She could never envisage playing punishment and discipline games with [Giles]; he was far too soft and cuddly to be credible in a masterful role.
Sebastian, on the other hand, was quite different. Unsettling to say the least. His observations today had raised fresh doubts in her mind. She must be mad and yet she desperately wanted to please Sebastian. She had never felt this way about Giles and he was a far nicer person than Sebastian would ever be; nice, cuddly, safe Giles. Sebastian was hard, dangerous - and yet she needed his approval, even to feel his wrath, knowing that he was taking the time to correct her.
In her dream, she had been alone in her flat when she had heard a key turn in the lock. She had heard footsteps behind her as someone came into the room. She had turned to find Sebastian standing before her.Now we know her interest in spanking is not purely academic. But when will she have a chance to experience the real thing? Wait and see!
As she stood up to face him, Sebastian reminded her that it was she who had invited him in. In a fuzzy, illogical sort of way, Lucy knew, in her dream, that this was true. Sebastian grasped her shoulders and turned her round to face away from him. She did not resist him; he was too strong for her anyway and she knew she was in his power.
"I am going to help you," he said. "You are going to experience at least some of the feelings Juliette felt yesterday, and having experienced those sensations for yourself, you are going to prove that you are worthy of my assistance."
As he spoke, he threw a sort of wide band of soft material over her head. At this point in her dream, Lucy had unknowingly become entangled in her bed sheets and had flailed helplessly for several minutes without awakening.
"Don't worry," he said, still behind her. "You won't be harmed. This is just the first step of your experience. Remember, Juliette and the others also knew that they would not be permanently harmed. They knew before their punishment started that there was a limit to the duration and intensity of the pain they were about to suffer. I give you the same guarantee."
In her subconscious, dreamy state, Lucy realised that this was literally true - that Juliette knew exactly what was coming to her, right from the start. Sebastian finished tying the blindfold around her head. In a way, Juliette had the advantage over her, knowing her sentence in advance. The uncertainty made her feelings all the more intense, as did the blindfold.
She heard the scrape of furniture being moved. Then Sebastian took her arm and guided her forward a pace.
"I have pulled a low stool out in front of you," she heard him say. She knew the one he meant; it was a small stool, only about a foot high, with quite solid legs. "I want you to step up onto it." Puzzled, she did as she was told.
"Now, be careful," he continued. "Turn around slowly. I want to look at you."
Again, she did as she was told. It was spooky, knowing he was watching her, yet not being able to see him.
"No, not like that." She knew from his voice that he had moved around to a new position. He had been so quiet, she had not realised he had shifted. A frisson of fear ran through her.
"Put your hands up behind your head; that's better. Now turn again."
The sleeping Lucy rotated in her bed, moaning as she did so. The dream-world Lucy did her best to give a real modelling twirl, and nearly fell off her stool. Sebastian steadied her with one hand. When she had regained her balance, Sebastian told her to strip. She replied that she would do no such thing, knowing full well that she wanted nothing more in this world than to do just that in front of him.
"What? Chicken already? How do you think Juliette felt? She had a very personal medical, you know, fully nude, well before they took her knickers down for the beating. You will never begin to know how she felt, let alone write a good thesis. Still, no matter; there will be others who will relish the chance. Get down!"
Her heart was thumping. He was right. She had to know. It was nothing to do with the thesis and it was stupid but she had to know. She began to take off her clothes. It wasn't much of a strip-tease. She was only wearing a track-suit over her underthings, and a pair of white socks.
She took the socks off first. It seemed to be the least revealing thing to do, while she gathered her courage. She balanced on one leg and removed the first sock, letting it fall from her fingers with a little flick. Then she changed feet for the second one. After that there was not much else to take off except her track-suit and her undies. She knew he was watching her and not knowing if he had moved again made it scary. She didn't know what angle he was staring at her from, or what would catch his eye. She was wearing some very modest airtex briefs, so she decided she would be less exposed if she slipped off the track-suit bottoms first. As she discarded them, she plucked up enough courage to ask him what he thought of her legs. It was just bravado; plus, by getting him to answer, she would know where he was.
"They are very attractive." He had moved again, he was behind her. "But don't waste time; I want it all off."
She began to roll up her track-suit top, to pull it over her head. She hesitated when she reached her breasts. Lucy was secretly quite proud of her breasts. They weren't all that big, she supposed, but they were a good natural shape and firm. Realising that there was no point in prevaricating, she quickly removed the top and hurled it at where his voice had come from.
"There, you bastard," she had snarled in her dream, "get a good eyeful !"
She was then taken by surprise by a terrific open-handed whack across her bottom which made her cry out and grab her rear. It had come as a shock and had really stung.
"Don't ever talk to me like that again!" He had sounded really angry. "Now finish the strip if you dare. I want the lot off, and there's no need to be shy, you are made just like other girls."
She wanted to weep. It was as if being made the same as other girls was somehow the worst thing in the world. She had gone so far now there was no going back. There was nothing for it but to finish this embarrassing strip. She fiddled behind her back and unhooked her bra. As it slipped off her shoulders, she made another attempt at being brave, and did another sort of twirl, right round, so wherever he was standing hr had to see her best points. Then it was time for her ultimate test. Time to drop her panties.
She took a deep breath and slipped her thumbs into the waistband. She didn't have the nerve to make a production number out of it, but just slipped them off as quickly as she could, letting them drop to the floor; then she stood up with her hands coyly in front of her. Much later, Lucy realised that this was the turning point of her dream, the point at which the nightmare had become her inspiration. She had never been shy about undressing with Giles, but to do so in cold blood, in front of Sebastian, was different. It was humiliating and frightening, but also exciting in a strange kind of way she hadn't expected. Only much later, when she thought about it a great deal, did she recognise the element of excitement for what it was.
"Put your hands behind you head," he ordered.
She did as he instructed. He was looking at her; she sensed him moving around and there was nothing she could do to hide any part of her. She could hear some noises, movements from behind, but couldn't guess what he was doing. Suddenly she felt his touch in the centre of her spine. Her flesh must have shown goose pimples because he suddenly laughed. Then he ran the tip of his fingernail down her back. He started high, between the shoulder blades, and let his finger run right down. When he reached the cleft of her bottom he paused for a second and she couldn't help giving a little wriggle.
As he continued downwards, he spread his hand, first flat across her bottom, then in a sort of cupping action, squeezing her buttocks.
"Yes, very nice," she heard. "Very spankable. Have you ever been spanked, Lucy?"
"No," she muttered, clenching her bottom and holding her legs firmly together.
"Would you like me to spank you now?" He was stroking her bottom and she was terrified. She knew that he was going to, of course, whatever she said, but still resisted the admission of desire stubbornly.
"No," She pleaded. "No, please, Sebastian - please. This has gone far enough. Please let me go now."
"You disappoint me." His voice never lost its even tempo, which made him sound all the more menacing. All the time he was stroking her bottom, ever so softly, stroking upwards from the top of her thighs, lifting her bum cheeks gently and stroking across them. "How will you ever know, Lucy? How will your thesis carry any conviction? Shall I spank you now, Lucy? I think you want me to, don't you."
His hand was still now, resting flat on her bottom and she felt its sensual warmth. She also heard a voice, quietly and nervously, say, "Yes I do! Oh God!" It was her voice!
It was at that point that Lucy had awoken with a shout of 'No - no I'm sorry!" and found she had managed to discard all her night attire and was lying naked in the bed, with one hand holding her bottom, the other working feverishly between her legs. To her utter embarrassment, she discovered she was soaking wet. She could not decide whether the ache between her legs was due to Giles's attentions earlier or because she needed more of Sebastian's dream-sequence stimulation.
