by Hilary Chale
Celia did not remember the beginning but she did have a dim recollection of taking her pants off herself and showing her bum to her mother. The habit of the spanked bottom had started early and it had become a perfectly ordinary part of her life. It had begun with gentleness intended to give pleasure and had imperceptibly risen so that punishing strength had at first been noticeable only because it had been announced as punishment. The systematisation into s Sunday pre-church purge had come slowly: starting with a moment after breakfast each day, but opening out into rarer bigger spankings and as they became more widely spaced and painful, Celia took a growing comfort from them. She could tell her mother anything and be chastised and feel innocent again. It was Celia, indeed, who had felt naughty about her pudendum at the Pony Club. She had turned aside on the way home into the disused shed belonging to the Methodist chapel and there she had unzipped her jodhpurs and sat astride the bar of the old garden roller and, by grasping the upright handle for a purchase, had rocked her virgin orifice on the bar and into a high and hitherto unexplored excitement with which she had no idea what to do. She rocked and rocked and had forgotten when she was expected home.
It is time to look rather more closely at Sarah Barry. She was still only thirty-three, having given birth to Celia at nineteen. Her husband had died two years later after a motor accident, leaving her the house and some money. Sex had been her major interest ever since she discovered that she was a woman. Men, and especially what hung between their legs, she found most obsessive. She wanted a man, no matter who, to bore his big way into her slit and up her narrow channel to the centre of her belly. The thought, often engineered, electrified her so that sometimes she did not even have to touch herself.
It was one of these extreme and dream-like states that she first got what she wanted: but not quite as she had imagined it. He had smiled at her as she overtook him in the double-hedged footpath. He had asked her if it led the Birchton and they walked side by side, his thigh sometimes just touching hers. They had stopped to admire the view, leaning over a stile. His hand had caressed a buttock and then felt in between. Her desire had flowed down her sheath. She never remembered making any sort of signal, but her skirts were up, her pants were off and she was bending nearly double over the stile, so that his massive horn-hard blade could cleave its way through her quivering, willing resistance. She had, like most virgins, conventional ideas. She had expected weight between arms and knees, welcomingly opened for the screw. Now she was being seized with a wonderful violence to which she could oppose only hymeneal resistance, as the hot hard bore connected his two globes with the rear entrance to her belly. The widening pressure grew ever more painful and desirable. It hurt! God how it hurt! But she wanted it to go on and on. Did she but know it, his was the biggest penis, hers the narrowest passage in the county. So the struggle between her buttocks continued while she rose and rose until she felt ...
“I’m coming,” she gasped.
“Not what you’ll get when I’ve finished up you.”
“Oh-h-h. I’m ...” And her belly began to heave with the uncontrolled longing and the pain. And the he began to rut her with long slow strokes like a battering ram breaking through the wicket into the Castle of Delights.
“I’m still ... Are you raping me?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“I want to be raped ... I want to be forced ... I want to be hurt ...” A vision of a flailing whip across a pair of naked fesses flashed in and out of her imagination.
“Time for that later.” And then she felt something widen and burst somewhere far inside her personality. The shaft slid in until his belly was pressing hard against her cheeks and all the world went dark in the upheavals of mutual passion.
Later they were lying in the sun; she, pantless and up-skirted on her back. He with his towering manhood increasing with thought. She said:
“You said ‘later’.”
He rolled to her, pressing his knees between hers so as to force her legs open. Seizing the lips of her sex and folding them open with his thumbs, he waited for a moment. Then he pinioned her arms, pressed his strong body down on hers and ran the full length into her at a single lunge.
“Ow!” she squealed, and as she raised her knees for him, that vision of a whip across a pair of buttocks came again and went; but this time he was deliberately treating her rough, yet forcing her to her climaxes ... After a time, he said:
“I’ve half a mind ...” And then stopped.
She felt his hands feeling round and grasping the curves of her arse.
“What?”
But she knew the answer to her question. She had already seen it twice in her mind.
She and John Thomas were married a year later, and in the interval they made use of the close-hedged country to share a whip between them. He had bought it at the Caneham Fair: she had put her pants in her handbag and in a secluded place had raised her skirt and stuck her bum out for it. It had been as much a revelation as the crash through her hymen. The sting had filled her body. Besides being a part of their sexuality it entered into their moral system. If one of them did something of which the other disapproved, the delinquent was taken to a private place where hinder parts were bared, chastisement was inflicted and a glorious sexual reconciliation followed; and though she had been the first to be whipped, they carried this on in perfect confidence and equality.
Pregnancy and Celia’s birth made little difference: what really did make problems, as one might expect, was John Thomas’s death. Sex is easy for an attractive widow to come by: a special moral compact quite another matter. There were, naturally, moments, usually after a party, when she found herself under some eager young man, but these casual tumbles had their disadvantages. None was as well armed as John Thomas, and if corporal punishment was even delicately introduced into the talk, they would shy off like startled ponies.
