2 hours ago
James Langford stood in the garden of his home, contentedly puffing on his pipe, savouring the feeling of new ownership. He relished the unaccustomed silence of the country and the privacy which the garden afforded. It was large, partly walled, and the remainder enclosed by a tangled hedge bordering fields that undulated down to the village somewhere below. Wild and overgrown though it was, the garden had transmuted neglect into beauty; clematis and honeysuckle toppling over the crumbling brick walls and a confusion of rampant ivy threatening to smother the orchard.
There it was - the orchard. The cause of his love affair with the house and his commitment to its restoration. There numbered some two dozen mature apple trees, the grey-green flaking lichen on their trunks like a mutant growth on a lizard's scaly fingers. Their branches linked above him as he walked underneath, crunching half-ripe apples underfoot, and looking up with pride at the size of the crop.
A heavy iron greenhouse had been built out from the wall; most of its glass was missing. Inside, a fan-trained peach had gone wild and thrust itself up through the frame. It was covered with ripening fruit; Langford had counted thirty-six, mindful of those which had dropped and were sweet feast for the ants.
With the apples, he mused, he could be generous, but he coveted the peach for himself. And each downy, blush-ripened one would fall into his own cupped hands to eat within moments of its plucking, still sun-warm.
The days passed. He intended to work on the house, but found himself drawn to the garden to explore its labyrinthine paths and hollows.
Plans for re-creating its former glory fermented in his brain, and it was wholly his; and each plant; each tree, would bear the caring touch of his possessive fingers, like a man moulding a young girl until she flushed into womanhood.
Langford visited the greenhouse every morning and many times during the day, waiting to lay claim to the first ripe peach, to feel the softness of its skin and savour its sweet flesh.
Then suddenly there were not so many, so he began counting them again and realised, with disproportionate rage, that the four ripest ones had vanished, been plucked. It struck him that the culprit had not only stolen his much desired first pickings, but had invaded the privacy of his garden and had no doubt taken similar liberties with it before. It was probably a boy from the village who had skulked around his orchard in the dusk, had marked every tree, every ripening thing.... He decided to keep watch for the culprit and catch him red-handed.
There were plenty of bamboo canes in the greenhouse, he remembered. Excellent for giving the young rascal a good hiding.
The culprit remained elusive for a few days. Langford rushed down the garden on several occasions at a whisper of a noise, only to find no one, and to suffer the mocking cries of the crows.
It rained for a spell and he relaxed a little, thinking that the audacious thief would be loath to venture out. Evidently not so. One day, in the early afternoon, he heard a crash of glass and a scream. He tore down to the greenhouse, the blood howling in his ears, in time to see a figure running for the hedge with long, slender legs, dressed in a sun-bleached tee-shirt and shorts.
"Stop you!" He yelled. The figure halted before the hedge and turned round in agitation. For a second their eyes met, both in apprehension. But the surprise was all his. It was a girl.
Before he could speak or move, she was gone, scrambling through the hedge. The last glimpse of her was of her bottom, almost bursting out of the most immodest shorts he had ever seen, wriggling through the hole. He grew hot and angry. If he could catch her, he'd give her bottom such a tanning...
For days, Langford dreamed of punishing her, and the desire was at first fed by his anger, but that ebbed away, to be replaced by vague feelings of regret and disappointment. He'd probably seen the last of her, having so nearly been caught.
He answered the door one evening. It was the local clergyman, accompanied by his daughter, inviting Langford to help at the Harvest Festival. Maybe he would like to make a contribution of fruit, or something. He declined, and found himself staring at the daughter. Dressed very modestly in a blue and white skirt which came well below her knees, with a white high-buttoned blouse and gloves to match, she was very much a young woman. A beautiful young thing, with tumbling hair and fresh skin and a mouth that pouted slightly when she nervously smiled.
And those eyes... the brief scanty shorts, the long tanned length of her thighs, the round cheeks of her bottom that were... so...
Langford closed his eyes for a second, opened them to fix on the father's mouth, wagging like a gaping fish, and realised that, for some time, he had not been listening to a word the vicar had said... except when he introduced his daughter as Elizabeth.
