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Julia

An Introduction
Julia's Way
The Long Way
A Wee Drop
Virginity
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

Jenny
Miss Malcahy's Detention
Nine and a Half Hours

The Weight Loss
Programme

I Sign A Contract

The Convict

The Convict

Stories

65
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
Charles
George
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Kevin's Poem
Kim
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
My Visit
Penitence
Plimsolls
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
Z

The Bossy Bank Women

A Judicial Punishment

The Valkyrie

Episode 1

Norseland

The Vision
The Agreement
First Blood

EXIT

EXIT THIS SITE

JULIA

The Welcome

She said it wasn't but of course it was. Ask anyone who knew. She certainly controlled it and had even had actual physical control of every member at some time, after all that's what the club was all about. Yet you could see what she meant: the club was there to provide for the needs, the fantasies, of the members; needs oft unspoken before they met Julia. She knew, or made it her business to find out, about these needs and to provide for them. But you would be wise to be quite certain about what you wanted. The unsuspecting initiate who fantasised about having his toenails torn out or being suspended by his balls had better look out. He needs to be real certain before he lets her discover that.

Julia was a member of her own club in the sense that it satisfied her needs as well. Her needs and those of most other members were complementary, opposite ends of the same broad spectrum. The fulfilment she enjoyed was beyond anything she had dreamt as being possible when she was young; so, in that sense at least, it was her club just as much as it was the other members'. But she had formed it or, to be more precise, it had accumulated around her after she had encountered a few like minded individuals early in her career.

But her defining activity was really the recognition of the depth of the interest in SM, not so much in numbers as in the depth of interest and dedication shown by these enthusiasts, which led her to formalising some of these friendships and establishing The Club. Her club. It didn't have a name, it didn't need one. Its members had such dedication that none was necessary. It was always at the forefront of their minds, sleeping or waking. An inescapable concept.

Meetings were called individually, rarely scheduled regularly. Not so much called; commanded would be a better word. Commanded, of course, by Julia. Sometimes they were just a chance to chat, to exchange news, views and fantasies with other club members. No other activities. Informal drinks, some gentle Mozart or Vivaldi in the background, subdued lighting, comfortable seating; all the things which other SM clubs didn't provide. But there were also the action nights. These were something else, a greater contrast being hard to imagine. Neither did all the action have to take place at the club. Julia had other resources, other facilities. But that's another story.

Anyone interested in joining the club was welcome to attend a couple of chat nights, meet people, find out what the club was all about - there was plenty to discover - and possibly meet Julia herself, all without obligation. She wasn't always there and, even if she was, she was often quite busy having discussions about future meetings and events which needed competent organisation to set up. She did all that herself. But, if the initiate decided he or she wanted to go ahead and join, then an interview with Julia was arranged and she decided whether or not to approve membership.

Thus it was that Martin waited nervously for the time to arrive. He'd enjoyed the company and was greatly excited by what he had learned at the chat sessions, he'd had his interview with Julia. He was hoping desperately that he hadn't told her too much, set her expectations too high. If so, that would be his downfall, not hers. But first was The Initiation. He had been told that he would have to go through the ceremony but no one would tell him what it was. All he knew was that a special club meeting would be called and it would happen then. All he had to do was turn up. And he better had turn up, he'd heard quite enough to know that staying away was not an option. So it was that he watched the calendar, marking off the weeks, then the days, to the meeting called specially for him. Now he had abandoned the calendar and was watching the clock, wondering how he'd found himself in this situation, becoming more and more worried as the hours ticked away.

He didn't remember how he got himself to the club that night. The shock of being met at the door eclipsed everything that had gone before. Being met by four people he had not seen before, four large, powerful women, dressed from head to foot in glistening black leather. With no kind of greeting they took his arms and guided him, very firmly, into a small room, sat him in a chair and left him without a word being spoken. Martin heard the door lock from the outside as they left. This threatened to be worse than his wildest fears about the evening.

He could hear activity, voices, people moving about. More people were obviously arriving and the buzz of conversation was building up. After an indeterminate time the click of the unlocking door was followed by the return of the four leatherclads who took up positions round his chair.

