Image Nine Point Four

The older male judge asks, "How long will this take?"

John makes a non-committal noise. "Probably between fifteen and twenty minutes, though it could be as much as forty. It depends on whether my lady here responds eagerly, and I can go harder, or if she hits a limit and we have to work around that, to make it satisfactory for everyone."

I stifle a laugh at how he's phrasing it, carefully not mentioning pushing limits or anything that I might not enjoy at the time, only appreciate in retrospect. That's an argument which we don't want to have to try.

"Yes? You in the gallery?"

Artist lady asks, "How will you know if she hits a limit?"

I do laugh, then. I call out, "I'll tell him!"

John chuckles. "Exactly. If she were using a gag, then we'd have a complicated communication system involving items she could drop on the floor. But in this case, I know she'll give an amber warning -- slow down, give me a moment -- by saying Amber. Or yellow, or wait up... Anything along the lines of red, stop, no -- then I'll stop, and get some more detailed feedback."

John doesn't mention that I like to be pushed to begging for it to stop, and made to endure it anyway. My voice will be muffled.

"Mike?" He's perching by my head. "Get low." I remind him, quietly, that his job is to look like he's just stroking me, but also to muffle it if I yell 'stop', or 'no'. But, obviously, to pass on such vital info to John, so he can let up. He nods, and sits on the carpet, stroking my shoulder.

"Good to go," Mike tells John.

"Wonderful. Now, I know you're not the typical audience we get in a club -- as far as we know!" Nigel chuckles at the joke; the rest are stony silent. "Remember, this might not be your cup of tea, but it is for her. And me. I'd like to reiterate that I only do things like this with fully consenting adults. That includes the audience! So if anyone feels the need to leave, nip next door, do feel free. Right, that's quite enough from me. No-one moving? Let's go."

He's good. Sounds like a charming best man at a wedding. Charisma persuades better than facts, I always have to remember, at work. You can't reason people out of positions they haven't reasoned themselves into.

I have no idea if my arse is charismatic.

"This is a flogger. You can just run it over someone's back or body -- it's beautifully soft. Anyone want to feel? Lovely, isn't it. So I can just stroke her like this..."

The falls of the suede, possibly deerskin, trail over my bottom, cool and soothing. I purr, then repeat the noise more loudly for the recording.

"Or I can add a bit of a swing." The leather lands harder. "Minding the tips -- they can sting a bit! Of course, that contrast can be fun. Like sweet and sour." He ramps it up. "Or black pepper on ripe strawberries. People scoff, but it really brings out their flavour," he muses. "Don't knock it without trying it, is all I'm saying."

The guy really is enjoying becoming an eccentric oddball. A mad professor.

"But to get the bright red effect, we need more force, with a bit of sting." I can predict what he's demonstrating now, running the suede strands through his strong hand, then flipping the flogger to make them fall as one, onto -- nothing. "Here goes."

Here, he indeed goes. "Oof."

He rubs my bum where the blow landed, laughing. "Tell him if you need a breather, love." Mike is still on the floor, his head close to mine. I can smell his reassuring aftershave.

Another moderate whack, and another. I begin to focus properly on my breathing, in and out. In-two-three, out-two-three.

It hurts a bit, especially as the flogger lands on areas that have already been marked. But not so much I can't make 'Mm!" and "Aah!" sounds. I mean, I am enjoying it, in a way. I just wish John would deal with the tension inside me. More blows make for a more frustrated pussy. If only he'd pause and shove some fingers in me!

"How you doing, babe?" Mike whispers in my ear.

"Want... want..." Despite everything, I'm too embarrassed to say out loud what I crave.

"I bet you do!" He chuckles softly, knowing me and my body's reactions all too well. "Easy, mate!" he calls up to John.

The impacts stop. John kneads my arse gently. It must be getting pink. "Oh, yeah," I call.

"Like I said, enjoyable," John remarks to his audience. I wonder if this lot are paying more or less attention than his typical students?

John steps right, his leg brushing the outside of mine. I wonder why he's idly kneading my buttock, the flogger presumably tucked under his arm, strands tickling my thigh.

Then I understand. He's blocking the camera, but has to look like he was doing something with his right hand, which the audience can see. What they can't see is his left hand, up between my legs.

Finally, I'm getting some fulfilment where I crave it!

I've no difficulty making happy sounds, now! Not blatantly humping the couch is more of an issue. But I manage. I force myself to leave my body in place, just wriggling on John's sneaky fingers.

