A lengthy but rewarding story in two parts from Janus 87 and 88 by Laurence Piper
Through the mist and rain I spy her. She is standing glumly in the drizzle, scornful of shelter. Her air is sullen, and she slumps under the weight of her shoulder bag as if in the terminal stages of ennui.
I raise my hand to toot the horn, but there is no need. She sees me almost at the same moment and a singular transformation takes place, like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis. Her slight, wiry frame straightens, the boredom and Weltschmerz evaporate. Liveliness floods her features in a vivid smile as she stretches to wave eagerly.
I watch this transformation, as always, with a blend of joy and sadness. Joy that this enthusiasm is for me; sadness, because youth calls to youth. One day this brilliant butterfly will flutter out of my orbit and that eager smile will explode for someone else.
Now, however, if only for this brief while, she is mine. Only I, for the present, am the recipient of all that marvellous abundance as she tugs at the car door, tossing her hair meaningfully at the dripping sky. I lift the lock and she bursts into the car, soaked but elated, bag whizzing past my ear into the back seat.
‘Hello-ello-ello!’ she burbles, aiming a kiss at my cheek and landing on my eye. ‘Here we go again; back at the tingle factory.’
She plumps into the passenger seat, scrunching down voluptuously, while I regard her with exaggerated, amused patience. ‘Come on, Come on!’ she cries, pounding at the dashboard. ‘Let’s go!’
‘Yes, all right,’ I respond, striving for firmness, almost spoiling it by breaking into laughter. ‘Soon as you’ve done up your seatbelt.’
‘Oh, poo!’ Disdainfully, as obediently she buckles up. ‘That is actually a very stupid law, you know.’
‘Yes, well,’ I say, drily. ‘That’s because we have stupid politicians. Now, then. Ready? Good.’
We move out into the flow of traffic while Linda cranes eagerly about, hungry for familiar sensations. Already her fine golden hair is recovering its spring. As I took at her from the corner of my eye, she flashes that smile again.
Linda nods, her eyes once more sweeping the sky. Shivering, she snuggles down into her anorak. ‘It’s cold. And wet.’ Her sidelong glance, hesitant, wary, is not lost upon me. Inwardly I sigh. Outwardly I maintain a poker face. When next she speaks her voice is uncertain.
‘Just right for the moors…’
‘Is it?’ I reply unenthusiastically. This is her fantasy, not mine. To me it is nothing more than a cold, wet day in the wilds: an uncomfortable day altogether, and I would be warmly dressed!
‘You promised!’ Her voice, forlorn. The life has drained from her eyes and she slumps pouting in her seat. At 19, time is passing her by. If she does not do things now the chance may never come again.
‘I’m busy tomorrow,’ I say. ‘All day. Something I absolutely must do.’
Linda sighs, disappointed. Suddenly I realise that throughout the journey she has been peering from the window, gloating at the heavy skies and dreaming her dreams. Yet she is a generous young woman; besides, my word is her law. She swallows her chagrin bravely, sitting straight once more.
Touched, I all at once comprehend how much this means to her. Why, I cannot imagine; but it is, after all, a small sacrifice to make. ‘This lot has settled in for the weekend, you know,’ I tell her, compromising. ‘All weekend.’
Linda jumps up in her seat, clapping her hands. Then… we’ll do it?’
Now it is settled, for if my word is her law it is also my bond.
Linda almost flings herself into my arms, but a look quiets her. She sits for a moment, still as stone. Her nature is too volatile, however, for her to be quiet long. In a minute she gives me an edgewise glance.
‘Did you get the switch?’
‘Oh, hell!’ I exclaim apologetically, resting my hand on hers. A small enough gesture, but sufficient. With a gentle pressure of her fingers, Linda forgives me.
‘I’ll get it,’ she says. ‘Tomorrow. As a prezzie.’ Then she adds cunningly, giving a sweet smile as she weighs my patience, ‘You’ll have to give me the money, though. I’m broke.’
‘If I get many presents like that I shall wind up in the workhouse,’ I observe ruefully.
‘Well, I’m only a poor student!’ A theatrical moan, while she giggles hysterically, waving her arms about.
Time to bring her to heel.
‘Position!’ I snap. Instantly she stills, facing firmly forward, back ramrod straight. Ankles crossed, she parts her knees and lets her hands fall, palms upturned, on to her thighs.
