I have been very close to chicken out and not put this second part on the blog. I do blush as I read it and I suppose I at least managed to shock one person. But it is here now, the second and concluding part. The editing was minimal and you have to take it for what it is, a naughty story.
'Come lie over the armrest of your armchair!' he told her and all eyes turned to her as she squirmed in her seat. She blushed and realised that there was no escape. She slowly rose to her feet, stepped round the armchair, looked around with a worried expression on her face. She saw only smiling faces, encouraging faces, no sympathy or pity. All of us wanted to see her being whipped.
She slowly prostrated her body on the armrest as Mr Collins rose to his feet. He looked around and seemed a little nervous but all and everyone in the company seemed to urge him on.
'Lift your skirt!' he ordered, his voice excited.
Mrs Collins reached backwards and pulled at her skirt. It was wide enough to allow her to expose her bottom without lifting her body. I saw a slight trembling in her frame.
'Shall I let her keep her knickers on?' he asked in earnest.
'No, by no means, no!' my husband exclaimed encouraged by the other men.
'Never whip a woman on her knickers or on her clothes,' Mr Warwick declared, 'unless in a public space when it may be necessary to let her keep something on.'
They all laughed at that. Or at least the men laughed. The wives looked a little worried.
Mrs Collins didn't move. Although she knew by now that her knickers were coming down she was wise enough to wait for the order.
When it finally came she moved a little awkwardly as she pulled her green cotton knickers down. First just the little but when ordered halfway down her thighs.
Mrs Collins was now ready to receive her punishment.
'How many lashes?' Mr Collins asked.
'How many as you like,' said Mr Warwick.
'You decide,' said my husband.
Mr Jones nodded.
'But not less than twenty,' said Mr Warwick, 'for being late.'
'Shall she count them out loud?'
'If you want that.'
Mrs Collins wasn't used to this. She started squirming as soon as the first blow of the martinet landed on her bottom. She squealed and it took some time before she had composed herself enough to count.
Immediately the next blow fell and Mrs Collins cried out in agony and her hand reached out to her bottom where red stripes were appearing.
'You shouldn't allow her to touch her bottom,' Mr Jones said.
'Sarah, take away your hands!'
Reluctantly she removed her hands and was rewarded with another lash.
'Three,' she squealed while her bottom was wriggling. She gasped and seemed to be in much agony. I saw her body tremble and I imagined she was wondering if she could cope with much more.
The fourth blow fell and Mrs Collins cried out and was sobbing softly before she composed herself enough to whisper:
'Harder!' my husband said, 'you can beat her much harder.'
'She can take much more,' Mr Warwick said
Mr Collins collected himself, took a deep breath and let the martinet swing and land with a loud crack on the naked bottom of Mrs Collins. She cried out in agony, her scream ending in a long squeal.
'Please, please,' she sobbed, 'I can't take anymore, please, no more.'
Mr Collins looked confused but seemed to take a deep breath and compose himself.
The men around the table nodded approvingly as Mrs Collins gasped.
The punishment of Mrs Collins continued with much squealing and and crying but she was disciplined and obedient enough to compose herself after each powerful blow of the martinet on her exposed bottom and count the strokes.
Mr Collins kept on whipping his wife until the counting reached 25 and after that he stopped the punishment.
Mrs Collins was sweaty, her white bottom shining bright red and blueish in places, her body trembling when she was allowed to pull her knickers up and rise from the armchair.
The very flustered and teary faced Mrs Collins sat down gingerly in her armchair as the other guests looked on approvingly. They were happy for her punishment and glad she had taken it but there was no sign of sympathy, not even from the other women.
'Wipe that smile from your face, Kate!' my husband said and I was startled feeling caught out. I guess I had been smiling, having enjoyed the whipping of Mrs Collins.
'Forgive me,' I said and bowed my head.
'I know something far better,' he said, 'something that will teach you to never forget your position.'
'Yes, sir,' I said, trembling.
'Harry, will you please give me the martinet,' he said, turning to Mr Collins.
He got the martinet as he rose to his feet.
'Kate, over the armrest!'
His order was swift and spoken in a calm voice. I knew better than to dally. I was on my feet immediately and soon I had draped my body across the armrest, bottom sticking up in the correct angle.
