From Blushes 76
It is cooler today after the hot spell and cycling to Mrs Mildale’s house this morning Susan is wearing a plum-coloured jersey over her blouse, plus her knee-length skirt and white knee-socks. Cooler and fresher, quite pleasant cycling, her bare thighs pumping under the skirt. Susan has knickers on this morning of course so there is not that rather awful feeling of two days ago that perhaps her skirt is going to suddenly somehow fly up and reveal everything. Or more particularly reveal the golden-brown fleece of her pussy.
No there is not that worry but there is something else. Mrs Mildale. The image of Mrs Mildale flits in and out of Susan’s head. For the moment there is not Mr Robson to worry about, Susan hasn’t got to see him again until Saturday which is two days away. And there is not the worry about showing her pussy to any casual bystander, only perhaps a bit of thigh when her skirt slides up and she hasn’t for the moment pulled it back down again. No there is only Mrs Mildale. But that is enough.
Mrs Mildale’s tall and handsomely female form looms large in Susan’s head. Blonde like herself but older of course. In her thirties at least, maybe even forty?, but striking looking in her smartly severe blouse and skirt and of course that gown. That long black academic gown.
Susan has been to Mrs Mildale’s just the two times so far. The first time was really only an introductory chat and Mrs Mildale was not wearing the gown. But last time, the first session proper, Mrs Mildale was wearing it. And with the gown wearing, as it were, a whole different demeanour, not at all like the charming and welcoming lady of the first visit. More severe. Much more severe. More severe even than Mr Robson it seemed. Because for one thing… it wasn’t only the gown. There was also that cane. Mrs Mildale had shown Susan that scary cane. She hadn’t actually used it. But she thought she might have to. That was what Mrs Mildale had said. This time…? Today?
Mrs Mildale does languages: French. Mr Robson is History and English. The French is like an afterthought. History and English were what Susan needed to improve to get accepted for college, and Susan’s mother arranged for Mr Robson. Does she know what Mr Robson is really like? Does she know about bare-bottom spanking? And the other things? But now it is not just English and History, there is the French. Mr Robson has told Susan’s mother she needs coaching in French. Which is Mrs Mildale. Mr Robson has recommended Mrs Mildale. With her blonde hair drawn back in a sophisticated way and her statuesque figure. And her gown. And that way of looking at Susan. And of course… that cane.
Susan is inevitably thinking of that cane now as she cycles along the road to Mrs Mildale’s. Mrs Mildale in her gown and holding that awful cane. It doesn’t need any wild flights of imagination to picture it because Susan has seen the cane. Mrs Mildale showed it to her last time. ‘Here it is, Susan. A nice springy one. Nice and whippy, don’t you think?’ Susan even had to touch it. The cane seemed to feel red-hot and she could vividly imagine it searing into her bare bottom.
And somehow Susan has the distinct feeling that she is going to get it. Mrs Mildale is going to do it. Because she wants to. There was that look in her eyes. Or so Susan thinks. A look which said Mrs Mildale wanted to do it. She would enjoy doing it. Using that awful cane on Susan’s bare bottom. She is going to find an excuse, somehow, to do it.
Is all this imagination? Is perhaps Mrs Mildale in reality only using it as a threat, a warning. To make sure Susan works, No. Or at least Susan doesn’t think so.
Susan’s bike, and herself, do a sudden swerve. She had better concentrate on what she’s doing. And not think about Mrs Mildale. Not until she gets there. Otherwise she is going to fall off. Crash. Susan grabs at her skirt which has managed to ride right up, to the tops of her thighs. To show the full length of her bare thighs, and her knickers as well. Fortunately there is no one here. No keenly interested male eyes greedy for a look.
Mrs Mildale’s house is a mellow stone building in spacious grounds. An altogether grander residence than Mr Robson’s. Does Susan’s bike, leaning against a wall in the courtyard at the rear, look a little forlorn? Not a very new or, to be honest, very well cared-for machine. It has been waiting here for something like an hour and the tyres which were quite hot from the journey from its owner’s house are now cooled. Also the saddle which when its owner dismounted was moist from her lightly-perspiring crotch and flexing inner thighs, is now quite dry. It is just about an hour now. An hour can be a long time. Not to a bike of course, even if it does look forlorn and abandoned. But to a person, a girl, 18-years-old, hopeful of gaining a college place next year, yes, it can be a long time.
Susan is inside the house of course. At this moment she is in its rather grand, oak-panelled hall. At the foot of the wide flight of stairs which in right-angled sweeps ascend to the upper regions of the house. She is kneeling upright on a wooden stool facing the wall. Susan’s hands are raised and placed on her honey-blonde head. But that is probably not what would immediately strike one on entering the hall. What the eye would immediately go to would be Susan’s bare bottom. Her very splendid, succulent almost, bare bottom. It is bare because for one thing her knickers have been removed. And additionally her full, dark-blue skirt has been raised right up and in fact its hem pinned high up to the back of her plum-coloured jersey.