Lucy stopped and smiled to herself. She had given in to temptation and massaged herself to orgasm, lying face down in the twilight. It was difficult to believe it had only been a dream, so intensely had she visualised it. She had accepted it, willed it so. She imagined herself prostrate across Sebastian's knee, her bottom fiery with his slaps. Her fingers fluttered frantically at her clit as she imagined what might come next; how she would be thrown back across the bed and how he would leap on her, ignoring her cries. She lay back, her eyes closed. In her mind Sebastian roughly forced her legs apart; then he was on her, driving his eager cock into her, nailing her smarting bottom to the bed. She cried out in ecstasy as her own fingers completed the necessary climax. When it was over, she collapsed on the bed, sobbing.
Lucy had sobbed herself to sleep exactly as she lay, naked, face down, bottom raised by the pillows under her.
Several weeks passed, and the incident was never referred to by anyone, so at least I knew that Trevor had not boastfully told his partners or the other staff how he had kept me 'in detention' like a naughty girl and given me 'lines'. At the time I was grateful for his discretion, but in hindsight he clearly had other plans for me that he wanted kept private. Meanwhile I tried to pace my work so that I was occupied precisely between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm, and managed to rearrange my route from home to work so that I could do the journey in just over an hour in both directions. The job was still boring and onerous, but I suppose I had resigned myself to working there until I retired, as there simply wasn't anything else to do, unless I got married, which seemed highly unlikely.It just goes to show that you can get used to anything.
As I was still living with my parents I found myself able to save a regular sum of money, and set about improving my wardrobe and my overall appearance. I started to let my hair grow longer in the hope of it being styled into a more flattering shape, and I bought a couple of plain but smart dresses. Mum actually said how much nicer I was looking.
One day I made an extra effort with my appearance, because I had arranged to go out with some of the girls I'd been to typing college with. I pinned my hair up to disguise the fact that it was being grown out and was pleased with the effect the cap of light brown waves gave. I wore a navy blue shirtwaist dress and matching shoes, and although there was little I could do about my spectacles, I felt that I had made the best of myself, and that my ex-colleagues would be impressed by the general improvement in my looks.
Just after lunch I received a call from one of them, Janice Price, saying she would be late, and asking me to let the others know that she would be joining us in the restaurant instead of in the pub where we had planned to meet. But as soon as I had replaced the receiver, I knew my conversation had been overheard. I stood frozen, not daring to turn around and face the cold, rodent-like features that watched me.
"Five o'clock in my office, Therese," Trevor Brent said to my back, and I heard his door close.
I felt as if a pail of icy water had been thrown over me. Cold talons seemed to sink into my shoulders, spreading their chill down my back and into my thighs. Now I too would be late meeting the girls - only I certainly dared not risk telephoning any of them from the office to explain. Perhaps they wouldn't wait for me; maybe they would change the restaurant we were meant to move on to. I had looked forward to this evening so much but Trevor's command had thrown me into a panic. A night out with a group of people I didn't really know too well may not have seemed much of a treat to some, but my social life was virtually non-existent, and an invitation to Buckingham Palace could not have seemed more exciting.
And now it was all going wrong thanks to the tyrant I still felt unable to oppose. I honestly thought that he would sack me if I refused to see him. Thsi job wasn't much but it was all I had.
I typed slowly and inaccurately for the rest of the day. I mislaid files that were literally at my fingertips. I trembled with fear and loathing at the thought of Trevor Brent once again humiliating me and gloating over my powerlessness. And then I recalled, with an odd chill of curiosity and fright, his parting shot the last time I had been 'in detention' - the next time he would take "even sterner measures".
I went to his office, in a bit of a shivering funk, at exactly the right time; but one of the clerks was still working so Mr. Brent said my punishment couldn't start until everyone had gone home. He didn't seem to notice how much nicer I was looking, or comment on it, but merely sent me back to my desk with instructions to type out the same lines I had done before until we were alone. I had produced the odious statement about forty times before I saw the light over the clerk's desk switched off. I took the lines straight in to Trevor. Time was moving on, and I was hoping to get the session over and done with as soon as possible.
"How many times did you type this on the previous occasion?" he asked, and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise when I told him. "Five hundred, eh? And still you haven't taken its lesson to heart. What am I to do with you?"
"I don't know, Mr. Brent...sir," I amended hastily. I hoped that he had forgotten, or perhaps never meant, his threat about 'sterner measures'. "It was an incoming call," I blurted. "It didn't cost the firm anything."
"Nonsense, girl!" he roared. "The company pays your salary, doesn't it? And that salary is paid for your labour. Whilst you are arranging your social life you are not performing your paid duties. Agreed?"
I stood before his desk, squirming in my shoes. I had never known him shout so loudly, or look so goggle-eyed and frightening. It seemed to sap all the strength from my legs so I could hardly stand up, let alone think of walking out.
"Agreed?" he boomed again. Trevor was opening his lower desk drawer and fumbling for something. I couldn't imagine what he was doing.
"Yes sir," I faltered. "I mean no...no I'm not," I added in confusion.
"Then you must reimburse the company, mustn't you, Miss Copeland?"
"Yes, Mr. Brent," I said, honestly believing he meant it. "Are you going to stop the money out of my wages? I'll pay you now, if you'll just let me go. How...how much?"
He leapt out of his seat with a snarl, that was probably intended to be a smile, contorting his face. In his hand was a long, whippy cane. I just stared at it in disbelief, my feet glued to the floor. I think I may even have smiled in an incredulous, almost hysterical way. It seemed so ridiculous and impossible to imagine that he might use it.
"No, Miss Copeland," he growled, "I am not going to take it out of your wages. I'm going to take it out of your bottom. Get over!"
Trevor strode towards me and I flinched back, like some scene from the comic strip Little Red Riding Hood. He placed a heavy paw-like hand on the back of my neck and pushed me forward until my knees struck the edge of his big mahogany desk. Then, incredibly, I was bending right across it.
As my upper body pressed against the cold, hard surface I felt nothing but shock and disbelief. I forgot how to breathe; this was not, could not be, happening to me! I remember how my mind went into a sort of dazed panic, and how horribly aware I suddenly was of my bottom and my legs. Then all that blotted out; and I became conscious only of the dry dusty smell and texture of the desk-top I was sprawled across. It sounds weird but I found myself thinking that I should polish it the next day. Trevor had made no attempt to tidy his work surface, and my eyes were on the same level as his pile of papers and leaflets. His ashtray was close to my face too, and the sight of his cigar-stubs and the rank odour made me feel sick to my stomach.
Then I was jerked very much back to reality by a thin, heavy pain streaking across my buttocks. I tried to struggle up, but his hand clamped down hard on the small of my back, and I heard him shout something before another slash across my bottom made me wail out. "No, please, NO!" and the papers and ashtray and desk-top all blurred into a mist.
The tremendous jolting sensations in my rear sounded deafening, but with my dress, petticoats, tights and panties in between my buttocks and the cane, the pain didn't feel too terrible. I was certainly aware of the blows landing, but it was nothing like the sharp, searing strokes I had sometimes got across my hands from Dad when I'd been naughty at home.
After about a dozen of these hard, haphazard strokes, Trevor paused, but told me not to move. My chin was resting on that desktop, and my arms were stretched out over the papers he had been working on. I wanted to rub some of the heat out of my behind, but sort of knew that this was not going to be allowed. And, amazingly, not even then - not for a single moment - did it occur to me to get up and walk out. It just felt that I had to take this like I had taken everything else. It was just one more humiliation on top of all the rest, and he had every right to punish me. He was my boss. That's just how it seemed back then.
