Raylene dropped again, squatting then leaning forward to rest the weight of her upper body on her hands. Her face was face was red, with effort rather than embarrassment.

I watched her shoot her legs out, so her scarlet ass was the highest part of her body, now resting on her hands and toes. 

It occurred to me that I should make Raylene exercise more. 

Not because she wasn’t fit. Her ass proclaimed, in blazing color, that she was a naughty girl and now she was being punished for it. That’s always a distracting sight, at least for people like me. And for Lynette, it seemed. But Raylene’s ass and thighs also told of hours spent on gym equipment, or more likely just walking up and down the hills of this harbourside city. She was a fit, strong girl.

She straightened up again. “Seven, Master!”

“Good girl.”

“Thank you!” But her breasts bobbed and jiggled so beautifully when she had to move quickly that it’d be a shame not to make her do it more often.

Even if I couldn’t always get her an audience, other than just me.

“Ah, eight, Master!”

I looked at Lynette. “Do you think she needs an exercise program? Something like cycling in the air, and more squat thrusts every night before bed?”

Lynette was watching Raylene’s ass. Fervently. But she looked up and said, “Yes. I think so.”

“Nine, Master!”

“Good girl.” That was to Raylene. To Lynette I said, “Well, we’ll see. Perhaps we’ll hold it off till midnight tonight.”

Dorabella laughed, I guess at Lynette’s expression. Or Raylene’s. “Ten, Master!”

But Dorabella tried to sound serious and helpful when she said, “She’s always wanted a coach. Haven’t you, Raylene? She thinks she doesn’t exercise enough. So, Jaime, I think it’d be good for her if you make her.”

“Eleven, Master!” Raylene’s voice had taken on that whiny tone again. She wasn’t sure she liked the direction this was going. Which, because life is sexy when it’s complicated, meant that she loved it.

We all watched her last squat thrust. She stood straight, breasts still quivering, ass still glowing. “Twelve, Master.”

After a second she put her hands on her head.

Raylene dropped, as I’d told her, squatting on her toes. She looked up at me, still in slight disbelief, and I nodded. She let her weight fall forward onto her hands, fingers and thumbs on the carpet, and kicked her legs back.

She paused in plank position, her weight resting on her toes and her straining arms. Her arse, still freshly, redly, caned and – she’d complained – burning hot, squirmed appealingly with the effort. Then she came back to squat position. She paused. 

I touched her side with the cane. The heavier cane that was going to deliver the next twelve strokes. “Keep going and don’t stop for a second. And count them. Out loud. Say, ‘one!'”

“One! Master.” There was a slightly whiny tone to the second word, as if a kind master wouldn’t do this to her.

I was unsympathetic. “Just do as you’re told.”

She dropped and performed again. “Two, Master.”

“And anyway, it’s for your own good. It’ll keep you from being too stiff tomorrow.”

She nodded as she came upright again. “Three, Master.” She sounded better.

I had no idea whether the exercise would reduce muscular stiffness from her caning. No one in their right mind should take health advice from an obvious pervert.

But I did know, or strongly guess, that Raylene was enjoying the display she was making. And I knew she could feel Lynette’s cool, appraising interest, watching her move as she worked her ass and thighs. As well as my more overt pleasure in her.

“Four, Master.” She sounded a little winded. I brought the cane down on her upper hip, very gently, and she sped up.

“Five, Sir. I mean Master!”

“You’ve already got an extra punishment stroke coming, Raylene. There can be more.”

“Yes, Master! I’m sorry. Six, Master.”