The Club Although I didn't know it at the time, Wendy got the idea of spanking me from her friend Robin, who lived just down the block from us. I had been getting on Wendy's nerves for some time. I often came home to dinner late without calling, having stopped for drinks with the boys. And when she called me on it, instead of apologizing, I would tell that she couldn't expect me to change my behavior simply because we got married, could she? I told her to get used to it. She would complain about my leaving the toilet seat up, forgetting that there was a woman in the house. I told her she ought to stop leaving the toilet seat down, because there was a man in the house. I don't want to suggest that we were always quarreling. In fact, the responses I've mentioned were intended as jokes, though I concede they might not have seemed funny to Wendy. I knew she was right but wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting it. And even though I meant to do better the next time, I rarely did remember to call and say I'd be an hour late. Time always got away from me when I was with the guys. And even though I meant to lower the toilet seat after I went to the bathroom, I regularly failed to do so. I'd been a bachelor until my late thirties, and getting accustomed to being married was not easy. In some ways, I was a pretty good husband, however. I bought her flowers and gifts regularly, sometimes simply because I loved her, which I really do, and sometimes because I felt guilty for giving her an impolite, if joking, answer to justifiable complaints. But I will freely acknowledge that I acted like a male chauvinist most of the time. I took for granted that I could come and go as I please, heading for the golf course with my buddies on Saturday and for football games on Sunday, without bothering to ask whether she'd mind. On the other hand, I expected her to come home from work, make dinner and serve it. I never cheated on her but I flirted with other women at parties, although I certainly expected her to reserve her attentions for me alone. I guess she just got tired of my ways and went to Robin because she thought Robin and Bill had an ideal marriage and she wanted to know the secret. Bill was invariably polite to Robin, spent Saturdays running errands and doing household chores, going out with the guys only when Robin agreed to it. "Pussy-whipped" was the way the guys in our circle described him. Anyway, it was from Robin that Wendy learned about spanking. Robin explained that when they'd first got married Bill had also behaved like she was his sex toy and servant girl. But Robin came from a family where she'd experienced strict physical discipline as a girl. She took it as a given that she'd spank her children when they deserved it. And, because she felt Bill was acting like a spoiled child, she decided to discipline him. She had found the opportunity after he got roaring drunk at a neighborhood party and had to be driven home and helped up to bed. She just gave him an ultimatum: Submit to a spanking or she would leave him. He submitted and since then he got a walloping whenever Robin thought he deserved it. He was polite to her because she demanded it. He ran errands because he knew the price of not doing so. He asked her permission to go out with the guys because she'd once tanned his ass for him when he'd failed to do so and he knew that a second offense would draw a worse penalty. She and Bill also belonged to a disciplinary club, Robin went on. It was a club in which all the wives spanked all the husbands. There were 10 member couples. The club met once every two months. Most of the members attended every meeting. The wives divided up into groups of five. One group sat in the living room of the mansion where they met and another in the sun room. The husbands were brought down one at a time, dressed only in their skivvies, to say what they had done wrong since the previous meeting. The wives would agree collectively on the penalty that the offenses deserved, and the offender's wife pulled down his underpants and delivered a barebottom spanking, using a hairbrush, while the rest of the wives looked on. The assessed penalty might vary from 50 to 250 spanks. The husband was then required to hobble to one of the bedrooms, with his underpants around his ankles, and stand facing a corner while displaying his red bottom. The spankings continued in the living room and sun room until all the husbands had been dealt with. Then the wives would go downstairs, carrying paddles, to administer communal punishment. Each husband came down, in turn, to receive a paddling from a woman other than his wife. It went on until the offender begged for it to stop. Men being men, none wanted to give in easily. Moreover, there were disincentives for doing so. The paddlings were timed. And the results were announced at the conclusion. The husband who lasted the longest went home in his own underpants. All the rest went home in women's panties with the one who lasted the shortest period of time going home in the frilliest undergarment. He was also designated the club's "sissy," a title he held until the next meeting. The wife who had first paddled the evening's "sissy" won his signed underpants. So while the husbands tried not to give in for as long as they could, each of the wives was trying to make the husband they were punishing give in as quickly as possible. It was "a lot of fun," Robin said, "but not for the guys. They dread it." Wendy said she'd like to spank me but didn't know how to go about it. Spanking wasn't something either of us had ever done, even as kids Robin gave her advice. Several weeks later, Robin called me on a Sunday and asked me to drop by. It was not an unusual request. I'm Robin and Bill's lawyer, and she said she needed to talk with me about some estate issues. I rang the bell and Robin opened it, wearing a red T-shirt and tight-fitting blue shorts . Robin is a very good looking woman with curves in all the right places. She was not wearing a brassiere. That was obvious. She looked incredibly sexy, and I had a difficult time keeping my mind on business. After about half an hour of talk about tax planning, she asked me if I would help her bring something down from upstairs. I followed her up and into her bedroom. She locked the door behind us. "Come here, handsome," she said to me. "Give me a kiss." She pulled me to her and kissed me full on the lips, wriggling her tongue into my mouth. We were locked that way for a few minutes, and I became very hard. The next thing I knew she had her T-shirt off and was urging me to kiss her breasts. I hugged her to me and buried my face between her naked breasts, kissing and licking first one and then the other. Shortly, she kneeled and began undoing my belt. At that moment, the door flew open and there were Wendy and Bill. Bill was screaming at me and threatening to kill me. Wendy was crying hysterically. It never occurred to me then to wonder where Bill had been or why Wendy was there, why I hadn't heard his car drive up. All I knew was that I was in deep shit. I don't think I would have screwed Robin, even if she were willing to allow it. But who knows? In any case, it looked for all the world like adultery about to happen, and there was