Trevor stood watching me for a while in silence, panting a bit, and all I could think of was how big my bottom would look in this position, that he was probably staring at it, and that maybe he would let me go off for my evening with the girls now. My breasts were squashed flat against the wooden worktop, and I was aware of every inch of my body from my neck to my chubby ankles. My glasses had fallen off and seeing the world through a wet, myopic blur increased my sense of being lost and completely out of control.
"You hardly felt that," he growled. "OK, stand up!" I obeyed gratefully, thankful it was all over, tugging my frock back into place and replacing one of my shoes that had come off during my caning.
"Oh, you needn't bother arranging your clothes," he said with a sneer, "just take them all off!"
"NOOOO!" I squealed, shock rendering me uncharacteristically rebellious.
"I say 'Yes', Miss Copeland...and I mean NOW!" His voice was insistent, his eyes glared. We stared at each other, me hot, shocked and confused, him cold and sneering. "If it will help you to obey," he sneered,"I'll give you directions. First, unbutton your dress."
I did so. In fact my fingers seemed to work of their own accord for my mind was in turmoil.
"Now take it off," I gaped at him. "Come on, raise the hem and lift your dress over your head. Good, that's the way!" It all appeared to be unreal as if someone else was doing this, not me. "Now take off the slip," I heard his voice demanding. "Hook your thumbs into the waist and push the garment down your legs. Now step out of it and kick it away. See, it's not difficult is it!"
Somehow I had obeyed his instructions, but my arms instinctively crossed over my brassiered breasts.
"Now your shoes," he urged. "Good girl, now the other one. Now your pantie-tights." This time I hesitated, as if coming out of a dream. "Come along," he snapped. "Get them off NOW!"
I got them off and stood before him in just my bra and panties, my eyes clenched shut. It wasn't possible that he would make me go further. I had never been naked in front of any man and no one could possibly demand that!
"Right, let's stop playing games, shall we?" Trevor barked. "Get your bra and pants off. I don't care in what order, but I haven't got all night!"
My hands sort of took over completely at that, because my brain had ceased functioning. Overwhelmed by his sneering, authoritative voice, they fluttered between the clasp at the back of my bra, and my panties, as if they couldn't decide which to remove first; which would be the least shaming. In the end they unhooked my bra and let it fall to the floor, my large breasts jiggling with such unaccustomed freedom. Then I was stooping and pushing my knickers down my legs.
Suddenly I was naked, and terribly aware of my shame, and crying bitterly.
"Hands by your sides, Miss Copeland," he ordered briskly. " No modesty allowed in Mr. Brent's detention. My, you're a hairy little girl aren't you! Now turn around. I want to see your arse!"
I turned round in acute embarrassment, and shuddered when one of his fingers traced each of the marks left by the cane. Then he grasped each of my buttocks in his hands and tightened his grip until I yelped from the pain.
"Fleshy down there, aren't you!" he mocked. "You'll not have felt a thing from my previous efforts. Let's see how well you can take the rest of your punishment...and do stop snivelling, girl!"
"Please, Mr. Brent," I begged. "I'll do anything, I'll resign if you like. But please don't cane me any more. Please let me get dressed and go. I-I'm late for an evening out. I promise not to tell anyone."
He laughed at my pleadings. "Oh, I'm certain you won't tell anyone," he scoffed. "And I've no intention of letting you resign or letting you go. Not now we are getting to understand each other so well. Now you know what a real detention is all about. Put your hands on your head and face me."
I did as he said, aware that raising my arms like this lifted my breasts a little, made them jut out more firmly. Trevor Brent noticed too and stroked each one from my armpits to my nipples, letting his thumbs linger on my now erect rosebuds. The sensation was both repellent and well...nice but in a way I hated myself for.
"Some people like to spank big breasts," he mused,as if to himself, " but I'm not one of them, Miss Copeland," he added, looking me straight in the eye. "Keep your hands on your head and your legs straight, and bend right over until your forehead rests on the seat of that chair."
I moved numbly to the chair where I usually sat to take dictation, and bent forward at the waist to position myself as he had instructed. It was uncomfortable, and I was extremely aware of how the loose skin of my tummy hung, and the way my breasts were unnaturally elongated. And also, of course, how high and revealingly my bottom was thrust.
"Let's see how you take twelve strokes on your bare bottom," Trevor said casually. "So that they don't take you by surprise or get delivered too closely together, I shall allow you to count them in advance of their being dealt. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir." And I did. This at least I knew how to do - obey precise instructions.
"Good. Off you go."
"One..." I counted, and my bottom seemed to shrink with dread. A split second later I yelled out as a terrible burning pain shot through it when the cane landed. The stroke was so hot then it felt cold; then hot again; then the burning-freezing feeling spread. All I knew was, I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, but Trevor had made me dictate the pace of my own punishment.
"Two," I groaned. There was a pause and I tried not to cry out as the whippy cane again zipped across my buttocks, and I felt the urge to smother the terrible stinging with my hands. Then, "Three," I whimpered almost at once, inviting an immediate repeat of that shocking pain in my anxiety to be allowed to go. The cane flashed down with a fearful hiss.
By the time the sixth stroke had been called and given, I was hopping awkwardly on my left leg, my right foot stroking in a deranged fashion at its opposite calf. My fingers were still interlaced about my head, which was trying to burrow through the leather seat of the chair. The pain in my bottom was unbelievable. But, desperate as I was to get out of there, I wouldn't, couldn't, call the next number.
"Stand up, Miss Copeland," Trevor ordered. Again, he was breathing heavily. I hoped this meant he was tired, had taken pity on me, and that my ordeal was over. But his next words soon disabused me of such notions.
"Stand facing the wall over there," he grunted, wiping the sweat from his face, "And keep your hands on your head."
As I straightened up from the chair and walked across the room , I was very aware of his gaze following my bare, rippling flesh, and I was tormented by the aggravation suffered by each weal on my bottom-cheeks as the fatty mounds wobbled at every step.
"Move your elbows forward until they touch the wall," he now instructed. "Push your bottom out towards me! Good. Now ask me to continue your thrashing like a good little office girl."
I fought back the tears and sobs and managed to choke,"Please, Mr. Brent, continue caning my bottom. Seven."
And seven it was, then eight. Next nine. I called out the numbers in a kind of nightmare, and after a pause I heard the cane whistle through the air each time before it embedded itself in the abundantly fleshy pillows of my bottom. I had always been embarrassed by the size of my bottom, and to have him look at it naked was beyond embarrassing; but that was nothing now compared to the sting of that cane. All the accumulated pain from the individual strokes was beginning to merge so that I felt an incredible heat all over my buttocks, with pinprick lines of a more intense kind of pain that felt absolutely savage. I forced myself to maintain the position. After all some voice inside me whispered that it would soon be over. "Ten," I called out.
Just when I thought it was impossible to register any more pain in my behind, Trevor Brent brought his weapon up quickly from low down so that it skimmed the crease at the top of my thighs. I shrieked from the shock of it - but even as I did so I heard myself call for the eleventh hit.
The stroke came lower still, midway down my thighs, crossing the backs of both legs and burning, scorching, blazing....
"Twelve..." I gave a choking yell, and with the word came tears of relief that my ordeal was over, even before the cane landed. And land it did, with the same searing urgency as the previous eleven, igniting my whole body with anguish. I slumped against the cold paintwork and howled for I don't know how long, then I sank sobbing on my haunches, rubbing at the pain in my bottom; then stopping because that hurt, then rubbing again. I no longer cared about my outing with the girls. After what seemed a long time, Mr. Brent told me to stand up and then lectured me about good office practice. He told me I could expect further detentions if I failed to meet his standards, and threatened that he might get one of the other employees to assist the next time I was punished.
