by Hilary Chale
“You too,” he said, “but ...
“Had a surprising afternoon?”
“M-m-m!” That splendid warm body held his manhood far up and suspended within her. He could only go further in. He said so.
“Actually or figuratively?” she said.
“Both, I think.” He heaved up further into her. She nodded and took another sip.
“Obviously, we have a cosy little group here. Sort of wife swapping, but we’re not all married. We’re not all hetero, come to that. We simply think that sex if fun. Any sex. All sex.”
“So it is,” he said, and felt the flutter inside her passage.
“We were talking about streaking.”
“Do you have regular meetings, or what?” he said.
“Irregular, I should say, but not infrequent.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Altogether ... number sixteen’s empty and leaving you out for the moment, there’d be about twenty-four, but of course they don’t all come at once. Call it twenty-four sympathisers, but seldom more than seven or eight at a time.”
“Here?”
“We go the rounds, but it’s my turn ... Hence the mattresses. I ‘spect we’ll have visitors.”
“Damn!” he said, and then they both laughed. The expletive was purely formal. She felt the denial inside her. She said:
“And I don’t usually receive naked, either.”
“I’m honoured,” he said.
“Not really,” she said lightly. “There wasn’t much else I could do. It came out of the streaking (which I was beginning to tell you about) during last week’s thunderstorm.”
“I wasn’t here last week.”
“Oh! Well. We, several of us, were here and someone, Angela ... you’ve seen her bottom ... dared me to streak round the block. So I said I would if someone else would. It was raining cats and dogs ... really pelting. We were all starkers anyway, so it was simply a matter of going out into the storm.”
“Yes?”
“Angela didn’t offer to come. So I said that if I went alone I’d dare her back and she said ‘OK’, and I opened the front door and rushed out in nothing but my shoes. There was nobody about, though a lorry did come past. I reckon I beat the Olympic 400-metre record. Actually it was lovely. The rain was warm.”
Julian imagined that body with water drops coursing down the breasts, the belly, into the sex-hair, down the legs.
“So then you got back?”
“Well ... Yes. The front door latch was on and I had to ring the bell and wait until someone came down. It was quite exciting. I had some cane marks on my bum too. New ones.”
“Did you indeed? I didn’t notice on the stairs ... I looked of course.”
She smiled knowingly.
“It had been pretty light ... Stimulating rather than painful ... Not like Angela’s ... No, I don’t suppose they lasted three days.”
“Do you always spank?”
“N-no;” she looked pensive, “not always, but if we’re all girls ... “
“I’d have thought that girls would have got spanked by the men.”
“Oh yes!” she said animatedly, “amongst other things. It’s all very free and easy.”
“I mean I like the idea ... “
“I know, I can feel you liking it.”
“But this isn’t exactly the ideal position ... And yet I don’t want to get out of it.”
There was a clangour of bells downstairs.
“It looks as if your problem may be solved,” she said disengaging very slowly, “can you manage without coming?”
“Talk about the state of the economy.”
She sniggered and pressed a further quarter of an inch up.
There was another loud peal below.
“Promise not to?”
“Promise,” he said.
She knelt up and disclosed his half coupled shaft all shiny with her love.
“It really would be a pity if you shot off now.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Sure? ... In that case, I’m off.”
She pushed herself up between her hands, leaving his heated member standing upright. It was throbbing very slightly, but there was no sign of climax. He put a hand down to hold it.
“You promised,” she said.
“I did,” he replied and put both hands behind his head. She reached the door and set off down the stairs. He heard the surprised babble in the hall and assumed that his hostess had not covered her nakedness on the way down. Then the noise subsided while he lay and wondered and contemplated his pistol. Perhaps they were undressing too. He heard snatches of speech:
“Called Julian?”
“Spank-bot.”
“Ted and Delia are on the way.”
“Upstairs ...”
“Very splendid inside.”
Eventually these developed into whisperings on the stairs. The door opened and Claire came in with a gloriously naked woman.
“Angela,” said Claire formally, “this is Julian ... Turn round, Angela, and prove it. Your identity.”
Angela naked was quite different from Angela with her trousers down. She had a tinkling amused laugh, far away from the grunts and cries which he had heard from her in the gardens. The auburn hair of her triangle contrasted sharply with the brilliant blonde of her head. She looked boldly at him and said:
“No need to move. I see you’re already standing.”
“I’m afraid I’ve only had the pleasure ... “
“Oh, yes,” she said and turned about so that he could see the six stripes of her punishment (if it was a punishment) making their evenly spaced purplish grill across the curves of her muscular backside.
“Did you see me?” he asked.
“No. I was too diverted.”
He was bursting with his question. At that moment, the other woman who had been with her in the gardens, came in, naked like everyone else, holding a handful of canes.
“This is Benedicta,” Claire said.
