The following story depicts extreme non-consensual physical discipline between male and female participants. Those offended by graphic descriptions of corporal punishment SHOULD READ NO FURTHER. This is entirely a work of fantasy, all characters and events represented herein are completely fictional. Copyright Perry Fowler, 2002, 2004. All rights reserved.
CORPORATE DISCIPLINE
1.
The room was warm, the room was quiet.
In the long weeks of that endless winter, Carla would recall the soft, orange glow of the fireplace; the fresh, wild scent of burning timber. The whisper of sleet against the picture windows, the shadows wavering along the ceiling, the tiers of books rising dimly all around her. She would recollect the tears, the fright, the taste of shame on her moist, red lips.
But most of all, she would remember the silence.
The terrible, menacing silence filling the air like a gathering storm; a cruel, brooding calm preceding a gale of agony. It played around her naked flesh like ball lightening, keening her nerves to a razor's edge. The hush lasted only a second: an unceasing moment of stark, blue panic; and then the pain would descend.
Pain: huge and sharp and white hot, searing through her buttocks, lancing down her thighs. It would slash over her body, hissing with malign force, blossoming in waves of sudden fire. She would shriek and weep and plead for mercy, pouring out her anguish in sobbing gasps of remorse. The cycle would start again: the timber would burn, the wind would lull, the stick would rise –
And the silence never seemed to end.
2.
Carla stood with her legs splayed and her hands resting on the armchair. She was bending low from the waist, her body tilted forward so that her head dipped below her hips. Her thick, auburn hair streamed to the floor, hiding her beautiful face behind a lustrous brown veil. She was crying in open dismay, sobbing with abject humiliation.
Her pale, ivory complexion had darkened to a deep, sultry pink, betraying her state of trembling excitement. The flush extended over her entire torso. She was mostly naked. Her clothes were scattered in a ragged semi-circle about the study. Her dress, stockings and garter belt were strewn carelessly before the fire place. A limp white bra was slung over a nearby footstool. A pair of glossy black high heels lay forgotten by the writing desk.
Panties banded tightly about her calves, Carla waited in tense, wounded expectation. Her full, round bottom twitched and jiggled with repressed suffering. It was covered with a network of pulsing, red welts; the marks spanning the length of her lean, smooth thighs. Her buns throbbed in tune to her cantering heart-beat. A hot flush swept though her system. The room seemed to waver in a haze of agony. Huge, purple flowers bloomed before her eyes.
Carla struggled to maintain her straight-legged posture: Paul had instructed her to remain absolutely motionless during her discipline. Screaming was permissible - as were tears and the odd, choking gasp - but even the slightest tremor would incur the harshest penalties. Her belly began to tense as she waited for the next blazing stroke to fall.
Closing her eyes, she fought the spasms down, forcing herself to stay completely still. Two large tears dripped from her chin, spattering on the chair's leather upholstery. She was desperate to last the distance, having endured so much to reach this point. She couldn't fail so close to the edge.
Paul's shadow fell over her again. Shifting his weight to the left, he raised his arm across his body, gathering force and velocity. He held a cane in his right fist; four feet of supple, oiled hickory, long and dark and viciously thin. The tip was split with the wear of a thousand stripes. It wavered at the height of its back-swing like some malicious serpent poised to strike.
Carla held her breath in mute trepidation. Her taunt, ripe bottom-cheeks pumped back and forth apprehensively. The silence was back; that awful, soundless interval between each searing kiss of the rod. It lasted only a instant, but the endless, aching suspense was beyond mortal sufferance.
The cane lashed down, rending the air. It struck her peach with an explosive crack, creasing both cheeks in its cruel descent. The flesh yielded beneath that shocking impact, adding another bright, crimson weal to her bruised melons. A sharp, blinding heat strafed down her legs; scalding every nerve in its path. Carla screamed, a shrill, ear-splitting wail of anguish torn from the depths of her lungs.
Her fingernails dug into the armrest, grazing the clean, white leather.
