Are you serious? You want me to take you in hand and strike you with this” thrusting the riding crop toward her.   

“If you would” Megan replied with a wry smile, “I’ve a blog to write and I think I’d like to try and share the experience.  Would you be willing? Please.” The wind caught her hair and it blew in such a seductive way that the Auburn one could not refuse, but she wasn’t going to tell her that…. not just yet.  “Ever been spanked before?” she asked in her high-class accent.

“No, is that a problem” asked Megan.

“Not for me came the reply.”  Striking her boot with the crop. “I rather delight in taking a novice under my wing.  Meet me at Little Sussex Farm, tomorrow at 10pm. What’s your name?”

“Megan. Yours?”  

“You can call me Countess.  10pm sharp. Don’t be late and wear exactly what you’re wearing now – you look cute in leather” said the Countess, smiling on one side and eyeing Megan up and down.  Megan felt as if the leather started to bind her, but then realised that it was her breasts swelling, face colouring betraying her thoughts.

“See you tomorrow Megan,” said the Countess as she mounted her horse and giving her a parting wink; Megan noticing her firm thighs and pert bottom in the tight jodhpurs as she mounded the mighty stallion and watched her ride away.  Megan disbelieving what had just happened, returned to her bike sat open mouthed staring into the distance incredulously for some time. But the truth is she could not wait for the following day and the anticipation swelled inside her.

The following day was a complete wash out.  All Megan could think about what had happened the previous day and contemplate what was to come; not even bothering to check for any blog revenues which may have been paid and was in so desperate need for.  It made her anxious, it gave her stirring in her loins which she’d not felt before yet found then rather pleasant. Time slowed its pace tormenting her further, elongating the desire which she longed to feel.  Yet, she had no idea why. She’d never been attempted any kink, apart from using a vibrator whilst Chester probed her anus with his finger, and that’s when she realised why he’d left her for Chantelle – she had a reputation around town for being wild and some of the clubs in the city which she reportedly visited had fetish tendencies.  It wasn’t Chester after all, it was her, not considering entertaining his proposals of ‘spicing things up’ as he put it. She’d seen his browsing history and it wasn’t for her but let him enjoy his whim. So why now? It was true that she’d had no physical contact with anyone since he’s left – about 4-months now – and there was an urge welling inside her to something about to it; but this?  She felt sure that the attractiveness of the Countess had something to do with it and way she held that crop. Phew! Megan felt a hot flush run through her body. Only an hour left……

On arriving at the gated entrance of Little Sussex Farm, she parked her bike and walked over to the security button and pressed it.  No words came, just the flashing red of an LED on a camera, then the gates sung open. She rode down the lit drive way, past the lake, for about two-miles until she reached a sprawling  contemporary farm house with a large circular driveway, in its centre a beautifully lit fountain. “’Little’ my arse, she’s not the Queen” she thought. Megan parked up and approached the large framed double oak door which opened on arrival.  She entered and was greeted by the Countess who was looking fabulous wearing a lush red embroidered dress with lace detail, shoulder straps and a plunge which accentuated her breasts. The red dress and auburn hair provided a compliment of colour, like rebellious blaze of fire.  The dress stopped high on her thighs which were embraced by sheer Champagne coloured stockings and red soled, black Christian Louboutin knee length boots. Megan was wearing as instructed.

“Good evening my dear” the Countess greeted.

“Hi,” replied Megan unusually unsure of herself.

“Welcome.  Come join me for tea, let us talk.”

Walking through the tastefully marbled floor hallway she entered a drawing room where tea was waiting.  It was an odd room. The furniture whilst obviously hand crafted and bespoke, had no photos placed on top, nothing personal as to give away who this woman really was.

They sat facing each other in silver gilded chairs, the tea table separating them.  The riding crop was leant up against the Countess chair. Megan stared at it intently.

“How do you take it?”

“I’m sorry!” replied Megan.

The Countess smiled.  “Your tea my dear. How do you take it?  With milk, lemon, or without?”

“Oh, sorry.  Without please,” came the reply

“So, Megan,” the Countess began as she sipped her tea whilst glancing at the crop, “you seem to have an attraction to my riding crop.  Can you explain yourself.”

