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Observing the Proprieties and Other Femdom Erotica
by Donna Lynn White

Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: Three Lusty Novellas of Women who Love Women--and Like to Dominate Them! In this all new collection, Donna Lynn White solidifies her reputation as one of the top authors of femme dom literature today. Women dom women--and a few times women and men together--while women who like to submit to other women experience rapture. These three three meaty novellas will hold anyone fascinated by the literature of dominant women enthralled to the last page.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: May 2008

eBookeBook

1 Reader Ratings:
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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [209 KB]
Words: 44752
Reading time: 127-179 min.


OBSERVING THE PROPRIETIES

The cold March wind had eyes, burrowing its way through Priscilla Gibson's coat, a once fashionable but pricey coat, beginning now to show its age. Even in the Deep South, the frigid weather made life miserable. Shivering on the doorstep of an elegant French provincial mansion, Priscilla, thoroughly exasperated, stamped her foot.

How, she asked herself, could God permit this appalling travesty? Allowing her, at fifty-two, the matriarch of a cultured and highly respected lineage, an esteemed and long-standing member of the DAR, to stand out here in the cold, desperately hoping to be admitted into the presence of this ... this person.

Impatiently she glanced at her dainty lavalier watch and then pressed the doorbell again.

Almost another minute crept by, before the door swung open. A colored woman in a crisp maid's uniform peered out. "Ma'am?"

"I," snapped Priscilla, vexed, "am Mrs. Sinclair Gibson. I am here to speak with the madam."

The maid looked momentarily befuddled. "The madam?"

"Madam Rachel Meredith." Priscilla pawed through her handbag for a calling card, finally coming up with the very last one she possessed. She presented it to the maid.

The woman, teeth gleaming, smiled and took the card. "Was she expecting you, ma'am?"

Priscilla Gibson sniffed, displeased at being questioned by this menial. "No, but I feel sure she'll recognized my name."

The maid glanced at the card. Her smile grew broader. "Oh, yes, ma'am! My boss lady read the society pages regular-like. Every day. I'm sure she'll recognize your name. Everybody in town does. At least, if they have any proper bringing up they do. Please come in."

Mollified by the maid's recognition, self-esteem renewed, Priscilla stepped into the foyer. The maid directed her to a sofa in an expensively furnished parlor. Less than five minutes passed before a tall, rather buxom woman whom Priscilla judged to be in her late forties, possibly early fifties, swept into the room. The newcomer, clad in a long, scarlet velvet robe, collar trimmed with what Priscilla was certain was mink, smiled broadly. "Well, well, dear. I must say I am surprised. Just imagine! Our fair city's society leader calling on me. To what do I owe such an honor?"

Priscilla rose to greet the woman. "Thank you, madam. I've heard it said you are most generous. And I'm ... well," she bit her lower lip, displeased at having to entreat this woman, a person she considered well below her, "I'm hoping you can assist me."

The woman smiled even more broadly. "Thank you, dearie, for the kind words." Her eyebrows went up in what Priscilla suspected was feigned puzzlement. "But, dear lady, in what way could I, a former, uh ... working girl-albeit now an entrepreneur-possibly help a lady of such high rank and distinction as yourself?"

Priscilla frowned. Was this former "working girl" toying with her? She sank back down on the sofa. Even though she hated the thought of letting her emotions overwhelm her-in front of anyone but especially in front of a lowborn woman like this person of questionable background-she couldn't help herself. To her chagrin, she found herself quietly weeping.

"Well ... oh, God! It's ... it's all so ... so dreadful. I just don't know what to do."

Priscilla's hostess snapped her fingers at the maid who was peering through the doorway. "Julie, get a brandy! Some of that really good stuff."

As the maid hurried to carry out the order, Rachel Meredith turned back to her guest. "There now, honey. What's the trouble? Tell me. What brings you here? What is it you want?"

Priscilla snatched an embroidered hankie from her bag and wiped her eyes. "Oh, Mother of God, I'm so embarrassed."

Rachel dropped down on the sofa next to Priscilla. Laying a consoling hand on her tearful guest's knee, she murmured, "There, there, now. What is it? Money?"

Priscilla sniffled and frowned. "How'd you know?"

Rachel shrugged. "Well, hell, honey, these days seems like everybody needs cash. Why should you be any different? Just because you're high society. I mean, since Roosevelt's Bank Holiday went into effect yesterday, most people are a bit short."

Priscilla's eyes widened. "Oh, dear. You mean, you're short, too? You don't have any cash?"

Rachel chuckled. "Oh, no. Don't worry about me. My business operates pretty much on a cash basis, so I always keep a good bit on hand. At all times. My emergency fund, so to speak. Seems like I'm always having to grease a few palms just when you'd least expect it."

She patted Priscilla's knee, then took the brandy snifter from the maid. "But, dearie, no need to carry on so. I'm sure the banks'll open again soon. You'll be able to get at your cash any day now. Here, take a swig of this."

Priscilla took a sip, then shook her head. "It's not the Bank Holiday."

Rachel's eyebrows shot up. "It's not?" She set the brandy snifter on an end table and then turned back to her distraught guest. "Well, for heaven's sake, if it's not FDR's brainstorm, what in the world is it?"

Priscilla, humiliation growing, twisted the hankie in her hands. "Well, madam, as I'm sure you well know, to put something in the bank, you've got to have something. And I don't have anything left! Not a thing. Nothing!" As though to demonstrate, she opened her handbag and turned it upside down. Only a second neatly ironed and folded lace hankie fell out. A fresh burst of weeping ensued.

Rachel frowned. "You pulling my leg?"

Still sniffling, Priscilla slowly shook her head. "No, God, no, I'm not pulling your leg. I'm broke. My funds are exhausted. I just don't know what to do. I don't know where to turn." A burst of frank sobbing.

Rachel studied her tearful guest a moment, then said, "Well, now, honey, forgive me, but I find that a little hard to swallow. Seems to me I've heard tell you're not only the most influential society woman in this town but one of the wealthiest. Maybe the wealthiest."

Priscilla heaved a great sigh. "That may've been true once upon a time, I suppose, but four years ago Sin--"

Rachel's eyebrows shot up. "Sin?"

Priscilla glanced wanly up at her inquisitor. "That was Sinclair's nickname, my pet name for him."

Rachel cut loose a burst of raucous laughter. Then, wiping her eyes, she went on. "Oh, how funny! You, the most self-righteous, finicky, puritanical nice-Nelly in the whole town-or so I'm told-married to Sin." Another burst of cackling, then, "I'm sorry, honey, but that just tickled my funny bone. But do go on, Prissy. What about," another chuckle, "Sin and four years ago?"