Until he stops, and returns to flogging my arse with firm strokes, systematically covering my whole bottom. I have to pant, small hard puffs, to cope. That could be pleasure, right?

I'm just clenching my jaw so as not to wail, when John stops.

"As you can see, we've built up a red background like in the target image. It'll get a bit more pink over the next hour, so it's time to switch to a riding crop to copy those little marks.

"How can that not hurt?" It's artist lady again.

"How do we define hurt? Think about eating a spicy curry. It's hot. The chili is affecting your pain receptors. But we're not considering making that illegal. It's a similar thing -- there's a strong sensation, but it's wanted, so really, by definition, it's not pain... Actually, it's more like Szechuan peppercorns -- there's a hot and a numbing reaction. Do you like Szechuan food? Fantastic stuff. I really recommend it, amazing flavours..."

"Get on with it," Mike and I groan in unison.

John's familiar maniacal cackle. Oh, god...

"Right, crop. I'll start with light tapping..." He demonstrates. "Then ramp it up. Adding some swipes..."

I squeak. Mike strokes my hair and looks up to John.

Another pause, with John blocking the camera and giving me my vital counterpoint to the pain. Great pleasure. I could really do with a good cock, but I'd take what I can get. John couldn't fuck me, but it would be amazing if Mike would...

I begin to fantasise about being taken by my husband, in this court room, regardless of the bewigged and begowned judges and lawyers all watching. And the fucker from the CW group. I bet he secretly loves porn, and would wank over the scene for ever. If he isn't a repressed gay. I doubt he is. He's gazed at my tits way too lustfully.

I imagine Mike, all calm and solid, moving behind me, getting his cock aligned, kissing my neck, then shoving himself in deep. He'd not let the audience put him off. When he decides to fuck me, I get fucked...

This line of thought helps me through the following volley of biting stings. I hate the sharp sensation of crops. It's bearable, thanks to Mike stroking my hair, then nuzzling my cheek. It's not just his affection supporting me; he's also hissing in my ear, "Wow! You really are the filthiest wife I could get! This building, the historic centre of Britain, and you're getting off in it! Bet you just wish you were being fucked, too."

I can't deny it. "Yeah," I breathe.

"Yeah. Stripping off so everyone can see your tits and arse, these Supreme Court judges and all. Hey? Could there be bishops, too? There's bishops in the Lords, still, right? What if the Archbishop of Canterbury has a key and walks in, right on you and your slutty spread legs?"

"Yeah," I moan, focusing on my husband's whispers, not the fiery burns of the crop round my hip.

"Bet you'd just want to be fucked by him too... My dirty dirty wife, causing a constitutional crisis with her cunt..."

Mike loves playing with the idea of the all-powerful goddess cunt and how thus women -- me, at least -- need to be kept under control. Both parts of the concept work for me, too.

Of course as soon as he mentions a constitutional crisis, I think of the Glorious Revolution and Civil War, and the Royals dispatched thereby. The ringletted James II, playboy, piratical, coming to ravish me on his journey to flee England? I could work with that...

Is it the swish and smart from a cat o' nine tails that's burning my thighs?

"Fuck me," I moan into the upholstery.

Another welcome break to address my desperate pussy.

"Some final strokes, just to ensure I've reproduced this layer of the image correctly." How is John still so fucking calm?

Mike holds my arm as John rains pain down upon me.

I whimper. "Too much!"

"It's just getting good," Mike promises. He speaks up to John. "Easy, now. Ease her into it." Back to me, "It's OK babe, the crop's gone."

"Can..." I'm incoherent in relief and enjoying John's hidden hand again. I push myself against his firm palm. But even getting penetrated by a pair of his fingers, it's not enough. And then the bastard stops.

John's off lecturing again. "Again, canes could be used hugely viciously," -- he swipes through the air, and I hear a collective wince -- "or a delicate tap, tap, tap. Or somewhere in between. There's a bunch of criss-crossed white markings in the picture, so I'll copy that first, then add the firmer strokes which created these raised red lines. Everyone happy? My model here knows the impacts themselves may not be pleasant, but it's worth it for the exquisite afterglow. Can't have an omelette without breaking some eggs! Ah, bad metaphor. Anyway. Any last questions?"

"Could that cause real injury?" The lady judge asks an intelligent question.

