Thumbs Up

Photos by Andy


Story by

Cherry Schneider

Melody trotted the horse happily into the yard and decided, on a whim, to extend her pleasures by giving the stable lads a taste of leather. After all, she thought, the boys had not had leather for nearly a week.
Probably they were now thinking that she had forgotten how
to use her riding whip. Indeed, she felt slightly guilty, wondering if she had been too lazy of late, preferring the comforts afforded by her social status rather than the more diligent work
of correction.
Young males, she had found from experience, were quick to assume that fairness meant leniency. They were even quicker to assume that leniency meant they could get away with anything. Constant reminders were therefore a necessity in any well ordered establishment.
The stable lads she employed were all Young Offenders; a dozen or so of them. Criminals who had opted for the Short Sharp Shock treatment – the SSS – six months of hard labour rather than six years of tedium in a regular prison.
The scheme was an entirely voluntary option for the lads. Several wealthy ladies with farms and stabling were involved – it being insisted that since the males were all under the age of twenty-one they should be in the sole charge of women and placed in pleasant country surroundings.
Most boys benefitted immensely from SSS, though little did they realise it. Not only did it persuade them to avoid future trouble, but they also developed a healthy respect for the power of women. Generally the lads were fitter on release than they were on sentence. Occasionally a prisoner was released with some heavy red marks on his body or a few bones broken b no one bothered about such trifles.
These thoughts floated through Melody’s mind as she rode up to the mansion, dismounted and handed her horse over to the Head Boy.
“I shall see the boys,” she announced, keeping hold of her flexible whip. The Head Boy tied the horse to a post then obediently went into the stables and yelled “Mistress Melody!”
She strode into the shed, her shiny black boots clomping on the earthen floor, looking at the row of boys all down on one knee with heads bowed.
“You’ll all have to work harder,” she announced. “Jolly hard, all of you, and that includes you…” The boy had moved slightly. Raising her leather whip high up over her head she slashed it down across his shoulders knocking him forward. A gasp, then a stifled yell, then a return to the submissive position.
Melody stood over the hunched boy for a long moment, pondering whether or not his actions deserved a second stroke.
She decided that they did; and a third, fourth and fifth. The flurry of blows knocked him over onto his hands and knees and the rubber-clad goddess took the opportunity to stamp down onto his fingers, crushing them into the gravel and eliciting a banshee wail e depths of his bulging larynx.
“Stop it. Stop it, you’re hurting me!”
Melody was appalled. What had he said – “Stop it, stop it, you’re hurting me.”
Of course, the last part of his utterance was a statement of the obvious. She was fully aware that she was hurting him and so was everyone else in the stables. Even if they simply heard the sound of the lash and its impact and the cry they knew that her whip was at work and was intended to hurt – that was its job.
It always caused hurt.
It was a top grade riding whip, luxury class.
So the crime was in the first two words – ‘Stop it’, not only said but repeated. He was attempting to give her orders!
This, she thought, is rebellion, mutiny, treason. Insubordination. A direct challenge to her authority, a personal insult.
She stamped her foot petulantly, not caring that the boy’s hand was still situated beneath it.
“You,” she said, indicating the Head Boy. “Fetch Deborah. Tell her to meet me at Naughty Boy’s stall.” The Head Boy jumped to his feet and scuttered off to find the Chief Groom.
Melody picked the disobedient youth up by the hair and dragged him, squealing, to the back of the stable block – a stall remote from the rest.
All the stalls had the names of horses over their entrances and the largest stall, occupying one whole end of the stables, displayed the name Naughty Boy. There was no such horse. No horse had EVER occupied that stall nor ever would. It had been built as part of the SSS facilities and adorned with useful equipment – iron rings, posts, well oiled pulleys, chains, irons, ropes, and inset handcuffs.
Any boy strung up in chains attached to pulleys at the top corners of the entrance would have the name Naughty Boy above his head. It was an area the boys dreaded and tried to approach no nearer than they had to.
Melody tossed the wailing youth onto the floor then crossed to a locked, mahogany cupboard on the rear wall. The key was on a chain around her neck so she unbuttoned her rubber dress to pluck it from between her breasts.
She opened the cupboard doors to reveal the array of contents dangling from little hooks within: whips, canes, straps, tawses, clamps and a wide variety of more exotic punishment tools.
Shortly, Deborah arrived at a trot, with the Head Boy in tow. “You wanted me, Melody?” asked the Chief Groom. She noticed the heap of sobbing flesh on the floor and smiled broadly.
