Search This Blog

Friday, 29 September 2017

The Black Cat Club

From Blushes 87. My copy of this magazine is missing the top of one of the pages, hence some brief missing gaps in the text.
Black Cat Club 1 — Late for Duty
September for the people of the city of Southminster was a time for a little pause. The early autumn colouring in the trees of its parks and squares signalled the general departure of the summer visitors who had come to view the city’s decorous architectural splendours. There would now be a quiet few weeks before the arrival of the university students who would descend on the city in early October. The little break was welcome but in those early autumn weeks there was always too a sense of anticipation. Southminster had been a university town since Victorian times (its seat of learning had been founded to honour the Queen’s Jubilee) and so there was nothing new in the annual influx of students. But there was every year a kind of alerted expectation as the weekend of their arrival drew nearer.
Some would be returning for a second or third year, others would be quite quite new. Fresh new faces. Fresh young minds and bodies. Both male and female of course but it would only be the latter who would be of interest to those of Southminster’s citizens showing the keenest anticipation. Yes girls, but girls able now to think of themselves as young women, freshly released from the prim confines of their schools into the big world. Virginal and inexperienced 18 and 19-year-olds. Some of them would be eager to gain worldly experience: that was a very stimulating thought. And others maybe not in such a hurry and that was a stimulating thought too. Because whether a girl seemed in a hurry or not, she was at the age when she should get experience.
Those returning for a second or third year of course could have sampled such adult experience already. It might have proved a little strong for them, so that they were hoping now to avoid a repeat.
All of this in staid and decorous Southminster? Ah, but not all of the old city was staid and decorous. Because hidden within its decorous confines there were certain spots where adult experience could be quickly and fully gained. From persons only too eager to impart such experience to nubile young womanhood.
One such little corner was called The Black Cat Club.
----//----
The Black Cat Club was outwardly a down-at-heel basement coffee bar in a back street between the town centre and the main part of the university. During term time it was popular with students who were greatly impressed by its espresso coffee and rather dingy room dimly lit by table lamps formed from old Chianti bottles. But The Black Cat Club had more than that on offer, though certainly not to the normal university student. There were inner premises that were unknown to the outsider, strictly Members Only. Certain students would have seen these inner sanctum regions of the club though. Certain choice and attractive female students.
One of these is called Helen Vosier.
Helen is a tall and shapely 19-year-old with a thick mane of curling dark-blonde hair reaching halfway to her waist. She is back this October for her second year at the university, for excited reunions with all her friends from last year, plus also of course her boyfriend David with whom she has spent part of the summer holiday. In all this boisterous greeting on her first day back Helen is conscious of something she should do, but she doesn’t. It is something that fills her with a good deal of dread. On her second day she knows she can’t put it off any further. In the afternoon, with a not very happy expression on her pretty face, she phones The Black Cat Club.
‘Ah lovely Helen. There you are. I was expecting a call yesterday. Weren’t you back? Anyway come round now. People have been asking for you of course.’
The speaker is a Mr Harry Wanford. Mr Wanford, 50-ish, with a trimmed greying beard, is one of those who run the club. Helen is not at all keen to go round immediately, she is not in fact keen to go to the club at all. But she has no real choice. Mr Wanford is going to be asking hard questions as to why she didn’t come round yesterday, her first day back. If she doesn’t go now it will be a lot worse.
Helen had hoped to spend some time with David, and perhaps also a couple of friends, but now she will have to tell them. They will understand. She had a job at the Black Cat Club last year and will continue it this year. She needs it to supplement her grant. A job working in that front room, serving and waitressing. That is what her friends and David know, but of course there is more to the job than that. Quite a lot more. Those back rooms that people generally don’t know about. That David and her friends don’t know about. The Members Only parts of the club.
Helen phones David to tell him. She says perhaps she will be able to see him later, this evening, although she is not very hopeful of this. Then she puts on a pair of high heels and a light coat, also some lipstick. The high heels and lipstick will be required at the club. She sets out.
During the vacation she had told herself she won’t go back to The Black Cat. She will tell Mr Wanford or his associate Mr Griggs that she doesn’t want to work there this year. On holiday far from Southminster and The Black Cat Club it was easy to think this, to imagine it was possible. But now she is back Helen knows it was just a dream. They won’t let her leave. Not until she finishes at the university at least. They are not going to let such a good-looking girl leave. The members would never accept it. Nor will Mr Wanford and Mr Griggs. Now they have got her they are going to keep her. They are going to be annoyed she didn’t turn up yesterday.
The club advertises itself at street level with a small hand-painted sign of a grinning black cat. Helen descends the worn stone steps and at the bottom goes in the side door which leads anonymously to the rear premises. The coffee bar is open and there are people in there, newly-returned students, perhaps some of them acquaintances, but Helen has no wish to meet them and in any case she knows she will he wanted in the hidden back premises. In the door and along a corridor. At the end she opens a glass-panelled door.
