Bouquet of Bamboo

by Sarah Steel

  Charlotte briefly inspected the label for the little black cockerel – the DOM seal of excellence – nodded her approval and gestured to the girl to pour.

  Uncertainly, shyly peeping down, and then quickly averting her gaze from Katie’s naked bottom, the uniformed domestic carefully poured out a brimming glassful. As the dark, purplish wine filled the sparkling glass, the silver etched insignia of the Hotel Amalfi grew visible – a leaping swordfish.

  Charlotte looked closely, and saw there were in fact two sleek creatures cresting the waves in tight formation. ‘Due, per favore,’ she smiled, absently caressing the naked buttocks lying across her black thighs.

  Katie blushed furiously as she squirmed beneath the pretty maid’s open-mouthed gaze.

  ‘Grazie,’ Charlotte nodded.

  ‘Signorina.’ The maid bowed gracefully, her nervous fingers clutching the Chianti bottle tightly.

  ‘She has been very naughty.’ Charlotte lightly spanked Katie’s bare buttocks and the taut cheeks quivered under her palm. ‘Wicked. Molta cattiva.’

  The maid pressed the Chianti bottle against her bosom.

  ‘Molta cattiva. You understand?’

  The pretty young woman blinked and nodded vigorously, trying desperately, but failing, to drag her wide dark eyes from Katie’s pink cheeks.

  ‘I am going to punish her the English way,’ Charlotte announced casually. ‘And the English way to punish a naughty female is to spank her bare bottom. Spank her bare bottom severely.’ She reached out to put down the glass she had just drained and to pick up the second one.

  Mincingly slipping one white pump behind the other, the Italian began retreating towards the double doors.

  ‘What is your name, my dear?’

  ‘Elisabetta,’ she whispered.

  ‘Elisabetta,’ Charlotte repeated, savouring the syllables in her mouth just as she had savoured the dark Chianti. ‘And are you a good girl, Elisabetta?’

  Elisabetta gazed at Charlotte’s wine-wet lips as if mesmerised. ‘Ah, si, signorina, always I am the good girl.’

  ‘Always? Surely not. Life would be too dull, no?’

  Elisabetta fiddled with the scalloped trim of her apron.

  ‘And when you are naughty, Elisabetta, how are you punished? What is the Italian way, hmm? La via Italiana?’

  Elisabetta blushed becomingly and her soft little bottom bumped against the door as her hand scrabbled frantically for the golden handle. Then with a shy, ‘Mi scusi!’ she disappeared and the doors clicked closed behind her again.

  Crack! Crack! The sharp sounds of savage discipline, of the back of a hairbrush swatting against soft buttocks, were slightly muffled by the doors at which Elisabetta knelt, listening. She closed her eyes tightly as she imagined the scene in the room she had just left.

  Crack! Crack! Again the savage blows rang out and Elisabetta’s dark nipples thickened, straining painfully as they grazed the cotton cups of her black lace bra. Crack! Crack!

  The stern older woman, the punisher, was la zia, and the beautiful young blonde being beaten was la ragazza. That was what they called the English couple down in the hot kitchens of the Hotel Amalfi. La zia, with cruel red lips, lips wet with wine now and pursed in concentration. Elisabetta recalled the swollen breasts swelling half out of the tight black bustier, and moaned softly. She recalled the long, slender legs sheathed in black nylon and the bare-bottomed blonde, the pretty little ragazza, lying across the shimmering black thighs.

  Crack! Crack! Elisabetta removed her frilly apron, and after unzipping her skirt with trembling hands, she eased the lemon-coloured cloth up over her hips.

  Crack! Crack! She shook her tumble of black curls away from her face and placed her warm ear to the door.

  Crack! Crack! And then the sound of an anguished sob followed by a squeal of protest from la ragazza. Elisabetta was listening to the punishment of a naughty female the English way, and between her plump bottom cheeks, parted where they nestled against her pumps, her cleft ached sweetly.

  Crack! Crack! Her ear pressed against the door, eager for the sound of the vicious hairbrush stinging the bare buttocks helplessly exposed to it, the maid fingered her wet pussy frantically through her moist cotton panties.

