…Likewise the Maid…

Photo-story from Februs 1

Katrina could never resist a telephone: public kiosks, state-of-the-art domestics, cordless, mobiles… any sort of telephone cried out to her to be used. It was therefore inevitable that as she made her ineffectual flicks with her feather duster she would be overcome by the urge to call a friend or two.

‘Hi, Ginny? It’s me, Katrina. Listen this job is brilliant…’ She started in a rushed, hushed whisper, but soon relaxed and was giggling loudly as she told her friend about the cushy billet she had found.

‘Yeah, he’s some kind of ageing hippy artist who’s sort of gone respectable. Huge house: you ought to see my room. I’ve got the run of the place as long as I wear this twee little uniform and make a show of doing the odd spot of housework. It’s all for show, though, there’s a proper cleaning woman that comes in at the crack of dawn and does the real stuff. Anyway, the great man’s out this afternoon, so why don’t you come over? Any time after two.’

The receiver went down as Ginny confirmed the arrangement, but it was a hand other than Katrina’s that replaced it. Red in the face, but calm of voice, Jeremy Stokes raised his maid by the hair. Without warning or preamble, he sat on the sofa and pulled her across his lap.

‘The ageing hippy artist who pays you to do as you are told is about to reinforce the terms of your contract,’ he menaced.

To be fair, he had warned her that this might happen, but she had assumed it was some kind of joke (or fantasy). It was not funny, though to be in this undignified position. It was immediately clear why her skirt was worn so short and why he insisted on stockings and suspenders.

Her knickers were pulled tight into the cleft between her full buttocks and the bared flesh presented a perfect target for the heavy calloused hand that began to spank her thoroughly. She kicked and screamed from the moment the first blow landed, more from surprise and embarrassment than actual pain that was still to come.

Jeremy Stokes had always had a predilection for spanking the rounded rump of an errant domestic and the success he had enjoyed in the last decade or so through his sculptures meant he had been able to afford to have at least one on his staff at any given time. Naturally, they never stayed long, but that was an advantage in a way. He liked variety. Katrina had been slow to ‘earn her stripes’ but he knew she would sooner or later and then she would no doubt quickly make way for her successor.

He delivered some twenty or so stinging swats to her rear-end, bringing an even crimson glow to the flawless flesh. Then he ordered her to stand up and remove her frilly dress and apron and, as she did so, he pulled a vicious-looking riding crop from under the cushions of the sofa.

Katrina was dumbstruck at the sight of it, but could see no chance to escape. She had no money until Stokes paid her at the end of the week and she was now dressed only in her lingerie — and that only from her waist down! She told herself he would not actually whip her, just give her a few light taps for the sake of form, maybe. She did not realise that her master was highly skilled in the application of a range of implements and that he was serious about his craft!

Her shapely legs were stretched taut as she rested her hands on the arm of the sofa, bracing herself for what was to come. At first he used only the tab, delivering a series of scalding flicks, each leaving its distinctive mark.

The sight of his handiwork was beautiful to him and as he pulled down her briefs, he could not resist kissing each mauve wedge shape as it gently raised itself from her already roseate cheeks.

It was at that moment that Ginny arrived and was surprised to find herself greeted at the main door by the artist himself. He led her straight to the living room, where her friend curled up in the corner of the sofa, more concerned with trying to hide her embarrassment than easing the very real pain in her backside.

‘Now, Ginny,’ Jeremy Stokes said conversationally, ‘I want you to witness Katrina’s punishment. It was very wrong of her to use my telephone when she was meant to be working and she said some very unflattering things about me. Now, you sit there and, Katrina, let your friend see the consequence of your insubordination.’

Katrina was beyond arguing by now and hurriedly bent with her hands on the sofa seat, avoiding Ginny’s eye. Ginny could not believe what was happening: she sat in silent horror as her chum was subjected to six full strokes of the crop across her bottom, unsurprised by the wailing protests Katrina was making.

‘Let’s just make sure you both understand that I will not be mocked in my own home. Katrina, kneel over Ginny’s lap so she can give you some moral support.’

Both girls felt a twinge of embarrassment as Katrina draped her near-naked body over Ginny’s trousered thighs. Once more, the artist delivered a severe hand-spanking that ensured the whole area framed by Ginny’s suspenders and stockings was slapped until it felt as if a million pin-pricks were assailing her.

‘Now get out, both of you,’ he barked. ‘Take your friend to your room as you are so proud of it, Katrina. Perhaps she will apply some cold cream if you ask her nicely.’

The two needed no second bidding, but they were not on sufficiently intimate terns for Ginny to relieve her friend’s discomfort in the way Stokes had suggested. Instead, they huddled on Katrina’s bed and tried to think of suitably vile names for her assailant. Which was unfortunate, because he was listening at the door.

‘Okay, Ginny,’ he thundered, ‘if you are going to insult me I think I have the right to earn your displeasure first.’

He hauled her over his lap, not bothering to lower her trousers. It gave him less satisfaction to deal with her in this way, but he knew that surprise was important in gaining a girl’s submission.

Only when she was beginning to sob quietly did he unfasten the offending jeans and yank them down her thighs. Now he could really lay into that fulsome arse, clear palm-prints embedding themselves in the ivory flesh around her panties.

Eventually, these too came down and Jeremy Stokes gazed upon a work of art as creative as anything he had hewn in stone.

He had the girls lie face down next to each other and described in lewd detail the similarities and differences in their nether quarters.

A paddle was produced almost magically and he applied it vigorously without favour to the four hemispheres in front of him. He did not count; he did not time their chastisement. Again and again the weighty leather smacked into the sensitive flesh, bringing a cacophony of cries and tears.

He only stopped when his arm grew tired and the girls’ voices were hoarse from protesting. Even then, their humiliation was not over.

Kneeling on the bed, they had to endure him massaging their engorged rumps, were forced to listen to him gloating about his power over them.

And finally, he dismissed them both, telling them to put on their clothes and leave his house immediately. He had to draft an advertisement for a new maid.