Into one of the members’ lounges. A brightly-lit room with a bar at one end, and leather armchairs and tables scattered around on a red carpet. Mr Wanford is here plus another man whom Helen recognises from last year. A big heavy man with grey hair, he is a member but Helen can’t recall his name. Mr Wanford looks up, and greets her. He comes out from behind the bar. Helen feels a little shiver.
‘Ah our lovely Helen. Take your coat off and let’s have a look at you. We were expecting you yesterday. Mr Figgis here for one has been quite distraught.’
Helen stammers something about not being able to come yesterday. Registration... Harry Wanford is helping her off with her coat. Taking it from her and tossing it on a table. And then turning her so that her back is towards him. His hands come round and take hold of Helen’s large high boobs through her white blouse. She gives a little gasp.
‘I do believe she’s put on a little weight Stanley. Do you think so? All that lazing around in the sun or wherever she’s been. Yes I do believe an extra half-inch on these lovely tits.’
Stanley Figgis is stepping forward, grinning. He reaches to grab the calf-length hem of Helen’s dark skirt and lifts it up. Her long, bare, shapely legs are exposed. Helen lets out another involuntary squawk. Just as Mr Figgis’s other hand darts in. Under her raised skirt to the crotch of her brief white knickers. The clutching fingers close on Helen’s cunt. There is an immediate shock reaction, the pretty blonde’s body frenziedly writhing, accompanied by more desperate squawks, as she seeks to shake off the mind-zapping hand.
But Stanley Figgis is holding firm, as is Harry Wanford at Helen’s tits. Figgis wheezes, ‘I bet this has been seeing some action Harry. In amongst that laying on the beach. I bet she’s had a few ferrets up here!’
Eventually he does let go, and Mr Wanford does too. Helen is red-faced and shaking as she wraps her skirt down round her legs. ‘I... I...’ Turning to Mr Wanford. ‘He can’t do that... Tell... him... He can’t... do that. Or I’ll...’
‘Or you’ll what, young lady?’ Harry Wanford asks coolly. ‘I’m sure Stanley was only being friendly. What’s more to the point I must ask why you weren’t here yesterday. That registration only takes an hour at the most, I happen to know that. There were members in here not at all happy to find you — and certain others I may say — not turned up.’
Helen attempts another stammered justification, but is cut short.
‘I don’t want to hear it. You’re going to have to be taught a lesson. A lesson you should have learnt last year but it seems didn’t. So get your things off. Your blouse and skirt. I’m going to smack your bum. And after that... we’ll have a little session in the Dungeon.’
Helen emits another and more desperate yelp, while vigorously shaking her head. Fresh from the summer break it is all even worse than before, because toward the end of last year she had unwillingly become to a certain extent inured to some of this. The thought especially of that awful Dungeon! She pleads with Mr Wanford. His growled response is that if she doesn’t get moving immediately Stanley Figgis will hold her while he, Harry Wanford, rips off all her clothes. And then give her a caning she won’t forget in a hurry.
Helen feels like weeping. Recalling that naive idea she had on holiday, of telling Mr Wanford she is leaving the club and he will merely say OK. It was just a simple-minded dream — and deep down she had known that of course. Fighting the tears she begins to take off her things. Her blouse and then her skirt.
Mr Wanford has gone to sit in one of the leather chairs. Helen bites her lip. She is now in just her brief white bra and knickers. She is virtually nude before the two men because the skimpy garments hide nothing. She tries to close her mind. She has got to get across Mr Wanford’s lap. She knows the form. He will pull the little knickers down to bare her bottom. And then start spanking. The thought of it makes her stomach churn.
As she hesitates Stanley Figgis comes up behind Helen and with a cackle gropes her bum. She yelps again... and stumbles forward. Wanford grabs her and pulls her down. He is pulling her knickers down even before he has her properly in position over his thighs. He too gropes Helen’s bottom, now bare. And then his hand is cracking down. Pistol-like cracks searing her defenceless rear. She feels sick. This is really dreadful. But maybe he won’t make her go down there. The Dungeon.
But Harry Wanford hasn’t relented, believing that a girl newly returned from the freedom of the long vacation needs to be given a sharp reminder of the facts of life. So it is to be a session down in the Dungeon.
The Dungeon is a cellar down in the bowels of the earth. Down another flight of stairs below the club’s main premises which of course are already below street level. It is dark and damp and there are things down there. Big crawly cockroaches. Once last year Helen was taken down to the Dungeon and left along in the dark for half-an-hour. Around her in the pitch dark she could hear these unthinkable things rustling and scurrying. She was babbling with terror when she was finally brought up.
That was a punishment for trying to refuse to go with a club member whom she found particularly objectionable. But after her stay down in the Dungeon Helen had obliged, she had been eager to comply. His crawly hands on her were nasty but not as bad as the thought of all those crawly things in the Dungeon.