no use denying it. "You'd better leave, Robert," Robin said calmly, pulling on her T-shirt. "I'll handle Bill." I was a lot less worried about Bill than I was about Wendy. She was now blubbering, like a hurt child. When we got outside, I started to apologize, and she slapped my face. I tried to hug her and she dug her nails into my arms and raked them so hard I began bleeding. I held her hands firmly so she couldn't do any further damage, and she spit in my face. I finally got her to our front door. It was a bit of a struggle to get the door open without letting go of Wendy but I finally managed. Once we got inside, she told me that she was going to leave me. I was now genuinely sorry and genuinely afraid. I couldn't live without Wendy. I started crying myself and begged her not to leave. I told her I'd do anything to make it right. "Anything?" she asked through her tears. "Anything," I answered. She stopped crying and said: "Well, we'll see." I was sure that I had made an impression with my offer, although I didn't know what I was offering. She was calm now. And while she refused to talk to me for a couple of days, I knew that she wasn't going to leave me. On Thursday, Wendy finally said: "I've decided what we're going to do about your behavior, Robert." I repeated: "Anything, Wendy." "We're going to visit a disciplinarian, and you're going to get a spanking to end all spankings," she said. I was incredulous. I couldn't believe it. But she was perfectly serious. When I protested that I was too old for a spanking, she answered: "You should have thought of that, Mister, before you behaved like a horny teenager. I've made the arrangements. I'm going to go with you and watch while you get your ass pounded. Madame Blair said she'll keep going until you beg me to let her stop, and we won't stop until I think you've had enough, and, believe me, that will be long after you think you've had enough." I had a week to stew about it before the day came. Although I'd promised "anything," I hadn't imagined this. I would be totally humiliated at being treated like a naughty boy. . I thought about telling her to forget it, that I wouldn't go through with it, but I was convinced she would move out if I did that. And the very thought of her leaving made me begin weeping again. So when the next Saturday came, I found myself sitting alongside her in her car, while she drove us far into the suburbs into a wealthy neighborhood filled with estates. We drove into the circular driveway of a very large and imposing house and parked there. It was about 3 p.m. when we arrived at Madame Blair's house and were admitted by the maid, a pretty young, light-skinned black woman. She pointed to a door leading to the basement and told us to go down to the "playroom." It was a very large space with a pool table at one end, a bench on a small platform to one side, and chairs, a sofa and a huge television set at the other end. When we got there, Wendy sat down in an easy chair and told me to remain standing. Soon afterwards, Madame Blair herself came down the stairs and entered the room. She was a tall woman, taller than me in her heels, dressed in a well-tailored suit. She looked to be in her early fifties. "You are the culprit?" she said. "Yes," I replied. "Yes, Madame Blair, is the answer - not yes," she said icily. "Yes, Madame Blair." "You will go into the next room, undress completely, and wait for me with your forehead on the ground and your ass in the air. Do you understand me?" "Yes, Madame Blair." "And you will spread your legs wide apart so I can get at your balls. Do you understand?" "Yes, Madame Blair." "Go!" I went. The "next room" was through a door in the wall across from the corner where the pool table stood. It was empty of furniture except for a straight-backed wooden chair, an upholstered club chair and a four-poster bed. Although the rooms were cool, I was perspiring. I had no real idea of what was going to happen. But I stripped, as directed, and I kneeled down with my face to the carpet, my butt elevated and my legs widely spread. I was in that position for what seemed like a very long time - at least 15 minutes. I could hear the hum of conversation between Wendy and Madame Blair but could not make out what was being said. Then I hear the click-click of two sets of heels on the tile at the entrance to the room I was in. Madame Blair came up behind me, put her foot between my legs and tapped my balls with her shoe. I flinched. "I'm going to sit down in this chair, Robert, and you are going to lie down across my lap. Then you are going to tell me why you deserve to be punished. I don't want to hear the short version. I want to hear every single detail. " I draped myself across her lap and told her what had happened. I gave myself the benefit of the doubt in talking about my behavior with Robin. I did not mention that Robin was bare from the waist up and unbuckling my pants when Wendy and Bill entered. I certainly did not suggest that we were about to have sex. Madame Blair allowed me to finish, and then she said: "That is not satisfactory, Robert. You have not only committed an offense against your wife, you have also lied to me. Therefore, after I have punished you on Wendy's behalf, I will punish you on my behalf. You will learn to be absolutely truthful when you confess your misdeeds. Do you understand me, Robert?" "Yes, Madame Blair," I said. I was sweating profusely under my arms. I could smell it. She said: "We will begin with the hairbrush, Robert." It was not really a hairbrush. It was the size of a table tennis bat and made of solid maple. She began to strike my behind, alternating between the cheeks of my buttocks. I had no idea that a spanking could be this intense. Before she had struck me 10 times on each cheek, I was already in distress. She kept up the rhythmic spanking for, it seemed, an eternity, covering my entire bottom with her powerful strokes. By the time she'd hit me 25 times on each cheek, I was already asking for mercy. But the spanking continued until I'd absorbed more than 100 hits on each cheek. I was begging Wendy to say "enough" but my pleas had no effect. When she finally stopped, I thought it was over and made an attempt to stand. But she pressed her hand into the small of my back and said with a good deal of anger in her voice. "This just beginning, Robert. Don't think you are going to get off so easily." She motioned for Wendy to hand her another instrument. It was also a paddle but longer than the first one and with enough holes in it to populate a Swiss cheese. In use, this paddle caught both halves of my buttocks with a ferocious and agonizing smack. Before she'd delivered 10 blows with it, I was sobbing in absolute agony. I felt as if the airholes were raising blisters on my ass. I pleaded with Wendy to grant me mercy but she remained silent. When Madame was done with the second paddle, she made me get up, stood up herself and told me to grip the seat of the chair, present my ass to her and spread my legs. Then she began on me with a single tail whip, mostly directed at my ass but once or twice aimed deliberately at my balls. I was crying salt tears now, begging over and over again for mercy. But Wendy sat there stonily, nodding at Madame to continue. When she