Search This Blog

Tuesday, 20 November 2018

Settling Accounts

By Cyrian Amberlake from Februs 6
In a tight, calf-length skirt and cream rollneck top, Christine opened the door. She looked pleased to see me and accepted a kiss on the cheek. ‘Come in, darling,’ she said, ‘and meet the others.’
Christine shares a large house with three other women: Gina, who works in a PR office, and the twins, Alison and Amanda, who are at the local teacher training college. Gina I found most attractive; a cool fresh-skinned blonde, she reminded me at once of the young Ingrid Bergman. She must be in her mid-twenties, certainly some years younger than Christine, while the twins, younger still, seemed more like schoolgirls than incipient schoolteachers.
Over dinner, the personalities I had heard about in our long phone conversations began to emerge, Gina, direct and uninhibited, asked me a hundred questions, some of them quite indiscreet, while picking at her food in a neglectful way I thought rather insulting to Christine, who had cooked it. For all her curiosity, it was obvious that Gina’s principal interests are Gina’s figure, Gina’s clothes and Gina’s career.
The twins are not a bit alike. Alison, busty and florid and scatter-brained, came late to the table and ate hungrily and messily, dropping food on the cloth and shrieking with laughter at everything anyone said; while Amanda, small and dark, sat quietly on my right, smiling in a vague and dreamy way. She spoke only when I spoke to her, and then revealed grand, impractical schemes for a future in Greece, or perhaps it would be Japan, that all seemed to depend on something being arranged by someone somebody else had told her they knew.
I could see the whole household relied entirely on Christine, on her practical good sense and powers of organisation. She had complained to me already of appliances left on, clothes lying around in the bathroom, leftovers rotting in the back of the fridge. Remembering my own distant flat-sharing days, I could only sympathise; but that night any spectre of domestic disquiet receded in the convivial haze of good food and the two or three bottles of wine I had brought. It was a perfectly normal pleasant evening, right through the clearing and washing up, in which we all had lent a hand. Then Christine looked at the clock and clapped her hands, saying: ‘All right. Time to get down to business now. Upstairs, everyone, please.’
I didn’t understand her. I did notice the others seemed suddenly uncomfortable; in fact, Gina and Amanda were looking quite shocked.
‘Come on,’ Christine went on, more sternly, ‘It’s the last night of the month,’ she reminded me.
It was, as a matter of fact, though what that portended I couldn’t imagine.
Was it the effect of the wine, or was Gina blushing? ‘Christine,’ she said reproachfully, ‘we’ve got company.’ She was looking at me, but more, I thought, as if I were an intruder than a guest. The twins were looking at each other, avoiding looking at me at all.
‘I expect Simon will find it very interesting,’ said Christine.
This announcement redoubled the shock. ‘Christine! You can’t’, wailed Amanda.
Her sister giggled nervously. ‘He’s a man!’ she pointed out, superfluously. Of the three, she was the one who seemed to be most sensitive to that fact. She had been flirting with me, in her clumsy way, throughout dinner.
‘Embarrassing, is it, Ali?’ said Christine coolly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps it will make you all pay more attention. Now upstairs, everyone, please, before I get really cross.’
Without another word, my darling’s three flatmates left the kitchen and set off upstairs. Baffled, I looked to Christine for some sort of explanation, But all she said was: ‘We’ll give them a minute or two to think about it.
‘Think about what?’ I asked.
‘What they’ve got coming,’ she said, tartly.
I took her in my arms. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘What happens on the last night of the month?’
‘It’s not often that everyone’s home at the same time,’ said Christine. ‘So we’ve agreed we’ll all be here on the last night of every month, to straighten things out and start the next month fresh and clear.’ She seemed to be avoiding giving me a direct answer. I supposed she must be talking about the household accounts, the kitty for bills and such — but why would they settle them separately in their bedrooms, instead of all together around the table? And why were they so aghast at the thought that a male was to witness their transactions?
I asked no more questions. It was the first time Christine and I had been alone together since I arrived, and we kissed and cuddled. She was amorous, and encouraging.
