Diana's Quest - Salerno
By Diana the Valkyrie
The spanking of Don Castilio


The hat was perfect. I used a scarf to tie it down to my head, because 
if you're driving a rag-top, either you do that or two minutes down the 
road, you don't have a hat any more. And dark glasses, not for 
appearance, but because the sun in southern Italy in *bright*. But the 
brim of the big blue-and-white hat helped a lot, shading my eyes from 
the sun. 

"Thank you for last night" said Cherie. I glanced across at her.  "Pity 
about Tristran" she continued. I looked at her again, what was this 
leading up to? "I'm sorry, Diana, I can't help it, I just love using 
your legs as a nutcracker." Ah. An apology. Not to poor Tris, who could 
barely stand up after a night with Cherie and me. "Shouldn't you be 
apologising to Tris, he's the one with the cracked ribs." Cherie 
frowned. "But Diana, he's a man, they enjoy having their ribs broken." 

Oh? Now that's a novel idea. People enjoy having their bones broken? I 
don't think so. "Cherie, that isn't true, and you know it. It isn't 
right to hurt a man" She pouted. "But they all try to hurt me." I drove 
down the autostrada, the world silent apart from the roar of Maxxie's 
engine and the blowing of a 140 kph gale through my hair. Then I looked 
across again, and saw a tear working it's way down her cheek. So I 
slowed down, pulled onto the side of the road, stopped, reached across 
and hugged her. "Oh Diana, you just don't know what it's like for a girl 
like me. They're bigger, and stronger, and they despise me for what I 
do, and they had some problem with some woman, and they want to take it 
out on me. Or they see me as a meal-ticket, and they just want  to 
sponge off me. Or they want free sex, so they just rape me, oh, Diana, 
you're so lucky, you just don't know what it's like." 

I held her close as she wept into my T-shirt. She was almost right, but 
not quite. "Cherie, darling, you're wrong, I do know what it's like." 
And I explained to her that I hadn't known I was a Valkyrie until 
relatively recently, that I'd let people bully me and push me around, 
and use me. And then some brutal oaf had decided to rape me in a park 
one evening, and that was not something I was willing to be passive 
about, and I'd discovered that I didn't have to take it, and that led to 
my self-discovery, declaration of independence, and to the realisation 
that I'm a Valkyrie, and can demand that I don't get treated like a 
woman, a female, or a girl, or all the other preconceived categories 
that people try to put you into.  

So I explained all this to Cherie, and she said "Yes, I know Diana, but 
don't you see? Yes, you're a Valkyrie, but I'm not!" And she went back 
to sobbing again. There's no answer to that. Either you are or you 
aren't, although Michael, our expert Valkyrologist, was of the opinion 
that there are a lot more Valkyries around that you'd think, because 
almost all of them keep quiet about it. Being different, you see, is 
generally considered a Bad Thing, something to be hidden. A few of us 
flaunt it, and I'm a flaunter. "And it feels so good when you make them 
helpless and in pain with your body, Diana, I love it." Sure, giving a 
man a bit of a squeeze is nice, but not to go as far as cracking his 
ribs. "Cherie, you mustn't take it so far. It's wrong to hurt men, they 
don't like it if you take it too far." 

"I love you, Diana" she whispered. "Cherie, promise me, no more broken 
bones, OK?" "OK" she whispered. "OK". I hugged her, and she stopped 
crying. I started Maxxie up, and continued south, a Valkyrie in a blue 
and white hat, hair streaming out behind, scarf holding it in place, 
apparently alone in the car because you couldn't see Cherie who was 
lying down with her head in my lap, nuzzling at my belly. And we 
travelled like that until we reached Salerno, right down at the south 
end of Italy. 

I parked Maxxie, and woke Cherie up. She yawned, stretched, and seemed 
to have forgotten all her woes. "Ou sommes nous?" she asked, the french 
version of the classic waking-up question. "We're in Salerno, Cherie." 
She sniffed.  "Food", I said. "Something to drink" I continued. "And a 
bed for the night" completing the List of Three. The priorities change, 
of course, you mustn't think that I'm always thinking about food, or 
even chocolate. For example, after I've just eaten and had my coffee, I 
start looking around at the local talent, to see what trouser doesn't 
seem to be already bagged. Food isn't the only consideration in a 
Valkyrie's life, or even the main one. Not all the time, anyway. But 
right now, it was pretty high on the list, so we set off to look for a 
trattoria. Or somewhere to eat. 

As we walked around, everywhere seemed to be really grotty. I mean, 
maybe I'm spoiled, but to me a really clean tablecloth is one of the 
essentials. And then we found somewhere that looked nice, and we walked 
in, and for somewhere nice, it was surprisingly empty. So I thought, 
hmmm, expensive I bet, and I sat down, Cherie sat too. And out came the 
restaurateur, and did the voluble-Italian bit, and when he paused for 
breath, I jumped in and said "Ich bin ein Englander", and then I 
realised I was doing German, and he gave me a very funny look, so then 
Cherie hit him with a stream of French, and he must have been really 
confused, because he gave us a menu in Spanish and scuttled back to the 
kitchen. 

I started giggling then, and Cherie did too, and it was just as we were 
both collapsing on the table that two men rushed into the place, 
shotgunned the guy at the next table, and ran out. And I did something 
really stupid. 

I mean, there I was in a foreign country, not knowing the language, 
ignorant of local customs, and totally unarmed, so why on earth did I 
jump up and run after them? Plus I'm dreadful at running, or anything 
that involves moving fast. Valkyries are built for speed the same way a 
rhino is, and I don't even have a horn. 

Unfortunately, the two guys weren't legging it. I say unfortunately, 
because if they had been all I could have done was pant along after 
them, watching them recede over the horizon. Unfortunately, they were 
bundling into the back of a car. Quite a small car, in the back. There 
was just room for the two of them; no way was there room for even a 
medium sized Valkyrie in the back. 

They had the advantage of surprise in the trattoria, but I had that 
advantage now. No-one had expected an extra passenger, as I dived in 
after them. The driver didn't look round; he expected passengers, he got 
passengers, time to drive. So we were all flung backwards in the car, 
the three of us all tangled up together, which might have been rather 
nice in other circumstances, but in this case, we weren't being nice. 
Here's what we were doing. 

I could see the guy on the right of the car, because he was at my head 
end, and he was wrestling with a rather large shotgun. But they aren't 
very handy to aim inside a car, and when you have a Valkyrie's hands 
round your neck and squeezing, you don't really have the time to mess 
with a gun that isn't going to point at her any time soon. I couldn't 
see the other guy, because he was at my feet end, but I knew he was 
there, because I'd flown over him on the way in, and all the kicking I 
was doing at random was having some effect, because I could feel myself 
making contact from time to time. 

It took me a couple of minutes to squeeze out the guy's neck, because I 
didn't want to kill him,. But after he was out, I could turn round and 
see what the other guy was up to. And I checked just in time, because he 
was just unfolding a rather nasty looking knife. But with him in sight, 
I could aim a foot more accurately now, and smashed his head hard into 
the side window. He dropped the knife, so I kicked his head again, and 
he seemed to be pegging out, so I kicked him again, just in case. 

