Search This Blog

Monday, 14 October 2019

Stepping Out

From Uniform Girls 5
The Welly Throwing and Treasure Hunt did not appear to be very well patronised, Martin Reed noticed, but as usual at the Melton Abbas Summer Fete, there were long queues at the Bottle Stall. It rather amused Martin to think that most of the old dears who stood in line and bought their 50p or £1’s worth of tickets probably only consumed a glass or two of sherry around Christmas time. Yet they were all eager to win that litre bottle of Scotch or a bottle of Champagne. Much more likely they would end up with a bottle of ketchup or tonic water!
Martin became rather bored. There was not much talent about. Either shrieking kids or OAP’s. It was always the same at these do’s. Still, all in a good cause, he supposed. What was it this year? Restoring the church clock, he thought. He sank down under the leafy shade of a beech tree and unscrewed the thermos flask he had brought with him, pouring a fizzy mix into the plastic screw-top. It was iced gin and bitter lemon. In his opinion, you couldn’t beat it for refreshment and relaxation on a warm summer’s afternoon.
Martin drank deep, replenished the container, and propped his thermos against the tree. Soon his eyes closed. Faintly, in the distance, he heard the local Silver Band begin to strike up. Rather discordantly. It was all very familiar and somehow reassuring. Martin Reed had been coming to this Fete since he had been in his teens, now he was in his late thirties. His eyes closed and his mind began to rove. As usual into an area of sensuality.
Pleasurably he recalled a rather pornographic story he had once read which concerned what can only be described as a ‘Fantasy Fete.’ There were all the usual side-shows, but with a difference. For example, in the Raffle you didn’t win a large basket of fruit but the girl who sold you the ticket; at the Aunt Sally stall you threw custard pies at naked girls tied to wooden posts. There had been ponies there, too, he recalled. Lovely, lissom creatures harnessed into small carriages. You could hire them for half an hour at a time and the temporary owner was handed a horse-whip before setting out. There had been many similar bizarre events at that imaginary Fete. It had been a most enjoyable story and stimulatingly erotic. Even now, Martin felt the warmth of it spreading to his loins. Insects buzzed nearby, grass and leaves hissed in a light breeze. Martin became drowsy. Soon he was dozing, then, a little later, fast asleep.
----//----
He awoke with mouth half-open and a dry throat. Had he missed them, he wondered. If he had, that would be damned annoying. They were the chief reason he came to the Fete. A glance at his watch reassured him. He had only been asleep for half an hour. It was not quite half past three and they weren’t scheduled to be there until four. Martin poured himself another beaker of his mixture and gulped it fast. It occurred to him that it was not very sensible to quench one’s thirst with alcohol. On the other hand, it was Fete Day and he rather enjoyed getting half-sloshed. It relaxed him and encouraged him to be more pleasant with those to whom he would not normally give the time of day. In short, it eased many of Martin’s frustrations and inhibitions and made him a somewhat more pleasing personality.
He was not exactly popular in the village. He lived alone in the tiniest of cottages which his mother had left him, working for a nearby manufacturer of farming equipment.
At about quarter to four, he got up, placing his thermos in a rucksack he had brought with him. He wandered towards the entrance and was just in time to see the coach arrive. Even that gave him a kind of thrill since he knew it was filled with pretty teenage girls — ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen. Along each side of the coach hung banners. MELMINSTER MAJORETTES, it announced in bright red letters. They were a team of local youngsters who attended most of the Fetes, and similar festive gatherings, for twenty miles around.
Martin lurked around, trying not to appear too interested, watching the girls descend from the coach. There was quite a bit of giggling from some of the younger ones but those who seemed to be sixteen and upwards were taking the thing more seriously. More professionally. After all, they were about to give a public performance.
Almost greedily, Martin Reed drank in the sight of the uniform each wore. He could not analyse why it affected him so much, yet it did. He found it incredibly sexy — all the more so since those who wore it were so young.
First of all, were the white lace-up boots of almost calf-length. He always thought that these would have been much enhanced by high heels. Four inch ones, for preference. However, the impracticality of that was obvious, for the majorettes marched and counter-marched on grassy ground that was often soggy.
The lithe young limbs were kept bare. Martin loved that. How delightful it was to see that delicate flesh quivering as they moved! Each wore a very short, pleated skirt of a pale purple colour. Martin loved that colour. Again for reasons he could not understand, he had always found it erotically exciting. Some of his earlier sexual fantasies had involved women who wore knickers of this colour (usually french knickers) trimmed with white lace. Beneath this skirt, a girl wore very tight-fitting, brief white panties. Very titillating, Martin thought, for the skirt was always flying up with the leg movements and those panties were practically on display all the time. Front and back. Martin sometimes wondered if the organisers of this show were as innocent as they seemed. Did they know what such sights could do to men, both young and old? Since the organisers, as far as he could gather, were all women, he could only suppose they were innocent… simply thinking of their young performers as pretty little things. The ideas that males could actually lust after them (rather than be impressed by the precision of their marching gyrations) would have been abhorrent to them. Above the skirt was a simple white, long-sleeved blouse. Naturally, these blouses were filled in a variety of proportions. Always most attractively, anyway. What surprised Martin was that some of the youngest-looking girls often had the biggest boobs. Perched on the top of each head, was a peaked purple cap with a white band. Some hair flowed freely, some was pinned up, some was fastened into a pony-tail. Martin’s preference was for the pony-tails.
All wore an identical uniform, but the Drum Majorette was garbed in addition, in a purple cloak. She, of course, carried the baton, twirling it and throwing it as the mood took her. Never dropping it. At least, as far as Martin could see. Without doubt she was Martin’s favourite. Her name was Christine Drake and he had discovered she was eighteen years old. Sadly, he realised, the girl probably wouldn’t be there next year. They didn’t go on after eighteen, he was aware. Probably thought it was too girlish; might become over self-conscious. This Christine had straw-coloured hair which was tied in one of Martin’s favourite pony-tails and her eyes were large, blue and virginal-looking. She was taller than the rest, probably five feet eight inches, he reckoned, and she had a well-proportioned (but not over-proportioned) figure. The figure of a natural athlete.
