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Tuesday, 12 November 2019

Bell, Book and Candle

Story from Blushes 4
The pretty blonde girl lies on her back on the bed in the luxurious bedroom. Her long slim legs slope down to the floor unsupported. Her ankles are crossed neatly, one heel sunk into the thick carpet. Her arms are tacked beneath the small of her back; both her hands are out of sight. She has an expression of mild alarm, blue eyes big and wide.
The bedside clock-radio shows the time as 9:20 p.m.
She lies there relaxed, but quite rigidly; not daring to move. Her shapely breasts move slightly as she breathes shallowly and rapidly, displaced fluidly sideways by her position, nipples uptilted pertly.
She has a marvellous figure; slim and shapely, with a narrow waist that flares out to full hips. Apart from her very brief lacy knickers she is quite naked, though she wears a heavy gold chain round her neck. Her toenails are neatly painted deep red, and brightly varnished.
She lies there in the warm, dim room with only a subdued bedside light on. The curtains of thick velvet are drawn together. There is no sound but the tick of the clock and her soft breathing. The soft light throws exciting, deep shadows on her softly curved body. She rolls her head slowly, until she can look to her left…
The man she stares at stands in front of her dressing table with his back to her. He looks down at the things he has there, considering them carefully, smiling coldly. He takes no notice of the blonde girl, beyond giving her a quick glance in the mirror to see that she stays still, as he has arranged her. He knows she dare not move very much, if she dares to move at all! He will hear her merest wriggle, it is so quiet — and she knows it. Such obedience is a fine character builder!
Finally, he turns and strides silently over to look down at her. She is so tense now that her full lower lip is clenched tight between her teeth to force herself to keep quiet. She is not allowed to make any noise either. And she knows this well! Any noise or movement means she’ll have to take more punishment. She stares up in silence, pleading eloquently with her eyes alone. This is all she can do!
The man smiles, but takes no notice. He extends his hand away from his side, but doesn’t speak. She knows what she has to do now, but for a long moment she refuses, then she raises her feet and lets him grip her crossed ankles, closing her eyes hopelessly as she does so.
Now she has no chance at all! She shudders knowing she is about to be spanked into total submission. This is to soften her up for a caning later. After this she’s not sure what may happen, though from the mood her husband is in, and the way she feels already, it will probably be frantically sexual and terribly exciting for them both. It often is!
She feels him grip her ankles more firmly as he raises her legs until her feet point helplessly toward the ornate ceiling. She daren’t bend her knees now. Seconds, and her legs are vertical, her feet pointing now to the wall above the bed headboard. Her hips are beginning to rise a little now, but still he moves her legs slowly, further exposing more and more of her attractive bottom. She lies quite still and allows him to do this to her. Paying for her small sins, as he tells her.
Finally, he tucks her ankles under his arm and sits down on the bed with one foot under him. Now she is forced to stare up at her own legs and feet. Sudden hot internal reactions start her long legs quivering even before he begins to spank her. He puts his hand across the backs of her knees to make sure he has a firm hold on her legs.
She sighs softly in anticipation as he raises his hand high, pauses, then slaps it down to connect with her defenceless buttocks making them bounce attractively. She refuses to make a sound. Her breath makes a sharp hiss as she breathes between her clenched teeth in a single sharp gasp of pain and surprise. This is allowed, fortunately for her. He begins to spank her defenceless bum steadily, smiling.
This goes on for some time, during which her pale shapely bum-cheeks change from their normal pale satiny sheen, through a blotchy pink and red, to a much deeper pink with bright red fingermarks, to an almost uniformly angry crimson colour. Her eyes are closed tight as she fights to keep still and quiet, to keep her spanking as short as possible. Again her full sensual lower lip is firmly between her teeth.
Deep in her mind she is pleased he hasn’t put the main bedroom lights on. She knows she must be pouting down there already now; her hot pussy aches and galvanic impulses run from her punished bottom through the whole of her pretty body. Luckily, the low light makes a deep shadow there.
He stops spanking her before she makes herself too obvious. One tangy whiff of hot arousal from her and he’ll spank her to a conclusion — until she’s forced to her peak and climaxes hotly. This is the final humiliation she hopes to avoid. Later, probably — but not yet!
She feels him submit her to the next shameful indignity as her tiny knickers are tugged gently back over her hot bum-cheeks. They cling moistly at the top of her thighs. She tries to hold them there, but he pulls them down almost to her knees, as far as he can. This reduces her almost to a naughty little girl having her knickers taken down for a spanking. But little girls are not spanked as she is being spanked. Or for the same reasons; none of which she can help.
‘Now, you little witch,’ he growls, ‘have you had enough?’
‘Mmmm!’ she replies instantly. ‘Mmm-mmmm!’
‘You can think about that now, for a while.’
She nods warily, says, ‘Mmm,’ very softly. Tonight she’s got off much better than she usually does; either that, or she’s getting used to being spanked — probably a bit of both. She still lies there, with her pants round her knees and her feet pointing toward the headboard of her bed. Her hands are still trapped beneath her back with almost all her weight on them. Apart from rolling her head and waggling her feet she still cannot move at all. Nor does she try!
He shakes his hand quickly. He’s spanked her so hard it’s stinging. He grins, trying to guess what her curvaceous bum must feel like. He is a big well-built, rangy person; wide shoulders a deep chest. And very big powerful hands, as she knows only too well.
He sighs deeply, stands up and eases her legs back until they can see each other and they are resting on his shoulder, still pointing up to the ceiling. Again his hand rests on her knees, forcing her to keep her long legs straight. Bending her knees isn’t allowed.
‘I think you’re about ready now,’ he says softly, smiling coolly down at her. ‘Will you do as you’re told?’
Mmm!’ she agrees quickly, nodding rapidly.
He lowers her feet, still holding her ankles in one hand. His other hand pulls the panties further down. She uncrosses her ankles and takes one foot out. He slips the wispy garment free of her other foot and lets her go. She lowers her legs and recrosses her ankles, one heel again deeply sunk into the soft carpet.
He stands there above her now, with her panties dangling from his fingers, thinking about something. Nothing to her advantage, of course.
‘Kneel up on there.’ He points to the long narrow bedding chest at the foot of his bed, then strides to it and pulls it out into the centre of the room. She gets up from the bed and meekly kneels up on its upholstered top without a word, though she hates the undignified pose.
She takes up the required crouched pose carefully. There isn’t too much space on the narrow chest for this, but she does it; feet hanging off one end, her forehead barely on the other, and her sleek back nicely arched so that her bottom is presented perfectly for his attention with the cane later. Her hands are at each side of her head, with her arms bent at her elbows. She takes her weight evenly on her hands, elbows and her knees. Now she is naked apart from her heavy golden chain which is not visible having slid down under her curly blonde hair.
He stands by her side, positioning her as he wants her, noticing how her firm, full breasts swing and jiggle as they hang freely suspended now. Her nipples barely clear the top of the chest when he’s finally satisfied. She sighs softly again. Now she’ll have to hold her wickedly exposed crouch until he chooses to cane her, later. She’s in no discomfort, apart from her blazing bottom, but the thought that she is displaying all her secrets, no longer in the shadow cast by the bedside lamp, but in his full view now, makes her madly indignant.