Linda loves this, this instant passage from excitement to obedient, responsive control. She is uncomfortable with choice. To her, any prescribed course of conduct, no matter how difficult or painful, is infinitely preferable to what I believe she regards almost as logical anarchy.
As always, obedience earns reward. I utter the words that never fail to stir her. ‘That’s better! How often must I speak to you about your behaviour? Well, if you won’t be told, you leave me no choice. I’m afraid I shall just have to smack your bottom.’
Her eyes glow, and her lips part fractionally. Otherwise she gives no sign. The remainder of the journey passes in silence, Linda jealously maintaining her pose, even on the bumpy lane that leads to home.
At the door I lean across and unclip her seatbelt. She does not move, however; permission has not yet been granted. She sits quietly as I undo her anorak and weigh a breast in each hand, squeezing gently through the thick woollen material of her shirt. Linda does not resent this. To her it is a reaffirmation of ownership, an assurance that she is still wanted.
‘In you go,’ I tell her, removing my hands from those electric mounds; and I kiss her gently on the corner of her mouth. Her eyes show that she would like to respond. But, with the docility so strenuously instilled in her, she goes indoors with a backward glance.
I have never paraded my passion for corporal punishment, for passion it truly is. Martha knew of it, of course, for she was my wife and the willing partner of my youth. With her death, however, it seemed that my participation in active CP was over.
As for my daughter, April, it never crossed my mind to use physical chastisement upon her. The thought of striking a child is repugnant to me, and one is anyway wary of arousing such predilections in one’s offspring. Instead, I used psychological methods of correction and instruction and had hardly a moment’s anxiety about her, perhaps because I was able to structure my career so that I could work from home and thus always be there when she needed me.
April was an extremely clever, precocious child. A hard worker, too, and consequently rather unpopular. She was lonely for companionship, but always denied. She was either ignored, teased or bullied. Only at home could she feel cosy and comfortable, and it was not until the Sixth Form that she began to make friends, most especially with Linda, who was almost as clever and quite as lonely as she.
They looked an unlikely pair. April was small and dark, the image of her mother, self-reliant and positive, while Linda was fair and slender with something of the waif about her heart-shaped face and wistful blue eyes. In her, loneliness had become an eagerness to please, a willingness to follow, that made her the ideal foil for my bossy-boots daughter. Yet although Linda could be led, could be compelled, it must only be by those whom she herself appointed to do so.
In all this, I too was lonely, for while raising my child had been an act of love in which any sacrifices had been willingly made, yet I sensed ‘life’ slipping by. It became a second-hand thing, especially my long-repressed passion for recreational CP.
As far as I had been aware, April knew nothing of my interests. It may be, however, for she was a curious child, that she found the books and magazines I kept ‘hidden’ from her.
However it came about, she obviously was aware, and had presumably mentioned it to Linda in one of those marathon talks in which they breach the dams of solitude together.
Linda was a regular visitor. She is by nature aloof, apparently sulky, and somewhat hypercritical. Few have gained her approval, including her own family; although she is at last beginning to tolerate them, perhaps because the treatment she receives at my hands relaxes or releases inbuilt hostilities.
For the rare ones who have won her approval, though, all the rich sweetness of her heart is freely bestowed. Among these, April and I figure most prominently — for there is not much that will shock, still less surprise, us; and she enjoys the relaxed atmosphere of our house.
For myself, Linda was welcome only as the companion April so sorely needed. Soon, however, I began to see beyond the defensive sullenness to the endearing girl beneath, and grew to like her very much. I respected her considerable qualities of mind and her wide-ranging talents. In turn, as she grew more involved with us, she took great interest in my work, offering eager assistance that proved of enormous help. Then I began to welcome her presence for its own sake as I watched her blossom from a gawky adolescent to a lissom beauty of 19.
Linda loved especially to share our walks. I have always had a passion for the nearby moors. So, as a child, did April, striding alongside me for miles, small, sturdy, and endlessly questioning. With the appearance of Linda her interest reawakened briefly. Most weekends would find us with packed lunches exploring the desolate sweep of grassland and the gently folding hills. Those came as a revelation to Linda. The lonely wilds seemed to call to something within her. She felt, it seemed, an almost religious awe as she walked, for the first time, among scenes that appeared to have had for her the welcoming warmth of the familiar and well-loved.
