A PRINCESS'S PENANCE

                                                                                  by Tom Justin

The  delicious  aroma  of  roast  pheasant  and  other succulent dishes filled the spacious dining hall of the royal palace as the serving maids bustled about setting heaping platters  of  food on the table before the seated nobility. King Charles II of Neufundland sat at the head of the table with  his  new  wife,  the  former  Lady  Margaret  Dupont  of Chatsworth province.  The guests included the King's brother, Prince  Philip  of  nearby Glouchester,  his wife,  the Lady Isabel, and their two children, Eric and Dorothy.   Also in attendance was  the Royal  Highness's  Lord  Chamberlain,  Sir Horace Wilde,  his wife, the Lady Beatrice, and the Duke and Duchess of Reddington with their two teenage offspring.

At the opposite end of the table, a lovely young woman sat  alone  staring  glumly  at  her  plate.    She  was  King Charles's daughter, the Princess Lesley.  At twenty-one years of  age,  this  pensive beauty was  at  the  full  ripeness  of womanhood.  However,  the young princess seemed ill at ease and it was not long before the dinner conversation shifted to her  stepmother's  favorite  topic,  and  the  reason  for  the girl's uneasiness.

Prince  Philip  was  the  first  to  inquire  about  his niece's strange attitude.  Queen Margaret was eager to reply as she calmly explained, "My stepdaughter is doing penance for an indiscretion involving one of the grooms."

The Lady Isabel gasped, "Oh my!  Was it serious?"

The  Queen  shook  her  head  and  replied,  "No,  thank goodness.  They were stopped before any real harm was done."

"What became of the groom?"  Lady Ashley, the Duchess of Reddington, asked.

"Oh.  He was flogged in the courtyard, then sent to the colonies  for  a  five year  indenture."   The Queen Margaret answered easily.  "I ordered it."

King  Charles  chuckled,  "Yes.    My  wife  is  quite  the martinet."

The Duke of Reddington, Sir Richard, who was the Queen's brother,  gazed  covetously  at  the  slender  figure  of  the Princess Lesley then commented thickly,  "I hope she didn't order the same for the princess."

King Charles guffawed,  "By god,  she was close to it. But  I  reasoned  with  her  a  bit.    However,  I'm afraid  my daughter didn't get off  lightly by any means.   Since her mother died, I admit that I've neglected Lesley's upbringing so  I  must  take  some  of  the  blame  for  what  happened. Therefore, I've entrusted Margaret with straightening out my mistakes."

"And how is she doing that?"   Sir Richard asked, his eyes glistening with lubricity.

"I know only the whip."  The Queen answered grimly.

The Lady Isabel  winced sympathetically then  inquired, "But surely not in public... I mean... not a flogging...."

Queen Margaret replied,  "Oh no.   The scandal would be too great.    However,  inside the walls of  this castle,  My stepdaughter is learning the true meaning of discipline.  For the  next month,  before she  returns  to Ruttenburg  for her final year of finishing school, I am taking special steps to eradicate any unladylike behavior and to teach her obedience. In fact,  I believe I promised Lesley a lacing today before company as a lesson in humility.  Isn't that right dear?”

In the awkward silence that stilled the dinner banter, all eyes now focused on the Princess Lesley.   A warm blush pinkened the pale cheeks of the contrite beauty's lovely face as her downcast eyes contemplated the pattern of her dinner plate.  Diverse emotions were evident in the watchful eyes of the guests,  ranging from ribaldry and lust to distaste and compassion.  But all were expectant as the demure young woman raised her bowed head.

Though her face was flushed with embarrassment and her lower lip trembled, the girl's quiet voice never wavered as she answered levelly, "Yes mother."

The subtle tension between the young princess and her domineering stepmother was evident to those in the room.  The former Lady Margaret was of German descent and felt that she was resented by the people of her husband's province as well as his daughter because of it.  Princess Lesley had loved her mother  dearly  and  was  deeply  saddened  by  her  untimely passing.  She had been upset by her father's marriage to the Lady Margaret, who was almost twenty years his junior, and had treated the new Queen coldly upon her arrival  in the palace.  The  young  woman's   interrupted  tryst  with  the stableboy had been more of an act of rebellion than one of unrequited  love.    However,  her  prescribed  penance  at  the hands of her vindictive new parent was very severe and in keeping with the Lady Margaret's strict German upbringing.

The  last  serving  maid  was  departing  when  the  Queen called to her and said, "Rowena.  Ask Miss Simpson to come to the dining room, would you please?"

The  young  maid  murmured,  "Yes  Your  Highness."  then curtseyed and left.

Queen Margaret  cleared  her  throat  and  announced,  "We might as well get this bit of unpleasantness over with before we dine."

The Princess Lesley glanced briefly at her stepmother then returned her eyes to the table, a frown of apprehension creasing  her  pretty  forehead.     Despite  her  troubled countenance,  the  young  noblewoman's  beauty  could  not  be suppressed by her unfortunate predicament.   The girl's ash-blonde hair was beautifully coiffured in a soft upsweep with curls  and  ringlets  at  the  sides  and  over  her  forehead. Highset  cheekbones  accented  the  pale  oval  beauty  of  the Princess Lesley's lovely face along with her widely-spaced, soft brown eyes and delicate Grecian nose.   A full, sweet mouth whose corners sometimes showed a hint of impertinence betrayed  the  fervid  temperament  that  had  been  the  proud beauty's   undoing   and   had   earned   her   this   impending chastisement.

           A respectful knock on the dining room door was answered by the Queen Margaret with a sharp, "Come in.”

The door opened and a tall,  forbidding-looking, black-haired woman appeared.   She inclined her head slightly and said, "You asked for me, Your Majesty?”

The queen smiled grimly, "Yes, Miss Simpson.  Would you please  go  to  my  room  and  get  the  riding  switch.    Your services are needed here.”

The dour matron nodded  curtly and  replied,  "Yes  Your Highness."

Before  she departed,  the  stern-featured woman's  cold, grey-blue  eyes  flickered  briefly  over  the  figure  of  the seated princess.  And although her face remained impassive, a steely glint could be seen momentarily in her keen, closely-spaced eyes as she left.

The Lady Jsabel of Glouchester regarded the foreboding vision of the departing servant and remarked with a shiver, "Brrrrrr. .. Who's that?"

Queen Margaret smiled primly.  "That's one of the little additions I've made to the royal household.  Miss Simpson was with me in Chatsworth.  I've brought her along to take charge of things here.   I was appalled by the lack of protocol and discipline I encountered upon my arrival."

The Lady  Isabel  glanced  briefly at  King  Charles  then replied,  "I must say she certainly appears to be up to the task , whatever that may be.”

Again the Queen smiled smugly.   "Oh yes.   You might say she's  whipping  things  into  place  nicely."    Then  with  a searching look at her stepdaughter she added,  "From top to bottom."

A slight blush warmed the Princess Lesley's pale cheeks at  the Queen Margaret's  last comment.   Indeed,  the  former Lady Dupont of Chatsworth had a loyal and cunning ally in the dour Miss Simpson.

