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Sunday, 27 August 2017

Mr Carstairs’ Team

Mr Carstairs’ Team
From Blushes Uniform Girls 26
Wing Attack: Sandra Meadows
She squealed. The ball had gone high, arcing up against the shimmering sun and she was momentarily blinded. She jumped nonetheless, guessing its trajectory, trainers thrusting against the smooth tarmac. In upward motion, thighs taut, short blue skirt flipping up to display the thin knickers stretched drum-tight over the straining firm-muscled bulb of her bottom. Bare arms reaching skywards, short blonde curls flying in the blazing sun that forced her for the second to close her eyes. Fingertips blindly clutching. As the ball descended it blotted out the burning orb and her eyes, opening, could see. That her position was not quite right. Her arms slewed back beyond the blonde bell of her head in a desperate attempt because Mr Carstairs would not accept anything that could possibly be termed ‘half measures’. Her fingertips made contact but she couldn’t get a grip and also she was too far over, her taut form arched back like a sprung bow. She squealed again, realising what was going to happen. The smooth, hard tarmac coming up towards her. She forgot the ball which was lost anyway and thought of the ground, terra very firma, which was going to hit her, her blue-knickered bottom with its pleated skirt still riding high in the air and also her back, slim in the white blouse with on top the tie-on halter, a large white WA front and back on navy blue.
Yes. Oh Jesus Christ. On her back, looking up, again in the sun, mouth open, grimacing, a soundless cry. Her bottom. She had landed heavily on her rear on the unyielding tarmac. The dazzling sun abruptly blotted out again. Not the bloody ball this time but Julie’s head, anxiously bending. ‘Are you OK?’ No she wasn’t OK. Her backside was killing her. Christ! Had she broken something? Could you break something in your bottom? Yes, your hip or something. Pelvis? Bloody hell. Blinking. She was going to cry. Oh Christ.
‘Come on, you girls.’ Mr Carstairs. Mr Carstairs who’d got you into this. Who’d persuaded you, twisted your arm, when you didn’t really want to play bloody netball. ‘Not want to play for St Gregory’s, Sandra? I simply can’t believe that. Not when I understand that at school you were very good.’
‘Go on, you others, go and do some shooting practice. And passing. You certainly need it. All of you. Now then, Sandra. Are you all right? Can you get up? No, don’t get up, not yet. Stay there, don’t move. Let me see...’
Mr Carstairs kneeling. Careless of the effect of the dusty, not to say dirty, court on the knees of his resplendent cream slacks. Sandra, still in sharp pain, moved to pull down the short pleated skirt so it would decently cover those tightly-stretched knickers. But Mr Carstairs flipped it back up. He was after all checking for injury. It might even be necessary… Yes. But not here. Out in the centre of the court which even though it wasn’t overlooked by buildings, windows, was very open. And one naturally thought of a girl’s modesty. Yes.
Chewing his lip. The thighs, pink and glowing from the demanding exercise, were closed now, discreetly together. Whereas moments earlier they had been abandonedly spread, from the shock of her fall, and had afforded a full view of the elasticated material where it passed like a second skin between the tops of these Betjemanesque limbs. Closed now with just the bulge at the front to be seen. But it showed outlines, quite clearly, moulding flesh and no doubt soft curls, the vertical indentation. Mr Carstairs’ keen eyes blinking.
Head turning to send words out across the court. ‘You others. That will do for today. Go and get changed.’ Eyes swivelling back, and words softer. ‘Sandra: we’d better have a look. We’ll go to my room, if you can make it. Mmm? We’ll try shall we?’
Yes she could, though it hurt, with Mr Carstairs helping, supporting. Arm round the supple waist. ‘Ouch! Oh I… just lost it in the sun. And then. The next thing...’
‘A spot of sherry? Shakes a girl up, something like that, but I’m sure it’s nothing serious. But we’d better have a look. Get your things off. Your briefs.’
Oh. Not really keen on that. Not with Mr Carstairs. Well not with anyone really. But with Mr Carstairs... you did hear whispers. Giggling comments. Although you could hear that sort of thing about anyone really. And of course if Mr Carstairs said do it. Well. That thing he had been before. Army PT Instructor? Something. Anyway he wouldn’t take any argument — or even hesitation. Jump to it, that was how it was with Mr Carstairs.
A nervous mouthful of the sherry, and a spluttered cough. Not a good idea. Sip it. What?
‘Get them off, Sandra. Come on.’
Oh. This wasn’t nice at all. She didn’t think she had broken anything. Not really, not now. She felt OK. Just... ‘Sandra. Get them off I said. I must check. It is my responsibility as coach.’
Oh. Cripes. This was worse than the fall. But you couldn’t argue with Mr Carstairs. He was extremely… determined. Forceful. She hadn’t been in the team long but she had learnt that. ‘Right off,’ he said. They were reluctantly halfway down her thighs and Mr Carstairs was already lifting the short skirt. At the back. Thoughtful ‘Mmmmm...’ sounds. Oh cripes. Bending to step out of them. Left sneaker… and then the right. Which momentarily snagged on the knickers, almost toppling her over.