  Crack! Crack! The ragazza was sobbing openly now, no doubt squirming and writhing under the cruel brush as Elisabetta tongued the door hungrily, sensuously lapping the glossy paintwork. In her mind, behind her tightly closed eyes, she was licking the back of the warm hairbrush and then tonguing the hot curves of the blazing red buttocks.

  Crack! Crack! Elisabetta drove a finger, swiftly followed by a second, into her wet heat. Adding a third digit she climaxed, shuddering in the throes of an intense, silent orgasm, after which she collapsed, spent and helpless, against the doors.

  Charlotte walked straight past the large green glass tank while Katie stopped to stare into it. Within the sealed unit a delicate little seahorse floated, suspended in eternal silence. She reached out and tapped the glass. The exquisite little creature seemed to wink its orange eye before spindling slowly around. She screamed softly as she watched it turn. It had been spliced cleanly in half, split from the tip of its nose to the flourish of its curled tail. She stepped back, horrified, as the creamy-white exposed skeleton twisted into view.

  ‘Signorina?’ a smartly uniformed female attendant raised a concerned eyebrow. ‘A glass of water?’

  She nodded faintly and staggered backwards into an empty leather chair. Seconds later the Museo del Mare guard was kneeling by her side offering her a glass of iced water, and nimble gloved fingers quickly unbuttoned her silk blouse. Then the attendant bit away her right glove, leaving it dangling from clenched teeth, and Katie murmured softly as she felt the touch of cool knuckles dimpling the soft swell of her exposed breast. The hand turned, and the firm palm cupped and squeezed her tender orb soothingly.

  ‘Leave her to me,’ Charlotte snapped, advancing menacingly across the polished marble floor in a staccato of quickening footsteps.

  The guard shrugged, pouting sulkily, and slipped her hand out of Katie’s unbuttoned blouse. ‘La signorina is unwell.’

  ‘Nothing the matter with her,’ Charlotte growled. ‘And should there be, I have a sure and certain cure.’

  That night, a little before nine o’clock, they left the hotel and strolled through the warmth of the gathering dusk to the Ristorante del Pesce.

  ‘Criminal not to eat fish when in Napoli,’ Charlotte remarked briskly. She was always cheerful after a session of punishment. ‘Let’s see what this one has to offer.’

  Thigh-to-thigh and hand-in-hand, gli paia Inglesi scanned the menu cards posted outside the glass doors.

  ‘Triglia rossa,’ Katie enthused, executing an excited little dance, and the sudden display of unsophisticated eagerness pleased Charlotte immensely, making her feel completely in control.

  ‘Red mullet, is it?’ she said. ‘I dare say they’ll do a decent mullet in fennel sauce for you here.’

  The restaurant was thronged, and they were surprised to see Elisabetta, now in the regulation black and white uniform of a waitress, weaving through the crowded tables towards them.

  Katie reddened, and her eyes cast down, she whispered her order for the mullet.

  ‘Triglia?’ Elisabetta waved her stubby black pencil. ‘No, no, signorina, you must have the swordfish. Very good, very fresh.’

  ‘How fresh?’ Charlotte quizzed.

  ‘My father catch him every night.’

  ‘Busy family, hmm? And you work here as well as at the hotel?’

  ‘Everyone in Napoli works all the time. So many taxes.’

  Which none of you ever pay, Charlotte thought to herself, and agreed to the suggestion of swordfish steaks. Elisabetta assured them of their freshness again, suggesting they have them grilled with fresh garlic and herbs.

 
‘Sweet meat, swordfish,’ Charlotte opined, and Katie, her eyes still averted, fiddled with a breadstick.

  ‘The swordfish,’ Elisabetta sighed passionately. ‘Molto vero in amore. So faithful in love. How you say it, please? Fidelity, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte nodded, flashing a keen glance across the spotless linen tablecloth. ‘Fidelity. Isn’t that what we say, Katie?’

  The young English girl blushed furiously and the breadstick snapped in her twisting fingers.

  ‘Ah, si, fidelity. The swordfish is so loyal to its partner. When my father catches one, all he has to do is wait.’

  ‘Wait?’ Charlotte asked, perplexed.

  Elisabetta tried not to remember kneeling at the double doors, her ear pressed against the wood, playing with herself as the stern zia punished the beautiful, bare-bottomed ragazza with the hairbrush. ‘Wait,’ she nodded emphatically, ‘for the partner, the other swordfish. Always they swim as una paia. How you say? As a couple, due. When one is caught, the other swims and swims around the boat until it is dead. Then my father, he takes it from the water. They live and they die together, like Romeo and Juliet.’