Melody turned first to the Head Boy: “Bring the rest of them here. I want them lined up, at attention, facing the action. Have them at one side so that I can keep my eye on them.”
When the lad had disappeared on his errand, Melody explained the previous few minute’s events to Deborah.
“I have an absolute duty,” she said. “I must hand out a real taste of leather. No one must he allowed to get away with mutiny. This rebellious dog must be secured and dealt with.”
Deborah agreed that any other course of action would be unthinkable; the rest of the party must be present because the rebellion had occurred in public. “Pour encourage les autres,” she observed. “The target areas must be cleared of any impediment,” Melody directed. “Strip him.”
The Chief Groom energetically began to yank away the youth’s garments, kicking away his shoes, throwing his thin shirt to the ground, and harshly ripping off his trousers. When he was naked she turned to Melody and enquired: “A leg-spreader?” Melody nodded. “The 36-inch one should do.” The groom claimed the required implement from its hook on the wall. She sat down heavily on the supine rebel’s crotch and fitted the irons quickly, expertly, to his ankles.
“Now string him up,” said Melody. “I want him suspended beneath the ‘Naughty Boy’ name plate… By his thumbs.”
“By his thumbs, Ma’am?” Queried the pretty girl. She knew that the restraints inset beneath the name plate were specifically designed to secure a man’s wrists. “By his thumbs,” Melody repeated. She walked to the cupboard and withdrew a pair of thumb cuffs made of tough, flexible leather with a stout metal buckle and a steel ring for attachment to any handy chains. Deborah took the miniature cuffs and sat down on the rebel’s chest, gripping his left forearm between her knees to fit the first restraint to the thumb on the corresponding hand. She swivelled around and repeated the action on his remaining digit.
Melody stood watching; her breasts pouting beneath their rubber casing, black boots astride and the large whip well in evidence in the black rubber glove in her right hand.
The whip was quivering as if eager for work.
Her left gloved hand fingered the hard nipple that crowned her right breast as she gave her full attention to the fitting of the constraints.
The Head Boy arrived with the others but she paid them no attention for the moment. They saw the cruel smile on her open mouth, the haughty backward tilt of her head, and the pink flush of pleasure percolating to her face from the manipulated nipple. “Done, Ma’am,” said Deborah.
“Good. Now string him up from the roof I want him positioned beneath the ‘Naughty Boy’ sign, dangling by his thumbs.”
Deborah pulled the youth up from the floor, eager to comply with the directions. She attached the thumb- cuffs to the adjustable chains that were attached to the name-plate and began to twist the handle that would tighten them.
Melody noticed the arrival of the audience and used her whip to arrange them neatly at attention around the stall so that they would all have a good view.
“I will have those heels off the ground, Deborah,” Melody commanded.
“Wind each cord up slowly, get him firmly in the middle of the stall. A bit higher. I want to see some strain on those thumbs. No, down a bit, I require him to be on his toes… Good… Very good.”
The action of the leg-spreader meant that the young man’s head was considerably below those of the women, even when he was hauled up onto tiptoe. This made it easy for him to bow his head and avoid their gaze.
He let out a low groan.
Without hesitation, Mistress Melody stepped briskly behind him. She savagely raised her whip well up behind her head and let him have a brutal downward stroke on his backside. It took his breath away. His thighs surged forward and both toes left the ground, spreaders jangling. His arms and thumbs took the sudden weight.
The yell came some seconds later, a yell that communicated shock as well as being a shrill steam-whistle of pain.
“Rebellion,” pronounced Melody, (Slash! Crack!) “Will always,” (Slash! Crack!) “Be dealt with,” (Slash! Crack!) “Severely,” (Slash! Crack!).
The blows had him swinging, twisting. He appeared to be experiencing more difficulty than she expected in re-establishing a secure position for his toes.
Melody paused to laugh.
After a little while she turned to the Head Boy: “I want champagne.” He moved quickly, shooting out from the stall with fear instilled in his bones. She sat down on a chair, facing the spread-eagled boy, contemplating him with interest. There was no trace now of the passionate protest. His world was his backside, his legs, arms and thumbs.
The shock was making him sway backwards and forwards on his toes. Most amusingly he was failing to regain stability. He rocked back and forward, rhythmically, gently straining his upper limbs, back and legs. Nice, she thought, that her efforts had a knock-on effect. The few simple cuts across his buttocks had inaugurated an amusing variety of torment in other areas.
