|Your cart is currently empty|
Catherine's Surrender - Catherine Paxton, a former model, has just landed her dream job as sales manager for a high end clothing boutique owned by the renowned designer, Eleana Saleri. At the same time, a budding romance is developing with a shy but hunky writer named John Carter. But all is not as it seems on the job, for Ms. Saleri employs an unusual method of dispensing discipline to her enthusiastic, but very young and immature, sales staff, one that involves the application of a leather paddle to a bare bottom. Then Catherine herself runs afoul of an important house rule, and it is she who must make an appointment to see the mysterious disciplinarian, Mr. Dante. It's an appointment that will change her life forever.
A New Therapy for Miriam's Patient - Don was stunned when his long time psychiatrist girlfriend, Miriam Ford, abruptly walked out on him. He was equally stunned when, several months later, she sought his legal advice on a new Russian therapy, one that employs the birch rod and ritual spanking punishments to treat depression. It turns out Miriam has a new patient, one who might respond to the new treatment, and she wants to meet with Don after hours to discuss it.
Justice Delayed - Years ago, Kelly Northridge escaped a rather painful and embarrassing date with the school paddle at the hands of the handsome principal, Frank Meredith. On assignment by her newspaper in her old home town, she takes the opportunity to call upon Mr. Meredith, still a bachelor, and still the object of intense feminine interest. To her surprise, she finds that the old lawsuit that stayed her previous punishment has been reversed, and to her dismay, Mr. Meredith wants to pick up where he left off.
Kelly's Remorse - Kelly and Frank are now an item, but Kelly nearly blows it by instigating a political argument at a social gathering. Frank wonders if Kelly is the girl for him if she shows no better judgment than that, but with the help of a girlfriend, some clever costumes, and some appropriate implements, she hopes to properly apologize and save the relationship.
Side Trip - A guy takes a weekend road trip and decides to abandon the interstate for a little scenic side trip. He winds his way through rural Alabama, where traditional values hold sway. In a local attraction's gift shop, the purchase of a novelty store paddle as a gag gift for a friend leads to a very interesting encounter with the owner, an attractive blonde widow.
To her it looked like an ordinary warehouse in an ordinary industrial district. But there were lots of cars in the lot, expensive ones. Mercedes, BMW’s, Lexus, the occasional Caddy. He helped her from the car. She shivered despite the warmth of the evening. It was her dress�it was practically nothing. Sheer and revealing, a diaphanous creation, it was low cut both in front and in back. Her figure was very much on display in the wispy fabric that draped her shapely form. She knew her rear end jutted provocatively and her proud breasts showed a generous amount of cleavage.
“Here. Stand still,” he said. He fitted a collar around her throat and snapped fur-lined manacles on her wrists. A little silver chain ran from a ring on the collar to a leash that he held in his hands. “Just beautiful,” he said. “Gorgeous.” He kissed her deeply. It made her squirm and caused a new hot flush to rise from down below. She gasped as he put his finger down there, touching that spot.
“You are wet already. Are you afraid?” he asked.
She shivered. “Yes, sir,” she said.
“But are you sure?” he said.
She took a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Good. Let’s go in.”
Inside �was scene like nothing she’d ever been exposed to before. Red and blue spotlights illuminated a vast space that held a large crowd of gatherers who mingled, drinks in hand. And all, it seemed, were in costume. Schoolgirls in ultra-short tartan skirts hung close to gowned headmasters in robes holding swishy canes. Girls in pleated skirts wearing penny loafers and bobby sox mingled with suited principals sporting paddles. Executioners in leather with half face masks holding whips led handcuffed prisoners in thinly clad tunics about. Arabian sheiks with quirts were paired with� concubines in see-through harem costumes. There were quite a few women in dominatrix garb being served by attentive men in thongs, and not much else.
In addition there were alcoves spaced about the perimeter of the room housing odd pieces of furniture�whipping posts, pillories and blocks with manacles and cuffs . Some were already in use. Here, an errant schoolgirl with her skirt flipped up and her panties pulled down, squirmed across the knee of a male headmaster who spanked her lustily while she wriggled lewdly. There, a harem slave, her wrists manacled to an upright post, danced on tiptoe as her master plied a short multi-thonged whip, lashing her pert bare bottom. In a another, a leather-clad dominatrix wielded a riding crop, striping the buttocks of her young charge imprisoned in a pillory. Each scene attracted appreciative spectators, many of whom would proceed to give demonstrations of their own later.
