EX-WIVES 1

THE INHERITANCE

by

Richard Stryker

Copyright. R. Stryker 2001.

The right of R. Stryker to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

Provided with Permission of my publishers at:

http://www.a1adultebooks.com/

and all my mini novels can also be found at my official website at:

http://stryker.a1adultebooks.com/

 

 

CHAPTER 1

It had been nearly four long years since they'd divorced and the bitch had taken him for every penny he'd had, four long years during which he had waited patiently, planned meticulously, and prepared precisely. Now, as Greg Dawson peered through the binoculars he could see his ex-wife lounging idly beside the pool. He smiled to himself for life had a strange way of righting the wrongs that had been done.

Her almost non-existent, bright blue bikini contrasted with her bronzed flesh. As Dawson watched her he could not but help feel the first stirrings of arousal as the field of view played slowly over her ample 38C bosom, barely contained within the blue fabric of the bikini top. The view drifted slowly down her body to the long, slender legs, and finally his gaze was directed at her crotch. He knew her blond hair was natural, and he knew what lay beneath the knickers she was wearing. As he remembered the past, and considered what was about to happen, his erection thrust hard against his pants.

Finding her had been easy. The Private Investigator had experienced no problem in actually finding her, but it had taken Dawson time to put the plan into action. Days and nights of careful watching, times when Dawson had felt the adrenalin pump through his body, stiffening his larger than average cock to the same erection he was experiencing today.

The bungalow was isolated, countrified, and Dawson could see that the woman had literally landed on her feet. He had spent hours watching her, her laziness, her life of luxury, and her lifestyle fitted perfectly into his plan. It suited him also that her new partner spent many days away from the home on a regular basis.

Dawson had planned for this day. It was the day of his ex-wife's inheritance. She was going to get her rewards for the five years of misery she had put him through during the farce of their marriage, the divorce and the five years since. She would get her inheritance for the way she had taken everything from him, stripped him of his dignity and committed perjury to obtain what she wanted. Finally, the day was at hand, for she was alone and was unlikely to be missed for several days to come. Dawson had planned it this way and now, as he watched her from the distant hillside through the powerful binoculars, he felt he could almost reach out and touch her. As he watched her tall, slim body, as she played with her mid-back length blond hair, his manhood raised its own interest. She was his, his for the taking, and now was the time to act.

***

Listening to the radio show through her Walkman, Julia Dawson failed to hear the small, white van pull up outside the front of the building. She also failed to hear the back doors being opened. The country road in which she lived was deserted, the nearest property several hundred yards further down the road.

The side gate was locked and the perimeter fence was over ten feet tall, so Julia Dawson had no reason to worry. Over four trouble free years without any contact from her ex-husband had made her lose her fear of reprisal. The track on the radio ended and for a moment she thought she heard a soft ‘plop' sound. The commentator was introducing the next track when she suddenly became aware of the presence behind her.

Julia Dawson looked up in time to see the figure of a tall, strong, muscular man behind her, his face covered by a black mask. She made to scream but was too late. The hand came over her mouth and a second hand reached out and grabbed her hair. In seconds she was gasping in the fumes of the chloroform. In deadly silence she felt the world around her go dark as she slipped into unconsciousness.

***

The room was dark and not particularly warm. Julia Dawson felt cold as she slowly returned to consciousness. She tried to stand but couldn't, something was penning her in. She reached out a hand and felt around her. The cage was no more than four feet square and certainly no higher. Then, as consciousness returned more fully she realised the reason for her shivering – she was naked, naked and trapped in a cage!

Suddenly the light came on to reveal the full details of the room in which the cage sat, with her in it. It was a large room, with a high ceiling. The walls were of brick and at first glance the room looked like it had once been used as some kind of gymnasium, or workout room. The low, narrow table, with the thin, black mattress reminded her of a doctor's examination table. The bars on the wall, vaulting horse and what looked like a large triangular painter's easel seemed to indicate the room was being used for storage.

Behind her, the door opened and she gained a second glimpse of the tall, muscular man wearing the mask.

Dawson had been meticulous in his planning. The abduction had gone perfectly, and now his quarry was languishing right where he wanted her. Outside the chamber, the house had the semblance of a typical farmhouse. Rurally situated with no other buildings within quarter of a mile, Dawson had paid a handsome price to acquire it three years previously. The internal redecoration and construction of what he liked to call “the Chamber” had taken time. Now the chamber was ready, and so was his quarry. Behind the eyeholes of the black mask he peered out at her. When he spoke his voice was strange, the distorter in the mouthpiece assuring his anonymity remained.

“Welcome to nemesis. If you behave you will do better than if you do not. Do as you are told. Precisely,” he hissed the word, “what you are told. If you do not, you will feel the full extent of my wrath.” Dawson smiled to himself, for she was already shaking from fear. To her, he had always been the wimp. The three years of circuit and weight training had changed that though, adding much muscle to his body. At the same time he had discovered within him the power and desire to do what he had now started. “Do you understand?”

“Yes. Look, who are you, you must have the wrong person.”

“Julia Dawson, aren't you?”

“Yes,” she replied, stunned that he knew her name.

“Well, I've got the right person. No more questions and no more talking unless I tell you to. It's time for you to learn your first lesson.” As Dawson spoke he felt his cock rise in anticipation. “I'm going to open your cage and you will crawl out and crawl over to the wall bars.”

Dawson unlocked the padlock on the cage door and opened it. Slowly the woman crawled out and made her way to the bars. Already afraid, she dreaded what would happen if she disobeyed him.

“Right, stand up and face the bars.”

She did as she was told. Immediately the man grabbed her left wrist and pulled her arm up above her head, stretching her arm outwards as he did so. She felt the noose of rope being slipped around the wrist and then being secured to one of the higher bars. Her right wrist was similarly raised, stretched and tied up.

“Now, spread those legs, bitch,” he snarled. She was too slow for his liking so he grabbed her right leg and yanked it sideways. She felt the noose of rope around her ankle as it was bound tightly to the lowest bar. Then her left leg was similarly yanked sideways and secured.

Suddenly, Julia Dawson realised just how exposed and vulnerable she was. As she realised this she felt the rope being placed round her waist. Pulled tight and fastened to the bars she felt the pressure of her pubic bone as it caressed the wood of the bars. A moment later a second rope was secured halfway up her back, and as it was so, her 38C pale, naked breasts were pushed hard against the wall bars.

Dawson stood back and admired her pert, round bottom, white against the tan of her back and legs, stuck out on display, a perfect target. He released the pressure on his zip and freed his cock, a phallus waiting for action.

“I hear you like the feel of the cane,” he leered at the woman. “Well, we have plenty of that here. How about a dozen caresses of that beautiful arse of yours for starters?” The question was intended to be rhetorical.

“I hate any pain,” she cried.

“Tough, and in future you can call me master, as a mark of respect. You're only getting out of here when you've learned respect, so the quicker you learn, the better it is for you. Also, you'll learn pretty soon that it'll be better if you agree with what I say. You're in for sixteen strokes now, so what do you say?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, master.”

“Better, you're starting to learn.”

The woman could not see the cane that Dawson now held in his hand, but she heard the swish of the practice stroke. A moment later she felt the searing pain as the first stroke skimmed across the very end of her backside, cutting across her pale flesh from top to bottom.

“Arrgghh,” she cried out.

“That's right, cry as loud as you like, no one can hear you. The room's soundproofed and anyway there's nobody around for at least a mile.”

The second stroke followed the first one, its downward cutting action adding further bruising to the flesh already turning pink from the first contact. The woman gasped again and strained against her bonds, to no effect for Dawson had secured her with consummate skill.

The third, fourth and fifth strokes followed in quick succession, each adding to the fiery torture of the rapidly reddening flesh.

“You bastard, I'll kill you for this.”

“I don't think so.” Dawson changed the direction of the next stroke. Instead of cutting across the flesh in a downward, chopping motion, he stood to one side, placed the cane squarely across the middle of the now red area and pulled the cane back. The sixth stroke bit deeply into the woman's left buttock, the welt from the contact adding to the profusion of marks appearing on her flesh. Dawson added the next six strokes in rapid succession, forming a criss-cross of marks on the flesh, each cutting a new line of torture.

By now tears were streaming from the woman's eyes, and with each contact she yelled with the pain. The first stroke of the second dozen landed a little higher then the rest, creating a fresh mark on what remained of the pale flesh.

Dawson knelt down and examined what he had achieved. He smiled to himself in satisfaction and delivered three strokes directly across the tender area of flesh at the top of the woman's legs. It seemed impossible, but she howled louder than she had done before.

Dawson stood back and waited for her howling to subside. He noticed the puffy, angry, deep blue marks of torture that he had inflicted on the buttocks of the woman, the slut who'd denied him any sexual favours for much of their marriage.

“Right, I'm going to untie you, and then you can go and lie down on the table, face up.”

Julia Dawson felt the ropes being loosened and when she was sure she was free she turned round.

“Why are you doing this to me?” She asked between sobs.

“Because you deserve it, now no more questions. Get on the couch.” Dawson had replaced his manhood in his trousers after the caning had been completed. What he had in mind now would bring him the release he needed.

It took the woman a few minutes to hobble over to the couch, and she winced from the pain as her swollen buttocks met with the cold smoothness of the thin, black mattress.

“Put your legs together.” Dawson was already standing at the foot of the couch. The rope was tied tightly first round her ankles and then under the couch, securing her in place. “Now it's time for your hands. Drop them off the sides of the couch.” Fearing the worst, Julia Dawson responded. Again her wrists were tied, separately and then the rope joining them was secured to the table. Tied in this way, her white breasts stood proudly above her bronzed chest, her large pink nipples exposed for whatever was to come.

Dawson put a hand under her chin and tilted her head backwards until her neck was stretched. The she felt the eye mask as it was forced over the top of her head and into place. As it covered her eyes, her world went black.

“Open your mouth,” he spoke menacingly, a short distance away in her darkened place of fear. She did as commanded and felt a strange object being inserted. Then, as silence returned she felt the object moving and as it did so her mouth was forced wide open.

Now unable to speak, and with her jaw muscles starting to ache, she felt the ice as it rubbed against her nipples. The coldness, yet softness with which the wet ice caressed her, brought the pink nipples quickly to attention. Unable to help herself, she felt the first ripples of pleasure flow through her body as the unexpectedly pleasurable attention she was receiving aroused her. As the ice continued to be played across her breasts and nipples she heard a faint humming sound. In an instant the device was played mischievously under her left breast, its gentle action teasing her to a higher state of arousal. She felt the motion as it circled her breast moving slowly to the stiff, pink centre. The moment it touched her there she shuddered. The device was then moved to the other breast and the action repeated. Again she shuddered as the first throes of orgasm began to course through her body. Now, her back tried to arch as she reached the peak of arousal.

“A few seconds more,” she thought, “and I won't be able to stop it. A few more seconds, she thought, and I'll be in heaven. Come on, here it comes. Oh God, it feels so good,” she was saying to herself. Then, just as she felt sure she was going to tip over the edge into the blissful state of culmination, the device was withdrawn. Silence. Her arousal diminished and fear returned.

The silence did not last for long for suddenly the very different sound of a large motor could be heard. As the noise appeared so the couch began to move. The couch tilted so her head was slowly being lowered beneath her body, and her legs were rising to the ceiling. At the same time, the whole couch seemed to be lifting up further from the ground. When the couch had tilted by about thirty degrees the motor was silenced.

Julia Dawson was vaguely aware that someone was standing near to her head, behind the couch, but someone she would now be looking at. At the same time there was a certain aroma, something she should have recognised, but didn't.

Dawson reached forward and grabbed her right nipple firmly. It was enough to make the woman try to gasp, though the jaw-spreader made anything other than a groan impossible. He tweaked the nipple with his left hand as his right slowly stroked his cock. He was large and the thick blue vein stood out prominently in his wild arousal. He squeezed the nipple harder as he approached his own climax, the desire for release welling up inside him.

Suddenly it was happening. He felt the first surge of orgasm and as he did so he aimed the tip of his manhood directly between the thin structures of the jaw-spreader. His aim was perfect for the shot of semen went straight to the back of his victim's throat. She tried to gag but couldn't.

The second pulse followed the first, and Dawson smiled at the obvious discomfort of his ex-wife, the woman who hated what was happening now, the woman who had only once tried oral sex, only to end her feeble attempt with the ultimate insult – she had spat the load back over his stomach. Not today though. Today she would swallow it all. In her position, with her head back and tilted as she was, the profusion of semen had nowhere to go except down her throat.

After the sixth pulse, the flow of white, milky liquid ebbed. Dawson moved back and looked down into the woman's mouth. He could see the liquid at the back of her throat.

“Swallow,” he commanded. She did not respond, so Dawson grabbed her nose, preventing her from breathing until she had completed the order. With her mouth forced open it was a difficult act to complete. Her need for breath made her desire to gulp in air, yet she still did not want to swallow the liquid, such was her revulsion.

“Swallow,” he said again, quite calmly. This time she had no choice. Her face was starting to turn blue as she finally relented and took the contents of her mouth beyond her throat and into her body. She gasped for the air she needed and as she did so she felt the couch being returned to its normal position.

Slowly Dawson caressed her breasts, teasing her once again. He released the jaw-spreader, untied her and ordered her back into the cage. The padlock was replaced, secured and checked and Dawson left the room, plunging it back into darkness. As he closed the door he said,

“You can have a two hour rest - before lesson two begins.”

CHAPTER 2

It had been a painful two hours for Julia Dawson. She'd been unable to sit on her aching buttocks and confined within the cage she had been unable to get much movement into the area that pained her most. She had spent much of the time on her knees rocking to and fro, trying hard to fight back the tears. As the time passed, her genuine fear of what was to come grew.

The light in the chamber was suddenly turned on, a moment before the door was opened. He stood there in the menacing black mask though now he was wearing black, leather gauntlets and boots. He jumped casually down the four steps into the chamber and ambled over to the cage.

“Your arse still hurting?” he asked.

“Yes, you bastard. When I find out the person who's responsible for this I'll kill them.”

“You have to find out first, but I doubt you will do anything when you do find out. You see, I don't think you have any idea who or what is behind this. Now, this is not a good start to lesson two. You still have to learn to be obedient, speak only when spoken to, and to address me as master.”

He unlocked the cage, but the woman made no attempt to move.

“Out of the cage, bitch,” he hissed.

“And if I don't?” Her defiance was typical. Dawson had five years of miserable marriage to know it for a fact.

