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Thursday, 30 November 2017

Fitness Fanaticism

From Blushes 20
Anthea observed her nude body in the bathroom mirror with a critical eye. She made a face. Yes she definitely could lose a few pounds round her hips. She took a wedge of flesh at her waist between finger and thumb. Pinch an inch they said. Oh Christ!
Not that she was flabby, nothing like that. At 22 Anthea Ryder had what most men would consider a magnificent figure. Big, firmly-jutting boobs and a ripely rounded backside and as she was also quite tall she didn’t look fat. Yes, most men did consider it a magnificent figure — and some of them told her so. That was nice, any woman liked that. Anthea would smile a coy smile and say she was a happily married woman. And of course a faithful one. Well most of the time she was.
She made another face and pinched the offending flesh harder, bringing a sharp grimace. She wasn’t fit, she had to get fit. Or fitter at least.
That was what she said to Gavin a few minutes later in bed, now with her shorty nightie on. Gavin simply grunted and turned her over on her back and pushed her legs open and got on top of her. ‘Gavin!’ she hissed. Well, wasn’t there supposed to be something called foreplay. Up inside her, his mouth at her ear. ‘You’re fit for this, Anthea Ryder. You’re a super fuck.’
‘Don’t always be so crude,’ she hissed out. Though actually, although she would never admit it, Anthea found that sort of talk a bit of a turn-on when they did it. She thought of Bob Alford at the office. Mr Alford. She had let him do it three times in all before deciding she couldn’t stand the strain of an office affair. Six months ago. Now she’d got over the trauma it was another big turn-on thinking about it. They had done it one of the three times right here, in this bed. Anthea groaned. And came.
Two minutes later lying on her back next to Gavin she repeated what she had said before. ‘I’ve got to get fit.’ Adding, ‘I’m really in awful shape. I’m thinking of going to one of these places. A gym.’
She wasn’t going to tell Gavin the whole story. She couldn’t! About Mr Carling the new Head of Department at work. A fitness fanatic — or madman more like. Who today, at lunch time, had taken the whole typing pool, all six girls, and driven them out to the common and made them have a race. Take off their shoes and stockings or tights and run. A 100 yards he said it was though it had seemed more like 100 miles. Yelping and groaning they had nonetheless done it. Anthea had come in an ignominious last.
It had been just the most humiliating thing, the men at the end full of shaming remarks. The men who had included Bob Alford, second in command after Mr Carling, who six months earlier Anthea had had that short and torrid affair with.
The race had been bad enough but what was worse was that Mr Carling was going to have another in two weeks’ time. And he was going to time them this time and any who failed to make a certain grade would be in for some unstated but ‘very horrible’ penalty. Anthea’s time, he said, was certainly way outside the standard. He had slapped her across her rump. ‘Too much bum, I’m afraid, Anthea!’
Everyone naturally had laughed. Including that rat Mr Alford who that fantastic afternoon six months ago had screwed the daylights out of her right here, in this bed. Anthea’s hand slid over to Gavin. That was all in the past and fortunately Gavin knew nothing about it. This Mr Carling, though, and his fitness mania was something else.
Actually it was Bob Alford who had come up to Anthea in the afternoon, after he and all the others had had their laughs at her expense. With no one else in the office he had tried to put his arm round her but Anthea had angrily pushed him off. He grinned and then said he knew a gym where she could go. A chap who could get her really fit and then she could beat at least a couple of the other girls and not fall foul of whatever it was Mr Carling was planning.
Anthea had hesitated, not keen about accepting any help from Mr Alford. Since she stopped their affair he had several times tried to start something up again and had not seemed best pleased when rebuffed. But still — anything to avoid a repeat of that humiliation on the common. And also Anthea could do with getting herself in better shape. There were the summer holidays coming up and you didn’t want to be bulging out of your bikini.
So Anthea had rung this place up and got an appointment for tomorrow morning; Saturday. She told Gavin this but he didn’t seem all that interested. He had screwed her and now all he wanted was to get to sleep. That was typical. Mildly annoyed she dug him in the ribs.
----//----
It was in the next town, eight miles away, a private house in a residential area. Mr Kirby his name was. Quite a good-looking bloke as it turned out: big but fit-looking. He said ‘Hello, Mrs Ryder, yes?’ and led her in, through to a room at the back. A largish room with all the equipment. He looked at her and smiled. Fleetingly Anthea found herself wondering what he would be like in bed. She coloured slightly.
‘Right, Mrs Ryder, strip off. Let’s see the meat, shall we?’
The colour in Anthea’s cheeks deepened. That was not exactly a nice way to refer to an attractive woman’s body.
‘Come on, let’s see it.’ His voice harder and his hand suddenly came out and slapped Anthea’s blue-jeaned flank. ‘Looks like your problem is too much bum, eh? And those thighs look pretty meaty as well.’
It was almost as if he was trying to be rude and objectionable. Anthea felt a reluctance to strip off — especially in view of what she had on under her jeans and top. A very abbreviated black swimsuit. Very revealing and what there was of it extremely tight-fitting with those extra pounds she’d got from somewhere. She wasn’t sure why she had put it on now — except perhaps some vague idea of looking glamorous.
‘Come on!’ Mr Kirby’s voice sharp. ‘Show your stuff. Don’t mess about.’
Anthea decided she didn’t like him at all and the thought came that Bob Alford might have deliberately suggested someone unpleasant. She half felt like saying she was leaving. Going straight out to her car again.
Come on. Or I’ll have you over my lap and give that bum a good walloping.’
Look!’ she said angrily.
‘No you look,’ he rasped. ‘Or else.’
‘Or else what?’ She made it sound aggressive but she all at once had a funny feeling in her stomach.
He put his face close to hers. ‘Or I might tell Mr Ryder a few things. Dear wifey having a few little fucks on the side. Something like that.’
Her heart was suddenly pounding and she gave a yelp as his hand came up and squeezed one boob. She struggled away. That rat Alford. ‘I...I don’t know what you’re... talking about,’ she stuttered weakly.
‘Oh no? I’ve got chapter and verse on you, my girl, so just you do exactly as I say. Now get those bloody clothes off.’