had finished with the whip, Madame Blair started in on me with a cane, a heavy, rattan stick that landed with a thud. At the first blow, I let out a scream that would have curdled milk. I was sure I was bleeding and, in fact, I was. I was beyond begging now. I simply screamed at the top of my lungs with each stroke and moaned piteously afterwards. Madame landed about a dozen of them when Wendy said a single word: "Enough." I was ready to collapse. Madame said: "Kneel at your wife's feet, Robert, and thank her for granting you mercy." I knelt and kissed Wendy's feet and tearfully thanked her for stopping the punishment. "Now," Madame said, "thank her for disciplining you and tell her you are ready to be punished again any time she thinks you deserve it." I did as I was instructed, although I didn't like the sound of it - at all. "Stand up now, Robert," Madame said. "Go over to the bed, lie down on your back and spread eagle yourself." I was slow to obey, desperately afraid of what might be coming. "Do it immediately, Robert," Madame said, her voice like a knife. I laid down on the four-poster. My backside blazed where it came into contact with the bedcovers. Madame looped a rope around my left wrist and tied it securely to the post behind my head. Then she did the same to my right wrist and then to my ankles. I was completely at her disposal. "Now," she said, "you will be punished for lying to me, Robert. I assure you that you will be eager to tell me the truth from now on." She picked up a long, flexible whip, longer than the kind used on race horses, and she began striking me on the insides of my thighs, five on one thigh, then crossing to the other side of the bed, five to the other thigh. She switched over five times, a total of 25 hits to each thigh. They were angry welts and I was in no condition to bear additional pain, so I was howling before she concluded. Then she began a rhythmic tattoo on my balls. I was screaming again and crying between screams. I yanked at the ropes holding me, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to break loose. I was beyond crying now, merely whimpering like an animal between screams of pain. By the time she finished with me, I was utterly exhausted. She motioned for Wendy to untie the ropes that held me. Released, I curled up on the bed and lay there panting, like I'd just finished a marathon. Madame allowed me time to recuperate before she told me to kneel in front of her and thank her for my punishment. I did as she instructed, but it was a bigger lie than any I had told earlier. When it was all over, I dressed myself. It hurt to put on my underpants. They turned red from the bloody wounds on my ass, caused mainly by the cane. It hurt to put on my trousers. My balls hurt. The welts on my thighs were beginning to turn purple. I assumed my ass was badly bruised where it was not cut. Wendy took me home and put me to bed. Before she turned out the light, she said to me: "This is what it's going to be like from now on, Robert. You will do as I say or you will pay for it." I was silent. "Do you hear me, Robert? Answer me." I wasn't sure what was expected. I settled on "Yes, Ma'am." She said: "You're learning, Robert." The following weekend, Wendy took me shopping. Our first stop was a furniture store, where she purchased a large wooden chair with an arched backrest of bent wood supported by posts that fitted into the backrest and into the seat. Then she took me shopping for a hairbrush. She settled on a flat-backed, oversize brush with a large handle that she found comfortable to hold. I did not know that it was possible to pay $100 for a hairbrush. Next she took me to an "adult" store, where she purchased a paddle, a single tail whip, a tawse and several canes of varying thickness. "These are for behavior modification," she told the saleswoman. I was mortified. "Isn't that right, Robert?" "Yes, Ma'am," I said. I was sure that my face was red as a beet. When we got home, Wendy told me to get the drill and make two dozen holes in the big paddle. I did so, dreading the effect the implement would have on my bottom. Three days after the arrangements were complete, I committed my first offense under the new regime, leaving the toilet seat up. It was in the early evening. Wendy told me to go upstairs to our bedroom, undress and present myself exactly as I had done at Madame Blair's - with my forehead to the carpet, my ass in the air and my legs spread widely apart. I asked for a postponement, explaining that my ass was barely scabbed over from the beating at Madame Blair's and that I was bruised and sore. "Upstairs, Robert. Don't make me tell you again. And acknowledge my order." "Yes, Ma'am," I replied. "And take out the hairbrush, the paddle, the whip, the tawse and the canes." "Yes, Ma'am," I responded, my heart sinking. Upstairs I went, undressed and knelt in front of the wooden chair which Wendy had installed in a corner of our bedroom. She came in, sat down on the chair with the hairbrush in her hand and motioned for me to lie over her lap. She asked me to tell her what I'd done wrong and ask for punishment. I did that. And so it began. Wendy didn't hit me nearly as hard as Madame Blair but she aimed every blow at the same location on each buttock. The cumulative effect was terrible. Because the spanking came on top of the bruises and cuts I already had, it didn't take very long before I began to beg for mercy. She went on until I was yelping at every stroke. When she stopped using the hairbrush, she picked up the tawse, a heavy leather strap with split ends. She hit me about two dozen times with it. It hurt like hell. She was breathing hard from the exertion, while I was squirming all over her lap in absolute misery. Finally, she said: "I'm going to be merciful this time, Robert. I won't use any of the other instruments. But don't think you'll get off so lightly the next time." "Thank you, Ma'am," I said and I really meant it. I also knew what to say next. "Thank you for disciplining me. I know that I deserve it." Came the following Saturday, I had a golf date with three of my friends. I was getting dressed in my golf clothes when Wendy stepped into the room. "Where do you think you're going," she asked sharply. "I have a golf date," I answered. "You did not ask my permission, Robert. You are not leaving this house. You will call your three friends and tell them - and I want you to use these exact words - 'Wendy told me I can't play golf today.' I'll be listening. Don't make any other excuse. Don't answer a 'why' question, not one word, unless you are prepared to say 'I need Wendy's permission and I don't have it.' You can be sure they'll deduce that for themselves anyway, so you might as well admit it. But I won't force you to say it." I started to protest that she was embarrassing me. "Yes," she said, "and that's not all I'm going to do to you. After you've called each of the guys and said what I've told you to say, you are to go upstairs, undress and wait for me in front of the punishment chair in the submission position." "Yes, Wendy," I groaned. "Yes, Ma'am," she corrected me. "Yes, Ma'am," I said. The calls to the guys were excruciating. There was puzzlement on the other end. And there were 'whys' that I turned aside because I