“Then you get wet, and cold. I'll give you five seconds.”

She stood her ground. The five seconds passed and Dawson pressed the red button on the wall beside him. From out of the ground, directly below the cage, a jet of icy water sprayed into the cage. A fine spray, it soon covered the woman. She winced at the shock of the cold and in a few seconds had crawled out of the cage.

“Bastard,” she snarled, though it was pure bravado, for she knew he was far stronger than she.

“Master, you call me master, and only when I talk to you. Your cage is wet now. That's tough. Now, get over to that vaulting horse.”

Julia Dawson looked at him, decided she had no choice and walked over to the horse. She turned to face him.

“Turn the other way, then stretch right over it. For your insolence you will now receive lesson two in a more forceful manner than you would otherwise have done.”

She demurred and reached over the horse, her stomach lying across the thin, padded seat. Dawson walked round the horse. On the far side he stretched the woman's hands down and clamped them low down the side of the horse using the leather straps he'd had specially fitted. Secured in this way, the woman had no way of reaching up when the pain started. Dawson walked slowly back behind the horse and stretched the woman's legs open wide. Using the ankle cuffs at the bottom of the horse he similarly secured her legs. Her once pale buttocks were still a mass of bruises from her earlier lesson. Dawson looked at them appreciatively.

“Do you know what a paddle is?” The voice distorter made him sound more menacing than was the case.

“Uh-huh, you use it in a canoe.”

“This is a different kind of paddle. It's a bit like a thick cane, shorter and unlike the cane which cuts your bare arse, this just covers a bigger area, bringing great heat. Now I have a selection, and you are going to taste a few of them.”

“Well, I can't stop you, can I?” She still sounded defiant. She would not do so for long.

“True. To begin with you will feel the ping-pong paddle, made out of leather and named as such because it shaped a bit like a table tennis bat.”

With that Dawson delivered two strokes in quick succession, one to each of the woman's buttock cheeks. She groaned loudly, and Dawson noted, with satisfaction, that although she tried to move, her spread-eagled and bound position prevented any significant movement. For fun, he delivered another ten swats from the small, leather device. With each swat, the woman groaned, and as the count mounted, so her buttocks turned a deeper shade of pink.

“Next, we have what I call the college paddle. This is made from solid wood. It's smooth and doesn't flex like the leather paddle. This is the sort of paddle the college cheerleaders used to be chastised with when they couldn't swing their pompoms properly. You'll soon understand why they learned to do it properly very quickly.”

The wooden device looked awesome. Dawson delivered one smack right across the woman's buttocks. She howled from the pain. Dawson stood back and admired his handiwork. Across the middle of the cheeks, right where the paddle had landed was a fresh, angry pink mark. He added another stroke in the same place and again waited for the colour in her flesh to darken. Four more smacks were added, each causing the woman to howl in pain. She struggled to move from her position but could not. Then Dawson moved lower. Carefully lining up the position of the paddle, the next stroke landed at the top of her left leg, the end of the paddle connecting with the soft flesh of her labia. This brought a fresh howl from the woman, whose face was already strewn with tears. Dawson lashed out four more strokes in rapid fire onto the same part of her body. The top of her leg went bright pink. Then he walked behind her and repeated the action on her other leg until it had turned the same shade of pink.

Smiling beneath the black mask, Dawson stood back for a moment to admire the effect of his treatment. The whole of her buttocks were a mass of bruises and angry, pink and red flesh.

“Now, the third paddle is a little different. Have you ever used a meat tenderiser?”

Between her sobs, the woman acknowledged she had. Indeed, Dawson knew she was familiar with the kitchen utensil.

“Well, this little baby is a bit like a tenderiser. It has a surface that has been carved into hundreds of pyramids.”

Dawson picked up the paddle. It was about eighteen inches long, and the surface he intended to use really did look like an over-sized meat tenderiser. He drew the paddle back and aimed it straight at the middle of her buttocks. The hundreds of pyramid apexes bit into her already swollen and angry flesh. The woman howled and yelled with the pain, aware that the intensity was almost more than she could bear. The second and third strokes followed, each feeling like a thousand needles being inserted into her tender flesh. After the third stroke had landed, Dawson paused. He saw the feint evidence of cut flesh, pockmarks where the woman's blood was starting to seep out of the tiny holes that had been drilled into her flesh. He waited for some moments, fascinated by the appearance of blood on the already crimson flesh.

“Just what it's supposed to do,” he muttered to himself. Putting down the paddle he picked up a bottle of surgical spirit and a cloth. “This might hurt a bit,” he said, in the kind of voice that implied what he had already achieved was not really pain. He poured some of the spirit onto the cloth and then applied the cloth to her wounds. He could only imagine the suffering she was feeling, the intense stinging pain of the cold liquid mingling with the dull, throbbing ache of her battered rear. It thrilled him as she screamed with the pain of the spirit. He felt his cock rising, but knew it would have to wait for the final session of the day.

“Right, your arse has taken enough for now. It's time to get into the final part of this lesson.” As he spoke, Dawson released the bindings round her ankles and then her arms. She straightened and reached round to gently touch her bruised rear. The tiny drops of blood still seeped out of the holes made by the tenderiser. She winced as she touched her buttocks, tears still falling down her cheeks.

“So, what's the final part, master?” She struggled with the last word, but her spirit was being broken and she decided not to prolong her agony for more than was necessary.

“Something you'll love. Take two steps away from the horse.” She did as instructed. He tied cuffs to her ankles, leather cuffs that had a metal ring on the outside of them, a small ring that looked like it should attach to something.

“Now, open your legs about three feet apart.” The woman did as she was told. Dawson reached down and placed the metal pole between her legs. Using the auto-locking clamps, he soon attached the rings. “Feet wider,” he commented, and she obeyed. He helped her to achieve the position he wanted. Then, he inserted the peg into the hole in the pole, securing the woman in position, her legs splayed wide apart for him, her vulva open and available to him.

He stood up and walked behind the woman. He took hold of her left arm and flicked the handcuff into place, the motion locking the device securely around her wrist. The right wrist followed. Satisfied she could not interfere, Dawson stood back. He gazed carefully at the neatly trimmed pubes that formed a triangle leading down to her labia. He smiled to himself as he reached a hand behind her legs and firmly patted her sex. She was in for a rare treat, one she would not forget.

He turned and walked over to the desk and opened the drawer. He selected half a dozen clothes pegs, the plastic variety used to hang out the washing, and returned to the woman. Bending down he carefully drew his finger up between her labia, separating the lips. Starting at the bottom of the lips he attached a peg to the left and then the right labia. The pegs hung downwards, pulling the flesh they gripped. The woman gasped and gasped again when he attached the second pair of pegs. The final pegs were attached either side of her clitoris, the plastic ends of the pegs rubbing against her sensitive bud.

Dawson returned to his desk and extracted a vibrator. It was about eight inches long and nearly an inch and a half thick. He tested the batteries. Satisfied the device was working correctly, he returned to the woman and played the tip of the machine over the pegs. The noise of the vibrator intensified as it sent the vibrations into the pegs. The woman groaned from the combination of the vibrations and the pulling effect of the pegs on the entrance to her vagina.

Dawson listened carefully for the signs of arousal, all the time teasing the woman by playing the tip of the vibrator over her clitoris.

“You like that, don't you,” he said.

“Mmm,” she responded.

“What did you say?” He withdrew the pleasure from between her legs.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, master.”

“Okay, well we'll see just how much you like it.” With that Dawson picked the woman up by her waist and carried her over to the wall bars. He stood her with her back to the bars and firmly lashed the leg-spreader to the bottom rung. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back but he wanted more restraint. He took a length of cord, placed it around her neck and secured it firmly to the bar behind her head. Now she could not move more than a few centimetres. It suited his intentions.

He spent the next few minutes working between the woman's legs. The small ratchet-driven device clamped easily onto the bar. Onto this, in its lowest position he fixed the vibrator. On the base of the vibrator was a small opening with a circular lip. Onto the lip he forced the small tube and watched as the liquid in the jar in which the other end of the tube rested was sucked through the tube and up into the vibrator. Finally a small glob of the thick, almost clear, liquid appeared at the business end of the device. Satisfied, he smeared the end of the vibrator with the liquid and turned the wheel on the side of the ratchet. As he did so, the vibrator began its journey of the final couple of inches until it touched the woman's sex.

She winced as it touched her, but Dawson kept on turning the wheel until the head of the vibrator was more than five inches inside the woman. The humming sound was faint but audible. Satisfied the device could not come out of the place he had inserted it, he stood back and waited for her reaction to intensify.

He knew it would not be long in happening. The liquid, a home-made concoction of lubricant mixed with menthol, would ensure the vibrator provided the woman with the intense pleasure of such a large device, whilst the menthol would add a touch of pain and sensitivity within her, rekindling the sexual fire burning between her legs after each time she peaked.

Dawson watched as her breathing became sharp. He watched as her whole abdomen contracted in the first throes of orgasm. He watched the beads of perspiration form on her face as she struggled in vain to prevent her arousal. He waited and watched, the thin, fine flow of liquid from the vibrator lubricating and teasing her in her helpless position.

Dawson watched as she reached her peak, tears of frustration falling onto her cheeks. She was still gasping as the whole process started again. First came the signs of arousal from her breathing, then the abdominal contractions and the gasping, and then the release of orgasm.

After her second climax her body tried to slump down. The vibrator, being fixed in place only plunged itself even more deeply into her body, still humming, still rock solid, and still slowly pumping the liquid of torture into her. Now, she tried to reach up, in a vain effort to remove the object from her body.

Satisfied she was unable to prise her aching vulva away from the instrument that combined intense pleasure with pure torture, Dawson turned away from her.

“I'll be back in an hour,” his distorted voice sounded from beneath the mask. “Have fun.”

As he opened the door to the chamber he looked back, to see the woman's body was already responding to the next wave of pleasure. She would, thought Dawson , be totally wrecked in an hour's time. He closed the door behind him and walked up the flight of stairs into the house proper. There he made a sandwich and took it into the living room, with a cold can of beer and sat down.

The remote control unit played through the channels of the television until Dawson reached the one he was looking for. He watched the woman writhing on the instrument of torture as he munched the sandwich, his cock hardening at the thought of what would happen at the end of the hour. The woman had tears streaked down her cheeks and Dawson could tell that she had struggled with her bonds. Yet now, she was stretched, her back arched as her body responded unwillingly to the intense waves of pleasure that were vibrating through her. The bud of her clitoris was on fire from the effects of the lubricant and menthol, the fiery sting adding to the sensitivity of the whole area of her body. She could not help but writhe, even though this only intensified the sensations.

It was going to be a long hour, one in which her whole body would be utterly drained of every ounce of energy as, for the first time in her life, she was powerless to control what was happening. Then, after about ten minutes, she cracked. She stopped fighting against the weapon inside her, and instead she began to ride with it. A new sense of release filled her body, the kind of release only a woman can experience. She drifted from a state of battle to a state of ecstasy. No longer did the menthol sting. Sure the sensation was the same, but now it added to her excitement. She felt the hard object inside her, and though her ability to move was restricted, she began to ride the instrument as it hummed inside her.

She felt the pleasure welling up again, and knew this time it would go further. Her whole abdomen contracted as she sought to extract every last possible microbe of pleasure from the experience. She felt as if she would burst. Then, suddenly, it was happening. With a great cry of relief she rammed the vibrator as deep into her body as she could, and she screamed her way to orgasm.

The lubricant from the vibrator's head seeped out of the side of her vulva and trickled down the inside of her leg. It had been doing this for some minutes, but now it was mixed with something else, the juices of her own orgasm. The creamy, white liquid added to the volume of the clear liquid, as it flowed out of her, trickling down her legs and dripping onto the floor. This was the end, she could go no further.

Up in the lounge, Dawson watched mesmerised. Never before had he seen her act like this. Never before had he experienced her total capitulation to sexual pleasure. It even began to annoy him that she should yield at this time. After all, he had planned she would suffer for a whole hour but now, with the flow of her orgasmic juices, her senses were reeling and she could no longer feel the pain.

Dawson waited to see what happened next. After all, the vibrator was still humming, still inserted deeply inside her body. It took her nearly five minutes to recover from the orgasm, five minutes during which she hung limply, held in place by the bonds he had placed around her.

Then the pain started again. Her vulva was aching from its exertions. The bud of her clitoris was still swollen and ultra-sensitive, and now she needed the persistent vibrations to cease and to be left alone. It had been nearly half an hour since her captor had left her and now, as her vulva reacted angrily to the continued intrusion, she began to dread the remaining half hour he had promised her.

She was crying again from the pain of the hammering going on inside her. No longer did the sensations arouse her. No longer could she find any source of pleasure.

CHAPTER 3

The next thirty minutes were ones of sheer torture for the woman and a source of intense arousal for Dawson as he watched her suffering from the comfort of his lounge.

Finally, he switched off the television and returned to the chamber. She was in a sorry state, totally exhausted, her body limp and only the dried stains of her earlier arousal apparent on the inside of her legs and on the floor beneath her.

Dawson removed the neck restraint and removed the leg-spreaders. Then he removed the vibrator. Only when the vibrator had been removed did the woman even recognise his presence. She stepped forward and took one step towards the chair.

“Did I say you could move?” His voice was authoritative.

“Either I sit down or I fall down.” There was no fight in her voice, just a pure and simple statement.

“Fall down then, but not here, on the couch. Go and lie on your stomach.”

The woman did as she was told, grateful that she could finally rest her body. As she took the three steps to the couch, Dawson noticed that her buttocks were still bruised and the little indentations from the earlier paddling still showed where the blood had flowed.

Dawson allowed the woman a couple of minutes rest while he tidied away the equipment from the previous session and removed his trousers. Then he turned to her prostrate form. He walked behind her and without speaking dragged her down the couch until her knees were almost at the end. Then, placing a hand under her stomach, he forced her into a kneeling position.

“This might hurt a bit. It's best not to fight it,” he said, quite softly, menacingly softly.

“What are you going to do?” The woman asked lamely.

By way of reply, she felt his hand on her buttocks, prising the cheeks apart.

“Oh God, not that, please not that.”

“Yes, that.”

She felt the tip of his manhood as it touched her sphincter muscle. God, he was hard! Then she felt the brutality of his desire as, without mercy, he thrust against the tightly-closed anus. She clenched her buttock cheeks, determined to repel the unwanted invader, but she was too exhausted to maintain the battle.

