by Penny Birch
I ran for the chair, placing it in a dry patch to the side of the door. Standing by it with my hands folded in my lap, and my head hung, I waited for him. It was the pose I’d always imagined Susan being in when I fantasised about spanking her. Now I was doing it, and I was about to get the same treatment I had always wanted to give her. I resolved to take it well, allowing my feelings to show but not making an undignified display.
Henry approached, his expression one of cool amusement as he seated himself. He patted his lap, kind but authoritative. I obeyed his gesture, glancing at his face and then lowering myself across his lap with a reluctance that was not completely fake. His arm curled around my waist, pushing down the small of my back and fixing me in place. I hung my head down and shut my eyes, intent on the physical sensation of what was happening to me. My skirt moved against the sensitive flesh of my thighs and I realised that he had hold of it. Despite my willingness this came as a shock, and a little shiver passed through me.
I had always tried to appear mature and controlled in front of Henry, and I’m sure he didn’t realise just how inexperienced I really was. Certainly he seemed entirely indifferent to the feelings of shame and panic that were welling up in me as he lifted my skirt. When I’d sucked his cock I’d been fairly drunk, which had helped to keep my inhibitions down. Now I was feeling the full humiliation of my position, and the disgrace of making a sexual display of myself.
He lifted my skirt slowly and, by the time I knew my pants were showing, I was almost in tears. I was trembling, too; I was feeling a mixture of sexual excitement and utter shame far stronger than I had imagined it would be even when masturbating over being spanked. It was no fantasy now, but reality. His thumb was in the waistband of my panties, pulling them open so that he could see down the back of them; easing them slowly down, exposing my bottom inch by inch. The edge of the elastic popped over the tuck of my cheeks and I knew I was bare. I could feel the air cool on my nakedness, and Henry’s eyes burning on to my nude bottom.
He settled my panties around my thighs, chuckling to himself as he adjusted his position to force my bottom higher into the air. For some reason it felt very fat and very prominent – a wobbling ball of flesh that I could do nothing to hide or protect. The urge to cry had retreated, but I was breathing heavily, almost panting, as I braced myself for my beating.
Henry’s hand came to rest on my bum, pushing in as if to test my texture. The hand lifted and I started to whimper and kick in anticipation of the slap. It didn’t happen, which made it even worse. I knew I wasn’t being very brave. In fact I was being pathetic, especially when I thought of how blissfully Susan had offered her bottom to Ginny and myself.
Instead of commencing my spanking he put his hand back on my bottom and began to stroke. He was very gentle and I found myself soothed by the light caresses on my bare skin. He did it as if he were stroking a cat; long motions that ensured my whole bottom got an even share of attention. Sometimes he’d cup a cheek and squeeze it, and occasionally his little finger would brush my crease, nudging the hair only an inch from my anus. This began to make my pleasure rise faster, but also increased my humiliation. I began to wonder if he’d pull my cheeks open to inspect the little hole, or maybe spread my legs to show off my fanny as well. Actually, I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t already showing; it’s hard to know when you’re head down over someone’s lap.
‘Oh well, I suppose I’d better be merciful,’ he said, abruptly halting his exploration of my bum.
I thought he was going to let me down and I immediately got a sharp pang of disappointment. That wasn’t what he meant, though. His grip changed and, an instant later, his hand landed hard, right in the centre of my plump, naked seat. I squealed in shock, only to get another smack a bit lower and even harder. The third landed and then the fourth – too close together to allow me to compose myself – then more in a hard, relentless rhythm that immediately had me kicking and squealing. It stung crazily and I quickly lost any hope of retaining the slightest shred of dignity. I knew my legs and bum-cheeks were opening as I thrashed, and that Henry was being given extremely intimate flashes of my fanny and bottom-hole. I didn’t care, though, just as long as my desperate wriggles reduced the pain of my spanking.
