When I came in from the garden the envelope was waiting in the usual place,

on top of the kitchen table. I picked it up, trying to keep my fingers from

trembling and failing badly.

    As always, it was cream-coloured paper, heavy and expensive. My name was

printed on the front in black ink, elaborately scripted. I opened it and

extracted the single sheet of paper from within. It was equally expensive, so

heavy that it was verging on card. It had been folded into three, the creases

sharp enough that they might have been ironed in.

    I unfolded it. More black ink script.

   

        "Regarding a matter of grave concern, your attendance is

    required in my study at precisely nine p.m. this evening. You

    will enter the study, go to the cupboard and take down the

    Lochgelly tawse. You will place this neatly on my desk. You

    will also place upon my desk a healthy selection of stinging

    nettles, which you will acquire for the occasion, a draw-string

    bag from the top left draw of my desk, a pair of gloves from

    the same draw, and this letter.

        "You will then draw the curtains, remove your clothing

    and place it neatly in the corner of the room opposite the door.

    You will present yourself in front of the whipping block, facing

    the wall, and stand to attention with your hands on your head.

    Wait in silence for further instructions.

        "Your loving wife.

        "Helen."

   

    I closed my eyes, blinking back the tears. It had only been a week... I

had hoped for more time than this.

    There was no use protesting, of course. Not one goddamned bit of use at

all.

    I refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, leaving it on the

table. The clock said seven thirty; I needed to hurry. I fished out some

gardening gloves and clippers and went back into the garden and down to the very

bottom, to the large patch of stinging nettles that I kept there. I made sure to

pick only the largest and best, knowing that it would be expected. The purple

colouration of the stems was a sure sign of a good, well developed plant with

lots of stinging hairs.

    Back in the house I selected a jug and filled it with water to keep the

nettles fresh, then headed upstairs for a shower, cleaning off the dirt and

sweat from the garden. Helen had decided to have a wall around the patio

complete with brick barbecue; enjoyable work, but this summer was a hot one

and even in the last light of the evening it was a hot, sweaty job.

    When I was clean and dry I went back downstairs and into the lounge. She

was there, relaxing in a big leather armchair and reading a book. I knew better

than to interrupt her reading, so I knelt beside the chair and waited. The

silence in the room grew to oppressive levels - Helen dislikes radio and

television, and although we have both in the house she rarely allows either one

to be turned on. Even so I was very careful not to fidget or distract my wife in

any way. Instead I concentrated my attention on her. Lately Helen has taken to

avoiding giving me direct instructions for some tasks, instead indicating what

she wants with a certain expression, a raised eyebrow or slight gesture with the

eyes. She says it's an important step, teaching me to focus on her to the

exclusion of everything else.

    Most men, upon first meeting my wife, tend to think that she is somewhat

plain. She is tall and quite slender, almost skinny in fact, but whilst there is

a careful, controlled manner to the way she does everything she is not a

graceful woman. Her shock of hair is so red it is almost orange, and tends to be

an unruly mess despite her best efforts - something that is a cause of

considerable irritation to her, since mess is one of the many things she

dislikes. Like many redheads her skin tends heavily towards freckles, which she

also hates. Her face is a little too angular, too hard for most to consider it

beautiful, especially given the cool, slightly distant expression that she

usually wears.

    No great looker myself, I had pretty realistic expectations about the kind

of woman I could hope to attract and on first meeting Helen I had thought that

she was just out of the upper end of that range. However I had always liked

smart, self-confident women, and she certainly had both of those attributes in

spades. I decided what the hell, at worst I'd get another knock back. When she

showed an interest in me I considered myself a very lucky guy. Right now lucky

was probably the last word in the world I would use to describe myself.

    Finally she raised those green eyes from the book and looked over at me,

an eyebrow raised questioningly.

    "Ma'am, I've finished in the garden for the day and I'm ready for whatever

you might want me to do next."

    She glanced at the clock. I resisted the impulse to look away from her and

check the time.

    "Very well. I have nothing else right now, so go about your business." She

said. Her voice was always cool, controlled - though my wife often becomes

angry, you would rarely be able to tell it from her tone.