Orphaned at a young age then brought up on an almost daily regimen  of  the rod  by her stern fosterparents,  Miss Simpson had come under the employ of the Lady Margaret when she was in her mid thirties.  Having served under a series of harsh  overseers  in many a household while growing up,  and with many a stroke of the cane or bite of the lash to her own bare backside for any shortcomings, the now forty-eight year-old  Miss  Simpson  had  much  rancor  in  her  heart  for  those unfortunate  charges  under  her  supervision  and  a  special animosity  towards  pretty  girls.       She  ruled  the  royal household  with  an  iron  hand  and  many  a  hapless  maid  or serving girl felt the stinging bite of the cane or strap to their  bare  bottom as  a  reminder  of  Miss  Simpson's  strict Prussian  heritage.   The cane,  strap and martinet were all used by the imperious head housekeeper to maintain the strict discipline and obedience she required.   The Queen Margaret's riding switch, however, was reserved for the princess.

The staccato clicking of high heels on the hard stone floor announced the return of the Queen's housekeeper.  Miss Simpson stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

           The thin-lipped spinster wore her black hair,  which showed traces of grey, drawn back  from her forehead into a tight bun at the neck,  emphasizing the angularity and severity of her features.  Her long black dress with high collar and puffed sleeves added to her stature, and the woman's hooked nose and thin, cruel mouth distinguished her as unsparing and strict disciplinarian.

The  supple,  leather-wrapped,  whalebone  switch,  which Miss Simpson flexed ominously in her hard bony hands, looked to be a formidable  instrument of correction;  more suitable for use on the tough hide of an errant pony than the soft buttocks of a woman.   Almost three feet in length, tapering from  its  shiny  embossed  handle  to  a  fiendishly-stinging, twine-wrapped, braided trainer;  it looked to be more a whip than a switch.

The  queen's  brother,  Sir  Richard,  portly  and  ruddy-faced,  commented  coarsely,  "By God,  I  could  train my polo ponies with that switch.”

The young princess shifted nervously in her chair at the Duke of Reddington's acute observation.  The proud beauty had tasted  the  fiery  kiss  of  the  riding  switch  on  her  bare backside twice before in the privacy of the Queen's chambers. And in the hands of a skillful chastiser like Miss Simpson, who  being  a  woman,  knew  where  the  bottom  was  tenderest; another  such  occurrence  was  certainly  not  something  she relished.

The Lady Isabel,  who was obviously sympathetic towards her niece's plight,  eyed the evil length of black whalebone uneasily and remarked, "Surely that whip is meant to be used over clothing, I hope.

Queen Margaret scoffed  irascibly and said,  "Bah!   You English are  too soft-hearted.   A good warming of the bare arse  never  did  a  young  strumpet  any  harm.    Why  in  my homeland,  I've seen the daughter of a count stripped naked and flogged through the streets of the village for having an affair with a servant.  And this was ordered by her father!"

The scowling woman paused, then said emphatically,   "My stepdaughter is whipped on the naked buttocks."

Indeed the Queen's convictions were not uncharacteristic for eighteenth century Europe and England, an era not known for excessive leniency or sentimentality towards the fairer sex.  Public birchings and floggings of female offenders were fairly  commonplace  in  places  like  Tyburn  and  Brideswell. While  in  Europe,  immoral  women  were  bound  and  tied  to lampposts at street corners and whipped.   In small villages, the  pillory and  whipping post  did  not  set  idle  for  long, while the less common cart tail whippings of naked women was a very  popular  event.    Even  in  the  finest  of  finishing schools,  like  the  one  attended  by the Princess Lesley in Ruttenberg, the most docile and hardworking of students could expect at least one or two burning and shameful chastisements during the school year.

Queen Margaret now turned to her stern housekeeper and asked, "Are you ready Miss Simpson?"

The stern-featured servant nodded respectfully.

The Queen then put her fingers to the side of her chin as she contemplated.   "Let's see now." she said.   "I started Lesley off with six.   Then last time it was eight.   So the normal progression calls for ten strokes today."

The  smiling  matriarch  looked  at  her  stepdaughter  and said calmly,  "My dear,  I believe Miss Simpson is waiting on you.”

The Princess Lesley's eyes met those of her adversary's momentarily then she glanced nervously around the table at the seated guests as the prickly heat of a blush warmed the young woman's pale cheeks.

Sensing her niece's discomfort with the mixed company at the  table,  The  Lady  Isabel  tried  to  intercede  for  the condemned beauty.   She asked mildly, "I'm sure Your Highness means  for  the gentlemen and children to pass to the other room don't you?"

The Queen Margaret snorted derisively,  "Nonsense!  This little fool needs put on no airs of false modesty here.  Not after the way Miss Simpson and I found her in the barn with that stablehand.   We are all royalty here.   I find nothing inappropriate.  Besides the embarrassment will do her good."

The Queen fixed her stepdaughter with a cold stare and said sharply, "We're waiting, Lesley.”

It was  then  that the young princess  faced her mother with  flaming  face  and  retorted,   "I  don't  think   it's appropriate at all, mother!”

The  girl's  grimly-smiling  stepmother  nodded  her  head slowly and announced,  "Very well.   We can have the men and children leave.   However there will be a little supplement for  the  sake  of  modesty.    Shall  we  say,  an  extra  six strokes.”

The blood drained from the sentenced penitent's sullen countenance as she lowered her head and declined the offer.

Queen Margaret smiled triumphantly.   "I didn't think so. Your little outburst has now increased the tariff to twelve. If you insist on stalling we can always go higher.”

The  Queen  glanced  for  a  moment  at  her  husband  then turned to the seated princess and demanded, "Well!"

With  a sigh  of  resignation,  the  Princess  Lesley rose from her chair and stepped away from the table.   Despite the grim   foreboding of her impend   punishment, the aristocratic beauty faced her shaming and painful ordeal with an air of quiet stoicism, staring unblinkingly above the heads of the seated guests, meeting the eyes of no one.

Queen  Margaret  regarded  her  stepdaughter  keenly  then looked at her black-garbed housekeeper and inclined her head slightly.  At the Queen's gesture,  Miss Simpson strode over to the condemned young woman and grasped her arm firmly in her strong bony hand.  With a grip the Princess Lesley could not dispute, the switch-wielding matron led her lovely victim to the center of the room and positioned her so her backside was towards the gathered nobility.

           The girl's austere parent cleared her throat and spoke firmly,  "You know what's next, Lesley.   Lift up your dress and bare your bottom."

The  proud  beauty's  shoulders  stiffened momentarily at her stepmother's terse command, then blushing furiously, the Princess Lesley of Neufundland reached down, gathered up her billowing skirt, and lifted the white silk garment above her waist.

The taut silence which followed the collective sigh of the seated dinner guests bespoke of the fact that beneath her lifted skirt and single petticoat, the young woman's buttocks were completely naked.   From the waist down,  the Princess Lesley wore only a white lace garter belt to which her sheer silk stockings were tautly tethered.  Her bare, upstandingly-rounded,  oval-shaped bottomgobes were sensuously framed by the straps of her suspender belt.  Wide and firm, jutting out invitingly from her slim waist,  those glorious hillocks of alabaster flesh bore the shaming stigma of fading brownish-yellow lines as evidence of prior chastisements.

