PART ONE

STRIP HER NAKED

 

The young woman stood looking out of the tall Georgian-style window to the London street below, the grey tints of which were bathed in the pale light of afternoon sunshine. There was a faint smile on her rather thin mouth; a smile that seemed simultaneously smug and yet also cruelly derisive. Dark eyes that carried a hint of the hardness of her mouth as she glanced down at a small, golden wrist watch.

"Late ... " she murmured to herself, and the regular white teeth showed in a wider and rather tigerish smile.

Then the young woman turned from the window and moved across the room. Her figure was trim and well formed - a fact emphasised by the close-fitting dress she wore. Her stride was easy and graceful, with a certain arrogance in it - and this, too, was emphasised by the fact she wore a pair of gleaming black boots of calf leather, with very high heels.

These boots did not look quite as bizarre as they might have done a few years ago - for such items of footwear have become the fashion and are quite commonplace. However, it must be added that, even today, it would have been most unusual to see any woman wearing such boots. For the heels were tapering, six-inch spikes.

When she reached the side of an elegant Louis Quinze desk there came again that faintly tigerish smile from the young woman. Her small hands, with their red finger nails went to the drawer. From it, one hand drew a rod, smoothly rounded and of a yellowish colour. The two and a half foot length tapered finely to its tip and, at the other, thicker end, it was reinforced by what looked like white leather but may have been plastic material. With a look of considerable relish, the young woman ran her left hand along the length of the rod. A glint seemed to come into those dark eyes of hers, set in the high cheek-boned face. Then, effortlessly, the fingers bent the rod into a near semi-circle - clear evidence of its extreme flexibility. The fingers released the tip and the rod sprang up, swaying whippily for a few moments.

"Late ..." repeated the young woman. Then she replaced the rod and closed the drawer.

The young woman's name was Vanda Raven, her age was twenty-three, and she was currently residing in one of the smaller, more exclusive squares in Belgravia.

 

***

 

"Oh driver ... can't you hurry more ... please ... "

There was a note of desperation in the cultured voice of the woman who leaned forward in the taxi. Full lips trembled so that they had to be bitten to be restrained; well-manicured hands twisted a pair of gloves to near ruin.

"Doing my best, lady," replied the driver in typical, taciturn fashion. "Can't think what's so important it can't wait a moment. Don't want us both written off, do you?"

Perhaps that might be the best solution, thought the woman. But even as she did so, the idea of mutilation and death filled her with dread. No, I'm too much of a coward, she said to herself. Too weak in every way. Otherwise, why would I be doing what I am?

The woman sat back in the taxi and looked out with hate at the cars jamming the small West End street. How could they know - how could the driver know - the importance of speed? Oh God, why hadn't she left her home earlier? But then, how was she to know she would run into Muriel Branksome? Muriel was not the sort of person one could afford to cut.

One long and shapely limb crossed over the other as a hand brushed back a strand or two of deep-dark auburn hair that fell to her shoulders. It was hot in the cab and the woman opened her light summer coat ... thus exposing beneath an expensive-looking pale blue dress and a pair of full, high breasts.

"Oh God," she moaned, just above her breath, striving to hold back the tears that came into her eyes. Despite trying to check herself, she stole another glance at her wrist watch. There was that now familiar tingle of fear at the nape of her neck. The hands stood ominously near three ... and she must still be all of five minutes away, even if the traffic moved soon. "Oh God ... " repeated the woman and, burying her face in her hands, she added, "please God ... make the traffic move ... soon ... please ... "

As always, when she was on her way to her Hellish weekly rendezvous, her heart was beating unnaturally fast and she felt a sickness in her stomach. The sickness of shame and dread. How could anyone - above all her friends and acquaintances - have believed she was doing what she was? They would probably have laughed and considered it a joke in rather bad taste. Not surprising, in view of the fact that she could sometimes hardly even believe what she was doing herself.

The taxi jerked into motion again, and the woman did not forget to murmur thanks to the Lord. Even so she was aware that even He could not check the inevitable march of time and the dread within her increased. The dread. The rage. And the hate.