She had been caned of course as well. Down in the Dungeon before she was allowed to come up. You were always caned when you were taken down to the Dungeon. But for a caning the light was on and all those scurrying things, the cockroaches, would have hidden from the light. Waiting for it to go out again.
Now today, her first day back at the club, that is to be Helen’s punishment. A caning down in the Dungeon. But she is not going to be left down there in the dark. So it could be worse. Although just having to go down there, for a caning, is bad enough.
There is another girl too, called Amanda. Amanda Denvy is another second year student who if anything is even more striking-looking than Helen, not as tall but with a full ripe mouth and waist-length ash-blonde hair. Like Helen she also was unfortunate enough in her first year to fall into the clutches of Harry Wanford and his friends. She has likewise turned up late at the club — and so the two of them are being given a session in the Dungeon together. They are both to be caned.
----//----

Black Cat Club 2 — Down in the Dungeon
Helen Vosier and Amanda Denvy are each to receive a caning down in The Black Cat Club’s dank and scary Dungeon. Second-year students at Southminster University, they both failed to report to the club yesterday on their first day back. So Harry Wanford, joint owner of the club, intends to give them a brisk and salutary lesson. It is always a good idea to give girls a sharp reminder of what’s what right at the beginning of the year. By now showing up yesterday they have provided him with a convenient excuse.
Girls are always required to wear suitable dress for a punishment down in the Dungeon. Suitable sexy gear, for the delectation of Harry Wanford and whoever else may have the pleasure of taking part or merely observing. Also of course these sexy outfits serve to emphasise to the wearers that they are sex objects, their function being to provide sexual pleasure and gratification to Mr Wanford and his associates and club members.
In a small changing room Helen and Amanda begin unhappily putting on these brief and revealing garments. As they do so they exchange a few words. They are not exactly friends but their jobs at The Black Cat Club have thrown them together. For both it has been employment that started off as something highly exciting, which they eagerly told their friends about. But that all changed when they found themselves caught in Mr Wanford’s insidious grip.
They have worn these awful outfits before of course. For scary visits down to the Dungeon like this and sometimes also for members delectation in the Members Only bar and lounge. Helen’s comprises a tight and brief bright-red body suit, with a red suspender belt fastening dark nylons; with over the nylons a pair of scarlet thigh-high PVC boots. There are also elbow-length black gloves, chunky black bracelets and a matching studded black belt round her slim waist. Amanda’s outfit is black: brief black bra and bikini knickers with a black suspender belt and stockings and high heels. For further decoration she is to wear broad black bracelets and a gold waist chain.
‘When I was on holiday this just seemed like an awful dream,’ Helen mutters. ‘At times I just couldn’t believe I had got into this.’
Amanda nods in agreement. ‘But it’s real alright. Another sickening year of it. And next year?’
Helen shudders. It is difficult to believe there is no way out. But there isn’t. No way that they can contemplate. Not with those photographs which Mr Wanford took and which would be sent to various people if either of them made a serious attempt to break away.
They have got their outfits on now, with their own clothes piled on the dressing table. So they had better go out to the waiting Mr Wanford. If he decides they have been hanging about unnecessarily he may easily decide to give them a double dose of the cane. They exchange rather desperate looks. Amanda tries to force a smile.
‘I was just coming in there after you,’ Harry Wanford says. Moving in he gropes first one flinching bottom and then the other. ‘You two girls almost give the impression that you don’t enjoy sessions down in the Dungeon. And I know that can’t be true.’
Are they supposed to laugh? Stanley Figgins does of course. He has a cane in his hand and he pokes the end of it in between Amanda’s legs, near the tops of her thighs. His other hand grasps the end as it comes out just underneath the ripe swell of her bottom in the tight black knickers. Holding the cane fore and aft he raises it.
Amanda gives a yelp of alarm as the cane cuts into her pussy. Figgis continues lifting. Pulling her up onto tiptoe as she tries to avoid the sharp cut of the cane in her cunt... Higher... She yells out as she is lifted off her feet by the cane in her cunt... It is a killing pain.
After some long moments he lets her down. Amanda is shaking with fright and that awful, devilish pain. The two men both laugh. Then Harry Wanford goes to open the door. Outside it is the corridor leading to the steps which go down into the Dungeon. They are to go down there and wait.
For a horrible moment they both think he means without the light on. Both girls have an hysterical fear of being left down there in the dark which is stronger even than the fear of the cane. A panicky fear of those horrible creatures scurrying in the dark! But Mr Wanford indicates that the light will be on. He and Mr Figgis are going to follow the girls down in a few moments, after they have had a drink.
The door at the top of the Dungeon steps is opened, releasing a current of cold damp air. Is it their imagination or is there a strong smell — of nameless decaying substances! Helen for one feels a rising sense of panic. But the light is on. Mr Wanford pushes her in, and Amanda is made to follow. At least there are the two of them — and the light is on. They descend uncertainly in their high heels and on trembling legs.
