Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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(****, M/FFFFF, Severe, cons caning)
A wealthy man offers a unique service to frustrated women of the 90's. (Approximately 1,977 words. Originally published 1997-12.)
Everyone needs a chance to vent, to rid themselves of all the emotional and psychological crap they accumulate week by week. This is even more true of the modern woman, expected to work a fifty-hour week, raise three kids and a husband, and keep a house clean and organized. Worse, these superwomen are forbidden by society to complain, lest they be branded nags or harpies.
Three years ago, inheritance giving me an overabundance of leisure time, I began offering my venting service to a few women in the community. Today I serve over a hundred women on a monthly basis. I do not charge for my time as I consider what I offer a public service. In fact, for a few of the women who travel great distances or are in financial difficulties, I recompense them for their time. The system works well; everyone is pleased.
Though each group of women is unique, it would be redundant to describe them all to you. Instead let me tell you of a recent session--you can imagine the others.
This group of four women have nicknamed themselves "The Bad Apples" and they visit my home the third Saturday of every month. At ten o'clock Clark opens the front door and escorts them to the waiting lounge. By ten-thirty, when I arrive, the women have been casually chatting and catching up all that has happened in each of their lives. It is important that they have this time to relax and abandon their troubles for a few minutes, and the women are well-aware of the prohibition against venting at this stage of the session.
I come into the room and greet each of the women with a hug. There is Barbara, a tall, well-preserved brunette in her mid-forties. She's been divorced three times, has four children, including two teens who live with her, and is worth a small fortune. She has the body of twenty-something, paid for with regular exercise, a cruel diet, and frequent appointments with an expensive genius of a surgeon. She is always restless and never content. Of the four she is only one who doesn't need to work.
Next is Monica, a petite, shy, dark-haired woman of thirty-two. She teaches fifth grade locally and is so sensitive she tries to carry the problems of her many troubled students. Her husband is routinely unfaithful but she loves him and refuses to leave, preferring to blame his actions on her inability to provide him with any children. I always give Monica an especially warm hug, both because she is so pretty and because she needs the encouragement.
Angela's hug is nearly a maul. She teaches aerobics five days a week and she is always exploding with energy. She's obsessed with physical perfection and can't keep a guy for more than a week. I have to keep her at arms length. This requires will power, for though she is approaching thirty, her body is firmer than a teenage cheerleader. She has no ex-husbands or children to torment her, but she more than makes up for this by choosing the same kinds of bad men over and over and wondering why it never works out.
Winnie is the last of the four. A dignified woman with silver hair, she is barely forty. She works sixty-hour weeks as a legal secretary and hates every moment though you'd never know that talking to her casually or seeing her at work. A woman who'd once had high ambitions of being a lawyer, Winnie got pregnant young, married badly for the child, overworked herself to make up for her jobless husband, divorced, and watched her son drift away into drugs and heavy metal music. He ran away at sixteen and she never saw him again. Despite these incredible hardships, Winnie is an incredible woman. She's deceptively strong, giving, and wonderfully loyal. Physically, she's thin a stick and hard as bone, but when she relaxes, the beauty of her spirit shines through in astonishing physical ways that make her far more attractive than a vacuous twenty-year-old bimbo with huge boobs and a curvy ass. Winnie has _character_. If there was any of the four I could fall in love with, it would be Winnie, despite the fact that she's over ten years older than me.
I write of these women the way I do because I love each of them. Our venting sessions have opened them up to me and to each other in such an intimate manner that we cannot help but love each other. During our session everyone is more than physically naked--we are spiritually naked as well. We see each other's flaws and strengths and accept them as one.
After a little chitchat, the women disrobe and follow me to the venting room. This is a circular chamber I built specifically for this purpose. It is large, empty, and sound proof. The walls are covered with a thin pale green carpet like moss while the thick carpeting of the sunken floor is green like grass. When the door is closed behind us only the handle gives away its location, the seams blending perfectly with the walls on each side and above. The lighting is soft and muted and hidden--it emerges from recesses along the sides of the ceiling and gives the room a dull glow, seemingly without any direct source. Light classical music plays from invisible speakers and there's the soft scent of lilacs in the air. The temperature of the room is a slightly chilly 65 degrees, perfect for the physical activities to come. A gentle breeze drifts from above.
The only ornaments are plants scattered around the sides of the room, a dozen large leafy ferns and small trees reaching almost to the ceiling. These are watered by the fountain through the built-in drip irrigation system. They fill the room with warmth and life. The closed room feels secure and private, and yet it has the feeling of out-of-doors inside. The women love it.