The woman's name was Julia Pryce-Seymour, her age was twenty-eight, and she was living in a two-room luxury flat in South Kensington.

 

***

 

There was a slam of a taxi door on the corner of the square and Vanda Raven, moving to the window again, was just in time to catch a glimpse of the hurrying figure, head bent, auburn hair flying. The sadistic pleasure of power filled her.

I wonder what Julia's thinking and feeling at this very moment, she mused. The very idea was delicious in itself to contemplate. In a muck sweat at being late, I bet. Well, she had reason to sweat. Wondering too, in what way I am going to put her through her paces that afternoon. God, reflected Vanda, apart from the physical pain of it, the mental side must be Hell on its own. How bitterly it must rile a woman of Julia's temperament particularly ... how it must drive her to a near frenzy of rage and hate ... that I CAN put her through her paces. Well, such outburst of temperament had been in evidence during some of the previous half dozen visits. They had been appropriately dealt with. Just as in the future they would be!

For, thought Vanda, Julia will not turn back now. She had already endured too much. Now, she was sure, Julia would go on to the end of the road that had been mapped out for her. What a wonderful picture that conjured up.

 

***

 

Julia Pryce-Seymour pressed the large brass doorbell and tried to compose herself ... to check the beating of her heart and the trembling of her limbs. As she waited, a pair of high heels clicked behind her on the pavement. There goes a free woman, she thought, with envy. Not a woman like me.

The wide door opened as suddenly and as silently as it always did. And there, half in the shadows, stood Gavin, immaculate as ever as Vanda's 'manservant'. Lecherous, repellent Gavin, whom Julia knew was Vanda's 'accomplice'.

"Good afternoon, Miss," he said in that contrived, fruity voice of his. "Do come in ... I believe Miss Vanda is already waiting your arrival, but I will check ... "

Gavin, in a dark suit from which his wrist seemed to protrude rather bonily, went to a house phone on the wall, depressed a lever and announced Julia's arrival. There were short, sharp but indistinguishable words from the phone and then a click.

"You are to go up, Miss," said Gavin, turning back. "May I take your coat?"

It sounded like a polite suggestion, but really it was an order. She stood tense as Gavin moved behind her and, putting his arms around her, took hold of the front of her coat. Lightly but deliberately, she knew, his fingers touched the mounds of her breasts. They lingered fractionally, moved to her shoulders, then down her back. There was nothing she could do or say about it. She shivered involuntarily at the creepy-crawly feeling it gave her.

"Thank you, Miss," said Gavin with mock politeness as he folded the coat over his arm and smiled thinly upon her ... eyeing her up and down. Lusting after her, she knew. Oh it was intolerable! Yet it had to be tolerated. Unthinkable! But all too true.

Silently Julia turned and made her hip-swinging way up the stairs, horribly conscious of Gavin's eyes upon her still. She reached the top and turning saw before her, at the end of the corridor, the wide mahogany door. Julia reached it and stood before it, her big breasts heaving, her palms sticky as she sought to gain some measure of composure and control.

Control. Yes, it was vital to have some of that. She must not let herself be goaded by word or deed to breaking point - as she had been too often before. For that was what Vanda wanted. Somehow I must force myself to control my hate, my fury, my bitterness, Julia told herself. I must forget my pride. I must submit. That was the way it had to be. But ... oh God ... how difficult it all was!

Sick with dread, Julia knocked on the door.

"Come in ... " A little muffled, came that cruel yet crackling voice. So hideously familiar. Julia opened the door and saw that Vanda was seated at her desk writing. Her dark head was slightly bent, the dark hair drawn back and tied in a bow at the nape of her neck ... and there was that aura of power about her. It made one feel like a small child going into the Headmistress's study.

"You're late," said Vanda, not looking up from her writing. "Six minutes, to be precise."

