LADIES IN LEATHER GLOVES

The Cane from a Gloved Hand

Strolling through the busy streets of Paris after lunch I suddenly saw her.    She was walking a few steps ahead of me.   The first thing I noticed was her beautiful black leather skirt.   It was of mid calf length and partially covered her high heeled, pointed black leather boots.   As the skirt had a vent at the rear, I could see her stockinged legs and the top of her boots with every step.

She was of medium height, maybe 5ft 4 inches, with shoulder length brown hair.   A mustard coloured corduroy jacket and an expensive looking black leather purse completed her outfit.   Her leather covered bottom wiggled slightly as she walked.   I was immediately fascinated.   Wanting to see her face, I quickened my steps and passed her without turning my head.   I walked fifty yards ahead and half-turned, pretending to look into the window of a shop.   When she closed up to me I shot her a furtive glance.   She was maybe 35 years old, with a pleasant face of Mediterranean complexion.   Under her jacket she was wearing a black woollen sweater which her ample breasts filled proudly.

I followed her for a while at what I thought was a prudent distance, still magically attracted by her beautiful leather skirt and her boots.   When she unexpectedly turned a corner, I closed up quickly.   She was waiting for me behind the corner and glared at me angrily.   “What the hell do you want from me?   You have been following me for the past ten minutes!”   Her voice was not loud, but her anger was clearly noticeable.

“I – I’m s-sorry, ma’am” I stuttered and felt my blood rush to my head.   “It’s, er, just that – well….”

“Well, what?” she insisted impatiently.

“It’s your skirt ma’am,” I finally managed to say, your beautiful leather skirt.   I know it’s unforgivable, but I have, er, this thing – with leather I mean.   I just could not resist looking at you, you look so beautiful in that skirt and these leather boots!”   There, I had said it.

A fleeting smile passed her pretty face.   “I see”, she said, you are one of these leather fetish guys.    Well, as you can see, I too like leather; so I guess we do have something in common”.   I was relieved how easy she seemed to take this.   But then she continued thoughtfully: “There is, of course, the matter of your punishment to consider.”  -  “Punishment, ma’am?   I don’t quite follow you.”

“Isn’t that obvious?   You didn’t really think your disgraceful staring after a lady would go unpunished, did you?   No, no, you will not get off the hook that easily!”

I had no idea how she wanted to punish me and asked what she had in mind.   “Have you ever received corporal punishment?” was her reply.

“Er, you mean – ah – a spanking?!”

“Maybe to start with, but I really thought more along the lines of a caning.   Have you ever been caned?”

“No, I haven’t,” I shot back, “and what makes you think I would let you?   I certainly will not”.

“Oh, come on,” she said.   “I’m pretty sure you have been surfing the Internet on your search for leather clad women.   You must have come across the spanking and caning scene too.   Most leather lovers are turned on by it.   So, perhaps I will be doing you a favour, who knows?   Or would you rather have me call that police officer over there and have you charged for pestering me in public?”

No, I certainly didn’t want her to do that.   “All right, you win,” I said to her.   “I will let you punish me”.

“Fine, that’s settled then.   I will expect you at 7 o’clock sharp this evening.   Don’t be late or you will regret it!”  With that she passed me a business card with her address.   Apparently she was living in a quite wealthy part of the city.  “Oh, and could you show me your driving licence, please!”   I had no idea why she wanted to see that, but I did not want to argue with her either, so I gave it to her and she pocketed it quickly.   “Just to make sure you will not forget our little appointment,” she smiled.   Then she turned on her heels and strode off without saying another word.   My eyes followed her well rounded leather encased bottom until she vanished around the corner….

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I looked around myself.   Was this real?   Nobody had noticed us.   I still held the lady’s card in my hand.   “Annabel K, Consultant” it said.   What sort of ‘consultant’ might she be, I wondered.   Back at my office I scanned the Yellow Pages, the local phone directory, even the Internet, but could not retrieve any information about the mysterious yet very attractive Mrs (or Miss?) K.