He loves to put her into these very humiliating positions and make her hold them, any movement meaning she collects further strokes later.
‘Comfortable there?’ he asks his usual ridiculous question.
‘Mmmm,’ she says, wondering how he can expect her to be comfortable after the spanking he’s just given her.
‘Anything to say?’ he asks in a soft concerned tone.
‘Handkerchief, please,’ she says in a pleading tone.
He walks away opens a drawer and comes back with a clean handkerchief. A big one of his, she sees from the corner of her eye. He folds this into a thick short cylinder and holds it down for her, by her head. She raises her head, opens her mouth and he slips it between her nice, big even teeth. She clamps her teeth on it firmly and subsides again. Tonight she’s very lucky. The handkerchief makes it much easier for her to keep quiet. Often he refuses to allow her to have one.
‘Just to make sure you don’t move,’ he says softly, and places something cool on her back in the centre of the flat area at the base of her spine, above the swell of her buttocks. This is something new; he hasn’t done this to her before. She feels its weight but has no idea what it may be. She crouches, silent and apprehensive, waiting…
‘Wriggle!’ he says sharply. ‘Go on, let me see you squirm.’
She does, waggles her bum slowly from side to side; all she can do in that position. Her nipples brush the upholstery lightly and a small silvery bell begins to tinkle to surprise her. This is a new trick!
‘Stop!’ he says, and chuckles icily. ‘Now I’ll hear you move!’
She stops wriggling. He’s put a bell on her and she daren’t take it off. Nor can she move without ringing the damned thing! A hot flush of shame runs through her. And now she can’t even complain, or she’ll lose the handkerchief he’s allowed her to have.
‘Head up, now.’
Slowly she raises her head; stops staring down at the carpet and sees the skirting board, then the wall, finally her dressing table. And feels another small weight on the back of her head! When he moves away she sees in the mirror she is balancing a thin book on her head! She fumes in silent anguish.
‘One extra, if you ring the bell. Three more if you lose the book. Okay?’ He chuckles softly, knowing she can’t even nod now, to agree, or even say her usual, Mmm — not that this matters — he’s got her and there’s nothing she can do about it now.
‘Waggle your feet,’ he tells her, trying to keep amusement out of his voice. ‘Left for yes, right for no,’ he adds drily.
Stubbornly she refuses; keeps both feet still.
‘That’s mutiny!’ he says, surprised. ‘You know what you’ll get for that, don’t you!’
Reluctantly she waggles her left foot, feeling absolutely ridiculous with a book balanced on her head. At least, when he’s gone she’ll be able to settle down carefully into a more relaxed position. He always leaves her to think over her small misdemeanours, convinced this turns her on.
‘That’s better-r-r,’ he says, chuckling. ‘You don’t mind me calling you my little witch, do you?’
She waggles her right foot, wondering what he’s driving at now. ‘Good! We’ll fix you up like one, then.’
Now what? she wonders.
He goes back to the dressing table. She hears the flick of his lighter and sees a small yellow glow a few seconds later. He comes back holding a tall candle in an antique-looking brass candlestick. The candle is lit! She tried to imagine what he can possibly do with that!
‘Knees further apart.’ She sees him in the mirror, behind her. And feels instantly very vulnerable indeed. ‘Come on!’
She eases her knees apart reluctantly.
‘More!’ he snaps. ‘Don’t be so modest; it doesn’t become you!’
She gives up and moves her knees much wider apart, hopelessly.
He stoops quickly and puts the candle down out of her sight. She can’t see where in the mirror, but she knows it won’t be to her advantage. She waggles her right foot furiously, but he doesn’t even notice. He brings another book from the dressing table and stoops to balance this one across her legs just above her heels. This is a much thicker, heavier book. The weight stops her from raising her feet.
‘There you are! A real witch.’ Again he chuckles wickedly. ‘Bell books, and candle — it suits you marvellously. ‘Move now, witch!’
She stays quite still, not that she can move very much in any case.
‘Go on — try!’ he urges her in an amused tone.
Slowly she waggles her bottom. And feels the small heat of the candle at the tops of her thighs! The candle is right behind her! The bell rings softly. A warning!
‘Settle down a little. Make yourself comfortable; you may be there for a short while. I think I’ve earned a coffee, now.’
She has no alternative but to do as she’s told. She allows her knees to bend slowly. And feels the low heat building up — on her pussy!! She jerks up again, tinkling the bell. Another soft warning! She seethes silently, heightened by the way he stands by her side looking very smug and clever, chuckling that wicked chuckle of his.
To add insult to injury he stoops and runs a slow fingernail down her spine, until she sets the bell tinkling helplessly. Luckily the bell itself stops him from going further; running his finger on down her cleft and to her hot aching pussy as he often does when she can’t do a thing to stop him. She groans deep in her throat, very softly.
Suddenly the doorbell rings!
‘I’d better go and answer that,’ he says, adding blithely, ‘I wonder who it is.’
He goes out, but leaves the door open. With her facing away from it!
She crouches there helpless. Afraid to move! So tense her curls are quivering and slipping down over her face. She moves her hands cautiously; one to steady the book on her head, the other behind her to keep that bell quiet. Increasing heat on the underside of her hot, sensitive bum warns her to keep it up high. She raises it higher, fuming.
Downstairs she hears him open the door, talking to someone. A light female voice answers him. No, it’s not her mother, thank heaven! Who can it be, at this time? She has no idea of the time, now, but knows it must be fairly late. She hears voices, but not their words. He laughs lightly. She joins in!
She gasps as rapid feet come up the stairs softly. The door opens and he’s caught her! Her hands should be flat, by her head!
‘That’s cheating!’ he says softly. ‘Good thing I came up.’
She puts her hands back where they should be as quickly as she can.
He leaves her. Water runs in the bathroom. In no time he’s back. She can’t see him! Where is he?
Suddenly he grips her wrist, says, ‘Give me your hand,’ in that odd sharp tone he uses. She does!
He straightens her arm, so that it points behind her, then slips something cool and fairly heavy and smoothly round into her hand, saying, ‘Hold that, and don’t spill it. Two more if you do!’ He very quickly does the same thing with her other arm, leaving her clutching, she realises, two glasses of water.
The only thing she can do is to move her arms so that they rest against her hips, to steady them. He’s gone back downstairs before she’s done this. Now she is truly helpless and dare not move at all in any way! She is reminded in the midst of her self-pity and humiliation, by the mounting warmth on her bottom, to stick it up higher.
She hears him coming upstairs again quickly, she is still in the same humiliating helpless position, bottom very high now. He opens the door and she feels the cool air on her hot bum which is facing it.
‘Helen’s here.’ He says, teasing. ‘She wants to see you.’ She waggles her right foot frantically. He says nothing. In sheer desperation she spits out his handkerchief and gasps, ‘No! No! I don’t want her to see me like this!’
‘Okay, lady-witch,’ he says, ‘please yourself — but I can’t see why. You look terrific from here. So calm and obedient. And so damned sexy!’