“Well…. I’m not sure, but I’ll try.  I’ve been analysing it all day.” Composing herself and trying to bring to the fore her self-assurance which was her usual demeanour, she continued, “My partner left me some months ago and he was always asking me to try kinky things, which I refused.  I’d seen what he was watching online, and it didn’t really appeal, but now that he’s left, the images have burned their way into my mind and I think I’d like to try it, but I’m not sure what to expect.”

“I see.  You mentioned a blog yesterday?” replied the Countess.

“Yes, I write an online about various experiences which I’ve tried so that anyone who is curious might get an idea before trying.  And it helps pay the bills.”

“What is your overriding motivation here?  Personal satisfaction or financial gain?”

“If I’m honest…”

“That I demand!” interjected the Countess

“…of course” retained Megan, “If I’m honest, probably both.”

“I see you’re clothed as instructed.  Stand up and place your hands behind your head, feet apart.” The Countess commanded.

Megan, not having once touched her tea, did as she was told and stood to the side of the chair.  The Countess came close and stood directly in front of her, close, looking into Megan’s deep blue eyes.  The Countess smelled so good, the delicate aroma filling Megan’s nostrils, she breathed in deeper drawing her in.  Whilst shorter than Megan there was no doubt who was in control here and the fragrant perfume deceived the Countess intentions.

“Yes, I do smell good don’t I,” she said with a glint in her eye.  She knew where this was going.

The Countess used her booted foot to kick aside Megan’s feet wider apart, partly for aesthetics, but mainly to dominate.  Megan gasped at the audacity.

Circling her to her rear, the Countess ran her hands through Megan’s long blonde hair, before clutching a handful and pulling it back extending her graceful neck.  She greatly admired the small of her back which developed into fine wide hips graced by a fully rounded bottom and thick thighs. Megan didn’t need to be naked, tightness of the leather accentuated her figure leaving nothing to the imagination

“Delightful.” A pause.  “This is what we are going to do.  When I say, you’re going to bend over this chair, legs and back straight, head up, arms straight in front of you.  I shall then spank you ten times with the riding crop on each cheek through your trousers. I don’t want to traumatise you too much…at this stage.  After each spank, you will say ‘thank you Countess and I’m sorry,’ for yesterday’s little incident. You may remove you jacket and place it on the other chair should you wish.  Do you understand?”

“Yes” came Megan’s reply.

“Yes what?”

“Yes Countess.”

“Better. Please do observe the courteous niceties upon which I insist.”

Megan’s breathing had increased, and her pulse was rapidly quickening, cheeks reddening with shame at the thought of the submissive posture which she was about to assume.  Being fuck from behind by Chester was one thing, but this was sheer humiliation. “Will it hurt?” Megan asked.

“Of course it’ll hurt, else what’s the point?” came the amused reply.

“When you are ready….”.  The Countess firmly and assuredly picked up her crop with her right hand and hit it into the other.  Megan winced; the Countess smiled.

Megan removed her jacket and placed it on the Countesses chair, then bent over her own and instructed. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this’, she thought, ‘what the hell am I doing.’  It wasn’t a very comfortable position to find oneself in, and the chair’s arm pushed against her pubic region.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes Countess.”

Without further ado and warning the Countess pulled her hand back to shoulder height and cast down the crop on Megan’s beautifully presented arse, the leather creating a charming dull thud.  “Ow fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Megan bucked as she felt the pain ripple through her nether regions and moved her hand back to rub the freshly spanked buttock. She was certain that the effect had travelled far enough to damage her pride as well.

“I beg your pardon?  Move your hand away, you will not touch yourself whilst I’m in charge: it’s a bad habit which I abhor.”  The Countesses tone had changed and was now one of complete command.

Between gritted teeth Megan managed “thank you Countess and I’m sorry.”

“That’s better.  Remember courtesy is everything.”

Another stroke, this time on the other buttock. Her face contorted in to a winch and tears formed in her eye, her leg calf raised up in a fruitless effort to relieve the tension of leather on her arse. “Jesus FUCK!!” A pause “thank you Countess and I’m sorry.  It fucking hurts!”