couldn't bring myself to say what Wendy had specified as the only answer allowable. When the last of the calls was completed, I went upstairs and prepared for my punishment. Wendy used the hairbrush again, exactly as she did the first time, but she went on for several minutes longer. She applied the tawse vigorously, till my behind was burning. And then she picked up the paddle. Again, she didn't hit as hard as Madame Blair but it was plenty hard enough. I was sobbing when she finished. She said: "I'm going to let you off easy this time, Robert. If you ever repeat this offense, you will get the whip and the cane on top of the hairbrush, tawse and paddle. You are never to leave this house on Saturday or Sunday unless you have asked for and received my permission. And you will get my permission only when you have behaved perfectly during the week and anticipate my every wish. Is that understood?" "Yes, Ma'am," I answered. I was miserable, and it showed. "And no hang dog expressions." "Yes, Ma'am." "Now you can thank me for disciplining you." Which I did. My refusal to answer the "why" question did not work long with my golfing buddies. When next they raised the possibility of a Saturday round, I had to acknowledge that I didn't know whether I could play. I had to tell them that Wendy didn't like my heading for the golf course every Saturday morning, and I would need to talk with her before committing. I didn't exactly say that I needed her permission and might not get it. But I didn't have to spell that out. They understood. I was miserable. Even though I had season's tickets, Wendy also required me to get permission to go to football games. When the first Sunday game rolled round after the new regime was in effect, I asked for permission, and she refused it. I displayed my displeasure by stomping angrily out of the kitchen where I had posed my request. She called me back in. "Robert," she said, "I won't tolerate this kind of childish behavior. Go upstairs and prepare yourself for punishment." "Yes, Ma'am," I said meekly. Saying I needed to be taught a lesson, she used the hairbrush, the tawse, the paddle and the single tail whip on me this time. She gave me a serious whipping, flaying my behind. I don't know where she'd learned to use the single tail whip effectively, but she had, and I paid the price. When it was over, I apologized for my misbehavior and thanked her for correcting me. I was now fully under her control. She even began to take charge of our love-making, making me engage in cunnilingus and keeping me at it while she had orgasm after orgasm. My satisfaction was now secondary. To tell the truth, however, all this discipline was very good for our relationship. I was more considerate, more attentive, and far more attuned to her moods. I walked on eggshells when I sensed she was out of sorts. I ran errands for her without complaining (which would have resulted in my being over her knee) but I did them ungrudgingly. I understood, as I had not previously, that relieving her of routine household chores was a necessary part of married life. There was no reason why she should do all the cooking, all the cleaning up, all the laundry, all the shopping. I was now sharing these duties, not just because I feared the consequences of slacking off (though that was the initial impetus), but because I understood that she was not just adjunct to my needs. I had not married a love object nor hired a servant through marriage. I had joined my life to that of the woman I loved, and I needed to respect her as a human being. About seven weeks into our new relationship, Wendy announced one Saturday morning that we would be spending the evening at "The Club." "What Club?" I asked. "You'll find out this evening," she told me. At 6 p.m., she told me to go upstairs and get dressed for "the party." She told me that sports clothes would be fine. We left the house at 5:30 p.m., and it did not take me long to realize that we were on our way to Madame Blair's. I was filled with dread but said nothing. When we drove up, there were two other cars in the long driveway. Wendy said: "I'm entering through the front door, Robert. You will go to the back door, knock once and, when admitted, do exactly as you are told." I was actually shaking when I got to the back door and knocked. It was answered by the same maid who let us in on our first visit. "You are Robert," she said. "You may address me as Miss Ellison. Do you know why you are here?" I said: "Not exactly, Miss Ellison." "To start with, you're here to do as I tell you. After that, you'll find out," she said. "Follow me." She led me upstairs and directed me into what appeared to be a small sitting room. "Undress," she said." I waited for her to leave and, when she didn't, I turned around to shield myself from her. "Front!" she commanded. "You will show me everything." So I sat down on a chair facing her and took off all my clothes. "Put these on," she ordered. She handed me three metal rings in different sizes. I don't want to act more naive than I am. I had been in adult toy stores and understood they were intended for my penis and testicles. But I wasn't sure how to put them on. She said with some impatience: "Come here. I'll put them on for you." She sat down in front of me while I stood. She took the two larger rings in one hand and my scrotum in the other and pulled it through. Then she clutched me by the base of my balls and squeezed. The first of my testicles went through rather easily but forcing the second testicle through the two circles was stomach-wrenching and made me cry out in pain. She laughed. "That'll help you learn how to do it for yourself." Then she took my limp penis and pulled it through the circumference of the larger ring until the ring was resting against my pubis. My balls were trapped by the smaller ring, and both my balls and my penis were constrained by the larger one. Then she stroked me into an erection, placed the smallest of the three rings over my shaft and, none too gently, worked it down to the base. I was left with a raging hard on. She said: "Put on your underpants and T-shirt and come with me." I followed her out the door and down the corridor to a brightly-lit, unoccupied bedroom. She said to me: "You will stand here, looking directly into the corner, with your hands at your sides or clasped behind your back and above your butt. You will not touch or cover your ass at any time this evening You will not touch your cock or balls. Have I made myself clear, Robert?" "Yes, Miss Ellison," I said. "You will make no attempt to look at or communicate with the other men who will be brought into this room. There is a surveillance camera mounted in the corner behind you. There is also a voice-activated recording system. They will be checked by me when the evening is over. If you are observed looking anywhere other than at the intersection of the walls in front of you or if you are heard talking, you will spend a long and very unpleasant afternoon here one day soon with Madame Blair. Is that clear, Robert?" "Yes, Miss Ellison." "Wait here, just as you are, until you are called for. The order in which you and the others will be called is determined by lottery." She left me there, staring into the corner. A few minutes later, there