Trial by Jury

 

You’ve no doubt seen many times a so-called pilot film which was supposed to be followed by a series, and often isn’t. Well, this was a pilot story. I had every intention of writing a series about the Club. The series never came off, as the editor never asked for any more. There’s no incentive if you find you are writing in a void, sending work out and never getting a response, so as with ‘Girl Talk’, the ideas were there... When this story first appeared a (male) friend complained he could not find enough description, couldn’t see the eroticism of it. So, before I get the same complaint from all you (male) readers out there, the eroticism, the whole point of this story, is the exhibitionism. I wrote it after a (female) friend said she rather fancied being punished before a group of people, almost a public execution, as it were.

 

The sleek dark sports car fitted itself neatly into the drive of the luxurious detached house and stopped. Its engine sighed into silence and the lights faded out. Inside the car, Marjorie and Darren Johnson exchanged smiles in the half-light cast by the porch lantern. They touched hands.

‘Ready?’

‘Always ready for one of these nights.’ Marjorie’s response was husky, whispered with excitement, and Darren gripped her hand tightly.

‘Who do you think will draw what tonight?’ he wondered aloud, but the point was academic. No one knew what role they would play until they got inside the glassed porch of the Grayson’s residence and drew a ticket from the appropriate box, a ticket which would set their role for the evening.

Inside the elegant house, standing so cool and tranquil in the dark night, a trial was to be staged. Every person attending the trial had an essential part to play. What that part was, no one yet knew. In time all would be revealed. Literally.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

Marjorie opened the car door and stepped on to the gravel path just as a gold Rover drew up. She waved to Dianne, who was grinning excitedly at her through the window. Darren locked the doors of the car and walked round the still warm engine to wait beside Marjorie for Dianne and James Kenning to lock their car before hurrying up the drive. ‘Cold. isn’t it?’ commented James, rubbing his hands and then tucking them deep in the pockets of his sheepskin coat.

‘It is,’ agreed Marjorie, huddling deeper into her fur. ‘The sooner we get inside, the better.’

‘And collect our ticket,’ added Dianne, anticipation sparkling in her eyes. ‘Let’s go!’

Giles Grayson opened the door, greeting the arrivals as casually as if they were there for an informal gathering. Coats were removed and handed over in the flutter of greetings and embraces until almost shyly, each arrival took a ticket from the boxes, clearly labelled Men and Women. Well might you ask why. That way they ensured that the defendant for the evening was always female – no women’s lib allowed in the Scottsdale Spanking Society, you understand.

Annette Grayson was waiting for them, nervous and bubbly. ‘Come in by the fire, and get warm. Have you got your tickets?’

‘Yes.’ Darren stopped to give her a brief kiss before approaching the huge log fire. ‘Have you taken yours?’

‘No!’ Annette rushed to the hall. ‘Giles, we haven’t taken our tickets yet!’

‘Come on, then, before I get involved with more people arriving.’

They looked at their tickets, and then at each other, trying to read from their expression what ticket they had drawn. But not a word was said. Part of the fun of the evening was the not knowing; by long standing tradition, you see, no one revealed what part they were to play until the Court was declared in session and everyone took their place.

Annette rejoined her guests, mixing drinks and putting on a tape of background music to help relax everyone. Giles responded to the summons of the doorbell to admit Sandra and Alexander Danes. They too stopped for tickets, which they glanced at before going into the lounge.

Shortly afterwards Rosemary and Stephen Trace arrived, with Estella and Christopher Deacon hot on their heels. The members had arrived. The fun would soon begin.

 

Gentle readers, devotees to a man (or should I say person?) of the exciting, exhilarating genre of corporal punishment, I have a story for you. Well, not so much a story as facts carefully disguised as fiction, for that is the only way to describe the games and goings-on of the Scottsdale Spanking Society, not its real name, of course, under which banner a good deal goes on and not all of it concerns CP. Not by a very long cane weal! Rather than risk libel proceedings, it is easier and safer (if not cheaper) to change the names of the guilty, thereby protecting the innocent.

Now, you will recall before I diverted your attention to me, unforgivable thing for a writer to do, that all the guests were gathered in the lounge of the Grayson house, each clutching or perhaps pocketing a ticket. We have frozen them with a stab at the freeze-frame button; they are suspended in a moment of time, drinks in hand, or half way to mouth, the flames are frozen in the very act of leaping up the chimney and the stirrings of anticipatory lust are, for the moment ceased, held in limbo.

Or somewhere.

Now that they are frozen in that way, we can examine them in detail, and peek over their shoulders to see what ticket they are clutching or pocketing. What secrets are stirring in their minds? What do they think of the role they have been called upon to play?