At the bottom there are no rats or cockroaches to be seen. The light shows the damp bare grey walls and near the foot of the steps a metal ladder suspended horizontally from the ceiling by heavy steel chains, so that it hangs at about waist height. Both girls are familiar with that ladder. It is used for caning. A girl is either bent face-down over it with her feet still on the floor, or she is made to get completely up on the ladder and lie on it, again generally face-down. Either way the ladder can swing in a sickening vertiginous way — while of course the cane whips down on your bottom. It is really horrible. But not as bad as being left down here in the dark.
The door at the top clangs shut. Then as they both think that same fearful thought, it happens! The light does go out! Suddenly they are in pitch darkness. They both scream. In a blind panic they reach out for each other, but fail to make contact. Immediately they think they can hear the dreadful creatures. And feel them! Cockroaches intent on crawling up their legs.
At last, after some frenzied moments, the two girls do find each other. Desperately grabbing, clinging. Both are already in tears. Then as they cling to each other the light floods back on. And the door at the top opens. Mr Wanford is coming down. Carrying a cane. He is a desperately welcome sight! Mr Wanford with his cane. He is coming to cane them, but anything is better than the terrors of the dark.
When he reaches the bottom he asks, ‘Did the light go off for a second? I may have knocked it accidentally.’
Mr Wanford gives a little laugh, then tells them both to stand against the wall with their hands behind their backs. He comes close in front of Helen. She is making desperate little gasping sounds, not recovered yet from that awful scare. His hand reaches down to feel her pussy. ‘Shivery, are we?’
He laughs again, then reaches to grope Amanda. Her pussy and then her tits. Amanda gives a little squeak.
[missing]
off as Stanley Figgis comes over and runs his hands over Helen.
‘What would be interesting,’ Harry says as he plays with Amanda’s now nude tits, ‘would be to leave one of them down here tied up. Stripped off and tied up on the ladder.’
Helen thinks she is going to faint with fright.
‘We’ll think about that one,’ Harry says. ‘But right now we need to get on with the regular business. Which is to warm their bottoms up.’ He moves back. ‘Let’s have both of you bent over the ladder first of all, for a few preliminary whacks.’
Helen and Amanda stumble over to the ladder, zonked out with this truly horrendous suggestion he has put in their heads. It can only be a horrible joke, to scare the daylights out of them. Can’t it? But you can’t know that.
They get into position over the ladder, in the process making it swing in a giddying manner. And then the canes zip into their bottoms. The hot pain takes their breath away. Forget about rats for the moment. There is just this hot mind-searing pain. The dank walls echo to the sound of shrill, desperate squeals.
They are given four real scorchers each, and then Mr Wanford says they are to stand up. That will do for starters, to get them warmed up. It is time for something a bit more interesting.
Grimacing with the pulsating pain in their bottoms, the girls move away from the ladder. Harry Wanford decides to take Helen first. For a proper up-on-the-ladder session. Stripped off of course, she needs her bottom bare for this. He strips off the
[missing]
pale swaying moons bearing those bright red cane stripes.
[missing]
being left down here, spread out on the ladder.
----//----
Quite a bit later, about 9 o’clock, Helen gets back to her digs. She doesn’t know what she wants to do, she doesn’t really feel like seeing David, but then he turns up saying he has been looking for her. He went round to the Black Cat Club earlier but she wasn’t there. Helen was there of course but not in the coffee shop. She was in the back. Down in the Dungeon... and then in that other room. She tells David that she was at the club, most of the time anyway, but she had to go out once or twice on errands.
David doesn’t question this explanation. He has found Helen, that is the main thing. He is with her. And he wants to screw her, that is the central thought in his head. But Helen doesn’t want to. She says she is not really in the mood. She is tired from working at the club
‘That bloody club!’ David groans. He is annoyed that she has to work there, annoyed that she has spent most of today there when she could have been with him. In a quiet little voice Helen says she needs the money. David says she should look for something else, something that doesn’t take so much of her time. Helen shakes her head.
She can’t leave The Black Cat Club of course because of those pictures Mr Wanford took of her last year. Pictures of Helen after she had been plied with wine and gin, first of all wearing that sexy outfit and then wearing nothing at all. And then finally shots of her being screwed by that bloke, one of the club members. Mr Wanford has got those pictures and so she can’t leave. It’s the same for Amanda and the other girl he’s got his hooks into.
The main reason Helen doesn’t feel like screwing David is that an hour earlier she did it with Mr Wanford. In that little back room, on the sofa. It was that business about the Dungeon, Mr Wanford’s talk about leaving someone down there. It was probably just a joke, but what if he actually did it. After the caning session she had pleaded with him to promise he would never, ever do it. Mr Wanford had just joked about it, and felt her up. So then... she said if he would promise her she would do it. Screw him. Mr Wanford had said OK.