* * *
"Caught you, young lady!" The triumphant excitement in his voice volleyed around the garden. He'd seen her stealing apples, the brazen cheeky hussy, at the top of a tree, stuffing them hastily into a cradle made by pulling up her skirt. She was barefoot, bare-legged, her bottom squeezed unbelievably into shorts which looked as though they might split down the back at any moment. And from where he was standing, the view up her slender legs to the ripe curve of her bottom was delicious.
The apples fell around him in a heavy shower.
"Come down this minute, Elizabeth, or I'll come up and get you!" He was relishing the spectacle of her, wobbling unsteadily on the branch above, blushing furiously as he stood with arms folded, head cocked, eyes travelling with deliberate slowness over her bottom, neat little waist, the soft swell of her breasts, to her very red face.
"I-I can't...." she stammered in a very small voice.
"You will, Miss," he said harshly. "Lost your nerve, have you?"
With purposeful strides he went to the greenhouse and returned with a ladder. Tucked under his arm was a cruel, thin bamboo cane. Elizabeth watched him from her perch and felt uneasy. A cane! Whatever did he want a cane for? She shut her eyes for a moment and swallowed nervously.
"Now, Elizabeth, I think it's time we had a little talk." And he noticed with satisfaction how quickly her face had changed colour from rosy-red to sickly-white. Her eyes were spellbound by the cane. Good! Perhaps she had guessed there was to be more than just talking!
"You may wonder," he went on, as he positioned the ladder and invited her to descend, "how I know your name, Elizabeth." She pouted and he added, "We've met before - remember? Only, in your father's company, you were dressed a little more modestly."
Elizabeth began to blush uncontrollably at this and, rolling her blue eyes skyward, climbed higher up the tree, shrinking from his penetrating stare and her own embarrassment. She began to feel a little dizzy - even though she had a good head for heights.
The birds' singing seemed very loud all of a sudden and everywhere else was hushed, waiting.
"I've been waiting to catch you for a long time," Langford called out. "I don't like thieves - even pretty ones."
Elizabeth slid her feet along the branch, noticing for the first time how nasty and rough it was.
"Come down here... NOW!" He was getting a tantalising view of almost everything that was important to her modesty, and Elizabeth knew it.
Slowly, with trembling legs, Elizabeth began to descend the ladder, trying to position herself this way and that. Oh, if only he wouldn't stare at her so intently!
"Elizabeth," he said, when she finally stood before him, digging her nails into her palms, "you're such a pretty little thief, aren't you? " he sighed. "But a thief, nevertheless." Elizabeth was swaying unsteadily and couldn't look at him.
"I am going to punish you for stealing," he said sternly, "and since you are so keen on revealing to all and sundry as much of your bottom as your shorts allow, I think it's appropriate I give that part of your anatomy some attention."
Elizabeth shrank helplessly against the trunk and looked frantically about her. She couldn't escape. Being barefoot placed her at a distinct disadvantage. He would easily catch her and the outcome might be worse. She felt like a stricken rabbit caught in a trap. Perhaps she should try a little pleading. With a desperate look of the most appealing contrition she could muster, she fixed her wide blue eyes on his. What a sweet young girl she could be!
"You have every right to be angry with me for taking your fruit," she murmured in a voice which trembled as she caught sight of the cane once more, "but I honestly didn't know at first that you lived here."
Langford looked piercingly at her.
"And when you did find out I was living here?" He lashed viciously with the cane at the apples above in a slicing movement, sending several thudding to earth.
Elizabeth flinched. "Then it was j-j-just a t-t-temptation," she stammered out, and looked away miserably. The truth had been told; surely now he'd think what an honest girl she was and relent, let her go. But it seemed to make him more resolute than ever. Langford gripped Elizabeth's arm and led her to the greenhouse.
"What are you going to do to me?" she squeaked in terror, as she vainly tried to wriggle out of his grasp.
"An old-fashioned but appropriate punishment. Short, sharp - and very effective. I am going to give you a sound spanking on your bottom!"
Her mouth dropped open and she froze.
"S-s-spanked? B-but you can't," she squealed, "I'm not a child!"