He goes back downstairs and Kath feels sweat trickling into her eyes. More low conversation downstairs. Helen calls up, ‘Bye, Kath.’
The door is closed, and locked. His feet come up the stairs again, slowly. He comes into the bedroom, and says, ‘She’s gone.’
He gazes at the object of his fondest interest, softly lit by the golden light of the candle below it. Kath’s exciting curves appeal to him strongly, as does the hint of moisture in the attractive golden hair below her shapely cleft. He’s never known her look so damned enticing. She looks ready to take her caning now, quivering and sighing softly, both glasses of water still full, with not a trace on the carpet below her unsteady hands. A few strokes of the cane will provoke her into hot arousal — especially if she takes it as she is now. Helpless she always responds furiously.
‘Please?’ she asks mildly.
He perches on the edge of the dressing table she faces. ‘Pardon?’
‘Hanky!’ She gazes up at him wide-eyed, pleading, not wanting to have to take any more than the three strokes they agreed on. He often agrees to three, knowing she’ll make it double, or more, by yelping. Tonight he’s been so successful, she’ll only need three. He picks up the hanky, refolds it and puts it between her teeth.
She waggles her hands carefully, so as not to spill her water. He knows she wants to be rid of them, and why not? He takes both glasses from her and puts them on the dressing table. Obediently she puts her hands by the sides of her head.
‘Ready?’ He chuckles wickedly. ‘That’s four now, for talking.’
The book rocks precariously as she tries to nod, accepting this calmly.
He takes out the cane and swishes it to and fro, slashing the air. The sound it makes seems to agitate her nicely. He chooses his spot on her fascinating bum that is offered so nicely still, and lays the cool cane to her hotly sensitive skin.
She clenches her cheeks instantly, until she’s quivering slightly.
Just for fun he stoops and moves her candle a bit closer and her bum rises a little. He moves it back a little, only teasing.
Shwit! — and the pale line appears instantly. Her hips squirm slowly as she lowers her bottom instinctively, only to raise it as she feels the mild heat of her candle. She makes a low husky sound, deep in her throat. Her fingers twitch tensely. She doesn’t need to hold the two glasses of water now. The bell on her back tinkles softly, but doesn’t ring, amazingly. Nor when he gives her another fiery stripe!
He waits for her to calm down, then Shwittt! and another instant fine line appears across her full, bouncy cheeks, and she claws her fingernails into the material she’s crouched on, using her thumbs to keep her head steady so that she doesn’t lose her thin book.
Small beads of sweat are showing on her back before he reluctantly raises the cane again. He waits until she crouches quite still, now looking much more moist as she reacts hopelessly, her golden-blonde pubic fleece much darker and less crisply curly.
‘One to go!’ he says, making her cringe, waiting for it.
Shwit! — another thin pale line glows across her offered cheeks, and again she dips her bum by instinct, only to raise it yet again. He drops the cane and stands behind her, watches her last line turn bright red to match her others.
She spits out the hanky and pleads ‘Oh, please!’ She wails huskily, ‘Ple-e-e-ease!’
She is exactly the right height and in the perfect position. He takes the bell from her back, throws it on the bed. The two books hit the carpet with dull thuds, and he gets rid of the candle. She spreads, ready for him; wet and musky, writhing desperately.
He steadies her hips. She is so beautifully warm and wet he enters with no drama.
She squeals softly, giving herself unreservedly.
He leans over her, panting, matching her urgent breathing. His hands find her firm breasts. Her nipples are as hard as small ripe berries. One gentle touch and a little friendly squeeze is enough to start her off again. He pays no attention to her soft squeal.
He whispers innocently. ‘Let’s see if I can do that again?’ In due course, she finds that he can do just that.

Monday, 11 November 2019

Soozy

Photo-story from Janus 84
Soozy is not her real name, but her own fantasy identity — who she is in her rich imagination.
Soozy — ‘I tell everyone I’m 30’ — is a university graduate married with three young children, but her husband is not an aficionado of CP. For a long time, she made do with fantasies — powerful mental adventures in the world of female masochism, originally inspired by reading Story of O.
A few years ago, respecting her need and knowing that he was not the one to fulfil it, Soozy’s husband gave her permission to submit herself to a dominant, to whom she refers as ‘my Master’. She has continued to visit him regularly for sessions of CP and corrective training.
‘I need and enjoy corporal punishment,’ Soozy told us. ‘I find it transforming — it takes me to a higher level of consciousness, a state of more intense feeling. The pain and the sexual stimulation that is aroused by the pain are simultaneous. All my feelings become one feeling — in that moment I AM that pain, that enjoyment and that sensation, and nothing else. In that experience I become free, and anything that happened before it is just history. It’s like being born again… it’s a spiritual awakening.’
A full interview with Soozy will appear in Janus 86.

Sunday, 10 November 2019

Crisis

Story from Roué 5
The bedroom was dark, the only light coming through the gap in the door where Debbie had left it ajar on her way downstairs. Jenny lay in her bed, the blankets up over her face so that only her eyes and the top of her head showed, and listened to the distant and repetitive sound of a palm smacking rhythmically against what was undoubtedly Debbie’s bottom. The regular smacks ceased, and Jenny caught the sound of her sister’s voice raised in tearful protest. There were some bumping sounds, and then the smacking started again, the noise somehow different. Sharper. More painful sounding. Debbie’s muffled sobs confirmed the analysis.
The bumping would have been Debbie having to kneel up on the chair, having first dragged it to the middle of the room. The crisper sound of the smacks would be the strap, whacking across Debbie’s helpless bum. The sobbing was self-explanatory. It really was a dismal thing to have to listen to.
The more so because Jenny was only too well aware that for her it was only an overture. Debbie was getting it now, and by the sound of it she was getting a really good whacking, but Jenny’s sympathy for her sister was tempered by the inescapable fact that when the sounds of Debbie’s spanking eventually stopped, then it would be her turn.
Jenny snuggled miserably down under the bedclothes. She listened intently, her hands tucking involuntarily between her legs, feeling at the same time the warmth of her body and the pathetically insubstantial material of which her pyjamas were made, a thin mixture of cotton and some man-made stuff. She couldn’t help stroking a hand experimentally around the curve of her bottom as she lay half on her side. She could almost feel the texture of her skin. It reminded her unavoidably of how much she’d feel the strap when it cracked across her bottom. She shivered, and not from cold, and strained her ears to catch any clue which might filter up from the lounge below.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realised that the monotonous rhythm of the strap across Debbie’s bum had ceased. She heard the lounge door, and the sound of Debbie’s crying drifted mournfully up the stairs.
‘Jenny?’
That was Aunt Harriet calling from the foot of the staircase. Aunt Harriet called again impatiently. With the utmost reluctance, and forgetting her slippers, Jenny slid out from under the bedclothes and padded apprehensively down the stairs.