There was one other thing. He wanted her to find him a nice new girl. One of the new girls just starting at the university this autumn. Someone really fresh and straight from school. He said if Helen could find him a really nice one like that he would let her have her photographs.

Mandy

From Blushes Supplement 4
Cilla brought her the first time — a waif, I thought, at first, so slight in stature yet with breasts well rounded under her loose top, and a bottom such as one rarely sees save in exquisite drawings done by connoisseurs of female peaches. Her legs were good — neat, trim and elegant. The hotpants that she wore were tight around the tops of her sleek thighs and no less so around the apple of her derriere.
‘She can stay till seven. I thought the garden would be nice for her and the swimming pool. She loves that sort of thing,’ said Cilla as Mandy walked here and there across the close-cropped lawn, fey and exploratory, and conscious of my presence in a girlish way.
‘She walks well,’ I said, ‘I mean, she doesn’t slouch like some girls do.’
‘Oh, she does sometimes, uncle, when she has to be obedient,’ Cilla said and turned her back on me. fingering a rose that slipped its petals in between her fingers where a new ring shone on her left hand. I mourned that ring. Perhaps she knew I did; perhaps this was a sort of recompense to keep me company. ‘Her father was the Head of a girls’ school, but he and Mandy’s mother parted just about a year ago. Just at the time, perhaps, when Mandy needed...’
‘Yes,’ I said. The phone rang then indoors and I went in. Vaguely to my surprise — although telepathy’s a wondrous thing — it was the girl’s mother. Yes, she’d like to speak to Mandy, but also to thank me for my hospitality. Seven was a little early after all. If I could bear with Mandy’s company a little longer... Nine, maybe? It would be helpful, friends for dinner; Mandy would be bored.
I understood. I said I understood and, since I did, there was no need to call Mandy to the phone. Her mother sounded in a hurry, anyway. ‘She needs firm guidance,’ Mandy’s mother said, and I said yes again and put the phone down in a thoughtful way. Through the window of the kitchen as I passed, I could see the two girls talking — Cilla four years older, though with hair drawn back and in a ribbon as I always liked. Mandy was nodding on and on to her and threw a look towards the house each time she did as if to wonder at her agreement to whatever was being said.
‘Nine? Oh, that’s a better time: not too early, not too late,’ said Cilla when I re-joined them on the lawn. Their hands were held as if they might be sisters, and I fancied that idea, beneath the skin and otherwise. Cilla had to leave, though. Husbands — new ones especially — call silently in their brides’ ears. Mandy sat down. We left her plucking grass and walked to the side entrance and the wicker gate.
You think that Mandy will behave herself?’ I smiled.
‘Mmmm... she is dutiful, and quiet. Oh, very quiet. She has to learn more still. I ‘spect you’ll soon find out. Don’t spoil her, uncle. See you on Sunday, if you like. Mark’s playing cricket.’
‘If you’re quiet,’ I smiled. The warm rays of the sun upon her cheeks appeared to make her blush.
‘Wasn’t I always?’ A brief kiss and she was gone. Mandy was sitting pensive by the pool. I asked her if she’d like to swim. Yes, very much, but she hadn’t brought a costume, she replied, but looked across the shimmering water as she spoke.
‘That’s OK — there’s no one here,’ I said, ‘No one’s expected. Slip your things off, if you want.’
‘I know — well, I dunno.’ She moved her legs, flirted a toe within the pool and made the water ripple out. — ‘I’d like to see you swim now,’ I said, ‘Give me your things; I’ll put them on a chair.’ I drew into my voice that slight edge of authority that counts with girls — a voice that Cilla also knew.
‘Give me your top first, Mandy — take it off.’ The stronger edge. She peered up at me wonderingly, began to move her hands, then stopped — ‘You know you want to swim,’ I said and held my own hand out. Then it was that she fingered up the hem of her loose top, bent forward, peeled it quickly off and made to cover up her melon-firm young tits with wavering and uncertain hands.
‘Up with you — come on — the water’s warm.’ I slipped my hands beneath her armpits, careful not to touch her breasts, and drew her up. A ‘but’ then came from her — a little wobbly but. I took no heed of it, stepped back and turned around, slurring my feet upon the stone so she would hear. Then — more quickly than I would have thought she could have got those hotpants off — I heard a splash and turned again, saw peepings of rose-nippled tits, bulb of her tight, cleft peach, then like an otter she had sleeked away, legs kicking where — beneath the water’s crystal veil — I glimpsed sweet darkness up between her thighs.
Ten minutes later she climbed out, incredibly waist-slender, awkward as a new-born doe, hands coy around the junction of her thighs, and threw herself face down upon the grass, her sweetly-rounded bum sparkling with water where the drops rolled down into her cleft. I’d left the towel upstairs, I said, as if I just remembered it.
‘Oh, fetch it please!’ A little wail.