Priscilla, lips pursed, face reddening, glared at her hostess, then muttered, "Please keep this confidential, but four years ago, Sin lost almost everything in the market crash. Luckily we managed to keep it quiet and salvaged a few things, so we were able to carry on. But three years ago, when he died, he left me with very little, very little, indeed. Except for the proceeds from a small life insurance policy. I've been living pretty much on that." She sniffed. "The proprieties, however, must be observed, and I've managed to keep up my social standing by quietly selling off any assets that were left."

Rachel pursed her lips, then said, "I see. Well, lady, you gotta be a shrewd one, I must say, to be able to carry on as though nothing had happened. Not only that, but to hang onto your place at the top rung of the town's social ladder. And if I'm not mistaken, just recently you were appointed chairperson of the school board." She winked. "I gotta hand it to you, Prissy."

Priscilla, irked at being referred to so familiarly by this common person, sat up straight. Squaring her shoulders, chin high, she snapped, "You're not mistaken, madam. You're absolutely correct. But no one else knows my desperate situation. Despite my ill-fortune, I've never for one moment forgotten who I am. Throughout these terrible times of travail, I've continued to observe the proprieties. As any respectable woman would. Especially any woman who values and understands the need for decency in this," she grimaced, "debauched, malicious world we live in today."

Rachel winked again; mockingly she clapped her hands. "Well, good for you, honey. But, like I said, to what do I owe the honor of your visit today? By the way, I know you don't live in my neighborhood, so if you're so broke, how'd you get here. I doubt you walked."

"Well, no, I didn't walk, but fortunately I have a neighbor nearby who takes me places. When it's necessary. He's waiting for me."

Rachel grinned. "How nice for you." She winked. "He a single man?"

"Well ... yes."

"He know your situation?"

"Well ... maybe. I suppose so."

"You suppose so, hmm? So, tell me, how do you repay him?" Rachel winked again then quickly held up her hand. "Never mind, dear. You don't have to answer that. But now how come you condescended to ring my bell?"

Priscilla heaved another sigh. "Can't you guess? I've reached the end of my financial rope."

A sly smile on her face, Rachel nodded. "I figured as much. Well, what about all those highfalutin society friends of yours? Can't they help you out?"

Priscilla shrugged. "Frankly, most of them are not much better off than I. But," squaring her shoulders once more, "even if they were, I simply couldn't face the humiliation of going to them, hat in hand. Besides," she grimaced, "I'm not sure how they'd react once they found out I'm broke."

Rachel chuckled. "You mean, you'd rather come to someone like me than let your society pals know your situation?"

Priscilla blushed. "Well ... yes."

Priscilla's hostess chuckled again. "You know what business I was in, don't you? How I made my original stake?"

Priscilla nodded. "I..I think so."

Rachel's smile turned smug. "Well, good. Most of you hoity-toity folks do, I suppose. Which is what's kept me out of polite society in this town, I guess. What I betcha you and the rest of your kind don't know was that I once worked in New York for Polly Adler. Back in the Twenties. At the time I started with Polly, I'd just turned forty, but, believe me, lady, I'd wised up long before that."

Priscilla's eyes opened wide. "Really? Forty?"

"Uh-huh, forty. Maybe women like you don't know it, but not all men want a sweet young thing. There's a lotta fellows out there who prefer a mature woman, the sadder but wiser woman."

Startled, Priscilla looked skeptical.

"That's right, dearie, mature. I remember Polly-she and I got along quite nicely, by the way-telling me one day she needed more mature women for her place. And Polly also once told me, 'Rachel, don't ever forget whorehouses exist only because men are more than willing to pay for sex.' What's more, I recall her one day winking and reminding me that, whatever men will pay for, no matter what, someone will provide and when it came to sex, all kinds of sex, she intended to be that someone."

Rachel chuckled again. "Yeah, those were the days, lady. Those were the days. Anyway, I took to heart whatever Polly told me. She was one smart cookie. So now I'm living high off the hog. Believe me, honey, that woman really knew her onions, knew exactly what she was talking about."Of course," Rachel went on ruefully, "I'm not in that game anymore, and if this Twenty-First Amendment nonsense eventually passes and prohibition ends, I'll probably have to find me yet another business. Although," she smiled dreamily, "come to think of it, maybe I've already found a sideline that could, one of these days, become profitable. And a lot more fun than peddling booze. But now getting back to you and your situation, have you tried for a bank loan?"

Priscilla sniffed. "A bank loan? I've already got a bank loan. That's the trouble. It's called a mortgage. And just because I've missed a few payments, those miserable banker tight-wads are threatening to foreclose and throw me and my daughter out in the street."

"Really? Throw you out in the street?" Rachel chuckled again. "Sounds pretty grim. Wouldn't do much for your social standing, would it?"

Priscilla glared at her hostess. "No, it wouldn't, but kindly do not make fun of me. My biggest worry, though, is that my sweet young daughter Caroline is ready for college. She's a bright girl and expects to attend Vassar. She must attend Vassar. That's where I went, you know, but," Priscilla began weeping again and wringing her hands, "I just don't see how I can manage it."

"I see. Important to you, is it?"

"Yes, by God," snapped Priscilla, "it is important."

Rachel pursed her lips, then said, "So, Priss, if I understand you correctly, what it boils down to is that you'd be pretty much willing to do just about anything to keep a roof over your head and send your darling daughter off to Vassar next September. That right?"

Priscilla flushed, then nodded. "Well ... yes, that's right. Just about anything. Caroline simply must go to Vassar."

"But," persisted, Rachel, "I suppose, whatever you do, you'd expect to observe the uh, ... proprieties? That right?"

Priscilla drew herself up. "Well, of course. I couldn't maintain my self-respect if I didn't observe the proprieties."

"I see." Rachel smiled and slowly ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. "Well, suppose I offered you a job that paid enough-now and in the future-so you could pretty well maintain your former life-style and send the kid off to Vassar? Would you take it?"

Priscilla, mulling over what she knew of Rachel's past, momentarily chewed on her lower lip, then flushed again. "Well, uh ... what would you expect me to do?"

Rachel grinned. "Honey, hasn't it ever occurred to you there's still a lot of wealthy men out there who'd be happy to pay a good bit to fuck the leader of the town's creme de la creme."

Priscilla gasped. "Oh, my God! You mean, I should become a common whore?"

Rachel guffawed.. "Oh, there'd be nothing common about you, not with your social standing. Besides, you're not bad-looking, you know. And even though you're middle-aged, you've still got a pretty nice shape, so I'm willing to bet you could make us both a bundle."

"Oh, I couldn't!"