This uncanny sense of welcome seemed especially cordial at one of my own favourite spots. Set in the steep hillside, it was little more than a deep recess in the rock, circling narrowly about a slab of granite lying at the entrance. To my eye this slab looked too regular, deliberate and convenient to be an accident of nature. The size of a medium dining-table, its flat rectangular top was at waist height. Just the place, I thought, for the celebration of primitive rites.
On Linda its effect was dramatic. On catching sight of it she stood wide-eyed, staring fixedly as if at something long-lost and newly rediscovered. She moved towards it with a cautious, almost reverential air, slowly circling the stone slab. I began to comment on the shape and situation of the place but she stopped me with an impatient toss of her blonde curls. To her, speculation was unnecessary. She knew, and in that knowledge I was somehow implicated.
On subsequent walks Linda would accompany me with a taut eagerness, impelling me, it seemed, to the cave and its ‘altar stone’. When I questioned her about her obvious fascination for the site, her lips closed obstinately tight. What she knew, or thought she knew, was not for sharing: although once she talked of ancient rites, knowledgeably and confidently, as if convinced that they had been celebrated at this very spot. She began to confide her inmost thoughts when we were alone and, because I treated them seriously, Linda attached herself to me.
Quite how attached she was becoming, I did not realise. These things develop unnoticed. She had a quality of startling frankness with those she trusted, asking the most surprising questions; to which I tried to give clear, unstartled answers.
Her parents were happy that Linda was spending so much time with us. They were fond of her but could not make her out and, I think, writhed under the lash of her scorn. At first they would phone to check on her, but eventually accepted that she was in good hands, that I would always see her safely home.
Her growing attachment to me was not lost on April, who observed us with close interest. ‘Mark my words, Dad,’ she observed. That kid is getting the hots for you.’ April was going through a stage where she was conscious of her three-week superiority of age.
I was shocked. ‘Nonsense!’
April grinned. ‘You’ll see. But be warned, Dad. That one knows her own mind…’
I thought of what she had said, then dismissed it from my mind. I did, however, register her rather surprising approval, for while the young claim licence for themselves they are inclined to be narrow-minded where their elders’ morals are concerned. I didn’t believe it, of course: youth calls to youth — not to work-worn, middle-aged men.
So time passed. The girls took their ‘A’ levels, winning places at different universities, both within easy distance. I drove April to her hall of residence, and watched my little girl walk into her future with a sore heart. Now she no longer belonged entirely to me. She was a woman, and I was going to miss her.
They left for their first term shy and uncertain fledglings. As they came home for the odd weekend, I could measure their growing confidence. When they met now their heads were stuck together, gold against black, while they exchanged confidences from which I was excluded. This was only natural and right, and I was careful to respect their privacy.
Quite how much they had matured was demonstrated one Sunday evening during their first term. Linda had formed a habit of taking little digs at me, mocking me gently, and at times I was hard put to hold my own.
One evening I turned on her in mock anger. ‘If you don’t watch it, young lady,’ I exclaimed, ‘I shall turn you over my knee and give you a good spanking!’
Having said it, I could have sunk through the floor. I had never even casually mentioned spanking before, nor could I understand what mental aberration made me do so now.
My confusion was compounded by Linda, who stood stock still, gazing at me with wide eyes and parted lips, her face flushed. I was mortified at having embarrassed the girl. April, however, seized on my words gleefully.
‘Watch out, Linda!’ she teased, whenever I made the slightest move. ‘He’s coming after you, Linda! Sit down, so’s he can’t get at you…’
Linda quickly recovered her poise, and began to make a joke of it too, although that remote look was still at the back of her eyes. Between them they made such a joke of it that I, too, pretended to go along with it all as the easiest way out of a sticky situation. It got rather tiresome, though, with April constantly ‘warning’, and Linda backing ostentatiously away from me whenever I approached.
To be honest, they were rather a nuisance that evening, especially as April began grabbing Linda and pretending to throw the shrieking girl over my lap. It is hard to endure the relentless spirits of the young, and these two were determinedly silly, although it was April who kept the joke going whenever it seemed to flag.
In the hope of calming them down I took them to an Italian restaurant, before driving them back to their universities. Of course, they demanded wine with the meal, which only had the effect of making them more giggly than ever. I, having many miles to drive, contented myself with water or coffee, while Linda poked gentle fun at me, and April, with noisy excitement, jumped about and took the micky out of us both. Despite a growing irritation at the silliness of it all, it was really a warm and jolly little party.