The driver was still going like a bat out of hell, and I didn't know the 
Italian for "stop" or even "slow down?", but I do know some universal 
sign language. So I gently slid my hands round his throat, and gave him 
a very soft squeeze, which I just held. "Arretez" I whispered in his 
ear. Yes, I know that's French, dammit, but it was the best I could come 
up with at short notice. And either he didn't understand, or he did but 
didn't fancy his chances in a stopped car against the Valkyrie who'd 
just wiped out his two friends. So I had another think, kept one hand 
pressed against his Adam's apple hard enough to hurt, moved the other up 
to cover one of his eyes, and said "Andante", hoping that it meant the 
same in a car as it does in music. 

It worked; he slowed down then stopped. I rewarded his intelligence by 
demonstrating to him that when a Valkyrie sitting in the back seat of a 
car puts her hands round your neck and squeezes, then a good plan is to 
lose consciousness as quickly as possible. 

Whew. OK, Diana, now what? Three guys and one Valkyrie, and I just 
cannot believe the prickly sensation I'm getting between my legs. Wrong 
time, wrong place, wrong sexual partners. These guys are killers, or at 
least one of them is, and the others his accomplices. This is obviously 
a matter for the Politzei. So I took off my lovely new blue-and-white 
floppy hat, held on with the silk scarf, very fetching, and used the 
scarf to tie one of the murderer's wrists firmly behind his back. And 
when I say firmly, I mean firmly, I don't want him wriggling free and 
giving me a surprise, and I am aware that if you tie someone's wrists 
too tightly, you cut off the blood to his hands and he eventually gets 
permanently crippled, but I reckon he's a murderer and I'm willing to 
risk his hands if it reduces the chance of me being his next victim. 
Being gentle with men is always ideal, as I'd been telling Cherie, but 
there's a difference between what you do to someone in bed, and how you 
handle someone who just shotgunned a guy in the face. 

Then I undid my hair ribbon, 24 inches of royal blue nylon, and tied the 
second murderer's hands behind him, and none too gently either. Then I 
looked at the shotgun, a vicious looking weapon, and I don't like guns 
in the first place, but this one was really nasty. Knowing nothing about 
such things, I had no idea whether it was loaded or not. On reflection, 
if murderer one had been trying to get his hands on it while I attacked 
him, I guess it must still be loaded. 

How do you unload a shotgun? Hell, I don't even know how you fire it. 
But I didn't want to just ditch it, since it was the murder weapon, the 
politzei would probably want it. Huh - deal  with it later. The driver 
was still loose in front of the car, although still out like a lamp. And 
I was all out of silk scarves and hair ribbons. And I couldn't use my 
bullwhip belt to tie him up, not if I wanted the retain my skirt and my 
dignity. Then I saw my new hat, and there was a ribbon round the brim. 
so I carefully detached it, I don't want to spoil my new hat, which gave 
me about 18 inches of ribbon, enough for tying a man's wrists together. 
I leaned over the front of the car and reached down for his hands, 
toppled over, fell on top of him, and spent the next five minutes 
getting myself disentangled. It would have been fun under other 
circumstances. And by the time I got him nicely trussed up, I heard 
movement in the back of the car, so I went out the door and in the back 
door, and murderer one had gotten his hands, still tied behind his back, 
on that wretched shotgun. 

So I took it away from him, and he kicked me in the belly while I was 
leaning over him, so I reached down, got a good grip on his balls, and 
squeezed, explaining that if he was a naughty boy, I'd punish him. "And 
now," I said, "You're going to show me how to unload this gun." He said 
something short in Italian, which I took as an emphatic and rude "No", 
so I explained what the alternative was. "Sweetie, I honestly don't know 
anything about guns, but this one must be loaded, or you wouldn't be so 
keen on it. So what I'm going to do, is point it just here" where I'd 
just squeezed him "and fiddle around with it, and if you're lucky, I'll 
work out how to unload it, and if you aren't lucky, I hear there are 
some really great opportunities in the Opera House at Rome for men who 
can reach really high notes." 

He broke at once. I've always found that you can get a man's attention 
by offering to help him get rid of all that interesting tackle between 
their legs. He explained to me how to break the gun open and remove the 
shells, and when I clacked it back, and pointed it at his groin, and 
started playing with the trigger, he screamed, wet himself, and 
explained about the other barrel. "Thank you, sweetie, I knew I could 
count on you." 

I put the gun in the front of the car, in case there were more 
surprises, and carried the driver into the back. Then I wondered what 
other weapons they might have, and whether it was safe to leave them all 
back there while I drove, and I thought, I wonder what they might have 
hidden. 

Well, there's only one way to find out. I pulled them out of the car, 
one at a time, and stripped  them by the simple method of tearing the 
clothes off them. They must have wondered what my intentions were, and I 
was certainly distracted by all that naked male flesh, but I kept 
reminding myself "murderers" and managed to strip them naked without 
having to stop to calm down more than a couple of times. Two large 
knives, a cut-throat razor, three small knives, and a set of brass 
knuckles that I tried on and decided that they really were rather me, 
and would make a great fashion accessory to wear at parties. And a 
garotte, a length of wire with handles at each end. And a cosh. And some 
bottles of pills and packets of powder that I wasn't about to sample to 
find out. And rather a lot of lire. I put the whole lot, plus their 
clothes, in the front seat, and piled the three naked men in the back. 
Well, not quite naked; one wore my scarf round his wrists, and the other 
two each had a pretty blue ribbon. Fortunately, my hat wasn't a problem, 
since there wasn't much wind to blow it off. 

So, I started up the car, and started thinking about the Politzei. But 
the more I thought, the more I worried. Here's me, an English girl, 
travelling with a prostitute, not speaking a word of Italian. And here's 
them, three of them, ready to swear I mugged them or some such, and 
they're local boys, and I'm the foreigner, and I guessed I'd be lucky to 
leave the town within three months, what with all the paperwork. Rats. 
So what's to do, I can't just turn them loose, they killed a guy. Nor am 
I the sort of vengeful Valkyrie who dishes out an eye for an eye, a 
tooth for a tooth. I don't like hurting men; I certainly couldn't kill 
one. Not on purpose. 

So I drove back to the trattoria, and Cherie, bless her, was still 
there. I walked in, grabbed her hand, she'd already paid, and I dragged 
her out to the car. "Oh, Diana, bonne dieu, I was so worried, what 
happened?" I showed her my three trussed up chickens, sitting naked in 
the back of the car, and she licked her lips. "Oooh, Diana! For me?" 
Hmm. I hadn't thought of that. "Cherie, these guys are murderers." She 
didn't take her eyes of them, and nodded. "Mafia, probably" she said. 
Oh. I hadn't thought of that. Of course the Mafia isn't just Sicily. So 
I asked murderer one, "How about it, sweetie? Are you?" He tried to spit 
at me, and got murderer two in the face instead. 

We drove out into the country and found a plastic hotel. Cherie checked 
in, a suite, money being suddenly not a problem, and I sent her in to 
scout it out. She came back with two bathrobes and a blanket, and I 
explained to murderer one what would happen if he was a good boy, we'd 
all walk nice and peaceful into the hotel. "And if I don't?"  I smiled. 
"Aren't these absolutely darling little brass knuckles? And wouldn't you 
absolutely love to have the sweet sensation of cold brass in your nuts?" 
"You wouldn't. You're a woman, women don't do that sort of YOWRRRGGGGG!" 
"Wrong. Now shake it, or I won't be so gentle next time." 