Rachel shrugged. "You couldn't, huh? Well, now, lady, I thought you just said you'd do anything, just about anything, to be able to keep that mansion and lifestyle of yours and send your kid off to Vassar?"

Wringing her hands, Priscilla moaned, then said, "Oh, I know I did, but please don't ask me to do that. Ask me anything, but not that."

Rachel chuckled. "Anything, huh? Just not that? Well, now tell me, honey, what's so bad about that? I owe everything I've got to that? So how about it?"

Still wringing her hands, Priscilla begged. "Oh, no! It may've been alright for you, but please, no. Isn't ... isn't there something else I could do."

Rachel seemed to muse a moment, then slowly nodded. "Well ... now that you mention it, there might be. There just might be."

Priscilla's expression brightened. "Oh, thank God! What? Just tell me what."

Still smiling, Rachel said, "In a moment, honey, but first tell me. These, uh ... proprieties you speak of so fondly? They're important to you, huh?"

Priscilla nodded vigorously. "Yes, of course, they are. Very important. Essential, in fact. They would be to any decent, respectable woman."

"I see. Well, now, you religious?"

Priscilla reared up straight. "Yes, I'm religious, extremely so."

"Uh-huh. So you attend church, I suppose."

"I'm very active in The First Methodist Church. And despite my straitened circumstances, I've done my level best to tithe. But," obviously puzzled, "why do you ask?"

Rachel smiled again. "Well, Priss, I'm told it says in the Bible, 'spare the rod and spoil the child.' You agree with that?"

Priscilla shrugged. "I said I'm religious, didn't I? So, yes, of course I believe it. What choice do I have? It's ... it's in the Bible. And, by the way, the actual quotation is, 'he that spareth his rod, hateth his son.'"

Rachel's eyebrows rose. "I see. And did you spare the rod with that daughter you're so proud of?"

Priscilla frowned and bit her lip again. Then she threw up her hands. "Oh, dear."

Rachel grinned maliciously. "Well, c'mon, honey, did you? Or was it maybe your hubbie who laid on the rod?"

Priscilla shrugged. "Well ... he did, at first. But after he died, it was up to me to exercise some ... some maternal discipline. So, yes, there were a few times. But," she hastened to add, "only a few."

"I see. And did you apply it to the kid's bare bottom."

Priscilla frowned and gazed down at her shoes. "Well ... yes, it was bare bottom. To be effective, you know, it has to be bare bottom."

"So, tell me, Priss, do you think those few times made a difference? Were they helpful?"

"Helpful? How do you mean?'

"I mean, did it straighten out her behavior?"

Priscilla nodded. "Well ... yes, it did. It certainly did."

"So, what if boils down to is, when it comes to discipline, you're a woman of some experience. And skill. And you believe in discipline."

Priscilla shrugged. "You could say that."

"Good. Now here's something else I need your opinion on. What do you think of a school teacher who has sex with an underage pupil?"

Priscilla gasped. "What do I think? Good heavens, madam! I think it's ... it's frightful! Positively despicable!"

"I see. So how about it? Should the teacher be punished?"

"Of course the teacher should be punished," snapped Priscilla.

Rachel smiled. "Propriety demands it, hmm?"

Again Priscilla nodded, vigorously. "Of course it does! Absolutely!"

Rachel winked. "Even a switching on the teacher's bare bottom?"

Priscilla frowned, then hesitantly said, "Well ... yes." Then more emphatic. "Yes, absolutely!"

"Okay, then, dear. You asked for my help, so here's my proposition, my solution you might say to your problems. See what you think. For my part, I'll see to it you've got enough money to maintain your previous life-style so you can continue to observe those proprieties you're so fond of. And send your daughter off to Vassar as well. That sound good to you?"

Priscilla clapped her hands. "You mean it? Oh, how wonderful! But," hesitant, "what would I have to do in return?"

Rachel smiled mischievously. "Not much. All you'd have to do is what you've already done with that kid of yours, serve as the disciplinarian on behalf of me and the six other ladies who make up the Committee of Seven."

Priscilla frowned again. "The Committee of Seven? I've never heard of it. What is it?"

"Well, the full title's Rectification Committee of Seven."

Priscilla's brow furrowed some more. "I still don't understand. What's this, uh ... rectification committee?"

"Well, you see, a half dozen of your more prominent and proper society ladies-I'm sure you know them all-felt it high time moral values were observed in this town. So they formed a committee to see to it wrongdoers were properly and severely dealt with. But, since they're all such moral nice-Nellies and couldn't bear to dirty their hands, they came to me and asked me to step in and take charge of carrying out the punishments." She grimaced. "I guess they thought it'd be no problem for a low woman like me."

Priscilla frowned. "Punishments? What punishments?"

Rachel chuckled. "Well, honey, it seems these prim and proper society ladies thought it would straighten out the offenders real quick if a freshly cut switch was applied to an offender's bare ass and thighs."

Priscilla gasped. "Bare--! Oh, my God! You don't mean it."

Rachel grinned. "Oh, but I do. And I've already given a couple of exhibitionists good sound thrashings on behalf of your nice-Nelly society friends. While they watched. And," she winked, "believe it or not, those society lady friends of yours got a real kick out of watching me apply a switch to those flashers' bare asses. You should've seen the smiles on their faces. And guess what. Those prim and proper prudes admitted they just loved watching their victims squirm and dance."

"Oh, no! They didn't!"

"Oh, yes, they did."

"But ... but how did you ever get these, uh ... victims to cooperate, to accept such ... such cruel chastisement?"

Rachel snorted. "Ah, well, that's where you're society friends came in. They threatened the flashers-your friends preferred to call them exhibitionists-with prison unless they accepted punishment from me. Anyway, I guess the flashers believed your pals' threats and thought it'd be better to take a sound bare-ass whipping from me in front of those ladies than to have their reputations ruined and spend months or even years in prison."

Priscilla bit her lip once more, then muttered, "But where would I fit into all this?"

"Well, honey," said Rachel, this time smiling maliciously, "although it's true I do get a kick out of switching bare asses and making my victims dance and beg, the fact is, I'll get an even bigger kick out of watching some prim and proper nice-Nelly society female like you who thinks she's so far above me, who thinks she'd never, ever behave like me, swallow her pride and apply a fresh cut switch to an offender's bare bottom."

Another gasp from Priscilla. "You mean, you'd want me, a compassionate, respectable woman, to switch some adult's bare bottom. In front of my society friends?"

"That's right, honey. That's exactly what I want. You're going to switch that teacher's bare bottom for having sex with an underage pupil. At least a dozen strokes."

