Wendy’s Training

For Valentine’s Day, what could be nicer than a photo-story from Janus 45 featuring the stunning Wendy East (The Return of Mr Jardine). Sadly her only other appearance as far as I am aware. What a girl!

There are certain girls (not very many of them) whose minds are so sweet and so warm and feminine and whose bodies at the same time are utterly succulently beautiful — that a man favoured with their friendship is apt to leap off into the deep end of his feelings. A girl like Wendy East, when she wants to love and be loved, can turn on a jet stream of emotion and sensation. The very least effect this can have on an older man is a vibrant revitalisation of him, probably, to be frank, accompanied by a reawakening of sexual potency on a scale lost sight of since adolescence. She is like a living dream, so tender and affectionate and generous; the wonderful erotic beauty of her body being matched by a throbbing sensuality that promises all possible delights untold.

On her very first visit to Mr Stanton’s flat after they had met each other, Wendy kissed him softly but lingeringly on the lips, caressed his hands and told him simply that she would do anything he wanted. It was clear that her meaning was completely sexual, but also — very excitingly — that she understood there were many possibilities. Then she said that there were things she hadn’t tried yet but she wanted to, she had lots of fantasies — but she didn’t name any. She kissed him again, open-mouthed and then passionately, and when it was over she stroked him and told him that she loved him and offered herself to him on a plate. ‘You can do anything you want to me.’ The exact words.

Nothing happened on that occasion because he simply felt too excited to play games with her. Plus the ‘game’ he wanted to play wasn’t a game at all. It was a new definition of a male-female relationship; the way that they would always be together. Master and slave. She gulped and agreed. Then she herself became too affected by excitement — by a wild excitement — to do anything with him other than to let nature take its obvious, but quite fabulous course. They went to bed together for the first time, and he had never known any girl so good. She was paradise — just like the way she looks. He couldn’t remember having felt so aroused. But it was only the one thing, with delectable variations; and she was so grateful for the pleasure he gave her. ‘Thank you, master,’ she sealed his lips with a kiss.

The next time she visited him she came knowing that today would be the first day of the rest of her life. They had had long telephone conversations during the week between, usually late in the evening; each time, she had phoned him. Again and again she told him that she loved him, wanted to have a relationship with him and would do anything to please him. She said she would visit him whenever he told her to. ‘If you tell me to, I must,’ she giggled. ‘You’re my master.’

‘And you’ll obey me in every particular!’ he said sharply. ‘I’m taking you on for training, Wendy. I’m going to train you so that you always obey me, and during your training you’ll get punished.’ The call lasted another half hour, until she was eating the words out of his hand. She told him she would like to learn to be submissive to him, and she confessed a fantasy she had had for many years, in which she was nude and under the control of a group of cruel men. She didn’t go on; it wasn’t necessary. Every word of this story is true.

Wendy came to Mr Stanton’s flat ready and willing to take orders and undergo induction into a subordinated status. She sat on the sofa, he gave her a drink and they chatted for twenty minutes. Then he told her to go into the bedroom and take off all her clothes except her knickers. She went without a murmur and when Mr Stanton followed her, he brought with him a flimsy white see-through pinny, short and backless, four leather cuffs for her ankles and wrists and a matching black leather slave collar; all of which he proceeded to fasten on her as quite separate items. The final touch was an orange pair of latex washing-up gloves. She was definitely more naked than dressed. He told her to go into the kitchen and do the washing-up.

This was Wendy’s first test, for in his kitchen she found not the expectable bachelor’s daily crockery but a staggering mountain of dirty dishes, several piles stacked halfway to the ceiling, uncountable cups and glasses, masses of used cutlery and a mess of spilt drinks and wasted food. There were even a couple of broken eggs on a work surface. The whole kitchen was in a terrible state and the sink was blocked with slimy plates and greasy slops.

‘I gave a dinner party here last week and I haven’t dared come in here since,’ Stanton smiled. ‘I want everything cleaned up and all the washing-up done, and rinse and dry everything afterwards. I want this place sparkling — but do the dishes first. Step to it, girl!’