“Of course.  What did you expect? Laughter?”

Further strokes rained down on Megan arse, the expectation of the next stroke worse than the previous.  Each stroke designed to penetrate the leather and maximise the pain which it was apparent was craved. Megan shifted her body to gain some degree of comfort, but it was futile, with the exception of her pubic area rubbing against the chair leg as she writhed after every stoke.  Not that she paid too much attention to it, but she was certain that she was getting wet down there. Would the Countess notice?

Stroke nine, harder than before “OUCH YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!” Megan exclaimed, crying, the tears rolling down her cheeks taking eye liner with it.

“I beg you pardon!  What did you call me?” the Countess was furious. She had a good mind to deliver the remaining strokes in quick succession, but she knew better then that.  It not just the pain she enjoyed delivering but the cerebral effect in the subject. Slow and controlled, that was the best way to deliver a good spanking.

“I.. I.. I.. I’m sorry” Megan wailed, her hair falling around her head on to the floor, exposing her milky skinned shoulders glowing with the rush of blood, kicking back and forth as to quench the pain which had no affect at all. “I’m sorry, I mean thank you Countess and I’m sorry.”  She could taste her salty tears and her head fell in anguish.

“Sorry you should be.  How dare you!” Another stroke cracked against Megan’s no throbbing arse and she was at least glad to have leather between her and her assailant.  Two strokes remained.

This time the Countess ensured that each stroke covered both cheeks giving more pain that she ever thought she could endure.  

The Countess paused to let Megan recover and regain any composure that she might have had.  Standing over her, the Aristocrat could feel her mind stimulated like an Italian caffeine rush, nipples harden pushing into the soft material of her bra and a wetness seeping out into her exclusive knickers.  She started to pull her dress up and move her hand towards to her pussy then quickly pulled away. ‘No, that can wait’ until later, when she’s gone, she thought to herself.

“Thank you Countess and I’m sorry” came the final sobs.

She was a mess, a complete sobbing, writhing wreck.  The Countess moved away and left Megan to her thoughts and feeling for a while, before returning to console her, gracefully stroking her bottom as if to absorb the pain for her.

A few minutes later, Megan gradually rose to her feet, winching at every movement, her hair stuck with tears to her face, and stood there not knowing what to say.  Almost shameful.

“Well,” said the Countess, “did you enjoy that?”

“I’m not sure enjoyment is the word, but it certainly created stirrings within me,” replied Megan, rubbing her sore bottom with her hands.

“Good.  That’s a good start.”

“Start?  You mean there’s more?” Megan exclaimed.

The Countess laughed “Not today, but I’m sure you’ll want to come back for more.  I’d certainly like to see you again.”

“Hmm, we’ll see.  You certainly have a way about you which I like.”

“Why thank you,” said the Countess taking the compliment in her stride. “Your blog.  I’m presume you’ll need more than one session to give a comprehensive view to your audience?  There is so much more to spanking than just a riding crop. You have canes, paddles, role play, ropes – all the things I suspect your man, Chester was it, was looking at online.  Give it some thought, but in the meantime go out into the World and enjoy, there is so much more for you to experience.”

The Countess led Megan to the front door and kissed her softly goodbye on the cheek, waited for Megan to reach her bike, then closed the door.  She leant back against it, and with an audible gasp thrust two fingers deep in to her hot wet cunt and masturbated until satisfied.

Megan on the other hand, mounted her bike and gave an audible gasp at the pain her arse was in when she sat down.  ‘This is going to be a hard ride home,’ she thought. Starting the bike, she rode off and within seconds was motorcycling standing up, the pain too much to bear.

 

On returning home, Megan carefully peeled off the layers of leather and was surprised to see a white sticky mess in the crotch of her trousers. ‘Christ, I must have enjoyed that more than I thought.’  She gazed at her rear in the mirror and was taken back as to just how red it was. A deep red blush accentuated by sharp red crop lines, suggestive of the Countess marking her territory. She placed some lotion on her backside to quench the soreness and retired to bed.  Sleep would not some. She had been stimulated in a way previously unknown.