Meanwhile Celia was getting bigger and growing into the spitting image of her mother. She looked and felt and seemed to behave like her. When Sarah felt her own smooth skin, she might as well be feeling Celia’s. When Celia was fractious, she could be calmed by gentle slaps on a naked bottom which seemed like Sarah’s own. When naughty, her knickers would come down just like Sarah’s, only there was a great void in Sarah’s life, for there was nobody for whom she could drop hers.
So she concentrated on Celia as any mother of an only daughter would, but the difference was that this daughter was constantly, but not cruelly spanked, and learned, like her deprived mother, to love it. The fact that the two were so very alike was perfectly obvious: what Sarah did not fully realise was that she was making Celia’s upbringing a substitute for the things she missed herself.
It was sometime after the establishment of the Sunday morning spanking that Celia got back very late from the Pony Club. She had hoped to sneak in ... but no such luck! They met on the doorstep.
“What’ve you been up to? Pony Club finished an hour and a half ago.”
“I came back slowly, mother.”
Sarah noticed that tell-tale ‘Mother’ which Celia used only when she was feeling guilty or being spanked.
“Half a mile in an hour and a half? Where did you stop?”
“At the Bethel, mother.”
“Bethel? Why on earth? There wouldn’t be anyone there.”
She looked very hard at her embarrassed daughter, realised that Sex Had Arrived, somehow or other, and changed gear.
“It happens to everybody, darling. You’d better tell me how it happened to you.”
She put an arm round her shoulder and guided her indoors, sat her down in the sitting room, pulled her pants gently to her knees and put her across her lap.
“Tell me,” she said stroking the rounded globes. But Celia did not know how to begin. After a long silence her mother said:
“Did anyone touch you?”
“Oh, no, mother.”
Relief.
“Did it start when you were riding?”
“Yes I ... felt all excited ... inside.”
“So what happened at the Bethel?”
And then with minor expurgations the story was told.
“Did you go over the top?”
“I don’t know ...”
“You probably didn’t, because otherwise you’d know. It’s a thing which you can’t describe, but recognise at once.” There’s nothing bad in this you know and I’m not going to spank you for this now, except for fun ...” She gave the bottom a little one ... “but you’d better tell me on Sunday mornings if you’ve done it. You see, everybody does it and some do it quite often, which is supposed to be a mistake ... so if we both know.”
“Do you do it, mother?”
“A little, but I used to do it a lot before I met your father.”
“Were you spanked for it?”
“I had nobody to tell.”
And now Celia was approaching twenty, and her mother apparently wanted to stop. She asked what else she had in mind.
“Oh well! It’s only ten days to the end of term. The Sunday after next we’ll be in France.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Celia said. A tremendous right hander landed on her left fesse and another on her right.
“That’s for impertinence! Also you’ve got a lot to learn. France is the home country of sex AND they sell martinets in the supermarkets. Know what they are?”
“Yes, I think so.”
And then hot bottomed and demure she accompanied her mother to church.
The next Monday, her mathematics report was calamitous.
“Another very bad?” her mother inquired after looking her up and down. Celia said grimly:
“I need a pair of punishment pants.”
“When does it happen?”
“Tomorrow, during lunch.”
“During lunch! It’s too late for the shops now. I’ll have to get them for you in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“Will everyone be there?”
Celia nodded.
“We have to go to lunch wearing our caners.”
“‘S that what you call ‘em? I suppose the outfitter will have them ... So if I go early I can get them to you at break.”
“They have to fit exactly, Mum.”
“In that case I’d better measure you ... Naked.”
Celia nodded again.
“The tape measure’s in the kitchen dresser.”
Celia collected it and then came back and took her clothes off. Sarah took the waist measurement and made a tiny biro mark middle, front and back where the tape had gone round, remarking:
“If they have to fit exactly I’ll have to measure under and through.”
Then came the measurement round the buttocks, followed by the circumference of each leg at crotch level, and finally the measurement from mark to mark under the vagina.
“I think yours are the same as mine, near as dammit. Let’s see.”
And to Celia’s astonishment she took off her skirt and knickers, and passed the tape to Celia. The marks were duly made as the tape was passed round the waist and then it was put round Sarah’s smooth bottom and legs. The figures were the same.
“Shall I put it underneath, or will you?”
“You do it, Celia.”
“Are you going to get some caners too, Mum?”
The two had been intimately physical for years. A girl cannot otherwise lie, spank-bottomed, across her mother’s lap, but she had never previously had an intimacy with her mother’s body. The tape, pulled firm between the marks, showed nearly half and inch more.
“My vagina is bigger than yours ... naturally.”