Anthea’s hands went to the waist of her jeans. Christ! She was shivering all over. The sick-making thought that this dreadful person knew. Gavin would kill her. Divorce her. Probably both. She struggled down the tight jeans, then sat on the bench to take them off. What was she going to do?
The jeans came on down, exposing her flesh. She slipped off her high heels and then the jeans. This dreadful Kirby telling her to put the heels back on. And get moving.
Standing she pulled up the pink top, conscious again of the skimpy covering underneath. Why had she worn this swimsuit? But of course she had had no idea there would be this awful Kirby, she had vaguely imagined some pleasant person, perhaps flirtatious, admiring, but respectful. Not... she gasped as Kirby grabbed her half-bare bottom.
‘A saucy outfit, Mrs Ryder, did you hope perhaps you might get fucked again?’
The hand gave her a shove towards the work-out bench. ‘Well you’re not going to get fucked. You’re going to get that fat bum thrashed for starters. And then we’ll make you sweat as you’ve never sweated before.’
Was he some kind of madman? It was a nightmare. His hands at her, grabbing and pinching, making her get up on the bench. To kneel with her head and arms down on the padded top. Her skimpily covered bottom up in the air. Then his hands at that ripely thrust-up rump... were yanking at the cut-away suit. Yanking it into the cleft of her bottom, to completely bare the cheeks. Squealing, gasping sounds of protest as he did it but there was no way Anthea could stop him. Not in the position she was in. She gasped again as his awful hands ran over her now nude bottom. Then a gasped ‘Oooofff!’ as the first stinging smack came down.
He just kept on. Slamming his hard palm down. His other hand holding her firm and making sure the elasticated material of her swimsuit stayed tight in the cleft of her bottom, while his right hand kept on. Smack!... ‘Oooouuuwww!‘... Splat!... ‘Ooouuuwkkk!‘... Each flesh-juddering smack punctuated by a sharply frantic yelp from Anthea.
All over. Every inch of Anthea’s bountiful bottom and the backs of the full thighs, systematically given the treatment. Pale flesh rendered bright red. And, when it had all been covered, going over it all again.
It was unbelievable, as if she had walked into a nightmare. Her bottom, her whole up-ended body, writhing, rolling, jerking under the savage assault. Perhaps it was a dreadful dream and she would wake up and it would then be over...
But of course it wasn’t. When it was finally over. Mr Kirby possibly at last exhausted by his efforts, Anthea was still there. Still in that room with the weights and apparatus with her swimsuit yanked humiliatingly up into the crack of her bum. Her poor beaten bum angrily red and killing her. And yes Mr Kirby was there too. Telling her in that grating voice to get up.
Could she get up? Would her legs support her after that earth-shattering ordeal? They didn’t want to. Anthea stumbled, holding onto the bar weights for support.
‘How was that?’ asked Mr Kirby, his face possibly a little pink. ‘A nice little warm-up? Now we get you really going. I want to see you drenching in sweat.’
High heels off and running on the spot until Anthea literally collapsed. She collapsed but Mr Kirby dragged her to her feet again. ‘Come on, we can’t have slacking. That’s not the way to get fit.’
Deep-knee bends and stretches. Toe-touching. Her back, the backs of her legs, burning. Up on that diabolical bench again, now on her back, holding her rump up, cycling her legs in the air. More muscles, sinews, discovered that it seemed had never been used before and now forced into agonising action. Then running again...
‘I... can’t... do... any more...’ But in spite of the piteous wails, she could do that little bit more. When now Mr Kirby produced a whippy cane and whipped the whippy cane in across her arm, her thigh, her bare buttocks.
‘Keep going!’
----//----
‘How did it go?’
Gavin got no answer as Anthea ran straight upstairs into the bathroom. To lock the door and burst into tears. Because it wasn’t over of course. Oh no. Right now Anthea couldn’t care if she came last when Mr Carling made them go out on that bloody common again, and she couldn’t care if she never got fit. But she didn’t have any choice, she had to go back there again on Monday after work.
‘I... don’t... want to,’ she had ventured when at the end of that shattering session Mr Kirby had told her that. He simply grabbed her arm and twisted it and rasped. ‘You be here — or you know what’ll happen.’
So yes, Anthea was going again on Monday after work. Although the prospect made her want to throw up.
On Monday morning of course there was rat-fink Alford sidling over to her desk when things were quiet, a broad grin on his face. Asking innocently, ‘Did you get on all right?’
‘You bastard!’ she spat.
He grinned even more. ‘Don’t be like that, Anthea dear. You wanted to get fit and I’m sure Ron Kirby’ll do the trick. I bet he had you really sweating, eh?’
‘You bastard!’ she hissed again. For two pins she could have burst into tears.
No she had no choice. At 6 o’ clock she was there, back at that house again. Gavin would be getting his supper late but that was just hard luck. He had grumbled of course when she told him. Maybe she should have told him the whole story. No, maybe not, she couldn’t face that.
So it was Mr Kirby again. This time he said just strip down to her undies. It was even worse than before if that was possible because this time instead of spanking her he used that cane. Making her kneel on the bench as before but this time taking her knickers down and slicing the cane into her bare bottom.
The pain of that cane... was indescribable...
----//----
Two weeks. Mr Kirby made her come round every other day for two weeks, right up until that next outing on the common. Each session as bad as the last. Mr Kirby it seemed trying to kill her. Was Anthea fitter, after all this torture? She didn’t feel fitter, she simply felt knocked out by it all. She must be fitter, though, Anthea told herself. Something must have come out of all that nightmare.
On the common again. The girls complainingly taking off shoes, stockings, tights. The men laughing and joking as before. Mr Alford laughing, ‘Watch out for Anthea, she’s been doing a lot of training.’
But so had the other two slower girls — tipped off by Alford. And so although Anthea was faster she still came in some way behind the others. Mr Carling with his stopwatch announced that her time was not good enough. She had failed the test.
Somehow Anthea kept back the tears.
But Mr Carling’s ‘very horrible’ penalty. Had he just said that as a threat? No he hadn’t. The next day, after lunch, he and Bob Alford came in to Anthea. She was having the afternoon off. They were going round to Mr Carling’s place.