 

The following morning Megan rose, showered – the water seeping into her sores made her relive the previous night – re-applied lotion and this time admired her new image.  Shame no one else can see it she thought. She picked up her leather jacket which was strewn about with her other clothes, out of which fell a black business card which read ‘Correctional Services’ and a phone number.  Having never seen it before, she could only surmise that the Countess had placed it there. Megan jumped online to search the term but to no avail, so she made a coffee and decided to call the number. The call connected, it rung twice then silence.  

“Hello,” Megan said.

An automated message kicked in, “Please select a number between 1 and 9.”

‘How the hell do I know?” she thought.  She pressed 3.

“Thank you,” returned the automation, “you have selected 3.  Your appointment has been made for tomorrow at 10am. Postcode: V0R 1W0.  Goodbye.”

‘OK,’ she thought, ‘no weirder than last night but I’ll go with it….’

The following day came all too soon, Megan rode to the designated postcode and found a large block building, unimpressive, no windows, but rather imposing: it appeared the bend over her, bringing her into the fold.  She entered through the only identifiable door into a darkened area lit only by orange downlights highlighting a dark grey wall, no bigger than a large tent. A screen came on and displayed ‘Welcome. Please follow the open doors to room 3’.

“Totally bizarre, just weird” said Megan under her breathe.  A door opened, she walked though it. Same décor. A lift opened, she entered.  ‘No floor numbers in this lift she thought,’ then suddenly it stopped, the doors opened, and Megan walked out looking left and right.  No one. No sound. Same décor. ‘Must a have got a job lot on the cheap’ she mused with a smirk. To her left, down the corridor on the right a door opened in to a brighter lit room, sparsely accessorised with furniture.  She entered, the door closed. She was getting quite nervous now and reprimanded herself for not taking that job as a bike mechanic which her father arranged for her – nice, safe, job security, regular wages with fit bikers to flirt with.  Then she thought of the Countess. ‘Ah, maybe not.’

A screen flickered on almost as soon at the door closed “Thank you for visiting Correctional Services.  We hope you enjoy your visit. You have selected Schoolroom. Please remove any jackets, tie your hair into bunches and enter the Principles Office.’

‘Principles Office?’  Ah, number 3 she guessed. ‘No bands for my hair though,’ she thought checking her pockets.  ‘When the hell did I last wear bunches? When I was 14?’

She noticed on a table in the corner a couple of red ribbons, to which she walked over and tied into her hair.  In a playful manner she swung her head around flicking her new style around, laughing.

Once completed, a further door opened into a brightly lit room.  She had a sneaky suspension that some one was watching her. It was as expected: a mock Principles Office properly furnished as you would expect to see in any regular school.  

‘What to expect?’ thought Megan

The whiteboard flagged up ‘The Principle will see you now.’ Directly, a further door opened and swiftly in walked a handsome blue suited man with brown ankle boots, 6’5” at least, dark brown hair, with a furrowed forehead indicating  his experience. He smelt so good, musky, yet more than that: as if he were ready for mating. Megan felt immediately attached to him and could feel a yearning in the pit of her stomach. It needed filling.

“Miss you have been sent to my office,” he began in deep woody tones, “for spying on other girls in the showers.  Do you deny it?”

Megan unsure, “I…I..”

“There is no use in refuting it young lady, plenty of witness saw you do it and worse, you were touching yourself whilst watching.  This is a filthy practice and will not be tolerated in this Catholic school.”

‘Role play,’ she said to herself.  ‘the Countess could have warned me.  It looks like she’s having fun at my expense.’

“I’m sorry Sir.  I couldn’t help myself.  I didn’t mean to….it just…happened.”

“Well this is just going to ‘happen’,” he said holding up what looked like to Megan a table tennis bat, “bend over and hold your ankles.  If you can’t control yourself and prefer to be a slut, then perhaps my paddle will teach you a thing or two.”

She did as she was told, but it was hard: her leather trousers stretched themselves over her backside painfully tightening her skin which was still so sore from her encounter with the Countess.  Her bulbous breasts fell forward as she leant over, her tube top struggling to keep them in due to their weight and her bunches fell to the floor.