Aunt Harriet was standing in front of the crackling fire, her face turned towards the television set which squatted atop a cabinet in one corner of the room. Aunt Mary was clicking away at her knitting and Uncle Tom was pretending to be interested in the television news. Something about a crisis in Suez. Debbie’s bare bum looked hot and tender, the same bare and punished bum which Uncle Tom was pretending not to be interested in while the wretched girl gasped strangled sobs and wobbled uncomfortably as she knelt on her hard wooden chair. Her pyjama trousers were bunched around her knees and her bare thighs glowed here and there with a warm crimson hue. The strap was lying across the arm of Aunt Harriet’s favourite armchair. Jenny felt herself atremble with panicky anticipation.
Aunt Harriet’s cool eyes flicked towards Jenny, who was still hovering awkwardly in the doorway.
‘Well shut the door then girl!’ she said brusquely, and then she turned her attention back to the television. Apparently as an afterthought she added, ‘And get your pyjama pants down!’
Aunt Mary seemed not to have heard, while Uncle Tom made a quiet sighing sound which was a little difficult to interpret. Only Jenny heard it, standing as she was a mere twelve inches from her adopted uncle’s elbow. Her tummy twisting into knots, Jenny pushed the door closed and then darted an apprehensive look at her aunt, who didn’t seem to be taking notice any more. And then, as she knew she’d have to, she risked a glance at Uncle Tom.
A tiny, friendly smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Her loins seemed to have become liquid and she found that she couldn’t look away. The smile made her more certain than ever that he knew about her secret excitement every time she was punished in front of him.
‘It’s the Prime Minister,’ piped up Aunt Mary.
Uncle Tom allowed his attention to be drawn to the flickering grey image on the screen. Her insides a confusion of emotions, panic and the odd thrill that Uncle Tom was there to see her get her bottom tanned again, Jenny hooked her thumb under the elastic waistband of her pyjamas and inched them down. The air on her belly and her bottom felt slightly chill as the pants slipped lower to a point midway down her thighs. She dared not look, but she knew Uncle Tom’s eyes were on her.
She let her pants go and straightened up. Her pyjamas slithered to the floor and she hid her flourishing little muff of curly hair behind her hands. Mr Eden, on the television, seemed not to have noticed, possibly because what he was saying about the business in Suez was rather important. Certainly it held the attention of Aunt Mary and Aunt Harriet. Uncle Tom seemed less absorbed. His hand nudged against Jenny’s bare thigh, and then his fingers stroked gently and teasingly up the back of her leg.
‘They’re sending the troops in then,’ said Aunt Harriet to no one in particular, and Uncle Tom’s hand disappeared as if by magic.
‘Oo-oer,’ said Aunt Mary, and clicked her needles vigorously.
A moment or two later Uncle Tom’s hand brushed Jenny’s thigh again, then tapped insistently. Jenny tried to read the shapes of the words his lips were silently forming, darting quick, fearful glances at Aunt Harriet every few seconds. She couldn’t understand what he wanted to say, but his bright eyes on her modestly covering hands and his furtive sideways nods helped her to guess. The thrill of her vulnerability flickered tantalisingly in her tummy as she hesitantly, almost submissively, unfolded her shielding hands and put them behind her back.
Mr Eden faded from the screen. Aunt Harriet brought her attention back to the matter in hand and Debbie’s weeping subsided to a few sniffles every now and then.
‘Right! You —’ Debbie’s tender bottom bounced to the Smack! of a smarting spank, ‘— get yourself out to the kitchen and put the kettle on.’
Debbie squealed in a rather muted way and scrambled down off her chair. She scurried out of the door, dragging her pants up as she went.
‘And you —’ Aunt Harriet’s finger beckoned, ‘— across the back of this chair!’
Jenny stooped to retrieve her pyjama pants and she hoisted them up enough to allow her to walk. She shuffled to the chair and stood behind it, about to bend over its high back.
‘Kneel up on it stupid!’
‘Ooh — s-sorry.’
Her knees felt uncomfortable on the hard wooden seat, and her bum felt very naked and defenceless as she leaned forward over the chair-back and grasped the legs. She seemed to be very precariously balanced, as though any sudden move would have her toppling over. She looked sideways out of the corner of her eye and found Uncle Tom’s gaze resting eagerly on her bare, elevated bottom.
The strap dangled impatiently in her aunt’s hand while the girl arranged herself, then —
‘Now then, keep still —’
Thwack!!
The leather snapped stingingly around the curve of Jenny’s young bottom and then snaked sinuously back ready for the next stroke. Jenny bit her lip and screwed up her eyes as the sting spread across her bum.
Whack!!
‘Oooh — oow — !!’
Crack!!
‘Oooooow —’
She couldn’t help it. The stifled cries sneaked between her lips and her bum-cheeks trembled as she tried ever so hard not to wriggle her hips. ‘Keep still’ meant just that — or else!
Thwack!!
Jenny felt the sobs come bubbling up in her throat.
‘Ooooh — ooh — hoo — !’
Whack!
‘Oooooo — ooogh!’
‘D’you think this will fit, dear?’
‘Pardon?’ said Uncle Tom, attention elsewhere.
‘Debbie. Do you think this jumper will fit her?’ repeated Aunt Mary.
Whack!!
Ooow — Ooo!
‘I should think, so,’ said Aunt Harriet.
Smack!
Ooh — Ooo — Hoooo!
It was quite ridiculous, and so off-hand that it was utterly humiliating for the wriggling girl up on the chair.
The next stroke hissed smartly across the backs of her bare thighs.
Ahhh — Aaa —
Aunt Mary held up the half-knitted jumper and Aunt Harriet took it, considered it, and pulled a wry face.
‘Could be wrong though,’ she said, and held it up a little higher.
‘I suppose we ought to try it up against her and see.’ said Aunt Mary.
‘I suppose so,’ said Aunt Harriet, and promptly took herself and Aunt Mary out to the kitchen to accost Debbie with the unfinished birthday present.
Jenny was left to weep her tears, still poised over the chair-back, and the tears rolling heavily down her flushed cheeks blinded her to the fact that her uncle had left his chair. Warm, soothing fingers comforting her stinging bottom took Jenny completely unawares.
‘There, there —’
The smarting sensation in her bum fused suddenly with that same, yearning feeling which she’d had in her tummy before. The hands grew bolder, more intimate, brushing gently between her legs teasingly. Jenny gasped great gulps of air between her sobs and found herself squirming back onto the insulting fingers. The thrill in her loins bubbled closer and closer to that magic sensation which she had hitherto only known snugly tucked up alone in her warm bed — the thing that happened when she thought of Uncle Tom’s eyes on her the last time she’d been punished in front of him — while her own guilty fingers had tormented her to that beautiful, heavenly release.
‘Never mind Jenny,’ coaxed a faraway voice, ‘When you come to stay with us, I’ll never smack your bottom without making it really nice afterwards — alright?’
‘P-pardon? S-stay with — ?’
‘Us. Me and Aunt Mary. Next week, and until Aunt Harriet gets back from Canada next year.’
‘I-I didn’t know she was going —’
The touch lingered, teased, and suddenly it happened. She almost collapsed with the frantic pleasure of her coming. And then Uncle Tom was back in his chair, Aunt Harriet was saying, ‘Keep your behind up child!’ and the strap was flicking waspishly across her well-strapped bottom again and again.
