‘Please stop that,’ she pleaded, and not for the first time. ‘I just can’t concentrate with your hand there.’
Naturally I made no attempt to comply with this request. I have long ago learnt to ignore the pleadings of adolescent girls. No, I kept my hand exactly where it was.
‘The point is you have to learn to concentrate, Miranda. Can you imagine yourself standing up in front of a concert hall full of people? That takes real self-control and discipline and that is precisely why I have my hand where it is: so that you can learn to play in the face of distraction. I should be very surprised if your tutor at home didn’t do something very similar.’
Where I had my hand of course was between Miranda’s legs. Between her upper thighs in fact, my hand gripping the silky inner surface of her delicious right limb just below her knickers. Miranda was standing close in front of me as I sat in an upright chair and was playing, or attempting to play, her flute. She was just 16, a lovely age for a girl I always think, and was a particularly fetching specimen of English girlhood, a blonde English rose smartly attired in the required white blouse with a black ribbon at her throat and a full black silk skirt.
I prescribe this outfit for my pupils because some sort of uniform does instil a sense of discipline. That full calf-length skirt of course is also ideal for getting access to a girl’s person when this is necessary for disciplinary reasons — such as for instance my present gripping of Miranda’s inner thigh.
In addition my young pupil is wearing white ankle socks and black strap-over shoes at the ends of long slim bare legs, a white-strapped wristwatch and a plain white bangle on her two slim wrists, a black silk ribbon tying her blonde tresses in a pony-tail. Under the skirt I don’t know yet. Yesterday it was rather marvellous semi-transparent pink nylon ones. Today as I say one doesn’t yet know but undoubtedly one will soon find out.
Yesterday was Miranda’s first actual day of tutoring. She and her mother had arrived here at the weekend and the latter had right away been put in touch with me. I can tutor most instruments and I will tutor most instruments for pretty teenage girls. I am English of course and that to English mothers is a very considerable plus. It means I am to be trusted with Charlotte or Susan — or of course Miranda. Unlike a Frenchman or an Italian I am not going to be surreptitiously fucking their tender offspring when I have her all to myself at my place here just outside Nice. That at least is what they think and tell each other.
As for the mothers themselves of course, getting fucked is going to be high on the list of priorities. Getting a good tan, topless quite possibly, even all over for the more adventurous ones; a visit to the casino in the evening for a thrilling little flutter; taking tea in the afternoon with a friend; and as I say getting fucked, by one of the local bronzed young men who are around in great numbers and are more than willing to provide this service. These are the inevitable priorities for a woman in her thirties or forties on holiday without her husband. But naturally if she is accompanied by her daughter, arrangements have to be made for that young person. Mother certainly doesn’t want her offspring around all the time hindering those priorities, but equally she does not want the girl left to her own devices — to quite possibly be fucked by those same bronzed young men who are energetically taking care of mother’s needs. So a tutor of some sort is an absolute Godsend. And if he is a nice reliable Englishman of mature years — I myself happen to be 35 — and a gentleman to boot, well, things could scarcely be more perfect.
‘Stand with your legs a little wider,’ I tell pretty rosebud-lipped Miranda. The rosebud lips produce a despairing wailing sound from the flute. Miranda is by no means expert and there is, I can assure you, no chance that she will ever be standing up as a soloist before a concert hall of people. But she does have the most exquisite silky thighs. Also a lovely bottom.
Yesterday, her first morning of tutoring, I smacked it. Her bottom. Told her she was playing atrociously and I didn’t think she was really trying and to show her I would not put up with this I took her over my lap. I think she was too shocked to really protest apart from a sort of squawk. Up came the slinky skirt and there, as I have already said, were those truly delightful knickers. Pink nylon with a little lace at the edges and stretched skin-tight over the most mouth-watering pair of quite slim bottom cheeks.
With some considerable pleasure I commenced to smack this delicious nylon-clad rear. Quite sharp smacks causing my Miranda to utter more squawks of shocked protest and also to kick those delightful long legs. I did not take her knickers down for this first spanking. At my age one has learned the correct way of proceeding with 16-year-old English schoolgirls; which is not everything at once.