    I nodded and left her finishing her chapter. It was nearly five to nine.

    I collected the nettles, picking them up carefully but wincing as I picked

up a few stings just the same. I hurried upstairs to the study.

    Helen is a very old-fashioned woman; I often think that she was born a

century or two too late, and although I've never said that out loud she would

probably agree. Aside from the occasional item like television or the laptop she

used for her work, the house was decorated and furnished in a manner that would

not have looked altogether out of place in Victorian times. Nowhere was this

more true than in her study.

    Here the light fittings were chunky brass gas lamps, not imitation

electric lights but actual real gas lighting. They cast a soft, understated glow

across the room. Deep red wallpaper covered all the walls and the thick carpet

was an even deeper crimson, the dark tones adding to the subdued feel of the

room.

    The far wall was occupied by a huge set of glass-fronted shelves, holding

a collection of well-worn books and an amazing variety of odds and ends of every

conceivable description. Old maps and globes, countless jars of strange-smelling

ointments and balms, a handful of small polished ivory, wooden toys and puzzles,

boxes of sewing equipment, and a hundred other things that I didn't even

recognise. Most of it was genuine Victoriana, though I don't think it was

anything particularly expensive.

    I opened one panel that contained a set of items I did recognise, and all

too well at that. Two dozen canes, paddles and leather straps of various sizes

and types hung there, along with wooden paddles, whips, and other paraphernalia.

I selected the Lochgelly tawse, noting that the tremble had returned to my hand.

    I don't know where Helen got this thing from, but she claims that they are

increasingly rare now. For the uninitiated, a Lochgelly tawse is a strip of dark

brown leather a quarter of an inch thick, a couple of inches wide and about two

feet long. One end is slightly narrowed, forming a simple handle. The other end

is split into three strips. The leather is amazingly stiff and heavy, something

that makes it stunningly effective in the hands of an expert.

    I placed it carefully on the big heavy wooden desk, aligning it precisely

parallel to the edges just as she liked. The nettles went in a pile beside it -

no way to get them all exactly parallel, but I did my best. The bag was right

where she had said it would be, of course, and I put it carefully in its place.

Finally I put the letter on top of the pile and then went to draw the heavy

velvet curtains which covered the wall behind the desk from ceiling to floor.

    I stripped off and began to fold my clothes, knowing that I had just a

minute or so left until the deadline but determined not to disobey one line of

the instructions in the letter. She kept the study very hot, and it wasn't at

all uncomfortable even when I was naked for extended periods. I crossed to the

wooden frame and stood to attention, hands on my head. I took a deep breath and

tried to calm myself.

    The grandfather clock struck nine, its resonant chimes filling the room as

if calling mourners to a funeral. I shivered despite the heat in the room.

    I hated it when she kept me waiting like this, but I had learned early in

our marriage that fidgeting or looking around when Helen asked me to stand

somewhere was a less than stellar idea, so I didn't dare check the time on the

clock. I tried counting the ticks of the pendulum, but after a while the

relentless rhythm seemed to blur together in my head and I lost track of where I

was up to.

    Finally the door opened and Helen walked in. "Turn around, hands down,"

she snapped as she entered.

    "Yes ma'am." I turned quickly, coming to something resembling attention.

She had changed for the occasion, wearing a simple long black dress which,

although quite figure-hugging, left nothing visible of her visible except for

her head and arms. The latter were encased in a pair of very long black leather

gloves. The effect was harsh and intimidating, as it was obviously meant to be.

I felt beads of sweat prickling all over my body, only partially because of the

heat in the room.

    "Look at this," she said, tossing me a small blue cloth bundle. I caught

it and examined it, hands trembling again. It was a pair of her panties. A

horribly familiar pair.

    "Uh, ma'am..."

    "When I want to hear from you, I will ask you a question," she said, icy

calm in her voice. I felt tears pricking behind my eyes; she was really,

genuinely angry at me this time. "I found these in the wash basket. Which is

odd, as I haven't worn them since they were last cleaned. Even more odd is the

fact that there are what appear to be cum stains on them. Do you have an

explanation?"