were footsteps and a second person was brought into the room and placed in another corner and, shortly afterwards, a third person. There was a long interval. I wanted very badly to adjust my hard-on in my jockey shorts but I dared not do so. I was once again perspiring in a cool room. I could hear others beside myself breathing in the silence. Then I heard footsteps and a voice, not Miss Ellison's. "John," it said, "you're wanted." Retreating footsteps and another long interval. And then, footsteps and a shuffling sound as John returned. Then the voice said: "Charles. Your turn." I was perspiring freely now. I was not good at waiting. Charles was brought back into the room but my name was not called. I continued to wait. I thought about trying to ask the other two men what was happening. But I was afraid. I wanted to adjust the rings around my penis and testicles but I was afraid to do that. Finally, I heard footsteps and Miss Ellison's voice: "Robert," she said. "Your time has come." I turned around and caught a quick glimpse of two men standing in their corners with their underpants around their ankles. Their butts were red. Miss Ellison led me down the stairs to the first floor and into the living room where Wendy sat with five other women. "This is Robert," Miss Ellison announced. "He is here to be spanked by his wife for the crimes he has committed since The Club last met." Wendy said: "Robert, lie down over my lap." I did so. She pulled down my underpants. "Tell these ladies what you've done that you deserve to be punished for." I told them about the encounter with Robin. I didn't even bother to deny that I was intending to screw her. We were past that point. I acknowledged that I had lied to Madame Blair. I told about leaving the toilet seat up, about planning to go golfing without permission and about misbehaving when denied permission to go to the football game. I finished by saying: "Please punish me, Ma'am." The women began discussing my case. One of them said: "He's new to this, and this is his first time at The Club. But adultery is the most serious offense anyone has ever been charged with." A second voice asked: "What's the heaviest punishment that's ever been handed out?" A third voice said: "250." The second voice said: "He should have 400." A fourth voice said: "That's a terrible number but I agree." The first voice said: "Give him 400, Wendy." The third voice said: "Make them as hard as you can." "My pleasure," Wendy said. The hairbrush resounded against my butt with a fearful thwack. Before she'd delivered very many blows, my erection began softening and soon the smallest of the metal rings slid off my penis and fell to the floor. I was quickly in agony and then beyond agony. I begged for mercy without avail and then gave myself over to sobbing. I had a hard time catching my breath between spanks. The punishment was brutal, and I didn't think it would ever end. The other five women, including the one who'd not spoken when my sentence was being determined, kept commenting on the color of my behind - pink, red, crimson, purple. They cheered Wendy on, offered to take her place if her arm got tired. They applauded when the end finally came. I had no tears left. I was sweating profusely and moaning. Wendy allowed me to lie across her knee for a time and then said: "Thank me for your punishment, Robert." I could barely get the words out. "Kneel in front of the other ladies and thank each of them for suggesting your punishment and for witnessing it." I did that too. I recognized one of the other women but didn't remember her name. "You will now go back upstairs and display yourself in your corner, Robert, with your underpants down around your ankles. Miss Ellison will take you." "You'll be called again later," one of the other wives said. I followed Miss Ellison back upstairs, shuffling awkwardly behind her. She took me back into the bedroom where the other two men stood in their corners and put me back in mine. I didn't have to wait long for my second call. This time it was not Miss Ellison but the other voice. "Robert," she said, "it is your turn. Follow me. I am Miss Jackson." Miss Jackson wasn't much older than Miss Ellison. She was also light-skinned and very pretty. I followed her with my underpants still down around my ankles. She led me down into the basement where I had been on the occasion of my first visit with Wendy to Madame Blair's. All the women who had witnessed my spanking were there, together with several more, including Madame Blair. She was the one who told me: "This is the second event, Robert. One of the wives is going to use a paddle on you until you call for mercy. If I were you, I would hold off for as long as you can because this event is timed. There's one winner. All the rest are losers but there is one big loser, and you don't want to be the big loser, I can assure you. Bend over the chair and hold onto the seat." I did not see the woman who came up behind me with the paddle. She had a vicious swing. On top of what I'd already suffered, one was too many. But I held on for as long as I could - which was not long at all. Maybe 10 or 12, no more. "Mercy," I sang out. "Please, mercy." "Kneel down and say thank you, Robert," Madame Blair said. I turned around to do as ordered and found myself looking at Robin. She smiled at me. "We meet again, Robert." My mouth fell open. "Kneel down and say thank you," Madame Blair repeated. I knelt down: "Thank you, Robin." "Thank you, Mrs. Neill," Madame Blair said with a serrated edge in her voice. "You will never call any woman by her first name in this house. Do you hear me?" "Thank you, Mrs. Neill," I said. Miss Jackson took me upstairs again with my underpants still around my ankles and left me in my corner for a very long time. When Miss Ellison came for me at last, she also came for the others. We shuffled after her into the basement Altogether, there were 12 women and 11 men. One of them was Bill. I guessed, correctly as it turned out, that Madame Blair's husband, if she had one, was not part of the group. Aside from Wendy, Robin, Madame Blair and Bill, I had no idea who was who, although I recognized the women from my earlier encounter and a couple of the other men looked liked someone I'd met somewhere. Madame Blair began to compare times - that is, how long each of the men had lasted during paddling. I knew that I was going to be the chief loser. I'd been allowed only a very short interval between spanking and paddling, and the spanking had been extremely severe. It occurred to me that the lottery was a sham. It was intended that I be the principal loser. While I was in no suspense about the outcome, I didn't know what was waiting for me. I was still sweating. I don't know if the others could smell me but I could smell myself. The results were announced in reverse order. The "winner" put his own underpants on. Each of the others was handed a colorful pair of panties by his wife: red and versions of red were popular but there was also deep blue, a sort of emerald green, purple and copper. Each husband put on the panties he was given. Mine was the last name called. "Robert has won The Club's 'sissy' award," Madame Blair announced Wendy handed me a pair of frilly, canary yellow panties. The front