"Stand up" one of them commanded. He complied. Of course he complied. These were people not to be denied.

"Trousers off" she ordered. He stood, dumbfounded, staring at her. "I said 'trousers off' - are you deaf?" she barked. This galvanised him into action and he began fumbling with his belt. "Hurry! Shoes and socks as well."

He hurried. He complied.

"Come on, underpants as well, don't mess us about". Greatly embarrassed he complied. The cold air reminded him, if a reminder were needed, of his exposure.

"Now put these on". A leatherclad handed him another pair of trousers. He took them and inserted a foot. It felt cold. It felt slithery. He looked and saw that they were lined in rubber. He hesitated. "I don't want to have to tell you again". He pulled the trousers on and they slid smoothly up his legs, round his waist and slithered coolly against the insides of his thighs. They crackled as they were pulled up. He felt very strange, this was an experience he had never had before and it was extremely unnerving, as if just being in the company of those four were not enough.

"Now strip to the waist". Martin was on autopilot now, just going through the motions of the instructions and not daring to think about what it was all leading up to. Off came his teeshirt, the cool air again struck bare skin and he stood there, looking at the leatherclads, ready for the next command, wearing nothing except for the rubber lined trousers.

"This way."

He was grasped firmly by the arms again and marched through the door and along a short passage. Another door was opened and the loud buzz of anticipatory chatter came tumbling out. As he was marched through it he saw that he was entering one of the clubrooms through a door he hadn't seen before. There was a large semicircle of chairs surrounding a central empty area, occupied by more club members than he had seen at the chat sessions. He was being propelled out into the central area and was stopped in the middle. A sinister silence had fallen. He looked round, bewildered, but was quickly brought down to earth again.

"Hands - out in front, together." He stuck his arms out. A leatherclad held them firmly whilst another started to buckle the leather straps of a pair of restraining cuffs round his wrists. The cuffs were fastened together, he could not separate his wrists now. He didn't notice the rope until it was being pulled down - a block and tackle fixed to the ceiling above his head was lowering it. The rope was clipped to his wristcuffs and someone started pulling it up again. Martin could not resist as his arms were hoisted well above his head. He has trapped, immobile, half naked, not knowing what to expect, the centre of attention of seventy or more excited pairs of eyes all riveted on him in his helpless and uncomfortable humiliation. He felt desperate. But, evidently, he was not yet ready. A leatherclad was approaching, carrying something he could not quite make out.

"Legs apart!" was barked out. "Wider - I said wider!" He felt a strap being tightened round an ankle, then his feet being pulled apart by two of the black beauties. When he thought he would do the splits he felt the other ankle being strapped and he was helpless now with his ankles held about three feet apart. With this the four women departed, leaving Martin alone in front of the drooling crowd. The silence was intense. He was close to panic and to tears, terrified out of his mind. Helpless.

After an eternity of waiting, which was probably no more than half a minute, there was movement at the back of the room and a tall, gorgeous looking golden caped figure appeared, black hair cascading down her shoulders.

Julia!

She paused, savouring the moment. Then she started slowly towards the unfortunate Martin, her rubber lined cape swishing and crackling as it always did when she walked. She stood about two feet in front of him and regarded him, close, smiling. Her hands appeared out of the arm slits, slender but strong, on the ends of two bare arms. Martin knew that it was not only her arms which were naked under the cape. He glanced down and saw the two bare feet also. He felt himself suddenly erect inside the thin trousers at the thought of what was under the golden shimmer, caressed by the soft rubber lining. She paused again, looking at him, taking her delight at his humiliation, vulnerability and helplessness. Another moment to savour, which she did, long and deep, smiling at him, fascinated by the sharp bulge in his trousers. Martin was abject in his embarrassment, humiliation, but, most of all, terror. What was this? Why was he here? How could he have possibly got himself into this? What would happen next?

"Martin," she finally addressed him, "This is your initiation into the club. Do you understand that?"

