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Thursday, 21 May 2020

The Reawakening

Photo fantasy from Janus 66 featuring Sheena McBride previously seen in Sheena in Janus 62.
When Sheena McBride teetered on brand-new four-inch heels on her boss’s doorstep, at least fifty butterflies seemed to have got loose in her tummy. It was six o’clock exactly, as she knew what a stickler Mr Storing was over timing. His whole life seemed to be ruled by the clock — which was sad, the girl thought, because he often seemed as craggily remote as the starkest peak in Wester Ross where she was born and raised.
But now her home-place was far away, for she had travelled south into England — wanting, she supposed, to be like those girls in the glossy magazines rather than a crofter’s wife with coarsening features and unsophisticated ways. Well, this evening a really sophisticated gentleman was escorting her out — to the ballet, no less! Sheena had spent most of her savings preparing for it, so as not to let him down. The hair-do alone had set her back more than £15, and her carefully-chosen outfit from a rather daring boutique was surely worth the price, if only to bring a rare look of pleasure to those unrelenting features of his. She noticed that her hand was trembling slightly as she raised it to the door. She knocked timidly.
In the hallway, Roger Storing tensed. At least the creature was on time, he reflected; but surely this was a bad mistake. Certainly his recent purchase of this house had been one: the contracts had taken ages, and the garish decor was an affront to his sensibilities. His spare time ought to have been spent in organising an extensive redecoration programme, yet here he was inviting some barely articulate Scots girl out to the ballet!
He opened the door, greeted her gravely with an ‘Ah, good evening,’ and stepped back to admit the lithe, quick-moving form which brought in with it from the chill outdoors not only a dauntingly vivacious grin, but a wave of perfume like a sensual assault. Roger Storing coughed, and did not return that sparkling smile. It seemed to him that he had not smiled for years. When the wife he had adored with such doting folly had gone off with another man almost a decade before, his very soul seemed to have gone into coma, and his passions had shrivelled and died. He had become a cold, bleak being whom even his daughter, Jacqueline, could no longer bear to be with, and had gone off — just as her mother had done — to live ‘in sin’ with some entirely unsuitable young man, despite all his attempts to discipline the girl out of her flighty ways.
Roger Storing was alone.
When his pretty visitor leaned forward to gauchely kiss his cheek, his icy senses did not thaw. It all felt so wrong. This young girl had come to work at his firm less than a month ago, newly down from some remote part of the Scottish Highlands. Her apparent innocence in life and her total inexperience in office practice had at first exasperated him almost as much as her rapid-fire Rob Roy accent; but she was bright, and quick to learn. One evening during the recent flu epidemic Miss McBride had voluntarily stayed behind after hours to help him get some vital letters out.
That had impressed Roger. Industry and application to the job always did. He had dutifully offered to buy the girl a drink or a meal before she went home to her bedsit — but, bubbling with laughter like some imp of springtime (though his deadened senses would have scoffed at such imagery), she had somehow contrived to take him to an eating-place which resounded with ugly rock music played at an appalling volume. Angrily he had got up and left, but she’d come after him, contrite.
‘I’m no used to city ways,’ she’d lilted guiltily, and had looked so crestfallen that Roger had brusquely said, ‘I’ll take you to the ballet next week. Les Sylphides is on. I’m sure you’ll find it far more rewarding than that dreadful noise in there.’
And for the next few days the simple girl had lived for little else. She had lost sleep just thinking about it; had purchased creams to pamper her smooth young flesh, costly perfume (perhaps, came a wayward thought, to beguile him with), and the best cosmetics in the store. Now here she was, with him, the promised evening stretching enchantingly ahead like something in a fairy tale. She began to unfasten her coat, eager to show how excitingly womanly she looked; and to see the anticipated wonderment transform his grim expression at last to one of welcome delight.
Roger Storing frowned. He had planned to give his young guest an instructional talk on the ballet over a small glass of sherry, then drive to the venue in good time to imbibe the distinguished ambience and take their seats without rush. Indeed, he was about to usher the girl into the living-room to fulfil this first phase when she pulled open her coat with an unreadable smile.
But Roger wasn’t looking at her smile; he was staring aghast at what his escort was wearing. The dress, if it could be termed such, was flimsy and shockingly brief, with visible garters and a frothy black tutu; while the bodice’s neckline plunged shamelessly, vulgarly frilled with matching frippery. The sight of her outrageously crude appearance flooded him with a fury such as he could scarcely remember having ever experienced. It was his wife again, his daughter — all who had once been close and precious, turned into tawdry strumpets to mock him!
Now here was this supposedly demure untainted lassie, who had ingenuously admitted to him that her father had always kept her in order with a tawse, grinning at him too like the painted harlot of his nightmares.