was connected to the rear by a thong, which would display the cheeks of my ass. I suppose they were intended to be very sexy on your lover but that is not how they would make me feel. I was resigned to my fate, however. Before I could put them on, Robin presented my own jockey shorts to me, handed me a pen and told me to sign the waistband with the words "Thank you for everything, Mrs. Neill." When that ceremony was completed, Madame Blair said: "I've decided that another punishment needs to be added to discourage husbands from asking for mercy too quickly. Robert will be the first to receive it." I was dumb struck. "You will be awarded 12 strokes with the cane," she said. I said: "You can't..." She said evenly: "That will be 14 strokes" I whined: "Please, please." She said: "That's 16. Do you want more?" I was sobbing with dread but knew it would only get worse. She pointed to a bench situated on a small platform, indicating I was to lie across it. "Tabitha," she said, addressing Miss Ellison, "and Juanita," she said to Miss Jackson, "hold him down." They held me. I could not have resisted anyway. I was exhausted from the evening's ordeal. She did not hit me with her full power. Nevertheless, she drew blood with most of the 16 strokes and I was screaming the whole time. When it was over and I was barely conscious, she washed my ass with alcohol, which stung like fury, and applied a styptic solution to each of my cuts. She left me lying there as an example to the rest of the husbands until I recovered my wits enough to thank her for caning me. "Put on those yellow panties now, Robert," she instructed. "The requirement is that you wash them every night and wear them every day for the next month. You will required during this month to display yourself to each of the wives at their homes. If you do not wear these panties throughout the month, you will be sent to me for correction. I don't think you want to risk that, do you?" "No, Madame Blair," I said. I meant that with every fiber of my being. And so we went home. My rear end remained on fire. I expected Wendy to put me to bed but she was excited by the evening's events and made me eat her until she'd had multiple orgasms. I got very little sexual pleasure from that. In fact, I couldn't even muster an erection. Despite the pain in my behind, I fell asleep quickly and was still in bed when the phone rang. Wendy answered. I heard her say: "He'll be right over." To me, she said: "Robert, you are to get dressed and go over to Robin and Bill's house." I groaned audibly. Wendy laughed: "You'll get used to it, Robert. This is your life." I got dressed, donning my yellow panties and walked down the street to Robin and Bill's. Bill answered the door. "In there," he said, inclining his head toward the living room. Robin was sitting there waiting for me. My signed underpants were prominently displayed on a bookshelf in the living room. "Show yourself to me, Robert," she said crisply. I answered: "Don't do this to me, Robin." She said to me: "That's insubordination, Robert, and you'll be corrected for it. And my name to you, from now on and in all circumstances, is Mrs. Neill. Now let your pants down." I undid my belt and allowed my pants to fall. "Good," she said. "Good. You're still bleeding a bit. Your ass is still red. You're good and bruised and, above all, you really look sexy in those canary yellow panties." I gave her a pained look. "How do you answer a compliment, Robert?" she said. "Thank you, Mrs. Neill." "That's correct. Wendy's right. You are learning." She allowed me to pull my pants up. Then she said: "When you go home, Robert, you will tell Wendy that you were insubordinate and that she should punish you for it. And, oh yes, you will come to me every morning this month and show yourself to me before you go to work. That's clear, isn't it." "Yes, Mrs. Neill," I replied. "You may go, Robert. I will expect you in the morning." I was angry as hell. I'd been entrapped by Wendy and Robin and now I was at the mercy of both of them. I let my irritation show when I got home, although I did acknowledge - in a very sarcastic tone of voice - that I'd been "insubordinate to Robin, Mrs. Neill." "You need some attitude adjustment, Robert. In addition to being insubordinate to Robin, you're talking to me in a manner I will not permit. I won't stand for it." My heart sank and all the fight went out of me, replaced by fear of what was to come. "In consideration of what your ass is like right now, I'm going to postpone this correction until later in the week. But I think Robin ought to be here as a witness, don't you? When you see her tomorrow morning, you will extend an invitation and urge her to accept." "Yes, Ma'am," I said resignedly. Next morning, when I had finished taking my pants down and displayed myself to Robin, I said: "Mrs. Neill, Wendy plans to punish me later in the week for my insubordination to you and for addressing her in the wrong tone of voice." "Well," said Robin. "That's what you deserve, of course. Is there more?" I said, my face flushed. "Yes, Mrs. Neill. I hope you will be there to see me punished." She smiled sweetly. "As a favor to you, Robert, I'll come, but your punishment will probably be harsher because I'm present. Is that okay with you?" "Yes, Mrs. Neill. Thank you, Mrs. Neill." So there I was Friday evening, naked in front of the punishment chair, with my face pressed to the carpet and my legs wide apart, while Wendy and Robin drank tea downstairs. They kept me waiting for a long time. Anticipating punishment was almost as hard as receiving it. When the time came, Wendy used every implement she had on me. She allowed Robin to take a turn with the cane. And I was required to apologize to both of them for my misbehavior. In addition to displaying myself to Robin, Club protocol required that I visit each of the other wives twice during the month that I wore the yellow panties and show myself to them and, especially, to their husbands as an example of what it meant to be the the Club's "sissy." Thus I found myself one evening at the suburban home of Ellen Wardman and her husband, John. And the next night I was at the condo of Jeanne Williamson and her husband, Charles. And the next night at the small but luxurious downtown apartment of Marilyn Zudick and James. And then it was the restored Victorian home of Jessica Veneman and Harold. Each time the ritual was more or less the same. I would greet the wife as Mrs. So-and-so, be commanded by her to take down my pants and show myself, and she would call in her husband for the display. Each wife then told each husband that this was what happened to someone who was not brave enough to take a paddling without calling for mercy. When I got to the home of Louise Amdur and Kenneth, early the next week, Mrs. Amdur insisted on humiliating me another way. She made me take off my pants and lie across her lap. She pulled down the yellow panties and then called Kenneth in to witness the indignity. She also ran her hands across my buttocks, feeling the angry scars. She also flicked my balls with her forefinger. "Kenneth," she said. "When it's your turn, I'll ask each of the other wives to treat you exactly as I've treated Robert." "Yes, Missus," he responded miserably. The following