Return to the Studio (Regreso al taller). Writers: Waldo & Karen
 
translated into English by Tam (Thanks Tam)
 
Introduction
 
Waldo

I was finishing my third whisky, and it was pretty late. In the small dark smoky room of “The Blues Corner”, three musicians played to themselves and only two tables were still occupied. It must have been very late, but I don't wear a watch, and it was all the same to me what time it was; the night was not finished and I felt overcome by idle boredom. I threw a note on the bar and got up to leave. It was then that the street door opened and Karen came in. The barman glanced at her out of the corner of his eye with a tired look, but said nothing. Karen came to me smiling. She said “Hi.”  I answered “How's things?” or some such thing; but vivid images flowed from my very soul.
 
I hadn't seen Karen since that memorable visit to my studio, three months before. I'd met her the day previous to that, at the opening of an exhibition of erotic paintings that I had some pieces in. She seemed very interested in my work and, I have to say, fairly confused by what they represented... Women; women tied, half naked, beaten.  Sometimes in humiliating postures over the knees of a man – or a woman – and getting an childish spanking.
 
Hypocritically, I had talked about my technique, about the play of light that people like in some of my pictures, but at no time did I mention the subject matter.. She expressed a wish to visit my studio, and she came the next day. After the polite chatter, a tiny incident came to determine what was to happen; Karen accidentally – or not, I don't know, knocked over her glass of champagne on my work table, wetting some unimportant sketches. Pretending to be cross, I threatened to throw her out or...  She knew that it deserved a just punishment. She knew my work – and my reputation – and she could hardly not know how she would be punished... There I left it.
 
So she received what we can call a good spanking administered with the aid of my long ruler, the familiar tool of the draughtsman and severe disciplinarian that I am.
 
After that, she walked out suddenly, seemingly confused more than anything; she had to catch the plane to Madrid that night. I thought I'd never see her again, and from time to time, when I fondly remembered tormenting her, I opened one of the drawers of my desk, and took out the little cotton knickers that I had confiscated, and gave them a kiss...
 
Karen
 
... The plane landed at last at Brussels Airport. I was nervous, scared. I wasn't sure whether to press on or to run off on the return flight. I asked myself a thousand times if I was mad. Was I mad? Why had I decided to come back?
 
Three months ago, only three months, for the first time in my life I had travelled to Brussels for something relating to my doctoral thesis.
 
The theme of my thesis was not simple, and had the peculiarity that the pieces I needed to study were dispersed over a wide area. Luckily for me, all of them were brought together in the same exhibition for five months at a gallery in Brussels and this was my one big opportunity.
 
It was almost at the end of my stay, when the exhibition was almost over. I was preparing my things for the flight. Going for the last time to the museum, where they were already packing the pieces for return to their homes, I saw a poster. It was an advertisement for a new exhibition. An exhibition that was being opened in the room next door. I approached to look... What a surprise! They were exhibiting the great Waldo! I had heard speak of him and had seen his work. I liked his style of painting.  His realism, the mix of his colours and the texture of his canvases. The expressions on the faces, the details. His pictures were like photographs, snapshots from life, but far from what a camera can capture, Waldo's drawings captured the soul. Looking at his pictures, you always know the sensations, the feelings, the thoughts of the figures you see. But above all, on occasion I have seen some of his pictures that showed women beaten, tied ... subjugated. I can't explain why, but these especially attracted me. I remember I was dressed a little informally. I wore a short blue skirt, fairly full, a white blouse, white knee socks and low shoes without a heel. I looked at the poster for the Waldo Exhibition. I looked at my clothes ... They didn't look good. I wasn't dressed for an exhibition. But if I didn't go in, I wouldn't have the opportunity to see Waldo's art in real life, where I had seen it before only in art books and magazines, and besides, my my return flight to Madrid was the next day. I decided to go in.  I was examining a strange picture in which a woman seated on a long stone bench under a window was smacking an adolescent lying on her lap, and I heard someone speak to me...
 
“Good day, mademoiselle, I see my pictures interest you.”
I was struck motionless. It was Waldo in person who had approached me and he had seen the interest I was showing in a drawing that formed part of my deeply hidden erotic fantasies. I was unsettled. I tried to explain to him what I liked about art in general, I told myself that talking of technicalities was a nonsense. Waldo had noticed the effect that his pictures of spankings and domination had on me. Waldo was well aware of all these things, and whatever argument or excuse I could put forward could only be a nonsense.
Seeing me interested in his art, he invited me to his painting studio. He made my heart jump. There was something in this man that in part made me want to confide in him, in part to be confused, worried. All kinds of sensations went through my mind before I replied. I appealed to my judgment, my seriousness, I tried to convince myself that this was madness, and lowering my eyes, and with a trembling voice, simply accepted the offer.
Waldo took me to his painting studio.  I could only stare at all his pictures. Not only those on those on the theme of domination, but all of them. We talked, we smoked. I felt confused. Waldo's gaze had something special that I can't describe. I was very nervous. Waldo gave me a drink and without meaning to, I upset it over some pictures on the table. I could not believe my ears when Waldo announced that he would punish me for that. It couldn't be ... this could not be happening to me ... But if ... indeed ... Waldo was not joking and I don't know if I could or wanted to oppose him. Something made me obey him, to submit to him ... Waldo spanked me with his drawing ruler on my bare bum. When he finished beating me, I left, running from the place, confused, ashamed ... And in the rush to get away, though I didn't notice it, I had forgotten my knickers.
 