‘Good. Now we must have a proper look, eh. You can’t be too careful with these awkward falls. Get on the settee. Face down. With your hips up on the arm. And with your legs... ah... parted.’
Don’t think about this. Tell yourself it wasn’t happening. In fact the sharp pain had just about disappeared now. Clearly nothing serious. But Mr Carstairs didn’t want to hear that. Of course not. Mr Carstairs with his intimately questing hands.
‘No bones broken, Sandra. Thank goodness. Possibly some muscle bruising though. Best thing for that… is massage. This muscle group here. The cheek of the bottom: gluteus maximus... and... ah... that seems to be sensitive. Mmm? Right... in there.’ Sandra making desperate little gaspy sounds into the seat of the settee.
‘Open your legs wider. So I can properly...’ Mr Carstairs doing just that. Pushing the thighs apart. And then...

Wing Defence: Monica Bancroft
She squealed. Again. Not that it really mattered. No one was here, no one else. No one else would be in the college, or this part of it, where the changing room was. Not at 6 o’clock on a Tuesday evening. There was no one to come running, thinking perhaps that Mr Carstairs might be indulging in homicide — or maybe an energetic rape. No, she could squeal as much as she liked. Except that Mr Carstairs might take it into his head to be annoyed by it. And then she could be squealing for something else. But even so she couldn’t help it. It was...
‘Aaaiiioowww!’
Mr Carstairs grunted. And pushed even harder. Monica squealed again. This time Mr Carstairs did remove a hand that was gripping her knee. To reach forward and solidly smack her thigh. A strangled yelp. ‘I can’t help it. It’s killing me.’
‘If you’re going to make that noise maybe I should give you something to make it about. Eh? Pull your knickers down and give that bottom a good walloping.’
She bit her lip. He would too. He had done it last week. In another private fitness session. Running on the spot and her performance had not satisfied Mr Carstairs. ‘Get those knees up, Monica. Get them up, as high as your nipples, every time. ‘That was impossible; you couldn’t get your knees that high. But after struggling on for 5 minutes she could hardly lift her sneakers off the floor. So he had done it. Taken her over his lap and dragged her knickers down. It was unbelievable. Though Julie had said...
She squealed again. As Mr Carstairs stretched her that extra inch. An extra inch that could kill you or at the least snap something. The hamstring muscles: all that at the back of the thigh. A pop and it would tear apart. The thought made you feel sick.
‘No!’ she squealed. And got another stinging smack.
‘Stretching is essential, Monica. The hamstrings and the quadriceps especially. The thigh muscles are in use all the time on the court so flexibility is essential. You saw what happened to Sandra yesterday. She would never have fallen like that if she had done her thigh stretching exercises conscientiously.’
She looked desperately up at the ceiling. Lying on her back on the bench, her head with its auburn locks protected from the unyielding wood by a folded towel which smelt slightly of damp, sweating girls. On her back with her right leg up, which was where the sharp, stabbing pain came from every time Mr Carstairs grunted and pushed... her right ankle up on his shoulder as he sat sideways on the bench holding her knee locked straight and… pushed forward. Each time it seemed the hamstring must give way. He was stretching it much too far.
Staring at the tightly-moulded crotch Mr Carstairs thought of Sandra. Both girls, Sandra and Monica, were relatively new to the team. Wing Attack and Wing Defence. Both promising but he was going to need a lot of work with them. To get the best out of a girl you had to work her hard. Tone her body until she had an edge of steel. Push them. Because without being pushed, a girl was soft. No mental toughness. With her soft body an easy prey to the licentiousness of young males. You had to keep them away from that — if you could. It was not always easy.
‘Don’t make so much fuss about a little pain, Monica.’
Mr Carstairs’ eyes intent on what was between the widely parted thighs. The crotch of brief navy knickers, as worn by members of the St Gregory’s Training College netball team. Part of the uniform in fact, all the constituent items of which were obtained at a discount from Harraps Outfitters in the High Street. ‘Make sure you get a receipt mind,’ Mr Carstairs said. ‘Then I can refund it from the Sports Fund. You’re allowed two sets of tops and skirts and four pairs of socks and knickers.’ Bras were not specified. Mr Carstairs didn’t really like you wearing a bra, even a light sports one. ‘Freedom of movement is essential in netball.’
He relaxed his pressure on the leg. Monica grimaced. The sharp pain eased, but there was still a hot glow all up the back of her thigh. She was sure Mr Carstairs had done something to it.
‘What are we doing tonight then, Monica? Mmmm?’
The powerful male hands left her knee but Monica’s ankle was still up on his shoulder. One of the hands dropped down between her legs. To lightly take hold of her crotch. She squealed. Not with pain this time, but...
‘No dates I hope, Miss.’
‘No!’ she yelped out. He was holding her pussy!
‘You know it’s not allowed. Especially with the big match coming up next week. St Bonaventure’s. Strictly no dating. Anyway it’s good for you. Celibacy. Gives a girl that extra special edge.’