It would not be going too far to say that Martin Reed had an adoration for this burgeoning young woman. Yet, he knew, it was one he must keep hidden from her and the world in general. He could just imagine the mocking laughter (or perhaps look of revulsion?) if he had ever dared approach her and suggest a date. Their twenty year age-gap would, he realised, make him seem an old man to her. Yet… oh yet… Martin didn’t feel old at all! Damn it, he was only thirty-eight and, in his opinion, not exactly unattractive. Why was it then, that he found it so difficult to get on with women? Why was it so many seemed to find him positively obnoxious. It was a cruel world! Martin slipped behind a tent, secretly poured himself another beaker of gin and bitter lemon, sunk it, and felt slightly better. He must not mope on a lovely day like this. Soon the Melminster Majorettes would be parading. He must get into an advantageous position as soon as possible. Martin began to move to the roped-off area.
This ‘advantageous’ position was one that Martin usually tried to occupy. It was in a small, grassy dell at one end of the area. Reclining in that, one got a most revealing upward-looking view of proceedings. Best of all, it was not at all obvious to others that you had got such a view. If they had, some of them might have considered you a lecherous bastard. To hell with them! The girls were there on show… so why shouldn’t he look all he wanted? It was just that, one year, some old trout nearby had asked him if he’d got a daughter on parade.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You don’t ‘arf look interested, mister,’ she had replied with a leer in her voice. Her cold, feeble-looking eyes had looked him up and down contemptuously.
Martin had felt suddenly mentally naked, all his innermost thoughts exposed to the world. He still hated that old woman for she had more or less ruined his afternoon. Thankfully she was not to be seen around any more. Doubtless, ‘passed on’, as they say.
The Silver Band moved in alongside the parade area; spectators gathered. Sousa’s March was struck up and — oh joy to behold! — in came the prancing girls, Christine at their head, skilfully wielding her brass-knobbed baton. Lovely young thighs rising and falling, skirts tossing, panties displayed. Lovely little swelling V-mounds. Then, when they turned… up… up… up… went the limbs… one could glimpse those bouncing-quivering buttock-cheeks, so scantily covered.
The girls moved in three lines of six each. Eighteen in all, plus their leader. Oh adored leader! Martin’s heart ached at the very sight of her. She was the cynosure of all his longings — yet so unattainable!
Now they were moving diagonally, weaving in and out of each other. For a little while, Martin concentrated his gaze on one of the younger members who happened to be particularly well-endowed. A button on her blouse had snapped and juddering white cleavage could clearly be seen as she moved. The girl herself seemed quite unconcerned. Maybe, thought Martin, being so young she was unaware of the effect she could be having. Though the way girls were these days, that seemed unlikely. Perhaps, almost instinctively as females, they were just being deliberately provocative to the likes of him. Even the divine Christine. No… not her, Martin told himself. There was a kind of purity about that girl. He could not imagine her having naughty thoughts or acting wickedly. She was a goddess amongst girls!
Martin wiped his brow. He was feeling both hot and sticky. Probably he had drunk too much, he reflected. So what? This was a holiday, wasn’t it? The lovely youngsters came high-stepping towards him again. Nearer… nearer. Was Christine actually looking down at him? Did her eyes show some hint of recognition? No… it could not be. Martin looked up and saw the delicately quivering fronts of her soft white thighs… then came the swirl of her purple cape… a flash of white panties… a glimpse of rolling buttock-cheeks… then she was gone. Her obedient troupe wheeled and followed her back down the parade area. Skirts lifting, heads tossing. Oh yes, they made a delightful picture. A picture of clean, innocent girlhood.
Unless one was as lecherous-minded as Martin Reed.
Mums and Dads, Uncles and Aunts, were applauding. The band was now playing excerpts from ‘My Fair Lady.’ Martin applauded, too. Enthusiastically. ‘As good as the Guards,’ he remarked in a voice louder than he intended.
‘Come off it,’ said a rough male voice alongside him. ‘More like the Guides, don’t you mean?’ Martin turned angrily. The young man who had made the remark was stubbing out a cigarette, grinning. He winked. ‘I know your sort,’ he said. ‘Like their knickers, don’t you?’
Martin found himself flushing furiously. That bastard had scored a bull’s-eye! For a moment he had an urge to go over and strike out. But the young man was surrounded by obvious mates. They could easily rough him up. Now — or later. He turned his face away, feeling the frustration. Just like that old woman had done, this swine had ruined his afternoon. He had suddenly lost all desire to look at those parading delights.
Martin got up and half-stumbled away. He was seething. The trouble was, what the young man had said was true!
Behind another tent, Martin finished off the rest of the contents of his thermos flask. That did not make him feel any happier; simply maudlin. He almost felt like crying as he made his way home to his small, lonely cottage.
Oh Christine! I have let you down, he told himself…
Oh Christine! I shall never see you again.
You will now become a delicious memory in an old man’s recollections…
Martin Reed finished what was left of the gin bottle when he got home. He was not seeking enjoyment, simply oblivion in a harsh, unrewarding world. A world without the comfort and compassion of women. A world into which Christine would never — could never — enter. Except in his dreams.
----//----
Another Fete was over. The Melminster Majorettes had returned to Headquarters and Mrs Tisbury was reporting to him.
‘All well, Ma’am?’ he enquired rising from his desk as the severe looking, grey-uniformed figure entered.
‘Not exactly, Captain Reed,’ came the reply. ‘I am sorry to have to tell you that Christine Drake, our Drum Major, dropped her baton.’
‘Good Lord!’ Martin was astounded. He couldn’t remember it happening before. There had been minor faults, of course, with all of them. But nothing like this. ‘That’s rather serious. Let all of us down.’
‘Quite so, Captain,’ nodded a beady-eye Mrs Tisbury. ‘I think stern measures are needed on this occasion.’
‘Yes… yes… I’m afraid I agree…’
‘Would you like me to deal with the matter’ enquired the virago.
‘No… no… thank you, Mrs Tisbury. I think this a matter which comes within my jurisdiction.’
‘Whatever you say, Captain Reed. Of course,’ she looked a shade bleak, thought Martin. Disappointed even. Understandably. ‘I’ll send the girl into you, then.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tisbury. Kindly do that.’ The Chief Administrator of the Melminster Majorettes inclined his head graciously. The uniformed figure clicked her heels, turned and departed. Ahh… what a wonderful thing military-style discipline was.
Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door of Captain Reed… and, upon receiving permission, Christine Drake entered. She was still in the uniform which she had worn that afternoon at the Fete. Her pale features were tense, but there was a look of resolution about her.
‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Yes Christine,’ answered Captain Reed gravely. ‘I understand from Mrs Tisbury that you dropped your baton this afternoon.’
Christine seemed to flinch. ‘That… that is true, sir. I am so sorry to let you down.’
‘I am glad of that, Christine, at least,’ said the Captain. He looked impassive but his eyes were bright as he surveyed the tall, young girl standing before his desk. ‘You realise, young lady, that this cannot go unpunished.’
Again the girl seemed to flinch. ‘Y-yes, sir…’ she answered in a whisper.
‘There have been times,’ continued Captain Reed, ‘when I have had to spank a number of girls for indiscipline. Bad marching, cheekiness, that sort of thing. So has Mrs Tisbury. However, this is rather a different kettle of fish. You are a leader, Christine. More is expected of you. Thus any failure must be the more harshly punished.’
‘O-ohhh… sir… it was just a slip…’
‘Don’t start making excuses, Christine. When you accepted the position of Drum Major — an honoured one — you were aware of your responsibilities. Were you not?’
‘Yes… yes, I suppose so, sir,’ nodded the girl.
‘Very well, then,’ said the Captain. ‘You will be punished to the extent of those responsibilities. I am going to cane you, Christine…’
‘Oh no, sir… please… please… no…’
‘I am afraid so, Christine. This is not something I wish to do. Believe me, I wish the whole situation was otherwise… and you had given your usual sparkling performance this afternoon. As it is, I am afraid, that discipline must be maintained. Surely you understand that?’
‘Mmmf… mff… I suppose s-so… sir…’ Christine was already sobbing. Mrs Tisbury had warned her what to expect but now that Captain Reed had announced a caning she knew there would be no escaping it.
‘Very well, Christine,’ said the Captain, standing up. ‘I trust you will take your punishment in good military fashion. Obediently… and courageously.’
He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a regulation school cane with a hooked handle, hearing a gasp from the culprit before him as he did so. ‘You, Christine,’ said Captain Reed, ‘will now bend across my desk, lift up your skirt and lower your knickers. I intend to give you eight strokes with this cane. If you are slow to obey, or make any fuss, I shall increase the number of strokes. Now, come along my girl, do as I say!’ The cane whistled sharply through the air.
‘Oh sir… sir… this is awful!’
‘Maybe,’ agreed the Captain, ‘but under the circumstances, it is just.’ He saw the girl flushing… hesitating. ‘Come along, come along, young lady. I’ve seen plenty of bare-bottomed majorettes before now. How is it, do you think, that we have the highest reputation in the County?’
Christine Drake did not seem inclined to reply, she was half-bent over the desk before her, pushing down the tight little white panties she wore. Captain Reed stood behind her, flexing the cane as he watched that soft, bare white flesh being exposed. The panties dropped around Christine’s ankles.
‘Bend right over,’ ordered the Captain. ‘Grip the far side of the desk. And grip it tight, Christine, you’ll need to.’ Before him a young bottom curved tautly. The flesh of it twitched and quivered nervously. He tapped it lightly and that twitching and quivering intensified.
‘O-oh… please… sir…’
‘Eight…’ said the Captain emphatically. He raised the cane and brought it lashing down. He did not spare himself. Discipline was discipline. There was a terrible gasping-shriek from the girl as she twisted right over. He just had time to see the slim, twin-tracked weal he had raised before he was favoured with the sight of some most intimate delights as limbs kicked wildly. Resolutely, Captain Reed strove to keep his composure. This was a matter of duty. He must not be diverted. ‘Get back over my desk, Christine. Quickly, girl! There are seven more to come.’
Oh… u-urrf… oh… urff… oh that h-hurt so…’
‘Indeed?’ Captain Reed’s eyebrows went up. ‘That is what punishment is all about, Miss.’ He watched with the greatest satisfaction as that reluctant, bare bottom was presented to him once more. The soft nates kept on clenching with dread. Unhurriedly, he raised the cane again and whiplashed it across the youngster’s bottom. Oh those gasping yells! Oh those frantic squirms! He really was getting through to her. So much the better. The girl would be a darn sight more careful in future. Fancy dropping the baton in public! Whatever was the world coming to? It was only in little enclaves like the Melminster Majorettes that any proper level of discipline was being maintained. ‘Back again, Christine,’ he rasped. ‘And keep that bottom square!’
He measured that shapely young bottom. He raised the cane slowly, then brought it down, hard and fast. It whistled shrilly; it seemed to bury itself deep into that soft girlish flesh, to leave yet another vivid, encircling weal behind.
Once more, Christine Drake was contorted with pain. Crying out, twisting and kicking, frantically clasping her hands to her bottom in an effort to stem the pain. Captain Reed looked on dispassionately. He was only doing his duty, after all.
And there were still five strokes to come.
Perhaps he thought, as he measured the girl’s bottom yet again, I shall have to comfort her a little afterwards. To explain the need for discipline. To apply cooling cold cream to her burning weals. Yes… that might be advisable. Once more the cane was raised, to come whistling down relentlessly.

Sunday, 13 October 2019

Nicola & Priscilla — An Epilogue

From Janus 46
The real-life characters of the two models in our photo story Nicola and Priscilla are hardly any different to the roles that they act out for us. Truly, they are incorrigible and at times very naughty. The following sequence, which was spontaneous, clearly illustrates this aspect of two delightful young girls.
This is what happened…
At the conclusion of the shooting of our main story, Nicola complained (in between giggles) that it was monstrously unfair that only she had received punishment. She insisted that ‘Prissy’ take her turn. To our astonished delight, Priscilla agreed to this completely unplanned chastisement.
Naturally, we recorded what happened and on the next few pages you will see every frame that was shot — including the inevitable giggles from Nicola!

Saturday, 12 October 2019

Bottom Row

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4
Summer — and the living is easy, as the song used to say. In the mornings, when the sun comes bright through the windows into the lounge and they wear their thin white skirts, I can see through them when they stand against the sunshine. How lovely and subtle and feminine the lines of their legs seen as through a veil! And then above all the profile of their bottoms, the proud pert thrust of them, and the shadowy vision of their panties cupping their cheeks so lovingly and tightly.
