Whipstresses 'R' Us Ch. 01

Thanks for choosing to read my story, which is hopefully the first installment of a series. It does include quite a bit of heavy stuff, so be forewarned, and please do not continue if it's not legal for you to read where you live. All the characters described herein are 18 years of age or older, fictional; and any resemblance between them and anyone, living, dead, or imaginary, is purely coincidental. I'm still working on several other, longer and more serious projects but this little vignette came to mind and I thought I'd send it along for your amusement as a little light reading...

Best Regards!

- Ham Sandwich

*****

I turned the nondescript white van into the somewhat upscale development according to the directions being voiced by my iPhone and began scanning the house numbers. Sure enough, number 432 showed up exactly as it was supposed to on the right side of the street, and, once again, the late Steve Jobs hadn't failed me in regards to the navigational skills.

The house itself was a stately two-story affair, well kept, surrounded by mature trees that gave it a fair amount of privacy from its neighbors. I noticed a window curtain flutter on the first floor, and this was followed a few seconds later by the opening of one of the doors on the attached three car garage. Well, I was expected, and I'd arrived exactly on time for the appointment.

I took up the obvious invitation to pull the van inside next to the two BMWs and shut off the engine. The garage door closed behind me as I stepped out from my vehicle. So, discretion was advised here, I thought. The door connecting the garage to the rest of the structure opened and the lady of the house stepped through it. "Hello," she said, offering her hand. "You must be from the agency. I'm Melissa Jackson. Won't you come in?"

I gave her hand a polite squeeze. "Yes, I am Raven Montaldo. We talked together on the phone more than a few times. Actually, I am the agency. 'Whipstresses R Us' is my company," I replied with a smile as we walked through the doorway. "You have a beautiful home," I observed as I took in the finely crafted wood paneling and tastefully expensive decorating.

"Yes, my husband George has been quite successful with my father's money. If he were just more mannerly. Well, that's why you're here."

"Indeed it is," I added. "So, is the recalcitrant man of the house at home at this time?"

"Yes, I have him upstairs waiting. George!" she called. "Come down, please and meet our guest." Presently, a middle-aged man sauntered down the stairs. He was wearing khaki slacks and a white dress shirt. Well polished shoes adorned his feet. Conspicuous consumption, I thought. His eyes roamed over me as he appraised my womanliness with almost a leer. He looked over my athletic build, covered with the black tracksuit, which perfectly complemented my long, black hair and dark features. I tried to suppress my disdain and was mostly successful. Womanizer, I thought, adding another item to my growing shit list of bullet points to be paid for by his pain."Hi!" George grinned as he held out a hand so he could make first contact with my flesh. "I'm George Jackson. You can call me George!" I left his hand sticking out in thin air. "Raven Montaldo. You can call me Miss Montaldo, Ma'am, or Mistress, whichever you prefer, as long as you're polite about it." His eyes registered shock as I met his gaze head on. It was obvious to him that I was much younger, so I could see his confusion as to wondering why he'd need to defer to me. Well, his wife and I both knew he was going to discover the reason for that in very short order.

"George," Melissa began explaining, "Miss Montaldo is from an agency called Whipstresses R Us, and..."

"What?" George interrupted. "Whipstitches? You mean like making sails or something?" The sudden expression of longsuffering on Melissa's face spoke volumes.

"No, George," she sighed. "Not whipstitches. Whipstresses. Whip-mistresses." And a smile began to form on George's lips, and I just knew that he was thinking of the word 'mistress' in the classical sense of a beautiful young woman kept by an older, well-to-do man for sexual companionship. Time to put that concept to rest, I decided.

"George, my company provides a service. That service is administering correction to wayward spouses, usually husbands, but sometimes wives, who are in need of such. His budding smile was gone now, replaced with a look of concern.

"What sort of 'correction' are you talking about?" he asked with some trepidation. He had a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer.

"Corporal punishment, George. Flogging, caning, whipping, that sort of thing," I replied, folding my arms across my pert breasts. "Does that help clear it up any for you? Your wife asked me to come here today and have a training session with you."

