Woman on Woman

by Hilary Chale

  “Sassenaches believe that the Scots don’t wear anything under their kilts, is that right?”

  “Men mostly don’t; women mostly do, or at any rate that’s the common opinion. I’m not, because this is a Story of ‘O’ situation.”

  “You mean you never do, or only when you’re feeling, er ... like it?” Susan said.

  “It’s a sort of moral randiness ... comes and goes. It was very strong the other night.”

  “Before you saw my bum, or because of it?”

  “The sight touched something off, but it was already there.”

  “So you went on board without panties?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “But what would have happened if the wind had blown your kilt up, on the gangway for example?”

  “They’d have said ‘a mad Scotswoman’ I suppose ... but in fact it wouldn’t have happened, it’s too heavy.”

  “Would you like to take it off altogether?”

  “In a minute ... after all,” she smiled, “I’ve nothing to hide ... the kilt without the knickers in a public place gives me a secret feeling.”

  “Talking about a different sort of nothingness, there wouldn’t be much point in joining the club if you lived an entirely virtuous life. They don’t cane for trivialities and fantasy confessions are not well received.”

  “I certainly don’t live a blameless life. I’m not for example a virgin.”

  “Ever cheated someone at work, or two-timed someone, or let anyone down, like abused a trust? That’s the sort of thing you need to admit. I mean, not being a virgin these days is nothing by itself. I’m not either, but losing one’s virginity when one has solemnly promised to keep it is different, and so is going to bed with someone else’s husband ... unless of course she agrees.”

  “I suppose it’s easier if you start young.” Fiona stood up and started to unbuckle her kilt. “You were ... how old ... sixteen?”

  “Joined the club at seventeen. My stepmother used to get it all out of me and then take down my knickers, latterly, most often over the corner of the dining room table ... just like this ... but it could be anywhere, over a bed and once in the garden. I was sixteen and half the last time. She really knows how!”

  “And you still get on well?”

  “It may seem odd, but we do.”

  “Something to do with the club?”

  “A sort of fellowship feeling.”

  “How many to you get as a rule?” Fiona slipped her kilt down and stepped out of it, folded it neatly and hot bottomed and totally uninhibited, put it on a chair and then bent over the table again.

  “Usually twelve. It makes me think ... is that what you would like now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m doing it as hard as I can, you know.”

  The studio had some windows towards the sun, which shone through and brilliantly illuminated the scene. Distant street noises emphasised the silence, in which the sound of the double-tailed tawse on the naked curves, sounded like explosions. Actually Susan was using more strength than she thought she possessed and Fiona, by the fourth stroke, was beginning to agonise.

  The fifth stroke fell upon the livid red bum and the sixth stroke added its quota of heat and sheer agony.

  “God ... I’m not sure ...” She looked round as the seventh stroke came. She started to buck.

  “Keep still, I haven’t finished yet ... not by a long way.”

  “Oh, stop it!”

  Crack!

  “Oh please, Susan, please!”

  Susan wound herself for all she was worth into the ninth stroke, as Fiona’s head and shoulders came half up with a choked scream.

  “No, Fiona ... bend over properly, head down. Now stick your backside out.”

  “Give me a moment, Susan,” Fiona pleaded.

  “No, not till you’ve had your complete quota, now stick your bum out.”

  The tawse lashed across the scarlet buttocks. Again the head and shoulders came up.

  “Down again, you’re not sticking it out enough. Two more, but they won’t count if you move.” That terrible slash resounded in the silent room. Fiona was half standing but she got down again very quickly.

  “Still two more to come. You just have to surrender to this and offering your bum is the only way to do it.”

  “I thought I could.”

  “You will, even if I have to take the hide off you.”

  The tawse cracked down again, the fesses bucked and once again the back arched and the head came up.

  “Still two more.”

  Whhhaaaccckkk. Yet again Fiona jerked, but less convulsively.

  “I’ll give you that one. One more, take it calmly ... meet it handsomely.”

