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Saturday, 14 July 2018

Letting the Dust Settle

From Blushes Supplement 9
The slender yellow stick made the dust specks dance in the shaft of bright sunlight, the short high-pitched Pphhewww of its travel through the air heightening the tension in the elegantly furnished room. Through the window could be seen the steeply terraced gardens laid out a century or more before, the creak of a fully-laden wheelbarrow just audible above the bird song.
In the room, the panelling was interrupted only by the occasional watercolour. No ancestral faces peered down to approve or disapprove of what was going on in the room. That was reserved for the morning room and library, where family long-since dead gazed benignly from the canvasses. Here in the study the collection of watercolours would pass no comment, tell no stories.
Again, the supple stick swirled the dust as it gathered speed, bending back as it travelled through the air, then wrapping itself eagerly round the cushions laid over the end of the settee. There was a grunt of satisfaction from the wielder of the long malacca cane as he hung it by its curved handle on the end of the leather-topped desk. It wouldn’t be long now…
The shaft of sunlight had moved across the room, now falling directly on the end of the settee where the cushions still bore the signs of the cane’s impact. There was a light knock at the door.
‘It’s Miss Warren-Thomas, sir’ announced the house-keeper.
‘Ah, send her in would you, Mrs Wilding.’
The door closed for a moment, and then swung open as Mrs Wilding ushered in the willowy form of Fiona Warren-Thomas. Tall, elegant despite her youth, and possessing a remarkable pair of legs which had on occasions been glimpsed on the tennis courts which could be seen from the window.
The legs were clad in a pair of alarmingly tight-fitting jeans, the silk blouse above evidencing the unrestrained breasts — the pert nipples making their presence known through the thin fabric. The arms were bare and brown, lightly dusted with fair hair. The face, freckled, was less tanned and devoid of make-up, the piercing blue eyes a striking feature of this pretty young lady. Her blonde hair was tied back into a short pony-tail.
‘Good afternoon, Sir John. You did say three o’clock prompt?’
There was a slight tremor beneath the confident voice. Hardly surprising considering the reason for her visit.
‘Glad to see you’re on time, Fiona. Unpleasant little affair. Best to get it out of the way, eh?’
The lips split in an attempt at a smile, but the teeth remained clenched, the girl’s nervousness now more pronounced: ‘Yes, Sir John.’ Her eyes had noticed the long, slender malacca hanging on the end of the desk, and kept being drawn back there. Sir John noticed her gaze.
‘Ever been thrashed before, Fiona?’ he asked.
‘Er, well, not with a cane…’
Sir John was not to be fobbed off: ‘What with, then?’
‘Er, a tawse, actually, Sir John.’
‘Really? Well, well. At school was it? From one of those damn nuns I suppose. On your bottom, was it?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Good, good.’
Fiona didn’t mention the fact that it had been Father O’Reilly who had wielded the thick leather strap — and not just on her. There were a number of other girls whom Fiona knew had suffered under his swinging arm. The humiliation of those beatings was something she did not care to recall.
The smug look on the face of Sister Rachel as she had told Fiona to take down her PE briefs on the latest occasion just didn’t bear thinking about. And there were still three more terms to go.
‘But you haven’t been caned before, am I right?’ he persisted.
‘No, I haven’t, Sir John.’ A quick lick of the lips.
‘Stand over there in front of the fireplace, my girl.’
Fiona moved to the other side of the room. This was it. Next it would be ‘Bend over’ and just desserts time. She stood facing him.
‘Face the fireplace, and put your hands on your head.’
She turned and did as she had been told. The jeans emphasised the rounded curve of her bottom, another feature which inevitably attracted male comment, particularly in a bikini. There was a creak and a clunk as the door swung open and then shut.
It was a couple of minutes before Fiona risked a glance over her shoulder. The room was empty. ‘Where’s the silly old bugger gone?’ she thought to herself. The telephone on the desk began to ring, and went on ringing, until there was a creak and a crash as the door was slammed shut, followed by swift footsteps behind her.
‘Hello?’ A younger voice. Not Sir John’s. ‘No, I’m sorry, he’s not here at the moment.’ The eyes fell to the curved handle of the cane sticking over the top of the desk. ‘I think he’ll be tied up for a while actually. Can I give him a message?’ A long pause. and the sound of pencil scraping across paper. ‘OK, I’ll pass that on for you.’ A slight tinkle as the receiver was replaced.