The  fullness  of  the  lovely  Princess's  truly  womanly posterior  belied  her  slender  stature and  the  broadening crease  which  separated  the  beautifully-proportioned  bottom rounds  gradually widened  at the lower summits to hide  its shadowy mystery there.  At the base of the Princess Lesley's condemned  behind,  her  supple,  gracefully-sculptured  thighs merged  in  harmonious  juncture  before tapering down to  her trimly muscled calves.

The Queen Margaret's brother, Sir Richard, was first to break  the  awkward silence.   Without  turning his  lecherous gaze from the girl's bared buttocks, he remarked thickly, "By God, that garterbelt really sets them off.  Doesn't it?"

The  half-naked  penitent's  smugly-smiling  stepmother nodded and answered easily,  "Yes, I think so.   Lesley isn't allowed to wear any undergarments while in the palace.   It's part of her punishment.   Last week when it was chilly,  the little minx tried  to  get away with slipping on a pair of drawers but Miss Simpson noticed the garment missing from her bureau.  That cost Lesley a second dose of eight strokes. She still has the marks from that.   We've since removed all of her underthings from her room.  Now if she needs a pair of underpants or d chemise or camisole, she must ask myself or Miss Simpson."

Sir Richard cocked his head questioningly at his sister and  said,  "Do  you  mean  to  say that  under  her  dress,  the Princess is errrr....shall we say... .uhhh..."

"Naked?"   The Queen answered  levelly.    "Yes,  quite."

During this embarrassing discussion of her predicament, the  Princess  Lesley  had  not  stirred.    Like  a  porcelain statue,  the young noblewoman stood tall and serene  in her provocative  dishabille,  her  furled  dress  lifted  above her hips exposing her chaste nudity fore and aft.  She could feel the humiliating coolness of the air on her naked backside but her  high  cheekboned  face  remained  expressionless  as  she awaited her fate.

           The Queen of Neufundland turned to her switch-wielding servant  and  said,  "I  think  you  may  begin,  Miss  Simpson.  Twelve strokes, please."

The  black-clad  housekeeper  nodded  curtly then  stepped into position behind the half-nude princess, standing at her left.

Sensing  that  her  whipping  was  eminent,  The  Princess Lesley took a deep breath and steeled herself for the first stroke  as  almost  imperceptible  ripplings  shook  the  firm cheeks of her condemned behind.

Miss  Simpson  extended  the  supple  riding  switch  and measured  her  distance,  appraising  the  ample  milky-white mounds of her victim's  luscious naked bottom.   She watched the  young  woman's  buttocks  tighten  and  shudder  in  nervous muscular contractions as she slowly drew back her arm.

The  lovely young martyr  could  tell  by the  collective hush of the dinner guests that the lash had risen and was en route to deliver its first burning kiss.   She heard a faint whirring sound, then fire laced across her vulnerably-exposed buttocks.

The  eel-like  black  switch  wrapped  around  the  upper summits of the Princess Lesley's naked posterior, the trainer flicking  with  venom  at  the  fleshy  mound  of  her  right bottomglobe.

The girl's tensing body jerked convulsively at the shock of  the  first  blow  as  she  involuntarily  thrust  her  hips forward, twisting her stung nether cheeks away from the pain. Across  the  alabaster  smoothness  of  the  Princess  Lesley's cringing bottomcheeks a vivid pink stripe appeared, darker on the  right  where  the  cord  trainer  had  fallen.    Under  the impetus  of  the stroke,  the courageous beauty's  lovely face lifted and her eyes opened wide, but only a hiss of sucked-in breath attested to her suffering.

Tightening her grip on her upraised skirt and petticoat, the Princess Lesley set her teeth against her underlip,  the delicate nostrils of her dainty nose dilating with the afflux of quickened breathing as she waited fretfully for the next stroke.

For   the   second   cut   of   her   unfortunate   victim's chastisement,   Miss   Simpson   stepped   to   the   right   and skillfully directed  a  sweeping  backhand  slash  of  the  whip into the ripest curves of the princess's helplessly-proffered behind.  There  was  a  sinister  whistle  as  the  switch  sang through the  air  and  curled  with an angry and crisp impact against the very middle of both wobbling hemispheres.

The girl's body stiffened and her red-striped buttocks bounded furiously under the cut as a second parallel stripe sprang up on the resilient flesh of her punished bare bottom. Delivered  from  the  right  side,  the  twine-wrapped  trainer plucked greedily at the spasming left cheek of the Princess Lesley's  hapless  posterior,  evenly  distributing  its    measure of pain.

Observing the even spacing of the first two stripes on the young princess's naked behind, Sir Richard remarked, "By God, she's accurate.  And from both sides, too."

           Queen Margaret smiled proudly at her brother's favorable assessment  of  her  housekeeper's  flagellatory skill.    "Oh yes." she replied calmly.  "Miss Simpson can line Lesley's impudent backside like a piece of sheet music if she wants to.

The  Duke  of  Reddington  nodded  sagely then turned  to watch the next biting slash of the switch attack the Princess Lesley's exquisitely-rounded young buttocks.

Having stepped back to the left, Miss Simpson swept the third stroke across her victim's cringing posterior with a strong  forehand  stroke,  striping  the  Princess  Lesley's  flinching nether cheeks with another evenly-spaced parallel welt.

Again the courageous young sufferer's lithe body arched in protest  to  the  scalding bite  of the  lash as her  head lifted  and  a  stifled   "Uhhh!"  escaped  her  tightly pursed lips.  The girl's whipped buttocks shook jelly-like under the force of the blow  and the three scarlet stripes emblazoned on  her  tender  flesh  contrasted  sharply  with  the  milky smoothness of her velvety-sheened bottom.

The  penitent  princess  blinked  back  the  tears  that flooded  her  eyes  as  she valiantly strove to maintain her composure  under  the  searing  pain  which  assaulted  her throbbing red-streaked behind.   While her prior thrashings had taken place in the privacy of the Queen's chambers, the shame of having to bare her royal backside to the besmirching eyes of the men and children at the dinner table only added to the young noblewoman's anguish and mortification.

For   the  fourth  stroke  of  the  Princess  Lesley's prescribed  punishment,  the  stern  Miss  Simpson  once  again stepped to the right of her half-naked prey and regaled the full  pale  cheeks  of  her  trembling  bottom  with  a  sharp backhanded cut of the supple whalebone switch.  The huddling, squirming mounds  of  the Princess Lesley's  welted buttocks shook furiously under the burning smart of the whip as she ground her teeth savagely to stifle her cry.   Another lurid weal sprang up on the girl's beleaguered backside just below the plumpest curves of both bottom summits.

The  Duke  of  Reddington's  fifteen  year-old  daughter,  Elizabeth,  and  his  thirteen  year-old  son,  James,  acutely observed their older cousin's painful chastisement.

