Apart from the indignity of falling, I don’t want to spoil the mood, the anticipation is exhilarating, I’m quivering even as I walk. A wet quim adds a good deal to a stroll in the sun, even if the stroll is towards an appointment with pain. Now there’s a good title for a story.
Quick look at my watch, I’m late. It has taken me longer than I expected, but here’s the road at last, and I suppose he lives right at the end? Naturally. A head or two turns as I pass, do they know? Of course not, just curiosity. No one could know, I know and he knows why I’m here, the person who lives over there behind that door - yes, that door over there. I’ll climb the steps and ring the bell in a moment. First, deep breaths and severe clamping down on butterflies, shall I be a butterfly and turn and fly away from here?
I’m ringing the bell, now it really is too late.
‘Come in, lovely to see you.’
‘Thank you, sorry I’m late.’
‘That’s all right, don’t worry about it. You found it all right, then?’
‘Yes, I found it all right, your map was a great help, it just took me longer to walk than I realised.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have told you there were buses.’ Too late to tell me of buses, as I sit here looking at you, shorter than I remembered, thinner than I remembered, but with eyes that tell me that you are the boss here, and I shall not and will not question what you say.
And I am wondering whether you like what you’re looking at as much as you did when we first met.
‘Worried?’
‘No.’ But I’m lying.
‘Tea?’
‘Tea would be nice, thank you.’
‘Or would you prefer cider?’
‘That would be even better, thank you.’
And that gives me time to make small talk and relax my tight muscles and nerves. My sense of euphoria is suddenly violently shattered when he says: ‘Well, I think you deserve a spanking for being late, don’t you?’
Flustered, I find myself agreeing, fool that I am. I should have protested but now it’s too late.
‘Come on then.’
He has put a straight-backed chair in the centre of the room. I kick off my high heels, instantly shorter, and lay aside my precious glasses. No need to see when your nose is going to be three inches from the carpet, is there? Now, the fluttering really begins, the feelings press so hard against every nerve I possess I think I’m going to burst. I lie across his knees submissively. Slowly, he turns back my skirt and slip and, stupid person that I am, I help by moving my body so that he can lower my tights and knickers.
‘Beautiful.’
I know I have a lovely bottom (conceited, aren’t I?) and it’s nice to be admired.
‘Almost a shame to smack it but that’s what you’re here for.’ The hard hand descends on the left cheek and then the right in quick succession. Intake of breath, it is always, always harder than I anticipate, and they sting!
‘You were almost half an hour late.’
I gasp and wriggle as a flurry of smacks start the reddening process.
‘Keep still,’ he commands curtly.
I, being in no position to argue, keep still and take the spanking he’s delivering in crisp, hard smacks to my unprotected bottom. I wriggle and cry out occasionally, but pride makes me determined to take as much as I can. I finally say, ‘That’s enough!’ When I feel I simply cannot tolerate any more without a show of tears which would be treacherous right now. We are, after all, only at the beginning of the session.
‘Just six more,’ he says with quiet emphasis, and six more I get, three on each cheek in turn and I know I’ve been spanked. I am able to stand up, we cuddle, and I can restore clothes and dignity for a moment, sinking gingerly into a soft armchair.
There is something unreal about the situation. We talk about anything and everything; from writing, to trams and coaches and, all the time, I’m aware I’m sitting on a hot, red bottom and he hasn’t mentioned it once and neither have I! In the middle of this strange situation and polite conversation, he produces a tawse and asks, so politely, if I’d like to lay across the bed, that is, if my bottom has cooled off. It has, and I do. I don’t really have any choice, do I, now that I’m here and alone with him and I’ve already accepted a spanking. To refuse would spoil everything. He knows as well as I that there is really no chance of my saying no.
Anticipation comes in a surge that is almost an orgasm in itself. The quietly spoken request is almost an order; there is no sense in saying no. This is a bedsit, and the bed is close, there is no need to walk further than the table to remove my glasses, walk over to the bed, lay down and wait.
The spanking has forewarned me that he means to make me sting if not actually hurt and I’m a little apprehensive and rightly so; for with tights and knickers down again he immediately tells me that my bottom is no longer red, there is no sign of the spanking I’ve had, therefore it wasn’t that hard! I’m capable of taking ten with his tawse and almost immediately the leather cracks across my bare bottom making me jump, and cry out.
‘That wasn’t too hard,’ he says, reproving my protest and he whacks me again and again. I count the strokes aloud, feeling the width of the tawse create its own wide bands of pain, overlaying each other, knowing with relief that I can take it even though I’m protesting like mad.
Who wouldn’t? The tawse has been well oiled and is very stingy indeed.
It’s a different sensation from the intimate touch of the hand; a tawse says, ‘this is punishment, this is meant to hurt!’ and oiled leather certainly does. It wraps itself around my cheeks as if made for it. Well, it was, wasn’t it?
And then it’s over for a while. When I’ve cooled off from that session, and my equilibrium is fully restored, he tells me I’ll experience the martinet. He waves it in the air for me to see. The long leather thongs look as though they can’t wait to wrap themselves around my bottom. There’s a lot of me, and they look as though they could cover it all.
