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They spent at least an hour in conversation before Andy suggested that they begin.
He had sought both medical and psychiatric advice on this problem over a number of years, but nothing had worked.
In those days there was no such thing as a sex therapist and his main advice had been to “pull himself together and snap out of it.” Sound advice, but not much use to poor old Andy.
For some time Sally lashed away at Andy’s bottom, always caning the same buttock.
Soon this buttock was a mass of bleeding cuts, but Andy kept shouting encouragement to my wife and she kept responding.
The bed had been pushed to one side, and a long, broad bench stood in the centre of the room, covered with foam cushion.
The first thing Sally had to do was to change into a short dressing gown made of towelling, and she made Andy leave the room while she did so.
He had tried going to prostitutes, but this had always proved an expensive failure.
There were very few prostitutes who were willing to beat him severely, and even they would not consider letting him beat them.
He insisted that he be tied very tightly, and Sally had to tie him several times before he was satisfied.