Part 1
 
Waldo
 
And so it was that Karen was there, at this improper hour, in the indeterminate heat of “The Blues Corner” ... She was passing through Brussels, I think, for the studios; she had arrived the evening before and was going to leave the next day.
I reproached her. “You could have warned me before! This deserves a punishment ... And how did you find me? Have you been to all the bars in search of me? You wanted to come back and see me, in spite of what I did to you?? ..”.
“No! No! It's chance that I ...”
The semi-darkness didn't stop me from seeing her cheeks turn a very delicate shade of carmine. I like women who blush when they feel in the wrong; I find it touching ... I continued in a severe tone:
“You're lying, moreover! The lie also deserves punishment. You went to my studio, saw that I wasn't there, and asked in all the cafés in the district ... Why don't you admit it?”
Looking away to escape my stare, she stammered:
 
“I don't know. Forgive me.”
 
I let out a little laugh. “I don't forgive so easily, little one! Right here, I'm going to give you the thrashing you deserve ... I'm sure these gentlemen won't be bothered; as for the barman, he's a friend.”
I was speaking out loud and the people looked at us with amusement; Karen had instantly lost her pretty colouring. She said, imploringly “It's not possible ... not here...”
 
“Ok, if you prefer, we'll go and drink the last glass at the studio. But it will be more severe in that case. You could also walk away and we will speak no more of it. You are free. What is your decision?”
 
The young woman looked despairingly around; very quickly, her voice a little hoarse, said “I'll carry on with it. Can we go, please?”
 
We left the bar. Outside, on this night in late August, the heat was heavy, threatening a storm, as often happens here. We walked in silence for several minutes, and we stopped on my order at the corner of the Rue des Eperonniers.
The is the time to back out, Karen, I told her gently. If you cross the threshold of the studio, you know that you will be treated severely; not because you deserve it but because I want it ... In your plane, tomorrow, the seat will feel very uncomfortable, but you can't travel on foot ... There's a taxi rank two blocks from here. I can come with you.”
 
A group of Germans passed nearby laughing. Karen said  in a tiny voice “I'm coming with you.”
“That's good. As a demonstration of your submission, you will take off your panties and give them up to me.”
“Here?!”
“I hate to repeat myself. Get on with it, quickly!”
 
The Teutonic group disappeared up a side street; Karen lifted her skirt, slipped her little knickers down her legs and held them out to me, hands trembling. I put the warm silky fabric to my face. The knickers were impregnated with Karen's precious perfume, and also with the musky emanations of her privacy; this marriage of fragrances intoxicated me absolutely ... I stored what I had taken in my bag, and we continued walking. Wanting to disturb her a little more I said to her “Your knickers seem to me to be abnormally humid, not to say damp. The heat cannot be entirely responsible ... It couldn't be that you are excited by what will happen within a few minutes?...”
Karen made a movement of the head that could have meant yes and no at the same time  ... In any case, I did not need an answer to my question.
When I opened the door of the studio, the church clock in the Grand Place rang out three times. The performance began...
 
Karen
 
Three months had passed since that incident, that encounter, and I was in Brussels again. Why had I come back to Brussels? Was it for my thesis? My head said yes ... my heart said no ..
My whole body shivered as the plane landed .......................
I was tied up all day with what I needed for my thesis. But come the evening, I sorted myself out. This time I dressed as a woman. And my feet carried me back to Waldo's studio ...
Disappointment took hold of me when I saw that Waldo was not there. As I left I met a neighbour in the hallway. I asked her and she told me that he was sure  to have gone out to one of the pubs in the neighbourhood ...
I plucked up courage. I had never run after a man, even less a man  who had without knowing me, beaten me.
 I looked into two pubs without success, then in the third I went into, my heart stopped ......... I faced up to it then. Does Karen truly want to carry on?
Too late to turn back. Waldo had seen me. Coming up, instead of welcoming me, he began to scold me for not having warned him I was coming and for going looking in all the bars of the district. His tone was severe, and I was really beginning to regret having made this move ...
Waldo told me I deserved punishment and said it in a loud voice. Everyone heard. He threatened to punish me there and then. I begged him no, and then, lowering his voice a little, he told me he would carry out the punishment in his painting studio, but it would be much more severe .................
Even though my body trembled, I accepted his invitation again. During the walk to the studio, Waldo was telling me how severe my punishment would be. Each word that came from his mouth, every one of his glances, disturbed me more. Each time I felt that my will was not my will, my will was his will and that he would do with me whatever he wanted. He dominated, I obeyed.
In the open street he made me take off my knickers and give them up to him, just when a group of people were passing. Then he made some observation in a loud voice about how damp they were, and at the moment that the Grande Place clock struck the hour, we entered the studio................
 