Benedicta was the conventional mature, dark haired woman with a little bush of hair in each armpit and a hairy pubic mound to match. She was taller than Angela and fuller breasted. Julian wondered about her bottom again. She seemed confident, even commanding. She smiled at Julian, looked steadily at Angela’s behind and said:
“I suppose Claire’s told you all about it.”
“Not really. You rang the doorbell just as we were getting to the, er, essential part.”
“About the streak?”
“Just past.”
“I had just given Claire a caning,” Benedicta said. “Naturally, when she got back in, there was a good deal of discussion about the dare ... “
“... And I said,” Claire said, “what about a public caning.”
“I thought it was a jolly good idea,” Benedicta chipped in. The words were tumbling confusedly from all three as if they were pouring them down onto him. “After all Claire had had to streak with a caned bum, so fair was fair.”
“But the trouble was how to arrange it ... Couldn’t really do it in the street and nobody wanted to do it in the rain,” Angela said.
“You didn’t, darling,” said Claire.
“All right, I didn’t ... And the Benedicta thought of the gardens.”
“The idea was that Angela, as you might expect, should bend over and that I should lay it on, but we weren’t to sure of the venue or how it would work.”
“So Angela and Benedicta did a reconnaissance on Monday.”
“We hardly ever use that lane, y’know: mostly stick to our own patch. So we weren’t sure what we’d find ... And, y’see, if one’s going to have a bare-bottom caning in such a public place one’s got to do i
t so that those in the know can see, and others hopefully, won’t.”
Julian was struck by the matter-of-factness of her attitude but kept his peace.
“As Angela says ... The private gardens are mostly too private. We thought of Ted and Delia’s balcony, but that was too public, and there wouldn’t have been enough room for B. to swing a cane.”
“So,” Benedicta went on, “back to the lane. And then Angela saw the answer. The fences are made of those upright boards: pretty weathered, but you can’t see through them save, I suppose for the odd knot hole and as they’re about seven feet high you can’t see what’s going on in the lane from the ground and lower floors at all.”
“But you can get an idea from the top floors. But, and it was a big but, we had to get Angela’s ass up a bit ... So I went upstairs in my house and watched her climb the gate. Not too high and not too low but just right ... It must’ve looked peculiar to anyone who spotted us.”
This preliminary to the preliminaries acted, as the naked Benedicta and Angela intended, as a kind of foreplay. Julian hardened up again.
“I think I gathered,” Benedicta said, “that we interrupted something when we rang the front door bell.” He laughed.
“Not to worry,” said Claire, “I’m about to resume my rightful position,” and she bestrode him, squatted down till her entrance was exactly above his tip and lowered herself until he began to penetrate.
The bell, of course, rang.
“Hell! Not again! Go down somebody, PLEASE and let them in!”
“What if it’s the milkman?”
“It isn’t: they’re ringing the signal, but if it were, one always lets the milkman in, doesn’t one?”
“Only when hubby’s out,” said Angela as she, bum-welts and all clattered down the stairs, while Claire’s genitals descended so as to ensheath more of his enormous manhood and Benedicta looked quizzically on.
“That’s a twelve-bore gun if ever there was one,” she said. She came of country stock. “I reckon I’m only sixteen-bore meself.”
“May I be your gun-smith?” he said.
“Oy! You’re making me jealous,” Claire said down to him, “and me doing my best to save ammunition ... We don’t want you firing into the brown, now do we ... sixteen-bore indeed! More like semi-automatic with patent ejector.”
“I didn’t know you knew about that sort of thing,” Benedicta retorted, but any possible rejoinder was overwhelmed by the rush of people on the stairs.
Julian, by now, was pistoning very gently up and down into Claire from underneath. She looked at the new arrivals and made a halting gesture, which he followed.
“Our new member,” she said, “Julian, number 11.”
“Paying his subscription?” someone said.
“Big subscription?”
“Yes! I thought I’d better get hold of it quickly.”
“So I see.”
“He saw it all ... and I caught his eye. Presence of mind ... that’s what I showed ... after all, he might have been anybody ... League of Chastity ... Masturbating Methodist ... so the only thing ... well! There was a party due ... the only thing was to compromise him.”
“What!” he shouted.
“You’re up me,” she said sweetly, “you wouldn’t kiss and tell now, would you.”
“You scheming calculating BITCH” he said violently.
“Come up a bit ... scheming I may be. Calculating I had to be, but I absolutely deny that I was a bitch. I’d never have ... you’d never have .. You’d be ...” All of a sudden she dried up.
“I’ve half a mind to ...” he began almost as violently.
“Leave?” she said, “not so easy, really, I’m on top and besides, you really can’t say you haven’t been having fun?”
Ted, one of the newcomers, was rising into a strong erection. Julian noticed it. He seized Claire by the elbows and pulled her body down onto his, so that her breasts were held tightly onto his chest and her mouth was nearly at his mouth.
