From the Top Shelf - In a Mist, Chapter 20a

 

The story so far:
Chapter 1	Chapter 12
Chapter 2	Chapter 13
Chapter 3	Chapter 14
Chapter 4	Chapter 15
Chapter 5	Chapter 16
Chapter 6	Chapter 17
Chapter 7	Chapter 18
Chapter 8	Chapter 19
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

Last week many of you surmised that Daisy Potter would be Lennox's next victim of choice. Let's see if you were right. It's a very long chapter so I have had to break it up.

Chapter 20a - In which poor Daisy reflects on her role as Lennox's victim.

Alone in the makeshift dormitory young Daisy Potter lay naked on the hard comfortless bed with its cheap institutional metal frame, gazing apprehensively at the razor of light filtering through the crack in the door from the landing, beyond which lay the stairs - and down the stairs the hall - and leading off from the hall the dining room with her evening meal, cold and untouched still on the table.

And at the table she was sure Mr. Lennox would still be there seated, arms folded, grim and unforgiving. Just as he was half an hour before when , the meal about to commence, she'd said or done something - she knew not what - to displease him and he'd ordered her up to bed.

So suddenly, so inexplicably had he shouted at her that in dumb dismay she'd fled the room and scampered up the stairs like a frightened rabbit, pert little bottom gyrating beneath the blue pleated skirt.

Hot pearly tears of indignant disbelief gathered in her blue eyes as she smarted from the bitter blow of sudden banishment. What had she done, she asked herself yet again, to deserve it?

She was cold, frightened and hungry. As if to emphasise the latter deprivation her empty tummy gave a protesting rumble.

How like a petulant child she'd flounced along the corridor and slammed the dormitory door shut behind her, not caring if he heard the noise. She'd torn off her skirt and, in just blouse, white cotton knickers, and knee socks had bent her firm young body taut as a bow-string to undo her shoes. Kicking them off her feet noisily and rebelliously, she'd peeled off her knickers, socks, and blouse, flung them in an untidy heap on the floor, leapt into bed, flicked off the bedside light and pulled the harsh grey blanket up over her head - as though to blot out the cruel uncaring world.

"Why, oh why, does he always have to set such impossibly high standards?" He told her sagely that it was for her own good, and she tried hard, so very hard, to match up to them. But she was, after all, only a young girl. She knew she'd never be a paragon of virtue and she resented him for demanding that of her. Why couldn't he for once meet her half way?

But no, it was always this. Sent to bed instantly, utterly dejected and hungry for more than just food.

Then the long lonely wait in bed, cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine every time she thought she heard a creak on the stairs, a rustle in the corridor - imagining that the time had arrived for him to come upstairs and deal with her.

And those ridiculous little pyjamas she always had to wear that made her feel like a child again....

"Oh God, the pyjamas!" - she'd quite forgotten. She fumbled frantically for the light switch, scrambled out of bed and ran across to the dressing table.

She was slender and leggy, pert-bottomed, her thick dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

She opened the drawer and there they were in the left-hand corner, neatly folded. Fleecy pink-flowered little girl's pyjamas. They looked so small she was always amazed they fitted her at all, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be said that they fitted her comfortably.

The top was fine, it went on easily even if the arms were on the short side. But the pyjama pants were always a problem.

They clung to her legs, particularly the tops of her thighs, and stretched drum-tight across her dainty seat like a second skin. They nestled in the crack between her cheeks and rubbed embarrassingly against her pubic mound.

She contemplated her tightly trousered bottom in the wardrobe mirror and reflected blushingly on how blatantly erotic, yet temptingly punishable, they made her bottom look.

That, she supposed, was the idea.

Not so much plump but cheekily prominent, her bottom seemed bigger than it really was only because the rest of her was so delicately small. Slight and fragile though she looked, she was by no means weak, and had often surprised Lennox by the wildcat struggle she would put up, the furious kicking and flailing before giving in and allowing herself to be spanked into abject tearful submission.

Painstakingly she'd coaxed herself into the pink flowery pyjama pants, stretching the elasticated waistband perilously close to snapping in order to accommodate the full firm flare of her seventeen year old bottom. They didn't quite reach her waist and they ended just a little way below her knees.

She rubbed the well-worn threadbare seat of them with a curious fondling motion. They were drawn tight across the part of her person that was shortly going be so relentlessly, so shamefully, chastised.

She felt more exposed than if she were naked. She'd come to associate the wearing of these pyjamas with the prolonged painful tannings she so dreaded. She only had to put them on to feel her stomach start to churn and her bottom to develop that nervous twitch it always seemed to develop just before he spanked her. It unsettled, unnerved her to have to dress like a child again - she could practically feel herself regressing.

She had a sudden overwhelming desire to suck her thumb.

She looked down at the untidy heap of clothes lying on the floor, thought better of it, stopped to gather them up, and arranged them neatly over the chair.

Then she remembered it was the chair he'd use, so she laid the garments carefully on the dressing table before climbing back into bed.

The tight clingy pyjama pants accentuated every move she made, every swing of her hips, every perceptible wiggle of her bottom. Even when snuggled once more under the blanket she was still acutely aware of the provocative shape of her cheeky little bottom and the cruel fate awaiting it because the tight cotton pants were a constant reminder of her bottom's existence.

Would the spankings ever stop? He had spanked her once, sometimes twice or three times, every day since she had arrived - not to mention the half dozen or so dreadful canings he had given her, poor little Daisy stripped stark naked touching her toes, yelling and blubbering for all she was worth while that vicious cane of his sliced into her squirming arse-cheeks leaving throbbing weals and blood-blisters that made it impossible for her to sit down.

He insisted adamantly that even her most trivial lapse from grace should be treated with the utmost severity. He told her it would act as a shining example to the new girls as and when they arrived.

"Naughty girls should expect to be treated like naughty girls!" he'd say with a superior smile on his face, and she'd blush and wriggle anxiously in her seat.

Then there were the mirrors. He would sometimes position the chair so he could watch himself spanking her in one of the wings of the dressing-table mirror. She knew this because of the full length mirror facing her as she lay across his knee. It obviously excited him, for he spanked her harder than ever on those occasions.

If she wanted to she could actually watch him watching himself spank her. If she craned her neck sufficiently she could even see, in the mirror in front of her, her own bottom.

So that, as well as feeling the stinging pain of the spanking spreading like a nettle rash all over her upturned bottom cheeks, she could also watch them redden into burgundy colour beneath his hot punishing hand. But she preferred not to, thank you very much, choosing instead to close her eyes tightly, grit her teeth, and try to imagine how nice it would be when it was all over and he took her in his arms and did all those exciting things to her that made her feel better.

Strange, she thought, how he liked to watch himself smacking her bottom - gazing at the mirror image of her outspread arse-cheeks, her fully exposed anus and her other private part - gloating when, near the climax of the spanking, she abandoned herself involuntarily to a paroxysm of vulgarly suggestive wrigglings with no thought of what she was blatantly displaying.

The sudden reminder of what was in store for her, of being made to go, blushing and bare-bottomed, over his knee, was enough to make her wet her pillow with an effusion of hot indignant tears.

To comfort herself she put her hands between her legs and tried to rock herself off to sleep. Bu whenever she shifted slightly in the bed, her pyjama pants caught in the crack, nudging her back into agonised awareness of the shadow of the spanking hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles.

Then the sound she dreaded, the sound she'd been listening out for all along. His heavy measured footfall ascending the stairs.

You were right! Alas, we and Daisy must wait anxiously until next week to experience her spanking.