Chapter Eight

This experience was but the prelude to a series of scenarios in which the Count introduced me to the pleasures of spanking. He was right; I had a taste for it, and the more I got the more I wanted. As ever, the Count was an excellent tutor. He told me how important it was to warm up the subject; that way, he said, I would be able to take much more than if he began cold, simply picking up the strap or whatever and lashing it immediately against my unprepared bottom. He also explained the importance of getting the rhythm right. Experience had shown him that a girl will accept much more if the strokes are carefully spaced, the effect of one dissipating a little before the next one is laid on. He explained that frequent pauses, for verbal encouragement and for reassuring caresses, also helped to prolong the session, ensuring that the subject did not reach her limit too soon. Finally, he showed me the value of after-care. No matter how hard the spanking, he made sure that when he ceased I was kissed and cuddled and, if I wished it, always rewarded with an orgasm (or two!).

Having begun with the belt, we advanced over a period of weeks through a series of other implements. There was a tawse, a thick leather strap, narrowed to a handle at one end and split up the middle at the other, which he explained was much favored by schoolmasters, though I said that none at my school had employed it, to my knowledge. This implement, owing to its weight, delivered a much heavier blow than the strap he had used the first time.

The Count also possessed a riding crop, a long thin leather-covered length of wood which had a little leather flap at the end. The Count was highly skilled at using this; he could flick the flap against my bottom, or against my nipples, or else (though this brought forth squeals of protest on my part), between my legs. He also had a flogger, consisting of a wooden handle to which were attached a dozen or more thin strips of soft leather. Wielded gently, this had a soothing effect on me; the Count liked to slide it down the length of my naked back, then slowly between my legs, the leather teasing the lips of my cunt, before flicking it softly against my bottom. But if he used it harder, it could sting, and the leather strips would mark my skin with delicate thin pink lines.

One afternoon, after he had put me across his knee and made my bottom glow delightfully with hand-spanking, suffusing my loins with a pleasing and arousing warmth, he requested me to bend over his desk. From a corner cupboard he took something I hadn’t seen before, a long, thin whip, very flexible. He explained that such an item was used in the training of horses, and was known as a dressage whip. He said that I would find it stimulating.

He raised my skirts up to my waist. I waited, my bottom still warm and looking forward to some more stimulation. The Count tapped the whip against my buttocks, then flicked it lightly against me. The sensation was not disagreeable. It would have hurt more had I not been warmed up, but the stinging feeling was just painful enough to take me up a notch, as it were. Gradually the Count began to ply the whip harder, until I could hear it swish as it descended, followed by a crack as it landed on my now smarting flesh. I began to gasp and wriggle a little.

“Steady,” the Count said. “I need you to take a little more.”

He continued to whip me, laying on perhaps another dozen strokes. The last three or four were hard indeed, and I cried out. Once he had finished he pulled me up and stood holding me tight in his arms. I could feel his cock rigid against my belly. Without invitation I slid down to my knees, undid his breeches and took it out. I squeezed it for a moment, admiring its beauty, then took it in my mouth, sucking sensually. The Count sighed with pleasure.

For some reason, although I could feel my cunt wet and wanting, I decided to bring him to climax then and there. Accordingly I set to sucking with all the skill I could manage, at the same time rubbing his cock gently with my hand. (In my experience few men can orgasm from oral stimulation alone, despite their evident enjoyment of it.) I was soon rewarded; the Count gasped and his cock jerked in my mouth as his semen shot to the back of my throat. For a moment I almost choked. Instinctively I swallowed, then set to work slowly sucking until I had drained him of every last drop. I licked my lips in a way that he could see me; I wanted him to know that I liked doing this.

One implement to which I reacted badly when he first employed it was a wooden paddle, about four inches in diameter. It was heavy and when the Count swung it I received a thudding blow to my buttocks that seemed to penetrate deep into my bowels. After half a dozen blows, I used my safe word, unable to endure any more. It was clear that the Count was, almost for the first time, disappointed with me. At the time I said nothing, but later I spoke to him about it.

I said that I had been studying my responses to the program of flagellation he had instituted. Already it was clear to me that not all spanking was of the same kind. Broadly speaking, I said, there seem to be two kinds of effect. Some implements deliver a kind of stinging effect, and with some the effect was more that of a thud, a heavy blow that instead of making the skin smart, shakes the flesh.