"Yes"

A shriek of surprise and pain rang out as Julia's fist slammed into the tip of his erection. Martin was twitching and struggling, panting for breath. "Yes, what . . ?" she demanded. He caught on quickly - "Yes, Mistress"

"That's better. As long as we understand each other." She was still smiling at him.

She reached out a hand and an attendant, who had been waiting close by, handed her what Martin soon realised was a pair of gloves. They were medium duty grade, in dull, smooth, black rubber. Slowly, Julia pulled them onto her slender hands, first the right, then the left. They crackled as they were pulled up. Holding them close to Martin's face she smoothed the fingers into place, manipulating the rubber finger by finger until they lay comfortably. She then exercised her fingers by wriggling them energetically in front of his eyes. As she did this her smile broadened as his terror deepened.

She stood back a little, then moved slowly round the back of the suspended figure, out of his vision. He felt the satin of the cape against his back, then cool, rubber gloved hands on his sides. Slowly, ever so slowly, they slithered round his waist until they found his belly, then inched their way downwards until they encountered the waistband of the trousers. Here they stopped for what seemed like an age whilst Martin wondered desperately where they would go next. When, eventually, they moved again and fingers crept down under the waistband and inside the trousers, he had little doubt where they were heading. It seemed like another age before they reached the tops of his legs. They paused again, then started exploring, gently stroking the insides of his thighs, the bottom of his belly, round and about, round and about. He saw over seventy pairs of eyes on him, watching intently, knowing that they were especially looking at his powerful erection clearly visible through the rubberised trousers. He could hardly contain himself and yet, at the same time, he could do nothing at all about it. He had to stand there and take it for just as long as Julia wanted him to endure it. Round and about, round and about. Never quite landing.

A sharp scream galvanised the room, as Julia's hands suddenly snapped round his tender parts with the impact of a rat trap. He felt his rigid shaft being bent almost double, folded back hard under him, felt his balls being wrenched, felt his foreskin being rammed hard back, felt his exposed tip being squeezed flat, all by the strong rubber covered fingers which worked away, hidden by the trousers. He screamed, he struggled; Julia continued. How much of this could he take? Already it was unbearable and he tore at the straps in an attempt to relieve the pain, but he knew it was futile. He could only hope for mercy and he knew that would not come quickly from this Mistress.

Julia was enjoying herself, doing what she did - and enjoyed - best, inflicting pain and suffering on a man. She kept up the rough handling for perhaps five minutes, no longer, although it felt like a lifetime to Martin as he writhed in the straps. But, eventually, she withdrew her hands, leaving his body limply dangling, a deep, deep ache in his genitals.

As she stood in front of him, delighting in the expression on his face, some of the women in the audience were standing up and coming forward. Julia was slowly removing the black rubber gloves. As she was doing so the women approached; not, it seemed, to have a close look at Martin: they were forming a line, like a queue, behind Julia. More women were coming forward, the queue was growing. Julia handed the gloves to the woman at the head of the queue, a medium height honey blonde with wild sensuous lips. Martin watched bemusedly - what was all this now? Did they all want to see the gloves which had inflicted such punishment on him? But the blonde wasn't looking at them. She was looking at him, casually but deliberately pulling the gloves on her own hands. Julia had stepped aside and was watching from nearby as the blonde, in her turn, went out of Martin's view behind him and, for the second time that evening, he felt the rubber against his waist, slowly making its way round and under the waistband. As he waited for the seeming eternity it took for the hands to reach their target the dreadful truth dawned on him. These women, there were about thirty of them, were all actually queuing up to do to him what Julia had done. The eager expressions on their faces told all; he had already had more than he could cope with and yet he was stuck while they all had their pleasures at his expense. The rubber gloves pummelled and squeezed, bent and rammed, he seemed to be perpetually screaming and writhing ineffectually as the blonde did her stuff. She kept it up for maybe two or three minutes, an age to the shrieking Martin, before handing the gloves on to the next in the queue, a plump redhead. She took her turn and her toll, then the next, then the next . . .

