Foreplay

 

These stories have seen the light over the years in many different magazines under different names. This is the first time they have been brought together in one volume for the delectation of my readers. Here is your chance to read stories you may have missed and rediscover stories you read a while ago.

There are going to be people who, having also read my columns in various magazines, will say that I have betrayed my own principles, having said that women should not be shown getting punished and growing to like it. I would remind those who think that way that when I began writing, it was the only type of story to be found and consequently, the only story I could sell. At a time when making money was as essential as honing writing skills, I went along with it.

I have started the collection with such stories and moved on to show women actively seeking out the discipline they need. Some stories straddle the boundary line ('Fire And Ice' is one) and then they do become the sort of stories I would prefer to read now.

In effect these stories show the slow development of an SM writer from early fantasy writing through real experiences to the confident submissive/slave I became. They also reflect the changes in SM writing generally. My intention was to present a wide variety of stories catering for all tastes, from the 'vengeance' lovers through to those who like women to be proudly independent yet submissive. I've touched on the school scenario in one of the novellas, but kept it to adults, as my views on the school scene are well known!

As apparently nine out of ten erotica readers are male, I dedicate this book to all of you who believe a woman's place is under your thumb and who think that all indiscretions should be met with swift and painful retribution. These stories were written for you and are really for you. I hope you enjoy them.

Josephine Scott

 

Fantasy

 

As a weaver of words, a teller of tales, a fabricator of fantasies, I fabricated the following fantasy for you.

Come up to my bedroom with me, step into my fantasy.

I was wrong. I admit I was wrong, I shouldn't have done it or indeed said that to you.

Will my humble apology be enough to satisfy you?

Will you forgive me? Is there a chance you will let me off my punishment? Will you turn a blind eye at this time?

Do you know how disappointed I would be if you do?

I stand before you, my stomach a veritable plague of war dancing butterflies, quivering with excitement and apprehension. I can't help but smile at you.

You should know me better than to treat it as contempt for the punishment to come to me. Don't you realise it's a nervous smile, anticipating the spanking to come? Can't you see the thrill I am feeling?

There is no escape; sentence has been passed on my mistakes.

I lie across your knees with my hands on the floor to support myself. My slippers have come off and my toes bury themselves in the carpet. It's rough, scratchy. I stare at my hands through my hair. It is tickling my nose and I want to rub it.

It seems an age lying there, nervous and apprehensive, before you slowly and carefully turn back my skirt and slip and you begin to take down my knickers and I, fool that I am time, move my body to help you. Now my knickers are half way down my thighs, well out of your way, and the air is cool on my bottom. If you look carefully you will see the marks from my last caning. They're faint now, but they're there; I know they're there, I check every day.

Your hands are gentle, caressing, sensual, erotic. You're deliberately keeping me waiting. What would you use? Nothing has been said.

Your hand? Right now it is gentle, but I know only too well how hard it can smack, covering me in finger-marking redness, leaving me stinging and smarting.

My slipper which I've lost? Rubber-soled, easy to hold, hard on my bottom!

But within reach is the wooden hairbrush that you delight in using, which covers my cheeks in neat, oblong, red marks until they blend and I am all one burning redness. I don't like that, its unrelenting solidness is painful but then so is everything you use.

Each slap hurts and I tell myself I deserved every stinging smack but it's not easy to lie here and take it. Did you expect me not to whimper or cry?

All right, I was struggling, who wouldn't? The spanking hurts! You don't have to hold my hands that tight. Please, I need my hands to support myself; I'm just a limp body lying over your knees. I promise I won't try to stop you again...

Through my veil of tears as I can see my red, sore bottom in the mirror, it feels hot to touch and it hurts. I'm sorry, I promise you I'm sorry -

No more! Have I not had enough?

I can't take any more, believe me, I can't! Please, it's enough now, I'm sorry I've already said I'm sorry, what more do you want?

I am lying face down on the bed. My sobbing has ceased, my bottom is glowing hot. I dare not touch it or move; it hurts!

I'm waiting.

What would you like to do to me now?

You Chose The Punishment

 

This is the first story I ever wrote in this genre and the first ever to sell. It was the start of my erotic writing career and the beginning of my friendship with the assistant editor at Janus, a friendship I treasured until it was ended by the death of my friend. Re-reading it today I am surprised at the submissive overtones, as it was written before I truly understood the meaning of the word or the nature of a submissive woman.