‘No, I’ll carry you; it’s quicker, Mandy.’
‘Yow!’ she squealed. I lifted her — though none too easily — her sleek wet bottom plumped upon my palm and carried her swiftly right across the lawn and through the kitchen.
‘Don’t — no, no, please,’ she whimpered twice.
‘Obedience, Mandy!’ I replied the second time. That seemed to quieten her. She curled up timidly, kept her legs tight until we reached the bathroom where I set her down and took a bath towel from the heated rail.
‘I can do it — honestly!’ she squeaked.
‘Mandy, I have to dry you everywhere.’
‘No, no!’
‘Yes Mandy, yes — be quiet! Stand still, girl, still!’ I barked. She looked more awed then and stood like a nymph in a Victorian painting while I worked the thick soft towel beneath her bottom first, rubbing it gently underneath her bulb, and for longer than I needed to. Her back dipped well, dipped naturally to the counterpoint of bulbing flesh beneath.
My hand slid round her thighs. She squeaked again, ‘No, I can do it — please!’
‘Mandy, that’s five or six No’s in one afternoon. Your mother said you needed guidance. I believe you do as well. Dry yourself then, and when you’ve done I want you in the bedroom, Miss. The one here on the left — and don’t be long. You hear me, Mandy?’
First was a pouting as she took the towel from me and let it drape right down her loveliness, I rising, standing over her. Her eyes dropped and she pursed her lips the more. I waited. Silence sometimes works the best.
‘Yes — yes, all right,’ she said at last.
Five minutes passed before she slouched within. — ‘She slouches when she has to be obedient,’ Cilla had said. I, waiting for her, firmly closed the door, and said, ‘Well, Mandy?’
‘Wh...what?’ she asked. Her eyes went all around the master bedroom, skimmed across the double bed. She screwed her eyes up as I took the towel from her unwilling hands and let it drop.
‘Disobedience, Mandy, on your first day here?’
‘I didn’t want to have my bottom... yeee-ow!’ she squealed. I had thrust one arm across her back, tilted her, sat down and — all in one quick movement — swung her on my lap, bringing her warm tummy to my crotch and therewith also a resounding smack! upon those apple-pert, tight cheeks.
She wriggled like a fish, but not enough to loosen my grip on her. Six times I splatted my palm down. At each she bucked and howled and kicked.
‘I thought you were obedient, Mandy.’
‘I am, I — yeeech! — I — ow! oooh! oh! naaar!
I let her flounder and fall. It does them good sometimes. The carpet’s thick. Besides, they often roll on to their backs, legs writhing and their ‘modesties’ displayed. Mandy’s, as I saw again, was sprinkled generously with soft curls the towel had fluffed up nicely.
‘Yes, very well, then call your mother, Mandy. There’s a phone on the unit there. Go on,’ I said and let her rise, eyes brinked with tears, a deep pink flush upon her pumpkin where my palm had smacked. She wriggled, blinked at me, palms crossed over her Venus mound. I breathed a sigh — a long, deliberate sigh and rose, went to the phone and asked her what the number was. Gulping, she gave it to me and I dialled, then beckoned her, handing her the phone just as I heard her mother’s voice.
‘Mum? I wanted just to tell you that I... ooomph!
I had stepped behind her quickly, slid one hand across her lips and smacked her bottom lightly twice, then took my hand away and held her hips. Two seconds — that was all it took. I heard her mother’s voice demanding, ‘What?’ impatience straining in her tone.
‘I w...w...went swimming in the pool... Oh... sorry... what, he’s there already? Oh — I didn’t mean to interrupt. Eh? Oh, yes, that’s all right. I’ll ask him, yes.’ The phone went down. I eased her back and drew her down to sit beside me on the bed. Her bottom squirmed and then was still.
‘M-mum said ten o’clock — if that’s all right.’ Her thigh touched lightly to my own, then moved away. ‘You’ll sp...sp... spank me and I know you will,’ she said and looked forlorn as a lost kitten, but I knew that look from other days — a different presence in the room. She covered up her fluffy thatch and sat head bowed.
‘Could be. We’ll see how you behave,’ I said. ‘What did you used to get for being disobedient, eh?’
Her head hung still. Her sweet, plump tits in profile looked divine. They wobbled gently as she moved. I saw her eyes screw up. She blushed at direct questions, obviously, but Cilla often had, as well.
‘Didn’t,’ she mumbled, then let out a shriek as I hauled her once again across my lap. One doesn’t spank a bottom hard, though, twice. Not in a too-short span of time. I knew that, too, of old, and raised my palm and brought it down in slow and rhythmic medium strokes that made her squeak but did not sting too deep.
‘Don’t, please! Oh, please, I won’t tell any more fibs!’
‘That was for fibbing, Mandy. Now, get up. No — sit upon my lap. I want to talk to you. Now, sit!’