As the girls’ colleges are roughly equidistant I would sometimes drop Linda off first, wanting a word with April free from the constraints of home. But this evening April said she had an urgent essay to finish, though I rather suspect that they had fixed the matter between them. Whatever the reason, they kept up the ‘joke’ throughout the journey until I was nearly mad with irritation.
Even after we had dropped April, Linda persisted until my lack of response deterred her. As she got out of the car at her university, however, she had one last crack to make.
‘P’raps it would be safer if I backed out.’
Thoroughly annoyed, I turned to her. ‘If you don’t drop the subject for good and all, my girl,’ I said icily, ‘I really will put you over my knee!’
She was kneeling on the front seat and lifting out her bag. In the face of my angry stare she grew quite still, her blue eyes, widened and rounded, meeting mine full on.
‘All right, then; why don’t you?’
‘What?’ I said, stupidly, for there was no mistaking that she was deadly serious.
‘You heard.’ There was a note of bravado in her voice, then she went on rather shakily: ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
I stared at Linda in the gloom, struggling to clear my head, to deal with tact and delicacy with a totally unlooked-for situation.
‘You don’t mean that…’ I floundered.
‘Oh, yes, I do!’ No quiver in her voice now, and her look was frank. ‘I want you to. I want you to put me over your knee, take down my knickers and give me a good, sound spanking on my bare bottom. Just like in those magazines of yours. And when you’ve done that…’
‘What?’ I asked, in a voice I did not recognise. Linda smiled.
‘Why, then you can start all over again; and again, and again. Anything you like.’
Benumbed by sudden, entrancing visions I shook myself into coherence. ‘Look, Linda,’ I blustered, ‘I’m old enough to be your father…’
Even in my own ears it sounded pompous. Linda gurgled joyously. ‘Silly old Harry!’ she murmured in the tone of one much older and wiser than I. ‘Dear, silly old Harry!’
And she bent and kissed me softly on the lips. It spoke volumes. I know in my heart that one day Linda will leave for someone younger. But I remember that kiss, and I wonder…
‘We belong together, Harry,’ breathed this entrancing young minx as her soft lips touched mine yet again and she addressed me, for the third and last time, by my Christian name. ‘We do, you know. I knew it the first time I saw that place.’
‘What place?’ But she was already out of the car, bag over her shoulder as she walked with hips swivelling exaggeratedly to the door of the residence. Once there, she turned and waved at where I sat staring.
‘Next weekend,’ she called. ‘Just you and me.’
Then, she was gone.
I drove home in a daze. Until that moment I had honestly not realised how frustrated I had become, how much I missed CP. Till then it had been a need thrust out of mind. Now opportunity had thrust it very much back in again, an opportunity I could not with honour seize! As an older man it was my responsibility to put a stop to this business before it got out of hand.
But, oh! to have the lovely Linda bare-bottomed across my lap! To spank those firm little apple cheeks to a bright pippin red! To have her bent over, hands gripping ankles, while my cane made those tender buttocks jump and flinch!
It was one hell of an opportunity I was turning down.
I slept poorly that night and could not settle to work next day, fuddled as I was by visions of what could be were I just that touch unscrupulous. In the afternoon I gave it up and went for a walk on the moors, finding after long hours of strolling that I had by some freak arrived at the cave, its walls dripping in the misty afternoon and the granite table sheened with damp.
Usually, I found peace of mind here. Today, however, it only increased the confusion in my brain. It was as if messages were floating on the moist damp air, messages I could neither quite hear not translate.
Again, my sleep was fitful. Tumbled dreams and turbulent thoughts combined to keep my waking until, about 4.30, I rose and went to my desk, burying myself and my confusion in work. The next thing of which I was conscious was the trilling of the alarm. I raised my eyes in surprise, staring out of the window to see the rising sun beginning to touch in the hues of the day.
Breakfast was out of the question. In my exhausted mood the thought of food was nauseating. Coffee was another matter. I made a cup, carrying it back to the bedroom while I sorted out fresh clothes. Just for a moment I lay down, coffee steaming to hand, and closed my eyes to think — of Linda, and all I knew of her and her character; of my life and where it was going.
When I awoke it was noon, and I was starving. Picking up the congealed coffee I made for the kitchen and a scratch meal. As I prepared it, I was startled to hear myself whistling. I paused, knife in mid-air, and took survey of my inner self. Confusion, doubt, irritation had all vanished, leaving a happy certainty, for it seemed that during my sleep my brain had been processing data and drawing conclusions.