They hobbled, barefoot, across the car park, into the hotel past the 
incurious uncaring gaze of the concierge, who I guessed had seen far 
more interesting sights, up the stairs, and into our temporary quarters. 
I unplugged the TV, which gave me a useful length of electrical flex 
that I used to tie our guests to a radiator. 

"I can't feel my hands any more, I'll be crippled." Cherie looked at me. 
Another murderer chimed in, "It hurts, for God's sake, make them 
looser." Cherie looked at me again. "You deal with it, Cherie." They 
were already scared of the Valkyrie who had beaten them up and hog-tied 
them. Wrong - Cherie was the one they should fear. I pulled out a 
hairbrush, and they watched, following every movement, wondering what I 
was going to do. I started brushing my hair. Cherie went up to the first 
speaker, looped the belt from the bathrobe round one of his ankles, and 
tied it to a leg of the bed; the same with his other ankle. He lay 
there, hands tied behind him, legs tied and splayed, wondering what was 
next. Cherie went into the bathroom, and came out with the complimentary 
bathroom kit, pulled out one of those little plastic razors, and went to 
work between his legs. Soon, she had completely shaved off his pubic 
hair, and his little dick looked naked, helpless and shrivelled. "Please 
... " he whimpered. Cherie smiled, and took the needle out of the sewing 
kit. She threaded cotton through the eye. He whimpered some more, and 
lost control of his bladder. Cherie gave him a very sweet smile, and I 
said "Enough. leave it for now, Cherie, but if any of them give me 
trouble, you can have him for half an hour." "Half an hour is all I 
need, Diana." We both smiled, and I heard a faint whimper. 

The night was peaceful. There might have been a few moans and whimpers, 
but pretty inaudible, and nothing at all compared to the noise like a 
steam train that I made as Cherie let off my fireworks. Being so close 
to all that naked male flesh had a very aphrodisiac effect on me. But 
when we woke up the next day, we still had the same key problem. Three 
murderers, and no good way of dealing with them. 

Why didn't I just let Cherie torture them to death? I was sure she 
would, at the drop of a hat. No, in my way of thinking, there's no real 
difference between me killing them, me telling Cherie to, and me closing 
my eyes and just not stopping her. But what was the alternative? Cherie 
kept talking about the benefits of castration, and I let her ramble on 
in that vein, it seemed to keep them suitably cowed, and every time she 
came closer, I could see them flinching. But although you might think 
that castration is a suitable reprisal for rape (not that I'm saying it 
is mind, just that you might think it), it somehow doesn't feel right 
for murder. 

Then I thought a bit more. These guys are just the foot soldiers. Who 
ordered the killing? Well, simple enough to find out. "Cherie, find out 
who sent them. Don't give them any more pain than you have to in order 
to find out." I sat on the bed and watched. I didn't want to watch this, 
but I felt it would be wrong to avoid the sight. Cherie went and got her 
needle and thread. "OK," she said, brightly. "Who wants to be sewn up 
first?" 

Yeuchh. Suddenly I realised what she had in mind, and it would only take 
a few stitches, too. "Cherie, if you sew up their penises, they won't be 
able to urinate, their bladders will burst and they'll die." "No they 
won't, Diana. I'll undo the stitches every few days so they can piss. 
It'll just be a bit uncomfortable, that's all." A bit uncomfortable? 
It's hard for me to imagine what it would be like, since my plumbing 
works the other way round. Not to mention the other. "And Cherie, they 
wont be able to have sex, either." "Yes they will, Diana, it's just that 
the ejaculation won't be able to get out." 

Suddenly, one of them vomited. I have to admit, I was feeling a little 
queasy myself. "Cherie, you must promise you'll stop when one of them 
talks." "Naturellement, Diana, but they have the code omerta, none of 
them will break silence." Cherie kneeled down by the genitals of the man 
she'd shaved. "Don Castilio" he said, immediately. I looked at the 
others; they nodded. "Cherie, if he lied, you can do all three of them." 
"Oooh, magnifique. Et les posteriors?" I smiled. "We'll see. Anyone want 
to change his story?" No. OK, so now we have a name. "And where does he 
live? "Casa Principio". They were all talking freely now, their eyes 
glued to Cherie's needle, their thoughts on what she could do with just 
a few stitches. So much for the Code of Omerta; shattered by the threat 
of a simple sewing job. 

"Are we going there, Diana?" asked Cherie. "Not yet, I have to get a few 
arrangements in place first. The trouble with an organised crime ring, 
is that if you castrate it, as it were, you just find someone new takes 
over, and you still have the criminal gang, but with a new leader. What 
you have to do, is not so much castrate it, as emasculate it. And I had 
a fair idea of how to do that. But I wanted whatever I did to be 
permanent, which meant that I had to make a permanent change in the 
balance of power in the gang. 

I made Cherie promise not to do anything horrible to our three 
murderers, and popped out to buy a local newspaper. Back at the hotel, I 
started scanning the small ads, until I found what I was looking for. 
"For English lessons, strict discipline, Mrs Jones". Perfect. I called 
and made an appointment. 

I'm not sure why this is, but if there's one sexual fetish that the 
English do better than anyone else in the world, it's spanking.  Born in 
the Public School system, where the older boys are expected to flog the 
younger boys every day, refined in the Dickensian brothels of London's 
West End, and one of the greatest British exports in these days of the 
European Community - the English specialty, spanking. 

Oh, Germans can spank, but theirs is a methodical, systematic spanking. 
The French don't really understand the point of spanking, and the Dutch 
just think we're crazy. But if it's spanking you want, you simply can't 
do better than a good, strict, Englishwoman. And Mrs Jones was a spanker 
in the best tradition. 

I warmed to her as soon as we shook hands; I felt a hand that was hard 
and strong, capable of inflicting accurately estimated amounts of pain  
to a man's backside. A hand that knew its power, a hand that could spank 
until the tears flowed freely. A warm, friendly face, and a warm, 
friendly bosom, that was ideal for the post-spanking comforting that is 
crucial to the spanking experience, and which is the way that inferior 
spankers usually fail. Oh yes, Mrs Jones was just what I was looking 
for. 

I explained to her what had happened. She listened, and told me that my 
best plan was to get into my car, and drive very fast, and as far as 
possible without stopping. "These men are dangerous, Diana, they kill 
without compunction." "Yes, I know, I watched a murder, remember? We 
can't let this sort of thing go on." "We can't stop it, either. It's a 
fact of life here. And the police ..." Yes, I already guessed that it 
might actually be dangerous to try to hand this over to the police. It 
would only take one bent copper to "accidentally" shoot his gun at me. 
"The boss is Don Castilio, what I'm going to do, is get at him." "Won't 
work, Diana, even if you kill him, a successor will take over." "Ah, but 
I'm not planning to kill him." And I explained my plan to her. 

