The Editor’s Decision Is Final

 

This, is a true story. The friendship developed into a real, close heart-to-heart relationship with a man who understood. This is the story of our first encounter.

 

A word of advice for all female would-be contributors to CP magazines - when you send in your submission, don’t, whatever you do, hint at anything at all. A precise letter such as the following should be sent:

‘Dear Sir, please find enclosed my story entitled ‘Why I’m not Sitting Comfortably at the Moment’ which I trust will meet with your approval. SAE enclosed. Yours faithfully.’ And write absolutely nothing else.

You see, I made the mistake of admitting, in one letter to a magazine that I’d never been birched, or at that time, tawsed, and was only writing about what I had experienced.

An immediate reply, so immediate it burned up the postal service to get to me, offered ‘action’ if I cared to visit the editorial offices. (You should know that I had already had a telephone call from the mailing department of the magazine offering me a free session, which I turned down. The phone went in the middle of dinner, my husband and daughter sitting wide-eyed while I contrived to keep a straight face and rejected the words over the phone. ‘Would you like to come and visit? I could give you a good spanking, wouldn’t cost you anything. I should hope not!)

What was different about this letter? For one thing it was from the assistant editor, not some guy in the mailing room. This man had a name, a personality, and a proper position. And he talked as if he understood.

Even so, I thought I’d better clarify things a bit, you know, find out what he had in mind, what I could expect.

The following are just a few extracts from the letters I received; letters which sent quivers and quavers into my quim. You’ll see it wasn’t at all clear what I could expect if I went.

‘Twelve good strokes of the cane would be a good start - and maybe a good finish for you.’

‘You might find yourself across my knees for a bare bottom spanking just to warm you up, followed by six or eight with the cane, bent over my desk, and finally a dozen or so with the birch.’

‘How about I give you one stroke of the cane for every misplaced comma or apostrophe?’

I got permission from my partner, who was less than enthusiastic but agreed because the whole prospect turned me on, and I went.

I went on the London coach, then the Underground, where I caught a train to the nearest stop to the CP magazine offices.

Quaking with trepidation, I found the worst bit was actually going in to the office. Halfway up the last flight of stairs I stopped and stared at the door. All I had to do was walk up a few more steps and I would be there. That would have been the moment to turn and run, if I was going to turn and run. (I find I’ve said this many times in the course of my writing but, as most submissives will tell you, the inclination to turn and run is always there, even though we never do.)

The handle of the door held my gaze. As soon as I touched it I would have committed myself – to what? There were butterflies; sexy, dancing butterflies in my stomach. There was a pounding of the heart, harder than normal, a surge of adrenaline and excitement, so I took a deep breath, settled my bag a little more firmly on my shoulder and walked up the last few steps and through the door before my resolve could weaken. I stopped and looked at the two men in the room. They both said ‘hello’ from behind their individual desk and then one came over to me. This then was the man I had come to meet.

‘You made it, then.’

‘Yes, I made it,’ I replied and wondered if he knew how close I had been to running away.

‘Come and sit down.’

With a cup of coffee in my hand and people to talk to I feel better. The typesetter came in, someone dropped by with some pictures, discussions went on about the cover - did the lettering on the model’s bottom show up well enough? The editor said no, the assistant editor thought they’d get away with it – I felt myself relaxing. Everyone was nice and it was going to be all right. I could even forget why I was there, for a while, if I didn’t look around me.

‘Lunch?’

‘Why not?’

I was surprisingly hungry despite the butterflies which fluttered about in my stomach when I made the mistake of looking around the room. It wasn’t the girlie calendars or the half pasted up pages that bothered me. It was the ‘black corner’ full of ghastly looking canes, birches, and so forth. I tried not to think about it.

Lunch was a good opportunity to talk and the conversation flowed freely, considering we had only just met. The chemistry seemed right, or at least, he smiled in a friendly fashion and I didn’t think they were false smiles. Back at the office we were suddenly alone, the understanding colleague had diplomatically disappeared. My ‘friend’ locked the door and pulled the curtains as I watched from the comfort of a big swivel chair.