“You will receive twenty strokes, you will not move, you will count each and every one.  Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

Without warning he stepped toward her and stuck the paddle down firmly on her arse.

“Owwww!!!”  she screamed.  The pain struck her like a thousand hot needles being injected directly into each crop mark.  Instantly the tears flowed, and she fell forward landing awkwardly on the floor.

“I’m not impressed,” said the Principle, “not impressed at all.  Get up! I haven’t got all day!”

Megan rose and wiped her eyes on her arm leaving a streak of eyeliner and resumed the position. ‘Fuck this is going to be hard,’ she thought.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

“Er……um….one.”

“Thank you.”

The second blow came no less than the first and she tried to take away from the pain by grabbing her ankles as hard as possible.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck!!” Megan exclaimed, “two.”

He enjoyed this woman and would forgive the swearing on this occasion.  Personally, her would have loved to have fucked her, at least have himself in her mouth, his thick cock jabbing at her throat, but he didn’t want to ire the Countess who was sat at home watching intently on a monitor eating freshly made scones with jam and cream, fingering herself as she ate.

The paddle rained down on Megan and her arse felt as if it was on fire and bloody from the beating.

Her hardened nipples chaffing against the tube top, the vibration of the paddle travelling to her most sensitive area creating a constant dribble of wetness to escape from her pulsating pussy, increasing the sensation in her already overwhelmed body.  Her brain overawed by the experience trying to manage the pain decided that something had to give, and she found that her eyes momentarily had stopped working – she was fleetingly blinded, and it scared her.

“Seventeen!”

“Eighteen!”

“Nineteen!”

“Twenty!” and with the last stroke she passed out on the floor.

When she came to, the ‘Principal’ wasn’t to be seen.  She tried to get up but the pain on her backside was unbearable, Megan held on the desk and pulled herself up slumping over it.  She felt like she’d been hit by a truck. A glass of water had been placed on the desk, presumably for her, but she didn’t trust it.

‘The fucker, the evil fucker!” she yelled. “How the fuck….owwwwwww!!!”.  She stood up the leather giving a little, but not by much.

The door opened, and Megan walked out gingerly, supporting herself one hand on the wall, throwing the red ribbons on the floor with the other.  The Countess grinned.

She was being watched, she could sense it.  Each door opened again as she approached and soon, she was outside bathed in the warm spring sun.

Home.  Strip. Mirror.  Admiration. Lotion.  Sleep. So much sleep.

A few days passed, and Megan became to realise that whilst she thought that she didn’t necessarily enjoy ‘being in the moment’ , she actually rather did.  She relished the pre and after effects: the constant reminder, the feverish sensation on her buttocks and the knowledge that she’s strong enough to see it through to the end.  There was a thrill and anticipation which she had come to expect now prior to being spanked, and her thoughts turned toward a second visit to Correctional Services. Just a day or two longer to recover though.  There was no great rush now that the advertising agency had finally sent her a check.

She walked in to town (the bike was not an option with an arse as sore as hers) and paid the check in to the bank doing her best to avoid the leering men and bitching women.  ‘If only they knew…if only,’ she chuckled to herself.

Calling Correctional Services, Megan this time choosing her favourite number – 8.  Lucky 8 as she called it. With an appointment made for the following day, again at 10am, Megan pondered she washed her Forty-Eight Special what the scenario would be on this occasion.  She hoped for something rather mind by comparison which would offer a light spanking. Her arse after all still felt quite raw yet she rather enjoyed running her fingers over her buttocks, soothing them, whilst at the same time reliving the experience.  Rubbing in the lotion by now had become a pastime which she rather relished, taking time to ensure every millimetre of her arse was covered; and, on occasion moving her fingers around to the front where one would glide up and down her slit teasing her clit using small circular movements; opening herself up, feeling her wetness run down her slim fingers, smearing her smooth pussy lips with the juice.  One finger then two slipping inside herself slowly at first, building in speed, using the palm of her hand to place pressure on her now engorged clitoris, faster, faster, feeling her nipples harden which she squeezed and pinched with the other hand. Faster, faster, the urgency increasing in demand, fleshy thighs spread allowing a cool breeze to blow against her burning cunt, hair in disarray, breasts swaying like a pendulum in time with her finger-fucking.  Abandoning her breasts enjoying their motions, she sucked a finger and reached behind finding her anus. Round and around her finger circumnavigated the tight ring then with one swift movement Megan fingers slipped inside her arse (‘damn you Chester’) and started to pump in time with the now drenched pussy. She could feel the release inside her coming to the fore and accelerated the movements of her hand, quicker, firmer, her moans increasing in volume, breath quickening and deepening before she let out a loud gasp and came hard, her cunt contracting as she did so, legs shaking, nipples burning.  Removing her sticky fingers her body rocked this way then the other still cumming hard, head lurching from one side to the next, flicking her luscious hair in abandonment….