Marjorie and Darren Johnson arrived first, did they not? Parking the sleek sports car in the drive. Not only is that a safe place, it is also a good way of ensuring they are the last to leave, their car being blocked by the others. This suits Darren, who we have to admit is rather fond of drink. You will also appreciate that drinking is banned in courtrooms, so he has to do all his drinking both before and after the trial. So he comes early and stays late. Darren is a large man, blond touched with grey so it is almost indistinguishable. His face tends towards redness and his body towards being large. He has a healthy appetite for all that life offers him. Not really a devotee of spanking he will be the first to tell you, but he has yet to refuse the offer of having a writhing woman across his knees, bared bum, for him to spank to his heart’s content with all the subsequent joys that brings! Of all the people frozen in this timeless moment he is possibly the least interested in the spanking of a bottom, he prefers it for its natural use, something to hold on to at the moment of orgasm. He contentedly clutches his ticket, which marks him as a juror. It means he can relax and indulge in sexy daydreams of the afterwards.

Marjorie was with him, a petite person looking even smaller than she really is against his largeness. She dresses expensively on the proceeds of his insurance broking firm. She is as dark as he is blond, black of curls and deep hued of skin, as if perpetually under the hot sun or a sun bed. This being the height of an English winter (I mentioned frozen flames a while back) I leave you to judge which it is. Marjorie likes being spanked, she likes the feel of a man’s hand slapping her cheeks, likes the feeling of total domination. She isn’t quite sure about having the event carried out publicly, which is why she is more than glad she has drawn a juror’s ticket again tonight. She surreptitiously looks around, trying to decide who has ‘the ticket’.

If you can remember that far back, Dianne and James Kenning drew up behind the Johnsons, blocking the sports car with the Rover. Dianne is one of those seemingly limpid ladies who lie elegantly in armchairs or drape themselves along the arms of settees, floating gracefully. She has long shining brown hair which flows in ripples down her back. Her face is delicate, her eyes change colour as you stare into their depths. A beautiful lady, a sharp business woman too, who is more than capable of summing up an opponent, male or female, with one single all-embracing glance. She is fascinated by CP and all the implements that go with it. Their bedroom, in their own expensive luxury house, paid for out of the proceeds of the small engineering business, looks somewhat like a black museum, with whips and canes adorning the walls. She would be only too pleased to be on display even if it was face down over the padded stool for the executioner to mete out his sentence on her creamy white bottom, which blends so smoothly with her long, muscled thighs.

But tonight Dianne clutches a juror ticket, for in any trial there must always be seven jurors, and one accused. Still, there is always later, and she looks, in this frozen moment, towards her husband with a sparkle of anticipation for what is to come, not only here but back in their black museum, where no restraining straps are needed.

James Kenning has read her look and knows what is in store. He looks down at his juror ticket, and slips it into his pocket, trying to decide whether he is disappointed or not. Tall and lean, muscled, with not an ounce of fat, James Kenning is the epitome of the business man who has come up from nothing and made it into this rich society on the basis of his own determination. His hair is streaked with grey and he kids everyone that it is the result of all his worries and cares, in fact it is the result of the natural aging process that he doesn’t care to think about. CP is his love and his major hobby. In a locked bookcase in their bedroom is a collection of every good spanking magazine that has ever been printed. If they ever need any inspiration, and even the most devoted followers sometimes do, they play a game of selecting a book at random, allowing it to fall open and giving Dianne double whatever is on the page, no matter how severe.

There is always later, as Dianne’s look has already promised him. It has also told him that she isn’t the victim or her look wouldn’t hold as much promise as it does. You can see nothing? But then you aren’t married to the lady, you don’t know her every whim and mood. But I bet you’d like to. While Annette has been mixing drinks and adjusting the volume on the wallpaper music which, incidentally, isn’t frozen and has been drifting violins into the air whilst we speak, Sandra and Alexander Danes arrived. Born rich, these two were bored with life until the Spanking Society got started, and they were quick to join as soon as they read about it. CP was a new game for them, and still is, in some respects, but they have joined in with great enthusiasm and a good deal of sexual satisfaction, which goes to show that spanking is for the rich as well as the poor. The only difference as far as I can see is the quality of the silk knickers and the price paid for the cane.

The result, I’m happy to say, is exactly the same. Cane weals look like cane weals on a rich or poor bottom, and the squeals, whilst perhaps not quite so refined in the lower classes, are just as loud and indicate just as clearly that pain is being administered to a female who is dearly and clearly in need of chastisement. Aren’t they all?