Most of his threats I missed, because I was so agonised by my caning and so humiliated by my continuing nudity in front of him, that his words didn't register.
Eventually, Trevor said that I could get dressed and leave, but to make damn sure I was on time for work the next day. I just pulled on my clothes, and my hair was a mess, but it didn't seem to matter; I wasn't going anywhere. He told me that he would want to see me 'in detention' every night from then on where I would take down my knickers so he could inspect the marks of the cane until they had completely gone. I simply said "Very well, sir," and left.
I suppose some girls would simply not have gone back to work there, or may even have reported the incident. In fact I nearly chickened out of going in the next day, but somehow, when it came to it, I knew I had to. I stayed with the firm for another six years until it closed down for financial reasons, which didn't surprise me that much because I'd begun to realise how badly disorganised they were.
Things never got any better for me, but I sort of got used to them. I even got used to Trevor and the awful, humiliating things he made me do. It seems strange to say it now but it gave me a strange sense of security. At least I knew where I stood!
Beverly glanced up briefly, shook her head to indicate it wasn't Lesley, then looked back at the phone. Tom felt the muscles at the back of his neck tighten up. It felt like a dismissal. Dismissed my Milady. Mifuckinlady. This was starting to look like it might turn into a situation. It might be that Beverly needed a short refresher course on who was in charge around here. It was possible. Sometimes she did. She was a slow learner...
He had been looking for someone like Beverly Marsh all his life... not that her vulnerability showed on the surface—you looked and saw a gorgeous woman, slim but abundantly stacked. Hips weren't so great maybe, but she had a great ass and the best set of tits he had ever seen... Oh, she had been some kind of fine-looking, all right, with that dynamite body and that gorgeous fall of red wavy hair. But she was weak...weak somehow. it was as if she was sending out radio signals which only he could receive.
The dull rage came again. His stomach filled with a heat which was not entirely unpleasant. Smoking. She was smoking. They had had a few of Tom Rogan`s Special Seminars on the subject. And here she was, doing it again. She wss a slow learner, all right, but a good teacher is at his best with slow learners...
He had forgotten the telephone call that had wakened him out of his deepening sleep. It was the cigarette. If she was smoking now, then she had forgotten Tom Rogan. Temporarily, of course, only temporarily, but even temporarily was too damned long. What might have caused her to forget didn't matter. Such things were not to happen in his house for any reason.
There was a wide black strip of leather hanging from a hook inside the closet door. There was no buckle on it; he had removed that long ago. It was doubled over at one end where the buckle would have gone, and this doubled-over section formed a loop into which Tom Rogan now slipped his hand...
He flipped the loose end of the belt over once and pulled the loop snug. Then he closed his fist over it. It felt good. It made him feel like a grown-up. The strip of leather hung from his fist like a dead blacksnake. His headache was gone.
Got to give you a whuppin," he said. "Sorry about that, babe."
but Tom had listened to enough craziness from within and from without. He moved in on her fast, cocking his right arm back...
"Gonna whup you," Tom repeated. His voice was sane, even regretful, but his teeth showed in a white and frozen smile. He wanted to see that look in her eyes, that look of fear and terror and shame, that look that said yes you're right, I deserved it. That look that said yes you're there all right, I feel your presence....
Beverly... swung the belt for the last time—the belt he had used on her buttocks, her legs... The belt he had used on her times without number over the last four years. How many strokes you got depended on how badly you'd screwed up. Tom comes home and dinner is cold? Two with the belt. Bev's working late at the studio and forgets to call home? Three with the belt. Oh, hey, look at this—Beverly got another parking ticket. One with the belt... He was good. He rarely bruised. It didn't even hurt that much. Except fot the humiliation. That hurt. And what hurt worse was knowing that part of her craved the hurt. Craved the humiliation.
Last time pays for all, she thought, and swung.
Gary stopped and looked at her. "Dominoes."
"What?"
"You heard. We play dominoes over a pint. Nothing glamorous, no high stakes, just a bit of fun."
"But dominoes is..."
"If you say it's an old man's game Sarah Perry I shall chase you round this office with a rolled-up newspaper and beat you on the bottom until you can't sit down."
..."It wouldn't do any harm."
"Do you want some coffee?"
Sarah shook her head. "No. Tea. Please."
Gary bent down and kissed her on the cheek, then slid out of bed and walked down the few steps that led into the living area. He crossed to the kitchen in the far corner.
Sarah watched him go. "Nice bum."
"Thank you."
"For someone your age."
He turned and looked at her.
Sarah rolled over in the sheets until she was lying on her stomach looking directly at him. "Nice other things as well."
Gary picked up a towel from a pile of washing in the kitchen and wrapped it round himself.
"Well, well..." said Sarah.
"What?" asked Gary, filling the kettle at the tap.
"That's not a word I would ever have associated with you."
"What isn't?"
"Embarrassment."
He walked back towards the bed. "How do you know I'm embarrassed?"
"Because you've gone just a tiny bit pink."
Gary...pulled the sheet away from her and gazed at her body. "And you've gone quite a lot pink," he said.
Sarah examined the sky. "it looks a bit grey. I wonder if you should take a mac."
Gary smiled sarcastically. "Don't worry. I'll take my paddle."
A spank can be a comma, a question mark or an exclamation point.
That's basic spelling that every man and woman ought to know.
(A slightly altered quotation by Mistinguette.)
The next morning Albert was again knocking at the door of his next door neighbour. It really was convenient that Dorothy went shopping so frequently - most mornings - but of course if you didn't have a car there was a limit to how much you could carry.
Melanie nervously opened the door to her visitor. She was in jeans and blouse again. She could have put on a skirt but, well, what was the point if he was going to do what he did yesterday? She led the way into the lounge, her heart thumping madly. The thought of that crop was diabolical but, to her embarrassment, fear wasn't the only thing making her pulses race.
Melanie's bottom had stung like mad for quite a while after the awful Mr.Higginson had left but gradually the sharp pain had eased. And as that sharp sting died away, she began to realise that shock and horror wasn't all she was feeling. It had been diabolical but at the same time she was shocked to realise that the memory of it was exciting. To be forced to bare her bum like that for that stern old man and have him whip it with a riding crop! It was shameful and painful but it was also a real turn-on!
Her sense of sexual excitement had increased and by the time Gary came home from work, Melanie was feeling really randy. She grabbed him as soon as he had one foot inside the door and, rubbing her body up against him, suggested they go straight upstairs. This was a complete shock to Gary, for Melanie was never like that when he got home. She had given him a hot sexy kiss and breathed, "God I really want it!"
And randy Melanie had definitely been in the bedroom. Lewd and disgusting! In fact she had damn near raped him! Albert Higginson would undoubtedly have condemned it, even though it was her own husband, but, lewd and disgusting or not, Albert had unwittingly been the catalyst for her aroused behaviour.
So Melanie's feelings were slightly ambivalent as she led Albert into her lounge; something akin, indeed, to the mixed feelings with which she had greeted Trevor Wilmot into that same room. Any sexual feeling of course was overlaid with the vivid memory of that stinging, biting pain. It had been just about the worst pain Melanie had ever experienced. It was not surprising that, for all sorts of reasons, her heart was beating like the clappers.
"Please don't use that bloody thing on me again," she pleaded.