The afternoon passed uneventfully, but the nearer the hands of my watch approached 7:00 the more a knot in my stomach began to tighten.   At six I went to a nearby cafeteria for a quick cup of coffee and a roll.   I did not feel hungry at all.   Then I set out to find the house of Annabel K.   It took me about twenty minutes to get there, using public transport ( I commute by train from my home to work, so I did not have a car that day).   With ten minutes to go, I stood in front of a detached house in the middle of a well kept garden.   Nervously I walked up and down the street for another few minutes, then climbed the few stairs to the house, checked the name on the doorplate and range the bell.   It was exactly two minutes before seven.

The bell rang through the house, then after maybe half a minute, I heard the sound of high heels clicking on a stone flagged floor.   The door opened and there she was standing in the frame, dressed exactly the way I had seen her in the afternoon.

“Ah, you are on time.   Perhaps teaching you manners is not quite without hope,” she smiled.   “Come in, please!”   I stuttered a polite greeting and followed her into the house.   “Your punishment is going to take place in my study, this way please,” she announced over her shoulder and opened an oak panelled door.

The study was quite large, maybe fifteen by twenty feet and well furnished.   The central piece was a large desk carved from dark wood, probably oak, with a leather top.   Being located in a corner of the house it had windows on two sides, but the heavy curtains had been drawn, so I could not see out of the room (and nobody could see in from outside, which was probably more important at the moment).

“All right, let’s get to business”, she said.   “Take off your jacket, shoes, trousers and underwear, then get into that corner facing the wall and do not move until I tell you!”   I started to protest, but she would have none of it:  “Save your breath!   I always cane on the bare bottom and if you don’t follow my orders quickly you will only make things worse for yourself.   I was thinking of giving you three dozen strokes with my cane, but I’ll be happy to let you have more if you don’t obey more quickly;  it’s quite up to you!”.   She left the study and shut the door.   I did not have much of a choice, did I?   Off went my jacket and shoes, followed by my trousers and – after brief hesitation – my boxer shorts.   I put everything away neatly on a chair and stood there in my shirt and socks.   The shirt was long enough to cover most of my bare bottom.   Standing in the corner with my nose almost touching the wall, I waited for her to return.

A few minutes later I heard the door being opened.   “You can turn round and come here,” I heard her voice.   She too had taken off her jacket and was now only wearing her beautiful black leather skirt, the high heeled leather boots and he black roll neck sweater.   In her right hand she held a pair of gleaming black kid leather gloves and a rather large dark wooden hairbrush!   She noticed my glance and smiled.   “The hairbrush is for warming up your bottom before I’ll take the cane across it.   You might think of it as an additional punishment, but in fact I am rather doing you a favour,” she said.   She laid the brush on the top of the desk and slowly started to pull on her leather gloves.   They almost reached to her elbows.   When she was satisfied the gloves were fitting smoothly, she gripped the hairbrush again and slapped it menacingly a few times against her left leather clad palm.

“Take that chair and put it in front of the desk facing away from it!” she ordered.   It was a straight backed wooden chair, its seat covered in dark burgundy coloured leather.   When the chair was in its proper place she sat down on it.   She smoothed out the leather of her skirt, then tapped it a couple of times smartly with the hairbrush and said sternly: “Get across my lap, boy!”   When I was settled ‘comfortably’ in my punishment position, she folded my shirt tails away carefully and laid the cold wooden hairbrush on my bottom.   Punishment was about to start!

CRACK!  I had been spanked by my mother’s hand when I was a small boy, but never really hard.   I was not prepared for this lady’s punishment.   She really meant business!   The hairbrush cracked full force on my bottom, alternating each cheek, every few seconds.   How could a small piece of wood hurt so much?   I began to squirm and wriggle but she held my upper torso in an iron grip of her leather clad left hand.   There was no escape.   She fell into a steady rhythm with the brush now, my poor bottom felt hotter and hotter!   I soon started to beg her to stop, but she continued to let hard hairbrush slaps rain down on my poor bottom without bother to answer my cries.   When she started to move her target to my upper thighs I howled from pain, but she would not stop or even pause for a moment.

Tears were running down my cheeks from her relentless spanking.   My body bucked wildly under the onslaught of the brush, but my ordeal continued.   Finally I broke down completely, laying limp across her lap, all resistance gone and sobbing like a child.  “You’ll get a dozen more!” she announced.   Slowing her pace but putting even more force into them, she slammed twelve hard strokes across the tender crease where my cheeks meet the thighs, then she let the brush rest.