I could feel the shocks going right through me, but especially my sex. As he continued, the pain receded, a warm throbbing feeling replacing it. My bottom felt hot and deliciously sexy as he continued to slap at my bouncing cheeks. It was really starting to arouse me, making me feel warm and yielding. I knew my squeaks and protests had turned to sighs and uninhibited grunts of pleasure and, at that moment, would gladly have submitted to a heavier beating or the penetration of my mouth or vagina, even of my anus, with anything short of a cock.
Henry stopped suddenly, pushing me off his lap to sprawl on the ground. My bottom was burning and throbbing and I couldn’t help pushing my hips back and forth as if hoping for entry. He made no move to take advantage of me and I returned slowly to my senses, getting to my feet and pulling my pants back up under my skirt.
‘Thank you,’ I said, still somewhat breathless.
He smiled back. His face was quite red, as was the palm of his hand.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, shaking his hand ruefully, ‘although I fear that even with a bottom as well upholstered as yours a hand spanking is not entirely painless to administer. Maybe I should have used a hairbrush.’
‘Another time,’ I answered, blushing at his reference to the size of my bottom.
‘And so to work,’ he continued. ‘You will find that having been spanked adds greatly to your enjoyment of the task, as will your nakedness.’
I remembered that I was supposed to do it in the nude and quickly began to peel my clothes off. I handed each item to Henry, finishing with my bra and panties. Even though he’d seen everything and had just spanked me, I still found myself blushing as I bared my breasts to him. I then hesitated and turned my back to him to take off my pants.
‘Very pretty,’ he remarked as he took my discarded knickers. ‘Now put your hands on your head and turn around.’
I obeyed, blushing red as I showed off for him. He admired my naked body with a casual, almost proprietorial expression, although I’d half expected him to take his cock out. He evidently had more control as, once I had turned around a couple of times, he told me to stop.
‘Stick your bottom out. Let me see how red it is,’ he said.
I did as I was told, showing him the effects of my spanking.
‘Very pretty,’ he repeated. ‘Put your boots back on, go and look at yourself in the mirror, and then you had better start work. Oh, and put a ribbon in your hair.’
I followed his instructions, running up to my room to fetch a big red ribbon and then going into the bathroom to look at myself. My bum showed a deep pink in the mirror with occasional darker marks on the crests of my cheeks. The spanking had brought goose bumps up, too, making my poor bottom look sensitive and thoroughly beaten. I admired myself for a while, even bending down and opening my cheeks to show my fanny and bumhole. I had to admit that I looked sexy; at least my reflection was certainly adding to my already considerable sexual high.
Naked but for Wellington boots and my red ribbon I went back outside. Henry was still sitting in the chair, but had fetched a couple of things while I was upstairs. One was a book on pig keeping, which he was reading with a nonchalance that I hoped was at least partly put on. The other was a long, wicked-looking cane with a crook handle which immediately put a lump in my throat. He caught my look of apprehension and returned a sinister grin.
I’m obstinate, and don’t back down easily, but just for a moment as I looked at that sleek, threatening implement designed specifically for girls’ bottoms, I wondered if I could handle it. As it was my bum was warm and rosy and, as Henry had predicted, I felt pliable and submissive. Maybe if I hadn’t been so turned on it would have been different, but I doubt it.
‘We’ll start from now, shall we?’ he sa
id, glancing at his watch. ‘I make it eight minutes to ten o’clock. I’ll be generous and give you until one before your penalty time begins, but if you delay my lunch, then woe betide you.’
I hastened to my task, trying to figure out the best way to do it even as I ran for the stable. Inside was truly filthy, with the grime of years mixed with cobwebs, mud and old leaves. The obvious first step was to get everything out and clean the room, then I could worry about making it all spick and span. I wasn’t going to chicken out, but if I could avoid the cane by fair means I certainly would.