  She laid all her strength and weight behind it and Fiona met it, but its fury took her by surprise. The bottom jerked violently and then went still.

  “Expecting another?”

  “Yes,” Fiona half whispered.

  Susan repeated the muscular effort and determination of the last blow. The tawse moved with the speed of light and the blow sounded like a hammer. Fiona controlled herself and met it.

  “Is that it?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Fifteen altogether.”

  “And two sixes, makes twenty seven ... so far.”

  Fiona stood up. They were both panting with the emotional concentration of effort that they had both put into the punishment. Fiona showed her flaming bottom to the large old mirror that was propped against the wall. It was spectacular in the sunlight.

  “That’s a point. I haven’t seen mine since the boat crossing, I’ve a shortage of mirrors.”

  She took her skirt off, lowered her panties to her knees and curved her behind with Fiona in the mirror. Susan’s tramlines were still very prominent. Fiona’s buttocks were turning to a deep crimson, from the top of the cleft almost to the crease. There were two or three lines of an even deeper crimson, where the edge of the tawse had made a special effect, and just beyond the turn of her right fess, it had sharply etched its square end in bright scarlet. To Susan’s hand, the red globes radiated heat.

  “Feel a sense of achievement?”

  “Mmmmm ... wonderful.”

  “All in less than five minutes too.”

  “Really,” said Fiona.

  Susan’s panties dropped to the floor and she stepped out of them. They went back to the table and Fiona sat down very carefully.

  “Dunno about the tawse,” Susan said, “I wonder how long it hurts. I felt my marks on Sunday without sitting down. I was feeling them like mad in the Danish train and I can still feel them now when I sit.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “For the cane, about average. I’ve known worse, sometimes when you tun over in bed.”

  “I’ll let you know how long ... but it hurts and boils like Hell at the moment, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “I think you did rather well. Anyway, I’m going to put you over the table in a few minutes, just to make sure.”

  With a half smile Fiona said, “do you know, I could almost confess.”

  “Could you? It’s often the hardest part.”

  Then Fiona surprised herself. She knelt between Susan’s feet, and started to kiss her pudendum, softly at first, and then in ever greater detail, nibbling her labia with her soft lips, searching the entry, and then, fiercely grasping Susan’s ... ? ... stripes, she pressed the genitals against her face and rasped the clitoris with her tongue until it became suckable. Her own rose of its own accord and for a million years they were on the heights of suspended tension ... then she thrust her tongue as far as she could into Susan’s sex.

  With intuitive understanding, Susan guided her to her feet an
d they went silently downstairs to bed. There she cradled Fiona to her and Fiona whispered in her ear as if they were still in the cabin; sometimes in tears, about childhood temptations, little cowardices, adolescent frustrations, deception in blossoming, guilts and betrayals. She had never shared a bed in this way before. She did not intend a seduction on the ship.

  “Neither did I,” interjected Susan, “I was merely stupid.”

  “Bless your stupidity.”

  It was an intense, desperate attraction.

  “You seem to have a good deal to answer for, but not seduction,” ... she looked covertly at her watch, “we have had confessions of things happening long ago and the club finds them a bit hard to digest all at once. You might have to tell them in instalments ... which would mean very regular attendances and, no doubt, very regular canings.”

  She looked inquiringly at Fiona, who looked expressively back and said:

  “If or when I join.”

  “Do the school incidents which you mentioned half an hour ago, still make you go hot and cold all over?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Upstairs!” She got out of bed and pulled Fiona with her. “Pity there isn’t a cane.” They climbed the stairs. She put Fiona over the corner of the studio table as before and said:

  “I suppose you’d have got four of the cane for each of those three Prep. school things, so I’ll give you twelve now ... Fair’s fair?”

  She rubbed off a tear stain, presented her bruised red rear, set her legs slightly apart and as before buried her face in her arms; and then Susan thrashed her with great force and care, but not slowly. The pain rolled up Fiona’s belly to her throat and came to its cumulative agony because of the speed with which each stroke contributed to the effect of the one before. She panted and panted until she heard herself scream.