"It certainly could. There's a reason kinky porn focuses on the backside, just like corporal punishment through the ages. It's well padded -- beautifully curved, rather! Sorry love! And protected. Whereas the kidneys are here," -- he taps my corset over them. "You don't want to hit those at all. Definitely not hard. The rest of the body? Basically, it's hard, more sensitive, not so erotic or pleasing, even to people that way inclined. Well. Backs, arms, legs, can all be satisfying, especially for men, but not for my lady here. So apart from the top of the thighs, we're sticking to the buttocks. The gluteus maximus." Latin is appropriate for court, right?

"Could it cause lasting damage to the backside, though?" It's a sensible question.

"How lasting is lasting? Yes, you could draw blood. I think that's a good time to stop, if it's got that far. But while you might get a white raised welt, or bruising, for a couple weeks, it calms down. I mean, she's been doing this regularly for what, twenty years, and you saw -- smooth and perfect as anything!"

Mike agrees. "That's right. Hasn't done her any harm. Or him!"

I hear a murmur and glance up to see Mike sticking his tongue out at John. I'd lay money John put his tongue out first!

I feel the ripple as our audience all gasp, shocked to learn John puts himself in scenes just like my current one. It occurs to me it might help our case -- the argument that kink is un-feminist falls apart, if it provably applies to men as well as women.

"Indeed, thanks for that," John says, back to good behaviour. "Yes, I've probably had visible marks for about twice as often as she has. Or more. Never had kids, you see, which obviously cramps ones activities for a couple decades. So when I say goodbye to her and 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do', it's a serious request!

"So, yes, I'm going to assault this woman here, but only if she wants me to. Hey, love? May I finish making this piece of art?"

My throat is dry. I swallow.

"Do it."

A final step to the right to block the video; a last semi-slake of my sexual thirst that's nowhere near enough. Then a familiar cool line across my arse as John lays the cane along his first target line.

I shiver. With anticip...

...ation.

I'm dressed like a Rocky Horror cast member, too. The whole scene today seems as unreal as the show, mundane people, Thompson and Timpson, cast into a meeting of sexualised aliens... Does that make Nigel into Frank N Furter? Is Mike my Riff-Raff?

"Ah!" The first stroke hits.

Is John my Dr Scott? Am I Magenta? No, she's not here today... I must channel her poise...

There's a few more impacts from the cane, no more forceful than necessary. I manage to make throaty 'aah' noises rather than the howls I'd normally make.

"Right, love. Time for the final burst. You know the drill. Breathe in. And breathe ou...

He doesn't finish before his hail of six fiendish whacks thunders down on me.

I'm made breathless at the first. I'm still gasping for air as the second hits, so it's not until the third that I scream.

My husband's grip on my arm tightens. I hear him, as if a long way away, reassuring me. "Love you, darling. You're amazing. You're great. You're beautiful."

It distracts me, reducing my cries to quiet shaking, until the fourth line of fire. I clench my teeth to scream through them. Mike strokes my face to try to ease my jaw muscles. "Nearly done, babe. You are so amazing." I wail, horrified by the prospect of more burning impacts.

I can't help crying when the next one lands. I've lost count. I'm just sobbing, "No!"

Normally, John would stop at that, and he or Mike would give me a break, building me up to sexual desperation before getting me to beg for pain and pleasure at the same time. But we all want this over with, and I'd told John to just do it.

The cane lands.

I recoil into a ball, yanking all my restraints along the wood of the chaise-longue, getting about as far as my hands under my chin and my knees a few inches towards my chest. Probably showing off my arse even more.

Everything goes black for a moment. I dimly realise that more pain isn't happening.

Slowly, the sensation of Mike's kisses on my head filters through to me.

"Aaah," I groan in satisfaction. It's almost like a yawn, which of course makes me yawn.

"Love you, babe," he replies. "You're a star."

The wonderful feeling of my backside seeps up to my brain. John's gently palpating my hot flesh, every fleck of skin shooting happy signals up to my brain.

"Good?" Mike checks.

"So good." As my husband strokes my head and shoulders, and John rubs my bottom where every mil of skin is shouting its happiness, I'm moaning in pleasure. It's effectively sex, after all.

"Oh, god... So good! So good..."

John steps sideways again. Once more, his fingers work their magic inside as well as out.

Now, my only dilemma is how not to have an orgasm in front of a Supreme Court judge.

"Mmm! Yeah..." I manage not to fuck the couch, but otherwise I'm acting pretty damn orgasmic.