But it was the object in the center of the room that demanded her attention the most. The object was a solid frame consisting of a tall upright post joined to a padded waist-high trestle by a brace. It was for an initiation. Tonight the Initiate would be given the “three long dozen,” a test of obedience, endurance and submission.� The initiate would stand at the trestle and bend forward along the brace, stretching her hands toward the top of the post to grasp an iron ring. This posture would force her to hollow her back and arch her buttocks out. She would then be ready for the lash, the paddle and the strap. One dozen each applied to her bared bottom. One dozen each which she must endure without pleading for mercy or letting go of the ring. She observed that all three implements hung from hooks on a rack right next to the whipping frame.�
It was all for her. Tonight was her night. She was the Initiate.
Palm Springs, California, two months earlier�
Catherine pushed her way through the glass door and into the upscale coffee shop that she had patronized for the last month. It was a daily ritual. Up at six, get dressed, drive to the store along trendy El Paseo, and head for Espresso Express and her daily fix. And recently, it wasn’t just for the caffeine. She looked around. Yes! There he was, at his usual table, hunched over his laptop, typing away. She approached the handsome gentleman with the dark� hair and wire rimmed glasses who seemed lost in concentration.
�“John, hi,” she said.
He looked up, startled out of his reverie. But he recovered quickly and flashed her a warm smile. “Oh, Catherine. Hello. Didn’t see you come in. Please,” he said, rising, “let me offer you a seat.”
“Thanks,” said Catherine with a sigh. Such a gentleman. It was just one of the things she liked about him, that Southern gentleman thing.
“Can I get you something? Your usual?” He started toward the counter.
Catherine blushed as she always did when receiving attention from an attractive man, and brushed a lock of her straight red hair away from her face.
“I can get it,” she said, halfway rising.
“No, let me. I’m already up. Medium latte, nonfat, no whip, right?”
“Yes,” she said, capitulating.
They had met right after she’d taken the new job. It had become routine for her to get her morning buzz on at Espresso Express, and for a time she had noticed him, nearly always at the same corner table, working away. Then came the day when she had come in for a leisurely coffee only to find the place so crowded that she had no place to sit. That’s when he had noticed her predicament and had invited her to share his table. They had struck up a conversation. She found to her delight that they shared many of the same interests. They both liked music, jazz in particular, and art (the impressionists), and books, mainly pop fiction. So it had slowly become a daily thing�sit down in the morning together and have a conversation before work. Well why not? He was sure easy on the eyes.
She asked what he was typing as he sat in the coffee shop. Was it work? “After a fashion,” he said laughing. He was an amateur writer he explained, working on that first novel. “It seems like I work better in the morning on this�before I go to work.”
�“Oh, what is it?” she had asked, excited. A writer too! That seemed interesting. It was going to be a mystery he had explained, a whodunit. When she asked him who had done it he said, “I haven’t figured that out yet, but it’s not the butler.” And they had both laughed.
About his day job he was a little less than forthcoming. He was a “consultant,” he had said. “I consult for several companies on various business issues.” But he was vague about what he actually did. What was he, a spy? Why the vagueness? What’s the big secret?
But he seemed interested in Catherine’s job. And Catherine was only too happy to tell him all about it. But she also wanted to impress John, and so she embellished. After all, John was a writer, a creative person apparently, with many and varied interests. Catherine wanted him to think that she was highly creative too, not just a salesperson. So on impulse and seeking to impress, she concocted a tale. It was lie, but just a little one. No big deal, she told herself. If it makes me seem more interesting to him, what’s the harm?
It was actually a dream job for her, sales manager for an Eleana Saleri, LTD outlet. Eleana Saleri was where you went to buy a dress for that special occasion. It was where the well-to-do shopped, the wives of rich men, the female CEO’s, the actresses and models at the very top�it was THE place and Eleana Saleri was THE designer. She had stores in New York, Paris, London and LA as well as here in Palm Desert.
