Blushing at Both Ends (26 page)

When I looked up, Katie was leaning over the plans chest just as I'd suggested. But she'd stepped out of her jeans, stripped off her shirt and stood there completely naked but for the erotic tangle of black knickers around
one
ankle. Her glossy chestnut hair hung loose down her back, and the whiteness of her long legs and slim back enhanced the beauty of her full blushing bottom. It was a glorious sight, worthy of the brush of a Degas or a Renoir.

Coming up behind her, I stroked the roseate twin globes, savouring the tender warmth and weight of them, then slipped my hand down between her legs. Her cleft was hot and sopping wet, and she moaned softly at the touch of my fingers.

She half-turned and we kissed deeply, while her hand slid down to caress the bulge in my trousers. I reached for my zip but she stopped my hand, smiling impudently into my face. ‘All in good time, Jeff,' she breathed. ‘First I'd like to feel that hairbrush.'

I smacked her bottom smartly, making her yip. ‘OK, my girl, you asked for it.' I led her back to the couch and once again put her in position. Lying there in all her naked beauty, her rosy bottom upturned and ready for further punishment, she fitted perfectly over my lap. It all felt so right, so natural, as if I'd been spanking her for years.

Teasingly, I rubbed the back of the hairbrush over her hot cheeks, making her tremble with anticipation. ‘Right, young Katie,' I said with assumed severity, ‘now you're really for it.'

‘Ooooh,' said Katie, gripping my leg as I brought the brush sharply down on the rosy curve of her right bottom-cheek. It made contact with a fine juicy smack. She yelped, tossing her chestnut mane, and yelped again a moment later as her left cheek received equally smart treatment. She went on to yelp quite a lot more over the next few minutes, wriggling and kicking her legs, as the hard wooden brush rose and fell, colouring her flaming cheeks a yet more flagrant red.

Relishing my task, I paddled her hard and steadily, pausing now and then to rub the tender mounds, and to
slip
my hand down between her legs, making her wriggle and moan. As her spanking continued, Katie began to arch her bottom up as if to meet my strokes, and her yelps turned to gasps as her excitement mounted. I paused again, but she gasped, ‘Oh, God, no! Don't stop! Harder! Harder!'

So I spanked her right through her orgasm; and when it was over she lay limply over my thighs, giving little gasps and whimpers as the final tremors died away. I caressed the blazing curves, then raised her up off my lap and our mouths met in a long deep kiss. She reached down and unzipped me, releasing my eager erection from the confinement it had strained against ever since I first took her over my knee.

A few moments later, Katie was once again bending naked over that conveniently positioned plans chest as I took her from the rear. The feel of her fiery cheeks, hot against my belly as I drove deep into her, increased my already rampant excitement, and after only a few thrusts we reached a gasping simultaneous climax.

We had dinner in a pleasant little Italian restaurant in the town, sharing secret smiles whenever Katie squirmed ruefully on her chair. What would the other diners have thought, I wondered, if they'd known that the beautiful sophisticated young woman opposite me was sitting on a bottom still blushing and tender from having just been soundly spanked?

And afterwards, back at her apartment, I once again put her across my knee, lowered her knickers and spent several joyous minutes rekindling the glow on that succulent bare bottom, before we eagerly fell into bed together.

‘Do you know,' I asked as we lay entwined in a sated drowse, her hand caressing her still-fiery rear, ‘that you called me Daddy just now while I was spanking you?'

‘I didn't, did I? Oh shit, what a giveaway.'

‘Did your dad spank you when you were a kid?'

‘Yes – though I'm sure he never guessed what a kick I got from it. Poor Dad – I adored him, but I used to provoke him deliberately so he'd give me a spanking. I remember lying across his knee yelling blue murder – and loving every second of it.'

‘Did he spank your brother, too?'

‘Never needed to. Rob was the good little boy. I was the rebel, always up for a dare.'

I gave her bottom a light slap. ‘Still are, too, aren't you?' A thought crossed my mind. ‘Did Robin ever watch you getting spanked?'