"I'm ... I'm sorry, Miss," said Julia, her voice sounding a little dry. "But the traffic was simply impossible ... "

"That's no excuse ... and you know it," said Vanda, fixing Julia with her dark-glittering eyes. Julia felt herself quail inwardly. This young woman in whose power she was, was quite unrelenting. "You should have left earlier or, you lazy bitch, you could have walked. It would not have taken more than twenty minutes."

"I ... I'm sorry, Miss," she repeated lamely. "It won't occur again." But she knew the futility of making excuses.

"I hope not ... for YOUR sake," replied Vanda acidly. "Of course, it's typical of your arrogance that you should take a taxi. Walking is too commonplace for you, I suppose? Well, I shall deal with this piece of arrogance - which has resulted in your lateness -shortly."

Julia was digging her nails into her palms and biting her lips. What she had expected was happening - indeed, how could it be otherwise? She saw, with mingled hate and creeping dread, Vanda's eyes roving scornfully over her as she stood submissively 'at attention'. Control, You MUST keep control, she told herself.

"Go and get stripped off", ordered Vanda, turning back to her writing.

Felling rubbery at the knees, Julia turned and made for a door which led to the small ante-chamber which led off the main salon. Obey ... submit ... obey ... submit ... her mind throbbed. Once again the afternoon's 'session' was beginning to take on its nightmare quality.

With gloating eyes, Vanda watched the shapely hindquarters swinging across the room. One could see at a glance why she has progressed so far with the 'right' men, thought Vanda. For Julia's beauty and sexiness was undeniable. Then, as Julia disappeared into the ante-chamber, Vanda returned to her writing.

This writing was not a pretence. She was engaged in correspondence with an old friend - an old and trusted friend who shared her interests. This woman, Pamela Fairhave, was living in the United States and, for some years, they had written to each other voluminously upon their favourite topics of correction and discipline. Facts, fiction and fantasy had made up their letters ... and Vanda's acquisition of Julia had added tremendous spice to their communications. Of course, for reasons of security, no names were ever mentioned. And, needless to say, Pamela Fairhave much regretted that she could not join Vanda at that time.

It was quite customary for Vanda to write to her friend before and after Julia's regular Wednesday visits. Her imagination and enjoyment seemed to be stimulated by it ... and she was sure she produced a more thrilling letter for Pamela.

" ... my divine Miss X has just arrived," she wrote. "She came late so she'll pay for that first. I've got that deep, deep quivering feeling inside. It's been marvellous, as you can imagine. By the way, G has been pressing me to let him take a bigger part, as I promised him at the outset. Much as I can understand his impatience, I am not going to let him go the whole hog yet. However, it has already occurred to me that, this afternoon, I might well arrange for him to smack that lovely bottom of hers.

"Imagine how our hoity-toity Miss will feel about that! I reckon, if she had the option, she'd prefer a sound caning from me rather than G's hand on her bare behind. However, she won't get any such option ... "

At that moment Julia came back into the main salon. She was now quite naked but for a frilly, pale blue suspender belt, flesh-coloured nylon and a pair of gleaming red leather shoes with heels as high as Vanda's. These were what Vanda referred to as her 'disciplinary shoes'.

Thus ungarbed, Julia had obeyed Vanda to the letter - for she had been told to get stripped DOWN. She would have been permitted to retain in addition, her brassiere and panties. If she had been told to get stripped NAKED, she would have returned in nothing but her high heels. Thus, on such verbal niceties, was Vanda's disciplinary course founded.

Julia moved, with cheeks flushing, towards the desk as Vanda looked up. She was very conscious of the bounce and swing of her big breasts ... indeed, very conscious of her whole nudity and the sense of degradation and vulnerability it brought with it. Vanda's feelings were pleasant as she gazed upon her victim ... seeing again with rapacious delight that lush high bosom, that slim waist hour-glassing out to the smooth flanks, that flat belly surmounting the auburn hump-triangle ... the triangle that dipped down between the tops of splendid, long-tapering thighs.