Instead she fed him the white lie. She was a dress designer, she said, in the haute couture industry.
�“Really?” asked John. “That sounds fascinating. How does one go about designing a dress?”
Catherine launched into what she hoped was a convincing story about clothing design and colors and fabrics. John’s eyes brightened up as she waxed eloquent, faking it for all she was worth. He was definitely interested in the creative process.
The truth was a tad more mundane, but it was still a good job for Catherine. She had been interviewed and hired by Eleana Saleri herself at Ms. Saleri’s studio in Los Angeles. Eleana Saleri herself had been impressive. A beautiful woman in her late forties, she had started as a model and had developed a flair for design, eventually starting her own design house. Personally she impressed Catherine as knowledgeable and precise, but with little tolerance for fools. And as the interview had progressed, Catherine came to understand that Eleana Saleri herself maintained a personal approach in her dealings with her employees.
�“But I need a manager,” she �explained. “You see, most of my sales force are young women, girls really. They are very hip and savvy, keep up with the latest trends and relate well to the customers. But a certain level of maturity is lacking.”
And that is where Catherine came in, she explained. At thirty-five Catherine was older than the girls in the sales force and had the experience and, hopefully, the level headedness required to reign in the sometimes immature acts of her young sales force.
“They are all very good at what they do, but they do fight, are catty and petty and on occasion, well, let’s be blunt about it--they steal,” said Eleana Saleri with a frown. “It’s a big temptation, being around original creations that sell for thousands. They have that big date and they want to impress the boyfriend, or the parents. So they think they can ‘borrow’ a five thousand dollar dress for the evening.” Eleana shook her head.
What happened then, she explained, was that the girls were not fired. Instead they were sent for a counseling session. “I want to give everyone a second chance,” she said. “I have a special service I use to make them aware of the potential for harm. After that they settle down. So one duty you have is to note all such incidents and report them to me promptly.” Catherine said she understood completely. You couldn’t allow that kind of thing to go on.
It had sounded great to Catherine. She’d been a model too, a natural with her willowy figure, fine pale skin, and long red hair. Later she’d moved into high end sales, selling women’s clothing. Her last job had been as sales manger for the St John’s collection at Saks, a solid position. But the job with Eleana Saleri paid extremely well, so well, in fact that Catherine wondered what the catch had to be. But it was nothing that she could see. The contract had a lot of boilerplate mumbo-lawyer-jumbo and she paid little attention to it. She signed, shook hands with Eleana Saleri, and joined the team.
“It’s wonderful to have you, Catherine. I’m sure you’ll fit right in. You look to me the perfect ‘housemother,’ if you will, for my rather exuberant sales girls. We’re all a tight knit little sorority.”
And that had been it. Catherine started commuting to El Paseo, the upscale shopping district in Palm Desert and home to Eleana Saleri, LTD. Now a part of that morning ritual was the almost daily encounter with John Carter, the writer. The writer hunk, in Catherine’s estimation. At nearly six feet tall with a lanky build and dark� brooding eyes he could have been a spy right out of a thriller novel. He looked about forty five or thereabouts. Still, she couldn’t see any paunch or excess fat anywhere. He kept in great shape by doing something vigorous, she decided. He might be older than she was by a decade at least, but so what? She liked mature men.
And then it happened. He asked her out. It wasn’t a big date at first, just an afternoon rendezvous to see an art exhibit. Still it was an interesting time. John had a fondness for art and spoke well on the subject.
“As a designer in the visual arts yourself you can probably appreciate the choice of colors and tone of many of these works, can’t you?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Catherine, faking it again. “I can see that.” She hoped she didn’t sound like an idiot.
The next date was a bit more formal, a lecture by a famous mystery writer. John was particularly interested because he was attempting to break through himself. Catherine found it fascinating. “Did you hear what he said?” said John. “Write the end first. I guess with a mystery that’s what you have to do.”
“Well, if the author doesn’t know who done it, where does that leave the poor reader?”
“You have a point, my lady,” said John laughing at himself.
And that was yet another reason why Catherine liked John so much. He was self deprecating, and willing to laugh at himself.