While her master retired to the lounge to sit on his high peacock chair, his ‘throne’, to contemplate her forthcoming training programme, Wendy bit her lip, fought back tears of disappointment and began her overwhelming task. The sounds of running water and the clattering of knives and plates wafted through from the kitchen, like a satisfying background muzak. She was obeying him, even though she had looked stunned and been quite unable to speak to him. He felt just a trace guilty, for not only was there a fantastic quantity of washing-up but it had been waiting to be done for the best part of a week and was now anything but an appetising prospect. She was also having to perform this most unpleasant task in a state of scandalous semi-nudity, her legs and arms and back bare, her breasts partly exposed, wearing all that slavegirl paraphernalia; how galling for her that he was totally ignoring her beauty which other men would suffer anything to get their hands on. She was no scullery-maid but an intelligent sensitive young lady who in one year’s time would gain her BA; he was well aware that she had been brought up in a large house with servants, where for her to do the washing-up would have been unthinkable. These many pleasant reflections passed through his mind in dreamy procession as he sat on his high throne and listened to the sounds of washing-up. He felt so much power: a glorious, heady feeling, as if he were floating ten feet off the ground. He was going to put Wendy through it today; show her conclusively who was boss, really rub it in…

While Wendy scoured and scraped, Stanton plotted the intricacies of her coming ordeal, the temperature of his imagination rising in a strong surge. Eventually, after a long time, he could wait no longer. Drawing on soft-lined black leather gloves he rang the brass bell at his side.

Wendy, although not warned of this, soon appeared in the doorway in her kitchen uniform, clasping her hands and looking down. Perhaps looking a little glum or sullen; but he didn’t notice that, for the back of his throne was in front of her. In any case her own feelings were irrelevant: she was only here to serve, to obey, and to be trained. ‘Get those gloves off. Stand directly in the archway, facing the window,’ she heard. ‘Do not move until I tell you to.’

Approximately eight minutes passed whilst Wendy waited, standing quite still and feeling small and submissive. It was wonderful in a sense to let go and not have to think for herself; he would do the thinking for her, and she would do what he said. She could see the back of his head through the wickerwork of the chair, haloed by the light from the windows — a statue of great power. She suppressed any urge to move or speak; she waited meekly.

‘Come into the room, girl. In front of my throne.’ His voice was not the same. It sounded deeper and more confident, richly masculine; she heard the absolute certainty of his authority. ‘Now curtsey.’

Her genuflection was pleasing to him, and so was her softly spoken promise to obey him which he asked her to repeat to him in her own words. She even called him ‘master’ as if this was already automatic to her.

‘Take off your knickers.’

‘Yes, master.’ Her knees came up one after the other, showing her beautiful legs. And then the white knickers were off, and in his now bare hand. She had kept her eyes on his the whole time.

She stood before him, looking as pretty as a picture. A very sweet and appealing picture indeed. His resolve was fully hardened.

‘Do you feel suitably chastened after doing that washing-up?’ He drew back on his left glove, a significant procedure.

‘Yes, master.’ Almost inaudible. ‘But I haven’t done it all yet.’

‘Haven’t done it yet?’ His tone was soft and incredulous, but with a menacing edge. ‘Then you will just have to finish it later.’ Brightening: ‘You are going to learn to obey me scrupulously, Wendy. Without hesitation, without fault. You will soon learn to follow the code of my hands. The way I point will tell you what to do. But until you’re that proficient I’ll tell you in words as well. Do exactly what I say. One false move, my girl, and you’ll be whipped for it — and whipped well.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Face that wall.’

Stanton pointed, and as Wendy alertly turned he approved of her expression, intently watching his gloved fingers. A beautiful face; a face full of yearning feminine submissiveness.

‘Turn towards the window. Bend forward, and cock your bottom up.’

Wendy did so, and it really was the most delightful posterior that Wendy arched in his direction. He took his time admiring it, those gorgeous smooth rounded cheeks just made for disciplining.

‘Never forget, slave,’ his tone was sharp, ‘if ever you fail to satisfy my strict requirements, your bottom will suffer for it. I have the means to make it sting so madly you’d wish you’d been a good girl. Now bend right forward. Clasp your ankles. That’s it. You will hold that position until I order you to change it. I want you to get the feeling of what it’s like to have to bend over with your legs and bottom bare, because that is how you will always present yourself for a caning. Your bottom properly arched — the highest point of your body — and your legs perfectly straight. Grasping your ankles firmly. That is how you will always receive the cane. Sometimes in front of a friend of mine as well, or several. The friends whose dishes you have just washed. I may even allow a friend to cane you occasionally. If I wish that, would you accept it?’

A hesitation, then ‘…y-yes, master. For you.’

‘Good. Now I want you to imagine it. That you are bending over to be caned.’