It was too much. She'd been under the cane for close on ten minutes, enduring Paul's furious pace in hopeless obedience. It wasn't right: the dispute had been insignificant, trifling. She didn't deserve this festival of torment. Yes, she'd agreed to the terms of her sentence, surrendered to his authority virtually without protest, but she hadn't realized how harsh those parameters would be.
“...so hard ...” she sobbed.
Paul said nothing. He stood impassively to one side, drawing back for the next strike. His perfect features were bathed in a mellow firelight, totally bereft of emotion. A twisting, ebony forelock obscured the right side of his face. He was a tall, supernaturally beautiful man with sea-blue eyes and classical proportions. Cold, severe and darkly intelligent, he was the personification of wealth and power. He wore black designer jeans and a Harley-Davidson leathershirt open to the waist. A small silver crucifix hung from his neck, bobbing against his tanned, hairless chest.
He swung the cane in a whistling back-stroke, welting her sleek, right haunch. The stick bent along the shaft, driving the forked tip into the pliant muscle. Carla's mouth gaped open; the pain was vast, unspeakable. Her right thigh shivered almost imperceptibly, she felt her knee buckling and locked it rigidly in place. Paul rewarded her with devastating upper-cut to the offending shank. She howled miserably, begging his forgiveness in a piercing soprano:
“AAAOOOOOWWW!! Please Paul, I'm sorry, PLEASE-”
The cane wheeled up, paused, and streaked earthwards faster than the eye could follow. The tendons flexed along Paul's massive forearm. He struck in quick succession: five, six, seven - nine torturous stripes over Carla's defenseless tushie. He aimed for the sensitive overlap of thigh and buttock, allowing the hickory to print her fanny-tops with swift, carmine lines. Her globes clenched around the cleft, palpitating in helpless reflex.
“IT HURTS', she quailed, 'IT HURTS, OH GOD, IT HUURRRTS!!!”
Paul lowered the stick and walked slowly to Carla's left side. His motorcycle boots clocked on the cedar floor-panels. He halted by the arm chair, inspecting the girl's battered fesses with a meditative gaze. She whimpered pathetically from her humilant position, knowing that her training was far from complete.
3.
Paul had brought her to the Retreat at the end of Autumn, just before the first snows began to fall over Chamberlain. He had sat her down and discussed the matter with her some weeks before, patiently explaining each point as if talking to a child. Carla had listened with her eyes large and prismatic, nodding agreement as Paul clarified her situation in the simplest possible terms.
It was time to reassess their relationship. She'd been his personal assistant for nearly two years, his lover for nearly as long. While he had no real complaints regarding her performance in either area, they needed to deal with that covert streak of rebellion underlying her docile personality. Carla had to be purged of this undesirable quality. It was an objective which could only be achieved through the most vigorous discipline - a strict psycho-sexual regimen such as that offered at Simon Regarde.
Simon Regarde was a corporate retreat nestled high in the Chamberlain Ranges, a complex of lodges and chalets owned by Paul's employers - a mysterious organization known as TVC; The Viper Consortium. Ostensibly a world-class ski-resort, Simon Regarde was actually a conditioning centre in which errant females were systematically purified: cleansed of their inhibitions, identity and self-esteem.
The methodology was simple: once she arrived at Simon Regarde, Carla would submit completely to Paul's sexual mastery. She would obey his every whim, make her body available to his every demand. Learning to treat him with ultimate respect and deference, she would also explore the depths of her meek, supine gender; experiencing a new definition of the word ‘feminine.’
The means to this end would be entirely punitive. The merest infraction of the rules would be followed by instant retribution - severe corporal punishment including whipping, canings and bare bottomed spankings. Correction would be administered on a daily basis - sometimes hourly, depending on her conduct - her luscious young cheeks flogged red-raw for the most trifling offences.
Carla absorbed Paul's words with a kind of exultant disbelief. She'd always been fascinated by tales of whips, straps and perfumed restraints. The notion of carnal servitude was exhilarating in the extreme. It was the stuff of dreams: a secret fantasy of total resignation to an indomitable masculine authority. She suddenly realized that Paul had been guiding her towards this moment for years; nurturing her latent masochistic tendencies until she was ready to move on to the next phase of her personal evolution.
