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Monday, 3 February 2020

In an Englishman’s Castle – Part 1

First part of two, from Blushes 36
It is a substantial brick house, in a street of similarly substantial houses. They date from the 1930’s probably when space was not at the premium it is today and houses could be built with a bit of elbow-room: these plots are all of something like an acre. And the builders too in those days, they knew their trade and were not skimping in time or effort. One would have to look at this brickwork for a very long time to find any fault with it. And the roof, the neat white window frames, the cast-iron drainpipes: all solid English craftsmanship. The garden, like all the others on this leafy street, matured after its 50 or so years, is neat, well-tended behind its substantial hedges. Substantial for we are looking at middle-class suburban England where a certain privacy is an essential virtue. The casual passer-by cannot peer in and observe the middle-class suburban Englishman at home. But if he could…
In there: that French window. The middle-class Englishman clearly dresses informally at home. Jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, sandals. Reading a newspaper: The Telegraph no doubt. And in here: the next window. Oh. What… Well, it is unexpected to say the least. But an Englishman’s home is his castle. He can do…
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Mr Winder glances up from his newspaper. ‘Are you standing close, Amanda? Nice and close?’
She can feel the burning heat of the electric fire on the backs of her legs. On her bottom. She can’t see Mr Winder but she can hear him well enough. He is just round the corner in the other room, with the door open. ‘It’s hot.’ Her voice is nervous. ‘Too hot. I’m burning.’
‘You will be burning before I’m finished with you, my girl. You won’t want to sit on it. And it won’t be because of that fire. You stand close, do you hear? If the seat of those knickers isn’t really steaming when I come in there…’
Mr Winder lets his sentence tail off, the threat, whatever it was, unsaid, as he resumes his study of the racing form. Amanda bites her lip. A soft full lower lip. In a softly pretty face framed in short brown curls. A sensitive face, young-looking, the face one might imagine, although in fact Amanda is turned 20, of a girl untested by the world’s trials and tribulations. Perhaps that is why she has been made to stand here in front of the electric fire with her dress held high to expose her knickers. Part of a toughening process. That fire and of course the tawse.
It is the tawse that Amanda’s blue eyes are fixed on as she stands feeling the fire’s hot rays tingling the backs of her legs and her bottom. The tawse and the fire are inter-related as in a mathematical equation: a + b = k (constant). Or so she thinks. If Mr Winder decides her bottom is not hot enough from the fire he is going to give her more of that tawse. Whereas if her bottom is hot… well, possibly… the heat of the fire is burning, like lying in the hot midday sun on a Mediterranean beach but this burning is not to be compared with the burn that the tawse will impart. So if the equation is right and k is a constant it is in Amanda’s own interest to take as much of the fire as she can. She experimentally edges back a fraction, a centimetre. The trouble is it is very hot already: she could actually be burning. All that exposed flesh which is presented to the fire as she stands with her dress held high round her neck.
Amanda has knickers on but they are lowered halfway down her thighs. There are white stockings, with a suspender belt, and the white nylon knickers are below the tops of the stockings. Her bottom is thus quite bare as also are the upper parts of her thighs. And the stockings anyway, sheer fine denier nylons, are of a most insubstantial nature and no real protection whatsoever. It is no good, the heat is killing, the knickers, the stockings, will probably be bursting into flames at any moment. Amanda has to edge forward again. As little as possible. Thinking about Mr Winder as he sits just beyond the open door. And eyeing the tawse.
He has placed it on the chair. A child’s wooden high chair with a semi-circular runged back. The varnished seat has a cushion on and on the cushion Mr Winder has placed his tawse. Amanda is going to get that tawse and she is going to get it kneeling up on the cushion. Her mouth opens in an involuntary grimace, showing pretty white teeth. The heat of the fire… and the prospect perhaps even worse… No, the prospect definitely worse. That tawse. She has had the tawse and knows what it is like. It can make you feel sick. But she has not had it like this, with her bottom already scorching from the fire. Every nerve end tingling with intense sensitivity and then… It doesn’t bear thinking about. Though of course Amanda is thinking about it. She gives a little gasp. A moan. Mr Winder next door looks up.