"Watch that language," ordered Albert sternly. He placed the riding crop on the sofa. He had, as it happened, been giving that very subject some serious thought. Melanie's bottom, with her jeans down, had been a very stimulating sight. Lewd and disgraceful, of course, but nonetheless, overwhelmingly tempting. Albert had experienced an almost irresistible desire to put his hands on it - on those skimpy, salacious knickers. Naturally, being a decent man, he couldn't resort to overt fondling but what if he spanked her instead?
"You need a taste of this whip every day the way you've been carrying on," Albert pronounced loftily, "but I could be kind and make it a bit easier on you today. I could let you off with just a spanking - though next time it will have to be the whip again!"
Wide-eyed, heart pounding faster, Melanie digested this new dimension. Albert had gone quite red in the face.
"Of course to compensate for a less severe punishment, this will have to be with your knickers down, of course!"
You dirty old bugger, Melanie thought - but naturally didn't say so. A spanking couldn't be as painful as that crop, and though she knew that baring her bottom completely was for his own gratification, the thought of being over the old man's lap with him seeing everything made her heart beat even faster.
"No, " she said, "You can't" but her protest lacked conviction.
"So you'd rather have the riding crop?" Albert asked. He took hold of it and whipped it through the air - twice. There was only one answer and Melanie knew it. "You're awful," she muttered but started taking down her jeans.
"And those - things," instructed Albert. He had sat down on an upright chair. 'Those things' were this morning a respectable white in colour, but they were as brief and skimpy as ever - Melanie didn't own any other sort. Albert could have taken them down himself, once she was over his lap, but that way he wouldn't have been able to see what was beneath them. And though Albert would never have admitted it, he did want to see her naked and be shocked by it. Without such a focus for outrage, Albert's life would have been quite empty.
Melanie didn't turn her back as she obediently slid her knickers down. Albert's eyes were hot and glazed and his mouth was dry. Utterly disgusting, he told himself. It was a sign of her utter wantonness that she could calmly stand in front of him like that and take her knickers down. The fact that he had ordered her to was, quite naturally, beside the point.
He looked, stared, drinking it all in, and then said, "Come here," his voice barely a croak.
Melanie's bare bottom over his lap was almost too much for him to take. The lewd, yet frighteningly attractive rounds seemed bigger than ever. Melanie wriggled it, getting herself more comfortable, and Albert saw sights which no respectable man should witness. He thought he was about to have a heart attack. He told himself to keep calm, this was indeed a stern test of will and nerve. He raised his hand and brought it down - hard. His hand on living flesh, stinging it. Hot, firm yet resilient. He brought his hand down again. The sensation was quite beyond description. The wanton young hussy made a moaning sound.
***
"Was she hanging out her washing again this morning, dear?" Dorothy enquired, not really interested but trying to find common ground for a conversation.
"Uh...er...no," said Albert distractedly.
Dorothy was making the tea after getting back from the shops. "I'm surprised she has that much washing, being only him and her. But young people nowadays can afford lots of clothes, not like when we were young."
Albert wasn't really paying attention. He was seeing Melanie Halford's bottom over his lap. Watching it get redder and redder. Feeling the most wonderful sensations ripple through his body as he spanked her till her bottom was stinging hot. Hearing her make those gasping, moaning sounds. Afterwards she had made him a cup of tea. Sitting next to him on the sofa she had been quite contrite.
"Do I need to have much more of this, Mr. Higginson?" she had asked, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
Albert assured her that such was definitely the case. She'd said, "I-I'm not going to see that chap any more, Mr.Higginson. It's all over. I was very stupid."
"Well you're still going to get some more, " Albert had told her. "You haven't anywhere near paid the price as yet." Surprisingly, Melanie had accepted this with equanimity, saying only, "Very well, Mr. Higginson, but I'd rather not have that awful crop." To which Albert had retorted gruffly, "You'll have a lot more of both, young lady!"
And Melanie Halford hadn't argued. Clearly, Albert thought, his hard-line treatment was just what she needed and she simply accepted it. She must know, deep down, how much she deserved it.
Albert would have been more than a little shocked had he known that his strict judgment and the prospect of more punishment had sent a thrill of excitement through Melanie's body.
"Albert, are you listening?"
Dorothy's voice broke sharply into Albert's reverie of Melanie Halford's rear which had fallen, like a ripe plum, into his hands. He uttered a distracted "Yes".
What an excellent way to bid farewell to 2013. See you all next year for more exciting stories from the top shelf!
Presumably he could stop her wearing those scandalous jeans now - if he really wanted to. But Albert knew he wouldn't. He would go making angry noises but that was all. Because he knew that even though he was now smacking it bare and whipping it, he would still want to spy on it from behind the bedroom curtains and possibly find further pretexts to keep Melanie Halford in line.
"Albert!" exclaimed Dorothy once more, in irritation.
Albert said yes, he had heard everything she said. He wondered if he should go round next door again tomorrow. He didn't want Melanie to think he was some kind of crank. or a Dirty Old Man. People got such funny ideas these days!
From that day forwards, Suzette became fixated on her new and intoxicating area of interest. Taking care never to incur correction herself - girls were punished in any case less frequently than boys - she was a critical and refined spectator of all other executions. This meant something in the order of three punishments a week, almost always boys. Suzette found herself becoming almost faint with pleasure at the anticipation of an imminent chastisement. Not from cruelty, or at least not exclusively from this motive. Other forces were at work, a sense of theatre - she loved the drama of these occasions, the inevitable sequence of events, like a Greek play, a sense of style and artistry - she adored the graceful motion of the birch as it clove the air with a faint whispering whirr, to land with a flick slantwise across the posterior of the delinquent. This music, with its necessary counterpoint of entreaty, protest and simple distress, filled her young heart with ecstasy...
When Suzette was twelve she discovered the engraving.
It was in a history book which reposed on the shelves of the school's modest library. Idle one afternoon, when there was no school, Suzette went down to the Lambercier dwelling, knocked, and asked if she might spend an hour or two looking at the books. M. Lambercier, who answered the door, was pleased with this sign of nascent erudition in Suzette, and gave her the key. The first book she chose to browse through was a Lives of the Kings of France from Charles the Great to a century or so before her own time. She opened it, turned a page - and there was the drawing.
It was a woodcut of a medieval lady of noble blood applying a vigorous birch rod to the bottom of a boy tucked under her left arm. Actually it was an episode in the early life of Louis III but to Suzette it was much, much more. It was a symbol, a totem, a depiction of the cherished scene of her obsession.
She noticed presently that the lady wore a crown and was thus a Queen. This, for Suzette, was a fitting detail. Every lady who whips, imposing her will by main force, is queen for a short while, she thought, writhing in pleasure as she gazed at the spellbinding drawing.
Thereafter she often came and looked at the books in the library, whenever she had an hour or two to spare, in fact. The picture never ceased to enthrall her. She began to make up stories to account for the depicted drama. What mischief had the little prince committed? She decided it was disobedience. How many strokes of the pendant birch had he received across the seat of his hose? Suzette was a little disappointed that the princely bottom was not bare, so she bared it in her imagination, but came to grief with the fastenings, not knowing how one undid medieval hose.
What had the Queen, the stern mother, said? "Viens ici..." said Suzette aloud in a severe tone "...Tu avais ete tres, tres, mechant, et je vais te donne une bonne fessee!" Pleased with the ring of authority in these simple phrases, she repeated them, savouring and drawing out the last three words - "une bonne fessee" [a good spanking] with extra emphasis and inflexion. In her mind's eye, she saw the pretty little royal child, the look of dismay spreading across his elfin features and, still in the grip of her imagination, she leaned forward, picked up the little boy, tucked him under her arm and raised the menacing birch high in the air and began the punishment...