"Hmmm." she said. "Well?" I asked. "That could work", she said. "Yes? 
Then will you do it?" "I don't know," she said. "It could be dangerous." 
"How could it be dangerous? Once I've got you and him together, don't 
you think you could handle him?" She looked at her hands, and flexed 
them. "Oh, I can handle him, that's not my worry. My question is, can 
you?" "Do you want to see the three murderers I caught?" She nodded. 
"Yes, good idea. Let's see what you're made of." 

So we went back to the hotel, and I showed her the three naked men I 
had, tied to the radiators. They were beginning to smell a bit, because 
we weren't letting them use the toilet, and Cherie was amusing herself 
by showing them her needle and watching them gibber with fear, but they 
were still reasonably healthy. I could see, though, that I'd better 
hurry up with this, because they'd probably not stay that way for long, 
especially with Cherie around. "And you did that?" Mrs Jones asked me. I 
nodded. She sat down in a straight-backed chair, and said "I'll show you 
something. Bring that one to me" and she pointed to murderer one, who 
even now looked sullen and rebellious. "Do you want me to soften him up 
a bit first?" "What do you mean?" she asked. "I could punch him in the 
belly a few times, then he won't fight." She smiled. "Oh, I don't think 
he'll fight." Cherie undid the flex tying him to the radiator, and 
pulled him over to Mrs Jones, using that convenient pull-handle he had 
in front. Mrs Jones patted her knees. "Over here, lovey." 

He rested face-down on her knees. She rolled up her sleeve, raised her 
hand, and brought it down with a slap on his backside. "Now, lovey, I 
want you to be a big brave soldier, and not cry out." She settled into 
a rhythm, her hand rising and falling methodically, and I could see the 
soft white flesh of his backside slowly turning a rosy red colour. After 
ten minutes of this, each time her hand came down, he gasped in pain. 
"You see, Diana, first we bruise the flesh, which makes it softer and 
more tender. And the hardness of my hand abrades his skin, and that 
makes it sting. So there's pain on the surface, and pain deep down, and 
the longer I spank him, the deeper the pain penetrates. Now his world 
consists of just two things; his bottom and my hand, and he knows that 
his bottom can't resist my hand." Up and down went her hand, spank spank 
spank. Now he was jerking a little as each spank landed, and his bottom 
was bright red, and I could hear the rasp of his breathing. There was no 
respite, she didn't even change hands. "He's not used to this, I doubt 
if he'll hold out much longer." Now he was arching his back at each 
spank, and the skin of his bottom had broken, so there was blood on her 
hand now. But she didn't slow down, or reduce the power of the spanking. 
"No" he moaned. "Please no." She ignored his begging, bringing her hand 
down at the same pace and impact as when she'd started. He moaned 
louder, "Please stop, please." Mrs Jones took no notice, she was like a 
spanking machine. Then he started to cry; at first a wail, then a sob, 
and another, and then a full flood of tears, with all the sound effects. 

This was what she was waiting for. "Untie his wrists." I guess she knew 
what she was doing, so I did that. She lifted him off her knees onto her 
lap, put her arms round him, his face on her bosom, and held him while 
he cried his heart out. It was a bit embarrassing, he was confessing to 
every naughty thing he'd ever done, or so it seemed. And she kept saying 
"And you promise not to do that again", and he was promising, and 
crying, and saying he was sorry, and please forgive him, and she was 
telling him it was all right, he'd be a good boy now, and he was saying 
"Yes, oh yes." 

I have to say, I was impressed. And I think Cherie was too. "Bath time 
now, Jimmie" said Mrs Jones, and she stood up with him in her arms, and 
took him into the bathroom, and it was quite a long time before they 
came out again, and he didn't look so miserable now, plus he smelled a 
lot better. Mrs Jones let him curl up at her feet, and she, Cherie and 
me all talked about The Plan. Now and again, Jimmie looked up and raised 
his hand. "Yes Jimmie?" and he gave us some useful piece of information; 
men really can be quite intelligent sometimes. Well, some of them can. 

Then it was time for Mrs Jones to go; we had everything worked out, and 
knew what we were going to do. One problem, though. "Er, what about 
Jimmie?" I asked. Mrs Jones frowned. "I don't want him" she said. "He's 
yours." "Can I have him?" asked Cherie. Mrs Jones shrugged. "All right, 
Cherie, but you mustn't hurt him." I said. "Unless he deserves it" added 
Mrs Jones. Jimmie looked up at us as we discussed him, and when he 
realised that Mrs Jones really was going to leave without him, the tears 
welled up in his eyes, and he started crying, only this time silently. 
As she left, she explained to me, "Don't start trusting him yet, Diana, 
one spanking doesn't change a murderer into a good little boy." I 
reassured her that I trusted him about as far as I could throw him. Now 
there's a great idea for an Olympic event - man-throwing. Use a standard 
man, say 150 pounds, or 250 for the heavyweight event, a throwing circle 
like they use for the hammer, and you swing him round, and round, then 
up and out, trying to get as much distance as possible before he 
bounces. Sixty feet shouldn't be out of the question, more for the 
lighter men. Just think how much fun it would be, practicing for the 
event. I suppose you'd use dummies at first, otherwise you'd get through 
too many volunteers. Or practice over a swimming pool, to give him a nice 
soft landing.  

I got undressed and went to bed, and Cherie led him over to the couch. 
I'm not sure what she did with him, but he was still alive in the 
morning, and not in too much pain. I did notice that his backside had 
started bleeding some more, so maybe Cherie had been practising her new 
skill of spanking. 

Next day was bright and sunny, which is something English people say 
because it's worth remarking on, and I bet Italians don't because every 
day is like that. I got Maxxie, then Mrs Jones, and she had a picnic 
basket, and we went out into the Italian countryside and had a 
delightful picnic among the olive trees. And she told me how she'd ended 
up in Salerno. "I was a children's nanny, you know?" English nannies are 
generally considered to be the best in the world. The children grew up, 
as children do, and I didn't have a job. But I liked it round here so 
much, I decided to stay. And to make a living, if I couldn't look after 
children and teach them how to behave, I decided I'd do the same, but 
with men." "And they come to you for a good spanking?" "Some of them do, 
but my bread-and-butter comes from the wives. You see, the men round 
here all think that they have to be ultra-macho, and sometimes it gets 
so bad that the wife can't take it any more. So then she calls me in, 
and I give him a sharp spanking or three, and after a week or two of 
careful training, he's a delightful little boy again, a pleasure to 
know, and no trouble at all." "So the wives pay you for that?" "Of 
course. Well, ultimately it's the man that pays, but it's the wife that 
calls me in." 

"Don't you have any trouble getting them to submit to being spanked?" "I 
did at first, yes. So I found a local woman to help a bit, she works at 
the winery." "What does she do?" "She loads and unloads the barrels on 
the lorries. She's got big arms, a bit like you, Diana. Those barrels 
are a hundred kilos or more, none of the men can handle them. So I used 
to get her to accompany me on the visit, wearing a sleeveless top. At 
first, they didn't take her seriously, but after she bear-hugged a few 
of them unconscious, they took notice. Given the choice between taking 
the chance that Francesca wouldn't break any bones, and dropping their 
trousers for an expertly administered spanking, they don't think very 
long. With me, their behind stings a bit, well, maybe a lot. Francesca 
can put a man into hospital without even meaning to. You know, she even 
looks a bit like you." 