           Sir Richard often administered bare-bottomed thrashings to Elizabeth in her bedroom, which her brother would sometimes watch through the keyhole.  The girl's lecherous father would corporally  punish  his  adolescent  daughter  on  almost  any pretense, positioning her over the footrail of her bed with her virginal behind arching out lewdly for the burning kisses of strap or cane.

           Both children watched as Miss Simpson sent the fifth hissing  stroke  into  the  base  of  the  Princess  Lesley's inflamed  lower  hemispheres.    As  the  wicked  leather  wand seared her scalded flesh, the fiendishly-stinging tail of the lash  seemed  to  cling  and  burrow  into  the  young  woman's sensitive right underbuttock for a second before it snapped back, leaving its swelling burgundy weal.

Under this pernicious attack on her tenderest flesh, the Princess Lesley's head  lifted and a choking cry of  "Ohh-­aahh!!"  was  torn  from  her  trembling  lips.     The  lovely sufferer's welt-ridged bottom ovals  jiggled salaciously as the muscles  of  her  behind  and  thighs spasmed  in helpless defense against the burning agony of the lash.   Tears had begun to trickle down the brave young martyr's flushed cheeks and her breasts heaved as she drew several deep breaths in preparation for the next stroke.

The dour Miss Simpson smiled with satisfaction at her victim's plaintive cry; no doubt in her mind that the little baggage had felt the last cut.   The striations left by the whipcord  switch  had  created  a  lascivious  pattern  on  the creamy  bare  flesh  of  the  girl's  voluptuously-provocative posterior,  so  roguishly displayed  between garter  belt arid stockings beneath the uplifted hem of her skirt.

The cruel matron had purposely directed the fifth stroke of  her  contrite  charge's  whipping  lower  than  the  four previous evenly-spaced stripes.  Being a woman, she knew that the skin in the fleshy overhang of the buttocks rubs more and is more tender in the crease.  And wanting to demonstrate her proficiency with the lash,  Miss Simpson had been confident that an adroitly placed cut of the whalebone-cored switch would break her stoic victim's proud silence; which it did.

The stern housekeeper extended the rapier-like length of well-oiled whipcord out against the remaining pale band of untouched  flesh  on  the  lower  curves  of  the  sniffling princess's martyred behind.  The grim woman's eyes brightened when she heard the girl's barely audible groan as she felt the  measuring  tap  of  the  rod.    Gritting  her  teeth,  the Queen's  head  housekeeper  drew back  her  arm and  sent  the flexible withe whistling across the quivering rotundities of the Princess Lesley's well-wealed bottom with ferocious zeal.

The snickering wisp of the switch was too quick to see. But a moment after it snapped back, there appeared the white line that slowly merged into red, evenly bisecting the space between  the  two  previous  cuts.    The  princess's  scorched bottom rounds jerked uncontrollably in a clenching bound as her head  lifted and a choking cry escaped her desperately compressed lips.

           Six  raised   horizontal   stripes  marred   the  creamy smoothness  of the Princess Lesley's beautiful bare behind, starting at the top of her hips and descending to the base of her  sumptuously-rounded  buttocks.    The  marks  stood  out vividly on the pale milky skin of the young woman's luscious posterior and her throbbing flesh drew and twitched where the lash had bitten.   The Princess's lovely face was flushed and streaked with tears, and the anguished knowledge that  she  still  had  half  her  punishment  remaining  weighed heavily on her proud spirit.

The  girl's  executioner   leisurely  contemplated  her handiwork,  purposely prolonging  her  victim's  ordeal.   The Princess Lesley's vivid and sensitive beauty,  coupled with the haughtiness of her attitude, whetted Miss Simpson's  sadistic spirit and tightened her resolve to humiliate and torment the unfortunate young noblewoman all the more.  The skillful chastiser knew that seventh cut of the tearful  penitent's allotted twelve strokes would intersect the previous stripes so accurately etched on the aristocratic  beauty's cruelly-streaked buttocks, increasing her agony and further weakening her fading fortitude.

     To that end, the Queen Margaret's unrelenting head housekeeper, slowly raised her sinewy right arm, her cruel eyes devouring the flinching trembling bare buttocks of her helpless victim. With a whistling slash, Miss Simpson swept the murderously-flexible switch diagonally from right to left, imprinting a lurid crimson stripe from the edge of the Princess Lesley's right hip across her writhing bottom ovals and biting keenly against the base of the left buttock.  Under the impetus of the stinging pain, the half-naked young woman's body jerked convulsively and she involuntarily thrust her naked hips forward in lewd response to the naked fury of the lash. A strangled cry of "Aaaaarrgh!!!"  was torn from the lovely martyr's throat and the livid welts danced obscenely on the whipped nether cheeks of her swollen throbbing posterior.

     With hardly a pause, Miss Simpson nimbly stepped to the left and backhanded a second diagonal cut, inscribing a bright X over her sobbing victim's huddling lower hemispheres.  The riding switch whistled furiously as it bit across the two luridly-wealed nether globes, evilly kissing the spasming gluteal mounds which bounded under its imperious torment.

     Her will weakened by this merciless onslaught of pain, the Princess Lesley's contorted face lifted and another squealing cry was wrenched from her trembling lips.  The girl's hands fisted at the searing pain that licked at her martyred behind and her quivering hillocks contracted voluptuously before the eyes of her audience.  The anguished beauty was acutely aware of the involuntary fatty shivers that ran up along the insides of her thighs into her welt-ridged bottom ovals above.  And a wave of despondent shame and degradation swept over the penitent young noblewoman as she desperately prayed for strength to bear the remainder of her punishment.

     For the ninth stroke of the Princess Lesley's prescribed penance, the dour Miss Simpson kept her hapless victim agonizing for what seemed an interminable wait, utilizing every nuance of suspense and humiliation conceivable. The sadistic matron, being of common birth, especially relished the duty of plying the lash to the bared buttocks of a member of the royal family, no doubt feeling in her own mind that for each welt she raised on the milky-white skin of the    Princess Lesley's velvety-smooth posterior, she was repaying  some of her former aristocratic masters for the beatings she had endured in her youth.

     With that purpose in mind, the severe disciplinarian sent the ninth stroke slicing into the plumpest curves of her unfortunate sufferer's quaking lower hillocks.  The whipcord switch curled and clung cruelly to the Princess Lesley's writhing buttocks, the hardened cord trainer chewing unmercifully into the excoriated flesh of her cringing right bottomglobe.  The young princess's knees buckled then straighten and a sobbing wail of "Ahhhowww!!! escaped her gaping mouth.

     The Lady Isabel flinched sympathetically as she saw the livid weal encircle her niece's lovely lower hemispheres which shuddered and shook in a series of rippling spasms of pain. The interlacing streaks of crimson blazed like a brand on the corrugated flesh of the girl's condemned backside as she desperately tried to relax her tensing bottomcheeks to better absorb the next blow.  The Princess knew from previous punishments that clenching of the buttocks only made the lash bite harder, but the enervating torment that assaulted her tortured backside weakened the will of her body to do her bidding as she desperately strove to slacken the cheeks of her condemned behind.