When she led me to the stairs I hoped for a moment she would take me to her own room, leaving her flatmates to think a while longer. But we stopped at the first door, on the half-landing, and she knocked.
‘Come in,’ called Amanda’s voice.
We entered. The room was small. Amanda was lying on her bed with her hands behind her head. It felt strange, invading her privacy like this. It was like going on a hospital round with the ward sister.
‘Sit up, please, Amanda,’ said Christine, still in the same tone of command. Amanda obeyed. Her eyes seemed very big and rather fearful as she fixed them, on Christine.
‘Not a bad month for you, Amanda,’ said Christine. ‘There was that broken plate the first week — and your sister tells me you borrowed a pair of her tights without her permission and gave them back with a ladder in. Is that right?’
Amanda was biting her bottom lip. Now her glance was full of dread.
‘Is it?’ repeated Christine in a clear voice.
Amanda didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded, briefly.
‘That’s not to mention the night you were supposed to be cooking and forgot,’ said Christine inexorably.
Amanda looked up at her. I could see her eyes were already glittering with frightened tears.
‘Get up, please.’
Amanda stood hurriedly.
Christine sat on her bed. She smoothed her skirt across her knees.
‘Two dozen smacks,’ she told Amanda, ‘then six with the hair-brush, to make sure it sinks in. Do you understand?’
To my utter amazement I heard the dreamy young woman whisper. ‘Yes, Christine.’
My beloved gave me a swift look of something I could only interpret as pride. ‘Take your skirt off,’ she told Amanda.
For the first time Amanda looked at me, a nervous, flickering look, like a hunted animal seeking any means of escape. In vain, Christine reached out and smacked her hard on the back of the leg. ‘Instant obedience, if you please!’ she cried. Then Amanda, hesitating no longer, started to unfasten her waistband.
‘It’s absolutely the best method,’ said Christine to me, rolling up her sleeves. ‘All misbehaviour, carelessness, lack of consideration for others — we save everything for the end of the month and then wipe the slate clean with a good old-fashioned spanking — don’t we, Amanda?’
Amanda, slim, pale, sylphlike in her tiny bedroom, nodded resignedly. She looked wonderful without her skirt. Her panties were white and plain. She kept fingering them. She seemed almost relieved when Christine commanded: ‘Now your panties.’
With a dainty movement she drew them down, stepped out of them and put them on the chair with her skirt. Her eyes met Christine’s. She was waiting for another command.
‘Bend over my knee, Amanda,’ Christine said.
With an astonishing naturalness, Amanda lay her young body over Christine’s thighs. Her bottom, the apex of her form, was white and clear and smooth. I felt an overwhelming longing to touch it.
Christine did that for me. She raised her right hand and smacked the poor child sharply on the right cheek, and at once again, on the left, then right and left, right and left.
Amanda made no sound. I watched, utterly absorbed. I had never seen a young woman, or indeed anyone at all, take a spanking. I was fascinated by the way Christine’s handprints started to blush on the pale skin. Individual finger-marks were quite distinct.
Amanda’s punishment accumulated. Somewhere around the end of the first dozen she made a small, breathless little gasp.
‘Felt that one, did you?’ asked Christine, rather callously, I thought.
Amanda did not reply.
Christine started to upbraid her, She told the young woman across her knee she was a selfish, thoughtless creature who walked around with her head in the clouds, Sadly, I could only suppose it was true. At any rate Amanda, head down, feet up, did not venture to contradict her.
I hoped Christine was keeping count; I certainly wasn’t. I didn’t imagine Amanda would dare to protest if she accidentally received more than her share. By the time her spanking was over, her bottom was quite pink.
‘Now,’ said Christine, ‘Simon, darling: would you like to pass me Amanda’s hairbrush, please?’
The hairbrush lay on the vanity beneath the mirror. It was a slender one, made of a light-coloured wood. I picked it up and handed it gingerly to Christine, feeling rather odd about the act of co-operation. I felt I ought to enter a plea. As Christine took the brush, I held on to it. ‘Does she really need it, my love? I mean, um, I’m sure she’s sorry, aren’t you, Amanda?’