Hmm. I wonder if there's a Valkyrie here? "Mrs Jones ..." "Do call me 
Dorothy" "Dorothy, could we pay a quick visit to the winery?" She looked 
at her watch. "Sure, we have time. Are you thinking she might help with 
The Plan?" I nodded. "From your description, it sounds like she could be 
a Valkyrie like me." "A what?" "Valkyrie. Look, I'll explain when I've 
seen her, that way I won't have to explain twice." 

At the winery, a big woman was unloading a lorry. A man on the lorry was 
rolling the barrels to the edge, and Francesca was taking each one on 
her shoulders, and carrying it inside. I went over to the lorry and 
spoke to the man. "Aren't you going to help her?" "Hah, what do you think 
I am, a fork-lift? These are 200 litre barrels, they weight 200 kilos 
each. I can barely roll them. They used a fork-lift to load up this 
lorry, but she's so much faster." She came back and shouldered another 
barrel. I took the next one and followed her inside, up two flights of 
stairs, and I put it down next to where she left hers. 

We worked together unloading that lorry, and I can tell you it wasn't 
easy. I'm just not used to handling barrels, the shape is so awkward, 
and if you drop one and it breaks, that would be a disaster. So you have 
to be careful and gentle with them. 

Eventually, we got the lorry unloaded, and Francesca offered me her 
hand, "Thank you. Time for a drink." The three of us went into the cool 
building, and Francesca uncorked a bottle and poured us all a long 
glass. "So?" said Mrs Jones, looking at me. I laid Francesca's arm down 
on the table, with Mrs Jones for comparison. It was like a tree trunk 
and a matchstick. "Don't look at the size comparison. Lift your hand a 
few centimeters" They did, and the tendon inside their elbows became 
visible. "Look at where it attaches to the bone. Francesca's ligament is 
much further from the joint. Francesca, there's no doubt, you're a 
Valkyrie." As if there could have been any doubt in a woman who carried 
200 kg barrels around all day. 

Hundreds of thousands of years ago, Homo Erectus was divided into three 
subspecies; Sapiens, Neanderthalis and Valkyrensis. Sapiens had the best 
breeding abilities, and that's why there are six billion of them around 
the world today. Neanderthalis was hairy and not so obsessed with sex 
and violence, so the Sapiens outbred and eventually hounded them to 
extinction. We only know about Neanderthalis through fossils, although 
even today, you occasionally see a Sapiens with Neanderthalis 
characteristics. 

Valkyrensis saw this happening, and foresaw a similar fate. The main 
characteristics of the Valkyrie aren't as obvious an the Neanderthals. 
We don't have a distinctive skull like they did, for example. What we do 
have, is a thick layer of muscle where Sapiens has spaghetti, which 
makes us physically stronger. But you can't see it; if you look at a 
Valkyrie relaxing on the beach, all you see is a rather sturdily built 
woman with big thighs, a thick waist and broad shoulders. Unless you 
diet to extreme to lose all your bodyfat, the muscles don't stand out. 
And I rather like being the size I am. 

So we could live side by side with Sapiens, without them realising. And, 
of course, the Sapiens ego helps a lot, they look at me and see a fluff-
bunny. There's a lot of myth and legend that survived, of course, like 
that of the Amazons, and of the Norse Valkyries, and Pallas Athene of 
the Greeks, and probably similar things in other cultures. Who knows how 
these myths propagate, with details invented and added as they get 
repeated  (Amazons cutting off their right breast? I don't think so). 

But by doing that, what the Valkyries gave up was something very 
precious indeed. We lost our Valkyruses, our menfolk, those sweet blokes 
that every Valkyrie wants to shelter and protect with her strong arms. 
You can have a lot of fun with a Sapiens, but something deep inside me 
pined for the lost Valkyruses. 

And what does a Valkyrus look like? I wish I knew. They certainly aren't 
the mountain of muscle that perhaps you first thought. And I doubt if 
they're the sexual marathon-runners either. I just don't know, the 
trouble is, I've never met one, not that I know of. 

I explained all this to Francesca and Dorothy, and Dorothy kept digging 
her fingers into Francesca to check what I was saying. But the clincher 
is the displaced tendons. By attaching further from the joint, you get a 
lot more leverage and therefore strength. But such a low-geared lever 
doesn't move so fast, and the Valkyrie is slow to move, and terrible at 
running. I also find that things seem to break when I'm around, but that 
might be a different issue. 

"So that's why it takes three men to lift a barrel that I can carry?" 
"Yes, Francesca. You're built for power, Homo Sapiens isn't." "So what 
are they built for?" asked Dorothy. I licked my lips. "Actually, I think 
they're rather good for screwing." They both nodded. I got Francesca to 
pull her skirt up, so we could see her thighs. She was a bit reluctant, 
but I showed her mine, and then she lifted her skirt. Yes. Tree trunks 
all the way. Telegraph poles. She'd burst a football, no trouble. Thirty 
six inches apiece, I guessed. 

So then Dorothy explained The Plan, and Francesca listened and nodded, 
but I didn't get the feeling that she was really understanding it. But 
she was obviously happy to go along with Dorothy, and I certainly felt a 
whole lot more confident about the long term if I was leaving a Valkyrie 
in place to look after things. 

Darkness fell, and we got ready for the evening's adventure. I was 
dressed dramatically, all in black. Black sweater, long black skirt, 
black leggings, and a black balaclava to tuck my hair into. Black isn't 
really my colour, but for evening wear, I rather fancy myself in black  
Dorothy had gone for the leather look, a sort of Mrs Peel catsuit in 
black leather, very fetching, very sexy. Francesca didn't have anything 
special to wear, just a sort of peasant skirt and an off-the-shoulder 
blouse. Dorothy was putting the finishing touches to her make-up, but I 
didn't think it was a make-up sort of occasion, so I just gave my hair a 
good brushing and then tugged the balaclava over it.. 

We piled into Maxxie, and once again I questioned my wisdom in getting a 
two-seater. But we coped. I drove round the back of the Casa, and I left 
Maxxie off the road behind some bushes. Then we gathered to look at the 
seven-foot brick wall, with broken glass on top, and another two feet of 
razor wire. "So how are we getting over that?" said Dorothy. "Fly?" 
Actually, my original intention had been a wooden ladder, but Francesca 
the Valkyrie changed that. "Yes, Dorothy, actually, I'm going to fly 
over it." 

Francesca took my left wrist and ankle, and started to swing me round 
and round. Faster and faster, then with some up and down motion, and 
finally let go of me, and I hurtled high into the air over the wall, 
soaring as gracefully as a hippopotamus. Flying is easy, it's the 
landing that's tough. I was kind of lucky, I landed on a dead dog. It 
hadn't been dead until very recently, but when 185 pounds of Valkyrie 
lands on a dog, what you have is an ex-dog, a former dog, a dog that is 
no more. 