The punishment was salutary not only to the recipient but also to the boys lined up at attention.
She handed the whip to Deborah and watched whilst the chief groom wiled away a few moments by whittling away at the rebel’s buttocks.
Presently Mrs Bennett arrived with the Head Boy on a lead. The youth, looking considerably worse for wear, was being made to carry
an ice bucket with a magnum of champagne, a glass, and a plate of fresh cream cakes.
“Hello, Cook,” said Melody. “You didn’t have to come along yourself.”
“I caught this dog snooping around in the cellars,” the buxom woman snarled. “I’d already given him a good seeing-to with a frying pan before he snivelled something about running an errand for you… I thought you might like a cake or two, as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs Bennett. Yes, it was a nice thought.”
The cook released the Head Boy from the dog-lead and stood for a few moments watching Deborah with the whip. She noticed the unusual mode of restraint for the wretched rebel and commented: “Ah, the old ‘Thumbs Up’ routine. Haven’t seen that in years.”
“Won’t you stay and join us,” invited Melody, taking her first mouthful of cream-cake.
“That’s all right ma’am, I’ve left the kitchen lads unsupervised. They get up to all sorts when I’m away.”
Melody reached for the champagne bottle and gave it a fearsome shake before unwinding the wire fastener and prising the lid free with her strong fingers. The cork exploded with an ear-splitting pop and flew up to the roof. It hit, ricocheted downwards, bounced off the hard floor and buried itself deep into the rebel’s naked groin.
Melody was ecstatic. Deborah ceased the beating to applaud: “Wonderful shot, Ma’am.”
“It was, wasn’t it,” laughed Melody. “It was an accident, actually. I shall have to practice the technique until I can do it every time.”
She poured herself a glass of the Champagne and sipped it; it was excellent. The champagne will stimulate my ideas and my whip will stimulate his, she thought. She watched as Deborah returned to the task of whipping the rebel.
The young Groom was keen, eager, dedicated, but inexperienced. Her whip seared the flesh of the young man’s buttocks without truly biting home into the sensitive areas. He was in tears but Melody knew that he would not really start to regret his rebellion until she herself was wielding the vicious strip of leather It was funny the way he kept trying unsuccessfully to remain upright. At one moment he seemed to have got it right, then suddenly he went all wobbly again, and that brought on more stupid tears. It was so funny she could not help grinning.
She sipped more champagne and turned to the rigid line of boys.
“To business,” she announced. “Deborah has warmed him up for me. You will now learn how I deal with rebellion.
You will remain standing at attention throughout the session. Watch what happens to him. Watch his face, watch his toes, legs, arms and thumbs. If anyone thinks of fainting or falling around I will deal with them later.” Melody Stood and claimed the whip back from the Head Groom. She flicked it against the side of her expensive black boot and smiled at the rebel, her face relaxed, anticipatory, smug. Rebellion, she thought to herself, was not a good idea. After all, she possessed the leather and could apply it how and when and where she chose. She could decide the degree of force and the duration. She could determine the constraints and decide on his posture. None of these matters were under his control. His part was to supply the reception areas. It was not really a contest between leather and flesh, more a co-operative venture, a demonstration of how the whip served as an intermediary to bring benefits from herself to the recipient. Consequently, his cry of ‘Stop it’ had activated a chain of events which were bound to discomfort him.
As she watched him, his eyes kept closing as the pain from his alms, thumbs, ankles and buttocks flowed remorselessly through his body. Even his legs and feet must be hurting him. His neck must be suffering from throwing back his head as each stroke of the whip had cut in.
“Since your mouth got you into trouble, I shall deal with that first.”
She turned to Deborah and directed: “Bring me one of the three red leather bags from the bottom shelf of the cupboard.” Soon it was in her hands. She faced the rebel and opened the bag, saying: “See what I have got for you,” – emphasising the words ‘I’ and ‘you’. “It is something nice for you to eat. Look. A delicious pear.”
A steel object rolled out onto her glove. He looked at it through tearful eyes, bewildered. He had seen nothing like it before.
She enlightened him. “The name of this fruit is Prickly Pear. It is a gag. That is not a joke, unless, perhaps the joke is on you. If so the laughs are these sharp little spikes. Can you see them clearly? Here are four at the top of the pear. They are slightly longer than the others, but just as thin and just as sharp.” She touched them with her gloved finger. “See how they each probe outwards. They are looking for soft flesh, something they can work their way into. In a little while I expect they might find an area they like at the back of your throat. Notice the body of the pear – here and there among the tiny spikes are one or two longer ones.