Alexander, then, portly with good food and wine, slightly balding from too much good living, blue of eye and firm of jaw. And, to his great delight and expectation, holding the executioner ticket for the first time since joining the club. He is anxious to know who the victim is, and is hoping desperately that it isn’t Sandra, because the executioner, by right, gets to bed the victim. It isn’t half so much fun bedding your wife - he can do that later.

Sandra on the other hand is clutching her juror ticket in carmine-tipped fingers, and is quivering with suppressed excitement. As thin as her husband is portly she carries her clothes a bit like a skeleton, with ribs and shoulder blades protruding but, surprisingly, she has a round bottom which invites the open hand as she wiggles her way through the gathered company. Or she will do, when I release the freeze-frame button. Even being a juror is all right with her. She delights in seeing someone’s rear end well and truly thrashed. Make no mistake about it, a sentence from this court is a severe one, when it is carried out in public. Perhaps it is better to be an observer after all. It all depends on your inclination. What’s yours?

Rosemary and Stephen Trace arrived next, and as coincidence would have it, drew the victim and prosecutor tickets respectively. Stephen saw her ticket, which gave him plenty of time to consider how best to ensure that his wife receives the maximum sentence he can persuade the court to award, as she has been getting out of hand lately and he isn’t strong enough to dish out the just desserts the lady really needs. Stephen, you see, is a bit on the weedy side, as opposed to being thin. No muscles to speak of, his eyes are a washed out brown, his weak chin is hidden behind a neat goatee, which gives him a stern look he doesn’t actually deserve.

And Rosemary, excitedly clutching the victim ticket, knows it. Her eyes dart around the gathered guests, wondering who is the executioner. Who will be laying it on hard later? Stephen’s hand isn’t hard, nor his aim strong, and Rosemary, a tiny waspish lady with tight bouncy brown curls and a ready entrancing smile, does love a hard hand. And a hard anything else that also happens to be going in the right direction. I should, for her sake alone, release that freeze-frame button, as she is going to be rather wet with excitement before the trial starts.

But we’re not through yet, for Estelle Deacon, with the defence counsel ticket, and Christopher with the judge ticket, came last, but not unwilling, by any stretch of Estelle’s imagination. Rarely does this intelligent-looking lady, peering through tortoiseshell rimmed glasses at the world, actually experience the stinging slap of a well laid-on tawse or the burning line of a well-applied cane, because Christopher is gifted with a golden tongue, and has talked to her of so many delights that she comes, swiftly and dramatically, and rarely experiences the real thing! Which is a very good reason to join a spanking club, gentle readers. Practical experience. There’s no substitute. And if I keep writing lines like that, I’ll go drifting upstairs to my bedroom for some practical experience, and I’ll not finish the story. For the sake of all the people gathered here, that will never do. Christopher, appointed by chance the judge for the evening, is in fact a good choice. He is a studious man, a perfect partner for Estelle, and he too suffers the disability of poor sight. Not that that stops him spending hours reading and researching various obscure items for hefty tomes, the like of which are not seen on the shelves of W. H. Smith. Tall enough to look distinguished, he will arbitrate well in this trial, and mete out fair sentence to the unfortunate victim, whoever she may be.

Before I release the freeze-frame, I must mention our hosts for the evening, in whose home we have intruded with our video and whose idea the club was.

Annette and Giles Grayson, rarely apart, always referred to as a couple, these two are almost identical twins. Round happy faces with dark, cropped hair, ever-ready smiles and laughs, and an overwhelming interest in all things corporal, they are the perfect hosts for such an evening. They have drawn juror tickets too, and Giles has appointed himself clerk of the court.

And now I’ll release the button and let the guests go back to the buffet and the drinks.

They’ll need them.

 

Annette’s eyes flicker constantly round the group, watching levels of drinks descending and indicating to Giles who needs a refill. Keeping plates well laden with food and the talk drifting happily in all directions, she is the perfect hostess. Giles will find no fault with her tonight Not that that will mean her bottom won’t be well and truly reddened later with the first thing that comes to hand; even the excitement generated by the sight of the victim getting her just desserts won’t be enough for the Graysons. They’ll need the added excitement of Annette over the end of the bed being laid into with something hefty - she felt her body twitch at the mere thought of it. When Giles had gauged the moment at which everyone was pleasantly full of drink and food, he rang his small bell and immediately all talk stopped, and eyes turned to stare at him.

‘Thanks for coining.’ A spontaneous burst of laughter greeted him. Double meaning, you see. ‘If you would like to depart to the courtroom...’

Immediately people put down their glasses and move towards the door, fluttering feelings of anticipation increasing in all of them. Rosemary in particular finds herself going positively weak. Would she stand up long enough to be tried? Would the judge be strict? Would the executioner be hard on her? Oh let him be, let him be!

