by Sarah Steel
A dominant fingertip dimpled her left buttock’s tender swell. ‘Open your legs for me, girl.’
She clamped her thighs even more tightly together, but then cried out as her aunt spanked her, and instinctively spread her thighs wide to avoid another punishing blow.
Aunt Julia drew her thumb up and down across the girl’s exposed cleft several times in swift succession, before dipping the fingers of her spanking hand into the shadowed warmth. A brief but blistering lecture on the merits of honesty and the futility of attempting to cheat then followed. It was a very stern sermon, and the drumming of the fingertips at her cleft, and then upon her vulnerable anal whorl, filled Ariadne with delicious dread, and before her aunt’s lecture was over she found herself almost wishing the spanking would begin. She was growing strangely confused, and she felt warm and moist in her most private places.
Then, at last, the punishment began, exploding across her upturned cheeks with a savage staccato of spanks, eight blows in total followed by a pause. She held her breath and squeezed her tear-filled eyes tightly closed as the palm revisited her warm flesh to rhythmically smooth and caress her punished cheeks. Then her aunt recommenced the chastisement with a flurry of harsh smacks that made Ariadne’s bare bottom bounce. Her squeals escalated to shrill shrieks before transforming into broken, muffled sobs as the strong hand ravaged her increasingly red buttocks. The blows were swift and searing, crimsoning every square centimetre of her helpless cheeks as they quivered beneath the blistering onslaught. Then another pause followed, during which she clenched her buttocks tightly as the heat and pain spread down to her wet quim.
Afterwards Ariadne tiptoed gingerly along the landing, and as she passed the spare bedroom into which Aunt Julia had withdrawn, leaving the door slightly ajar, she paused to listen, and heard low moans emanating from within. Daring a quick peek, she saw her aunt stretched out naked on the bed, masturbating furiously by rapidly skimming her knuckled tights over her sex.
Then later still, in the darkness of her own bedroom, Ariadne thrust her sore bottom up against its own reflection in the full-length mirror by her bed. And as her reddened cheeks kissed their own cool image frozen in the glass, she came uncontrollably.
The large old bell in the tower overlooking the quad struck the half hour. Ariadne Soames-Ayr blinked, wriggled on the chair and out of her reverie, glancing at her watch again. It was almost four o’clock. She sighed. She would miss her dreadful tea and bun now, and it was her last chance to partake in the time-honoured tradition. Tomorrow was graduation day. After that, London and a career. Actuarial work, perhaps, or fund management. Or had the dean secured something a little bit special during last month’s ‘milk round’ when the multi-nationals had come to cream off the brightest brains? Could it even be the Treasury itself? Had ‘Old Fashioned’ squared it with the men in grey to secure her star pupil such a plum post? Ariadne flushed with pleasure at the thought. She had, after all, got a double first with honours, achieving the highest marks. It would mean a terrific salary, she realised suddenly, absently plucking at the cotton panties over her pubis through her skirt, panties now wet from her recent recollection of Aunt Julia’s spanking.
A post at the Treasury would command an excellent salary and secure her a small flat just off Sloane Square. She would settle for a bed-sit, for anything, even a broom cupboard, so long as it had the desirable SW3 tag. She smiled, easing the gusset of her tight panties from her hot cleft by inching each thigh up from the seat a fraction. The leather creaked beneath her rippling buttocks. Yes, a bed-sit within the golden triangle of Peter Jones, Hans Crescent and the Lower Brompton Road visible from her room, but not a flat-share. No, definitely not a flat-share.
Her pulse quickened at her throat. Flat-share… she shivered in sudden delicious dread as more buried memories bubbled up from their deep well of shame. Seconds later, images flooded her mind…
She found herself at the start of her second year – late parties, never any milk and always someone hogging the payphone – living in town in a flat-share with two third year girls above a kebab house. The flat-share and the two third-year girls; a bossy blonde and a silent brunette, both always chivvying and chasing her to wash up the dishes or put the black bags out on bin-day. And she, busy at her books, ignoring them. Too engrossed to shop – the dean had promised a double first if she worked hard – she pinched things from the fridge, swapping those silly little post-it notes with Mine! scribbled on them from one carton to another to cover up her crimes.
