Belinda & Belinda’s Test

Belinda

A teasing trailer from Janus 53, followed by the first Belinda photo-story feature from Janus 55

Belinda Laine. We are planning big things for her. We thought she deserved a unique course of discipline. We have arranged this.

Belinda’s Test

Regent Street, London. Passers-by thronged the pavement; traffic crammed the road. Pretty girls tripped along in summer gear, inviting glances. None more so than Belinda Laine, whose trimly petite figure moved like a poem in tight leather mini-skirt and snug red sweater which hugged her sinuous torso. Bright hair the colour of corn bobbed on slender shoulders, framing a delicately pretty face whose hazel eyes anxiously, hopelessly, searched the crowds.

One of the crowd was a powerfully-built man returning on foot to his hotel from a business lunch. Like Belinda, he too was a visitor to the big city, and although his lunch had been successful Stuart Baverstock’s mind was clouded by an unappeasable torment in the shape of… Stuart gasped, hesitated. Surely the very girl who was driving him crazy with those teasing lips and heavenly body and ever-provocative manner was coming straight towards him!

Yet her restless gaze settled on him for the briefest moment, passed on without recognition. Her intoxicating figure drew abreast of him, was going past. ‘Stop!’ called Stuart desperately. The vision paused in her stride and swung round, startled. Heads turned to glance at the enticingly attractive female.

‘How can you just walk by like this?’ he exclaimed hoarsely, restraining her with a hand. ‘At least talk to me! I’ve sent you messages, flowers, letters — all ignored.’

Belinda Laine gaped at the stranger. ‘I’m sorry, there must be some mistake,’ she told him— embarrassed and a little angry at being accosted. But the man was staring at her in the weirdest way, moving around her as if she were a lost treasure he had found again.

‘Please don’t,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t continue to taunt me like this, Chrissie.’

‘Chrissie?’ Hope flared in the girl. ‘I see now,’ she blurted. ‘You think I’m Chrissie! My twin sister…’

‘Your twin?’

That same haunting face which still disturbed his dreams nodded. ‘She left home almost a year ago. I’ve been looking for her ever since. I must find her. You must know where she is; please tell me.’

Stuart Baverstock frowned. Was this another game the wicked tease was playing? Yet now he looked more closely, the girl’s form and features, though identical in every loin-stirring detail, lacked just a dash of the spirit and zip of the other. ‘You look amazingly alike,’ he mused.

‘Tell me where Chrissie is,’ she begged again in the clear high voice which so echoed her sister’s. ‘Please, sir.’

He smiled indulgently at the schoolgirlish cadence, but the smile froze when he thought of the dance this delectable young female’s sister had led him: thought of how she had cast him aside after he had showered her with gifts and outings in return for promises never kept; how she had lifted his hopes then hurled them to pieces with a flashing grin and a swing of those lean, luscious haunches, limbs which had taunted him in the tightest of taut denim and stunned him in short skirts; and how he had considered in his brooding rages what he would like to do with the wicked siren. Well here she was, Chrissie’s living image! If it was true that twins communed telepathically, suffered when the other suffered, then here was a miraculous means of exacting at least some redress for the despair she had caused him, and of getting that tormenting figure out of his system.

‘I will tell you where your sister is,’ Stuart intoned, fixing the petite girl with a steely eye. ‘But before I do, you must come with me to my hotel. Now.’

Visibly jolted, Belinda took a step back. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that!’ she gasped.

‘You will do as I say,’ he informed her coolly. ‘If you wish to know where Chrissie is.’

The girl blanched, acutely aware of how stiff her nipples were beneath the clinging cotton top. She felt feverish, gripped by a frisson of emotion both exciting and appalling.

‘There,’ the man continued, ‘you will be obliged to undergo a test.’ His own head swam. It was like a dream.

Belinda was uncomfortably certain that this opportunity of locating her beloved, errant sister must not be missed. She steeled herself to meet his eye. ‘Wh-what kind of a test?’ she faltered.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he informed her with calculated brusqueness. ‘Now come along with me.’

Belinda’s head spun, and she felt her senses scattering. The idea was monstrous, completely alien to anything she would normally do. But Chrissie floated with berefting clarity again into her mind, as if her sister’s wild spirit were lending Belinda strength. And then she had turned, without a word, and was walking back the way she had come, the dominant stranger in step beside her.

The hotel room was a cheerless though not inexpensive single which seemed to emphasise the fact that Stuart Baverstock was alone in the world, romantically wrecked. Chrissie Laine was still in his blood, and he would never find peace until she had been exorcised. He ushered her beautiful clone into the hushed, lonely room and closed the door behind them, switching on all the lights.

‘Put down your bag,’ he ordered. The girl did so, then stood with downcast eyes, worriedly clasping hands defensively in front of her. He was taking off his jacket. Such force and power came from him during this simple act. To remove a jacket indicated… what? Now he sat down on the bed, his expression unyieldingly stern. A strong man, hard of purpose.