"Bend and touch your toes, Julia," ordered Vanda just as Julia reached about the centre of the room. "As I say, I shall deal with you in a moment. The matter of lateness first. Six of the best seems appropriate for six minutes late, don't you think? Six of the best like the schoolboys get ... "

Vanda showed her teeth in a vixenish grin as she saw the shame and dread quiver on Julia's features ... saw too the momentary struggle for control and the will to obey. Then Julia bent and the lush rotundness of her shapely bottom came curving up, the cleft between the nates widening. Since she was almost three-quarters on to Vanda, the latter was able to see that some of the stripes she had produced the previous week had faded a pale pink. But they had by no means disappeared. Indeed, Julia's buttocks had not been free of some kind of corrective treatment for over six weeks now.

"Keep your legs straight, woman!" snapped Vanda at the figure whose breasts were now pressing to her thighs. The high heels accentuated the line of those beautiful long limbs and, for a few moments longer, Vanda contemplated the scene. What a great deal of progress had been made, she reflected. A few weeks ago Julia would probably have postulated that 'she would rather die!' than so what she was doing at the moment. Proof, thought Vanda gleefully, of how quickly pain can alter one's principles!

Feeling the mounting throb of power-lust, but wishing to prolong her own pleasure and Julia's waiting torment, Vanda deliberately turned back to the letter she had been writing to her American friend.

" ... she has just come back into the room and I am keeping her waiting, as usual. She hates that, I know. It stretched the nerves so. Especially when you know that six hard cuts of the cane are coming your way.

Thank you, my dear, for that latest book of short stories you sent me. It came through, as usual, under plain cover and unopened. I was reminded of it because I recalled the story of the Roman centurion's wife who kept her slave girls waiting twenty four hours for their punishments. Very severe. Especially when they've been chained naked in the darkness of a vault. But very effective, no doubt. However, I must to some extent doubt the truth of the story in view of the severity with which she whipped her girls. I don't see how they could have survived those floggings very long. But then, perhaps they didn't. Life was cheap and there were plenty more slaves where they came from in those days.

This raised the question, would I get pleasure from whipping Miss X like that? Of a fierce and fairly brief kind, of course ... but I am sure I honestly prefer the lighter means I employ. The torment, mental and physical, can thus be spread out week after week after week.

I also enjoyed very much the story about the island where the Pony girls were kept. Of course, I know it is pure fantasy, but it's great fun all the same. Miss X, I know, would look great with a bridle over her head and a bit between her teeth! And whinnying loudly when she gets a riding switch across her rump! Well ... I will write you more later ... "

Vanda put down her pen and rose from the desk. Then she opened the drawer and took out the cane which lay there. It was that same slim, smoothly-rounded cane she had fondled so lovingly earlier on. A deep thrill of sadistic pleasure went through her as, looking up she saw, at the sound of the opening drawer, a quivering contraction of Julia's taut-curving nates. Mute but ample evidence of her anticipatory dread!

"Right ... " she said, striding across the room as she swished the supple rod experimentally, "it is time for you, young lady, to be taught the importance of punctuality."

Running the cane through her fingers, she stood behind the bending figure ... seeing Julia already flinching and trembling with the knowledge of what was to come. It was a wonderful moment. One that satisfied Vanda to the depths of her being.

"As I told you," she said raspingly, "I am going to give you six. You deserve them ... and you will remain bending while you receive them. You understand me?"

A whispering croak came from Julia. "Yes, M-Miss ... "

That was another unpleasant aspect of Vanda's disciplinary methods. Julia either had to take her punishments 'voluntarily' or get a double dose, bound hand and foot so that she could do nothing about it. Needless to say, this was a very strong incentive to try and endure the 'voluntary' way ... and Julia had met with mixed success in her efforts. All one can say is that as time passed and she became more experienced, she could take more than she could initially.

Vanda measured the quivering buttocks with the cane. She even sawed it lightly across the flesh, delighting in the way the skin twitched at the contact. Then she raised the rod and laid on a hard, wristy cut.

"Yeee ... ooowwww ... oowwwww!"

Julia leapt erect, breasts bouncing, hands clasping urgently at the fiery red weal that had leapt up across her nates. Her hindquarters performed a jerking-rotating motion and gasps of air were sucked into her lungs.