Jenny wriggled and blubbered obligingly — not that she could help it anyway — and yet all at once it actually seemed bearable. When at last the two tender-bottomed girls were sent scampering upstairs to bed, to Jenny the future, like their two punished bums, seemed rosy indeed.

Saturday, 9 November 2019

The New Riding Whip

Story from Janus 68 by Michael Burntwood
Her upper body was pressed against the steering-wheel, and her dazzlingly pretty face gaped aghast through the windscreen. She had hit something! After several stunned seconds she straightened up in the driver’s seat, suddenly pale beneath the suntan which still lingered from those fragrant weeks in the Greek islands. Strands of golden hair obscured her wide, vividly blue eyes, for her head had jerked forward at the collision.
Shakily, feeling faint, she pushed the hair back from her flawless forehead and opened the door of the brand-new Jaguar. Stepping out on long, lissom legs she stretched her lithe young body and smoothed the rucked-up skirt over her slender hips. Then, with tingling nerves and a sick feeling of dread, Alicia Thornfield walked to the front of the gleaming vehicle to inspect the damage.
The wheelbarrow she had driven into lay crushed and splintered on the broad gravel driveway, but this was not what the girl was staring at. The offside wing of the Jaguar was shockingly defaced by dents and scratches, and the headlamp and the blinker were smashed! The awful sight made her inhale deeply, pushing her tip-tilted breasts against the sheer silk fabric of her blouse.
Desperately she turned and looked around for someone to blame for this disaster, for the fool who had put the wheelbarrow there, right where it shouldn’t be, in the middle of the drive into which she had just turned the car. In the distance she observed Rogerson, the gardener, hurrying towards her shaking his grey-haired head; and even then the mettlesome young woman’s full red lips curled with distaste to see how his startled gaze roamed over her bare legs beneath the tight skirt. ‘You damn well ought to know better than to leave your stupid barrow here!’ Alicia shouted, stamping her foot in fury and fright. Even to the unimaginative gardener she looked petite and doll-like, almost unreal in her perfection of feminine shapeliness. It could have been that French actress, Bardot — re-formed and scarcely 21 again raging at him beside his employer’s distressingly damaged vehicle. The agile figure was daintily trim, little-waisted with breasts like apples quivering under translucent silk, the trim thighs succulent — her legs smooth, sun-browned stems more lovely than the loveliest bloom in the orchid house from where he had hurried on hearing the distant crump. To the gardener, she looked rather like a flower herself.
But the aloofly alluring nymphet face, achingly pretty, was red and twisted now as she screeched at him, scattering the soft, honey-gold hair about that perfect head. ‘You silly old bastard, I’ve a sodding good mind to… to…’
‘Ooh, dear,’ said Rogerson, dragging to a stop. ‘Ooh, my, Miss Alicia. Your stepdad won’t be too happy when he sees what you’ve done to his new car!’
‘What I’ve done, I’ve done?’ the girl wailed. ‘How was I supposed to know that bloody wheelbarrow was here? It was your fault. I was looking at the rose-bushes when I drove in.’
‘With respect, Miss,’ ventured Rogerson, ‘Sir Robert told me to leave it here when he called me to the orchid-house. And anyway, there’s plenty of room on either side. If you’d been lookin’ where you should’ve been…’
‘Shut up!’ she shrilled. ‘Fix it, do something useful! Before he sees it, too!’
The gardener shook his head, well used — as were the other servants — to the stormy temper of this spoiled, succulent slip of a girl; a temper remarkably similar to that of Sir Robert, her stepfather, with whom he had just been discussing orchids. Uncomfortably similar, the man thought, and almost smiled.
‘Ain’t nothing I can fix, Miss,’ said Rogerson. ‘That’ll need a crash repair job down the garage.’
‘Oh, you’re absolutely hopeless!’
Abruptly the girl swung round on her heels, and the man caught his breath at the sudden sight of her tightly-compacted little rump wiggling roundly beneath the clinging skirt as she hurried up the broad stone stairs to the entrance-door of the stately, ivy-smothered house.
As Alicia hastened to the temporary sanctuary of her room, cold spurts of dread pulsed through her, which quickly heated to panic that made her heart bump. She had borrowed her stepfather’s car on one of those reckless impulses of hers, believing him to be away. Certainly he would never have allowed her. After all, she had a car of her own — but it was a lot more fun to drive a brand-new Jaguar than a three-year-old VW Golf. And, damn it, he’d obviously come back while she was out on the road and, assuming his car to be in the garage, was pottering about with his wretched orchids! Now Rogerson would blurt it all out. It was only a question of time. She decided to escape on her horse, Athos, for a few hours until her stepfather’s anticipated wrath had cooled. Just in case, dreadfully, he took it into his head (and hand!) to do to her again what he’d done last week or so when she’d broken one of his ugly antique vases in an outburst of pique! The very thought of that made the girl squirm.
In her bedroom Alicia hastily stripped off her day-clothes and scrabbled in the cupboard for her riding-gear. As she leaned forward to work her ankles into the narrow jodhpurs she paused, catching sight of her bent-over bottom in the cheval-glass mirror. The plumply-curved mounds, scarcely covered by the flimsy lace panties, were still marked with two pale pink stripes on the silky skin where the buttocks swelled out from the tops of her pretty thighs. Marks from that excruciating caning he had dared to give her last week! Faintly-swollen, slightly-raised, they tingled as her fingers touched them. This ghostly tingling returned the girl to her urgent need for haste, and she quickly straightened, hauling up the skin-tight breeches…
‘How could that wretched girl run straight into a barrow when there’s room for at least ten cars?’ Sir Robert was exclaiming, dangerously red in the face as he surveyed the crushed wing of his coveted Jaguar. At six-feet-three and shaking with rage, he made a daunting sight. Some thirty years ago he had boxed for the University and rowed stroke in their best eight. Now in his fifties, a handsome-featured man who had not only retained the hair on his head but most of its sable colouring, he stood straight and powerful, protesting his ill-fortune in an operatic baritone.
Ordering the gardener to arrange for the car to be mended at the garage in the village, he stalked off towards the house, determined to have a serious chat with his seemingly incorrigible stepdaughter.
He strode into the spacious hallway and paused, breathing harshly in an effort to control his fury as his hot glare settled on the umbrella-stand, which bristled with brollies and sticks. From it he selected a smart new lady’s riding-whip, which he angrily swished through the air. Then he walked through to his private study at the back of the house, thwacking the thin crop against the palm of his hand with a thoughtful but determined expression. Picking up the internal telephone he rang the housekeeper, Mrs White, and asked her to tell his stepdaughter to come down immediately.
Mrs White smiled grimly as she walked up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the comer of the building. At her approach the door flew open and Miss Alicia dashed out, dressed for riding in those skin-tight breeches which hugged across her eye-catching buttocks and so tantalised the male staff. The young mistress was also wearing a white blouse, and calf-length boots on which she wobbled away towards the back stairs, clearly anxious not to be seen.