‘Come here,’ he commanded.

Belinda froze, ‘Wh-what are you going to do?’

‘Come here, I said!’ Stuart reached out and grasped the black leather belt which enclosed her tiny waist. ‘At once!’ he barked, and yanked her unceremoniously towards him. Belinda stumbled helplessly forward, hair splashing like a golden waterfall; and she flinched as he trapped her by the legs with power-filled hands.

‘You will now remove your skirt.’

Belinda looked profoundly shocked. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘No I won’t…’

‘Remove it, Miss Laine,’ repeated Stuart, fixing the girl with a glare so commanding that she found herself fumbling awkwardly with the zipper, unbuttoning the waistband. She thought of Chrissie. Oh Chrissie. ‘You are the image of your sister,’ he growled, hiding the pain in his eyes. ‘I offered her everything, but she abused me. Denied me all intimacies, professed to love me then danced around me; ran away and left me craving and humiliated.’

‘That isn’t my fault,’ whispered Belinda.

Maybe not,’ he grunted. ‘But you are her image — and, in part, you are her.’

‘But…’

‘Your test,’ he pursued, ‘is to be your sister, to show me how she looks beneath those provocative clothes she used to like to taunt me with.’ Belinda tensed every muscle, and gasped at what he next said. ‘You will then submit to a physical chastisement such as I have longed since to give to Chrissie.’

Belinda was aghast. ‘You mean a… you mean a —?’

‘I mean a spanking, Miss Laine,’ he ground out. ‘On that sweet little bottom of yours, which I’m sure is identical in shape and size and texture to your sister’s.’

‘B-but I couldn’t possibly…’

‘Take off that skirt!’ roared Stuart with frightening abruptness. Galvanised by alarm, Belinda stooped and pushed at the clinging leather which guarded her modesty. ‘All the way!’ he shouted again when she hesitated. The force of his voice and dominating presence finally overwhelmed her. The skirt slid to the floor and she stepped out of it, exhibiting the full slender grace of her bare, suntanned legs. The briefest black panties, kissed with a red bow beneath her dimpled navel, hugged her lissom hips. The sight took his breath.

‘The sweater too,’ Stuart managed, gazing raptly. Acutely self-conscious, yet powerless somehow to resist, Belinda peeled the garment up over her head, baring her body save for the panties and a flimsy bra of palest pink which cupped pretty breasts assuredly the same as Chrissie’s. He licked his lips. ‘And now the brassiere,’ ordered Stuart in a low voice.

The girl’s hands trembled as she obeyed, teasing off the shoulder-straps in unconscious titillation, crushed with shame; and the businessman couldn’t restrain a gasp as the two ripe silken mounds sprang free. Instinctively Belinda made to cover them.

‘Get your hands down, girl!’ rapped Stuart, delivering a hard corrective slap. The girl yelped, and put her hands to her side. Blushing fiercely, biting her lip, Belinda stood awaiting the man’s next order. Never had she experienced such helpless humiliation.

Stuart feasted his sight on the lovely young body so identical in every detail to that of the girl who had denied him. ‘Put your hands on your head,’ he now instructed. Miserably, Belinda did so, terribly aware of his gaze as he positioned her elbow to show to best advantage her embarrassingly stiff-nippled breasts. Somewhere deep down inside her simmered an excitement which she dared not acknowledge.

‘Turn around,’ he breathed. Belinda meekly complied, turning her bare back on him, feeling his gaze glide over her shoulders, her waist and supple legs; and her buttock-muscles twitched at the ghost-like feel of his intense regard.

‘Bend down and touch your toes,’ he growled. And Belinda did, doubling right over so that her gorgeously pert bottom was thrust up and out. Her face burned as she felt his hand caress her thigh-backs, and butterfly thrills fluttered through her.

After deeply pleasurable moments contemplating the splendour of her sleek legs and darling arse, Stuart now commanded the girl to kneel upright on the carpet with knees wide apart, hands on head. At every breath-catching move of her lithe, bare body he saw Chrissie, stripped and chastened, deeply repenting the wrongs she had done him. The power to command the previously uncontrollable and capricious young dancer made him feel godlike and totally excited.

‘I want you now to get down on your knees and elbows and present your buttocks to me,’ the man snapped. Belinda squirmed across the floor, swivelled, and sank her head to the carpet, arching her back to blatantly push her almost naked bottom up in his direction. She too was extremely agile — just like her sister. It was a position of absolute abasement, and although the girl felt appallingly shamed and nervous, nor could she deny those strange deep pleasure-stirrings within her as she maintained the posture.

‘Now I know exactly how you look, Chrissie Laine,’ murmured Stuart to himself. His eyes roamed every inch and angle of her twin’s body — Chrissie’s body: the wanton Chrissie who had so deserved to have that sexily wiggling bottom smacked to screaming. And now the time had come!

