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Sunday, 29 March 2020

The English Lesson

Story from Kane 12 by Dave Carney
Lynn Polgarth was a remarkable young woman. A timid little mouse, really, one who definitely did not stand out in a crowd, yet she had one unique quality which made her special to those fortunate enough to get to know her.
That special quality? Simply and startlingly, one could not be in her company five minutes without experiencing an almost overwhelming desire to spank her!
It was something about her attitude, probably — indeed, definitely. A sort of a clinging, helpless timidity and a way of hanging her head slightly as though afraid to cause offence by looking one squarely in the face. One had the feeling that if one said a cross word to her she would melt quivering into one’s arms and practically beg for the anger she’d caused to be vented on her slim backside.
And that attitude, recognisable instantly by those privy to the cult, is guaranteed to arouse delicious visions of doing that very thing, holding her helpless little body in a tight grip and paddling away till the tears which seemed to lurk not far below the surface came flooding out. Many’s a man talking to her of innocuous things has experienced a raging erection stirring his nether garments at the simple fact of her close proximity. She had the sort of open vulnerability that inevitably arouses the desire to hurt, compounded by the fact that one got the distinct impression that she would welcome that hurt.
Lynn was twenty-seven but, dressed in the right clothes, would have passed as a schoolgirl. She had straight, shoulder-length fair hair, a pale complexion and a longish face that was pretty in an understated sort of way and became prettier the longer one looked at it. She always wore pale lipstick lightly applied to her appealing lips and her eyelashes were naturally long, thick and dark. But her eyes were indisputably beautiful big and melting and deep, deep blue.
Lynn Polgarth weighed seven stone wringing wet. Slender, fine-boned, small breasted, with marvellously neat, almost boyish buttocks. She was a little doll, the sort one wants to cuddle and take lecherous liberties with — after one has first spanked her sweet little bottom to a ruby red glow.
She was married, had been for ten years. Rutherford Polgarth had known a good thing when he saw one and had moved in quickly to snap her up for his own use. Practically ordered her to marry him and true to her nature, she had submitted meekly and gladly.
Rutherford had done all right for himself in other ways too. At thirty-three he owned three D.I.Y. shops in town, a two-year-old Jaguar and a reasonably large detached house in the suburbs.
Not to mention a selection of tawses, paddles and canes, all of which had the sleek look of weapons well used. And over which he was now musing behind the drawn curtains of his study.
He didn’t muse all that long, however, that not being his nature. With a decisive motion he knocked the dottle from his pipe into the ashtray, put the briar in the rack and picked up the instrument of his choice. A moment later he was on his way upstairs, humming quietly to himself. As he climbed the fly of his loose pyjamas gaped, revealing that already he was in a state of considerable arousal.
Rutherford bore a casual resemblance to his wife, as so often happens with married couples. He was taller of course, being five foot eight to her five foot nothing, but he too was slim, though wiry. His face was longish also, but with brown eyes and more of a nose and definitely much more of a chin. He tapped his chosen weapon lightly against his flank, enjoying the balance and feel of it.
There was a light showing under the bathroom door and liquid sounds coming from within. Without ceremony and certainly without knocking — it was his house, after all — he opened the door and went in.
The bathroom was quite luxurious, mirrored and glittering with lights. The bath itself was green, square-cornered and standing on a raised platform approached by three shallow steps. Lynn had been soaping herself but, of course, she stopped instantly as soon as he came in and sat staring at him with frightened eyes, holding the soapy sponge in both hands at the top of her breasts. Her hair was pushed into a lavender blue shower cap revealing, unimpeded, the fine bones of her face and the lovely long lines of her slender neck.
‘Stand up, Mrs Polgarth,’ said Rutherford grimly.
Lynn gasped audibly and her small, pretty mouth dropped open in dismay. ‘Mrs Polgarth!’ A sure sign that she was in a whole heap of trouble! She relinquished her grip on the sponge and it tobogganed down the slight but pretty slope of her breasts to plop soapily into the bubble-laced water. Gripping the sides of the bath she levered herself upward.
Rutherford’s eyes grew hot as he watched her. She did it so beautifully, keeping her small feet flat on the bottom and lifting her body almost horizontally, so that her sodden bush broke the surface like a sleek, furry, inquisitive seal. A narrow band of enchanting growth it was, following the course of her crack, of the same indeterminate fair hue as her head hair normally but now darkened and lying flat along the closed, pale lips. Streaked with white lather so that it looked as though she had been spattered with sperm. Rutherford’s erection pushed its way aggressively through the folds of his pyjamas, growling menacingly that he’d better not attempt to return him to his lair. Rutherford didn’t.
Lynn bent at the waist and straightened, turning to face her husband in quaking dismay. From long experience she knew how to stand correctly, hands straight down by her sides, legs apart, head bowed slightly but not so far that she couldn’t look up at him under her brows if ordered to do so.
Her normally pearly-white pelt was flushed pink from the bath and streaming with moisture. Bubbles slowly and lasciviously slid down her slender form, following contours that Rutherford was very familiar with yet that never failed to arouse in him a lustful hunger. A suggestive stream of water was pouring from near the front of the bush between her legs and for a moment he wondered if…? But no, if it had been she would have been scarlet with embarrassment and bawling like a baby, as had happened more than once in the past!