Gritting her teeth. She should never have agreed to this, the netball team. But Julie had said they were desperate. She had done it as a favour. But then Mr Carstairs... once he’d got hold of you. Well, there was nothing you could do. He did just as he pleased, as if you were his private property. Like last week, actually taking her knickers down and smacking her bare bottom. At 18. And this. Just... taking hold of her pussy. Rubbing it. Teasing it. And making her begin to feel... she should tell him...
‘Frustrated, Monica? Do you get frustrated? I know some girls do.’
Pink-faced, shaking her auburn head on the towel with its slight but distinct odour of sweating girls. They probably never changed the towels. Just hung them up. This place...
Red. The crinkling curls under his hand. He had seen of course, when he’d had her over his lap and splatted her bottom. Had a proper look. But you could tell anyway. That auburn hair clearly the genuine article. The freckles on her nose and forearms that redheads had. And the skin, that pale, translucent quality. Oh yes, a real ginger-puss all right. Pussy. Should he get them off? Another smacking? She’d been making a dreadful row, yelping and squealing. Or a massage...
Sandra yesterday. Hadn’t wanted it, or more correctly hadn’t thought she wanted it. Until he got going. But then... really getting in quite a state. Hot for it. Frustrated. They needed it. The release. If they weren’t seeing boys. Highly-strung girls some of them and with their bodies getting into shape. This Monica the same as Sandra. Lovely thing. Lovely body. Whimpering now. Yes, maybe a break before he got to work on the left hamstring. A massage...
And maybe a smacking afterwards? Just to remind her what was what.

Goal Shooter: Amanda Stockley
Protesting. Vehemently. But Mr Carstairs not listening. He never did. And of course she had been seen, so she had to admit that. But she hadn’t done anything. Honestly. ‘I don’t care about that, Amanda. I don’t know if you did or you didn’t. I do know that you were seen. The Odeon. With a youth. And you know the rule. Strictly no dates during the season. You agreed to it, like the others. You agreed to abide by that rule. So I’ll see you tomorrow. Five o’clock, right after your lecture. The corner of the High Street. I’ll pick you up.’ His eyes narrowing. ‘And don’t be late, my girl.’
He turned and strode off. Preventing any further argument. Bloody hell. He couldn’t. She wouldn’t turn up. Because she knew what he meant to do. He had done it before. Once. Unbelievable but he had. Out in the country. Drove her out and then they had walked through the wood into that sort of glade. ‘We won’t be disturbed here, Amanda. No observers. I’m sure you don’t want observers.’
Recalling it. It made her sweat. She wouldn’t go. But Mr Carstairs... lf she didn’t he would come round after her. To her digs. He would. And what could you do? Go to Miss Marchment and complain about Mr Carstairs? Say what he was going to do — what he had done two weeks ago? No, you couldn’t do that. Too absolutely sick-makingly embarrassing. And if you weren’t prepared to go to Miss Marchment...
The thought of it was just too awful. Tomorrow...
Yes she was there at five. She had known she would be even though telling herself she wouldn’t. You couldn’t defy Mr Carstairs. Roger had wanted her to go and have tea but she refused. It was Roger of course who had got her into this. Persuading her to go to the pictures. He didn’t know about Mr Carstairs — or at least not about the ban on dates and sex. Well, you couldn’t tell your boyfriend that. It was very awkward — as it was for the others on the team, or at least those who wanted to go out with boys. As most of them did. ‘Why don’t we just say he can’t stop us going out.’ Fiona had said in the changing room. Not in Mr Carstairs hearing of course. The rest of them had shrugged their shoulders. It was easy to say it.
Standing on the corner where he had said. Just 5 o’clock. Where was his car? Could he have been held up, not able to make it? Wouldn’t that be an answer to a prayer! Trying not to look as if she was waiting for someone. Mr Carstairs. It was quite warm and she had her coat over her arm. Blouse and skirt. Not her netball skirt of course, not coming straight from her lecture. She should have thought to bring her flat-heeled shoes but she hadn’t. So if he went to that same place she’d be stumbling along like before in her high heels. She had taken off her stockings and suspender belt though. Well. They were tightly rolled in the bottom of her bag, with her books. Oh Christ.
Glancing up the street again. Two minutes past. Maybe he wasn’t coming. How long should she wait? People walking by. Housewives. Schoolkids. Not any of the St. Gregory’s lot, not that she could see. Though if someone did see her getting into Mr Carstairs’ car it didn’t have to be a real problem. They wouldn’t know where he was going with her. Or what he planned to do. Oh Christ. Four minutes past. A boy, walking by, in the uniform of the local school, grinned and said something. Something rude perhaps but she didn’t catch it. Where...? Oh God. There it was.
Mr Carstairs drawing up. Reaching across to open the door. She looked at it for a second, feeling a wild urge to run off. High heels clattering in huge relief down the street. Instead she was getting in. Mr Carstairs smiling slightly. Patting her knee. ‘Traffic. They’ve always got these roads up.’
Yes he was going the same way. The same as last time. Had he taken any of the others out here? For it? Amanda didn’t know and she wasn’t going to ask them and thereby admit that she had had it. Maybe he did it to all of them but no one spoke about it.
Pulling up at that same place. The wood. A couple of times in the car, soon after she got in, Amanda had tried more pleading. But then shut up when Mr Carstairs said, ‘You know what happens to girls who keep on and won’t accept the situation, Amanda?’ Well she could guess so she shut up.