A number of other men were there, some of them from the company and also Mr Kirby. All with expectant grins on their faces. There was also a girl, or rather woman, thirtyish, in a track suit.
‘This is Helga,’ said Mr Carling. ’She does a bit of wrestling, don’t you, Helga. She’s going to wrestle you, Anthea dear.’
Helga smiled and took off her track suit to reveal a trim but muscular shape in a pink leotard. Anthea, said Mr Carling, was going to wrestle in the nude.
She screamed that she wouldn’t, there was no way she was going to provide this spectacle for these grinning men. Mr Carling said quietly, ‘But you will, Anthea dear. Bob here tells me you will.’ Bob Alford gave a sickly sort of grin.
They all went outside, into Mr Carling’s secluded garden, on the lawn. Anthea was made to strip off. Everything. Whoops and whistles from the men as they formed a circle around the two girls. Before Anthea knew it, Helga was at her. Helga with her taut body and tight features who could very easily be a dyke, grabbing Anthea and expertly throwing her heavily to the ground.
Anthea with the breath knocked out of her and hurting from the fall, with grinning Helga sitting on her shoulders. Helga pulling Anthea’s legs up, forcing them wide. Anthea looking up at the circle of excited faces, then gasping as someone emptied a bucket of cold water between her spread legs.
Hoots of manic laughter.

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Headmaster’s Half Hour

From Blushes 20
The intercom buzzed and he pressed the button. ‘Mrs Ingram is here, Mr Fernley. And Jackie.’
‘Ah good, Kate. Just give me five minutes will you, then send them in.’
Five minutes for the girl to sweat and the mother to squirm a bit as well. He put his papers away and got up from his desk. Out of the window they were going home — most of them at least. The boys and those girls who didn’t have an appointment with their Headmaster. Three this afternoon, Jackie Ingram the first. He allowed himself 30 minutes with each one, that was usually sufficient to do the job properly also he could sometimes run over a bit. The boys of course didn’t get it, not from the Head at least; they were sent to the local Welfare Office. But a Headmaster dealt personally with his girls; oh yes indeed.
He thoughtfully paced across his office a couple of times, then cleared one side of his desk. Perhaps it was an ignoble thought but this really was the best time of the day. No, on second thoughts it wasn’t an ignoble thought, there was nothing ignoble about seeing that proper discipline was maintained. It was a matter of the very first importance.
The buzzer went again. ‘Yes, Kate, show them in please.’
Jackie was in the Sixth Form, a pretty girl, soft curling blonde hair and nice big blue eyes with an appealing look. Also a trim young shape under her uniform. He pursed his lips. He definitely fancied her which was why she was here after school for the third time in a little over two terms. Was that an ignoble thought? Just possibly, but fortunately she was somewhat careless in her work. And anyway the pretty ones needed more disciplining, there was more temptation to be guarded against. That was what he told the mothers. Yes. He would have had Jackie in even more than the three times except that... well, a Headmaster had to have self-discipline too.
He smiled at the mother, ‘Hello Mrs Ingram. Nice to see you again.’ His smile broadened. ‘But perhaps you may not reciprocate that. Anyway do have a seat.’
Mrs Ingram, whose name he thought was Susan said, ‘It is embarrassing to be here again.’ She went to sit on the chair at the side. An older version of Jackie, in her 30’s presumably and still slim, in skirt and short jacket. Jackie of course remained standing as the Head closed the door behind them. He went to sit at his desk again. She had something of the look of a frightened rabbit — except that rabbits don’t have such big blue eyes. Or for that matter such trim knees below the pleated blue skirt.
‘Yes it is unfortunate, Mrs Ingram, but Jackie does continue to produce what is clearly not her best. So I think we must give her another sharp reminder.’
Mrs Ingram said a quiet ‘Yes Mr Fernley.’ There was naturally no disputing what he had said. It was stated government policy to emphasise discipline in school and Heads were strongly encouraged to deal with pupils as and when and how they saw fit. With girls, that was. Boys were now the subject of those special Welfare Offices and were simply referred to them if there was a problem. But girls were the Head’s province. Oh yes, a very sensible government now. After those awful years of indiscipline and disorder and virtually allowing the nation’s youth to run riot. An excellent government and with very widespread support.
So Mrs Ingram was not going to demur and nor was anyone else and Jackie Ingram was going to meekly accept it. ‘Have you anything to say, Jackie?’
Those appealing eyes blinked rapidly, becoming even more appealing. Jackie knew and so did her mother and Mr Fernley that very soon the tears would be flooding out. Her fingers plucked nervously at the hem of the pale blue blazer. She shook her head. ‘No sir.’
‘You accept that you’re in need of another little reminder?’
Jackie very probably didn’t accept it. She might even think that Mr Fernley had got her in here for the third time in one and a bit terms because he enjoyed what he was going to do. No doubt there were elements in the school who would say that and quite possibly someone had said it to Jackie. But that did not alter the unquestioned fact that Mr Fernley could have her in here again. And attempting to dispute this could all probability make matters worse. If that was possible.
She shook her blonde head again, and managed another ‘No sir’.
‘Good,’ George Fernley said plummily. ‘That at least is a point in your favour, Jackie. I can only hope that this afternoon’s session will have more effect than the last one.’
He got up from his desk. ‘So let us proceed, shall we? Blazer, blouse, skirt.’
He moved to sit on his other chair, in front of the window and at right angles to the one where Mrs Ingram was sitting. He always used this chair for the spanking. Plenty of elbow room and it gave the mother a good clear view of the proceedings. Government advice stressed the desirability of involving the parent. The unhappy-looking Jackie started unbuttoning her blazer.
Slipping it off and then, equally unhappily, fumbling at the red-and-blue striped tie. That came off and was placed with the blazer on her mother’s lap. Then the white blouse; the navy pleated skirt. He kept a dispassionate look — or hoped he did. The slim, trim form now revealed; a brief white bra for the pert tits, equally brief white knickers hugging boyish hips.
‘Stand up straight, Jackie.’ There was always a powerful desire to want to cringe, to cover up.
‘And now slide your knickers down.’