She did look it. She looked forlorn, in fact, and she had already had a spanking that could have made me squeal, I can tell you.
‘Simon,’ said Christine, taking the brush away from me. ‘Don’t interfere with things you obviously know nothing about. Six I promised her and six she will have —’ she smacked the back of the brush squarely across Amanda’s bottom with a force that made me jump, let alone Amanda.
I suppose one would have thought, if one had thought about it at all, of the common hairbrush as a mild, inoffensive article. It astonished me to see one being exercised with such ferocity, and by the hand of my beloved! It was that stroke, and Amanda’s piteous cry, that first made me realise Christine was something of an expert at this business of spanking.
Each stroke of the six drew a heartfelt cry from the increasingly desperate Amanda. I was sorry to see her start to lose her composure and twist around on Christine’s lap, reaching in vain to fend off the hand that held the brush. Christine pinned the intrusive arm behind its owner’s back while the promised six were delivered.
When they were done I put out a hand to help Amanda off Christine’s lap and back onto her own bed. Christine did not have to ask me; it simply seemed the decent thing to do. The victim let her head hang down and clutched her fiery bottom. How much I wanted to rub it for her. Instead I handed her a paper tissue from the box on the unit so that she could wipe her eyes.
‘What do you say, Amanda?’ asked Christine, opening the door.
‘Thank you, Christine.’
I was surprised at the woeful young woman’s composure as she said this. I supposed she was used to this treatment. Earnestly I hoped she might one day learn not to deserve it. Meanwhile Christine was already on her way up the stairs. I made haste to catch up with her.
She offered no private comment on the extraordinary scene I had just witnessed, but said only, and rather grimly, ‘Alison,’ as she knocked on the door of the next room. ‘This one is hard work.’
When we entered, Amanda’s sister was on her feet. She looked apprehensive. She clutched at Christine. ‘I’ve got to go to the toilet!’ she said.
‘Hurry up, then,’ said Christine, sending her on her way with a loud smack. ‘She always does this,’ she told me.
We looked around the room. It was not much larger than her sister’s. Textbooks and files were piled up all higgledy-piggledy with romantic story magazines and items of intimate apparel. ‘Look at the state of this place,’ said Christine, picking up a discarded nightdress and hanging it neatly on the back of the door, ‘She said this morning she’d tidied up in here.’
I felt dreadfully afraid for Alison. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t spank her, then,’ I said doubtfully, ‘if it isn’t doing her any good.’
We heard a cistern flush as I spoke, then scurrying feet.
‘Oh, she’ll learn one day,’ promised Christine sternly, while the room’s occupant ran back in. ‘We’ll get through to her in the end. Well?’ she said as the poor girl stood chewing her lip. ‘Show!’
Alison glanced at me. For a terrible moment I thought she was going to giggle. Then she whisked up her skirt and revealed plump legs and a remarkable pair of knickers striped in lime green and orange. She half-turned and bent, offering their ample seat to our gaze.
Christine positively vibrated. ‘What did you put them back on for?’ she demanded.
‘Oh… don’t know,’ mumbled Alison.
Well, take them off then! This one hasn’t the sense she was born with,’ Christine told me, as if disparaging some disappointing purchase, some unsatisfactory pet.
Swiftly Alison bared her bottom.
‘On your knees!’ said Christine.
Alison dropped.
‘Face down, girl. Keep that skirt up! Now, what have you got to say to me?’
‘I’m sorry, Christine!’ moaned Alison. It was the first of fifty times she said it.
‘Bottom up!’ snapped Christine, smacking the inviting target with athletic force.
Alison yelped and pressed her face to the floor. I do not think I had ever seen anyone truly grovel before. Ungainly act though it was, I thought Alison did it rather well.
‘I’m sorry, Christine!’ she bellowed.
‘What are you sorry for, Alison?’
‘I forgot to clean the hall,’ said the young student at random. ‘I’m sorry, Christine, really I am…’
‘And?’ demanded Christine. She was being much more severe with Alison than she had been with her sister. I was quite impressed by the way she seemed to temper the style of her discipline to the character of the recipient. Obviously Alison was a very exacting subject, in need of stringent correction.