Stuart switched on the bedside radio and turned it up. Music blared out. He placed a pillow across his lap and fixed her with a stern glare in which lurked a burning yearning. ‘Kneel up on the bed here,’ he ordered. Belinda knew what was about to happen. She tensed, wanted to run, but knew she could not. Hesitantly, in great trepidation, she knelt up beside him.

‘You will lie forward across the pillow,’ he grated. ‘I want that saucy young backside nice and high, for the spanking it will now receive.’

With a curious groaning sigh Belinda sank forward, settling her super-trim body snugly over the man’s lap, her tummy sinking into the pillow. Again he stroked the milky skin at the backs of her thighs, and she shuddered with the unexpected thrilling it gave her. She gave the tiniest cry as he tugged the frothy knickers inside the crevice of her buttocks, completely exposing the succulent rounds.

‘Don’t hurt me, sir,’ Belinda begged. ‘Please don’t…’ His fingers were on her bared bottom, stroking, soothing, voluptuously testing their texture. She wanted to cry with shame. But Belinda squirmed, intensifying the soft flames flickering within her.

Stuart lifted his broad palm and brought it experimentally down to strike the luscious twin-target with a splattering smack. Belinda’s sweet bottom shivered and jumped, just as Chrissie’s would! Again his hand impacted with the softly squeezable hillocks, harder this time, and Chrissie’ jerked and squealed. It was quite glorious! The radio continued to blare some earthy pop-song. SMACK-SMACK! His heavy hand landed solidly, twice — a terrific double-spank across the divine girlish butt, harder and harder. The girl gave a harsh yowl and tried to squirm off his lap, but he seized her wrist and held it firmly against her back as he delivered another hefty smack, spurting more agonising flame-sheets through those taunting buttocks.

‘Please… n-n-no!’ Her wailing voice could scarcely be heard above the music as his hand swept down to impact with a sixth meaty pain-blast on the dramatically reddening bottom of the pinioned girl.

‘Plead, Chrissie Laine,’ Stuart grunted raptly. ‘Beg and plead as I spank your bare bottom, you wicked hussy!’ He paused, panting and exultant, to readjust the girl across his lap, pushing her knees forward so that her delectable derriere was forced even higher, the knickers swallowed up between the twitching nether-cheeks. A joyous rage possessed him, a rage against all that this girl’s identical twin had caused him to endure. His hand rose high and slammed down in earnest, smearing the flesh of that enticing bottom flat; rising, smiting, rising, smiting with more tumultuous smacks.

Belinda wrenched, twisted and screeched as the splattering pain-shocks rained down. In her frenzy a dainty fist gripped his trouser-bottoms as she twisted and writhed. ‘Please, sir… p-p-please no more…’ the girl blubbed, wrenching her head round to show her contorted face.

His hand was so hard! She watched it soar then swoop like a hawk, felt it explode scaldingly against her tenderised arse-cheeks with a simultaneous smack and scream; fly up and slam down again. She was getting the hiding of her life! Belinda tried to wrench away from the blistering hand, but his arm locked around her slippy waist and more fire swamped her scorching cheeks.

Belinda was bawling now, and as yet another spank blazed down she kicked up her legs, jerking and wriggling. Her head was almost on the floor, and her tortured bottom seemed miles above her. She was twitching like an eel, stunned by the stinging fury of his hard-hitting hand. She turned her face to him for another gasped entreaty, then howled as his palm powered against her sizzling posterior in the hardest spank of all! Belinda fell forward on to all fours and knelt cowed and whimpering on the carpet, sobbing from her smarting pain and the shameful humiliation of being spanked on her bare bottom by a stranger — by this man.

It was over… or was it? The radio had stopped. Her panties, that final scrap of modesty, he had made her discard. Nude but for her shoes, she stood where he now placed her, her naked bottom scarlet and inflamed. The chastened girl’s head hung, a hand cupped her intimate parts. ‘M-my sister?’ Belinda whispered.

Stuart Baverstock stared at the wretched girl. Already ideas were forming. ‘Your sister was very bad to me,’ he said firmly. ‘So I’m not quite finished with you yet. Before I let you know where she is, I have further plans for you. This has been just a test, to see if you are suitable; you have passed the test. You will stand exactly as you are until I tell you you may move. Before you go I will make a telephone call; I will then be able to give you a time and place for our next meeting, after which I shall put you in touch with your missing sister.’

Chrissie, oh Chrissie! Belinda Laine swallowed a sob. ‘Whatever you say, sir,’ she said. Standing forlornly on display, her lowered eyes blurred into a bright haze as the man seated on the hotel bed made all her skin tingle with his roaming gaze.

To be continued in Belinda’s Ordeal in Janus 56.