night I was at the one-story modern home of Melissa Henderson and Thomas, and the night after that at Leslie Harding and Philip's place in the far suburbs, and then at Barbara Cox and Alan's modest duplex and then at Alice Yardley and Richard's spacious townhouse. They each followed the routine I had first experienced at the hands of Ellen Wardman: greet, drop pants, display to the husband. This went on for the entire month. Each morning I visited Robin and Bill's and each evening during the week I was at another Club member's home, making the full rounds twice during the month. Louise Amdur took me over her lap both times. She enjoyed my humiliation more than anyone else except Robin, and I knew that when her turn came to paddle me at a future Club meeting, she would try very hard to make me the "sissy" once more. Being on display, however, made me vow never, never to go through that again. It turned out, however, that there was another part of the ritual. When the month was up, the group gathered again at Madame Blair's. All the wives but one, Madame Blair, Miss Jackson and Miss Ellison were gathered for drinks in the living room. Joining them was one husband, the one who had lasted longest in the previous month's spankings and went home in his own underpants. This time it was Harold Veneman, a big handsome guy in his mid-30s. All the rest of the husbands were responsible for serving the drinks and making and serving dinner. We were each dressed in the panties we were sent home in from last month's Club meeting. Supervising us - but herself part of the evening's "help" - was Marilyn Zudick. She was the wife who had spanked Harold Veneman, and just as he was rewarded by being a member of the dinner party, she was being penalized by having to serve. Her displeasure was evident. All the other women were having a wonderful time. They competed in offering obscene comments about the "waiters" - especially the one in the yellow thong, me. I felt as if I were one of those incompletely clad waitresses at a Playboy Club. The sensation was a distinctly unpleasant. On the way home that night, Wendy announced that she intended "to fuck your brains out." She was not usually foul-mouthed, but the scene clearly turned her on. She made love to me that night - not the other way around. She climbed on top of me and rode me to orgasm, then she used my mouth to clear her pussy. I couldn't go as many times as she wanted me to, so she ended by pulling my face between her thighs and holding me there until she'd had several more orgasms. I felt like I'd been used. She also made it clear that she "couldn't wait" until the next Club meeting. A couple of days in advance, Wendy took me shopping at Victoria's Secret and picked out two pair of panties in my size: a bright blue thong with a lace front which I would be made to wear if I was named the "sissy" and a flaming red pair of bikini panties which I would have to don if I finished in any other position (except first). She left the young sales girl in no doubt that the panties were for me and not for her. I'm sure that my face was the color of the bikini. At the next Club meeting, I admitted being insubordinate to Robin and rude to Wendy. I also had to confess that Wendy found me masturbating one evening - for which she punished me extravagantly with all her tools. The assembled wives levied a punishment of 170 strokes, which Wendy delivered with enthusiasm. Melissa Henderson, a pretty blonde in her late 20's, was the Club member who had the privilege of spanking me, and she hit me as hard as she could. I held out for what I thought was a very long time before asking for mercy. But when Madame Blair began to announce the times and began naming the other guys, I started sweating. I was afraid that I might again be the chief loser. But there was one husband, Charles Williamson, whose time was worse than mine. My relief must have shown. "Jealous, Robert?" Robin giggled. "You can still come to my house any time you want to take down your pants." Charles knew better than to protest the 12 strokes of the cane that he was sentenced to absorb. But he howled his way through them. By the time he first visited our house and I was called in by Wendy to see him in his green lace thong, his wounds were still oozing. The second time they were crusted over. By the time of our third visit to the Club, I had hardened myself. I would hold out forever I told myself. I had a variety of offenses to confess: I'd forgotten and left the toilet seat up. I'd said something harsh about Wendy's mother. I'd run an errand grudgingly. I had arrived home late from work without remembering to call. The penalty levied was again 170 strokes, which Wendy applied mercilessly. Ellen Wardman wielded the paddle. Although I was in agony after 30 swings of the paddle, I held out until I'd been hit close to 50 times. (I finished second to Harold Veneman.) My butt was badly bruised by the time Miss Jackson took me back to the bedroom the second time. After she left - and without thinking - I reached back to soothe myself. I realized immediately what I'd done and withdrew my hands as if I'd touched a red hot stove. I hoped - in fact, I prayed - that Miss Ellison had been bluffing when she'd told me that the surveillance camera was working and that it was checked after each meeting. But it turned out not to be a bluff. On Sunday afternoon, less than a day after the Club meeting, Wendy summoned me to the phone. Miss Ellison was on the other end. "Robert," she said, "the tape caught you massaging your ass last night. What do you have to say for yourself?" "I'm sorry, Miss Ellison. I forgot for a moment," I answered. I was truly sorry - and afraid. "Sorry isn't enough, Robert," she said sternly. "You will be far sorrier after you pay the penalty, and you won't ever forget again, I can assure you. You will have nothing to eat or drink after midnight next Friday. You will arrive here on Saturday at 10 a.m. sharp. Between now and then, you will dream about what will happen. Whatever your imagination comes up with, you will not be disappointed." She was certainly correct. I slept badly every night the following week. The anticipation was dreadful. As ordered, I arrived at Madame Blair's on Saturday at 10 a.m. sharp. I went to the back door and knocked once. Miss Jackson opened the door with Miss Ellison close by. They accompanied me downstairs and ordered me to strip, which I did, facing them as was required. The two of them buckled leather cuffs to my wrists, then instructed me to kneel on the spanking bench and to stretch my arms forward. They linked the D-rings on the cuffs to heavy metals eyes on the front of the spanking bench so that I was sprawled across it. Miss Ellison passed a heavy leather belt across my back and under the bench, where Miss Jackson buckled it so that I was held firmly in position. Then they placed leather cuffs on my ankles and put the D-rings on those cuffs through the eyes on the legs of the bench. The result was that my legs were held wide apart and my balls were easily available to anyone standing behind me. I was unable to shift more than a couple of inches in any direction. The next thing I knew Miss Ellison grasped me by the balls in an I'll-follow-you-anywhere position