Dimly, at the back of my mind, a Cassandra whispered direly of future loss; of handsome, forceful younger men who would enter the scene and leave me lonelier than before. Yet the larger part of me was accepting that nothing is forever, that to refuse present joy for fear of future pain was to abdicate from living entirely. The thorns come with the rose, and none may escape their jab.
Even before I opened the kitchen door that Friday evening, I recognised her outline through the pebbled glass. My heart lurched, excited and anticipatory, as I opened the door and realised that she, too, had seen my silhouette and was looking desperately for a clue as to how she should act.
‘Come in, Linda.’
Was that easy, authoritative voice mine? I was surprised. As for Linda, instead of her usual bouncing in, she was hesitant. Even so, as she entered she suddenly flashed an upward glance from those brilliant eyes that nearly buckled my knees.
She nodded, letting her bag fall with a thump, watching as I poured. There was silence between us, heavily uncertain. Frantically I racked my brain for a neutral topic.
‘Good journey?’ I asked, at last. She shrugged.
Tension grew. The atmosphere, strained already, rapidly deteriorated. Almost, we were strangers. I saw that unless I did something positive the gulf would become unbridgeable.
The move I did make was a monumental risk. After all, I had no way of knowing whether Linda had been completely serious, or whether she had changed her mind. But she had, after all, arrived, and any move was surely better than none. I drew in my breath and put down my cup with as decisive an air as I could muster.
‘This won’t do at all,’ I said firmly. ‘We won’t get anywhere until we get this other business out of the way.’ I grasped her wrist. ‘Come along…’
Her whole body quivered at my touch, but she followed the urging of my hand meekly enough as I moved her into the dimly fire-lit lounge and settled myself into a chair.
I reached for the waistband of her jeans. Standing with blonde head bowed, staring intently at the floor, Linda flicked my fingers away.
‘I’ll do it!’
Without so much as a glance at me she slid the zipper down. The jeans were skin-tight. At any other time it would have been laughable to watch as Linda urged them frantically down, wriggling and pushing while her eyes glistened reflectively in the firelight and the blood roared in my temples. At last, however, they were bundled about her knees, her knickers with them, while long firm thighs and a triangle of crisp fair curls were fleetingly revealed.
Oddly enough, as I became excited Linda seemed to grow calmer, and it was with an almost matter-of-fact air that she went about settling herself over my knees.
It had been years since I had had a young woman in this position — or, indeed, any position at all, and I had forgotten the astonishing compactness of weight and warmth. Linda hung easily over my lap, half kneeling on the carpet, the modesty of her backside still as yet protected by the tail of her thick woollen shirt.
Not for long, however. As I urged her more conveniently over my lap I reached eagerly to lift that last veil, to remove the final barrier between ripe, ready buttocks and my eager palm. Nor was I to be disappointed, for the bare bottom that discovered itself to my dazzled gaze was full, and round, and silky; cool to my touch yet pulsing with desirous heat.
Feeling my hand on her nether cheeks, Linda lifted her head, craning back curiously at me as I eyed my prize greedily, fondling those exuberant rondures which quivered so responsively to my caress.
Her look was absent, almost enquiring. Timorously, she seemed to be actually begging approval for the bare bottom she was offering me. Yet there was an eagerness too, and over the hoarse sound of my own breathing I could sense the light panting of Linda’s respiration; could half sense, half see the gleaming teeth biting nervously into her lower lip.
Her mouth fell open. A sound, part sigh and part moan, escaped her lips. Then, in a surrender which caused her whole body to sag bonelessly, her head dropped towards the carpet.
As if at a signal, I raised my hand and brought it down resoundingly on to the fullness of Linda’s right buttock. She jerked convulsively, gasping with surprise, and the imprint of my fingers bloomed, pink into white, over her quivering bottom.
Eagerly I smacked again, this time full over the left cheek. Once more Linda jumped and jiggled as I watched the imprint of my hand, like a proprietary brand or some exotic declaration of possession, double-imaged on the creamy roundness of her bare backside.
Linda’s head dropped lower still. Her knees tightened, her toes pushing at the carpet, urging her bottom up to me in an acceptance, full and free, of my absolute right — my obligation, even — to chastise those nakedly bounteous orbs.
Taking the sign at face value I began smacking at her bottom vigorously in a steady, rhythmic action, my hand bouncing delightfully from those glorious globes while the room echoed with the meaty impacts of palm meeting bottom-cheeks, and with the moans and soft sighs as Linda reacted to the stinging of her buttocks which were colouring enchantingly, soft strawberry on twin mounds of cream as my deliberately light spanks stirred them into warmth beneath the silky skin.