He lifted the instrument which he’d brought from the study and tapped it lightly on the uplifted forefinger of his other hand. His young wife’s eyes flickered to it and she shivered noticeably, clenching her hands tightly by her sides. Oh dear, tonight it was one of the paddles, the table tennis one. Well, the head of it was shaped like a table tennis bat but it wasn’t of sponge covered wood but of hard rubber with dozens of little protrusions on both sides. Protrusions which, she had cause to know, had a most painful effect on soft bum-flesh. The handle was about eighteen inches long.
‘Oh, no!’ she whispered weakly.
‘Oh, yes!’ he said sternly, ‘You know why, of course? Answer me, girl!’
‘I… I suppose it was because I… I wasn’t over enthusiastic tonight about your proposal?’ she ventured.
‘Proposal?’ he queried, raising an incredulous eyebrow, ‘Not proposal, Mrs Polgarth, intention. I was not seeking your approval or even your opinion, neither of which are the slightest interest to me, I was merely informing you of what was about to happen. And it wasn’t merely that you weren’t over-enthusiastic, as you put it, you were, damn it, downright anti! Anti! Mrs Polgarth! You made it absolutely plain that you disapproved. Not only that, but you gave the distinct impression that not only would you not co-operate fully, you might even seek to make the young lady feel unwelcome.’
‘But really, Rutherford,’ she protested, actually lifting her head and looking at him directly, ‘you’re asking too much of me, dear. How could I possibly agree to you bringing a girl here to share our house? Even if only for a month! Let her go somewhere else, darling — you’re under no obligation to her or to her father, and really, it’s too much to ask of any wife to sit quietly by while you dance attendance on someone who… who…’
Her voice trailed away as she noticed the dangerous look that came into his eyes.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t possibly agree? We’ll leave that for a moment, my girl, while I deal with your other points, though heaven knows I have no obligation to do so. This girl, whom you choose to see as some sort of threat is, in point of fact, a schoolgirl! She’s the daughter of a business acquaintance of mine, one who supplies me with a great deal of equipment for my shops at a very good discount price indeed. He mentioned casually that the daughter was seeking to further her education during her school holidays by staying with an English family for a period. Casually but meaningfully, you understand, while we were discussing a new contract, and there was nothing I could do but offer to take the girl. A little schoolgirl, for God’s sake!’
‘A French schoolgirl!’ said Lynn, actually snorting!
‘Yes, well, of course, she’s French!’ said Rutherford, ‘That’s why she wants to stay with an English family — so that she can practise and improve her English. Nicolette La Fevre is, I’m told, a very bright child and most eager and helpful. She’ll probably be of great assistance to you in the house…’
‘Huh!’ said Lynn, and that did it.
‘Mrs Polgarth, get out of that bath!’ said Rutherford, slapping the tennis bat resoundingly against his palm.
Lynn’s brief defiance wilted as she realised that she’d gone too far. Frightened now, she scrambled out and stood dripping on the top step.
‘Use the toilet!’ he ordered brusquely.
‘But I did before I got in!’ she objected.
‘I don’t care. Go again!’ he said, ‘I don’t want a repeat of the last time!’
Yes, that had been something, that had! He’d climbed into the bath behind her and had been happily spanking her upraised bum when…
She padded over to the toilet, leaving a damp trail on the pale green carpet, and lowered her wet bottom to the seat. Tinkle, tinkle. Obviously, she had been lying. Rutherford’s brow grew thunderous. Another black mark against his errant wife!
As soon as she stood up he ordered her back into the bath. As she hurried past him he swung the bat hard against her flank, causing her to yelp and scurry frantically to get out of his reach. Not that it did much good, for as she lifted one leg over the side he leaned forward and brought the bat whacking down on the back of her other leg, just above the knee. She yelped and almost fell onto the step but whack! — the leather stinging in just below her shoulder blade sent her the other way. Poor Lynn ended up on her knees in the disturbed water, looking back over her shoulder reproachfully at her husband, while slow tears trickled from her big, blue, beautiful eyes.
‘Why… why do you treat me so?’ she whimpered, ‘I do nothing to deserve it!’
‘Nothing?’ he said, and finding himself too furious at such a blatantly unfounded claim to say more he gestured that she should take up the normal position.
Lynn choked back a sob and facing towards the taps lowered herself onto her hands. The bottom of the bath was of special non-slip material, very necessary in view of the activities practised so frequently in it, and the bath itself was of two-person size, also very necessary.
Rutherford stepped up close and surveyed the familiar picture his wife presented. Familiar, yet so exciting. From the rear her sleek bottom seemed to be appealing for mercy. The rounded cheeks of her buttocks were clenched yet shaking, the vulnerable backs of her thighs aquiver with terror. At the base of her deep crease pouting lips pleaded, please don’t hurt, we’re female and frightened. Sweating, he reached forward and covered them with three fingers, the middle one digging in. His other finger and the thumb rested on the soft stretchiness that joined thighs and bum. Slowly he drew his hand up the wet silkiness to the crest of the buttocks then reversed his hand pushed it along till he met the padded bone at the top of the crease. Lovely. So gorgeously, tantalisingly lovely! And his! All his to hurt and domineer!
Rutherford withdrew his hand and wiped his lips with it, without thinking. But something or other started him thinking immediately and his eyes glittered. He tore off his pyjama top and tossed it behind him, then without further ado swiped the bat hard against the waiting bum.
Splat! The rubber hit the high point of the right cheek, close to the crease, and Lynn over-reacted by plunging forward and dunking her head in the water. As she had her mouth open in a squeal at that moment the effects were unfortunate. Rutherford had to wait while she collected herself and spluttered and tried to recover her breath. It spoiled his concentration and made him even more furious and when he was sure he had her attention he bawled her out comprehensively.
