The silence in the room had stretched just long enough for Matt’s mind to start playing tricks on him. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of being utterly helpless, his senses registering only the heavy, comforting weight of the bedsheets and the inescapable black leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, secured by taught black rope to the heavy bedposts. The morning sun warmed his back, making the wait feel even more languid and loaded with suspense. He had agreed, as he always did, to Jane’s desire for a "game," but her creativity always managed to outpace his imagination. The thought of what she might have planned sent a shiver of both dread and excitement through him.
The soft click of the bedroom door opening broke the quiet. Matt tensed, a ripple of anticipation running through him. He heard the whisper of silk against the carpet and then a deliberate, heavy thump as Jane dropped something onto the wooden floor of the dressing area.
He twisted his head, just enough to see her. And his jaw went slack.
Jane stood bathed in the morning light, but she looked like a creature of elegant, judicial night. A delicate white lace babydoll hugged her curves, a stark contrast to the severe, knee-length black silk robe she wore over it, tied loosely at the waist. Black stockings climbed her thighs, and perched atop her head, in glorious, absurd splendour, was a powdered white barrister's wig, the kind seen in old English courtroom dramas. In her hand, held with the confident grip of a magistrate, was not a gavel, but her old, heavy, wooden-backed hairbrush.
She met his gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. It was a smile that promised mischief, authority, and absolutely no chance of parole.
Matt let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Oh, shit," he muttered into the pillow, a nervous laugh escaping him. He knew that brush all too well.
Jane glided to the end of the bed, the hairbrush tapping rhythmically against her palm. "Matthew Allen Sterling," she announced, her voice a low, theatrical purr that was nothing like her usual tone. "You stand before the high court of this bedroom, accused of numerous and heinous crimes."
She rapped the wooden brush against the bedpost with a sharp crack. "This court is now in session. The Right Honourable Judge Jane presiding."
Matt couldn't help but chuckle, the sound muffled by the sheets, but a prickle of unease started to mix with his amusement. "Heinous crimes? What did I do, leave the toilet seat up?"
"Silence from the defendant!" she boomed, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Your insolence is noted and will be taken into account during sentencing." The rhythmic tap of the brush against her palm seemed to amplify the warning.
She began to pace at the foot of the bed, her silk robe swishing with every step. "Charge the first: Gross negligence in the field of laundry. The defendant did knowingly and willfully leave a single red sock in a white wash, resulting in the pinkening of three bedsheets and a favourite t-shirt of the plaintiff."
Matt winced. That had actually happened on Tuesday. "It was an accident!" he protested. "A laundry mishap!" Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't matter.
"An accident?" Jane stopped pacing and leaned over him, her shadow falling across his back. The scent of her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and something muskier, filled his senses. "The court sees no accidents, Mr. Sterling. Only actions. And their consequences." His heart began to thump a little faster.
She continued. "Charge the second: Willful and malicious consumption of the last salted caramel chocolate bar, knowing it to be the express property and emotional support snack of the presiding Judge."
"I was going to replace it!" he insisted, though a grin threatened to break through. He knew this was all part of the act.
"A likely story! And finally," she paused for dramatic effect, "Charge the third, and most serious of all: On the evening of October the fourteenth, you did fall asleep during the critical mid-point of The Great British Bake Off, thereby showing unforgivable disrespect to both Paul Hollywood and the delicate art of the Victoria sponge."
Matt let his head fall completely onto the mattress, shaking with laughter. "Guilty," he groaned, the word laced with a nervous swallow. "Guilty on all charges."
"A confession," Jane murmured, her voice losing its judicial boom and becoming something far more intimate and dangerous. "How very sensible of you." She tapped the brush against the footboard again, a much softer sound this time. "However, before sentencing can be determined, this court must adjourn."
Matt lifted his head in surprise. "Adjourn? You can't just—"
"Silence!" Jane boomed, cutting him off sharply. Her face was severe, the smile vanished. "This Judge must attend to other duties. Namely, feeding the cat. Court will resume in 15 minutes. And I shall have absolute silence in my court, Mr. Sterling. Absolute. Silence. You will be punished for contempt if you utter one more single word."
Matt, incapable of taking any command completely seriously, muttered, "Even if it’s an appeal for a tea break?"
Jane's eyes narrowed. The corner of her lip twitched, but not with amusement. "Contempt of court," she stated, her voice dangerously low. "It leaves the court no option but to gag the defendant."
She placed the hairbrush back on the nightstand, and with a swift, confident stride, moved to their low dresser. She pulled open the small, bottom drawer and retrieved a pink rubber ball gag with thick black straps.
She returned to the bed, the wig still perfectly in place, and knelt over his back. His heart hammered against his ribs as her silhouette blocked the sun. Her fingers were cool as she lifted his head and worked the straps around his neck, pulling the bright pink sphere between his teeth. Then, she pulled the straps taut—a tad tighter than usual, forcing a desperate fullness into his mouth.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Sterling," she whispered against his ear, her voice now back to that theatrical purr, but the look in her eye promised discipline. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. The sentence will follow."
She stood, gave his bound body one last look of severe satisfaction, and glided from the room, leaving Matt straining against the bonds and the tight, suffocating silence of the room. The fifteen minutes suddenly felt like an eternity.
Jane swept into the kitchen, the severe black silk robe swishing dramatically, though the powdered wig felt slightly ridiculous perched above her lace babydoll. She scooped the required measure of salmon kibble into Mittens’ ceramic bowl. "Justice waits, my fluffy friend," she muttered, pouring herself a glass of water.
The mobile phone on the counter immediately began to ring—her mother.
Jane sighed, leaning against the kitchen island as she answered. "Hi, Mum. Yeah, I'm alright. Just a busy morning." Bloody typical, she thought, mentally checking the time. She had promised Matt 15 minutes. Six minutes down.
Her mother was describing a neighbour's prize-winning rosebush, and Jane nodded automatically, her gaze drifting back toward the silent bedroom door. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit her like a sudden blast of cold air. Here she was, casually discussing rose fungus with her mother, dressed head-to-toe like a sexually dominant English magistrate, having just gagged and tied her husband, who was currently awaiting a disciplinary sentence. It was a bizarre, hilarious, and perfectly normal Saturday morning. She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that her mother mistook for agreement about the fertilizer. This delightful contrast was precisely what made their games so thrilling.
"Yes, Mum, I'll call you later. Love you too. Bye." Jane hung up, a renewed sense of purpose replacing the domestic daze.
