 |
|||
|
|
CHAPTER 5
The second appointment of the evening was a short drive from the house where the twins lived. The door was opened by a middle-aged gentleman who spoke with a soft, Scottish accent.
“Mr Dawson, welcome to our home.” The two men shook hands, and Dawson could not but help recognise the gravity in his client's voice.
“Mr MacCullogh, I'm sorry I am a little later than I'd indicated – most remiss of me.”
“It does nay matter, Mr Dawson, the wee lassie is going nowhere tonight.”
“And by wee lassie, you mean…”
“My eldest daughter, Mr Dawson, is awaiting your services.” MacCullogh ushered Dawson into the living room. Dawson looked round and was mildly surprised to see they were alone.
“I see, but before we start don't you think she should be here with us?”
“Aye and she will be, but first I want to make something clear. The wee hussy is in big trouble, which is why I have turned to you. I take it you have heard the term about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. Well, my wee Alison is not a spoilt child, and she desperately needs the rod, only she will nay let me give it to her. Throws tantrums and threatens me with the law. That is why I called on you to help me out.”
“I see, well I can certainly do what is necessary. What exactly has your daughter done?”
“Done, Mr Dawson, done? Why, she is rude, uncaring, slovenly and a hussy. She has had a string of boyfriends and been sleeping around, which I will nay tolerate. She has been caught stealing and has gotten in with a bad crowd of friends. Now, as I told you, she has been involved in a mugging, Mr Dawson, a serious mugging. She needs discipline, Mr Dawson, strict discipline.”
“And your daughter is seventeen years old, Mr MacCullogh.”
“Nay, she was seventeen when I first talked to you, she's eighteen now.”
“Which helps a lot. Very well, perhaps we should bring the young lady in now.”
“Aye, I suppose we should.”
MacCullogh stood up and went into the hallway. Dawson heard him call up the stairs.
“Alison, come out your room and get down here. Mr Dawson is waiting for you.”
There was the sound of steps descending the staircase and the door to the lounge opened. Dawson looked up and was taken aback by the young woman's beauty. She was tall, nearly six feet, and had long, dark hair that reached down to her waist. She was dressed in a short skirt and a blouse and Dawson could tell she was wearing no bra. On her legs she wore what Dawson presumed were tights and on her feet she had a pair of slippers in the shape of a fluffy cream dog.
“Miss MacCullogh,” Dawson began but was interrupted.
“Alison, please, everyone calls me Alison.”
“Ahem, well, Alison, do you know why I am here?”
“Oh yes,” there was no trace of a Scottish accent. “Father told me I was going to be punished one way or another. I told him I'd sue.”
“I see, well of course you could do that, or you could agree to being punished.”
“Well I don't agree. Come on, Mr Dawson, what have I done to deserve punishment?”
“That's not for me to say, Miss MacCullogh, but I gather you are about one step away from being charged with criminal activity. Perhaps you would prefer to go to prison?” Dawson was lying but hoped his scare tactics would work.
“Prison, for a first offence” I don't think so. Anyway, there isn't any evidence.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I have seen the reports and I think you will go down. Now, those reports can be altered in your favour, once you have made recompense.”
“And the little old lady who's at the centre of this, what does she expect? Does she want us to take the handbag back, hand her the money and apologise?”
“No. She knows the court route is long-winded, she wants something else. She wants a letter from me telling her you have received the same kind of punishment that was meted out to her. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear. You want me to accept a beating so the old biddy will drop the charges.”
“It would be easier that way. Of course, scum like you that go to prison for beating up OAPs get beaten up inside anyway. It would be easier if you took your punishment now and the matter was dropped – save a lot of resources in terms of the court case, gets you off the hook and makes the old lady satisfied. The decision is yours.”
The young woman sat down heavily and thought for a moment.
“Okay, just so I don't get a criminal record and all the charges are dropped, I'll take my punishment now.”
“I told you Mr Dawson would make you see sense,” MacCullogh finally intervened. “So what is it to be, Mr Dawson?”
