Wheals Of Fortune Ch 01

Everyone who figures in this fantasy is over 18 – and so must you be, to read it! There is a website that offers cash to young women for caning – it isn't called 'Rear Wheals' – though that's a pity.

*

My finances, to put it mildly, were at a low ebb. I had foolishly invested in an apartment I thought I could afford, bought a car which was going to keep me in debt for just about the rest of my life, as far as I could see – and all because of Paul.

Where was he now? Fuck knows, but he'd gone, anyway, and, frankly, I didn't care where – just so long as he didn't come back. But I did care about being in debt.

'You'll be OK,' he'd said, 'no sweat, Julie, honest, they'll just love you! Fifty grand a year, more in no time at all, you'll see.'

Yeah, I saw all right. The film company who were bound to 'love me' had gone down the toilet, together with the film I had auditioned for, and where was my half-completed course at drama school going to get me now?

Where I was, at that moment, trying to make impossible figures stack up, was in the grotty office of a big video rental empire, which had thirty stores in nearby towns.

'What's up, sweetheart?' asked Carla, my work-colleague, a spiky-orange-haired, much-pierced Goth wisp of a girl in a black shift over black tights, 'you look proper pissed-off!'

'I am, Carla,' I said, and gave her a brief run-down on my fiscal status.

'Shit!' she said, then went off to answer the phone.

When she came back, I was filing away papers.

'Hey, Julie,' she said, 'can you stand having your arse caned?'

'What sort of a question is that?' I asked.

'No,' she said, 'I'm serious. Do you think you could stand your arse being caned – hard?'

I looked at her earnest little face and burst out laughing.

She turned half away. 'If you're not going to take my question seriously, I'm not going to try and help you,' she said, 'only I know how you can earn five hundred dollars in a single day.'

She suddenly had my attention.

'For having my arse caned?'

'Yes,' she said.

'You're not serious, really!'

'Never been more serious. There's this web-page that pays ten dollars a stroke, plus travelling expenses. Minimum ten strokes. They only want attractive women – I reckon you'll do.'

'Gee thanks!' I said, sarcastically, then: 'you into all that stuff, then, Carla? I suppose you must be, or you wouldn't know about it.'

'Me and Mark, we belong to a BDSM Club, like,' she said.

'Oh!' I replied, and just then, we were interrupted by the boss, who rang to ask for some figures.

After lunch the same day, Carla called me over to her desk, and after looking furtively around to make sure the doors were all shut, she said, 'here's that web-site I told you about.'

A series of small photos showed a powerfully-built but attractive forty-something woman in a skimpy silk dress laying into the naked buttocks of a young woman with a thin cane. Her flesh was streaked with red wheals.

'Those wheals could be faked,' I observed.

'Wait!' said Carla, and typed in a password. The screen went blank for a few moments, then the film started. A different young woman, this time slimmer and younger than the first, undressed, removing her skirt and panties sexily for the camera. She got down on all fours on a mattress, and the same older woman appeared, now in a black dress and boots. She immediately started to lash the young girl's arse hard with a thin cane, causing red wheals to be raised, and the girl to scream at each stroke.

When she had given her about twenty strokes, I thought, she threw down the cane, and walked away, leaving the girl writhing on the mattress.

'Now you can see it's not faked,' said Carla.

The oddest thing was, that I noticed that not only was I feeling agitated, but when I returned to my desk and at down, my panties were soaking.

Nothing further was said that afternoon, and we were too busy to talk about what I had seen.

Next morning, before I set of to work, the postman came, and what he brought with him was not very pleasing – a bill for my car-insurance renewal, half as much again as I had hoped for. I was in deep shit.

Carla had a coffee for me when I got to the office.

'You gonna do it then?' she asked, and I knew what she meant without her having to explain.

I nodded, and she came around the desk and kissed me, bringing an odd scent of musk all her own.

'Come on then, and sign up,' she said, 'all you have to do is send them an email.'

'Hang on a minute,' I procrastinated, 'are

you

into this stuff, Carla?'

'Not exactly,' she said, and hesitated, then said, 'come with me!' and headed for the toilet. I followed her in there, and as soon as I was inside with her, with no trace of shame, she lifted her shift up over her head.