  “Ten,” said Susan.

  “Go on.”

  And then it was over, like an orgasm.

  Fiona stood up and felt her scorching bottom with her hands.

  “My God, that hurt,” she said. Susan nodded. “It’s pretty swollen too.”

  “Oh yes! I’d no idea.”

  “Adequately chastised?”

  “I could kiss you again.”

  “I’ll have to go. Pity, but we’ve probably done enough for today. I’ll make a point of telling them at the club ... when it arises.” She pulled an unstamped envelope out of her bag as she pulled up her pants and tore it up.

  “That was my confession about the ship, but I’ve got second thoughts.”

  “What happens to the letters!”

  “They’re read out ... it helps.”

  “Rather than saying it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That puts a different face on it.”

  “Are you thinking seriously of joining?”

  They were going downstairs to the street.

  “When is your next meeting?”

  “Friday fortnight at eight fifteen ... the usual time.”

  “How may do you think you’ll get?” She opened the front door and they stood at the head of the few steps in the bright daylight.

  “Hard to say,” said Susan with a laugh, “I wouldn’t give myself less than twelve, knowing my entries in the big book.”

  “Oh, surely?”

  Susan clattered down the steps and set off. Then she turned.

  “Twenty,” she called gaily, over the head of a man with a barrow, “I can feel it in my ... “

  “I’d like to see that,” Fiona called back.

  Seductions

  Well Darling, you conquered, you saw, you came ... We got a bit busy didn’t we? I said I’ll tell you one day, but then you pushed off to Birmingham again, and so I’m having to answer your letters. I know you take your knickers off when you write, so that’s what I’m doing too.

  No. It wasn’t at all sudden. Quite the reverse. I met Dominic, as you know, at the Potato Growers annual shindig. His trousers bulged against me as we danced, but then they mostly do. In fact I get a bit disappointed if a man doesn’t. I wonder what’s the matter with me ... don’t you?

  “So there,” if I may use the expression, “was I, and there was the puma.” BUT unlike many and more than the few, he danced with one hand firmly on my bottom. Rather nice. Made me feel responsive to the puma, but I didn’t give it any thought because one gets used to that sort of thing, doesn’t one?

  Nothing else much happened that evening, but next day he rang and suggested going to the Palais-de-Dance. So a couple of nights later, there we were. Cheek to cheek. Puma ready to spring. Both hands firmly grasping my bum and drawing my most endearing part against the puma. Ever danced like that? I grasped him near as poss: the same way. Very intimate and sexy but you have to mind your step, and not fall over the feet which you can’t see ... We ... I didn’t. We attracted a good deal of attention one way and another.

  Towards closing time we went out into the yard for a feel. There was a dark corner hidden by a pile of beer kegs. He put his hand, as expected, up the back of my skirt and started to pull down my panties, so I put mine up the side of it and helped him. They came down double quick. Then he undid his top button and there, really, was the puma. I sort of leaned back against a beer keg and found that getting pumaed like that was wildly uncomfortable. It’s all metal rims and things which stick into the most awkward places, especially when I tried to do a Mother Brown. He realised this. I don’t think he planned it. The yard was the only place instantly available. But anyway, he turned me round, bent me over, parted them at the right point, and hey-presto, the puma was in. Jolly well in.

  I have actually had it doggy-fashion (if a puma can do it to a bitch) before. I rather liked it the first time and this time too. Dunno if everybody does. Do you? Perhaps it’s a question of lay-out. If one cylinder is at the same angle as his piston, it’ll work. If not, not ... but I suppose anyone can adjust a bit, if only they will, unilaterally or mutually or something. Anyhow, I was reasonably comfortable and feeling disembodied across two kegs and he was pushing it in and out until ... dammit ... it suddenly began to rain. Whoosh! Down it came. Trousers up; skirts down and skeddadle. So that was that. Left my knickers behind too, and haven’t been able to retrieve them. The beer delivery men must have laughed ... And it felt funny going home all bare, below.