“First, Alison has to sign the agreement papers. That agrees to her receiving whatever punishment I deem fit and then in return the little old lady drops the charges – end of story.”
“And what is a proper punishment, Mr Dawson?” The young woman sounded scared, the defiance in her voice having vanished.
“A caning and a lesson in decorum, I should think.”
“And does Father have to watch?”
“As you are eighteen, he doesn't.”
“In that case I want it done in private. Can we get this over with?”
“Certainly.”
“Wait just a wee moment. I want to make sure, seeing as I'm paying for this, that my daughter is properly punished – no half measures.”
“She will be, Mr MacCullogh, rest assured she will be, and you will know she has been. But, as she is now eighteen she has the right to be punished in private. I suggest you leave us alone for a while. She will call you back in when she is ready.”
“Aye, well you make damn sure she cries as hard as the woman she mugged did.”
“She will, Mr MacCullogh. Now, can we get on?”
“Aye.” He stood and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“Right,” Dawson continued after he had gone, “if you'd sign the agreement.” The young woman duly signed the document and stood there waiting pensively.
“I think we should set a few rules. You can cry out if you need to but you may not swear or use foul language. To do so will increase your punishment. You will do everything I tell you to do without question and when you talk to me you will address me as ‘sir'. Do you understand all of that?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, demurely.
“Good, in that case we can get started. I want you to bend over my knee for the first part of your punishment. Stand on that side, reach over my knees and push your head down to the floor on the other side. Keep your legs straight and poke your bottom up.”
The girl did as she was commanded and in a moment Dawson was admiring her pert buttocks covered, as they were, by her short skirt. He raised the skirt and found she was wearing scanty knickers beneath, the kind that revealed most of her buttock cheeks. He placed his warm hand on her cool, creamy flesh and she gasped.
“Oh, sir, do you have to do it on my flesh?” She asked. She was perfect, thought Dawson . He raised his hand and brought it back down, the sound of the smack reverberating through the room.
“Ow,” she cried out, “that hurt.”
“It is meant to hurt. This is only to warm you up so don't make such a fuss.”
The hand was raised and brought down a second time, creating a second pale pink mark on her flesh. Dawson repeated the action a dozen times or more, each smack landing squarely across the woman's pert buttocks, each stroke adding its own ounce of pink tinge to her rapidly reddening rear. For her part, Alison yelped with each smack, though by the end of the session she was feeling less pain than she had expected to feel. Still, the moaning might help to convince her punisher that he was actually hurting her.
“Right, you can stand up,” Dawson said eventually. “That has warmed you up nicely. Now, your hot little bum can receive a decent paddling. Go and stretch yourself over the back of that armchair. Reach right forward until your bottom is on top of the chair and then keep your head down.”
The girldid as she was instructed and as she moved Dawson noted that though her face was flushed, she had not shed any tears. He would need to remedy that situation.
The paddle was short, and shaped like a ping-pong bat. As soon as the young woman was in position, Dawson lifted the skirt again and started brandishing the paddle.
“Thwack!” It cracked across the middle of her backside. For her part she howled loudly. Dawson watched as the pink flesh turned a brighter and darker shade of red. “Crack,” the second stroke landed bringing a fresh howl from the woman.
Dawson delivered four more strokes in rapid succession, each adding to the growing profusion of tortured flesh on the young woman's backside. After the sixth stroke, Dawson paused. He listened to her gasp for air and finally heard the sob that told him he was breaking her spirit.
“Stand up and remove your skirt and knickers. You're a big girl now and big girls get punished on the bare.” Dawson smiled to himself, his hard-on barely concealed in his pants.
“No way.”
“Just do it, unless you want to go through with the court case.”
“Yeah, well, okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, sir,” she replied as she loosened the skirt's fastener and let it slide to the floor. She removed her knickers while turned away from Dawson so he could not admire her neatly trimmed pubes.
“Okay, back over the chair for the next phase of your paddling.”
The young woman acquiesced and was soon resting there waiting for the torture to continue.