I was spanking her busily, gradually increasing the force of the smacks as I found Linda’s bottom able to absorb them. I was taken by surprise when, with a surge of her hips, she gave an impatient wiggle of her bum. It was a sign, unmistakable and direct, that I should stop playing around and spank her properly; although I think the force of my next smack astonished her, for as I responded to her unstated demand she cried out aloud.
In the next few minutes her distress became an uninterrupted sighing wail as I settled to my task and her bottom bucked and wriggled over my lap. I have to give Linda her due: having provoked the severity of her spanking she tried to accept it with humility and endurance. But, whether her bum was tender for lack of such attentions, or merely because of the embarrassing novelty of her position, she was crying lustily long before I had had my fill of spanking those delectable mounds. Indeed, the very mobility of her bottom over my knee, which made my spanking of her that much more difficult, only provoked me all the more, so I circled her slim waist in my left arm and gave her my very best shots.
When finally, with fiercely stinging palms, I stopped smacking her bottom, Linda hung over my lap sobbing, those marvellous buttocks clenching busily, urging in the smart. I rubbed gently at the ravaged cheeks, murmuring soothingly until, with a soft rustle, Linda slid gracefully to the carpet.
I saw that her face was as crimson as her bum. Her blue eyes glittered wetly. As I sat trembling slightly, gazing at her, Linda frantically kicked her legs free of the encumbering jeans and knickers…
Later, leaning against the kitchen counter, I watched with proprietorial pride as Linda, clad only in the gaping wool shirt, hummed as she prepared bacon and eggs. Her colour was high, and there was a light and happy look on her face. From time to time she would absentmindedly lift the tail of her shirt and rub reflectively at her shapely, well-spanked bottom. Once or twice, as she did so, she looked up and caught my eye with a cheeky, conspiratorial grin. We did not speak, for we had no need of words.
Only when we were eating did I glance over at where Linda was forking food into her mouth with single-minded appetite.
‘How do you feel?’
Her smile was like the sun bursting through cloud. ‘Great! I feel really good. But I have an idea it won’t be long before I will be naughty again…’
We woke late next morning to a sunny, warm, late-autumn day. Linda moved busily about, making up shopping lists, preparing meals, organising a hundred little things with a happy air of performing habitual tasks. In fact there was more than a hint of feminine bossiness as she offered me suggestions that were lightly veiled commands. Yet in everything she did there was a charming diffidence, as if it were an understood thing that this was a game she were playing — an excuse, if one were wanted, for calling her to order. We hardly spoke, for all our actions were lit with that inner grace that comes from a shared completeness. From time to time Linda would stare at me with a questioning, wondering look and I would smile back, knowing exactly what she was feeling, for that wonder was within me too.
It was lunchtime. Linda was just clearing the first course when she paused, plates in hand.
‘When are you going to cane me?’
Her tone reminded me of an impatient wife enquiring of her husband when he was going to stop lazing around and get on with the redecorating. I answered in the same spirit.
‘Bedtime. I’ll cane you at bedtime.’
‘Six,’ I said.
Linda had just emerged from the bathroom fluffing out the shining gold nimbus of her hair, and had just opened her mouth to speak when she caught sight of the cane in my hands. For someone who had demanded it, her reaction was extraordinary. She stopped, stock-still and wide-eyed. I heard her gasp almost inaudibly as she caught her lower lip in her teeth, and her face coloured like a sunset.
‘O’ny six?’ In that country voice she uses when she is stressed. A look, almost of disdain, came into her eyes. Her glance moved from my face back to the cane, which she now began to eye with frank curiosity.
I smiled. ‘I think you will find that quite enough, young lady, especially for your first experience.’
How easy my voice sounded! How natural and firm, with no tremor to betray the boiling excitement within me that threatened at any moment to get out of hand. No trace of the nervousness I felt, either. It had been many years since I had caned a young woman’s bottom, and I was afraid of making mistakes, of spoiling things.
As for Linda, her reaction to my words was surprising, for her mouth turned down and her lower lip protruded sulkily. Obviously she did not believe me when I said that six would be enough and equally obviously she resented my putting bounds to her powers of endurance. For one moment it seemed as though it might all go sour. Then, with an indifferent shrug, Linda slipped her dressing gown off her shoulders to stand before me, naked and stunningly desirable.
