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An Introduction
Julia's Way
The Long Way
A Wee Drop
Club Night
The Welcome

The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair

Alice And Anna
On The Beach
The Bisley Boy
Silk Stockings On A Ladder
A Merry Ferry Christmas
Stella and Fanny

The Sacred Feminine

The Sacred Feminine

The Dominafuhrer

The New Recruit

The Story Of T

Arrival At The Institute

VO Stories

Miss Malcahy's Detention
Nine and a Half Hours

The Weight Loss

I Sign A Contract

The Convict

The Convict


A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Kevin's Poem
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
My Visit
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters

The Bossy Bank Women

A Judicial Punishment

The Valkyrie

Episode 1


The Vision
The Agreement
First Blood




Club Night

The books were all so boring. What a selection! Only one John Grisham and Henry had read that. The inclusion of the Dostoevsky was just a sick joke. Crime and Punishment indeed! Someone doubtless thought it funny - not Henry. It was hard enough trying to read there anyway, even without the distractions. For a start he was hungry; it had been a long time since breakfast. At least he was allowed tea and coffee, although drinking it was tricky. As was using the adjoining toilet - all that liquid on an empty stomach was making him very familiar with that little room. But it was a welcome distraction and he was becoming rather more skilled at peeing with his wrists strapped together than he was at reading.

Thinking of tea, he realised that it was some time since they had brought him any. Not since they came in to undress him, in fact, and that was some time ago. They had taken his watch off and taken it away with his clothes: he had no idea how the time was passing, apart from very slowly. Not that it was an uncomfortable room, not large, but reasonably well furnished with a comfortable armchair as well as the two wooden chairs, the bookcase, a couple of small tables and various ornaments. No windows, though - he would have liked to see out. But it was obvious why there was none, frighteningly obvious. And why the heavy door was locked.

Henry couldn't quite work out exactly how he had come to be here. The friend he met - by chance? - when he was out earlier that morning; they chatted, were joined by others, went off to somewhere in one of their cars and somehow landed up in this room. He was not really suspicious until he heard the key turn in the heavy door, locking him in. He quickly surmised that She was behind it all, but he couldn't work out why. When they came back into the room a little later - there were four of them this time, just in case - they held him securely whilst one of them strapped his wrists together in front of him with the sturdy wrist cuffs and a small padlock holding them together. Then he added a tiny little padlock to an extra row of small holes where the loose end of the securing strap emerges from the buckle on each wrist - this prevented the straps from unbuckling if Henry tried using his teeth to unfasten them.

He had little doubt that some form of punishment awaited him; but what? and why? Yes, She was undoubtedly setting this up and She always achieved exactly what she wanted. He had heard horrendous stories about some of the punishments She had inflicted in the privacy of her lounge, how she often employed specialists to administer the punishments while she watched. She loved that. But, he remembered, this was club night, so whatever She was planning would be in front of the public gaze of all the club members. And She would probably do it herself, not that that was much comfort as She was just as skilled as many of the specialists She employed.

But again why? Why him? His mind kept going back to the question. What had he done to upset her? He couldn't think of anything, try as he might. Unless ... No, he'd barely whispered that: it was right under his breath - she surely couldn't have heard. Surely not. In any case he couldn't imagine how she could have been upset even if she had. Dammit she often refers to herself as a "salty dog" with some pride so why would his using the B-word worry her? No, it couldn't be that. But what else could it be? Henry had been racking his brain ever since he realised, some hours ago now, why he was in that room.

Henry had only ever seen one punishment given at the club, and that was by CBT. The prisoner had been dressed in nothing but rubber-lined trousers and secured with his wrists high above his head to a ceiling ring and with his ankles strapped wide apart to floor rings. He was heavily gagged. Julia, for it was indeed She, stood behind him in the long black leather coat she always reputedly wore when she inflicted her punishments herself. Her arms reached round to his belly and her black rubber-gloved hands disappeared slowly under the waistband of his trousers. Henry couldn't see what she was doing beneath the trousers but the continuous screams, like nothing Henry had ever heard before despite the heavy gag, spoke volumes. The hands were in there for 32 minutes and the prisoner had to be carried out at the end only half conscious.