She left her bag in the car and Mr Carstairs locked the doors. Standing waiting she took a deep breath. It would be in the boot. Trying to swallow dry saliva as he went to open it. Not wanting to look but she had to. The boot slamming down. Mr Carstairs... Yes. In his hand.
‘Come on then.’ And she was stumbling along, high heels sinking in, along that peaty track again. Following Mr Carstairs. Who had under one arm a rug and in his other hand it. That cane.
Why did he want to do it out here? And not in his room, or the changing room? Not that it made any difference. It no doubt would feel the same.
In the grassy space he did the same as before. Spread the rug out. Told Amanda to take off her skirt and her knickers. Then kneel down, on hands and knees.
‘Because of not accepting it as you should, without argument, I shall give you a dozen. Amanda. You’re supposed to be learning some discipline by now.’
She began to protest — it had been eight last time — but quickly choked off the words. Numbly unfastening her skirt. Stepping out of it. Sliding down her knickers. No stockings this time. Somehow getting down in stockings and suspender belt was worse than in nothing at all. Shivering. Kneeling. Hands and knees. The cane patting her bare bottom. Mr Carstairs asked about the absence of stockings. Stuttering out why she’d taken them off. Mr Carstairs smiled. Amanda clenched her teeth. Oh Jesus...
A dozen...

Centre: Julie Lanham (Team Captain)
Apprehensive. Just a bit certainly. You did tend to be. When it was just you and him. You and Mr Carstairs. In the changing room or here in his room or out at that place he liked to go to. That wood. Of course if you were out there it was usually for that special reason so you were certainly apprehensive. Had he taken all the others out there? Julie didn’t know. It wasn’t something they talked about amongst themselves and Mr Carstairs didn’t discuss it with her even though she was team captain. Well, except Fiona. He had mentioned he had had Fiona out there, but only because it had been the day before he had taken her, Julie, out. A week ago. ‘I feel the team spirit could be a bit better, Julie. And as team captain I put that down to you to some degree. So I think we must have a little reminder.’
Julie sitting on Mr Carstairs’ settee swallowed nervously. Don’t think about it. And listen. Or...
Mr Carstairs was talking about St Bonaventure’s. Their big rival. They had beaten St Bon’s last year but only just. Mr Carstairs said he had heard they had virtually their whole team back this year. ‘All stronger and fitter, I imagine, Julie. And keen for revenge, eh?’
Julie made a face. They themselves had three new girls. Probably the team wasn’t as strong as last year. If they lost… no doubt she, as team captain, would be getting a good share of the blame. Another visit to the wood no doubt. She took a quick sip of her sherry. Cripes.
Mr Carstairs’ hand patting her leg. ‘All training hard, are they? Our lot. Doing their runs and private training?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’ Well as far as she knew. A two mile run each morning. As far as she knew they all did it. And stretching exercises etc on their own. Mr Carstairs’ hand squeezing.
‘And no boys, Julie? They’re all sticking to that?’
‘Yes. Yes they are.’
‘But Amanda... you know. And the second time. Claims she didn’t do anything of course, but...’
‘I… I’m sure she didn’t. She wouldn’t. But she shouldn’t have gone out anyway, I know. No one else has.’
Mr Carstairs made a ‘Hmmm’ sound. His hand left her leg and came up. To Julie’s blouse. Wherein were two firm boobs unharnessed, unbrassiered. Mr Carstairs did not approve of a bra. They were not needed for firm, fit bodies. And if you were team captain you took note of Mr Carstairs’ wishes. So if you were going to his room to discuss team matters you left off your bra. A soft expelling of breath from pink, lightly-lipsticked lips as Mr Carstairs took hold of one firm female protuberance.
‘Some girls find it difficult, I daresay, Julie.’
‘Uhhh... yes... I expect.’ His fingertips investigating her nipple. Julie’s pink tongue moistened the pink lips. She squirmed her bottom.
‘What about you, Julie?’
‘Uhhh... me? Oh.’ His fingers had left the now erect nipple. They had moved over to her blouse buttons. ‘Uhhh...’ A forced laugh. ‘If you keep in training you don’t... uh... think about it.’
He was opening her blouse. Unbuttoning. And that quite large male hand was going inside. To take hold of warm bare flesh. The firm globe with its sensitive, erected peak. Julie gave a little groan. ‘Don’t think about it, eh Julie?’
‘Nnnggg... ohhhh...’
‘Well let’s have a bit of training, shall we? Now? A little work-out.’
His hand leaving the right boob to slide across and check the other. Fingers at its stiffened nipple. ‘Mmmm. Get your things off, my dear.’
Oh. A work-out? Now? She didn’t really...
‘Come on. Let’s see what shape you’re in.’ The hand came out of her blouse. ‘Tip-top shape for St Bon’s eh?’
Standing up, a bit shakily. Doing that, feeling up her tits like that, had got her all… Mr Carstairs was very… well, he just did what he wanted to a girl. Caned her. Felt up her tits. Or... at least he did to his team captain. Slipping off her shoes. Then her skirt. Waist slip.