So the first spanking is always with skirt up but knickers retained; with the second spanking of course one does take the knickers down. Proceed with deliberate speed is the motto. Today Miranda will get her second smacked bottom and today therefore I shall take her knickers down. It is a pleasure I naturally look forward to with keen anticipation.
Spanking Miranda’s bottom wasn’t all I did yesterday. As I say Proceed with deliberate speed and my new pupil’s bottom was not all I was interested in.
A little later after she had recovered somewhat from that unexpected assault on her rear and had been helped over the shock with jus d’orange with ice, I enquired if she had a boyfriend back in green but usually rather damp Angleterre. The big blue eyes looked at me queryingly. ‘A boyfriend, Miranda,’ I repeated. And then adding, ‘you know what boyfriends are,’ I slid my hand quickly up under the front of her demure black skirt. All the way up, to grasp the brief crotch of the pink nylon knickers, in the process, naturally, also grasping what the brief crotch contained.
‘You know,’ I repeated, helping myself to a quick but at the same time very intimate grope of Miranda’s very private part.
Perhaps not surprisingly the delectable girl gave another strangled yelp, this time bending abruptly forwards as her own hands grabbed desperately at where mine was. I slid my hand out, as smoothly and efficiently as it had entered that secret region between her thighs, the feel of her still on my fingertips.
‘You know what boyfriends are, surely, Miranda.’ I told her. ‘And isn’t this what they’re always trying to do to pretty girls?’
What I had done was I suppose equal in shock value to smacking her bottom. Pretty Miranda looked suitably shaken. I sat down again and pulled her onto my lap; in a sitting position this time naturally. An inexperienced girl does not want too many shocks on her first day. Proceed with deliberate speed. And I assumed that Miranda was inexperienced. I turned to the subject of her fluting. It was not at all good I told her, but I would nonetheless inform her mother that it was promising and that she had done her best. ‘That’s what she wants to hear, isn’t it?’ I asked.
It was, of course, and I also knew that 16-year-old girls like to keep on the right side of their mothers, perhaps especially on holiday. A favourable report means she is much more likely to leave her tender child free to do what she wants at other times. I could see I had made a telling point. While Miranda was considering this perhaps unexpected good news I had a quick feel of the pair of not large but deliciously pert bulges in the front of her white blouse. Then I lifted her off and set her on her feet, unable to resist, I must admit, another smack at her bottom.
True to my word I rang Mrs Fawcett yesterday evening with my cheering message. She was much gratified. I then asked if I could have a word with the budding flautist, and informed her of what I had just said. So everyone was happy.
And so here was Miranda delivered to my place again this morning, as delectable as before, while her mother was free to display herself on the beach for passing bronzed young men to admire. Topless? Perhaps; she is an attractive woman both in face and figure but not, for me, to compare with the more budding charms of her daughter.
My hand slides a further few millimetres up in its warm, snug nook. Another despairing wail from Miranda’s flute for I am now on decidedly intimate territory. I have the sensation that my first finger is only a hair’s breadth from the crotch of her knickers, the site of my fleeting foray of yesterday. Today things have been quite different; there has been a slow and deliberate build-up. Miranda has had plenty of time to think about it. I wonder if perhaps the, doubtless thin, material above my hand is also a trifle damp.
It is of course Miranda’s second day, the day when one builds on the first day’s bridge-heads. Proceed with deliberate speed. ‘If you’re a good girl, Miranda. I might be able to make another favourable report to your mother. In spite of the very inadequate sounds you produce. Yes?’
She takes the flute from her mouth and gives me that wide-eyed look. They really are very pretty eyes, violet-blue and large, set off by long fair lashes.
‘I expect if I say you’re doing well she’ll let you do all sorts of things for the rest of the day. Go on the beach, for instance. I expect there are lots of boys on the beach.’