‘Make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ he finished, ‘And take that bloody silly cap off your head!’
Lynn apologised humbly and removed the offending article. When she’d shaken her hair loose Rutherford felt a glow of satisfaction. He liked the look and feel of girls’ hair, even Lynn’s, which he wrongly regarded as mousey. Actually it was silky and sensuous to the touch and was always shiny clean and smelled wonderful. Guaranteed to turn on any red-blooded male even if it was only his hand it was touching.
Rutherford now got down to the serious business of paddling seven bells out of his wife’s beautiful little bum. Where he had already struck, the skin had assumed a picturesque dusky pink shade, most becoming and very satisfying to his artistic soul. Rigorously he applied himself to painting a similar hue throughout the whole of the quivering, living canvas.
From long practice he knew exactly how to extract the maximum enjoyment from the exercise. Lynn was, of course, the ideal spankee by virtue both of temperament and physical make-up. On the physical side her bum, unmistakably feminine though it was, had the inestimable quality of being less well-padded than most. Oh, yes, there was plenty of feminine meat there to play with but it was, as they say, the sweeter for being nearer the bone. The nerve-ends were closer to the surface, so that each shrewdly placed blow had greater effect.
Temperamentally Lynn was perfect. As each stroke splatted in it visibly sent waves of pain washing through her slim body. She tried to contain it, tried desperately and sincerely. Rutherford could see that she was doing her utmost to take the paddling like a brave girl, fighting not to leap about too much, not to move forward in the bath so that he would have to overreach from his comfortable striking position.
With every meaty contact her now scarlet rear behaved as though it was crumbling in despair, clenching violently, lunging forward or sometimes collapsing to one side or the other, remaining tense for long moments as the echo of the blow hung ringing in the air. The long, hairy slash between the legs was a vertical line of reproach, grimacing in eloquent expression of misery. There was a sheen to it now, a spreading sheen that was different to the glisten of water that had been there before. And that sheen was the key to Lynn’s character.
She was suffering agonies, oh yes. That was obvious in her screwed-up eyes, her twisted mouth, the tears that were coursing freely down her cheeks. In the whimpering sounds, the oohs and aaahs that burst from her throat, rising to small screams and babbled pleas for mercy. But she was living, really living intensely as the blows fell with remorseless, measured regularity. Each flash of pain was like a mini-orgasm to her masochistic soul. The searing sheet of fiery suffering that was engulfing her buttocks and creeping into her aroused loins was as welcome as the head of a lover’s body covering her parts, the flickering lances of flame penetrating to her womb exciting as thrusts of a rampant male organ.
To be quite truthful Lynn could no more go without regular, severe spanking than she could go without eating for instance. Rutherford knew and enjoyed the fact to the full, fondly imagining that he supplied all her needs in that department!
He worked Lynn’s derriere till it was a mask of glowing heat, scarlet in hue, with uncountable little dots of even deeper red clustered on the throbbing surface, where the dimples on the leather had thrust in. The sheen on the lips had spread and edged down her thighs, becoming unmistakably the juice of her arousal. Soon her hips would start to pump, her thighs squeeze together and she would be launched on the first of what would be multiple orgasms. Rutherford intended to part of it when it happened.
He cast the bat down — from now on the hand would suffice. Off came the pyjama trousers and he jumped into the bath behind her. Smack, smack, smack, his hands rang out on the heated skin, and it started.
Whump! Mouth gaping in a grimace of lust, he thrust and sank ecstatically in.
Lynn wore a red and white striped tee-shirt and no bra. Her breasts made endearing little mounds in the cloth and the brave little up-tilted nipples were sharply defined. A couple of strands of fair hair fell untidily across her forehead and she wore no make-up. She looked exactly what she was — a harassed, not-too-well-organised young housewife who’d spent most of the morning trying to make the place look respectable in order to impress a guest and had been caught out by the unexpectedly early arrival of that guest.
She hadn’t been able to change or tidy herself up and, of course, that is agony to any would-be hostess. But it wasn’t only that which caused the worried frown to crease her forehead — it was the appearance of the guest herself.
She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. Rutherford really had given her the impression that Nicolette La Fevre was a little girl, somewhere about eight years of age. Whereas the reality was different!
Lynn pushed through the door to the drawing room with the coffee things balanced on a silver tray, and her eyes shot straight to the couple sitting so close together over by the window bay. Her worried frown deepened.
She was normally as quiet as a mouse in the house, Rutherford insisting that she mustn’t disturb him any more than was strictly necessary, so neither of the two heard her come in. Nicolette was sitting on the deep buttoned settee and Rutherford was sitting opposite her, talking with unwonted animation while she hung on to his every word.
No, Nicolette wasn’t eight but more like twice that. And she had all the charm and self-assurance of the Parisienne to reinforce and make devastating the attraction of her delicious youthfulness. She was extremely pretty with dark, bouncy hair that had the casual, completely right look which could only come from the careful, skilled manipulations of a very expensive hair artiste! Her face wore no make-up and most certainly didn’t need any, with those expressive, mobile, ripe cherry lips, long black eyelashes and big, bright, oh-so-innocent hazel eyes.
She was lively, a delightful bundle of eager-puppy energy. A little shorter than Lynn but with a little bit more meat on her bones. A perfect little schoolgirl body, long-legged, taut breasted — they would be truly impressive when they matured fully, though Lord knows, they were arousing enough now! — and a tight little bum.