Sheena saw his terrible glare and did not understand. When his hand shot out and seized her arm in a numbing grip, she cried out more in surprise than shock — and then he was propelling her, stumbling, across the hall and up the staircase, dragging off her coat as they went, exposing her shoulders and scantily clad rear. She had felt so wickedly joyful when she’d first tried it on. Now, frankly, she was in terror.
Crash. They reached an upper landing where he kicked a door open and hauled her through. ‘P-please… Wha—?’ Sheena could barely speak, but gazed in alarm around a dark-decored bathroom as the door slammed shut. Frightened tears prickled her wide azure eyes glimpsed in the mirror before which they now stood.
He was panting hard. ‘Now, young woman,’ Roger growled; ‘it may amuse you to dress up like a sluttish tart in order to humiliate me, but you’re about to learn how I deal with wicked hussies who boast neither shame nor pride!’
From the washbasin he seized a sponge and held it to her mouth. She shook her head violently, but he continued to hold her. ‘Before your punishment begins,’ he grated, pressing the sponge to her cerised lips and pushing it hard across them — the very fact that this was happening, numbing her thoughts and feelings — ‘this tartish paint can come off!’ With one wipe, her carefully-applied lipstick was off.
‘Now stand there!’ It was happening so quickly, Sheena’s mind reeled. Even as she dazedly blinked at him he was bending to put in the plug and turn one of the bath-taps on. Water spurted. Cold water. Sheena could feel the air fanning the exposed portions of her seat which the wispy outfit revealed. A blush began, and a self-conscious horror that he might turn her and see her bottom. If only she had bought the tangerine dance-dress instead!
But Roger Storing had already seen those plumply feminine posteriors. Strangely, the sight of them merely fuelled his wrath and at once suggested the manner in which he could deal with her. With the bath half-filled, he turned off the tap.
‘Get in!’ he snapped.
‘I-I dinna ken what you mean,’ blurted the perplexed girl.
In!’ he insisted. ‘And keep those tart’s rags on!’ Storing stood sternly over her, challenging the girl to defy him. And slowly, driven by his glare, Sheena stepped into the bath, and gasped. The water was ice-cold. ‘Sit down in it, girl. Down, and lie back!’
Miserably the Scottish lass lowered herself, gritting her teeth as the ferocious coldness ate into her skin. He glowered above her as she reclined in acute discomfort in the freezing water; then he stooped and pushed her deeper, immersing her hair as well till she sprawled there with chattering teeth, skin layered with goose-bumps. ‘I dinna k-ken wha’ I did,’ she grimacingly pleaded, ‘but I’m s-s-sorry…’
‘Stand up, hussy!’ he snarled, just as the water was numbing her limbs. Sheena struggled to her feet, soaked and shaking, her eyes imploring. But now something even more unbelievable was happening, for Roger Storing was dragging the dripping tutu down her legs, and then was hauling the scanty top up over her head so that her breasts and upper body were uncovered!
‘N-No. Please no…!’ The words would scarcely form through her fluttering lips. Shame blazed in; she wanted to crouch down, to hide — yet there was nowhere to hide.
‘Whatever perversity prompted you to wear this trash, young madam,’ her boss now bit out, ‘is going to be rewarded with appropriate painfulness, I can assure you!’ Never had she seen him so angry. Then, with a further frenzied wrenching he dragged the suspender-belt, panties and stockings down over her feet and hauled her shuddering from the bath.
Sheena stood dripping, stark naked, in front of him. She wanted to scream, to cry, perhaps to escape into hysteria. She had never been nude in a man’s presence before, and her humiliation was intense. Nude! The situation had become even more unreal. Commanding her to remain where she was, he went out and returned with a long slender rod. She blinked. It was a cane! Worse still, he was flexing it purposefully as he sternly stood before her.
‘Because of your disgraceful behaviour, Miss McBride,’ Roger said severely, ‘we have both missed the ballet, wasted the tickets, and ruined what might otherwise have been an enjoyable evening. In view of the fact that you were clearly perfectly prepared to flagrantly exhibit your half-naked buttocks to the world at large the moment you took your coat off, I have now bared them fully and intend to give them the caning their exposure and your thoughtlessness have richly merited.’
Sheena could only gasp, saucer-eyed. This was surely not happening! Icy water trickled down her skin. ‘Kneel up on the chair,’ he harshed, ‘and submit yourself to the punishment you deserve!’
For a moment she simply could not move. A stinging rear had been an infrequent, but very real, occurrence for girlish misdemeanour in times past — but she had never imagined that on coming to London it would ever happen again. After all, she was a grown woman of 21! He sounded just like her father — and suddenly she was back in the ordered world of her Highland upbringing, conditioned to respond with fearful acceptance to the inevitability of punishment. He had even used that very same word.
‘Bend over.’
Sheena stumbled forward, hesitated, then knelt up on the cushion and hung her head and arms submissively over the chair-back. ‘Push out that bottom. Out, girl!’ His curt commands had become the centre of her universe, thrilling their way like tiny electric sparks through the dread she felt. Arching her spine she strained her cringing buttocks towards him, feeling them broaden and open with terrible vulnerability. Then she waited, trembling.
