From the Top Shelf - In a Mist, Chapter 22

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 20a
Chapter 10	Chapter 20b
Chapter 11	Chapter 21

Sadly, we have now reached the conclusion of our story. Will Lennox finally find true happiness? Will he and Elizabeth reunite? Are Florence and Tomms still together? Read on and find out.

Final Chapter - In which Lennox indulges all his sensual pleasures.

Late that night as Lennox lay naked and sleepless on his bed, his prick stiff with excitement at the memory of Lucy Palmer's caning, there was a timid little knock at the door.

"Christine?" he said softly but loud enough for her to hear. His cock twitched expectantly.

The door opened and there she stood silhouetted in the moonlight. Her gamine fringe accentuated her girlishness as did the cotton singlet and schoolgirl panties he insisted she wore instead of night attire when she came to his bed.

During the months she had been there he'd trained her to pander to his every whim. She was his dream come true, the living epitome of every lustful fantasy he'd ever had. She loved to please him in every possible way, for in doing so she herself garnered a harvest of untold pleasure and fulfilment.

He could do to her whatever he wanted - for whatever he wanted, she wanted too.

She turned to close the door behind her. The moonlight streaming through the ivy-fringed window shone like a spotlight upon her soft round bottom. The lavish contours of her arse-cheeks and the deep sensual cleft between them was all too apparent beneath the tight white cotton panties.

The knowledge that she was totally his, to do with as he pleased, made him ache all the more for her.

"Christine!"

Blinded by the moonlight she could only hear his voice coming from the dark looming shape of the bed.

Then a stray moonbeam picked out a thick white tower, a lighthouse rising proudly from the sea of crumpled bedclothes - her master's prick. As in a dream she slowly moved towards it.

"Take it in your mouth, Christine."

Obediently she knelt down beside the bed. He groaned with delight as her soft moist lips enfolded his delicately sensitive glans.

Greedily she sucked him, accommodating all she could of his thick, fleshy rod, while his hands caressed, beneath the thin cotton, her breasts, her bottom, and down between her thighs where the gusset of her panties grew hot and sticky against her wet, palpitating quim.

She continued to suck him noisily until he felt himself about to explode in her mouth, at which point he told her to stop - for his preference was always to ejaculate in the place nature provided for the purpose.

Besides which she deserved summary punishment for such brazen shameless behaviour.

"Little hussy! You've earned yourself a bedtime spanking!" he panted with excitement. "Take down your knickers immediately!"

Eagerly Christine did as she was told while Lennox seated himself on the edge of the bed. His penis, bigger than ever before, glistened with the dew of of Christine's saliva.

Although they were now patently lovers, Lennox never play-acted when it came to disciplining her. The 'bedtime spankings' he gave her were, for Christine, painfully real. While she draped herself submissively across his broad lap, he inserted the shaft of his penis in between the fork of her thighs so that it rubbed maddeningly against her swollen sex.

As he spanked her with loud fleshy slaps, alternating from cheek to cheek, so the heavy impact of palm on buttock encouraged her to pump her loins up and down - generating exquisite friction between her engorged clit and the shaft of his cock. By this means he was able to bring her to climax several times during the course of the spanking. Christine's animated cries were more to do with pleasure than with pain - although afterwards her bottom felt hot and sore for quite a while, yet curiously never at the actual moment of chastisement.

Sometimes he used an ivory-backed hairbrush on her in this fashion, and he was delighted to discover that once Christine was erotically aroused he could administer a severe spanking that would leave her marked for days afterwards - but which never seemed to cause her that much pain at the time of infliction.

Not that he shrank from inflicting pain on her - quite the opposite, for the more he punished her, the more certain she became of his love for her. Several times already, in the privacy of his bedroom, he had caned Christine twice as hard as he had caned Lucy Palmer - and she had loved him for it, treasuring the weals he planted on her soft receptive bottom.

But more and more his hectic love-making bouts with Christine taught him to channel his aggression away from the infliction of pain for its own sake and into a delightful no-man's-land where pleasure and pain held equal sway. He even developed an ingenious technique of incorporating this into their coital positions. He would lie on his back with her above him, impaled on his rigid cock, then swivel her round until she was lying across his lap. Thus he could spank her and fuck her at one and the same time.

Another thing he liked to do while they were making love was to threaten her with a caning there and then. The mere threat was usually enough to make her come, and he loved to thrust masterfully inside her while watching the ripples of orgasmic delight distort her pretty face.

Sometimes, more exciting still, he implemented his threat and, brusquely withdrawing his penis from within her, reached for the light-weight rattan cane he always kept in readiness beside the bed. Ordering her to lie on her tummy, stuffing a pillow beneath her loins to elevate her naughty bottom to a pleasingly erotic angle, he would cane her slowly and cruelly, ignoring her tears and her cries of pain, gloating instead on the rich, rubescent weals with which he was adorning her pretty bottom - like diadems of precious stones.

He always seemed to cane her more violently on those occasions. It was as though the volcanic passion of some bitter anger locked deep inside him was being released.

After such a caning he would invariably take her from behind and, as he reached his frenzied climax, he would squeeze and pummel her aching buttocks with unmitigated savagery.

Afterwards he always felt God-like, as though he'd transcended to a higher plane. The entire armies of the Third Reich could lay siege to Lymchurch House for all he cared!

o O o

June 6th 1945. Hazy blue skies and tender sweetness of summer in the air. Lennox and his perennially naughty Christine celebrated V.E. night in one of the new night clubs that had sprung up in the shabby streets adjoining Leicester Square. The Ace of Spades it was called, a long low-ceilinged cellar joint, uncarpeted and cheaply furnished with rickety old tables and chairs.