The queue did not seem to be diminishing, even though he must have been in those straps for well over an hour. He was barely aware of anything except for the intensity of the pain in his tender parts, made more and more tender by the successive onslaughts of successive, eager, cruel women. When he could summon up the strength to observe the queue, he saw, to his horror, that some of the first women had rejoined at the back and were coming round for a second time. An infinite number of pairs of hands seemed to be clawing at him, and infinity of unbearable time was slowly, barely, passing. Time lost its meaning and he felt as though he had been having this screaming agony all his life, nothing else had ever existed, he'd never known anything else and never would. His head was swimming, he could see but they were just meaningless shapes now. The pain was over-riding the ache in his throat from the screaming and the aches in his wrists and ankles where the straps had been resisting so effectively his wild and continuing struggles.

It must have been nearly midnight when he realised that the hands had gone. The pain had eased a little now he was not being pulled and twisted, but was still quite intense. He couldn't believe it had stopped. His sensitive exposed tip was on fire with the soreness and he ached deep inside his body. He tried to focus - Julia was standing in front of him again, smiling as ever. She would, of course, that was Julia. Was she about to release him? That didn't seem to be in her mind. She grasped the waistband of his trousers and gave a sharp tug, pulling them down as far as his knees. His legs were being held too far apart for the trousers to fall any further, but that was all she needed. Most of his genital area was red with the soreness, especially the exposed tip which was bright scarlet and looked like raw red meat. There had been no erection for a long time. Julia was wearing the gloves again, pouring something out of a bottle into her cupped hand. Martin smelled surgical spirit and blanched. What was surely coming simply could not be faced; he knew about surgical spirit and what it could do to even the tiniest cut or sore spot. Julia paused again, this time for effect, for Martin to take in what was coming, what was going to make everything he had suffered so far pale into insignificance. He had to have the fear, the terror as well as the pain. Julia was a past master of both. Martin was already screaming and tearing at the straps. Julia regarded his performance with satisfaction. This was perfect, what she did so well, what she found so satisfying and fulfilling. With that thought she doused his genitals thoroughly with the spirit, rubbing it well in.

Martin's body went rigid. He choked on his screams, hands and fingers spread wildly out, face contorted. After ten seconds or so he went quiet and limp. He was unconscious.

When he came round he was lying on a bed of some sort. He felt an ache in his lower belly but most of the soreness had gone. He became aware of a caped figure sitting by the bed, he became aware of a slitheryness and a coolness and realised he was lying on a rubber sheet. The fact that he couldn't move didn't surprise him at first. He'd spent, it seemed, his entire life with his hands and feet strapped up, so why expect a change now? But this was a different place, he was lying, not standing, it was quiet, not full of people gawping at his agonies, yet he still couldn't move. His hands were still held above his head and his ankles were strapped to the foot of the bed. He was naked. But, as his head cleared, he felt relaxed.

"Nearly done now", Julia's voice from the golden cape.

Nearly? Nearly? What did she mean? She was standing, holding a top sheet which she began to lay over his naked body. Martin could feel the cold rubber of this sheet settle round his bare skin as it floated down upon him and was tucked in by Julia. She lifted the top part and covered his face with it. There was an overpowering odour of rubber. He couldn't see anything now, but he could feel everything. He felt the rubber gloved hand reach between the sheets and gently make its way to his sore tip where it felt smooth and oily as the soothing jelly was applied. There was no soreness now; Julia continued to massage the tip up and down and, as though it had been suddenly switched on, his erection was back. Intensely, harder than he'd ever known. Again it was so overpowering he couldn't control it, but this time Julia was gently massaging and that, with the slithery sheets enveloping him and the cloying rubber odour, brought him rapidly to the most unbearably intense, wildly explosive orgasm he had ever experienced in his entire life. He passed out again briefly.

Julia was releasing his straps as he came round again. "Pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain. That's what it's all about" she said. Pain and pleasure, indeed. Both in immense quantities, unlimited quantities. A revelation to Martin, as it was to most new members. He would not forget this night in a hurry.

"Welcome to The Club." She kissed him gently on the cheek and left him to rest.

END


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