‘Uh... everything, Mr Carstairs?’
Meaning did he want her knickers off. Yes. She had rather thought he did. Sliding them off. And her blouse. Nude. Except for her white ankle socks. ‘Keep the socks on if you like.’
Standing. Looking at him, slightly flush-faced. A pretty girl, short chestnut hair and a neat chestnut bush adorning the slim but curving form. Nice high tits, the nipples erect from his manipulations. The tongue darting out to moisten the pink lips. No doubt not quite sure what he wanted. What did he want? Hmmm. Looking at her pussy.
‘A bit of loosening up first then, Julie. Don’t want any pulled muscles. Stretching exercises. And then some stationary running to get warmed up.’
She began, though it wasn’t easy to concentrate doing it in front of Mr Carstairs with no knickers on — or indeed with no blouse or bra and her stiff-nippled tits bobbing firmly up and down. Why did he want her knickers off anyway? It could be so that he had her bare bottom nicely ready for caning, if that was what he had in mind. Mr Carstairs didn’t usually do that here, in his room, but he had once. Or a spanking? He had done that certainly. Over his lap. Not as bad as the cane but it wasn’t nice. Or could it possibly be… oh…
She kept going, well aware that any flagging would be immediately seized on by Mr Carstairs. You had to keep at it when training. Keep pushing yourself. That was how you improved. Oh cripes. Beads of sweat forming. Rolling down straining flesh.
‘Keep it up! Knees right up!’
Her thighs. Killing her. The whole thing absolute torture after you’d been going for a while. Not as bad as the cane though. She kept on. Oh Jesus. She was going to collapse.
Mr Carstairs did at last let her stop. She bent, hands on trembling knees. Oh God. Her legs. Her lungs. Mr Carstairs going away and coming back. With his dressing gown, for Julie to put on. Still trying to get her breath. The dressing gown was not reassuring. A brisk rub down, maybe even using Mr Carstairs shower: that would indicate it was all over. But putting the dressing gown on...
Mr Carstairs going to make some cocoa, returning shortly with two steaming mugs. Sitting down with Julie on the settee. Smiling. But:
‘I thought there was a certain lack of zip to that, Julie. Not quite as positive as one likes to see. Especially with St Bon’s coming up.
Oh. Oh Cripes! Something. Something unwelcome. Yes. Drink up her cocoa first. But then over his lap. A spanking. On the bare of course. Oh God.
And then... wasn’t that all? With her bottom really red hot from that hard male hand. She was really shaking what with all that dreadful exercise and then the awful spanking. Trembling. But no, it wasn’t all.
‘I don’t really feel like it,’ she said, still gasping. ‘Not... right now...’
But Mr Carstairs clearly did. She needed it anyway, he told her. It was no doubt partly that that had produced the sluggish performance. Frustration. Girls did get frustrated, Mr Carstairs knew. With the others it had to be grin and bear it, for the sake of the team. With the frustration inspiring you to greater efforts. But with his team captain… Things could be different with the team captain. Mr Carstairs himself...
Only him of course. The same prohibitions regarding anyone else naturally, like the rest. But Mr Carstairs himself could, now and then, take the edge off Julie’s frustration.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so.’
Julie still in the dressing gown. It had been tucked up round her waist for the spanking and it was now tucked up again. Over the table. Her face on the table top and her hands gripping the edges. She bit her lip. Groaned. Her bottom still stung. But Mr Carstairs...
She groaned again. As it... ohhh... Did he do this with anyone else? He said of course it was only her, his team captain. Special treatment for the captain. She gave a moaning sound. It was right in now. It wasn’t clear if the moan was of pleasure or perhaps because her bottom, that Mr Carstairs was now thrusting against, was still sore.

Saturday, 26 August 2017

Top Floor Punishment Room

From Blushes 11
Long summer evening; the sun’s heat through the day has made the atmosphere up in the loft room warm and humid.
Laura hears him downstairs, taking his time she kneels on that chair and tugs her knickers up so that her bottom will be ready for one or other of those things in his horrible box. Fresh-bared skin feels sweat-damp in the still air. He usually likes to have her like that, although sometimes
‘Hope you’ve got your knickers down, Laura!’ his voice from the foot of the steep stairs.
‘Y-yes she calls, and slips her pants down quick as she can before his head appears at floor level at the top of the steps. Warm slidey moistness as the tugged-up tightness between her cheeks pulls from between the chubby snugness of her buttocks.
‘Now then, young lady
Laura gulps miserably, and pushes her ‘naughty little bottom’ out with unintentional sauciness... 

Bedtime for Amanda

Story from Whispers 2
‘It was the car first — attempting to drive it through the gates on her own after I’ve only given her two lessons. And then...’
‘I know,’ Vivienne admitted. She knew, too, about the pack of cigarettes I had glimpsed under Amanda’s bed, though she hadn’t — to my relief — asked me what I was doing in there while she was at her bridge club. Had she done so I suppose I would have said something flip like ‘baby-sitting’, though having just turned eighteen, Amanda wouldn’t exactly qualify in that category despite those baby-blue eyes and the knicks that invariably matched.