The Count listened carefully, and asked me if I preferred one to the other. On the whole, I replied, I favored the stinging sensation. The heavy blows of the paddle were not in themselves unpleasurable if I was well warmed-up and in the right mood. But the flogger, the tawse, the whip and the crop were somehow more sensual.

“So far, Jane, I have spared you the cane,” the Count said.

“Yes, sir,” I said, looking away. I had been hoping that he would not mention it. He knew my terror of that thing, based on my witnessing its use at school, and its effect on my poor Helen.

“Do you wish to be a good girl and please me?” the Count enquired. “Are you willing to be obedient to my will?”

I was surprised by what he asked. Up to this point the spanking had seemed more like an act of mutual enjoyment; I enjoyed having it done, and he enjoyed doing it to me. It had not been framed as an act of submission to him. I often called him sir when we enacted these scenarios, but that was out of deference to his position, as well as a genuine token of respect. Now he was proposing to put things on a different footing. But as I considered what he said, I could feel that what we had been doing went further than a little fun between consenting adults. I could sense there was something deeper, not love, certainly, but a desire on my part to be mastered, a sexual hunger for surrender, for being controlled. I wanted to feel his power over me. As I thought about this, acknowledging my feelings for the first time, I felt giddy with longing, felt a sharp, urgent lust surge through me. As I sat there, I felt my cunt clench, then ache.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I believe that I do want to be a good girl.”

“Then you must submit to the cane.”

A shiver ran through me. I felt the same sensation I had experienced when I saw Helen being punished by the headmaster, a mixture of terror and desire. I feared the cane would hurt, would hurt badly. I dreaded it, and yet it held an unmistakable fascination for me. I knew somehow that sooner or later I should come to it. Better that it were wielded by the Count, an experienced and kindly lover, than by some brute whose intention was to harm me.

I bowed my head and looked down at the floor. “Yes, sir,” I said very quietly. A thrill went through my belly and set me quivering between my legs.

“Come here,” said the Count.

I got up from the chair where I had been seated and slowly advanced towards him. He took me gently by the hand and pulled me down over his knee. I raised myself up a little so that he might easily lift my skirts and pull down my drawers.

“Such a beautiful bottom,” said the Count, once it was exposed. “So soft and white. But soon to be pink. And then red. And marked.”

I shuddered. I did not know if I could go through with this. Although I always hated to disappoint the Count, wishing him to think me a girl with spirit and not one who shrank from new experiences, I had a sudden fear that this time I might have bitten off more than I could chew.

“Please, sir,” I said, “be kind.”

“You must trust me,” the Count replied. “I shall never harm you, but I shall give you exactly what I judge you need. I think you are ready to go to this further stage. Do not fight it. Try to absorb the pain rather than reject it. Take deep breaths. Let yourself go.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I resolved to do my best. After all, I had a safe word, and I knew the Count would respect it.

The over-the-knee spanking was administered carefully, as if the Count was meticulously preparing me for what was to come. His hand rose and fell, alternating on both cheeks of my bottom, which gradually grew warmer. I loved this kind of stinging effect; I would have happily remained bent across his knee for an hour or more. However, after perhaps twenty minutes he told me to stand up. He led me across to his desk, bent me over, and rearranged my clothing so as to bare my bottom again.

From the drawer in his desk he took a long, thin bamboo cane. One end had been covered with some material to make a handle; the cane itself had been sanded smooth. He swished it to and fro several times; the sound made my knees go weak. If I had not been supported by the desk I should not have been able to stay upright. Having flexed the cane several times, he then tapped it lightly against my behind. I shivered, and I fear that a whimper escaped my lips.

“Steady now,” he said, not unkindly, and stroked my bottom with his hand. Then he stepped back. He raised his arm and brought it down swiftly. The cane struck me full across the centre of the buttocks. For a split second I felt nothing; then a searing pain burned into my poor flesh. I gasped and gripped the desk more tightly. The Count paused, letting the effect sink in, but also allowing the pain to diffuse a little. Then he raised his arm again. Despite the Count’s injunction not to fight the pain, I found myself tensing, bracing myself against the blow to come. It struck me on the same spot as the first. A moan escaped my lips. My bottom seemed to have caught fire; the cane was like a branding iron, searing into my flesh. The Count’s arm rose and fell with a steady rhythm. After half a dozen strokes he paused, reaching down to caress my inflamed behind.