     Miss Simpson impassively extended the switch and laid it solidly across the base of her hapless victim's lividly streaked bare bottom. The Princess Lesley caught her breath and gave a sobbing whimper as she bowed her head and awaited the resumption of her whipping. The puffy weals etched on the shivering flesh of the lovely sufferer's swollen posterior were livid and beginning to darken where the toughened trainer had imparted its venomous kiss. The cruel housekeeper especially enjoyed demonstrating her fustigatory skill on the Princess's firm out- thrust buttocks for the girl's creamy skin marked vividly to show the full artistry of her handiwork.

     Swwisshhh..craacckkk!!! The tenth stroke was given after a pause of almost a full minute, during most of which time, Miss Simpson kept the flexible rod pressed against the area she had selected for her cut.  It was a backhanded blow from left to right, dexterously delivered with the full strength of wrist to send to tip of the lash burrowing into the Princess's shivery left hindcheek, launching her into another involuntary paroxysm of pain.

     A heart-rending scream was torn from the Princess Lesley as the muscles of her bottom spasmed and the streaked and quivering gluteal mounds formed a rigid mass of tender flesh furiously resisting the pitiless cruelty of the lash.  The condemned beauty's stricken face lifted, her eyes huge and blinded by tears as her half-nude body gyrated lewdly before her mixed audience.

     Through the swirling mist of suffering that engulfed her pain-racked body, the Princess Lesley could only think that she had just two more strokes to endure from that terrible  riding whip.  The enforced stance of her pose with arms to the sides and skirts held aloft, sent muscular ripplings up her sleek thighs, causing acute agony to the courageous young martyr as the shuddering cheeks of her welted bottom twitched and contracted spasmodically. Even the slightest trembling of her swollen posterior globes sent frightful waves of suffering through her violently striated flesh. And although it felt to her like a white-hot iron was being drawn across her tender behind with each cut, the Princess Lesley was almost anxious for the final two strokes to fall to finally end her humiliating ordeal.

     The sobbing penitent felt the measuring tap of her tormentor's switch and could hear, in the taut silence of the room, the rustling of Miss Simpson's heavily starched dress as she slowly drew back her arm.  A frown of consternation creased the Princess's pretty forehead as she set her teeth against her underlip and waited with shuddering anguish for the switch to resume its hellish work.

     It was then that the Queen Margaret's vindictive cruelty came into play as she called out to her servant, "Hold on a minute, Miss Simpson."

     The dour spinster's angular face did not change expression as she lowered her arm and looked questioningly at her mistress. If she felt any disappointment at the prospect of remitting the last two strokes of her helpless victim's count, she did not show it.

     Upon hearing her stepmother's command, a faint ray of hope flickered through the Princess Lesley's mind as she desperately prayed for leniency in her harsh sentence.  However any prospects for mercy were immediately dashed and replaced with horrified anguish as the tearful girl's rancorous adversary turned to her guests and calmly announced, "Dear Lesley makes such comical faces when she's being thrashed. I feel I would be remiss in my duties as a host if I deprived you of that pleasure.  Lesley, turn and face the table for your last two strokes. "

     Through the buzzing in her ears, the Princess Lesley heard her stepmother's terrible decree as the color drained from her shocked countenance.  A sickening knot formed in her stomach and the young woman's kneehollows felt weak and trembling.  She could not move.  She would not move.  To stand obediently before a bemused gathering of men, women, and children while a common servant viciously whipped her bare bottom as she willing hoisted her skirts above her waist was one thing.  But to turn and face her audience, and freely expose the most private parts of her body was too much. The anguished beauty turned her tear-streaked face back over her shoulder to her vengeful stepmother, imploring mercy.

     Queen Margaret regarded her stepdaughter coldly then turned to her expectant housekeeper and said, "Perhaps Lesley needs some urging Miss Simpson.  Give her a couple across the legs."      The Princess Lesley saw the movement of the servant's arm out of the corner of her eye and she swerved her hips furiously and screamed, "Nooo---auuuiieee!!!" as the snickering lash tore into the soft flesh of her capering thighs. A second stroke immediately followed, attacking the beautiful columns of the young noblewoman's upper thighs just  below the cheeks of her piteously-welted bottom.

     Under this pernicious assault on her most sensitive flesh, the Princess Lesley dropped her raised skirts and rushed her trembling hands to her scalded nates, sobbing brokenly as she shamelessly kneaded the corrugated flesh of her buttocks and thighs in clenching rolls.

     The openly crying girl's stern stepmother allowed her a few moments of respite before she proclaimed icily, "If you've finished with this indecent display Lesley, I suggest we get on with the remainder of your punishment. You've already earned a little supplement to your count for your behavior thus far. If you don't want to feel Miss Simpson's switch across your shoulders, I suggest you turn around and face the table. Now!!!"

     Confronted with this dire alternative from her unrelenting tormentor, the Princess Lesley had no choice but to comply. The sniffling beauty slowly straightened her bowed figure and remove her hands from her throbbing, red- striped posterior. She smoothed her rumpled skirt then brushed the tears from her ravaged eyes and squared her slim shoulders. Then with stately grace, as if turning to greet a dancing partner at a ball, the condemned, twenty-one year-old daughter of the King of Neufundland turned to face the remainder of her degrading chastisement.

     For a moment the sentenced young noblewoman's eyes met those of her grim executioner and she could see the steely glitter in Miss Simpson's cold grey eyes.  And while the Princess Lesley's tear-wet face remained expressionless, outraged shame and indignation blazed in her swollen, red-rimmed eyes as she gave a scathing stare at the one responsible for her torment. It was almost a look of aloof defiance as if to say, go ahead do your worst.

     Like a porcelain statue, the courageous penitent stared straight ahead, chin high, eyes distant.  Princess Lesley saw Miss Simpson step into position behind her. Then as if to cheat her vindictive stepmother out of the pleasure of giving the shaming order, the condemned beauty mechanically reached down and raised her skirt above her waist.

     The prickly heat of a blush warmed the pale cheeks of the lovely young martyr's face as she presented her chaste nudity to the profaning eyes her attentive audience.  Beneath the dainty niche of the girl's shallow navel and smooth delightfully-curved belly, the soft downy curls of her Venus mound shielded the Princess's virgin slit.  Erotically framed by the straps of her garter belt at the apex of her full beautifully-rounded thighs, the Princess Lesley's silken love-thatch was of slightly darker shade than her ash-blonde tresses.

     The young woman's hands did not waver as she kept her skirt held high, her face a graven image of beauty. For despite her degrading pose, flushed, tear-stained face, and welted bare bottom, the Princess Lesley retained a certain detached elegance, something bred into nobility, that neither her stepmother nor Miss Simpson could take away, no matter how severe or humiliating the punishments.

     The Queen of Neufundland regarded her stepdaughter coldly then turned to her housekeeper. "You may give Lesley the last two strokes of her original count now, Miss Simpson."