Wendy then did not move for the next ten minutes. She remained bent over clutching her ankles, her smooth lissom thigh-backs and that deliciously perky, heavenly rounded bottom turned towards him expectantly. Her posture demonstrated her complete submission and her master greatly enjoyed contemplating her inspiring target areas. He relaxed in regal majesty, his eyes caressing Wendy’s buttocks and limbs. She was quite still and silent as the minutes ticked past. He felt himself putting on the Power; his sensation of himself magnified to I, whilst Wendy became Wendy Wendy Wendy Wendy. He was in complete command of her: he had even taken control of her thoughts. For Wendy has a very active imagination and as he stared at her cocked bottom, luxuriating in his calm mastery, she did exactly what he had ordered. She imagined that she was obediently, dutifully, bending over to receive a painful caning across her up-thrust buttocks — either from him or, perhaps even more excitingly, from a friend of his whilst he watched. She became more stimulated still when in her mind’s eye she saw other people also in the room, more of her master’s friends who had been invited to watch her chastisement; she pictured a well-to-do, married couple in their 30s sitting on the sofa, the elegant wife smiling sardonically at her as the bamboo slashed across her posterior. And perhaps there was another, older man seated separately in the armchair: he too wished to observe her submission to her master’s discipline. There could be no more exciting thought for her than being made to prove her love and flawless obedience to him in front of others; being treated very strictly, made to show herself, receiving corporal punishment before this select audience of her master’s choosing. She hoped that she would do him justice, and astonish her viewers with her erotic subservience to him. The fantasy appealed strongly to her exhibitionistic character as she presented herself in exactly the position for such a beating.

When at long last she heard his next command, Wendy immediately obeyed it — but there was to be no let-up for her. He said: ‘Now part your legs, stay bending right over and touch your fingers to your toes.’

The pride and alacrity with which she executed the required manoeuvre — after breathing, ‘Yes, master’ — convinced him that she was the most pliable little nubile he had ever had the luck to encounter. She was entirely special, and precisely what he had been looking for.

‘Now one step back, Wendy, here beside my throne.’ His gloved hands signalled once again, and she watched them between the arch of her legs. ‘Feet closer together. Remember what I have told you to do after each spank you receive. Brace yourself!’

Mr Stanton’s gloved right palm exploded forcefully into her naked bottom. It was a most satisfying sensation for him and the sound was delightful.

‘Thank you master!’ Wendy gasped, assimilating the wild stinging.

Pressing down on the small of her back with his left hand, he again brought his right palm down hard.

Splattt!

‘Thank you master!’ Wendy squirmed on her feet.

And again!

‘Oooff! Thank you master!’

‘Turn around, girl, up!’ He had never spoken to her so sharply and Wendy’s expression when her eyes fell lingeringly on his face seemed just a mite reproachful. She certainly looked vulnerable — emotionally vulnerable.

His tone was every bit as firm: ‘You will undergo the rest of today’s training session in the nude, except of course for your slave collar and cuffs which will constantly remind you of your status. Turn around to face the window.’

Wendy smartly turned. ‘Now remove your apron.’

----//----

Nude in the manner promised by her master, Wendy soon proved herself a highly responsive trainee, scrupulously obeying each and every one of his directions for the positioning of her body, swiftly learning to dispense with verbal instructions in favour of his preferred digital semaphore. The movements required very largely constituted a series of tests of her threshold of subservience, alternating rapid and precise posturing with intervals in which he demanded that she ‘hold’ a particular position without twitching a muscle in her beautiful body.

When he saw something that he particularly liked, Wendy would have to freeze in that posture and then he would make fine adjustments, ordering her for instance to tilt her chin slightly, to stretch or arch to emphasise a certain set of curves, perfecting the plastic sculpture; she would then have to remain absolutely static until released by his word or gesture.

One such ‘statue’ Wendy was compelled to make involved her stretching rigidly upright with her arms above her head for some twenty minutes, her whole form and especially the ripe thrust of her nates silhouetted against the white light pouring through the net curtains, while his eyes licked her glories continuously and his deep voice from time to time reminded her that in past ages slavegirls were commonly whipped in this posture — a fate he hypnotically repeated that she richly deserved.

It was as if she already felt whipcord caressing her torso. She experienced her own self-control completely slipping away; she knew she was now under his jurisdiction, and that it would be a strict one. Her paramount wish was now to please him with a faultless physical obedience.

Her release from this increasingly stressful posture was purchased only at the price of having to turn once more towards the window and clasp her fingers behind her head, over the lustrous dark hair that fell halfway to her waist. And in this position receive a leather-gloved spanking on her bottom that was far more prolonged and punitive than the few slaps he had given her earlier.