Was this Henry's fate? Was he going to suffer the agonies of those rubber covered hands on his tender parts? And what does she do under the cover of those trousers? The prisoner from that occasion couldn't bring himself to discuss it again afterwards; his personality had changed completely. How could Henry be expected to read with all this going through his mind? Crime and Punishment indeed. Sick joke - yes. He had been obsessed with these forebodings ever since they tied his wrists several hours ago now. But it may only have been about an hour since they last visited him, four of them again. They were prepared for resistance, but he offered little. It all took time, unlocking the padlocks, unbuckling the straps and holding him firmly again whilst his trousers and underwear were removed. Black rubber lined punishment trousers slithered coldly up his legs and engulfed his thighs and private parts, then his shirt, watch and other clothing were removed and the straps and locks all carefully replaced. They would not say what was to happen to him, they gave nothing away, but in his mind he could already feel the slithery hands inflicting unimaginable agonies under those cold trousers.

Henry pictured the routine reminder for club night, posted to each member. There was nothing unusual about it, no unusual events announced. Other punishments he had very occasionally witnessed had been announced in the routine notice but there was nothing proposed for tonight. Just the time and place and the promise of a great time. A great time indeed! But what Henry did not know was that every notice which had been sent out, apart of course from his, was overprinted with the banner headline "Tonight - Punishment Night. Don't be late!" So the mystery remained. Not that his was unlike Julia, not at all, but it was a misfortune indeed to be in her firing line. It must have been his use of that B-word, she must somehow have heard - or have been told. Yes, she could indeed be a real Bitch.

How long it had been since his last visitors Henry had no idea. Time passed so slowly and his mind was obsessed by whatever his fate was to be. In his fertile imagination his tender parts already felt sore and exposed as they kept finding the cold rubber of the trousers and he couldn't help trying to imagine, unsuccessfully, what pain he would soon be feeling down there. Just what had Julia been doing to that poor wretch on that previous occasion? Maybe it was better not to know - but then again . . .

His reverie was interrupted as the door opened. They were back, but this time they did not approach him. Instead they stood to one side, eyes on the open door. A few seconds later Henry heard the familiar swish of the cape which Julia almost invariably wore, and the floor-length golden satin garment swept into view, Julia looking particularly regal with her long hair, it was blonde today, cascading down the back. Only her head was visible, but Henry knew, he knew she always was, without exception. She never wore any clothing underneath that cape, it covered her completely and had the softest rubber lining which Julia loved beyond description to feel against her naked body. When she moved it gave off unique swishing and crackling sounds, as it was doing now she was walking steadily towards him. She stopped in front of him and surveyed his state of preparedness, gazing straight at him and smiling in anticipation. She held his gaze for what seemed an age. Henry knew better than to speak if he was not spoken to and she was evidently not intending to address him. She rarely had many words, she believed in actions; actions actually meant something. Actions were not to be doubted.

Satisfied with what she was seeing, she turned, nodded to the others and swished out of the room. One of them closed the door behind her. "Time you went for a pee", one of them commanded. Henry realised that they were guarding against the possibility of an accident under punishment, always a risk to be considered, but it brought home once again the seriousness of his position and he was shaking visibly as he went into the small toilet and did the necessary with his wrists still fastened. They waited outside the door. It seemed the time had come.

When Henry emerged, hands grasped his arms and he was marched to the now open door, along corridors until they stopped outside another closed door. Henry was on unfamiliar territory, he was completely disorientated and had no idea where he was being taken. But when the door was opened, he saw exactly where he was. He saw rows of faces, arranged in an arc of a circle where seating had been neatly arranged. He saw the familiar club room, but from an entrance he had not used before - this was the dreaded prisoners' door.