‘I left the TV on, didn’t I?’
‘Twice! And the light in the kitchen, and the light in the bathroom —’
‘I’m sorry, Christine!’
‘And Thursday, when it rained?’
‘Thursday…’ havered Alison. ‘Let me see, um, Thursday…’
‘You left your wet coat on the couch!’
‘I didn’t!’
There was a small pause before Christine said serenely: ‘I don’t think it’s open to discussion.’
‘Oh god I’m sorry!’ squealed Alison, stuffing a handful of hair into her mouth. Her bottom was shaking, I saw, quivering, no doubt, with anticipation. I marvelled how Christine stretched the moment out, letting the very delay become part of the young woman’s punishment.
‘Look at me, Alison, not at him,’ Christine ordered her. It was true, she had been looking at me, with an expression one could not have truthfully called penitent. Indeed, it was almost sly; which to me, though as Christine said I was altogether ignorant in these matters, seemed wholly inappropriate in her situation.
‘What else, Alison?’ said Christine wearily.
‘I don’t know…’ Alison lamented.
‘Your room is a pigsty!’ shouted Christine. ‘Where are your slippers?’
She made the demand sound like an accusation of the most dire and shameful ignorance. Still, her belongings were in complete disarray, and the poor thing was obliged to say again, ‘I don’t know, Christine…’
‘You don’t know?’ replied my beloved icily, separating the words clearly.
‘Sorry, Christine…’ Alison fussed with her hair again. Her cheek was squashed against the carpet. ‘Under the bed, I suppose,’ she said, with scant hope.
‘Fetch one.’
On all fours, Alison crawled towards the bed, her bottom in the air. Her picturesque pose was even more striking in motion. And when she had to jam her head beneath the bed, groping deep for the delinquent footwear, her deep-cleft cheeks rose and flexed in a way that truly captivated the attention.
I gave my darling a swift hug of congratulation. She did not reject it, but she did not yield to it. She put me aside with the slightest of movements toward the returning miscreant, who was returning, stretching up to hand her a grubby bedroom slipper.
Christine made her stand and remove her skirt completely. Then she directed her to present herself on the bed, holding on to the headboard. My job was to pile pillows beneath her, raising her for treatment.
Inexperienced as I was, I found Alison’s bottom took quite a lot of management. Christine was not satisfied until I had repacked the pillows four different ways. Then she said, ‘Three minutes with the slipper, Alison’; and though Alison groaned, the punishment began. Christine raised the slipper and smacked on mercilessly down upon the plump cheeks of Alison’s bottom.
The twins are unalike, I realised, even the way they take a spanking. From almost before the first stroke Alison was making a noise, clamouring and weeping, begging to be let off. And of course for her keeping still is as impossible as keeping silent. She clung to her headboard like a drowning woman to a pier, while her poor bottom rolled and wriggled and ducked and swayed, reminding me of the rear of an animal straining desperately against the tether. I watched the slipper claim a few licks that must have been extremely unwelcome, on the inside of the thighs and higher, in between, and to judge by Alison’s fuss they must have hurt, but the truth was, if she had kept still, like her sister, they might never have fallen there.
Christine paused, pressing the sole of Alison’s slipper into the palm of her left hand. ‘Turn over,’ she commanded.
‘Why?’ asked Alison, wretchedly, though she made no delay in obeying.
‘Two dozen extra,’ said my merciless darling.
‘Oh, why?’ cried Alison.
‘Three dozen now,’ said Christine. Alison whimpered. ‘For flirting with Simon at dinner,’ Christine said.
That the distressed young woman didn’t attempt to deny.
Christine asked me to replace two of the pillows Alison had disarranged in turning over, squeezing them beneath her back and hips. This task too was awkward, especially given that Alison’s bottom had started to be a little tender. It was certainly very pink and warm to the touch. I was not at all sure how Christine was going to avail herself of it in this position. Then Alison raised her knees, and everything became very clear.