'Spread your legs!' he ordered'
I was blushing as I obeyed knowing that my sex was now fully visible to our guest.
I did as I was ordered.
He wasn't satisfied until my feet were uncomfortably wide apart and I realised that my sex was not only visible but fully on display and wide open.
He soon proceeded to whip me. He was a master with the martinet and he didn't hold back. I squirmed as the first lash hit me across my bottom. I gasped and held my breath. I didn't have to count but I was sensing that it would be a struggle to cope with this.
He waited before he let the martinet fall again but the force rocked my body forward and I had to cry out in pain. Tears welled up in my eyes but I did not protest. I never protested.
He whipped me good, waited between lashes. But gave them to me with great force. He whipped me across the buttocks and occasionally on the thighs, choosing which one to target. Sometimes he made them long so they wrapped around my body, stinging my belly and sometimes short so they hit my tender sex making my body jump. Sometimes he hit three in quick succession and then I almost lost it and fell off the armrest.
I lost my concentration and soon I wept and cried and sobbed, worse than Mrs Collins but I never pleaded with him. I took my whipping without protests.
I got many more than poor Mrs Collins. She had endure 25, I got 75 and my husband was a better man with the martinet than Mr Collins.
I was sweaty as I fell back on my knees, spreading them wide. I looked around and saw admiration in the eyes of the guests. This was the way to whip a woman and they knew it. I felt proud of him. I knew he was good.
My whipping had the effect of not only making me suffer but it also made the arousal I had experienced grow to an almost unendurable level. The fact that I had been whipped on my sex on occasions did not diminish this sense of arousal, instead it seemed to increase it. I wanted, very much our guests to leave so we could deal with this in private.
My wishes was not to be fulfilled. Instead my husband ordered me to walk around among the guests in order to let them get the opportunity to inspect my whipped body and touch my welts.
This they did with some enthusiasm. I had to endure their hands on my hot and aching bottom. Some of their hands were cold and this soothed me somewhat but their touch was still painful. I resisted an urge to look behind and inspect my bottom. I was sure it was a mess.
Although it was smarting it was still quite numb, something I was grateful for. I knew the real soreness would come later.
Walking round among the guests having them touch my tender skin did nothing to calm my overwhelming and humiliating sense of arousal. On the contrary, although the touching was unwelcome it heightened the sense of excitement.
Some of the hands on my battered behind was quite intrusive and some felt they had the right to use this opportunity to grope me a little. Mr Warwick was the boldest and let a hand slip in between my legs to touch my sex and briefly slip into me. I held my breath but could not avoid sensing how much this stimulated my already excited senses.
The bold Mr Warwick didn't fail to notice this and pointed it out loudly.
'I think your wife enjoyed your treatment, John' he declared.
They all laughed heartily at this remark and I blushed and hoped that it would be enough but Mr Warwick was not to be dismissed that easily.
'Well Mrs, are you aroused?'
I looked in panic at my husband.
'Kate, I think you should reply to that.'
'Yes, sir,' I replied and tried to avoid letting my disappointment be heard, 'yes, sir, I am aroused.'
They all chuckled and Mr Warwick seemed very pleased with that.
'Why waste such an opportunity?' he continued.
'You are right,' my husband replied, 'Kate, go and get some ropes and the Member!'
I was wise enough not to protest. I didn't want them to get a reason to trash me any more. I walked on rather shaky legs over to the cupboard and got some ropes and the Member. The Member was the name of a very large green dildo that was kept in store for very special occasions. I would never forget the day I spent with the Member showed up my sex and how hard it was to concentrate on my ordinary work.
I presented the ropes and the Member to my husband on my knees and I felt the anticipation rise in the audience. My hands were soon tied behind my back and I was conducted to a low table where I was ordered to sit and still spread my legs wide.
I had hoped that it would not come to this. I was more embarrassed about my arousal showing than the effect of pain and suffering, I was not overly embarrassed about crying in front of others but being aroused, let alone being satisfied was utterly shameful for me.
The shy Mrs Jones was called forward and given the Member. She knelt in front of me and told where to put it. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I felt the green thing press against my sex. I felt utterly intruded upon as it slipped into me.