Dawson wasted no time. The next stroke of the paddle was aimed to cover a large part of the woman's left buttock. His aim was perfect and the stroke drew a gasp of pain from the other side of the chair. Straddled, as she was, the woman offered her whole rear end to Dawson , and he could now see the nakedness of her young flesh between her legs. He hardened further as he delivered the next five strokes, all on her left buttock. She cried and moaned with each stroke, and then Dawson delivered the same treatment to her right buttock.
When he had finished both cheeks were dark crimson, evenly bruised and on fire. Now it was time to inflict the sharp pain that would bring the message home to the young woman that Dawson wanted her to remember next time she was tempted to mug an old age pensioner.
“Right Miss MacCullogh, so far we have warmed you up but frankly I doubt the first part of your punishment would deter you from committing your crimes again in the future, would they?”
“No sir,” she blurted out almost before she could think what she was saying. Dawson was surprised by her ready agreement to his statement and indeed Alison was also taken aback. Suddenly she realised that she really needed this punishment to count – it may just be the one time in her life she did something right, and it may be the one thing that would really stop her from going off the rails again.
Dawson had been rummaging around in his attaché case.
“Miss MacCullogh, have you ever been strapped before?”
“No sir, my parents have never hit me.”
“I see, well do you know what a strap is?”
“Yes sir, it's like a belt.”
“Yes, and you know what it does?”
“It inflicts a lot of pain. I think you should just do it, don't you, sir?”
“As you have a clear understanding I see no reason to delay matters further. Please stand upright.”
The woman did as she was commanded.
“Now, place your hands on your head and open your legs as wide apart as you can manage.”
Again she complied with the demand. Dawson took the strap and placed it evenly across her clenched buttocks. She was clearly waiting for the worst. Dawson delivered it. Three stripes of the strap landed across her already crimson arse, cutting into the bruised flesh, torturing it with the welts that such a device creates. She yelped in pain but managed to hold position, her legs wide apart and firmly planted on the ground.
Dawson stood back for a moment and gently touched the welts. The young woman winced as he did so.
“Am I getting the message across?” He asked, quite gently.
“Oh yes, sir, you most definitely are getting the message across, but I don't think I have been punished enough yet, do you?”
“No, I don't think you have.” Dawson completed his response by delivering three further strokes with the strap that connected with the tender flesh at the top of the woman's legs. She howled as they landed, her flesh being turned an ugly bruised colour.
Dawson paused and shifted position behind the woman.
“Now, don't move.” He spoke, and she thought his voice sounded strange, as if he were aroused.
“Crack!” The strap had been played in a vertical motion, causing it to land right between her legs on that most tender of areas. It brought a fresh howl from the woman and for a moment she raised her body on tiptoes as if trying to escape the torture of the leather instrument. She lowered her feet just in time for the second delivery. Dawson looked pleased with the connection. He paused to inspect the damage, pleased that the girl's labia were already puffing up from the treatment.
“I guarantee that you will never want to mug anyone again after this,” he hissed from behind her.
“Crack, crack, crack,” three strokes were delivered in quick succession right onto her sex. She cried loudly as they did so, and Dawson wondered for a moment whether her father would return to the room. Dawson waited and heard nothing – clearly the father would hear the cries and know that his daughter was receiving her just deserts.
Dawson paused to examine her again. He caressed the swollen flesh and felt the woman's bud. He caressed it while she stood there motionless for him. He heard her gasp after a minute but her body made no other reaction. Finally he removed his hand and applied three more strokes to her labia, harder than the first ones.
The young woman howled with the pain, and as the last stroke landed she shifted position. She turned to look at Dawson and as she did so he could see the tears falling down her cheeks.
“Well, Miss MacCullogh, have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Good, well in that case you can replace your knickers and go and call your father. I assume he must have heard the noise you have been making.”
“I think he must have done,” she sobbed as she gingerly began the task of pulling her taut knickers over her swollen, bruised, backside. When they were I place she opened the door.
“Father, Mr Dawson has finished. You can come back now,” she was still sobbing and her voice cracked as she spoke.
A door at the other end of the hallway opened and MacCullogh appeared.