The dining room had been set up as a court. Down one side a double row of chairs, at one end a throne-like chair on a dais, and in the centre, the high, padded stool. A little behind the stool, and just to one side, so the judge can see him, will sit the executioner.

The jurors filed into place, nodding at each other as they saw who took the jurors’ seats, and laughing as they pointed out the defence and prosecution counsel, approving with a grin Christopher mounting the dais to the judge’s chair, and their hearts going out, partly in sympathy, partly in jealousy, as Rosemary stood behind the stool, and Alexander sat gleefully in the executioner’s chair.

Rosemary gasps audibly as she realises that Stephen is the prosecutor, knowing guiltily that she has been out of hand these last few weeks, knowing she has been asking for a tanning and has not had it. But she will tonight. The feelings of fear and anticipation increase. Alexander is an unknown quantity. In all the times she has come to the club he has never been executioner, so she has no idea of his skill - or otherwise.

The bell rang, sharply. The court was in session.

‘Your name?’ The judge leans forward, the better to hear. Rosemary clears her throat, nervously.

‘Rosemary Adriana Trace.’

‘What accusations are brought against the accused?’ Stephen steps forward, his goatee beard quivering as the nervous tic in his neck affects the muscles of the jaw. He’s nervous and trying not to show it. Grim determination to ensure Rosemary goes home well and truly thrashed helps in overcoming some of his nerves.

‘The accused, Your Honour, has during the last few weeks been insolent, neglectful of household duties, lax in her marital duties and has dented the offside wing of the automobile.’

‘I see.’ The judge leans back, giving defence counsel the chance for a swift discussion with the accused.

Stephen has played a dangerous game, as far as Rosemary’s behind is concerned. The offences outlined have no real defence, and Estelle knows it. She stands up and bows deferentially to the judge, setting her glasses on her nose.

‘Your Honour, the accused has no real defence to the matrimonial crimes of insolence, or household duties unperformed, except perhaps - and here I speculate just a little on behalf of my client - she was angling for a touch of the very interest that brings us all together.’

She pauses for the swift round of applause from the jury, most of whom have at some time or other practised the same deceptions themselves.

‘She wishes to state, however, that she has not been lax in her marital duties, in fact on several occasions she has been the instigator of a session. She also wishes to state in her defence that the accident to the automobile was not her fault, as witnessed by the fact that the insurance company is paying up.’

Rosemary watches anxiously as Stephen assimilates the information, knowing he is trying to find a way round the defence, trying to ensure a severe sentence for her. She also watches Christopher, calmly waiting for all the sides of the argument to be put to him.

‘Your Honour, it is true that the accused has instigated several marital sessions, but we are talking about a time span of some six months, during which a few occasions have been lost due to overall neglect.’

Estelle springs forward. ‘Your Honour, I protest -’

But Christopher wavs her to silence. ‘The point is fairly made. I will accept it as it stands.’

‘But Your Honour, I would point out that in this trial, the prosecutor is also the spouse of the accused, and as such is biased.’

‘That point has already been considered, and due regard will be made to that point when sentence is passed.’

Rosemary sneaks a look behind her. Alexander sits, arms and legs crossed, as if he had not a care in the world, and is watching a TV show, but he winks at Rosemary to let her know he is awake, aware and waiting. She shudders again in pure bliss.

Stephen edges forward and glances at Rosemary.

‘Your Honour, it is the prosecution’s case that the accused has been merely neglectful of her proper position as a wife,’ (this too brings laughter and applause from the jury, who are a most disrespectful crowd) ‘and I would merely state that it is the duty of the court to ensure that sentence is severe and fitting to the crimes of which she is accused.’

He walks away to stand near the jury, knowing there was nothing much else to say.

Estelle stands next to Rosemary, one hand resting lightly on her arm.

‘Your Honour, members of the jury, you have heard both sides of this particular marital dispute. It is clear from the evidence presented that the fault lies on both sides. I maintain that the accused cannot be wholly to blame for the charges brought against her. I would ask for leniency.’

‘Members of the jury, would you please consider your verdict.’

The jurors confer together, delighted with the performance. Usually outrageous charges were brought, invented by the prosecution more or less on the spot, and bearing no relation to the accused whatsoever. This time the charges have been real and the defence well argued. Rosemary whispers her thanks. No one could have done more for her. Estelle has certainly ensured that she will get a fair sentence.

Finally Giles stands up to deliver the jury’s verdict, after what seemed to Rosemary a length of time resembling eternity.