A gulp. They always gulp. That liquid sound that says ‘I’m sorry’. Gingerly she sat, and then I settled her as firmly as one has to so that she could feel a certain prominence that nubbed in the right place, my right hand cupped about her further hip. She jerked a little, then she hid her face against my shirtfront. Her hands slid once again across her mound.
‘No, Mandy,’ I said quietly; then they fell away. Her nipples had perked up a little, but she needed more, I knew. The dimple of her navel was a creamy whorl. Her thighs dipped in just slightly where they met.
‘When were you spanked before. A long time, was it not?’ I asked.
‘I w...w...wasn’t... No! Oh, please, I... not again!’ My hands had shifted, but returned. I let her bottom plump more firmly down, parting my legs a little as it sank. Her fingertips had gripped into my shirt in silent pleading after that brief cry. ‘Aw-right, I was. A little bit I was.’
‘And caned, perhaps, for squealing — making too much noise?’ My arms were tentacles; she could not move, though made no effort to.
‘S... sorry I made a noise. I didn’t mean to, honestly. I tried... I mean... please, may I put my knickers on?’
‘You didn’t answer me,’ I said. I moved my thumb across her tummy as I spoke and felt the super-velvet, silky skin. Dark curls lay just within an inch of it. I felt her tummy ripple, then it was still.
‘Oh, I dunno. Yes, once or twice I was.’
‘There’s a good girl. At last you’ve told the truth. Evasions count as fibs, though, Mandy. Look at me!’ Her oval tear-streaked face that then peeped up, lips slightly parted, moist, tip of a tongue that flirted and was gone. A revelation that in its small way. She waited to be kissed, and hoped that’s all there would be. And the devil of it was, I nearly did, but held myself. A man needs to be disciplined as much as does a girl sometimes.
‘Go into Cilla’s old room, just along the landing there. She’s got things in her drawers still — lots of things. Put stockings, panties on — a top perhaps, if you can find one — that is all, though, Mandy.’ I said slowly, easing out each word.
She breathed in through her nose at that and dropped her head, compressed her lips.
‘I could put my hotpants on, I could. Please may I put my hotpants on? They’re only in the garden, and...’
‘I told you what to put on, Mandy. Disobedience?’
My words brought forth an anguished squeak. I loosed her. She jumped up, careless then of her display, and squealed, ‘Oh, no!’ and ran out of the room. I heard her scuffling then into what had been Cilla’s room which stands completely unchanged, for she stays occasionally when Mark’s away on business. Drawers were opened hurriedly and slammed. I got up, went downstairs and poured a drink.
‘There’s coke down here,’ I called.
‘I can’t find... yes... all right, I’ve got them,’ came her breathless cry. She’d have to brush her hair; I gave her ten, then called her down. ‘I’m coming — honestly I am!’ A small wail of despair. She could have called her mother back. I told her so when she came down, all hesitant, heart-pounding cute. Cilia’s black, self-supporting stockings reached the very junction of her thighs. Her top was striped and moulded to her tits. It was an old one that had shrunk. Cilla had worn it first when she was Mandy’s age. It wouldn’t fit her now. The panties would, though. They were new and black. The crotch plumped out a little where they stretched.
‘I couldn’t find no sandals.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You can wear your own. You want to phone your mother back again? Here — here’s your coke. You want some biscuits?’ Questions flooding over her. It stems their own flow — gives authority. One prides oneself on little points like that. They seem to work in practice, anyway. She shook her head (again with that fey air of dolefulness) and drank her coke. Her spankings had worn off completely, but the second one had stirred her, as I meant it to, though she would scarcely know it had. Not consciously, at least. One day I’ll write a book upon this subject, dammit, yes — psychology and all. They have to learn to come to it, however reticent they are.
‘Said ten o’clock, she said,’ said Mandy, as if she had been thinking about it a lot, and was brooding on the awful possibilities. The top reached only to her twinky navel, then a pale, sleek gap, and then the panties tautly-stretched around her perfect hemispheres.
‘Tell me something, Mandy. Were you caned at school?’ I asked.
‘Oh no,’ she said too quickly, and then stopped and half-turned her back on me.
‘School’s not a nice place to be caned at, anyway,’ I said. There was a silence while she brooded on that, too, but I didn’t expect her to reply. I had the mite of information I had sought. As Cilla had said, she was just at the age. ‘I’m glad of that,’ I added to her profound astonishment, I’m sure. Her head jerked round, two big blue eyes looked into mine. ‘Bed’s the best place, then you can snuggle in,’ I said.
A real blush spread then up into her cheeks. She mumbled something, gurgled, and drank again. I didn’t press the point. Silence, in the case of young ladies, almost always means consent, however grudgingly extended. Fearing no doubt that I was going to spank her constantly throughout the hours, she moved — not ‘moved’, no, slouched away — and looked out on the garden where the sun still shone.
‘You can sunbathe, if you want. I’m going to work upstairs,’ I said.