“Finished, has he. Well, that was too quick for my liking.” The man pushed past his daughter and entered the sitting room. “A proper punishment, Mr Dawson, was what I asked you for and that is what I expect you to deliver. You can nay properly punish a woman in the time you have taken. Now, Alison, come back in here. We'll do it properly this time.”
“But Father,” she pleaded as she followed him into the room, “Mr Dawson has already punished me thoroughly. Look!” She bent over, pulling the material of her knickers into the crack of her buttocks, allowing her father to see the damage that had already been inflicted.
“You've barely scratched the surface, Mr Dawson. That is not what I call proper punishment. Proper punishment means she will not be able to sit down for at least three days, and I expect blood, Mr Dawson, just as she drew blood from the pensioner she mugged.”
“I see,” Dawson was momentarily thrown off balance for the woman's buttocks were already heavily bruised. “In which case,” he continued after a moment, “I will need your assistance.”
“Ye can have it, Mr Dawson. What do ye suggest?”
“The coffee table, I think. Alison, remove your knickers.”
“No way, you said my punishment was over.”
“Well, your father has corrected me. I did not know you had drawn blood.”
“I didn't.”
“She did, Mr Dawson,” MacCullogh intervened.
“I did not. She fell over and cut herself.”
“Too bad, it was your fault. Now do as Mr Dawson says.”
Slowly and with a degree of pain the young woman lowered her knickers to the floor. Gingerly she stepped out of them and waited for her next instruction.
“Right, go and kneel by the side of the coffee table. Put your legs hard up against the rim of the table and keep those legs straight.”
The girl did as she was instructed. The table was lower than the top section of her legs.
“Now bend forward so your head lies on the table.”
Again she did as commanded. As she knelt forward her buttocks became totally exposed.
“Right, Alison, reach your hands forward. Now, Mr MacCullogh, go round the table and grab hold of her hands, tightly mind, because she is going to try to escape.” As MacCullogh walked round the table, Dawson retrieved the extendible metal cane from his case. He extended it fully and took a practice swing through the air. The whooshing sound brought a thinly veiled smile to MacCullogh's face. He grabbed his daughter's arms and spoke softly.
“Now you're going to see what a proper punishment is really like. Okay, Mr Dawson, I have her.”
“Excellent. Miss MacCullogh, I will be giving you thirty six strokes of the cane. You may cry out but not use profanity, or your punishment will be extended by two strokes for each swearword or curse you utter.”
She was already crying, the practice swing had made her realise just what she was in for.
“Swish, Crack!” Then cane landed squarely across the girl's buttocks. She howled as it cut into her already bruised flesh. She also tried to pull away from her father's grip, but to no avail. He was a strong man and strongly determined to see his daughter punished.
“Now, Miss MacCullogh, I'd be grateful if you would count for me.”
“Yes, sir,” she sobbed.
“Well, count then!”
“Oh, sorry, sir. One.” She clenched her buttocks, waiting for the next stroke. It landed at the very top of her buttocks, creating a fresh welt as it did so. Again she howled and struggled then said, “Two.”
Dawson stood back slightly and delivered the next four strokes plum into the centre of her buttocks. With each stinging reminder of her plight the young woman screamed in pain, her already tortured backside now starting to show the signs of the purple welts that related to the cutting marks of the cane.
The next rendition from Dawson saw six vicious cuts land sporadically across the woman's bare arse. By the time the twelfth stroke landed she had stopped struggling against the vice-like grip of her father. As she sobbed loudly and yelped with each fresh strike, her voice faded until Dawson could barely hear the single word, “twelve”.
“That is one third distance, Miss MacCullogh. You may have one minute to massage your buttocks, but you may not move your position. Release her hands, Mr MacCullogh.”
MacCullogh did so reluctantly and the woman's hands went straight round to her purple bruised bottom. She straightened slightly and desperately tried to massage away some of the pain from the angry flesh. Dawson , for his part, stood motionless, looking at his watch.
“Time's up,” he said as the second hand returned to the twelve o'clock position. “Resume your position young lady.”
She did so reluctantly and her father grabbed her hands for the second dozen.
