Chapter One

This is my sordid tale, my darkest secrets, deeply concealed, yet so easily revealed to the one person who would know how best to benefit from them. I had been stealing my stepsister’s clothes, dressing in them for my personal sexual enjoyment, with little thought to the consequences of being caught.

By eighteen I was taking every opportunity to walk free and cross-dressed out in the open, though not through the city streets, and certainly not in any places that I might actually beseen! I walked alone around the large grounds of my parent’s home, always late at night, always hidden by the dark.

Aroused by wearing short skirts and stolen panties; often with a bursting erection filling them. My excursions were frequent but always whilst they, my family, were all out.

As I got older I began to feel guilt, I developed a need to be punished, not as myself of course, but as my alter ego, Chrissie. I took to administering a variety of implements to my bent, panty covered buttocks. At any opportunity, I thrashed myself soundly as punishment deserved for my shameful behaviour. I was nineteen and my stepsister had just turned eighteen, when the true horror and consequences of being discovered exploded into my self-satisfying life.

Chloe, my step-sister, returned early from her friend’s house, she had been supposed to be away for the whole of the weekend, as were our parents. When she returned home that fateful Saturday evening, I was not in the house; I was out in the grounds. Cross-dressed and bent over my favorite low hanging tree branch, thrashing my buttocks as hard as I could. Unwittingly I presented her with an entertaining display, along with ideas for the future.

Cane is not exactly the right description of the implement that thrashed my naked buttocks. Instead, I had selected four, thin, very pliable switch cuttings taken from our apple tree trimmings pile. Trimmings which Dad had gathered together on the far side of the garden, ready to be burnt sometime later. Being desperate, I had not even taken the time to bind them together. Instead, I relied on my tight grip to hold them bunched as I beat myself.

It is never easy to reach around and lash one’s own bottom. To a degree it is possible, though the strength behind each stroke, and the duration of the torment are of course under your own control, unfortunately. A level of self-control which detracts from the pleasurable feelings generated by being whipped. Much as I might desire total helplessness, it is clearly impossible to achieve when alone.

To replace real subjection, I used daring. By that I mean that I secured all but one arm with leather belts, strapping myself tightly to the bough. Thus making my escape from the branch a slow process to complete, leaving me with the fear of discovery ready to explode into my dark games. The switch twitched as I hesitated, nerving myself to deliver the next stroke. Thrashing through the air, driven by my own wrist, all four wood