Back on the job it finally happened, the thing that Eleana Saleri that cautioned her about. Catherine had spotted Trish, one of her best sales girls, smuggling a dress back into the store after a weekend. Confronted with the package in hand she had broken down and confessed. Catherine reported it to Eleana Saleri.
“Well,” said Eleana, shaking her head, “She is going to have to have a little chat with Mr. Dante. It can’t be helped if she wants to continue to work here.”
Who is Mr. Dante? Catherine wanted to know.
“He is the one we send employees to if they want a second chance. You will inform Trish of that fact and she can decide. It’s either that or she’s out.”
Trish paled when Catherine gave her the news. The poor girl sat down and buried her head in her hands. “No. Oh, no,” said with a moan.
�“Come on,” said Catherine. “It can’t be that bad. He’s some sort of psychological counselor, isn’t he?”
“You don’t understand,” said Trish. “It’s ok for you, you’re a manger. But if we screw up and have to go see Mr. Dante�it’s bad. Really bad.” Trish got up to walk away.
“Wait,” said Catherine. “What’s so bad?”
�“Ask Jenna,” said Trish. “She borrowed a dress too, and got caught. She went to see Mr. Dante two months ago. Ask her.”
Catherine meant to do just that. Trish opted for the session rather than leave. She reported to work the day after her appointment. “So how did it go?” asked Catherine. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m still here, aren’t I? That’s about all I can say. I don’t want to talk about it.”
And Catherine thought, how odd. The one thing Catherine noticed was that Trish did not sit with the other girls at her lunch break. She stood the whole time.
“Look,” said Catherine, later in the day. “I’m sorry I had to report you, but you know the rules�you can’t borrow these expensive dresses just to impress your boyfriend. And you kept your job. All you had to do was see this counselor.”
“You think that’s all there was to it?” said Trish. Catherine looked at her, puzzled by the attitude.
Catherine decided she had to talk to Jenna.� “You mean you don’t know?” said Jenna incredulously. Catherine shook her head. Then Jenna told her story.
“Ms. Saleri actually called me personally. I was in Mrs. Deming’s office�she used to have your job but she got married and quit�when the call came in. I had borrowed a dress, which I know is wrong, but I did it. Ms. Saleri said I had one chance. I had to go see this Mr. Dante. He had this office down near LaQuinta. So I went in there and here was this guy, pretty nice looking but an older man. He looked like a college professor. Anyway he pulled out my contract and read it to me---the part about employee conduct. Then he said I had two choices. I could walk out or I could accept corporal punishment. From him. I just about fell over.”
“Wait,” said Catherine, astounded. “Did you say corporal punishment?”
Jenna nodded. “I mean there had been rumors, but the girls who this had supposedly happened to had left. Anyway, he told me that based upon his assessment, I should get two dozen strokes with a leather paddle--on my bare bottom. Can you believe it? Well I just about fainted. A paddling on my bare butt? He pulled out the paddle and showed it to me. It was this wide stiff leather thing about two feet long on a handle. He said I had to take the two dozen with it to square things with Ms. Saleri. If I chose not to accept, I was to tender my resignation to him right then and there.”
� “My God, that sounds awful!” said Catherine.
� “He wasn’t mean to me or anything, he just explained that it was part of his job. He said I could walk at any time, but if I could not take the two dozen, that was it for my job. So I agreed to do it. What could I do? First I was examined by this woman who was also there. Mr. Dante introduced her as a medical professional. She took my blood pressure and examined me. Then we went into this room with lights and a video camera and there was this thing in the middle. It was just a box about a foot high with a pipe sticking up and shaped like a T. He said I had to stand on it, bend over, grab the T and hold on. If I let go and got up at any time during the punishment the last stroke would not count. I could walk out at any time and quit, but if I did that was it.”
� Catherine shook her head in amazement.
