Double Trouble 2

Badger is back. Photo-story from Janus 146

After the pleasures of dealing with Candice Lavelle that morning, Badger Bartholomew travelled out of the suburbs into the heart of town and lunched in a trendy pub. His next assignment promised to be very different, and he sensed that he might have more of a fight on his hands, so to speak. A pippin like that sweet ‘n’ sour singer was one thing, but a female civil servant to a powerful man of government was quite another.

At the smart block of flats he buzzed for entry, and was admitted. The door to the apartment was open. Hearing a voice, Badger walked in. And stared at his next assignment. She was seductively attractive, stylishly dressed and of cunning intellect. Blonde hair flicked as she talked incisively on the telephone, laying down crisp instructions to whoever was on the other end. The glasses she wore enhanced her appeal somehow. For a moment even Badger felt slightly daunted.

She affected to see him for the first time, but the look of alarm was unfeigned. The woman was glad it wasn’t some wimp masquerading as a ‘dominant’: this one looked like the real thing.

‘Don’t you normally knock when you enter a room?’ she snapped.

‘I’ll be doing plenty of knocking,’ Badger came back at her. ‘And let me assure you it won’t be on wood.’ He came up behind her and put a hand as heavy as an arresting officer’s on her shoulder. ‘Is your name Jemima-Ellen Simpson?’

‘It is,’ she said curtly, as if his question were an impertinence.

‘Good. Then I think we can stop playing games,’ he said. ‘I had a posting on my website to pay you a disciplinary visit. Well, here I am. Let’s start with you putting that phone down…’ Flustered, the woman did so. Nobody ever spoke to her like this. ‘That’s better. There’ll be no more calls for the next half hour, so I suggest you keep it on answering machine. I trust I make myself clear.’

‘Faintly,’ she sniffed.

‘Let’s cut the sarcasm,’ rapped Badger. ‘Stand up.’ The woman got to her feet, distinctly nervous now. ‘I don’t know who summoned me,’ he said heavily, ‘as no name was given — but I understand you’ve accepted the fact that in leaking that confidential government document to the press, you’ve put your superior’s department in a most embarrassing situation.’

Jemima-Ellen Simpson flinched at the word ‘superior’ — it wasn’t a word she liked, it indicated she must therefore be in some way ‘inferior’. All this Badger read in her rapidly-changing expressions, which had gone from haughty to hesitant since he’d made his entrance. ‘I imagine your superior wanted you to feel his dissatisfaction with your disgraceful conduct in — shall we say — more ‘tangible’ form than a mere reprimand. If that’s the case, I’m here to see this more fitting punishment carried out.’

With this, Badger produced from his jacket a two-tailed leather tawse. She stared at it in trepidation. ‘I take it you know what this is?’ he said. The woman nodded, her eyes fixed in dread on the implement. ‘Good, because you’re about to be beaten soundly with it. Take off your dress.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ It was a last try at defiance, but it didn’t wash.

‘You heard what I said. Take your dress off — NOW.’

With alacrity, the woman did so. Beneath it her figure was agreeably robust and curvy in white panties and matching bra. Badger liked a woman to be a woman, and this one certainly was. She was shivering, though not with cold.

‘Bend over!’ demanded Badger, indicating the computer desk. She did so at once, pushing out her generously-padded rear and submitting totally to the punishment. An anthem played in Badger’s heart as he lifted the tawse and brought it cracking down.

‘Yow!’ she squealed, in surprise at the flash of hurt. He delivered several more solid, meaty thwacks, each of which sank into the soft flesh of her buttocks, reddening and burning that plushly-padded seat till Jemima-Ellen was shaking her hips and making high, keening noises.

Badger was starting to enjoy himself thoroughly again. Limbered up by this morning’s activities with the young singer, he was now making this senior civil servant sing just as loudly. After about the twentieth hearty whack he ripped the lady’s knickers down to fully expose the brave, broad cheeks of that splendid bottom, and commenced laying on the tawse even harder.

Whack-whack-whack-whack-THWACK. The sound was music to Badger. Soon Jemima-Ellen was stamping her feet and yowling like a cat as the robust thrashing continued, delivering a barrage of burning blasts to her raw, humiliatingly bare behind.

Then he was hauling her to her feet. Tears poured down her face. She shivered and shook.

‘Take off your brassiere.’

The woman was past questions, but simply did as instructed. Moments later, with renewed screeches, she was tumbling forward across Badger’s sturdy thighs.

‘You deserve everything you’re getting,’ he snarled in her ear. ‘Do you agree?’

‘Y-yes,’ she sobbed. ‘I-I do.’

He proceeded to deliver a succession of walloping spanks with his broad, heavy palm on her fiercely-smarting bottom, making it burn all the more. She shook and wriggled across his lap, entirely under this man’s control — and although the hurt was intense, the woman felt a peace she’d never found with any of the others she’d summoned.

She began to squeal louder to a new intensity of pain as he stopped using his hand and belaboured her buttocks with a small oval paddle which carried a virulent sting and coloured the entire target area a deep, throbbing scarlet.

‘Ow! Ow! Ouch! Ow! Aaaggh!’ Never had she been punished as severely as this — and although Badger didn’t know it yet, she was horribly, scorchingly, imploringly glad, for having made those injudicious remarks to the press this was the only way she could square things with herself.

At last he helped her up. Her legs would barely support her as she stood gulping with sobs. But then Badger did something none of her other punishers had ever done — he began to laugh at her pain and distress, smacking her red, wobbling cheeks almost playfully and squeezing her breasts in the most degrading way.

‘You called me yourself, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘You were so ashamed at what you’d done, you posted that request yourself.’

She said not a word. ‘Go and get dressed,’ he went on, pointing to the door. ‘When you come back, I’ll be gone.’

Yes, she had offered herself for several beatings in the past, as expiation for her sins. But never had there been a punishment like this. Without a word, still sobbing, bottom blazing, yet feeling strangely at peace, Jemima-Ellen Simpson picked up her clothes and went.