Slowly, as he continued to press against her, she began to relax. Suddenly, the warmth of his manhood broke through the barrier of resistance and she felt him deep inside her.

“Christ,” she screamed as he broke through the portal, “that fucking hurts.”

“Good. Now keep on like that while I take you. This is your first time, isn't it?”

“Yes, and my last. Ow, you're hurting me.”

Dawson measured his strokes. From almost removing his cock from her anus, to plunging it as deeply into her body as he could manage, he held her tightly so she could not squirm away from him. Each time he thrust into her he felt the muscle being forced to expand around the width of his phallus. He knew it was hurting her and he was glad. Each thrust was worth all the misery she had caused him, and more. This was revenge, pure and simple.

He pounded her like this until he felt the surge of orgasm rising up inside him. Then, with one final thrust that almost split her buttocks in two, he came, filling the condom with the fruit of his excitement.

As he reached his climax he raked his fingers down her back, leaving red scratch marks in their wake. This action made her howl even louder, the kind of noise he loved to hear at the peak of excitement.

When he'd finished, he withdrew from her slowly, careful to ensure there would be no DNA evidence left behind. As he withdrew, he noticed the condom was streaked with blood. He smiled at the thought of taking her cherry, of causing her to be ruptured, of causing her pain.

His care was not really necessary, for his meticulous planning would ensure any DNA would be removed before she left, but he still knew he had to be careful. As he withdrew, she slumped forward, her aching buttocks adding to the pain from her anus, an anus that had been ripped slightly. After he had withdrawn she felt the blood as it seeped out onto her tortured flesh.

“Right, that's all for today. Come with me.”

He grabbed her arm and led her to the door at the far end of the chamber to the door he had used earlier.

“It's not much, but it'll keep you safe for the night. There's some food in there, and other things. We start again tomorrow at ten o'clock , and you'd better be a damn sight more cooperative and polite than you've been today.”

Dawson had reached the door. He opened it and levered her arm until she had gone through the entrance. She heard the door close behind her and then the key in the lock.

She stood looking round her cell for a few moments. There was a couch with a thin mattress and a duvet, a toilet, washbasin with soap and towel, a coffee table with a chair and a tray of cold food on top of it, and that was all.

She settled down for a long, lonely evening. Not knowing what the time was didn't help her, but that was all part of Dawson 's plan, to disorientate her as part of the process of making her compliant.

***

Dawson had a busy evening ahead of him. His planning for this occasion had taken some considerable time, and during it he had discovered a way that he could earn money from his newly acquired skills. There were, it transpired, a large number of women who desired what he could offer. His first realisation of this had happened at a party when he had playfully joked about his abilities to train women to be compliant. The joke had landed on the ears of a pretty young brunette. She was a strong character, a manager with a good deal of responsibility and staff that looked up to her for leadership.

Dawson knew she was a bully by nature and a number of his friends had commented about the way she teased people. He got talking to her and during the conversation he revealed that he was a CAT.

“Well, Karen, they don't call me the CAT for nothing,” the conversation had continued.

“CAT, that's a strange name. Why do they call you that?”

“CAT, it stands for Corrective Action Therapist. We, err, specialise in correcting the wayward habits of people using corrective action therapy.”

“Intriguing, and what wayward habits would I have to have corrected?” She smiled at him, teasingly.

“Well, for a start, you bully and tease people, then you piss people off with your whiney, whinge of a voice, and then you don't dress appropriately.”

“So, maybe I need some corrective action therapy. Would you be prepared to help me?”

“Of course, but we have one rule, once we start there is no turning back.”

“Okay, well why don't you come round to my place tomorrow evening and see what you can do for me?” She looked down at his trousers, and admired the bulge that was forming. She licked her lips, believing he was playing with her.

Dawson agreed to visit the young woman's flat the following evening. To be honest, Dawson had little idea what to expect, or what to do. He was new to this, but the thought of her delicious body reacting to his touch thrilled him.

He knocked on the door of the flat at precisely eight o'clock . She opened it, dressed as if she had just returned from work, still wearing her ‘uniform' of pinstriped trouser suit.

“Come in,” she said, and allowed Dawson into the flat. “So you reckon you can help me become a better person?” She started when they were in her sitting room.

“That's why I'm here – to show you the error of your ways, and to make sure you don't fall back into them after you have been corrected. Now, before we start, you have to accept certain rules.”

“Okay.” The smile on her face vanished as she spoke and she realised Dawson was not fooling around. “You're serious about this, aren't you,” she paled.

“I'm totally and utterly serious. It is for your own good.”

“So, what kind of therapy do I need?”

“In your case, quite a lot I'm afraid. We need to correct a number of traits, and we need to ensure that those traits do not return. Now, we can not do that all in one session, but we can make a start, if you are sure that is what you want.”

“I'm sure. So, what are we going to do tonight?”

“Well, for a start, you're not dressed appropriately. Someone receiving corrective action therapy never wears a pinstripe suit. The first thing a therapist would tell them to do would be to take it off. And for future sessions you should wear something more appropriate.”

As quickly as he said it she removed her jacket and started undoing her trousers. In a moment she stood before him wearing her blouse and underwear.

“Now what?” She said.

“Well, there's protocol. You don't talk unless I ask you a question, and then when you reply you say things like ‘yes, master'. Also, you do exactly what I tell you.”

“I see, master, well what kind of correction do you think I need?”

“Well, for a start, in future sessions, if you don't wear the appropriate attire, you can expect to receive a sound spanking. But for today I want to concentrate on your tendency to be a bully. This will require correction that starts tonight and will continue for a number of sessions until I hear of a real change from those you bully at the moment.”

“Very well, if you say so, master.”

“Okay, bend over my lap.” The woman did so, and she felt Dawson 's growing erection press into her stomach. If she thought he was playing games, her thoughts soon turned to fear. The first smack of his hand ripped into her partly-covered buttocks.

“Arrgghhh,” she groaned as the second smack landed.

“No one likes a bully, and the quicker you learn that fact, the better.” The third smack landed and the woman moaned again. These smacks were not particularly hard, but she clearly had no experience of being treated in this way – and it excited Dawson enormously.

Dawson continued to deliver a dozen open-palmed smacks to her rear. By the end of the delivery her buttocks were glowing nicely pink.

“Stand up,” he said.

“I promise I won't bully anyone again. Is that all there is to it?”

“No, that was just for starters. You don't seriously think a mere flick of the wrist is going to cure you, do you?”

“No, master.”

“Good, well it's time for you to get out of your clothes.”

She stood watching him for a moment.

“Now, not tomorrow, now! get out of your clothes.”

She undressed, revealing her shaven pussy and her large, pink-nipple breasts.

“Okay, bend over and grab your ankles. Keep your legs straight.”

As she did so, Dawson opened his attaché case and withdrew the extendible metal cane. He extended it fully and cut some practice strokes through the air. The swishing sound was intended to unnerve the woman, and Dawson 's intent was successful.

Crack! The first strike landed mid-height across the woman's taut, pink buttocks.

“Arrgghh,” she wailed.

“Shut up, it's not that painful.”

“It is,” she sobbed. “That bloody hurt.”

“But you want more, don't you?”

“No.”

“That was the wrong answer. Think about it.” Crack! The second stroke landed and as it did so it cut her flesh an inch above the first.

“You want more, don't you?”

“Yes, master,” she sobbed.

“Good, well I'm going to give you ten. You can count them for me. Don't move, because if you get up the stroke won't count. Now, do you understand?”

“Yes master.”

“Excellent. And you understand that it is not acceptable to be a bully?”

“Yes, master.” Crack! The third stroke landed. The woman gasped as it cut into her, and then called out, “One”.

“Very good, you're learning.” Crack!

“Two.” Tears were already falling onto the woman's face as she braced herself for the next strike. Dawson waited a few seconds then he picked his spot and a fifth stripe of dark red appeared on the woman's buttocks, crossing the first four marks.

“Three,” she sobbed.

Dawson delivered the next seven strokes about ten seconds apart. By the time he had finished she was crying openly, determined to hold position, her backside a raw, angry mess of bruised stripes.

“Right, kneel on the floor, with your back straight and your bum on the back of your legs.”

The woman did as she was told, crying out as her tender, red-hot arse touched the cool flesh of the backs of her legs.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Again she did as she was told. She felt him tie her wrists individually and then bind them together. She attempted to wiggle them and realised there was no chance of loosening the bonds. She felt his hand in her back at chest height. He pushed her gently forward, pushing her breasts out in front of her. Then he tied a length of rope around her upper arms, forcing them back behind her, ensuring her breasts remained thrust out in front.

“After the pain, you have to learn obedience. This next lesson is not painful if you do exactly as you are told. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master.”

Dawson took her left breast in his hand and squeezed the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, caressing it until it became erect. Then he took a piece of thin twine and wrapped it twice round the base of the nipple, before tying the twine tightly, forcing the nipple into an even greater erection, an erection that could not subside as the blood in the teat was trapped. Then he did the same with the right nipple. Finally, he took both pieces of twine, ran them up over the woman's shoulders and tied them securely to the rope behind her back, pulling the breasts upwards as he did so. To ensure there was no movement he also tied the two pieces of twine together at the height of her neck.

Then Dawson retrieved the vibrator from his case. He lubricated the tip and turned it on. The soft hum accompanied his action of playing the instrument over the woman's left nipple. She groaned as he did so, the sensations sending powerful waves of sexual energy through her body. Dawson teased each nipple in turn, causing them to swell and pull at the tightly tied twine. The pleasure of the sensation intermingled with the pain of the pulling twine, and the woman lost control of her sensibilities. Crying, and groaning, she shuddered as she climaxed. Dawson smiled to himself, knowing that she was learning fast.

When she had reached her climax, Dawson reached back into his case and withdrew a large red candle. He lit the wick and waited for a minute.

“Now, what do bullies have to expect?”

“Punishment, master.” She spoke softly, as one who was coming out of a dream.

“Exactly, now the wax is quite warm, so when it touches you each drop can be a reminder of the pain you have inflicted on others.

He tipped the candle, holding it a few inches above her right breast. The wax dripped from the candle and splashed onto her pale flesh. She gasped in pain as it touched her.

“No, oh no, oh no, it's burning me,” she howled.

Dawson moved over and treated her left breast to the same, only this time he ensured some of the wax splashed onto the nipple as well. As it landed, the woman groaned even more loudly. As she did so, she failed to notice Dawson looking down her stomach to her shaven pussy. He smiled to himself.

Having spattered her breasts with the red liquid, Dawson forced the woman to lie on the floor on her back, her arms still tied tightly behind her. He dragged the coffee table until it was behind her head and then, raising her left leg over her head he tied it firmly to one leg of the table. In a minute he had secured her right leg to the other leg of the table in such a manner that her legs were spread well apart and she was wide open, her vulva clearly on display.

Without pausing, Dawson patted the woman's sex with his hand, not hard but firmly. She was powerless to resist.

“Have you ever had your cunt flogged?” He asked her as he walked back round to his attaché case.

“No, and I don't want it hurt now, master.”

“Oh come, we are trying to cure you of your bad habits, a little pain will help you remember.” Dawson had retrieved the short-handled leather flogger, the one where the handle gripped the nine fine flails of leather. He placed the bunch of flails between her spread-eagled legs as he stood directly behind her.

With a quick flick of the wrist the flails lifted and landed with a gentle ‘thwack'. The woman moaned, from surprise more than pain.

“Not too bad, was it?”

“No, master.”

“I told you so, but they will get harder.” The second switch was more powerful than the first, and the third was the result of a definite movement in Dawson 's arm. Still, the first three strokes landed softly on the freshly-shaven vulva. “It's time to see just what you're made of.”

“Yes, master, if you say so.”

“I do.” Dawson raised the flails and put a moderate amount of power into the next stroke. The woman moaned, this time more from the pain than surprise.

Dawson then released six stinging strokes on her tender area in quick succession. The lips surrounding her vulva turned pink as they became inflamed, and tears formed in the woman's eyes. Trussed as she was, she could see each stroke as it descended onto her tender sex.

Dawson put the flogger down and retrieved the candle.

“And now, heat therapy. This, if nothing else, will make you think twice before you bully anyone again.”

“Yes, master. Arrggghh, ow, ow, ow,” she howled as the hot candle wax dripped onto her legs and in between them, a small trickle of the hot liquid flowing onto her labia and onto the area between her vulva and her anus.

“Right, that is enough for your first session. But, you will need a follow-up session in a week, and in the meantime if I hear you have bullied anyone you can be sure it will be taken account of next time we meet. Do you understand?” Dawson sounded grave.

“Yes master.”

As he had been speaking he began to loosen the woman's bonds. Soon she was freed and sat tenderly on the carpet, her buttocks and the whole area between her legs sore and fiery.

Dawson tidied up his equipment and bade the woman farewell. That had been the first realisation that women needed what Dawson had to offer. Now, as he prepared for the evening he was stepping onto new territory. It would be exciting, a challenge, and his reputation was at stake.

CHAPTER 4

The house which Dawson drove to was large. He already knew that the owner was wealthy and the request had been a total surprise to him. Dawson parked up and knocked on the front door.

A middle-aged man opened the door, and welcomed Dawson inside. The man led him to the study, a large room lined with bookshelves and a highly polished floor. Two chairs faced the oak desk, and on the chairs, facing away from the door, were two females, dressed in the uniform of the local high school.

“And these are my problems. Meet Daphne and Isobel, my daughters. As I told you, they are unruly, have no regard for authority and show wilful disregard for the wishes of both myself and my wife. They are, in short, wanton.”

“But, Mr Eccleshalll, as I said on the phone, that is typical of eighteen year-old sixth formers today. I fail to see how I can help you.”

“You can help by correcting their attitudes, Mr Dawson. These two girls are now one step away from being hauled in front of a magistrate and bringing disgrace to the family name. I understood you were a corrective action therapist and that is precisely what they need.”

“And you know the nature of the therapy?”

“I do, and it is high time they experienced it.”

“Well, I need your consent and the girls' consent in writing.”

“That will not be a problem. They both accept what is going to happen.”

Up to this point the girls had not spoken and had continued to look across the desk. Now they turned to face their father and his guest.

“Will it hurt?” The girl with the long dark hair asked.

“All therapy hurts,” Dawson replied.

“In that case, we want our parents to go out while we receive our punishment,” the girl with the shorter dark hair added.

“Nonsense, your mother is out, and I intend to see Mr Dawson do his job properly.”