Naked bottoms are, of course, delicious to see, but I also have a penchant — and I’m sure every man has — for a tight round bottom sheathed in tiny panties. ‘Cupped’ is the better word. More descriptive, I think. Very tight and semi-translucent panties seem to hold the female bottom in readiness, even to make the darling cheeks rear up a little higher — but that is a visual illusion.
I have spanked Marianne several times — playfully — but never yet Linda. The smallness of her waist bewitches me, and the young-womanly way her hips curve out as though to announce themselves. Marianne’s bottom is slightly plump, like a ripe plum in fact, and so resilient to my palm. Linda’s will be a little smaller and (or does the imagination make it so?) tighter? To spank them together, or — better — to bring a loving strap to their bottoms together, would be fantastic, and I confess to having dreamed of it many times.
Marianne does become flushed when I spank her playfully. Two weeks ago in this very room I bent her under my arm, and, although she said weakly ‘No,’ hoisted her thin skirt to her hips and had her display herself to me. She wore stockings then (on this warmer day neither are wearing them) and my fingers flirted a little with the creamy rims of her thighs where her nylon tops bit into her flesh and made very tiny ridges above. I dared not linger on that too obviously, though, and gave her a first little stinger.
Ouch!,’ she squealed, over-dramatically, for it could not have hurt her, and I would never do so. — ‘Be quiet, Marianne!,’ I said sternly, for she secretly likes ‘male rule,’ and so she let her head and shoulders hang limp while I applied another Smack! of my palm. Bent well over thus, her panties drew in at the back until the thin nylon strap seemed almost to be sucked in between her nether cheeks, leaving them wickedly naked to my seeking eyes. There was a pink tinge on the snow-white half-moons from their contact with my hand, and I gave her another.
It was slightly harder, I confess and her ‘Yeee-Ooooh!’ was louder, but still she did not desperately struggle up. I suppose if she had done I might have stopped. It is after all a sport of sorts in which the female must show herself submissive, and should like doing so. I am sure Marianne does, despite her protests and the fact that I have to playfully chase her through the house until I have her over. — ‘Not my skirt!,’ she will protest, but it comes up all the same. The moment of unveiling is especially thrilling as is the first contact of my yearning palm to her full moon.
How juicy it feels — yet even as I write the word, I really seek another. Rich as the English language is, it can never really express the sense of firm, yielding flesh — that glorious vista of a proud female bottom poised like a moon in the heavens above two shapely legs. I know how I want her — I know how I want them both — with legs slightly apart and toes turned in. When I last spanked Marianne — her ‘sweet sixer,’ as I called it — I did quickly lever her warm, curvy legs apart with my wrist after the second or third Smack!, but they closed quickly again.
I said nothing. It was a defensive movement that I must overcome, though some aficionados are — from what I read — quite content to have polished high heels close together. There is a lovely ‘awkwardness’ of posture, in having a girl poised as I prefer with, as I say, the toes turned inwards a little and legs reasonably well apart. Besides, it gives her better balance. I did venture to say that to Marianne afterwards, wriggling as she was and holding her own palm to her bottom which by then she had covered.
‘No, I think it’s rude,’ she said rather comically as if that excused and covered all. I wanted to ask her then, ‘Do you like me spanking you?’ but felt it too open a question. There is a ‘heavy’ and slightly flushed look on her face when I let her up. Her eyes seek mine and then dart away. I cannot help but look at her tits then, imagining her nipples stiffer than they were and persuading myself that I can so see them through her top.
Perhaps one day I shall slip my hand beneath one or other of those lovely gourds while I am spanking her. Perhaps one day I shall — having awarded her the sixth and last — squirm a quickly-enquiring finger under the strap of her knickers and feel her furry haven. I swear it will be soft and moist. Such thoughts quicken in my mind as they both come into the living room, blue ribbons binding their long brown hair at the top against a breeze, for we have arranged a picnic today.
‘Is the hamper in the boot of the car?’ — ‘Of course — yes.’ — ‘Where shall we go?’ — ‘To Anerley Castle, I thought’ — ‘Oh great, yes’ …and so the chatter goes on, their brown suntanned legs more fully revealed as they get into the Jag. Wild fantasies enter my mind as I take the driving seat. I want — yes — to spank both their bare bottoms and to hear their sobbings while I lick their fur as they lie wriggling their hot bottoms, kissing away each other’s tears. Maybe the high summer is heating my blood — but surely it must theirs also? The drive takes less than an hour. I know the place well enough — well enough for me to park the car in the right place and to lead them along by the lake to a cool spot beneath the branches of huge elms where most others frequently do not come.
‘It’s right out of the way here.’ — ‘Yes, but it’s nice.’ They quarrel on that lightly among themselves while I open the old wicker basket and start to lay things out. Then they help. — ‘You’ve brought a lot of wine,’ is said. — ‘Yes, but it’ll keep — it’s all in the cooling box,’ I reply. Heat and wine go well together. Will they become drowsy and let me raise their skirts? But I am meandering. It is their bottoms you want to know about, to see — together — even as I do: the two ripe, split peaches.
Linda lies back first, finished with eating and drinking, drawing her skirt up of her own accord until I can almost see her baby-blue panties. Marianne settles down, too. Lazy humming of insects. All the beguiling sounds of summer. Then Lady Luck comes to me and smiles. Marianne sleeps, head on her arm. Linda murmurs, eyes closed. Pretending to tidy up, I get behind her and stretch out on the slightly sloping grassy ground. Easing my hand forward inch by inch, I move the back of her skirt up little by little. She does not stir. Oh, glory of glories, her bottom half-bared and the milky swelling wonder of her cheeks seen at last!
She stirs, rolls on her hip more towards Marianne. Her cunny will be sticky already in this heat. Holding my breath, I draw the hem up until her thinly-knickered bottom is fully exposed. Dare I? But I can’t resist. Just one juicy big smack — or two. Will it start her off? Not too hard, though — don’t startle her, I tell myself and — with pulses racing — give her a little pat on her pert and half-bare bum.
So light it is that she utters a sort of ‘Mmmmmpfff!’ and makes to move, but still has her eyes closed. Another? Dare I? Will she ‘wake’ — scream, screech? I can’t help myself. If anything the gentle smack across her dreamy, tight globe is lighter, but I know she feels it. — ‘Woooo!’ she chokes and moves her hips. The darling — she can feel it all right, and likes it. Or does she dream and do I kid myself all too hopefully? Thankfully, Marianne doesn’t open her eyes. I try a new tack — one that will not over-please the caning and hard-spanking fraternity, but I prefer to tell it how it was. They will be better pleased with my later episodes. So yes — I had best say now that this was Linda’s very first moment of ‘tutoring,’ and I would challenge anyone to have done it more effectively.