� “That’s not all. There was the video camera. He said it was to be proof for Ms. Saleri that I had been properly punished to her satisfaction. He assured me that once she reviewed the video, it would be destroyed. So I had no choice. It’s too good a job to walk out on. I took off my dress and stripped down to bra and panties. I felt terribly exposed in front of this man, although I will say he was all business and as nice about it as he could be under the circumstances.�� Mr. Dante told me to stand on the box. He called it a T-bar. Then, I had to take down my panties, bend over and grab the bar. I did. He asked if I was ready. I said I was. Next thing I know, I felt that paddle smacking my bare butt, and it stung like a bee. I almost let go and stood up. Then, another whack. Then just a steady series of whacks, one after another. And every crack of that paddle burned worse than the last. You have no idea what that feels like on a girl’s bare fanny. It was a steady smack � smack � smack.” She made a motion with her hands. “Just like that. My butt was on fire.”
�“But you made it? All two dozen licks?”
“Yeah. And the funny thing was he sort of coached me through it. He encouraged me to hang on. He said to breathe and not clench up. I actually felt, you know, that he was helping me bear it so I wouldn’t quit and walk out. Afterwards my backside was absolutely blazing. It had stung something awful, not to mention being humiliating.”
Catherine’s head was spinning after that story. Imagine�stripped and paddled like some teenager sent to the principal’s office. She had had no idea. She tried to imagine herself in that position and it sent shivers up her spine. A strange man paddling her on her bare ass. It was too awful to contemplate. And yet, a part of her derived some perverse thrill from the thought. To be dominated like that�taken in hand like some naughty schoolgirl. The word “naughty” floated around in her brain, surfacing every now and then jolting her with a little ripple of excitement. She had once dated a boy who had liked to put her over his knee and spank her. It had been all in fun, but she recalled that it usually made her very hot.
� After a few dates with John Carter he popped the big one. No, not marriage, but it was heading in the right direction.
“Let’s do the town,” he said. “I have tickets to the ballet. Afterwards we’ll go to Sirroco. Do it up right. What do you say?”
Catherine couldn’t say yes fast enough.
�“Oh�and a thought just hit me,” said John. “Could you wear one of your designs? The ballet is a formal occasion and, well, I’d like to show you off. I’d really like to see what a top dress designer looks like in one of her own creations.” His eyes lit up expectantly.
“Um�sure,” said Catherine, although inside she was panicked. How was she going to pull this off? Why had she told such a stupid lie? In the end all she could think of was the unthinkable. The day before the date, after everyone else had gone home, she slipped in and took one of Eleana’s creations. I’ll bring it back tomorrow and no one will ever know, she told herself. So the very thing that she was supposed to police for all those young, immature sales girls�here she was, doing it herself.
But from the look in John Carter’s eyes, it was worth it. The dress fit her like a glove, displaying every curve. It was a black sheath creation that molded itself to her body emphasizing her pert rear end and her high pointed breasts. And from the way his eyes lit up when he gave her the once over, she knew tonight would be special.
The ballet was quite an affair. Everyone had dressed for the occasion. Champagne flowed in the lobby. She and John flitted among the crowd. John introduced her to people he said were clients and Catherine noticed more than a few ladies who had been in the Eleana Saleri salon recently. At one point she just stopped and let her eyes roam. Just how many Eleana Saleri dresses were on display here tonight?
And as she did, her eyes came to rest upon a familiar figure. It took her a split second, but in that horrible moment her life seemed to flash in front of her. The woman’s eyes found hers and her face registered first surprise--and then anger. Eleana Saleri�here! At this ballet. Catherine went hot then cold. She saw. She knows. Catherine felt sick. She had to get out of there. This was a disaster.
John had been speaking to someone else, but he chose that instant to turn around. He saw Catherine’s panicked expression. “Catherine, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Catherine was frozen to the spot. She put her hand to her mouth as she saw Eleana Saleri glare at her. Then she broke and ran, leaving a flustered John Carter standing there, watching in stunned surprise as she blew through the doors and onto the street. Cars swerved to avoid her, and tires squealed. She somehow crossed the street and managed to flag a passing cab.
All weekend, she didn’t return calls or even turn on her computer. She left her cell phone off. If John called she had nothing to say anyway. It was over. Her lie exposed. He’d probably never speak to her again. And what about her job? Should she just pack up and leave town?
“I may have another client for you,” said the voice on the phone. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t presented her with the choice, but I’m emailing her file to you anyway. You might take a look at it and decide on something appropriate. She is older, a manager actually, but she has acted in a very immature way. You might take that into consideration.”
