She is gone now, my blonde, slim-legged, English rose who turned out to be not at all the innocent I had first thought. Not innocent, in fact rather knowing and not at all unwilling. A true delight. Mr Bartingly, that next door neighbour, had done a very effective job. Yes, Miranda and her mother have returned to the dank shores of England, Miranda with, I fear, no great improvement in her skill on the flute.
Still I did my best, in musical terms as in other ways and I think I can say I taught that young Miss a thing or two. I would now be feeling her absence more and indeed for two whole days I was quite bereft but then, as can happen when the fortunes smile, a rapturous replacement appeared right out of the blue.
A Scottish lass. Not at all unlike Miranda as it happens, she could well be another English rose except for that decided burr in her speech. Fiona and her mother are from Edinburgh, the metropolis of the North, here for three weeks; but fortune has smiled even more than could reasonably be expected for Mrs Fraser has decided to go on to Cap d’Antibes for a week, and did not wish, as some mothers do not, to take her offspring with her. One can very well imagine what pleasures of the flesh the rather attractive Mrs Fraser is hoping to indulge in there.
So I have had Fiona since yesterday, her mother learning of me via the normal grapevine and arriving with her rather overwhelming request that if I could possibly put her fair child up for the required week she would be so grateful. It was indeed somewhat overwhelming, with the offered offspring standing shyly at her side and looking so reminiscent of Miranda. Recalling the so recent delights of that young lady and meeting the clear blue eyes of this new one I confess to getting an immediate erection, and was happy therefore to ask my guests to sit down and myself do likewise.
So I have her here for a whole week and possibly longer if dear mother finds the delights of the flesh extra compelling. What a marvellous prospect! Fiona incidentally is a student of the recorder though I fear, like Miranda before her, no great virtuoso. So we will have to work in the first instance on her concentration, on her control and discipline. Oh yes, it is a heady prospect all right.
I naturally raised the subject of discipline right away, soon after she was delivered with her cases yesterday afternoon. One does not wish to prevaricate on the essentials. I understood, I said, that in Scotland girls routinely received the tawse at school. Was that so? Flushing Fiona said it wasn’t. No? Had she not been tawsed? No. Not ever? No.
I smiled. We were sitting together on the sofa. ‘That is a surprise, Fiona. I was assuming I would have to go out in the morning and see if I could buy one, as that would be what you were used to.’
Fiona did her best to smile, possibly assuming this was my little joke.
‘And I don’t know how easy it would be to get a tawse. They aren’t used so frequently on girls in France. French girls usually get the martinet. Do you know what that is, my dear?’
My delightful young miss shook her blonde head. Possibly she was perspiring just a little now. She was in a flowery skirt and white blouse, this latter revealing a pair of good-sized, trembling, lightly-harnessed bulges. What she was sitting on was also good-sized. I was already experiencing a keen desire to get my hands on it.
I told her I did have a martinet and might have to use it. I put an arm round slim and delightful shoulders. I said I also had a cane and I might have to use that too. Her mother had said she wanted Fiona to be firmly disciplined in any way I chose.
That was not strictly true. What Mrs Fraser had said was that I was ‘not to take any nonsense.’ But we artistic souls allow ourselves a little artistic license now and then. Fiona didn’t seem about to dispute that her mother might have said that. She didn’t say anything, just gave a delicious little shiver.
I have not used the cane or martinet yet — it is after all still only her first day and we must always remember the golden rule: Proceed with deliberate speed. I have spanked her, though. Last night, just before bed. I am afraid the sight of Fiona in those tight-trousered pink pyjamas was simply too much to resist.
I didn’t take them down, remembering always that golden rule, but I did, once I had her over my lap, yank the pink cotton bottoms vigorously up so that they were stretched quite drum-tight over the trim cheeks and up between her legs. Certainly this produced a shocked yelp — to follow the alarmed little whimper that had come when I told Fiona to get over my lap. The reason I gave was that her first performance on her instrument had not been very good at all and I wanted to give her something to think about. (One falls back on what one can in getting at pupils’ bottoms and poor playing is a very reliable standby.)