The fountain is above the small pool opposite the entrance. It is a rocklike formation protruding from the wall, ice-cold water trickling into the heated sauna below. The pool isn't large--it holds six comfortably, more intimately. After sessions, the women love to soak in the water for a half-hour or so. The cold waterfall is invigorating and contrasts wonderfully with the warm pool.
The only other object of note is the stand in the center of the room. Shaped in a circle, it consists of six ramps sloping upward at forty-five degree angles, all pointing inward. At my gesture, the women each go to a ramp and lie on it. Their feet rest in stirrups on either side of the base of the ramp, spreading their legs wide. The height of these stirrups is adjusted so that, regardless of the woman's height, the end of the ramp supports the woman's abdomen but lets her breasts hang free. The women reach upward and grasp the padded circular bar hanging from the ceiling. This leaves each woman lying on her belly with her ass, pussy, and legs exposed from behind, her chest and naked breasts upright and available from the front. The woman all face each other in a tight circle.
Now the venting begins. As I walk around the women and begin the warmups, washing each pair of naked buttocks and legs with a wet cloth, the women take turns complaining. They begin small, detailing stories of snobbish clerks at department stores and arguments with unappreciative co-workers.
Beginning with Barbara, I strike her ass harshly with the cloth flogger. After a couple dozen strokes I move on to Winnie, then Monica. Angela does not want a warmup. She likes the shock to come suddenly, overpoweringly. (She's the kind who enjoys jumping into an ice cold swimming pool without testing the water first.)
After two passes with the cloth flogger, which feels no more painful than a folded dry towel swatting your butt, I move to the light leather strap. This is very small and stings like a bee. The sting is gone almost immediately, however, so it's perfect for a warning of what's to come. I strap not just the buttocks but also the thighs, especially the tender inner slopes, and even, on occasion, a few upward strokes across the woman's exposed sex.
I give each woman a full five minutes of the strap (except for Angela, of course), and then move to the leather paddle. This is almost as stiff as a board, but bruises less and stings more. I do several passes with it, adding strokes each time. The first pass is only five swats, then a dozen, and then a rousing forty wallops that has the woman squirming and moaning.
By this time the women's complaining has entered a new phase. Gone are the petty complaints. Now voices are rising and real feelings are being expressed. As I get out the light cane, the women have become animated, shouting and cursing.
I begin with Barbara, twelve slow strokes from her left side, eight across her full backside, two in her crease, or "sit spot," and two across her naked thighs. Monica and Winnie receive the same. Barbara and Monica have tears in their eyes, but Winnie is smiling. I go to Angela. Her bottom is white, pristine, untouched. The cane strokes are loud, vicious, and whippy. Angela moans loudly and her whole body shudders violently. She loves this. She needs this. She begins to curse her latest boyfriend, a punk rocker named Smashhead, and in her enthusiasm reveals several secrets about the boy's anatomy. (Apparently his nickname didn't come from his hairdo.)
I circle the girls a second time, caning them from the right side now, letting the tip of the cane curl around to their left hip. The screams and cries are loud. Soon all the girls are shaking off tears, struggling to remain calm. The feelings each spit out are real and honest, urgent and vital. I am often surprised at what the girls say, but I try not to let it influence me. I cane them all equally hard, regardless of their confessions, and regardless of whatever tragedy recently struck them.
After the two dozen with the light cane, which barely marks the flesh, I switched to the heavy cane for the final dozen. Six from each side, delivered in round-robin fashion, one in the first pass, two in the second, and three in the third. The girls are weeping like children, moaning and crying, wiggling their bodies even when I am not punishing them. They curse their husbands, vent at their children, blame their parents for terrible childhood experiences, and all in all, end the session exhausted and spent, demons excised, relieved and happy.
I help them off the stand, accept their hugs and kisses of gratitude, and let them run to the pool where they splash and play like little children, all their cares and worries forgotten. Barbara's wrinkles are gone as she giggles. Winnie looks like an anachronism with her silver hair--surely she isn't more than thirty years old! Angela has lost her hard look and she is surprisingly pretty when she doesn't try so hard to show off. Monica is like a cute teenager, energetic and innocent. Her shyness is gone. She is delightfully naughty as she dunks Angela.
I leave the girls alone. They need this release, this time together. I ask no questions about what will happen when they are alone. It is none of my business, and perhaps none of theirs. When they go their separate ways they will return to their normal selves: cold, haughty, afraid, and brazen. But inside they are changing, slowly growing and learning, becoming their real selves. It is beautiful to watch.