‘Miss Alicia!’ the housekeeper called. The girl froze in her tracks, and when she turned her face was flushed and her lovely blue eyes looked feverish.  ‘Sir Robert would like you down in his study, please.’
‘I-I have to take Athos out for his daily exercise,’ the girl replied as nonchalantly as she could. ‘Tell him you haven’t seen me, okay?’
‘Your stepfather knows you’re in, and was most insistent that you come down at once,’ intoned the housekeeper with a somewhat malicious smile: like most of the domestic staff, she had more than once been on the receiving end of this beautiful, willowy girl’s temper.
‘By the way,’ the woman added, ‘I noticed that Sir Robert took your new riding-whip from the hall stand. It’s in his study with him. I expect you’ll need it later, when you go riding.’ With that Mrs White swung round and clomped away, scarcely concealing her excitement and pleasure at what might well soon be happening to that spoiled, slender young beauty within a very short space of time.
As Alicia retraced her steps miserably towards the main stairs, unconsciously she let her hands smooth over her narrow hips and backwards across her pert, pouting seat. Through the drum-taut fabric of her breeches she felt again the still-swollen stripes across her compact bottom. This wasn’t her lucky week at all. She had got the cane only a few days before, despite her age of almost 21. Now it looked horribly as if she might be in for a taste of her own riding-whip! In a helpless gesture of defiance she tilted her dainty chin and pulled back her shoulders, strangely satisfied at how the buttoned-up blouse tightened across her proudly high-nippled breasts. Alicia was all too aware of her stepfather’s rages. Since her mother had passed away almost three years ago, she had lived alone with him and three servants in this old mansion from which he controlled his companies. All through her teens, Alicia had been high-spirited, but it wasn’t until after her mother died that her stepfather began to treat her more like an irresponsible girl than a young lady.
She did concede, however, that the physical punishments he had begun to mete out were usually her own fault. Alicia appreciated the continuing luxury of living in this large house with servants, and hadn’t made any serious efforts to get a job. After a year at university she had become tired of studies, and defiantly stayed at home. Her stepfather wanted her to accept work in one of his companies, but she had declined; and, after several vain attempts at persuasion, he had become angry and informed her that as long as she was living under his roof without contributing to her own upkeep, she was to obey him and accept his discipline. Meekly, yet sullenly, Alicia had agreed to his terms.
As the girl moved with increasing trepidation towards the combined library and study where Sir Robert worked when at home, the breeches seemed to cling extra tightly to her hips and thighs. Alicia liked them like that, enjoying clothes which presented her figure to advantage. At the door she paused, breathed deeply, yet again, and raised her knuckles to knock.
Then she lowered them, and realised she was trembling.
On the other side of the stout mahogany door the incensed step-parent paced impatiently about as he waited for his errant young charge to appear. His gaze wandered around the room with its well-stocked bookcases and fine old oak panelling, finally coming to rest on the supple riding-whip he had placed prominently on the large, leather-topped desk. For a moment he mentally pictured Alicia’s girlishly sleek-skinned flanks, and experienced a somewhat guilty, steadily-rising excitement. The whip had been a gift to the girl when he had bought Athos for her, and he had always thought how exhilarating it would be to use it on Alicia’s truly attractive bottom. Her bare bottom as naked as that of her horse! Sir Robert squared his heavy shoulders and couldn’t suppress a sigh, very much aware of the particular quality of pleasure such thoughts gave him. It was a heady feeling akin to the intoxication afforded by champagne, only more so!
Last time, some ten days ago, he had made her bend over this same writing-desk. Alicia had been wearing a ridiculously brief skirt, which he considered frankly indecent. Furious as Sir Robert had already been on account of the girl’s clumsiness, the riveting sight of those round, packed-to-bursting rumps and silky thigh-backs had flooded the man’s senses with a great glow of well-being; of supreme anticipation! He had turned up her skirt and uncovered a pair of deliciously-shaped buttocks encased in skimpy pink nylon knickers with a pattern of small flowers and a lace edging. He had been in something of a daze as he picked up the cane and delivered ten crisp whacks across that gorgeous rear, remembering only that the girl had complained with sharp aaaooouuuches and oowwws, though probably more loudly than she had reason to, for in his rapt condition he had not hit hard.
After the caning Alicia hadn’t wept much, but had snifflingly promised him to behave better in future. In the intervening days, however, Sir Robert had found himself secretly hoping that his beautiful 20-year-old stepdaughter would revert to her true nature. And now, sure enough, with this inexcusable ‘borrowing’ and damaging of his Jaguar, the wilful girl had played straight into his more-than-willing hands.
Now he began to positively savour the imminent encounter. As Alicia had protested at how, during her caning, the desk-edge had bit into her hips at the front, he now decided to have the girl lying across the arm support of the leather-clad sofa. Thus she would have her hips raised higher, which would prevent her from attempting to stand up between the strokes to rub her bottom as she had tried to do before.
At the uncharacteristically timid rap on the door the big man stiffened more tensely in his brown gardening tweeds, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘Come!’ he barked.
The door crept open and Alicia stepped into the study. In her riding habit, with well-polished riding-boots, her slender figure was indeed a fetching sight to behold. He always enjoyed seeing her in that costume, with white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck, and tight khaki breeches snugly contouring her buttocks, thighs and hips. On horseback, with helmet and jacket on too, she always caught the eyes of the spectators. On this occasion, though, he was to be the sole spectator; and he intended it to be a spectacle very much worth the watching. Sir Robert’s heavily handsome features hardened, and his eyes were like flints. The only gestures which betrayed the excitement he felt were the way his fingers pushed through his white-flecked hair and his firm, grave mouth twitched at the corners.
‘Shut the door, Alicia,’ he said quietly.
Blushing, and in increasing dread, the girl obeyed. She took a few steps forward and then her eyes grew round on seeing her own flexible plaited riding-whip on the desk over which she had sprawled that last dreadful time.
‘I-I’m sorry about the car, honestly I am,’ she said. Her voice trembled. Demurely she held her eyes downcast, then dared a glance at him from beneath long eyelashes.
‘Being “sorry” simply isn’t enough, Alicia,’ her stepfather rapped. ‘You blithely take my new car without permission — that, in itself, would have been offence enough to justify how I now intend to deal with you.’ His voice grew in force and pitch, so that each word made the girl flinch as if from a slap. ‘But you then, through sheer wanton recklessness, drive it into a barrow and have the gall to try and put the blame on the gardener!’
Feeling increasingly apprehensive, panting with growing agitation, Alicia was shifting her weight and fidgeting as she tried to find a way out of this appalling scrape. She had a genuinely guilty look on her face now, and did her best to avoid his angry glare. But her flinching gaze only settled again on the riding-whip.
‘Look at me, young lady,’ he rasped. ‘Raise your head and look me in my eyes when I’m talking to you!’