Back in the bedroom, Matt lay exactly where she’d left him, the glossy pink ball gag a stark, tight obstruction against his face. The black leather cuffs and taught rope held him securely, wrists and ankles spread wide. His eyes, wide and focused on the door, showed a frantic, contained energy.
Jane, still in the full splendor of her judicial costume, picked up the hairbrush again and walked slowly around the bed until she stood beside his exposed backside.
"The court is now back in session," she announced, her voice low and firm. "The time allotted for considering the gravity of the defendant’s crimes is concluded."
"The court has determined that the cumulative effect of these egregious actions warrants significant correction and temporary incarceration." She read from an invisible ledger in her hand.
"For Charge the First: Gross negligence in the field of laundry, the sentence is Fifteen (15) corrective strokes."
"For Charge the Second: Malicious consumption of the emotional support chocolate bar, the sentence is Twenty (20) corrective strokes."
"And finally, for the most serious offense, Charge the Third: Disrespect to Paul Hollywood and the Victoria sponge, the sentence is Twenty-Five (25) corrective strokes."
"This brings the total corporal sentence to Sixty (60) strokes, to be carried out immediately and without prejudice."
Matt’s eyes, fixed on the mirrored wardrobe door, had lost their purely playful quality. Sixty. That was a number that promised a definite ache. The dread was definitely outpacing the amusement now, replaced by a surge of raw, physical anticipation.
"Furthermore, due to the defendant’s willful violation of the Court’s explicit order for silence, namely, the offense of Contempt in the face of the Court, an additional sentence of incarceration shall be served immediately following the corporal correction. This incarceration shall be defined as the securing of the defendant's wrists via handcuffs behind the back and the required service of oral duties to Judge Jane with his tongue until such time as the Court deems the sentence adequately served."
Jane leaned closer, allowing the hem of her lace babydoll and the black silk robe to brush lightly against his skin. The delicate white lace was cool, the stocking fabric a smooth, electric caress against his bare leg. He could feel the proximity of her body, and the knot of apprehension in his gut was dissolving into desperate, urgent excitement.
"The defendant is granted the right to lodge an appeal against this sentence. You must state your intention to appeal now, or forever hold your peace."
Matt made a choked, frustrated sound around the ball gag, a gargled protest that was entirely unintelligible.
Jane tapped the hairbrush gently against the rope securing his ankle. "The court notes that no verbal appeal has been lodged. The sentence, therefore, stands. The court will now proceed to enforcement."
Matt's mind was a frantic, silent whirl behind the tight, frustrating rubber ball. Sixty strokes. The number was terrifyingly concrete. It pulled him sharply from the realm of playful theatricality and into the very real, very physical space of actual discipline. He knew Jane wasn't aiming to hurt him, but he also knew her enthusiasm, especially when wearing the Judge's wig, tended to outpace her initial intent. At least I’m not wearing the pink-stained sheets I caused with the red sock, he thought, a flicker of dark humor cutting through the dread. Small mercies.
Yet, every beat of genuine apprehension was matched by a corresponding surge of intense excitement.
Lying utterly helpless, spread-eagled and waiting, while his gorgeous wife, dressed in that absurd, glorious barrister's wig and lace lingerie, dictated his punishment, was the ultimate fantasy. But more than the sting, the true focus of his anticipation was the final part of the sentence: the oral servitude. His wrists secured behind his back, his tongue pressed into service—the thought made his body clench against the leather cuffs and rope. I am to be a prisoner of the Court, and a prisoner must obey.
Jane knelt on the bed between his outstretched legs, the dip in the mattress a familiar prelude to what was coming. She felt the heavy, comforting presence of the barrister's wig—it was the uniform of absolute authority.
His gagged protestations had sealed his fate, securing the most intimate part of the sentence. The thought of him, helpless and bound, his only freedom of movement being his tongue, and that freedom entirely devoted to her pleasure, sent a deep, powerful thrum of desire through her core.
She lifted the hairbrush high, her expression a perfect blend of stern focus and loving mischief.
"May the court have mercy on your arse," Judge Jane declared softly, the playful purr back in her voice, a final, chilling punctuation before the reality of the sentence began.
The first stroke was sharp and loud—a flat, resounding CRACK that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. It was perfectly placed, landing squarely on the upper curve of his left cheek. Matt gasped around the gag, his body instinctively arching against the ropes. One down, he counted, already feeling the ridiculous warmth. Only fifty-nine to go!
Jane paused only for a quick, measured breath, then the second stroke followed instantly. THWACK! This one held more sting, building immediately on the heat of the first. His muscles tensed, and a shiver of shock ran from his backside up to his shoulders. This is what you get for stealing my chocolate, she mused, enjoying the subtle tremor that went through his body.
The third stroke was delivered with a slight increase in force. SMACK! It was undeniably sharper, a real sting that brought a sudden rush of heat to his entire body and a muffled grunt of protest from behind the gag. Three little pigs went to market, he thought, trying to use silliness to distract from the rapidly escalating sting. This was going to be a long sixty.
The courtroom—or rather, the bedroom—quickly became a symphony of sharp, rhythmic blows. Jane settled into her task with the focus of a truly dedicated magistrate. The first set of fifteen strokes, prescribed for the laundry crime, finished with a final, resonant WHACK!
As Jane moved on to the second charge—the theft of the salted caramel chocolate—the next twenty strokes were a relentless, escalating cascade of sound and sting. Matt, gagged and helpless, quickly abandoned internal counting. All he could do was brace his muscles against the incoming impact, which was becoming increasingly difficult as the heat spread across his entire rear. If only I'd stolen the boring mint chocolate. It wouldn't have been worth 20 strokes!
Jane’s body was humming with adrenaline as she delivered the blows. She watched the angry red bloom across his skin with immense satisfaction.
The final stroke for the second charge—the thirty-fifth overall—landed with a powerful sting that sent a definite jump through his body. Jane immediately stopped, the sudden silence a profound shock after the continuous assault.
"The Court requires a momentary recess," Judge Jane announced, her voice slightly breathless but maintaining its authoritative purr. She put the hairbrush down on the bedside table with a firm, official click. "The rigors of justice are demanding, and the presiding Judge requires caffeine. Specifically, a vanilla latte from the Nespresso machine."
Jane’s excitement was practically vibrating through her. She was acutely aware that the more she disciplined him now, the more intense the reward of his servitude would be. He’s going to be so eager to please when I finally set his tongue free, she thought, a predatory smile touching her lips.
