by LSF Publications
by Justin Maynard
Darren Matthews was a man whose only requirement for the enjoyment of perfect happiness was for the world of his fellows to think as well of him as he did of himself. He considered himself a very fine fellow, and, as is common to men of such self estimation, he thought himself God's gift to women. Any woman upon whom he devoted his attention, however perfunctory, rough or insolent, Darren considered to have achieved the heights of feminine distinction. Such was his complacency as to the generality of this belief that he failed to see female reactions to his overtures in the way that everybody else saw them: as repulsion, disgust, indignation, or sometimes, depending on the volume of drink taken, as amusement. Darren, for his part, like all morally flawed people, suffered the effects of drink as a worsening of his usual character, and he became more amorous and harassing to any person in his vicinity who wanted no other allurement than to be female and within reach.
Drink and its bad effects upon Darren was a particular hazard to his acquaintance as Christmas approached, a festival that found him honouring Bacchus rather than Christ. The work-place Christmas party is an institution not to be denied by most employers, and no exception to this rule was made by Darren's place of work, which was a suburban branch of an insurance company. He had been employed there for four years during which time he made himself a nuisance to the largely female staff, but so far had committed no enormity sufficient to warrant his dismissal. As the years passed Darren felt more secure and less guarded in his behaviour. He approached this year's Christmas in a reckless and ebullient mood, and fully intended to "cut loose," as he described it to himself.
Cut loose he did, and it is true that he did enjoy himself, as he generally wanted nothing more for the gratification of his feelings than an excess of alcohol, to exercise his proclivities to bombast, which he took for showing a bit of personality, and making lewd approaches to women, which he considered a duty of a man of the world such as himself, and indeed, a compliment to those women chosen, if only by proximity to the bar, for his notice.
The office party was held in the upstairs room of a local restaurant. It was a suitable venue for the number of people, which included most of the nineteen co-workers and some dozen spouses or partners. There was an ample supply of what is called "finger food," a concession to the season in the form of mince tarts and Christmas cake, and there was a bar. Recorded music allowed dancing on the small floor, and later in the evening some dancing did occur. Darren, as was only to be expected, took readily to this pursuit, having reached that state where inhibition and such sense as he could own were replaced by reckless euphoria and concupiscence. As the dancing of our times does not strictly require a partner, Darren was able to break upon the dance floor rather like a shark upon a school of sardines, being similarly welcome and causing equivalent dismay.
Linda was a pretty blond aged nineteen, and she had long been an object of Darren's lewd comments and gropings. This worried and distressed her, but she did not feel sufficiently confident to complain to Mrs. Ryan, the office boss and a lady Linda found somewhat daunting. Heather Ryan was not a severe lady, but an efficient one, and a person of admirable good sense and integrity. At an age of forty, however, Linda considered her ancient and a being from another world. Darren's harassment of Linda may have gone on unreported had events not taken the turn they did. On the dance floor Darren lurched straight to Linda and grabbed her bottom in one hand while stroking her hair with the other.
"Don't," she cried. "Leave me alone, Darren."
"You know you want me. You've been making up to me all year, and tonight is your lucky night, you cock-teasing bitch."
Unlike Darren, Linda had provided herself with a dance partner, a boy from the office about her own age called Keith. He hated and resented Darren, as any decent and idealistic boy of his age must, and though he rather feared him for his physical superiority and dominating manner, he wasn't going to have Linda so insulted, especially while she was in his care. Keith pushed Darren hard in the chest, which successfully separated him from Linda, while saying in a forceful, but somewhat shrill voice, "You heard the lady, just leave her alone."
"Lady, is it?" replied the cad. "Little slut you mean. Are you the one fucking her? A little squirt like you wouldn't know how to do it. Leave her to a man, and she'll never find a better one than me, or have a better root."
Darren's eloquence angered Keith, so he stepped up to him to prevent him touching Linda again. Darren swung a punch at Keith's head, which the boy easily evaded, but Darren's legs, made unsteady by drink, let him down and he stumbled sideways and crashed heavily into Heather Ryan, who, drawn by the disturbance, was coming to diffuse it.
It was only the support of nearby people that saved Heather from falling to the floor with Darren on top of her. She quickly recovered her composure if not her temper, and she rebuked the offender sharply.
"You lout; you've gone way too far this time. How dare you insult people in that way and then attempt violence. You'd better leave, and I'll talk to you on Monday. Something must be done."
Pugnacity, ever the loyal dog of misbehaviour, rushed in to bite when its master was checked. "You're just jealous. Fat chance you've got, though, your dried up old slit hasn't been touched for twenty years probably, but I've got news for you: I'm not the man to do it. You're probably a dyke anyway."
This charming speech would certainly have led to further altercation had not the scene been interrupted by the appearance of Darren's wife, Sylvia. She did not see the beginning, but she heard Darren's comments to Heather, and she was very far from pleased. "Wait at the car, she said icily. I'll speak to Heather."
At first impression it may be a surprise that Darren had secured a wife, and those acquainted with both partners knew the wife was greatly Darren's superior in every characteristic common to human beings. Keen observers of life, however, knew of the susceptibility of young women to male roguery, which they tend to see as romantic, faintly dangerous, and amenable to loving improvement, if applied by the right woman.