Langford chuckled, and still keeping hold of the indignant but frightened young girl, he dragged a chair across the tiled floor of the greenhouse. She pushed against him, shook her head ferociously and jiggled about in another attempt to get free. He laughed aloud. Innocent vicar's daughter indeed! He remembered how she stood in her demure little outfit, coyly murmuring, holding Daddy's arm, knowing Langford had recognised her and guessing he would say nothing. Well, there was no indulgent father to protect her now. She'd have to answer for herself to him! He looked at her bare, plump thighs and the curve of her cheeks bulging from tight, tight shorts. Provocative young miss to go flaunting her semi-naked body at him!
He sat down and pulled her arm until she lost her balance and fell awkwardly across his knees.
"Noooooooo, No-o-o-o-o, p-plee-aa-sse, Ow! No-don't, Ahhh!" she spluttered. He hauled her roughly into a position where her long brown legs dangled down one side, and her tumbling hair swept the floor on the other. Her round wobbling bottom was nicely elevated.
In an unwise flash of indignation, she struggled, kicked, tried to bite his leg, and let fly with her fists backwards, catching Langford painfully on the chin. He responded by pushing her further across his lap so that her face was touching the mouldering mushroom-like earth.
"Oh, how dare you! I shall tell my father, I shall -" Her indignant voice trailed away as, with awful shock, she felt the first hard slap on her bottom, heard the 'smack' as Langford's hand landed resoundingly on her thighs. She screwed her eyes up tight. It was unthinkable, yet here she was, the vicar's well well-brought-up daughter, lying across a man's lap, experiencing the humiliating enormity of being spanked like a naughty child. Oh no, it couldn't be happening to her!
"You p-p-pig, you bully, you horrible man! Ouch! Ow! You're hurting me! Oh, p-piss off -" She stopped, horrified at her profanity, and bit her lip hard.
"What did you say, Elizabeth? Such language from the vicar's daughter! Get up!" Langford's face darkened.
She stood up, smarting with humiliation more than pain, her hands protectively covering her thighs, her face flushed and excited.
"I simply can't have this. Take your shorts off, Elizabeth!"
She stared, open mouthed in disbelief, her lips forming a perfect circle, eyes wide in horrified amazement.
Without waiting for her to comply, Langford wrenched at her zipper and tugged at the legs of her shorts. Involuntarily, Elizabeth clutched her hands to her groin, but he roughly swept them aside. He was trembling all over and his eyes were fixed on her body.
"Please, no," she mumbled piteously as the shorts came inching down... "Oh, no, no! How could you? How could you?" she wailed in total mortification. It was within her nature to have slapped Langford hard, but something stopped her.
"Well, well," Langford grinned, " so the vicar's daughter doesn't wear any knickers. Just your misfortune, Elizabeth. " He was breathing heavily. "Back over my knee, young lady." He pulled her down roughly. " Don't tense your bottom like that, Elizabeth, or I shall spank you all the harder until you relax."
Langford was feeling far from relaxed at the picture Elizabeth presented, her naked bottom spread before him, so deliciously nubile.
Elizabeth tensed her whole body, waiting for the first smack on her bare bottom. But it didn't come. Perhaps he'd decided that the sheer humiliation to which she had been subjected was enough.
He sat looking at her bottom as a starving man might stare at a feast. This young hussy was totally in his power. He would spank her when he chose, not when she thought he would. Now he was enjoying the warmth of her body against his thighs. Elizabeth wriggled when he touched her, so he began to spank her again, slowly, seriously and much harder this time, covering every part of her bouncing flesh with a red diffuseness. It was like watching a photograph developing, with all the tones of colour appearing in their mistiness, growing clearer and more vivid with every second. It was beautiful, although the restrained mewing noises coming from Elizabeth told him she didn't like it one bit. Langford wanted to punish her, hurt, and love her all at the same time.
She had stuffed a fist into her mouth and felt suffocated by the repressed tears that sought release. To cry would be babyish - and surely the object of punishment was to take it and show how brave she was. She didn't feel sorry - yet.
"Up you get, young lady." Langford put an arm around her naked waist, brushing her little mound of delicate hair, and hoisted her up and over the back of the chair till she lay draped and motionless like a rag doll. Elizabeth's skin prickled with fear.
What was he going to do to her? She was unable to think, her mind paralysed with terror.
Langford was annoyed by her apparent resistance. Obviously, the punishment had made no impact yet. She was showing no signs of contrition although her bottom was glowing red. Indeed, he thought, she hung over the chair almost sulkily.