She pulled her knees up to her chest, and lifted her feet in the air. She took hold of her legs, one in each hand. ‘This makes the gluteus maximus taut,’ said Christine, ‘and all the subject’s lower surfaces are revealed and made available for punishment.’
The first of the extra strokes was a really fierce one, that landed with a juicy whack. Alison squealed mightily, bucked and kicked her feet about.
Christine stood back. ‘Hold her feet, please, Simon,’ she said to me, as if it were the most commonplace request in the world.
I complied, and the punishment continued. I must confess I was finding myself becoming quite stimulated by the continued display of the student teacher’s most feminine features. And when Christine decided what she needed to do was put one knee up on the bed and nonchalantly hiked up her skirt to do it, the spectacle of my beloved slippering her flatmate’s uplifted bottom with her own stocking tops on display was almost enough to disconcert me entirely. There was a measure of self-interest in my relief when Alison’s two dozen extras were done, the patchy pink of her skin deepened to a glossy, dark red, and we could leave her alone, to suffer and burn in private.
‘Thank you, Christine,’ said Alison as we left. ‘And Simon,’ she added, rather naughtily, I thought. I am glad to say Christine did not think so. When Alison’s door was closed, she paused an instant on the landing to kiss me on the cheek in a gentle, almost fond way, in acknowledgement of my assistance. I could smell the delicious odour warmth and vigorous exercise gives her.
Thoughtfully I put my hand on her bottom. Primly but patiently, she removed it. I admit I wished then her duty might be over, so we could retire and enjoy one another’s company.
There was one more case, however, awaiting treatment. We came in upon Gina sitting in a studied pose, reading a fashion magazine. Her room was neat and tidy, with a clean air of recent decoration in well-matched tones of mushroom and the palest imaginable snowdrop pink.
Gina, on the bed, affected a look of total insouciance, as though not a sound of her flatmates’ agonies had penetrated through to her, though the bed was against the wall she shared with Alison.
Christine stood with folded arms. ‘How many more times, Gina?’ she chided her last subject sorrowfully. Her tone said that she esteemed Gina more highly, and was therefore more deeply disappointed with her than with either of the patently ungovernable twins.
Gina said nothing. She lifted her chin. I was not to learn what Gina’s transgression was. I suppose I was being spared something indelicate and shameful, and apparently habitual.
‘What did I say you would have to have if it happened again?’ asked Christine, with more resignation than anger.
Two spots of colour appeared along Gina’s porcelain cheekbones. ‘The strap,’ she said quietly.
I caught my breath. That sounded terribly severe. I wondered what it was Gina could have done. All kinds of intimate feminine indiscretions and misdemeanours flashed through my imagination — stimulated, I suppose, by the unusual spectacles I had just been witnessing.
‘Exactly,’ said Christine more firmly. ‘The strap. I shall go and fetch it now. Simon, perhaps you’d like to prepare her?’
I goggled at Christine. ‘Prepare…?’ I echoed helplessly.
A tiny frown of impatience creased my darling’s forehead. ‘She has to be stripped,’ she said, as if that was obvious, and without another look at either of us she swivelled and left the room.
I looked apprehensively at Gina. She seemed still cool and unperturbed, equal to whatever indignities my sweetheart might heap upon her. She lifted her arms for me to gather up her dress and pull it over her head. As I complied, her perfume enveloped me and I felt myself swell and harden.
Beneath the dress she was wearing a blue long-sleeved blouse, which I removed as quickly as I could, to reveal a mauve bra. Impressed though I was by her poise, I felt sorry for the young woman. It must have been humiliating to be undressed by a man who was nothing to her, whom she had first met only a few hours ago. ‘Gina, you do understand I wasn’t expecting to be asked to —’
She brushed aside my apology. ‘The bra unhooks at the back,’ she said, turning the sweet curve of her shoulders. There was the very slightest tremble in her voice.
Gently, I released her breasts from the cups; I saw her nipples, pink as shrimps. There was no need for her to turn again, but she turned, as if to show them to me. She did not look at them herself. She kept her head down and to the side.