"The defendant may use this brief adjournment to reflect deeply on the severity of his disrespect toward the delicate art of the Victoria sponge," she instructed. "Proceedings will resume in seven minutes, or upon the Judge's return with sufficient latte."
With a dramatic swish of her silk robe, Judge Jane exited the room.
Matt lay utterly motionless, savoring the absolute absence of impact. The heat radiating from his punished rear was intense. He had 25 strokes remaining for the Bake Off atrocity, and he wasn't looking forward to a single one. He closed his eyes, already anticipating the cool, firm feel of the handcuffs and the close proximity of his majestic, caffeine-fueled Judge, and the subsequent, sweet humiliation of his oral duties.
Jane reappeared in the doorway, the rich aroma of vanilla and coffee preceding her. She held the steaming mug aloft, her expression one of mock exasperation.
"The Court returns," she announced. "And I note for the record that the recess was extended by precisely three minutes beyond the prescribed seven. This was due to an unforeseen interruption: the plaintiff's feline co-conspirator, Mumbles, lodged an urgent and non-negotiable request to chase the wood pigeons outside. The Court... deemed this sufficient cause for delay."
She took a slow, theatrical sip of the latte. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The third and final charge."
Jane placed the mug safely on the nightstand, then slipped the heavy silk robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
"For this final stage of proceedings, the Judge does not require the restriction of formal judicial attire. Unlike the defendant, who is adequately contained by black ropes and leather cuffs," she purred, "I need full freedom of movement. The last spanks will be the most severe."
Matt’s breath hitched. Now, Jane stood fully revealed in the delicate white lace babydoll and high black stockings. His own body responded instantly and fiercely; his cock swelled painfully against the bedsheets, a physical testament to his complete surrender.
Jane picked up the hairbrush again. "The Court must now impose the most severe part of the correction: the twenty-five strokes for the grievous slight against the Victoria sponge."
The forty-first stroke was immediate and brutal. Jane was using more power now. The sound was a loud, sharp SMACK!, and the pain was no longer a stinging heat but a deep, throbbing ache. Matt arched his back, a muffled, desperate noise fighting the gag, and tears finally tracked a hot path from his eyes to the pillow.
The next two dozen strokes blurred into a relentless, punishing rhythm. He focused only on the final, sweet reward, trying to use the thought of his impending servitude to drown out the pure, overwhelming agony of the final strokes.
Finally, with a loud, final THWACK! that left a burning brand on his skin, the corporal punishment ceased.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" she proclaimed. "The Court hereby finds that the corporal sentence pertaining to Charges One, Two, and Three has been fully and consequentially served."
She then retrieved a heavy pair of silver, police-grade handcuffs from their toy drawer that they had bought of a military surplus store on Ebay.
"The Court now proceeds to the ancillary sentence of incarceration," she stated, her voice dropping to a low, thrilling murmur. "Matthew Allen Sterling, for the crime of Contempt in the face of the Court, you were sentenced to incarceration... This sentence is now to be executed."
With sharp efficiency, she unlocked the leather cuff on his left wrist and immediately snapped the steel handcuff around it. She repeated the process on the right, undoing the buckle and securing the handcuff behind the small of his back,the satisfying, metallic ratchet sound echoing through the courtroom.
Once his hands were cuffed, she quickly untied the black rope securing his ankles.
Jane knelt on the bed, her face inches from his.
"Defendant," she ordered, the term sharp and demanding. "The Court commands you to rise."
Matt, shaking and sore, struggled to lever his aching body onto his knees, his cuffed hands forcing his chest forward.
"Now, Prisoner," Jane commanded. "Kneel before the Judge."
As he knelt, red-faced and utterly submissive, Jane gracefully swung her legs over the side of the bed, sitting with her feet on the floor and her laced legs parting. She reached out and with a firm, decisive tug, removed the pink ball gag from his mouth, throwing it carelessly onto the sheets.
"The Court has granted you the temporary freedom of your tongue," she whispered. "Now, Prisoner, commence your service. Lick."
She paused, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "And Mr. Sterling? I trust that your tongue will perform significantly better than your technical challenge and your tounge will produce an acceptable hot, soggy bottom.You may begin."
Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
*CALLING FOR MORE PARTICIPATION*
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Jane & Matt : The Court of Jane. F/M
Jane & Matt : The Court of Jane. F/M
Last edited by mattlk72 5 days ago, edited 1 time in total.
Now years ago, when i was a lad, God i'm beginning to sound like my dad, but i am an old git now, being in my 60s, there was a British T.V. program called 'Crown Court,' of which i was an avid viewer. All of the main characters, the judge, the barristers, the defendants and the prosecution side, were played by actors. However, the 12 members of the jury were all volunteers, all ordinary members of the public, who had NO prior knowledge of the script of that particular episode, and would reach a 'verdict' based upon what was said and done within said script.
But none of the many episodes i did view were as entertaining or enjoyable as THIS case. Well done, extremely good story.
But none of the many episodes i did view were as entertaining or enjoyable as THIS case. Well done, extremely good story.
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tiedinbluetights
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 789
- Joined: 3 years ago
- Location: Canada
Another fine well told story. As a masochist myself, I can't help but wonder if we deliberately act less than perfect to receive punishments. 
Love to be tied-up, gagged and tickled ! Open to friendly PMs !
(no discord; no roleplays; no story requests)
The silence in the room had stretched just long enough for Matt’s mind to start playing tricks on him. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of being utterly helpless, his senses registering only the heavy, comforting weight of the bedsheets and the inescapable black leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, secured by taught black rope to the heavy bedposts. The morning sun warmed his back, making the wait feel even more languid and loaded with suspense. He had agreed, as he always did, to Jane’s desire for a "game," but her creativity always managed to outpace his imagination. The thought of what she might have planned sent a shiver of both dread and excitement through him.
The soft click of the bedroom door opening broke the quiet. Matt tensed, a ripple of anticipation running through him. He heard the whisper of silk against the carpet and then a deliberate, heavy thump as Jane dropped something onto the wooden floor of the dressing area.
He twisted his head, just enough to see her. And his jaw went slack.
Jane stood bathed in the morning light, but she looked like a creature of elegant, judicial night. A delicate white lace babydoll hugged her curves, a stark contrast to the severe, knee-length black silk robe she wore over it, tied loosely at the waist. Black stockings climbed her thighs, and perched atop her head, in glorious, absurd splendour, was a powdered white barrister's wig, the kind seen in old English courtroom dramas. In her hand, held with the confident grip of a magistrate, was not a gavel, but her old, heavy, wooden-backed hairbrush.