‘Oh, really?’ She looked so surprised, lips parted sweetly, that I almost kissed her then.
‘Salad and ham for tea,’ I said, ‘And you can get it ready if you want.’
‘Oh! Yes, I’d like to do that, yes. Please can I put my hotpants on?’
‘No, Mandy, you may not. Be good. You can put your sandals on — they’re by the pool. If you behave, then later you can put them on.’
‘I will,’ she said in a small, pleading voice.
‘Come here and take your panties off,’ I said. I had to get her out of covering up her most enticing parts when in the house.
‘Don’t want to. Oh! Don’t make me — ah!’
Three steps forward and I grabbed her, ripped them down, turned her about and smacked her bottom hard. Once, twice, and a third time for luck. ‘yow-ow!’ she howled. In struggling, I had worked her top up to her neck. One firm tit spilled its nipple to my palm, the globe almost enclosed within — not quite.
‘Stop it!’ she squealed and tried to wrench away my hand.
That did it — yes, alas, that did. I scooped her — and hauled her wildly kicking up the stairs. There, quite unceremoniously (there are times to be gentle and times to be more tough) I dumped her on the double bed and told her growlingly to stay. ‘And get those silly panties off’, I said.
An ‘oh-woh!’ came from her, but I had turned and opened out my wardrobe door. When I turned again she’d kicked them off, and sat sullenly on the bed’s side.
‘What you going to do?’ she asked in a small voice. Her eyes followed the small pot of Vaseline I laid upon the unit top. She didn’t ask me what it was. I wondered that she didn’t ask. The old strap uncoiled and hung down limp.
‘You know what I am going to do,’ I said, ‘Kneel up and put your bottom up.’
‘Oh no, please, look! I’ll do...’
‘Do what?’ I asked.
The pink was in her cheeks again. ‘Nuffink,’ she said and slowly turned around. Heaven knows the accents that they pick up at the comprehensives now.
The cleft bulb of her bottom stirred, then stilled itself. Her pussy peeped its lips appealingly. ‘yow-wow!’ she screeched as then the strap hissed in. I always keep it very slightly oiled. It sleeks across the offered bottom perfectly and leaves a fierce sting in its wake. Her shoulders sank.
‘You wouldn’t take your panties off,’ I said.
‘I did... I was.... I.... oooh!’
‘When you are told to take your knickers off indoors, what do you do?’ I asked.
Scra-aack went the leather full across her slightly reddened bum whose cleft looked quite impossibly tight.
‘I t...t... take them off, I do! You didn’t give me time, and.... naar! Oh, please, it burns me!’ But her voice grew intriguingly softer on those last two words, as if she had remembered something long ago — or my imagination races far too much, perhaps.
‘I want you to be quieter now,’ I said, and said it gently. As I spoke, I palmed her bottom, felt the glossy heat irradiating from her orb, and found a touch of stickiness beneath where the lips pursed amid their downy nest. She wriggled, choked, then settled down again, hips very still. ‘That’s better, Mandy.’ I withdrew my finger slowly. The tip glistened just a little. ‘Did you hear?’ I asked. One has to press the point — if I may use the simile.
‘Yes, yes — I heard. I’ll try — but please...’
‘No please — I want you to be quiet. You have to learn — you know you do.’
A muted sob came — that was all. I gently moved her knees apart. They stayed. Her fig looked plumper then, as did her bum whose erstwhile snowy halves had taken on a strawberry shade.
‘You have learned a little bit, but now you have to learn a little more,’ I said, and splatt! the leather whistled in, bringing a much-dimmed cry from her that never would have sounded through the door.
One rarely counts. The girl is made to count sometimes, but this was not the time for it. Some seven more she had before she twisted suddenly that slim and nubile torso and slumped down, her knuckles to her mouth, eyes open wide.
‘Lie down. Get both your legs up on the bed,’ I said, voice soft as any summer breeze. Eyes closed then, she obeyed and somehow squiggled up until she lay lengthwise upon her hip, away from me, sobbing her little sobs, hand at her mouth, her burning botty orbed into my view, but leaving fair room on the bed for me to lie beside and cuddle her.
Hooo!’ came her little broken cry. Her nipples must have been a half-inch long, so pointed were they, burning at the tips. I caressed them, turned her slowly, kissed her snubby nose, then did a Cook’s tour of her warm, wet face before I gave her more attention where she more moistly showed a need for it...
----//----
The phone rang in the morning, early on. ‘Is that the original Mr Strap?’ a soft voice asked.
‘You come on Sunday and be quiet,’ I said.
Cilla is always making silly jokes like that.
Sunlight touches her shoulders and warms her skin; now that the sting has gone away her bottom just feels warm too, as if the sunbeams played on the fresh-smacked tenderness there as well. The smart has gone, but not the awful shock and humiliation of a grown up girl having her bum spanked. A tear trickles onto her cheek and catches the soft sunlight —