Just as Lynn entered she gave a twist to that sweetly youthful body and brought her legs up onto the settee. Oh dear! thought Lynn consciously, I wonder does she know what she’s showing? One leg had finished up flat along the seat, with the knee bent, the other was raised with the foot resting on the ankle underneath. Nicolette was wearing a short, white summer frock and the hem had fallen back almost to her hips. What she was showing was the full, tempting length of her shapely young legs right up to tight, crisply white nylon knickers. The gusset bulged temptingly between the open schoolgirl thighs and even from across the room Lynn could make out quite distinctly the dark shadow of an immature pubic bush and the delicate line of her young slot.
Rutherford could certainly see as much, for his head jerked forward and his voice trailed away. Nicolette cocked her head a little to the side and looked enquiringly into his face. But a little smile that tugged at the corners of her appealing red lips revealed that she was pleased by whatever showed in his face, which Lynn couldn’t see, his back being turned to her.
The coffee cups rattled on the tray and they both looked at Lynn. Nicolette’s smile vanished and she quickly brought her feet back down to the floor.
‘Ah, coffee!’ said Rutherford, getting to his feet, ‘Here, let me give you a hand, my dear!’
Lynn’s face became even more woebegone. Rutherford never, but never, lifted a finger to help in the house. What was he up to, trying to impress this attractive little French schoolgirl? She would have to watch him very carefully, she decided!
When she’d served the coffee she asked to be excused so that she could go upstairs to change. But Rutherford would have none of it.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, ‘I want to demonstrate something. Nicolette was telling me about her school near Paris. It seems they still have corporal punishment there.’
‘Really?’ said Lynn and looked at the girl, ‘Somehow I never thought of France as being a country where that would go on. Is it normal throughout the whole system or just…?’
‘Never mind that!’ interrupted Rutherford rudely, back to his normal style already, ‘The point is her father had told me that already.’
‘Oh?’ said Nicolette, ‘That was naughty of him! Why should he think it necessary to pass on to you such an unimportant piece of information?’
Lynn looked at her more sharply. Why, she spoke English perfectly! With a trace of an accent, a trace which made her musical voice even more delightful. Why should her father think it necessary for her to spend a month with them to ‘brush up on her English’?
‘Not an unimportant piece of information at all, young lady!’ Rutherford said, ‘A very relevant piece of information! Monsieur La Fevre told me that you bear a rather unfortunate reputation at your school. In fact, you have had the cane more often than any other two pupils put together!’
Nicolette grimaced comically and sat on her hands.
‘Apparently you’re inclined to run rather wild, having no mother to guide you,’ went on Rutherford. ‘Andre warned me about this and assured me that if I have any difficulties with you I have his full authority to discipline you in the most appropriate manner.’
‘No!’ cried Nicolette.
‘Yes!’ nodded Rutherford, ‘He specifically mentioned the cane, indeed!’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ flashed she.
‘Wouldn’t I?’ he smiled, ‘Just don’t give me any provocation, young lady! I mention this at so early a stage in order to be completely fair to you. If you find yourself in trouble and end up with a red and throbbing bum you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!’
‘Rutherford, dear,’ interposed Lynn timidly, ‘She is our guest, remember?’
‘Of course she is,’ he said, ‘And that’s just the point. I have an obligation to my friend to ensure that the discipline which he quite correctly considers necessary should not be allowed to lapse whilst his daughter is in our care. I fully intend to fulfil my obligations in this matter.’
‘Oh, M’sieur Polgarth,’ said Nicolette sweetly, smiling a breathtakingly winning smile, ‘I am sure that will not be necessary. Besides, you are much too much a gentleman to visit violence upon the person of a helpless female!’
‘I am?’ said Rutherford, and smiled a vulpine smile, ‘Come here, Lynn.’
Lynn looked at him in startlement. What on earth did he intend? Impatiently he reached forward, hooked his hand round her bum and squeezed. Lynn yelped as pain shot through her.
Her tight jeans were very tight indeed. The reasons for this were two-fold. One, being skin-tight they showed off her nether regions to perfection and Rutherford frequently amused himself by fondling the squashed mound of her Mons and the sharply-defined crease between her cheeks. Two, her buttocks still retained a dull pain from the beating of the previous evening and she took a secret pleasure from the constriction and roughness of the denim. She’d left off her knickers to add to the sensation.
‘Lower your jeans,’ said her husband.
‘Rutherford, Rutherford!’ he mocked impatiently, ‘Stop saying that, for Christ’s sake! Just get your jeans down and show Nicolette your backside.’
Humiliation heaped on humiliation! Really it was too much! How could he treat her so in front of a complete stranger, a guest in their house, a mere sixteen-year-old schoolgirl! Lynn’s face flushed a deep red and she found herself unable even to glance at the young girl. But she was aware of Nicolette’s eyes fixed on her in amazement as she fumbled obediently at the fly of her jeans.
It was agony pulling the denim free of her smarting cheeks and the gasp of horror from the girl as she saw the exposed posterior didn’t help any. She lowered the jeans clear of her bottom and stood there hunched up and shamefaced.
Nicolette murmured something in French and received a sharp reprimand from Rutherford, who warned her that she must speak English at all times and any further lapses into her native tongue would be treated as a breach of discipline and dealt with appropriately.
‘Feel my wife’s arse,’ he ordered further, ‘And reflect that yours could end up similar if you don’t behave with strict rectitude.’