There are four of these longer ones underneath, each with its little cluster of servants. These underneath will have the busiest job dealing with your tongue. I don’t know if you realise this, but the pear is quite heavy and its weight will help these four longer spikes to prick in. Notice here, at the bottom of the pear, there are more tiny spikes. They will be searching for your lips, gums and cheeks. The cutest thing is the pretty little butterfly nut that sticks out of at the front. I can use it to operate the encircling flanges – two at the top and bottom, two at the sides.
And here is a small lever which I can move according to whether I want to open the vertical flanges, the horizontal flanges, or both together. Both together is the normal setting. That is where the lever is now – on the right, see.”
She popped it into his mouth.
The fingers of her black rubber glove rotated the nut which turned easily. Deep inside the ingenious device well oiled cogs were being set in motion, the screw was activating levers, the slow expansion of the steel flanges bearing their nice little spikes had begun.
What a noise he was making. He did not seem to appreciate it at all.
After the first half turn of the screw the improvement was noticeable. After a full turn it seemed as if the movements of her fingers were actually turning on fresh tear ducts rather than adjusting the metal. Her hand seemed by itself to have made it impossible for him to swallow; the thin trickle of saliva over his lips apparently tumed on by the power of her wrist rather than by the cogs, levers and expanding flanges.
Her beautiful, shiny glove seemed to be forcing his teeth wider and wider.
Her red lips came closer to his face.
As she inspected his mouth, her lips themselves seemed to be magically creating the colourful flecks which were appearing in the growing trickle of saliva that was now dribbling slowly over his bottom teeth.
Smiling, her red lipstick glowing with satisfaction, Melody applied another slow half turn. What impressed her were the marine noises. The noises – whether intended to be words, cries, pleas or moans she did not know – seemed to be coming from under water and growing fainter with every quarter turn, as though her fingers were slowly turning down the sound of an annoyingly loud radio.
“How is your mouth now?” she asked solicitously. “Is it stretching, perhaps? Does it like the taste of my pear? I know the pear is enjoying itself. It is trying to tell you that a big mouth can get you into trouble.”
Slapping her whip merrily on her boot she resumed her seat.
She turned to the line of boys. “Look at his face. I think he would like me to remove the fruit. If he was able to speak he might plead that he had learned his lesson. But rebels are forgetful people and they are careless of their own self interests. I have to allow him time to learn the need to correct his behaviour and curb his foolishness. So he will suck on the pear for quite some time. Notice that the pear is very different from the whip. The whip is here, outside him, whereas the pear is there, inside him. Yet the two might be connected. If, when he receives the benefits of this whip, he rebels and bites the pear then all those nice spikes will have the job of teaching him not be so foolish and rebellious. Both the whip and the pear will remind him of the cause of these events – insubordination and a big mouth.” The line of young men were concentrating their attention away from the hapless victim, aiming their communal gaze on her lovely boots which she was flexing, cross legged as she sat, rotating her ankles under the gorgeous patent boots. “Your nipples are next,” she declared.
She stood up, approached him, and laid her whip across his chest, touching both nipples, the helpful leather tab laid on his right nipple in preparation for a backhander. She was a keen tennis player, and her backhand was just as strong and effective as her forehand.
She was surprised that the somewhat prolonged contact with her whip caused the nipples to harden and expand as if they were flowers trying to attract a bee. Well, she thought, they would soon discover that this was a bee that stung little flowers, and loved to sting again and again and again. Back went her arm, horizontally.
She was calm, concentrated, aiming to put her whole body to the aid of the whip. The stroke whistled in with considerable force, the trainer on the end vigorously thrashing his right nipple while eight inches away the thin stock of the crop sliced into the left one. One slash and not only did the nipples subside into dejected jellies, the whole line of his chest started thumping as he strove for breath. He was in agony and shock, his mouth champing on the pear, despite her helpful warning of the consequences of such foolishness.
“Give him a dose of smelling salts please, Deborah,” she commanded.
The Head Groom produced a small phial from the cupboard and removed the stopper. She pressed the open top of the bottle against one nostril and then the other.
Melody decided to deliver a double to even things up and measured herself for a forehand drive, the tab of her flexible whip touching, tapping and resting upon the left nipple and even this light touch seeming to increase his discomfort.