“If you were adorable, I’d kiss you; but, as you said,” he thrust upwards into her belly, “it’s not so easy really and I’m not on top, therefore I cannot spank you.” He felt the passion passage tighten onto his rod, “but, BUT” and she felt it enlarging into her, “someone else can ... and I’m sure someone like Benedicta would be glad to oblige.”
“Me?” said Benedicta. Her thoughts had been far away and the cane of her imagination had been across Angela’s stripes again, as they often were. “Er ... but of course ... anything to oblige a ... neighbour.”
She put down the bundle of canes on the desk, chose one, turned to Claire’s tightly curved bottom and tapped it. Julian was thrusting slowly upwards and withdrawing downwards. The piston action into her hairy orifice was easily seen between Claire’s legs. The mere suggestion of the tap made them both start to convulse. The cane rose, whistled down and struck fair and square across Claire’s shapely nakedness. Julian and Claire felt the approach of their union.
“Go on, Benedicta.”
Again the cane whistled and struck.
“I’m co-ming!”
It struck.
“Go on. Fill me. Fill my belly with spunk!”
The cane rose and slashed again, leaving a third red welt.
“O-o-o-oh!”
Sarah And Celia
“Have you been a good girl?”
It seemed a curious question to a girl who was nearly twenty, but it had always been asked.
“No, mother.”
“Very well; shut the door.”
Celia would shut the door while her mother turned and stood in front of the chair.
“Tell me about Picton’s English.”
Picton’s was the crammer.
“Good, mother.”
“French?”
“Middling.”
“Maths ... Bad, I suppose?”
“Very bad, mother.”
“Now about yourself?”
Silence.
“Playing with yourself again?”
“Yes, mother.”
“How often?”
“Only on Thursday, mother.”
“In bed?”
“No, mother ... In here when you were out.”
“Very well.”
Mrs Barry sat down. This was the signal. Celia lowered her knickers, raised her skirt and put herself over her mother’s knee. Her mother gave her bare left buttock a hard loose-handed spank. She always began on the left. The next one followed on the right. Both remarkably painful.
Mrs Barry held that Celia should be purged before going to church, therefore she should confess and if necessary be properly spanked before they set out. There had been other moments when Celia’s pants were taken down, but mostly a delinquency could wait until Sunday, for Celia had been spanked every Sunday since she was ten.
The third spank fell exactly on her divide. It always did. The routine as far as the lowering of the panties never varied: only the number of spanks. They began with twelve for general naughtiness, and then went on to particular things. Nine so far. Celia was looking down at the imitation Turkish rug beneath the chair, and as the eleventh spank struck her right bum she focused on a cigarette-end. Twelve.
“Now for the maths,” said Mrs Barry.
“Very bad, mother. I get the cane next time.”
“Do you indeed! In that case I shall make sure it hurts.”
The loose hand came down on the left cheek with a terrific slap. And then on the right ... And then in between.
Mrs Barry looked at her watch.
Three more devastating slaps. Celia winced and gritted her teeth.
“Stick your tush out properly, as you’ve been taught.”
An important part
of Celia’s upbringing had been the ability to meet chastisement. Now she curved it and held the position for the next three slaps and the next three.
“Better ... Your maths were only bad last Sunday. I’d have given you eighteen if they’d been the same, but they’re worse.”
“Yes mother.”
“How may ought you to have? There’s plenty of time.”
This sometimes happened. It was difficult for Celia. If she said too few she would be punished; if too many; well, too many was more than enough. If she did not know, she would be spanked again after church.
“Eighteen more, mother.”
“Very well.”
The thunderous slaps began again while Celia arched her hot haunches and tried to breathe sensibly.
“Eighteen! That make thirty for maths. Forty-two in all ... My hand needs a rest ... Get up, Celia.”
“Yes, mother,” she began to raise herself on her hand, “but ... I’ve just seen a cigarette end on the carpet.”
She stood up, knickers still hanging from her knees.
“Pick it up.”
Mrs Barry went into the kitchen to put her hands under the cold tap. Then she returned and sat down again. Celia had tossed the cigarette end into the fireplace. Now she stepped out of her panties altogether and went over her mother’s knee again. Her skirt was folded back to reveal her now dark scarlet buttocks.
“I hope there weren’t any more horrors,” said Mrs Barry, “I expect that cigarette butt got left because you were too busy playing with yourself.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t there on Thursday.”
“But you were wanking here on Thursday.”
“Yes, mother.”
The slap came to her left fesse with extraordinary suddenness and violence, followed by five others.
“Thank you, mother,” Celia said as usual and made as if to stand up.
“Stay where you are. I have something to say to you.”
Usually this formula presaged a moral lecture and Celia stayed, bottom exposed, waiting for it.
“You’re getting a bit old for spanking,” said Mrs Barry.
Silence. The problem was that they cherished the period between Sunday breakfast and church as something very special. If they had to explain this to anyone or even to each other, they would in their own particular ways have been in difficulty. Of course they both reflected on it, and undertook various sorts of self-indulgent and introspective objective introspection, but their lines of thought led in quite different directions.