From the Top Shelf - Lonely and Far from Home

I found this lovely story recently while wandering through some old, inactive blogs, and it's a doozy! It's rather long so I've split it into two parts, but both have plenty of spanking! Without further ado, here is part one of Lonely and Far From Home, a short story by Colin Weaver.

The quarrel seemed to spring up out of nothing. Sharp words passed and then the bosomy Latin beauty slapped the smiling young man's face. He seized her and pulled her face-down across his thighs as he sat down on a handy tree stump. Her straight skirt stretched tight across her opulent rump and his hand smacked down on it six times, with the girl showing no response beyond a startled squeak. Then the scene faded and was replaced by the two of them walking along a woodland path, apparently on the best of terms.

Gina sighed and aimed the remote control; the screen went blank as the video stopped. The rest of the film, a musical comedy made in 1932, was of no interest to her. Should she rewind and watch the spanking again? Gina shook her head. Four times in one afternoon, she decided, was enough. Instead, she lay back in the armchair, closed her eyes, and played the scene through again in her mind, with herself in the girl's place.

It would have been much better, of course, to have had the real thing, to have gone thrillingly, breathlessly across the hard thighs of Jeff, instead of fantasising about an actor who, by this time, was certainly too old lo deliver a good spanking. But even if Jeff had been here it would have been useless to hint at her desires: she had learned that in three years of marriage. Not that Jeff was sexually selfish or, within his own limits, unimaginative, but any suggestion that a spanking would be an exciting change would be greeted with a roar of laughter. 'You don't want to bother with that kinky stuff!' he'd say. There's nothing like a bloody good screw, Gina my love!' – and in fact it was always very good indeed. But Jeff was not here and would not be for another three weeks. When he got back from the oil rig there would be love and laughter and whatever this cold Northern town could offer in the way of riotous celebration. But for the present he was there and she was here, and she was lonely and bored, and there was this irrational craving to have her bottom tanned!

Back home – she still thought of Oxford as home, though God knew when she would go back – she could have gained satisfaction and relief from her secret hoard of CP magazines and videos. But she had scrapped the lot, afraid that they might be discovered during the hasty packing when they had had to move North so abruptly to seize the career opportunity which might never come Jeff's way again. All she had now was the one old film with its brief spanking scene, taped from the TV.

Gina jumped to her feet and started to pace the room, pausing to scowl in self-mockery at the mirror on the wall. The face in the glass grimaced back at her, even wearing that discontented expression it was an extremely attractive face, with it's short, skilfully cut fair hair, well-proportioned features and the dimpled chin which made her look younger than twenty-six.

'You should be ashamed of enjoying such kinky thoughts!' she scolded the reflection. 'What would a psychiatrist say?'

Despite her ill-temper, Gina smiled at the mental picture of herself reclining on a couch while some solemn, bearded figure hovered over her, note-book in hand.

'Tell me, Mrs Morgan, when were you first aware of these desires for – ahem – correction?'

'Well, Doctor, when I was in my teens there was this Youth Leader...'

No! No! No! She could never tell anyone about Marjorie Fenn! It would be betrayal, treason, profaning the memory of a happy, loving though often painful relationship which had lasted until Gina was almost twenty. Gina was not the only one, of course. After the twice-weekly meetings of the Youth Club it might be Caroline who was invited to go home with Mrs Fenn for coffee and a chat. Or Kim or Melanie, Christine or Denise. Gina was never jealous of the others. There was a kind of invisible bond, an unspoken understanding between "Mrs Fenn's girls" although they never discussed their experiences except for careful hints and oblique allusions. They certainly never compared marks!

Gina's turn had come every three or four weeks, and she still remembered vividly the quivering mixture of fear and excitement as she went with the handsome, black-haired widow in her secluded bungalow. There had been coffee, certainly, and relaxed friendly chat, giggling together like schoolgirls despite the twenty year age gap, about the gauche young men of the neighbourhood and their clumsy attempts at romance. Marjorie could give good advice, too, about problems arising in Gina's first office job, or about parents who sometimes seemed unreasonable.

But then Marjorie's tone would become more serious, and Gina would wriggle uneasily on her chair under the older woman's steady gaze.

'Even though you're such a grown-up young lady, Gina, I think you still need to be spanked, don't you?'

Marjorie always said "need", never "deserve". Somehow that made it easier to stammer out, 'Y-yes, Marjorie, I suppose so.'

'Very well, Gina. Come upstairs, please.'

In the bedroom, with its subdued pink lighting, cheerful floral curtains securely drawn, it seemed so natural for Marjorie to sit on the end of the bed and smilingly beckon, for Gina to submissively take her place across Marjorie's lap, her slim young body resting securely on the plump thighs beneath the neat black skirt. Then there had been the uncontrollable fiery blush, the little mewing noises, half protest, half appeal, as Marjorie calmly turned Gina's skirt up waist-high and took her knickers down. The incomparable, unforgettable mixture of shame and fear and excitement as the pretty teenager meekly awaited the spanking which she would never have dreamed of accepting from her parents.

Marjorie's spanking were always extremely thorough, even when she had a girl across her lap for the first time and knew that the pertly rounded teenage buttocks bouncing and burning under her firm hand had never experienced the sting of punishment before. She had once remarked to Gina that the expression, "a playful spanking" was as great an absurdity as to speak of a dry shower or a cool fire. Since Gina had just spent five extremely painful minutes having her bare bottom soundly smacked, and was tearfully pleading with Marjorie not to continue the spanking with a slipper, the comment had been impressed on her memory.

The uncomplaining acceptance of a well-smacked bottom placed a girl on the first level, so to speak, of Mrs Fenn's exclusive little group. After she had taken half a dozen spankings she would be considered ready for promotion to the second level, which meant punishment with a substantial, three-tailed leather tawse. Gina winced and reminiscently caressed her shapely posterior as she recalled those occasions in Marjorie's bedroom, the feeing of the candlewick bedspread under her hands and knees as she knelt there, waiting. Marjorie strapped with a vigour and enthusiasm which would have won warm approval from an old-time Scots schoolmistress. The blubbering young lady who had endured a dozen of the scorching best across her crimson, welted backside invariably vowed, 'Never again! Never, never again!' and yet, only two or three weeks later she would be impatient for Marjorie's next invitation.

For the girl who reached the third level there was the cane, not only across the bottom but upon the sensitive flesh of the thighs, with a spanking before or after the caning. 'How she used to make me howl!' thought Gina, in rueful recollection.

Gina had invariably arrived home late from an evening with Marjorie, but oddly enough her parents never complained. Nor did they comment when her reddened eyes showed that she had been crying or when she obviously found it uncomfortable to sit down. At the time, Gina had thought them unobservant. Now it seemed clear to her that many of the local parents, her own included, knew more about Marjorie Fenn than their daughters suspected. Presumably they were, for their own reasons, grateful to her. At any rate, Mrs Fenn was still a popular and respected Youth Leader without a breath of scandal about her.

Gina shook her head. Memories were all very well but she needed more than that.

So Gina needs and wants more, but how? Stay tuned!