It took me several minutes before I calmed down.   She loosened the iron grip of her gloved hand and told me to get up.   She laid the brush back on the desk, then peeled off first her left then her right glove and deposited them on the desk beside the brush.   “Back to the corner!” she said.   “Hands by your sides, and don’t even think of touching your bottom, if you know what’s good for you!”

I heard her get up and leave the room.   My bottom felt twice its usual size, I could almost feel the heat radiating from it.   I dared not touch it even though I knew she was not in the room, but I turned my head quickly and looked down.   The part of my buttocks that I could see had the colour of very ripe tomatoes!

The grandfather clock in one of the corners had just struck the half hour when she entered again and asked me to come out of the corner and stand behind the chair.   She opened a cupboard.   On the inside of the cupboard door I could see hanging a row of canes in various lengths and couple of leather straps.   She selected one of the canes, which I estimated to have a length of about three feet and the thickness of my little finger.   It had a straight handle which was wrapped in leather for a length of about ten inches to make a better grip.   She bent the cane into a crescent between her hands, then swished it a few times viciously through the air to test its swing.   Apparently satisfied she put it on the top of the desk and I watched with awe as she slowly started pulling her leather gloves on again.   After having smoothed every wrinkle of the soft leather, she picked up the cane and flexed it between her now gloved hands again.   She then ordered me to turn around and bend over the back of the chair.   I was told to grip the front legs of the chair and to stick out my bottom.

“Now, my boy,” she explained.   “These are my rules:   You will receive three dozen strokes with the cane.   After each stroke you will count the number and thank me for it, like ‘one, than you ma’am; two, thank you ma’am….” and so on.   A failure in proper counting will result in a repetition of the stroke.   Likewise will lifting of a foot or letting go the chair with your hands.   Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am” I replied.

“Well then, let’s get started!” she said calmly.   From the corner of my left eye I watched her taking her position at my side.   I felt the cane being laid across the middle of my bottom firmly.   She tapped it lightly several times as she took measure, then – swish – crack, the cane slammed across both my cheeks.   A blinding pain set in a split second later.   As I fought for breath and tried to regain my composure, I heard her say: “I don’t think I heard you counting.”

“One, thank you ma’am,” I forced myself to say.

“Very well, but let that be your last warning, or…..!”

Tap, tap, tap, ….. swish, crack!   The second stroke hit my flesh a fraction lower.   “Two, thank you ma’am!”   She let ten or fifteen seconds pass between each stroke.   Just when the throbbing pain started to ease, the next stroke slammed home!

Number six hit the tender crease between cheeks and thighs.   I howled out loud, stood up and covered my behind with my hands without thinking of the consequences.

“What’s this?” came the sharp question.   “Get back into position immediately!   We agree, don’t we, that this stroke will be repeated.   For pulling a stunt like this I should give you half a dozen extra.   Did you hear me say you could touch your bottom?   I think not!   Don’t expect me to be so lenient next time!”

I apologised under tears and the stroke was repeated.   With absolute precision she hit the same spot again!   “Six, thank you ma’am!”

She spared my bottom for stroke number ten to twelve:   she gave me those across my thighs instead!   I thought I would faint, but I didn’t.   Would it surprise you to hear I missed the count at ‘ten’, so the stroke was repeated!   After the first dozen she let me recover for about five minutes.   I wasn’t allowed to get up, though.   Then the cruel punishment was resumed at the same pattern: nine strokes across the bottom three to hit my thighs.   Needless to say some strokes overlapped which caused me to shriek out in agony; it never caused my beautiful cane-mistress to go easier on me!

I was a sobbing wreck after the third dozen – including two repetition strokes.   I hung over the back of the chair until she allowed me to get up and almost collapsed when I tried.   I fell on my knees before my beautiful leather lady and she allowed me to kiss her gloved hands, saying I was forgiven.

When I had sufficiently recovered from my ordeal, I dressed and she offered me a generous single malt whisky, which I drank without sitting down.   She let me out at the front door, not without saying – smilingly – “Give me a ring anytime you want to stare at my leather skirt – you know the price now!”

You know what?   I might just do that!