‘Come on.’ It was time to stand up. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Are you asking me?’ I stood in the middle of the floor, uncertain. What did I want?

‘Yes,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘I always ask.’

‘Then don’t, not with me. Just tell me what you want.’

‘Right, bend over the desk then, please.’

My insides had turned to jelly. Completely. Cold anticipation, hot quivering quim. Not sure even then what I was doing, feeling sexy and yet scared. Doing as I was told without question. Well, almost.

Firm hands pushed me down and I folded my arms to rest my head on them. Funny how a desk is just the right height for someone to bend over, isn’t it? The manufacturers must have known.

‘ Look,’ he said, and the cane appeared through the crook of my arm.

‘I’m not looking!’ I was trying not to think about it. He had obviously decided what I was to get although I still didn’t know. He turned back my clothes, slowly, savouring it no doubt, while my knees trembled. My new black tights were lowered and then my pale green panties.

‘Oh very nice.’

‘Really?’ It made me feel good, restored a little of my confidence, although it didn’t stop the butterflies. The moment of pain came ever nearer.

A hand slid over my cheeks, feeling their softness, appreciating the whiteness? I don’t know. All I know is; it felt nice.

‘Now we’ll see if you mark, shall we?’

A very hard slap made me yelp. It was much harder than I had anticipated! It glowed, a solid round patch of red.

‘A complete hand print, you do mark easily, don’t you?’

And he placed another one, right on top! I could feel my bottom protesting, hurting, but one-sided: one cool cheek, one hot. I pressed against the edge of the desk, trying to escape what was to come.

‘We’ll do something about this side now,’ he said and gave me two more hard slaps before he started spanking me all over. From the top of my bottom near the spine where the skin is pulled tight, to the undercurve which is particularly tender, he spanked me, and I cried out as the pain increased. I let myself flop forward onto the desk, let the spanking carry on as if it wasn’t anything to do with me. Only the sound penetrated my conscious thought; my subconscious absorbed the spanking, wondering why I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

‘That looks nice,’ he said, and before I could even begin to anticipate it, the cane was gone from under my arm, was whistling through the air, and was landing with devastating sharpness on the tender skin. It caught me almost by surprise, and I simply yelled out. It burned like nothing else, and I gripped the far side of the desk, determined to take it. Then came another stroke, slightly further down this time and I almost stood up but just held on by sheer willpower. Would it be six? He still hadn’t said. The third stroke cut across the tender join of bottom and thighs, the tip caught my thigh and brought me to the brink of tears, and the fourth one, which seemed to go wild, was definitely all I could take.

I stood up, clutching my bottom, begging, ‘No more, I can’t take any more.’ And he lowered the cane. ‘I’m not used to it,’ I apologised, which was the truth. I’d never been caned like that.

‘I do cane rather hard,’ he agreed, putting it away in the corner, much to my relief.

I rushed off to the ladies where, with the aid of a small hand mirror, I tried to inspect the weals. They looked horrific! They were already going black and red and they seemed to be everywhere, not like the neat lines I had anticipated.

Back in the office, with the lines still hurting, I sat on the couch and let the pain settle down to a glow. When the editor came back, I showed him the lines and heard him tutting.

‘Not one of your better efforts,’ he told my friend, and I wondered why.

With knickers back in place, and a feeling of warm satisfaction spreading to all known parts of the human body, I left the office, promising to be back one day.

I went back home on the coach, trying not to wriggle.

It’s a good job my friend didn’t carry out any of the promises made in the letters – I wouldn’t have been able to take them, that’s for sure. He said he was entitled to change his mind anyway. An editor’s decision is always final; a contributor has little to say in the matter.

I’m glad the other editors I work for are not all into CP or life could become extremely painful, methinks, but interesting, all the same . . .

 

(You’d be amazed at how often that doesn’t happen to me! Ed.)