  I didn’t hear from him for a week, and then he popped a note in, suggesting supper. Meet a Tiggywinkle’s ... you know; the wine bar ... and go on from there.

  Now this is funny. My reaction when doing myself up for this, was to look, besides everything else, at my bottom. As he had been screwing me from that direction in the yard, he had looked (long and hard) at it, so I suppose cosmetically it was sensible: but he couldn’t have seen much in the dark. Probably a sort of subliminal anticipation. Know anything about cosmetics for bottoms?

  I must break off for the post. To be continued in my next, darling Jan.

  Esther.

  Darling, I wasn’t trying to make you all agog ... Well, not much. Not really. Oh well! Yes! As per instructions, I’ve now got a cane. School outfitters selling off cheap. Yes! I’ll drop my pants if you’re still in the mood, but meanwhile, as they say, the scene has shifted to Tiggywinkle’s Wine Bar.

  Naturally I looked straight at the right place when we met and there was the caged puma. When one’s wearing jeans, men always stare boldly at one’s right place. It’s the best reason for wearing them. We had a drink at the bar and then moved to a table to eat. The conversation was, shall I say, penetrating. A rush job, really. He evidently wanted to screw: I wasn’t averse. He was soon inquiring about the origins and how naughty I had so far been. I told him very little and asked him whether the puma was always ready, like that.

  “Like this?” he said, and caught my hand under the table and laid it on the rig
ht place. “Usually.”

  “Even alone?” I asked him.

  He only had to think the right things. Didn’t I? Of course we all do, don’t we, Jan? Lovely, lovely right things.

  The he suggested going upstairs. I didn’t know there was an upstairs, but he had booked a room. Splendidly decorated. Huge double bed.

  Mirror mirror on the ceiling,

  Do reflect that sexy feeling.

  I’ve never met it before, have you? Actually it encourages ladies under missionaries and Romans under matrons, which was not what he wanted. Head down, rump up, knees apart as soon as we had undressed, and then he took me lovely and slow. This was definitely IT ... Remember that I hadn’t come in the yard: rain stopped play. This time it went on and on. He was kneeling straight up all the time, and so I was glad that I had inspected my bottom beforehand. He liked to see it when he was on the backstroke. I soon cottoned on that he liked to see more. He hadn’t been entirely explicit about naughtiness earlier, but I thought I had caught the drift. Anyway, I let it open, the way it does ... slowly ... and he put his hands so that there was a thumb on either side and helped it. It’s an attractive feeling: better than having it fingered, because, I suppose, one is generating expectations. As it was virgin I didn’t know what to expect. Is yours virgin? But whatever I expected, I was terribly, terribly hopeful. The nearest I ever got was a suppository in a hospital and Pat, the nurse, was almost as nice as you.

  Then he let out a sort of grunt with a question mark and I replied with a grunt and an exclamation mark. He came out of my Big Slit. The puma was all wet and oily and he pressed it up between his thumbs, and sank it steadily in. It hurt like hell, widening my sphincter, but I can’t tell you how much I wanted it. I had no idea that I could actually want such intense pain. It was not at all like the first break into my slit. The pain lasted much longer before it subsided and then he was deliciously far inside my bottom. I wish Pat’s suppository had been half as big as that! Candles? Ever tried one?

  Now I had thought that he would fill my bum up, but that I would have to revive him so as to get him into the usual channel to raise me over my climax. Not a bit of it! I began to rise and rise and rise. I can’t describe it, but you know how very intensely one can make oneself when one is frigging for some special thought. Something like that, but bigger, wider, higher ... everything. I said I was coming. then he really began to ram me. Do rams do it? Dogs do. I’ve seen them when a bitch is not available. We came like rockets at about the same time. Nice imaginations afterwards too. Rectum full of him and very loose hole. I’m not sure that I would ever have done it if he hadn’t pushed me, but I’m glad I did and I’d do it again, given the right ambience. After all, if the Good God has given me two enjoyment entrances, who am I to spurn the gift?