“But, Father, …”

“There will be not ‘buts' about it. I am going to watch. Now, Mr Dawson, without further delay, do you have a form for us to sign?”

“Yes, in here.” Dawson opened his attaché case and withdrew it. The girls signed it, as did their father.

“Well, we'd best get started. In your own time, Mr Dawson.” The father of the girls walked round the desk and sat in his leather-upholstered chair.

“Right, girls, stand up, and walk behind your chairs, facing your father.”

The girls did as they were told without speaking.

“Now, raise the back of your skirts above your waist and tuck them in so they can't fall down.”

The dark blue skirts were raised, revealing two pale bottoms, covered with the school's regulation white knickers. The girls were clearly twins, and their backsides were almost identical.

“Right, we're big girls now, so your punishment will be on the bare. Remove your knickers.” As he spoke, Dawson walked behind them, admiring the action scene.

“What about our private parts?”

“You should have thought about that before you were so unruly. Now, no further talking, get those knickers off.”

“Do as you are told, Isobel.” Their father stared impassively at his daughter's predicament.

“Thank you, Mr Eccleshall, but I must insist that you leave all the directions to me. It is evident these unruly children have no respect for you. It is better they learn that respect from one person, or in other words, me.”

“Fair enough.” Eccleshall sat back to watch the show.

“Right, Isobel, as you had the temerity to question my instructions, we will begin with you. Daphne, go and face the wall over there. Stand with your feet about twenty-four inches apart, and put your hands on your head. Do not turn round to look. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good, and while we are about it, you will both address me as ‘sir' from now on.”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated and walked over to the wall. From her position, her pale buttock cheeks were on full display. They would not be pale for long.

As she walked to the wall, Dawson removed the two chairs from the desk.

“Right, Isobel, bend over the desk, spread your legs wide, and reach forward with your hands. Mr Eccleshall, please take your daughter's hands and ensure she can not break free. This is a preliminary therapy designed to make you girls think twice before misbehaving again. We will move onto the respect therapy later. Right, Isobel, I am going to warm up your buttocks with twenty strokes of the paddle. Stay as still as possible.”

With that Dawson walked round to the side of the girl and delivered the first swat of the black, leather paddle right onto the middle of her cheeks. It landed with a resounding ‘crack!' and the girl howled. She struggled against her father's grasp, but he held her firmly in position. The second swat landed directly on top of the first, and a third landed a little higher. Daswson paused, and rubbed her cheeks with his free hand, as if inspecting the damage. Satisfied, he released three more swats in quick succession, each landing mid cheek across both buttocks. The tears were now flowing freely down the girl's face and she was sobbing loudly.

“Crack!” The seventh stroke landed lower down her cheeks, biting into fresh, pale flesh. As he delivered the eighth stroke to the same place, Dawson watched as the flesh turned pink. With satisfaction he noticed the fiery pink tinge that now covered most of her backside. The next two swats landed just on the top of her legs, bringing fresh howls of pain and more pink flesh. The girl was now gasping for air, as she continued to resist her father's vice-like grip.

The next four strokes were concentrated on the girl's right buttock. They turned her pink flesh into a darker, bruised-red colour. Then Dawson treated her left buttock to the same treatment.

“Right, release her hands Mr Eccleshall. Isobel, you have two more strokes to receive. You are not to move, or flinch in any way. If you do, the stroke will not count. Do you understand?”

“Yes, arrghh, owwww, sir.”

“Good, and you are not to move at the end until I say so.”

Dawson walked round the girl and aimed the paddle to come down between her glowing cheeks. He raised the paddle and brought it down.

“Thwack!” It sounded as the flat blade separated the girl's buttock cheeks, the end of the instrument rubbing harshly against the girl's sex. She howled loudly but managed to maintain her position. With her stomach already flat against the table, and her legs pressing against the cold wood, she had nowhere to move, and her body took the full force of the stroke.

The second swat followed soon after, landing in the same place, intensifying the pain and making the girl howl even more loudly. Dawson stood back and admired his work. He knew the girl was longing to tenderly rub her buttocks and try to take the sting away. He knew also that he would not let her.

“Right, Isobel, you can stand up. Put your hands on your head and join your sister over at the wall.”

It took the girl several seconds to straighten up. She winced as she reached the vertical but did not dare to touch her buttocks. She dutifully put her hands on her head and walked her dark-red arse over to the wall.

“Right, Daphne, it's your turn. Come over here and assume the position.”

The girl did as she was instructed, tears already visible on her cheeks. Her father grabbed her hands and smiled at her. Dawson walked behind her and spread her legs further apart until her stomach rested on the top of the desk and the tops of her legs pressed into its side. Her pretty, tiny, pale bottom was in the perfect position for the hiding of a lifetime.

Dawson spent the next five minutes administering the exact same pattern of punishment he had delivered to her sister. In contrast to the first girl, Daphne did not try to break from her father's grasp, and though she howled with each stroke, and tears flowed freely down her face, she made no movement. After the strokes had been delivered her pert, pale bottom, was as fiery-red as was her sister's.

“Stand over by your sister, and both of you keep your hands on your heads.” Dawson completed the first phase of their punishment, and sat down for a moment. He was flushed from the exercise, and inside his pants he was as stiff as a pole from the thought of the two virgins he had just treated.

“As I said, he continued, that was to teach you about the folly of being unruly and disobedient. I trust you have learned your lesson, because if I have to deliver punishment to you again in the future for this, it will be far worse for you. Now, we will move on to teach you respect. My methods are unique, and you can be assured that they are often successful. Respect, I believe, is born out of a willingness to submit to the will of others, and it is your wilfulness that I intend to break with the next part of your therapy. Isobel, as you have had the longest to recover, we will start with you.”

“Before you do, Mr Dawson, “Eccleshall interrupted, “I can see you are good at what you do. I have other things to get on with. Please call me when you are finished.” Eccleshall stood up and left the room, his daughters looking forlornly after him.

“Right, Isobel, come over here and lean over the back of this chair.” The girl did as she was told. Dawson spread her legs open and lashed her legs to the back legs of the chair. From his position, as he bent to secure her legs, Dawson had a perfect view of the young woman's sex.

“Now grab the front legs of the chair.”

The girl did so, and felt Dawson touch her buttocks.

“Okay, this will be cold for a moment, but don't worry, it will soon warm up.” The girl felt the cold cream on her arse, and felt Dawson rub it in gently. He moved lower until he touched her labia, still rubbing the cold cream into the girl's skin. When he had reached her bud he stopped, added another blob of the cream to his finger and gently and meticulously covered her clitoris with the white cream. The girl moaned as he touched her, but Dawson knew what would happen in a moment.

Soon the cram took effect, sending burning heat into the flesh it had made contact with, exciting and arousing the girl at the same time as torturing her genitals.

“Excellent. So now you are learning respect. When you have learned it, we will apply the antidote. Until then, I have a dozen stripes of the cane for you.”

Dawson extracted the metal cane from his case and extended it to full length. The girl was writhing over the back of the chair, her labia and clitoris swollen by the cream, swollen with her arousal, swollen with the need for the release she could not find. The cane landed across her already fiery buttocks, cutting a thin stripe into her badly bruised flesh. The pain seared through her body, making her howl in pain and frustration, her genitals murderously demanding a climax to her arousal. The second and third strokes landed and the pain intensified. The fourth stripe cut across the first three, and blood began to seep from one point along the bruised area. Dawson focused on this, adding two more strokes across the same area, opening the wound further until the whole area was a mass of smeared blood.

Still, with the pain burning through her body, the girl's sex was demanding the release she could not attain. She needed the release, needed it badly, yet something was holding her back. Then Dawson changed direction with the cane. Now he brought it down directly between her legs, so each fresh stroke landed on the already swollen labia.

She yelled, screamed and grasped frantically at the chair legs, but still she could not find the release. The tenth and eleventh strokes added to those previously administered, and the torture became unbearable. The final stroke landed, bringing a fresh howl of pain from the girl.

Dawson stopped and waited. Her abdomen was still performing some kind of contraction, and though she was sobbing loudly, her body contortions were more reminiscent of a young woman desperately seeking a climax that would not come.

“Have you learned respect yet?” Dawson asked as he released her legs. As he did so, he sniffed the musk that came with a woman's arousal. He looked up and saw the faint trickle of liquid oozing from the girl's vulva. She was on heat, aroused beyond her comprehension and unable to reach release. She was, in short, suffering total torture.

“Yes, sir,” she gasped. “Please, sir, can you help me? I need something, this is killing me.”

“I know, but you have to wait, it's all part of the therapy. Now, go and stand back by the wall and keep your hands on your head.”

“But, sir, I can't take any more,” she sobbed again, still gasping, her abdomen still in the throes of contraction.

“Well, it won't be for long. Do as you're told. Daphne, come here.”

The girls swapped positions and Daphne was strapped into position while Isobel stood facing the wall, trying desperately to dampen the arousal between her legs. She failed and was almost oblivious to the torture that her sister was now sharing.

Again Dawson rubbed the cream into her buttocks and between her legs, ensuring a plentiful coating covered the girl's vulva. Then he waited until the cream had started to arouse the girl before he administered the dozen strokes of the cane, exactly as he had done so on the girl's sister a few minutes previously. Just as with her sister, Daphne longed for release. The pain of the cane only added to the intense sensations she was experiencing, yet for all her desperation to find the climax she needed, it would not materialise.

Then, after a couple of minutes, though it seemed longer, she joined her sister back at the wall.

“Right, you girls, look like you need to come. Believe me, you will. The cream is designed to arouse you, but it also releases a chemical which prevents you from climaxing. That chemical takes a little while to wear off. Until then, you will stay like this. When the chemical wears off you will both definitely find release. Okay, you might as well sit down while you wait. Come, sit down on these chairs. Now, I trust you have learned respect.”

“Yes, sir,” they both responded as they hobbled over to the chairs. Their legs were already weak from their arousal.

“Oh God, its happening” said Isobel after she'd been sitting down for a minute. “Oh, fucking God, its happening.” She reached her hand between her legs and furiously massaged her clitoris. As she did so, she gasped loudly, unable to control herself. “Aw, that's right, that's right, fill me, fill me, fucking fill me. Oh God, I'm cumming, cumming, cumming. Arrggghhhh,” she groaned as her body convulsed in the final stages of release. She slumped back in her chair, exhausted.

Only as she recovered from her torture did she realise she was totally exposed. Her hand had raised her skirt and her fingers were still inserted in her vulva. Now, hugely embarrassed, she withdrew her fingers and covered her intimate parts, her face blushing bright red with embarrassment.

Her sister had been watching her with some intrigue, yet dealing with her own acute state of arousal. Dawson turned to look at her now, knowing the moment of release was almost at hand. As he looked at Daphne, Isobel also turned to watch, as if waiting for a spectacle to unfold.

They were not kept waiting for long. Daphne's body was already contracting from the intense arousal and now she started to gasp. Unlike her sister, she grabbed the sides of the chair, gripping them for dear life. Undeterred, Isobel reached forward and lifted her sister's skirt.

“Might as well feel as embarrassed as I do,” she said. Then she reached forward and touched her sister's clitoris with her middle finger.

“You like me doing that, don't you?” There was fire in her eyes as she intently watched her sister reach her climax.

“Fuck, its happening. I can't stop it, its burning me, arrgghhh, ow, no, please, help me, I can't stop it, arrgggghhhhh!” She grabbed the chair ever tighter and lifted her arse from the seat. With a gush she came, liquid dribbling down onto the seat. Isobel, though, was not listening to her.

She carried on rubbing her sister's bud while she remained semi-standing, her pubic area thrust out in front of her. Dawson watched, intrigued, and realised the sisters were more familiar with each other than their father would know. He watched as Isobel continued to stroke her sister's fanny, bringing her to renewed arousal. Only when she had climaxed a second time did the girl remove her finger. This time, Daphne sank back onto the chair, breathing heavily.

“That, young ladies, was a reckless thing to do and quite unfitting for young ladies of your breeding. For that you will both receive a further six strokes of the cane. Now bend over the backs of your chairs.”

“Oh no, I can't take any more.”

“Then you should not have behaved so lewdly. If you do not do it quickly I will increase the punishment.”

Within five seconds both girls were sprawled over the backs of their chairs. Dawson wasted no time, administering six strokes to each already-fiery behind, cutting open the wounds that had bled previously, ensuring the girls would not want to sit down again that evening.

“Right,” he said when he had finished, “Daphne can go and get your father.”

The girl did as she was instructed and within five minutes Dawson had been paid for his troubles and was standing back at his car having assured Eccleshall that he was always available if the girls proved to need further punishment, though he doubted they would.

Dawson drove away slowly, his second appointment of the evening beckoning his attention. Although the erection under his pants still burned ferociously with desire, Dawson knew that the next appointment needed his full concentration. It was not his last appointment, but he knew he had to be on the ball for this one.

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.

CHAPTER 6

The final appointment of the evening was a short drive from the house where the MacCulloghs lived. The woman was in her middle twenties, was attractive to look at and had a wilful nature. Dawson had already provided the woman with three sessions of corrective therapy and yet she still felt the need for more. So it was that he had spent the past few days considering the therapy that he would shortly be delivering.

The house where Dawson drove to was detached, modest in size and had a single garage. The driveway was empty so Dawson pulled onto it. Scarcely had he locked the driver's door than the front door opened. Jasmine Uhatu stood in the doorway, her dark-skinned body shimmering in the porch light. She wore a silk gown and, Dawson suspected, very little else.

“So, Jasmine, how are you today?” Dawson asked as he approached the door.

“Very well, thank you master, but I do have a problem.”

“Once I'm inside,” Dawson walked past her and straight into the living room he was familiar with. The woman followed him, keeping a respectful distance. Dawson sat down and beckoned the woman to approach him. This she did and knelt on the floor in front of him.

“Right, now we're inside, what is your problem?”

“Well, master, it's the same as ever. I keep having these really naughty thoughts, and I just know that one day I'm going to get into real trouble. Is there anything you can do to help me?”

“Well, Jasmine, your last three sessions have obviously made no impression on you so, as we discussed, I think something more radical is called for.”

“Yes, master.”

“Good, well let's start by seeing if you've learned anything from the previous sessions. Take off your gown.”

The woman stayed kneeling and untied the sash around her waist. The gown slid off her shoulders revealing her naked breasts and the dark-brown nipples that already stood to attention. Her body was slender and the gown fell around her waist, covering her bent knees.