"Oh, I couldn't! I couldn't be so ... so cruel. I ... I just couldn't do that."

Hands on hips, Rachel stared at her guest. "You couldn't, huh? You'd rather lose your home and your kid's shot at Vassar?"

Priscilla held up her hand. "Oh, now just a second. I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't, did you? Well, then," Rachel seemed to reflect a moment, "maybe I can come up with something else."

Priscilla heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you. That'd be so much better. Anything but me having to apply a switch to some stranger's bare bottom. Doing something as inhumane as that would go against all my moral principles. Why, I wouldn't be able to face myself if I were to do such a thing. No, I just couldn't. It ... it'd positively destroy my self-respect."

Rachel, eyes narrowed. "It would, huh?"

Priscilla nodded vigorously. "Yes, it would. Indeed, it would."

"I see. But you'd still like me to provide the funds so you can keep your expensive mansion and your lovely life-style and send your daughter off to Vassar?"

"Oh, yes! Absolutely! You're ... you're my only hope, my only salvation."

"So how would you repay me?"

Priscilla frowned. "Well, I don't know. At least not right now. But, I swear," she hastened to add, "I'd repay you. Eventually."

Rachel shook her head.. "I see. Well, dearie, I'm afraid eventually's not good enough."

"Oh, dear."

"Uh-huh, oh, dear. But,"Rachel smiled, "tell you what, Madam Holier-Than-Thou. Suppose we turn things around. Suppose you come here tomorrow night at seven for a meeting of the Committee. Then I'll strip you naked and lay a freshly cut switch on that luscious bare bottom of yours. Make you prance and beg in front of all your friends. Maybe their husbands, too. How about it? Your, uh ... altruism strong enough that you'd submit yourself, naked, to a sound thrashing rather than administering one to someone else?"

Priscilla's hand went to her mouth. She sprang to her feet, face blanched. "Oh, my God! Oh, no! I couldn't submit to that. I just couldn't!"

Rachel shrugged. "Uh-huh, I thought not. Well, then, dearie, I guess you don't really want my financial assistance. Your kid can forget about Vassar."

Priscilla, pride abandoned, held out clasped hands to her hostess."But I do want your assistance! I need your assistance. I must have it."

Rachel grinned maliciously. "Well, fine. So what's it going to be, lady? You gonna submit that gorgeous rump of yours to a switching from me in front of your lady friends or will you apply the switch to the teacher's bare behind?"

"Oh, Jesus!" sobbed Priscilla. "Don't you realize what you're asking? I mean, that goes against everything I believe in?"

Rachel, still grinning, responded, "Oh, yeah, I realize it. I sure do. That's what makes it so delicious. But--"

"Wait, wait," quickly interjected Priscilla, holding up her hand, "don't say it. I'll do it. I swear I'll do it. I'll ... I'll switch that teacher's bare bottom."

"Well, good for you. But, when you do it, be sure you show some enthusiasm. Really lay it on. Because if you don't lay it on hard enough to suit me, really hard, I mean, it'll be you who gets it. Understand?"

"Yes," quavered Priscilla, "Whatever you say. I'll lay it on as hard as you wish."

"Good, but," added Rachel, "that's not all."

"It's not?"

"No. You see, I'm in the process of building up quite a nice little business chastising offenders, especially sex offenders. That way, if that damned Twenty-first Amendment passes and my hooch business goes down the drain, I'll at least still have something to fall back on. For fun and games and maybe a tidy profit."

"But what's that got to do with me?"

"Well, dearie, it you want to continue to get paid, so you can keep your home and your kid in Vassar, in the future you'll use a hairbrush or a switch on anybody I tell you to. Whenever I tell you to. That clear?"

Priscilla's face blanched. "Oh, no! I couldn't do that. I just couldn't."

Rachel chuckled. "There you go again, tender hearted Priss." She leaned forward. "Oh, yes, you can, dearie." Face screwed up in a frown, she leaned even closer to Priscilla. "Now you just listen to me, Goody-Two-Shoes. If you want to keep that home of yours, you'll do whatever I tell you. Got that?"

"But, my God, how can you possibly expect a lady, a decent, respectable woman, to do such awful things?"

Rachel snorted. "Well, honey, did you think I'd lend you money just because of your high morals and your social standing?"

"Well--"

Rachel grunted and held up a hand. "Yes, I can see you did. Well, honey, I happen to believe you decent, respectable women are no different than me and the girls I worked with in the past. You're gonna find out you're just like any other woman. You'll thrash strangers on their bare asses for money and, what's more," she grinned, "like it."

Priscilla drew back. "Like it. Never!"

"You think not, huh? Well, honey, we'll see. I'm willing to bet you'll discover you love doing it. Love it so much, in fact, that in the future, you'd be willing to do it just for sport. So, now don't give me any more lip. If you want to send that daughter of yours to Vassar, you'll be here tomorrow night at seven sharp."

About to press the doorbell, Priscilla gazed around. She noticed a shiny red Ford sport coupe parked at the curb just across the street. Just then Rachel Meredith herself opened the door. "Come in, dearie, come in. I've been watching for you. Glad to see you're on time. We're about to begin."

Priscilla stepped in, then nodded admiringly toward the sporty vehicle. "That yours?"

Rachel glanced where Priscilla indicated. "Uh-uh. Belongs to our special guest, the teacher I told you about. Pretty spiffy, though, ain't it?"

Priscilla nodded. "But I didn't think Ford made red ones."

"They don't, but I guess maybe the teacher had it repainted. Our guest seems to be more than a little unconventional. Pretty hotcha, in fact. As you'll soon find out."

"What about that Packard on this side of the street? I think I may've seen that one before."

"You may have. Belongs to one of our committee members, Lillian Marlow. She's a friend of yours, ain't she?"

Priscilla shrugged. "We know each other. Anyone else I might know here? I see a Pierce Arrow just a couple of doors down."

"Oh, they're all here, and I have no doubt they all know you. Margery Watson and Ruth Benson came with Lillian, and Bertha Schmidt and Barbara Scot came in the Pierce Arrow with Martha Lee."

"Really. I didn't know any of them drove."

"They don't, but Lillian's hubbie and Martha's drove. The men'll have cigars and cocktails in the den, while we women take care of business in the library."

"I see. Where's the teacher you say I'm supposed to switch?"

"Waiting in the kitchen. So, now, come along."

Priscilla followed her hostess into the house; Rachel took her guest's coat and hung it in a closet. The two then passed through two sliding doors into a spacious room, the walls lined with book-filled shelves. The other members of the committee lounged in easy chairs scattered about the room. The six women, all well-dressed and in their forties or fifties and all known to Priscilla nodded or waved to her. She raised a hand in greeting and sank into the wing chair Rachel had indicated.