    I could feel myself blushing terribly, feel tears beginning to run down my

cheeks. There was no sense in lying. Throughout our marriage there were a few

things I had been able to hide from Helen, to keep secret - but I had never once

been able to successfully tell her a direct lie.

    "Uh, ma'am, I took them from your drawer. I..."

    "What did you want them for?" She asked, though we both knew perfectly

well.

    "I masturbated into them, ma'am."

    "Indeed you did. Several times, by the look of it."

    "Yes ma'am."

    "Are you allowed to take my things without permission?"

    "No ma'am."

    "Are you allowed to masturbate without permission?"

    "No ma'am."

    "Do you have any explanation to offer?"

    "I couldn't help myself ma'am," I offered, knowing it was useless. "You

only let me cum once a month at most, and... and you always hurt me so much when

I cum, and make me eat it afterwards. I hate that. I just couldn't stand it any

more."

    "We have been married for six months now," she said, shaking her head in

frustration. "I had thought that you were beyond this kind of childishness. I

thought that you had begun to understand and accept the nature of our

relationship. I see now how wrong I was. When are you going to get past this?"

    I wasn't sure if it was a rhetorical question, but decided to risk an

answer anyway. "Ma'am, I get so frustrated..."

    "Quiet!" She snapped, and my jaw snapped shut so fast I almost bit my

tongue. "What are you?"

    "I am your willing servant and husband, ma'am."

    "What is your role?"

    "To serve and honour you, every moment of my life ma'am. To give you my

love, devotion and obedience totally, unhesitatingly, and unquestioningly."

    "What is my role?"

    "To command me, to teach me, to discipline me and to punish me, ma'am."

    The questions had been asked of me for the first time on our wedding

night. I honestly can't remember what I had answered - imagine the kind of thing

any typical man would say. Over the next few hours Helen had demonstrated the

correct answers very, very clearly. Now I had given the stock replies word-for-

word so many times that it was a mantra, something that came out without

thought.

    "You were commanded not to cum without permission. You were taught the

meaning of failure. You have broken the discipline I imposed. Now you will be

punished. Assume position four."

    I turned back to the whipping block and bent over it, grasping the wooden

hand-holds and slipping my feet into position on either side of the wooden

spreader bar. The block was one of the few relatively new things in the room,

something she had me make myself. It was just big enough that I had to strain to

maintain this position. Helen was not averse to bondage when appropriate, but

when she was actually supervising me she preferred to do without - she said that

her command should be more than enough to cause me to hold a position through

any punishment.

    She took her time preparing, letting the anticipation and fear build

inside me. Finally I heard a swish as she tested the weight of the tawse in the

air and got into a perfect position. I couldn't help but wince at the sound.

There was another swish, and the tawse landed across my buttocks.

    I cried out as the strap bit into my buttocks with a loud THWACK! Helen

might have been slender, but she had a good arm strengthened by regular sessions

in the gym - and almost as regular sessions wielding her toys on me. Even though

it landed quite high on my buttocks, where they were not quite so sensitive, the

pain was incredible.

    THWACK! Another stroke landed just below the first, and I yelled out

again. Helen never objected to my making noise during punishments - in fact I

think she rather enjoyed hearing me. Her house stood in quite a large garden at

the end of a road, so there was no chance of anybody hearing even the most

frenzied of screams.

    THWACK! In keeping with the precise way she did most things, Helen usually

kept up a regular rhythm of one stroke every ten seconds when she was beating

me.

    THWACK! Each blow was landing just below the last, the accuracy another

testament to her practised arm. As they reached the more sensitive region of my

buttocks the pain was building, and my cries grew louder.

    THWACK! I could feel tears beginning to trickle down my cheeks as the pain

in my buttocks grew. The spreader bar kept my legs almost four feet apart which

made sure that the crack of my arse was spread open, the tenderest flesh

vulnerable to her assault.

    THWACK! Again I screamed as the tawse bit into my flesh savagely. The next

blow would land right in the crease between my buttocks and thighs.