“Crack!” Almost before her hands had been securely grabbed Dawson delivered the next stinging stroke. It cut deep into her flesh, flesh that had not tautened properly in readiness. The welt started to rise and as it did so Dawson delivered five quick strokes across it. With each stroke the young woman howled in agony and this time a faint trace of blood started to seep from the extremely angry-looking marks. Dawson paused for a moment to let the full impact of the six quickly-delivered strokes set in. He looked at her buttocks and decided there was not one area that was not covered by a bruise.
“Right, Miss MacCullogh. For the remaining eighteen strokes I require you to lie on top of the table. Pull her onto it, Mr MacCullogh.”
The man did as he was instructed and in a moment the young woman was lying on top of the table, her badly bruised and angry-coloured buttocks fully exposed and the trace of blood trickling out over her flesh.
“Right, the remainder of the punishment will be delivered to the tops of your legs. Never again will you want to receive this kind of punishment, never again, Miss MacCullogh. Never again will you do something that warrants this kind of punishment.”
“No, sir,” she sobbed ever more loudly.
“Crack!” The cane came down right across the tops of her legs. It sank into her flesh causing a bright-red mark to form. Four more strokes landed within an inch of the first, making her pale flesh turn a fiery pink. Worse was to come.
“Swish, Crack!” The sixth stroke of the session landed, the twenty-fourth in total. As it did so the tip of the cane buried itself between her legs, its motion bruising the flesh just below her anus. She yelled and screamed but to no avail, her father held her tight.
Dawson repeated the action with the next four strokes, determined to cut into her flesh, determined that more blood should flow, determined to show MacCullogh that he was capable, and more, of doing the job properly.
He became aware that the young woman had stopped yelling. She was breathing heavily and still sobbing, but her screams had subsided. Dawson considered that she had simply run out of steam and could not muster the energy to fight any longer. Certainly she had stopped trying to escape.
“Right, Miss MacCullogh, just two strokes left and they will be the worst.”
“I don't care, you can kill me if you want to, just get it over with.”
“Fair enough,” Dawson replied. The fight had gone from the truculent teenager and Dawson 's arm was also beginning to feel the effects of his ministrations.
“Crack!” The vicious stroke landed across the very top of the girl's legs. Her sobbing intensified, a further trickle of blood began to seep from the fresh wounds.
“Crrraaaaccckkk!” The final stroke was always the most important and Dawson brought it down clear across the woman's buttocks. Then he stood back to watch the bruise develop, raising the welt by a further couple of millimetres.
“Your punishment is over. I take it you are satisfied now, Mr MacCullogh.”
“Perfectly satisfied, that is a proper punishment. Right Alison, get up and get to your room.”
“I can't move, father, it hurts too much.” The young woman was still sobbing though her tones were muted from exhaustion.
“You will get off the table and go to your room, once you have replaced your knickers.”
“I can't, I physically can't.”
“I'll count to three. One, two,…”
“Okay. She rolled sideways and howled again as her mutilated flesh briefly touched the table. She howled again as she tried to straighten up.
Finally she made it into a standing position before she leaned down to pick up her knickers. Gingerly, and with fresh gasps of pain, she raised the knickers until they covered her buttocks. Then she hobbled to the lounge door and as she did so, Dawson noticed the knickers were rapidly becoming stained by the blood from her wounds.
“Alison,” he called after her, “you should bathe those wounds tonight and put some cold cream on them.” She didn't audibly reply but continued out of the door, barely able to walk.
MAcCullogh had a smile of satisfaction on his face as he turned to say goodbye to Dawson a few minutes later.
“Thank, ye, Mr Dawson, for your services. I trust I can call on you if I need you again.”
“You can, Mr MacCullogh, though I'd be surprised if your daughter ever gives you any more trouble.”
“Aye, well she may not, but there is another one who might.”
“I see, well you know where I am if you need me.”
“I do. Now you drive carefully.”
“I always do, Mr MAcCullogh. Good night.” The door closed behind him and as Dawson walked back to his car he could hear the girl crying in her bedroom. She had, he figured, learned her lesson.
|
|
|