Mister X

Photo-story featuring Sophie Fennington from Janus 54 — a sequel to CP Tease from Janus 53

Christian Fennington had a problem men dream of: a beautiful young wife who adored him as he did her, who deliberately teased him for a specific purpose. But how Sophie Fennington teased! She teased him unmercifully day and night, taunted and jibed, drove him to the edge of rage and beyond. And why did this otherwise respectable, exemplary and demure woman behave in this outrageous manner? Because the slenderly vivacious Sophie very much wanted her strong, handsome husband to spank her soundly! To cane and thrash her, to drag her girlish form across his thighs or face-down over a chair and wallop her enticingly saucy behind as hard and as often as possible. Sophie loved it. It roused her to ecstasies.

Christian liked it too — what man would not? But she pushed him, pushed and pushed, till his entire horizons seemed dominated exclusively by the soft, rounded mounds of his wife’s divine derriere yearning fiercely and pinkly to be chastised, and her eager eyes provoking him to apply ever greater attentions to her tender young bottom.

Christian Fennington was a practical man, and when he needed advice he went to an expert. In his book there was no greater practitioner in the punishment art than Clive Hart- Benbow, who had been his hero during those muscular educational years at Rowan Hall Public School. A fine sportsman and scholar, Hart-Benbow had been head boy — the teak-tough variety of male with a strong voice and heavy hand, and an air of invincible authority. Indeed Christian, as his fag, had seen and heard enough during his time in H-B’s service to recognise that if anyone in the world could help him to master Sophie it was this bleak, intimidating figure who had been known to reduce unruly young gentlemen of the Upper Fifth to a state suspiciously close to tears. And Christian, feeling out of his depth in the whirlpool of his wife’s unusual desires, knew that he did indeed need help.

Now, in adulthood, the erstwhile head boy and his fag had become firm friends. Relaxing over whisky-sours in the club bar one evening, Christian admitted his ‘problem’. ‘It’s, well, almost like nymphomania,’ he protested lamely. ‘I know it sounds absurd, H-B, but I’m worn out with thrashing her and I’m worried about where this is leading. She teases incessantly, and always wants more.’

Hart-Benbow had smiled, but not in mockery. The familiar upper-class whiplash tones sliced the air. ‘Bring her along to my place tomorrow evening, young Fennington,’ he said crisply. ‘No woman on earth fails to respond to a sufficiently firm hand. She needs to respect a man. She teases because she feels she can get away with it, yet resents you for allowing it. So you must apply the corrective discipline — under my direction, of course — and we’ll see what we can do to stop this nonsense of hers.’

Even after all these years Hart-Benbow’s icy enunciation struck chills into Christian’s heart. ‘By the way,’ the great man added, ‘it would be better if you refer to me throughout as “Mister X”. Is that understood?’

Christian looked at him. One didn’t ask questions. ‘Understood.’ He almost stood to attention, as in days of old.

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Sophie asked surprisingly few questions about ‘Mister X’, clearly preferring to savour the mystery. When they entered the formal atmosphere of the smart, alien residence the following evening, she was excited and intrigued as Christian led her across the deep-pile blue carpet of the well-appointed lounge; and as he turned her to face the man who was to direct her chastisement she felt a pleasant quaking behind the knees. For there, right beside her on a teak ottoman, lay a variety of punishment instruments which inspired her with fearful joy.

The unknown man regarded them both dispassionately from his chair, noting how well Fennington looked dressed in black, as instructed. While his wife, in an insubstantial dolly-dress of white with pastel splashes and soft shoulder bows, looked — and, more importantly, felt — daintily and femininely vulnerable. It was a bonus that she also looked deliciously attractive.

‘So this is the miscreant,’ articulated Mister X in a voice of restrained power and unnerving self-confidence. Defensively, Sophie wore the beginnings of a teasing half-smile — which vanished before the man’s arctic gaze. For the first time, she felt a little afraid.