  Later Katie said she did not care for the garlic. It left a sour taste in her mouth.

  ‘Sweet meat,’ Charlotte pronounced, swallowing her final mouthful with relish.

  The next day was very hot. They went, as planned, down to the thin strip of silver beach. Charlotte dozed, her brown eyes protected from the glare of the sun by the twin panes of her large black sunglasses. Katie, still sore from the previous afternoon’s chastisement, lay tummy down across a blue towel. Cupping her chin in her hands, she thought about the last turbulent twenty-four hours. The painful discovery of the pink sandals, bitter accusations of flirting, the bare-bottomed punishment and Elisabetta, the lovely dark-haired maid witnessing her humiliation.

  A statuesque German spread a silver and gold coloured towel down across the scorching sand alongside Katie’s. She was slender and supple and her buttocks were deliciously tight.

  Fidelity… Katie remembered the hairbrush and closed her eyes. Behind them she saw the seahorse floating in its glass tank and suddenly recalled the wave of nausea that had seized her. Then she remembered the gloved hand unbuttoning her blouse, and the warm palm cupping and squeezing her exposed breast followed by Charlotte’s stern indifference, which masked a fierce jealousy. Later, Elisabetta again at the restaurant and the sour taste of garlic… Elisabetta tossing her dark, tumbling curls over her shoulder…

  ‘Bitte.’

  Katie turned her head and saw the bronzed German sun worshipper holding out a bottle of lotion.

  ‘Bitte.’

  Smiling, and then swiftly checking to make sure Charlotte was still asleep, she rolled over, wincing as the hot towel kissed her sore bottom. She collided gently against the German’s sleek thigh, wearing only a tight white bikini, and the woman’s eyes devoured her cleavage. Softly cupped and subtly under-wired, the swimsuit’s top lifted her breasts deliciously, causing them to bulge invitingly.

  Up on one elbow and accepting the proffered lotion, Katie studied the foreign beauty, who had squeezed her voluptuous breasts and fleshy buttocks into a green and gold spangled bikini with a daringly strapless bandeau top through which mulberry nipples strained, and a bottom that was a mere thong disappearing between the taut bronze cheeks.

  ‘Bitte,’ the woman repeated, thumbing off her top and offering her naked breasts to be oiled.

  Katie shot a sly glance at Charlotte before squirting the richly scented lotion into her open palm and then wiping her hands together.

  Slowly and firmly, she greased the German’s full bosom, working the oil deftly into each quivering mound and teasing each budding nipple with her fingertips.

  Two seagulls squabbling over a ragged piece of bread up in the blue sky screamed raucously, and caused Katie to look up in alarm. The woman arched her back up off the towel and spread her thighs a little. ‘Bitte,’ she persisted.

  Katie returned to the fleshy bosom, kneading and knuckling the deliciously firm yet pliant pillows of warm skin. At her pussy, a drop of arousal darkened the crotch of her white swimsuit.

  The German grunted suddenly, turned over onto her belly and jerked her buttocks up. ‘Bitte!’

  Straddling the sunbather’s thighs between her knees, Katie rode the slender limbs of the woman beneath her. Squirting the expensive lotion lavishly over both bronzed buttocks, she tossed the bottle aside, splayed her fingers and oiled each tender cheek in turn. A daring thumb jerked the thong to one side, and she saw the dark little pinkish-brown anus wink up at her.

  ‘Bitte,’ the woman sighed.

  Oiling the anus with a lotion-coated forefinger, Katie became engrossed in her task, and shuddered as she felt the rectal muscles tighten, grip and retain her probing finger. So engrossed did she become that she ignored the renewed screaming of the squabbling seagulls overhead, and failed to notice Charlotte’s brown eyes narrowing and flickering, lizard-like, as she carefully raised her sunglasses.

  They never rowed in public. It was not the English way. It was not their style to make a scene. Jealous passions and the tears they provoked were always spilled behind closed doors. So Charlotte warned Katie of her awakening by exaggerated sighs and stretching, and then merely commented upon the heat before politely enquiring of the German beauty if she was staying at the Hotel Amalfi.

