Whip Hands (4 page)

The greeting was cool, as if the silver-haired colonel had never clapped eyes on me before. For a moment I thought I was supposed to curtsy. Not knowing what to do next, I noticed he had extended his arm. Dangling on the end of a silver chain was a small key, twisting and twinkling in the candlelight.

Before I had fully thought out my response I found myself opening the door of a built-in cupboard that reached the ceiling. The lighting was subdued and I could not immediately make out the interior in any detail, but as the contents became clearer I gasped involuntarily.

‘Look up to your right for what we are needing.' The voice was brusque and businesslike, so different from the courteous and affable figure I had served in the restaurant. As I put up my hand I clumsily set two or three hanging canes rattling. I searched again, noting that there must have been twenty or thirty pegs in there. Each carried an implement of some sort. A strong aroma of leather and saddle soap wafted out. Italian men collected some strange things, it seemed.

‘We need the
spazoletta da panni
,' he instructed me. ‘You say a clothes brush, I think. It is black and shiny.'

At last my hand closed on a brush with short, dense bristles. It felt surprisingly heavy and, as I carried it over to the colonel, I noticed it had a small wing-nut at the far end of the handle. The old man took it from me and laid it down with a clunk on the table top. He pulled out one of the carved, high-backed chairs and set it near the fire. It had a well-stuffed seat covered in dark red damask. Was he going to hang his jacket over it?

‘Now,
signorina
. I think you know what you must do.'

‘N-no, sir.' These were the first words I had spoken since climbing the stairs. They only confirmed the unreality of the situation and my feeling that there was little I could do to influence events. I knew roughly what was going to happen from the dark weals on Fidellina's thighs, and it had absolutely nothing to do with brushing jackets, that much was for sure.

‘Please kneel on the chair,' the colonel said. ‘You understand that for the money you have been given, the
mancia
, there is now a price to pay. Since it is your first time we will take things gently at the beginning.' There was a glint in his eye that made me do what he bade without hesitation.

Gripping the carved top of the chair back with both hands, I arched my back as he instructed after lifting up the back hem of my tunic and tucking it into the top of my tights. Even though it was still protected by cotton briefs, my tight little bottom felt incredibly exposed.

‘Now,
signorina
, you must count.' The instruction was almost barked out. Looking over my shoulder I could see that the colonel looked extremely impatient to start, slapping the small lacquered brush into his palm. I hoped this was not going to hurt much, but I really hadn't any idea. The last time I had been slapped on the bottom was as a very young child.

‘How many should I count to, sir?' I asked in a quavering voice.

‘To twenty-five, one for each pound of my bid. Now hurry, we do not have much time.'

‘One.' The grunt that preceded the blow gave me warning and I tightened my muscles involuntarily. And again for the second and third blows. The effect was to warm me up without causing any great shock. ‘Eight. Nine.' The grunts came more loudly and the blows were delivered with more effort; I could feel my rear end start to glow after each fiery burst.

When we reached twelve the colonel told me to step away from the chair. I turned round to look at him for the first time. If my bottom was glowing it was only at medium heat compared to his face. It looked almost beetroot in the firelight.

‘Now we must make changes to our procedure,
signorina
,' he muttered, removing his jacket, throwing it over the chair and loosening his collar. ‘Please remove your tights
pronto
.'

As I accomplished this manoeuvre, first on one leg, then on the other, the colonel fetched a cushion and put it on the dining table. Then he swept the candelabra up to the far end.

‘Climb on to the table, please, and lie with the cushion under your abdomen.'

This was not a very comfortable position. Reaching out with my arms I could just grip both side edges of the table top; otherwise, I felt in danger of slipping off its shiny surface. Suddenly the main overhead chandelier was switched on and the room was flooded with light.

Now I felt far more vulnerable than before. With a feeling of rising panic I looked over my shoulder to see that I was positioned directly in front of the first floor bay window opposite, fully visible to anyone who happened to look across the narrow street.

But I soon forgot about the danger of prying eyes, as the colonel spoke. ‘You must begin counting from thirteen. This time it will hurt a little more, I think. Excuse me, please; do not be alarmed.' As he was saying this he bent over and slipped my cotton briefs down almost to my knees. I gasped despite myself.

There was a sound like a pistol shot and I felt a searingly cold sensation across my lower buttocks. The next second, it felt like flame. My immediate reaction was to put a hand over the targeted area until the feeling had mellowed into heat.

‘Replace your hand please,
signorina
. Next number.'

I could hardly remember it; I was in such a state of shock. ‘Thirteen,' I muttered finally. Once again the swish and the explosive impact followed swiftly. There was now a singing in my ears. Three or four more of these was surely as much as I could take. I squirmed to try and relieve the sharpness of the pain.

Straining to look over my shoulder, I saw a thin-lipped smile on the face of the colonel as he raised his bare arm. But what was he grasping in his hand? As the stroke drove with increased force into my fleshiest parts I suddenly remembered through a red haze of pain the wing-nut on the handle.

Now I realised it must have been for extending the handle. My chastiser was effectively wielding something more like a metre-long baton than an innocent clothes brush. I felt tricked by both Fidellina and the colonel, but what could I do about it now? There were still five more strokes to go and each one seemed to find a more sensitive area to impact upon.

I rolled my thighs on the unyielding surface of the table to try and alleviate the pain. The last two strokes made me squeal; I just had to let it out. My pants were down around my knees and I felt very exposed. I didn't dare turn sideways to see who was spying on us through the window. They would only see a slim girl in a black waitress uniform, I told myself. It's not as if I was stripped to the buff or anything. It could just be the way discipline was kept in this establishment. Quite innocent and above board.