In the same split second glance he saw something else - they were all facing a large and very sturdy looking triangular pyramid frame, tall enough to be almost touching the ceiling, with straps, ropes and buckles hanging down from it. This was not for CBT and he felt a brief moment of relief - then in a sudden surge of panic he tugged with all his strength at the hands which were still grasping his arms, struggled wildly but ineffectually as the dreadful truth dawned on him.

He was to be whipped.

He couldn't believe it, yet at the same time he knew it to be true. One of Julia's whippings - worse than his worst nightmares, and it was going to happen to him. Now. Would she do it herself or would she bring in one of the specialists she often used? He couldn't decide which would be worse. He'd seen her in action and it was a blood-chilling sight.

As he continued his violent struggling he found himself being dragged nearer and nearer to the triangle and a spring fastener attached to the end of a stout rope was clipped into place on the single steel link which held his two wrist cuffs together. The other end was passing over a pulley at the top of the triangle and strong hands were pulling, lifting his wrists high above his head until his body was pressed against the sloping front of the pyramid. The end of the rope was made fast to a cleat attached to the frame. There was no point in struggling now, it had to be faced. But it was just not possible to face something like this.

Henry felt hands at his feet pulling his legs apart, felt cool leather against his skin securing his ankles firmly to the widely separated edges of the whipping frame. He was quite helpless and could not resist as other straps were added to hold his upper arms and thighs tight against the cold steel of the frame. By turning his head as far as he could, Henry was able to see the ends of the rows of fascinated spectators, dozens of pairs of eyes almost boring into his very soul. There were no hands on him now, everyone stood back to await Her arrival. Silence slowly descended on the gathering, soon you could hear a pin drop. All eyes were suddenly on the prisoners' door which was slowly opening. A few seconds later She appeared. No swishing, no rustling this time. Julia was dressed for action and was wearing a full length gleaming voluminous black leather coat, its collar turned right up, fastened up to the neck and tightly belted at her narrow waist. Slowly she walked towards to triangle, then even more slowly right round it, fixing her eyes on Henry as he hung there, unable to move anything but his head. She had a smirk on her beautiful face, cruel and frightening. At her own leisurely pace she stepped back from the triangle a couple of paces, continuing to survey the scene.

Without taking her eyes off Henry's bare back, gleaming with the sweat of pure terror, she started to unbuckle her belt and, little by little, unfasten the soft yet heavy leather coat. She needed freedom for her arms to do what she had to do. As she slipped the garment off, hands appeared and took it from her. An impressive sight was revealed. A pair of bare sinewy arms emerged from a black leather vest and the lower part of her shapely body was covered by a pair of black trousers in the same glistening leather as the coat she had just removed. Round her waist, worn like a belt, was a thick, tapered, heavy whip, tied in a half-knot, the loose ends dangling towards the floor. Her hands started fiddling with the half-knot, as, almost absent mindedly, she started to untie the formidable looking instrument of punishment.

Julia seemed lost in reverie. This was her moment, she savoured moments like this, always anxious to get on with the action but always disciplining herself to wait and drink in the anticipation. It was a moment not just for her, it was a moment for every one of those salivating witnesses; a very different moment for Henry. They must all be savoured, treasured. Moments like this are rare.

Julia was nothing if not thorough. Obsessed, some said. Although she often paid world-renowned specialists to administer punishments she was equally skilled herself. She had studied carefully and lost no chance of gaining experience whenever she could; experience which was always put to good use. To prepare herself for what she now had to do, to ensure she marshalled all her skills for the task ahead, she entered a reverie and looked back inwardly on her experiences. She herself had felt the whip tearing into her bare back, she knew what it was like. She had gone eagerly to the experience allowing herself to be strapped to the frame, knowing how valuable the knowledge would be to her. However, she had very suddenly become very much less eager as she had hung in the straps, screaming and tearing wildly at the restraints in her agonised panic waiting for the second stroke to fall. One of the most powerful memories she brought from that flogging was how thankful she had been - God, how thankful - that the executioner had waited between strokes for ten or twenty seconds. In that time the first unbearable agony had eased somewhat and she had felt she was almost ready for the next. It was simply not possible even to contemplate how it would have been had the next stroke been given whilst the unbelievable pain had still been exploding in her body. No doubt the executioner had thought that a slow whipping was more cruel - make it last longer - but Julia knew. It was a very mild whipping, really, the strokes had not been at all hard by her standards and there had only been a dozen or so. Nevertheless it was an experience she would not care to repeat, but absolutely invaluable nevertheless. Well worth the sacrifice.