I closed my eyes to endure this ordeal as Mrs Jones, on the order of the onlookers started to move the Member, slowly in and out. At first it wasn't too bad and I struggled to stay calm. Soon, however, the effect of the ceaseless stimulation of my already excited sex could not be ignored. I was torn between my determination to not let this affect me and the pleasure it, really, was sensing the Member glide in and out of me.
The desire to give in to that pleasure grow strong but my resistance was likewise strong. I knew it would be so easy to give in, to let go and have it over and done with. I didn't want that. I didn't want them to watch me lose control.
Mrs Jones was persistent and relentless and soon my bound and still very naked body wriggled and twisted in the agony of this treatment. At last there was a point where I had to give in and where I felt that I welcomed its movements and where I wanted it to take me to the point where there was no return.
'Stop!' my husband said and Mrs Jones stopped. I was panting. He had spotted the very moment when I was giving in and when my mind and my body in concert desired to come.
I sat panting, lost, my body aching, wanting to come but being denied. I was devastated, I was defeated and in that moment denied the pleasure of being conquered.
They all looked at me as I sat panting, breathing deeply, calming down, just a little.
When my husband deemed the time right he ordered Mrs Jones to continue and she did. My resistance was short lived this time. His order to stop came just in the right, or, for me, the wrong moment.
This sweet agonising torture continued for a long while and I lost track of the times I was taken to the brink of an orgasm and then denied it.
There came a point when my body was not to be denied. I exploded and in that moment I didn't care if the whole world was watching. I behaved in the most degrading manner as I squealed and sighed as I came.
As I came around I found that seven pairs of eyes were fixed on me and they were accompanied by smiling faces. I saw no menace in the faces and they all looked very pleased. I supposed the mutual pleasure among them had different reasons. I assumed the men found a more simple pleasure in seeing me come like that while the women enjoyed my humiliation and the fact that they were spared, this time.
My husband walked up to me and took the Member from the hands of the still trembling Mrs Jones. He smiled at her and dismissed her. He turned to me and looked me in the eyes.
'Well done, sweet Kate,' he said as he took hold of me left nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisted and turned, hard.
I cried out in pain. And sat panting as he released me from the ropes. I felt subdued as I fell to my knees again, spreading my legs wide open and taking position, yet again, with back straightened, and bosom pushed forward.
It was time to end the party and the friends seemed sad to leave but it was getting late. I followed them to the door, helped them with their coats and had to endure their goodbyes that included kissing on cheeks and the mandatory touching and the occasional slipping into me with fingers. I wasn't aroused this time. I felt just intruded upon and somehow, it brought home even more clearly than at arrival that my body was at their disposal. I knew that this was what my husband wanted.
I didn't have to put things in order after the party immediately. My husband told me it could wait and I was grateful, feeling exhausted after the evening.
We brushed out teeth together and I looked at my bottom in the mirror. The martinet always made a mess of it and I felt how the numbness was giving way to a throbbing pain I knew would make it hard for me to fall asleep. Hopefully my public display would make me so tired and relaxed that sleep would come to me soon.
I needed my sleep. I had a hard day tomorrow. There was a faculty meeting and I knew it would be an ordeal sitting through the day on my whipped bottom. Being the head of the department made it necessary that I attended and, besides, my husband would never allow me to take a day off, just because I had been whipped the night before.
Still naked I cuddled up beside him in bed.
'Are you satisfied with the evening, Fitzwilliam, my husband?'
'I am, very much so,' he replied, 'and my name is not Fitzwilliam.'
This was a recurring and very silly joke.
'I know, Mr Darcy.'
'If you are not careful, I will let you sleep with the gag.'
'That would be dreadful.' I said, yawning.
Sleeping with the gag was almost impossible for me. I panicked with the gag in my mouth and although I could get used to it, it was terribly uncomfortable and horrible. I didn't want the gag and he knew it. He would only gag me if he really wanted to make a point.
'Good night, Mr Darcy!'
'Goodnight, my beautiful pet, goodnight slave Kate!'
'Goodnight, my Master!'
I didn't hear more as I drifted off to sleep.