She met his gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. It was a smile that promised mischief, authority, and absolutely no chance of parole.
Matt let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Oh, shit," he muttered into the pillow, a nervous laugh escaping him. He knew that brush all too well.
Jane glided to the end of the bed, the hairbrush tapping rhythmically against her palm. "Matthew Allen Sterling," she announced, her voice a low, theatrical purr that was nothing like her usual tone. "You stand before the high court of this bedroom, accused of numerous and heinous crimes."
She rapped the wooden brush against the bedpost with a sharp crack. "This court is now in session. The Right Honourable Judge Jane presiding."
Matt couldn't help but chuckle, the sound muffled by the sheets, but a prickle of unease started to mix with his amusement. "Heinous crimes? What did I do, leave the toilet seat up?"
"Silence from the defendant!" she boomed, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Your insolence is noted and will be taken into account during sentencing." The rhythmic tap of the brush against her palm seemed to amplify the warning.
She began to pace at the foot of the bed, her silk robe swishing with every step. "Charge the first: Gross negligence in the field of laundry. The defendant did knowingly and willfully leave a single red sock in a white wash, resulting in the pinkening of three bedsheets and a favourite t-shirt of the plaintiff."
Matt winced. That had actually happened on Tuesday. "It was an accident!" he protested. "A laundry mishap!" Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't matter.
"An accident?" Jane stopped pacing and leaned over him, her shadow falling across his back. The scent of her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and something muskier, filled his senses. "The court sees no accidents, Mr. Sterling. Only actions. And their consequences." His heart began to thump a little faster.
She continued. "Charge the second: Willful and malicious consumption of the last salted caramel chocolate bar, knowing it to be the express property and emotional support snack of the presiding Judge."
"I was going to replace it!" he insisted, though a grin threatened to break through. He knew this was all part of the act.
"A likely story! And finally," she paused for dramatic effect, "Charge the third, and most serious of all: On the evening of October the fourteenth, you did fall asleep during the critical mid-point of The Great British Bake Off, thereby showing unforgivable disrespect to both Paul Hollywood and the delicate art of the Victoria sponge."
Matt let his head fall completely onto the mattress, shaking with laughter. "Guilty," he groaned, the word laced with a nervous swallow. "Guilty on all charges."
"A confession," Jane murmured, her voice losing its judicial boom and becoming something far more intimate and dangerous. "How very sensible of you." She tapped the brush against the footboard again, a much softer sound this time. "However, before sentencing can be determined, this court must adjourn."
Matt lifted his head in surprise. "Adjourn? You can't just—"
"Silence!" Jane boomed, cutting him off sharply. Her face was severe, the smile vanished. "This Judge must attend to other duties. Namely, feeding the cat. Court will resume in 15 minutes. And I shall have absolute silence in my court, Mr. Sterling. Absolute. Silence. You will be punished for contempt if you utter one more single word."
Matt, incapable of taking any command completely seriously, muttered, "Even if it’s an appeal for a tea break?"
Jane's eyes narrowed. The corner of her lip twitched, but not with amusement. "Contempt of court," she stated, her voice dangerously low. "It leaves the court no option but to gag the defendant."
She placed the hairbrush back on the nightstand, and with a swift, confident stride, moved to their low dresser. She pulled open the small, bottom drawer and retrieved a pink rubber ball gag with thick black straps.
She returned to the bed, the wig still perfectly in place, and knelt over his back. His heart hammered against his ribs as her silhouette blocked the sun. Her fingers were cool as she lifted his head and worked the straps around his neck, pulling the bright pink sphere between his teeth. Then, she pulled the straps taut—a tad tighter than usual, forcing a desperate fullness into his mouth.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Sterling," she whispered against his ear, her voice now back to that theatrical purr, but the look in her eye promised discipline. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. The sentence will follow."
She stood, gave his bound body one last look of severe satisfaction, and glided from the room, leaving Matt straining against the bonds and the tight, suffocating silence of the room. The fifteen minutes suddenly felt like an eternity.
Jane swept into the kitchen, the severe black silk robe swishing dramatically, though the powdered wig felt slightly ridiculous perched above her lace babydoll. She scooped the required measure of salmon kibble into Mittens’ ceramic bowl. "Justice waits, my fluffy friend," she muttered, pouring herself a glass of water.
The mobile phone on the counter immediately began to ring—her mother.
Jane sighed, leaning against the kitchen island as she answered. "Hi, Mum. Yeah, I'm alright. Just a busy morning." Bloody typical, she thought, mentally checking the time. She had promised Matt 15 minutes. Six minutes down.
Her mother was describing a neighbour's prize-winning rosebush, and Jane nodded automatically, her gaze drifting back toward the silent bedroom door. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit her like a sudden blast of cold air. Here she was, casually discussing rose fungus with her mother, dressed head-to-toe like a sexually dominant English magistrate, having just gagged and tied her husband, who was currently awaiting a disciplinary sentence. It was a bizarre, hilarious, and perfectly normal Saturday morning. She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that her mother mistook for agreement about the fertilizer. This delightful contrast was precisely what made their games so thrilling.
"Yes, Mum, I'll call you later. Love you too. Bye." Jane hung up, a renewed sense of purpose replacing the domestic daze.
Back in the bedroom, Matt lay exactly where she’d left him, the glossy pink ball gag a stark, tight obstruction against his face. The black leather cuffs and taught rope held him securely, wrists and ankles spread wide. His eyes, wide and focused on the door, showed a frantic, contained energy.
Jane, still in the full splendor of her judicial costume, picked up the hairbrush again and walked slowly around the bed until she stood beside his exposed backside.
"The court is now back in session," she announced, her voice low and firm. "The time allotted for considering the gravity of the defendant’s crimes is concluded."
"The court has determined that the cumulative effect of these egregious actions warrants significant correction and temporary incarceration." She read from an invisible ledger in her hand.
"For Charge the First: Gross negligence in the field of laundry, the sentence is Fifteen (15) corrective strokes."
"For Charge the Second: Malicious consumption of the emotional support chocolate bar, the sentence is Twenty (20) corrective strokes."
"And finally, for the most serious offense, Charge the Third: Disrespect to Paul Hollywood and the Victoria sponge, the sentence is Twenty-Five (25) corrective strokes."
"This brings the total corporal sentence to Sixty (60) strokes, to be carried out immediately and without prejudice."
