Ambrosia Drexler. Silly name her mother gave her. Like a bowl of creamed rice. The teasing she had had at school over that.
Creamy bottom, soft and smooth.
How could anyone in their right mind describe a bottom as ‘creamy’? Soft and smooth, perhaps — but ‘creamy’? Darren used to. He seemed to have had a thing about hers, liked to lick it! Quite nice in a weird way, but a bit naff. Then she had read his diary and found that he had been doing it with somebody else. Told him to get the hell out of her life. Did she miss him? Bastard! Maybe she hadn’t reacted right. Now, if he had licked her breasts…
She didn’t like people thinking about her bottom, which is what made this situation all the more appallingly embarrassing. With Darren the sex had been good. Too bloody good. He had actually tried to put it there once, which wasn’t on at all! That part of her body was private; sacred, even, in a strange sort of way. Sure, she had used it professionally as a photographable asset along with the rest of her, but she never flaunted it like other females seemed to. In everyday life Ambrosia Drexler avoided tight pants and shorts or skirts which emphasised her nether parts unduly.
‘Amber’ was what she preferred to be called, but people usually found out her full name, and out came the stupid jokes. Five-foot-six and willowy, good legs and bust. No problems with the size or shape of her bottom, in fact Mother Nature had been extremely kind in that department. Once some unseen hand had touched her there on a jam-packed rush-hour platform. The invisible fingers had squeezed and groped in horrible intimacy then had as quickly gone.
Keep it out of the way. Hands off, eyes off…
‘Raise your skirt to your hips, Ambrosia.’
How Miles said her name now was anything but a joke, rolling it around his tongue as though savouring its syllables in an entirely new way. Although his voice was appropriately commanding she detected a tremor, as if he were having difficulty breathing. Miles Parker was over 50 and smoked cigars and a pipe. Probably unfit, Ambrosia thought, feeling a bit short of breath herself and in a fever of funk. She wasn’t sure why she had come to him, of all people, her father’s business friend and golfing crony. Except that she had needed to confide in someone with whom she felt totally safe. A surrogate male parent? She had known Miles since childhood when, pink and neat in nightie after her bath, she would be brought downstairs on his visits to kiss him a dutiful goodnight. No way could she have gone to Dad about this.
Coming to him had been a spontaneous, intuitive move on her part.
‘It’s just that…’ she had faltered. Miles’s flinty blue gaze had stared curiously at her as she perched tensely in the leather chair on the other side of his spacious desk. When she had shifted nervously in her seat, the friction produced a farting noise which made her flinch.
‘I just feel such a failure,’ she had blurted. ‘If I don’t tell someone, I think I’m going to explode! I turned twenty-six last week. I can act. Sing. Dance.’
‘So can a lot of other girls,’ Miles had said, gently. ‘Younger, too.’
Thanks a bunch, she thought. ‘I’ve played Hedda Gabler in theatre,’ she retorted. ‘Natasha, Lady Melinda. Sung at business conventions, danced in cabaret, done parts on TV…’
‘And photographic modelling.’
‘I don’t want to talk about those days,’ she flared. ‘I’m nowhere, Miles! The work’s drying up, I’m having to sign on at the bloody Employment Office. I hate myself…’
‘I know I could do more. I always wanted to be a classical actress. But I just don’t seem to be able to motivate myself in anything. I’ve bust up with my boyfriend because he was a cheating bastard. I’m a washout, a flop —’
‘You’re beautiful. And young as spring.’
‘Now now!’ Sternly. ‘Well brought-up young ladies shouldn’t say such things. In fact, if I had my way…’
‘What can I do, Miles? I slap myself round the head sometimes, I so exasperate myself. I need a kick, a push. Something to really shake me up. To give me new incentive, new direction, a new beginning — hell, I just don’t know.’
Miles had stood up and, with maddening thoroughness, stuffed tobacco into a pipe and lit it. The smell was surprisingly pleasant. MD of a multinational organisation, his office reflected his status: the thick carpet, framed paintings, huge executive desk with photos of his wife and infuriatingly successful grown-up kids, black leather settee and glass-topped table.
He had walked to the enormous window and stood gazing out over the cityscape below, puffing meditatively. ‘Would you be prepared to take a caning from me, Ambrosia?’ he had said at last.
Her astonished silence remained unbroken for almost a minute.
‘A caning? Do you mean — ?’
‘Do you honestly think that that —’
‘I do. A suitably severe physical chastisement will wake you up, shake you up, bring you back to full reality, ground you, eliminate confusion, give you a new start-point in life, transform your self-loathing to purposeful reassessment.’