A moment’s desperate hesitation and then she did it. Naturally even more of a desperate desire to cringe and cover up. ‘Stand up straight, Jackie.’
Keep that dispassionate look. A really delightful mound of dark blonde hair. ‘Good. Now come here please. Let’s see what you need, shall we?’
A darting glance at the mother — whose face bears an agitated look. But this is what 17-year-old girls need, everyone agrees. Well, everyone except perhaps a girl and her mother. He drew her gently but firmly down. Right over so that the heart-stoppingly silky bottom is squarely across his trousered thighs. One hand at the slim waist, to hold her firm, the other, notwithstanding the parental eyes, indulging in a brief fondle at the dreamy cheeks. And then...
Crack!... Crack!... Crack!...
Girlish yelps and grunts and gasps. Writhing and jerking of the sharply struck bottom-cheeks. Kicking and squirming of the bare thighs, the white-knee-socked lower legs, the brown-sandalled feet.
He kept it up for some time, covering and recovering every inch of bottom and upper backs of thighs. Rendering it all a uniform glowing red. Hard stinging smacks such that by the time he was halfway through his hand was feeling distinctly sore. By less than halfway through the tears were in full spate: gasping sobs joining the other sounds of distress. Oh yes, young Miss was feeling it all right.
At last he pushed her to her feet. ‘What do you think, Mrs Ingram? Will that do her a bit of good?’
Mrs Ingram naturally looked most distressed. Her darling daughter, in just bra and knickers at half-mast, trembling all over, evidently having trouble standing, backside red and blotchy, her face also red and wet with tears as well. Biting her lip she forced a ‘Yes Mr Fernley.’
‘And what do you think, Jackie?’
Whatever Jackie thought she was not at present able to communicate. Not coherently at least. Just a funny sort of gasping sound mixed with the sobs.
He got to his feet. ‘Hmmm. Well now, it is her third visit in quick succession. Something else needed as well this time, I feel. A little touch of the stick.’
His cane. He hadn’t used it on the other two occasions, contenting himself with good, hard spankings. Today though, yes, definitely the pleasure of the cane as well.
He flexed it. ‘Get over the desk, Jackie. Bend yourself right over. We’ll see how you like the stick, shall we? Persistently naughty girls need that little extra.’
Jackie didn’t move towards the desk but instead took a step towards her mother, big blue tear-filled eyes eloquently desperate. An anguished cry of ‘Mum!’ But Mrs Ingram, though looking equally distressed, could not help. She was there simply to observe, not to plead for leniency. She shook her head. Mr Fernley whipped the cane in across the back of a thigh.
‘Get bent over, girl!’
Nothing for it of course. Renewed howls, of fearful anticipation. The cane was clearly going to hurt even more than Mr Fernley’s hand. Probably a lot more. But howl as a girl might she was not going to avoid it.
Thwackk!...
A gasping screech testified to what it could do to a girl’s bare bottom. As did the frantic clenching and churning of the stricken nates. Mrs Ingram gasping in unison with her daughter, no doubt feeling herself the cane’s impact.
Stay bent over, Miss. Hold onto the desk. I’m giving you six.’
Six. Ah yes. Six flesh-juddering cuts across the well-spanked bottom and thighs. Six stripes to show bright red against the overall rosy-pink glow. Six providers of thrilling, tingly pleasure to the cane-wielder. Ignoble? Surely not if one were performing this duty at the behest of the state, for the betterment of society at large — and indeed for the good of the girl.
Not that the girl was in any state to appreciate this.
The sixth finally delivered. All good things come to an end. ‘That’s it. Stand up, Jackie. All over. You may put your clothes back on.’
She seemed to have some difficulty making her limbs function. Shell-shocked — or more correctly cane-shocked. Mrs Ingram on her feet now, her face expressing the desperate relief that it was at last over and she no longer had to sit there and watch. Helping her sobbing daughter with knickers, skirt... and the rest.
Jackie finally dressed. ‘Good. That’s it then, my girl. Just wait outside in Mrs Mortimer’s room for a minute, will you? I wish to have a short word with your mother.’
Closing the door. ‘Yes Mrs Ingram. It’s simply... well, the third time in little more than a term. I was wondering. It might be helpful if I were to have her to myself for a longer period. In the week of course one is so busy. But... next weekend I’m going down to my cottage in Dorset. I rather thought I might take Jackie with me...’
Mrs Ingram cannot say anything else but that this sounds a very good idea. And indeed it is extremely generous of Mr Fernley to take this special interest in her daughter.
George Fernley was suddenly started out of his long and delightful reverie by the door of his study opening. His wife Muriel bearing a cup of coffee. She smiled. ‘Working, George? Or snoozing.’
‘Oh working of course.’ He pointed to a pile of exercise books on his desk. ‘It’s all go, isn’t it.’
She put down the coffee. ‘How were the brats today?’
‘Oh about the same. Little buggers.’
Muriel made a face and went out. George took a mouthful of coffee. Yes, that Jackie Ingram. What he wouldn’t give to really be free to slide the knickers down off of that saucy rump.
He settled back in his chair again. Friday afternoon after school, setting out in the Maxi on the road to Dorset. Muriel of course has had to stay behind (a Women’s Institute meeting on Saturday?) and naturally Mrs Ingram is not coming. No, just himself and Jackie. No doubt rather scary little thoughts are spinning around in that pretty blonde head. Reassuringly he puts his hand down on a soft warm thigh.
Two whole marvellous days. Not to mention two whole marvellous nights. ‘You remembered to pack your pyjamas, Jackie?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good. Though of course as it’s warm you might not want to wear them.’ The reassuring hand squeezes.

Join the Dots…

From Blushes 35
The lances of cold water made Caroline gasp, the shower dancing spray round her naked body as she flicked the tumbling wet blonde hair off her face and allowed the jets to force the water into her half-open mouth. It had been a hard match. A good match, too, even if they had lost. Pity about the argument over that line-call, but at least she’d given a good showing of herself.
Turning, the therapeutic water massage was directed onto her back and, with a half-step forward, onto her firm buttocks. The runlets of water found their way into the passage between the cheeks, cascading across the rounded flesh, and caressing her intimate folds before running down the insides of her thighs to the tiled floor below.