Matt’s eyes, fixed on the mirrored wardrobe door, had lost their purely playful quality. Sixty. That was a number that promised a definite ache. The dread was definitely outpacing the amusement now, replaced by a surge of raw, physical anticipation.
"Furthermore, due to the defendant’s willful violation of the Court’s explicit order for silence, namely, the offense of Contempt in the face of the Court, an additional sentence of incarceration shall be served immediately following the corporal correction. This incarceration shall be defined as the securing of the defendant's wrists via handcuffs behind the back and the required service of oral duties to Judge Jane with his tongue until such time as the Court deems the sentence adequately served."
Jane leaned closer, allowing the hem of her lace babydoll and the black silk robe to brush lightly against his skin. The delicate white lace was cool, the stocking fabric a smooth, electric caress against his bare leg. He could feel the proximity of her body, and the knot of apprehension in his gut was dissolving into desperate, urgent excitement.
"The defendant is granted the right to lodge an appeal against this sentence. You must state your intention to appeal now, or forever hold your peace."
Matt made a choked, frustrated sound around the ball gag, a gargled protest that was entirely unintelligible.
Jane tapped the hairbrush gently against the rope securing his ankle. "The court notes that no verbal appeal has been lodged. The sentence, therefore, stands. The court will now proceed to enforcement."
Matt's mind was a frantic, silent whirl behind the tight, frustrating rubber ball. Sixty strokes. The number was terrifyingly concrete. It pulled him sharply from the realm of playful theatricality and into the very real, very physical space of actual discipline. He knew Jane wasn't aiming to hurt him, but he also knew her enthusiasm, especially when wearing the Judge's wig, tended to outpace her initial intent. At least I’m not wearing the pink-stained sheets I caused with the red sock, he thought, a flicker of dark humor cutting through the dread. Small mercies.
Yet, every beat of genuine apprehension was matched by a corresponding surge of intense excitement.
Lying utterly helpless, spread-eagled and waiting, while his gorgeous wife, dressed in that absurd, glorious barrister's wig and lace lingerie, dictated his punishment, was the ultimate fantasy. But more than the sting, the true focus of his anticipation was the final part of the sentence: the oral servitude. His wrists secured behind his back, his tongue pressed into service—the thought made his body clench against the leather cuffs and rope. I am to be a prisoner of the Court, and a prisoner must obey.
Jane knelt on the bed between his outstretched legs, the dip in the mattress a familiar prelude to what was coming. She felt the heavy, comforting presence of the barrister's wig—it was the uniform of absolute authority.
His gagged protestations had sealed his fate, securing the most intimate part of the sentence. The thought of him, helpless and bound, his only freedom of movement being his tongue, and that freedom entirely devoted to her pleasure, sent a deep, powerful thrum of desire through her core.
She lifted the hairbrush high, her expression a perfect blend of stern focus and loving mischief.
"May the court have mercy on your arse," Judge Jane declared softly, the playful purr back in her voice, a final, chilling punctuation before the reality of the sentence began.
The first stroke was sharp and loud—a flat, resounding CRACK that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. It was perfectly placed, landing squarely on the upper curve of his left cheek. Matt gasped around the gag, his body instinctively arching against the ropes. One down, he counted, already feeling the ridiculous warmth. Only fifty-nine to go!
Jane paused only for a quick, measured breath, then the second stroke followed instantly. THWACK! This one held more sting, building immediately on the heat of the first. His muscles tensed, and a shiver of shock ran from his backside up to his shoulders. This is what you get for stealing my chocolate, she mused, enjoying the subtle tremor that went through his body.
The third stroke was delivered with a slight increase in force. SMACK! It was undeniably sharper, a real sting that brought a sudden rush of heat to his entire body and a muffled grunt of protest from behind the gag. Three little pigs went to market, he thought, trying to use silliness to distract from the rapidly escalating sting. This was going to be a long sixty.
The courtroom—or rather, the bedroom—quickly became a symphony of sharp, rhythmic blows. Jane settled into her task with the focus of a truly dedicated magistrate. The first set of fifteen strokes, prescribed for the laundry crime, finished with a final, resonant WHACK!
As Jane moved on to the second charge—the theft of the salted caramel chocolate—the next twenty strokes were a relentless, escalating cascade of sound and sting. Matt, gagged and helpless, quickly abandoned internal counting. All he could do was brace his muscles against the incoming impact, which was becoming increasingly difficult as the heat spread across his entire rear. If only I'd stolen the boring mint chocolate. It wouldn't have been worth 20 strokes!
Jane’s body was humming with adrenaline as she delivered the blows. She watched the angry red bloom across his skin with immense satisfaction.
The final stroke for the second charge—the thirty-fifth overall—landed with a powerful sting that sent a definite jump through his body. Jane immediately stopped, the sudden silence a profound shock after the continuous assault.
"The Court requires a momentary recess," Judge Jane announced, her voice slightly breathless but maintaining its authoritative purr. She put the hairbrush down on the bedside table with a firm, official click. "The rigors of justice are demanding, and the presiding Judge requires caffeine. Specifically, a vanilla latte from the Nespresso machine."
Jane’s excitement was practically vibrating through her. She was acutely aware that the more she disciplined him now, the more intense the reward of his servitude would be. He’s going to be so eager to please when I finally set his tongue free, she thought, a predatory smile touching her lips.
"The defendant may use this brief adjournment to reflect deeply on the severity of his disrespect toward the delicate art of the Victoria sponge," she instructed. "Proceedings will resume in seven minutes, or upon the Judge's return with sufficient latte."
With a dramatic swish of her silk robe, Judge Jane exited the room.
Matt lay utterly motionless, savoring the absolute absence of impact. The heat radiating from his punished rear was intense. He had 25 strokes remaining for the Bake Off atrocity, and he wasn't looking forward to a single one. He closed his eyes, already anticipating the cool, firm feel of the handcuffs and the close proximity of his majestic, caffeine-fueled Judge, and the subsequent, sweet humiliation of his oral duties.
Jane reappeared in the doorway, the rich aroma of vanilla and coffee preceding her. She held the steaming mug aloft, her expression one of mock exasperation.
"The Court returns," she announced. "And I note for the record that the recess was extended by precisely three minutes beyond the prescribed seven. This was due to an unforeseen interruption: the plaintiff's feline co-conspirator, Mumbles, lodged an urgent and non-negotiable request to chase the wood pigeons outside. The Court... deemed this sufficient cause for delay."
She took a slow, theatrical sip of the latte. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The third and final charge."