We talk again of this and that (almost of cabbages and kings!) while I feel the glow subside and settle, wrapping itself around the sexy nerves that live somewhere down there, below my stomach, right behind the bush of hair that protects me from the sharp edges of chairs over which I have to bend at times.
And when he considers I’ve cooled down, I have to kneel in the chair, holding on to the back of it, and thrust out my bare bottom for the martinet. It’s different again; the sharp sting of each of the thongs is electrifying. He uses it gently, luckily, but the cumulative effect is devastating. Again and again the thongs wrap themselves around my ample cheeks, bringing their own wire-thin strands of pain which build and build to a painful whole. The tips of the thongs wrap around my hip bones, yet don’t cut, not once, they just add to the bite of the implement.
I take it without a word of protest passing my lips. It has all come together to push me towards a screaming climax when he stops. Did he know, I ask myself, and for a long second I’m on the point of demanding a few really hard lashes with the martinet to complete and satisfy the excitement I’m feeling. But the moment passes, there is no point in anticipating the ending, for we are not through yet, and he knows it as well as I do. I climb down from the chair, and we cling together for a long moment.
He’s as excited as I am, but we both know I have yet to sample the delights of one of his collection of canes.
No disciplinary session would be complete without the cane, and he is an expert. I have to warn him not to mark me so I cannot have the caning I would like; we must be careful. I’ve only been allowed to come here on condition I don’t go home marked by cane weals.
He has planned my visit well in advance, giving thought to every aspect of it. For the last session a small work-bench is pushed into the room, covered with cushions and I am invited to bend over it; again a request but almost an
order although I have no thought of refusing. He produces wide webbing with which he secures my wrists and ankles and I cannot move. I surrender all responsibility for what happens to his capable hands.
An ice-cold bottle of water is passed over my cheeks, cooling, almost freezing them. Then he begins tapping me all over with the end of the cane until every bit of me feels as if it is on fire. I cling to the rail, fighting the bonds, wriggling and squirming and trying to escape the bite of the tip which is war-dancing all over me. It seems to last forever.
When I’m good and sore come the mandatory six of the best, not hard but after such careful, painful attention with the cane they bite enough to make me jump – then I release the excitement I’ve been building all the time. The climax has come and gone while I’m being caned, it’s all over. The feeling is unbelievable and indescribable.
Bonds are released, I stand up, rub frantically, and join him on the bed, where we lie together, and he finds his release.
Then I get dressed while he makes more tea, and the unreal feeling is back. We talk as if nothing has happened; as if we were friends meeting to have tea and nothing else; as if I’d not been across his knees, across his bed and everywhere, having my bare bottom tanned with the variety of disciplinary instruments he keeps, on hand; as if my involuntary wriggling was normal.
Then there is the walk back to the station, the thanks, the goodbye kiss, and clutching my ticket I make my way back down into the depths of the earth. It is as if the film rewinds and reverses, quickly rushing backwards through time: the same train going the other way; the same escalator going up instead of down; back through the anthill of Victoria Station; along the road; across the lights and into the coach station to find my coach home.
‘Had a nice day?’ asks the driver as he takes my ticket.
‘Not bad,’ I reply. My smile is inner, secret and very real. The moquette feels just as rough as it did earlier but for a different reason. Then there is the long contemplative ride home.
Will I go again? Of course, if I’m let off the leash again. There was talk of a note next time, to ensure adequate punishment for ‘crimes’ committed at home. My objection was that it’s a long way to be sent for punishment - but boy is it worth it!
Teacher’s Pet
Hmm. I used to teach English at night school...(Ed.)
I’m not all that quick to catch on, so it took me until the middle of the Autumn term to realise why every single woman attending the evening class in English was well- dressed and made up. Now I’m not saying that the women going to the other classes, Spanish. French, basket-making and so on, weren’t dressed up too, but there are always a few, aren’t there, who don’t bother, who arrive in sweat shirt and jeans. But in our class, not a one. Every single female was immaculate. And it was all his fault, John Catherington, the English tutor.
What a name! Smooth as cream, rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? And cream suits him too as a description. He always wore those creamy coloured shirts, and brown tailored suits, or casuals, but always looked as if he’d just walked out of an advertisement for a men’s tailor shop.
His dark hair was greying just a tiny bit at the temples, making him look so distinguished. And as for his looks; was it any wonder a whole class of women were gazing at him with bedroom eyes? Was it any wonder I didn’t realise I wasn’t the only one for so long? I spent all my time gazing at him and hadn’t noticed the others doing the same thing!
Oh the dreams I fashioned around him, how he was swept off his feet by the pure poetry of my prose, the precise logic of my reasoned arguments, the purity of my grammar.
Dreams. The reality was that the ‘A’ level I needed was approaching faster than I cared to think about and my assignments regularly came back covered m red ink! His red ink, which made it easier to take, but red ink on an ‘A’ level paper probably meant no pass - and that wouldn’t do.