I went down on one knee. Gina lifted her head then, and looked straight in front of her. I thought I saw her lovely eyes starting to glisten with suppressed emotion. She linked her hands and put them on top of her head.
Alone among her flatmates, Gina was wearing tights. Now, I know there is an orthodox masculine view that tights are passion-killers, an unerotic alternative to the decorative arrangements of stockings and suspenders. All I can say is, no man could think so who has known the pleasure of helping a young woman out of this clinging sheath to prepare her for punishment. It reminds me of peeling a succulent, fragrant fruit. Her panties came off too, as they so often will.
Gina lifted her legs, one after the other, pointing her toes to permit me to draw the tights from her feet. Then she stood before me, naked and beautiful and so very vulnerable.
‘Have you ever had the strap?’ I asked her, sympathetically, I hope.
‘Never,’ she said. ‘Have you?’
I thought it best to overlook that little touch of impertinence.
‘Perhaps once will be enough,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it will teach you not to deserve it again.’
Gina gave me a look then, steady and yet complex, as if to say there was far more at stake here than could be encompassed by any pious expression of mine.
Christine returned, a stiff length of leather in her hands, Gina, to my surprise, swiftly crossed her arms over her breasts. It was as if she were ashamed to reveal to her flatmate what she had seemed almost to take pride in showing me.
Christine looked at the pair of us standing there in our different attitudes of expectation. She made a sound that was almost a chuckle, and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Well, dear, I only meant her bottom,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure the added discomfort will be all to the good.’
I stood aside, feeling helpless and superfluous again now Gina was in Christine’s hands. Gina, I thought, had a look that was noble and stoic.
Christine directed her to fetch an upright chair and set it in the middle of the floor, then fold a towel over its back as a sort of cushion. Christine stood by, holding the strap in both hands, flexing and stretching it idly as she watched. I watched too. The sight of the nude girl performing these trivial domestic tasks was remarkably absorbing.
‘Good, Gina,’ Christine said when they were done. ‘Now let’s have you over.’
Gina stood behind the chair, at a little distance from it. Leaning forward, she rested her hips on the back of the chair and her hands on the seat. Coming up on her hips she lowered her head and shoulders on to the seat, lifting her chin slightly.
Christine stepped forward. ‘Elbows in, feet apart,’ she said. ‘Legs straight.’ She laid her right hand lightly on her flatmate’s tautened thigh, as if testing its resilience.
‘Gina knows all about presentation,’ she said to me, with a smile of approval. She traced the contours of Gina’s uplifted bottom with her fingertips. ‘You see what a splendid surface this makes for the application of the strap.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, my love,’ I murmured.
Christine tutted at me. She was taking her stance, measuring her distance. She shifted her feet, moving them wider apart. It did not satisfy her.
‘This skirt is too tight,’ she muttered. She unbuttoned and unzipped it, stepped out of it and handed it to me with the merest glance. ‘Here, Simon, you can look after that,’ she said; and then stripped off her roll-neck and gave me that too. ‘Warm work,’ she said, with a stony little smile.
Dumbfounded, I crushed her garment to my chest. They were indeed warm, and smelled of her. My darling, clad only in a very fetching white bra and panties and black stockings, was ready to deliver another punishment. Once again I could only stare.
She stood with her feet wide apart, at an angle to her subject, and lifted her strap, holding the end of it with her left hand. Her breasts rose as she turned from the hip. Then she swung back and laid the strap square across the upturned bottom of the hapless young public relations officer.
The smack was loud, the blush of Gina’s white flesh instantaneous. I winced. Gina did not.
The strap fell again, and again, and again. Still the young offender made no sound. I saw her knuckles had tightened on the edge of the chair seat. They were trembling with tension.
Christine walked around the subject, inspecting her judiciously, as if she were some kind of sculpture, ‘I hope you’re not creasing that skirt, Simon,’ she observed, casually. I jumped, and hurried to lay the clothes carefully on the bed. As I did so, Christine swung, and delivered Gina’s next stroke.
