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Thursday, 5 April 2018

The Reckoning

By Charles Langford from Roué 32
Andrea was eighteen, but she didn’t look it. For a start she was scarcely more than five feet tall, wide-eyed innocence writ large all over her exceptionally pretty face framed by those long silken honey-blond tresses of hers. The Westwood Girls High School uniform she wore during term-time made her look even younger.
Andrea loathed her school uniform. The white blouse and grey pleated skirt were the same ones she’d worn since that fourth-year. She’d grown in all the right places since then, with the result that the blouse and skirt were now embarrassingly tight. Especially the skirt. Her bottom, firm and pertly rounded, flared out all-too-prominently beneath the faded grey pleated material. Even worse, the skirt now ended a full six inches above her knees: flattering for her long shapely legs, but humiliatingly revealing of intimate areas of white girlish thigh. Andrea went in perpetual dread of windy weather — it was bad enough having to wear white aertex school knickers at her age, without having them ogled at by every male she passed on the way to school!
Andrea suffered terribly because of her school uniform. She was a very sensitive, self-conscious sort of girl who knew full well that the over-riding effect of the costume was to sabotage her natural innocence and imbue her instead with an air of provocatively coltish impishness quite at variance with her shy, diffident nature. She only ever got wolf-whistled at when she was in school uniform. Once, she remembered with chagrin, during one those blustery gales that the Pennine towns, are notorious for, the back of her skirt whipped up waist-high and a workman yelled out: ‘Sexy-knickers!’ She’d blushed scarlet to the roots at such an indignity, and had taken to her heels and run the remaining half-mile to school, holding down the hem of her skirt for grim death to prevent any embarrassing repetitions.
That wretched school uniform was one the banes of Andrea’s life (the other thing which blighted her existence was too horrible even to think about!) and she couldn’t wait for July to come round, when she could make a public bonfire of the beastly garments.
Meanwhile, it was only March, and her mother had made it quite clear that a new set of better-fitting school clothes was altogether out of the question, what with Dad always being months behind with his maintenance payments.
It was all Uncle Michael’s fault really, Andrea reflected bitterly. When Dad had left and moved down South four years ago, Uncle Michael, Mum’s elder brother, had become Andrea’s sort-of surrogate father. When she’d reached the age of sixteen it was Uncle Michael who’d insisted she stay on at school the extra two years — despite her abysmal academic record.
Now, with only months to A-levels, Andrea knew she hadn’t a hope in hell of passing them…
But more, much more, than the stigma of failure, Andrea dreaded what Uncle Michael would do to her when the results came out in September. She had every good reason to view the prospect with dread… it was all tied up with ‘other things’, the mere thought of which reduced her legs to jelly.
Lately, Uncle Michael had been watching her progress at school like a hawk. Since January he had insisted, with her mother’s full approval, that Andrea visit him every Thursday, straight from school, for what he called ‘a reckoning’. That in itself was bad enough. What made it infinitely worse was that Uncle Michael, himself a retired Mathematics teacher, was personally acquainted with her A-level course tutor at school, and regular telephone calls between the two ensured that Uncle Michael was kept up to date on Andrea’s woeful academic performance.
How Andrea had come to dread Thursday ‘reckonings’ with Uncle Michael! This particular Thursday she viewed the prospect with even more alarm than usual, because the day before she’d collected an abysmally low mark for her History project on Bismarck. She wondered if Miss Clark, her tutor, had already telephoned Uncle Michael with the news. She preferred to think not; in which case sentence would be suspended until the following week. Gratefully she clutched at any straw, like a condemned prisoner under threat of execution. At all events she decided to keep a low profile…
After school finished at four o’clock, Andrea set off on the two-mile walk to Uncle Michael’s bleak, draughty old cottage perched on top of Hangman’s Hill. The March wind tugged wickedly at the hem of Andrea’s short grey school skirt, and she tried desperately to prevent a male passer-by getting a good eyeful of her knickers. Silently she uttered a schoolgirl profanity — nothing but nothing, ever seemed to go right on Thursdays.
She raged inwardly at the thought of what Uncle Michael was bound to do to her — she absolutely loathed and detested being spanked. She found it so demeaning, the way he insisted on treating her like a naughty child; first the scolding, then the humiliatingly childish punishment — painful, and embarrassing.
Andrea pouted rebelliously, vowing that this time she’d dig in her heels and make a stand. Why should she submit to such awful indignities week after week?
But when Andrea reached her uncle’s front gate all bravado evaporated, and her heart began to pound fearfully like it always did.
Uncle Michael was a large man with deep-set piercing eyes and a rather loud booming voice. Although retired, he always dressed formally in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, sober tie, and heavy brown brogues.
When Andrea timidly entered the living room she found him, as usual, reclining comfortably in his favourite easy-chair, smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper. The dark, rich aroma of the tobacco filled the air, coils of smoke curling up the leather spines of the faded old volumes lining the massive oak bookcase that dominated the room.