Alicia’s neat white teeth showed as she bit at her lower lip and glanced up at him from under wet, trembling lashes. Tears had appeared in her large blue eyes. ‘Please, father, I’ve said I’m sorry,’ the girl implored. ‘It will hurt so much!’ Desperately, Alicia tried another tack. ‘Look, I’m almost 21 now! I-I’ll pay for the damage somehow, but please don’t use that on me. I’m a grown woman now, I’m…’
Sir Robert towered above her as she wheedled and wept. The very sight of that graceful young woman with the honey-gold hair, enchanting face and wringing hands might have melted the heart of a less imaginative man. But Alicia’s stepfather’s imagination was too strong to deny his heated mental images the fulfilment of reality. He swelled his great chest, lifted his strong-jawed head higher, and picked up the girl’s own riding-whip.
‘Alicia,’ he intoned gravely, tapping his broad palm with the springy shaft, ‘I have already told you that you have no one to blame but yourself for the predicament you are in — and you will pay in the manner I have chosen.’ She gasped as he moved around the desk towards her. ‘Get over there to the sofa,’ he instructed, almost softly now. ‘I want you across the arm support with your feet to the floor.’
Instinctively, Alicia turned to obey. With hands clasped to the seat of her smartly-tailored breeches she moved most unwillingly to the sofa, daring to hope that he would at least let her keep her breeches on. She had used that new leather switch quite often enough lately when riding Athos. It stung even him, so she was well aware of its whipping quality. The trim young woman stopped close to the arm support and cast a pleading glance back at her stepfather, searching for words that might stop this happening. None came.
‘Take your breeches down,’ came the command.
‘No, please!’ Alicia’s voice grew shrill as her hands flew to the waistband of her pants — not to release it but to hold them in position.
‘Take them down, or I shall do it for you!’ His voice was implacable, and she could hear him breathing harshly.
‘Oh. No. No-o. Please, stepfather, let me keep them on!’
‘Do as I tell you, Alicia,’ he ordered, and the young lady knew there was nothing else for her but to obey. Wretchedly she fumbled with the buttons, five on each side of the drum-tight breeches. She undid them slowly, clumsily, fingers trembling, till the side-splits fell open. Yet still she held her breeches up. When Alicia glanced imploringly at him, she saw him taking the leather whip from the table, and quickly averted her eyes. Glowering, yet inwardly elated, Sir Robert stepped up behind his quavering stepdaughter, thwacking his palm with unmistakable intention.
‘Let them down to your knees,’ he ordered, noting with further quiet pleasure the hem of her blouse and a small nylon garment in green and white through the slit-opening. Defiantly, desperately, Alicia continued to hold her breeches up.
‘Please, father,’ she begged, ‘i-it will hurt too much. You know I’m still sore…’ The girl increased her sobbing, frantic to be spared this punishment which she had dreaded from the moment the car had hit the wheelbarrow. Her face was red and swollen from the tears, and she felt utterly ashamed. Yet, in an act of obstinacy which marked her character, she continued to tug up the breeches as high as she could. And, because she was at the same time bending slightly forward, the fabric stretched very tightly around her protruding, deliciously apple-shaped behind. It was an enticement impossible to resist. Sir Robert raised the crop and let it swish through the air to land with a dull swat right across where the cloth was the most taut.
Alicia let out a shrill yelp. The smart was perfectly atrocious. She felt it penetrate in stinging waves even through her breeches, and at once she jumped to the side, half-turning her back away from him.
‘Are you ready to obey me now? asked Sir Robert harshly, raising the whip again. The lovely girl whimpered, hesitating only a moment more before she pushed the breeches down, unveiling a pair of the flimsiest green-and-white chequered knickers with a narrow lace edging around the thighs. Then she turned with a deep sigh, face glittering with tears as she looked beseechingly at her stepfather, the khaki riding-breeches wrinkled around her knees in a most humiliating manner. ‘And the knickers, please.’
This time the proud girl gaped. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t mean…?’
‘But I do mean, Alicia,’ the big man retorted, feeling the glowing within him enhance to a quiet radiance. ‘You will pull your knickers down so that your buttocks are entirely bare.’ As if to underline his instruction, he lightly tapped the bare skin of her thighs below the knicker-legs. ‘Now!
Slowly, as if resigned at last to her fate, Alicia put her thumbs inside the elastic round her waist and sobbingly stooped to pull the scant protection down. With the globes of her buttocks thus starkly bared, and desperately shy in case he might see her exposed front, she quickly bent over the leather chair-arm and stretched herself out on her tummy, legs slightly apart and dangling down, hiding her face in her open hands.
Seeing his stepdaughter bent submissively across the sofa with her bare bottom uppermost and panties at her knees, Sir Robert yielded to an irresistible temptation to examine more closely Alicia’s enticingly attractive buttocks. So gorgeously curved they were, with flinching muscles in the springy flesh. It was a perfect bottom, like some succulent peach, pushed high by the arching of its owner’s supple spine to receive its well-deserved chastisement.
‘It’s your flagrant disobedience which has merited this thrashing,’ Sir Robert now summarised in low, even tones. ‘You must learn responsibility for your actions, Alicia.’ He stood, to one side of her prostrate body, noting with great satisfaction how her buttock-muscles tensed and jumped under the silken flesh. Flexing the riding-whip, he raised his arm. ‘As you soon will be 21,’ he told her, ‘I have decided to be more strict with you than before. On the last occasion you received ten. Today it will have to be fifteen.’
‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please, you can’t. I-I still have marks from the cane; you know my skin is so sensitive… Aaaaawwwch!’ Alicia had hardly finished her protest when a hissing in the air was followed by a crisp smack and her complaining shriek of pain from the ferocious sting the riding whip caused as it smote smartly across her naked, flinching bottom. The thin, flexible leather at once recoiled and landed again below its first mark, though not quite so hard as the initial blow. Involuntarily the girl stretched her body rigidly and her arms shot forward as her feet lifted from the floor. For several seconds she lay stiffly horizontal, whimpering as she fought to absorb the pain.
‘Put your feet down, Alicia,’ he told her sharply. ‘I want your bottom bent tightly over.’
In a mist of anguish and embarrassment Alicia did as bidden, thrusting her knuckles into her mouth as if biting them would prevent her from yelling out for the next stroke, and the next.
As Sir Robert swung back the riding-crop, warming to his enviable task, the oppressive weight of day-to-day business problems seemed to lift from him, to be replaced by a heady sensation of glorious release. The sound the crop made as it whipped through the air, the feel of its meaty impact on those so-sweet pillows of flesh, were like elixir to his soul.
Whiissh — SPLACK!
Uuuhuuu,’ the girl sobbed, wriggling her so-very-vulnerable bottom in a rage of pain and humiliation. Through the raspings her body made as it bucked and threshed against the leather chair-arm she remembered something her stepfather had said when he had beaten her before, that she ought to be grateful as long as she could atone for her transgressions in this way, because the alternative might one day be prison and public disgrace…
Sswiish-whack! Even as she cried out, she shuddered at the thought of being locked away in a shabby cell. Instead, it seemed, her own elegant, expensive riding-whip was scoring another burning mark diagonally across her left buttock, and the last inches of the switch etched a far more painful stripe across the back of her right thigh.
‘Aaaghh, please — please NO!