I gave her a good dusting, making sure she felt it and from the squeals and yelps I am confident she did. Then to demonstrate to this sweet girl that she had not been left with some horrible ogre I did slip the tight trousers down, telling Fiona I wished to check on the state of the warmed rear-quarters. So in fact I have already had my hands on Fiona’s bare bottom, and within a few hours of her arrival. One could say that I have thus run very close to transgressing my rule; the truth is that I do have those heady memories of Miranda very much in the forefront of my mind.
This morning we are going to that little English shop in town. English and Scottish woollens etc. and it is the latter that particularly interests me. Last night I had the sudden marvellous idea, with Fiona being Scottish, of dressing her in a kilt. I have an intoxicating vision of Fiona arrayed as one of those girl pipers (is it the Dagenham Girl Pipers Band?) I am sure I can get her a kilt in that shop. I am afraid I know nothing of tartans and in any case they are unlikely to have Clan Fraser, but we will not be fussy. Fiona of course will have her recorder, not the pipes. And if she plays at all like yesterday she will certainly need her kilt turning up.
What colour knickers do the Dagenham Girl Pipers wear, I wonder?
I acquainted Fiona with my kilt idea at breakfast. She does not seem bowled over with enthusiasm but perhaps she is still thinking of last night. The spanking and then my taking her pyjama trousers down and applying a little soothing cold cream to the glowing globes.
There may in addition be a darting thought of the martinet, and the cane. I rather think that before lunch I will take them out and show them to her; but first it is into town.
The English shop did splendidly. We have a kilt and sash and I have also made some little stocking tabs. The manageress, an English lady, had no great knowledge of tartans, as I had feared, so I do not know what the items I have purchased actually are. But it is all extremely attractive. This rather ignorant, though quite amiable, English lady also could not enlighten me as to what knickers might be worn by members of a girls’ pipe band, but we need not worry about that; it could well be that they all wear what they like.
Yes I have the distinct impression that Fiona does not like being dressed as a girl piper, though why that is I cannot imagine, to me she is simply delightful. Thus arrayed she does a few scales and then one or two simple pieces. Her rhythm is really very poor and I give her a triangle to get back to basics. A certain amount of corrective disciplining is necessary, especially with Fiona looking so entrancing. Highly stimulating. So much so that I have to admit my head is filled with thoughts of further delights.
So after lunch I suggest Fiona goes up for a siesta. And after some ten minutes I find myself following her, in a state of keen excitement. Her room is pleasantly cool behind the closed shutters and she is lying on her back in the half-light gazing up at the ceiling. She is covered by a sheet and I wonder what else. I sit on the side of the bed. Her big eyes glimmer in the gloom, no doubt registering some slight alarm. I am thinking of course of that first time with Miranda, when I was expecting alarm but heard instead the young miss had come fully prepared. Could it conceivably be that Fiona has something hidden in her recorder case, or elsewhere?
I tell her, my voice a shade tremulato with excitement, that I think I will lie down with her and we can then have a little chat. I lift the sheet. Fiona is in knickers and bra. I myself am in my dressing gown with, as it is a hot day, nothing under. Fiona is trembling as I slide my hand onto a bare cool midriff.
Stroking the silky flesh I talk gently of corporal chastisement. Of my martinet and my cane. Thinking of those splendid instruments can concentrate a girl’s mind wonderfully especially if she has not, as Fiona had not, had previous acquaintance with them. My hand nudges down and encounters the edge of taut knickers. My fingers slide in under while Fiona breathes that she does not want the cane or ‘that other thing.’
‘Not many girls do,’ I tell her. Her body is taut, her breathing now somewhat agitated, as my fingers encounter crisp curls. ‘But something of that sort is necessary.’ Fiona does not attempt to prevent my hand which duly discovers that she is quite damp. Dampness. is of course indicative of receptiveness.
Is it possible that I have a second young lady who had known Mr Bartingly?
I take my hand away and suggest that we slip her knickers off. Then I can see how her bottom has taken the spankings. A tremulous voice says, ‘please, I don’t want the cane.’
Perhaps she thinks I have not understood. ‘I really don’t,’ Fiona repeats, this time turning towards me. And possibly to emphasise this statement her hand fumbles in the silk folds of my dressing gown. Reaching in where I must confess I am in a highly excited state. Her cool hand where I am quiveringly hot.
‘Please…’ Miss Fiona Fraser repeats.