“I see you are learning something. Well, there doesn't seem much point in wasting any time, so you can stand up and stretch your body over my lap. We'll start with some warm-up exercises.”

“Yes, master.” Even as she spoke, the woman stood up, allowing the silken gown to fall to the floor revealing her naked, closely-trimmed, dark-haired bush. Indeed the colour of her pubes matched the darkness of her head of long hair. She stood momentarily and walked round to the side of Dawson . He had already opened his attaché case and left it on the sofa next to him. Now she lay carefully over his lap, ensuring her stomach was placed directly over the man's growing stiffness. She kept her legs together, stretched straight out behind her. Her hand reached down to the floor, paced exactly as they should be, in front of her head. The long, dark hair fell forward and covered her face, preventing Dawson from knowing when the tears started to flow.

He rubbed her buttocks with one hand as if kneading dough. Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he delivered six, stinging open-palm slaps in rapid-fire succession. They landed cross-buttock, causing the dark-flesh to reverberate under his hand. She moaned as they landed but Dawson knew he was not inflicting any severe pain, yet. This was warming-up therapy and she knew he could and would be much more forceful as the session progressed.

He massaged her buttocks again and then delivered six, medium-paced swats to her left cheek. Again she moaned but made no attempt to struggle free. Her right cheek was then treated to an identical pattern of treatment before Dawson rubbed both cheeks.

“They're warming up.”

“Yes, master,” she spoke softly and Dawson could tell she was not yet crying.

Dawson paused and rubbed the flesh at the tops of her legs. Then he swatted both of the same areas with a handful of strokes that were medium-paced. The tighter flesh soon had the woman gasping in response to his therapy and Dawson began to feel that the point of the therapy was beginning to sink in. He returned to massage her buttocks, causing the woman to moan more loudly as his none-too-gentle touch increased the pain to her already angered flesh.

Over the next few minutes Dawson rained in another two-dozen medium-paced smacks that covered the dark-skinned cheeks, making them warm to the occasion. By the end of it, Dawson knew the tears had begun to flow, yet still she made no attempt to free herself.

“So you are learning,” he said after the last stroke had landed. “Right, you know the drill. Go and stand in the corner, facing the wall, with your hands on your head.”

The woman pushed herself back to her feet and walked over to the corner of the room. As she did so, Dawson watched her, his manhood already stiff with expectation. She was an attractive woman and though she yelled, screamed, and cried along with the best of them, she was a true submissive, always willing to take whatever punishment was meted out to her.

Dawson pulled the big armchair into the middle of the room and extracted the small flogger from his case. He left the woman standing as she was and walked up to her.

“Right, push your elbows forward, and bend over slightly.”

The woman did as she was told and her change in position exposed her back and shoulders perfectly. She winced inwardly as she felt the strands of the flogger running over her shoulders. Then she heard the swish of air as the flogger was pulled back, only to feel the sting of the straps as they cut into her back a moment later.

“Argghh,” she cried out from the pain the single strike had inflicted.

Dawson was undeterred. The flogger was pulled up and away and a second strike connected with the woman's shoulders.

“Arrgghh,” she cried out a little more loudly than before, yet she still maintained her position as best as she could. The third and fourth strokes were not quite as hard as the first two had been, but they still drew gasps from the woman. The next two strokes landed in the middle of her back, the straps creating new bruises and drawing more cries of pain.

“Okay, stand up and turn round, it's time to give your front some treatment. Now, push your elbows right back and thrust your chest forward.”

The woman did as she was told, and Dawson could see both the fear in her eyes and the tear stains that had already formed on her cheeks.

Dawson teased the flogger over the woman's breasts, causing the ends of the straps to caress her nipples, making them stiff.

“Swish, crack!” The first stroke of the flogger landed across her left breast,

“Yeooww,” she screamed. “That fucking hurt.”

“It was meant to hurt. It is all part of your therapy, and it does you no good unless there is a degree of pain involved. Now, get back in position.”

The woman obeyed, fearing the worst. The worst happened as the second stroke landed directly on top of the first, intensifying the pain already surging through her breast. The third stroke followed before Dawson turned his attention to her right breast. She already carried a scar across the tissue, the result of something that had happened earlier in her life. Now, as the flogger striped across the scarring the woman howled in pain.

With both breasts similarly in pain, Dawson ordered the woman to walk over to the back of the armchair and bend over it.

“Right, tonight we are going to do something a bit different,” he said once she was in position. “It is evident that sheer pain is not enough to turn you away from your bad habits, so tonight we'll try something else. Keep those legs straight at the knee, and keep your feet apart.”

Dawson walked over to his case and withdrew a number of items that the woman couldn't quite see.

“First off I am going to apply a bit of cream. It will feel a bit cold, but in a minute or two it will soon warm you up.”

The woman felt the blob of cream as it landed between her buttocks. Dawson carefully rubbed it into the area around her anus and then between her anus and vulva. Finally, applying another blob of the cold cream he rubbed it into her vulva and the bud of her clitoris. She shuddered as he touched her. His touch was almost clinical, definitely not the touch of a lover, and his firmness of touch was unnerving.

Dawson knew that, as had happened earlier that evening, he had to wait only a few moments for the cream to start working.

Suddenly the woman quivered.

“God, what's that around my arse?” She questioned. “It's burning me and, oh fuck, it's spreading down to my sex. What is it?”

“Just cream, a special cream, designed to make you aroused.”

The woman was totally exposed and Dawson could seethe first traces of her juices as they appeared at the entrance of her vagina.

“Oh God,” she said, “that feels so good. I won't be able to take much o this, it's so hot! Fuck me, I need to come, fuck me.”

“Later.”

“No, I must have it now.”

“Why?”

“I need to cum.”

“All in good time, but for now we must get on with your punishment, and don't worry, you won't come until the time is right.”

“But I want to climax, I need to climax, it's burning me up.”

Her abdomen was contracting strongly, yet for all her efforts the woman could not reach the peak of sexual excitement.

“Yes, I know. Right, this will hurt a bit.” Dawson positioned the butt-plug over the woman's anus and pushed it firmly until it had been fully inserted.

“Arggghh,” it's ripping me.”

“No, not yet, but it will do. Right, it's time for ten of the best.” The butt-plug was buried deep in the woman's arse. Dawson took one practice stroke with the metal cane before bringing the instrument down across the woman's buttocks. As the cane landed it connected with the plug, forcing it further into the woman.

Although still in the unwanted throes of sexual arousal, the woman screamed with pain, the combined agony of the thin metal cutting into her cheeks and the added pressure of the enormous plug as it was pushed into her, tearing the edges of the sphincter, making it impossible for her to stay silent.

Dawson waited ten seconds before delivering the second stroke. A little lower than the first it missed the plug but cut into the flesh at the top of her legs. She cried out from the pain yet managed to maintain her position.

The third and fourth stroke landed across the plug, pushing it further into her body, increasing the tear at the point where it entered her.

Dawson changed position and delivered the final two strokes in a vertical direction, vertically upwards, causing the tip of the cane to strike against the woman's swollen, aroused clitoris. The pressure of the strokes was not that great, it was not a natural angle from which to deliver punishment, but the woman still cried out as they landed.

Dawson left her bent over the chair for a full minute after he had finished, the plug still inserted deep into her.

“Right, back to the corner, and put your hands on your head.”

“But, you've left something up my arse,” she protested though not too strongly.

“I know, and in about two minutes you'll see why. Now, get into the corner, only this time you can face into the room. Whatever you do, keep those hands on your head.”

The woman was still sobbing, and her abdomen was contracting form the arousal of the cream that she was feeling. She hobbled over to the corner of the room and dutifully put her hands on her head. She waited, Dawson waited and the seconds passed.

Their wait was not for long, for Dawson had timed the administration of her punishment to perfection. Within a couple of minutes she felt the arousal intensify. Involuntarily she shifted her feet apart, and Dawson knew the time was near.

“Okay, it's about to happen. Whatever you do don't move or you will regret it.”

“Master, oh fuck, my God it's so intense, oh wow, this is bloody marvellous. Please let me finger my cunt.”

“No.”

“Please, I need to rub my cunt so I can cum, just like I do when I'm on my own. Oh God, it's building, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

She reached up on tiptoes as if trying to escape the incredible feelings of arousal. Beads of perspiration appeared on hr breast and forehead as she continued to become more aroused.

Her hand left her head and started to descend towards her crotch.

“I said keep your hands on your head.”

“I can't, I've got to do it.” Desperately she reached between her legs and found the spot she needed to touch. In a moment it was happening. Her eyes closed, she panted loudly and then groaned as her body convulsed. Then, with the strength in her knees completely gone, she sank to the floor.

Dawson came and stood over her.

“You were disobedient,” he said, clearly annoyed with the woman's performance. “Now, you will regret it.”

Dawson picked up the woman and carried her to the dining table. He lay her on top of the cold, bare wood and set about the process of tying her arms to two of the chairs. When he'd finished he took her legs and spread them wide apart, tying them also to two chairs. When he'd finished she lay there completely spread-eagled, vulnerable and unable to resist anything he might do by way of further punishment. The plug had fallen to the floor during the throes of the woman's orgasm and Dawson noted there were traces of blood on it at the widest point.

He went to his case and withdrew a small metal box and a device that looked a little bit like a miniature riveter's gun. Without further word he walked round to the woman's right breast. She was still coming round from the post-relaxation phase of orgasm, and her incapacity to move suddenly made her nervous.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Punishment. You have to learn to be obedient. Now, this will hurt a bit, but not half as much as what will happen to you if I have any more disobedience after today. Now, breathe in.”

As she did so, Dawson took the nipple and placed it between the flat plates of the device.

“Now, slowly breathe out.”

Dawson waited until he could hear the start of the exhalation. Then he simply squeezed the trigger. The ‘rivet' went from the gun, straight through the nipple and out the other side.

“Excellent,” he muttered, apparently oblivious to the woman's cry of pain the instant the needle had penetrated her flesh. “Now,” he said after a few seconds, “breathe in again and hold it.” The woman did so.

“Okay, and exhale slowly.” This time Dawson extracted the ‘rivet', pulling with it the permanent fixing for the nipple ring. Again the woman howled as the ring was pulled into position. Finally the rivet was cut off at the stem and the ring was in position. Dawson tweaked it playfully, ensuring it was secure.

“Good, and now we will do the other one.”

“No, master, please no, I promise I won't misbehave again.”

“I'm sure you won't but I'm not taking any more nonsense. I reserve this treatment for my most severe cases and your need for therapy is as severe as any I have ever had to give.” Dawson was now standing by her left breast and squeezed the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh God,” she muttered as he touched her.

The procedure was repeated and a few minutes later Dawson looked on with a self-satisfied grin at his handiwork.

“Right, that's two done. Now all we have to do is complete the trio.” He walked round to the bottom of the table and stood between the woman's legs. For a moment she seemed to fail to realise what was about to happen.

“No, please no,” she spluttered, “not my cunt. I'll die if you do one there.”

“No you won't, and any way, it's needed for what is finally going to convince you to behave.”

“No, please no, I will behave. You can do whatever you want, only don't stud my cunt. Please, master, I'm begging you.”

“Sorry, it is necessary. Now, I suggest you lie as still as possible.” Dawson reached forward and with one hand he parted her labia. He found the still-swollen bud of her clitoris and smiled to himself. He loved this kind of torture, and he loved what he would do later. He touched the clitoris gently, causing it to swell further. Then he placed it between the cool plates of the riveter.

“Now, breathe in,” he said, quite softly.

“No, please no, I don't want you to do this.”

“Too late, I'm afraid.” He squeezed the trigger and the needle went clean through her bud. Jasmine howled as it pierced her, and howled again as he secured the ring to her extremely sensitive flesh.

When he had finished, he stood back and admired all that he'd done. A thin trail of blood seeped out from the new wounds. It trickled down the side of the woman's breasts and also between her legs.

“Right, and now I am going to show you just what will happen if you continue in your old habits.”

“No, master, I can't take any more today.”

“That's too bad. You haven't learned anything from previous therapies, so now it is time to learn.”

Dawson attached some fine twine to the three rings, using a loop knot so that two strands of twine hung from each ring. Then he released the woman and ordered her to stand. Carefully he measured the lengths of twine, ensuring they all ended about eight inches below her labia. At this point he tied the loose ends together.

From his attaché case he extracted his set of hanging weights. Removing the weights from the spindle he clipped the top of the spindle over the strings. The weight of the spindle pulled the threads taut.

“Now stand still and don't bend over or you will be flogged.”

There was a sense of gravity in Dawson 's voice, a gravity that made the woman realise he was serious.

“This is only a sample of what will happen to you if you don't mend your ways.” Dawson began adding the weights. As he did so, Jasmine felt the rings pull at the fresh wounds made where the studs had penetrated her dark, tender flesh. The weight increased and so did the tugging sensation on the rings. The ring between her legs hurt the most, perhaps because the clitoris had less “give” in it than her nipples, though she knew he had tied the twine from her breasts in such a way that her nipples were already on the brink of being stretched.

When Dawson had attached all the weights he tested the twine. They were all taut and under tension.

“Okay, now we apply a little movement. Don't move your body or I will flog you.”

The woman groaned as Dawson set the pendulum in motion, the gentle motion causing the rings to pull even more against the flesh they had pierced. The arc of the pendulum was increased, making the woman cry out louder. She fought valiantly to maintain her upright position but the pain was intense and she could sense Dawson was willing her to fail the test.

Dawson applied more force to the pendulum, increasing the arc of swing further. As he did so, the woman sank to her knees, causing the weights to touch the ground, relieving the cruel pressure on her body.

“I warned you not to move. Now you will be flogged.” Dawson spoke evenly, almost coldly. He unhooked the pendulum and helped the woman stand. “Come with me, into the bedroom.” As he walked past the attaché case, Dawson picked up his thin, metal cane and the flogger. There would be no mercy now.

In the bedroom, Dawson knew that the woman had two hooks mounted a few inches above the doorway. They had originally been used to hold a heavy drape against the back of the door, but they had long since ceased to be used. Dawson rearranged the twine, pulling the twine round the nipple rings over the woman's shoulders. He closed the door and ordered her to stand facing it.

He pulled her hands behind her back and secured them with a length of rope in such a position that they could not interfere with any further torture he applied to her backside. Then he tied the twine tightly to the two hooks. The woman's breasts were stretched into an upright position by the taut thread, meaning she could not slump down or sink to her knees. Indeed any movement from her position would cause severe pain to both nipples.