‘Caroline?’
‘Yes?’
‘Come out of there!’
She groped for a towel, and failed to find it until the assistant coach pushed it into her hand. ‘Thank you miss.’
‘Mr Harleston wants to see you... immediately.’
Mr Harleston. Supremo of the tennis court. Admired, and feared. What could he want with her? Surely he hadn’t heard about her on-court tantrum?
‘Do you know what it’s about?’
‘Your behaviour, I would think. Time you got a grip on that temper of yours.’
‘Mmmm, I know, but that line call was crazy,’ Caroline whined.
‘I think it was arguing with the umpire that would have reached Mr Harleston’s ears, Caroline. Now jump to it: he wants you there right now.’
It took the girl a little over a minute to towel herself down and dry off her hair, shoving in two yellow grips to hold it up off her face. Saved drying it properly, and brushing it out. The blonde tangle looked casually arranged. It was. Slipping on white cotton knickers, she yanked short socks and flat white shoes onto her feet before reaching for her dress. But it wasn’t on the hook where she had left it.
‘NOW, Caroline!’ the woman shouted.
Caroline grabbed a towelling robe from a neighbouring peg and slipped it over her shoulders before trotting down the corridor and up the two flights of stairs to the offices.
‘In the store room at the end of the corridor!’ advised the woman.
The store room? That was a little odd. Pushing the door open, Caroline grimaced at the bright green panelled walls. Someone had a pretty tacky taste in decoration. Mr Harleston was not there. The only furniture looked long-abandoned. A rather old-fashioned marble top dresser, the tiles on the splashback almost contemporary in their design. Strange how these things went in cycles, Caroline thought idly.
More incongruously, a steel and timber-framed bed, its bare spring base looking particularly unwelcoming, a white T-shirt thrown across one end. The door slammed, and Mr Harleston stood there. No jacket, his face flushed from the exertion of those two flights of stairs, she shouldn’t wonder.
‘Caroline McIntyre?’
‘Yes, Mr Harleston.’
‘Girl involved in the argument with the umpire?’
‘Errr, yes, but...’
‘No buts. Yes or no?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Take that robe off.’
‘But I haven’t got...’ she began until, seeing the look on his face, she slipped the robe off her shoulders and tossed it into the corner. Hands spread at her sides, she stood, boldly, topless, as he gazed at her in some surprise. Caroline had a good body, and she knew it. The firm breasts were well-proportioned, pale pink nipples crowning their perfection.
‘Turn round,’ he ordered. Caroline was conscious of the pubic bush beneath the thin fabric of her panties.
‘I won’t have girls on our team behaving like that. Do you know what happens to girls who behave like that?’
Caroline pondered the wisdom of admitting she had heard tales of unofficial spankings — perhaps in this very room — and even one story of a bare-bottomed caning. She thought it wiser to plead innocence.
‘No, Mr Harleston.’
‘They are punished, my girl. Severely.’
‘Oh.’
‘A girl’s bottom is able to withstand a surprising amount of physical pain, I have discovered. Have you ever been beaten, McIntyre?’
‘No, sir, although I...’ her voice tailed off.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Well, I’m going to beat you today.’
Caroline made no response. What response was there to make? You can’t? I won’t let you? I’m too old? I’ll tell someone? Standing there clad only in shoes, socks and knickers, she felt strangely vulnerable, strangely powerless, strangely afraid.
‘We’ll have those little pants off now, I think.’ He took a step towards her, and she backed to the dresser. Moments later, his fingers were firmly hooked into the elastic at the waist and her only protection began its downward journey towards her ankles.
She turned and wriggled in protest. Her reward was a sharp, stinging slap across the back of her thigh.
‘Ooowww!’
The red imprint of his fingers was bright on her creamy flesh. And still her knickers continued their journey. There was a brief tussle as they became entangled round her ankles, her shoes posing a small problem as she obediently lifted first one foot then the other to allow the fabric to be removed.
A firm hand on her right shoulder forced Caroline to turn her back. Two hard, smarting slaps were delivered to her bottom, one to each cheek, with the advice that it would be more prudent to co-operate than resist.
‘Don’t make it worse on yourself. Now wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Embarrassed, uncertain, worried, cold, Caroline stood nervously by the dresser for almost fifteen minutes until Mr Harleston returned, locking the door behind him. Sitting himself on the edge of the bed, he turned her again with a hand on her waist. ‘You have a good arse, McIntyre. I shall enjoy seeing if you can take it.’ He revealed a thick strap which he had hidden behind his back and allowed her to turn and see it for the first time. The widened eyes gave the message loud and clear.
‘I think you’re a little old for an over-the-knee spanking. So I’m going to give you a good leathering instead...’
His eyes dropped with interest to the apex of her thighs, but Caroline made no attempt to hide her sex. There seemed little point.
‘I’ll give you a choice for your leathering. You can either bend over and grip your ankles, or lie on the bed. Which is it to be?’
There was a long pause. Caroline considered the implications of each alternative. As she had never been beaten properly before, she somehow doubted if she would be able to maintain a bending-over position. The bed would seem to offer — despite its unwelcoming bare-springed surface — the better option.
‘I’ll lie on the bed, Mr Harleston.’
‘Up you get, then, face down and lie full length.’ Caroline did as she was told, reaching out to the top to hold onto the uprights.
‘Feet at each side of the bed, like your hands.’
She slid her legs apart until her toes were touching the extremities of the base. She increased her grip at the other end. Mr Harleston looked with admiration at the hirsute junction of her legs.
He allowed the strap to fall gently across the backs of her thighs and smiled as she flinched. He waited for the inevitable question of how many strokes she would get, and it came soon enough.
‘I will decide that when I see how well you take your medicine, McIntyre. The more you move about, the worse it will be. As this appears to be your first thrashing, there is obviously a large amount of ground to be made up.’
He let the long length of leather lie over her nates. Raising it, he brought it down with style and vigour across the fullest parts of those presented cheeks, which quivered obligingly as they absorbed the impact, before springing back into their same inviting curves: ‘Aaaahhheeerrr....’