What I did was to begin to pat her bottom rhythmically with the full breadth of my palm. I did it as softly as possible so as not to arouse Marianne — though after this distance of time I do not believe she heard. Hence it was pat-pat-pat rather than Smack-Smack-Smack, but the sensation was exquisite. So slowly did I do it that I could feel the full chubby cheeks of her, the vee-ridges of her knicks, and the spreading warmth of her lovely botty. Another puffing breath or two from her. Glory of glory, her hips moved a little and she drew her knees up so that I could smack her ‘bulb’ the better, getting my hand under so that now and then my extended forefinger actually touched the tight, nylon-sheathed fig of her quim.
I felt truly dizzy — my wildest dreams not quite realised, yet I knew I was on the brink of them. A full dozen times or so I pat-smacked her and then suddenly the breath hissed in through her nostrils, her legs straightened and she made to sit up. All happened at once then. — ‘Wassamatter?’ Marianne asked and stretched and opened her eyes, but in that moment, brief as it was, I had sat up also — my prick admittedly straining up through my slacks — and reached for the cooler box.
‘Just pouring some more wine,’ I said. — ‘Don’t want any,’ Marianne mumbled and closed her eyes again. Linda saw me looking at her thighs and drew the hem of her white skirt down. My eyes questioned hers. She blushed and said ‘All right,’ and — when I filled her glass — drank pensively and perhaps I thought a bit defiantly. Finishing it quickly, she got up and said pettishly, ‘Want to go for a walk.’
‘Me, too,’ I said and then looked down and asked, ‘Marianne?’ I’d got up as Linda had so Marianne had a worm’s-eye view that I rather forgot she would have. For a long moment she stared up at the projecting outline of my rodding cock, then turned away quickly and said, ‘No — you go. Don’t be long.’ I said ‘All right,’ in a croaky voice and walked by the side of Linda. The ground was narrow there, between the shrubs and trees that hid the road, and the encroaching edges of the lake.
Linda didn’t say anything, head coming up to my shoulder beside her. I knew she’d felt my hand at her bum and hadn’t stopped me or jerked her hips away as she might have done. Maleness is sometimes a handicap — it makes for impetuousness that often spoils things (Hear, hear! — Ed). Without thinking, and we being entirely on our own, I reached my hand behind her and gave her pert bottom a little smack. — ‘Ouch!’ she said, ‘No don’t!’ — ‘You like it lighter,’ I said. — ‘I don’t — I don’t like it — Yee-Ouch!’ she repeated for even as she did jerk forward then in our walking I gave her another on her warm, tight moon. Her lips pursed, her eyes screwed up and I could really almost feel her bottom-cheeks tightening together.
‘Stop it — you,’ she squealed and ran forward. There was an old shed of sorts there where once boats had been stored and she ran behind it, I following so quickly that I reached and grabbed her in the shelter of it, so to speak. It was a narrow, grassy passageway and, again, shrouded by trees. I held her wrist. — ‘You did it while I was sleeping,’ she said and tried to pull away. — ‘You didn’t mind,’ I replied. — ‘Did,’ she said and looked half sullen. — ‘No. No, you didn’t. Besides, I want to spank you properly — tonight — will you?’
My words came out all in a rush. I would get no marks for subtlety — I knew that. — ‘Shan’t, no — it stings me. Besides, you… you had my skirt up,’ she accused and stared at me really funnily. — ‘No, it came up. I just couldn’t resist. Please let me,’ I pleaded.
Never plead. Always do it. I learned that quickly, though actually I had never pleaded with Marianne indoors. I always just did it, quickly, on impulse, and always of course when she was unprepared, but she had never struggled strongly either. — ‘I don’t want to. Oh, don’t let’s stay here. Come on,’ Linda said, but she wasn’t angry. It was my one hope left that she wasn’t. — ‘If you do — just a little one tonight,’ I said. — ‘No — you’ll do it hard and, anyway, she’ll hear,’ Linda said with damning logic, perhaps not realising that she was making what I call an ‘outside excuse’ and not simply refusing.
‘She won’t if she’s asleep,’ I said. ‘Huh! So will I be probably if she is. I thought you were getting a new car this week,’ she replied as though to change the subject quickly. — ‘No, next week. Thursday. In the evening. You can come with me,’ I told her. We moved out from behind the shed. — ‘I might,’ Linda said. — ‘And then you can have your spank,’ I said. — ‘No!’ she laughed, but at least she laughed.
‘What have you been doing?’ Marianne asked when we got back. She looked at my flies, but it was down by then. Linda had never noticed my hard-on, or had she? — ‘Just walking’,’ Linda replied quickly and I realised she could have said, ‘Oh, he’s been saying terrible things,’ but she didn’t.
Bless Marianne. I mean that. The heat and wine gave her a headache, she said. We got back early, at about five, and she went straight into her room and closed her door. She didn’t put her radio on, so I knew she’d be sleeping. I took deep breaths inside me. Linda ran up and had a bath. I waited. When she finally came down she had a different, flowered skirt on and a new white top. She sort of tried to avoid me and sat nervously, but I always figured the living room was mine as much as theirs. I did it all wrong, maybe. (Don’t we all sometimes? — Ed). She was about to sit down and pick up a magazine when I caught her. Off balance — just as her knees were bending. Unfair, yes. I had to.
No!’ she squealed. — ‘Be quiet — you’ll wake her,’ I said. Or rather, I snapped. Struggling like a wildcat I got her over a small table, almost knocking over a vase of flowers. — ‘No! Don’t, don’t, don’t! You can’t! Won’t let you! Oooh! No!’ — That last cry, of course, was for her skirt coming up. I clamped her slim waist so tight with my free arm that only her hips could waggle. She’d changed her knicks. They were pale mauve, and perhaps even more transparent. The silky shadow of her tight groove, her twinkling legs. I almost fainted. — ‘You can’t! Don’t! No! Won’t let you! Yeee-Aaaargh!