Two and a half hours later I realised that I was going to do it. The room was scrubbed and clean and the fittings on the walls painted glossy black, as were the metal parts of the pony-cart. I had done the woodwork in a mid-green, as it was the only other paint I could find, yet the pony-cart certainly looked smart when I had finished. I had oiled and polished the harness, leaving the leather supple and shiny and the brassware gleaming. There were one or two places were corrosion and age had made a really good finish impossible but, as it was nearly thirty years old, I felt I had done a pretty good job. I’d had to lay it out on the floor because of the wet paint, but I didn’t feel that I could be criticised for that. There had also been various posts, stakes and oddly shaped bits of wood at the back. I had no idea what they were for, but cleaned them and painted them black anyway. Odd flakes of old paint remained here and there, so I had used the green paint to imitate the patterns as best I could.
Personally I was considerably less smart than the room and gear. I was running sweat for one thing, the day having become considerably warmer since I’d started. I was also fairly liberally smeared with paint and mud, not to mention oil, brass polish and various cleaning fluids. Still, no part of my orders said I had to be clean, and so I contented myself with hosing off the worst of it before making my final inspection. I had done everything possible, leaving nothing that could be fairly criticised.
I declared myself ready for inspection at exactly one o’clock, Henry rising from his chair and sauntering over to the stable. He had collected a notebook and pencil earlier and now held these as he looked at the results of my three hours of hard work.
‘Hmm, fair,’ he remarked, tapping his pencil against his chin. ‘Sadly I’m afraid it is not good enough for you to escape a beating.’
‘Why?’ I protested.
‘Well, for a start my racing colours are crimson and black,’ he answered. ‘This green colour is quite inappropriate and in fact is the colour I used for the front door.’
‘I couldn’t find anything else!’ I protested, feeling distinctly piqued at the injustice of his criticism.
‘Don’t be a brat or it will be two strokes per error,’ he chided me.
I shut up, looking on as he went over things and feeling increasingly sulky as he tutted and hummed to himself.
‘Right,’ he finally announced, drawing a line under the column of ticks he had made in his notebook. ‘First there is the use of the wrong colours. Second, the paint is still wet –’
‘Hey!’ I interrupted.
‘Amber,’ he replied warningly.
I shut up again as he continued.
‘Third, you have not put everything back in place. Fourteen objects in total, tut tut, Amber. Item seventeen is then the flat tyre on the cart and I feel I should add two strokes for corrosion on the brassware: one because you did the lock but forgot to polish the key, and one for your surly, petulant attitude. That makes twenty-one, but I think twenty-four is a better number, don’t you?’
‘No!’ I protested. ‘I couldn’t help any of those things, and you’ve no right to add three strokes just because I’m sulky about getting the cane when I haven’t really done anything to deserve it. It’s not fair!’
‘A single word will release you from your obligation,’ he reminded me.
I looked at him, feeling the tears start in my eyes at the sheer injustice of what was about to happen to me. He was looking down at me, stern and self-satisfied, certain of his right to put the cane across my bare bottom. I felt humble and weak, a bad girl objecting to a just punishment simply because she doesn’t want it. I thought of backing down but I couldn’t. Standing naked and filthy in front of him, my bottom still pink where he’d spanked me, I realised that I did actually want the cane. The tears were running freely down my cheeks as I got down on my knees in front of him.
‘Well?’ he asked, tender yet still forceful.
‘Beat me, please,’ I sobbed.
‘That’s better,’ he answered. ‘Now kiss my boots.’
I obeyed, putting my lips to each shiny toe cap and tasting the mixture of leather, polish and mud.
‘Good, you’re learning,’ he continued. ‘Now crawl out into the yard.’
Once more I obeyed, following him on all fours as he strolled out into the bright sunlight. Most of the mud had dried, but he made sure that I ended up in the middle of a fair-sized puddle of it. My tears had stopped, to be replaced with an intense feeling of trepidation as they dried on my cheeks. Henry kicked my boots gently, making me open my thighs and present him with my parted bottom.
‘Down,’ he ordered. ‘Put your breasts in the mud and pull your back in.’
The cool water touched my nipples as I responded, stopping with my face an inch from the surface. I arched my spine, knowing full well that the action made my bottom part yet further and would fully reveal my fanny and anus to the man who was about to cane me. It felt shameful and dirty but also so good, unrestrained and somehow irresponsible because, after all, I was only doing as I was told.
