Note : This story was told to Madam whippy cane by one of her clients, as a self introduction letter, prior to becoming a client of her English B.D.S.M. brothel, and relayed to me by her, so that I could tell you the reader it, on her behalf. Enjoy S M Ackerman.
Fantasy Land Visited
Dear Miss Whippy Cane,
I’ve always wanted to be grabbed by a gang of randy bikers, to have my clothes ripped from my body. To be stretched out, spread eagled, or bent over a motorbike saddle, and there to be roped down and be fucked hard! To have no choice but endure being gang raped, time after time, and to come again and again, (whilst they lay into my naked hide with belts and canes), like I do every time in my fantasies, just because I think about this happening to me.
Of course it probably will never happen, most biker gangs do not hang around the little backwater town in which I live, nor as far as I know do they kidnap late thirty something’s, or even slightly dumpy women (like me), for their lustful entertainment, but I can live in hope. I can always let my fingers do the walking and my orgasms do my talking, well screaming really!
It’s a good thing my fantasy includes a gag or my neighbours might well hear me. And being the talk of our small country town is not very appealing! Most certain not as I am hoping to join the ‘Women’s Institute’ (WI), sometime soon, and I am sure they would never approve of my pass-time, no not that formidable assembly of the towns older female population!
One Tuesday last I was out walking my little spaniel through the woods, when from behind a tree I heard a voice and it was whispering, and then there was another, and this one was gasping and grunting. I could not resist, I took the moral high ground and decided that if I could not get fucked by my biker gang in the woods, then whoever was just beyond those bushes, is not going to get fucked either. Selfish of me I know but I am determined. I decided to sneak up on them, then watch for a while, and finally disturb them in a way that will put an end to whatever amorous adventures they are indulging in.
I looked over the bushes and to my surprise and pleasure I see Mrs Watkins. The treasurer of the W I, she is bent over a fallen log, arse raised high, getting well seen to with a switch, by a young man, whom I do not know, and who is most certainly not Mr Watkins! I watch as lash after lash strikes her wobbly bottom, she gasps and grunts, her hands are well between her legs, and judging buy the wriggling she is doing she is not far of coming! I pick my moment and then burst through the brush, shouting as though shocked.
“Mrs Watkins. what are you doing!” As if I do not know.
The switch fell from his, the young mans hand, and without hesitation he grabbed for a pair of jeans and vanished out the other side of the little dell, Mrs Watkins and her deserving ass forgotten completely by him and left to her fate.
I reached down for the switch and thrash it through the air, looking at her bare bottom as it quivers in resigned shock before me. I lashed down and added a stroke to her red skin, the thin line the switch imparts ignites a small fire in my loins. I want more, and I have the power (I know) to get anything I might want from Mrs Watkins. I slash again, she lowers her head, raises her bottom and accepts the thrashing she senses she is going to receive, and I suppose she desperately hopes that I will keep secret my discovery!
I will, but first I strike again and again. Unlike the young man my strokes are intended to hurt! I lash them hard, whipping my stick into her flesh, adding the power of my wrist to each stroke. She does not grunt and groan now, she wails and cries, the sound of which is music to my frustrated ears. Twenty strokes later I finally stop and tell her to sit up, she complies looking very shamefaced. I have her attention. I take a deep breath and say.
“Mrs Watkins I expect you do not want your husband to know about this do you?”
She shakes her head.
“Have you been thrashed enough to satisfy this craving of yours?” I ask her gently.
This time she nods her head.
“Good then if you want this to remain our secret there is something you can do to please me.”
She looks up at me expectantly, she, I am sure can think of many things that I might want from her, like membership and social standing in the town. She also realises that I can demand anything, and she will have little choice but to provide it for me.
“Mrs Watkins, I want you to thrash me at least as hard as I have thrashed you please?”
There I have said it, I have shown her we are more alike that she could ever have thought, and I have given her equal blackmail against me, to that I hold over her! I pull up my skirt and lay myself over the same log she is now sitting on.
‘It is a great pity,’ I say to her as I lower my head, that we do not have any rope or chain, as being tied down and then thrashed would have been perfect, perhaps next time I ask her? This time my fantasy is real, though not yet perfect, but I am certain that two older and wiser like minded women can think of many ways to improve our frustrated lot. The word bondage flows through my mind but for now, this time only a thrashing with that switch by Mrs Watkins will have to do.
The End.
03.08.10