Jane placed the mug safely on the nightstand, then slipped the heavy silk robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
"For this final stage of proceedings, the Judge does not require the restriction of formal judicial attire. Unlike the defendant, who is adequately contained by black ropes and leather cuffs," she purred, "I need full freedom of movement. The last spanks will be the most severe."
Matt’s breath hitched. Now, Jane stood fully revealed in the delicate white lace babydoll and high black stockings. His own body responded instantly and fiercely; his cock swelled painfully against the bedsheets, a physical testament to his complete surrender.
Jane picked up the hairbrush again. "The Court must now impose the most severe part of the correction: the twenty-five strokes for the grievous slight against the Victoria sponge."
The forty-first stroke was immediate and brutal. Jane was using more power now. The sound was a loud, sharp SMACK!, and the pain was no longer a stinging heat but a deep, throbbing ache. Matt arched his back, a muffled, desperate noise fighting the gag, and tears finally tracked a hot path from his eyes to the pillow.
The next two dozen strokes blurred into a relentless, punishing rhythm. He focused only on the final, sweet reward, trying to use the thought of his impending servitude to drown out the pure, overwhelming agony of the final strokes.
Finally, with a loud, final THWACK! that left a burning brand on his skin, the corporal punishment ceased.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" she proclaimed. "The Court hereby finds that the corporal sentence pertaining to Charges One, Two, and Three has been fully and consequentially served."
She then retrieved a heavy pair of silver, police-grade handcuffs from their toy drawer that they had bought of a military surplus store on Ebay.
"The Court now proceeds to the ancillary sentence of incarceration," she stated, her voice dropping to a low, thrilling murmur. "Matthew Allen Sterling, for the crime of Contempt in the face of the Court, you were sentenced to incarceration... This sentence is now to be executed."
With sharp efficiency, she unlocked the leather cuff on his left wrist and immediately snapped the steel handcuff around it. She repeated the process on the right, undoing the buckle and securing the handcuff behind the small of his back,the satisfying, metallic ratchet sound echoing through the courtroom.
Once his hands were cuffed, she quickly untied the black rope securing his ankles.
Jane knelt on the bed, her face inches from his.
"Defendant," she ordered, the term sharp and demanding. "The Court commands you to rise."
Matt, shaking and sore, struggled to lever his aching body onto his knees, his cuffed hands forcing his chest forward.
"Now, Prisoner," Jane commanded. "Kneel before the Judge."
As he knelt, red-faced and utterly submissive, Jane gracefully swung her legs over the side of the bed, sitting with her feet on the floor and her laced legs parting. She reached out and with a firm, decisive tug, removed the pink ball gag from his mouth, throwing it carelessly onto the sheets.
"The Court has granted you the temporary freedom of your tongue," she whispered. "Now, Prisoner, commence your service. Lick."
She paused, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "And Mr. Sterling? I trust that your tongue will perform significantly better than your technical challenge and your tounge will produce an acceptable hot, soggy bottom.You may begin."
[/quote]
The soft click of the bedroom door opening broke the quiet. Matt tensed, a ripple of anticipation running through him. He heard the whisper of silk against the carpet and then a deliberate, heavy thump as Jane dropped something onto the wooden floor of the dressing area.
He twisted his head, just enough to see her. And his jaw went slack.
Jane stood bathed in the morning light, but she looked like a creature of elegant, judicial night. A delicate white lace babydoll hugged her curves, a stark contrast to the severe, knee-length black silk robe she wore over it, tied loosely at the waist. Black stockings climbed her thighs, and perched atop her head, in glorious, absurd splendour, was a powdered white barrister's wig, the kind seen in old English courtroom dramas. In her hand, held with the confident grip of a magistrate, was not a gavel, but her old, heavy, wooden-backed hairbrush.
She met his gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. It was a smile that promised mischief, authority, and absolutely no chance of parole.
Matt let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Oh, shit," he muttered into the pillow, a nervous laugh escaping him. He knew that brush all too well.
Jane glided to the end of the bed, the hairbrush tapping rhythmically against her palm. "Matthew Allen Sterling," she announced, her voice a low, theatrical purr that was nothing like her usual tone. "You stand before the high court of this bedroom, accused of numerous and heinous crimes."
She rapped the wooden brush against the bedpost with a sharp crack. "This court is now in session. The Right Honourable Judge Jane presiding."
Matt couldn't help but chuckle, the sound muffled by the sheets, but a prickle of unease started to mix with his amusement. "Heinous crimes? What did I do, leave the toilet seat up?"
"Silence from the defendant!" she boomed, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Your insolence is noted and will be taken into account during sentencing." The rhythmic tap of the brush against her palm seemed to amplify the warning.
She began to pace at the foot of the bed, her silk robe swishing with every step. "Charge the first: Gross negligence in the field of laundry. The defendant did knowingly and willfully leave a single red sock in a white wash, resulting in the pinkening of three bedsheets and a favourite t-shirt of the plaintiff."
Matt winced. That had actually happened on Tuesday. "It was an accident!" he protested. "A laundry mishap!" Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't matter.
"An accident?" Jane stopped pacing and leaned over him, her shadow falling across his back. The scent of her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and something muskier, filled his senses. "The court sees no accidents, Mr. Sterling. Only actions. And their consequences." His heart began to thump a little faster.
She continued. "Charge the second: Willful and malicious consumption of the last salted caramel chocolate bar, knowing it to be the express property and emotional support snack of the presiding Judge."
"I was going to replace it!" he insisted, though a grin threatened to break through. He knew this was all part of the act.
"A likely story! And finally," she paused for dramatic effect, "Charge the third, and most serious of all: On the evening of October the fourteenth, you did fall asleep during the critical mid-point of The Great British Bake Off, thereby showing unforgivable disrespect to both Paul Hollywood and the delicate art of the Victoria sponge."
Matt let his head fall completely onto the mattress, shaking with laughter. "Guilty," he groaned, the word laced with a nervous swallow. "Guilty on all charges."
"A confession," Jane murmured, her voice losing its judicial boom and becoming something far more intimate and dangerous. "How very sensible of you." She tapped the brush against the footboard again, a much softer sound this time. "However, before sentencing can be determined, this court must adjourn."
Matt lifted his head in surprise. "Adjourn? You can't just—"
"Silence!" Jane boomed, cutting him off sharply. Her face was severe, the smile vanished. "This Judge must attend to other duties. Namely, feeding the cat. Court will resume in 15 minutes. And I shall have absolute silence in my court, Mr. Sterling. Absolute. Silence. You will be punished for contempt if you utter one more single word."