If I was accepting of making an exhibition of myself, then the thought of punishment was hard to take. He walked away and I watched his retreating legs out of the corner of my eyes. My heart gave a jump as he picked up the cane and flexed it experimentally. He was really going to do it – beat my poor red bottom and leave me with twenty-four welts to teach me to do as I was told and do it properly. At a deep level I knew it was fantasy play, but it felt real and it wasn’t going to make the caning hurt any less.
As he walked back I found myself kicking my feet in the mud in the agony of anticipation. He came to stand next to me, gauging his stroke. The cane tapped my bottom, right in the middle. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. There was a swish …
And nothing. Henry had deliberately cut the cane through the air to make me think it was going to land on my bum.
‘Bastard!’ I whispered, teeth still clenched against the expected pain.
‘Now, now,’ he remarked. ‘Temper, temper.’
I had relaxed a tiny bit, only to catch the first real stroke of the cane full across my bottom when I was least expecting it. I yelped and bucked, instinctively reaching back to rub my stinging bottom. I could feel a roughened line where it had raised a welt and, for some reason, this really turned me on. I got back in position and stuck my bottom up, again bracing myself while I thought of the strange feeling of the line of roughness on my own flesh.
The second stroke was worse; perhaps because I was a expecting it, perhaps because it was harder. Looking behind me I realised that he was being a lot softer than he need have, applying the strokes with only about half the swing he might have done and not really putting his weight into it at all. Realising this, I found myself wanting it harder, but didn’t know why. The third stroke landed, again making me squeal and jerk. Half of me was begging him to stop, incredulous at why I should allow myself to suffer such pain and humiliation. The other half wanted more, and harder.
‘Harder please, Henry,’ I whispered, looking at my tear-stained reflection in the puddle beneath me.
My mouth was slightly open, my eyes wide and wet with tears. It looked really exciting to see myself like that, and another thought immediately came into my head: the need to see someone else in the same position. The next stroke caught me and I gasped at the impact, then again at the next, harder still and immediately afterwards.
He started to cane me prop
erly, then – hard, rhythmically and methodically – always waiting just long enough between strokes to allow me to get back into my proper position when my legs kicked out or I wanted to feel the growing cluster of marks on my poor, whipped bottom. By twelve I was whimpering; by eighteen my face had gone into the mud and was covered in it; when the twenty-fourth fell my knees were as far apart as they would go and I had slid a hand back between my legs, intent on finding my clitty and taking myself to orgasm.
‘Twenty-four,’ he said merrily, ‘and well taken for a beginner.’
‘Carry on, Henry,’ I begged, starting to rub at my clitty.
‘Tut tut, my girl, we’ll have none of that,’ he answered, running his fingers over my bottom to feel the welts. ‘This was just to get you in the mood. Now I intend to give you some basic pony-girl training, so it’s time you got into your harness.’
‘Please,’ I said, ‘I want to come.’
‘Patience,’ he answered, but smacked the cane across my bottom again anyway.
‘Please, Henry, cane me,’ I pleaded, still rubbing at myself. I didn’t want to come without the added thrill of the cane smacking against my unprotected bottom, but knew I’d do it anyway.
‘Oh, very well, you have been a bit of a brat so I dare say you deserve it,’ he said, planting another hard stroke across my cheeks.
I started to concentrate on my orgasm as he once more began to cane me. My bottom was on fire, but it was all pleasure now, a burning sensation that made me dizzy. Being called a brat had added to it, triggering a fantasy I’d previously enjoyed. I imagined myself a stable girl, which I really had been the previous summer. The owner had decided to punish me for cheeking him and had made me strip and work in just my wellies. Then he’d made me kneel nude in front of all the other staff, and had beaten me with them all watching in delight and laughing at me.
I started to come, yelling at Henry to beat me harder as my orgasm rose up inside me and burst, flooding me with a sensation as blissful as any I had had before and compounded by the pain in my bottom. The cane struck again, making me scream from the unbearable intensity of it all, then it was past and I was relaxing, sinking slowly down on to the mud only to have the cane strike again.