That was a real smack I gave her. It must have stung deep into her pert, apple-round botty. What a yell she gave! — ‘No-Woh!’ — ‘Linda, stop it! You’ll bring her down,’ I warned. — ‘D…d…don’t care!’ she sobbed. I held her throbbing botty cupped then. — ‘Yes, you do,’ I said with no logic whatever, but miraculously it worked. Her throaty sobs died, her knees tight together. — ‘P…p…please don’t sp…sp…spank me,’ she choked, but in a much quieter voice.
‘Only a little one — you have to learn,’ I said, and wondered even as I spoke those words how often they have been said before in similar circumstances. — ‘Noooo!,’ came her answering whine. — ‘Yes, Linda,’ I replied firmly and then gave her another, though not such a blaster. — ‘Gaaaar!’ she wailed and her thinly-sheathed botty rolled all around, her waist twisting in the ringing of my arm. — ‘Only four more — I promise,’ I said, and that’s a phrase I do recommend. — ‘Booo-Hoooo!’ came from her. She made to press up from the table with her arms, but I had her well over and gave her her third. I didn’t mean it to be so hard, but as luck would have it I was right.
Oh-Wah!’ came from her and then a sort of ‘Zooooooh!’ sound, but this time there was a sort of infinitesimal surrender of her supple body. I could sense it. The others were lighter. I wanted them to be. Burn — and then urge. It so often works. — ‘You little beauty,’ I ground at her in giving her another. Couldn’t help myself. Her sobs were plaintive and sweet and I swear her bottom stuck out more. I knew I must praise her — but that severity (even of a put-on kind) must be the key in future if I was to get her knickers down as I intended. Hers and Marianne’s both. And soon…

Friday, 11 October 2019

Doing the course

Story from Blushes Supplement 6
‘He b…b…beat me!,’ Jane howled. Sitting in one of the four twin-bedded dorms, she rocked back and forth with her hands over her face — ‘All right, now, all right,’ Linda soothed, plumping her own firm young bottom down on the same bed and circling the other girl’s shoulders with a comforting arm. ‘He didn’t really, Jane, and we don’t use that word here. It was a tawse, wasn’t it — a thick strap with a split end to it?’
‘It doesn’t matter wh…what it was,’ sobbed Jane, disregarding her companion’s arm and falling sideways so that her tear-streaked cheek rested on the pillow, her body twisted awkwardly. It was bad enough that she had been made to bring her Sixth Form uniform to wear here and — worse — to have discovered when she had first opened her suitcase on arrival that all her dinky, pastel-coloured panties had been removed before she left and replaced with blue serge ones that she never seen before. They were new and she could only just wriggle her bottom into them.
‘Try and lie still, on your side — it helps,’ Linda soothed. She rose and lifted Jane’s sullenly-sprawled legs full on to the bed, deftly slipping down beside her. — ‘He d…did it!’ Jane sobbed, huddling her hot face into Linda’s shoulder and causing that young lady to raise her eyebrows. Very delicately she reached down behind Jane’s back and fingered the hem of her short pleated skirt.
‘No he didn’t, sillikins. It was only a first lesson in obedience. Haven’t you ever been spanked?,’ Linda asked, prompting a shaking of Jane’s head followed by a hesitant, sniffing, ‘Not much.’
‘But you have a bit. I know the tawse feels worse the first time, though it depends who spanked you and how hard he did it,’ said Linda, putting a little question mark at the end of her words which produced nothing but an incomprehensible murmur against her ear.
At that moment it was her duty to soothe the new entrant. None of the girls who were sent to the Summer School were booked in for longer than a week, and all of those whose little dorm she shared assumed and accepted that Linda had arrived just a few days before. It always worked, even though she had been there since the Edwardian house had opened its doors and initiated its curriculum a year before. Nineteen now and as nubile as any of the ‘pupils,’ Linda’s role as monitor and persuader suited her perfectly.
Right now she had to decide what sort of confidential report she would be able to write about Jane in the morning. Some girls squealed, were petulant, cried themselves to sleep. It all depended on the first touch of her tapered fingertips to their totally or relatively untutored bottoms. No girl emerged from her first foray into the study downstairs with her knickers still on. The rule was that they had to return for them immediately after breakfast, their others having been taken away in advance.
‘L…L…Linda, what… what are you doing?,’ Jane cringed as a palm floated light as a puffball over her stinging bum.
‘Just soothing you; it feels better when it’s held afterwards, honest. Mine was — by the girl who was in here then,’ fibbed Linda smoothly, curling her fingers under the lightly-throbbing orb in such a position where she could extend the index one where it would surely be most needed.
‘No, Linda, stop it,’ Jane mumbled, feeling her earlobes burn as the surface of a finger soothed up and down where her inrolling cheeks formed a secretive chasm.
‘It’s all right. Tell me about it. I s’spect he was the same as with me. He wasn’t too horrible to you, though, was he?’
‘I told you… told you what he… No, Linda, please — I want to lie still.’
‘I know, I know,’ Linda’s soft voice came, her lips brushing Jane’s warm ear in a way that made the passing caress seem accidental. It would be like playing a very delicate minuet on a violin, Linda had been told when she had escaped discipline herself by promising to act out the very role she was now enacting. They never seemed to realise, Linda thought as she allowed a petulantly-murmuring Jane to roll on her back, that they thereby became more vulnerable… to her at least.
The trick was to whisper, as if confidentially, against their pouting mouths, essaying little would-be assuaging kisses in-between — kisses that flicked and pecked at first rather than held. And to go on whispering and stroke their further cheeks while her own exposed stocking top rubbed against the nearest leg of the newcomer.
It had never failed to work yet, even when they did turn away afterwards a little shamefully and bring out more forced sobs into their pillows. Never had it failed to produce — for a minute or two at least — the long, luscious girl-to-girl kisses that Linda had found more and more she wanted rather than anything else…
----//----
‘There was no great problem, then,’ Brian said the next morning just before breakfast while Linda stood at his desk, by his side.
‘No, none. You can see,’ Linda replied rather quickly. Her skirt was even shorter than those of the Summer School pupils. Every forward step displayed her black-ringing nylons and the milk-white, outward-swelling flesh above. Every time she took a report in, his hand would ease up the backs of her own curiously male-mutinous thighs, stroking them absentmindedly, or with a studied air of absentmindedness.