Carla had nodded her agreement without hesitation, her eyes gleaming with a furtive, sensuous yearning. A universe of possibilities unfolded before her; the ultimate fulfillment of her most unspeakable desires. Decadent thoughts sailed through her mind; lustfully transgressive images of lace, satin and naked, pulsing bottom-tops. She was going to be spanked - Paul would tame her wayward, contrary personality with a firm hand and an iron will.
Arranging recreational leave had posed no obstacle for Paul - he enjoyed some of the highest privileges of the organization, having recently earned a promotion to the Executive Committee. His insignia of rank was a small, silver crucifix entwined with a black serpent - the symbol of The Viper Consortium. Simple and unobtrusive (yet strangely engaging), he wore it on a chain beneath his shirt. The Vipers valued their anonymity for a number of reasons (all of which became apparent to Carla following her entry into the ‘program’).
Their three month ‘sabbatical’ had begun at the end of May. Paul had taken her out to Simon Regarde in a company vehicle - a black, penile limousine sporting TVC number plates. The drive had lasted more than four hours, winding through the glorious panorama of the Chamberlain Mountains. Their quarters had turned out to be a spacious, richly appointed Swiss-style chalet. The view from their bedroom had been literally breathtaking. Within a short time, however, Carla would find herself rendered breathless for reasons completely unrelated to the local scenery.
She'd scarely had time to unpack her bags before she'd been presented with a clutch of documents to sign; a series of declarations granting Paul disciplinary powers and total immunity from prosecution. Carla had signed a legally binding contract consenting to corporal punishment and waving her right to legal redress.
The tree outside their window had been clothed in burnished, russet leaves on the day of her arrival. The autumn was destined to be uncomfortably brief: high in the mountains, the snows followed only a fortnight later. Simon Regarde withdrew from the world as a frigid white curtain descended over the slopes.
For Carla, the winter would last forever.
4.
Paul completed his examination of Carla's simmering bottom with a dismissive nod. He flexed the cane between his hands, then lowered the pared tip to her left fesse. The hair on the nape of her neck prickled. He was teasing her, stretching out the anxiety to an intolerable degree. She took a deep breath, unable to restrain her nervous shivering any longer.
“Had enough?” Paul asked dispassionately.
Carla glanced up, searching his eyes. Her discipline had lasted an incredibly long time; the pain was so intense. She felt on close to swooning. Was he serious? Was he really offering her a respite from the incessant rigors of the hickory? All she had to do was nod her head, ask him to stop, and her treatment would come to an end.
Temporarily.
Carla had no illusions in that regard; she knew the Retreat's punitive agenda far too well. She'd understood the conditions of the program long before she'd signed the wavers. Carla had forfeited her rights, relinquishing her life to Paul with the stroke of a pen. She'd reduced herself to a state of andropoda, surrendering her freedom virtually without question.
She was human only in the biological sense of the word. So long as she remained in Paul's custody, Carla belonged to him physically and spiritually. She was his slave, his prisoner, the receptacle of his voracious, all-devouring lusts. A beautiful, delicate plaything to pamper or punish as he saw fit. And in the three months since she'd entered the program, he'd subjected her to levels of suffering beyond anything she'd encountered in her twenty-two years.
“Enough?” Paul asked a second time. His voice was pregnant with serene, lethal patience.
“No,” Carla replied breathlessly, “I ... want some more.”
And that was the truth. Despite the scalding, red heat in her blistered tushie, she couldn't stop now. She wanted to abandon herself to Paul's merciless attentions, wanted him to hurt and possess and degrade her. It was, in the final analysis, the reason why she'd capitulated to his rule in the first place.
Paul stepped back, reinforcing his grip on the cane.
Silence again.
Carla waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And -
Her cries shattered the stillness as the rod flashed across her raw, pouting buns.
To Be Continued