Matt, incapable of taking any command completely seriously, muttered, "Even if it’s an appeal for a tea break?"
Jane's eyes narrowed. The corner of her lip twitched, but not with amusement. "Contempt of court," she stated, her voice dangerously low. "It leaves the court no option but to gag the defendant."
She placed the hairbrush back on the nightstand, and with a swift, confident stride, moved to their low dresser. She pulled open the small, bottom drawer and retrieved a pink rubber ball gag with thick black straps.
She returned to the bed, the wig still perfectly in place, and knelt over his back. His heart hammered against his ribs as her silhouette blocked the sun. Her fingers were cool as she lifted his head and worked the straps around his neck, pulling the bright pink sphere between his teeth. Then, she pulled the straps taut—a tad tighter than usual, forcing a desperate fullness into his mouth.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Sterling," she whispered against his ear, her voice now back to that theatrical purr, but the look in her eye promised discipline. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. The sentence will follow."
She stood, gave his bound body one last look of severe satisfaction, and glided from the room, leaving Matt straining against the bonds and the tight, suffocating silence of the room. The fifteen minutes suddenly felt like an eternity.
Jane swept into the kitchen, the severe black silk robe swishing dramatically, though the powdered wig felt slightly ridiculous perched above her lace babydoll. She scooped the required measure of salmon kibble into Mittens’ ceramic bowl. "Justice waits, my fluffy friend," she muttered, pouring herself a glass of water.
The mobile phone on the counter immediately began to ring—her mother.
Jane sighed, leaning against the kitchen island as she answered. "Hi, Mum. Yeah, I'm alright. Just a busy morning." Bloody typical, she thought, mentally checking the time. She had promised Matt 15 minutes. Six minutes down.
Her mother was describing a neighbour's prize-winning rosebush, and Jane nodded automatically, her gaze drifting back toward the silent bedroom door. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit her like a sudden blast of cold air. Here she was, casually discussing rose fungus with her mother, dressed head-to-toe like a sexually dominant English magistrate, having just gagged and tied her husband, who was currently awaiting a disciplinary sentence. It was a bizarre, hilarious, and perfectly normal Saturday morning. She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that her mother mistook for agreement about the fertilizer. This delightful contrast was precisely what made their games so thrilling.
"Yes, Mum, I'll call you later. Love you too. Bye." Jane hung up, a renewed sense of purpose replacing the domestic daze.
Back in the bedroom, Matt lay exactly where she’d left him, the glossy pink ball gag a stark, tight obstruction against his face. The black leather cuffs and taught rope held him securely, wrists and ankles spread wide. His eyes, wide and focused on the door, showed a frantic, contained energy.
Jane, still in the full splendor of her judicial costume, picked up the hairbrush again and walked slowly around the bed until she stood beside his exposed backside.
"The court is now back in session," she announced, her voice low and firm. "The time allotted for considering the gravity of the defendant’s crimes is concluded."
"The court has determined that the cumulative effect of these egregious actions warrants significant correction and temporary incarceration." She read from an invisible ledger in her hand.
"For Charge the First: Gross negligence in the field of laundry, the sentence is Fifteen (15) corrective strokes."
"For Charge the Second: Malicious consumption of the emotional support chocolate bar, the sentence is Twenty (20) corrective strokes."
"And finally, for the most serious offense, Charge the Third: Disrespect to Paul Hollywood and the Victoria sponge, the sentence is Twenty-Five (25) corrective strokes."
"This brings the total corporal sentence to Sixty (60) strokes, to be carried out immediately and without prejudice."
Matt’s eyes, fixed on the mirrored wardrobe door, had lost their purely playful quality. Sixty. That was a number that promised a definite ache. The dread was definitely outpacing the amusement now, replaced by a surge of raw, physical anticipation.
"Furthermore, due to the defendant’s willful violation of the Court’s explicit order for silence, namely, the offense of Contempt in the face of the Court, an additional sentence of incarceration shall be served immediately following the corporal correction. This incarceration shall be defined as the securing of the defendant's wrists via handcuffs behind the back and the required service of oral duties to Judge Jane with his tongue until such time as the Court deems the sentence adequately served."
Jane leaned closer, allowing the hem of her lace babydoll and the black silk robe to brush lightly against his skin. The delicate white lace was cool, the stocking fabric a smooth, electric caress against his bare leg. He could feel the proximity of her body, and the knot of apprehension in his gut was dissolving into desperate, urgent excitement.
"The defendant is granted the right to lodge an appeal against this sentence. You must state your intention to appeal now, or forever hold your peace."
Matt made a choked, frustrated sound around the ball gag, a gargled protest that was entirely unintelligible.
Jane tapped the hairbrush gently against the rope securing his ankle. "The court notes that no verbal appeal has been lodged. The sentence, therefore, stands. The court will now proceed to enforcement."
Matt's mind was a frantic, silent whirl behind the tight, frustrating rubber ball. Sixty strokes. The number was terrifyingly concrete. It pulled him sharply from the realm of playful theatricality and into the very real, very physical space of actual discipline. He knew Jane wasn't aiming to hurt him, but he also knew her enthusiasm, especially when wearing the Judge's wig, tended to outpace her initial intent. At least I’m not wearing the pink-stained sheets I caused with the red sock, he thought, a flicker of dark humor cutting through the dread. Small mercies.
Yet, every beat of genuine apprehension was matched by a corresponding surge of intense excitement.
Lying utterly helpless, spread-eagled and waiting, while his gorgeous wife, dressed in that absurd, glorious barrister's wig and lace lingerie, dictated his punishment, was the ultimate fantasy. But more than the sting, the true focus of his anticipation was the final part of the sentence: the oral servitude. His wrists secured behind his back, his tongue pressed into service—the thought made his body clench against the leather cuffs and rope. I am to be a prisoner of the Court, and a prisoner must obey.
Jane knelt on the bed between his outstretched legs, the dip in the mattress a familiar prelude to what was coming. She felt the heavy, comforting presence of the barrister's wig—it was the uniform of absolute authority.
His gagged protestations had sealed his fate, securing the most intimate part of the sentence. The thought of him, helpless and bound, his only freedom of movement being his tongue, and that freedom entirely devoted to her pleasure, sent a deep, powerful thrum of desire through her core.
She lifted the hairbrush high, her expression a perfect blend of stern focus and loving mischief.
"May the court have mercy on your arse," Judge Jane declared softly, the playful purr back in her voice, a final, chilling punctuation before the reality of the sentence began.