A second, sharply explosive blow. ‘Ooowww, Christ, Oooh, God... it stings...’
A third, just above the crease where thigh and buttock met.
‘Aahhhh. Christ, that really hurt.’ Puffing and panting, Caroline lay, still spread-eagled, her bottom now demonstrating its protest with an expanding area of bright red bands, each single stroke still clearly evident, the ridging on her skin caused by the edge of the strap just beginning to swell.
A fourth, and a high-pitched yelp from the recipient, her hands leaving the headboard to reach back protectively.
‘Get your hands away,’ ordered Mr Harleston. ‘You’re only half way there, young lady, but I’ll give you a few minutes to cool off.’ Without another word, he unlocked the door and strode from the room, flinging the pain-inflicting implement onto the dresser.
Caroline struggled up off the bed, the marks of the springs like a patchwork quilt across her legs, tummy and breasts. The effect was almost surreal.
She looked anxiously into the mirror propped up on the dresser, and wrinkled her face in horror at the damage the thick leather had inflicted. Picking it up, she realised by its weight why it was so stingingly effective. The heavy tread along the corridor outside announced Mr Harleston’s return. Caroline flung herself, with a creaking, squeaking protest from the bed, onto the springs and adopted the required position.
There was the rumble of voices as the door opened: ‘She’s had four strokes, but as she’s taking it so well I thought you’d be interested to see the other four. Come on in.’
Caroline declined to turn her head to identify the newcomer. It was enough that her bum was burning without it attracting an audience. She had no desire to be further humiliated by knowing who was watching her so exposed, so naked, being soundly flogged. She looked resolutely straight ahead.
She therefore missed the strap being handed to the newcomer, who ran it through his fingers before slashing it down in a bum-slicing curve of pain to explode against the girl’s cheeks.
‘Arrr... damn!’ she yelled.
Swiftly, barely pausing at the top of the swing, he brought it down again just as hard, extracting a further expletive from the alarmed girl, her buttocks clenching and unclenching with all the power of her gluteal muscles. Eventually, they relaxed, ready.
The seventh stroke was delivered across the lower part of her rump, and the last, deliberately but less forcefully, across the backs of her thighs just below that defining crease. Caroline screamed in protest, her head flung angrily round to see the justification for this unfair assault.
Her eyes clouded in tears as she recognised her ex-boyfriend, now captain of the tennis club and in a privileged position with the coach. The disciplining of the younger members of the team, recalcitrant or disobedient, was a privilege shared with pleasure. And after Caroline had so recklessly tossed him aside in favour of an older player, the sweet revenge across her bare backside, the strap hanging smugly by his side, was a satisfying form of justice.
Caroline slumped her head onto the springs and allowed her tears to drip steadily through onto the bare boards below.

Friday, 24 November 2017

Sea Spirit and Painted Lady

Story by R.T. Mason from Janus 40
It was the last day of their Whitsun holiday: a perfect English late spring day with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky and just enough breeze off the sea to keep the little seaside town fresh and sparkling. Yes, a beautiful June day and as it turned out a uniquely memorable one for 16-year-old Emma Watson.
Her parents had rented a cottage at the quiet Devon resort and it had been a very pleasant week, though perhaps, for Emma, just a little unexciting. At 16 she was not a child anymore but at the same time not exactly an adult either. Perhaps it was because she was at that so-called awkward age that Emma had wanted to go off by herself on this last day rather than stay with her parents as she had for most of the rest of the week. Being with her parents all the time meant she hadn’t met anyone else much. No girls her own age. And also no boys.
So on this last morning she said she felt like just wandering around rather than going with them on their visit to some beauty spot or other. They didn’t object; only told her to be careful and be back for lunch, and she went off, feeling a bit more grown up to be on her own. Perhaps that was partly why it seemed such an extra nice day; being by herself with that tingle of anticipation that something exciting might happen.
Emma had put on her favourite dress, pink with blue flowers on it. Knee-length and full-skirted, it showed off her slim waist and quite long legs. She wore a waist slip underneath — because otherwise you could see through the thin dress, especially in the bright sun — and her smart pair of white high-heeled sandals. There was no need for a coat or cardigan so she would be able to show off her trim figure which secretly Emma was rather proud of. She added a touch of her mother’s pink lipstick. In the mirror, with her blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail, she thought she looked pretty good, sexy even.
Please, she had wished, just a little adventure before we have to go back home. And Emma had got her adventure all right. Not anything she could possibly have expected but definitely an adventure. Something so scarily exciting it had made her feel physically sick.
Actually, before that quite mind-boggling thing there was something else, something quite exciting in itself. On the front looking in one of the gift shop windows a man had spoken to her. He was perhaps in his thirties, not bad-looking and with an educated accent. He said something about it being a lovely day and then a few other things and it became clear to Emma that he was trying to pick her up. She felt a hot flush of excitement, her mind rushing on to various heady possibilities. At 16 Emma had never properly been out with boys and also her mother always told her not to talk to strange men, which this clearly was.
He wanted to buy her an ice-cream but, flushing, Emma said No thanks. He wasn’t too persistent and after a bit went off. As a parting shot he said, ‘You’ve got lovely legs, you know.’
That brought another flush to Emma’s cheeks. She strolled off, very conscious now of her long bare legs in the high-heeled sandals, her thighs bare under the thin summer dress. She could imagine the man’s hands on her thighs — and even on something else. Part of her definitely wished she had said Yes to him; it undoubtedly would have been an adventure, but perhaps more of one than she wanted. But it was that tinge of regret that made her bolder later on. Half an hour later.
She had wandered on, to the end of the sea front and then round to the place where the boats were. There were lots of them: yachts and motor boats of all shapes and sizes, some moored out in the water and others clustered round the jetties. At the very end there was that one solitary boat, a biggish launch, all by itself moored at the end of an isolated wooden walkway. It was called the Sea Spirit.
As Emma looked she saw a black kitten on the boat’s deck. On impulse she walked out onto the jetty, careful of her high heels on the gaps between the planks. The kitten miaowed and moved towards her. And then the man appeared. Older than the one at the gift shop, fiftyish but lean and suntanned.
‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes looking her up and down. ‘Do you like cats?’
And in what seemed like no time at all Emma was walking across the little plank and onto the boat. She knew she shouldn’t, it was exactly the sort of thing her mother told her never to do; but perhaps if you always followed exactly what your mother told you, you would never do anything. That man at the gift shop had been partly responsible. This one didn’t say she had lovely legs but his eyes, taking in the long legs and the trim figure, gave her the same message. What he did say was would she like some tea. And after only a moment’s hesitation Emma said Yes please.
She followed him down the little ladder, into the cabin, with the kitten coming too. He made a pot of tea, and chatted about this and that, asking where she was from and where she was staying, as they sat in the little cabin on the facing seats. All the time Emma had a funny feeling, a sort of excitement inside, as if she knew something was going to happen. Perhaps it was just that she had never done anything like this before. In any event, of course, something did happen.
When she had finished her tea. He took the cup and gave her a funny look with those grey-green eyes. Smiling a bit, he said, quite out of the blue, ‘You were trespassing, you know. On my jetty. What should we do with a pretty girl who trespasses?’
Suddenly all Emma’s senses were alert but she didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. With another smile he said, ‘What about a spanking? That’s always a nice way to deal with a pretty girl.’
Emma opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her mind couldn’t really accept what she had heard. Then he said, ‘Yes, I think we’ll give her a spanking. With her knickers down, of course.’
Emma gave a weak sort of laugh. Her mind had got hold of it now all right but he must be joking. And it was the kind of joke that made you go all hot and cold — and also very red in the face. The idea of getting her bare bottom smacked, and by this stranger who was quite attractive in an older-man sort of way, was definitely mind-boggling. Emma waited for him to say something that would indicate that he was joking.
Instead, giving her that level stare again, he said, ‘Stand up then and take them down.’
This time she did manage to produce something. ‘Look... you’re joking, aren’t you?’
He laughed. ‘No I’m not. I’m quite serious. Take your knickers down, please. Or I might just take you along to the police station.’
What for?’ she gasped.
‘I think the expression they use is “In need of care and protection”. A number of people have complained about girls hanging about round here. Girls on holiday and also local schoolgirls. Some of them looking for excitement and some of them wanting to make a bit of pocket money. You know what I mean, I’m sure. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want your parents to have to collect you from the police station because you had been picked up for that. Would you, Emma dear?’
What he was saying was simply horrible. ‘I never... I was just going for a walk,’ she spluttered.
He stood up and, taking her hand, pulled Emma to her feet. ‘I believe you. But I also want to smack your bottom. Nothing vicious, you might even like it. So are you going to take them down or shall I?’
Emma stood there, shaking. The thought of it was nothing less than mind-blowing. To be over this man’s lap with her bottom bare. She gave a gasp as he pulled her close with one arm round her waist. Then the other hand went down and came back up the bare backs of her thighs, lifting dress and petticoat with it. Further up, over her tightly-knickered rump and his fingers then clawing at the knickers’ waistband.
Emma struggled but only weakly because she felt quite faint with excitement. The next thing she knew he had backed down onto his seat and she was over his lap. Her skirt was up round her waist and those strong fingers were completing the removal of the pink knickers from Emma’s bottom, tugging them halfway down her thighs. Suddenly, shockingly, his hand was on the bare cheeks, stroking, but when you’d never had a man’s hand there before it felt more like the touch of a naked electric wire. And then the hand started spanking.
Emma thought she was going to be sick. It wasn’t so much that it hurt desperately badly, though it did hurt, but more the sense of shock, of hot embarrassment that this man could be doing such a thing to her. Mixed with all that, though, was a sensation of intense excitement at having one of her most intimate regions bared before him like this and being forced to submit to it. It was dreadful but at the same time dreadfully exciting.
The spanking went on, bringing involuntary gasps and grunts as the hand systematically splatted down briskly and loudly on every part of Emma’s firm and shapely bottom. The feeling that she was going to be sick became less but at the same time Emma realised she was crying. Again it wasn’t really the pain but simply that the whole thing was emotionally too much for her.
At last he stopped and pulled Emma to her feet. She was sobbing and shaking so much she could hardly stand, and with her eyes filled with tears she could barely see either. A real mess. The man put a tissue in her hand and told her to blow her nose. She did, and wiped her eyes. He now held a glass of something. Sherry, he said. Emma took it and promptly choked. Coughing, she flopped back down onto her seat — and then realised her pink knickers were still down round her knees.
Feeling like bursting into tears she struggled the knickers back up under her dress. Sitting opposite, the man asked if she was feeling better. Emma tried to say something but only produced a kind of sobbing sound.
He smiled. ‘Nothing to worry about. A spanking’s very good for a girl and I found it most enjoyable. But I wouldn’t go accepting invitations on every boat round here. There’re plenty of men who’d have your knickers down for a very different reason. And I don’t suppose your mother’d be very pleased if that nice trim tummy started swelling up in a few months’ time.’
There was nothing you could say to that. In a croaky voice Emma said, ‘I… I’ve got to go.’
He said OK. Emma stood up, still a bit tottery. In the mirror she saw she looked a real mess, her eyes all red from crying. He put his arm round her narrow waist. Incredibly he asked if she wanted to come out that evening, for a drink. Emma shook her head.
The man pulled her round, both arms round her, and kissed her on the mouth. One hand ran over her still heated bottom; and Emma felt a hardness in the front of his trousers pressing against her.
‘You’ve got a super bum,’ he said. ‘I could smack it every day of the week.’
She broke away and he didn’t try to stop her. The kitten was outside on the deck and Emma stroked it and then stepped off onto the jetty. Stumbling a couple of times on the planks and then on shore started walking quickly away. She looked back once and saw him on deck, watching her. Feeling his hand on her bottom, his mouth on her lips, she turned and went on.
Emma said nothing to her parents about her adventure. She felt all shaky for the rest of the day and in bed that night, hotly reliving it all, she did something that nice girls aren’t supposed to do. They left the next morning for home and she never saw the man again.
