Blushing at Both Ends

by Philip Kemp

  ‘Certainly not!’ exclaimed Isabel indignantly. ‘How dare you! Let me go, you brute!’

  ‘As I thought,’ returned her captor. ‘And doubtless no one else did, either. More’s the pity. A sound spanking once a week or so, my fine lady, might have improved your manners beyond all recognition. Still, better late than never: and once we are joined in blissful matrimony, my sweet, I shall have ample occasion to make up for your father’s neglect of his parental duties in this regard.’

  Peering over her shoulder, Isabel saw Charles raise his right arm high in the air.

  ‘No! Don’t!’ she yelped, reaching back to protect her vulnerable rear.

  But Charles merely captured her wrist in his left hand, holding it well clear of the target area, while his right hand descended hard and fast. The ringing slap echoed across the calm waters of the bay.

  Isabel gasped, as much from surprise as from pain. She had not lied; not since infancy had anyone physically punished her, and never would she have credited how sharply a hard male hand could sting a soft pampered female bottom. ‘Oww!’ she yelped angrily. ‘You brute! That hurt!’

  ‘No doubt,’ retorted Charles calmly. ‘That was the intention. But, believe me, my sweet, it will hurt a lot more before I’m finished. You need to be taught a lesson, my lady Isabel, and I mean to impress this one firmly upon your memory.’

  Once again his hand swept down with a resounding smack, making Isabel gasp again as he stung her other cheek. He paused a moment to let the sting sink in; then, settling to a steady rhythm, he proceeded to administer several dozen hearty spanks to Isabel’s squirming rearward curves, much to the amusement and approbation of his crew.

  Charles too could scarce forbear to grin, such was the pleasure he experienced in spanking this lovely wilful girl. At 22, Lady Isabel Abercrombie was at the height of her beauty, and her posterior was by no means the least of her charms. Full and superbly rounded, it seemed as if made for just such intimate chastisement; the lush mounds quivered and jounced at every smack, offering irresistible targets to his punishing palm. Beneath its silken veil the girlish flesh felt deliciously soft and sensitive, and he could tell from her yelps and kickings that his exertions were having the desired effect. Already a delicate pink tinge was making itself visible through the sheer fabric, testifying to the rosy blush burgeoning beneath.

  In due course he paused, stroking the trembling globes. ‘Well, my lady,’ he asked, ‘have you learnt your lesson? Can we expect better behaviour of you?’

  ‘I’ll see you hanged first!’ came the defiant response. ‘Hanged and damned, you pirate bastard!’ She attempted to wriggle free, but Charles held her fast.

  ‘Evidently not,’ he observed calmly. ‘It seems this lovely bottom needs more spanking yet.’

  ‘Haul down her drawers, Cap’n,’ called the bald giant who had lugged Isabel aboard. ‘Let’s see her pretty red arse.’

  ‘Shame on you, Jem,’ chided Charles. ‘This is a lady, gently born, not one of your tavern wenches. Spanking she may deserve, but not the shame of having her virgin modesty exposed to your coarse gaze. Besides,’ he added, with a crisp spank to Isabel’s bottom that made her yip, ‘I suspect these elegant drawers can be affording her hindquarters precious little protection.’

  He was right in that. Indeed, if anything the thin silk, tightly stretched across the rounded contours of Isabel’s rump, only enhanced the sting of each smack. Already her bottom felt as though it were on fire, and as Charles, taking a firmer grip on the girl’s torso, resumed her punishment Isabel began to fear she would never sit down in comfort again.

  At first the humiliation of finding herself so ignominiously chastised before so many lustful male eyes had seemed worse than the pain of the spanking itself. But now, as spank after merciless spank cracked down across her tender globes, she forgot her ribald audience, forgot her injured pride, as her attention focused ever more intently on the discomfort being meted out to her anguished rear end. Charles, she felt sure, was spanking her harder than ever. The sting of his hand was all but unbearable, and she found herself near to weeping.

  Yet at the same time she felt gripped by strangely contradictory instincts. There was, she couldn’t deny, a certain excitement in being thus forced to submit to the first real spanking of her life, and at the hands of a man so strong and masterful, so utterly different from the effete overbred fashion-plates of polite London society. The pain inflicted on her sensitive hinder parts hurt worse than anything she had ever known, yet at the same time it was arousing passions whose urgency left her bewildered. Torn by these cross-currents of emotion, Isabel, to her intense shame, burst into tears.

  Charles paused, stroking the burning mounds. ‘Well, well,’ he murmured, ‘can this be a sign of penitence? Let’s be merciful and suppose so.’ After replacing Isabel’s dress, he helped her to her feet and held her while she sobbed, her face hidden on his shoulder. When her tears had abated he offered her a moderately clean handkerchief and beckoned over the trembling cleric. ‘Come, parson,’ he ordered, ‘do your duty and be brisk about it, ere the young lady changes her mind.’