The dead dog had a friend, which was racing towards me like a bullet 
with teeth. I lay on the dead dog, completely winded and shaken, hoping 
that the oncoming wolf-like creature was friendly. Yes, about as 
friendly as a cornered weasel. With a low, soft growl, 150 pounds of dog 
landed on me and tried to tear my throat out. Now I'm normally very kind 
to animals, and hate hurting men, but sometimes you don't really have a 
choice. The smell of it's breath alone was enough to kill a horse, and 
that mouth, with all those teeth, was aiming to terminate a Valkyrie. I 
had my hands up in front of my face, so that's where he landed, all 
growls and wet drool. He was trying to close his jaws on me, so I got 
hold of one jaw in each hand and pulled them apart. There was a 
sickening snap as his jaw broke, then a crack as his neck broke, and I 
was sandwiched between two dead dogs. Not a great start to the evening, 
and I wondered if I'd ever get the smell of dog out of that sweater. 

I stood up, shakily, and made a sound like an owl to let the others know 
I was OK. Yes, I know they don't have owls in south Italy, but I didn't 
know that then, you think I'm a naturalist? I staggered to my feet, and 
dragged myself round to the front of the house, to the gatehouse. I 
looked in, there were two guys there. Not a problem. But the key was, to 
get them out of the way, without them raising the alarm, and without 
hurting them too much. Like I said, Valkyries hate hurting men. 

I got ready for the attack. From their point of view, what happened was 
someone suddenly kicked the door in, and a beautiful blonde was standing 
there, naked to the waist, and with entirely adequate ladybumps. They 
were frozen, caught between the urge to action, and the urge to fuck.  
By the time they'd collected their wits, I'd punched one of them in the 
belly, and he then made a determined attempt to vomit the entire 
contents of his stomach for the next several minutes. The other one 
moved too fast for me; he swung a fist and hit me in the spine as I was 
recovering from the first punch I'd thrown, and that sent me sprawling 
over the floor. But then he made the mistake of diving on top of me. 

Every Valkyrie knows what to do when there's a man on top of you. 
Unfortunately, the current circumstances ruled out romance, so I had to 
make do with raising my legs to embrace him, and then crushing him 
between them like a nut in a nutcracker. I stopped after I heard a rib 
go, and then just hugged him until I'd squeezed the air out of him, 
whereupon he passed out. Then I got up, carefully avoided the pool of 
vomit from the first guy, and put my sweater back on. 

Once outside, I reached the gate and did my owl-hoot again. In 
retrospect, it wasn't a very good owl-hoot, but since there weren't any 
owls around anyway, that didn't really matter. Dorothy and Francesca 
loomed up out of the darkness, and I rattled the gate. How does it open? 
Um. I looked for a bolt, for a catch, for a lock - nothing. Maybe 
something electrical, but the two guys who knew how to operate it were 
unconscious or seriously puking. But Francesca knew how to open it. She 
got hold of a bar with each hand, and just dragged them apart, the one-
inch steel groaning as it gave way. And Dorothy and Francesca just 
stepped through. 

We stopped off at the guard-hut to check again. Dorothy took a look at 
the guy writhing on the floor, and said "Gut-punch?" I nodded. "Do the 
other one, too." I was about to protest that he was unconscious, so it 
was hardly sporting to gut him again, but Francesca didn't seem to care 
about such niceties. She wrapped one hand round his jaw to lift him into 
position, then her other hand came up from hell in a big, looping 
uppercut that just sank into his belly, and must have touched his spine. 
There was a spurt of blood from his mouth as something inside must have 
ruptured, and she let go of him, dropping him on the floor like a sack 
of coal. "Good, Francesca. Very good punch. Now him" said Dorothy, 
pointing to the other one. I could never hurt a man like that in cold 
blood, I guess I'm too soft. 

He had watched his friend being gutted, and now he knew it was his turn. 
His stomach was already a sea of pain from my punch, he must have 
thought her fist would kill him. I wondered about that, too. She gripped 
his jaw and lifted him slowly, savouring the fear in his eyes. He 
squirmed feebly in her grasp, but she had him in an iron grip. Then she 
showed him her other hand, and made a fist; huge, hard, heavy, a hammer 
of destruction. She released his jaw, and as his body folded to sag to 
the ground, her other fist came up in a huge uppercut to his belly, 
sinking deep into the soft, helpless flesh, and becoming the epicentre 
for an earthquake of pain and damage that left him incapable of doing 
anything more than sink to the ground lost in an ocean of pain. 

"Right, they won't be bothering us any more." said Dorothy. I felt 
rather nauseated. Gut-punching that guy in the heat of the fight was one 
thing.  But what Francesca had just done, I was sure I couldn't do, or 
at least I hoped I couldn't. "Into the house" said Dorothy. 

The front door was closed, of course. I ran towards it, then allowed 185 
pounds of solid Valkyrie to collide with it. I bounced off the door, my 
shoulder in great pain, and staggered sideways. Francesca rushed up 
behind me and smashed against the door; a shattering blow. The door 
shuddered and shook, but held firm. Then Dorothy walked up to it,  
turned the handled, and opened the door. She walked into the Casa, 
followed by two very sheepish Valkyries. Brute strength isn't always the 
answer, Valkyries sometimes forget that. 

Then two large gorillas rushed into the room, and the next few minutes 
was full of cruelty to animals. After Francesca and I had dealt with the 
gorillas, things went very quiet, so we split up to search the house. 
No-one was home. So we trussed up the gorillas in string, and sat down 
to wait. 

Francesca had loads of questions for me, she'd never met another 
Valkyrie before, and she wanted to know if I was the same as she was. 
Same big thighs, same thick waist, same displaced tendons. I explained 
to her the elements of the Valkyrie heritage, and she said "Good for 
lifting barrels." "Yes, Francesca, great for lifting 200kg barrels, but 
you shouldn't be content to be a cheap replacement for a fork-lift 
truck." 

The fact is, being very strong is nice, and especially in bed. But to 
use it to do a job that a simple machine could do better, is an 
appalling waste. "Francesca, it's great that you can lift the barrels so 
easily, but how do you suppose other people handle them?" "I never 
thought about that. I suppose they also have a Valkyrie? Or they have 
three men to do it?" Actually, I doubt if three men could handle a 200kg 
barrel, the shape is too awkward, three men couldn't apply what little 
strength they could muster between them. "Fork-lift, Francesca. They 
cost $5000 for a second hand electric one, and even the wimpiest man can 
handle two barrels at once." "Well, I don't know what else I could do, 
Diana. I've been at the winery all my life, ever since I was small. I 
thought, I'll work here until I get married, then have lots of babies." 

Ambition - to be a baby farm. Hmmm. "And?" "Oh, well. No-one asked me, 
so that won't happen." Dorothy chimed in "It's the macho thing. Italian 
men have this big macho thing. A strong woman is anathema. No-one will 
ever marry Francesca." 

"You're wrong." I said. "There are men who adore Valkyries, who love the 
thought of being picked up and cuddled in her strong arms." Francesca 
raised one eyebrow. I've always wondered how people do that, mine work 
as a pair. "Even if you can't find what I'm looking for, a Valkyrus, 
there's plenty of Homo Sapiens who practically wet themselves at the 
thought of a really strong woman." 

So I told them about my friends Judy and Michael, and how in love they 
were, and how he simply accepted that she was far stronger that him, and 
she did all the heavy lifting, like suitcases. 