Fiona hadn’t dared move, Now she darted a glance over her shoulder once again. ‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘if Sir John’s son knows why I’m here then the word will soon get out.’
‘It’s Mrs Warren-Thomas’ daughter isn’t it? Sorry, I can’t quite recall…’
‘Fiona.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ Fiona stayed facing the fireplace. ‘Well, you have grown up. I must say. How old are you now?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Are you now? Really. Well, well, I don’t think I’ve seen you since the ball about four years ago. Yes, it was the Midsummer Ball, you were with your mother. I remember now. Your father’s dead, isn’t he.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes. he died when I was thirteen.’
‘Of course, I remember.’ A pause. ‘Are you here for this by any chance?’ He picked up the cane and swished it experimentally through the air. Fiona did not need to turn round to answer, but did so anyway: ‘Yes, actually.’
‘Oh dear, been a naughty girl, have we?’ he mocked, replacing the cane on the desk. Fiona faced the fireplace again. ‘Yes, father is a firm believer in the merits of corporal punishment. I should know. Been caned before, Fiona?’
‘No, actually.’
‘Well, actually, it bloody hurts. And I doubt if you’ll be allowed to keep those snug little jeans on either.’ Another pause: ‘Well, good luck, anyway. Hope it’s not too bad.’
‘Thanks.’ The door creaked again, and closed.
It was another two or three minutes before Sir John came back into the room: ‘My son tells me there’s a message,’ he announced. ‘Bear with me, would you. You can take off those jeans while you’re waiting. I’m not straining myself beating you through those, my dear.’
There was no point in arguing. Fiona started to struggle out of the tight fabric, easing it over her hips and down her legs. She bent to slip off the white training shoes, and the jeans followed. Walking to the nearest chair she folded them neatly over the back before resuming her stance by the fireplace.
The skimpy white cotton briefs barely contained the two pale globes, the shirt ending just above the knickers’ waistband to show a band of golden brown flesh. The firm thighs were the same colour, the jutting protuberances above contrasted in the cotton covering. Fiona hitched her knickers down at the bottom to cover as much of the lowest curve of her cheeks as possible At least she’d have their protection…
The door creaked once again. and Sir John’s son re-entered the room. In his early thirties but not yet married, Harry was enjoying the high life which compensated for the hard work of running a large part of the family’s estates.
The telephone conversation was still in full spate. the older man’s voice rising in irritation at the news on the other end of the line. Suddenly, he slammed the receiver down: ‘Damn, damn, damn. Sorry, young lady, not for your ears. Harry, I’ve got to go straight up to town about this bloody trust thing. Those damned lawyers have made a dog’s dinner of things.’
‘What about…?’ Harry nodded towards Fiona.
‘No time for that. I’ll just catch the 3.35 if I dash. Could you deal with that for me? The cane’s on the desk…’
‘Er, how many?…ummm…strokes?’
‘Oh, eight should do the trick; bare arse of course,’ he said, glancing at Fiona’s now tensed backside. ‘Yes, a good eight. Leave you to it then.’ He walked over to Fiona. who turned to face him, hands still on head.
‘Sorry, my girl, but as you’ve heard I have to dash. Harry will deal with you, but I’d like a word when I get back. Be here about seven would you?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’ The door slammed once again and he was gone.
‘Sorry about this, Fiona, but as you heard…’
‘Yes, can we get it over with do you think?’ She was facing him, hands clasped in front of her. He picked up the cane and flexed it nearly into a circle. ‘This is going to be a pleasure,’ he thought as he straightened the yellow wood once again.
‘Come over here and face the end of the settee.’ He saw where the cushions had been placed over the arm, but chose to ignore his father’s chosen position for the girl. Grasping her wrist, he spun her round, back to the window, so that she stood in the centre of a small Indian rug, right in the shaft of still bright sunlight. He stood in front of her flexing the malacca. She looked him in the eye. This girl has spirit,’ he thought.
‘Take them down,’ he ordered. Her eyes didn’t leave his as she slipped her fingers into the waistband of her knickers and eased them down off her hips to rest at mid-thigh. Harry’s eyes dropped to the blouse. Only four buttons. He reached out, and with remarkable ease twisted each of them apart. The girl made no protest as he flicked the two halves of the blouse open with the tip of the cane.
‘Take it off.’ The fabric was shrugged back off her shoulders and fell to the floor. He picked it up and put it on the end of the settee. The magnificent breasts were bare, and to Harry’s surprise as sun-kissed as the rest of the girl. He didn’t realise that Fiona took great pride in her body, and topless sunbathing was something she was able to indulge in in the privacy of her mother’s walled garden. The two nipples, erect now, sat firmly just on the upper curve of each breast.