Sophie continued to stare as he rose and handed her husband an article of buckled leather. ‘Harness your wife,’ came the dreamed-of sounds of hard-toned implacability. If only Christian had such a voice! But her musings ceased abruptly and her eyes widened in shock as Christian wrapped the broad leather band around her throat. It was a slave-collar, and chokingly tight! Sophie resisted with a cry. She struggled, rose in panic on her toes, grimaced in pain as her gentle Christian secured the buckle, forcing her chin up high!

‘Silence, girl! Keep still!’ Sophie goggled in raw alarm at the blizzard of words. ‘Behave! Stand to attention!’ Instinctively her limbs responded, stiffening like ramrods, head erected by the stout collar, into a guardsmanlike posture.

In the shocked stillness, Mister X spoke again. ‘Take the scissors and remove her underclothes entirely.’ Sophie gasped. Every syllable struck like a dart. The glittering eyes impaled her, challenged her, overwhelmed her. She stood in mute helplessness as Christian reached under the dress and boldly sliced across the crotch of her flimsy panties till they fell from her; then cut and ripped vertical strips in the nice pastel skirt. One of her favourites! This was going too far!

‘Stop it,’ she began, ‘you’re ruining…’

‘Quiet!’ It was Christian’s voice, as icy as the man’s, which froze her. And when he gripped the bodice-top and tore, the ripped neckline gaped and a hard-nippled naked breast wobbled into full view.

‘Proceed with the chastisement.’ An iron-faced Christian chillingly yet thrillingly unfamiliar to her, responded to the instruction by selecting from the instruments on the ottoman a long leather paddle with pliable, spoon-like tip. Sophie was in a daze. Events were rushing too quickly, not giving her time to relax or adjust. Not allowing her, as was usual with Christian, to be in charge. This was wholly new, breathtaking, bewildering. And exhilarating, somehow. With her throat constricted, her white dress hanging in tatters, she made no sound but the smallest squeal as Christian seized her shoulders, turned her to the ottoman and forced her to bend neatly over it, her stomach quailing against its flat top, head and arms overhanging the floor on its further side.

Then, with a grunt, Christian wrenched the dress’s ragged remnants apart at the back and her bare bottom was suddenly, dramatically exposed. Secretly dizzied by the thrill this gave her, Sophie jutted out her ripely-rounded posterior over the ottoman’s edge, every muscle tensed for the first blood-stirring whack. With a hissing swoosh, it came. The paddle descended vigorously from behind Christian’s shoulder to land with a viperous biting slap on her prettily up-straining bottom-cheeks. Like flame, like ice, a vicious fiery kiss! Every part of Sophie Fennington’s body clenched, yet she made no exclamation as the paddle rapidly climbed and whopped in again to strike against her right buttock with all her husband’s weight behind it. And Sophie gritted teeth as her flesh distorted under the resounding impact.

A third blow smacked stunningly, exquisitely, across both nether-globes, and the familiar joys began deep within as her body seemed to ignite deliciously all over. And yet, as ever, Sophie remained strangely silent, as though savouring her pain rather than expressing it in cries.

‘Harder, Fennington.’ Oh, that voice! And Christian obeyed. Again the paddle swung, singing, accelerating, to crack down across the precise centre of both flaming mounds. The sheer weight and agony of it drove Sophie’s head down, despite the constricting collar — yet still she uttered not a sound.

WHACK! The paddle clapped ear-splittingly against her delightful, impact-rippled posterior now blotched with livid marks. It clapped so hard across those pert, rosy hillocks that Sophie’s head jerked up again with the tiniest squeal! And then came the sixth blow, hard and fast from her husband’s hip, like a black wave of battering agony against the undercheeks of her adorable womanly arse.

Sophie was hazed, panting, entranced. Her bottom sizzled, throbbed. ‘Get up. Up!’ It was Christian’s voice, harshly forceful; his hands which dragged her to her feet. Never had she seen him so stern as he seized the dress-tatters and ripped the garment completely from her body, leaving her stark naked in nothing but her shoes. Her breath fluttered in and out, her body jumped with thrills.

‘Now the belt,’ came Mister X’s calm instruction. There was no time for Sophie to recover that grin or start her teasing as Christian took up a beautifully tooled, studded belt from the ottoman and clamped it around her slim nude waist.