I was taken by surprise, to say the least. What I had assumed to be her black tights were, in fact, hold-up stockings, and she was completely naked as she stood with her pale back to me. And her back was patterned with a crazy criss-cross of red stripes, all the way from just below her shoulder-blades to just above her buttocks. Slowly, she turned to face me, and her face had an odd, almost defiant expression, but my gaze was drawn downwards, to where three more livid red welts showed, just above firm young breasts.

'Now you see,' she said simply. She was putting her dress back on, and, as she did so, I caught the glint of metal from just below her clean-shaven mound. She was obviously pierced in more places than could normally be seen!

I looked around to check that no-one had come in when we went back into the office. We were alone.

'And Mark did that to you?'

'Most of it, yes,' she replied, enigmatically.

'But….but, it must hurt?'

'Of course, but sometimes I cum just thinking about it, even before he puts my nipple clamps on.'

'Nipple clamps? Oh shit, Carla, what the fuck are you?'

'I'm a slut, Julie. I'm getting wet just talking about it to you!'

At that moment the phone rang, and we then got busy for a time, with calls and paperwork, but every time I looked across at Carla, I saw her with new eyes, now knowing she was naked under her dress, and wondering what it felt like. I toyed with the idea of giving it a try.

When things quietened down at lunchtime, Carla came over to me.

'Well?' she said.

'OK,' I replied, and let her enter the webpage again. I did so desperately need the money, and couldn't believe the caning would hurt

that

much. I had plenty of my photos stashed away in my disc, and sent one off with a request to join in their programme as soon as possible. Immediately I got a reply saying they would phone me to make an appointment in the next few days.

That evening, I told Carla I wanted to stay a bit later, to write a few personal letters. After she had gone, I 'Googled' BDSM sites, totally fascinated by what Carla had told me, and also my reaction to it. There was an awful lot of rubbish, and posed pictures, which did nothing for me at all, but I was captivated by a website called 'Slave Girls in Love' – it featured pretty young girls being subjected to cruel tortures by their masters – and apparently enjoying the experience. I found other sites, too, including ones looking for 'submissives,' and offering serious money. I surprised myself, not for the first time in the last few hours, by getting very excited, and masturbated myself to a groaning climax before I switched off the computer.

The next morning was Saturday, and my mobile phone rang just as I was about to go shopping.

'Hello,' said a pleasant male voice, 'this is "Rear Wheals" – I believe you'd like to come and do a session with us?'

'Well, yes,' I said.

'How would tomorrow suit?'

I was a little taken aback, not expecting anybody to work on Sundays, and said so.

'Oh, we work 24/7,' he said, and, when we had agreed on a time, proceeded to give me directions to the studio, which was in Manchester, some fifty miles away. My nerves started to flutter like mad from that moment on, and I knew they would get no better until I arrived at the studio.

That evening, I rang Carla, and told her what I was doing the next day, and she was silent for a moment, then said, 'Julie, can I ask you something?'

'Of course,' I said.

'Do you shave?'

'No,' I replied.

'Then you should, it'll look much better on film!'

I took her up on the suggestion, and carefully removed every vestige of pubic hair, using a mirror to ensure that there was not a scrap left around my labia or anus.

I slept badly, but next morning dawned warm, and all thoughts of chickening out went when I thought about my debts, against what I could earn in one day.

I decided that I would wear a silk slip, which would be soothing against my sore arse after the caning, so a pleated full skirt and silk blouse seemed about right. I had dwelt a good deal on Carla's lack of underwear, and decided she certainly had a point where panties were concerned. When I walked about the flat without any, my newly-shaven pussy felt wonderful naked, and I could see no point at all in wearing panties. My breasts, however, were larger than Carla's, and I wasn't going to go without a bra, just yet, anyway. I compromised, finding a black platform bra I had once bought for a party, out of which my nipples could easily be teased. It felt good enough under the blouse, and would look alright when I undressed. I threw a light jacket around my shoulders, slipped on a pair of heels, the highest I had, and went off to catch the train.

Up two flights of stairs, and a glass door was emblazoned with gold lettering:-

REAR WHEALS

Please knock and wait

I did just that, and a young girl, not unlike Carla, opened up and let me through.

'You must be Julie,' she said, 'sit down, Maria won't be long!' She left.