His strong right hand smashed into her sensitive buttocks over and over again with such force that their exquisite shapes were totally distorted on impact.

Wendy held her head high, her body rock-rigid as her sweet buttocks heated up, then began to blaze; by the end she was breathing heavily, but not once did she omit to whimper ‘Thank you master!’ immediately after the receipt of each spank.

Seated on his throne in comfort and glory, he could easily have continued spanking the girl for half an hour, for protected by the leather of the gloves and their padded lining his hand felt next to nothing — yet the effect on Wendy’s bottom was both stronger and more kinky than bare-hand spanking would have been. He did not wish to overload her with stinging pain at this stage. She had had enough for a novice, and in any case he felt it was high time he received her homage.

Although this brought relief from the smarting bottom-smacks, this quintessential part of her training — her self-abasement before him — offered Wendy unrivalled opportunities to experience an equivalent mental or egotistical smarting. First she had to kneel erect in front of him, while with the aid of his pointing finger he explained exactly what was required of her. Wendy, looking at his face intently, could not bring herself to smile although her gaze was still both extremely respectful and sensual; he loved the erotic promise of her limbs in this position and also the helpless trembling of her bottom lip, indicating that she was emotionally overwhelmed by his strident request. Then, having outlined the form of adoration required, Wendy’s master ordered her to execute the manoeuvre immediately.

The girl’s head shot down in a deep genuflection and her buttocks thrust up, her whole upper half inclined sharply downwards from the small of her back. An exquisite posture of worship. The angling of Wendy’s nude body was extraordinarily acute and he felt great power contemplating her physical submission.

At length he lifted her chin with his gloved hand. ‘What have you to say to me?’ he put to her.

Wendy answered softly, ‘You are my master, sir. I love you. I am your humble slavegirl. I want to serve you always. I will do anything you want. I promise I will always obey you, master.’

These moving words seemed to come from the bottom of Wendy’s heart, yet there would be plenty of time to test that in the future, with ever more demanding proofs of her obedience. But for the moment it was enough to receive her sweet homage and he had no wish for her supplication ever to end. He sat upright again, tingling with pleasure. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Wendy lowered her face to the floor at his feet and thrust her haunches into the air. He adored this utterly submissive posture, which was not quite the same as before. ‘I am your slavegirl,’ she whispered, her face now invisible. ‘I love you, master.’

A long, long time passed. Not as long as he intended for some future occasion — he had in mind a marathon supplication, perhaps eight hours of uninterrupted kneeling worship — but certainly sufficient to teach the girl her place and to lift his spirits higher than champagne ever had. It was her own idea to hug his shoe to her cheek: an unauthorised gesture, but he accepted it in the spirit of the occasion.

The end was swift: Wendy was abruptly ordered up, and told to stand in front of him with her arms raised, fully upstretched, wide apart and then with fingers interclasped. Her eyes were fixed on his, full of devotion; his gaze roamed her body, loving every inch of it. He picked up the leather dog-lead he had earlier placed on the low table beside his throne and doubled it up into a snaky whip, and made as if to strike her front with it. Wendy did not flinch. In the white heat of her submission she had become one with his intention for her: his wish, no matter what, was her command, his word Law, and he knew that she would immediately carry out any order he might give her, without hesitation, without thinking, without question. She had literally surrendered all control to him. She looked at him with utter trust, hoping perhaps to be further humbled. He could see that she definitely derived erotic pleasure from all demonstrations of his authority over her; the zest with which she had performed her supplication convinced him of that. Suddenly she told him so, in three words. ‘I love you.’

His response was explosive and practically knocked her over. ‘I did not give you permission to speak, girl!’ he roared. A visible ripple ran through her upstretched form. He continued more gravely, ‘A slavegirl speaks only when ordered to. I shall punish you for that remark.’

Mr Stanton stood up and directed Wendy to kneel up on the seat of his peacock throne and clasp the top of it. He loved her expressions as he positioned her to his exact requirements, making sure that his slave’s exquisite bottom was pertly curved in order to signal the strongest possible invitation to the leather strap.

His entire body tingled with power and the desire to thrash her… to make her flesh sting in bright red stripes.

Punitive energy was gathering force within him and as he released it in the first snapping bite of the strap on her bottom he began to breathe easier. He struck her over and over and over again, harder and then viciously hard, seemingly without end.

Wendy winced, gasped, jerked and thrust her highly whippable buttock-cheeks about, but he had no doubt the little bitch was enjoying his attentions. Perhaps ten solid minutes in the ice-cold shower would sort her out.

Freeze those burning marks…