‘She’s your daughter — not mine — it’s up to you Viv,’ I said and made my voice sound like the tolling of a bell. ‘When we’re married...’ I began, but she cut me off. ‘Martin, you don’t understand. It wasn’t I who used to discipline her.’
Restlessly she got up from the sofa and peered through the Venetian blinds into the darkening street, saying, ‘She should have come home by now.’ I wasn’t listening to her so much as viewing her. Those bulbous rear cheeks — still as firm as they had been when she was Amanda’s age — showed clearly through the seat of her dress, as did the ever-stirring, upsweeping lines of her panties beneath.
She is always trim is Vivienne — stocking-tops dark-banded and flesh-tight, the rims peaking up against the tugging of taut suspenders, dabs of misty perfume front and back below the circling of her suspender belt. Superb legs for a thirty-six-year-old. The finished and perfected package, in fact — arse-proud, as I had once crudely called her.
She has kinks, has Vivienne. Once I knew about the two slim canes that had always seemingly been at standby (one in her wardrobe and one in Amanda’s) there were no more barriers of misunderstanding between us. I learned her ways and the hesitantly trickled-out confessions of her early training.
Vivienne likes to be cane-flicked... well... likes and hates I should say, but she still submits to it. There were times, it seemed, when she used to be allowed to choose between a scorching, submission-producing sixer and being circled.
If the latter phrase is a mystery to you, then it was to me also at first. Vivienne had been put into ultra miniskirts even before they became fashionable. Very tight they were when rolled-up waist high, she said. For ‘circling’s’ (and I’ve never thought it the classiest of terms) she had to do the roll-up first and then remove her panties.
Her tie was next loosened, dangling in two striped strips, and the buttons of her blouse unsnicked until her positively impudent young tits were also on parade.
‘I had to walk around in a circle being flicked,’ she would say. The rest of the details were harder to gather from her, but eventually during our courtship I managed it. After five minutes of such ‘flicking’, a bottom that was flickering with tiny flames had to be presented for attention. I gathered that the taunting, stinging cane had completed its work by then.
‘It was bad afterwards?’ I had first asked her cautiously. I had snaps of Vivienne from all those years back that she had given me. Not a pocket Venus — she was already too long-legged then for that, her bottom a perfect peach, and most of it yielding to the enquiring lens when she wore a bikini bottom that seemed to be two sizes too small for her.
‘Dunno,’ would come a girlish giggle from her at that under-worded question. I knew and she knew that she wouldn’t just have walked away afterwards, rosy-bottomed and with twinkling legs. Enquiring hands would have done their soothing best while she sobbed. At the least, at the least. Then the sofa or the bed — I’d figured that — bouncing and gasping and clinging limpet-like as she still did when I mounted her myself, as if by her very body gestures she was proclaiming the ultimate submission to the cane and to the mastering male.
‘In any event the cane corrected you,’ I said on that particular evening when Amanda was once again late. There was a bizarre touch in my remark that neither of us missed. That Amanda had been caned was news to me. Perhaps it accounted for the over-pert swinging of her hips sometimes — a mark of a girl who has taken what she must and emerges slightly proud of it, and awed by it.
‘Tomorrow I’ll take her in hand a bit,’ I said when Amanda had finally appeared and flipped up to bed. ‘Martin, yes, but not too hard. It’s bridge night for me tomorrow,’ Vivienne said, as if the latter event were relevant. It was, of course — for me.
A girl who has been caned can often sense when it’s going to happen again. She tends to glance sideways at one and to slouch a bit, putting one foot before the other in an awkward way, self-consciously, and Amanda did just that on the following evening when her mother had departed, trailing wisps of perfume as she went.
‘It’s about the car, Amanda,’ I said as she made to exit to the kitchen to set herself up a fridge-cold Pepsi. She stopped as if I’d pulled on an invisible cord around her waist and then came back with laggard steps to where I sat.
‘What?’ she asked. I almost grinned at the subtle impudence in her tone. Maybe that was her intention. I had a sudden feeling that if I drew her down upon my lap and very, very slowly rolled up her loose top she would sit mute, and then wait for my cautiously-weighing hand.
‘And other things,’ I said. ‘You know already, Amanda, you know already. It can be here or upstairs — I don’t mind.’
I hadn’t specified what ‘it’ was, but Amanda knew...
‘No, please, you’re going to cane me, I know you are!’ she blurted. Even the affected note of hysteria was false, I thought. Her nylons shimmered black as Vivienne’s most often did. Her suspenders would be just as taut.
‘Upstairs, Amanda,’ I said, my voice as crisp as a fresh packet of Smith’s. ‘I said, upstairs,’ I repeated. The word seemed right for her already. She stared at me, compressed her lips, but already she had learned that mutiny is followed by the bounty of the cane.
She swallowed at that and uttered a huge sigh that didn’t impress me at all. Nor right then did it appeal to me. Later it might, but she would be mewing then, not sighing. First things first.