Ssswiiish! That smack came too soon after its predecessor. Alicia had scarcely time to release the shrill yelp which accompanied it, before the doubled smart in her bottom forced her to emit a shrieking, gasping, unintelligible croak.
For a few moments Sir Robert paused to allow his quailing stepdaughter to catch her breath. The man’s eyes glowed with the pleasure of a connoisseur being richly satisfied as he surveyed those round, ripe rumps now striped and crimsoning. He was in heaven! Sucking in air he again poised his hand high above the seductive target and brought the riding-whip whistling down.
Ssssplaatt! A new stripe burned across the resilient girl-flesh just below the crown of her rippling cheeks, and again Alicia emitted a cry of anguish. And then, like before, while she was squeezing her thighs hard and clenching her buttocks, she received another screeching stroke immediately after, lower down in the tender bottom-skin near the tops of her shuddering legs. Alicia gave a gurgling cry and squirmed violently, wrenching her semi-nude body and removing her scorching buttocks from the target area.
Sir Robert paused as the following stroke was about to descend, then bent and grasped Alicia’s left arm and forced her back into position over the padded leather support while the miserable girl pleaded and wept.
‘Pup-please, stepfather — please, no more. I c-can’t take it…’ Alicia blubbered.
‘There are eight more to come, Alicia,’ he told her harshly. ‘You’re old enough to be brave and take the punishment you’ve earned, without making so much fuss! If you turn your bottom again I will add more strokes!’ For a few moments Sir Robert let his stepdaughter rest. She had never in her life been thrashed so severely, but the lesson would be salutary. In the brief break, as her sniffles subsided and her sweet young body settled, he savoured anew the uniquely intoxicating sights and sounds of the thrashing, the girl’s mews and groans, and the feel of the pliant riding-switch so light and lively in his grip.
Stretched across the arm of the sofa, Alicia welcomed the pause. She tried to relax and make her body go limp, pressing her knuckles to her lips as she waited for the beating to resume, very much aware of her stepfather standing close behind and breathing hard as he regarded her red-striped, twitching, wincing bottom. Then he again, slowly, raised the vicious crop-aiming at the pinkened tenderness where Alicia’s thighs swelled lusciously into the half-globes of her pertly provocative, temptingly-patterned backside.
Hwissh-thwack! The riding-whip sped down and struck accurately across the creases which marked the undercurves, forcing fresh shrillness from the girl’s lips; and while her buttocks were still trembling from the impact the switch fell once more, a little higher up, flattening the flesh and making her whole bottom wobble. Alicia gasped and cried, raising her hips as if to meet the next stroke on its journey down, but her stepfather deliberately waited until she was again lying prone with her belly pressed to the chair-arm before he swept the whip down. The stroke made its authoritative crisp report and a new red mark showed how the crop had hit across both her thighs immediately below the clenched buttocks.
Wailing and blubbering as she was, Alicia was by now doing her best to prepare herself for the pain each time the springy whip bit into her smarting flesh, and the sheer physical tension caused the muscles of her crimsoned bottom to move in flinching and twitching movements by themselves. She began to feel a sense of pride in not crying out when the riding-whip struck into her flesh.
The next followed almost at once and hit right across the tops of her bare half-moons; and this time only a stifled moan left her mouth, though she could not prevent her hips from jerking up and down. Alicia further began to find that the pang of the smacks was not unendurable — or so she was able to convince herself. There was of course no question about the fact that he was punishing her most severely, and she had to weep because the tears helped to alleviate the stinging pain and made it possible for her to submit. The repeated twinges which shot through her bottom when the riding-whip landed to decorate her skin with still another red-glowing stripe, caused her to blubber — though much more quietly now, and this blubbering helped her to keep the position in which her stepfather wanted her.
Sir Robert had been counting the strokes in his head, but now he started to grunt them out loud. When Alicia heard ‘Twelve’, she began to feel relieved. And then, at last, she heard him counting ‘Fourteen’ and ‘Fifteen’. For at least a minute afterwards, as she continued to lie across the leather chair-arm feeling her bottom throbbing hot and sore, tears coursed down Alicia’s pretty cheeks, and all that could be heard was the gradual slowing of his grunting breaths and her own soft snifflings.
At length Sir Robert put the riding-whip back on his desk, almost with reverence, and for a while he stood back and examined, with silent admiration and a profound satisfaction, Alicia’s red-patterned, comely young bottom. The fawn jodhpurs had slipped down round her ankles and the green-and-white knickers were wrinkled below her knees. There were stripes all over her shapely posterior and also a few long red marks across the backs of her thighs.
‘All right, Alicia,’ he said, his voice a little tired now after the elation he had experienced. ‘You can get up now. I hope that you will always remember this lesson. It wasn’t really to use it like this that I bought this riding-whip for you.’
Alicia struggled to regain her feet and composure, pushing herself exhaustedly up from the sofa-arm. For a moment she held both hands to her face to wipe off her tears, before realising that she was displaying herself to him in front. She quickly stooped and pulled up her knickers, yet scarcely seemed to care that the breeches were still round her feet.
‘Yes, stepfather,’ the girl sniffled. ‘I will try to behave, honestly I will.’ She looked down meekly then added, almost saucily: ‘I-I’m so sore now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take Athos out for his exercise today.’
Sir Robert smiled, then frowned with some effort at the tearful girl who looked so vulnerable and charming in her white blouse and skimpy panties with the rest of her clothing down around her legs. A far cry from the normal, proud and bossy Alicia.
‘But you had better,’ he admonished her. ‘That horse needs his run, and a sore bottom doesn’t hurt a great deal more because you are sitting on it. Pull up your breeches now, then go and wash your face and get along to the stables. You know you like riding Athos.’
Alicia couldn’t resist a furtive rub at her bottom-cheeks before bending and tugging the jodhpurs back up her legs, fingers fumbling as she re-fastened the five buttons at each side. The breeches felt even tighter now, perhaps because she was more sensitive where they fitted closest! At least, she sighed, her punishment was over.
Half an hour later the girl hurried away to the stables feeling very much better. Her stepfather had appeared to be in an excellent mood and had smacked her — still somewhat painfully — on her behind when she had come back to fetch her riding-whip from his study. Indeed, so relaxed did he seem, Sir Robert hadn’t even forbidden her to use her own car or to visit her friend after dinner.
In the cobbled yard that smelled of horses and hay the groom, Hubert, helped her to saddle Athos — who still was too young to stand still when the leather encumbrance was put on his back. After Alicia had checked the length of the stirrups, she led the fretful stallion out into the field and climbed somewhat stiffly into the saddle while Hubert held him.
‘Be careful now, Miss Alicia,’ cautioned Hubert, patting the horse’s flank. ‘Athos isn’t too safe yet. Remember what your stepfather often says, that if you have to use the riding whip, then do it gently and with very light taps.’
The old groom simply could not understand, and nor would Alicia have been able to explain to him, why she allowed her horse to race away in such an uncontrollable manner. Nor why as Athos surged into a gallop with almost slack reins and  his shapely rider bumped up and down in the saddle, shrill little squeals could be heard from Alicia all the way into the distance.