Miranda flushes. She is also trembling a little. My hand is still there, that hair’s breadth away.
‘On the other hand if I were at all honest I expect she’d have you practising all day with no time off at all. Don’t you think?’
Miranda didn’t argue with my analysis of the possibilities. ‘Yes?’ I queried. She hesitated, no doubt seeing certain implications in my offer. Then she nodded.
I rather think it likely that we now understand one another. Proceed with deliberate speed. I slide my hand up that little distance. She gives a squawky gurgle. It is true, I was only a hair’s breadth away. And she is damp. Considerably damp; in fact, more accurately, sticky wet. She is also very hot right there. Clearly my hand has been doing things to her. Arousing her hormones. Hormones are a marvellous thing I always think and some girls, naturally, have more than others.
Miranda is now making gasping sounds and quivering, like a young forest creature which finds itself suddenly captured. When my hand made its final telling little advance she automatically closed her legs, but this only served to hold my hand firmly in place. Realising this she opens them again. I allow my fingers to slide backwards and forwards along that line of wetness. Miranda is breathing noisily through her nose and her hand has now shot over to grasp mine through her skirt, but she is not really trying to push the hand away. She knows that being ‘good’, which will get her that favourable report, means essentially being co-operative.
And also undoubtedly she is beset by mixed emotions. What is happening, we may be sure, is something her mother has instilled in her she must not ever let happen, but on the other hand there are those hormones. They are telling Miranda in no uncertain terms that it is really quite exquisite and don’t stop, they want more. Poor Miranda. She is trembling like a leaf, and moaning. I suggest, while continuing my ministrations, that she might like to sit down on the sofa. Big eyes darting, she shakes her head, probably seeing herself, once she is sitting, being persuaded to recline, and then… well, she doubtless had a vivid imagination; many young girls do.
But I do think it is time for the sofa what with all that trembling etc. She needs a rest, I tell her, it could be that the heat is affecting her. Girls just out from England’s chilly clime can indeed find our sun overpowering. Not that I actually think the sun is Miranda’s problem at the moment, but it is plausible enough. My hand removes itself from its snug nest. I sit her on the sofa and then as she may have suspected gently push her down and lift her legs up on the seat. A nice restful position. Then quietly I tell her that her knickers have to come off.
Now we do get alarmed-eyed looks. Is this what being ‘good’ means? I soothingly reassure her, my hand soothing by stroking various parts. Her knickers are coming off for a spanking, I tell her, nothing more alarming than that. She must have a spanking instead of me giving her mother an accurate report of her fluting accomplishments — or more strictly speaking, lack of the same. ‘That is only fair, isn’t it, Miranda?’ I ask. I am stroking her inner thighs again; my hand does seem to delight in their marvellously silky texture. Miranda’s big blue eyes, from her recumbent position, are saying all sorts of things.
One thing the eyes are saying is if I am going to smack her bottom why have I got her lying on the sofa on her back? The answer to this is simply that it is convenient to get them off while she is lying there having her rest. It saves valuable time. The big blue eyes may say that she doesn’t believe this and that I am going to do something else, or attempt it, when her knickers are off, but the eyes are wrong. That would not be proceeding with deliberate speed, that would be going at a headlong gallop for it is only Miranda’s second day. Oh no, pretty blue eyes, have no fear. I tell her to lift her skirt.
The eyes gazing up at me now give me a different look, a different message as with her face flushed quite pink she obediently reaches down. She pulls the full black silk skirt right up about her waist, exposing what I have not yet seen but have had my hand on — brief pants which are pale blue and gossamer thin. Miranda’s eyes as she displays them are conveying, I should say, mostly excitement. It could be that Miranda does not believe me about only spanking. It could be that Miranda is not as inexperienced as I had earlier thought.
The big eyes watch, and Miranda’s breath hisses out between clenched teeth, and she also obligingly lifts her hips, as I draw the skimpy briefs down. Down the long slim legs and off over the ankle socks and shoes. The eyes do express clear surprise when then, having inquired if she is now rested, I take Miranda’s hand and pull her up. So I am just going to be spanked after all, the eyes say.