    THWACK! Her aim was perfect, as usual. I couldn't believe the power and

precision she had put into the blow, the pain was amazing. But worse was to

come...

    THWACK! The next blow landed squarely across the top of my thighs, just

catching my dangling scrotum. If the previous blows had been painful, this was

sheer agony. I thrashed against the block, desperate to keep my position - for

if I did lose my grip and collapse, Helen would simply tie me to it and start

again.

    "You know that this is for your own good," she said. "I will not have a

husband who is disobedient, nor will I have one who is unable to control his

perverted desires."

    THWACK! This blow landed at the top of my buttocks, almost exactly where

the first one had hit. The impact onto my already damaged flesh made this stroke

almost as bad as the last one, and I screamed again.

    THWACK! Helen was relentless, almost machine-like in her precision with

the tawse. I swear the next stroke landed upon the exact spot that the second

blow had struck, pain built upon pain. I moaned in agony as Helen carefully

aimed her next blow-

    THWACK! My whole body shuddered, and I fought to retain control of my

bladder under the assault. My God, if I wet myself here and messed up her carpet

I would get a punishment that would make this look tame in comparison!

    THWACK! Helen didn't believe in telling me how many strokes she had

decided to administer. She always said that she preferred it to be a surprise.

    THWACK! A thin trickle of drool escaped my mouth as the next blow landed.

I screamed again, but my voice was becoming hoarse and I couldn't get enough

breath behind it to make a substantial noise.

    THWACK! Again she landed a blow perfectly on top of the imprint left by

another. I sobbed and heard myself begin to plead, gasping out promises and 

begging for mercy. Helen was always especially amused by this - she liked to say

that whilst she was gifted with what she called 'an abundance of personality

traits', mercy was not amongst them in any degree.

    THWACK! My head was spinning, and I felt bile rise up in my throat as the

next blow landed once again in that crease at the top of my thighs. I wailed

thinly, knowing what was coming next.

    THWACK! Another blow across my balls, sending a lance of bone-deep pain

through my entire body. I think I actually felt my teeth rattle in my head. Only

long hours of practice kept my grip on the block - I was almost beyond rational

thinking at this point.

    THWACK! This stroke was different from the others, landing diagonally

across my buttocks. It cut across most of the other blows, landing directly

across my anus. The effect was to send a blast of agony deep into my guts and

simultaneously produce a line of fire through each of the previous cuts that

brought fresh torture to my already tormented behind. She shifted position and

landed another blow across the last, cutting an X shape into my rear with my

anus exactly at the centre of the cross. I couldn't scream, I was beyond that.

    She left me slumped there whilst she returned the tawse carefully to the

desk. Then I felt her presence beside me again, and the tips of her fingers

trailed across my abused buttocks. "So pretty," she murmured, and there was an

edge in her voice, a tremble that was definitely sexual in nature. The leather

of her gloves was soft and warm, but her touch provoked fresh waves of pain as

she trailed them less than gently across the damage she had done. "Such

beautiful marks. I really should beat you more often, I think. Perhaps I should

start every day with a caning, so that you are marked all the time."

    Helen had point blank refused to allow any physical intimacy during our

courtship. It had been endless months of frustration for me, barely relieved by

my regular masturbation. On our wedding night I had practically tried to tear

her dress off her.

    She had responded with a fury I had never suspected her to be capable of,

slapping me repeatedly across the face as she launched into a tirade of abuse

against my manners, my manhood, my utterly false impression of what marriage was

all about, and my character in general. I could easily have overpowered her -

for that matter I still could today, I am far stronger than Helen is - but the

unexpectedness of the attack, its sheer ferocity coming from a woman I was

so deeply in love with, left me sobbing and defenceless within minutes. Finally

she had shoved me face down across the dining table and ordered me to stay in

place. She cut every stitch of clothing off of me, stripped naked herself, and

then produced a large bundle of sticks tied together. Over the next hour and a

half she birched me until my back, buttocks and thighs were a mass of cuts and

bruises. She had come at least four times in the process, without ever once

touching herself. At the end of it she untied me and allowed my broken body to

collapse to the floor, onto a few large bath towels which she had thoughtfully

put down so the blood would not stain the carpet. I will never forget the image

of her standing over me, breathing hard from the exertion and excitement, a rosy

blush on her breasts and cheeks and her pussy juices practically coating her

legs, trickling down her thighs and calves like rain on a window. It was a

beginning that had set the tone for our life together.