‘Wrecked what?’ she asked, but as he raised an eyebrow she leaned forward hurriedly and placed her hand on Lynn’s bum.
The young woman started and quivered as the schoolgirl’s palm touched her heated bottom. It was so cool and gentle! It began to move lightly over the ravaged cheeks, the fingers cupping the weighty under-curves and the thumb slipping unexpectedly in to hover tantalisingly near the sensitive love flesh.
‘It is so hot!’ murmured Nicolette, ‘So very hot! How does it feel, Madam Polgarth!’
Taking it for granted that the girl was referring to the overall state of her behind than to a particular area, Lynn whispered that yes, it was hot and still rather painful. Nicolette chuckled sympathetically and her other hand joined the first in caressing the pink and faintly purple splotched flesh.
Rutherford watched beady-eyed and allowed the exploration to continue for several minutes before calling a halt. A jerk of the head dismissed Lynn to her bedroom.
‘I hope that will be sufficient warning to you, young lady,’ he said to Nicolette, ‘You have seen that I don’t spare the rod in this house, so for your own good make sure you don’t do anything to incur my wrath!’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ breathed Nicolette, clasping her hands together earnestly and leaning towards him, ‘You are so very masterful. I assure you that you will have no trouble with me! None at all!’
‘I’d better not,’ he said, ‘I’d just better not, girl, believe me!’
But he’d already made up his mind that on one pretence or another he’d have the knickers off this gorgeous little piece of French crumpet before she was very much older. And his hands on her pert schoolgirl bum. At least.
The impromptu display of Rutherford’s competence as a buttock bombardier made a deep impression on Nicolette, the effects of which lasted for three whole days. During that time her conduct was exemplary and neither he nor Lynn had the slightest cause for complaint.
But, of course, it couldn’t last. Nicolette was far too high spirited to tolerate constraint of her devil-may-care and mischievousness nature for very long.
The first incident was a minor one, but it happened in a way that gave Rutherford’s devious mind an opportunity to display its cunning.
In a burst of youthful exuberance Nicolette came flying down the stairs that particular afternoon and charged along the hall. She was simply letting off some excess energy by running instead of walking, as young girls do. But this time a loose mat skidded from under her feet, she cannoned into a plinth, and knocked a vase of flowers onto the floor.
Lynn came running out of the dining room when she heard the crash. Nicolette was full of apologies for breaking the vase and terrified of getting into trouble.
‘He’ll cane me, oh, I know he’ll cane me!’ she wailed, wringing her hands.
‘Rutherford? Of course he shan’t,’ said Lynn, bending to pick up the shards, ‘I’ll put another vase in its place and he may not even notice. And if he does I’ll tell him it was I who broke it, not you…’
‘Indeed?’ said Rutherford, who had come in through the front door unheard just at that moment, ‘How interesting to learn that my guest is a destroyer of personal property, and that my wife is deceitful and a liar to boot.’
He stared disdainfully at the stricken culprits for a moment before sweeping past them and starting purposefully up the stairs.
‘After dinner.’ he announced grimly from the landing. ‘I want both of you in my study. Meanwhile, reflect on your misdeeds and the punishment to come. And get that bloody mess cleared up!’
When the time came he had it all worked out in his mind. Titillation was to be the name of the game. Titillation of himself, of his wife, and of the maddeningly desirable young Nicolette. He’d been watching her these past days, getting hungrier all the time. She was so innocently unaware of herself, of how tempting the frequent glimpses which her innocently careless movements afforded of her long, restless legs and cunt-hugging knickers. Now it was her turn to be tempted…
He’d delivered his tirade and reduced them both to quaking, fearful silence.
‘You,’ he said, ‘You first, Nicolette.’
He pointed imperiously with the chosen weapon, a short, light, whippy cane and Nicolette gulped nervously and moved over to the desk.
‘Stand!’ he barked as she made to bend over it, and she came bolt upright like a released spring.
‘I shall arrange you!’ he said and stepping close to her proceeded so to do.
She was wearing a short, navy-blue linen dress with white piping and big white buttons. A light, flower-based, young girl’s scent wafted from her and as he bent to grasp her wrists from behind and force them forward onto the desk-top her perfumed hair tickled his cheek. Rutherford was already exceptionally aroused from contemplating what he was about to do and now her close proximity increased his tumescence even further. Her torso leaned forward, bringing her bottom into increased prominence and he felt it touch his groin. A shiver ran through her.
He transferred his grip from her wrists to her elbows and slid her arms along the desk-top till they were fully outstretched and her torso was flat on the polished wood. For a moment he held that position, savouring it. Her legs were apart, his feet between them and he was pressing up against her bottom pushing her hard against the desk. He could feel her heat coming through both sets of clothing. He wriggled slightly but unmistakably, testing her reactions. No murmur of protest!
A quick glance over his shoulder showed him Lynn standing with her head up watching him with a shocked look in her eyes. He glared and wriggled openly against the young bottom. Tears sprang into Lynn’s eyes and trembled there unshed. She looked away biting her knuckles. Beneath him Rutherford felt Nicolette suddenly relax and become very soft and yielding.
He took hold of the hem of the navy-blue dress and pulled it up, easing himself back only slightly so that he had to exert pressure to draw the cloth up between their bodies. That in itself was a pleasant sensation but not to be compared to the sensation of warm flesh and nylon through his trousers.