“Okay, we'll start with the flogger. You're going to get ten strokes for your disobedience.” With that, Dawson raised the nine-tined instrument and brought it down across the woman's back. It cut across the back of her arms, with the tips of the tines lashing against her bare back. She groaned with the pain, but her attention was focused on standing totally still.

The second lash connected slightly lower than the first, cutting into the bonds holding her wrists behind her mid-back. The third lash was the first painful one as the leather tines all striped across her lower back. The fourth followed, almost in the same place, and Dawson knew she was feeling the heat from his ministration. She yelled as the fifth stroke caught her on the very top of her buttocks though her yell was not so much from the flogger as from the pain in her nipples as she tried to instinctively move away from the door. She knew any attempt at movement was futile, but her natural desire at self-preservation made the reaction inevitable.

She howled again when the sixth stroke landed on top of the fifth and Dawson knew real tears of pain were streaming down her face. He waited for a moment, shifted weight on his feet, adjusted his stance and brought the seventh stroke down right across the woman's already glowing buttock cheeks. She had descended into sobbing now, her mind still focused on trying not to move.

Dawson smiled to himself as the eighth stroke landed just below centre of the cheeks. They were certainly looking bruised now and he knew she would be totally compliant after her torture was over, she always was. The ninth stroke cut into the top of her legs, its pain adding to the still-throbbing pain from her tortured clitoris. Dawson waited for what seemed like ages, but was only about ten seconds. The final stroke would really count. He withdrew his arm, took aim and swished the instrument of pain down across the full centre of the woman's tortured arse.

“Well done, but we're not quite finished. I want you to understand that pain is a direct consequence of disobedience and your unwillingness to learn from experience. I think you need six strokes of the cane, but not here.”

He untied the twine holding the woman's breasts in a vertical position.

“Kneel on the edge of the bed, with your legs wide apart.”

Her hands were still tightly bound half-way up her back, and she struggled through the pain to locate her legs on the edge of the bed. Dawson waited patiently, his erection pushing hard against the cloth of his pants. It knew that the time was almost right, almost but not quite. The woman too now knew how the session would end.

She poked her buttocks into the air, a feeling of helplessness descending upon her. Strangely, through the pain, she began to feel aroused. Indeed she was open and waiting for him, and even while he stood admiring her dark, bruised flesh, he noticed the labia around her vulva open slightly, and traces of glistening liquid appeared.

He unzipped himself, ready for action and his purple-headed member leapt from behind its covering. He stroked it three times in anticipation and then made up his mind.

The cane was in his hand and he delivered six strokes in rapid succession right across the anal area of the woman's buttocks. She gasped at the speed with which he delivered her punishment and knew he was as on fire for her as she was for him. Despite the earlier orgasm she was now ready for what he was going to give her. She knew it would be hard, forceful and even brutal. It was, after all, why she had employed his services to begin with. The bondage, the canings, the spanking, the torture, was all part of the ritual, a ritual designed to whip her into a state of frenzy whereby she would find ultimate pleasure in being forced to take him any way he chose.

In the past she'd been made to swallow him, all nine, thick inches. It had almost made her sick but she'd managed. She'd had him inside her on two occasions and each time he had tortured her as he had excited her.

Tonight, though, she knew he had other plans and though she was frightened, the ritual had left her demanding release and now she needed this final act of torture.

She heard the feint humming sound a moment before she felt the cold plastic against her vulva. The device was not large, oval in shape and it slid easily into her wet sex. She felt his finger as it guided the vibrating egg deep inside her. Her abdomen contracted as her arousal increased, Dawson watching every moment. He playfully tugged at the ring piercing her clitoris. The pain added to the woman's arousal, and soon she was gasping and panting her way to a climax.

Dawson was good at this, bringing a woman to arousal. He knew he could deny her the culmination if he wanted, simply by removing the source of pleasure, but tonight and now, that was not his intention. He was seeking release himself, his pulsating purple-headed cock reminding him that the time was now right.

He took up position behind the woman, adjusted her position slightly and pressed his cock against her anus. Her muscles tautened momentarily, a natural reaction, but one that made Dawson even more determined. He was like an iron girder, rigid and immoveable. He pushed hard against her, breaking open the entrance, re-opening the ripped flesh and plunging deep inside her.

As he did so he felt her whole body convulse. It was the very action she had been dreading, yet at the same time it was the action her body had been demanding and now she reached her peak, gasping loudly as she came, grinding hard against the root of her assailant, making sure he could feel every last spasm of her contractions.

Dawson partially withdrew and thrust again into her opened body. He could see the feint trickle of blood on his manhood and it excited him. Then it was happening. As the woman's contractions ebbed his own began until he felt the first pulse of semen being squirted into her arse. He pulled her back onto him, determined she should not wriggle away from his jerking, pulsing orgasm. Only when his orgasm had subsided did he release her, untying her wrists as he did so.

Dawson retired for a few minutes to the bathroom. When he returned she was lying on her back, her newly acquired jewellery shimmering softly in the light of the room.

“Right, Jasmine. I think that ends the session. You know how to contact me if you are in need of further therapy, though I hope the events of this evening will have taught you something.”

“They have, master, and thank you.” She smiled sweetly at him and licked her lips. She was in pain and it would be some days before the wounds healed, but it was worth it – she just loved being dominated, being tortured, being taken with force but not, if you understand, against her will. She loved being forced to submit, and she relished the fact that she had finally found someone who could satisfy her needs, someone who came with no strings attached. She smiled sweetly at the creator of her ultimate pleasure and she knew she would be talking to him again in a few days. What she did not know was the danger that lurked not far below the surface, a danger that she would one day face in reality, a danger that would turn her pleasure into excruciating agony.

She smiled sweetly after he had cleared up his “kit” and bade her farewell. He smiled to himself as he descended the stairs to his car, knowing that Jasmine's Inheritance was almost upon her.

Now, as he drove home, back to the secret house in the country that only he and very few others knew about, he contemplated the other Inheritance issue he was dealing with – his own ex-wife.

CHAPTER 7

The morning dawned fair, though rain was forecast for the afternoon. Upon his return the previous evening, Dawson had checked on his prisoner. She had eaten the food he'd left her, and was lying on the bed, curled up in foetal position, sobbing. Clearly she was wounded, bruised and in pain, but her sobbing was more from fear – a fear that Dawson was going to ensure stayed with her for the rest of her life. Now, as the morning light streamed into his bedroom window he determined the time had come to act.

“Mrs Dawson,” he greeted her with the distorted voice behind his mask, “I hope you slept well and that you have learned from yesterday.”

“Oh I've learned all right. When I get out of this fucking shit hole I'm going to get my husband onto you. Dawson was my last married name, I'm now a Correlli, and my husband has connections. He'll get his team onto you, whoever you are.”

The news of marriage was fresh to Dawson and it made him stop short. He had no idea she had remarried, the bitch, and Dawson knew the surname was Italian. He'd spent some time checking out Correlli, and knew exactly who he was. It was not, he considered, wise to divulge his knowledge. It was the thoughts of “the mob” coming after him that made Dawson pause for a moment. He decided to feign ignorance.

“But you said yesterday you were Julia Dawson.”

“I know. I've only been married three months and I still react to my last name. I'm a Correlli now, in case the name means anything to you.”

“It doesn't, should it?”

“Correlli and Garlandier Merchant Bankers. Not familiar now?”

“Nope, not a thing. All I know is I've been paid to teach you a lesson of respect. Perhaps your man wants to knock some manners into you.”

“I doubt it. Now, I suggest you get me back to my house before he gets home, or there will be hell to pay.”

“Hell to pay,” Dawson almost choked. “Oh yeah, there's hell to pay all right. I can see you haven't learned from yesterday so we'll begin again. And, just so you can rest assured, I know exactly when your new man will be getting home. Don't worry because you'll be there to greet him, exactly as I've been told to deliver you.”

This time the woman paled. She had been sitting on the couch but now she stood to look evenly at her assailant.

“On your own head be it, but you are already in deep shit over this. I'd let me go if I were you.”

“I will, eventually, but first we have to get on with why you are here. It's time to look at your ruby cheeks. Turn round.”

The woman scowled at Dawson who smiled back at her from behind the mask – he had regained the upper hand and she knew she could not escape, so she complied with his demand.

Her buttocks were heavily bruised from the previous day's battering, though the general redness had faded until it was almost back to her normal flesh-colour.

“Right, out to the Chamber, it's time for your first session of the day.”

“What? You can't be serious? I absolutely refuse to allow you to beat me any more.”

“You can refuse all you want but it will do you no good. I've been paid for this so you're going to do as you're told.”

It was true, Dawson had been paid. He'd known for some time of her involvement with Correlli. He hadn't known she was married to him, though it didn't change things much. He also knew some of Correlli's adversaries and he'd conned them into paying him to inflict a personal attack against Correlli – the kind of wound that would weaken his credibility. After all, if “the mob” leader couldn't protect his own interests he obviously had a weakness, and one that could be exploited.

Dawson knew that by the end of the day, Correlli would be absolutely fuming mad at the attack on his wife, and that equally he would do nothing about it for the simple reason that to do so would expose his weakness

Dawson led the Correlli woman out into the Chamber and guided her over to the stocks.

“Just do what you're told and convince me you've learned a lesson in respect.” It was all he said as he forced her head onto the lower block. Without resistance he placed her wrists on the smaller cut-outs either side of her head and then he lowered the top block. With the block lowered her wrists and neck were trapped and she was unable to move. She was leaning forward, her breast hanging down, her nipples stiffening as the woman realised the hopelessness of her situation. Dawson knew she responded to dominance – she always did, eventually.

“Right, we'll start with a reminder of what respect is. You ask no questions, call me master and do whatever I tell you to do. Once I am convinced you understand this simple lesson, we'll move onto something a bit more demanding. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, master.”

“Better. Right, for a start we'll give your backside some treatment. A flogging should do it I think, bring up the pinkness that's died down.”

“Why, master?”

“Because I think it is necessary.” She was starting to play the game but if she thought she would be let off lightly, she was wrong.”

The flogger lay across her bent back, across the shoulder blades. Dawson flicked it into the air and cracked it down across the flesh where it had rested.

“Arrggghhh,” the woman groaned though she knew now that it would be best not to scream loudly.

The whip came down again, the nine strands of leather sounding a loud “thwack” as they snapped against her pale skin, turning it pink.

“Ohhhh,” she cried as the third stroke landed, this time around mid-back. He was moving down to her buttocks methodically, making sure she was striped the full length of her back.

When he had whipped her down the left side of her back, a total of eight strokes, including the three that had caressed her left buttock, Dawson paused and walked behind the woman. She was sobbing quietly now, and gasping with each fresh stroke.

Dawson started again with her right shoulder-blade, cutting into it with a particularly hard crack of the flogger. Again he proceeded down her back and onto her buttocks, and again the pale flesh turned a hint of pink under his carefully applied strokes. The sixteenth stroke of the morning landed and Dawson stood back. It was time to change the sensations for the woman – time to confuse her mind and destroy her self-belief.

Dawson knew that his ex-wife had never reached orgasm against her will. Indeed, unless she had decided sex was on the menu, it had been firmly refused. Now, Dawson was going to break her spirit. He reached over to the worktop and retrieved the tube of cream. He squirted some onto his finger and then walked back to the woman.

“Right, open those legs wide apart.”

She did so, sobbing quietly from the pain of her flogging.

Dawson walked up behind her and gently parted her buttock cheeks. The pale flesh of her labia was waiting for him – the pale flesh, the tight, almost virginal looking vulva, and the hard bud of her clitoris. They were all on display, and Dawson reached towards them, parting the labia gently, exposing her sex. She groaned as he did so, and Dawson realised that the woman was struggling against her will. The cream caressed the whole area between her legs, Dawson rubbing it in diligently, ensuring it covered the whole entrance to her vulva, and checking it was smeared on and around her clitoris. She gasped again at the coldness of the cream.

Dawson was close to her sex now. He blew cool air into her wispy pubes, and watched intently. Her clitoris started to change colour and stiffen as the cream attracted blood to the area. At the same time her labia puffed out as they too swelled. Dawson saw the first drop of juice as it leaked from her vulva and knew the cream had begun to work.

“Oh God,” she said as the waves of pleasure forced themselves upon her. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It's just a little cream that is designed to numb the pain and make you feel good.”

“I don't want to feel like this. Get it off me now, do you hear?”

“I heard, but there is no respect. Request denied.” Dawson spoke flatly.

“Okay, master, please don't make me do this.”

“Request denied.” Her abdomen contracted as the pleasure inside her increased. Dawson walked over to the tube on the worktop, squeezed out another inch of the cream and walked back to the woman. She was already leaking juice from her arousal when Dawson opened the labia fully, inserted the finger with the cream and smeared it all round the inside of her vulva. Then he stood back.

“Okay, that will take a few minutes to work. While it does I'm going to give you six of the best for your lack of respect.”

The paddle was wooden, three inches wide, flat, an maybe eighteen inches wide. The woman's abdomen contracted again as she tried in vain to fight the feelings of arousal that were filtering through her sex into her body. She was losing control and it frightened her. The contraction eased and she felt the numb, blunt pain of the first swat of the paddle landed on her arse.

She hoped it would help her to fight the feelings of arousal, but instead she found the increased blood flow to that part of her body only added to her frustration. The next contraction was upon her before she had time to recover.

As it too ebbed away she felt the second swat land exactly where the first one had done. She gasped as it landed, determined that she would not succumb to the arousal. It was a battle she would lose but Dawson was getting pleasure from watching her struggle.

The chemicals were released into her labia and her clitoris and there was nothing she could do to stop their effects, but it was fun watching her try. The third swat landed. As it did so, the delayed effect of the cream inside her began to kick in. It's own first wave of power served to increase the woman's arousal until she actually started muttering,

“Oh God, this is killing me, fuck me, fuck me, I need to come, fuck me you bastard.”

Dawson landed the fifth stroke, knowing that she was getting close to finishing – a few more minutes. He landed the sixth stroke, and by now the woman was fairly screaming for release.

“Fuck me, oh God, I can't take any more. You bastard, I need to come, fuck me.” Dawson smiled. He reached forward and lifted the top block of the stocks.

“You can lie on the couch,” he said and the woman hobbled off. The hidden cameras were catching everything. They would provide the proof, if any were needed, that he had completed the task. They would also help to ensure Correlli's downfall.