Well, that is not quite all. I sit down and take Miranda over my lap and give her a good hard bare bottom spanking, one that brings forth gasps and squeals and energetically kicking legs from the recipient and at the same time results in considerable hormonal activity on my own part. With very great pleasure I spank for some time: to the tautly-fleshed curves of her buttocks, the backs of slim thighs, even, yes, those exquisitely silky inner thigh surfaces. It is a very thorough spanking, one to get any girl going, especially this Miranda who as I know I have managed to get considerably aroused before I even started.
And so I decide that I will not be transgressing the Proceed with deliberate speed code to any great extent if I now do something else. Something that anyway I would expect to do by, say, her third visit. Holding her still firmly round her slim waist with the upturned black skirt down around her ears and everything exposed now well reddened, holding her thus firmly I let my previously spanking hand slide in where it did a little reconnoitring earlier. Except that then there were knickers and now there are none. Miranda more or less explodes, and virtually immediately achieves a quite spectacular and noisy climax.
Such is her reaction that I again wonder just how inexperienced young Miranda is — although it may simply result from frequent practice of those solitary pleasures which English middle-class girls of her age are wont to indulge in whenever they can find a quiet and undisturbed little corner.
I help her off my lap. Her skirt falls back into place, hiding all those delights. She is still breathing hard and stands with a somewhat embarrassed expression. I helpfully assist with the replacement of her skimpy knickers and indeed it would seem she can do with some help for her legs appear to have difficulty supporting her. I sit her on the sofa again and ask if she will have a jus d’orange — or perhaps something stronger? She accepts the former. The rosebud mouth drains the glass thirstily. Her bangled arm reaches up to push back a strand of blonde hair which is sticking to her forehead. Miranda is perceptibly perspiring.
I observe that it is just about time for her to go. What will she do this afternoon? Go to the beach? Meet some of those boys?
Flushing, Miranda says she doesn’t know. She can’t go on the beach for long anyway or she’ll burn. It is true her skin is a lovely pale colour at present (I myself do not go for all this sun tan). A pause, and then she says she doesn’t want to meet boys anyway. Another pause; a further flush; and I am told that Miranda thinks she prefers men to boys. The big violet-blue eyes meet mine and then look away. Smiling, I ask how many men Miranda knows — and how well. She shakes her head, perhaps regretting her boldness.
I drive her back into town. En route my hand moves onto her near-side thigh, pushing back the skirt so that I can once more get at the springy smoothness. Miranda says, among other things, ‘Am I to come again tomorrow?’
It was of course an ambiguous remark and driving back I wonder how innocently it was made. If I had been able to look into those long-lashed eyes I am sure I would have known, but I was driving.
She came at 9 the next morning — by which I mean she was delivered to my house by her mother then. Mrs Fawcett, in a summery outfit, was looking very attractive — if you fancy women in their late thirties; also seeming somewhat excited. Could I have Miranda all day? She (Mrs Fawcett) had an important appointment.
One of the bronzed young men, I assume, but yes I certainly could have Miranda all day. Mrs Fawcett, seemingly unaware of the possible ambiguity of her query, went briskly off. I turned to Miranda who stands waiting, flute case in her hands. She is somewhat pink in the face. Also it seems to me there is today a little pink lipstick adorning the rosebud mouth.
‘So I’m to have you all day, Miranda dear,’ I observe taking hold of an appetizing elbow, bare below the short sleeve of her blouse. She turns a little pinker, aware perhaps of what her mother had missed. But then her mother was not privy, or I assumed not, to what had taken place yesterday.
I walked her in. ‘A whole day of practice?’ I say queryingly. Miranda, making a face, says she hopes not. ‘What then? Should I take you on the beach?’ (At times it seems that one cannot speak without ambiguities.)