The first stroke was sharp and loud—a flat, resounding CRACK that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. It was perfectly placed, landing squarely on the upper curve of his left cheek. Matt gasped around the gag, his body instinctively arching against the ropes. One down, he counted, already feeling the ridiculous warmth. Only fifty-nine to go!
Jane paused only for a quick, measured breath, then the second stroke followed instantly. THWACK! This one held more sting, building immediately on the heat of the first. His muscles tensed, and a shiver of shock ran from his backside up to his shoulders. This is what you get for stealing my chocolate, she mused, enjoying the subtle tremor that went through his body.
The third stroke was delivered with a slight increase in force. SMACK! It was undeniably sharper, a real sting that brought a sudden rush of heat to his entire body and a muffled grunt of protest from behind the gag. Three little pigs went to market, he thought, trying to use silliness to distract from the rapidly escalating sting. This was going to be a long sixty.
The courtroom—or rather, the bedroom—quickly became a symphony of sharp, rhythmic blows. Jane settled into her task with the focus of a truly dedicated magistrate. The first set of fifteen strokes, prescribed for the laundry crime, finished with a final, resonant WHACK!
As Jane moved on to the second charge—the theft of the salted caramel chocolate—the next twenty strokes were a relentless, escalating cascade of sound and sting. Matt, gagged and helpless, quickly abandoned internal counting. All he could do was brace his muscles against the incoming impact, which was becoming increasingly difficult as the heat spread across his entire rear. If only I'd stolen the boring mint chocolate. It wouldn't have been worth 20 strokes!
Jane’s body was humming with adrenaline as she delivered the blows. She watched the angry red bloom across his skin with immense satisfaction.
The final stroke for the second charge—the thirty-fifth overall—landed with a powerful sting that sent a definite jump through his body. Jane immediately stopped, the sudden silence a profound shock after the continuous assault.
"The Court requires a momentary recess," Judge Jane announced, her voice slightly breathless but maintaining its authoritative purr. She put the hairbrush down on the bedside table with a firm, official click. "The rigors of justice are demanding, and the presiding Judge requires caffeine. Specifically, a vanilla latte from the Nespresso machine."
Jane’s excitement was practically vibrating through her. She was acutely aware that the more she disciplined him now, the more intense the reward of his servitude would be. He’s going to be so eager to please when I finally set his tongue free, she thought, a predatory smile touching her lips.
"The defendant may use this brief adjournment to reflect deeply on the severity of his disrespect toward the delicate art of the Victoria sponge," she instructed. "Proceedings will resume in seven minutes, or upon the Judge's return with sufficient latte."
With a dramatic swish of her silk robe, Judge Jane exited the room.
Matt lay utterly motionless, savoring the absolute absence of impact. The heat radiating from his punished rear was intense. He had 25 strokes remaining for the Bake Off atrocity, and he wasn't looking forward to a single one. He closed his eyes, already anticipating the cool, firm feel of the handcuffs and the close proximity of his majestic, caffeine-fueled Judge, and the subsequent, sweet humiliation of his oral duties.
Jane reappeared in the doorway, the rich aroma of vanilla and coffee preceding her. She held the steaming mug aloft, her expression one of mock exasperation.
"The Court returns," she announced. "And I note for the record that the recess was extended by precisely three minutes beyond the prescribed seven. This was due to an unforeseen interruption: the plaintiff's feline co-conspirator, Mumbles, lodged an urgent and non-negotiable request to chase the wood pigeons outside. The Court... deemed this sufficient cause for delay."
She took a slow, theatrical sip of the latte. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The third and final charge."
Jane placed the mug safely on the nightstand, then slipped the heavy silk robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
"For this final stage of proceedings, the Judge does not require the restriction of formal judicial attire. Unlike the defendant, who is adequately contained by black ropes and leather cuffs," she purred, "I need full freedom of movement. The last spanks will be the most severe."
Matt’s breath hitched. Now, Jane stood fully revealed in the delicate white lace babydoll and high black stockings. His own body responded instantly and fiercely; his cock swelled painfully against the bedsheets, a physical testament to his complete surrender.
Jane picked up the hairbrush again. "The Court must now impose the most severe part of the correction: the twenty-five strokes for the grievous slight against the Victoria sponge."
The forty-first stroke was immediate and brutal. Jane was using more power now. The sound was a loud, sharp SMACK!, and the pain was no longer a stinging heat but a deep, throbbing ache. Matt arched his back, a muffled, desperate noise fighting the gag, and tears finally tracked a hot path from his eyes to the pillow.
The next two dozen strokes blurred into a relentless, punishing rhythm. He focused only on the final, sweet reward, trying to use the thought of his impending servitude to drown out the pure, overwhelming agony of the final strokes.
Finally, with a loud, final THWACK! that left a burning brand on his skin, the corporal punishment ceased.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" she proclaimed. "The Court hereby finds that the corporal sentence pertaining to Charges One, Two, and Three has been fully and consequentially served."
She then retrieved a heavy pair of silver, police-grade handcuffs from their toy drawer that they had bought of a military surplus store on Ebay.
"The Court now proceeds to the ancillary sentence of incarceration," she stated, her voice dropping to a low, thrilling murmur. "Matthew Allen Sterling, for the crime of Contempt in the face of the Court, you were sentenced to incarceration... This sentence is now to be executed."
With sharp efficiency, she unlocked the leather cuff on his left wrist and immediately snapped the steel handcuff around it. She repeated the process on the right, undoing the buckle and securing the handcuff behind the small of his back,the satisfying, metallic ratchet sound echoing through the courtroom.
Once his hands were cuffed, she quickly untied the black rope securing his ankles.
Jane knelt on the bed, her face inches from his.
"Defendant," she ordered, the term sharp and demanding. "The Court commands you to rise."
Matt, shaking and sore, struggled to lever his aching body onto his knees, his cuffed hands forcing his chest forward.
"Now, Prisoner," Jane commanded. "Kneel before the Judge."
As he knelt, red-faced and utterly submissive, Jane gracefully swung her legs over the side of the bed, sitting with her feet on the floor and her laced legs parting. She reached out and with a firm, decisive tug, removed the pink ball gag from his mouth, throwing it carelessly onto the sheets.
"The Court has granted you the temporary freedom of your tongue," she whispered. "Now, Prisoner, commence your service. Lick."
She paused, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "And Mr. Sterling? I trust that your tongue will perform significantly better than your technical challenge and your tounge will produce an acceptable hot, soggy bottom.You may begin."
[/quote]