To one side of the floor stood a sturdy, five foot long oak rectory table. Rachel took a stance beside it. "All right, ladies, it's time we get down to business. Any questions?"

One woman raised her hand.

"Yes, Martha?"

"Tell me," a marked southern drawl, "why do you always use a switch? Why not just turn them across your knee? And use a paddle or hairbrush?"

Rachel smiled at her interrogator. "Why do I always use a switch? Well, Martha, on occasion I do use a hairbrush or paddle, but for more serious offenders, the simple fact is I've found over the years while practicing my specialty in New York, a freshly cut switch, especially one dipped in brine beforehand, is the most effective tool I've ever come across. Believe me, a sturdy thin, whippy switch, about a quarter inch thick, maybe a tad more, stings far worse than any other implement I've ever used. Really makes even the toughest customer kick and squirm, not to mention howl and beg."

"She's right, you know, Martha," piped up Ruth. "I've never forgotten what it felt like when I was a kid and my mother would cut a switch and use it on my bare bottom. Even after all these years. Oh, my God, did that ever sting? I'd squirm and dance like you just can't believe. The thing left raised welts, too."

Rachel smiled. "Thank you, Ruth. Any other questions?"

No one spoke up.

"Good. Now, as you all know, on previous occasions, at your request, I've been the member who applied the switch to the offender's bare ass, but tonight, girls, we'll have the pleasure of watching our newest member perform. And since tonight's offender is a ninth grade English teacher, what could be more appropriate than to have the punishment dealt out by Priscilla Gibson in her position as head of the school board."

A general sharp intake of breath. Then Lillian giggled. "You mean to say, Priscilla Gibson, our prudish Priss, is going to thrash the teacher for us?"

Rachel smiled. "That's right."

Lillian frowned. "You sure about that? I mean, I just can't imagine anyone as ... as prudish, as sanctimonious, as downright squeamish, as our Priss dealing out corporal punishment. Not to an adult, at least."

"You're right, Lillian," chimed in Barbara Scot, clearly dumbfounded. "I can't believe it, either."

"Well, my dears," retorted Rachel, "believe it. Because it's true. You see, Priss and I had a long talk yesterday, and she agreed the teacher's behavior was despicable and that any teacher who had sex with a pupil deserved a good sound thrashing."

Bertha sat up and waved her hand. "Pardon me, but what's this all about? I've been out of town until just today."

"Well, dear, I learned about this only a week ago myself. It seems the teacher, thirty-five-year-old Wilma Morton--"

Priscilla leaped to her feet. "Wil--! Oh, no! Rachel, for God's sake! Hold on! You can't expect me to switch the bare bottom of an adult woman. Right here in front of all these ladies?"

Rachel, hands on hips, smirked. "I can't, huh? Well, Priss, dear, I suppose we could invite the husbands in to witness your performance. I'm sure they'd enjoy seeing a naked woman, dancing up and down, getting a bare ass switching."

"Oh, good God! How can you expect me to do such a thing? It'd ... it'd be absolutely wicked of me! I mean to say, switch another woman's bare bottom! In front of all these ladies. You ... you can't mean it!"

Rachel, chin thrust out, eyes narrowed, said, "Oh, but, I do mean it, Priss. This thirty-five-year-old adult woman you seem to feel so solicitous about has been having sex with an underage boy, one of her pupils. A fifteen-year-old."

"But," protested Priscilla, "to whip her in public. Bare bottom at that. How can you expect me, of all people, to do such a thing?"

"Well, now, Priss, I thought we settled all this yesterday. You telling me now you've changed your mind, that you'd prefer the alternative?"

Priscilla frowned. "What do you mean? What alternative?"

Rachel smirked. "You forgotten already, dearie? I mean, you willing to take her place and get switched yourself. On your bare ass?"

"Oh, my God, no, but--"

"But what, dearie? You prefer to wave goodbye to Vassar? And your home?"

"Well ... no. But I assumed you were talking about a man taking advantage of an underage female pupil."

"I see. You mean, you'd be perfectly willing to flog a male teacher, reluctantly perhaps, but still flog the man?"

"Well ... yes. I mean, whoever heard of a female teacher, a thirty-five-year-old grown woman having sex with a fifteen-year-old boy?"

"Well, dearie, you have led a sheltered life, haven't you? But believe me, it happens. More than you'd ever guess. Just gets covered up, swept under the carpet, so to speak, something not to be talked about in polite society."

Priscilla grimaced. "I ... I just can't believe--".

"You can't, huh. Well, lady, believe it. It happens."

"But if it gets covered up, how'd you find out about it? Surely the teacher didn't say anything."

Rachel chuckled. "No, of course, she didn't. But I can assure you Wilma Morton knew damn well what she was doing was against the law--"

"And all moral decency!" interjected Marsha.

Rachel grinned. "Right! All moral decency. And, Priss, Miss Wilma certainly wasn't observing those proprieties you're so fond of, now was she?"

Priscilla threw up her hands. "Good heavens, no!"

"So, Priss, doesn't she deserve to be punished for-you'll pardon the expression-screwing a pupil, an innocent minor in her care? I think there's a Latin phrase for it."

"In loco parentis. But ... well ... you sure? How did you find out about this?"

Rachel shrugged. "Luck, pure luck. But, teacher or not, the woman just wasn't very clever, getting involved with a kid in the first place. I suppose maybe she thought she'd sworn him to secrecy, that the boy would never rat on her. Seems, though, the kid bragged to his older sister about what was going on, and the sister told their mother. Well, it so happens the mother does housework for me, and she complained about Wilma to me. Well," Rachel snickered. "I figured this'd be right up the committee's alley."

"But," retorted Priscilla, "how can you believe those kids? Or the mother? Maybe they just wanted to get the poor teacher in trouble."

Rachel shrugged. "Well, Priss, I admit I was a bit skeptical at first, so before I said anything to the committee, I took it up with the teacher. But I guess Wilma'd heard about my past and assumed I'd be broad-minded about it. Anyway, she tried to brazen it out, admitted fucking the kid." Rachel frowned. "You know something? She actually seemed proud of it. Even seemed to think I'd find it amusing."

"But why'd she do it?"

Rachel shrugged. "Why'd she do it? Good question. When I asked her, she said it was her business as a teacher to instruct and, according to her, what could be more important than that kids learn early about sex. Claimed it was her business and duty to instruct the boy. Babbled something about women's rights."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"

Rachel nodded. "Uh-huh, right. My own guess is there's something about being in a position of power that excites some people, male or female. Pretty weird, though, ain't it? She claimed young boys are so much sweeter than grown men that they're more appealing to her. But she's not the only one. In my time, I've heard of other female teachers who seduced teenage boys. Anyway, I can only guess some women feel it'll be much simpler than all the bother that goes with seducing an adult man."