Miranda says she can’t take the sun. ‘You could lie under my nice big beach umbrella,’ I tell her. ‘It would have to be in the nude though; that would be my condition.’ My hand is at her bottom through the silk skirt. She is trembling. ‘I’d be too shy,’ she says. ‘Oh no,’ I tell her, ‘it would be only me. I know a very private beach.’
We are now in the studio. I go to sit on the upright chair, the one next to the music stand. Miranda is unfastening her case. ‘What is it today?’ I ask. ‘The pink ones or the blue?’
She looks up, face pink again. ‘Not either of them.’
She straightens up. The big blue eyes are saying lots of things again. Her hands go simply down and lift her skirt, up to her waist. They are lilac and virtually transparent, her blonde bush clearly showing through.
‘Very pretty,’ I tell her. ‘You have some very pretty knickers, Miranda. I don’t suppose they’ve been given to you by any of those men you know? The ones you like better than boys.’
She shakes her head, still standing with her skirt held high. ‘No? Well you’ll have to tell me about them, but later. First we must do some work. We must work on that self-control and concentration. Yes?’
She chews her bottom rosebud lip.
‘Yes. So this morning I want you to practise with your knickers off. That is always a stern test of control for a girl. Come here, close, and I’ll slip them off for you.’
She comes forward. The eyes do not seem to be showing a lot of alarm. Excitement, yes. Perhaps I was mistaken and it was excitement rather than alarm they were showing before. I slide the brief nylon knickers down and she steps out of them. I place them on the stand: She is still holding her skirt high, boldly showing me what she’s got, what yesterday was getting so excited. I daresay…
But we must not be distracted. We must have some practice first. Miranda’s instrument. Her flute of course. She does practise, standing close before me, her skirt now down but with my hand up it, testing her concentration. Silky buttocks and thighs, including the inner sides. I have her standing with her feet some 10 or 12 inches apart and there is always the thought, the possibility, that my testing hand is going to go further and perform that final ultimate test. But I keep it as that: a threat, a possibility. In fact her playing is better today, though by no means what I would call good. She is perhaps getting used to my hand, enjoying it… perhaps even wishing for that ultimate test…
We practise for a while and then my housekeeper brings in some coffee and a lemonade for Miranda (I have, I should say, thought to remove Miranda’s knickers from the stand.) We sit on the sofa to drink. Miranda’s eyes are alert, expectant, as she no doubt wonders what is next. More practise… or something else? I must admit I am ready for something else myself and especially with those intriguing possibilities I think I now observe in my young pupil. I could explore them here of course, on the sofa. But on the other hand…
‘Shall we have a little break, Miranda dear? You haven’t seen the rest of the house. The bedrooms for instance.’ Her eyes seem bigger than ever. A pink tongue moistens the rosebuds.
We go upstairs, her slim flanks swaying the silk skirt. The motion is quite intoxicating. Following, I ask about what she said yesterday. ‘Oh that; it wasn’t anything. Just something to say.’
‘Just something to say?’ I say. We are now in my bedroom. So perhaps I am wrong and she hasn’t. ‘No one, then?’
She says looking at the bed, ‘Well, there was Mr Bartingly. He lived next door for a while.’
‘He took you up to his bedroom, perhaps?’
The pink tongue moistens the pink lips again. I can see they do have a slight sheen of lipstick that was absent yesterday. ‘No. It was my bedroom. When mummy was out.’
Naturally when mummy was out. My blood, I must admit, is now coursing round my body at a rate of knots.
‘In your bedroom, eh?’ We are now sitting on the bed. ‘On your bed? In your bed?’
She smiles. My innocent young flautist says, ‘Well both actually.’ She is now looking up at me because she has chosen to lie down, on her back. I am still sitting. Her face, the blue eyes, become more serious.
‘Look… please… if you… If you’re going to do something… you will… use something, won’t you? I mean… you know…’
Her wide-eyed gaze, meeting mine, really does seem innocent.
She adds. ‘If you haven’t got any… well, I brought some, just in case. They’re in my flute case. Under the lining where mummy won’t find them.’