‘You’ve lost direction, Ambrosia. I could advise counselling, psychotherapy, hypnosis, or any number of feel-good therapies. All costly, time-consuming and useless. You need to expunge from your mind your debilitating sense of self-guilt at having not lived up to your own expectations of yourself. I promise you that the sharp, painful shock of a sound caning will blast away these doldrums and give you new direction. The flagellants of old based their entire lives and philosophy upon the efficacy of voluntary periodic whippings.
‘I have a cane at home,’ he went on as Ambrosia continued to gape. ‘I will bring it in tomorrow. You have twenty-four hours to consider the matter. If you have not presented yourself here in my office by six tomorrow evening, I will draw the obvious conclusion.’
Now that the actual moment was here, she squeezed shut her eyes and shivered. Yes, she had returned. She opened them again — vivid eyes, dark pupils whorled with smoky-green. Delicate china-doll features, firm little chin and pert straight nose. Dainty head wreathed in a glory of chestnut hair. Full red lips parted in apprehension, pearly teeth. Her palms felt clammy. She blinked again at his bulky six-foot figure with the paunch and powerful shoulders, not quite believing that this was happening.
A long cane with a curved handle was gripped in Miles’s large, capable hand. The shaft quivered horribly, as if it were alive; viciously thin, three feet in length. She had never been caned in her life.
‘It must be on your bottom, Ambrosia. Lift your skirt to your hips and stand facing the desk with your thighs against it.’
She had felt brave enough this morning when she finally decided, after hours of agonising and disturbed dreams, to take the pain and whatever other mortifications might accompany Miles’s suggested treatment. She had previously always been known for her courageous and unconventional approach to life, and this was a man she trusted implicitly. She knew that he would not tell her father, or anyone else. She knew, too, in her bones, that somehow this was right. At the very least, she deserved punishment for failing to fulfil her potential. But now, here in his office again, with the westering sun blazing through the great window, her limbs felt weak and trembly as if she might suddenly drop in a faint. She turned her back on him and stood against the desk, gulping in air to quell the dizziness.
The hem of her loose cotton dress felt oddly unfamiliar as she gripped it and, in an agony of embarrassment, began to raise it up her stockinged thighs. The experimental whop of the cane behind her caused her momentarily to lose her grip.
‘Up higher!’ he said crisply. ‘I want that dress well clear of your bottom.’
‘Can’t it be on my hands?’ she whined, wheedly, like a scared little girl pleading with big moist eyes to be let off.
‘You won’t hurt? I’ve never been caned before.’
‘Six strokes,’ he intoned, his voice breaking slightly again.
Shrinking with humiliation, Ambrosia hoisted the dress-hem finally clear of her behind. It didn’t help one little bit to know that she possessed a bottom which had been variously described as sweetly plump, neatly pert, provocatively rounded, lickably luscious, peachily perfect. She had modelled tight jeans and skimpy underwear in adverts and received rave mail from masturbatory men. Even glamour-hardened photographers had whistled and grinned when she had done the back-jutters for top-shelf mags. It was why she preferred to keep her bottom well concealed in everyday life: its unmasked appearance caused too much aggravation, made her too self-conscious.
‘My God,’ she heard Miles gasp.
‘Please,’ she murmured, hating him now for being yet another of the ogling herd. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
His breathing sounded ragged, then a long insuck of breath. At least she had had the foresight to put on her black silk French knickers rather than anything skimpier. They had a stylish lacy trim around the front and were fuller in the seat than her other panties, with flounces which covered the lower part of her behind. Even so, she could feel wispy silk trapped between her bottom-cheeks, and quickly reached behind to tug the material free.
‘On the naked buttocks.’ His words would reverberate around her mind for years.
‘This is a formal caning, Ambrosia. Lower your knickers to your knees. I intend to punish you on your bare bottom.’
Ambrosia’s world whirled. She became freezing cold, flushed hot. Her mind locked. She could not believe that he meant what he had said, but she knew that he did mean it. Her fingers fumbled at the elasticated waistband of her most intimate garment. Then, with a rush of angry resentment, she stooped and pushed the skimpy underthings down to just above her knees, baring her bottom to the full view of the man with the cane.
Several more gaspy moments passed. ‘Bend forward over the desk and present your buttocks for a caning.’