Part 2
 
Waldo
 
My studio is a fairly large room, almost square, crossed by three large beams eighty centimetres from the ceiling. These beams are very useful to me, as I will explain later. A sloping window, by day letting in a light especially suitable for my work as a painter, takes up most of the north wall. The other walls, painted white, are covered with shelves of natural wood, for drawings and books. My work table is a large board placed on two supports, and on it reigns apparent disorder. Picture frames, assorted boxes of brushes, bottles, tubes of colour, an articulated mannequin which has never been any use to me ... A solid easel studded with multicoloured stains placed in a corner, near to  a large adjustable mirror on wheels. Two cupboards, a sofa between them. It is an artist's studio like many others, where the smell of turpentine lingers always. To the right of the entrance, a corner serves as a small lounge, where I receive my infrequent visitors: a low black enamelled table, three leather chairs, comfortable but armless, and a refrigerator that I have painted to look like wood. Halogen lamps in strategic places make up warm intimate lighting. A little room for a toilet and basin is next to the studio.
Karen put her bag on the low table and moved into the room. She gazed at the decoration  around her, but her eyes had an absent look, and I think she was looking inside herself ... I had no more champagne, and poured two glasses of Jack Daniels with a lot of ice. Karen said “oh, no Waldo, no spirits for me...” I put the glass firmly in her hand.
 “Drink it, it will do you good, and it will help you to bear the punishment I'm going to inflict. You haven't forgotten, I suppose, that you are here to receive a severe punishment? ... Ah, yes, about that ... “ I took the knickers from my bag, and gave them to her. ”Put them back on ... I like to personally take the knickers off girls I am going to spank.
She wet her mouth, drank a slug of bourbon that made her cough, and put her glass on the table. She turned her back and put her knickers back on, avoiding lifting her skirt, as though to hide from me what she was without a doubt going to inescapably reveal to me ... I smiled.
“Drink again, little Karen! The hour approaches ...”
The ominous moment was imminent, and I felt a tingle in my stomach. A mixture of excitement, pleasure and anxiety came over me, as it always does in these situations. It's an extreme sensation, intoxicating, but almost painful ... Nothing is perfect.
I relieved my guest of her glass that she had almost emptied and tugged her towards me with a pull on her wrist; I sat down and made her fall over my thighs. She gave a shout. She was small, and only the points of her shoes and the ends of her fingers were touching the floor. I took the hem of her skirt and lifted it to the hollows of her kidneys.  I was able to confirm with satisfaction that she had put on smoke-coloured stockings with a plain black garter adorned only with a little lace.
“You behaved like a spoilt brat a moment ago, lying to me,” I said in a tone that I wanted to appear cold, “and I'm going to give you correction as one. You'll get a spanking, a good spanking.”
 
I gave her some strokes on the posterior, half over her knickers and half on the flesh; she let out a sharp little yelp and instinctively put out her right hand over her backside in a futile gesture of protection. I took her wrist firmly and immobilised it under her kidneys. I pressed on..
“As I'm sure you know, a true spanking is always administered on the bare bottom, perfectly and embarrassingly without knickers.  And given that you are already ashamed, why am I waiting to embarrass you? I know that you are embarrassed! ...
Uniting word with gesture, I slipped the undergarment down to rest exactly below the double wave of her buttocks. She had a sublime bum, perfect, an absolute delight to the eye of an artist! I started now to apply myself to colouring ... She had very white skin, and the little spanks that I had given her left traces of bright pink on her delicate complexion.  Without waiting any longer, I started to spank her. I distributed the strokes methodically; on the left buttock, on the right, right in the centre, across the deliciously darkened middle furrow, that she opened and shut under the influence my slaps.
 
Having every intention to prolong this spanking to the maximum, I didn't spank her too hard (it's very sensitive, an artist's hand) but strongly enough nonetheless to at least redden the skin. I was spanking straight, with my hand closed, but at times I spread the fingers and loosened them up; then they acted as the tails of a whip. I love plain hand spanking, it's down to the basics, since it directly connects the hand of the discipliner with the part to be warmed up. It did not fail to have involuntary physical consequences, and Karen, her belly agitating on mine, I could not safely ignore the effect on me of the punishment I was giving ... I intended that she would be enamoured as much as possible with my methods,  or that she would hate me forever. I didn't want half measures!    Either she would be eternally grateful to me when when she walked out of the studio, or go out of the door never to return.
 