The following morning approaching Correctional Services Megan was feeling rather buoyant if a little apprehensive.  Surely the ‘Lucky 8’ scenario can’t be as bad as the previous session can it? She entered the building and followed the same procedure as before, just a little longer (higher?) in the lift.  Room number 10 was directly opposite the lift and both lift and room door opened at the same time. The door closed silently, and a screen read “Thank you for visiting Correctional Services. We hope you enjoy your visit.  You have selected Judicial. Please remove ALL your clothes and enter the Court Room.’ ‘All my clothes, damn! I hadn’t reckoned on that,’ thought Megan who peeled off her clothes, stacked them neatly on the provided chair and enterer the Court Room, her feet feeling the coolness of the dark wooden floor .  The room looked like a small provincial court rather than the grand state courts, nonetheless it was rather majestic with carved wooded features & furniture and seating with dark green leather coverings. Her eye was drawn to the centre of the room where a sturdy black leather covered bondage horse sat: a long high ridge mounted on black wooden stands on which about half way down had what looked like wings protruding outwards.  The horse had a number of rings located around it, strategically placed it would seem. Megan was thinking it an odd-looking piece of furniture when a voice announced “Lie along the length of the horse with your hands and knees resting on the lower platforms, and look down. Do not raise your head.” Megan spun around but the was no one else in the room. Looking back at the horse, she repeated in her head what she heard and visualised the position.  “You have to be kidding me!” she said out loud. No one heard, no one cared. She climbed aboard and positioned herself accordingly: her torso mounted along the cold ridge of the horse, breasts hanging heavily either side, she placed each palm on the platforms and gripped, tightly. It occurred to her that her legs were spread and was exposing her pussy to whom? Keeping her head down and voice announced, “The judges will see you now.” She heard a door open and two differing footsteps entered.  A woman walked over to Megan and shackled her arms and feet the horse of which all she could straining her eyes up see were red high heeled thigh length boots, ‘a woman she thought, and smelling cheap too.”

“Thank you, Chantelle,” a voice said.

“NO!  No fucking way!” Megan screamed.  She could not believe what she heard.  “Chester? Is that you?”

No answer.

The couple stood in front of her, and the man lifted her chin and a hard stare met here eyes.  It was him.

“You utter bastard!” Megan scolded.

Deciding to ignore her, Chester began.  “Megan, you are hereby charged with a serious lack of engagement with your previous boyfriend in attempting to please him through the acknowledgment of his sexual preferences.  How do you plead?”

“Fuck off!” she spat. “You too Chantelle you tramp.”

“I’ll register that as not guilty,” replied Chester coolya.

Megan attempted to climb off the horse, but Chantelle had ensured that she was going nowhere.  In fact, she had been looking forward to this for some time.

Apart from the cheap thigh high boots, Chantelle was wearing what looked like leather strapping which barely covered any part of her body exposing her small but fully rounded breasts and waxed pussy, a collar and lead which hung between her breasts.  In contract, Chester was dressed in a rather debonair grey three-piece suit with highly polished black ankle boots. He removed his jacket and Chantelle rolled up his white shirt sleeves exposing his masculine wrists covered with thick black hair. The slut then ran her hand over his waistcoat starting at his chest and moved it towards his crotch, keeping her eye on Megan – just for effect to rile the defendant.

