Before going on I have reflected on my guning fetish in chapter one. I come from the North of Scotland where brides are “blackened” with all sorts vile stuff. Not striped as Louise was but the groom may be left in his boxers. I suffered the weekend before my wedding everything Louise did except the engine oil and still had boot poison under my nails on honeymoon. See You Tube for videos.
After the goings on at the departure of Louise my husband had hinted he had heard of other customs at my new workplace but had refused to tell me.
Two boring routine weeks passed and then one hot early June day the lady sales assistant arrived at work just after the rest of us. She immediately took of her shoes and put them under her desk. No surprise has it was very hot and I was already in bare feet.
She than removed her blouse and carefully folded it and put it in a drawer. She had no bra on and standing there topless and with pierced nipples explained to me that there was nopoint in putting a bra on if you were to be naked all day on your birthday.
The rest of her clothes were then removed revealing her clip was also pierced. N0t the more common hood piercing but he clip itself . It must have hurt like hell. Also she had brand marks over the back of her left shoulder, but more of that later.
Maureen, the manager, explained to me that for several years it had been the custom on your birthday to work nude. Angela from the spare parts department continued. She had started it after losing a bet with her husband and after being naked for a day on her birthday had challenged everyone else to do the same.
“So,” I said, “You will expect me to be nude on my birthday in January?”
“That and how we spiced it up after a couple of years when we needed to add more excitement as you will soon learn.”
At lunchtime we did not normally close but that day we did between noon and 2pm. The public did not seem to care. Perhaps in a small place theyKnow what went on. The postmistress, library and vicar’s wife certainly did as you may find out in future chapters if they can be written without giving clues as to who the characters are.
At noon food ,wine and the husband of the naked birthday girl arrived. The mechanics department, to remind you two males a female and girl appreciation, also joined us.
After eating, drinking and the candles on the cake being blown out it was announced that it was time for the sales ladies birthday swats.
She was asked to pick a card from a pack of cards. Hers read cane. The manager handed her a key and she walked naked and being admired by the males present, perhaps also by some ladies, to the stockroom and opened a cupboard I had never seen opened. It contained all manner of instruments of punishment. Paddles whips etc.
On removing the cane she handed it to her husband who asked her to remind everyone of her age. “Thirty five,” she replied.
“And do you agree to thirty five strokes?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
I whispered to Angela, “Surely she can’t take that many?”
“Thirty four last year and thirty three year before,” she replied.
The mechanics had brought in a benchmark from outside and the birthday girl had to lie face down on it and wrists and ankles tied each end and a broad leather belt fastened around her waist to stop any movement.
Her husband was then invited to administrator the first few strokes. This he did with no mercy. All present were then given the chance to beat the lady. When it was my turn it was decided I was too gentle and if I did not try harder I would be the next on the benchmark. I tried harder. By the time twenty five blows were reached some wounds were already bleeding but no one cried halt. After thirty-five she was a right old mess. Before the punishment started I had noted some scars over her back caused as I now learned by a previous birthday celebration. There was no doubt she would have some on her buttocks to match.
That night after dinner and some courage from wine I asked my husband if he had ever heard at the local golf club about the nude birthdays and the brutal swats.
Heard rumours he replied with a grin. “Are they true?”
I then told him everything. “What should I do? I am thirty next January. Should I leave before then?”
“Not like you to be a coward,” he replied with a smile.
That night went on the internet and ordered a whip. If I was to be thrashed my husband was to suffer also. I was not to know that would come sooner at the Halloween neighbor’s party.
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