She had also studied the physics of whip motion, how to put as much energy into the throw as the whip would accept, how to design a whip so it would accept the most energy, how it should have plenty of mass and plenty of taper, how to make the best compromise between convenience of handling and accuracy of aiming on the one hand, and length on the other. She had plenty of energy and so could benefit from a heavy instrument. She examined the whip she had uncoiled from her waist, made specially to her design by a famous whipmaker. But it was not leather; even shot-loaded leather was inferior to this material. It was about five feet long with a short straight handle, about an inch in diameter at the handle, tapering to about quarter of that at the tip. It was made of heavy, solid rubber. It looked plaited but that was a surface moulding effect to give more purchase on the prisoner's skin during the follow-through, genuine plaits would have reduced the amount of rubber in the tail, making it less heavy. It felt heavy, it felt solid although it flexed delightfully: it felt beautiful.

Julia also realised how important it was to follow through. Many mistresses just let the whip land and stop. The impact when the whip lands is extraordinarily high. Just for a millisecond or two it bites deeply into the flesh; she realised the potential of having the whip drag across the skin whilst this was happening so her action was to pull the whip across the back as it was landing, like a golfer following through after driving off. It was a tricky technique to learn but she had mastered it and could almost guarantee to draw blood at each stroke.

She came out of her reverie, quite unconcerned about keeping everyone waiting. They must learn to enjoy the anticipation, the same as she does.

Looking round her, assessing the distances and amount of space she would need, she stepped back and chose her position carefully. She had not spoken so far. Now she did.

"Prepare yourself to receive your whipping. The first fifty."

Adjusting her grip carefully on the handle, she took her arm backwards and downwards, then up as high as she could with the whip following in a graceful curve, accelerating fast. As she reached the top she brought the whip outwards a little in a curve which then reversed to bring the still accelerating tail round at lightning speed towards the waiting bared back. The effort she put into the stroke, and which the whip gladly accepted, was clear to see. Her arm came down and, without pausing as the whip landed with a sickening and almost deafening crack , continued smoothly dragging the lash at high speed across Henry's back until the end lost contact after traversing the full width. A thin red line immediately appeared as ear-splitting screams rent the silence which had been heavy on the gathering.

Someone shouted "One"

Henry could not believe the intensity of the agony which had just exploded inside his body, seeming to reach every last corner of his overloaded consciousness. Scream, struggle, panic - he can't stay there and wait for the next - he must somehow break free - the alternative cannot even be contemplated. But even as he knew it was hopeless, and hoped that the pain might recede a little in a minute or so, even after only two seconds of agony far worse that he could have ever imagined, the rubber lash was in the air again and heading his way. It was happening in a flash to the fascinated onlookers, but Henry saw it in slow motion, the curling tapered snake heading his way - he was already well beyond what he could ever stand in his agony and the next stroke was upon him before any recovery was possible. He just could not believe any of this. The second stroke, happening so soon after the first, doubled the level of excruciation, his screams somehow were even louder and more blood-curdling even though the first scream was as intense as he could possibly make it. Not intentionally, it was not a dignified thing to do, but it happens and demands as much effort as is physically available.

"Two" Then "Three", and so it went on in rapid succession until the first five strokes had been given.

