The Red Collection Read Online Free Page A

treatment to my already smarting rump. Progress up the stairs is particularly difficult for me, with my hands still on my head, but my Master gently guides my faltering steps.
    The first room we enter offers quite a sight. A young woman, completely nude, is draped over a thickly upholstered couch. Her bottom is a blazing pink, all over, and she’s sobbing. Behind her stands another young woman, a breathtaking beauty; her face is flushed, her arm is high, and in her narrow, patrician hand she grasps a paddle.
    ‘My daughter, Mariette,’ announces Madame proudly, and the enchanting disciplinarian bobs a curtsey.
    ‘Charmed, Monsieur,’ she answers prettily, her fingers moving on the paddle she still clutches, as if she is anxious to continue with her task. Her fine eyes settle momentarily on my semi-nakedness, and her lips – so like her mother’s – quirk with longing.
    ‘Pray do not let us disturb you,
chérie
,’ encourages Madame. ‘Monsieur here is anxious to see how we deal with our charges … He will shortly be putting Susan into our hands.’
    ‘Of course,
Maman
,’ says the young woman pleasantly, returning immediately to her task. She lifts her arm and the paddle descends with unexpected force. Mademoiselle Guidetty is far stronger than she looks. The owner of the unfortunate, becrimsoned bottom wails piteously, her hips shifting and weaving against the surface of the couch. She bears a fresh patch of deeper red on her rounded left cheek, and beneath her pelvis the moquette upholstery is visibly damp. I bite my lip to contain my moan of sympathy.
    In the next few minutes, the younger Guidetty treats us to a virtuoso display with the paddle, whilst her charge puts on a show of equal vivacity. The round tongue of leather crashes down with almost metronomic regularity, its point of impact constantly circling its chubby target. The punished girl bucks and heaves across the couch, her strident squealing unrestrained and deeply stirring.
    ‘Valerie has much to learn,’ observes Madame Guidetty, and just as she speaks, Valerie howls loudly, her torso stiffening.
    It is clear what has happened. Remaining rigid for a couple of seconds, the girl then flails her legs and pumps her crotch against the edge of the couch.
    ‘Oh, Valerie,’ murmurs Mademoiselle, accusingly, as the body she has been chastising jerks in orgasm. As we leave the room, she is lifting a cane from a selection in a drawer.
    ‘My daughter is quite a stringent disciplinarian,’ says Madame fondly as we move along a corridor. ‘I believe she inherits her gift from me.’
    My Master nods discreetly, in congratulation. I hobble behind them, my bottom bare, my flesh aroused. Other rooms pose other tests to my frazzled nerves …
    In one, an exquisitely good-looking young man is hand-spanking an older woman whom I seem to know. I start to sweat again and I gasp, recognising her as a formidable adversary across the bargaining table – my opposite number in another prestigious company. Briefly craning her neck she looks up at me, her eyes languorous, her mouth working as the pretty youth pounds her cheeks. If she recognises me, it seems to be of little importance to her. All that matters now is the growing torment of her reddened bottom.
    As we leave, Madame names the gorgeous boy as her son, Jean-Louis. I feel a sense of awe that in just one family there could be such fearsome gifts.
    We do not see Monsieur Guidetty. Although we hear his work …
    Before a closed door, we pause, listening to the sounds issuing from the hidden room beyond. I hear a heavy thudding slap, a ponderous doleful sound, then a low, weak groan. The slapping comes again, and the answering cry is ragged, extenuated, redolent with suffering. The slaps repeat. And repeat. The voice of their recipient gurgles. There is no way to tell whether the cries stem from agony or reflect a state of bliss.
    ‘This client has requested a closed room for his charge,’ says Madame in