"Oh! Oh! God..." I try to give in, past caring, but it turns out I'm just a little bit too inhibited to let myself climax. Bother.

It's still proof of enjoyment for the court, I decide, once I stop thrashing about. Even if I'm avoiding looking at them. I should have opted for a blindfold.

"How was that for you?" John asks, like a solicitous waiter at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

"So good." I couldn't, yet, think of any other vocabulary.

"Excellent! Let's get you untied, love. Mel -- Mr Smith, would you like to come take a close-up? And a couple snapshots?"

I assume Melons does. I'm dozing. Light-headed, too.

"Right. Are you ready to sit up?"

I manage it, with the guys' help, sitting back down on the couch leather very gingerly. Then I roll about as subtly as I can, enjoying the large patch of warmth which rises up through me. Wordlessly, John and Mike sit on either side of me, each holding one of my hands. As a unit, we gaze at the gallery.

Nigel clears his throat. "How would you describe that experience, Ms Jones?"

That's going to go down in the history books as a euphemism.

I don't need to act, now. "Great! Loved it! As usual, it was enjoyable up to almost the end, then worth pushing through, because of how good it feels afterwards. Now."

"Would you say it was similar to how you might... indulge, at a club or elsewhere?" The lady judge is curious.

"Similar, but with the very significant difference that here, I wasn't having sex of any sort." It's not really a lie under oath, is it? I just lay there, after all. Which makes it very different. "I'd really prefer not to demonstrate that for the court." There's a chuckle. Possibly from Thompson.

"I see. That won't be necessary, thank you. Would you mind coming over here a moment, so we can compare to image nine point four?"

I get up and bend over, baring my bruised arse and scarlet-streaked thighs to the barristers and judges. As you do.

Melons hands them the developed Polaroid. Nigel labels it with a neat '10.2' on the back.

"Ah, thank you. That's easier to compare. Well, I'm no expert in these matters, but I have to say, the colour changes and texture of the skin do look remarkably similar."

Timpson valiantly tries to dispute the general agreement that image 10.2 matches image 9.4 in all important ways. "There's not so many small white marks," she objects. "And there's pink marks further down the original subject's thighs."

"Oh, for f... goodness' sake! Pedant!" I've rarely seen Mike so pissed off. "Give me the crop, John. Jan, love, do you mind?"

"I agree. Get on with it." I bend over the table. I'm not scared of the pain, just furious that this woman won't believe the evidence of her own eyes.

Mike may not be as skilled as John, but he can apply the edge of a crop tip to the sides of my buttocks, and wield the flat of it onto my inner thighs, as well as anyone. I hold my hands down on the polished wood table, enabling me to jump about as he does it, snapping "Ow, fuck, you bastard, ow!"

As soon as he's done with making the annoying stings, he tosses the crop aside, drops to his knees, and strokes my thighs, nuzzling my arse, until I'm fine. No getting his face between my legs, sadly. Nor his cock.

It's a crying shame. Right now, I'd happily let him fuck me right over this table!

"Here you go, mate. Sir. Photo ten point three." Melons hands another Polaroid to Nigel.

It is obvious to all concerned, now, that my arse is an even finer example of 'extreme porn' than image nine point four.

The lady judge asks, "Could you call that last attack 'enjoyable'? It didn't look like it."

"Not really, because it was out of context."

Timpson interrupts, "Which makes it an non-consensual assault!"

Before Mike can complain about being accused of criminal ABH, I interrupt. "I asked him to, for a purpose! In this case, for evidence. By your logic, if no-one can ever consent to anything at all painful, unprotected sex would have to be illegal because childbirth invariably hurts!" I need to argue there's eventually pleasure from what the guys have done. "I'd gone from being relaxed and welcoming the sensations, back to my normal professional self... er, maybe not quite," I add, realising I've still got my baps out and my pubic area on view. "But sometimes one has to prove a point. The point being that now, I'm feeling amazingly good, so the ultimate result of their actions is pleasure. Seriously, it feels great, now!"

"Quite. Perhaps you'd like to retire to the robing room and re-dress," Nigel suggests, all perfect decorum.

I nod. Mike offers to come with me. "To assist with the corset," he says.

The adrenaline is wearing off. Suddenly, I feel horribly, shamefully, naked in front of all these people. Especially with Timpson's disdain and the CW man's open disgust at my bare tits on show.

Nigel, bless him, likes what he sees, yet is being as professional as he possibly can. Its probably also why Thompson is staring at the wall, ignoring me.