 

I am shaking. This is silly, I am only going to get the spanking, aren't I? But he's been so long upstairs, what is he doing? A spanking won't hurt. It will, of course it will, but it's better than weeks of short housekeeping, isn't it? Get my punishment over and done with, that's what I thought about, but what is Peter doing? What will he use? Just his hand? My hairbrush has a wide back. My slipper? It's rubber soled and very hard! I wish I'd never agreed to this after all. I feel funny butterflies in my stomach and I want to go to the bathroom but I dare not go. He said wait and wait I must. He's in a bad enough mood without my doing anything else.

I'm sitting here flustered, my face is red, my hands are sweating, I feel very, very silly. Yet I am strangely interested, or I wouldn't have agreed.

Will he want me to undress or just take off my knickers? I feel myself blushing at the thought of putting myself across his knees anyway. It's such a silly thing to do, isn't it? I mean, I'm a grown woman, not a child. Lots of women get spanked, Peter told me once, but that doesn't help me right now. I wonder if they have the stomach churning fear before the spanking. What is Peter doing upstairs?

'Josie!' he calls. Now I do feel sick.

'Coming.'

Ten stairs, might as well be a hundred. It seems to take an age to reach the bedroom door.

He is standing by the bed looking solemn, still angry. Panic begins to increase my heartbeat and something like a surge goes through me. But he's being kind, after a fashion.

'Better go to the loo first,' he says, and grateful for any respite, I rush the bathroom. 'Don't be too long,' he commands in a warning tone.

I hurry.

Back in the bedroom is a real shock, a hard cushion is in the middle of the bed and he has bought a three foot bamboo cane from the shed. My stomach turns completely over.

'Come in, Josie,' Peter says sweetly.

'I thought... oh you said... I thought...'

'You thought what, Josie?'

'I thought I was going to get a spanking.' I am now blushing furiously.

'Why? And why don't you start taking your clothes off while we talk?'

I fumble with my buttons. 'You said corporal punishment.'

Peter laughs. 'That could mean anything.'

'Oh, I see.' My apprehension is growing as I undress so why aren't I saying no, and going downstairs? Why am I removing my clothes like this, impatient, flustering, and feeling strange? No one undresses in the middle of the day, do they?'

'Don't be smart, Josie.'

I am instantly contrite. 'Sorry, Peter.'

'That's all right.'

'How - how many?' I am now down to my bra and pants and I'm shaking.

'Six at least.'

'Six!'

'Come on, you're wasting time.'

I take off the last of my clothes.

'Lie on the bed with the cushion under your stomach, please.'

I crawl on the bed and lie down. With my bottom stuck up in the air I feel foolish, cold and very, very vulnerable.

'Peter...'

'Yes, Josie?'

'Can't we talk about this?'

'No, we can't. You've been very slack lately: the food has been bad, the house has not been cleaned properly and you are not bothering with yourself. Agreed?'

'Yes,' I mumble. I have no defence.

'So you had the choice between corporal punishment or docking your housekeeping. You chose the punishment.'

'I thought...'

'I know what you thought. Over my knee, a few hard smacks and it's all over. Right?'

I don't answer.

'Right, Josie?'

'Yes.' Suddenly the cane is cold across my bottom. I cringe.

'Please keep still, Josie. I wouldn't want to hit you anywhere else, that might hurt.'

The cane is lifted off me.

'One.'

'Oooowwww!' A burning line.

'No, Peter, no!'

'Two.'

Just below the other line. It hurts!

'Three.'

I bury my head in the bed. 'Please, Peter, I'm sorry!' I can't resist moving and trying to rub myself. A sharp tap with the cane makes me squeal. ,

'Keep still, Josie, there are only three more to go.'

Only three more, he says. I hurt!

'Please, Peter, no more, I'm sorry, I'll behave.'

I have often heard of 'six of the best.' How do the kids take it? It hurts! The cane is on me again; it's cold. How can it be so cold when it burns so much?

The tears are flowing. Peter takes no notice of me at all.

'Five.'

Soon it will be over and I really will be good. I don't want this again.

'Six.' It's all over. It's stinging, six separate lines, burning, stinging.

'Oh Peter, it hurts!'

'It was meant to, silly. It's supposed to be punishment after all. It's supposed to hurt or there's no point, is there?'

Gentle hands on my burning bottom, cold cream.

'Oh Peter...'

The hands are gentle, easing, soothing, wandering, probing, interesting. The first indications that I am becoming aroused.

Peter laughs. 'The books all said it works and it does.'

The fingers are inside me and I'm fully aroused. With his free hand Peter pulls his trousers off and with a swift movement has penetrated me. Together we reach a crashing climax. He rolls away and looks at me.

'Want to choose a punishment again?' he asks, and we laugh.

I'll have to see. Right now I still hurt!

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.)