  ‘Ja, in room three-sixteen,’ came the instant reply. Busy thumbing her thong back between her oiled buttocks, she directed her answer to Katie.

  ‘I see,’ was all Charlotte said; two simple words but they frightened Katie, instantly quickening her pulse. Caught in the act, she feared the strap.

  Donning an airy white cotton shirt over her swimsuit, Katie stood up, stretched and announced her intention to go for a walk. Charlotte remained silent, and the German settled into a doze.

  She walked down the beach towards the waves breaking gently on the shore. As she trod the hot sand she knew Charlotte’s angry eyes would be devouring the sway of her buttocks, judging their ripe roundness in readiness for the punishing strap. The thought tightened her sensually quivering cheeks, rendering the cleft between them a mere crease into which her swimsuit sank.

  A gentle breeze brought the myriad smells of Naples to her nostrils. Not the aromatic mix of lemons, basil and extra virgin oil, but of open drains and uncollected refuse. Ugly smells from the hectic, heaving city huddled against the sea.

  Katie shivered. Afraid of the strap awaiting her bottom she paced the sands, deserted now after sunset. She was cold. No, not cold, just afraid of her impending pain and punishment. She hugged herself and her shirt rasped against her nipples, budding within the stretchy cups of her matching white bra. The shirt’s scalloped hem tickled the pert swell of her buttocks like teasing fingertips, and she shivered again. The crisp Swiss cotton had been nice in the fierce afternoon sun, but in the moonlight it afforded little warmth.

  The staccato crackle of a Vespa roaring along the seafront esplanade broke into her consciousness. Vespa, the Italian word for wasp. The scooter’s snarl faded and died off in the distance. Vespa. The sting of a wasp could be so painful – as painful as the sting of a leather strap. She glanced up, her anxious eyes scanning the floodlit expanse of the hotel. Up in their room was the cruel strap; the cruel length of leather awaiting her bare bottom.

  The strap. Charlotte had bought it in Bonn two-and-a-half years ago on their first trip abroad as a couple. It was never used lovingly, in pleasure or in play. The tip of the strap had never been raked against her nipples or used to tease her clitoris, to tantalise and deliciously torment. The strap, Charlotte had decided, was to be used for the single and sole purpose of discipline. It was kept out of sight furled up in a yellow suede bag. She only need mention it and their bickering would suddenly cease, giving way to Katie’s whimpered apologies. Charlotte need only
take it out of the drawer and dangle the yellow suede bag from her fingertips, and Katie would fall to her knees mumbling apologies into the musky warmth of her mistress’s pubic mound. The strap was a potent symbol of their relationship – the dominant and the submissive, the punisher and the punished.

  From time to time the strap was taken out and stretched at full length. At such times Katie would peep anxiously as Charlotte thumbed vitamin E cream into the dark leather to keep it pliant – pliant and supple. Katie hated the strap. She hated its sharp bite and the burning pain across her bare buttocks as the broad pink welts it created deepened into a crimson blaze. She hated even more being arranged over her stern chastiser’s lap, being pinned down dominantly, bare-bottomed and utterly helpless. She hated being bared and prepared for her punishment like a naughty schoolgirl across the knee of the gym mistress subjecting her to strict discipline. She hated the slow administration of the stinging strap across her naked cheeks; cheeks that tensed tightly at the thin whistle of the lashing leather, cheeks that flattened under the broad width of punishing hide, cheeks that wobbled slightly beneath each fresh blaze of scalding pain.

  Then afterwards the humiliating ritual. ‘Kiss the leather,’ Charlotte would insist, and blinded by tears of shame and torment, Katie would be forced to kiss the doubled length of leather dangling before her lips. She would be forced to kiss and taste with her tongue the tang of the dead hide.

  ‘Signorina.’

  The velvety whisper startled Katie out of her troubled recollections. She turned and saw Elisabetta, apparently returning to the hotel after her evening stint at the Ristorante del Pesce.

  ‘I always come along the beach,’ the Italian explained. ‘It is so beautiful, no? Look.’ She pointed, stretching her arm towards the surging waves. They stood side by side, their thighs touching. Then the pert waitress curled her small hand over Katie’s hip and they nestled closer. ‘Look,’ she cried again excitedly, ‘the fishing boats! My father!’