At the end of several long minutes, my victim's hindquarters were absolutely scarlet and glowing perfectly; as for my palm, it had become painful and smarting all over ... I intensified my action and struck the crimson globes with a faster rhythm. Karen writhed, beat her legs up and down, as has every girl I have spanked severely; By this time, her shoes had abandoned her and lay on the floor like little dead animals. She didn't shout, she didn't cry, I suppose as a point of honour; she simply breathed methodically and from time to time let out a little whimper. I think at that moment I loved Karen; I always experience an immense tenderness for the woman whose flesh I am mortifying, sentimental as I am.
Shortened breath, perspiration on her forehead, finally I put an end to the spanking and helped the young woman to raise herself up. Her face was as red as her bottom – I said so. “Well almost” ... she avoided my gaze, very obviously bothered, which I could understand and be pleased about. I put her in front of the long mirror:
“You are going to stay here under discipline until your bottom has returned to a more natural colour. Cross your arms over your back to keep your skirt well raised, and spread your legs. I want your little panties to remain thus at mid-thigh. I'm warning you that if you let your skirt fall or your knickers slip a centimetre, I'll beat you till you bleed!
 
She followed my orders obediently. I turned away, sat down and poured myself another drink. The sight of Karen was a luxurious spectacle, the image of a perfect submissive. Skirt raised and held, rosy backside, the tense elastic of the waistband of the knickers threatening to burst ... Surrendered voluntarily, it has to be said, but what does it matter? ... With her planted in front of the mirror, she was able to see herself and she was able to  see me as well, but she looked carefully elsewhere.
“Your torments are not yet over, my little baby! “ I announced. “I have just spanked you like a schoolchild, but now I'm going to discipline you as a woman. Have you tried the martinet before? ... 
She made a “no” with a movement of her head.
“Eh bien, you are going to get know this noble instrument of correction. You must give me your opinion! ...
I took the object from a cupboard and continued my monologue:
“As you can see for yourself if you look in the mirror – no, don't move to do it! - you can see for yourself, then, that we are not dealing with the current rather ugly type, supplied with a flashy coloured handle and with twelve strands, available everywhere and made in prisons ... This one, I made it myself. The handle is longer than on the ordinary type, and the strands likewise. There are five, the maximum to get a really perfect effect. They are made of excellent leather and square in section. They leave neat trails, absolutely splendid ... It hurts, I can guarantee you that. But you will bear it, I'm sure. Would you like a little more Bourbon?
 
She said yes. I imagined that her throat was dry.
“I'll come and fetch your glass. Don't move. Drink with one hand, and keep your skirt in place with the other. I want to slake your thirst, but it's not acceptable to deprive myself of  the sight of your well-spanked arse. While you drink as you requested, I'm making a few sketches. Three or four, no more. I'm in a hurry to continue the disciplinary process, and I haven't the patience to wait until your buttocks return to white.
 
I allowed her at last to break position.
 