It was time for a short break now. Julia was breathing hard as a result of the effort she had put into those strokes, and which the fearsome whip had easily taken. She needed a rest if she was to keep up that level of severity, and she was determined to do just that. Five rapid strokes was enough to bring the pain level up as high as it was possible for it to go, Julia reckoned, more quick strokes would not make it any higher. So now was the time to make him wait. Rapid strokes certainly didn't mean it would be over more quickly. Once again it was time to savour the moment, to enjoy doing exactly what she enjoyed most; to enjoy the continuing screaming as it slowly died down into a sobbing moan; to enjoy Henry's indescribable terror as he anticipated the next five strokes; to enjoy the results of her handiwork - blobs of blood were oozing from the closely spaced red stripes which she had drawn so skilfully across Henry's back.

Julia re-entered her reverie. It was a long time since she'd had such an enjoyable and satisfying experience. They could all wait on her pleasure; this would be done at her pace.

Some minutes later she was ready and took up her stance. "Next five" she announced.

"Six, seven. . ." - so it went on until ten strokes had been given. The screaming seemed somehow to become louder and more intense all the time. Julia always found this effect fascinating; she didn't understand how it could be. But it always was.

Shortly after the second break had started, the screaming and moaning stopped abruptly. Henry had gone limp and was dangling from the straps, unconscious. "Look after him" she commanded one of her assistants in the group standing by the door, ready for emergencies like this. One came across and listened carefully to Henry's breathing in the silence which had fallen on the room. "Ok" he reported "he hasn't swallowed his tongue and his airways are clear" He produced a stethoscope from a pocket, put it to his ears and proceeded to listen to Henry's chest. "His heart's ok, a bit slow as you'd expect. It's the slowing of the heart which makes them pass out like this. He'll recover in a few minutes. No problems, but I'd better just check again during the breaks."

Julia lost herself once more in her thoughts. Then Henry began to twitch, to struggle against the straps and, when he finally came to and realised where he was and what was happening to him, let out the most pitiful wailing Julia had ever heard. It was truly music to her ears. When it started to subside Julia said, lasciviously, "Forty strokes to go. Then you'll have had the first fifty." She emphasised the word first. The wailing immediately restarted.

Julia was in her element. This was what life was all about. This is exactly why she did what she did. She was on Cloud Nine and intended to stay there.

After each five strokes Henry was examined and pronounced alive and ok, although some of the sounds he produced between the screaming sobs were certainly extraordinary. He stayed conscious. Blood was flowing down his back as the superb whipmanship produced its superb results.

Despite the rapidity of the strokes, the long pauses between the sets of five meant that it was quite a long time before the fiftieth stroke was made. Time for a longer break - Julia had no intention of stopping yet, but welcomed the chance of a little relaxation whilst Henry contemplated the next onslaught, if, that is, he was conscious of anything at all apart from the almost mortal agony which occupied his entire world. He showed no signs of understanding anything going on around him, not even reacting to Julia's promise that "the next fifty will follow in a little while", just dangling from the straps, not making any real attempt at standing, quietly sobbing and moaning. A cup of coffee was brought and offered to Julia who sat at a nearby table and reclined in the comfortable chair while she sipped at it. She was also drinking in the sight of the hapless Henry, his back now largely scarlet pulp with blood running down over the black rubber trousers. Her handiwork; a proud moment for her to savour. So many such wonderful moments she had savoured this evening, an evening to remember and remember it she certainly would. For a long, long time.

A low buzz of conversation had broken out as the break had started but it was all very restrained. No one would risk incurring Her displeasure by breaking her mood, the penalties were extreme to say the least, as the evening's activities were demonstrating so clearly. So as soon as the coffee was finished, total quiet once more descended on the gathering as Julia stood up and took up her position again, whip at the ready.

"Now for the next fifty", she announced. Henry twitched a bit more and moaned a bit louder, lacking the strength for any stronger reaction.