After Christmas, back for the Spring term, red, green and silver decorations wilting in the window of the kebab house below, and the reception committee – the bossy blonde with the brunette bringing up the rear – burst into Ariadne’s cramped little room.
‘We’ve decided you’re going to get only one more chance,’ the blonde informed her. ‘There’ll be a schedule and you’ll do your bit.’
‘And no more eating what we’ve bought or cooked, understand?’ the brunette added.
Ariadne had been flippant, defiant, which was a bad mistake. The blonde grew furious. Kicking the bedroom door closed, she produced two table-tennis bats from beneath her jumper, gripping one and tossing the second to her friend. The dark-eyed girl caught it, and thumbed its red rubber surface menacingly.
‘One beating and one more chance,’ warned the blonde. They overpowered her easily, and choosing not to fully undress her, they yanked their struggling captive’s jeans and cotton panties down to her knees. ‘Get her hands and tie them.’
The brunette thrust her table-tennis bat between Ariadne’s thighs, and then used a single nylon stocking on her wrists. The nylon burned slightly as it bit into her flesh, leaving her hands helplessly bound behind her.
Stumbling as she screeched in protest, Ariadne was propelled facedown across the narrow bed. As she fell her bared buttocks shamefully exposed to the punishing bats, she saw her teddy bear tumble tipsily down from his perch on the pillow.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The blonde proved brutal with the small round bat. A blistering triple echo broke out as she swiped it down urgently, vehemently, across the upturned cheeks. As the bat barked the buttocks flattened, wobbled and trembled in their sudden crimson glory. Crack! A telling swipe jiggled the poor cheeks, fleetingly depressed beneath the rubber-coated bat. Nine strokes were administered in a ragged staccato of three, three, one, and a final flurry of two. The blonde was panting from the exertion, her heavy breasts rising and falling swiftly, while beneath her on the bed Ariadne sobbed brokenly.
After the ninth stroke the blade of the bat was placed down with tender dominance across the swell of the beaten buttocks. Then the cruel punisher, tucking her disarrayed hair deftly behind her ears, angled the rubber surface of the warm bat against Ariadne’s lips. The punished, bare-bottomed girl wriggled violently, but the red surface returned to dominantly smother her moaning protests. ‘Promise!’ the blonde hissed. ‘Promise to clean and tidy up and follow the schedule!’
Ariadne refused, turning her head away defiantly, but swiftly repositioning the levelled bat under her captive’s chin, the blonde gazed contemptuously down at her. ‘Promise!’
Ariadne, tears jewelling her sorrowful eyes, finally nodded and panted, ‘Okay… okay, I promise.’
‘That’s better, bitch. Now seal it with a solemn kiss.’
She kissed the bat that had just blistered her bare bottom.
Crack! In her surrender and submission to the rubber prickling her dry lips, she had forgotten the second girl. Straddling her victim by tucking her heels under her armpits, gazing sternly down at the reddened buttocks, the brunette wielded her table-tennis bat competently, briskly delivering four brutal strokes.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
Wriggling and shrieking, Ariadne jerked and fought with all her strength to dislodge her punisher, but was merely rewarded with a furious flurry of three more harsh blows. Then, twis
ting the bat in her grip, the punisher aimed the thin edge down between the ravaged cheeks, and with a deliberate sawing motion she administered the most delicious torment to the wet cleft at her mercy.
Ariadne froze. Surely not… surely she was not about to come. But the inexorable waves were cresting in her pelvis and her pussy was dangerously hot, her slippery labia blooming open, lewdly creaming and exquisitely tingling. The red rubber dimples of the bat’s surface teased and thrilled the inner curves of her punished cheeks as she squeezed and clenched them, causing even more juice to flow from her quim.
Planting a controlling hand firmly down on her victim’s back, the brunette exposed her deep cleft. She applied the thin edge of the bat with intimate ruthlessness, skimming the tight little bud of the puckering anal crater. Then it skidded across the velvety skin buried between the clenched cheeks as juice from the opening sex lips lubricated the rubber trim.