“You take it well,” he said. “You are a true submissive. Congratulations. There are not many girls who have your gift, to be able to transform pain into pleasure. A most delicious alchemy.”

I was pleased with his praise; it had been hard earned. I made as if to rise.

“Oh, no,” the Count said firmly. “It is finished only when I say so. Now be a good girl and take a little more.”

I whimpered softly. I really did not feel I could bear even another stroke. My bottom throbbed and ached. I was sure there would be fearful bruises.

“How many more, sir?” I enquired. Perhaps I could bargain with him. Maybe a couple more might be just bearable.

“Another six,” the Count said. “And a little harder this time.”

Six? And harder? Surely he was not capable of such cruelty. I had a vision of poor Helen’s behind, lacerated by the merciless beating from the headmaster. I could not take that. I began to sob.

The Count stroked the back of my neck. “Soon it will be over,” he said soothingly. “And then I shall be so proud of you. Now keep still and give me what I want.”

Still sobbing, I gripped the sides of the desk even more firmly and braced myself. Once more the Count tapped lightly against the centre of my buttocks. His aim was unerring; as I was to find when I surveyed my bruises later, the marks were narrowly grouped, a series of parallel dark lines. The Count raised his arm and the cane fell swiftly.

I do not know how I got through those last six strokes. The pain seemed to make a kind of roaring sound in my ears. My whole body shook and my bottom felt in flames. At one point, unable to stand it any more, I tried to move away, but the Count put one hand firmly in the small of my back to steady me, and continued with his work. I think on the final stroke, which was the hardest of all, I screamed out loud. I fell to the floor, curling up into a ball, weeping pitifully.

The Count gathered me in his arms and laid me on the couch. He sat beside me, stroking my hair, murmuring soft words to me. Gradually I grew calmer. He caressed the back of my neck, then kissed behind my ear.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered. “Such a very good girl. You should be proud.”

In some way I did indeed feel so, even though my behind throbbed. I thought about the experience. Was it all pain? Was the pleasure only in submitting to him, or did the thrashing of my bottom engender desire? Suddenly, I wanted him.

“Fuck me,” I said. I was without shame. I pulled up my skirts and opened my legs. The Count rolled onto me and pushed his cock right up inside. I groaned. I could feel how wet I was, how receptive. He began to fuck me gently, then harder and harder. I clung to him, my thighs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into me. He came quickly, too quickly for me to climax too, but I did not mind. I wanted to be taken, not pleasured.

As I suspected, the bruises were bad. It was almost a week before the black and blue lines across my buttocks faded. I wondered when the Count would want to beat me again. I was not sure if I felt strong enough to endure another session such as I had undergone; and yet when I thought about the cane smacking hard against my rump, I felt a warm flush between my legs, as if my cunt quivered in expectation. I have since found that, for a girl such as myself, whose imagination is inflamed by the thought of submitting to a beating, there is always great pleasure in the recollection of pain, no matter how unbearable it seemed at the time.

As it happened, before the Count subjected me to further discipline he arranged for me an entirely different kind of encounter. He said that he was proud of me, that he had a desire to exhibit me to others, to show me off to his friends. (For some reason, put it down to my naivety – remember that I was scarcely out of school, I did not connect these remarks with the discussion the Count had with Renzo concerning his desire to expose me to the sight of others.) Accordingly, one weekend he invited a small group to his house. There was a gentleman of a certain age, and his wife about the same age, a handsome woman, well dressed. Judging from his attire, I supposed her husband to be an artist of some sort, and so he proved to be. There was a young girl, very pretty, again dressed most becomingly. There was a younger couple, in their twenties, and finally two young men, boys really, exceedingly handsome in a delicate, almost girlish way.

By this time I had managed to do something to improve the meagerness of the wardrobe I had inherited from the school. I had a grey silk dress made for me, one that I thought flattered my figure, being, as was the style, drawn tight across the waist and hips, with a full skirt, and cut low in front, daringly so as it seemed to me, though that was how fashionable women of the time presented themselves. Of course, I only wore this dress when the Count and I were alone together, or when we had company. I had also purchased some more flattering underwear, in white silk, and a corset to pull in my waist. So I felt that no matter how elevated the assembled guests, I should not disgrace myself.

All these people assembled in the Count’s drawing room, where drinks were served. I was introduced to the assembled company, and was prepared for an agreeable, if not particularly exciting evening. As I say, when the Count had said that he wished to exhibit me, I had misunderstood. I did not realize that he meant this literally, that my person was to be exposed to them. While the guests talked among themselves, the Count took me on one side and explained what he actually intended.