And then we heard the front door go, so we all kept quiet. Footsteps up 
the stairs, then the bedroom door opened and a woman hurtled in, 
followed by a short swarthy swearing Italian. Fortunately, my Italian is 
poor enough, so I have no idea what he was saying, except he was 
accusing Rosa of being a whore. Then he saw us, and stopped. His wife (I 
assume)  staggered to the bed and fell onto it, crying. Just your 
standard wedded bliss domestic scene. 

He called out "Mario!" but nothing happened. Then he called "Julio" and 
I half expected two Italian plumbers to bounce in, and tried not to 
giggle. He went to the door to call, but by then, the doorway was 
blocked by an adequately wide Valkyrie, and I didn't let him past. "If 
you're looking for two gorillas, we met them earlier and dealt with 
them." "What do you mean?" "Francesca, go and fetch them." 

Francesca went to fetch the gorillas, and I stopped Castilio from 
leaving again, by simply standing in the doorway and letting him bounce 
off me, I didn't want to damage the goods, not just yet. She came back 
with one under each arm "It's just like carrying barrels, only easier". 
She dumped them on the floor, and then Dorothy took over. 

I'm too soft. I hate hurting men, I just don't have the stomach for it. 
And when I see a man crying, I just want to pick him up and cuddle him 
till he's better. Dorothy, on the other hand, was very used to men in 
pain. 

She'd explained the theory to me. "You have to start off with pain, 
that's the only way to get their attention."  I know a few other ways, 
but she probably wouldn't count those. "But not just pain. You use the 
pain to get through to them, and to induce fear, fear of more pain. You 
play on the fear then, enlarge it. You don't give them pain just for its 
own sake, it's to enlarge the fear." 

She'd explained all this at the picnic. "When the fear level is high 
enough, they start to lose control, the fear drives them to do shameful 
things. Then you can start the humiliation, making them do things 
they're ashamed of, out of fear of you. Begging, pleading. Licking. And 
worse. Once you've got them used to humiliating themselves, you own 
them, you can do what you like with them, and you can remodel them into 
better people. More useful. Obedient. Loyal." 

Hmm. This sounded a bit like Vicky and her dogs that weren't quite dogs. 
Although they seemed to enjoy their new lives as dogs. 

Francesca untied one of the gorillas and helped him stand up. "You see," 
said Dorothy, "Francesca is one very powerful woman. All day long she 
lifts and carries the big wine barrels. Look at her arms." 

Francesca took off her blouse, and showed a pair of arms that were 
thicker than most men's legs. She flexed, and they grew huge, bulging 
with massive muscle. Even I was impressed, but then, I don't carry 
barrels of wine all day. Take one Valkyrie, and put her through that 
sort of exercise routine, and it isn't surprising that her upper arms 
are bigger than many women's waists. Like I said, even I was impressed. 

Dorothy pointed to one of the gorillas. "Francesca, a demonstration if 
you please." We all sat back to watch the show. First she took off her 
skirt, revealing an impressive pair of bloomers; large and heavy, and 
more than ample. From what I could see of her thighs (which wasn't much, 
those bloomers were *big*) they weren't on the same heroic scale as her 
arms, I guess barrel-carrying doesn't do so much for your lower body. 
Not too shabby, though, and as long as I kept my skirt on, the biggest 
around. 

First, she untied the ruffian who was about to become her victim, and 
helped him to stand. Then she put her arms round him and cuddled him. 
Well, that's what it looked like. But you could see that he was in some 
sort of distress, and after she'd hugged him for a while, she released 
him and he sagged to the ground. No respite, though. She lifted him 
again, under his armpits and pulled him close to her body again with 
those colossal man-crushers. I heard the "whuff" as those massive arms 
crushed the air from his lungs, then she just held him like that till he 
blacked out. 

I looked round the room. Gorilla 2 looked scared, as well he might. 
Dorothy was looking excited. Castilio had an air of disdain, but the 
most interesting reaction was from Rosa, who was looking at Francesca  
with open-mouthed admiration. 

Dorothy turned to Castilio. "Take your trousers off, dearie. Or you're 
next for the treatment." He said something short and pungent. Dorothy 
waved her hand to Francesca and pointed to Castilio, and said "Try not 
to hurt him too much." Francesca grinned and licked her lips. She walked 
over to Castilio and put her hands on her hips. He stood a few inches 
taller than she did, but it was obvious who was going to be crushed and 
who would be doing the crushing. Suddenly he unleashed a wicked punch 
straight at her midsection. I flinched, knowing how much that would have 
hurt, and sure enough, he was bent over nursing his hurt hand. If you 
ever get into a fight with a Valkyrie, that's a really dumb move, like 
punching a brick wall. 

"My turn" said Francesca happily, making a fist that looked like Jove's 
hammer. Wow. Could you imagine what one of those could do to a helpless 
man, with the force of those huge arms powering it? He obviously could, 
because he whimpered a little, expecting a explosion of agonising pain to 
be imminent. 

But Dorothy had taught her well, and she pulled the punch that might 
otherwise have destroyed his internal organs so badly he would have bled 
to death from internal injuries. We waited while he regurgitated his 
dinner all over the nice carpet, and the Dorothy repeated in exactly the 
same tone of voice, "Take off your trousers, dearie." He looked at 
Dorothy, Dorothy looked at Francesca, Francesca made a fist, and he 
pulled his trousers down. 

"You see how it works, Diana? Pain, fear and humiliation. In a couple of 
weeks he'll be a sweet obedient boy, no trouble at all. Come here, 
dearie." He stepped closer to her. "Now take off your underpants." 

I could see the struggle in his mind; the humiliation of showing his 
genitals to us all, against his fear of Francesca. Francesca stretched, 
putting her hands behind her neck, which made her biceps bulge 
ominously, and he pulled his underpants down. Dorothy took his cock in 
her hand, and said "You poor boy, it's so small!" Francesca and I 
giggled, that'd always a sure way to humiliate a man. She'd have said 
that no matter how big he was. He did look rather small, though, poor 
lamb. Dorothy turned to Rosa, and said "Rosa, has he ever managed to 
fulfil you?" Rosa shook her head, no. "Well, I'm really not surprised, 
if this is all he can muster. So does he lick you off, or what?" 

"Never would I do such a thing" said Casty. Dorothy smiled sweetly at 
him. "Casty, when I've finished with you, you'll be begging for the 
chance to pleasure a woman in a way that is so painless for you." "What 
do you mean?" Dorothy smiled at him. "Over the next few weeks, you're 
going to learn a lot. Including the meaning of pain and humiliation. 
Francesca, you've done well today. You can have that one for your 
pleasure. And you, Casty, will bend over my knee" 

She didn't have to tell him twice. With Francesca standing arms akimbo, 
looking like an angel of death, with me blocking the doorway, he didn't 
have much choice. He laid himself face down over her knee, and the 
spanking began. 

Her strokes were steady and firm, not severe, but I knew that the 
hardness of her hand against the softness of his arse would inevitably 
prevail. Dorothy was a believer in long-term spanking, letting the 
soreness and tenderness gradually build up, so that each stroke was 
slightly more painful than the one before. Meanwhile Francesca was 
reaping her reward. 