Karen
 
It's absolutely impossible to describe all the sensations that were mixed up in me.
Waldo's studio overwhelmed me. I tried not to show it, and began to walk through the room looking at the pictures. In reality I saw nothing. I knew Waldo's studio well. I remembered it from perfectly from the other time.  I was concentrating on my thoughts, on my feelings, when Waldo brought me a glass of Jack Daniels.
“Not for me, thank you, I don't like strong alcohol.”
“I'm telling you to drink it. It will help you bear the punishment.” he said in a serious tone.
“Because you remember that that's what you're here for, don't you? That's for certain.”
And he took my knickers out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me.
“Put them on. I like it to be me who takes off a woman's knickers when I'm spanking her.”
I put the knickers back on and drank from the glass he offered me.
I hate whisky and when I drink it makes me cough.
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.
Waldo came up to me and took my arm in a sudden tug. He sat himself down in his chair and pulled me off balance, so that I was completely laid out across his knees.
Waldo is a man with a strong constitution, muscular. He manhandled me as if I was a doll.
Totally spread across his lap, my feet hardly touching the floor. I felt him push up my skirt and roll it up to the waist without stopping his fierce scolding.
He began to spank me, though with my knickers still up. The slaps were slow, evenly-spaced, with his great open hand. I tried to protect my cheeks with my right hand, but he held my fist with his left hand and folded my arm behind my back, at waist height, while he said something like this:
“You know that a well delivered spanking has to be administered on the bare buttocks, and this is most embarrassing for you, because it is embarrassing, isn't it?”
I didn't answer.
“I know that you are embarrassed.”
And saying this he took down my knickers. He started to spank me slowly and methodically. Once on my right cheek, next on the left, in the centre of my bum, further down on the separation line.
They weren't hard spanks, but they hurt.
My head was dancing. I was so ashamed.
I remembered that the previous time I was bent over the table, and he was behind me but a little further away to my left, even though he hit me with a ruler, at least he couldn't gloat over my bum like now.
I felt his eyes on my bum, though obviously I couldn't see, and this made me feel very embarrassed. My belly was just above his. And I soon noticed the effect my movements, and the general situation were having on him. Why I can't say, but this made me happy. I was happy to have provoked such excitement in the man who had made me give myself up, who had humiliated me. He should have frightened me, but I wasn't frightened. In reality, I didn't really care what could happen to me that night: I had asked for it myself, and I was enjoying it.
Waldo increased the rhythm of the spanks. It was really painful, but I didn't want to yell out. I didn't want to cry. I tried to bear the situation stoically.
At last the punishment ended. My bottom was on fire. Ufffff
Waldo helped me to get up and took me in front of the mirror. He made me look at myself ... God it was red!
Waldo ordered me not to move from there and to keep my skirt up with my hands, and my panties round my knees while he watched me. He threatened to beat me till he made me bleed if the knickers moved out of place or I let my skirt fall down.
He helped himself to another Jack Daniels and sat down to look me over, while he was talking and threatening me more.
He said he would beat me with a martinet. I had heard of the martinet. I had seen photos ... And many times, in my most intimate dreams, I have dreamed of being beaten with it. ...
Waldo was talking to me about the peculiarities of his martinet, designed by him, and the advantages it had over conventional martinets.
I listened to him unsure if I was scared, anxious, paralysed ...
I listened to his voice which disturbed me and nevertheless I adored. ... mmmmmmmmmmmmm That voice ..........mmmmmmmmmmmmm.
I found myself entirely at his mercy. Put down, dominated by him, I listened to his voice, severe but at the same time tender, as he pretended, I suppose, to intimidate me and the only thing it did, in truth, was excite me.
My mouth was dry and he noticed.
He brought me another glass of Jack Daniels and let me drink it with one hand and hold my skirt with the other.
He returned to his place and picked up his pencils and his drawing block, and watching my bum intently, he began to draw.
 
End
 
Waldo
 
Karen turned a little, as she had done the first time; quickly, she pulled up her knickers and came some three steps from me. Standing, she finished her Jack Daniels. She lowered her eyes, as though she was studying my feet intensely ... I clicked my tongue making her think she would be told off for this:
“In the first place, Senora: I don't see what is so fascinating about my shoes. They're ordinary brogues ...  I had called her Senora so as not to run the risk of getting it wrong; really, I knew nothing about her. Was she married there, in Spain? ... Did she have a lover, several lovers? ...  It was for me one of the charms of the situation. This pretty young woman lent herself for these perverse games submissively; Even more, she herself had come to yield herself, without knowing – unless she could imagine it – where I would take her. I didn't know her, she didn't know me, and we were nevertheless living out an extremely intimate relation. It's much easier, whether for love or simply for desire – to offer the other all the secrets of your body; the discovery is mutual and the passion of love overcomes easily the barriers that modesty can create. But at this moment, none of that existed, and even so, Karen offered her body to my unconfessable imagination, inevitably without expect anything in return ... I owed her the rarest moment of my life, and I will always be grateful to her for it. Karen had the strength - and Karen is very strong – to lift her head and look straight at me. I resumed my air of severity:
 “That's better. ... but you have just done something which displeased me. I consider that actually, you have no freedom; you are here to obey me in every way and not to take any initiative. If I want you to do something, make some movement – even scratch your ear – you ask my permission first. Agreed?” ..
She nodded her approval.
“Then I consider it a fault the fact that you have just put on your knickers without waiting for an order, and you will be punished also for that. I was planning to give you thirty strokes of the martinet but I'm going to add twenty for your conduct. Still in agreement? ...
Again she was in agreement; Her cheeks were the colour of plums and her chin dropped on to her chest. I stood up and took the martinet. I said softly:
“It's Ok now. Take off your skirt, I would hate to spoil it. Your knickers as well, completely this time. As on your last visit, they will be confiscated. You will not see them again ...
I folded her skirt carefully and put it over the back of the chair. The knickers I threw negligently on my work table. For one or two minutes, I silently admired the young woman, moving slowly around her, making the strands of the martinet sound against my leg. She made a gesture as though to pull down her blouse, too short to hide the triangle of her belly, but quickly stopped herself, complying with my orders, and remained with her arms hanging against her sides.
“Next you are going to bend, legs very straight, stretched, and hold your ankles with your hands.”
I positioned myself behind her; I crouched to see her head just showing upside down between her knees. She was a little cramped, and her pretty red hair caressed the floor. I asked her to open her legs even more, and I spoke to her in a perfectly odious, but almost lyrical way:
 