The man indicated his assent. A few minutes later a personnel file appeared in his in box and he sent it to print. Later, the man called Mr. Dante opened the file and read it. An immature act indeed. He studied the picture of the attractive woman with the straight red hair. Hmmm, he thought to himself. I think I know just what this one needs.
Another one of Eleana’s girls.There had been several over the years. He and Eleana went way back. It was a facet of his secret life. They had met at “Capricious,” a Los Angeles BDSM club, both of them dominants. The social relationship had become a business partnership of sorts. She needed a disciplinarian and she found she could trust him to administer punishment that was both fair and properly done for those of “her girls” who would agree to such a thing. So from time to time he “treated” the “clients” sent to him by Eleana in the LaQuinta warehouse she owned. He had chosen the nom de plume of Mr. Dante to keep that aspect of his business separate and insulated. His assistant was also from the club, a real RN upon whom he could call when needed. �He picked up the phone and called Eleana back.
Catherine couldn’t force herself to leave. She decided to suck it up and face the music. Still, over the weekend she scoured the help wanted ads.� As if anyone would hire me now. Monday morning she skipped Espresso Express. She could not face John after her humiliating performance Saturday night. Instead she came straight in, just to get it over with. As expected, Eleana Saleri was waiting for her.
Catherine stood in front of her employer’s desk like a teenager called before the principal. “I really expected more of you,” said Eleana. “That was a very expensive creation of mine. What if it had been torn, or you spilled wine on it? You of all people know why this is totally unacceptable. Why did you do it?”
Catherine stammered, trying to speak. Eleana cut her off after getting the gist of it. “It was a man, wasn’t it? You wanted to impress a man.” Catherine nodded dolefully. Actually it was worse than that. She blushed beet red and proceeded to tell Eleana what she had done. Eleana Saleri propped her elbows on the desk and put her fingers together, thinking and staring at Catherine. There was dead silence for what seemed like an eternity. Catherine squirmed under the intense scrutiny. Finally Eleana spoke.
“I’m not going to fire you. At least not yet. I’ll give you a choice.” Catherine’s pulse quickened. “It’s the same one the younger girls get.” Catherine felt that cold chill up her spine. “You will go to see Mr. Dante. You will cooperate fully. If you do, your position will be restored and we will speak no more of this. If you refuse or do not obey Mr. Dante’s instructions, you are fired.” Eleana handed Catherine a card. “Within twenty-four hours you will call this number and make an appointment. Fail to do that and don’t bother to come in tomorrow. Go home now and decide.”
So the die was cast. At home, a glass of wine in her hand for courage, she stared at the card. Eleana wanted her punished like one of the sales girls. She remembered only too well Jenna’s chilling account. What humiliation! Could she do it? Could she allow herself to be paddled like some schoolgirl? By a strange man? Her bottom bared? It was the embarrassment rather than the thought of any real pain, she decided. Taking a last gulp she put down the glass and dialed the number.
What to wear to one’s own spanking at the hands of a stranger? This was the thought that occupied Catherine’s mind as she dressed for her appointment. She finally decided on a short pleated skirt and blouse combination and plain white nylon panties. No hose, no stockings. Part of her couldn’t believe she was actually doing this.
The place was a warehouse type building off the 111 Highway in LaQuinta. Catherine found the office, a side entrance. There was just a number, no name on the door and there didn’t appear to be anyone around. She took a deep breath, opened the door and entered into a reception area of sorts. A middle aged woman rose from behind a desk and asked, “Catherine Paxton?” Catherine indicated assent. “Wait one moment, please. I’ll tell Mr. Dante you are here. Please be seated.”
Catherine sat in an uncomfortable chair along the wall and waited, nervous as a cat. She heard low voices from within an inner room. I should just bolt now, she thought, looking at the door. Why did I agree to this? She was about to change her mind and leave when the woman returned. She brought over a blood pressure monitor and hooked it up. “A little high,” she said. “But that’s normal. Do you have any bruises or abrasions on your, ah, derriere?” Catherine said no. The woman went into the inner office and