I made her go up on her own. It was deliberate. The ever-haunting moment of waiting: that’s important; then waiting to hear my approaching footsteps, and the first sight (after how long?) of the cane. But it was the first sight of Amanda that threw me. Defiantly or not she had gone into the main bedroom where Viv and I enjoyed our romps and where the cane for her came into play. Amanda must have heard her mother’s muffled squeals sometimes. Her skirt was off and her panties, too. Neatly placed on a chair they were, but my glance in that particular direction didn’t last for more than a millisecond.
Amanda stood in profile to me, both hands clenched underneath her mouth as if she were already trying not to cry. Her pubic foliage decorated the alluring little hump beneath her tummy’s subtle swell. Her bottom looked like a studio ‘portrait’ of a peach. The slightest movement of her hips and I glimpsed her nether cleft. More body language, I thought.
‘Not in here, Amanda,’ I said. There was provocation in plenty here, and I knew it. The cane snicked forward, catching her on the side of her bottom and she squealed and jumped, saying, ‘But I thought...’ and then gathering up her two discarded garments and holding them coyly in front of her as she oozed cautiously past me and wiggled along to her own bedroom. In a well-formed girl, their bottoms-cheeks don’t jiggle at that age: they just look more enticing.
Something stiffened, surprising me. Already? Her suspender belt was black — not trimmed with vulgar red. Her stockings were so taut and flawless that they looked as if she had grown into them rather than merely put them on. Such immediate arousal in my own lower parts tended to give me the edge of sternness that is needed. It covers — as might be said in a side whisper — one’s own embarrassment... or sometimes just plain joy.
I closed the door behind us. One should always close the door. Amanda edged towards her bed and stood uncertainly.
‘Bend,’ I said, ‘bend properly, Amanda,’ There was no evident surprise for her in this event. It had happened before, and probably in this self-same room with its single bed and two white units, one on either side. There was a red, slatted chair and a wardrobe. An old Teddy Bear, never cuddled now, slumped in a corner, glassy-eyed.
Amanda’s arms reached down and then her fingers spread. The tips just touched the surface of the bed as though she were delicately balancing herself. I nudged her legs apart with the cane’s tip. Her bottom — that most impudent of rumps — looked peachy and superb. Superbly cane-able, I thought. My hand moistened slightly on the slender, whippy cane much as I guessed my predecessor’s must have done.
‘You’re not dipping your back, Amanda,’ I said. It was as if we had done it all before — as I had plucked old words that lingered still upon the air from last summer or the year before.
‘I didn’t — I didn’t scratch your car much,’ came her plaintive murmur. Her hair clouded down appealingly. If there were a gold medal for back-dipping, Amanda would positively be on the shortlist. Her cleft orb was suddenly the centre of my universe. The curl-fringed pouch of her below her peach was just a bonus — at that moment, at the least.
My trousers stretched the more. I felt she knew that and expected it, but didn’t turn her head to peep. She doesn’t turn her head because she knows, I thought, and whistled in the cane — an act of pure male vengeance on that thought.
‘Whee-ow!’ came Amanda’s cry. That pink streak — that pink streak that I confess I gloried in — brought her cry to a high pitch.
‘You’ve forgotten what it’s like,’ I said. ‘Forgotten,’ I had said. Would she respond to that? But mulishly she didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t, and the walls still held their secrets well. ‘You position well,’ I wanted to say, but to have praised her would have been unthinkable. Much later possibly, I told myself, and after I had ‘circled’ her, if only Vivienne kept her bridge nights up.
Apart from one throbbing sob, Amanda was mute in the waiting seconds that followed. I gave her about eight and then ... ‘Feee-oowww!’ Her note was more high reaching then, though not so loud, I noticed, as might disturb a querulous neighbour. I had placed the stroke exactly an inch below the first. The ‘three-barred gate’ was imminent. Her hips waggled a silent appeal and then — legs taut — were still again. ‘Ooooh-wer!’ she then sobbed at the next Hooo-wiittt! and her appeal was so blatant, so devilishly girlish, that I gave her ten long seconds to wait for the next.
Then the fourth lifted her, and it was meant to. Under her bulb it swept, bringing her trim high heels off the floor and bringing with it, too, a whining cry of ‘No! Oh, no!’
‘Yes, Amanda’, I said, and my voice was nicely flat as well.
‘But, but if I...’ she began.
‘If you what, Amanda?’
‘Nothing ... YOW!... Oh please don’t!... Aaaah!’
‘You’re counting, Amanda. Did you ever count...?’
‘No... yes, no — no, I didn’t, no, ah, please!’
‘But we’re only beginning, aren’t we — only beginning? All right then, turn around, Amanda — right now, please and hands behind your neck.’ And snivelling she turned, she slowly turned, my eyes travelling down deliberately between the junction of her thighs, and she blinked back tears and thrust her titties forward through her top. An offering?
‘You want a drink?’ I asked, adding immediately, ‘Don’t move. Just tell me what you want.’
‘Y...y...yes, please. My Pepsi and...’ But I didn’t wait for the ‘and’. Was there a lightning flickering of her eyes to my straining crotch? It didn’t matter now, perhaps. I was out and back in a moment with the can. I made her drink from it, standing as she was standing, and damned cute she looked — I give her that. She swallowed, gulped, swallowed again. I saw her eyes go to the red chair where I’d laid the cane. The moment was irresistible.