Haymaking was a time when everyone in the village turned out to lend a hand. Work began as soon as it grew light, when the sound of the old horse-drawn mowing machines could be heard clickety-clacking up and down the fields, chopping down the long grass and scattering in their wake the buttercups, poppies and moon-daisies that were just coming into flower.
The harvesters worked like Trojans until early evening, cursing and sweating beneath the blazing sun. Then, when it got to six o 'clock, everyone would gaze hungrily towards the distant farmhouse, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Betsy Partridge, a plump rosy-apple-cheeked girl in her early twenties. She was the Bailey's servant-girl, and her job was to fetch the food which she and her mistress had prepared for the famished farm workers; bread and butter, thick slices of home-cured ham, cheese, cakes and gallons and gallons of tea.
...I remember being there in the hayfields one sultry July at around teatime when the back-breaking work had finally ground to a halt and everyone was hot, thirsty and ravenous. Twenty minutes went by and still no Betsy. The men began to grumble loudly and one or two - 'Little' John Witcombe, a hulking young ploughman, included - began taking long cooling draughts from a large stone jar of farmhouse cider which they kept in the shade of the hedge and which was an accepted part of payment for their services.
At long last Betsy came into sight, staggering under the weight of the heavy basket which was laden to the brim with provender.
"What time of the day do ye call this, Betsy, ye great lazy trollop!" cried Bob Pritchard, slapping her so hard on her bottom that the basket slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground.
"Now see what ye've made me do, you cheeky devil!" Betsy exclaimed combatively, squaring up to Bob, all set to give as good as she got.
Then Little John Witcombe stepped forward, rubbing his hands in glee, his grey eyes flashing. He was spoiling for a tussle with Betsy, especially with a bellyful of cider in him. "I reckon what 'er needs is 'er bottom warming good and proper to teach 'er to get 'ere on time!" he chortled, making a sudden grab for her.
Betsy shrieked with excitement and backed away, but he was too quick for her. Frog-marching her over to an old wooden bench by the hedge, he pushed the strapping wench down across his brawny lap, whipped up the back of her dress, likewise her red flannel petticoats, and, much to the amused interest of the general assembly, began belabouring her ample bottom, tightly encased in thin cotton drawers. The men uttered loud whoops of delight and the few women remaining in the fields (most had gone home with their children to prepare supper) either sniggered knowingly or else tut-tutted and clicked their tongues, pretending to be shocked by such abandoned behaviour.
Betsy received a hearty spanking on that well-fleshed posterior of hers. Little John probably didn't know his own strength, for had big bulging biceps, and hands like great slabs of meat. While Betsy roared, screamed and flailed her sturdy legs in protest, he continued with boundless enthusiasm for a good five minutes more to give the plump servant-girl the bottom-tanning of her life. I watched the whole unseemly performance, spellbound. I noted, with gloating delight, how Betsy's thinly clad buttocks twitched convulsively and in a very vulgar manner whenever Little John's hand came walloping down on them.
Betsy Partridge was a powerfully built girl but she was no match for Little John. When finally he took pity on her madly squirming rear, desisted from lambasting it, and pushed her off his lap with one last resounding 'SMACK!' across the seat of her drawers, a prodigious change had come over her. She was no longer the saucy, provocative hoyden of a few minutes before. Grimacing with pain at the raging fire Little John had lit in her bottom, Betsy tried to laugh it off and pretend it was all a joke - but I saw her eyeing Little John somewhat mistily as if on the verge of tears...and it was a look of new found respect too, signifying that at last she'd found a man who would put up with no nonsense from her.
He patted his lap as if to say, 'Let's be friends now' and, almost shyly I thought, she allowed him to sit her on his knee, wincing a little when her tender bottom touched the rough fabric of his working breeches. Then, flinging his sun-burnt arms around her waist, he planted a great smacking kiss on her lips, which she returned with equal fervour.
Late in the autumn, Little John and Betsy were married. Under the firm but loving yoke of his domination, Betsy became a different woman. She never as much looked at another man again and, I'm sure, stayed faithful to Little John to her dying day.
Incidents like these were a common, everyday occurrence when I was a young girl, growing up in the wilds of West Shropshire. Is it any wonder that I nursed the deep-rooted conviction that girls were especially created to have their bottoms whipped ....or that men were created to do the whipping?
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| Image courtesy of Zelle |
Dinah lowered Corny P.'s last clean foot to the floor and slipped past him to toss her hoof pick back into the grooming kit and pick up her hay wisp.... Dinah turned quickly to stand square to Cornish Pastie's shoulder; he flinched and braced himself as she drew back the block of plaited hay and blinked as she hit him with all her strength, drew back and hit him again, rhythmically. Mercy Hale came and stood silently at the back of the stall, and without looking at Mercy, Dinah continued to strap Corny P., putting all her weight behind each solid blow on his neck, his shoulders, his legs and quarters and back. Corny's ugly old black face wore an expression of sheer bliss; this, to him, was a luxurious massage, it toned up his circulation and turned all his fat to hard muscle, and it felt good.
Mercy turned away and left without saying a word, and Dinah eased up a little in the force of her blows; her arm was beginning to ache, and before she was finished, it would feel as though it were dropping off... and then, before she had quite finished, Mercy was banging on the feed box again, calling in her high, piping voice,
"Yards, please, yards, everybody!"
Dinah gave Corny P. three final solid bangs on his rump.
When I knocked on the door of number 12 Foundry Terrace on that dismal Monday afternoon, I little knew what was in store for me or what a difference it would make to me in the future.
I was working as a collector for a large firm of credit drapers in a small industrial town in the North of England, and it was my unhappy task to try to collect the weekly instalments from the difficult customers. In this particular town there were a considerable number of unemployed at that time, so it was even harder to collect debts than usual.
I had been to the house at least half a dozen times and got nothing but excuses and vague promises. I had come to the conclusion that the young woman concerned was more than a little improvident for I knew that she was married and that her husband was in the Navy,and therefore she got her money every week.
The door was opened by the girl's old grandmother who shared the little four-roomed house with her. "Ah, thought 'twould be you," she said, "Better come in, I've put the kettle on."
She walked slowly, with the aid of a stick down the passage to the kitchen, and I followed her. The little cramped kitchen was darkly lit by the dull afternoon light, which filtered through the lace curtains at the small window. A nice fire glowed in the old fashioned black cooking range, and a big copper kettle steamed gently on the hob.
My client was sprawled inelegantly in an old armchair reading what appeared to be a girls' weekly gossip mag and did not, at first, seem to notice my presence. She was an attractive girl of about twenty-two, with a gorgeous figure, and a pretty, though weak, face and thick, dark hair. She affected me, physically, very strongly, so much so that I was always extremely careful in my dealings with her to try to remain as polite and distant as possible.
She was lying back in the chair with the end of her spine just resting on the edge of the seat; her knees were bent and her skirt rucked up well above her knees. I couldn't help but see the soft gleam of her parted thighs, right up to where the tight legs of her brief white knickers encircled the plump flesh.
I sat on the edge of the kitchen table while the old woman made the tea and poured three cups. She hobbled over to the other armchair and, when she had settled in it, gave the recumbent girl a hearty prod up inside her skirt with her stick.
"Hey, Pat, sit up and look decent! It's the Tally Man come for his money!" she said in a cracked voice.
The girl jumped as the stick prodded her none too gently between her legs. "Oooo Gran," she gasped, "Don't do that, you'll do me a mischief one of these days!"
She suddenly realised I was there and endeavoured to pull her skirt down over her knees.