The mutual resemblance of mother and daughter had lately become a matter of widespread remark. Might be twins ... Dunno which I’m talking to ... was the reaction to this pair of fair-haired full breasted and buttocked women with virtually interchangeable faces.
“It’s one way that some people may be able to tell us apart,” Sarah added with a confidential smile.
“What’s it like having a man, Mums?”
“Absolutely marvellous if you get the right one.”
“In sex lessons at school they said it might hurt.”
“If you get the right man, it’s bound to hurt at first, however careful he is. But don’t get me wrong. It may hurt like hell the first time, but it’s wonderful, and I wouldn’t ever, ever have missed it for all the world.”
She spoke with a passion which was so rare in Celia’s life the she looked at her and saw a different woman.
“But if you get the wrong one, it may not hurt, but you’ll be disappointed too.”
“Does it go on hurting?”
“Oh no! The second time, perhaps, but no more than that.”
“Is the right man, the one who has a big one?”
“In principle ‘yes’ but really it’s a matter of attitude. Some men are hopeless regardless of size: some are the greatest fun even if rather small.”
“I wank about big ones, Mum.”
“I expect you do.”
“Have you had a lot of men, Mum?”
“I’m not quite sure what ‘a lot’ means, but ... Oh! Might as well be frank ... I’ve had sex quite often since your father died, not always with the same man. You know I’ve never actually added it up before but in fifteen years I think I’ve had about nineteen men ... Some more than once,” she added hurriedly.
“Are you a prostitute, Mums? In sex lessons they said a prostitute was somebody who has lots of men.”
Sarah laughed.
“I’m sure I don’t qualify by quantity and anyway a prostitute does it for money.”
They started to put their knickers on. Even their pubic hair, Sarah noticed, was the same.
“Sorry to revert to a disagreeable subject, but, er, what colour?”
“They’re all the same, Mums.”
This conversation-stopper brought on supper, homework, Telly and bed. Sarah gave Celia a slight but unusual hug with the good-night kiss. What she meant (silently) was that she might take a hand in Celia’s mathematical education. No doubt she deserved the cane, but it was a shame to see her so worried about the university retake.
In the morning she drove Celia to Picton’s as usual (“See you at the gate, Mum”) and went on to the outfitters. In most establishments corporal punishment were private matters, if they existed at all. At Picton’s not only was it done in full public, but because she was suddenly buying caners, it might be all over the town ... It was the Sports department which, rather whimsically dealt in such matters. It occurred to her that buying two pairs might reduce the gossip because it would be less specific.
Now that was where there was a difficulty. She had wrestled overnight with a problem, doubtless arising out of the affinity between herself and Celia. Yes! She would try and teach her. As if happened, she was a fair mathematician, so it was mostly a matter of brushing up the curriculum. But she blamed herself for not starting sooner, perhaps even at school. She had even begun to wonder if it was she rather than Celia who ought to bend over at lunch time. It was an amusing thought but impossible of course, alike as they were. People’s instincts would rumble it; her own behaviour would give her away.
An assistant appeared at the counter.
“I would like two pairs of punishment pants and a cane, please.”
“Yes, Madam. Have you the measurements.”
She handed over the paper slip.
“I don’t think there’ll be any difference between them, Madam. I’ll just see.”
After a time the assistant came back with a cane.
“We have the larger size and we can take another in for you.”
“All right, but can you be quick? I want to take them within the hour.”
“Certainly, Madam. Is this the cane you wanted, or would you prefer a thicker one?”
“A little thicker, please.”
She went away to give the instructions and when she came back with the thicker cane (bulb handled and straight) Sarah told her that she was going out and would be back soon.
“I’ll put this in an envelope for you and parcel the pants up separately ... will it be cash or account?”
It dawned on Sarah that she had not seen this assistant before, so Celia could preserve her anonymity.
“Cash,” she said over her shoulder as she went down to buy text books. Twenty minutes later she was back with her two books. The long slim triangle of the envelope looked as if it held a saw-blade. The two packages lay beside it. She paid, picked them all up and walked self-consciously out to the car park. The envelope and one package she put in the boot; the other on the seat beside her. She reached Picton’s and parked across the road.
Celia was waiting. Sarah thought that there was something to read in that face as she crossed the road. She opened the door, picked up the package and sat down, shaking her head.
“I’m not stupid, am I?”
“Another V.B.?”
“Yes. Thank God you brought these.”
“Look,” said her mother, “I’m going to try and do something about this ... not now ... Rules are Rules and under them you now get the cane. I’ll tell all, this evening. Meantime I can only say ‘take it well’ if you can, and if you can’t ... And as one’s reactions to pain are quite unpredictable, don’t be ashamed of anything. And whatever happens, Tigress will Defend Young.”
And Celia giggled.
“Can I lend you a cushion?”