From the Top Shelf - Uncle Henry, part 6

Last week Uncle Henry spanked Amanda with a small paddle she had bought in town for that express purpose, as her friend Libby (and most of us too, I suspect) had guessed. But now, it's Libby's turn over the uncle's knee.

Her heart thumping wildly and chills running up her spine, Libby nonetheless obeyed Henry’s command. She pulled her skirt up above her hips displaying a shapely backside clad in lacy step-ins, and shuffled over to stand at his right side.

“Libby, put yourself over my knee.”

Libby eased herself down, all the while blushing profusely. At the same time it was deliciously shaming and she felt her girlish parts moisten. His muscular legs were a platform for her mid-section, his arm a clamp across her back as he shifted her into position.

“All right, young lady, get ready.”

Libby sucked in her breath, then released it with a loud “Yow!” as the first of a volley of paddle smacks spanked her buttocks. They were sharp smacks that stung, the heat generated by the little paddle flaring quickly into what felt like a conflagration on her nearly bare seat. Libby couldn’t help squealing. It really hurt – like being stung by bees. Her feet thumped on the sofa cushions as she kicked and squirmed but Uncle Henry had her in a vice grip. She could not escape.

Then, like a spring thunderstorm it was over, and Uncle Henry propped Libby back on her feet. Her hands flew to her backside to rub the sting out.

“Amanda, turn around and come here. Libby, pay attention.”

Both girls stood in front of Uncle Henry ruefully rubbing their backsides.

“I think I’ll keep this little toy, add it to my collection,” he said patting his palm with the paddle. “But it is a toy and what you did, Amanda, well that calls for a grown up girl punishment.”

Amanda opened her mouth, an expression of stunned disbelief on her face. “But you just ---“

“I just gave you a preview, Amanda. Drinking to inebriation and then driving a car is serious. You could have hurt yourself and your friend. As we speak. Mrs. Hemphill is preparing a birch rod.”

“No!” said Amanda. “You can’t!”

“I can and I will. Ah, there she is.”

The girls twisted around. Mrs. Hemphill, the housekeeper, entered the library carrying a sheaf of long whippy switches. The leaves and shoots had been stripped away and one end was bound with twine. Henry took it from her hands and swished it through the air. It made a sickening whine.

“You surely don’t propose to flog me with that!” Amanda exclaimed. Her hands rushed to cover her buttocks by reflex.

“Indeed, I do, Amanda. The birch rod is a most traditional means of punishment for young ladies. I dare say your mother, her sisters, your great aunts – all the women of the Pierpont family have likely felt its bite at some time.” He tapped the roll top arm of the Edwardian couch. “It would be best if you removed your dress.” Henry stood back and waited, the rod clasped in both hands as his arms hung loose below his waist.

Amanda’s attitude shifted. She wriggled provocatively and pulled her dress up and over her head. She flung it over a chair in a defiant gesture, and grasped the bottom of her slip. “Shall I remove my slip, Uncle Henry?” she teased. Without waiting for the answer she stripped out of the slip, leaving her in a short chemise, tap pants and stockings. “How about my stockings?” she asked feigning innocence. “Do those come off too?”

For a moment Henry seemed nonplussed, unsure of himself. Amanda allowed herself a hint of a smile for at least taking some small bit of control away from the normally in-charge uncle.

“Come here and bend over the arm of the couch, Amanda. And,” he added, “slip down your drawers.” Now it was Henry’s turn to smile. “The birch is always applied to the bare fundament.”

Amanda stayed true to form and bent at the waist. It was a deliberately sensuous performance on Amanda’s part, as she slowly arched her scantily clad bottom out and curved her body over the rolled top of the couch. Then she slipped her fingers back and even more slowly peeled her step-ins down, revealing the lush contours of her bottom cheeks to Uncle Henry. A bawdy burlesque dancer could have done it no better.

That done, Henry extended his arm so that the rod splayed out, the withes touching Amanda’s exposed bottom cheeks. He tapped the bare flesh with little flicks of his wrist. “Twelve strokes, Amanda, and I expect you to stay in position.”

He raised his arm to shoulder height and swept the birch down in a long arc. There was a swishing sound and a sharp thwack as the switches struck Amanda’s posterior.

Amanda hissed through her teeth. Her body dipped slightly.

“That is one,” announced Henry.

Swish … thwack! The switches splayed out fan-like as they struck Amanda’s bottom.

“Two,” said Henry.

“Ow … ow!” Amanda bleated. She rose up, then settled back down.

Henry neither hurried nor dallied. He laid on the strokes one by one and slowly, a long pause between each to allow Amanda reposition herself to Henry’s liking.

“Dip your back lower Amanda, and present your posterior properly,” he said, tapping her impatiently with the rod.

Amanda obeyed, thrusting her curvy bottom out in a lewd display, daring Henry to strike it. But strike it he did, and she hissed and shuffled her feet in response, sometimes rising up, sometimes bowing her torso as if hugging the couch’s roll top arm.

The sharp whuicking sounds of the switches made Libby wince. This had to sting ferociously. All the same, with each swishy stroke Amanda waggled her bottom like a hootchie-coo dancer in a wanton display, as if the strokes from the rod were the caresses of a lover and not the infliction of punishment. It seemed to be getting to Henry. A light sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Libby’s eyes dropped to his crotch. Yes. There. She could see the man’s erection straining against the front of his slacks.

A patchwork of thin red lines had formed on Amanda’s white derriere. With each deliberate thwack from the rod Amanda’s cheeks juddered slightly before she writhed in response. Libby was keenly aroused by the sight and sound of it. It was almost as if Henry and Amanda were playing out roles that mimicked the love act – the man with his rod plying it upon the woman who received its attention -- the strike, the sensuous writhing, the moans – it looked very much like love making.

Then it was over. Henry bade Amanda rise. She did and turned to face him, pouting as she ruefully rubbed her bottom. Henry placed the rod on the desk. “I hope that has taught you a lesson, Amanda. Now to bed with you both. I’ll see you at breakfast where we will discuss the rules of behavior for the balance of your stay.”

Suddenly Libby realized she was sopping wet. The tableau had been powerfully arousing, just like the other times. What she was going to do with that, she did not know. She could feel the erotic tension between Amanda and Henry. It was in the air -- palpable, like a living thing. Libby had the feeling that if she were not present, these two might be quite overcome by it.

Amanda pulled her silky pants back up, smirked seductively at Henry and picked up her dress. “Come, Libby. We’ll get some cold cream.”

Libby is truly one of us, is she not?