The whipping continued on its grisly way as before. On the seventh stroke Henry went totally limp once again as he lost consciousness for the second time. The medic with the stethoscope again confirmed that he was breathing but advised that the pulse was now far too weak to take any more chances and recommended that no more strokes should be given. Henry had had as much as his body could take and probably far more than his mind could take. Julia withdrew and resettled herself at the table, leaving the clearing up and the other details to the others. Henry's ankles were unstrapped first and he was lowered slowly and gently by the wrist rope into the waiting arms of a female assistant who brought him down into a nearly lying position, holding his pulped back just clear of the floor. He started twitching as a second assistant took his ankles and, between them, the assistants carried Henry out of the room.


Julia always slept alone. She didn't want anyone, male or female, invading her most private and special world. Particularly on the night of such a day as today had been. It was obsessing her as she towelled off after her shower and applied the perfumed talc generously. Her body had to be clean and fresh for the sheets but her mind was racing as she relived the immensely cruel flogging she had just given, the feel of the whip in her hand as she threw all her physical strength into it and as the whip gladly accepted it, the crack of whip against flesh, the screaming, the writhing. One of her best days, but there was more yet. Entering the bedroom for an early night - some things were just not to be put off - she shed the towel which she had been holding round her and, in her nakedness, surveyed the bed. It was drawing her like a magnet; she resisted - enjoy the moment, especially this one. Of all the days to be enjoyed today had undoubtedly been one of the best, of all the moments to be enjoyed in the day, this was without doubt the one. She gazed in fascination at The Sheets - the top one folded back over the counterpane to reveal its soft, smooth rubberised inside surface, and to reveal the same surface material of the bottom sheet as it covered the pillows. Small visible areas of the same rich golden macintosh material as her lovely cape, concealing the voluminous quantities of the material deep within the bed for as far as her body would be able to reach. It was waiting for her. Calling her. She was already feeling it against her bare flesh in her mind, the thought competing with the images of Henry's torment. She held out for as long as she could but it was not for long this time. The bed had won, it was no contest. It was as a black hole, sucking her inexorably towards it, unwilling ever to let her escape its clutches. It would always win. She turned out the light.

Climbing onto the bed and shaking in excitement and anticipation, Julia slowly insinuated her delicate feet between the strange, cool sheets and felt the soft silky rubberising caress her legs, body, breasts, shoulders and finally her arms as she slithered into that wonderful tactile infinity, engulfed and overpowered by the indescribably exciting sensations which now defined her entire consciousness. Her right cheek lay on the lower sheet covering the pillow as she pulled up the top sheet so it nearly covered her face. She lay almost still, her occasional movements revealing yet more tactile thrills as fresh cool material made itself felt on unexpected parts of her body.

She knew it would happen. It was quite inevitable and unavoidable; she didn't need to do anything - indeed she couldn't do anything; she was totally out of her own control now. She felt it creeping up on her, slowly at first, then gathering momentum little by little, faster and faster and yet with frustrating slowness until she finally exploded with cascades of the most intense and overpowering orgasms she'd ever experienced, one after another, each seeming to last for ever. She was no longer lying still, her thrashing body bringing even more of the engulfing golden smoothness against her - this feeling, together with the thoughts of Henry on the whipping frame, feeding and sustaining the orgasms.

After what must have been about the fifth explosion, her strength finally exhausted, she relaxed and immediately descended into a deep sleep from which she didn't wake for some eight hours.


Julia didn't need to go to the hospital the next day, but she went anyway. It was a private hospital with some specialised accommodation and facilities and Julia held a part time Ward Sister position there. She had referred many patients to them in her time and yesterday there had been another. After checking with the doctor she looked in on Henry, still soundly sleeping after his traumatic and exhausting ordeal . He looked very peaceful, very different from the last time she had seen him, and the swathes of bandages round his torso were well hidden by the bedclothes. From her bag she produced a get well card and silently placed it on the bedside table as Henry slept on, then left. The card read "from The Bitch", followed by the words "with Love".


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