For a long moment Roger Storing surveyed his lovely victim, and the faintest warm pang ghosted through him. Then sternly, righteously, he tapped that lusciously moulded heart-shaped bottom, measured for distance, drew back the cane and swiped judiciously down. The flexible stick swished, struck smartly across the still-wet hillocks of flesh and sprang back. Beads of moisture flew at the impact. He heard the girl gasp as the pain spurted deep, engraving a rapidly-scarlet line across the pallid orbs.
Moments later, while she was still sucking air with little whimpers, he drove in a second stinger which struck more firmly across the shuddering buttocks a little high of centre; and this time the petite Scottish girl gave a shriek. The noise thrilled Roger curiously with a forgotten sensation as a sparkling pang, like lost joy rekindled, flittered down his nerves. As if in defence against this wayward feeling he flung his arm higher and brought the cane whistling round to smite with a loud, pistol-shot crack across the very summits of young Sheena McBride’s bared bottom, scoring a third livid brand.
This time the girl’s teeth ground together and her blonde head jerked upwards, while her damp body vibrated spectacularly from the tip of her tensely in-curling toes to the crown of her head as she struggled to absorb the agonising fire-flash which seared into her bottom-cheeks. And as the cane sprang back, Roger Storing felt again that spectral warmth seeping further into his arctic senses. She was a brave one, this Highland lass!
Vaguely disturbed by these errant sensations, the stony-faced man swung back the cane and whopped it down even harder. The pliant wand collided with Miss McBride’s tenderly curvaceous buttocks with a venomous splat, igniting them further and bringing forth a hoarse, gargling cry! Jerking, writhing, Sheena struggled to kneel up straighter on the chair, as if this might help to better absorb the excruciating pain-slashes. And yet she made no complaint nor protest.
As more lights started to turn on within him, Roger began to wonder why. His daughter used to spit and scream abuse, yet this girl was bearing her chastisement stoically. Carefully he stooped, aiming for an unmarked gap on the wealed flesh; and at this very moment she jutted her lovely bottom even further out, as if to give him the best possible target.
Thwwsshwack! The fifth stroke struck Sheena’s tensed buttocks neatly between two crimson parallel lines scorched across them; and at the shock of it the girl slumped forward against the chair-back again, eyes squeezing shut as the so-tender rounds wobbled and jerked. And Roger stood back, acknowledging himself surprised that his skills, presumed derelict, were still potent. Five superbly-placed stripes, as precise as any caning-man could wish, and crying out to be completed in the traditional manner.
And so he measured the angle, resting the stick carefully against Sheena McBride’s provoking young rumps. In anticipation, her pretty features contorted. Roger tensed, drew back the cane. Sww-oock! Down it came, diagonally from above to curl with viperous force around the ripely-curved rear, scoring a livid angled track from top left to low right in a perfect ‘five-barred gate’. Sheena squealed at the impact, collapsed forward; and a great sigh came from her, because she knew it was over.
With surprising gentleness he helped the still-damp, shivering young woman to her feet. ‘Your punishment is complete,’ he murmured in a soothing kind of voice she had never heard from him before. Sheena looked at the man who had so comprehensively thrashed her, but could find no hatred, no anger. She continued to look. Something about him had changed. His grasp was no longer rough, but sensitive and considerate.
‘Put your hands on your head,’ he breathed, and the girl did so at once. Strangely, even after what he had done to her, she continued to nurture a deep need to please him. She stiffened when he draped a warm towel around her shoulders — and then relaxed as, with sensuous deliberation, he began to dry her with voluptuous thoroughness, the caressive softness of the mobile towel creating an amazing counterpoint to the fiery, throbbing sting crazing her posterior nerves. And when he sat down on the edge of the bath to give attention to her lower quarters, Sheena saw that he was regarding her closely in a puzzled kind of wonderment.
For Roger Storing, as the girl’s pliant form warmed his palms through the thin towelling, and her virginal nipples stood out hard, and her flesh moved and tensed beneath his fingers, that long-forgotten warmth eased fully into him and chased out at long last all the bitter years, rousing up his senses again like a sentry fully alert.
This young Scottish girl’s sweet simplicity and stoicism had reached through and touched him; and he became aware that, misguided though she had been, she had dressed the way she had done this evening in a desperately innocent desire to please him; and that she had prepared for their intended outing with a touching care which his callous, soul-dead alter-ego had abused most unworthily.
As Roger continued to towel her with great gentleness, Sheena’s hands began to come down from her head as she raptly watched him, At first the girl wondered, unsure; and then she gasped, and knew, as her own untapped primal senses stirred, and woke.
Moments later the bathroom stood empty. In the freezing bathwater, Sheena’s ruined clothing soaked and shrank as time ticked on. But the girl herself was no longer cold; and for Roger Storing his reawakening, after all the empty years, was like a renaissance.

4 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Indeed. Stunning in every sense. She suffers so beautifully.

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    2. Yes I agree M de L. She is attractive to punish in so many ways. Hands on head, being roughly sponged for being a tart and more of her adorable worried expressions

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