Priscilla frowned. "Well ... maybe. But a woman in her thirties? Besides," she persisted, "you'd told me earlier you'd switched a couple of ... of flashers! Flashers are males, aren't they?"

Rachel chuckled. "Good point. Usually that's true. But remember, I said our other members referred to them as exhibitionists, not flashers. And maybe the ladies were right. Anyway, those two offenders I switched were actually a couple of young women in their twenties who'd worn bathing costumes to the public beach that our members considered too revealing. So I ended up giving those two female flashers six of the best each on their bare bottoms. Right here in this room. In front of the entire committee." She guffawed. "You should've heard those cheeky young bitches yell."

Shocked, Priscilla said, "And they didn't go to the police?"

Rachel shook her head. "Nope. Too embarrassed, I guess. Didn't want their whippings made public."

"That's right," interjected Lillian Marlow. "Although next time they showed up at the beach, those two had obviously learned their lesson. Instead of flaunting their bodies in public, they were more suitably attired."

"Oh, good God!"

Rachel grinned. "Right, Priss. So now just sit yourself down, and I'll bring in our lady rapist, seductive Wilma."

Priscilla slowly sank back into the wing chair, as Rachel sauntered out. When Rachel reappeared, she had three thin, four foot long switches in her hand. These she laid on the rectory table. Sidling in after her, came a tall, rather plump, strawberry-blonde woman, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, hair bobbed in the manner of Louise Brooks. The woman, noted Priscilla, had an extremely worried expression on her face. As well, she might, thought Priscilla, considering, what Rachel had in store for the hussy. Priscilla also noted, the newcomer clearly had a bit of a tummy and judging from the way her skirt strained across her rear, she definitely had a fleshy rump.

Priscilla also took note of the fact that, although she herself and the rest of the women in the room all wore fashionably-styled mid-calf dresses, the younger woman wore a short, scarlet, fringed skirt, la a Twenties flapper. The garment barely came down to the rolled black stockings at her knees. And the stockings, Priscilla was willing to bet, were expensive chiffon silk. On her feet were sequined red suede flapper-style dancing shoes, heels about three inches high. Priscilla suspected the teacher's lace-trimmed, black voile blouse had no brassiere under it, either. Probably not even a bandeau. Studying the woman, Priscilla had to agree with Rachel: the teacher was hotcha.

Suddenly Rachel seized the apprehensive female by the ear and marched the protesting woman into the center of the room. "Well, now, Wilma," said Rachel, "I've told these ladies all about your sexual adventures with young Henry. And I'm sure you must realize nobody here's going to save you from the bare-ass switching you so richly deserve."

Wilma, on the verge of tears, turned to the seated women. "Oh, God, ladies. Please don't let her do it. Please, please, have mercy. I ... I couldn't stand to be switched. Not on my bare bottom. Right here in public."

"You agreed to come here of your own free will, didn't you?" said Bertha Schmidt with a sniff. "Nobody dragged you here, did they?"

"Well, no," admitted the teacher, "not exactly."

"Just a minute, Bertha," interjected Rachel. She turned to the frightened teacher. "Wilma, what did I tell you about these ladies and prison?"

The teacher began to weep quietly."You said," she sniffled, "these ladies had a great deal of influence and could see to it I'd go to prison. For years. Three or four, at least."

"And, ladies," said Rachel, "we needn't go into it at any length, but over the years, I've become something of an expert on prisons and women." She turned back to the weeping teacher. "So now, Wilma, what did I tell you about the prisons here in our fair state?"

"You ... you said they're all only custodial. That no attempt's made to reform prisoners, to ... to better them. No doctors or social workers. Prisoners are just ... just warehoused. Unlike some of the more advanced states in the country."

"What else?"

"That ... that there's no special prisons for women here. Females are lucky if they even get put in a separate part of the prison. Some just get thrown in with men."

"And?"

"The prisons are horrible. Dirty and infested with lice and rats. And ... and the food's positively dreadful."

Rachel nodded. "That's right. Now what did I tell you about chain gangs?"

"You said women are sometimes put on chain gangs with men."

"What else?"

"Oh, God! You said that if a woman annoys the guards, she's sometimes whipped on her ... her bare buttocks. Right in front of all the men. Sometimes for no reason at all."

"That's right, Wilma. Think about it. A female prisoner can be switched or whipped on her bare ass out in the field, in front of all the men. Whenever the male guards feel like it. And for as much and as long as the guards choose. How would you like that?"

"Oh, Christ! I wouldn't, for God's sake! You know I wouldn't."

"All right. Now, about your job. These are tough times, lady. And, despite FDR, not likely to get better in any big hurry. Jobs are scarce. People are living from hand to mouth, some starving. So what'd I say about your job?"

The teacher sniffed. "You ... you said if I'd agree to take my punishment from you, anything you wished to give me, here in front of these ladies, I could keep my job as a teacher and you all would keep my affair with the kid quiet."

Rachel held up a finger. "Provided you never, ever lay a finger on another underage kid. No matter how hot and bothered you get. Not unless you want to risk going to prison. What else?"

"You said, if I didn't accept punishment from you ladies, I'd lose my job and receive no references, so I'd not only go to prison but never be able to teach again. I'd be out on the street."

"Well, now. All that being so, you're willing to submit to whatever I say? That correct?"

The offender, biting her lower lip, nodded.

"Say it. Out loud. So everyone can hear you."

"Oh, Jesus, yes, yes. I'll submit to anything you say."

"Good, so right here and now, lady," snapped Rachel, "you're going to be switched on that plump bare ass of yours and deservedly so. And considering what you're guilty of, not just the usual six of the best, but double that. A dozen strokes." She nodded toward Priscilla. "By the head of the school board there. So, now, no more dilly-dallying. Out of your clothes."

"What?" Looking wildly around.

"I said, out of your clothes. Strip."

"No," backing away, "you don't really mean it. Oh, God, you can't mean it. You're joking, just teasing me. Oh, no. Please no!"

Impatient, Rachel snapped, "It's no joke. I mean exactly what I said. Either you strip now, or we'll do it for you. If necessary, I can even have a couple of these ladies husbands come in and do it. So which is it going to be?"

The distraught seducer looked around beseechingly, but met only stern glares from the outraged committee women. "Ah, no, ladies, please, no. No men. I'll ... I'll do it."

Shaking the switch in her hand, Rachel snapped, "Get busy, then. Strip!"