He looked down and felt a thrill of pleasure. Nicolette had prepared herself for the ordeal by donning what must be her most special knickers. White French knickers with a broad edging of sky-blue lace. So see-through that he could make out every little detail of the crease through them. He lifted the dress to the small of her back, throbbing heavily at the sight of the feminine buttocks clad in their erotic finery.
He ran trembling fingers over the girlish moons, teased out the nylon till it was smooth against the skin. Some of the lace was caught up between his bulging trousers and her in-curving cheeks and he slipped his fingers in there, fumbling to straighten the warmed lace. There was damp nylon and there was moist flesh, flesh that yielded excitingly to his probing.
‘Monsieur!’ breathed Nicolette.
Not a protest. More a sigh, like the wind making music over a field of ripe corn.
By a supreme effort of will Rutherford stepped back and wiped his hand over his lips.
His nostrils flared and he picked up the cane which he’d placed on the desk.
‘Since this is your first offence, Nicolette,’ he said, ‘I’m going to deal lightly with you. Three strokes only, and on the knickers — not on the bare bum.’
Not that those knickers afforded any protection, either from the cane or from his gaze! Sweating profusely he tore his eyes away from the damp, virtually transparent gusset and lined up for the first stroke.
Thwack! Lightly for him, not even at half-power. Nicolette jerked spasmodically as the cane met her bottom but she didn’t even gasp in surprise. Ah, she was a veteran then — those stories her father had told him had been perfectly true!
So, all right. That wouldn’t deflect him from his plan. What she was to see shortly she would most definitely not have seen at her exclusive girls’ school in France. The titillation factor was still strong!
The second stroke, slightly heavier, landed just above the flattened line on the nylon that marked the first. Nicolette didn’t even jerk this time, knowing what to expect.
The third was definitely heavy. It whistled in, bit into the nylon and jerked her forward. The bum-cheeks clenched entrancingly under the knickers — but still there was no murmur from the recipient.
Rutherford waited and after a moment the girl straightened up from the desk and turned to him.
‘Thank you, M’sieur,’ she said and bobbed a little curtsey. Rutherford nodded — a well-trained girl indeed! ‘May I lower my skirt now, M’sieur?’
‘No,’ he decided, ‘Keep it raised and go and stand over there. Watch most carefully what is about to happen, for this is to be an object lesson to you.’
She thanked him again and he noticed that her eyes were fixed on the tremendous bulge in his trousers, which he was making no attempt to hide. In fact he stood in such a fashion as to emphasise it more. Let her look. Curiosity killed the cat — and she was some pussy!
‘You!’ he said abruptly to his wife, ‘Over the desk with you. Quickly!’
When she was in position he undid the grey skirt which she was wearing and tossed it on the ground behind him. Unlike Nicolette who was bare-legged Lynn had on matching yellow knickers and suspender belt, and black stockings. He ran his hands over the buttocks and smoothed the frilly knickers, forcing her legs apart and even reaching in to smooth the gusset. Her face was buried between her arms but he knew that she was flushed scarlet with shame that he should do this to her before the young girl.
He looked across at Nicolette. Her face too was flushed, but not with shame, judging by the bright intentness of her eyes as she watched. Christ, but she was arousing, standing there holding her skirt high to reveal her knickers with that little dark patch at the gusset! He put one hand round to the front of his wife’s body and pushed it inside her knickers, put the other inside at the back and started working the knickers down with his wrists.
‘This, Nicolette,’ he said, ‘is to be a full-scale caning. This is what will happen to you if you step out of line again.’
The knickers were down to the bottom of Lynn’s cheeks now. His hands met and pulled her gusset clear.
‘You understand?’ he said.
Her eyes lifted and met his. She swallowed hard.
‘Y… yes, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I understand.’
‘Good,’ he said, and knelt down and removed the knickers completely.
He had considered using a heavier cane on his wife but on second thoughts had decided against it. He didn’t want a quick result — he wanted this to be sustained. His ploy was completely successful.
Oh, he enjoyed himself thoroughly. Starting off with a blow similar to the last one which had stung Nicolette’s sweet little bottom and building up from there. Slow, measured strokes which whistled satisfactorily through the air and bit into his wife’s bare buttocks with a crisp crack. The whippy weapon curled lovingly around the female flesh to sting a gratifyingly extended area and leaping back left thin, precise tramlines to mark its brief but effective visit. The pain was special, sharp and acidy, the colour that it wrung from the punished skin creeping and delicate.
Lynn held out for a long time, desperately anxious not to cry out when a mere schoolgirl had been silent. But hers was a different sort of punishment to Nicolette’s — hers was rigorous, sustained, meant to hurt. Meant to drive her to the edge and beyond — meant to force her to lose control as it always did, she gradually realised. Meant to bring her to a torrent of sexual release — in front of Nicolette! How could he do it to her? How could he shame her so?
She fought it grimly, tight-lipped, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut. But remorselessly it went on — thwack, thwack, thwack! Like a metronome, like an adder biting viciously and continuously at her fiery bottom. Sounds began to issue from her tight throat, tears to tickle from between her lids, her bottom to thresh about.
Thwack, thwack, thwack! Now he had his hand hooked around her body, fingers digging into the base of her belly as he struggled to hold her. With the shortness of the cane he could still power in telling blows.
She didn’t know it but her husband kept shooting glances at Nicolette as he worked. But she was very much aware that the familiar tide was gathering in her loins, about to overwhelm her.
‘No!’ she cried pleadingly, ‘No! Please, no! Not in front of her!’
Thwack, thwack, THWACK!