There was no other way - he would have to be more severe. Almost reluctantly, he picked up the cane, and toyed with it for a while before preparing for the first stroke. He ran the tip of the cane up and down the crack between her bottom-cheeks; she wriggled and humped her bottom up and down. It tickled unbearably.
The cane slashed into her buttocks; it was like a shock-wave, piecing through her previously numb emotions. She gasped at the pain which rose to an almost unbearable crescendo, drawing in her cheeks and twisting her body this way and that until the burning eased. Langford ran his hand over the ridge of skin that was swelling and puckering into a plum-coloured weal. Then he brought the cane down again... and again... measuring each stroke, taking care not to stripe the same place twice. Elizabeth rose after each stroke, clutching her bottom cheeks, her pretty face contorted in agony. She could think or feel nothing but the sensation of heat and pain. As Langford finished one cut, Elizabeth held her breath, curled her toes tight, gripped the chair with whitening knuckles and distorted her lovely mouth into a grimace, in preparation for the next.
Langford paused, panting with effort and excitement. His trousers felt constrictingly tight; the sight of Elizabeth's rubescent rear was powerfully arousing. She writhed and bucked, throwing her hips from side to side in futile attempts to end her sufferings. Her red-blotched bottom shook tantalisingly with each cut of the cane as she hopped from one foot to another, curling her free leg tightly around the other one like a tentacle. Apart from strangled gasps and hisses, Elizabeth made little noise, so Langford gave her four quick strokes, one for each stolen peach, on her peach-like bottom. On the last, he uttered her name, '"Elizabeth" almost reproachfully.
The resistance in her nature bowed completely at the sound of his voice, and she burst into helpless tears.
"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" And now he knew that she was.
Suddenly it was over. He sat down and laid her back over his knees, while she stayed motionless, except for a hiccup and sigh now and then. His hands smoothed the bottom he had so effectively reddened. His fingers, trickling over her burning skin like cool streams of water, slid down to the dampness between her legs. He squeezed the delicate softness of her inner thighs in a gentle massage, while he battled with the fierceness of his lust.
Finally, he let her go and allowed her to pull up her shorts which made her wince. At his command, she looked shakily at him. He felt very much that she didn't want to go, for she stood before him so quiet and submissive.
"You might as well take what you came for," he said tartly, and gathered the fallen apples, "but with my permission this time."
Langford would dearly have loved to watch the irresistible sight of her red thighs and bottom struggling through the hedge, but he allowed her to leave by the front gate. She walked slowly away. Every cell of his body cried for her to come back.
Would he ever see her again? He thought not.
In fevered realisation of what he had done, and with the sudden return of the thudding loneliness which her presence had so joyously driven away, he went back to work with bitter reluctance.
A week went by and there was no sign of her. He was being silly. How could he ever expect the girl to look him in the eyes again?
One evening, after collecting the apple crop into baskets, he walked in a sombre mood to the village.
On his return, he found that the apple baskets were empty. Surely not......!
The back door was open. On the table in the kitchen lay an apple, with one bite-sized piece missing. A little further away lay a long garden cane. He picked them up, his face a picture of wonder.
Upstairs he heard a faint creaking and the hint of a girlish laugh... and then he knew... and picked up the cane.
His bedroom door was open and she was there, sitting on his bed sideways, swinging her legs. Eating one of his apples.
"I'm sorry." She was blushing. "I was tempted again."
Langford sighed. "You'll never learn, will you, Elizabeth?" And flexing the cane rhythmically, he added. "Do you know the old saying, Elizabeth, 'the truth always hurts'?"
Elizabeth paled, trembled and looked away, but obediently began to take her shorts down.
"If the name isn't enough to entice you to step in, the clothes, shoes and accessories will do it for you!"
"Great store, crappy name."
Working in Spank has been such pleasure for Lee. But once in a while, some amusing quirks come along, like questions about the store name – why is it called “Spank”?
