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Her name was Caroline. For obvious reasons I wont say her surname, though I still remember it. But it was somewhat similar to what we made of it. We called her Caroline Boobs. It was the time when we boys at school discovered wanking: some did it already, and who did not yet, pretended that he did and tried, with the help of information gathered in schoolyard talks to catch up on the new status relevant ability. The girls were changing too. Their clothing became more womanly. Some used a bit make-up now. And in a few cases one could notice their little titties sprout. Still almost all were practically flat. Except Caroline. At eleven she had already developed a beautiful pair of round boobs, which made her stand out - literally - among all her classmates. Half a year later, her boobs were so big that they caught everybody's attention, in any situation. It did not matter if there were other girls of her age for comparison, or if she were among older ones, even adults. Her boobs had become her distinctive feature.

She didn't like it. You could see that. It embarrassed her. She tried to hide them in loose cardigans and sloppy pullovers, but there was no effective way to hide them. Caroline was not plain, but also not especially pretty. If she had been some kind of beauty queen or sex bomb, it might have made it easier for her. But she was just a normal twelve year old girl with big, big boobs.

I have no first hand knowledge of how her female classmates reacted to it, but we boys made cruel jokes about "them". Even more so as I certainly wasn't the only who, despite of my scorning, was profoundly fascinated by them and dedicated his wankings to them and her. I may have been the only though who did it in a different way. I dreamt of being her. Having her boobs, including, especially including, the attention, the embarrassment and the humiliation that came with it.

I imagined being her and going with her mother to the local lingerie shop to by bras. There was no mall in our small town. Just one lingerie shop who's owner everybody knew as the mother of a buddy of ours. So it was with some realistic touch when I imagined Mrs. Delmond and Caroline's mother discuss the size of the bra necessary, the model, the type of support it had to supply and what would be the right one for every occasion. I was sure Caroline felt profoundly ashamed while hearing these conversations, of being ordered to try this one on and that one, being admonished not to slouch but to stand erect for her back's sake, even if it made "them" stick out even more so, and to show how it looked and worked or not... I knew I would be ashamed! And that turned me on beyond belief!

I imagined her in the girls' locker room, while changing, taking shower, being naked among the other girls. He difference on display, defenseless. I imagined the other girls asking her questions, giggle, comment...

And once I watched her entire 90 minutes, when we had outdoor sports together. Not exactly together. We had sports seperately, boys and girls, each with our respective teacher, male one female the other, but at the same time. In the summer it was at the facilities of the local football club, a field, a track, some barracks being the changing rooms and showers. That day my teacher must have been very unhappy with me, because I did not pay attention at all. I could not keep my eyes off her. She ran! That was something she usually avoided. Here she couldn't. So despite her sensible sports-bra, her boobs just swayed and jiggled that it was a delight! Was I the only one who got a hard-on? I doubt it, but I didn't pay attention to anyone else. I did excuse myself: I had to go to the loo. I remember how I was dividing my time in there with doing desperate pull-ups at the window sill to catch a glance at her, and my fervent wanking down on the tiled floor. Oh Caroline!

She left our school and town two years later. I never made a serious pass at her. My stupid need to maintain my prestige among my peers prevented that. I am so sorry for that! I would have loved to be the first to tell her and to make her feel that her boobs were fantastic and nothing to be ashamed of, much on the contrary!

But I am sure in the meantime she found someone who did.

I was a boy once. But that is past. Now I am a woman, married to a loving husband who is helping me - and enjoying himself by doing it - to explore the depths of my submissive, masochistic and exhibitionistic feminine self.

Where we live, nobody knows that, and we want to keep it that way. We are in almost every other respect a conventional married couple, are socially adapted, and it is very helpful in our conservative town that I can pass well as the young woman I am.

Yet we are different, and we act it out playing "games" like the one I am going to tell about.

The opportunity for our game arose when a famous orchestra gave a concert in our town. These concerts, rather rare, were the pride of the council's cultural program, and thus important social events. We prepared and dressed up as one does for such an occasion, perhaps even a little more than usual. I had been to the hairdresser the afternoon, and I would wear my silken champagne-colored ball-dress, 12den white stockings with garters and 4-inch pumps, and lacy panties and bra. I was doing the final retouching of my make-up when my husband came in, kissed me on the neck and said I looked ravishing. I felt so too. Then he produced some fresh nettles and placed one carefully in either cup of my bra and one in my panties, over my shaved pussy. He checked that they wold not show in my silky dress, and was satisfied.

As always, we had agreed on a punishment for the case I failed the dare. Failure would be if I took the nettles out before we were back home, and my punishment would be twelve hard lashes with his belt.