‘Are you sure you’re close, girl.’
‘I am. I am. It’s killing me,’ she yelps. ‘I think I’m going to faint… or something.’
‘If you faint, Amanda, I’ll throw you in a bath of cold water with a bucket of ice thrown in as well. That’ll bring you round.’
She makes another whimpering groan. ‘Please…
Mr Winder puts the paper down and gets heavily to his feet. Amanda’s eyes flicker like a frightened rabbit’s as he appears. Looking to the tawse and then to the advancing Mr Winder. For the moment the burning heat on her bottom and legs is forgotten.
He comes close. Puts his face inches from hers. ‘Please, Amanda? I’ll give you please, my girl.’ He goes round, behind her. Bending, Amanda can sense his face almost touching her hot bottom. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. His hand is patting.
‘Done, are you? Cooked enough, girl? Done to a turn yet?’ His hand on the hot bare rear of Amanda’s leg. And then inside, in the narrow space between her thighs above her stocking tops. ‘And what about here? Hot here, Miss?’
She stifles a whimper. Mr Winder’s hand is sliding up between her legs. As far as it can go. ‘Hot eh, Amanda? Hot pants.’ He rubs her there, her most sensitive part. Her breath gasps out. And then a squeal as the fingers sharply pinch a segment of sensitive inner thigh flesh. A sharp smack on her toasted bottom.
‘We’ll give you a bit longer, Amanda. Get you well and truly done first. How about that? Stand closer. We’ll have 10 minutes of standing nice and close. After that I think we can proceed.’
Mr Winder is going back to his chair. Amanda is closer: a couple of inches. It may not sound a lot but as close as she is it can make all the difference. Between being just able to stand it… or not. She surreptitiously shuffles her feet. It feels like she is being burnt alive.
‘Mr Winder. I’m burning.’ A frantic little voice.
‘Nonsense!’ He does not bother to look up. ‘You’re just weak, Amanda. And I’m making you nice and strong. Don’t you dare move. Or else.’
The heat is impossible. She manages to shuffled forward a little bit. Mr Winder won’t know. Or so she fervently hopes. Ten minutes. How many of them left?
Mr Winder, head still down in his paper, says, ‘Two minutes, Amanda. Then we’ll start. And I know exactly where your feet were. So if you’ve moved a millimetre forward…’
Oh God. She must… ‘And don’t start shuffling back now. That will make the offence twice as bad. Deceit on top of deceit.’ He looks up. ‘Don’t move a hair’s breadth, girl.’
Her heart is galloping like a racehorse. No doubt in part in an attempt to cool her overheated flesh but also because she is dead scared of that tawse. And dead scared of Mr Winder. Who is now putting down his paper again and getting to his feet. And coming…
‘As I thought, you wretched deceitful girl.’ His hand sharply smacking her burning bottom. ‘Cheating. Oh dear me. We are going to have to give you a real going over, aren’t we?’
Oh God! Mr Winder is picking up the tawse. Beckoning her. She can at last move away from the scorching heat, but… there is a sudden urgent need to pee. If she can’t she is going to wet her pants, like a wretched little kid. Oh God! Squirming her hips, her burning bottom. Her bladder is all at once bursting, or feels like it. She can’t hold it. Mr Winder is pointing with the tawse at the cushion on the high chair…
‘I… I need…’ It is going to come out. ‘Please… I have to!
‘Have to, Amanda?’ Mr Winder has stepped briskly to her. ‘What kind of talk is that? You can’t control your bodily functions? You are going to wet yourself? Is that it?’ He is glaring at her, his eyes fierce, like that fire.
‘I…’ Amanda squirms again, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. She is still obediently holding her skirt bunched at her waist. ‘It… just suddenly… Ooooh… Please I do need to.’
‘I think you’re trying it on, Miss.’ His hand is at her bottom, her burning burn. ‘We’ve got this heated up, for the tawse. I think this is simply another trick, to cheat the routine I’ve arranged for you. You think if you go in the bathroom and put a wet flannel on your bottom… when you come back the tawse isn’t going to sting.’
No!’ she yelps. ‘I do need to. It’s desperate.’ Squirming her knees together. It really does feel as if she can’t hold it. And it’ll simply… trickle down her legs. A shaming wet patch on the carpet. That would be worse than the fire. Worse than the tawse.
‘Open your legs.’
