Joyce

Joyce 2 - Flatulent confession

It was 6pm in the London offices of Clutterbuck Legal Publishers, Bell Yard, EC2.

Manager Joyce Tipson was sitting in her office chatting to Julie, her secretary.

The year was 1972 and the building was deserted because the employees had all gone home with the exception of Joyce, Julie and one other – your humble scribe, John.

"Who are you dealing with tonight?" asked Julie, an attractive and lively young lady in her early '20s.

"John is paying me a little visit," replied Miss T, a statuesque and formidable spinster in her late '40s.

"As you know all too well, John has reported to me several times since we agreed to a discipline regime. I'm not sure what he has done this time but I am sure I'll get to the bottom of it."

Julie sniggered. "You usually do, quite literally, but I would love to be more involved in one of your sessions. I've soothed John's sore bum with cold cream a few times now after a beating and sent him home happy."

Joyce looked thoughtful. "Well, I don't really see why you shouldn't be involved in applying some deserved correction to the tautly-trousered or bare backside of an attractive young man. It certainly gives me great pleasure so why not you?"

"That'd be really great, Miss T," said Julie eagerly, "I've listened to so many of your thrashings of miscreants, sitting in the outer office, it would be a real thrill to be part of the whole scene."

At 10 past six, I walked through the dusty and Dickensian corridors of Clutterbucks and entered through the outer office into Miss Tipson's lair.

"Welcome, John," she said, "as you can see Julie is going to be present during the proceedings this evening. I trust you don't mind?"

Don't mind? In fact I was going to suggest it myself before long. Another female presence in the room during a beating had always appealed to me in no small measure.

Julie winked at me. "Hi, John."

Miss T fixed me with one of her sternest glares.

"OK, why are you here, John? What mischief have you been up to?"

I hesitated before answering. "I am deeply ashamed of an incident that occurred during Evensong at my church, St Bridget of the Flagellants, last Sunday.

"I am afraid it is rather indelicate," I went on," and I hesitate to even describe the event to two sensitive and respectable ladies like yourselves."

Miss T's frown deepened. "Come on, John, confess and face the consequences."

"Unfortunately, Miss Tipson, in the silence between two of the opening hymns and sitting between my sister Emily and my Aunt Flora, I involuntarily unleashed a highly audible flatulent emission," I said softly.

There was a screech from Julie. "Oh, John, you farted in church..." But her mirth was quickly stifled by a withering look from Miss T.

"Be quiet, Julie, and don't use crude language in my presence," she said sternly. "There is nothing amusing about antisocial, and often malodorous, behaviour at a Christian assembly."

"Sorry Miss T," said Julie, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Schoolboy-type misdeeds deserve appropriate punishments," said Joyce grimly, unlocking her corner cabinet and taking out a pair of old-fashioned plimsolls.

"I kept these from my own schooldays gym sessions. I knew they'd come in useful one day."

She handed one of the plimsolls to Julie and told the girl to place two wooden chairs back to back in the centre of the room while she thoughtfully smacked her own plimsoll against the palm of her hand.

I had never had a slippering before this evening and it would be a new experience, especially when I was instructed to remove my trousers and under-shorts (all previous punishments had been across the seat of skin-tight trousers).

I did as I was told and then kneeled on one of the seats and grasped the legs of the other chair so that my bum was raised and in a perfect position for the imminent bastinado.

The first arrived with a whoosh and a tremendous crack and Joyce continued with vigorous whacks to alternate buttocks. The noise was very loud, like pistol shots, and I thought I saw though the window a couple of heads turn on the pavement below as my humiliation continued.

"Cheeky lads (whack) who make irreverent noises (whack) in a house (whack) of worship (whack) deserve a good leathering (whack)".

After what seemed an age, she put down the plimsoll on her desk and called Julie over.

"Your turn, young lady. Would you care to make your mark on this naughty bottom?"

"Oh yes, please, Miss," said Julie, with what seemed like ominous enthusiasm.

I was granted permission to rub my scorched rear before the second salvo started.

Julie was smaller and slighter than her boss but my bum was feeling her application of the slipper just as much as before.

Peeking round from my low position I couldn't help noticing that she had a lovely behind herself, tightly encased in her 1970s mini-skirt. Despite the searing ache in my arse being the centre of my own particular universe, I couldn't help speculating whether one day I might see her in a similar position to my current one, her being the object of Joyce's ire.

It seemed like the junior disciplinarian would go on indefinitely until Joyce intervened. "I think that'll do for now, Julie. Let the lad have a break."

I was permitted to get up and take a glass of water and rub my rear and neither lady seemed perturbed by the sight of my male equipment, the honourable member being somewhat excited as the glow in my buttocks worked its wondrous effect. Nothing new for Julie, of course, but I was surprised at how the always prim Miss T seemed totally unaffected. She'd seen a few bulges but never a full monty no-pants hard-on.

"I really enjoyed making John's backside red raw," Julie told Miss T throatily. "Perhaps we ought to stick a wine bottle cork up his bottom to remind him of his misdemeanour?"

"If it happens again, we might well do that but for now let's get on with the business in hand. Back on the chairs, John."

I quite fancied the notion of a cork stuffed up my arse and stored the thought away for the future.

I shuffled back and re-assumed the slippering position and soon Miss T's old gym shoe recommenced its relentless smacking across the cheeks of my bum.

Thwack, thwack, left cheek, right cheek, on and on went the punishment as Joyce's plimsoll connected with great velocity on my rear.

After what seemed an age and by now the imprint of the gym shoe's sole must have seared itself over every square inch of my bottom, Miss T suddenly paused.

She came round the chair and leaned over to talk softly into my ear. "You were right to confess to your disgraceful behaviour but you have fully paid the price."

She turned to Julie. "I too enjoyed our double whacking and, having allowed you to join in I would like to ask a favour of you. I know of course that you often indulge in a little hanky-panky with my lads after a beating although I always turn a blind eye."

"However, never having seen a woman do what you do to a man, just for once I would like to observe the activity."

"I've no problem with that," said Julie and went to the outer office to find some cold cream and a towel.

The penitent wind-breaker was not, of course, consulted about any of this. Would I have objected? A lovely sore bottom, 20 minutes of humiliation from two ladies and now hand relief before an interested spectator. What do you think?

And so another of Joyce's tableaux ended, this time with the boss seated in front of us, me kneeling on a chair while Julie's expert wrist action gradually speeding up in tempo soon brought matters to the inevitable conclusion.

Joyce looked absolutely entranced as my orgasm spurted into the waiting towel.

"Beautifully enacted, Julie," said Miss T, "your timing was exceptionally accurate. Maybe I ought to try it myself soon. What do they call the activity? 'Wanking' isn't it? Rather an unpleasant word but very, very interesting to observe..."

Did this indicate that punishing a saucy male bum was not quite tasty enough for her now?

Whatever next?