    Her fingers trailed down to cup my bruised scrotum, and she squeezed just

a little. I groaned in pain as she rolled my balls around in her hand, then

gasped as her other hand reached around and took hold of my limp cock. She began

to work my foreskin back and forth expertly, still manipulating my aching balls.

Despite the pain my cock began to stir, slowly coming to life under her

ministrations. Within minutes I was fully erect.

    She let go and a moment later I felt her wrap a thin cord around the base

of my cock. She looped the ends quickly around the back of my balls, and the up

between my balls and around the base of my cock again. She pulled the cord

tight, squeezing my cock and lifting and separating my balls, then tied the cord

off to hold the whole package in place.

    She crossed back to her desk and I began to moan again, this time in fear

at what was coming next. I heard her work away with the scissors for a while,

and although I could not see her - dared not turn my head to look at her - I

knew that she was trimming leaves from the nettles and lining the bag with them

carefully. She approached again, and I closed my eyes and waited for the

inevitable.

    With one deft movement she pulled the bag down over my engorged cock,

plunging it into the dense bouquet of nettle leaves inside. In less than a

second she had pulled the bag over my swollen ball sack and pulled the

drawstring, securing it in place. Her fingers worked the bag expertly, ensuring

that the leaves caressed every square centimetre of skin.

    The pain bit within moments, torture beyond measure. It was worse than the

tawse, worse than any whipping - literally acid being injected into my balls.

    "Stand up," Helen commanded. I pulled myself jerkily away from the block,

letting out another anguished scream as I turned and my cock bobbed up and down

within its bag. I was hopping from foot to foot, which only served to make

things worse, but I couldn't force myself to stop.

    "Oh please," I begged, "oh ma'am, please take it off, I can't stand it,

it's too much..." I was sobbing openly, tears running down my cheeks and

dripping onto my chest. Helen smiled, clearly excited and gratified by the

display. "I won't do it again, honestly ma'am, please just take it off and I'll

do anything you say..."

    "You'll do anything I say anyway," she said with a smile. "That's what

you're for." She gathered an double handful of nettles from the desk. "Now come

along," she commanded as she left the study and headed down to my bedroom. I

staggered along behind her, moaning and weeping all the way.

    My room is actually the master bedroom, because Helen does most of her

playing here and likes to have the space and a handy en suite to clean up

afterwards. It is a total contrast to her study - the walls are stark white,

bare of any kind of decoration, and the floor is highly polished wood. A set of

powerful neon lights give the room a harsh glare, leaving few shadows. A double

bed with a heavy metal frame stands against one wall, another whipping block

stands in a corner, whilst a large set of locked drawers hold a further

collection of Helen's toys. Besides that the room is utterly empty.

    She had me wait while she scattered the nettles across the bed, then led

me over and pushed me down onto them. I screamed again as my arse hit the

nettles, sending fresh waves of pain through my already battered and bleeding

skin. I lurched forwards - causing my cock and balls to bob once again within

their confinement and inflicting yet more torment. The binding around my

genitals had restricted circulation, keeping my erection hard despite the agony

and ensuring the maximum contact with the nettle leaves now surrounding it. My

wife was nothing if not thorough.

    She pushed me back down, smiling as I screamed and thrashed ineffectually

against her. Not offering serious resistance, though; Helen would accept a

little flailing around, especially as it just meant that I would pick up yet

more stings from the nettles, but any significant attempt to fight against her

would lead to punishments that would make this one look tame. I had no idea how

far she would go if I really pushed her. Castration, perhaps.

    She bound my wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed with the leather

cuffs that dangled there, then stood back to admire her handiwork. Then with a

satisfied smile, she bent and planted a light kiss on my cheek.

    "Goodnight darling."