----//----
All that was eight years ago. Emma was now 24, married and with a three-year-old daughter, Katie. In all those years she had never been back to the little seaside town but the memory of that morning on the Sea Spirit had remained with her, unfading, crystal-bright. From time to time she had thought of going back, to walk along the sea front again and relive those moments, but she never had. In fact soon after the holiday she had casually asked her mother if they might go again next year. A seemingly offhand inquiry but Emma’s heart had been pounding. But her mother said she didn’t think so. It had been nice but perhaps it would be more interesting to see somewhere else. They had gone to Swanage. Swanage was alright but there was no one there to invite Emma on his boat and take her knickers down and smack her bare bottom. Even though she did wander around quite a bit on her own.
After that there were other places but none with men who took Emma’s knickers down. And soon anyway she met Robert and then when she was 20 they got married. They got on well and she was very happy but that tingling memory remained, ever bright. At times she thought about it, guiltily, when Robert was making love to her and it was always an intense turn-on, sweeping her up to an orgasm which otherwise didn’t always come.
Once or twice Emma had thought of telling Robert about the man on the boat — and even telling Robert he could spank her if he wanted to. She was sure that would be terribly exciting but she never did say anything, afraid he might think she was silly. And also in a way it was nice to keep the whole thing to herself. Her private secret garden.
It had remained that all those years — a secret stunning pleasure-place in her mind. Then this year, eight years later, in January when it’s nice to be thinking about summer holidays, Robert out of the blue had mentioned the magic name of that little town. Someone had told him it was a good place for a quiet family holiday. Flushing, Emma had said, Yes, she had been there once...
And so in August here she was. Once more.
Not that he would be here now, or the Sea Spirit. People with boats were very mobile and he had obviously only been there on holiday. Right now, eight years older, he could be anywhere. Some French town for instance, smacking some pretty French girl’s bottom, and in any case it could well be that he only went for trim 16-year-old bottoms. The years, and baby Katie, had added just a little to Emma’s rear. It was somewhat fuller now, though still firm and shapely.
But though she didn’t expect to see him Emma still experienced a surge of excitement at being in that magic place again. They arrived quite late, time only for a drink and then bed. In the sheets Emma was at once hotly passionate, sufficient for Robert to notice. She explained it as due to being in a strange bed, but it was of course something else. And she knew that tomorrow she would have to get away and walk round there by herself. To where the boats were.
She managed it by telling Robert she had to do some shopping. He was quite happy to take Katie on the beach and Emma would join them later. She told herself she was being stupid anyway; she could remember it all as clear as if it were yesterday and in eight years things could have changed a lot. It might be all different and that would spoil it, spoil her secret garden. Emma almost convinced herself that she should not bother but instead go straight to the beach.
She didn’t though. As she had all those years before she walked along the front, past that gift shop, and then out round the corner. To the boat area. It was all the same, exactly the same, it seemed. The multi-coloured boats all jumbled together. And further on, at the end, her heart missed a beat, for there was a boat all by itself, exactly like... No, it wasn’t exactly like the other.
The hull of that one had surely been a darker blue and, as she got closer, there was the name. Her boat had been the Sea Spirit. This was called Painted Lady. Nonetheless Emma’s heart gave another violent thump as she saw there was a man on the rear deck. It wasn’t him of course but this one looked very much the same age, fiftyish. He saw her — and called Good Morning.
Somehow Emma found herself walking out on that wooden jetty again. As she did she realised she was wearing white high-heeled sandals — exactly as before. As before she had to watch out for the gaps in the slats. Thinking of the sandals, her mind ran on. To her bare legs, her bare thighs under her short thin dress. And her knickers. The knickers which eight years ago in this place had come down. They had been pink ones. Today they weren’t pink, they were blue.
That was what she was thinking as she said, ‘Hello. I… I’m here for the week. With my husband.’ That sounded a bit stupid and she added, ‘I used to know someone with a boat here. Like yours.’ That sounded inane too.
Perhaps it was also stupid to go on board and accept a glass of sherry. But although it clearly wasn’t the same, Emma knew that in a way she was reliving that day when she was a sweet young 16-year-old. She had the sherry, and then another. And although it was also stupid Emma felt an overwhelming urge to tell him.
She heard herself say, ‘Shall I tell you something? About when I was 16? That boat that was moored here. That man...’
It all came out, a bit disjointed in parts, but Emma told it all. While the man, this new man, sat listening intently, his eyes never leaving her face.
‘And was that the only time?’ he asked when she had finished.
‘Oh yes. It was only that one time.’
‘Didn’t you want it to happen again, though? Afterwards?’ he asked.
Emma flushed. She had wanted it to happen again but you can’t say that to a man you’ve only just met. She said No but her face probably told a different story.
‘I bet you did,’ he said. ‘I bet you’ve dreamt about it all these years and wanted it to happen again. Didn’t you?’
Red-faced, Emma shook her head. He smiled. ‘Look; why don’t we pretend this is, what was it, the Sea Spirit? And you’re sweet 16 again.’
Emma said ‘Don’t be silly’ but her blood was pounding in her ears. And the man was pulling her to her feet, just like before. He fondled her breasts, which the other man hadn’t done, and then, with both arms round her, one hand was stroking her bottom. Emma’s round, ripe, 24-year-old bottom. Then the hand was grabbing up her dress and clawing at her knickers. She heard herself gasping ‘Don’t!’ but she wasn’t trying to stop him. Just leaning against him, shaking all over.
And then she was over his lap. Her head down near the deck, her skirt up and her knickers round her knees. His hand on the bare cheeks of her bottom, caressing. And then spanking. As before Emma thought she was going to be sick with excitement.
As the spanking continued Emma’s excitement if anything increased. When at last he stopped she was panting, almost gasping for breath. With her head spinning Emma remembered back: now she would pull up her knickers, and that would be it. That was what happened last time, eight years ago. But this time it was different. He was pulling her knickers on down, taking them off.
And then Emma was on the seat, lying on it. And something else was happening. Something perhaps more appropriate for a 24-year-old married woman. Something that clearly she shouldn’t be allowing. But she was.
Afterwards the man asked, ‘Can you come back tomorrow?’
Emma bit her lip and thought of Robert and Katie — and everything else. And then said, ‘Yes; I think so.’