‘In a moment, Amanda, in a moment,’ I said.
‘Oh, but couldn’t you... I mean... well...’
‘Take your top off then,’ I said. We were both duelling, but I held the longer rapier. The challenge was deliberate. She knew it was.
‘All right.’ It was a small ‘All right’, but it counted in every direction we could both think of. I laid the near empty can on the top of her unit and watched commandingly as she peeled it off and shook her hair. Her tits were melons waiting for just one more summer. The perky buds were ripe with promise, cherry-shaped, not pointed as I’d thought.
‘I haven’t finished with you yet, Amanda — you know I haven’t.’
‘Oh, but please, my bottom!...’
‘Is hot?’ I finished for her. I moved towards her with deliberation, watching to see if she would start back, but no movement came. Telegraphing the movement of my arm, I extended it around her hips, bringing her nipples to rub against my shirt and very slowly caressed around, beneath, her bulb. She flinched.
‘Don’t flinch, Amanda,’ I said sharply.
‘But my bottom...’
‘I said, don’t flinch, Amanda.’
‘Yes, yes, all right, I’ll try.’
My fingertips had urged where fingertips should not have done, depending on your point of view. The questing tips were explorers in her throbbing realms. Her legs stiffened but she didn’t jerk.
‘That’s better. You have to learn, don’t you?’ I asked.
There was a mute nod from her at that. ‘But...but if you cane me again...’
‘Not tonight. That was your starter only, Amanda. Sunday... Your mother will be out next Sunday afternoon, won’t she?’ I was insistent, pushing her. A modern throwing down of the gauntlet, if you like. Still caressing her hot nether cheeks, I looked down deliberately between us. There was quite a lot to see on either side. My fingers had not fled the nest as yet.
‘Yes,’ Amanda mumbled.
‘And what?’ I asked.
‘Wh...wh...wh...what you’ve just done. I s’pose it’s because I’ve...’
‘It’s because, Amanda — just because,’ I said. There didn’t have to be a spoken reason and she knew that well enough. ‘You understand?’ I asked and she nodded, looking down as well, her stockinged legs quivering slightly as my hand at last trailed down her thighs, and she too felt its stickiness. All messages received and understood.
‘All right, you can dress now,’ I told her. That surprised her, I believe, though maybe my next sentence didn’t. ‘Turn round again, bend over and show it to me again,’ I said. The edge of lewdness in my words probably didn’t escape her as she half reluctantly obeyed and, as she did, I looped her waist and gave her pink-striped bottom a hard stinging smack!
‘Wow! What...what was that for?’ she wailed, and received another for interrupting, this bringing a gritting wail from her of high surprise.
‘Now dress,’ I said, and watched her do it mutinously, turning away from me as she lifted each leg to draw her tiny panties up, lips pouting broodily and in dismay. I took her hand then (one should often take their hands) and led her out, feeling her bottom with a boldness that her own mood of submission encouraged, and she knew it did.
My hand was becoming even more inquisitive when we reached the foot of the stairs and, with a sudden strain of panic in her voice, Amanda said, ‘I want to have a bath.’
‘Go on’, I said. I let her go without a sound. She had only just finished doing all the mysterious things that females do in the bathrooms when Vivienne returned.
‘Amanda’s all right?’ she asked.
Her eyes were querulous, and I said, ‘Yes, of course she is.’ We both knew what her question held.
Moving back to the foot of the stairs she called out, ‘Are you all right, Amanda?’ and maybe my heart missed a beat for a moment at that, but a cheery voice came down, ‘Yes, I’m all right. Going to bed now... good night,’ and then the closing of her door.
‘I’m tired,’ Vivienne said. The very air had tremored for a moment, but was still again.
‘Sure. You go to bed. I’m just going to read for a bit,’ I said. She gathered up her bag and was gone. I heard her door close — gratefully! My turn to sigh then. I picked up a book, lounged in a chair and read. In fifteen minutes Vivienne snored. She really snores, I mean. Odd, that. Maybe I’ll tell her about it, but not yet. A small explosion would never wake her, as she often says.
I read a little more and listened. Snoring still. I got up and clicked off the lights. Amanda would be curled up and not sleeping yet, I knew — her bottom tingling still a little bit, and thinking, thinking, thinking on.
There was no sound from behind her door as I turned the knob. She appeared at first to be asleep and did not stir. A nipple showed above the sheet’s white edge, her face turned sideways to the wall. Her hips shifted a little as I looked. More body language, yes. I took off my shirt and tie and other things, drew down the bedclothes gently, saw her nightie rucked up to her waist.
Her head didn’t move. Her lips did, just. ‘Is Mum asleep?’ she asked. I sidled in beside her and she stirred her hips again. ‘Yes,’ I said simply. It was as if a conversation, once rehearsed, was being repeated. I turned her chin. Her eyes looked blankly into mine.
‘You know why I have to cane you?’ I murmured. My hand found pouting lips between her thighs, a rasp of curls and silken skin.
‘Yes,’ Amanda said, and ‘Yes’ again, and moaned and twisted in the lulling dark.
The cane can be quite ruthless, yes, of course, but so can women, too — at any age...