and wrapped something around them. It didn't take me long to discover that it was some sort of electrical contraption. One of the women zapped me so that I yelped. It wasn't serious pain, more like an unexpected pin prick, but in a very, very sensitive spot. I was zapped again and then again and yet again, each surge a bit stronger. "We're going to leave you for now," Miss Jackson. "But, so you won't forget us, we've put this on a little cycle. It will give you a little shock now and again." "Now and again" turned out to be somewhere between 15 seconds and several minutes. Sometimes there would be one or two shocks, sometimes five or six, and they varied from mild to serious. Waiting between shocks seriously frayed my nerves. I must have been left in that situation for close to an hour. When Miss Jackson returned, it was to intensify the shocks, starting with one that drew a scream from me and another of the same strength and yet another. Then she left the room again and the irregular cycle resumed. The shocks were stronger than in the first cycle. By this time, I was a nervous wreck and dreading the next visit, which came about an hour and a half later. This time it was Miss Ellison. She zapped me several times at even greater power Now I was screaming for mercy. Miss Ellison said: "Robert, you should know better than to ask for mercy. There will be none at all for you this afternoon. I can assure you that you will remember this day for the rest of your life and will never again be tempted to break the house rules." The irregular cycle returned at a still higher level There was no getting used to it. I tried to figure out a pattern but, if there was one, it eluded me. All I knew was that when one set of shocks was over, another would follow, but whether almost immediately or in several minutes, I could not tell. The tension was exhausting me. Miss Jackson came in. She increased the power again but hit me with it only once. "Now, Robert," she said, "you will wait for Madame Blair." I assumed that meant Madame Blair would arrive soon. It meant nothing of the sort. I remained there in the same position for at least another three or four hours. Although the tension of waiting for the next electrical shock was no longer the problem, I was now dreading the arrival of Madame Blair and the agony to follow. I don't know why it was that I sensed her presence but she said anything I felt another electrical jolt to my balls, the worst yet - by far. She hit me with it again, and then she raised the power another notch. If I had been standing, I feel certain each of those jolts would have knocked me to the ground. "Alright, Tabitha," Madame Blair said, "take the collar off his balls, and let's get to work." When the electrical band had been removed, she began on me with a crop. Each stroke was delivered just above where the buttocks meet the legs. She said: "I'm going to fix it Robert so you will be unable to sit comfortably for some time to come. I hope you have access to a stand up desk at your office because you'll surely need it." She was hitting me exactly where the buttocks hit the chair. And she did it repeatedly, the same spot over and over and over. I did not conceal my distress but it made no difference to her at all. She intended to achieve a certain result and when she at last concluded, I was sure she had done so. Then she began on the backs of my thighs with a tawse. I strained at my bonds and wailed. But she was undeterred. When she thought my thighs were in the appropriate state, she began on me with a single tail whip, flicking it between my legs to catch the insides of my thighs and my balls, which were already very sensitive from the electrical treatment they had been receiving. I was screaming, sobbing, moaning but she paid no attention. She didn't quit until my thighs were thoroughly striped on the inside. There was no doubt but that I would feel the effects for a long period to come. Until this point, she hadn't shown me any of the implements she was using before I began to feel them. But now she stepped to my side and brought into view a weapon that absolutely terrified me. It was a paddle, but a paddle like none I'd ever seen. It looked like a baseball bat, flattened on one side. It was clearly meant to be gripped with two hands and swung with the whole body like a bat or a golf club. She said: "I am going to strike you four times with this paddle, Robert. You won't be able to take any more. You may not be able to take that many. It will leave your tail bone sore and your ass thoroughly bruised. Are you ready?" I wasn't able to reply. In the chilling tone I had learned to dread, she said: "Ask for it, Robert." I barely managed to get it out. "Please, Madame Blair. Punish me." The first blow jolted me all the way up my spine. I screamed louder and in greater agony than I ever had before. I believe I fainted after the second blow. Miss Jackson splashed water in my face and said in a tone I'll never forget: "It's half over, Robert." It was the first word of sympathy I'd ever heard in that house. Madame Blair was right. I couldn't absorb four blows. Although she hit me twice more, they were relatively gentle taps. Even Madame Blair was capable of mercy. Or maybe she'd decided that she might do me permanent injury. Nor did she demand that I thank her for my punishment. She simply handed the heavy paddle to Miss Ellison, saying "See to him, girls." Miss Ellison and Miss Jackson undid my bonds but I made no attempt to rise. I simply lay there moaning. Miss Jackson brought me a glass of water and helped me drink it. The two of them stood by me and helped me stand up. My legs wouldn't quite support me but they steadied me and when I was no longer dizzy they dressed me, almost tenderly. I stood there and they helped me step into my underpants, which Miss Jackson pulled up carefully so as not unnecessarily to rub against the welts that had been raised on the backs of my thighs and on the inside. They helped me get my pants on the same way. Miss Jackson knelt at my feet to put on my shoes and tied them carefully. "Will you be able to sit to drive?" Miss Jackson asked solicitously. "I'm not sure." "We'll lie you down on your stomach in the back seat of your car, and I'll drive you home," she said. I did not object. I was too faint to drive myself. Miss Ellison followed us in another car to take Miss Jackson back to the mansion. Miss Jackson helped me out of the car and walked me to the front door. With Wendy, she and Miss Ellison put me to bed. Miss Jackson told Wendy to apply compresses dipped in liniment to my thighs and buttocks. While the three of them were still talking, I fell asleep lying on my stomach. I slept very poorly. I do not normally sleep on my stomach, and every time I tried to shift my body into a more familiar posture, I was awakened by pain. When morning came, I was in too much discomfort to get dressed and go to work. My tailbone hurt. The underside of my buttocks was badly bruised. My thighs had welts from where they joined my buttocks down to the backs of my knees as well as on the inside. Madame Blair was certainly right. I would need a stand up desk at and would not want to eat sitting down for some time.
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