She gave the old woman a reproachful look and then, turning back to me, said with a pout;
"I forgot you were coming - I haven't got any money this week," she hesitated for a moment and then said, "My money didn't come but I'll give it to you next week."
This was what I expected. It happened every week, and usually she got away with it, but this time I was determined to win the battle of wits. I was just about to answer when suddenly the old woman burst out, "She's a lying little bitch, she had her money alright, but she's spent it."
Pat stared, open mouthed at her gran, then her face flamed. "Shut up, you old witch," she yelled, "You mind your own business." She turned to me. "It's not true, don't take any notice of her." She sprang up from the chair and stood in front of the fire, her hands on her hips, her long legs astride.
"She's a liar," her grandmother reaffirmed, banging her stick on the floor. "She always wastes her 'usband's money. What she needs is a good hiding like she used to get. I've still got the leather strap I used to tan her lazy backside with."
She pointed to something hanging under the mantleshelf. I saw it was an old leather strap about eighteen inches long and about an inch wide. It was black with age and had evidently been there a long time.
"Used to tan 'er Ma with it too," the old woman continued. "She was just the same, needed her behind warming regularly. Can't do it now," she moaned, "I got the screws something dreadful , or I'd soon have this lying little hussy dancing about a bit lively." She paused for breath and glared at her granddaughter. Pat glared back at her.
"Be quiet, Gran," she said, her face blushing. "He doesn't want to hear all that, anyway you're too old to tan me now so that's that!"
"Haaa!" snorted the old woman, "I might be but he isn't!"
Pat swung round to face her. "What are you talking about, you silly old fool, what's it got to do with him?"
The old woman cackled and looked up at me, her eyes glinting in the firelight. "Got plenty to do with him if you ask me. He's not going to get his money again, and if he had any sense, he'd have you over his knee with your skirt up and larrup that cheeky backside o' yourn for lying to him. Go on, Mister," she taunted, "A strong young chap like you ought to be able to handle her, do 'er the power of good. Make her buck her ideas up a bit if she had a good tanning. Not afraid of her, are you?"
I looked from one to the other, not knowing what to say, for things had taken a surprising turn. It was the first time I'd been invited to chastise a grownup young woman, and a married one at that.
"I hardly think it's my place to punish your granddaughter." I stuttered.
Pat appeared to be at a loss for words too, and just stood in front of the fire looking at me. I was very conscious of her ripe figure outlined by the firelight. I couldn't see her face too clearly but she seemed to be regarding me very intently. There was an air of tension in the way she stood and I noticed that her hands were now behind her. I imagined them spread out across the seat of her dress, as if protecting her bottom from assault.
Suddenly I realised that she thought I would do as her Grandma suggested, and was still not sure of my intentions. The room seemed very quiet, and there was a strange feeling of tension in the air. I licked my lips and put my hand out towards Pat.
She came towards me slowly. Her eyes were on my face. She came close and my raised hand touched her hip. I felt a tremor run through her at the touch of my fingers and my heart started to pound in my ears. It was as if an electric current flowed between us. She said nothing, neither did I, but we both knew what was about to happen.
I took her hand and drew her close to me. I was still half sitting on the edge of the table, with my left thigh on the table and my leg hanging over the side. I loosened her hand and put both of mine on her hips, and held her before me, between my legs.
Her full lips were moist and parted and her eyes bright. I wanted to enfold her and kiss her but daren't, not with the old lady watching.
My hands slid from her hips, moved back and encompassed the the full firm curves of her bottom. I felt the warmth of her flesh through her skirt, and even through the thick material my fingers were aware of every curve and valley of the two hemispheres, which overflowed my outstretched fingers.
The only sound in the room was that of heavy breathing, both hers and mine.
I began to work her skirt up, slowly and quietly, by sliding my hands down over her rump and pulling up a little of the skirt at a time. When the hem came withing reach, I took it and drew it up to her hips. Pat started to tremble as my hands went once again to hold her soft bottom, this time the only barrier being her tight white cotton panties. Suddenly, she gave a little moan and went down over my left thigh, stretching herself out along the table. Quickly now I pulled her skirt up out of the way and let my eyes rove over her lightly-clad bottom.
As my hands had told me, she was well-developed and, positioned as she was, her bottom was displayed to full advantage. The cheeks were deep and adequately plump, filling the tight panties to bursting point. The twin curves of her hips, as they flared out from a slim waist, was a sight to set any man's pulse hammering.
I put my fingers under the waistband of her panties, wondering if I dare take them down, then I caught the old Grandma's eye. She nodded vigorously in encouragement.
Pat made no move as I slowly drew her last defence down over her hips. The panties were so tight, that they wouldn't come more than half way down. So I had to roll her from side to side so that I could free them from under her. At last I was able to get them down to her thighs and feast my eyes on the beauty thus revealed. Her skin was clear and unblemished and white with a faint warm pink glow of good health. A surge of primitive pleasure engulfed me as I gazed at this lovely vision spread so temptingly before me. I raised my hand and began to spank the firm white globes. Not hard at first, for I was still unsure of myself, but quite gently, just letting my hand fall lightly on each cheek in turn. The feel of the soft flesh moving as my hand met it, was delightful, the skin at first cool to the touch.
For quite a while I enjoyed myself at pretending to spank her and then, as she made no sound or movement, I essayed to spank her a little harder. Still there was no protest from Pat's recumbent form nestling across my leg, and so I continued to spank her lovely bottom, with sharp, well-aimed spanks, which made crisp, staccato sounds as my hand bounced off the elastic firm flesh. Gradually the whiteness of Pat's skin was replaced by a bright pink flush, which soon spread outwards from the centre of each cheek until it covered most of the area of her bottom.
Her legs, which had been quite still, began to kick a little, and she bent her knees and lifted her feet from the floor. She started to roll her hips from side to side, and to gasp as each smack impinged on her reddening rear.
I had never dreamed that spanking a girl could be such an exciting and sexually stimulating experience, but I was really enjoying myself and the sight of Pat's superb bottom, as she twisted it about and uttered little gasps and cries was having a tremendous and embarrassing effect on me.
"Smack, smack, smack" went my hand and "Oooo, owwwwww, oooooo" answered Pat's muffled voice from behind my arm. My hand was stinging, and the hue of Pat's bottom had turned from pink to a bright scarlet.
I was amazed that she had not tried to escape, for I was not holding her down. But although she gasped at each and every smack, she did nothing to evade them.
My hand rose and fell in a steady beat, and the cheeks that had once been so white bounced and trembled beneath a constant barrage of heavy impacts. The sweat was dripping from my forehead onto the lively jerking form beneath it. The droplets spattered away as my hand smote where they fell.
I managed to get my left hand beneath Pat's body and to cup one of her breasts. The full globe hung heavy and soft in my hand, unconfined by any bra under her dress. I gently squeezed and kneaded it and felt Pat press her breast into my hand.
She was beginning to whimper a little , and her cries got louder and shriller as the spanking neared its end. My arm ached and my leg had pins and needles from supporting her weight. It began to look as if I would have to give in first. There was only one choice and that was to spank a lot harder. I concentrated on one cheek and gave it six really hard full-blooded slaps that echoed like a fusillade of pistol shots.
Pat's yell of pain was loud and long and her fluid hips contracted in a sudden spasm that forced her hard down on my leg, her cheeks contracted and drew close together, then her bottom cheeks opened and she reared up, forcing her hips high in an abrupt arc, and it was while she was in this provocative and shamefully revealing position that I attacked the other cheek.