‘Ah, Andrea. Been a good girl at school this week, have you?’ This was the way he always greeted her: an absent-minded wave of the hand, his eyes firmly glued to the pages of the Daily Telegraph. He hardly seemed to acknowledge her existence. Silence — save for the slight rustle of newspaper and the portly ticking of the worm-eaten old grandfather clock.
Andrea cleared her throat as if to speak — then thought better of it, remembering that evil old bat Miss Clark, and all the unkind things she’d said about her Bismarck essay… Best not to say a word, she thought, as panic slowly but inexorably began to seize hold of her. Andrea had this awful compulsive habit of blurting out the truth — and paying dearly for it afterwards.
‘Well, Andrea?’ Uncle Michael put down his paper and scrutinised the apprehensive girl standing before him, all neat and trim in her school blouse and the faded grey pleated skirt that was showing a good deal more of her thighs than she would have liked, as well as accentuating her tiny waist and the soft round swell of her hips.
Not a word was spoken. Time seemed to stand still. Uncle Michael’s gaze held the dumbstruck, crestfallen girl transfixed. Gradually the gaze hardened into a cold, steely stare. Andrea felt as if he was looking into her very soul. She went red with guilty embarrassment, the blush spreading rapidly even down to her delicate ivory neck. She felt her legs once more going all weak and wobbly, and the palms of her hands grew warm and moist. Judas-like, her own conscience was betraying her. It was useless to try and fight off the feelings that were engulfing her. The blushing, cringing girl was sealing her own fate without even uttering a word.
‘Well, Andrea?’ Uncle Michael repeated triumphantly, sensing her guilt. He could read it on her face. Andrea realised it was no use. She would have to tell him now. She felt sick inside.
She tried desperately to present her case in a reasonable light. She gave all the reasons under the sun to justify her low History mark: sleepless nights, pre-exam nerves, sheer overwork… feverishly she ran the whole gamut. But her wavering voice gave her away, and she stammered and stumbled over words as she felt that dreaded moment of reckoning drawing ever closer.
She made an appealing picture. Soft blonde tresses brushing against high cheekbones; a vivid flush staining her pretty, doll-like features. Perfect innocence and abject shame intertwined. As always, she felt herself starting to get those funny prickly sensations down between her legs. Her knickers felt itchy and tight. Thank heavens she’d remembered to put on clean ones that morning — another part of the whole bizarre ritual she found mortifying to say the least…
Andrea tugged at the hem of her skirt, wishing that it would hide just a little more of her thighs. Uncle Michael always seemed to be fascinated by her thighs…
Indeed, his eyes never left them as he began his customary lecture. Basically it never varied much from week to week. He dwelt at length on her abject laziness, her innate stupidity in throwing away ‘such a golden opportunity to improve your mind and enhance your career prospects.’ His deep sonorous voice, a trifle muted amid all the books and thick velvet draperies, filled Andrea’s whole being with gloom and wretchedness.
He called her ‘a thoughtless, downright selfish girl’ and reminded her in no uncertain manner of all the sacrifices her mother was making to keep Andrea on at school. She hung her head in shame and fought to keep back the tears as Uncle Michael concluded his lecture, sighed, shook his head sadly and got up from the chair.
Now it was coming — the part she dreaded most of all. ‘I trust you remembered to bring the safety-pin, Andrea?’ Uncle Michael always a stickler for detail.
She paled, nodded bleakly, and produced the pin from the pocket in the front of her skirt. She hated that pin. It was an integral item of the punishment routine and she never dared forget to bring it.
‘Turn round, Andrea ,’ he was standing two feet away from her now, and his large bulk seemed to tower over her. Reluctantly she did as she was told. With a deft movement born of much practice, he raised the back of the grey skirt and pinned it at shoulder height to her school blouse. Plumply pretty bottom, coyly veiled in white fluffy aertex pants.
‘Over my knee now,’ he told the trembling girl as he seated himself on the conveniently-placed upright wooden chair.
Andrea’s heart thumped madly as she draped herself submissively across Uncle Michael’s awaiting lap. How she dreaded his moment. It made her feel so horribly vulnerable, having to stick her bottom up so immodestly practically in his face. She found herself hoping frantically that he found it nice and attractive. Maybe if he did then he wouldn’t smack it quite as hard as usual… or would he?
She wriggled involuntarily while his broad masculine hand patted the tightly-filled seat of her girlish pants. He made a big performance of tugging at the waistband so that they stretched even tighter across her comely little behind — almost bisecting the twin bottom-cheeks, and maddeningly taut and snug around her pubic area.
Andrea groaned audibly and clung to the bars of the chair at the side for support. The thought of what was to come was unbearable.
Deliberately, almost leisurely, Uncle Michael commenced to spank her. Loud fleshy smacks resounded through the room. Outside, a bus roared past on the road, momentarily drowning the tell-tale sounds of the girl being punished within. Then all was quiet again, save for the ponderous, measured impacts of heavy male hand on soft, squirming girl’s bottom-flesh.