I sat on a long sofa and waited perhaps five minutes, then the door the girl had left through opened, and in walked a tall, very attractive brunette, long black hair caught up in a pony-tail, wearing a microscopic leather miniskirt. From my low vantage-point on the sofa, I could see she wore nothing under her skirt, her pussy-lips pouting nakedly. Above her bare midriff, where from a pierced navel dangled a silver chain, she wore a platform bra rather like the one I had on under my blouse, but her tits were several sizes larger than mine, and were only barely supported by the flimsy garment.

On her feet she wore teeteringly high stilettos, double the height of mine, which I had this morning thought of as rather daring.

She sat beside me on the sofa, bringing with her a distinct aroma of……..Dior?....Chanel? – I wasn't sure, and a clipboard, containing the contract and release-form I had to sign. I would have signed anything for her, done anything, gone anywhere – she was just magnificent.

She was speaking to me, with a faint accent: 'So you are Julie – yes?' I nodded, struck dumb.

'Why did you come here, Julie? For money, I suppose?'

I looked into her big brown eyes, and was lost. I nodded again.

'And you've never been punished before, I suppose?'

'No.'

'You must understand that I am going to hurt you, Julie. It may seem a shame, because you are very beautiful, I think. But I am a Dominatrix. Do you know what that means?'

'Yes, I think so,' I muttered.

'I wonder,' she murmured, and stroked my knee, sending a shiver right through me.

'Stand up now, Julie,' she said, when I had signed the forms, and she studied me coolly as I took a turn in front of her.

'Yes,' she said, 'when we go through to the studio, I think you can undress on camera, as slowly as you like, before I cane you. You won't get any more money, but the punters will like it. Then I'll give you ten strokes. If you can take more, I'll give you another ten. We work in batches of ten. I'd be very surprised if you can stand more than twenty, first time. Any questions?'

'No, I don't think so,' I heard myself say.

I followed her through into the studio, which was little more than a big bedroom, with a mattress on the floor in one corner, an armchair beside it, bright lights directed towards it. A bearded young guy in denims was behind a big video camera on a tripod in the opposite corner.

'Undress just in front of the mattress,' said Maria, 'take your time!'

It would have been nice to have music if I was going to do a slow strip, but I did my best, hamming it up, as the guy behind the camera kept saying, 'Yeah, that's good,' and 'OK, babe,' and stuff like that. I didn't, in truth, have much to take off, but slipped out of my jacket and blouse, then dropped my skirt to the floor, so that I was wearing only the silk half-slip and the lacy excuse for a bra. I took my time taking off the bra, cupping my breasts for the camera. Then I eased the slip down over my hips, and let it whisper to the floor. I stood naked.

'OK, Maria,' called the cameraman, and in strode the brunette, carrying a long, thin cane.

'Go kneel on the mattress, Julie, and don't say any more,' she said, then, turning to the cameraman, 'Roll sound!'

I did as she told me, and was aware of her perfume as she came up behind me, heels clicking on the parquet floor. Then, without further warning, there was a hiss of cane through air and a sharp, biting, excruciating pain wracked my tender buttocks. I screamed. Again the cane fell, lower down, just above the crease – again I screamed, and writhed as the awful pain shot through my body. I looked around at my tormentor, and saw a look of……of what? Of serenity, on her lovely face, as the terrible blows rained on my unprotected flesh. She concentrated her blows now on one side after the other, forcibly shifting my position on the mattress by seizing a handful of my long blonde hair, so that she could change her angle of attack. I had lost count when she arrived at the tenth stroke.

'Cut!' she called to the cameraman, then to me, 'Rest a moment!' I flopped gratefully onto my stomach, my eyes closed, my mind a tumult. The sensations raised within me went way beyond pain. Yes, it was tough to take, but fuck, it was making me horny. After a moment, I wondered if I could take another ten – after all, that made two hundred dollars – and that led me to look around and see if Maria was still about. When I looked up, I realised with a start that she was slumped in the armchair beside me, her fingers hard at work masturbating herself. I tried to pretend I wasn't watching, but couldn't take my eyes off her as her breathing got shallower, and she moaned out loud, as I could have sworn I actually saw her squirt fluid from her naked pussy.

Five minutes later, she knelt down beside me, brushing a stray wisp of hair from my face.

'Ten more?' she asked.