     The black-clad matron nodded curtly then pursed her thin lips as she impassively appraised her victim's trembling bare bottom. The criss-crossed swellings from the whip blazed salaciously across the luscious mounds of Callyphigian beauty so helplessly delivered to the woman's heartless sadism.  Miss Simpson extended the rapier-like switch and mockingly touched the tumified flesh of the Princess Lesley's condemned behind several times, delighting in the nervous twitchings of the girl's lividly-streaked nether hemispheres.  The malicious woman purposely prolonged her helpless prey's agonizing suspense, knowing the mortification she was experiencing facing her parent's dinner guests naked from the waist down.

     The Princess Lesley could see nothing and hear nothing as she powerlessly awaited the frightful agony of the lash. She was almost relieved when she perceived the look of apprehension on her Aunt Isabel's worried face which told her the punishing rod had risen.

     The swift slashing whisper of the switch through the air and the swift slashing pain across her naked bottom arrived together as Miss Simpson drove the snickering lash wickedly into the young noblewoman's resilient bare bottom ovals, striping the convulsing hillocks with another blazing welt. The mark of the lash was a white crease across the girl's cringing flesh, and then as the switch snapped back, the crease reddened and began to swell.

     As the whistling lash sliced into the firm mounds of her shuddering bare behind, the lovely sufferer spasmodically thrust her half-nude body forward in a wrenching lunge.  A plaintive wail was torn from the anguished beauty; and under the involuntary lewd pelvic thrust of her pain-racked body, the fleecy curls of her downy muff parted, exposing the pouting lips of her vulva to the mingled delight and consternation of her mixed audience.

     The Princess Lesley's face flamed as she saw the Queen's boorish brother, Sir Richard, lick his thick lips and stare boldly at her exposed femininity, his eyes shining with lubricity.  Fresh tears of shame welled in the girl's wide brown eyes and she saw her kindly aunt gasp in shocked horror at this shameful exposure before the men and children in the room.

     While the Duke of Reddington and the Lady Isabel of Glouchester's diverse emotions were plainly evident; the King's Lord Chamberlain, Sir Horace Wilde, showed no sentiment whatsoever.  Being a loyal servant of many years to the royal household, the taciturn nobleman witnessed the

naked flogging of the young Princess with an air of quiet detachment.

     All eyes followed Miss Simpson as she measure her distance for the final cut of the Princess Lesley's twelve stroke count. Nervous quiverings shook the luridly-wealed lower hillocks of the girl's punished backside as frightful waves of agony swirled along her nerves, centering on her flayed rump. With pernicious skill, the unrelenting spinster sent the whipcord switch whisking into the tender base of her victim's defenseless lower hemispheres, cutting cruelly at the tenderest flesh and overlapping the raised welts of prior cuts. The hissing lash seemed to lift the flesh physically as it cut and the Princess Lesley threw her head back and screamed raucously as the braided trainer chewed hungrily into the raw smarting flesh of her beleaguered bottom .                                                     

    Once again , as she jerked her writhing posterior away from the flaming fury of the searching leather wand, the half-nude penitent's hips surged forward and her thighs parted, momentarily displaying the silken purse of her sex to the profaning eyes of her audience. After the clinging lash had peeled away from her undulating bare buttocks, the unfortunate beauty continued to sob brokenly, her breasts heaving with gasping breaths. With head bowed and skirt .still raised, the Princess Lesley was the perfect epitome of  a soundly-whipped schoolgirl despite her twenty-one years of age.                                              

     Queen Margaret gazed smugly at her whimpering stepdaughter, well pleased with the effects of the thrashing thus far. Then with measured firmness in her voice she calmly announced, "Your punishment would be over now, Lesley, if not for your childish impertinence earlier. You've got a little supplement coming for that, and then a final test of obedience to follow. If I get any resistance, you'll wish you had never been born with a bottom, I assure you!"                 

     The stern matriarch then leaned forward and fixed her sniffling stepdaughter with an icy stare. She coldly ordered, "Now you are going to turn around, bend over, and touch your toes for two extra strokes for breaking pose during punishment."

     Vanquished in body and spirit by the onslaught of pain to her martyred behind, the young princess of Neufundland  province docily obeyed her vindictive parent. Keeping her skirt and petticoat well above her waist, the tearful sufferer turned and dutifully inclined her half-naked body; freely presenting her red-streaked posterior globes to her I waiting executioner.

     Bent as she was, despite her efforts to  keep her legs tightly together, the cleft striped mounds of the Princess Lesley's beaten backside parted, lewdly  displaying the pink-lipped seam of her slit, lasciviously framed by downy ringlets of dark blonde pubic hair.      Prostrating herself in this obscene and shameful position, the girl's blush deepened as she felt the degrading coolness of the air on her moist love-slit. Out of maiden modesty, the Princess Lesley instinctively tightened the welted cheeks of her jutting bottom in a vain effort to diminish her nakedness before the gathered nobility. From her inverted pose, she heard her stepmother's terse command.   

     "Miss Simpson, please finish this impudent baggage's punishment so we can get to our dinner." Queen Margaret ordered.

     The Stern housekeeper inclined her head respectfully then stepped into position behind the penitent princess. The woman waited patiently for her victim to relax the contraction of her tensing buttocks, then impassive swept two whistling lashes into the slackly waiting mounds. Cutting just under the hemispherical curve of the girl's defenseless bare bottom, the strong driving strokes ferociously attacked the tender underbuttocks of the hapless sufferer's wobbling hillocks, visibly lifting the jellied mounds of agonized flesh. Piercing screams answered each lancinating cut and the limpened cheeks of the Princess Lesley's beaten buttocks jiggled furiously under the searing bite of the lash.

     To increase her helpless victim's suffering, Miss Simpson craftily dealt the final lash of the princess's punishment after only a fifteen second interval; driving the evil whalebone switch into the screaming girl's writhing bottom ovals just when the pain had reached its peak from the prior cut. Skillfully delivered with maximum force on the same band of swollen dreadfully-smarting flesh just previously struck, the fiendishly-stinging tip of the lash slipped between the shuddering globes of the Princess Lesley's tortured behind to come to burning rest in the shadowy crease which separated those welt-ridged mounds of striated flesh .

     As the braided tail of the lash plucked venomously at her most sensitive flesh just inches from the quaking lips of her cunt, the Princess Lesley lifted her head and uttered a savage shriek. The anguished beauty's fingertips momentarily left her toes during the involuntary straightening of her bent torso. But in a desperate attempt to hold position and not incur added abuse to her horribly martyred backside, the young princess frantically clasped her slim ankles as searing agony coursed through her pain-racked body. The knuckles of the lovely sufferer's hands whitened as she tightly gripped her trim ankles while the luridly-wealed cheeks of her throbbing red-streaked bottom twitched and heaved spasmodically.

     At the juncture of the sobbing penitent's svelte thighs, beneath the base of her red-striped posterior, the pouting fig of her sex peeped back salaciously amidst the involuntary lewd yawning and contracting of her tortured gluteal masses. Unchecked tears dotted the stone tiles of the dining room floor as the Princess Lesley wept openly, her bent body racked by wrenching sobs. The vanquished sufferer was past caring that her enforced pose and convulsive quiverings blatantly exposed the most private parts of her naked body to the lusting male eyes in her audience. She just knew she could not bear another stroke of the whip to her poor piteously-wealed backside.