"Melissa!" George exclaimed. "You had this girl come here for the purpose of punishing me? Why, Melissa? Why?"

"Oh, my God, George!" Melissa groaned. "Don't play 'innocent' with me! I'm tired of it. I'm tired of the carousing, the lying, the deceit, but mostly the broken promises that you'll do better. Raven, here, is the last hope. If what she provides doesn't work, then a messy divorce is inevitable. According to the pre-nupual, I can take my father's money back. It's your choice, George." she concluded, and then she just stood there looking at him. The silence was deafening.

"Well," I interjected, "you two will want to talk about this, so I'll just go out to the garage and get my equipment from the van..." and I walked out. From the van, I extracted several batches of supplies plus the portable folding whipping frame, and then I went back inside, just in time to catch the last act of George pleading with Melissa not to go through with this, how he really would change this time, etc., etc. If I'd heard this hollow litany from one lame-assed husband before, I'd heard it a hundred times. I just hoped Melissa wouldn't fall for it and I would be allowed to administer the chastisement I so desired to provide.

"Melissa, is the living room okay?" I asked, hoping my question would help tip the balance. "The carpeting there will help keep my whipping frame from sliding around when he starts to buck and spasm."

"Yes, that's fine, Raven." she concluded. "No, George. The answer to your pleading is no."

"But we could go to counseling," he begged.

"We saw a counselor already. Don't you remember? You ended up having an affair with her. Now, are you going to take this like a man, learn from it and change your ways, or are you going to end our marriage right here?"

He looked all around, anywhere and everywhere except at Melissa or me, as if to find some inspiration for some other option, but he found none. His face was pale as baby powder, and he knew he was resigned to defeat. Even his manhood had been called into question, and he had no choice other than to cowboy up. "What do I have to do?" he asked dejectedly.

Now it was my turn to take charge. "First, get out of those clothes," I commanded.

"You mean, naked?" he asked incredulously.

"Certainly," I answered.

"Well," he sighed, "okay..."

I spun around and grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him across the space between us. He was shocked at my physical strength, and fear registered in his eyes. "You will address me as 'Miss Montaldo, Ma'am, or Mistress,' is that clear?" I demanded, dominating and intimidating him. "You may not know why right now, but you'll soon have good reason to fear and respect me, mister!" The session Melissa had requested and paid for was called 'boot camp,' and I intended to see she got her money's worth. "Yes, ma'am." George muttered in alarm as he hurriedly undressed. In less than a minute, he stood before us naked as the proverbial jaybird, not knowing what to do with his arms and legs or where to look.

A man's penis is a good barometer as to the state he's in. If he's scared or cold, it's apt to be very small, as was George's at that moment. I decided to add a little humiliation to the game and turned to Melissa. "Is that the instrument Casanova here uses to seduce all his female admirers?" I asked her, gesturing at his limp, shrunken member. He turned red as a beet in shame. "I guess he just attracts females who want a rest from torrid sex." I offered, and Melissa shrugged her shoulders in reply.

I began to set up my equipment. The whipping frame consisted of two sections of plywood sandwiched together with hinges at the top, allowing the bottoms to pull apart and form an 'A' frame. It was loosely modeled after the famous Berkeley Horse of Victorian times. The middle portions at the tops of the two sections were cut down to remove the sharp angle, and there was a padded section that fitted there which allowed for the participant's midsection to be supported with a bit of comfort. Numerous leather straps with buckles were attached in various places on the faces of the plywood, and finally, some chains limited how far apart the sandwich would spread open at the bottom. A circular section, about six inches in diameter and located about midway in the facing panel, was cut out. This provided a good view of the victim's genitals while denying him any chance of receiving any unintended stimulation that contact with the wood might provide. All in all, an effective portable device to restrain a person for the purposes of adjusting his or her attitude.

George looked like he wanted to cry. Well, he'd reach that stage soon enough, I thought. When I was finished setting up the frame, I asked him: "Well, sir, what's it going to be? If you want to save your marriage, step over here and face the frame." I watched as he weighed his options, then his shoulders slumped and he walked up to the it. "Spread your legs," I instructed, and then I attached two of the leather straps around his ankles. "Now, lean forward over the frame," and I secured his knees in place with two more of the straps. Then I attached two more to his wrists and pulled him down over the frame and secured the straps as far as they would go, stretching him somewhat. One more strap went around his waist and then he was securely held. There was now no way he could avoid anything I might choose to do to him, which was precisely the way I liked it. Once he was locked down tight, I moved behind him out of his sight and unrolled one of my bundles and set up the tripod and the video camera. I zoomed in on the whipping frame and the attached naked man and started recording. "Before we begin, I need to hear you say that you are submitting to this punishment of your own free will," I stated. Of course, there was no doubt that he would have absolutely refused if he'd had any other option, but there was no other option.

"I submit," he mumbled in the smallest voice I'd ever heard.

"George, did you say something?" I demanded.

"I said 'I submit.' Clear enough for you?" He snarled.

"My, my, what an attitude!" I replied in mock astonishment. "No, actually it's not clear enough, so do it again and state your full name first, just for the record. It just makes this so much more humiliating," I explained to Melissa, "having them confess like this."

He grumbled under his breath and finally announced in a loud voice: "I, George Jackson, submit to this."

"Well, that's better, but no cigar just yet, George. You also need to state why you're receiving this punishment and that you deserve it."

After a bit of huffing and puffing, he finally said," I, George Jackson, am being punished because I cheated on my wife." There was a long pause, and then, "I consent to it." Now, you the reader may think this was a minor thing, having him recite such a litany, but actually, this kind of statement of guilt and submission to the punishment is the first step on the long road to restoring the relationship. It strips away any final pretense of denial on the part of the offender and helps him to prepare mentally for the chastisement to come.

"There! You see, George? Confession is good for the soul after all," I teased. "Now we can get to the business at hand."

I unrolled another one of my bundles, a leather quiver that contained some of my instruments of terror and selected a switch, thin and of medium length. Like most of my tools, this one was made from Delrin, which could be easily sterilized with alcohol after each use. Hey, I'm a pro. Wouldn't want anybody to contract an infection and spoil my company's reputation for quality workwomanship. I swished it back and forth through the air, adoring that whistling sound it made, and stepped closer to the whipping frame.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" I exclaimed. "I need to 'dress for success' here, don't I?" I moved to the side of the frame so George could get somewhat of a view of me, albeit it skewed, as I first stepped out of the black pants of my exercise suit, revealing over-the-calf black patent leather boots on top of black silk stockings that went all the way up to be secured with a hooker-red garter belt. Lacy black crotchless panties completed the lower ensemble. I know shaving is the fashion for girls these days, but I'm not having any of that! I revel in my glorious black bush, nice and full and thick. Big hair, top and bottom, that's my motto!

George's eyes were bugging out, and it wasn't just because his head was lower than his heart. Then he really got a sightful when I unzipped the top of my track suit and removed it to reveal the sheer silk top that fought a losing battle to constrain my tits, which were yearning to be free. The top only covered the upper portion of the breasts, leaving the lower portion exposed from about an inch under the rock-hard nipples. I'm not bragging here when I tell you that I am in great shape and can easily pass the pencil test.

"Okay!" I announced cheerily. "We're finally ready to begin. Like what you see, mister? Well, take a good look, because this is probably the last strange pussy you'll ever have the chance to admire. Now, George, you need to be aware that we don't have a fixed number of strokes at stake here. We're going to punish you until you repentance is absolutely certain. You will be crying, screaming, begging, pleading and sobbing before we're done. And then we're going to punish you some more. I don't know if you've read any psychology, but what you're about to experience is called 'aversion therapy,' and it works just fine. In this way, you will be purged of the guilt for what you've done, and you can start fresh. What you do then is up to you, but keep in mind that our services are guaranteed, and if you screw around any more, all your wife has to do is call us and we'll provide a free refresher lesson. And I don't like working for free, George!" I emphasized, leaning down to look him square in the eye as I spoke.

"Mrs Jackson, this is going to be intense, and if you don't wish to stay and witness it, it would be okay," I offered.

"No," Melissa said, "He's been bad, and he deserves this, and it will be painful to even watch, but he's still my husband, and I will abide with him."

"You're a good wife," I said. "Very well, then. We begin," I said, matter-of-factly, and I picked up the switch and took up a position just to the left side of the whipping frame.

He was all tensed up in anticipation of the first strike, so I waited a minute for him to relax a little. Then I struck. It sounded like a gunshot when the shaft of the switch connected with the cheeks of his ass. His whole body clenched and jolted as the shocking pain of the impact went through him. "Oh, God!" he cried, his voice shuddering.

I only allowed a couple of seconds before striking again, deliberately not giving him enough time to completely process the pain. "Ahhhh!" he cried out, beginning to understand that he wouldn't be able to endure much more of this without completely losing his composure. By the fifth stroke, he was whining like a whipped puppy, and angry red welts were already forming where the switch had crossed his buttocks. He wanted desperately to twist or turn his body to avoid the switch, but he was securely tied down. All he would accomplish would be to bruise his wrists and ankles where the straps were fastened.

The tears began when he realized that he had no control over this other than the fact that his cheating had brought it about, and that it could go on forever if we so chose. He was whimpering, bawling, begging for mercy, pleading with me to stop.

Sorry to say, but all of it was music to my ears. What's wrong with me?

I paused at 25 strokes. George was raggedly sucking in each breath, and it made a hissing sound as it passed between his clenched teeth. He was covered in perspiration but shivering as though he'd been dumped into an icewater bath. "Time to switch to the heavy hardware now, George," I said as I set the Delrin switch aside and picked up the leather bullwhip. This implement would be my gift to Melissa, as I doubted its ability to be sterilized. She could keep it as a memento, and George could look at it as a reminder of what would be in store for him if he backslid into his former ways. The room was large enough for me to back away and administer a good swing, letting the whip crack when it connected with its target.

If he thought the switch was bad, he really got a taste of what Hell was like after a few shots of the whip. After several more minutes, the heartfelt apologies and ragged promises to do better were coming hard and fast now, but just to make sure...

..."Time for the final stroke of the evening, George. Get ready!" And I began swirling the whip overhead, faster and faster with each revolution. He quickly figured out what was going to happen and began hollering, "Noooo, please, noooo! Please!" Then I stepped in a pace and aimed for my target.

-CRACK!-

The whip landed just between his ass cheeks and raised up an immediate, ugly welt. It would surely be felt for days, perhaps weeks afterward. He screamed at the top of his lungs in agony and then fell against the restraints, exhausted. We were through for now.

"Help me get him down, Melissa," I asked, and she unfastened the straps at his wrists while I took care of the lower ones. Once freed, George essentially collapsed at Melissa's feet, and he began confessing to her between sobs about how sorry he was about what he'd done. She was about to bend down to comfort him when she glanced at me and saw me shaking my head in an emphatic 'no.' "Melissa, perhaps you'd like to make us all some tea," I suggested, and she took the hint and retired to the kitchen.

"George," I said gently. "George, stand up." He shakily got to his feet. "Go in the bathroom, George, and wash your face. Then come back in here with us!" He shuffled off slowly, and once he was gone I got dressed once again in my tracksuit. Then I folded up my equipment and put it all back in the van. All except the video camera. I wanted it to record everything that transpired, and we still had a ways to go.

By the time I came back inside, Melissa had come out with a pot of tea, along with cream and sugar, cups and saucers and linen napkins, all on a butler's tray. The two of us sat down together and began to fix our beverages just as if we were two normal, elegant ladies enjoying each others' comfort on a nice day.

After a bit, George appeared in the doorway, still buck naked and very unsure about what he should do. "Come over here and kneel down in front of your wife, " I instructed.

"Yes, ma'am." he mumbled. As he inched his way to us, I thought about how different he looked now, broken, and so far removed from the arrogant, self-assured alpha male who greeted me only half an hour ago. He got to his knees but didn't look up at either of us. Melissa prepared a third cup of tea and sat it on the coffee table next to him, but he didn't touch it. Pleasantries were far from his mind right then.