This was already worse than Ambrosia had dared to imagine. Burning with humiliation, the young woman bent over and pressed her upper body across the hard desktop, reaching out to grip its furthermost edge as if in dread of falling off. Mortified, she imagined how this ageing man she had known all her life would be staring lewdly at her naked bottom, smooth and rounded, perked up over the side of the desk, its pearly plumpnesses framed by the rucked-up sky-blue dress-hem above and the lowered black knickers beneath. Flesh-coloured stockings held up by suspenders graced her long shapely legs. She felt him tap her high-heeled feet apart, partially exposing her secret places.
She hated him. Hated! She felt a shaft of cold wood tap briefly against the cheeks of her glaringly bared bottom; a rustle of clothing as his arm was raised. Then a grunt, and a searing sensation scorched her buttocks as the cane struck full across them. The hurt was unimaginably ferocious. Ambrosia’s body juddered and convulsed, steadied. She gasped, gritted her teeth. And felt a slithering wetness beside her nose.
Terrible seconds passed. As the burning in her buttocks began to ebb, a second stroke, heavy-hot, chopped through the air and bit against her upturned rear. It seemed to imprint sheer fury upon her senses. A third followed, landing with a whop and crack across her seething rumps. The pain lividly invaded her whole body, reaching even into her fingers and her toes. Her entire being was possessed by the sensation of the cane.
Ambrosia clung to the desktop with her body and fingers, tears springing from her eyes and dripping down her face. Her slender hips heaved, grinding her pelvis against the woodwork of the desk. Again her bottom flared with almost insupportable pain as the cane struck it, causing her body to jerk and writhe. This was monstrous! Terror vied with rage. When she got up, she would wade out into the world and tear it apart; she would…
‘Aaaaghhh!’ The fifth stroke caught her hard and fast on the chubby undercurves of her bottom; and almost at once another struck home hard on her right buttock, so far over that the cane-tip curled agonisingly around almost to her flank.
Six. A silence. The cane had ceased to swoop and crack. Yet her bottom still blazed with searing, throbbing pain. Choking gulps racked her body as she lay sobbing and spent. Day had turned to night. She was at home, although with no recollection of the journey back from Miles’s office. Had he driven her in his sleek Merc back to her lonely flat, or put her in a cab?
No doubt, in the light of a new day, the atrocious memories would come crowding back. But now the shock and resentment of her pain-filled and horribly humbling experience seemed to have anaesthetised Ambrosia’s mind. On the deepest level she seemed to sense that this was right, but her body rebelled against this perception. On getting home she had thrown herself tummy-down on her bed and cried until her face was pallid and puffy and there seemed to be no more tears left in her. All her physical sensations were centred in the nagging throb in her buttocks, shot through with prickling smarts, active and vital. She had dragged herself to the bathroom, slowly and gently washed her face, and then stared at its ghostly mask in the mirror.
When at last she began to be properly aware of her surroundings again, it was dark, and she was slumped across her bed. She could remember feeling like this once when she came round after getting drunk. Ambrosia listlessly stripped off her clothes and crawled naked into the womb-like comfort of her bed. Normally she wore a delicate nightie in bed, but tonight was not a normal night. At first she lay on her side, curling her body into a foetal position and tried to escape into sleep. But her mind teemed with sounds and images: the deep timbre of Miles’s voice; the smell of polished desk-top under her nose; the flat up-pressing hardness supporting her belly and breasts; her bottom, bared, openly vulnerable to his gaze and cane. The adrenaline of fear and real embarrassment. ‘A punishment caning, Ambrosia.’ Words spoken quite softly, with measured power. Shame — hot, aching shame. A crazed downrush like a leap from a cliff… into a world of absolute sensation.
She had submitted: submitted to her rightful punishment, given her bottom, her too-admired bottom, up to the wrath of the rod. Knowing, in her heart of hearts, that this must truly be for the best.
Still sleep would not come. Ambrosia had turned and was now lying face-down on the crisp linen sheet in this her privatest, secretest and most intimate place in all the world. The duvet embraced her with soothing warmth, its cotton cover strangely cooling on her upturned buttocks, whose surfaces continued to simmer and burn with steady persistence. Six times he had struck her there, hard, with that piece of whippy wood. Heat rushed to her face at the horrid memory, and drained to paleness.
She became aware that her left hand was trapped beneath her left hip, the fingers almost touching her genitals. Sudden curiosity prompted her to withdraw it slowly and trace the fingertips up the side of her hip to the top where the springy mound of her left buttock wobbled smartingly to her touch. Here her fingers encountered what felt like a raised track across the tender skin; then another, and another. Her hand, sensitively seeking, explored the full extent of the swollen pad of flesh, discovering six distinct ridges traced across, and when she began to draw her fingertips along their length, the sharpness of the pain made her wince.