The nettles were much worse than I had imagined! Already in the car it became unbearable and I recognized that I had overestimated myself. I tried to negotiate. That I would take them out earlier, in the restroom before the concert, but he just said "no way". In the concert-hall lobby I was so absorbed with maintaining countenance while enduring the itch and suppressing instinctive reactions to relieve it, that I was totally unable to enjoy, as I normally do on such occasions, being attractive and being watched appreciatively by men and women (and enviously too, in the latter case). In fact, I was hoping to be invisible. Because I was constantly blinking, trying not to press my thighs together and violently pinch my breasts, as I had done in the car, for the pinching pain was more sufferable than the itch. In the lobby we met a couple we knew, one of my husband's superiors and his wife. I had talked to them on one or another social occasion related to my husband's job. We changed some polite remarks. Then the woman looked at me and asked:

- Dear, are you not well?
- Oh, it's nothing, - I answered - there is only a little thing I have to fix with my clothing, I'll just be off to the ladies room!
I intended to go, but my husband grabbed me by my wrist before I could move, and discreetly held my arm down close to him.
- There is no time - he said, rather sternly. Our acquaintances looked astonished but said nothing, and went on.

I don't remember how I passed the next hour in the concert! How can an ordinary itch be so nasty? Even before the interruption, more than once I was ready to get up to relieve me of the nettles, and again was hindered by the firm grasp of my husbands hand. It's true that every time he did this, like in the lobby in front of the older couple, a rush of submissive lust flooded my body, and turned the itch bearable for a while. But not for long.
In the break then there was no more hesitation. Off I was to the ladies room. I almost ran, but even so there was already a queue. Finally I got into a cabin and ripped the nettles out of my bra and my panties. That is not so easily done as it is said when you have an evening dress that is zip-closed behind! But I managed without tearing it. I never saw my tits so red before! Red and with white spots where the little nettle-hairs entered the soft skin. My lovely venus-hill did not look better.
Pussy and breast bare, the itch was eased a little but still way too much. I had to do something about it! So I peeked out of the cabin-door: there still were women at the lavatories. Meanwhile the bell rang. I waited. Finally, when there was nobody anymore, I went out, dress and bra open as they were, wetted my hands and squeezed some liquid soap out of the dispenser and smeared it over my breasts and my crotch. It really helped, if not as much as I desired. I got some more liquid soap and smeared it over my boobs again, massaging the fluid into the skin. Then to my alarm the door opened and a young girl of the theatre-staff entered. Seeing me as I was, she stopped in shock. Fortunately she then remembered trying to be professional.
- Excuse-me, Madam, can I help you? - she said.
- Thank you! - I replied - I am sorry, it's just a little problem with my skin, but really it is nothing.
- There is a gentleman outside who asked me to see if his wife was in here. Is that you?
At that point, I had gotten fatalistic enough and said:
- Yes. Probably this is my husband outside. And yes, you can help me if you don't mind!
So I pulled up my slip, closed my bra and had her zip up my dress.
Outside my husband waited trying to look strict but was not doing so well at hiding his amusement. After we got politely rid of the staff-girl, he said: - So you took it out! You know what that means, don't you?
- Whatever you say. - I replied - Let's go home!
- Oh, not so fast, my dear! We'll attend to the rest of the concert, as civilized people do. Don't let you being such a weak little slut get in the way of that!
His expression watching me made me look down at myself and realize the mess I was in! The water and the liquid soap had soaked through the bra and the dress, not only showing the contour and the lacy fabric of the bra as even my nipples. And now I also felt the soapy water running down my stockinged thighs. The moment I would sit down, also the wet crotch would show in the dress.
- Oh please! You do see how I look! - I begged.
- I can see it exactly! - he said - No more arguing!
That moment I became excited again. Most of the time since he had placed the nettles on me the itch had overpowered all the erotic anticipation I had felt while preparing this dare. But now I would have to return to my place in the audience, making a really slutty appearance in this distinguished environment: wet underwear and nipples showing through my dress! How humiliating! But I also felt very sexy at the same time! How exciting! How scary, too! I would never have dared to go back there alone, but obeying my husbands firm command, I felt safe and okay. True that I still was full of shame, but that was in fact a rather delicious feeling...

So we made our re-entrance, were ushered to our seats during two sets of music, and I received besides the disapproving looks for our disturbance the one and other surprised and taxating glance for my deranged appearance.
During the rest of the concert the itch eased and I had time to think of what was awaiting me at home: the belt! I had never been beaten with the belt before, and I was afraid of it. I am quite sensible to pain and really do not like it in itself. All what we had done up to that day were red ass spankings - a caressing punishment that I really enjoy - and some correctional slaps with the crop, which I had experienced more as an instrument for guiding than one for punishment. It can provide a good sting that even might rush your tears to the eyes, but as in it's original use, it is rather a disciplinary reminder to get you to do immediately what you are supposed to do. As I can be quite a headstrong girl, the crop has been of great avail for my husband to improve my obedience, but he has never used it with cruelty. In fact, I very much like being disciplined that way!
But now it would be the belt. When I accepted the dare I was convinced that I would not let it come to that. I had been wrong. Yet there was some time until the moment came: we were still listening to the music, had to drive home. The more the itch eased, the more rose my anticipation and fear. Sure I could call it off, if necessary. After all it's only a game, and my husband loves me. We also had a safeword that I never had used. But it would be such a sad failure of mine, to give up! Almost a betrayal! No, my self-respect commanded that I would endure it. I had lost and deserved to be punished. It were only twelve lashes, but I had an idea what twelve well given lashes could do to a bottom. I tried to calm myself telling me that it will be okay because it's my husband who will give them to me and he loves me. But I also knew that he would not offend me by being too lenient with me. And he also believed in that a deal is a deal... There was in fact nothing to do but to pass the time as well as possible until the moment for punishment came, so why not listen to the music and think of what I could do about my disastrous appearance? - Though in that matter there was really nothing to do...