But it had the best jazz combo in London, so Lennox had been assured. Rumours abounded of legendary American negro hornmen, on leave from Uncle Sam, nightly blowing up a storm.

By midnight the tiny place was jam-packed with drunken revelers, their loud uncouth presence bitterly resented by the serious hard-core jazz aficionados who were there solely for the music. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the humid air, as did the stink of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume. Lennox loved it. He'd never been anywhere like it before in his whole life. This, he felt, was his real home. Leaving Christine at a table with the beers, he fought his way through the jostling throng to get a look at what was happening on the bandstand at the other end of the room.

An enormous bull-necked negro G.I. was playing the tenor saxophone. Behind him a cadaverous-like youth in dark glasses was crouched over the piano, his splayed fingers hammering out jaggedly dissonant chords. Sweat pouring down their faces, the bassist and drummer were doing their utmost to keep up with the ferocious tempo the negro hornman had set.

His eyes open but expressionless, the huge hornman was spattering the opposite wall with machine gun volleys of sound. To Lennox's bewildered ears it seemed a frighteningly nihilistic music, full of discords, high-pitched squeals, and abrupt polyrhythmic explosions. Lennox guessed they were playing a twelve-bar blues, though the chord changes were barely recognisable. A skinny, sleek-haired adolescent, eyes wild and mouth agape, leaned across and yelled excitedly in his ear "So this is Be-Bop!"

As the number ended suddenly, almost in mid-flight, to tumultuous applause, the black tenor man looked down and spotted Lennox, anxious and restless, his cornet-case in his hand. A smile flickered briefly across the negro's bored expressionless features. "Hey man, you wanna jam?" he murmured in a voice of gentle amusement.

Never one to turn down a challenge, Lennox nodded eagerly and jumped up on the stage. But his heart began thumping and his lips suddenly felt dry and parched. He was so nervous he wondered if he'd be able to produce a single note from his horn. Nevertheless he was determined to at least try.

"I say, do you happen to know an old Dixieland tune called 'Indiana'?" he stammered shyly, removing his battered silver cornet from its case and blowing down it self consciously.

"Sure thing, man," the negro nodded, turning to the rhythm section to count it in. Before Lennox could ask him what key they were playing in, they were halfway through the first chorus.

Afterwards he came off the bandstand feeling dazed, depressed - yet at the same time elated. He had barely managed to keep pace with the blistering tempo , for he had never had to play so fast in all his life. He had peppered his shrill frenetic solo with embarrassing 'clinkers' but in spite of that the crowd applauded him, and when it was over the big smiling tenorman had hugged him to his chest, calling him a 'mean cat'.

In a mist of euphoria he rejoined Christine at the table. She leaned across and kissed him proudly on the lips. "You were wonderful!" she gasped. "I never realised you were that good."

That night it seemed to Lennox like the dawning of a new age, with the War over and this tremendous discovery of a whole new form of jazz. He looked at Christine, flushed and excited in the red dress he'd bought her that day from a Knightsbridge store. It set off her figure to perfection and he remembered the spanking he'd given her that afternoon and how sweetly vulnerable she'd looked in her old school uniform.

He was glad too that he'd thought to pack a slender whippy cane in his suitcase. Even though Christine was now twenty-three, he still caned her bottom at the slightest provocation. It gave an exciting edge to their relationship, and she respected him for doing so.

It was well past two o'clock in the morning when they finally left the Ace of Spades. There were no taxis to be had for love nor money, so they walked wearily all the way back to the Bloomsbury flat which Lennox had managed to beg the use of from an old college friend. The West End streets were still thronged with drunken merrymakers. He felt happier than he had ever done before - even though he was out of a job and with a young woman to support too.

His school had closed down, the girls had all gone their separate ways - all except Christine, who had admantly refused to go anywhere without him.

Lymchurch House had reverted to its rightful owner, Elizabeth Montague, who had promptly sold it to a fat war profiteer from Birmingham. Lennox had met her briefly, for the last time, when she had come to take a look at the place.

It had been mid-winter when Elizabeth arrived swathed in Russian sable and french perfume, in a sleek chauffeur driven limousine. She was a fine patrician lady now. Lennox had found it hard to imagine her as the headstrong little tomboy he'd put across his knee with such relish all those years ago. There was an awkward exchange of inconsequential small talk and her cold reserve made him feel ill at ease. He was relieved when, after an hour, she left for a pressing engagement in town. She extended a kid-gloved hand to him, which he shook formally. As her car glided away he knew their paths would never cross again.

When Lennox and Christine got back to the flat in Bloomsbury, dawn was already beginning to break over London. Suddenly all his weariness forsook him and he knew he wanted her like mad. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, depositing his giggling girlish bundle on the bed and arranging her in a kneeling posture so that her well-rounded rump stuck up at a provocative angle. His eyes glinted dangerously as he flipped up the back of her new dress and peeled down her flimsy pink panties.

"Oh golly!" she protested, half-heartedly, "you're surely not going to spank me again, are you? My poor little bottom's still sore from yesterday afternoon.

But he was already searching the bedroom cabinet for the hairbrush.

THE END

Well well! So Elizabeth was now only a distant memory and she has gone on with her life. But Lennox and Christine have a fine future ahead of them, provided he finds a way to support them. But that's another story!