The first problem was how to stop daydreaming in class and get some work done. The second problem was how to get this incredibly good-looking person, who seemed impervious to all attempts to beguile him with cosmetics and perfume, to notice little me. I felt swamped by all the elegant beautiful women around me.
I have to confess to the other dreams too. There were the moonlight and roses ones, and the others, when I’d be in his bedroom and gently he’d take my hand, lead me to the side of the bed, ask me so nicely to lie across his knees and I would. Of course I would.
Then with a touch of tenderness he’d gently peel back my clothes. I’d be so proper, with silk petticoat and suspenders to entrance his eyes. He’d lower the knickers, black, edged with lace, of course, until my creamy white bottom met his eyes. Then he’d tell me again, so nicely, that I’d been a bad girl and proceed to spank, left, right, back again. Hard ringing slaps against a background of the litany of my offences; the wrong spelling, bad grammar, misplaced punctuation, all firmly spanked home with a hand that looked firm and strong and probably was. And I’d squirm and writhe against an ever growing bulge – for surely he would enjoy doing it! I wasn’t that bad looking! until we’d both be panting with the effort, me with sore cheeks, him with a stinging palm and then we’d collapse on the floor in a veritable orgy of passionate lovemaking.
Perhaps I’d be allowed to climb atop him, to ride the erection that would go deep, deep inside me, filling every last centimetre of me, length and width. To feel the pressure of his balls on my clit, to feel his hands on my breasts, and to feel my tongue meet his when I finally collapsed onto the big manly chest that was surely hidden beneath the creamy shirts. Dreams. To be satisfied right now with only a slippery vibrator and some KY jelly; not the same thing at all.
Dreams. And like I said, dreams wouldn’t get me a pass. Something had to be done.
But copies of CP magazines kept intruding between me and the boring English study books. I was going mad for a spanking and no one, but no one, was around to do it. Here’s where I also confess that I’d never been spanked, but the idea was tantalisingly sexy and interesting. I was turned on by the stories and pictures and wanted to find out for myself what it really felt like.
All my dreams were pinned on John Catherington, and he didn’t know I existed, except as a name on top of a sheet of paper. When I realised all the other women were yearning after him too. I was frantic with worry. What if one of them got where I wanted to be - in his bedroom? What if she intrigued him so much he didn’t think of anyone else? Worse still, what if he didn’t want to spank me, even if I got that far?
But first I had to get that far. And that was a problem all on its own.
There was one particular night when he didn’t smile as he handed out the corrected papers. It was then that another terrible thought hit me. There might be a Mrs Catherington at home, with curlered head bobbing as she moaned about the lack of money which is why he was teaching evening classes anyway. After all, teachers had enough to do without taking evening classes as well.
I stared at him over the top of my book, longing to comfort him, to take the serious look from his face. Then I looked down at the paper.
Not lay heavy but lie heavily.
You naughty girl!
Now, to be honest, I don’t really remember which was the right way round after all! You’ll have to take my word for it that it was one of them. The words leapt at me, glowing, out of the page. I had the next assignment by my side, waiting to be handed in. I tore off half a sheet, wrote my name at the top and added naughty girls get punished, don’t they? and slipped it in among the papers. Daring! I never thought I’d have the nerve to do such a thing but the Devil drives where needs must, or some such expression. All through the class I denied the temptation to take the note back. I was determined to do something to get noticed even if it was as extreme as writing the teacher a note. ‘Don’t ask - don’t get’ is one of my favourite mottos, and even though I might get more than I origi
nally asked for, if I somehow became teacher’s pet, it would be more than worth it. And after all, he could just laugh and tear up the note, couldn’t he?
Can you imagine the week I suffered? I studied precisely nothing. No, that’s an outright lie, and I’m being honest with you - I studied the colour photos in the magazines, trying to decide which were rouged bottoms and which had actually been smacked before the shutter clicked But I didn’t do the next assignment, because all I could see were his eyes and all I could imagine were his hands.
Monday night dragged itself into my life somehow. I dressed with special care and danced happily down the stairs, out of the door and into the cold night air, where another terrible thought hit me. What if he mentioned it in front of the whole class? What if he really did treat me like a schoolgirl and called me out front? No, he wouldn’t do such a thing, surely? But I worried all the way to the Centre.
He stopped briefly by my side and dropped the assignment on my desk, and said nothing. But he smiled, a sort of secret smile. I scanned the pages to see how much red ink I’d earned this time. Half a bottle, by the look of it. And in the middle of the sheets, a tiny note.
I agree. Naughty girls should be punished.
5pm tomorrow at the above address. I’ll be expecting you. My heart leapt about like a mad thing; butterflies went berserk in my stomach and I felt a curious wetness down there, you know what I mean. I’m not spelling it all out
What chance of concentrating after that? None at all. I somehow went through the motions; listened, asked a question or two, answered nothing, copied off next week’s assignment and walked by his desk without handing in the last assignment. His eyebrows went up but he said nothing. I’d have given a lot to know what he was thinking, though!
So what to wear? A night of fantasy and churning excitement. I settled on a plain skirt and blouse, as near a uniform outfit as I could find, and finally went to sleep, only to dream of his dark eyes.
Cream of the Crop Page 6