Pat gave way to a shrill yelp, gasped out "No more...please, no more," and kicked her legs and swung her bottom about in a frantic effort to reduce the stinging pain that was setting her bottom on fire. One of her hands sought to protect her flaming rear against further punishment, but it was unnecessary for my arm was too tired to spank anymore, even had I wanted to.
She lay gasping, her outspread hand gently fondling her bottom while I recovered my breath. I felt rather ashamed as I looked at Pat's red and finger marked cheeks. The whole of her poor little bottom was an angry red and the flesh continued to jerk and twitch in little spasms of pain as I watched. My right hand joined hers in soothing the hot lush curves as my other hand continued to fondle the lovely breast which filled it.
She seemed quite happy to just lay there and allow me to fondle her. She soon recovered her composure and, apart from her heavy breathing showed no signs of distress. Her whole attitude, before and during the quite severe spanking she had endured, puzzled me considerably. I would have expected her to protest at the very idea of being chastised like a naughty child - especially by a virtual stranger, but she hadn't made a single move to defend herself, and during her obviously painful experience had not attempted in any way to escape from me.
It was very pleasant just to fondle and massage the lovely bottom, and to gently squeeze the twin cheeks, so that they moved and rolled in my hand.
The old lady began to chuckle to herself in her chair by the fire. "Heh, heh, likes it doesn't she! You too I'll wager. I'll bet you never spanked as pretty a bottom before. Ought to give her a few with the strap though before you go!"
Pat struggled upright, blushing deeply. "Shush, Gran," she said quietly, "Enough of that"...'
Carnaby Calling
We’re pretty well-off now, but times were tough back in the Sixties. I had just graduated from university and my husband Jeff and I were struggling to make ends meet. We lived in a small, sparsely-furnished apartment on the edge of a middle-class neighbourhood, and Jeff had a pretty good job with an insurance company, but it didn’t pay much. There weren’t many jobs for women with degrees in English, and I was getting discouraged with my job search. I needed some part-time work to bring in a little money. Most of the time I got turned away from entry-level jobs as over-qualified. I needed some part-time temporary work that paid reasonably well, and that meant selling products door to door.
I could have sold cosmetics, but I didn’t wear makeup myself, didn’t know the first thing about it and didn’t care either. Patent medicine products were too old-fashioned and made me think of the snake oil salesmen who peddled elixirs with questionable ingredients in them. Selling brushes was an idea, but they were only hiring men for door to door sales. Besides, the sample cases were heavy and we didn’t have a car. So I got a job selling Carnaby Cookware. The company was named for the popular Carnaby Street in London in the hopes that its trendiness and affinity with the British invasion would somehow induce women to buy its line of kitchen wares.
They carried aprons, tablecloths and matching napkins in the popular psychedelic prints of the day, as well as stainless steel knives and cutlery with similar patterns imprinted on the handles. There was a complete range of kitchen tools too: mashers, strainers, whisks, flippers, slotted and solid spoons, spatulas and the like. The utensils were distinctive, with an orange braided plastic loop for hanging, and a tassel on the end. All the items had names that included the British slang of the day, like “Mod Masher”, “Groovy Grilling Fork”, “Fab Flipper” and Trendy Turner” and we were encouraged to describe the products in similar terms, like “gear” and “heavy”. So much for my English degree!
Over time I learned when I was likely to make the most sales. In the morning most homemakers ran errands or did their housework, so that was when I devoted myself to scanning the papers for job opportunities, writing application letters, filling out applications and taking copies of my resume to potential employers. Evenings were out; women were usually too busy with helping their kids with homework or presiding over social events. Anyway, I wanted to spend my evenings with Jeff. (We couldn’t afford to go out often, but we managed to make our own entertainment, if you know what I mean.) Early afternoons were best, just as the soaps were coming on. If I happened to see a television from my position in the open doorway, I would usually say “Oh, that’s one of my favourites. Isn’t he (or she) something?” no matter what was on. That usually led to a lively conversation and eventually to a sale.
One fine October afternoon I was making the rounds of my neighbourhood. My clipboard with order forms and the delivery list was under my left arm and over my right shoulder was a bag with some merchandise to be delivered. As I walked along the quiet shady street, the leaves – yellow, gold and red - scrunched under my feet. I checked my list against the numbers on the houses as I passed them.
My first stop was a large, split-level house where Monica and Peter Foreman lived. Monica was one of my best customers. In her mid-thirties, she was an excellent baker and always offered me homemade cookies or cake whenever I stopped by. I think she felt kind of sorry for me, because she never failed to make a purchase, even if it was only a small one.
As I walked up the brick path to the front door I noticed a car in the driveway. I guessed that it was Peter’s but I had never seen it before because he was usually at work during the day. I reached the door, put down the heavy bag of merchandise and reached out to press the doorbell when something made me stop. It was a sound coming from inside the house; a slow, rhythmic slapping sound. What on earth could be going on? The drapes were drawn across the big front window, obscuring my view of the interior. The large front door was made of wood, but there was a small panel of glass near the top. Luckily, I am tall, so I could see inside the home if I stood on tiptoe and squinted.
I could make out the furniture in the living room to my right, and that seemed to be the source of the noise. Then I got the shock of my life. Peter was sitting on the couch with Monica draped across his lap. Her skirt was hiked up and Peter’s arm rose and fell rhythmically as he slapped her white cotton panty-covered bottom. But that wasn’t what surprised me most.
In his hand he had one of our more popular items: a long-handled spoon with a wooden handle. The bowl of the spoon was extra-large, for serving stews and things, and it was called the Super Swinging Spoon. The trademark orange tassel and loop fluttered as the spoon collided with Monica’s backside with a loud SMACK, followed by a squeal from the recipient. I watched Monica twist and turn, trying to slip out of her husband’s grasp, while he held her tightly with one arm and continued his efforts with the other. He seemed to be speaking to her, and although I couldn’t make out the words he seemed to be questioning her, because whenever his voice rose at the end of a sentence, Monica would shake or nod her head in reply.
Peter then put the spoon down, and I thought with a stab of disappointment that the spanking was over, but he only did so to free his hand so he could pull her panties down to her thighs. Monica reached back with a yelp and tried to recover the underwear, but that earned her a sharp slap on her hand. After receiving what I assumed was a warning, she resumed her position and Peter adjusted both panties and skirt so he had unimpeded access to her naked buttocks. I saw that they were already a dark shade of pink, and when the spoon recommenced its work, the skin turned dark red.
I suppose I should have been worried that someone might have seen me spying through the door, and I did glance around once or twice, but I was determined not to miss this spectacular show that was exciting me in ways I had not thought possible. I did have my merchandise with me so if anyone approached I would say I was making a delivery and did they know if anyone was home. In the meantime, I was feasting my eyes on what I saw.
The pace had quickened, and Monica’s curvy bottom jiggled and wobbled as the wooden implement whacked it faster and faster. There was a final flurry of hard, rapid strokes that made her shriek, then the disciplinary session was over. As Peter lay the spoon down beside him, I could see that his face was flushed and he was breathing heavily. Monica slithered off his lap onto the couch beside him and, with a big smile, reached out, put her arms around him and gave him a passionate kiss. Peter’s arms went around her and he caressed her punished cheeks. Then he stood and helped her to her feet, and once more they embraced. Monica kicked the panties aside as the couple turned and headed towards the stairs that were on the other side of the front door.
I stepped back before they could see me, grabbed my bag, turned and walked briskly away from the house and back towards home. I had some serious thinking to do. I wondered what Jeff would say when I told him what I had seen, and how he would respond when I asked him to recreate the scene with the Super Swinging Spoon that I had in my bag of deliveries. I would tell Mrs. Custers that hers was on back-order.
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