Sylvia was twenty-nine years old and had been married to Darren for five years, an interval sufficient to lay waste her youthful optimism as to Darren's character, yet not sufficiently long to persuade her to abandon the marriage. She was a pediatric registrar at the district hospital, and like many doctors whose early years were swallowed by unremitting study and hard work, she had been socially immature and inexperienced when she met Darren. She foolishly married him before the requisite experience could be gained, and she was repenting at leisure.
Sylvia firmly believed in corporal discipline, if not in its efficacy to amend character, at least in its power to assuage her vexation and anger occasioned by the ill-behaviour of others, notably of Darren. Her mother was a French lady who mercilessly wielded the national treasure of that nation, the martinet, until her daughters were twelve years old. She believed that at that age the character was set to run in its established courses for life, so spankings were useless in doing further good. Sylvia had inherited the family heirloom, and in recent months had begun to apply it to Darren on those many occasions when his conduct called for it. Sylvia did not suffer from a blind optimism that physical correction would alter Darren's faults of character, but it did sooth her feelings of outrage, and help keep him under her thumb, which was the only position that made life tolerable with such a man.
The discussion with Heather Ryan left Sylvia heartsick, angry and resolute. The result was that Heather and Linda would visit the Mathews' home on the following Monday evening, and there would impress upon Darren the ill-consequences of his conduct, both at the Christmas party and generally in the office. Sylvia overcame the temptation to apply immediate punishment, as she required Darren to be fully sober, and she relished the anticipation of the severe chastisement she intended to inflict.
It would have been a great surprise to the acquaintances of Darren and Sylvia that she spanked him. He was, after all, a man's man, so tough and posturing, with a conceit and self-satisfaction obvious to all. It surprised Darren too. He submitted to it because Sylvia was financially and domestically dominant, owning the house which she'd inherited, and allowing a luxurious mode of life that Darren quickly accommodated to as his natural entitlement. The spankings were never severe, and though the wretched martinet stung, he got a sexual charge from encountering Sylvia as a physically assertive and dominating persona. Indeed, she seemed to become sexually aroused by her application of the whip to Darren's bare bottom, and often they made love of an unusually abandoned character afterwards.
After dinner on Monday evening Sylvia informed Darren that he was to be whipped for his shocking excesses at the Christmas party, and that the two principal victims of his abuse were to be present. Darren instantly objected to this, but Sylvia was adamant, and soon he saw a silver lining to the cloud of his humiliation. He anticipated that the punishment would go as usual, with a light whipping followed by sex with all three women. After all, those bitches from work would not be able to resist him once they saw his splendid figure, his taut, muscular arse, and his magnificent cock. He'd make sure to give them plenty of flashes, and no doubt it would be fully erect, given an astonished and eager female audience. Oh Darren, that you could be so wrong!
At eight o'clock the doorbell rang and Sylvia admitted Heather and Linda. Heather wore an expression of satisfaction soon to be realized, while Linda looked embarrassed and bashful. Sylvia settled them in the sitting room and served them sherry. They needed the edge taken off their nerves. Darren was out of the room, but in the centre of the carpet was a heavily built dining table with a thick pillow on it.
When the ladies agreed that they were ready to commence proceedings Sylvia left the room and quickly reentered leading Darren by the ear. He was dressed only in a bright red t-shirt which barely reached his waist, so his cock was on display. Linda gasped and looked away in confusion, but Heather feasted her eyes on it. Though Darren considered it the finest tool ever to distinguish a man, it was in fact rather ordinary. This pleased Heather, as she could not have endured to see Darren having any justification, particularly in that department, for his self adoration.
With some alacrity Sylvia positioned Darren over the table with the pillow under his hips. His head neared one end, while his hips rested on the other, causing the rounded bottom to be clear of the edge and well raised. The ruthless wife then tied Darren's hands to the table legs with dressing-gown cords, and secured his knees to the opposite set. This posture forced Darren's thighs well apart, allowing his cock and balls to dangle free and be fully displayed to any observer at that end of the room, a station the visiting ladies quickly occupied.
While Heather was frankly enjoying the spectacle and allowing to herself that Darren did indeed have a fine bum, Linda was overcoming her modesty under the provoking sensations the scene and the situation supplied. She had never seen a man from such a vantage, and she had never seen anybody beaten. She could not imagine a more suitable victim for her inauguration into the sisterhood of flagellation. She felt herself becoming a little excited.
So was Darren. He was conscious of being fully displayed, but far from shaming him, the posture gratified his vanity, imagining as he did, that the women would be swooning with admiration and desire for his manly charms. Sylvia knew enough of Darren to know what he would be thinking, and she was enjoying the thought that he would soon meet a very unpleasant and unexpected reality. She went to a side-board from which she took the martinet and a long, thick cane. Darren knew nothing of the cane. Sylvia had bought it the day before in a sex-shop in Oxford Street, which she reluctantly entered and quickly left.
"Now Darren, we are going to play a little game which you won't enjoy, but it will be gratifying to us. Each of us is going to punish you, but we will leave the details to chance. I know you like a bet and the thrill of luck, but this time you will be backing your luck against your hide, or at least the skin on your bold arse. Each of us will throw two dice. The number on the red one will determine the strokes you'll get, while the number on the blue one will determine the implement, the higher numbers being for the cane and the lower ones being for the martinet."
"What cane?" stammered Darren. "We have no cane."
"This one," replied his wife, holding it before his face. In horror Darren examined the length and thickness of the cruel rod, and knew it would be a terrible scourge. For the first time he became alarmed, but reassured himself that they wouldn't be hard on him and would give him a few light strokes before getting down to steamy group sex.
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