I stared at the vision of her greedily while she posed poutingly: at her breasts, firm and full, the nipples revealingly erectile from the pale pink areolae; at the glowing, rounded belly that flowed sweetly into a tangle of clustered honey curls, and the long, perfect legs; while, reflected in the cheval glass mirror, were the round tensile cheeks of her bottom, snowy mounds which quivered eagerly for the cane’s first kiss.
‘Where d’you want me?’ Her voice, overlaid with sulkiness, broke the thread of my enchantment and I wrenched my thoughts from that vibrant nudity to the matter at hand. Time, I thought, to get on with it, for it was plain that she would not become her usual sweet, reasonable self until the cane had scored that delectable bottom of hers with its own convincing argument.
For one moment more she resisted. Then, arching her supple spine, thrusting her buttocks back at me defiantly, Linda waited, hands on knees. Her gaze was directed disdainfully ahead of her even when, unable to resist the lure of those full satiny orbs, I reached out and fondled her backside. She gave no sign, and not until I tapped the cane measuringly across the span of her proud arse did she look back speculatively at the slender rod.
With an almighty leap Linda jumped about six feet forward, her hands flying to grip her haunches as she hopped frantically about, breasts jiggling rhythmically responsive.
‘Christ! That bloody hurt!’
‘Told you it would!’ Smugly, noting with satisfaction that the tears were already coursing down her face while she stared from me to the cane with a new, respectful dread subtly layered with anticipation.
‘Wowww! Look what it’s done to my poor bum!’ she continued, peering over her shoulder to view her buttocks in the mirror, and tracing the blossoming stripe with fascinated fingers.
‘Never mind,’ I said, unfeelingly. ‘Only five more to go. Now stop messing about and get bent over again.’
She did not quite want to, even though her body began to bend involuntarily before jerking upright once more. Not until I held the cane before her wondering gaze, lowering it slowly until it pointed at the floor, did she obey, her body following its lead as if hypnotised. Then she was bent down again, hands on knees as before, though her haunches cringed away now instead of being boldly proffered as a target, and I had to wait patiently while her hands flickered protectively over those perfect nether-cheeks, graced as they were with the single streak that marked her entry into the novitiate of the cane.
Her weakness was only brief. In a moment Linda drew a deep breath and returned her hands firmly to her knees, hollowing her back in generous offering of her posterior to me.
‘Aaarrrgghhh!’ Again the agonised hop and skip, the clenching of frantic buttocks then the reluctantly eager resumption of her punitive posture. The twin stripes stood out proudly over the creamy cheeks, describing a rough V. Not good, I told myself, even as Linda settled unprompted into position. I needed practice to control the direction of my stroke.
Now she was prepared for it, her body swaying only slightly as the cane drew a third sizzling stripe into being. For the remainder of her punishment Linda maintained her position stoically while I joyfully decorated that alabaster arse with three more pinkly-glowing tracks, and only her resounding cries betrayed what she suffered.
When at last I stood back, breathing hard, staring at the six blossoming lines of livid pink that proclaimed my prowess and her submissiveness to me. Linda came nestling against me, weeping into my shoulder, clasped in my arms as her own hands gripped and kneaded those stinging rotundities.
I held her soothingly, raining kisses on the top of her head as she sobbed into my dressing gown. No word had been spoken; none was needed. There was a closeness between us now that transcended the mere using and being used. What had occurred between us had spanned the gulf between the islands of self and we had merged, chastiser and chastised, into the dual power of completeness.
Presently Linda regained control. She ceased to weep, and eased herself from my arms. She quivered, still gripping at her bum, and regarded the cane with brimming eyes, her face a blank upon which decision had yet to be written. Then, abruptly, it was. She bent once more, fully this time, grasping her ankles and offering her bottom with confidence.
‘Well, you asked for it,’ I said, and brought the cane singing down across those taut expectant buttocks as hard as I could, intersecting all the other stripes with this final stroke.
Now Linda could surrender, as if a wall had been breached between us. Now she could cling to me, crying out her pain. There was trust, and a deep peace, between us as we lay entwined in the deep dark of the night. She could give herself to me with all the hungry abandon of her urgent nature, safe in the knowledge of the power she had given me in resigning that marvellous bottom to my clemency. Thus it was that in the peace of the pre-dawn she felt able to wake me once more to murmur her dream of the cave on the moors.To be continued…