  As the clergyman gabbled his way through the ritual of the marriage service, Isabel consoled herself with the reflection that her union, even if consummated, would be of but short duration; the forces of British justice, she felt confident, would soon overtake her pirate groom. But in any case she had devised a plan, and as the ceremony concluded she saw her chance.

  No doubt the pirates assumed that so fashionable a young lady would scarce know how to swim. They miscalculated. Growing up on the Abercrombie estate on the Devon coast (long since lost to her father’s creditors), Isabel had swum almost before she could walk. Now, as the buccaneers crowded round to congratulate their chief, leaving her momentarily unobserved, she sprang to the ship’s rail, stripped off her dress and dived into the sea.

  The cool water came as a benison to her glowing bottom. She struck out for the shore, hearing behind her shouts of surprise and alarm, followed by a splash. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that Charles had dived after her, while a boat was being lowered from the galleon. She redoubled her efforts. But, though she was a strong swimmer, Charles was stronger. Fifty yards from the shore he caught her and, laughingly evading her blows, gripped her fast until the boat reached them. A few minutes later, to her fury and despair, Isabel found herself back on the galleon’s deck, the object of amused interest from the crew. Her wet bodice and drawers, she was uncomfortably aware, left few of her bodily charms to the imagination.

  ‘A blanket there, you gawping numbskulls!’ snapped Charles, stripping off his wet shirt. ‘Dammit, you knaves, some consideration for a lady and my new-wedded bride!’ Taking a proffered blanket, he draped it around her. ‘And now –’ he beckoned two of the less ruffianly-looking crew members ‘– Paul, Barnaby, escort the lady to my cabin with all due courtesy. But I think you had best bind her, to prevent any further bids for freedom. Pinion her gently but securely. Apologies, my dear,’ he added with a bow. ‘I shall join you very shortly.’

  Charles’s cabin proved to be snug and singularly well appointed. Paul and Barnaby followed their captain’s instructions to the letter, and Isabel found herself skilfully bound, in such a way that the ropes held her firmly but without cutting into her flesh. Then, with ironic bows and grins, they left her.

  From above, she could hear Charles’s voice as he gave orders to the crew. Otherwise, the only sound was the soft lap of the waves and the distant cry of sea-birds. Since for the moment escape was impossible, Isabel took stock of her surroundings. They included, she was intrigued to note, several shelves of books. Of more interest to her, though, was a heavy brass compass upon the desk, and the fact that the cabin boasted portholes broad enough to allow egress.

  After a while she heard steps descending the companion-way, and Charles entered the cabin. He was still stripped to the waist and Isabel couldn’t but admire his muscular torso. As a lover, she had to admit, he c
ut a fine figure of a man. Nonetheless, she reminded herself, this was the villain who had kidnapped her, forced her into marriage under duress – and, most unforgivably of all, put her over his knee and publicly spanked her, the brute! (At this memory she experienced an involuntary spasm of excitement, but resolutely suppressed it.)

  ‘Your pardon, my sweet bride,’ said Charles with a winning smile, ‘for neglecting you like this on our wedding day. From now on, I assure you, you may count on my most devoted attention. I regret too that I had to have you bound. But really, we couldn’t have you leaving us again so abruptly, now could we?’

  Taking a dagger from his belt, he severed the cord that bound Isabel’s wrists to her waist and the cord binding her ankles together. ‘And now, off with that wet linen, my sweet,’ he commanded. ‘Ladies’ finery, I regret to say, is in short supply on this ship, but I have a cambric shirt or two – and well laundered, I assure you – that may suffice you at a pinch.’

  ‘Turn away, then, sir,’ responded Isabel. ‘Even a woman-beater like you can surely assume the outward semblance of common courtesy.’

  Amused, Charles turned his back and began to rummage in a closet. At once Isabel snatched up the compass. One good blow to the back of his head, and she would be out the porthole and away before the crew were alerted. This time, she should be certain of reaching the shore and finding help. Stepping soundlessly behind the oblivious buccaneer, she aimed a vigorous swing at his head.

  But luck was not with Lady Isabel that day. At the very last second Charles turned, and the compass caught him a glancing blow on the ear. ‘Ow!’ he roared, grabbing her arm. For a moment he glared at her in rage and she thought he might kill her, but then his face relaxed and he laughed.

  ‘A fine spitfire I’ve yoked myself to! Well, I admire your spirit, sweet bride, but braining your lord and master is no foundation for a good marriage. It seems to me you yet need a touch more husbandly discipline, my girl.’