‘Guilty, Your Honour, but with mitigating circumstances.’

‘Thank you.’ Christopher considers the various combinations of sentencing he could give, knowing Rosemary’s desire for a good session, and yet not wanting it to be too severe, as she is unused to it and might not be able to stand too much. Not like Dianne, for example, whom he knew could take almost anything that the court would wish to sentence her to.

He looked up. Alexander is grinning broadly and expectantly for Rosemary, for the first time, looks a little worried.

‘The sentence of this court is twelve strokes with the tawse, followed by six with the cane.’

The jury applauds again. It is a fair sentence, severe, and yet not beyond what Rosemary can take.

‘The executioner will kindly carry out the sentence immediately.’

Giles hurries to the end of the room and comes back with the tawse and the cane. Alexander puts one hand firmly in the middle of Rosemary’s back and bends her over the stool, where he swiftly tied her wrists. The stool was not secured to the floor, but Rosemary knows, from watching others, that if she struggles so much that the stool topples over, the sentence will start all over again, as if it had just begun. Unless you had a tough skin, it wasn’t worth risking that!

Alexander turns back her clothes and lowered the lace-trimmed, pale blue knickers, revealing Rosemary’s plump white cheeks to the assembled court. He takes the tawse from Giles and flexes it in his fingers. Then he looks round, catches Sandra’s eye and grins. He knows she is enjoying it as much as he is.

‘Sentence is about to begin,’ he announces, simultaneously bringing the tawse down with a crack across Rosemary’s unprotected and very vulnerable bottom.

The shriek comes at the very instant that a broad red stripe springs across the white skin and almost drowns the gasp of pleasure from the onlookers. Again and again the tawse cracks down, never harder, never softer and each time a broad red line leaps up across the whiteness until the whole of Rosemary’s soft cheeks are covered in red bands. She moans and cries out but makes no attempt to struggle.

‘Six,’ announces Alexander, and Rosemary yells then, as if to say ‘no more’, but there are six more to take, and Alexander lays them on with deliberation and precision, exactly across the earlier six. He might have come late to the CP game but he is now quite experienced, and delighs the onlookers with the severity and accuracy of the tawsing.

Rosemary, face down and helpless, is awash with conflicting feelings. Reality always far surpasses fantasies, and while she has fantasised about having a ‘real’ tawsing, she is finding the actual experience far more painful than she could ever have imagined. And there are still six more to come and the thought of the cane landing across the already burning lines is fearsome – and extremely exciting.

There is no need for me to detail the caning. You’ve all had them, or given them. Or both. Suffice it to say that Rosemary had six scarlet lines etched across the red lines dealt by the tawse, and screamed at every one.

Stephen, watching with avid excitement, knew that this is what she needed and despaired that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Estelle watches with glistening lips and glowing eyes, hoping someone would do exactly the same for her later.

Christopher watches sadly, knowing he too was incapable of giving such punishment and his wife had to go to others. He vows to try again. Soon. Sandra watches her husband’s performance with pride, and anticipation of something close to that with someone at the end of the session.

Marjorie and Darren exchange knowing looks. Dianne and James watch approvingly, yet knowing their sessions have surpassed this many times. Annette and Giles watch happily, knowing another successful trial is over, and another good spectacle has been laid on - in every sense of the words - for their guests.

Finally Rosemary is released from the execution stool, and leans on her executioner, who dries her tears and offers to rub it better for her, but not too soon. Without looking at anyone, they leave the room for the master bedroom; the prerogative of the accused and the executioner.

This is the signal everyone has been waiting for. As if by pre-arranged agreements, people began to pair off. Christopher held out his hand to Dianne, knowing she needed no more than release right then, as he did. James offered an arm to Estelle, delighting her, as she knew she could expect something good from an expert. Darren reached out for Sandra, and Marjorie, with only a moment’s hesitation, left with Stephen. After all, anyone different was worth trying.

Annette and Giles left together, as they always do. They are possessive and jealous of each other, these two, and everyone knows it.

 

It is time, gentle reader, for us to disappear into the night. If you pause for a moment, hand on door knob, in the very act of pulling the door shut behind you, you might hear the sharp slap of leather on skin or the whistle of a cane about to land on an upturned willing bottom; but not all the pairs are re-enacting the sentence or in fact need the stimulus. From those rooms you will hear little more than cries of ecstasy. Which is how it should be.

We can leave now, for I can tell you what will happen later. With dignity restored and alcohol intake stepped up to compensate for non-drinking time, the various legal couples will join up to go home.

It is at home that we may one day meet up with the couples we have seen tonight, but that is in the future, and another edition.

For tonight, at least, the trial by jury is over.