When the concert was over I urged my husband to get out. He however insisted in that we both behaved perfectly polite and dignified, obviously enjoying my shame about the mess I was. - We should have a drink at the bar, - he said, and if we would meet the couple from before again, so be it! I sure would be able to make some explanation if they dared to ask, wouldn't I?
And inevitably that happened. We met the older couple again. As we were left alone by the men who went to queue at the bar to get us drinks, the woman, a beautiful lady well in her fifties (she could have been my mother) said:
- Well, now you can tell me what happened to you! You look better healthwise now than before the concert, but what horrible things did you do to your wardrobe?
I stuttered something of having had an accident in the bathroom, not making sense at all. Just before our husbands were approaching, she looked into my eyes, knowingly (how on earth could she know anything!? She definitely couldn't!) and said:
- My dear, you better make it up to your husband when you come home, he has reason to be very strict with you!
Then we turned to smalltalk of the inoffensive kind. Feeling that I had not to explain anything anymore, I relaxed and began to enjoy myself in the lobby, in spite or even because of my messy appearance. I felt the eyes of several men on me, my sexy body in the wrecked wardrobe in general and my wet nipples in particular. Still there was quite some itch left.

On our way home I turned to have opportunity to meditate on the punishment awaiting me, and the fear built up again. My husband said little during our drive. All gentleman, he opened the car's door for me, and when I stepped out my knees felt quite weak. Holding my elbow, he steered me into the apartment. There he said: - I'll give you five minutes to get rid of that mess you made of your clothes, then I expect you in the living-room, stark naked, to receive your punishment.
I did as told, went to the bedroom and got rid of the clothes. Went to the bathroom and watched myself in the mirror. I still could very well see the burn-marks the nettles had left on my otherwise impeccable skin. In a few moments, there would be added other marks on my impeccable butt! It crossed my mind that I should take advantage of the five minutes to try some lotions to treat me, but I had not the nerve. I noticed that I was breathing heavier and trembling, and trembling surely not from cold. Better to get it over with! I stepped into the living room, stark naked as he had requested. I had not spent more than two minutes of the five he had given me.
He stood there, still in his trousers and shirt, belt in hand.
- You know what is going to happen now, don't you? - he asked.
- Yes.
- Tell me!
- I will get twelve belt lashes for not living up to my promise.
- Thats right! Any reason I shouldn't do it?
He looked into my eyes. This was not a routine ritual of spanking pro's, no studied dialog. It was our first time and he was well aware of my fear.
- No, I replied, with a lump in my throat.
- You know you deserve it.
- Yes, I deserve it.
How can I explain that I would have given almost anything for some miracle that would have spared me my punishment? And yet, though knowing that all this is a game, I felt so profoundly telling the truth when I answered that I deserved my punishment. That there was no other way for things ever to be fine again except by receiving it!
- So bend over the sofa and keep your legs straight!

I did. The first lash was hard enough, but no so hard as the following. And that one was not so hard as the next. He was obviously testing how much I could take. The lashes flooded me with pain... and anger! Anger is my immediate response to pain. But I kept my head down counting out the strokes as he had requested. The anger then turned into something different. A sort of feeling of humiliation, still very disagreeable because tempered with rage, but at the same time increasingly lustful. I already had made aquaintance with these mixed feelings before, but never so intensely. This transition from outrage to surrender is one of the strongest delights of real submission. From the seventh our eighth lash I was screaming out, in lust and in pain. At the end I was sobbing convulsively.

But this sobbing felt very good! He took me in his arms and consolated me and as I was regaining my breath I felt an intense relief and lightness. Bliss is not too strong a word for it! I had done what I had to do, I passed through what I had to pass through. Everything was as it should be! - And I was free, entirely free, so free that I would want to use my freedom to make the only possible choice, the happiest choice of all: love! To be his little girl, his slave, his wife, to be everything he ever would want me to be! This was what I wanted and I knew I could do it, could be it!

He took lovingly care of my sore butt and then we made love, had wonderful vanilla sex and then I fell asleep, cuddling at his side, head on his chest.