‘Tighten it!’ rapped Christian into his wife’s flustered ears. ‘As tight as it will go!’ And Sophie heeded him, too harried to protest: this hard voice was her husband’s voice — yet gritty somehow with a supreme authority imbibed in some way from Mister X’s extraordinarily commanding presence. Sucking in her stomach Sophie buckled the belt to the last agonising hole — like a second slave-collar gripping her middle with crushing force. Already Christian had taken up a fearsome, whippy riding-crop. No, there was no time for taunting, even had she felt like doing so. Which she did not.

‘Mount the ottoman. Up on your hands and knees, and ready your bared buttocks for a further thrashing.’ Mister X’s voice had become something in a dream, and her husband was a part of that dream. A dream coming true. Sophie scrambled clumsily, eagerly, up on to the ottoman top and crouched there on elbows and knees. She felt unnervingly high off the ground, her naked body arched and acutely exposed. She looked absolutely erotically beautiful.

Mister X grunted, as if clearing his throat. Christian looked up at him, then spoke: ‘Arch your back more — push that pretty bottom right up high!’ Sophie tried to answer him, to make some teasing remark — but somehow the words wouldn’t come; and her neat, sweet bottom, bare and exposed, shivered as much as the rest of her did. The effort with which she thrust her buttocks skyward felt similar to that expended in standing on tiptoes, but the sense of vulnerability was so much greater…

Sophie heard the leather crop swish and vibrate, heard Christian’s grunt — and then she was all sensation. The slender implement struck into the springy flesh of her left bottom-cheek, and the pain was as abruptly shocking as a thunderbolt. To stifle her shriek she bit into the cushion, tasting the bitter fabric and dribbling into it as pain-waves blasted through her dainty, dishy arse. The sternly dominant man who was her husband swiped the riding-crop again against her silky-soft backside. Taunting buttocks wealed from the severity of their punishment.

A third blow curved through the air, connected with scorching insistence; there was no pause, no relief: she had asked for this, and was getting it! A further whack whooshed down to seize both cheeks with sparkling agony; swung back, splatted in. After the initial flame came a sizzling, maddening throbbing that lingered and lingered, sending stabbing waves of pulsating agony into every nook and cranny of her body. Sophie moaned quietly.

The fifth scourging impact drove Sophie sprawling helplessly forward to lie prone and quivering across the hard wooden ottoman. In that utterly chastened position the unrelenting Christian directed the riding-crop for a sixth time across the blotched bottom of his lovely wife. ‘One more!’ It was Mister X’s voice. Christian’s final stripe, as full-blooded as the first, caught those gorgeous ladylike twin globes with the loudest CRACK! of all. It drove the breath from Sophie’s body and left her limp and drained and shuddering.

While Sophie lay with her wantonly caressable posterior swarming with fires, Christian did a thing he had never done before. Tenderly he stooped and kissed each burning cheek, soothing the marks with his lips and tongue. Then he helped his wife to her feet and presented her soundly punished bottom to the watching Mister X — who nodded, with a lift of the eyebrow and a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

As the two men chatted together in undertones, Sophie knelt in silence where she had been placed, hands clasped, reflecting broodingly on this particular chastisement, and the complex emotions which had raged through her. Her expression, as her buttocks sparked and throbbed against her heels, was pensive. Even sad. Was it regret that she could never again see Christian as before, that something between them had — with the incontestably authoritative flogging she had just received from him — changed forever? No, not really: this was more of an excitement which ran secret and deep, inexpressible. She could not formulate it in words.

For the next few days Sophie remained uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn, or at least subdued and dreamy. She did not tease Christian, nor smile very much: it was as if she was busily preoccupied in absorbing a shock to her entire system. And yet this curiously quieted young woman became at bedtimes and other unscheduled moments a voluptuous and ardent mistress, delighting her husband as never before with the erotic intensity of her love-making, inventively active, passionate in a way he had never known. The tease was a tease no more. For Christian Fennington his wife had become fulfilment. Perhaps it was because Sophie Fennington had at last glimpsed, and actually experienced, a way to her own fulfilment.