Lady Deborah Turns the Tables

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Lady Deborah had told him not to contact any of his girls, but he had no intention of following her orders in that respect. Probably, he decided, it would be wiser to leave Charlotte alone for the time being, though he had definite plans for her later; when all this was over he’d have a score to settle with her. But being dominated had, paradoxically, increased his desire to assert his control over a girl. He needed to get his confidence back, needed to do to one of them what had been done to him. He called Francesca.

She was a tall, slim, blonde girl, with surprisingly large breasts. Robert found her extremely desirable. He wasn’t sure if he always liked her that much. She could be difficult and moody, but when properly aroused she was magnificent. When she answered his call she was skittish, not sure if she had the time, not sure if she was into ‘all that’ any more. But he could tell from her voice all this was bluster.

“You need to come and see me,” he said confidently. “You need what I can give you. And you know what that is.”

There was silence for a moment. Then he heard her sigh down the phone. “Yes,” she said.

She came round the next evening. He poured her a glass of wine and they sat on the sofa, talking. Francesca had long, shapely legs and was wearing a short, tight skirt. She knew what effect she had on men. Robert could feel his c**k growing hard already. He set down his glass and gave her one of his looks. “Have you been a good girl?” he asked.

She looked back at him, as if daring him to accuse her. “Not particularly,” she said.

“You’ve been with bad men?”

“Some,” she admitted.

“What did they do to you?”

“Two of them took me to a hotel where one of them was staying. I met them on Craig’s List. You know how it goes.”

Robert did know. He’d done things like that. With girls who liked to be bad.

“Was it just f*****g, or were there other things?”

“There were other things.”

“Like the sort of things I do?”

She shrugged. “More or less.”

“Did they pay you?”

She smiled. “They bought me a very expensive dinner.”

“Bad girl,” he said. “I thought I told you not to do those things with other men.”

“Yes, you did.”

“So you’ve come here to be punished?”

She seemed to shiver slightly. “Maybe.”

Robert stood up. “Come in the bedroom,” he said.

She followed him. Once in the bedroom he grabbed hold of her hair and twisted it, forcing her face up. Then he slapped her across the cheek. “Slut,” he said, then slapped her again. This was Francesca’s thing, to be accused, to be called names, to be roughed up. She’d be wet between the legs already, he knew. He started to tear her clothes off, flinging them away. When she was naked he threw her on the bed. From a cupboard in the corner he took three items, a leather tawse, a riding crop and a cane, and set them side by side on the bed. From a drawer he took a pair of handcuffs. Francesca liked to be cuffed.

“Like a prisoner,” she said to him the first time. “As if I’m a criminal, at the mercy of my jailer. Arrested on the street as a common whore.”

Robert understood exactly how to manage this fantasy. He pulled her wrists together in front and snapped the cuffs on. Then he turned her over, face down, and grabbed her hair again, pulling her head back.

“Little slut,” he said. “I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

He picked up the tawse, measured the distance, and brought it down hard on her rump. She squealed, and tried to wriggle away. Robert fetched a long leather leash, which he attached to the cuffs and wound round the wooden struts at the head of the bed. He took a length of rope and bound her ankles, then attached them to the foot of the bed. She was secured.

“Now then, b***h,” he said. “I’m going to take my time showing you what happens to slutty girls who disobey instructions and meet bad men.”

Francesca moaned. She knew what was coming. Robert had done this before, several times. She had told him that no other man had the balls to treat her as she needed to be treated, like a w***e, used and abused, whipped into obedience. He picked up the tawse again and lashed it across her behind. She gasped and tried to wriggle away, but her bonds held her securely. Robert began to beat her systematically, the tawse rising and falling, making a sharp crack each time it struck Francesca’s perfectly rounded behind. As he worked, her bottom grew a darker and darker shade of pink. Now and again he paused, stroking her lovely ass, feeling how hot it was, soothing her, only to resume in a moment the stinging assault.

He set the tawse aside and picked up his crop. The tawse would make her bottom a delicious colour, may even leave a few diffused bruises. But something else was needed to make the lasting marks on which he prided himself, something that would bite into her soft flesh, leave it raw, carve purple welts across the swelling buttocks. The crop would do good work, though it wouldn’t provide the finishing touch. Robert tapped the crop lightly across Francesca’s smarting bottom. “Am I getting through to you, you little w***e?” he asked. The response was a whimper. He bent over her, his lips against her ear. “It’s going to be bad,” he said. “Because you need it bad. A really hard thrashing. Because you are such a dirty little slut.” Francesca shivered with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“Tell me what you are,” Robert said.

She hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’m a dirty little slut, sir.”

“A filthy little w***e,” said Robert.

“A filthy little w***e, sir.”

“You let strangers f**k you, don’t you? You let them f**k you in the ass and in the mouth, like a cheap whore.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I do, yes.”

‘And now,’ said Robert, ‘you are going to get what you deserve.’