The bat was then brought to Ariadne’s lips and she was forced to submit to it with a kiss; forced to kiss and lick the bat that had just visited her bare buttocks and the sticky cleft between them; forced to kiss and taste, to taste and smell, her own feral juices glistening wetly on the dimpled red surface.
And as her two flatmates caressed her and stroked her hair and shoulders, licked and softly bit her punished bottom and untied her bound wrists, Ariadne raked her pussy against the now slippery duvet. Crushing her open sex down and wriggling and writhing, she spread her labial lips apart before splaying them deliciously, and her beaten buttocks still blazing, she smothered her screams of pleasure as she started coming…
The chimes in the quad sounded again. No tea and sticky buns today. Sticky… she winced slightly feeling how wet she was from the recent rush of turbulent memories.
The approaching tap-tap of high-heels on the polished wooden floor announced the arrival of the dean. Dr Hillary Mellstock swept up the corridor, black gown billowing, steel-rimmed spectacles flashing fire as they caught the afternoon sun pouring in through the window.
‘Ah, the Soames-Ayr girl. I shall see you presently.’
As the office door closed behind the disappearing dean, Ariadne tossed her head angrily. Girl, indeed! A third year graduate who had achieved so much with honours, and who was about to embark upon an important career, was hardly a mere girl. Then she relaxed, her frown softening to a fleeting smile; ‘Old Fashioned’ was quite eccentric. Everyone knew that.
After a short time the door to the dean’s office opened again and she was instructed to enter. Her mind vaguely acknowledged the sound of the door being closed behind her, but she attached no particular significance to the scrape of the key turning in the lock.
The dean ignored her visitor at first, busily preoccupying herself with the blinds, which refused to come down until bullied into submission, and then with a floor lamp. The four dim bulbs glowed grudgingly in the gloom of the darkened room as she snapped on the main lights. A double fluorescent strip flickered and blazed down from above. Ariadne blinked. The sudden flood of light illuminated the dean’s office mercilessly. She saw the dusty leather chair behind the cluttered desk and the disorderly chaos everywhere.
As if indifferent to her presence, the dean continued to fluster about her office, tidying up and arranging things as neatly as possible. Then she opened a deep oak cupboard and produced an abacus, which she cradled gently against her bosom. Closing the heavy cupboard door with her knee, she placed the abacus down upon her desktop and briskly dusted off her large bosom. Ariadne saw the full breasts wobble and bounce.
‘Well, girl, what do you think of it?’
‘It is a beautiful counting frame, Dr Mellstock,’ Ariadne admitted, gazing down at the row of beads.
‘Beautiful? Fiddlesticks, girl, it is of unique interest. And why is it of unique interest to the mind mathematical?’
She concentrated hard on the winking line of five red beads flanked at one end – the end next to the wooden frame – by a single silver bead.
‘Well, girl, can’t you see?’
‘There are only five counting beads.’
‘Exactly. Unlike the Greek and later Roman counting base of ten, early Arabic arithmetic was founded upon the counting base of five, representing the right hand. Nowadays, only the nomadic tribesmen of the North Yemen use such an abacus. The tribesmen, who herd their goats on horseback, devised this five-beaded saddle top abacus for one-handed use. But watch.’ The dean’s straightened forefinger alighted on the line of beads and flayed them, whizzing them along the taut wire. They rattled almost eerily, and tapped softly as they bunched together in a sparkling huddle at the other end. With a click the final red bead sped home, and suddenly clutching and tilting the counting frame, the dean held it aloft, allowing the single silver bead to slide down the wire. ‘The northern Yemeni women punish wilful young village maidens in a most remarkable manner,’ she remarked. ‘I was privy to such chastisement five years ago when travelling from Aden up into the Blue Mountains of A’qaar.’
Ariadne frowned, wondering what on earth the mad old dean was twaddling on about.
‘That is, I think, why I purchased this little gem in a particularly noisy market. Observe.’ She flicked the silver bead and the single red bead across the stretched wire. ‘When a young woman has misbehaved, the rest of the village females take her to a tent on the very edge of the encampment. There they bare the young woman’s bottom and beat one cheek – just one cheek, mind you – with a short, cruel whip fashioned from plaited goatskin strips. Very supple goatskin.’