“The defendant has pleased guilty,” said Chester making a judgement, ”however, all the evidence points towards a guilty verdict, and for this you shall receive forty strokes of the cane: twenty from the Judge and twenty from the prosecutor.”

“If she fucking touches me, I’ll kill her.”  Megan said, the rage rising throughout her already antagonised.  Her exclamations fell on deaf ears and both picked up a cane and walked behind her.

Chester looked at Chantelle, winked, and placed his sizeable hand on Megan’s arse, before fleeing every inch of it, giving her a playful slap before removing it.  Megan bum was already red from her previous sessions and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the judicial pair. Judge Chester made the first move and took a long stoke before it landed squarely on Megan’s arse.

She howled with pain. “Jesus Christ!”  Barely able to move, all she could do was to thrust her arse upwards, which Prosecutor Chantelle took as a sign that she wanted more and landed another blow on the other side.

“You motherfucking bitch!!” Megan wailed, “Don’t you dare….”

Another from the Judge made it mark with the tip of the cane curling ever so slightly but just enough to clip her labia and Megan screamed in agony.  Her breathes were quick and shallow and she sucked air through her clenched teeth whilst she tried to get a grasp on the pain level.

The Prosecutor provided the forth mark and ignoring Megan in the same way that she felt that Megan had ignored Chester’s advances, approached her and ran her hand over her arse feeling the four welts that had began to form like tiger stripes.  

“Nice.” Chuckled the Prosecutor feeling rather turn on.

“Get your fucking hands off me bitch.” Megan knew Chester’s touch, and this wasn’t it.  Chantelle riling her further, brushed Megan’s pussy before pulling away. Megan grimaced.

Each stroke landed with pinpoint accuracy and produced a fresh welt across Megan firm round bottom, spread wide inviting more attention from the Judiciary.  On and on it continued, unrelenting and without giving Megan a chance to recover from the previous stroke. Megan carried herself well, digging deep into soul finding the will to cope with so much pain.  This was as much about finding physiological solution as well as a psychological one.

Megan’s arse was turning raw red the tiger strips now producing tiny droplets of blood.  The Judiciary were very pleased with the result so far, just a few more stokes to finish off.  

These came slow and hard, very hard.  Megan produced a primeval roar on receiving each one, her skin glowed in perspiration, hair matted, tears, so many tears shed through constant sobbing, her mouth dry.  She’d lost count and how many canes had rained down on her and to be honest be probably didn’t care, she just wanted, needed it to end.

A pause came.  Too long a pause.  Perhaps it had finished but she was aware of Chester and Chantelle standing behind her.  Then it happened…. both canes lashed down at the same time on its respective each cheek, Megan gripping the platforms for all she was worth, screaming, sobbing, the dry mouth producing white thick saliva which dribbled off her chin.  

Then the room fell into silence.  Chantelle walked around Megan and untethered her leaving red ring marks around her wrists and ankles.   Megan so wanted to kick Chantelle in the cunt, but she was to week to move and lay still on the horse for some time to come, her breasts aching from the gravitational pull.

After a period of time, she dismounted the horse and practically crawled to the entrance room, finding her clothes where she left them.  It took some-time to put them on and as she felt her rear, she could feel the raised welts which had been imprinted on her arse, each parallel to the other.  Deciding to leave her bike (no way she could ride that for a few days), she hailed a cab and laydown on the back seat and slept until she was delivered home.  Once inside, she slowly walked upstairs, laydown and fell asleep, sobbing, for an awfully long time.

It took a week for Megan to recover from that session, but she felt that the experiences she’d encountered had made her a stronger person and she had learnt things about herself – it was almost a journey of self-discovery, a reawakening if you will.

Megan sat down and wrote her blog: and received the most rapturous responses ever received, even warranting a conversation on an independent podcast reviewing her blog.  With the exposure came advertising revenues from mainly BDSM and fetish equipment retailers, but she didn’t care who was paying her. She’d earnt that money, boy did she earn it, and she was going to enjoy every cent of it.

Megan turned into Little Sussex Farm, parked her bike and approached the front door, which opened like clockwork.

“I’ve been expecting you…” said the Countess with a glint in her eye.

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