“It's better this way! I couldn't see what you have been trying to hide from me from the time  you arrived! ... Your bottom, still rosy from the last spanking, and the little buttonhole flowering between them, the colour of smoke. ... This Crete of delicate flesh below it, pink, gleaming with mother-of-pearl moistness, like a flower of the morning dew ... I wish I were a talented poet, little Karen, so that my lines could sing of the beauty you offer unto me! ...
Judging that I had maltreated my guest's modesty enough, I stood at her side, two steps back; announced in a harder voice:
“You will count the strokes loud and clear. Incomprehensible whines won't count, and will cost you extra strokes. If you can't keep back your shouts, then I'm not prohibiting them. But save me the whimpers. If you going to shout, at least make them good shouts!
Without waiting any longer, I cracked the leather tails of the martinet right across Karen buttocks, extracting a muffled whimper. I examined her bottom to judge the effect of this first contact with the leather. The weave of lines was precise; each strand had marked the skin with a bright red line, and the far end lightly raised blended into mauve. I ran my finger lightly along one. The flesh was fair, I must control my strokes carefully; I didn't want my 'punishment' to cause harm. I struck again, in another place; softly, Karen could feel the riot of fire that burned a little more each time on her offered posterior.
The position that I had put her in, so beloved of our English neighbours who apparently used to punish rebellious schoolgirls this way, is one of the cruellest. As well as being uncomfortable, it hurts the lady's pride, because of the closeness of the skins, revealing her most intimate places, the muscle tension in this posture is extreme, and it makes the blows that much more painful. I always use it in the case of a 'true' punishment; I mean something other than the little hand spanking that lovers allow as a spicy extra to their love play. That didn't mean I wanted to 'punish' Karen – I had absolutely no reason to reproach her -  only to test her, to know how far she was willing to submit herself, what was her toleration capacity. I whipped slowly, leaving time for breath from stroke to stroke;  occasionally I passed my hand smoothly over her melting bottom, less to alleviate the pain than to make her feel the shame of her situation, and this way – because it quietened her – this caress brought out a lot of emotion in me ... So she whimpered but didn't cry out, except when the tails got into the split between her legs, striking the inside of her thigh; then she let out an earsplitting shout and folded up onto her knees, about to fall. Quickly she regained her position.
At the fiftieth stroke, he buttocks were a deep red, almost uniform; blood didn't run, but there was a little. I helped her to get up; she was dazed by remaining so long in a bent position. Her mouth was half-open as though she could not manage to close it, her eyes were red, but she was not crying. In any other circumstances, I would have pitied her ... I took herself to a chair where she herself go, and said weakly:
“Could I have a glass of water, please?”
I hurried to get what she asked for; I gave a wet flannel, to, to freshen her face, make it lovely again, ruffled, her eyes shadowed with mauve, with her makeup unmade, dressed only in a too-short blouse and her stockings ... It was not long before she got up, explaining with a little smile that she could not for the moment stay sitting down ...
I took her to the middle of the room, where the light was good, and took her face in my hands, sinking my eyes into hers which shone with a brilliant light.
“Not to worry,” I said gently, “Stay on your feet .. I have another plan for your bottom.”
My hands slid down the length of her neck, her shoulders, her chest, where they stayed a while.
I unfastened her blouse:
“For the last part of the punishment, I want you naked.”
The blouse fell to the floor with a silky rustle, and an aroma of Chanel No. 5 surrounded me. I put arms around Karen and attacked the clip of her bra with some difficulty. Her face remained impassive, but her eyes smiled ... She but her hands to the back where they touched mine and it was she who undid the transparent bra.. Her freed breasts bounced loose against her slim torso. I held her in my arms; my mouth was centimetres from her mouth and I was enraptured by her very breath; through the opening in my unbuttoned blouse, I could feel the points of her breasts harden where they touched me. Her half-open lips to my breath away and made me dizzy. If I had let myself go at this moment, all would have turned out different from my plan, and I didn't want that. I fell to her knees and took off the garters one by one. I slipped the stockings along her legs, but did not remove them entirely, preferring to let them remain round her ankles. The garters meanwhile joined the other garments on the floor which I kicked out of the way.