“These people are all, in their different ways, people of artistic temperament, with a special interest in the human form. I should like them to see you, and admire you, as I do, unadorned. Will you do this for me?”

He looked at me a trifle anxiously, as if he feared I might decline. I was, in truth tempted to do so. The thought of being paraded before a group of strangers, who would then be invited to appraise my naked body, and perhaps offer comments on it, was daunting. But I thought of how kind the Count had been to me, and how grateful I was that he had introduced me to so many pleasures which I had previously been unaware of. Was it so much that he requested of me? Surely I could come to no harm in his hands. And, if truth were told, I think there has always been a nascent exhibitionism in my make-up. I like to show off. The Count had convinced me that my body was nothing to be ashamed of, that indeed I might take a modest pride in it.

“Very well, dear Count,” I said, “if this is your wish. But I am sure I shall be embarrassed.”

“I think,” the Count replied smiling, “that I should be a little disappointed if you are not.”

The Count led me to the front of the room, where there was a couch. He turned and addressed his guests.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special treat for you this evening. My young friend, Jane, has most generously agreed to display herself, so that all of you who appreciate the aesthetic qualities of the naked female form may admire her. Please arrange chairs in a semi-circle around the couch and we shall begin.”

When the company were seated, the Count began to remove my clothes. As he did so he said that it was his intention to commission a full-length portrait of me which would preserve my charms on canvas. While he undressed me I felt myself blushing, aware of the eyes of the guests on me. I tried not to look at them directly, instead gazing vaguely into the distance, but I could not ignore the fact that I was on display. Once I was completely naked (except that the Count left my white cotton stockings on, for what reason I did not know), he made me turn this way and that, so that all might see me from every angle. Then he told me to kneel on the couch, with my bottom towards the audience. He told me to part my legs, and I blushed a deeper shade of red.

I remained in this position for a while, offering the audience a full view of my private parts. I had little doubt what feelings such a sight would engender in the males present. But what did the women think? Women, I have found, are apt to be far more critical of other women’s bodies than a man might be. Whereas a man, faced with a naked woman, is likely to feel desire, which may overcome his more objective responses, a woman, unless she is one of those who appreciates her own sex, will not be inclined to be indulgent.

Whatever their thoughts, the Count left them in no doubt as to his own admiration of my person. He sat beside me, his fingers prying into my most intimate places. “A woman’s cunt is like a flower,” he said. “As you see, some cunts are like orchids, voluptuous, luscious, their lips extravagantly curled and textured.”

The Count never spoke of pussies or used any other euphemism. To him, a cunt was a cunt, pure and simple. I liked this straightforwardness.

“Cunts also have fragrance, just like a flower, rare and delicate, to be savored by the discriminating connoisseur.” He bent his head between my legs and inhaled, then beamed. “Delightful,” he said.

I blushed still more. Though some would have considered me by now a practiced libertine, I still found myself taken aback by the Count’s frankness. He delighted in indecencies of all kinds, and knew all too well his power to embarrass me. Indeed, he took a special pleasure in it. “I know, dear Jane,” he had said to me on one occasion, “that however much I debauch you, there is still some modesty left in your make-up, and that is what I crave to expose. There is nothing prettier than a lovely woman’s shame.”

The Count turned to his audience, warming to his theme. “The form of some cunts eschews the showiness of orchids, imitating instead the shyness of a snowdrop, opening only when it feels warmth, otherwise concealing the inner parts. This has its own special charm, but it is not the case with Jane, who as you see has a cunt that could truly be described as ‘floribunda’.” So saying, the Count fondled me some more, spreading me so that the assembled guests might glimpse the coral-pink interior between the dark purple lips, the edges going darker, almost chocolate-colored.

“I should like to see a picture painted which preserved in full detail this part of her body,” the Count went on. “But even the most realistic picture could not convey the full beauty of this girl’s cunt and lovely ass. To know it in its full splendor you have to not only be able to see, but to smell, to feel and to taste. Which of you would care to avail himself or herself of this opportunity to make a closer acquaintance?”