“People always mistake Spank for something like spanks! [Does she mean Spanx?] It’s really funny!” laughed Lee. “Jana [the owner] came up with the store name. She’s a creative woman, and kind of eccentric in a good way. She just blurts out ideas to get a reaction, and when she was trying to figure out a name for the store, she’s like, ‘Spank!’ She guessed that people would ask, “why is it called Spank?” and maybe because it can be interpreted a certain way…”
It was two years ago when we were on holiday in the Dordogne area of France and staying in a remote country cottage. We didn't have Debbie then, only Samantha, and we had left her with a babysitter while we went out for the day in the car. We walked into some woods and had a picnic. With the food and wine and lovely weather, Alan and I both felt very randy and, you know, wanted to do it right there in the woods.I would love a walk in the French countryside sometime soon.
I was wearing jeans and I took them and my knickers off and we both laid down on the blanket. Well, we were doing it, with Alan on top of me, and me looking up over his shoulder at the trees and the sky. Suddenly there were two faces there as well. Men's faces. Alan, of course, didn't see them and he just went on fucking me while I lay underneath him with my legs up round his back - and these two men looking down. It was really scary and I couldn't say a word, not even shout. Then one of the men pushed Alan and of course he stopped.
They said we were trespassing on their property and committing an indecent act which was a serious offence. They said we had to go with them. I struggled back into my knickers and jeans while the two men watched. One was in his twenties and the other was older but both were thick set and strong and we would have had little chance to resist them. They took us a few meters to their farmhouse and the younger one, who spoke very good English, said we needed to be taught a lesson.
In the farmhouse kitchen there were a number of other people. The women and children were sent out and there were then four men present, including one old one - the grandfather, I suppose. Then the older of the two who'd brought us there took a thick leather strap out of a cupboard. Then they told me to take my jeans down and bend over the edge of the table. At this point Alan shouted in anger and tried to break free but a large fist was put under his nose and he stopped protesting. It was useless.
It was unbelievable, of course, but there was nothing we could do, not with the four of them there, all powerfully built men. I had to do it - unzip my jeans and take them down and then get over the table. They took my knickers down as well, then the man with the strap laid into my bare bottom. God, it really hurt! And all Alan could do was stand there and watch.
After they'd finished spanking me they let us go. They didn't do anything else to me or punish Alan in any way. I suppose his punishment was being humiliated by having to watch me get it. We were both in a state of shock as we walked back to the car and drove back to our cottage. We talked about going to the authorities but it would have been so embarrassing and I suppose the men would all have denied it.
It was an awful experience but we were both definitely turned on by it. By my having it done to me and by Alan having to watch. By mutual consent we went to bed early that night and we seemed to be fucking the whole of the night.
In the morning, lying in bed, I said to Alan, "That really got you going, watching my arse being strapped like that!" And, shamefaced, he admitted that it had. Then I said, "You could do it to me as well if you like." He looked a bit wide-eyed and I grabbed him and whispered, "You could give me a good seeing to if you like. With one of those leather straps - as long as it's not too hard."
So with a tremendous feeling of excitement we went into the nearby town and bought one. And we did it right away when we got back. Just put Samantha to bed and then right there in the middle of the afternoon re-enacted what had happened the day before. I took down my jeans and got over our kitchen table then Alan took my knickers down and strapped my bottom. Then afterwards we were so aroused we had a really wild session in bed, the best we'd ever had. It was simply fantastic.
We had a strapping session the next day and again the day after - and I suppose just about every day we were there. It was really wonderful. It had really opened up a whole new vista for us.
When we got back from holiday it just took off from there. Alan bought a cane and we experimented with different scenes, not just being strapped by angry French farmers. We have a range of scenes now that we use. One of Alan's favourites is to have me as a sixth form schoolgirl and he is the Headmaster who canes me for some misdemeanour or other. I wear my old school uniform which I still have and which, I'm proud to say, I can still get into.
We have loads of other ones. A shop girl caned for having her hand in the till, a housewife thrashed by a burglar for refusing to say where her jewellery is, a woman driver who causes an accident and get strapped by the other driver. We are very imaginative, you see.
I've never been caned or strapped by anyone but my husband, except for the experience in France. Would I like to be? Alan and I have discussed this but I know he wouldn't like me to be caned or strapped by another man. But me? Well, yes, I know I would enjoy the real thing with someone else. It would have to be without Alan knowing - and it would have to be someone dominating who I couldn't resist. It would have to be like France - but how often does that kind of thrill come a girl's way?