He stood over her, tapping the crop against her lovely pink bottom. God, how he loved to be cruel to pretty girls. He’d never been able to understand why all men didn’t crave this, the girl lying naked underneath him, bound and helpless, wanting yet fearing her punishment. Robert hit her with his crop. She cried out.

“Hush,” he said. He hit her again. Francesca groaned. He began to beat her with a regular rhythm, laying the crop across the dead centre of her bottom, precisely, with measured strokes, unvarying in their power and accuracy. Francesca had stopped making noises; all he could hear now, besides the regular thwack of the crop upon bare flesh, was her breathing heavily, trying to absorb the pain, not fight it. He saw how the crop was making lines across her rump, tramlines, almost parallel. The lines were actually raised a little, welts that would turn into dark bruises over the next day or so. He set the crop down and sat beside her, running his fingers through her hair, stroking the back of her neck.

“I’m making you a better girl,” he said. “Pain is good for you. It burns away your naughty deeds; it cleanses the soul.”

“Yes, sir,” she said in a whisper.

“But we have not quite finished yet,” Robert said, stroking her bottom. The flesh was burning hot. He traced the lines of the angry red welts across the skin. “You need the cane to purge you of your wickedness. Tell me that you need it, dirty little slut.”

She took a deep breath. He could tell she was near her limit. She was screwing up her courage for one last ordeal. “Yes, sir, I need it. I need the cane.” Then she whimpered, afraid at the prospect.

“Good girl,” he said again. He got to his feet, picked up the bamboo cane and swished it from side to side. Francesca whimpered again at the sound. Robert measured the distance exactly. It was important to get this right, to deliver the blows at the point of maximum impact, upon the centre of her buttocks, already warmed by the tawse and crop. He raised his arm high and brought it down forcefully. Francesca squealed and her body thrashed from side to side as she tried in vain to escape the deadly cuts of the cane. But Robert had no mercy; he knew how best to handle her. Don’t hold back, she had told him often enough; I need to feel the pain go right down into the centre of me.

He slashed her with the cane perhaps a score of times. At last it was over. He set the cane down and sat beside her once more. Francesca was sobbing, emotion draining out of her. He gently stroked her lacerated bottom and kissed her behind the ear. “Good girl,” he said once more. He released her from her bonds.

She turned to him. “Will you come on my face? Please?”

It didn’t take him long. It shot from him, spurting onto her brow, her cheeks, her mouth, even some in her hair. Francesca went to the bathroom. Ten minutes later she came out, her eyes a little red but with a cheerful smile. “My, that was a beating and a half,” she said. “I’ll have bruises for a week.”

Robert grinned and handed her a large drink. She took a swig. “I needed that,” she said. “Both the beating and the drink.”

She stayed a while as they chatted of this and that, then she got up to leave. As she was going out the door, she turned to him and said, “That guy who set me up with the threesome – he’s found another guy to f**k me next week.”

“Bad, bad girl,” said Robert. “I can see there’s more work for me to do.”

Francesca giggled, then she was gone. The next day Robert sat at the computer in his office doing some research on Lady Deborah. He knew nothing about her except that she was married to a wealthy husband. He soon discovered that she was Lady Deborah in her own right, the daughter of an earl. She was 45 years old, educated at Oxford and at the Sorbonne, and had a successful career in the City before her marriage. She had no children. She was a prominent figure on the London social scene, but it appeared that her husband had no appetite for the high life. Too busy counting his money, Robert thought sardonically.

It was clear from his encounter that Lady Deborah was an accomplished and experienced domme. He wondered if she was fully bi-s****l, choosing to dominate both men and women? That would, in his experience, be unusual, but certainly not unheard of. He wondered too if she was a lone operator or whether she moved in a circle of like-minded people. He had heard rumours more than once of a kind of secret society that operated among the rich and well-connected in London, a society which offered a range of deviant pleasures to its members. And he wondered too about her motives for exacting revenge on him for his thrashing of poor Charlotte. Was she just amusing herself with him, a bored aristocrat playing a little game to entertain herself, or was she on some kind of mission, a rabid, possibly demented feminist intent on calling the entire male s*x to account? That’s too lurid, he told himself. She’s just a kinky girl out for some amusement at his expense. And he was sure that once she had had her little bit of fun she would tire of the game and it would all blow over.

The next day he got his second summons to the address in Hampstead, and it was early evening when, with no little trepidation, he once more rang the doorbell to the basement flat. Lady Deborah opened the door. She was dressed only in the black corset. Without a word, she turned and walked down the hall. He joined her in the sound-proofed room, where Lady Deborah took a seat and snapped her fingers, pointing to a spot on the floor just in front of her chair where he was to stand. When he did so, she leaned forward and unzipped him, then reached inside his trousers for his c**k. Her fingers fastened around it and drew it out. She looked down. “I’m glad you remembered your c**k-strap,” she said. “It would have gone ill with you had you forgotten.”

Robert said nothing, staring down as her fingers manipulated him, feeling his c**k beginning to rise under her attention.