Biting her lip, the frightened woman kicked off her dancing shoes and rolled her black stockings down and off. She then discarded them on the rectory table. Next she unbuttoned her sheer blouse and slid out of it. Then she shimmied out of her skirt. Underneath, she wore merely a black, lace-trimmed chemise, no slip. As Priscilla had suspected, no brassiere. But, then, thought Priscilla, the hussy's breasts, while not tiny, are not so large but what she can get away with no brassiere. Grimacing, the school teacher slid out of the chemise and dropped it on the floor.

The humbled woman stood naked. And with her fair complexion, her blushes stood out. Face flaming, she hunched over, knees clamped tightly together, hands and arms attempting futilely to cover her breasts and pubic area. Biting her lower lip, she stared at the floor.

"Now, ladies," said Rachel, "we have a decision to make."

"We do?" said Marsha Hogan. "What decision?"

"Well," responded Rachel, "as I see it, we have two possibilities. We can either make the baggage bend over this rectory table and secure her to it so Priss can take a good swing and really lay the switch on the seductive bitch's bare backside, or," she strolled over to one wall where a gap of bare wall, perhaps two feet in width, existed between the bookshelves, "if you'll look up in the center of the ceiling, you'll see a thick beam. You'll also see a pulley anchored in that beam. Plus you can make out a strong rope with a metal hook on the end dangling just below the pulley? See it, Priss?"

Priscilla, somewhat mystified, nodded.

Rachel smiled. "Good. You'll also note that the rope with the hook on it not only runs through the pulley but the line runs clear over here to this wall and is wrapped around this cleat. Okay?" She patted the cleat.

Again Priss nodded.

"Fine. Now, when I unwrap the rope," suiting action to words, "I can lower the hook ... so it dangles ... just ... above the floor. You begin to see where I'm heading?"

Once more Priscilla nodded. "I ... I think so."

Rachel nodded. "You're no dummy, Priss. I figured you'd get the idea." She turned to address all the committee members. "You may recall, ladies, that I referred to my specialty back in New York. When I worked for Polly. Well, now, you girls, may not realize it, but some men get terribly aroused sexually if they are whipped by a woman. Or merely threatened with a flogging by a woman."

"Oh, good heavens, Rachel," exclaimed Marsha. "You can't be serious!"

Rachel smiled slyly. "Ah, but I am serious. In New York I was known at Polly's as Madame Discipline. So you see, I've had a good deal of experience at this. When I offer advice on the subject of whippings, I know whereof I speak."

"You mean," said Ruth Benson, aghast, "you've whipped grown men?"

"That's right, Ruth. And," she winked, "a few women, too. Either way, it was great fun."

"Oh, my God in heaven!"

"But that's why we're here tonight, isn't it? To see to it sexy Wilma gets her just deserts. So she never even thinks of screwing another kid. In a moment, we'll put it up to a vote how to do it, bent over the table-pretend it's teacher's desk-in which case Priss can make the hussy squirm and kick. Or, and this is what I recommend: we bind her wrists and suspend her, naked, arms overhead, by that rope coming down from the ceiling. That way Priss can make her really dance."

Rachel giggled. "I mean, with that flapper outfit she wore, I suspect she can probably do a really great Charleston for us. But bear in mind when you vote that, bent over the rectory table, she wouldn't be able to demonstrate her dancing talent."

All the while, Rachel was explaining, Priscilla, engrossed, had been studying the naked teacher. When she thought about it, she realized that, in so assiduously devoting her life to observing the proprieties, she had only seen one, possibly two, totally naked adult women in her life. Now, gazing at the naked female teacher, she suddenly realized the fleshy buttocks and thighs of Wilma fascinated her. As did the woman's ever so slightly paunchy tummy.

But it was the trollop's fleshy buttocks that mesmerized Priscilla. Especially when the woman moved. Then those flabby buttocks tended to jiggle a bit. Suddenly she caught herself fantasizing how those milky white buttocks would look when reddened by a sound spanking. And with raised red welts crisscrossing them form a sound switching.

Oh, my God, she thought! Can Rachel possibly be right? Could a decent woman like me actually develop a taste for this ghastly sort of ... of perversion?

Quickly she tried to abolish such disgusting, unladylike, improper thoughts. But try as she might, she couldn't. The cruel fantasies continued to haunt her consciousness. And she became aware she was even licking her lips in anticipation.

"Anyway, ladies," she heard Rachel saying, "which is it going to be? Over the rectory table or suspended from the ceiling? Remember, now," cautioned Rachel, finger raised, "I recommend suspension from the ceiling. But let's put it to a vote. All in favor of suspending her from the ceiling, raise your hands."

No contest. Six hands shot up. "I thought so," said Rachel, chuckling. "No point to carrying this any further. It's unanimous."

Rachel picked up the sheer chiffon silk stockings from the table. "Wilma, get your ass over here. And hold out your arms, so I can tie your wrists with your own sexy stockings."

"Oh, no, please, no," begged the distraught woman, shrinking back. Suddenly she was on her knees, clasped hands held up beseechingly. "Please, please, don't. I promise I'll never have sex with another boy."

Rachel chuckled again. "Lady, you don't know how right you are. When Priss gets through applying her switch to that big, white, bare behind of yours, if you ever even think of screwing a boy again, you're ass'll sting so bad you won't be able to sit in front of your class. Now get up, so I can wrap your wrists with these."

"Oh, no, please no."

"If you're not up on your feet and holding out your wrists in two seconds," threatened Rachel, "you'll get fifteen strokes on your bare ass instead of just a dozen. Now hop it."

The dreadful threat galvanized the now weeping woman. Instantly she scrambled to her feet and held out her hands. "Good!" said Rachel. "That's more like it."

The teacher's wrist tightly bound together, Rachel inserted the dangling hook between the woman's bound wrists. Then Rachel, with the assistance of Bertha Schmidt, began hauling on the rope. Inexorably the helpless woman's arms extended above her head until at last she stood almost on tiptoe.

After picking a switch off the rectory table, Rachel cut the air with it. The switch sang with an angry swishing sound. The naked teacher grimaced and brought her knees even closer together. "Oh, Jesus, Jesus," the terrified woman moaned. "Don't, please, don't."

Rachel turned to Priscilla who stood staring at her prospective victim's bare bottom, still absorbed by the fleshy, milk-white buttocks, but distressed when she realized she couldn't refrain from visualizing red welts crisscrossing the woman's bare rump.