The woman lay on the couch and desperately tried to rub the cream off her body. Her actions served only to increase her arousal as Dawson knew they would. He knew the time was close and that she really could not take much more of this. Perspiration had covered much of her body and she was writhing about on the couch in the desperate searching for the final release.

Dawson felt his cock rise to attention, and as he watched the woman reach her climax he released his member. Purple, rigid, demanding its own action, Dawson walked calmly over to stand behind the woman. She seemed oblivious to his presence, now masturbating herself firmly and gasping her way to orgasm, an orgasm that would not come.

Finally it was happening. She felt every muscle tauten in contraction as the chemicals in the cream finally pushed her over the limits. She plunged three fingers deep inside her vulva and let out loud groan of pleasure as the love juice squirted from her body. She had ejaculated the ultimate orgasm of her frigid life onto the couch and now she lay back.

“Open your mouth, bitch,” Dawson commanded.

Her resistance gone, she complied. The thick, white and salty liquid dripped into her. She gagged as it dribbled into the back of her throat, and she was tempted to spit it out again, though something inside her made her realise this would only bring further torture. She fought to keep her mouth wide open until he had deposited every last drop of semen into it.

“Now swallow.”

She complied.

“Now, lick up your own juices off the couch.”

As Dawson zipped himself up he watched her lick the couch clean. When he was ready he walked over to his worktop.

“Right,” he said, you can go back into your cage for a couple of hours. When I come back, if you are respectful enough, we'll get you ready to go back home. If you're not respectful enough, then we'll have to give you another lesson. Now, get off the couch and crawl back to the cage.”

The woman did so, the hidden cameras filming her every move. When she had crawled into the cage, Dawson closed the door and secured the padlock.

“I'll be back in two hours. I suggest you sit there and contemplate the right way to behave next time you see me.” Dawson turned, walked out of the chamber and closed the door behind him. He locked it, though his precaution was totally unnecessary.

***

Having left the woman in the cage, Dawson retired to his control room. It was really the third bedroom but it housed all the recording equipment, and the computers he used. The next stage of the operation was to prepare the evidence that he had done what he was being paid for. His employers had no idea he was the ex-husband, and even if they did he doubted they would have raised any objection. Correlli was the target for their revenge, and the fact that his woman happened to be Dawson 's “ex” only gave the case an added twist, an extra nuance, an additional meaning.

But the Marinelli brothers were not going to pay for rubbish. Dawson had had that made quite clear to him from the outset. Actually it had not quite been from the outset, because the Marinelli brothers were not easy to reach. Dawson had had to make contact through a third party. He'd been quizzed, checked, passed and handed on to a fourth party. They in turn had repeated the checks and only when everyone had been convinced that Dawson really could get to Correlli had he met the Marinelli brothers.

In their late thirties they had “inherited” the family business when their father, the notorious Giuseppi Marinelli had carelessly walked free from a courtroom into the path of a sniper's bullet, a bullet which, the brother's had been told, had come from a contractor hired by Correlli.

It was only when Dawson had met them that he had realised they would not pay for rubbish. They had strict requirements and needed the evidence they could use to silence Correlli for ever. They'd all shaken hands on the deal and Dawson had received ten thousand pounds up front. He knew if he failed that the brothers would send someone round to recover their outlay. He knew, when he succeeded that another ten thousand would follow.

Now, in his office, Dawson began to edit the hours of videotape. Some, taken from outside the Correlli's country home took only a few moments. It was there to show the brothers that Dawson had spent time doing his research. The picture of the pool and the patio with the woman sitting on her deckchair on the morning of her abduction was particularly compelling. It showed the “before” state of the woman, and would serve to show that Dawson had done his job well.

The thought of being paid to exact his own revenge had appealed enormously to Dawson , and twenty thousand was a lot of money to have some fun with. He'd been meticulous, and the next video inclusion showed the drugged woman being stripped of her bikini and then being laid in the cage. She would have no idea where she had travelled to, nor how long the journey had taken. The plastic cover in the boot of the van could easily be removed, leaving no DNA evidence, supposing his vehicle was ever traced.

The video sequence continued with the woman's first few sessions of torture. Dawson edited the feature to make it look like one long session, a session of torture, and of sexual arousal. It was a session that culminated in the woman writhing on the couch reaching her own orgasm and then taking in the semen of her hidden assailant before licking up her own juices. It was a session that was not quite complete.

Dawson selected the best camera angles to reveal the true horror and pain that he was inflicting, after all the audience would be more interested in the woman's reactions than simply staring at the scene. In between the woman's reactions Dawson included footage of the strikes, the swats, the flogging, and the other torture he had so far inflicted.

He worked fast, checking the work he had completed the previous evening before continuing to add the best scenes from the first of the morning's sessions. He worked fast, and impassively, with the hand and eye of someone who was skilled in such work. The overall movie would be about an hour and a half long and it would be a saleable product, though it would only ever be sold if the Marinelli brothers wished it to be, and that was their hold of Correlli.

Dawson looked up at the screen and realised the morning had flown by. He'd spent over two and a half hours on the video, and now he had to go and shoot the footage that would effectively make up the last two parts.

***

Dawson opened the door to the Chamber and unlocked the cage.

“Come out and crawl into the middle of the floor.”

The woman glowered at him but made no comment. Her arse was still sore from the beating and she had spent the previous couple of hours in convincing herself that compliance was the best option. It repulsed her to think in this way, but common sense dictated she now obey without question.

“What would you like me to do now, master?” Her question was spoken softly and she stayed kneeling on the cold, hard floor.

“That's better. Well, first off, I hope I never get paid to see you again. From now on you had better always do as you are told unless you want a repeat performance. Now, we have one last session to go through – the icing on the case, so to speak.” Dawson 's voice still sounded distorted behind the mask he had replaced over his face before entering the room.

“Yes, master,” she responded.

“Okay, bitch, go and lie on the couch. Put your hands down on the floor either side and expose your cunt by drawing your legs up, feet together and then parting your knees as wide as you can.”

“Yes, master,” her voice was becoming irritating to Dawson .

She lay on the couch and Dawson picked up the thick, red candle.

“Right, this is called wax therapy. Just lie still or I'll have to tie you down.” He walked over to the woman and held the candle over her right breast. He tilted it slowly allowing the molten wax to drip from the pool that had begun to form on the candle's top. The red liquid dripped onto the woman's breast and some covered her nipple. As it touched her she winced inwardly, the heat burning her skin as it rapidly cooled against her body.

“Ow,” she reacted, “ow, ow, ow!”

Dawson ignored her cries and shifted position to her left breast. Again the candle was tilted and the red liquid dripped onto the flesh causing her to cry out again.

“Yeeow, that hurts.”

“It's meant to hurt. After all we don't want you coming back here, do we?”

“No, master.”

“Exactly, right, once more I think.” Again Dawson shifted position and this time when he tilted the candle the red liquid dripped directly between the woman's legs and onto the tender flesh of her labia.

“Arrgghhh, that burns, oh God it hurts too much.” She called out but managed to maintain the position she knew she could not move from.

“Excellent,” Dawson smiled behind the mask.

He put the candle down and took up the riveter and a cloth. Standing behind the woman he rubbed the cloth over her left breast. The wax came away quite easily and the cold liquid on the cloth stung her nipple.

“Ooohh, that's cold and it stings,” she moaned.

Dawson placed the stiffened nipple between the plates of the riveter.

“This may hurt a bit, but we have to give you something to go home with.”

“What are you doing? Owww,” she cried as Dawson pressed the trigger, piercing her nipple with the stud. He put the instrument down and fiddled with the stud for a moment. Satisfied, he pulled it out from the nipple and replaced it with the ring he had prepared. The woman was pierced.

“God that hurt,” she was still sobbing. “What did you do that for?”

“Because it is part of your inheritance – a small item of jewellery from an admirer, but we're not done yet. Dawson changed position and rubbed the wax off the woman's right breast. Then he applied the cloth, the cold liquid causing her nipple to stiffen. Before she had time to complain the riveter was holding the nipple firmly in place and in a second the trigger had fired the stud through the flesh, piercing her for the second time.

“A matching set,” Dawson smirked a minute later as he admired his handiwork.

“Argghh, that bloody hurt you brute,” she yelped as he playfully tugged on her new rings.

“Nice and secure, and they'll stay that way.”

“They won't. When I get out of here the first thing I'll do is take them out.”

“I see,” said Dawson thoughtfully. “Oh well, if that is how you want to treat your inheritance, so be it.”

“My inheritance?” Her question was genuine.

“Yes, but you can worry about that later. Now, we must clean up between your legs. This will sting, but we can't leave you waxed.”

Dawson moved down between her legs and began to gouge the wax off her pubes and flesh. After a couple of minutes he was satisfied and applied the cold cloth. The woman gasped as it stung her. Then she felt the riveter around her sex. In fact Dawson had placed the upper part of her left labia between the plates and as the woman howled in protest he squeezed the trigger, releasing the pin that pierced her flesh. It took a couple of seconds to move the instrument over to her right labia and repeat the action while the woman screamed blue murder, though she decided it was best to lie as still as possible rather than risk injury by moving. The two pins were replaced by small bronze rings and Dawson smiled wickedly.

Both of the woman's nipples were bleeding slightly from the wounds. Dawson rubbed them gently with the cold, wet cloth, the liquid stinging the woman as she creamed again, whilst at the same time acting as a clotting agent against the wound. When he had cleaned both of her wounds he performed the same operation on her bleeding lips.

“Okay,” he said finally, “it's time to get you ready to go home.”

The woman made as if to stand up.

“Don't move,” said Dawson , as he put a hand on the woman's shoulders. She relaxed and waited while he walked back round to his worktop. The pad was waiting and Dawson opened the bottle, dabbing the cloth with the liquid contents several times. He walked up behind the woman, placed his hand under her chin and covered her mouth and nose with the pad of chloroform. She gulped in the fumes, struggling without hope to escape from what was happening. Suddenly the room began to go hazy, spinning, and then blackness descended as she fell unconscious.

Dawson removed the pad and set to work. First he took the little soldering iron that had been warming up on his work bench. With a dab of solder he secured each of the woman's four rings in turn. They could not now be removed without mechanical means. The two rings in her labia he also soldered together – they would prevent any man, other than a midget, from having intercourse with her again until they were removed.

When he had finished with the solder, Dawson picked up the cane. He was going to teach the bitch a lesson she would never forget, a lesson that would be driven home straight between her legs. He walked over to her motionless body, positioned her just as he wanted, her vulva exposed, and then delivered six cracking strokes directly onto her exposed cunt. The fifth stroke cut her and blood appeared. It did not matter, for in a minute she would be cleaned properly. After delivering the six strokes Dawson put down the cane and picked up a razor. He set about shaving her completely. He knew she hated being bare like that and he was determined she should be as humiliated as he had been by the divorce. So he shaved her, without using soap, with the barest of cold water, until every last hair had been removed. Occasionally the blade cut into her skin causing her to bleed but Dawson did not care. She stirred momentarily so Dawson stopped what he was doing and reapplied the pad until she went limp again.

When the shaving was complete Dawson took a length of pipe. This was the messy part of the operation but vital to ensure he evaded detection. The pipe was connected to a container that provided a soapy liquid. Dawson washed the woman, front and back, inside and out, ensuring she was well cleansed, removing all possible traces of his DNA. When he'd applied the soapy liquid he reworked her entire body with cool, fresh water, sluicing her out, ensuring the soapy liquid was completely removed. She would wake up feeling sore and wonderfully empty, Dawson was sure of that. He smiled as he pumped the water up her vulva. He remembered the one and only time he'd done that to her before. She'd hated it and had felt sore for days afterwards. Her claimed pain had annoyed him at the time but now he hoped she would take days to get over the current torture. He rubbed her groin with olive oil until she was glistening. He poured some into her vulva and then into her anus.

Finally he retrieved her bikini from the bag he'd put it in when he'd dragged her into the Chamber. He stuffed the bra up hr back passage and the bikini bottoms into her vulva. On the part of the bikini bottoms that still protruded he stapled a crudely written note. It said,

“With Love – Your Inheritance – Martinelli”

Then he wrapped the woman in a plastic sheet and dragged her drugged body up the stairway to his garage where he dumped her back in the van.

***

It was two hours later and Dawson was sat back on the hill he had so often sat on. The binoculars were glued to his eyes as he watched the Correlli house.

Julia Correlli, ex-Dawson, was lying on her deckchair by the pool, exactly where she had been when Dawson had taken her. Now, her body was naked and bruised, and through the binoculars Dawson caught a glimpse of her new jewellery as it glistened in the late afternoon sun. The operation had gone perfectly and he was rightly pleased with himself. Now, the woman stirred as if from sleep. Hers was no ordinary sleep, but that of a drug-induced period of unconsciousness.

She opened her eyes and looked around. She felt her body, looked with horror at her breasts and felt between her legs. Visibly shaking, she removed the bikini bottoms and the bra. She looked with a dazed expression at the crudely written note. Then it dawned on her, she had got involved in something dangerous and she was a pawn in their sinister game.

For a moment she looked with desperation out over the countryside, and Dawson thought she looked straight at him. She did. There it was again, the same glint of glass she had seen so often before but thought nothing of. They were watching her, waiting for her reaction. Well, they would get one.

She opened the patio doors and went inside. A minute later she returned, dressed in a bathrobe. She looked out over the countryside to the hill. There it was again, the glint of the glass.

She extended her hand and the first two fingers, opening them so the backs of the fingers were pointing at the hills. As she did so, she mouthed the words,

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too,” Dawson murmured to himself. She could have no idea just who was behind the torture that had been delivered to her. Indeed, she would now blame her new husband for her plight, something that delighted Dawson .

He knew that Correlli would soon be home. Correlli was a creature of habit. Dawson had discovered that during the weeks and weeks of research. Correlli would be back soon and Dawson could scarcely conceal his excitement. From his vantage point on the hill he could watch everything as it unfolded around the poolside.

Then it was happening. To the right of the house a puff of dust appeared, signalling the arrival of Correlli's car. The driveway was also visible to Dawson and he watched as Correlli and a couple of thugs alighted. They went in through the front door and in a minute they reappeared from the patio doors in front of the pool.

By now the woman was lying back in her deckchair but when her husband appeared she stood, walked over to him and slapped him across the face. From where Dawson was watching it looked like a vicious slap.

Correlli was clearly confused. His silent protestations and his evident concern at the state of his wife cut no ice with her. She remonstrated furiously and then, suddenly, she gesticulated in the direction of the hills.

