Two’s Company

A photo-story from Fessée 6 featuring Tara Bardot Jackson (Cleo) and Luna Winter (Marcie)

Everybody thinks they know about lesbians. Go into any pub to hear tales of the great show someone has witnessed by a couple of rampant exhibitionists: of how one girl was only ever interested in women until she met Fred/Harry/Bert and now they can’t get enough of the real thing. Most women will admit to having had a ‘pash’ for the gym mistress and anybody can tell you how to recognise one.

Roll out the stereotypes! The butch and fem couple; the middle-aged Teutonic dyke and her adoring young bimbo; the shaven-headed dungaree-clad feminists and the arty-crafty bohemians.

Marcie and Cleo had heard it all and laughed. They made no secret of their relationship,  but never flaunted its intimate details. Indeed. in public they sometimes deliberately acted out some of the expected roles for their personal entertainment. Because of her bigger build and assertive manner, Marcie was always assumed to be the ‘mannish’ one and Cleo’s fair English-rose looks seemed custom-made for the role of seduced innocent maid (the one most likely to respond to Bert, Harry or Fred’s attentions).

What they knew, however, was that they were a fairly ordinary couple of people who shared their lives; they paid the milk bill, worried about the mortgage, went to the pictures and moaned about the weather like most co-habitants. They made love and played games and fell into routines and had arguments and really couldn’t see why people speculated on their domestic behaviour.

Neither of them came from a particularly affluent background but between them (and with the help of some talented friends) they had produced a pretty impressive home. Rooms had ‘themes’ such as the 1950’s coffee bar-inspired kitchen and the Chinese-style living room and conservatory. The hall, stairs and landing were wittily reminiscent of the equivalent areas in an art gallery or museum, leading the visitor from one attraction to the next. Of course. Marcie and Cleo had gradually come to take their surroundings for granted and the landing had in fact taken on the function of television lounge (such a gadget did not fit in easily with Chinese dragons and lacquer).

Neither of the girls were particularly interested in watching on a regular basis, but recently Cleo had developed the habit of relaxing in front of the tea-time Australian soaps. She worked as an instructor at a local fitness centre and would often return home between her afternoon and evening classes to unwind and catch up with the household chores.

It was just this situation which led to one of their infrequent rows. Marcie came hurtling into the house one evening calling out questions about what food was on offer and was her companion ready. In fact, Cleo was absorbed in the problems of an Antipodean family whose washing was mysteriously disappearing from the line. The fact that she was meant to be getting ready for an evening ‘do’ with Marcie’s colleagues had completely gone from her mind.

‘You make me sick at times,’ Marcie yelled at her. You know how important this function is to me. I’m in the running to become the youngest partner ever in that firm; I’m sick with worry about the impression we’ll make anyway and I come in and find you’ve forgotten all about it. Get a move on, girl!’

She raised Cleo’s chin with the tab of her riding crop. Whenever she was tense, Marcie left work early and borrowed a horse from the local stables for a couple of hours. She was a competent but not spectacular rider, but the energy burned up in controlling a fast animal generally had a soothing effect. She had come home fairly relaxed, looking forward to a hot bath, light snack and perhaps some gentle love-making before setting off to impress her superiors with her social skills and her partner.

‘Marcie, I’m sorry: let me fix you something while you take a shower,’ her lover apologised.

‘The only thing I’m taking right now is revenge on your hide,’ Marcie growled, pushing Cleo face-down on the settee.

As with a lot of couples, corporal punishment had always been an important feature in their lives. It was a way of releasing anger, of administering genuine retribution for misdemeanours, or it could be affectionate love-play, initiated by either girl. On this occasion, however, Cleo was under no illusion as to who was taking the lead or what the intention behind the discipline was.

The blonde beauty lay passively and her friend tugged down her skin-tight leggings. Marcie’s riding clothes were rough and carried the faint smell of horse sweat in them. Cleo knew that the crop would be applied to her soft rump with a ferociousness Marcie would never dream of employing on one of her four-legged friends.

‘At least your job keeps you in shape,’ Marcie taunted. ‘Quite the nicest little bum I’ve seen today.’

She flexed the whip and delivered a few light taps from different angles. It was enough to make Cleo twitch and gasp, but they both knew this was not the serious beating that would soon follow. This was just to set the tone, to humiliate the normally graceful Cleo with the indignity of having her pants at half-mast, partly protecting her, but mostly restraining her. It was to show her that, for the moment, Marcie was in charge.

‘Right, then, let’s give you room to move that lissom bod of yours, shall we?’

She struggled to get the tight sheaths over Cleo’s chunky trainers but was reluctant to remove the shoes as well. Without them, Cleo would look too willingly available, and she might become side-tracked into other less painful activities.

‘Kneel up so that I can inspect you,’ she told her nervous companion. She took her time touching and stroking the soft mounds, teasing with gentle strokes and sudden slaps. She removed her jacket to give herself more freedom of movement, and the punishment began in earnest.

She enjoyed hand-spanking Cleo in the kneeling position, but took her over her knee to give herself a better aim and to experience the thrill of the anguished girl squirming against her own trouser-clad thighs. The rocking and bucking urged her on so that her blows landed loudly and firmly again and again until the blonde girl’s fair skin bore a deep crimson band across her buttocks.

‘Kneel up and look over the bannisters,’ she suddenly barked and Cleo scrambled to obey. With her knees apart and her bottom cheeks clenched, she knelt on the floral settee and rested her hands on the back. She looked over the rail and down the stairwell. listening to her friend’s movements and anticipating what was to come.

A white hot bar seemed to sear into her as the crop landed on her tenderised flanks. She pressed her belly against the cool chintz but was unable to bring any relief to the part of her body that craved it.

Marcie placed her free hand in the small of Cleo’s back to stop her moving too much and delivered six more efficiently vicious cracks to her target, spacing them evenly between the girl’s waist and thighs so that whenever she moved the least bit in the next few days she would have an instant reminder of her tardiness and its consequences. And with the job she did, she was bound to move quite a lot!

‘Are you sorry? Do I have your apology?’ Marcie asked.

‘Oh yes,’ the girl hurriedly agreed.

‘Then we’d better get ready quickly or we’ll be late.’

‘Oh no,’ protested Cleo. ‘First I have to make you feel good.’

Marcie made no protest as she was helped off with her own clothes and received a light tawsing from Cleo. They both knew this was by way of atonement from them both and that in her way Marcie deserved it.

Her bottom became striped in tones of red and pink which melted into her suntan and the two girls eventually began uncomfortably to prepare for their evening engagement, laughing at their ‘war wounds’, and their reluctance to sit down.