     Behind the bowed figure of the whimpering princess, Miss Simpson inspected her handiwork, a grim smile momentarily curling the thin lips of her cruel mouth. A tapestry of swelling purple and crimson stripes blazed brightly on the corrugated skin of the girl's trembling bare bottom, as the throbbing twin hillocks of once-creamy flesh continued to twitch and shiver where the lash had bitten. The stern disciplinarian looked questioning at her employer, her implacably countenance expressionless and hard.

     Queen Margaret intently observed her stepdaughter's scored posterior. Then after a somewhat nervous glance at King Charles, she turned to her housekeeper and said, "That should suffice for now, Miss Simpson. Please leave the  switch in my room."   

     An almost imperceptible tremor could be detected in the Queen's voice during her last command. But after the departure of her black-garbed servant, the woman called to the princess in a clear voice. "You may get up now, Lesley, and lower your dress."

      Moaning plaintively, the still-sniffling penitent I straightened her bowed figure and let her skirt and petticoat fall in place. At the touch of her clothing on her still burning flesh, the contrite beauty gave a dull gasp as fresh tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes.

     The young woman's stern parent gave a look of complicity to her smirking brother, Sir Richard, then calmly ordered, "Please join us at the table, dear."

     With a rueful nod of her head, Princess Lesley hobbled painfully over to her chair. Each mincing step brought renewed anguish to the lovely martyr's beaten bottom as the rubbing of her thighs and the wobbling of her swollen nether globes revived the pain of the whipping. Even the simple grazing of her clothing on her scorched posterior was agony, and the girl's behind felt like it was twice its weight, the richly-wealed cheeks fat and heavy.

     The Princess Lesley paused for a moment as she hovered  her seared rump over the seat of her chair, a look of despondent dismay clouding her pain-ravaged face. Then with a  sigh of resignation, the unfortunate sufferer gently eased her abused bottom down. At the contact of her welt-ridged flesh on the chair seat, the girl bit her lips with a grimace as more tears trickled down her cheeks.

     Queen Margaret smiled grimly as she leaned forward and  folded her fingers beneath her chin.  Fixing her stepdaughter with a look very similar to one that a spider would give a  fly, the unrelenting matriarch announced, "Now then, Lesley.  To see if your little lesson has had any effect on your behavior and obedience, and seeing as your obstinacy has made it necessary for our guests to wait while the maids re-warmed the dishes; you are going to give us a little visual diversion. We have seen your lovely behind and front already. So all that remains is your breasts. Bare your bosom, Lesley. "

     The color drained from the Princess Lesley's troubled countenance as she stared in disbelief at her smirking tormentor.

     Queen Margaret returned her stepdaughter's baleful stare and said, "I can always send for Miss Simpson, my dear."

     Faced with this dire threat from her vindictive adversary, the Princess Lesley reluctantly lifted her hands to the bodice of her dress. Outraged shame and hatred blazed in the young woman's tear-swollen eyes as she fumbled with the buttons on her dress. True to her stepmother's earlier claim, the princess had nothing on beneath her clothing.

     Firm and jutting, the highly set snowy-white mounds of the blushing penitent's beautiful bosom appeared. The widely spaced globes of resilient flesh thrust out boldly from the girl's chest without the aid of artificial support. At the crest of each pear-shaped breast, the crinkly pink bud of a nipple protruded, centered in the dark coral of its aureole. Erratic quivering shook those luscious love gourds as thick tears of shame rolled down the sobbing young noblewoman's flushed cheeks.

     The girl's domineering parent strode over to the wall and pulled a bellrope to summon a maid. Almost immediately, a white-aproned servant appeared. The young maid was in her teens and the stupefied look she gave the half-nude princess made poor Lesley blush to the roots of her hair.

     Queen Margaret looked at the shocked servant and calmly said, "Bridget. Our dinner was unexpectedly delayed. Would you please see to it that the dishes are heated up again."

     The young girl mumbled, "Yes, your Highness."

     Then after a quick curtsey and another furtive glance at the Princess Lesley, she scampered out.  

     A quick succession of kitchen servants followed, each one either bringing a hot plate of food or removing a cold one.  Either by coincidence or design, it seemed like a different maid appeared each time and the princess's blush spread to her neck and shoulders as the bustling young girls all paused long enough in their duties to gaze at the sniffling noblewoman's naked humiliation.

     After the last servant had reluctantly departed, the meal proceeded. The Princess Lesley ate little of the food on her plate, picking half-heartedly at her dinner while she longed for her ordeal to end. It was indeed a painful penance she would not soon forget.

                                                                                 Epilogue

           Night had fallen in Neufundland province as darkness descended on the castle of the royal family.  The Princess Lesley slept fitfully, her flushed cheek pressed against a tear-wet pillow.  The anguished beauty's nightgown was rucked up to her waist and a damp towel covered the tumified flesh of her beaten bare buttocks.  The young penitent moaned softly in her sleep; no doubt reliving the pain and humiliation of her infamous chastisement.  

           However, as the Princess Lesley tossed and turned in her bed, another erotic tableau of domestic discipline was unfolding in a different part of  Neufundland castle; with different participants of royal lineage.

           The north wing of Neufundland castle housed the royal bed chambers of King Charles and his wife, Queen Margaret.  The heavy oak door of the hallway leading down that empty corridor was bolted from the inside and an eerie stillness hung heavy in the cool night air.  And while all was quiet in the rest of the vast stone building,  faint sounds could be heard coming from  behind the  locked door of the royal bed chamber.

           A snickering lisp threaded through the air, and after a pause another one.  Once more a muffled snap followed by a moan and a caught cry.

           In the flickering candlelight which illuminated the King and Queen's bedroom, two figures were visible, one standing and one prone.  

           The Queen Margaret lay naked in all her insolent beauty prostrated over the footrail of the bed.  At forty years of age, the King's new wife was in the full ripeness of her sexuality.   

           Standing behind the lush nude body of his squirming spouse,  King Charles contemplated the fleshy mounds of her out-thrust buttocks.  Those full-fleshed posterior globes were  emblazoned with six livid welts from the same riding switch that had done such yeoman's service on the King's own his own daughter Lesley's bare backside earlier that evening.

           The King's ruddy face grew ruddier as he observed his wife's pouting vulva, framed in a nest of rich pubic curls at the base of her wealed bottomcheeks between her slightly parted thighs.  The fleshy petals of the inner lips of Queen Margaret's loveslit showed pinkly between the thick, almost rubbery outer folds and dewy droplets glistened on the inverted fissure of the opened groove.

           King Charles reached down and stroked the empurpled, duck-like head of his heavy phallus which probed through the parted folds of his robe.  Then, with his erect manhood swaying with his movements, the King of Neufundland province stepped forward, raised his arm, and dealt another slicing cut into the cringing mounds of the Queen's squirming bare behind.  The eel-like switch buried itself in the yielding flesh of the two glorious naked hemispheres, flattening the flinching globes before snapping back elastically; leaving a scorching twin-tracked weal in its wake.  Warming to his task, King Charles then pivoted to his right and delivered a sweeping backhanded stroke into the jellied mounds of his wife's martyred bare behind.