Oh! Making herself part her squeezed-together knees. Mr Winder’s hand… sliding in there. A despairing wail. His intruding hand right there. ‘If I let you go, Amanda, you’ll be back in here and standing two inches from that fire. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ she gasps. ‘Yes!’ Anything. Stumbling out with her skirt still held high and the lowered knickers round her thighs. And the splatt of the tawse across her churning buttocks as she goes. In the bathroom she just makes it. The shock of the cold loo seat on her inflamed bottom. But… Oooohhhh…
Back in the lounge Mr Winder means it. Well not two inches but really close. Really burning. ‘We can’t have cheating, Miss, can we?’ Her bottom is pulsating with the heat when finally, for the second time, he tells her he is ready. Now: the tawse. Oh Jesus. She again feels the urge to go to the loo. Gritting her teeth. She can’t dare ask him. And there can’t really be anything, she’s just been. It’s only nerves, because she’s in such a blue funk.
Standing there. Enduring, with little moaning sounds. Mr Winder has moved the chair in close, next to her, almost touching. The tawse is right there. She could reach out and touch it. A split-tongued length of thick leather. To be whipped down on her bare bottom. Oh Christ. The chair, the tawse, the immediacy of what is to happen, at least serves to concentrate her mind. The urgent thought that she has to go to the loo again has disappeared because all she can think of is being splatted. Oh God…
Now. Mr Winder. ‘Are we ready then?’ Moving her to the side. Out of the direct heat of the fire at last. Mr Winder has the chair, moving it closer to the fire. Just about where she was standing. Grinning at her.
‘We want you to stay nice and warm, eh Amanda.’
Mr Winder can afford a joke. He is enjoying this. Every moment of it. He is some kind of sadist no doubt, probably overjoyed when he learnt he could have her for two whole days. He tells her to turn, and put her hands on her head. He is doing something behind her. Bunching up her skirt, tucking it in so that it stays up at the back. So that her hot bottom remains exposed. A brusque slap to the humming flesh makes her yelp.
‘Ready then, are we? A hot bum but it’s got to be a lot hotter than that.’ He pats the cushion of the chair.
He used this chair before, the other time when she came, was sent, just for the afternoon. She didn’t think he meant it then, couldn’t believe he really meant it. But that tawse slashing in across her leg — once, twice in quick succession and then a third as it were for luck — rapidly convinced her. Amanda doesn’t need any convincing now. Mr Winder will do whatever he wants. This fire. And this time… she is not here just for a short afternoon visit. It is…
She does what he tells her. Gets on the seat. Holding her skirt up in front again now. Kneeling. Bending over. Lowering her head down in front of the fire. It is hot on her face and her bottom is still throbbing from the fire. The tawse. Mr Winder has it in his hand. Bringing it in close under her face. She can smell the leathery smell. He is bending over her. His other hand is at her bottom.
‘Kiss it, Amanda. Kiss the strap.’
The heat is making the tangy, leathery smell stronger. And something else: dubbin has probably been rubbed in it, to make it supple, and there is that smell too. And with her head down like this… A nauseous sensation. Mr Winder is pushing the strap against her mouth.
‘A proper kiss, Amanda. Put your tongue out. A nice French kiss.’
She makes herself, feeling really sick now. Her mouth open, her tongue on the leather. Mr Winder’s hand is still at her hot bottom. Now sliding down.
‘Hot, are we, Amanda? Nice and hot?’
She moans, her mouth still open. His hand is going between her legs. ‘Let’s see if we’re hot in here.’ His fingers…
‘Oh yes. She’s hot all right.’ The fingers begin working her. Amanda tries to move her face away from the nauseous taste and smell of the hot leather but he keeps it pressed there. His face comes close, at her ear.
‘I know what you’d really like, Amanda. You’d like me to bring you off, wouldn’t you? You’re all hot and ready for it.’ His fingers are sliding in and out. ‘Yes, that’s what you’d like. You wretched girl.
‘The hand comes away. Mr Winder straightens up, taking the tawse away from her face. Amanda is gasping, almost sobbing.
‘Naughty, wretched girl. Well you’re not getting that. We’ll have none of that business. What you’re getting is the strap on your bottom. Come on.’
The tawse flicks in onto Amanda’s heat-sensitised rump: the twin ripe cheeks. She squeals.
‘Come on then. Get your bottom out a bit more. I want a nice big target. And don’t you move it. You know this is all for your own good, Amanda. You do appreciate that I hope.’
The strap comes in again. A harder one. She yowls. It is happening now. An intense, hot smart across the cheeks of her bottom.
‘You do know that, Amanda. Let me hear you say it.’
She is still gasping, moaning. She splutters something.
‘What, Amanda?’
‘Ooooh… Yessss….’
SPLATT!!!… ‘Yes, my girl.’