Harry’s eyes roamed lower, to the firm, flat belly, and to the puff of dark hair at the apex of her legs which Fiona had almost hidden under her clasped hands. He walked behind her.
‘Bend over’ came the order. She bent slowly from the waist, legs perfectly straight, feet together, until her hands grasped the front of her legs midway down her calves.
‘I told you to bend over.’
‘I am,’ she protested.
‘Bend right down and touch your toes.’
‘Oh… sorry.’ Her fingertips pressed into the short white socks which. apart from her half-masted knickers, were all she wore.
The telephone rang again, and Harry went to answer it. All movement in the room ceased. His voice was a quiet mumble on the other side of the room. Fiona could hear the birds singing outside the still open window. She hoped no-one walked past, as they would have a full view of the proceedings, not to mention her nudity. She looked past her legs to the upside down trees on the terraces. and heard the squeak of the wheelbarrow as it crunched along the gravel path at the side of the house.
There was the Pupp Pupp of a tennis match in progress on the court, the still, hot air carrying every sound into the room. As it would shortly carry every sound out. The shaft of light struck Fiona’s bared rear-end at an angle, the down-like scattering of fair hair catching the sun, the crease between her buttocks thrown into sharp relief. The dust was almost still.
The telephone was replaced, the cane collected, and Harry positioned himself at the teenager’s left hip while he idly tapped the smoothly-rounded target. She was an attractive girl, there was no denying it. And not a word of protest as he had all but stripped her naked. It seemed even more just, then, that he did not know the offence for which he was about to beat her.
The cane rose high, the cheeks clenched and relaxed. ‘If you move from that position or get up, Fiona, you’ll get an extra two strokes. Understood?’
A quiet ‘Yes.’
The cane soared down, upsetting the dancing dust which seemed to swirl in the air, till the cane landed lickety-split right across the centre of both cheeks, burying itself deep in the soft flesh before springing back. Harry was surprised at the speed with which the livid red welt appeared across the girl’s bottom, and at the yelp the first stroke elicited.
He applied the next three strokes in slow succession, the dust swirling, the cane singing, the buttocks quivering, the vocal protests rising in pitch.
‘You may stand up for a moment if you wish, but do not try to rub your bottom.’ Harry announced, and the girl leapt to her feet, her nakedness no cause for concern with the distraction of such a hiding. He gave her sixty seconds, then told her to bend over again. Her breasts swayed as she did so, and jerked violently with her body as the fifth stroke arrived, driving her up onto her toes: ‘Ahhhooooh. No more, pleeeease.’
‘Three more to come. Keep still.’
Her fingers left her toes for a moment and rubbed the front of her thighs before she resumed position. Her buttocks were now well striped with the cane’s corrugations.
Harry paused to admire his handiwork before laying the cane over the lowest part of her cheeks where the pale flesh gave way to suntanned skin. There would be no bikini sunbathing this week, of that he was sure.
The yellow length unwrapped itself for the final time round the 17-year-old’s bare arse, leaving its double-stripe as a reminder of its visit.
‘Right, stand up, and back in front of the fireplace with your hands on your head. You can put your blouse back on and pull your knickers up, but no rubbing your backside.’
Fiona was conscious that the tennis match had finished and the sound of chattering voices approached the house. She prayed they wouldn’t come near the study. The voices grew fainter as the players went round to the side entrance.
The dust settling now, still dancing slightly in the hot sunbeam, but the room had seen its excitement for the day, the cane had been replaced in the gun cupboard. and Harry had left the room. Surreptitiously, Fiona slipped her hands into her knickers and gently fingered the ridges left by the cane. The welts were quite thick and decidedly uncomfortable.
The voice cut through the still air: ‘You were told not to rub your backside, young lady. Get those knickers down again and touch your toes.’
‘But, I… Christ, I’ve had eight already.’
‘Bend over,’ came the uncompromising order, and Fiona obeyed.
Twice more the wicked malacca slashed into the girl’s red-striped buttocks: ‘Now do as you’re told and stand there another ten minutes. Leave your knickers where they are.’
The creak of the door a few minutes later caused a slight tightening in Fiona’s stomach, which would have been a great deal worse had she been able to see the four curious faces peering round the door in turn to see Sir John’s latest victim.

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