Andrea closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, and tried her best to be brave, like she always did. Her nose twitched uncontrollably — the green, thick-piled carpet loomed inches from her face and it invariably made her want to sneeze. Uncle Michael’s spanking was decidedly beginning to warm her bottom… uncomfortably, not painfully as yet — that was always to come. The peculiar sensations engendered in her loins caused Andrea to wriggle — somewhat vulgarly, it’s true, but she couldn’t help it…
Nor could Uncle Michael fail to notice it. He was, after all, only human. Commendably, though, he did not shirk his duty, but continued with unabated energy to smack his niece’s pretty little bottom so vigorously that she began to kick up her trim, neat ankles. Soon her leg movements intensified and she commenced scissoring her downy, sunburnt thighs.
Little wonder then that Uncle Michael was experiencing a vision of girlish pulchritude spread across his ample lap, like a bounteous feast sent from the gods…
Ye gods! His niece had developed overnight into a lovely young woman. Slender and sylphlike, yet provocatively plump and yielding around the upper thighs and buttocks…
Uncle Michael swallowed hard and cleared his throat, in an endeavour to banish thoughts and speculations that were making his eyes swim and his temples throb.
‘Get up, Andrea!’ he barked roughly. The turmoil in his brain put a sharper edge to his words then he’d intended.
Gingerly, for her bottom was indeed beginning to burn and sting by now, Andrea clambered off Uncle Michael’s lap. Her hair was tousled and her delicately-featured face was very red — all of which only made her look even more appealing. But oh, how she dreaded and hated what was surely to follow!
‘I can see that you’re not in the least bit sorry for what you’ve done, Andrea,’ Uncle Michael told her, himself a trifle flushed in the face, his voice rising with excitement. ‘Therefore, I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to take your pants down!’ He coughed and studied his fingernails. He seemed to be breathing rather more heavily than usual.
Andrea took a step backwards and clung defiantly to the waistband of her knickers. She looked beseechingly at Uncle Michael.
Impatiently he leaned forward, slapped her hands away from her knickers, and himself yanked down the offending garment almost to her knees.
As always, this final straw caused Andrea to burst into tears.
‘Oh Uncle Michael, please! Not on my bare… it’s so shameful!’ she sobbed. He gazed in fascination at her delicate little nest of pubic hair peeping out from between tightly closed legs, and tried to maintain a dignified composure.
‘Back over my knee, Andrea,’ he ordered her unrelentingly, ‘and for heaven’s sake stop blubbering like the big baby you are!’
Boo-hooing childishly, Andrea lowered herself dolefully into position once more, all-too-conscious of the fact that Uncle Michael would now enjoy an uninterrupted view not only of her bare bottom — already cherubically pinkened from the ten-minute spanking he’d administered — but also of even more private, closely-guarded areas…
To her dismay, her white aertex knickers slipped further and further down her legs till they ended up draped comically around her ankles effectively hobbling her.
Now the pace of the drama quickened as Uncle Michael began to really smack her in earnest. Poor Andrea greeted each sizzling bottom-smack with ever-increasing howls of distress. Uncle Michael, who was an amateur artist, never failed to appreciate the aesthetic qualities of the ruby-red, carmine hue that the impact of his outspread palm was imparting to Andrea’s now frantically surging hindquarters.
‘I trust that at last you’re feeling thoroughly ashamed of yourself, eh, Andrea?’ he managed to gasp between spanks — for the exercise was proving to be as tiring for him as it was painful for her.
‘Oh yes! Yes! I’m truly sorry!’ she gurgled. She was sobbing noisily now, her cheeks running with tears. ‘Uncle!’ she yelled in real distress, ‘please stop — I beg you!
Andrea was indeed displaying all the unmistakeable signs of true penitence and contrition. She’d long-since ceased to struggle but lay limply across his lap, blubbering fitfully. Uncle Michael doubted if even his prize tomatoes could outrival the colour of her blazing red rear-end.
So he relented.
He patted her blotchily-crimson bottom affectionately and secretly marvelled at the heat he’d engendered therein. Tearfully rubbing herself, little caring about the comic spectacle she was creating, Andrea stumbled painfully to her feet, then jiggled and gyrated around the room in a futile endeavour to cool and soothe her unbearably burning flanks. Retrieving her knickers from where they had fallen, she ever-so-delicately eased them up into place, grimacing with discomfort as she did so.
As always, he kissed her on the cheeks to show there was no hard feelings, then he avuncularly led her to the door, his arm protectively around her shoulder.
Fondly — almost wistfully — he watched her walk stiffly, painfully down the drive and out into the road. Should he, he wondered, have reminded her of the safety-pin still holding up the back of her skirt? A shame, he’d thought, to spoil a pretty picture — Andrea’s well-spanked bottom on public display…
And who, after all, would blame him? Wasn’t it an uncle’s prerogative to be absentminded and forgetful?

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