With a wild cry Lynn surrendered. Screams of release burst from her as her hips pumped unmistakably at the desk-top. Rutherford straightened up and stepped back to watch a sight which never failed to intrigue him. After a moment he realised that Nicolette had left her position off to the side and was standing by him watching as intently as he.
He looked down at her and she slowly raised her eyes and looked at him.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘M’sieur,’ she said softly, ‘I am a guest in your house and I must obey the rules. If I, how you say, step out of line, then you must treat me in any way whatsoever which pleases you.’
‘And are you liable to step out of line?’ he asked.
A little hand crept into his.
‘M’sieur,’ she said, ‘I am the despair of my teachers at school. They say I am incorrigible. I try to be good, I really do, but I fear that at heart I am a very naughty little girl. So, M’sieur, whatever will be, will be!’
And as her hand squeezed his, naughtily, both felt sure that whatever would be, would be soon!

Saturday, 28 March 2020

Short & Sharp

From Blushes 18
She had been waiting for a long time — all her life it seemed. Yet, in truth, it was only a few weeks.
‘When you are old enough.’ he had said, as he eased her away.
Now she was old enough.
They called it a ‘crush’ didn’t they, when you were crazy in love with your teacher?
The stone top of the circular well wall felt warm through her thin white shorts. It was where she came every afternoon. That had been agreed. Would he ever come? There were so many doubts in life.
‘There will be conditions,’ he had said. She had not fully understood; did not want to ask too much. ‘In such things,’ he had said, ‘there are rewards. These, by a certain natural order, must be counter-balanced by penalties. That is my philosophy. In physical relationships between the sexes, a female is the submissive. She obeys the male. Deep down, she wishes to. You understand?’
She had felt her cheeks colouring, still wanting to ask more, but not daring. Yet desperate for contact.
Still she waited. Would it be that afternoon? Next week? Ever? Perhaps he had simply dismissed her from his mind as a naive child. Not ready.
Yet she was!
Then she heard firm footsteps on the gravel path. She dare not turn. Her heart hammered; her whole body glowed. This she suddenly knew, was the end of her waiting.
‘Claire. I promised…’
The glowing within her intensified. ‘Ohh… sir…’ She was back in the classroom. Ridiculous.
Now she was old enough.
‘You remember?’
‘Yes… yes… Andrew…’
‘Everything? My philosophy? My demands?’
‘Yes… yes…’ They were facing each other across the ancient well. She was trembling. He came around, slowly and easily, then clasped her flanks.
‘These you will remove. You will do it now, Claire.’
‘Oohh!’ This was too soon. Surely?
‘You disobey me, girl. Already. You will recall, between us, that disobedience must be punished?’
She was hot; then suddenly shivering. Wanting him to master her; yet quaking with fright.
His hands moved with authority. He was gentle but firm. There was nothing but the thin shorts. Perhaps that was a symbol of her basic desire.
Then she was suddenly quite naked below the waist. She was his; nothing concealed.
‘Oh Andrew…’
‘I told you — long ago — there must be submission,’ he said quietly. ‘Obedience. You do not seem to have accepted that.’
‘Yes… oh… yes!’ Oh how she longed for him!
‘So now, not this time, there will be no reward. Simply the penalty. I ask again — you remember my philosophy?’
‘Yes, I remember…’
Then suddenly, she was over his knees. Her arms were back, her wrists were clasped.
A blaze of pain seared over her bottom-flesh as his palm descended. Again and again and again.
She choked on her cries.
She would endure. His philosophy must be the true one. She must demonstrate that. Oh Andrew… my adored!
But… ooohhh… ooohhh… the pain!
This was Master and pupil.
This was the penalty.
One day there would be the reward.
How long would she have to wait for that?

Friday, 27 March 2020

OBB — Letter from Janus 6.03

From Janus 6.03
For every CP enthusiast who has the chance of spanking a pretty girl or raising red-hot weals across a shapely feminine rear with a cane, there must be many who can enjoy these pleasures only in fantasy. Yet a vivid imagination is not to be despised.
It’s a long time, alas, since I last laid an apprehensive young lady across my knees and lowered her knickers to expose her tender white bottom for a spanking. But I still live a rich fantasy life.
Some of my imaginary spankees come from everyday life. In my work I meet many attractive young typists and female clerks, who would be scarlet with embarrassment and indignation if they realised what undignified and painful chastisements I mentally inflict upon them. The long-legged, nubile blonde schoolgirl I see at the bus-stop little knows how often she has, in my fantasy world, squealed and sobbed and writhed across my lap while I spank her very soundly with the back of a hairbrush or a slipper. And there’s a certain lady doctor, beautiful but rather too haughty and superior. Regularly, in my imagination, she bends over her own desk, her knickers round her ankles, blubbering out abject pleas for mercy as she learns a stinging, scorching lesson in humility from a thick, supple leather tawse cracking down again and again upon her luscious backside.
For even more attractive spankees I look back with nostalgia to the golden days of the cinema. What a wonderful assortment of spankable femininity appeared on our screens twenty to thirty years ago. Those two delightful little dancers Mitzi Gaynor and Vera Allen, for example. I never watched either of them without wanting to take her across my knee and smack her wriggling bottom until it was a bright burning red.
Mitzi Gaynor
Vera Allen
Lovely, lively Ann Miller — how her splendid legs would have waved and kicked as a leather-covered paddle whacked her bare rump.