‘Don't think so, no – though he'd have heard it all right. The house wasn't that big. Why d'you ask?' Before I could reply she continued, ‘Come to think of it, he did spank me himself a couple of times, before I got big enough to put up a fight. Funny, I'd forgotten that. Don't get the idea I had this brutalised abused childhood, though. It was pretty happy, all in all.'

The talk drifted to other matters, and we soon fell asleep.

Next morning, Katie fixed me breakfast before I headed for my train. She looked so gorgeous, wafting about in a T-shirt that scarcely covered her bare rump, that I couldn't resist hauling her over my knee right there at the breakfast table. She giggled and squealed with delight, calling me all kinds of rude names – which earned her a few extra spanks for impertinence. And one thing led to another, so I missed the early train. Not that I minded a bit.

We parted with a warm embrace, making plans for her to visit me in London that weekend. ‘You know you'll get spanked some more, don't you?' I teased her.

She laughed happily. ‘I should damn well hope so!'

The London train was full, and I found myself stuck opposite a thrusting young executive type, very pleased with himself. In between braying inanities into his mobile phone, he favoured me with tales of how much
he
was earning, how he'd pulled fast ones on all his colleagues, and so on. Finally, he dropped his favourite subject just long enough to ask, ‘What d'you do, then?'

I told him. A look of pitying contempt crossed his brash features. ‘Sounds pretty dull.'

I had a mental image of Katie, naked, her glorious rear end aflame, bent over the plans chest and moaning with pleasure as I thrust into her. I recalled another image too, that I'd glimpsed earlier in a mirror reflecting the dark alcove outside her office: Robin Wainwright, his eyes gleaming in the twilight, his gaze fixed on his sister's squirming spanked bare bottom.

‘Oh, it is,' I told pushy young Mr Mobile. ‘Dull as ditchwater.'

16

First Class Training

BEING AN EXCERPT
from the Unpublished Memoirs of Victor Manning, Gentleman of Leisure and Student of the Erotic Arts
.

It was on a fine day in the summer of 1887 that I found myself on the platform of the railway station at Shrewsbury, looking for a pretty girl. I should at once explain that I was not merely seeking some chance romantic encounter, diverting though that might have been. No, it was a specific young lady, a distant cousin, who was the object of my search. My task was to meet her and escort her back to her guardian in London; but, since I had never set eyes on her in person, I was casting about on the bustling concourse, wondering how I should recognise my charge.

The young lady's guardian, my uncle Jenner, had assured me with his usual benevolent vagueness that I should have ‘no trouble knowing the girl'. ‘To begin with,' added he, twinkling roguishly at me, ‘the young minx is extremely pretty – and I know, Victor, that you have quite an eye for a pretty face. Then, she has the family features; indeed, she often reminds me of your poor dear mother at the same age. Finally, she will be in the charge of the Academy's matron, who will doubtless prove a female of advanced age, stout build
and
forbidding aspect, for what school matron is not? Taken together, all these factors should make recognition no very onerous task.'

Yet it transpired that my uncle, not for the first time, had adopted a somewhat simplified view of matters. Since the school term had just ended, the Shrewsbury concourse was positively seething with young ladies of every age from twelve to nineteen, many of them delightful to look at – a charming prospect in itself, but one hardly calculated to facilitate my search. Furthermore, many of these girls were accompanied by older ladies, some of them indeed of so forbidding an aspect that I shrank from accosting them with even the most courteous enquiry.

As I hesitated, gazing about me, my eye fell on a girl of some seventeen summers standing not far away. Not only was she strikingly pretty, but her resemblance to my beloved late mother was remarkable. Thinking that this must surely be my cousin Lucy, I was on the point of approaching her when I noted that her companion, far from being elderly or unprepossessing, was a young woman of comely bucolic aspect scarcely older than herself, surely not old enough to be matron of an academy.

But, while I was still hesitating, this same young woman resolved my doubts by approaching me and enquiring, in a lilting Welsh accent, whether I were ‘the gentleman that is come to meet Miss Danvers'.

‘Yes, I am,' I responded. ‘But are you Mrs Huskinson?'

‘Oh no, sir, indeed,' she replied. ‘I am Gwyneth Price, head parlourmaid at the Academy, at your service, sir. Mrs Huskinson, I am sorry to say –' although she did not look in the least sorry, but seemed rather to be experiencing some secret amusement ‘– Mrs Huskinson is indisposed today. But your cousin, I am thinking, can be telling you more about that matter.'