From a box I took a coil of rope, very smooth, in white plaited nylon, and asked her to give me her wrists which I tied carefully. I threw the rope over the centre beam, under the ceiling, and pulled the end until the young woman's arms were quite tight over her head. I tied the end to a ring intended for this purpose, screwed into the floor. To finish I put a spreader bar on her; a metal tube shared between leather cuffs that I put on her ankles. The bar has a ring in the middle which allows the length to be adjusted, and I set it to the maximum. The wide opening of her legs had the effect of lowering her body a few centimetres, taking her arms even further to the ceiling, arching her naked body wonderfully.
From the cupboard, I chose a crop.  I took the most beautiful, bought the previous month, it was fine, seventy centimetres long, wild leather subtly braided, ending with a flat tip, also leather. I have another, also good, the end of which is adorned with three blades of rigid leather ending knots. That one has the disadvantage – or advantage, according to the circumstances – of cutting the skin, and could not be used for the plans I had that night.
I showed the instrument to Karen, and a frightened look drew itself on her face. I said softly:
I'm going to beat you with this fine crop ... You do not have to count the strokes, because I don't know how many you will receive. I'm going to hurt you a lot, and I ask your pardon.
She was sincere. She understood what she could.
The fine flexible leather stick cut the air whistling; from her clenched jaws, Karen released a sharp cry and said something in Spanish. Four times I cut the crop across her bottom and four times she screamed. I stopped to look closer and stroke the tortured bottom, then went round in front of her. Her eyes, and her faced squeezed between her arms, reflected her pain; now there was no problem in holding my gaze. No more useless modesty from the whipped young woman; we were reaching much greater heights. Her lower lip trembled a little. I passed my hand between her spread legs, and confirmed it:
“Your wet. A veritable lake.”
Watching her face, I prolonged the caress. I introduced a finger, two fingers. Her face showed the pain more; her eyes closed, her head fell back and she gave out a long sigh, all her drenched body shook in spasms. Nothing in the world is better than a woman in full orgasm, and Karen, at this moment, was divine ... I lifted my fingers, flowing with her emanations, and she sucked them into her mouth.
I moved away and hit her sharply with the crop three times across the front of her thighs, just below her sex. She shouted and said several words which I didn't then understand, repentantly, her face down and bursting into sobs.
I waited for her to calm herself a little. Now the tears ran silently around her cheeks. Very tenderly, I drank them with my kisses.
“Cry,” I murmured. “For me, it's when the tears appear that the punishment really begins ... Ask me to continue. Ask me to ...
She looked at me, her eyes welling with tears, and she did it. I turned mad. I picked the crop back up and hit her wildly on the buttocks, until two or three ruby pearls appeared on her delicate skin.
I threw down the crop; feverishly, I undid the bar that tied her, and cut the rope with a Stanley knife.  She would have fallen straight to the floor if I hadn't taken her into my arms, almost fainting.
I lowered her safely to the sofa, face down – of course – and made her drink a little alcohol, from the mouth of the bottle.
“Don't move,” I said. “I'll look after you.”
For quite some time, I smoothed a balm of calendula and arnica on her wounded bottom, as gently as I could. She groaned softly, like a sick child, her face hidden in the cushions. I told her she could sleep there, that I would leave the door open, so she could go when she wanted. She didn't answer. I think she was already asleep. I fetched a blanket and spread it over her. I got up, then sat down again, tired. I felt empty. I saw my reflection in the long mirror. I wanted to smile, but I couldn't. I left the studio silently.
 