It fell high, bouncing across her tight-stretched cheeks. Gina cried out, and one foot kicked harmlessly into the air.
‘I think you get the point,’ Christine said. I didn’t know which of us she was speaking to. I thought it best not to reply.
The strap came down again. I did not remember now many strokes Christine had awarded. And of course I had no idea how many Gina deserved. There seemed no end in sight — if you will forgive the pun.
Christine stepped here and there, walking decisively and aiming precisely. The leather exploded against her flesh. Soon Gina’s bottom was ablaze with criss-crossing red marks like the licks of fiery tongues. She cried out frequently now, in sorrow and anguish. I thought Christine really was, in her own phrase, getting through to her.
‘All right, now, Gina,’ said Christine at last, in a tone that sounded almost reluctant, ‘Up you get.’
Gina stood. I took her arm, supporting her, as she rose. She did not look at me. Her face was flushed and wet with the traces of tears.
‘Kneel,’ commanded Christine.
Gina knelt at her feet.
‘What do you say?’ Christine asked her.
‘Thank you, Christine,’ Gina murmured.
‘Kiss the strap,’ Christine instructed her.
Gina raised her hands from her ravaged bottom and took her proffered instrument gently, as if it were something to be handled delicately. She put her lips to it.
My beloved regarded her severely, but not without sympathy. ‘Will I have to get it out again next month?’ she asked.
Gina hesitated.
‘Will I?’ repeated Christine, more firmly.
‘No, Christine,’ said Gina.
Christine’s hand gently brushed Gina’s curls. ‘See that I don’t,’ she said.
We left the room, carrying the strap and Christine’s clothes. Gina remained on her knees, looking as humble as any well-punished young woman could. I wondered only briefly about a tiny detail, or rather two of them, that I noticed as I was helping her up from her position across the chair; and that was that her shrimp-pink nipples were both erect as if she’d had them stroked with ice cubes. What a mystery the human body is, to be sure.
Christine and I returned downstairs, where she put her clothes back on and poured us each a celebratory glass of brandy. ‘That was wonderful, darling,’ I said. ‘Perfectly admirable.’ I toasted her, and she bowed, in pleased acceptance of my praise.
‘There’s just one thing that bothers me,’ I went on. ‘Who takes care of you?’
Christine emptied her glass and gave a nervous laugh. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Simon,’ she said quickly.
I took her in my arms again and kissed her, to soften the hurt of what I was about to say. ‘Well, you’re not so perfect, darling, you know. I’m sure the others must have some complaint against you.’
Christine gave a tiny shudder. ‘Nonsense, darling,’ she said. ‘We get on perfectly,’ she said, unconsciously echoing my word. She stroked my arm and tried to embrace me, but I moved away.
‘Let’s ask them, shall we?’ I suggested.
I went to the foot of the stairs and called. ‘Alison! Amanda! Gina! Will you come downstairs here, please? Just as you are. I want to ask you something.’
Of course, it was as I’d suspected.
Gina, nude, cupped her right elbow in her left hand and delicately rubbed her chin with the back of her right hand, reflecting. ‘She thinks she’s so superior,’ she said.
Alison, in her extraordinary panties, told me: ‘She’s always on the phone to you.’
And her sister Amanda, still bare-legged and rubbing her bottom, declared: ‘She spanks too hard.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I shall be delighted to take care of her on your behalf I think I’ve got the idea now.’
I turned to Christine, whom I was holding firmly by the wrist. ‘Bend over, please, darling,’ I said, lifting her skirt; and when she seemed reluctant to obey instantly, added; ‘Alison, will you hold her hands, please? And Gina, perhaps you’d like to pull her panties down for us. That’s the way. Now, Amanda: could you run up and fetch us your hairbrush, do you think? And I’ll just keep her warm while we’re waiting.’
Christine gave a wail of outrage which prompted the quick-witted Gina to ball up her panties and pop them into her mouth. After that, the music was of a different, more percussive kind. In fact, I don’t know that there has ever been a more harmonious ensemble than the quintet that now plays together regularly, without fail, at Christine’s house on the last night of the month.

1 comment: