Harriet's Arrangement

"Are you enjoying this?"

Malcolm put a gentle, but firm hand on her upper arm and guided her the few steps across to the waiting bench. "You kneel here," he said, indicating the lower padded section of the bench, "And reach over to this bar. " He tapped the bar she'd noticed earlier with his foot, and then put a little pressure on her arm, forcing her to kneel on the bench, bringing her torso over the higher padded section. Her hands found the bar and she held it, the cool metal strange on her hot skin.

She was horribly aware of her bare, spanked bottom thrust out behind her, awaiting punishment, and tried not to imagine how that leather strap would feel across her backside. She took several deep, calming breaths and then froze as she felt something else altogether on her leg.

His fingers pawed at her inner thigh, inching between her legs, and she instinctively clamped them closer together. No, no, no, not this, she thought desperately. She heard him chuckle and felt a wave of nausea. "It doesn't all have to be unpleasant, Harriet," he murmured, teasing her thighs apart against her resistance, "Good behaviour can be rewarded, just as bad behaviour can be punished."

His finger brushed her opening and she shuddered as she heard him tut. "Already wet, though?" he scolded.

She blushed furiously. Make it stop she thought frantically, make it stop, just get on with the punishment.

To her immense relief, he removed his hand and she felt some of the tension leave her body, but it returned immediately as he struck her, hard, with the palm of his hand. "You know, Harriet," he said, thoughtfully, "I think you're quite enjoying this." She whimpered with humiliation and her blush deepened. How had he tapped into that deep, unacknowledged fear? The fear that however much she felt humiliated, degraded, embarrassed by his actions and her pathetic submission, that somehow, deep inside her, was an undeniable sense of arousal? Had he known from the beginning, before she had, perhaps? Had he been coaxing it out of her all this time?

No, she thought desperately, no, this can't be where it goes.

She heard him picking up what she assumed was the strap. She felt him rest the leather on her bottom, stroking it slowly across her freshly reddened skin and she whimpered again. He laughed cruelly at the noise. "Our spanking today was just a warm-up, Harriet. It's important to prepare you for these sorts of punishments, you know. Now, this is quite different. I want to hear you counting these lashes," he said, "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," she whispered, nerves fluttering uncontrollably in her stomach as she gripped the metal bar a little tighter.

"There will be twelve," Malcolm said, "But if you make a mistake, or you forget to count, we repeat the one you missed. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," she whispered again, closing her eyes as she tried to mentally prepare herself for the beating. She felt the strap being lifted and braced herself.

He whipped it down across her backside and she grunted in surprise at the burning sensation. He was right: this was completely different to a spanking. "Uh... one, Sir," she cried, hurrying to count quickly lest he accuse her of forgetting.

"Ahh... two, Sir!" she gasped, as the second lash followed the first in rapid succession.

He continued, and she somehow managed to get through to twelve without making a mistake, although by six she was crying again. He gave her minimal time to recover between each stroke, but she found there was some kind of rhythm to the punishment that made it easier to bear – like a far more intense version of the spankings. When he finished, he replaced the strap in the cabinet while she sobbed quietly, before returning to her side, his fingers, to her horror, back between her thighs.