14 comments:

  1. That's how a girl should be treated, little bitch

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    1. Mr Fulton (history) here.
      Quite right Inspector!
      Initially this girl appears to have fallen into the clutches of the sadistic Mr Winder through no fault of her own. But the last colour picture of Amanda sticking her bum up and rudely displaying herself confirms that she is indeed a dirty little bitch who deserves everything Mr Winder wants to do to her.

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    2. The naturally submissive female posture when confronted by a dominant male.

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    3. Indeed. Bending face-first over a chair back with her bottom & vulva lewdly exposed is a key punishment position girls are expected to adopt. I prefer their bare breasts to hang exposed in such a pose, so the above picture has room for improvement

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  2. so good to see an innocent looking slut punished nice idea with the fire too

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  3. Having her 'French kiss' the tawse is a great touch. Looking forward to the sequel Fleas!

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  4. Having her 'French kiss' the tawse is a great touch. Looking forward to the sequel Fleas!

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  5. Bob here.

    French kissing of all punishment implements both before and after each individual use should be mandatory,in my opinion.

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  6. And a very nice touch also to cut off the illicit pleasure the filthy wench is taking in her discipline. Discipline is to be endured not enjoyed!

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  7. Hear hear Harold. They shouldn’t enjoy any aspect of being undressed and got at

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  8. Making them acknowledge they 'deserve' it, especially in front of friends and family is a must. Writing this out in 'lines' works well as does the maintenance and public availability of a Punishment Record Book. Patronising and belittling comments such as "Jenna's behaviour is much improved since she went under the cane", or "Lucy’s nonsense about fairness didn't survive a couple of encounters with my tawse" also work.

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  9. For me, one of the most interesting aspects of these very nice photos (to illustrate an excellent story) is the appearance of that blue yoked dress. It was used in many of Alan Bell's photosets to illustrate his own stories. It obviously had a fetishistic meaning to him. Anachronistic to the 1980s and looking home-sewn, it always suggested to me that it had belonged to a girl he knew, possibly meant a lot to her, and that he had probably 'obtained' it without her permission. Let's hope so.

    Quite right Inspector Ruskin and Marco. They shouldn't enjoy what happens to them and they should definitely be subjected to cynically calculated belittling remarks.

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