"All right, Priss, you're on," said Rachel, handing Priscilla the fresh cut switch. "And don't forget: you're to apply this switch with enthusiasm. Hard! And I do mean hard. Make the bitch, dance. If you don't, Mrs. Oh-So-Proper-High-and-Mighty, I'll strip you and whip your lovely bare ass."

She turned to the terrified school teacher. "As for you, lady, you're to count every stroke out loud. So everyone can hear. And if you lose count, Mrs. Gibson will start over."

Terrified by the prospect of a possible thrashing of her own naked buttocks, Priscilla seized the thin whippy switch and cut the air with it. Hearing the switch sing through the air, Priscilla's victim, arms overhead, naked body on display, twisted and turned, staring fearfully over her shoulder at Priscilla and the menacing switch. Panic-stricken, balancing nervously on her toes, she begged, "Oh, please, no, please, please, no!"

"Get busy, Priss," barked Rachel. "Make the bitch pay for her sins."

Intimidated, Priscilla brought the switch back and then cut it down across the naked pedagogue's white bottom. The woman gasped and surged up on her toes.

"Oh, God!" she squealed

"Count, Wilma, count!"

"One," yelled the teacher.

"Harder, Priss, harder. Make her dance, damn it!"

Priscilla glanced around and was startled to see the other supposedly prim and proper women, mouths agape, licking their lips and staring unashamedly at the red stripe rapidly rising on the teacher's white buttocks. Intimidated by an impatient gesture from Rachel, Priscilla brought the switch far back and then brought it slashing down across her target's naked bottom. The unlucky school teacher jerked and kicked, letting out a quavery, "Aaaah, Jesus!"

Rachel guffawed. "Count, lady, count!"

"Two, Jesus, two. Please, no more!"

As Priscilla brought the switch back preparatory for a third stroke, she found herself wondering how on earth she, a gentle compassionate woman, could possibly be flogging her helpless victim. But proprieties or no proprieties, she had to have Rachel's financial aid. Caroline must go to Vassar. And she had to retain her home. Plus she knew perfectly well the alternative was out of the question. The thought of being stripped naked herself in lieu of the teacher and publicly thrashed on her own buttocks while she danced was too much, unthinkable. She simply couldn't face it.

She brought the switch down a third time. Hard!

"Aaaah, Jesus, Jesus!" the victim screeched. "Three! Oh, God, oh God!"

Tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth, eyes wide, Priscilla brought the switch down twice more in rapid succession. With each stroke, her victim shrieked and leaped, kicking high, prancing, and hopping, buttocks jiggling, small breasts bouncing.

"Four! Five" shrieked the dancing woman. "Oh, stop, Mrs. Gibson, stop. Please stop!"

Astounded, Priscilla heard herself snarl, "I won't stop, you hussy, you. You flaunted all rules of propriety. Good God! Fucking a schoolboy. Did you enjoy it, you bitch? Answer me, did you enjoy it?"

Two more rapid strokes on the white buttocks, now showing a network of red streaks. "Six! Seven! Yes, yes, I enjoyed it," sobbed the woman. "But, please, no more. Please, please, no more!"

Hearing the woman confess that she'd enjoyed seducing a boy, it dawned on Priscilla that she herself was enjoying, actually taking delight in, flogging the helpless naked woman, propriety cast to the winds. She knew she should stop as her helpless victim was pleading with her to do. But she didn't want to stop.

My God, Priscilla, she asked herself, what kind of woman are you? You're no better than Rachel Meredith.

And, belatedly, she realized she truly did not want to stop. Wouldn't think of ceasing her assault on the hussy's naked buttocks. Christ, no! Licking her lips, she was enjoying the sight of her switch biting down across the bitch's naked white bottom, enjoying making this plump grown woman twist and turn, making her frantically caper and prance as the switch seared the teacher's tender buttocks. No, by God, she was enjoying making the woman shriek for mercy. Not only wouldn't she stop, she couldn't stop. Seeing the woman leap and dance, her fleshy buttocks jiggling, enthralled Priscilla.

All her pent-up rage bursting forth. All the things she'd wanted to do in her life but had thwarted, kept submerged, because of the need to maintain her image, were at last finding an outlet. No, by God, she wouldn't stop! She glared at her victim. "You miserable slut, you. If you ever get near another child, I'll make you wish you were dead."

"I won't, I won't," shrieked the tearful woman. "Believe me, I won't. But, Christ, almighty, have mercy. No more, please, no more."

"I have no intention of stopping, you bitch," snarled Priscilla, voice hoarse, "not until you've had your full dozen."

Four more times, the switch, now ragged on the end, rained down. Four more times the naked woman shrieked and kicked, leaping high in the air, twisting and turning, all the while blubbering and begging Priscilla to stop. Preparing for one final stroke, Priscilla took a huge breath. Drawing back her flagging arm, she launched one final savage cut across the screeching female's now scarlet buttocks.

An earsplitting shriek from her prancing victim rewarded Priscilla. Breathing heavily, she dropped the switch and sank into a chair. Rachel picked up the partially shredded implement and came over to Priscilla.

"Wonderful, Priss, wonderful! I couldn't have done better myself."

Rachel again paid out the rope, lowering the hook, allowing Wilma to lower her arms. Then Rachel disengaged the sobbing victim's limbs from the hook and freed her wrists. Instantly Wilma, still naked, grabbed her scarlet buttocks and, whimpering, squirmed and danced around the room.

The other members of The Committee, looking somewhat abashed sank back in their chairs. But they still smiled maliciously as they watched nude Wilma, utterly uncaring about her nudity, whimper and wail as, gyrating, ignoring the spectators, she frantically rubbed her vividly scarlet buttocks and the network of rising wheals, attempting with little success to relieve the fiery sting in her backside.

Priscilla shook her head. Watching the suffering, terrified victim dance about, she wondered how she, a respectable, decent woman, could've whipped another human being so savagely as she'd just done? What had happened to her reverence for proprieties? Worst of all, she sensed-as Rachel had earlier predicted-that she, compassionate Priscilla, had discovered she'd loved every moment of it.

My God, she thought, I just hope no one else realizes how I feel. But, smiling covertly, oh, God, how I did enjoy that.

Having freed their victim, Rachel strolled over to where Priscilla sat . In a soft tone, audible only to Priscilla, she semi-whispered, "Honey, maybe you didn't know it, but by the time you finished with the bitch, that fierce grin on your face and the way your eyes lit up told me I'd been right. They gave you away. You were even drooling a bit. It was obvious to everyone."

A sly wink. "You loved every moment, didn't you? Anyway, you sure did earn your money, lady. So don't worry about the future. Vassar and your life-style are safe. There'll be plenty of other occasions when you can demonstrate your skill and enthusiasm for punishing adults. Male and female."


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