Sometimes his insinuating hand would roam upwards to her bulbing bottom and Linda would draw air in sharply through her nostrils while his palm cupped the lower bulge of her bum, never moving but simply taking possession of that which she had never otherwise yielded to him.
Looking down, her own eyes scanned the brief report she had written, just as his own were doing, coded as her sentences were. — ‘Cried a bit, but then was relaxed. Stroking not rejected until two or three minutes, but then grew pettish, said she wanted to sleep. Evidently spanked a bit before arrival. Wouldn’t say how much.’
At the penultimate sentence, she watched him shake his head and pick up his pen. — ‘We don’t use the word “spank” — not in reports; I’ve told you that; they need to be shown sometimes to their — er — guardians, Linda,’ he said, running the ballpoint back and forth across the word until it was illegible. — ‘Write “dealt with” — it’s more generalised. Best to add it in your own writing,’ he suggested.
Linda knew what would happen next as she took the pen from him and bent awkwardly forward. A curling forefinger sought upwards between her warm, silky thighs, just as her own did with the girls.
‘No! You promised!’ she said sharply, but knew she had to write the word first. It was always a breathless little race to get desired alterations down before his fingertip actually reached under to the puckered crotch of her knickers.
The result this time as, as often, a photo-finish that brought her jerking up to step away, her eyes accusing. — ‘You did promise, you did!’ So often had she said it, and so often he smiled with that awful cynical smile and shook his head.
‘You had best send Jane in then, immediately after breakfast, hadn’t you?’ he asked as her footsteps took her back towards the door. Her hand on the door as she made to exit unreplying, his next words halted her. ‘Agreements are made to be broken, Linda,’ he said mildly, causing her to shake her head defiantly.
‘Not this one,’ she answered, though wishing she could put more certainty into her tone. It was the last week of term, anyway. She would be going back to live with her boyfriend until next summer, and he knew that, was possibly even a mite jealous of that, though such a word never crossed the air between them.
----//----
Told in a whisper that she was to go and collect her knickers at 9.30 in the study, Jane clutched at her breakfast napkin for a moment and wondered why two of the other girls at the table seemed so sparky even though they had done five days there. They must have been through it awfully. The girl next to her, who looked a bit younger than herself, seemed utterly to have lost her voice. She had arrived on the morning of the day before, whereas Jane hadn’t reached there in her father’s car until late afternoon.
Did all the girls have their knickers off now, Jane wondered. ‘Oh, it’s awful,’ she murmured half to herself, but the other new entrant heard her and said ‘Yes’ and then blushed when one of the others looked up and giggled.
By nine-thirty, when the spacious hallway seemed twice as long as it had before, butterflies tremored in Jane’s tummy as her slightly-quivering legs took her to the Principal’s study.
The ‘Yes?’ that greeted her knock was a casual one and she entered to find him seated on a black leather couch that lay alongside the wall opposite the bow window, his jacket neatly folded over the back of his chair.
‘Here, Jane,’ Brian uttered more abruptly. ‘And close the door,’ he added as a pair of black-sheened, twinkling legs hesitated. The blue serge knickers that she had worn the evening before lay folded over once on the nearest corner of his desk.
‘Sir?’ Jane asked warily. His hand was extended to her as if in friendship — quite unlike the reception she had had from him some fourteen hours before. Drawing in her breath in a way that made her rounded tits lift appealingly under her tight, white blouse, she stepped forward and felt herself drawn down to sit beside him.
‘You see, it’s going to be all right — fine — Jane, when you have learned,’ Brian said as if he were in the middle of a discourse rather than beginning one. ‘You were told the schedule, weren’t you, eh?’
‘Well — er — yes. There’s gym and there’s make-up lessons, and there’s bits of French conversation, fashion talks, tennis, and… well, sir, I forget the rest.’
‘You do?’ His smile was quizzical. To her great surprise he took one of her hands off her lap and held it lightly, running his thumb over its smooth back as if ruminating on his next remark. ‘You forgot two things, Jane. Don’t you remember what they were?’ this bringing a flush into her checks and a nervous little movement of her longish legs whose thighs yielded the greater part of their gently-swelling sleekness to his interested gaze. — ‘There was something about riding, wasn’t there?’ he prompted, making Jane’s mouth part prettily.
‘Well, yes, sir, but… but one of the girls said you didn’t have any horses or ponies here and I thought… Well, I thought it w…was a mistake,’ Jane stammered. ‘Or, I mean…’ she put in apologetically, but he was already shaking his head benignly.
‘The second, which you also forgot, Jane, was that which I had cause to make you experience last night. Discipline and dutifulness. They are our two most important D’s. Unzip your skirt, Jane, please, while we talk.’
‘S…sir?’
Again, Jane? I seem to remember that you said that last night. You have a free hand, Jane — use it.’ The slight trembling of her fingers, accompanied by the faint hissing of her zip, seemed to go unremarked by the Principal whose gaze had settled rather on the promising melons between which her striped tie dangled. Indeed, as Jane awkwardly worked her zip down, he relinquished his hold on her left hand and flipped her tie up, brushing his knuckles against the nearest of her breasts whose firm elasticity came very satisfactorily to his touch.
And this, Jane. Such procedures as you will learn herein are part of dutifulness. Let us see how little or how much you will deserve in the area of discipline, shall we?’ he asked, rising and noting with approval how tightly-clipped her suspenders were. The top of her grey pleated skirt had sagged. The wrinkled hem of her blouse just escaped its surrounding waistband.
Her lips still parted, Jane licked briefly at the corner of her lips as she drew hesitant fingers to the knot of her tie, but at that he smiled and shook his head, saying, ‘No, Jane. Did I forget to tell you? You lie back, legs up. Then you undo your tie and unfasten the buttons of your blouse. Quickly if you will, please. There is discipline, you know.’
‘Y…yes, sir,’ she stammered. There was no cushion, nowhere to rest her head, and in obediently raising her legs and simultaneously falling back, she lay prone and utterly defenceless. He was gazing down at her as if he were a doctor, she thought. If she could only pretend he was one… Gulping, Jane undid and slipped off her tie and then unbuttoned herself to the waist until her cleavage showed.
‘Draw the sides right back, Jane,’ he said steadily and thought, My god, what beautiful nipples you have. Exposed, the conical brown points extended themselves proudly upwards on their supporting hillocks that quivered gently while Jane bit her lip and blushed. ‘As you rise now, Jane, your skirt will fall. You step out of it neatly and walk slowly — I said slowly — to my desk and lean forward on your forearms, your body well back from the desk itself. You understand, Jane?’