While Gwyneth was speaking, Lucy had joined us and I greeted her with a cousinly kiss on the cheek. To tell the truth, I should have been happy to bestow my kiss on any part of her sweet anatomy that might offer itself, for she was indeed a very pretty girl. She had dark curly hair, sparkling brown eyes with more than a hint of mischief about them, a charmingly retroussé nose and full lips. Her light summer costume revealed a petite but deliciously shapely figure.

‘So you are my cousin Victor!' she cried, favouring me with a bewitching smile. ‘Dear Uncle has told me so much about you, but he forgot to mention that you were so handsome. I am sure we shall be the best of friends!' With which she impulsively flung her arms about me and returned my kiss, this time full on the lips.

Deciding that it might be as well, before my new-met cousin proceeded to further intimacies, to gain at least some degree of privacy, I suggested that we secure our seats in the London express, just then pulling into the station. Having installed Lucy and myself in a first-class compartment, I took my leave of Gwyneth, thanking her for her trouble and bestowing two sovereigns upon her. She bobbed a delighted curtsey, with a glance suggesting that, had circumstances permitted, she would readily have demonstrated her gratitude in more tangible form.

I had greatly hoped that Lucy and I might have the compartment to ourselves. But just as the train was starting a portly gentleman, somewhat out of breath, wrenched open the door and flung himself in, almost overbalancing in his haste. Having righted himself, he cast us both a suspicious glance and sat down in the furthest corner, where he retired from view behind a copy of
The Times
.

At first his presence inhibited us a little, and we conversed on neutral topics. But such was Lucy's frankness and girlish ebullience that before long we
came
to disregard the intruder, and chatted like old friends. She was an enchanting girl, open and unaffected in her naive sensuality, and I sensed that our relationship might soon be placed on a most intimate footing. Even I, though, could scarcely have foreseen just how soon that would transpire.

‘Tell me, Lucy,' I asked, recalling our conversation on the platform, ‘what did Gwyneth mean when she said you would know more about Mrs Huskinson's absence?'

‘Oh,' said Lucy, suppressing a giggle, ‘yes, I am afraid that was my fault. You see, Matron has been
very
mean to me. She told Dr Natesby I was giggling during his sermon.'

‘And were you?' I enquired, trying to look suitably shocked.

‘Well, yes – but only a little! And she didn't have to tell him, the rotten sneak. So I got spanked,
awfully
hard.' She pouted appealingly at the memory of this unjust chastisement. ‘On my bare bottom,' she added, regarding me slyly from beneath her lashes, as if to see how this revelation would affect me.

I could not deny that the image conjured up by my cousin's words was most beguiling. The mental picture of this succulent young creature face-down across a male lap, her soft bottom bare and blushing beneath ringing smacks, caused me a distinct stirring in the loins.

‘But, Lucy,' I hastily interjected, hoping to distract her attention from my stiffening member, ‘how are these events connected with Mrs Huskinson's incapacity?'

Lucy giggled again, casting a provocative glance towards my crotch. ‘Dear Victor, I am so pleased that my girlish prattle is arousing your – interest. Well, you see, I knew that each evening before assembly Matron liked to enjoy a mug of porter. So . . .' She paused tantalisingly, grinning at me.

‘Yes?' I asked. ‘So?'

‘Well – yesterday I got my friend Alice to keep
cave
, while I sneaked into Matron's parlour and put castor oil – quite a lot of castor oil – into her porter. Then, during assembly, she suddenly made such a funny noise, and clutched her tummy, and scuttled out sort of sideways, with all the school watching! And then –' Lucy was by now near helpless with giggles ‘– then we could hear all these groans and – and – and squelchy sounds from outside in the corridor! Victor, it was
so
funny! And this morning she didn't come down at all! So Gwyneth had to – had to . . .' She dissolved into incoherence, spluttering helplessly.

I must confess that, despite my efforts to remain dignified, I too was having great trouble restraining my laughter. The portly gentleman, however, had abandoned all pretence at reading
The Times
, and was listening to Lucy's story with evident outrage.