She picked the ruffian up with her arms crushing round his waist, and 
turned him upside down. She supported him in that position with one 
powerful arm crushing his waist to her, and used her other hand to stuff 
his head under the waistband of her voluminous bloomers, and then down, 
down, down until his head was firmly gripped between her thighs. 

"Slowly, Francesca" reminded Dorothy, as her hand continued its rhythmic 
rise and fall on Casty's arse. I could see his skin begin to redden. 
"Rosa, I want you to watch this, and learn." Rosa nodded, this was all 
new to her, but she obviously liked it. "They aren't so macho when you 
take their trousers off and spank them." 

Meanwhile, some rather scary noises were coming from inside Francesca's 
bloomers. If it had been me doing that, I'd have at least given him a 
rest and a chance to recover at that point, but she kept right on going, 
and in a while the scary noises were replaced by an even scarier 
silence. Silence from him, that is. Francesca was making enough noise 
for both of them, and I guessed she was making her blissful way towards 
orgasm. I was right, there was a noisy explosion of ecstasy from her, 
and then she sat down on the bed next to Dorothy, and pulled an 
unconscious man out of her bloomers. He looked dreadful. 

Casty had seen all this, so when Francesca said "Dorothy, can I have 
another one?" he whimpered audibly. But Dorothy sternly said "You should 
have made that one last longer, Francesca." Francesca looked 
disappointed, and started getting dressed again. "Well, can I help you 
to spank him?" "Francesca, I'm actually better at this than you are. You 
do too much damage, too fast." His arse was bright red by now, and he 
was beginning to gasp with each stroke. But Dorothy didn't let up in the 
slightest, her hand rose and fell in the same tempo as when she'd 
started, the perfect spanking machine." "So how long do you spank him?" 
asked Rosa, and I could hear genuine interest in her voice. "It's very 
simple, Rosa. You spank him until he begins to cry." 

Making a man cry! How horrible. I really couldn't do a thing like that, 
it's bad enough when it happens by accident. But Dorothy heart was as 
hard as her hands, and she clearly thought nothing of it. Obviously it's 
for his own good, but even so, making a man cry on purpose. Shudder. 
Brrrrh! 

Francesca was dressed now, and her playmate was starting to regain 
consciousness. She looked down and saw him starting to move by her feet, 
picked him up, and put him over her lap. "No, Francesca, you mustn't 
spank him." "Why not?" "You've already done some terrible things to him, 
after what you just did with his head, he might never be the same 
again." Rosa interrupted. "Could I try spanking him?" 

We turned and looked at her. She was a pretty blonde, a real fluff-
bunny. Or at least, so she'd appeared. But maybe the fluff-bunny was 
only a veneer over something harder? I nodded to Dorothy, she smiled, 
and said "OK, you hold him in place, Francesca, and Rosa can have a go 
at spanking." "What should I use?" she asked, taking off a rather nice 
leather belt. "No," said Dorothy. "If you can't spank with your bare 
hand, then don't spank at all." 

So Rosa knelt in front of Francesca, and started applying the palm of 
her hand to his bottom. She tried to use the same rhythm as Dorothy, but 
she soon tired and fell behind. "Don't worry," said Dorothy. "It's like 
knitting or lifting weights, the more you do it, the better you get." 
"Can I finish him off?" asked Francesca. "No, I already told you." "How 
long does it usually take to make a man cry?" asked Rosa. "It varies," 
replied Dorothy. "Sometimes an hour or so, sometimes they hold out for 
several hours. But they all crack sooner or later, a man's soft backside 
can never hold out against a woman's hard hand." 

By now, Casty was jerking as each blow landed, and I could see how he 
was anticipating the pain of each spank. His bottom had moved from red 
to purple, although she hadn't broken the skin yet. I asked her why not. 
"I'm aiming for long-term results here, Diana. I need to completely 
break his will, not his skin. If I leave the skin unbroken, I can 
inflict more pain in the long run. Plus blood gets rather messy." True. 
It's a devil of a job getting bloodstains out of silk. 

Suddenly, he couldn't take any more. "Nooooo" he yelled, and pulled 
himself up off Dorothy's knees. "Tch" she tutted, and shook her head 
sadly. Francesca's fist exploded like dynamite in his gut, but he didn't 
have anything left to vomit, so he just collapsed onto Dorothy's knees 
again. I guess she'd missed one beat, and she carried on spanking as if 
nothing had happened. But you could see the difference. He was gasping, 
and moaning, and as soon as he could breathe properly again (a gut punch 
from a Valkyrie paralyses your breathing, as well as emptying the 
contents of your stomach) he started crying. Softly at first, then 
wailing, and then he finally let it all come out in great sobs and I 
could see the tears streaming down his face. 

At that point, Dorothy stopped spanking him, pulled him up on her lap, 
and gave him the other half of the treatment, the soothing cuddle. 

I'm not sure which is worse. Sure, the spanking is physical pain, but 
the soothing cuddle afterwards is more damaging psychologically, as it 
creates an emotional dependence. It's like you're offering him pain, 
fear and humiliation if he's bad, but warmth, love and affection if he's 
good and obedient. Dorothy told me that it's that second phase that is 
the most important part of the process. 

Dorothy soothed away his tears and dried his eyes, and then Rosa asked 
if she could have a go. So Dorothy said to Casty, "You've been a bad 
boy, haven't you?" He gazed at her, not knowing what to say. Francesca 
flexed her hand a couple of times in a hinting sort of way, and he 
nodded and whispered "Yes". "Then now you must bend over for Rosa." "No, 
please, no more." "Casty, you've been bad, It's either Rosa, me or 
Francesca." 

He looked at me, as if to appeal to the only woman in the room that 
didn't want to hurt him, maybe he sensed my dislike of this process. But 
there were more important things at stake than my sensibilities, and I 
just shook my head. He crept over to Rosa and lay down on her lap, 
offering her his bright red and purple, tenderised posterior. And Rosa, 
no doubt thinking of all the pain and humiliations she'd suffered at his 
hands, began a long, slow spanking session. 

At that point, I stood up. "Well, Dorothy, I don't thing he's going to 
be much of a problem." "No, I'll get him properly under control, and 
then we'll sort out his gang of thugs, and I think we can make this 
corner of Italy quite nice and tidy." I thought of Dorothy spanking her 
way through the rest of the local Mafia, and I grinned. "Great. Well, I 
don't think you need me here any more, I'll be popping along." 

It was pretty late, so I got back to the hotel, and fell straight into 
bed. I was joined shortly by an inquisitive hand, and an exploring 
tongue, and Cherie eased away the frustrations of the day. 

Next morning was another beautiful day. I was woken up in the nicest 
possible way by Cherie, and afterwards as we were driving back north, I 
told her what had happened. "So we don't have to worry about punishing 
those murderers any more, Dorothy will sort them out." 

"Oh", said Cherie. "So I didn't have to ..."  "Oh, no, you didn't!" She 
giggled. "Cherie, you promised!" She looked repentant. "Cherie, how 
could you!" She grinned. "All of them?" She nodded. "Sewn up tight?" She 
made a tight fist. "Oh, Cherie, you're wicked, whatever will I do with 
you?" And she grinned brazenly and suddenly something rather nice was 
happening between my legs, and how can you stay angry at someone like 
that?