Susan’s splendid bottom. Yes that is undeniably what draws the eye. It is a marvellously rounded entity, twin moons of ripely swelling youthful flesh. And it is, they are, also decidedly pink. A full flushing pink, like perhaps the face of a pretty girl who in a public place has an unfortunate case of failure-of-knicker-elastic and whose knickers have suddenly slid down beyond the point of control; or perhaps the face of a similar young lady who on a crowded bus say, finds she is standing immediately in front of a persistent and aggressive groper.
Susan’s bottom is a ripely blushing pink and the thought must be that it has been spanked. Most vigorously and energetically. A spanking such as Mr Robson can certainly give but this one presumably has been from the hand of Mrs Mildale. Mrs Mildale who on Susan’s last visit showed her that sickening-looking cane, Mrs Mildale who Susan was sure intended to use it. But presumably she hasn’t. Not yet at least. Susan’s bottom shows all the signs of a vigorous hand spanking — or just conceivably this glowing redness could have been caused by a broad strap. But not a cane.
Cane marks are unmistakable. There would certainly be the tell-tale marks if a caning had been delivered during the last hour. Susan’s lovely bottom, as she kneels unmoving apart from the odd little muscular flinch or quiver (because kneeling like this on a hard wooden stool is not at all comfortable), is free from any signs of cane marks. Even the minutest inspection (and no doubt we would all very much like to inspect Susan’s marvellous bottom in the minutest detail) will discover none. Susan has not been caned. Not yet. It is perhaps still to come though? But as yet the rather scary Mrs Mildale has contented herself with the use of her evidently very capable hand.
But a caning is still to come? Is that what is in Susan’s head as she kneels with her face to the splendidly mellow oak panelling? Perhaps Susan is here kneeling on the stool waiting for it?
The silence is abruptly ‘broken by the sound of footsteps from above. Someone is descending the stairs. Mrs Mildale? But it is not really a woman’s tread… No, it is not Mrs Mildale. It is a man. A man in a brown suit, not tall, with a round bald head and glasses. Coming down the final flight of stairs now, and over to the kneeling Susan. His sharp eyes behind the round spectacles are focussed on Susan’s glowing bottom.
‘Hello then. How are you feeling?’
He has come close to stand at Susan’s side and one hand slides round her waist in a friendly, perhaps avuncular manner. Susan mumbles something. She has shown no great surprise or shock at his approach and presumably Susan has already met this man, whoever he is. Because her skirt is pinned up, the hand is on the bottom of her blouse which otherwise would be inside her skirt. On the hem of the white blouse. The hand slides down a fraction. So that it is off the blouse and onto bare flesh. The ripe swell of Susan’s hip.
‘Still stinging, is it?’
And now the hand unashamedly slides down onto the full ripeness of the pinkly-glowing nates. They have no doubt been the hand’s target from the beginning. Susan gives a little gasp. Her bottom instinctively flinches as it is groped but she otherwise remains still with her hands on her head.
‘Yes I’m sure it’s OK. No harm done. A spanking never did a girl any harm, eh?’
The hand lightly slaps Susan’s bottom, joggling the cheeks, then slides underneath, the undercurve, where the backs of the thighs begin. Susan flinches as the hand fiddles about in this intimate area.
‘Turn round,’ the man says softly.
Susan mutters that she can’t, she has been told not to move. The man says it is alright, he will take responsibility. A moment’s hesitation and then Susan, dropping her hands from her head, moves to get off the stool. No doubt she is grateful for the chance to change her position, her knees especially will be getting painful. The hand is still there in the same position, stroking gently. As Susan moves, her thighs unavoidably part and perhaps the hand has been waiting for this. It slides smoothly into the opened space. Susan’s breath hisses out. She has reached one foot to the floor at this point and half-stumbles. Because the hand of course is suddenly right there. On her pussy. A finger tries to insert itself. The hiss turns into a little yelp popping out from Susan’s open mouth.
Mrs Mildale appears some five minutes later, the staccato rapping of her high heels heralding her descent of the wide stairs. Susan is kneeling on the stool again with her hands replaced on her head but is now facing the front. The man is in close attention. Susan’s skirt has been raised at the front in the same way as behind, the hem pinned high up on her jersey. So Susan’s front below her waist is nude like her bottom. The man’s bald head is angled to one side and his hand is on Susan’s exposed golden-brown fleece. He straightens up as Mrs Mildale crosses the hall behind him. Turning to smile at her.
‘Just seeing how our young lady is, Elaine.’
Mrs Mildale is wearing her long black gown. And she is also carrying a cane. ‘I thought I left you facing the wall, Miss?’
Susan begins a nervous reply but the man breaks in. ‘It’s alright, Elaine. I am responsible.’