           Face down on the bed, Queen Margaret heard the familiar sinister swishing sound as the leather switch descended and slashed across her naked, shuddering hindquarters.  She heard her own involuntary, choking, gasping cry and tasted the shaming tears that trickled down her flushed cheeks.  While the suffering noblewoman cursed the flagging strength in her body as her will weakened under the onslaught of pain to her cringing, welt-ridged buttocks; she also damned her own bravado when she had agreed to her husband's decree upon relinquishing the upbringing and discipline of his headstrong daughter.

           Under the King's motto, “Don't demand anything of our young, we wouldn't take ourselves.”, each of the Princess Lesley's prescribed chastisements would be repeated on the Queen's royal, bare backside the same evening.  That would explain the uneasiness in Queen Margaret's voice earlier in the day when she had allotted extra strokes of the lash to her defiant step-daughter; knowing she herself would receive them as well.  It also explained why the Queen took to her room for several days following the Princess Lesley's past whippings, citing womanly problems or some other malady, lest her unsteady gait or mincing step betrayed the state of her own punished posterior.  

           With his stony erection hardening even more, King Charles continued to ply the lash to his naked spouse's condemned behind.  And while he did not possess the cunning and dexterity of a skillful and experienced chastiser like Miss Simpson, the robust monarch's strength and vigor served him well in his fustigatory efforts.

           For as many as eleven cuts, Queen Margaret stoically held back her cries.  But she could hear her strangled, teeth-clenching gasps become louder and more unrestrained, more high-pitched, as stroke by stroke, what self-control she had left slipped away.  At the twelfth cut, her fortitude gave way and the suffering noblewoman began to cry out musically, with full-throated yelps of pain, at each succeeding lash of the rapier-like switch.

           The Queen's screams and lamentations rang off the walls of the royal bed chamber and echoed down the deserted stone corridor of the hallway as the searching leather wand licked and snapped at the corrugated flesh of her trembling, furiously-wealed bottomglobes.

           And while the Princess Lesley was unaware of what was taking place in the opposite wing of Neufundland castle; she would have undoubtedly slept more soundly had she known, that at that moment, another sore-bottomed member of the royal family was also learning the true meaning of discipline.

                                               Epilogue

       Night had fallen in Neufundland province as darkness descended on the castle of the royal family.  The Princess Lesley slept fitfully, her flushed cheek pressed against a tear-wet pillow.  The anguished beauty’s nightgown was rucked up to her waist and a damp towel covered the tumified flesh of her beaten bare buttocks.  The young penitent moaned softly in her sleep; no doubt reliving the pain and humiliation of her infamous chastisement. 

       However, as the Princess Lesley tossed and turned in her bed, another erotic tableau of domestic discipline was unfolding in a different part of  Neufundland castle; with different participants of royal lineage.

       The north wing of Neufundland castle housed the royal bed chambers of King Charles and his wife, Queen Margaret.  The heavy oak door of the hallway leading down that empty corridor was bolted from the inside and an eerie stillness hung heavy in the cool night air.  And while all was quiet in the rest of the vast stone building,  faint sounds could be heard coming from  behind the  locked door of the royal bed chamber.

       A snickering lisp threaded through the air, and after a pause another one.  Once more a muffled snap followed by a moan and a caught cry.

       In the flickering candlelight which illuminated the King and Queen’s bedroom, two figures were visible, one standing and one prone. 

       The Queen Margaret lay naked in all her insolent beauty prostrated over the footrail of the bed.  At forty years of age, the King’s new wife was in the full ripeness of her sexuality.  

       Standing behind the lush, nude body of his squirming spouse,  King Charles contemplated the fleshy mounds of her out-thrust buttocks.  Those full-fleshed posterior globes were  emblazoned with six livid welts from the same riding switch that had done such yeoman’s service on the King’s own  daughter Lesley’s bare backside earlier that evening.

       The King’s ruddy face grew ruddier as he observed his wife’s pouting vulva, framed in a nest of rich pubic curls at the base of her wealed bottomcheeks, between her slightly parted thighs.  The fleshy petals of the inner lips of Queen Margaret’s loveslit showed pinkly between the thick, almost rubbery outer folds and dewy droplets glistened on the inverted fissure of the opened groove.

       King Charles reached down and stroked the empurpled, duck-like head of his heavy phallus which probed through the parted folds of his robe.  Then, with his erect manhood swaying with his movements, the King of Neufundland province stepped forward, raised his arm, and dealt another slicing cut into the cringing mounds of the Queen’s squirming bare behind.  The eel-like switch buried itself in the yielding flesh of the two glorious naked hemispheres, flattening the flinching globes before snapping back elastically; leaving a scorching twin-tracked weal in its wake.  Warming to his task, King Charles then pivoted to his right and delivered a sweeping backhanded stroke into the jellied mounds of his wife’s martyred bare behind.

       Face down on the bed, Queen Margaret heard the familiar sinister swishing sound as the leather switch descended and slashed across her naked, shuddering hindquarters.  She heard her own involuntary, choking, gasping cry and tasted the shaming tears that trickled down her flushed cheeks.  While the suffering noblewoman cursed the flagging strength in her body as her will weakened under the onslaught of pain to her cringing, welt-ridged buttocks; she also damned her own bravado when she had agreed to her husband’s decree upon relinquishing the upbringing and discipline of his headstrong daughter.

       Under the King’s motto, “Don’t demand anything of our young, we wouldn’t endure ourselves.”, each of the Princess Lesley’s prescribed chastisements would be repeated on the Queen’s royal, bare backside the same evening.  That would explain the uneasiness in Queen Margaret’s voice earlier in the day when she had allotted extra strokes of the lash to her defiant step-daughter; knowing she herself would receive them as well.  It also explained why the Queen took to her room for several days following the Princess Lesley’s past whippings, citing womanly problems or some other malady, lest her unsteady gait or mincing step betrayed the state of her own punished posterior. 

       With his stony erection hardening even more, King Charles continued to ply the lash to his naked spouse’s condemned behind.  And while he did not possess the cunning and dexterity of a skillful and experienced chastiser like Miss Simpson, the robust monarch’s strength and vigor served him well in his fustigatory efforts.

       For as many as eleven cuts, Queen Margaret stoically held back her cries.  But she could hear her strangled, teeth-clenching gasps become louder and more unrestrained, more high-pitched, as stroke by stroke, what self-control she had left slipped away.  At the twelfth cut, her fortitude gave way and the suffering noblewoman began to cry out musically, with full-throated yelps of pain, at each succeeding lash of the rapier-like switch.

       The Queen’s screams and lamentations rang off the walls of the royal bed chamber and echoed down the deserted stone corridor of the hallway as the searching leather wand licked and snapped at the corrugated flesh of her trembling, furiously-wealed bottomglobes.

       And while the Princess Lesley was unaware of what was taking place in the opposite wing of Neufundland castle; she would have undoubtedly slept more soundly had she known, that at that moment, another sore-bottomed member of the royal family was also learning the true meaning of discipline.