As Dawson watched through the binoculars, her finger pointed almost directly at the lens. Correlli turned to look in his direction. In a moment Correlli was making signs of his own, not to Dawson but to the two thugs who had accompanied him from the car.

They, in turn, disappeared into the house, and in a few moments Dawson saw the puff of dust as the car sped away from the Correlli house. Dawson knew where they were headed and he knew it was time to leave. The package had been delivered and the reaction was just what he had hoped for.

CHAPTER 8

It was two days later. It was two days after Dawson had delivered “The Inheritance” when the knock arrived on his front door. It was early morning, far too early for Dawson , especially as he had had a busy evening the previous day.

It had been a good evening. The Martinelli brothers were well pleased with the video they had received. They knew that Correlli would soon be history so far as they were concerned. He could not face down the thought of his wife being a prostitute appearing on some sleazy video, nor could he take the risk. That evening the Martinelli's had been very grateful, yet they had a problem. One of their close colleagues had a wife who was, as they called it, showing disrespect, and her husband was concerned about just where her loyalties lay. Smooth and fine talking had failed to change the woman's attitude and now, with the success of the Correlli situation having proven Dawson's worth to the Martinelli's, they wanted him to persuade the woman as to where her duties lay.

Dawson had been unprepared for this. Yes, he'd expected the thanks, and his payment, but not a request for a floor show.

Dominique Careva was a fine looking woman. Long, dark hair flowed down her slender, Latinesque figure as she was hauled into the room and made to stand in front of Dawson .

“Senor Dawson, this is our problem. She is an unruly bitch who is in need of your attentions. She is called Dominique, and she has the hot-blooded fire of the Italian in her. It is a fire which we need to tame. Can you help us?”

“Of course I can.”

“No, Senore, I mean can you help us now?” The question left Dawson momentarily speechless.

“I, I don't have my things.”

“It is of no importance, we can supply whatever you need.”

“I see. Well, first, Dominique, I need to know what the problem is.”

“There is no problem, Senor Dawson. I am a free woman and I am entitled to speak my mind.”

So much like his ex-wife, Dawson thought.

“But, these men say you do not show them respect.”

“Respect, bah,” she spat on the ground. “They do not earn my respect and neither does that stupid pig of a husband.”

“I see, so you do not see things their way.”

“No, Senor, I do not.” She stood there shaking, her defiance an obvious mask for what she feared was about to happen.

“Well, gentlemen,” Dawson continued, “this will be tricky. What alternatives are there?”

Quickly it became apparent there were no real alternatives. The woman had to learn to curb her defiance and her tongue. She knew too much about the “mob” and she had to either be got rid of or made to see the error of her ways. When faced with the starkness of the choice the woman buckled.

“Very well, Senor Dawson, it seems I have no choice. You will have to do what is necessary.” She stood there pouting her lips, looking with anger at the men who stood around her.

“I promise you, Mrs Careva, after we have finished here this evening you will want to respect every man in this room, especially your husband. Now, as you are aware, my particular form of therapy is designed to cause respect, and it is a strict form of discipline. This begins now. You will not speak unless I ask you to, and though you may cry out you must not swear or your discipline will be increased. Do you understand?”

She stood there looking sullen, an act of defiance. She nodded her head slowly.

“In that case, you will remove your dress and your underclothes.”

“Senor, in front of all these men?”

“Yes, they say you have no respect for them, now you will learn some.”

Dominique Careva undressed slowly. She was attractive with olive-coloured skin. Her Mediterranean tan enhanced her beauty. In less than two minutes she was standing naked facing Dawson .

“Go and stand over there facing the wall. Stretch your hands up to the ceiling and spread your legs.”

Again she did as she was instructed. Dawson called the four men over to where she was standing.

“Right, two of you hold onto her arms. Stretch them out so she can't move. The other two take a leg each and make sure she doesn't move them.” Dawson was unbuckling the belt around his trousers. He folded the belt in two lengthways and ran the leather middle across the woman's buttocks.

Crack! The sound of leather on Italian hide was loud and drew a gasp of shock from the woman. Dawson figured she had taken punishment before and knew what was about to happen. Crack, crack, crack! Three swift strokes followed, covering the same portion of flesh as the first stroke. The woman gasped again and momentarily tried to move. The four men were far too strong for her and as a result, her efforts were in vain.

Dawson applied ten more strokes of the belt to her buttocks, causing the cheeks to swell up and turn dark red. By the time the final stroke landed the woman was crying.

“Now, Senora Careva, do you wish to show these men some respect?”

“No, they are pigs and so are you for striking me.”

“I see, well we have only just started, and this can be as hard on you as you like. Senor Martinelli, may we have use of your desk top?”

“Of course.” Martinelli had not been holding the woman, rather sitting behind the desk watching the proceedings, the bulge in his pants indicating the effect they were having on him.

“Right, Senora, we will now bend you over the desk. When you wish to show respect you need only ask.”

The woman was half frogmarched over to the desk. Her legs were pushed against the desktop and then a firm hand pushed her naked breasts onto the cold, wooden surface.

“Senor Careva, please take your wife's hands and prevent them from covering her backside. One of you other men can place your hands on her shoulders to stop her from rising.”

Careva stood in front of his wife. The table was not that wide and the way she was stretched meant her head came to the edge of the table top. Dawson unfurled the belt until it was fully extended. He placed the tip of the leather thong against the woman's buttocks, withdrew and lashed her. She screamed as the pain coursed through her body.

Dawson could see Careva was aroused. Swish! The second stroke landed about an inch lower than the first and in the next two minutes a further six lashings landed across the woman's glowing orbs. Finally, in amongst the tears she relented.

“Okay, I'll show respect. What must I do?”

Dawson looked at Careva who wasted no time. His fly was unzipped and his member exposed, all seven inches of it. He offered it to the woman who looked quizzically at him for a moment.

While she did so, Dawson stroked her buttocks as if he was inspecting the damage he had inflicted. As she failed to respond to the phallus in front of her face, Dawson let his hand drift between her cheeks, his finger searching out her vulva. She winced as he touched her and then the horror of what was about to happen sank in.

Dawson 's middle finger sought out her entrance and pushed into her, stroking her softly. Suddenly there was a hand on her hair, yanking her head backwards until all she could see was her husband's purple-headed cock. He pushed it against her mouth and reluctantly she opened it. She took him inside, closing her lips around his length. Dawson was still probing her and now she was moaning softly. He removed his finger and looked at Careva.

“Gentlemen,” he continued, “I think the Senora wishes to show you all some respect.” Careva nodded his agreement, though at that moment he was enjoying the delights of his wife's oral ministrations.

One of the minders edged Dawson out of the way and stood behind the hapless woman. He was clearly aroused, large, bulging, and the look in his eye was one of revenge.

“Senor Careva,” he half asked for permission.

“Go right ahead.” The bouncer needed no further encouragement. He parted the hapless woman's cheeks and in less than ten seconds, causing her to cry out from under her mouth full of cock, he thrust his own eight inches deep into her anus. He stroked her firmly until his orgasm came. All the time she kept her husband inside her mouth, teasing him.

Suddenly a new menace was attacking her from behind. This menace felt thicker than the last, and it was not heading up her arse but lower down. She knew the feel of this cock, she'd had it before, and not that long ago. Now, though, with her husband nearing his own climax, it was a special thrill for the woman as the phallus penetrated her vulva. She moaned as it rubbed her inner walls and she sucked the cock in her mouth with greater vigour.

Suddenly both her assailants were coming. She felt the thick, sticky liquid spurt into the back of hr mouth at the same time as the cock up her fanny sprang into an orgasmic crescendo of its own.

Both men withdrew. Dawson stood there waiting, unsure as to what would happen next. One of the bouncers was waiting by the side and the Martinelli brothers were sitting on the couch watching every motion.

“Bring the woman over here,” the older brother called. Dawson did as instructed. “Make her kneel.”

“Now, woman, are you going to cause us any more trouble?”

“No, Senor Martinelli. I understand now and will cause you no more grief.”

“Good, well we'd best be sure. As you know, Donatonio is a strong man. We have saved him and ourselves for you for the end. Donatonio has great staying power. You will take him and us brothers at the same time and when we have finished, Senor Dawson will give you some final therapy.”

Dawson watched as the two brothers got off the couch. The woman seemed to know what was required and lay on the cushions, her head hanging off the edge of the sofa. The brute of a man called Donatonio had been removing his clothes and now he mounted the couch, entering the woman. He smiled as he established the purposeful, powerful, thrusting motion he desired. She offered no resistance. The younger Martinelli brother walked round to her head, ordered her to open her mouth and masturbated himself to an orgasm in front of her. His white liquid spurted over her face, some of the cream dripping into her still-opened mouth. She knew better than to close it – such would be seen as very disrespectful. When he'd finished, the older brother took up position in his place. The woman was treated to a second cum bath, her face covered in the sticky white liquid.

Meanwhile, down between her legs, Donatonio was pounding her body. She felt not the slightest bit aroused by the actions of the man, rather she was longing for her ordeal to be over. Certainly Donatonio was large, thick and powerful. Suddenly she felt him tense. With a final thrust that plunged deep into her body, causing her to gasp loudly, he came. He pulsed maybe ten times with considerable force before his release was complete.

When he had come, he lifted his body off of hers and re-dressed.

“Senor Dawson, will you know apply the final treatment so this woman remembers she must show respect at all times.”

“Certainly, Senor Martinelli. Do you have a cane, or a pool cue I can use?”

“There is a cane over there in the cupboard. See if it is suitable.”

Dawson located the cane and after a few practice strokes returned to the woman.

“Stand up and touch your toes, keeping your legs straight.”

The woman did as she was told. She had already made up her mind to escape the mob and had decided the best way was to simply play along with them.

“Now gentlemen, as a thank you to the Senora, I will administer two strokes of this cane to her backside for each of us. Stand still, Senora. If you move, the stroke will not count.”

The first stroke landed across the middle of her cheeks, a fresh welt soon starting to appear. The woman groaned and fresh tears appeared on her face. The second stroke cut viciously into her causing her to yelp. The power of the stroke made her body sway, but she managed to right herself quickly. The third and fourth strokes also cut into her, and for the first time her blood seeped through one of the flesh wounds. She was crying out with each fresh strike but determined not to move. She gritted her teeth as the fifth and sixth strokes landed, her resolve to escape the mob strengthened with each fresh blow. Her tears mixed with the salty semen on her face as she continued to cry out. The seventh and eighth strokes cut into the tops of her legs. Dawson was doing a fine job – the onlookers could not fault his enthusiasm and dedication to duty, it was a fine performance. The ninth and tenth strokes created fresh welts. By now the woman's whole backside was burning, her buttocks two brightly glowing orbs of tortured flesh.

Crack! The eleventh stroke landed right on the top of her buttocks causing her to howl even more loudly. Dawson wasted no time in delivering the final stroke, a real blood-curdling scream hissed from the woman as the cane slammed into her buttocks.

“Stand up and get dressed,” Dawson commanded, still aroused. He needed release too, and normally he would have taken his victim, but under the present circumstances he decided to desist – it was a wise choice.

The woman straightened up and struggled to collect her clothing. She walked backwards out of the room muttering something in Italian under her breath.

“We'll have no more trouble from her,” the younger Martinelli said after she'd gone.

“I wouldn't be so sure,” the woman's husband responded. “She's a stubborn bitch when she wants to be.”

“We'll see,” Martinelli rejoined. “She is either very stupid or she ahs learned her lesson. Senor Dawson, we are indebted to you. You have helped us enormously. Now, it is getting late. I must check on business and no doubt you have your own affairs to attend to.”

“I do, Senor Martinelli.”

“In that case we will not detain you further, Senor Dawson. Once again we bid you good night.” Martinelli waved a hand of dismissal in the direction of Dawson who took the hint and left the room and the mob. Dawson drove home and polished off half a bottle of whisky before retiring for the night.

***

The second knock rattled the frame of his front door and Dawson stirred into action. He looked out of his bedroom window and saw the black limo parked outside. His pulse rate began to increase as he reached out for the bathrobe on his side chair.

Dawson was descending the stairs when the third assault on the door reached his ears. Clearly the person outside was agitated at being kept waiting. Still half-asleep, Dawson unbolted the door and released the latch.

“Senor Dawson,” the voice was familiar – it was that of Donatonio. Gripped securely in his right hand and held roughly by the back of her neck, the woman looked more bruised and beaten than she should have done. “She tried to escape last night after she told her husband their marriage was over. The boss thinks she needs a further lesson to teach her some respect. He is away on business today but would like you to do whatever you have to do to ensure she is respectful when he returns tomorrow.” Donatonio spoke without emotion, without concern, with the lack of compassion that makes ice form on the breath that carries the words.

As he spoke, Dawson opened the door, rubbing his head, trying to remove the lingering effects of the whisky.

“I see, and this is a matter of importance to your boss?” The question was almost unnecessary.

“It is of the gravest importance. Senor Martinelli is most insistent that she learns respect. She knows too much to not be respectful, and we can not dispose of her because of her other connections. She must learn respect.”

“Do you hear that, Senora? Do you understand the trouble you are causing? Why can't you learn?”

She tried to speak but Donatonio's grip around her neck was vice-like and only a gurgle was emitted.

“Very well, Senor Martinelli will have his wish. Leave her here today and collect her at ten tonight. By then she will have learned her lesson.”

“Senor Martinelli would like me to stay, to make sure she does not escape again. He has sworn to kill me if she leaves my sight.”

“Very well, if that is what Senor Martinelli wants, that is what he will get. Bring the girl with you and follow me.”

Dawson led the Italian thug through his house and into the basement. Donatonio looked impressed when they entered the chamber. He looked round the room and smiled at the thought of what would be taking place that day.

“The cage, Donatonio, put her in there while I get ready. Then you and I can have coffee. There is plenty of time and locked in there, she will go nowhere.”

Donatonio did as instructed and the woman was soon crouching on her knees with the metal frame ensuring she was as snared like an animal in a cage.

“This time, Senora,” Dawson addressed her, “there will be no mistake. You will wish you had learned your lesson from last night.”

She looked up at him, fear in her eyes, knowing that she was about to be subjected to a further bout of pain, degradation and humiliation. She knew too that Dawson and Donatonio would relish the day ahead of them.

Unknown to her, she was about to become the second person to receive an ‘Ex-Wives Inheritance'.

The End …

Read the next story in this series: “Dominique's Taming”

From the Richard Stryker library at http://www.a1adultebooks.com