She concentrated, taking her time to adjust her posture. Then, along the same horizontal line, the whip thrashed home.
Despite the speed and power it was highly accurate, a first class overlay in which it was impossible, apart from the wide juicy impression of the trainer, to tell one stroke from the other.
She noticed the colourful bubbles coming from his lips, his chest heaving and lungs pumping. Surely the sweet pear was not impeding his breathing. She watched the chest go in-out, in- out. His eyes were suitably deferential to her since they were quite out of focus, but wide and bulging for her inspection.
After a minute or two he started to recover somewhat.
His breathing became slightly less laboured her pauses were obviously helping him – Yet his body movements continued jerkily and irregularly.
The right nipple in particular was looking decidedly the worse for wear. Maybe receiving the thrashing leather tip and then the thin stock was worse than the other way round.
But both nipples were looking very sorry for themselves.
She must tell nurse to attend to them in the morning.
Then she remembered that tomorrow was Friday and the nurse had already departed for her week-end break. He would just have to wait until Monday. She walked behind him and set her merry whip to work leisurely but extremely effectively.
The quaint results had her giggling, chortling, laughing, but always smiling, red lips blazing in satisfaction.
In contrast to his awkward dances with the spreader, her own nimble legs danced with joy, and her heels and toes came off the ground and landed firmly, lightly and without difficulty, just where she intended.
Thwack! Crack! Every now and again the leather would whip behind a knee and send not only one leg flying but both legs on an airborne journey of funny twisting swings.
The boy was obviously not bright enough to swing back immediately to a secure position with both feet on the ground. He made comic and unsuccessful stabbing efforts with one toe and then the other.
Every time his feet journeyed into space his thumbs seemed to grow a teeny weeny bit, but Melody felt sure this was just her vivid imagination. His head was in almost continual motion – forwards, backwards, jerking, rolling.
She walked round to the front, keen to witness the benefits of the fruit in his mouth, his head throwing itself forward as she came before him. “Are you trying to spit it out?” She queried pertly, her words dimly registering amid a sea of twanging agony. “Still rebellious, are you?
Fortunately, the pear is now larger than the gap between your teeth. Also, your mouth has foolishly anchored some of the spines. Maybe I should help you to dislodge some of them?”
She paused for thought, smiling.
Then her glove came up to his mouth and she took remedial action, waggling the butterfly nut as though she were stirring a cup of tea.
His head tried vainly to match her nimble movements. Certainly she seemed to have dislodged some of the spikes from entrenched positions. She gave the screw another quarter tum to take up the slack and allow the spines to find new areas to prick.
“Your mouth has just stretched a bit more,” she observed casually.
She looked carefully at his eyes. “I think you may be drifting away… Deborah, give him a good long sniff of the smelling salts please.”
This time the Pretty Groom realised that it would be easier if she pressed the butterfly nut down with one hand while pressing the bottle up against the nostrils with the other. The smelling salts were fresh and powerful, and assisted the rebel by clearing his head and dislodging some of the mucus that might have been making him feel a bit dizzy. He was now making noises.
What was he trying to say? She stood in front of him, tapping her whip on her left glove.
His nose was snorting, not as if it was being cleared, but as if it was protesting against her treatment. His eyes also seemed to have that slight hardness of resentment, of dislike, of complaint.
Melody nodded her head.
Yes, she thought, some of them never learn.
Her left hand went out and prodded the butterfly nut lightly. Her right hand tightened on the handle of her whip. The trainer on the end vibrated as if signifying its impatience for work. The whip, she knew, was a most agreeable servant. It went to a lot of trouble, it was diligent, enormously helpful, and it never complained.
She strode behind him. Yes, she thought, my whip wishes me to deal with this further rebellion straight away. It wants to find a place to rest somewhere around his buttocks and thighs.
A hard vicious spurt of repressed annoyance surged within her as she brought back her whip hand.
It was a pleasant ten or fifteen minutes, gradually reducing her petulance, gradually adding to her artistic pleasures as she evened things up – an overlay here, the striping of unmarked skin there. With each sizzling stroke she felt a bit better. She hoped he would be feeling worse.
She certainly hoped the renewed whipping would be sufficient to take the edge off his resentment. Finally, moving round to view his face she thought she had been successful. She sighed with relief. Returning to her chair she thankfully drank another glass of champagne – quite slowly – and consumed the second cake, licking the cream from her lips. Delicious, she thought, but rather naughty of me.