Ariadne felt her tongue thicken in her suddenly dry mouth.
‘They whip one cheek until it is quite painfully crimsoned, leaving the other unblemished.’ The dean’s thumb toyed with the two separated beads, turning over the red against the silver. ‘This allows the unfortunate girl to continue with her chores and domestic duties for three days, sitting precariously upon a stool on her unmarked buttock. After the third day,’ her voice nearly dropped to a whisper, ‘the miscreant is dragged back to the tent on the edge of the encampment and, her buttocks bared, she receives the plaited goatskin whip across her unpunished flesh. It reddens swiftly under the savage lash and a most pretty result is achieved. When perusing such a punished maiden by moonlight, one cannot but appreciate the delightful effect of the whipped cheek against the unpunished twin. The red against the pale cream.’
Ariadne’s stomach grew heavy as she watched, spellbound, while the dean turned the fat little red bead against its silver partner, very much like a punished buttock bunched against its unmarked twin.
‘This frame allows a herdsman on horseback to count his goats single-handedly.’ The voice was perfectly neutral – quiet, calm.
‘I see.’ Ariadne sighed as the uncomfortable moment passed. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘Even on a wild stallion, in the torrid heat and swirling, blinding dust, the northern Yemeni tribesman can be sure of a true and accurate count.’
‘Yes, Dr Mellstock.’
‘True and accurate,’ the dean repeated slowly, fingering the little red bead and the little silver bead gently. ‘So important to the mind mathematical to achieve a true and accurate tally, is it not?’
‘Of course.’
‘Indeed, truth and accuracy could be said to be the very basis of the queen of sciences, could it not?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Ariadne nodded decisively. Her sixth-sense warned her to agree enthusiastically with the dean; Dr Mellstock would make a formidable foe in any intellectual discussion. She watched as the woman gently plucked the steel-rimmed spectacles from her nose and placed them carefully down on the freshly dusted desktop. They glinted brightly, the lenses reflecting the harsh fluorescent light.
‘Warm afternoon,’ Dr Hillary Mellstock remarked, slowly unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse, after shrugging off her black gown.
‘Mm,’ Ariadne agreed, her eyes seemingly unable
to do anything other than follow the fingers over the large bosom within the blouse.
‘And it’s very warm in here.’
It had become rather hot and stuffy in the study, but Ariadne shivered slightly despite the heat as, bizarrely, the dean finished unbuttoning her crisp blouse and peeled it off. Dr Mellstock was wearing a seamless, deeply cupped, flesh-toned brassiere. The satin was slightly dark with perspiration, and Ariadne’s tongue flickered out to wet her dry lips as she saw that both the large cups strained to contain the full breasts squeezed within their stretchy sheen. But for some perverse reason Ariadne found the sight of her dean devoid of her blouse far from abhorrent or weird, and the prickle at the watching girl’s pussy became a pleasurable warmth as her labial lips juiced and peeled apart, kissing the panties snugly encasing them. Her clitoral thorn hardened as she glimpsed the mulberry-dark nipples pressing against each bulging bra cup as she began to feel more aroused than alarmed. ‘Old Fashioned’, as everyone knew, was quite eccentric. So she lowered her eyes and pretended not to notice as the dean continued undressing with no loss of her austere composure; after all, it was hot, she reasoned.
The skirt, unzipped, was lowered and discarded, revealing flesh-toned knickers and a garter-belt holding up bronze-hued stockings. From beneath her fringe Ariadne surreptitiously watched the shoes being kicked off and tidied away beneath the desk, but surely no more would be removed…
Dr Mellstock raised an accusing finger and pointed it directly at her. ‘So, girl, you deign to agree that truth is important in all matters mathematical?’
Ariadne tore her gaze from the carpet and looked up directly at the severe face of the dean, trying to avoid and ignore her odd state of undress. Everyone knew the old bat was eccentric, after all. ‘Um, yes,’ she whispered, finding even those two short words difficult to articulate.