There was a pause, during which I pondered my position. Was I to be offered to all and sundry, to prod and pry? This was shaming indeed. The only saving grace of my position was that my blushing face was buried in the cushions of the sofa and was the one part of me that was not open to inspection. I heard a shuffling behind me. Evidently at least some of the guests intended to take up the Count’s offer. I felt a hand touch me, take hold of one of the delicate lips of my cunt and give it a playful tug. Another finger slid very slowly into my cunt. What was perhaps the most humiliating thing of all was that, despite my shame, I could feel that I was wet. Somehow, in spite of (or was it because of?) my acute embarrassment, I had become aroused. Shame and desire, it seemed, were not incompatible.

I felt another touch, this time a hand encircling my left buttock, squeezing it, gently at first then harder. I felt as if I were a melon at a market, being tested for ripeness by a potential customer. Then the Count spoke.

“Observe the smaller of her orifices. I have compared her cunt to a flower, but we might also think of it as a mouth. With its full lips it promises a sensual kiss, and readily opens so that something might be introduced, whether a finger or a male member. But this other orifice is shy and modest, prim, one might almost say, a mouth that instead of offering itself for a ripe and luscious kiss is tightly pursed. It resists penetration unless one is insistent.”

With that I felt someone, perhaps the Count himself, prizing apart the cheeks of my bottom so that, whatever I might wish, my anus was opened up.

“Lick your finger and slip it in,” the Count invited. I do not know whether it was a gentleman or one of the ladies whose finger was now inserted, not roughly but firmly. I let out a gasp.

“You see, she is not unmoved by this ultimate intrusion,” the Count said. “I have to tell you that she is not an innocent. Her tight little ass has already been breached, with much pleasure by those lucky enough to have had the honor.”

My shame now knew no bounds that the Count should reveal details of the perverse sexual acts I had performed. But I later reflected that, since there were no liberties he was not prepared to take with my person, why should he spare my blushes when it came to revealing my secrets? I felt that I had now become a thing, an object, existing at this moment purely for the convenience of those who were inspecting me. Whereas when I had been caned, the pleasure I had derived from submitting to pain was motivated by a deep desire to renounce my will in favor of another, now the kind of objectification I was undergoing, and the shame I felt, had a similar effect of causing me to humble myself in the service of another. I wanted, no matter what the cost in terms of public humiliation, to be used, to put my body wholly at the service of another. I think I may say, on reflection (and I gave much thought to this experience in subsequent days), that nothing had ever aroused me so much. A lover’s caresses are a delight to me. No one enjoys the physical delights of fucking as much as I do. But I have learned to know myself, and what I know is that mere physical stimulation is not enough for me. I crave the psychological excitement of being forced to cut through my resistance to pain, or my reluctance to be shamed, made to serve another’s wishes even if, and especially if, they should override my own.

I think that those who have never experienced this satisfaction cannot truly understand it. Attempting to explain to one who is content with kisses and caresses, and a cock in the cunt, what it is to know the giddy ecstasy of submission, is like trying to explain to a blind man how it feels to see a rainbow, or to a deaf man what Mozart sounds like. They have not the faculty to experience what you speak of.

The guests continued to probe me, becoming bolder in their touches, fondling this or that part of me (one, I think a man, had put his hand under my body and found my breasts, pinching and pulling on my nipples). At one point the Count delivered a miniature lesson on female anatomy, explaining (doubtless he was surprised that some of these present were in need of information) what my clitoris was, and where exactly it was located. He encouraged guests to touch it, to experiment with different ways of caressing it, explaining that different women liked different things, some rough, some gentle, but that all without except got intense pleasure from the stimulation of this quintessential female organ.

Despite the best efforts of the guests, I did not achieve an orgasm, nor was I inclined to fabricate one. I thought this was intended to be a lesson in the realities of the female form, and that students ought not to be deceived about such matters. But there is no doubt I grew excited by being touched in such a manner; I like to think that the most deft caresses were administered by the Count himself.

At last the Count concluded that I had had enough of being interfered with. He said that I might get dressed. When I had put my clothes back on I was bidden by him to join the company. Refreshments were being served. I felt no little embarrassment, even though I was now clothed again, at confronting those who had explored me so clinically. Which of them, I thought as I perused their faces, had pushed a finger into my cunt? Who had squeezed my buttock, who had invaded my ass? I looked at them anxiously to see if I could detect on their faces any feelings of disrespect for me at having submitted to such an experience. But, it is to the credit of the Count that his guests, far from disdaining me as a shameless harlot, seemed somewhat in awe of me, as a woman whose sexual daring greatly exceeded their own.