Formal British Reserve , livre ebook

Title Page

Formal British Reserve













By
Leigh Clark




Publisher Information

Formal British Reserve published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Leigh Clark 2012

The right of Leigh Clark to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.




Formal British Reserve

The pain was indescribable—imagine a paper cut the size of the Grand Canyon. Now fill it with an ocean of lemon juice. Now flick it with a fingernail the size of a shopping mall parking lot. That’s how much it hurt. I grimaced, giving a ladylike little gasp, but in my head I was just waiting for this to be over. Behind me was the new girl, Alison, with a paddle, and she’d managed to catch the junction of my buttock and my thigh with the edge of it. Fortunately I was wearing the Catwoman PVC body tights and a halter top or I could have been badly marked. Alison was wearing the beige suede lederhosen and a sheer black floppy blouse.
We were demonstrating some toys for a couple—a new couple was my guess, and I also guessed they wouldn’t be together long, because he was focused entirely on the costumes while she was interested solely in the corporal punishment. That wasn’t going to be a sustainable future in the BDSM world. They were sitting in our ‘couple’ seat—a double-sized leather armchair with a central arm that had a place for a pair of manacles, drinking the average sherry we handed out to people who knew no better, and she, at least, was gazing at the action with all the wonderment of a five-year-old entering Disneyland. Of course, I could only see them intermittently, because it was important to remain in character and that meant closing my eyes in between blows, opening them wide during the actual strikes and fluttering my eyelashes after them. So far this loving but short-term couple had spent over five hundred pounds with us, and they were entitled to a good show, but Alison was going to pay for this, and not in any way that she’d appreciate. I could have accepted an act of inadvertent clumsiness, or a mistake, but she’d done it deliberately—I’d been listening to her breathing, which was the only clue I had as to her intentions, and she’d inhaled sharply before beginning that particular down-stroke. She’d hurt me on purpose, and that wasn’t something I was going to let pass.

When we swapped places, I swept back my red hair and tied it high on my head with a leather thong. I’d decided to bend Alison over the modular frame—it’s a fantastic chrome tubing device, that you can fold into the smallest cupboard so that it looks like something that you fit to an ironing board, but folds out to become a heavyweight A-shaped flogging frame. The point about it is that it is designed to bend the victim in half, so their head is level with their knees—a strenuous and potentially cramp-inducing position that the new girl wouldn’t be used to. I intended to drag out her part in the proceedings until she was purple in the face and her calves and thighs were screaming in agony. My hamstring was beginning to cramp from the blow she’d struck me, so I took the chance to walk across to the dungeon wall and stroll along it, easing out the muscles in my leg as I browsed the vast range of hand-made striking weapons arrayed on shelves. I chose a small quirt, more of a tawse really, and examined her highly-elevated arse as I swished the implement through the air. I was about to attempt something really difficult, that nobody would see, appreciate or understand. I was going to rosette her.
Rosetting requires a small and narrow head to the striking implement and space to walk right round the subject. It requires a perfect stillness on the part of the subject—guaranteed in this case by the way I’d totally immobilised Alison—and perfect aim and judgement on the part of the striker. This is what you do… you walk round the subject (we don’t say victim or sub at F.B.R., it’s so uncouth), striking exactly the same centre point every time, but with the outer edge of the stroke landing in a different place–imagine you’re making a clockface, with each hit being a number, and you’ve got the idea. It’s unbelievably painful because ten (or twelve, or fourteen) strokes that land in exactly the same area multiply the smarting exponentially, and it is also very beautiful, because, if you do it right, you end up with a flower, paler pink at the edges, bright crimson or purple at its heart, with ten (or twelve, or fourteen) petals.

I glanced over at Frank, who was standing at the back of the room, supervising everything that went on, while gift-wrapping the couple’s previous purchases. He would press the panic button if the couple started behaving inappropriately, which only meant trying to join in with the act or attempting to steal things—whatever they did as consenting adults between themselves, as long as they stayed in the vicinity of their seat, was up to them. He would also, supposedly, stop me or Alison, if we overstepped the bounds of entertainment, but he hadn’t spotted her deliberate whack, and he wouldn’t see anything but artistry in what I was about to do.
The quirt whistled and then sang against my free hand as I tested its weight and striking area. It stung like a bastard and as I positioned myself behind her, I smiled humbly at the couple in front of me and bowed my head as if in prayer.