It is your riding posture, or one of them, Brian longed to add. He often wanted to say that to new girls, but never had. On their next-to-last or last day, perhaps, when their bottoms were urgently wriggling a silent, heat-blasting surrender, then it was different. Their responsiveness frequently surprised him, as did the sudden, uninhibited torrents of babbled words that sometimes came from their lips. Whether it was the urging of the cane or the persuasively shafting motion of that which by then was lodged within them, he was never quite sure.
Jane understood. After the previous evening she understood, just as she had begun to when she was spanked, though she hadn’t done anything very much to deserve being unskirted then. Now that she had no knickers on, he could see all of her as she rose, wanting to stumble, wanting to cry, wanting to protest that her bottom was not for burning nor her pussy for tickling, though it did ‘release’ her — resentfully it did.
She had her stockings on still, and her black suspenders, and they made her feel almost more exposed than if she were totally naked. Her legs would look better — she thought ridiculously and self-accusingly — if she were wearing high heels and not silly flat shoes that had also been put in her suitcase, unknown to her until she had re-opened it. She had given up flat heels years ago… well, two, anyway. Flat shoes made the tops of her legs look plump, so she told herself, her tits jiggling as the desk seemed to come closer to her rather than, in her halting progress, she to it.
At least the Principal was behind her now. She wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse. It had been awful being spanked and she howled the otherwise empty house down, but as Linda had told her last night it didn’t matter — in one way — if you howled here because there weren’t any nosey neighbours.
‘It matters in another way, though, Jane. You are expected to learn to be quiet,’ Linda had also said.
As Jane leaned forward tentatively and twinned her forearms on the desk, so she heard a cupboard opening, but dared not look round. What she also then heard was the Principal’s voice as he approached her, saying, ‘There are two things wrong with your posture, Jane. Your legs. Apart more, please, and your bottom out more, out. Miss?’
Wow-Oh!,’ Jane jerked, not by any means in pain but because in that self-same moment the slim malacca of a cane had slipped up between her calves, urging her uncertain feet apart and then continuing to glide until its ascent brought the tip briefly brushing beneath her pouting nest whose curls were of such delightful abundance that Brian could still see their enticing peeping when he stepped back.
‘Only a sixer, Jane. You have had a sixer before? No?’ he uttered at a small, mournful shaking of her head. The cane flexed in both his hands as he spoke, and even though her eyes could not have caught the movement, her inrolling cheeks tightened visibly. The cane moved forward, petting Jane’s out-thrust peach and making her hips jiggle petulantly. A little, quick snapping of it then caught her across her cleft and she squealed.
‘Quietly, Jane, quietly. Let’s see if we can, eh? Just this first time?’ Brian’s voice came to her. There was a swishing then, and Jane closed her eyes. It was almost as if she could count the thousandth of a second that it took before the cane swirled bitingly across her pert derriere, bringing from her throat a half-strangled ‘Yeee-eeeek!’ and the accolade — although she did not recognise it as such — of a lack of remonstrance from Brian.
Hoo-Wittt! the cane sang, and this time Jane’s unguarded cry was shriller. Her hips jerked in protectively, bringing her soft tummy to squeeze against the forward edge of the desk where for a long moment she continued to press it while Brian waited patiently. Ten seconds… twenty even, he would sometimes allow — especially with ‘learners.’ The first long tongues of fire would lick into her crevices now. Let her feel them — let her feel.
Oh-Woh!’ her plaintive sobs floated on the air.
‘Out now, Jane — bottom out again, please,’ came the impassive reply. Admirably enough, her slim shapely legs — superbly formed for her age — had stayed relatively stiff. Her ankles had twisted but had not sought to close, as they often enough did. Very promising, Brian decided. It was quite wonderful what different surroundings and an authoritative stranger could do for a girl.
There were two streaks now, one half an inch below the first. Brian prided himself on his positioning of cane strokes just as he vaguely hoped that departing pupils would thereafter pride themselves on the dutifulness of their own future postures.
‘This, Jane, is your first riding posture — I want you to remember that,’ Brian next himself saying. Dammit, he had said it to a new girl at last! ‘You understand?’ he asked sharply, accompanying his words (so unexpectedly for Jane) with such a hissing Swoo-isshh! of the cane that her bleating, eager, ‘Yeh-ess, sir, yes!’ rent the air immediately.
Brian — who had expected a howling ‘No!’ — stayed himself then and drank in the sight of her quivering, tightly-clenched bottom cheeks where tendrils of pink were spreading out over the flawless half-peaches.
‘You do, yes, I believe you do, Jane. Get up and come over to me now,’ he uttered, partly to his own surprise. Taking several steps back, he took up his original posture on the couch with his knees spread. Flush-faced, hips jerking tremulously, Jane pressed up and turned about, bringing her arms up with ludicrous coyness across her bulbing tits, albeit that her bush showed clearly to him as she totteringly advanced.
‘Jane, I believe you needed to be spanked, did you not?’ he asked. Uncertainly, breathing quickly, she spread her hot bottom-cheeks down into his lap, drawn there by his insistent hand. Her head drooped. Her nipples seemed to be tingling with fire and her bottom burned. ‘I asked you a question, Jane. Put your arms behind your back please,’ she heard and gulpingly obeyed, feeling her chin lifted and her eyes brought unwillingly into his.
‘I s’pose,’ she mumbled, wondering how he knew she had been. ‘B…but I didn’t want,’ she made to continue, and then her voice came to an abrupt halt. His hand was cupping her nearest tit, weighing it, fondling. The ball of his thumb moved like a metronome across one eager tip, producing an even more thornlike prominence before it passed to the next. A sicky sensation seized, like it did when she was being spanked, and afterwards, too. Her tongue moistened her dry lips briefly and withdrew.
‘This is your moment of meditation, Jane, before you assume your riding position again. I have a sense of awareness that you understand what it is for, but your bottom must be dealt with, nevertheless. My role in your disciplinary sessions here, which in your case will take place once or twice a day, is to encourage your dutifulness. You understand?’
Gooo!’ Jane choked. His hand had slipped much lower down as he spoke, and if, if, if he didn’t st…stop she was going to do something awfully naughty over his finger even before he caned her again…