Outside, dawn was breaking. The deserted street seemed blue. I lit a cigarette, it tasted filthy, but I smoked it anyway. The events of the night spun around in my head. It was five o'clock, a café was just opening and I went in. I watched my coffee without noticing it was going cold. I knew that when I went back to the studio, Karen would not be there. The only question that tortured me truly was: would she come again? ... In a month? In a year? Maybe never ...
This possibility tore at my heart. I pushed the coffee aside and ordered a Jack Daniels. The waiter shot me fierce look but he served me. I lifted my glass, toasted my reflection in the mirror behind the counter, and drank to my sadness.
 
Karen
 
Waldo stopped drawing and I understood I could go back to his side.
I dropped my skirt and started to pull up my knickers. I went up closer to him.
With a strict voice he made me look at him in the face and told me I was here to obey him, not to take the liberty of making decisions for myself, and I wasn't to do anything without his permission.
He was annoyed that I had pulled up my knickers without permission, and said he would add twenty strokes with the martinet to the thirty that he was thinking of giving me, just for that.
He made me take my skirt right off, and give him my knickers, and like the other time, they were to be confiscated.
I was left bare below the waist, in front of a stranger who had become the lord of my liberty and will.
I tried to cover my strategic parts when he kept trying to look at them, but he didn't allow it.
Dressed only in a short blouse, I couldn't hide anything, or get away from the penetrating look of the man who had stolen my will.
He told me to bend over and hold my ankles with my hands. He took up position behind me and started to scrutinise me.
I felt bothered. In this position, he could see all my intimate parts perfectly. I couldn't conceal anything.
Reading my mind, he started to talk about precisely that, intending, I suppose, to embarrass me to the limit, or leave me no doubt that everything in me belonged to him, and that I could keep nothing secret.
He told me that this position was perfect for contemplating all my privatest parts and he was describing them and talked about my wetness.
I felt absolute consternation, shame, humiliation.
I wanted him to beat me and stop embarrassing me the way he was.
He announced the terms of my punishment. I had to count the strokes in a loud and clear voice. I was not allowed whimpers, I could only shout out, and I must not break position. It was obvious that every time I didn't keep to one of the rules, he would add strokes.
The first stroke surprised me because I was not expecting such a sensation.
Waldo's martinet had five tails and it was like five strokes in one that fanned out in different places on my bum.
I remember I shouted.
Waldo whipped me gently, left me to compose myself between each stroke, and from time to time ran his hand across in a caress. I shivered when I felt his touch, knowing what I would feel before long.
Each stroke was less bearable than the last.
I thought I wouldn't last out the punishment. But in the end I counted the full fifty.
Waldo helped me to get up. All my muscles ached from standing in that position and I was a little dizzy.
He carried me to a chair. I asked for water. My mouth was dry. I couldn't stay sitting down and I asked permission to stand. Waldo helped me get up and took me to the middle of the room, announcing that my punishment was not over yet and there was a third part.
I was dismayed to hear that.
Standing in front of me, Waldo passed his hands over my shoulders and put them inside my shirt to reach my breasts.
He unbuttoned the shirt and told me that for this part of the punishment he wanted me totally naked.
My head went round in circles. I didn't think I was in any condition to take the punishment.
Waldo took me in his arms. He began to caress me. I could tell he was excited and I was too. I closed my eyes and wished firmly he would make wild love to me right now.
Waldo stripped me. I had to help him undo the bra because in his excitement he could cope with the clips.
He knelt down in front of me and gently unfastened the garters one by one and smoothly took off my stockings.
He took a rope from a box. He tied my wrists and pulled them over my head tying them to a ring on the ceiling.
He put a metal bar on me attached with ankle cuffs on each end, and stretched my legs wide open.
He said he was going to punish me with a crop and it would hurt me a lot. He asked forgiveness for it.
At that moment of the night, and in all the situations of my experience, I never held the smallest doubt that I loved him. I didn't want the night to come to and end. I didn't want to have to walk away. I was mad. I couldn't understand how I could have fallen in love with a man I didn't know, that I knew nothing of, but who made me so happy ............
He began to beat me with the crop as always ... slowly.
The crop burnt into my throbbing bum. It could not take another blow.
Waldo touched me. He put his hands between my legs and got to where he must get.
He noticed I was very excited and made me acknowledge it too ...
It made me happy to know he had noticed. I wanted him to make love to me. I wanted nothing more at that moments.
Waldo continue to fondle my my secret parts with an expert hand until I exploded into a wild orgasm.
When my breath was back to normal I felt the crop smash against my sex.
I couldn't bear it any more and I burst into tears. I cried inconsolably. Rivers of tears flowed on my face. All the tensions of the night came out in these few seconds.
Waldo cam close and drank my tears.
He said something like “when the tears begin to flow, that's when the true punishment begins.” I wanted him to make love to me but he want to carry on. It was as he wanted. He had his way. After all, I was there to give him pleasure, to do his will.
I bit my lip and said yes.
Waldo went mad. He began to hit me as he never had up to this moment. I couldn't take more, I couldn't bear more.
I vaguely remember him untying me and taking me in his arms.
I don't recall anything more. I must have fainted.
When I awoke, Waldo was not there.
My whole body hurt. My head was turning. I couldn't remember the details of the night very well. I tried to get up. I could hardly get to my feet.
I got to the low table where I had left my bag. I took out my watch. It was nine in the morning.
I had to hurry. My plane left at twelve and I had to get back to the hotel.
I lit a cigarette. Why was Waldo not here? Why had he not waited to wake me to say goodbye?
The smoke of the cigarette concentrated all my thoughts.
Why hadn't he made love to me?
He wanted me, I was sure, as much as I wanted him.
The pain and dizziness were stopping me thinking straight. I needed a coffee.
I decided to get dressed and go out into the street. To go back to the hotel, pack and leave the thinking until Spain when I had more time.
I went to look for my skirt. I knew my knickers were confiscated.
I was still dizzy.
While I was getting dressed I remembered Waldo's breath when I was in his arms. I remembered his excitement, remembered his yearning eyes ...
I started to undress again ..................... I went back to the sofa. I got under the blanket that Waldo had covered me with so carefully before he went out, I lay face down and thought ... I had to sleep a lot so that when he came back, at least he would find me refreshed ............
 

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