Intrigued now, Ambrosia half-turned on her right elbow to give her left hand fuller scope. Her fingers moved to the adjacent bottom-cheek, feeling how the raised ridges continued across the summits of each, and were even more pronounced on the right buttock. And each fleshy pillow was hot, smarting, deep-soft and strangely thrilly in an utterly unknown way.
How different her bottom felt. In the pitch dark her breath hissed in and out, and an odd sensation stirred in her throat and genitals. It did not seem as if she was touching her own buttocks, but rather as if she was experiencing, with increasingly interested tactile sensation (perhaps not unlike that unseen hand which had feverishly groped her bottom on the Underground platform) someone else’s intimate zones under her roaming palm.
Her left hand cupped and squeezed, teasing each seething rump, testing the weight and fullness of each punished globe in the inky dark. In her mind’s eye she could see that curiously different bottom, transformed as it were to another and far more exciting identity by the caning it had received, its flawlessly smooth alabaster curves flushed and swollen, seared across by six livid tracks which smarted and throbbed to the fingers’ touch.
Increasingly aroused, Ambrosia struggled up on to her knees and brought the other hand into play, running her delicate palms experimentally over both buttocks at once and into the dip between: up, down, round and round, travelling with exquisite intimacy the cane-scorched surfaces, soothing the after-sting yet arousing it too — sparkling smarts transformed to a sensuous glowing, the raised cane-ridges fascinating her probing fingers and gently-scratching nails. It seemed strangely important to her, too, that these changes to her bottom’s smoothness had been brought about by a male.
Ambrosia’s breath had quickened more. For the first time she was discovering her bottom not merely as an appropriately appealing adjunct to a usefully attractive body, but as, quite literally, a seat of pleasure. The entire area of her bottom was tingling and alive in a way never before experienced. She gasped as pleasure struck through her. It was her arse she was feeling, the ‘bum’ she preferred to keep under wraps, the ‘butt’, ‘bottom’, ‘buns’ and `jacksy’ she might joke about with girlfriends.
Yet, this ‘new’ arse felt fantastic to her now-groping hands. Was this how men felt when stroking and squeezing a girl’s bottom? Transferring the weight to her left hand, she allowed the right one greater liberties, stiffening her fingers like mini-phalluses to push down between the buttocks and stroke the surface of her rearward orifice and the soggy, pliant pouting one in its nest of hair.
Arching her spine to push her buttocks higher, she began to smack them tentatively. Lightly at first, each little slap reawakening the cane-ravaged skin. The sensation was indescribably erotic.
Ambrosia threw off the duvet and, kneeling up on the mattress, in the darkened room, head down and bottom high, began to spank herself harder with her right hand — left buttock, right buttock, both together. Her palm rose and fell — loud clapping concussions in the otherwise stillness which made the hand tingle. Her hips began to jerk from side to side, then backwards and forwards with increasing power, her arm appearing to gather energy as her hand smote her bottom ever faster and more firmly.
With a sob of what was now undeniably lust she changed hands. Throwing her weight on to her right shoulder, keeping her bottom high and pushing her knees even further apart, the caned girl started to spank with her left hand on her roasting buttocks. Slap after slap impacted across the livid cane-weals which, as if by magic, were no longer obscene tracks of humiliation and hurt she had previously felt them to be. And, as her left hand continued to slap and spank, her right hand was irresistibly drawn to where her body craved, the fingers probing and stroking in a mounting fever.
Ambrosia was soaring, flying, sighing, squealing. Her thrusting hips moved faster and faster. Never, even in the so-called best of her sexual encounters, had she ever ascended to such heights of incipient ecstasy. The sexless nights of frustration without Darren’s lips and hyperactive cock melted into irrelevance. Her bottom and genitals, in a crucible of stinging, thrilling, tingling euphoria, bore her senses ever higher until, with a final explosive smack and thrust, the spasms began. All lesser sensations vanished in the surges of keen bright joy which made her cry out and tremble and collapse in a sprawl on the bed, still jerking and twitching, utterly spent.
In the darkness there was only silence now from the naked figure slumped in gasping lethargy. Then came a long, long breath and a shuddery sigh. ‘Glory be!’ Ambrosia whispered, pregnant with bliss.
Sleep came at last.