‘Oh, well that’s quite alright, Charles. You are quite at liberty naturally. But I hope she hasn’t been flirtatious. Some girls are, immediately a member of the male sex is anywhere near. Especially of course when she already has her bottom bare and can flirt that at you.’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t say so, Elaine. Of course… ha-ha… it is a most lubricious bottom. Mouth-watering one could say.’
Mrs Mildale frowns slightly. ‘You men can be very susceptible where young girls are concerned. What she is going to have now of course is a good caning.’
The man removes his glasses and polishes them. ‘Of course, Elaine. I am sure it will be most beneficial.’ Turning to Susan he adds, ‘Don’t you agree my dear?’ With glasses replaced he walks towards the stairs.
‘Get back into position then,’ Mrs Mildale says sharply. ‘I hope you didn’t imagine that by wheedling round Mr Pirbright you could somehow avoid it.’
Susan doesn’t reply. Has she thought that by submitting to Mr Pirbright’s (that is evidently his name) fondling she might escape the cane? That he might perhaps seek to persuade Mrs Mildale otherwise. Perhaps… suggest that he might have her himself for a while instead? Did Susan think any of this? Whether she did or not there is pretty certainly now no thought in her head except the imminence of the cane. It is now going to happen. As she gets awkwardly off the stool, hands still on her head, and then gets on again in the reverse position. Her face to the wall again. And her bottom facing….
‘Stop that racket. That hardly touched you.’
‘Aaaaooouuggghhh! Aaaa… hhaaaaahhh!’
The first was a sickening shock and the second placed virtually on top of the first across the crest of Susan’s shuddering buttocks is even harder. Instinctively Susan’s hands jerk away from her head to clutch at her burning bottom. Mrs Mildale’s response to this is to bring the cane slicing in again across the delinquently-grabbing hands.
‘Get your hands away, Miss. Fold them behind your back. At once.’
Mr Pirbright is halfway up the first flight of stairs. Watching intently, spectacles glittering. One hand in the pocket of his trousers where he seems to have a large bulge in addition to the hand. Somehow Susan manages to keep her arms folded behind her back as the cane whips in again. Her poor bottom is on fire. The pain is unbelievable. Two more mind-bending strokes follow. And then…
Mrs Mildale is telling Susan to get down off the stool. She is crying now, hot salt tears. But it is at least over…
No. Mrs Mildale is merely telling her to assume another position. Standing astride the stool with her hands flat on the wall above her head. Telling her to keep still, she hasn’t finished, of course not. She has not had nearly enough.
The cane whistles through the air again.
Over to the other side of the hall Mr Pirbright says something to Mrs Mildale. She gives a wry smile.
‘Of course, Charles. But you won’t be too long? We need to have another lesson before she goes home.’
Mr Pirbright says no, he won’t be long at all. ‘But I think that perhaps she could do with a little break. Your charming summerhouse I thought.’
Susan is standing by the stool, her mouth trembling, her big blue eyes wet and glistening. Her skirt has been unpinned and is back in position to conceal her red-striped bottom which feels as if the skin has been taken off it. But at least the caning is finally finished. Smiling Mr Pirbright is beckoning her.
‘How is it now?’ Mr Pirbright asks. ‘It stings a bit I know, a caning like that. But the worst of it soon goes.’
Susan and Mr Pirbright have walked out across the lawn to Mrs Mildale’s summerhouse. It is a one-room wooden building with a table and some cane chairs, cool and airy with its windows open. Susan mumbles a reply to Mr Pirbright. Her bottom is still hotly stinging but not as bad as it was certainly.
‘And it’s all in a good cause, eh? St Cuthbert’s I mean.’
St Cuthbert’s College is where Susan hopes to be next year. Charles Pirbright is in the College Admissions Office. So perhaps it is also all in a good cause to be here in Mrs Mildale’s summerhouse with that gentleman.
He puts his arms round her. ‘A little kiss; would that make it feel better?’
Susan doesn’t resist Mr Pirbright’s kiss which starts with her soft lips and then progresses to his tongue thrusting greedily into her mouth. At the same time one of his hands slips down and then up again under her skirt. Susan still has no knickers on, they are somewhere in Mrs Mildale’s house. The hand slides round the front. To take hold of Susan’s golden bush. Her pussy. She doesn’t resist this either. Her thighs slide unresistingly apart.
Mr Pirbright breaks off the kiss and the rest. Standing back he tells Susan to pull up her skirt. Hold it up round her waist. And then lie back over the table. Mr Pirbright is unbuttoning his trousers. Slipping them down, and his underpants. Susan glances quickly at what is thrusting rampantly upwards and then looks away. She is shortly anyway looking up at the summerhouse’s dusty roof. Because she has done as instructed. She is lying back across the low wooden table. Her shiny black shoes just reach the floor. Her bottom is half on the table, half off. The half which is on of course is painful, from the caning, but otherwise… it is not an uncomfortable position. Her thighs are open. Susan bites her lip as Mr Pirbright begins his entrance.
END OF PART TWO