I noticed that I was becoming wet between my thighs. So if I was not aroused, why was this happening? I heard a grunt of satisfaction from above me.

‘Twenty-three.' As I lay with the side of my face against the table I heard the whistle of the
spazzola
and the fleshy slap it made.

Then through the waves of pain I heard a faint echo coming from below. ‘
Venti tre
.' To my horror I remembered the previous night and the rapt attention of the diners. I realised they could hear every blow and, worse, just about every sound that came from my mouth!

‘Twenty-four.' This time I clenched my cheeks to try and reduce the noise of the impact. It may have worked but the pain was a thousand times worse. I bit my lip and I don't think I made a sound.

‘
Venti Quattro
.' The ghostly chorus of those assembled below was like a parody of a religious congregation.

This was nearly it. I drew a deep breath and gasped. I was aware of the slight change in the position of the figure bending over me but was not prepared for the excruciating agony of the stroke across my upper thighs, which landed within inches of my well-lubricated sex. I counted that final blow with a piercing scream.

I never thought I could make it off that table, but the colonel was kind enough to help me and looked away as I pulled up my pants. He turned away after a brief enquiry and poured himself another grappa. The door opened and Costanzo beckoned me to go downstairs again.

Fidellina was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs and ushered me into the cupboard that doubled as our changing room. Here she told me to lower my briefs while she applied some special herbal salve which, despite the initial shock, soon made the pain subside into a feeling of intense heat. I almost forgot to be angry with her for not telling me exactly what to expect.

‘What did he use?' Fidellina asked, handing back the apron with the well-deserved sixty pounds bounty in its pocket. I pulled my panties back up gingerly.

‘The clothes brush. He called it a
spazzola
. He did something to make it much longer, the swine.'

Fidellina shushed me as two sets of footsteps descended the stairs above us. A moment later there was a babble of voices and cheering from the restaurant. She clasped me in her arms, and I felt strangely comforted.

‘The
spazzola da panni
is a family heirloom of Costanzo's, you understand. It is more than a hundred years old. His grandfather was valet to a prince and the brush was used to keep the prince's cloak in good condition when he went out riding. By extending the handle the valet could reach up to the prince's shoulders without him needing to dismount.'

I'd had enough of the history lesson. I was thinking more of the future. As the diners made their farewells and the restaurant cleared, I prepared to go and tidy the tables. Was I really to go through all that again in a week's time? Of course not! It was far too degrading, and painful.

But then again, I thought, taking a look in the mirror, my pert little arse didn't look in too bad shape if you ignored the colour. And the
mancia
would certainly come in very handy each week. I calculated mentally how big it would have to be before I felt the need to refuse. Fifty strokes was out of the question, but maybe thirty... But then again, I'd no idea what one of those canes could do to me. I definitely needed to have another talk with Fidellina.

 

 

 

The figure in the doorway appeared with startling suddenness to the couple sprawled on the bed. He was a large man, casually dressed in a leather jacket, his greying hair in a close crop. And right now he was supposed to be running his printing business on the other side of town. The naked woman gave a squeal of shock and instinctively reached for the sheet, frightened by the sudden, unexpected appearance of her husband.

‘Well, what exactly do we have going on here?' His voice was quiet, almost easygoing, with barely a hint of suppressed anger.

‘Peter, why are you back so soon?' the woman replied, summoning as much dignity as she could.

‘Just as well I didn't arrive any sooner by the look of things. I'm awaiting your explanation, Shereen.'

There was a tense silence as the shapely brunette looked around the room in desperate search of some redeeming feature to this nightmare. It was her partner, a slim man with a Van Dyke beard, who found his voice first.

‘I know this looks bad on Shereen's part. Maybe I can explain the situation...' As he struggled into a pair of turquoise briefs, he did not sound convincing. He was met with a chilling glare as the powerfully built man moved over to the two miscreants.

‘We can do without your fancy explanations, Jack. You should keep your hands for your clay modelling, rather than mauling my wife. Get dressed. You're going to have to pay for this, and it won't be in small change, believe me.

‘And you...' Speaking in barely a whisper, he turned to the woman, who was also attempting to don her underwear. ‘You needn't bother getting dressed. What I've got in mind requires plenty of bare skin. So I'll take these.' Reaching over the bed, he picked up a blouse, some underthings and a pair of designer jeans, along with a cowboy-style suede jacket that was slung over the back of a chair. The woman gave him an inquisitive look but he ignored it.

‘Right, now move. Both of you.'

‘Peter, please don't get mad over this,' Shereen pleaded. ‘Jack just dropped in to reminisce about old times. You know how we had a fling in the distant past. It was all quite harmless, wasn't it, Jack?'

‘Harmless! The two of you already stripped to the scud and pawing at each other like a pair of hyenas. From what I saw there was only one thing on both of your minds and that was situated right between your legs. Well, I arrived in time to put a stop to that. And now it's time for me to enjoy a bit of sport. I can assure you I'll find it much more enjoyable than you will. Either of you.'

He turned to face the slight figure of the lover, who was now pulling on a pair of soft Italian loafers over brightly coloured silk socks. There was no doubt who was the more likely to triumph if it came to a physical confrontation. Jack appeared to realise instinctively who had the mastery as he was grabbed by his shirttail and contemptuously hauled towards the door.