Ann Miller
The dignified, rather prim Greer Garson would have blushed scarlet as she unwillingly raised her skirt and took down her knickers before bending over for a scorching dose of the martinet across her wincing rear.
Greer Garson
When Kathryn Grayson was spanked by Howard Keel in Kiss Me Kate, she was so well protected by ample skirts that she probably hardly felt it. Just imagine her, though, in the same position without even the flimsiest of panties to protect her tender posterior from a heavy masculine hand.
Kathryn Grayson
Who else? Dainty, petite little June Allyson would have fitted across my knee as neatly as a naughty child — and would have wept like one after having her tender little bottom soundly slippered for ten minutes.
June Allyson
At the other extreme, Ingrid Bergman, the big, bonny heroine of Joan of Arc might have proved far from heroic if up-ended over a whipping bench for a dozen strokes of the birch on her splendid Scandinavian seat.
Ingrid Bergman
Then there’s Liz Taylor not today’s plump middle-aged Liz — but the shapely, firm-fleshed twenty-year-old. Think of her held down across a table, tears of pain and humiliation pouring down her lovely face as she ignominiously displays her bare, burning seat to an appreciative audience, including all her dearest enemies. Hear her yelp in anguish as a sixth stroke of the cane lashes across the most expensive and pampered bottom in Hollywood, and imagine her feelings as she realises that although her writhing buttocks are already agonisingly hot and sore she still has another six strokes to come.
Liz Taylor
Coming back to the present day, there are still plenty of candidates for the Order of the Burning Bot. Someone once suggested that Nana Mouskori could inflict a good motherly spanking. She could take one, too, to warm up her bottom for six of the best with a cane.
Nana Mouskouri
Another singer, Anita Harris, could reach some very high notes while howling across someone’s knee with the back of a hairbrush paddling her naked derriere.
Anita Harris
I can think of six or seven actresses who would qualify. Wendy Padbury has a very spankable bottom.
Wendy Padbury
The cane would be more suitable for Nerys Hughes, say nine strokes across her shapely rear.
Nerys Hughes
Felicity Kendall — a really sound spanking with a slipper for her, preferably across the knee of her TV neighbour Penelope Keith. For Penny herself, a rather more drastic fate — a good dose of the birch.
Felicity Kendal
Then we pick up the hairbrush again, and Nina Baden-Semper wails and weeps as her bare bottom receives a stinging, scorching spanking.
Nina Baden-Semper
For lovely Susan Hampshire, the tawse seems appropriate. A couple of stinging strokes across each hand first, before she reluctantly takes down her knickers and bends over to submit her defenceless buttocks for punishment. How many strokes is she going to get, she wonders. Three? Four? Perhaps even six? Sorry, Susan, you’re not a little girl but a mature woman and must be punished accordingly. Twelve of the very best for you, my dear, to make your bottom quiver and squirm and glow red-hot. Allowing for pauses between strokes to let you feel the full effect of each and anticipate the next, you are in for a very, very painful and humiliating quarter of an hour. And when you finally stop sobbing and the raging fire in your shapely buttocks has cooled down just a little, I can imagine your emotions when you are told you must report for a repeat performance in a week’s time.
Susan Hampshire
Feminine assistants on panel games and quizzes often seem suitable for the OBB. Other readers have quite rightly nominated Anne Aston. The two young lovelies on Sale of the Century certainly qualify. A sound public spanking for each, I think, before they tearfully bend over for their rosy, smarting bottoms to be caned.
Sale of the Century
Finally, and especially, Anthea Redfern of The Generation Game. Perhaps a contest to see which of four contenders can give Anthea the soundest spanking. Four consecutive spankings on her bare bottom would certainly wipe the perpetual grin off her face.
Anthea Redfern (1)
But Anthea is so admirably qualified for chastisement that one spanking session, however thorough, seems inadequate. Let us, in fantasy, say that she is to spend six months as a servant in the house of a really strict disciplinarian. During this time she will become thoroughly and painfully familiar with the hairbrush, the tawse, the cane, and many other instruments of chastisement. When she appears before her master every morning, the first words she hears are: ‘Anthea, I am going to take your knickers down and give you a good spanking.’ Ten minutes later, with a tear-stained face and a stinging bottom she starts her duties. She knows that anything short of perfection in performance or behaviour will mean a further painful and humiliating whipping. Perhaps she breaks a plate and fearfully awaits punishment, feeling more like a delinquent schoolgirl than a glamourous young lady as nervously she watches him select a thin, supple cane.
‘Take your knickers down, Anthea!’
‘Y-yes sir.’ The blushing Anthea raises her skirt and her flimsy briefs slip down her long, shapely legs.
‘Bend over.’
‘Please sir, I’m sorry I’m really sorry —’
‘I intend to make sure you are. Touch your toes!’
Trembling with fear and humiliation, Anthea obeys. She feels her skirts pinned up and is miserably aware of the temping target offered by her defenceless bottom and the soft white flesh of her thighs above black nylons. Then the vicious swish of the cane is answered by a sobbing gasp as her punishment begins. Three strokes across her squirming buttocks, three across her tender thighs, then three more to set fire to her bottom while she squeals and weeps and implores. Afterwards she stands in a corner for an hour, hands on head, blubbering with pain and shame as she displays her scorching seat to anyone who happens to call.
Anthea Redfern (2)
Yes, it’s wishful thinking, of course. In reality we know that Anthea and the other girls will probably never feel anything more than the occasional playful slap from husband or boyfriend upon their shapely bottoms. But we can dream, can’t we?
G.F L.