'Yes please,' I heard someone say – it must have been me.

The second ten should have been easier to take, but they weren't – they were worse, as she seemed to strike wheals she had already raised, but my mind was elsewhere, dwelling on the excitement I had brought my dominatrix, and the new sensation I was learning to accept – the mingling of pain and pleasure that only a true submissive can understand. I had a thunderous orgasm somewhere about the seventeenth stroke.

Maria kissed me when she had finished – I would have gone to bed with her had she invited me – and paid me in cash for my fee plus expenses. She gave me some balm to rub into the angry wheals, and said she hoped to see me again. As I stood in the train's corridor all the way back, far too sore to sit down, I decided it was unlikely I'd be back. There were more things I wanted to do now.

Next day, Carla was amused to see me having difficulty sitting down, and wanted to know all about it.

'So you'll be going again, then?' she said.

'I doubt it,' I said.

'Oh?'

'Carla,' I said, 'I've made a big discovery about myself.'

'What's that?'

'That I'm a submissive.'

'But you're still a poor one!'

'I know, but there are websites looking for girls………..'

'Look, don't be fucking stupid,' she said, 'that's a good way to end up in an acid-bath. I've a better idea. Come to the BDSM Club that Mark and I go to. I happen to know that the owner's wife needs help – I'll introduce you – OK?'

'That's all very well,' I said, 'but will she pay? It's money I need, Carla!'

'Don't worry about that,' she said, 'they're some of the richest people in town, you'll see!'

The following evening, then, not without some misgivings, I arranged to go with Carla and her boyfriend to the Club.

'What should I wear?' I had wanted to know.

'Anything,' she said, 'but restraint gear is favourite at the moment – or you could go for fishnet, that's popular as well, and that's what I'm wearing.'

That decided me – I'd go for restraint, and I went out at lunchtime to try and find something that approximated to my idea of 'restraint' gear. I found a shop called 'Satan's Satins' in a back street, and ended up spending most of what I'd earned being caned. I bought a cruelly whale-boned corset in black satin. The assistant who helped me lace it up couldn't help seeing my angry welts through my diaphanous panties, and failed to suppress a low whistle as she pulled the cords tight, hurting me almost as much as the caning as the harsh garment pulled my already slim waist in to nothingness. I bought a satin knee-length skirt to go with it, so tight it had to have a zip-fastener right the way from hem to waist. I could scarcely walk or sit down when I had it on.

Once again short of money, I borrowed a pair of needle-heeled shoes from Carla, who took my size, and wore nothing else but my purchases and a short bolero top to cover my otherwise unfettered breasts which were displayed above the top of the corset. I brushed my long blonde hair out until it shone, and wore a pair of long pendant ear-rings. Looking in the mirror, I thought I looked extremely sexy. My arse was still sore from the caning, and rubbing against the smooth satin of my new skirt when I walked, coupled with the new sensation of restraint and discomfort lent to me by the corset, the skirt and the shoes, somehow heightened my awareness of my sexuality.

Carla was as good as her word, and when Mark picked me up in his old Ford Escort, she was sat in front wearing some sort of fur coat, but I could see that under it she wore some sort of fishnet garment.

When we arrived at the Club, in a quite a smart suburb, and had parked alongside some rather expensive cars, we walked up to the entrance, and were only admitted after Carla had spoken to a huge black doorman. We went into a cloakroom, and I gasped when Carla pushed her coat over the counter. She was wearing an all-in-one fishnet cat-suit – and nothing else, unless you counted a pair of stilettos, and a heavy gold chain around her tiny waist! Her obviously rouged nipples stuck through the mesh, and my eyes were drawn to the chain around her waist, because the loose end, which dangled down around her shaven mound, was connected to another, finer loop of gold chain, which disappeared between her legs, apparently clipped to the ring in her labia.

'Bloody hell, Carla!' I said, but could find no further words to add.

'Not shocked, are you?' she asked, 'because you look pretty much the pain-slut yourself.'

She was appraising me, as I had handed over my jacket. My nipples thrust at the thin material of my top, and I was conscious I had laid on the eye-make-up and lip-gloss a bit heavily.

We took a drink at the bar, and a couple came in and sat down at a corner table. The man, a distinguished-looking slim guy around fifty, clicked his fingers and a waitress scurried over to take his order.