  ‘No! Let me go, you monster!’ cried Isabel, but her protests were in vain. A moment later she found herself, for the second time in less than half an hour, draped ignominiously face-down across Charles’s knee, her shapely nether regions upturned for further attention.

  Alas, poor Isabel! Cruel enough, in all conscience, that a second spanking should follow so hard upon the first, to be inflicted on a bottom still tender from its recent chastisement; but worse was yet to come. ‘Well, my dear,’ remarked Charles, ‘since we now find ourselves relieved of an audience, I think I may avail myself of the privilege of a husband and relieve these delectable orbs of their last protecting veil.’

  ‘No! Oh no!’ shrieked Isabel, struggling wildly, but her captor took not the slightest notice. To her horror she felt the damp drawers being peeled slowly down until they hung in a moist tangle around her thighs, leaving her rearward curves naked and defenceless. Charles gazed with delight on the prospect before him. ‘A spitfire, but a lovely one,’ he murmured. ‘Rarely, my sweet girl, have I seen a bottom more truly made to be spanked.’ Gently he stroked the lush bare cheeks, their beauty enhanced by the delicate blush still visible from his earlier efforts.

  That blush was soon revived in all its roseate glory. Isabel, yelping and squirming, learnt that a spanking applied to a bared wet bottom stung yet more sharply. The effort of the watery pursuit and capture had robbed Charles’s arm of none of its vigour, and for what seemed to her like hours spank after resounding spank descended upon her quivering mounds.

  It was agonising to be thus mercilessly chastised, it was deeply shameful; yet once again, despite her wounded pride, she felt a strange secret pleasure in submitting to this man’s mastery. Furthermore, the fires ignited on her rear end were arousing new, disturbing sensations in adjacent parts, and her writhings, she realised, were not occasioned exclusively by pain. The spanking was hurting her exceedingly and she could surely take no more; yet she found herself lasciviously arching her bottom as if to invite further strokes.

  At long last Charles paused, caressing the ripe rosy contours of his bride’s radiant bottom. How lovely she looked, he thought, all but naked across his lap, her luscious rear curves mantled by a sunset glow that contrasted so exquisitely with the whiteness of her back and thighs. Gently he raised her up and she clung to him, whimpering despite herself. There were tears in her eyes, but when he kissed her she responded with melting passion, writhing her body against his.

  It was a long deep kiss, but at length Charles drew back and gazed into Isabel’s eyes. ‘My sweet,’ he said softly, ‘the thought that you might be about to knock me unconscious would prove a sad distraction from the joys of our wedding night. So let me propose a pact. If you give me your word that you will make no further attempt to escape tonight, I promise that tomorrow I shall restore you to your liberty. Is it agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ she breathed, and kissed him fiercely again.

  So throughout that long languorous tropical afternoon and deep into the night, Lady Isabel Abercrombie learnt the ways of love from her pirate bridegroom. To his delight, she proved an apt and eager pupil. Her warm young blood, stirred by the fires he had kindled on her bottom, was further heated by her lover’s dexterous hands and tongue, arousing her passions to such a pitch that when his rampant manhood forced its way into her virgin cleft she welcomed the transient pain, crying out in a rush of overwhelming joy.

  And it was with no less joy that, a few moments later, she knelt over her recumbent lover and tasted her own virgin blood as she licked and teased his wilted member back into hardness, until he groaned aloud and pulled her down on top of him, re-entering her as his hand smacked her still glowing bottom-cheeks. Then, turning her over and positioning her on hands and knees, Charles applied several more brisk slaps before driving into her from the rear, savouring the warmth of her well-spanked bottom against his belly and thighs.

  Nor was this Isabel’s last chastisement of the night. The next morning, just before dawn, Charles woke her with a tender kiss. Then, before she knew what was happening, she found herself turned naked over his lap while he proceeded to treat her to a sound bare-bottomed spanking.

  ‘Oww!’ protested the surprised girl. ‘Charles! Stop it! I’ve done nothing wrong! Why are you spanking me?’

  ‘Oh, chiefly for the fun of it, my sweet,’ he retorted, happily smacking her plump soft mounds until they blushed pinker than the Caribbean dawn that was breaking outside the porthole. ‘Though for a few other reasons as well. To wit, because you’re an exceedingly spoilt young woman who deserves henceforth to be soundly spanked at least once a day – and, whenever possible, more often than that. Because you have such a lovely deliciously spankable bottom. Because I thoroughly enjoy it. And because, my wilful darling, I rather suspect that you do too.’

  ‘Oww! You brute! No I don’t!’ Isabel cried indignantly. But, when at last he released her, her passionate embrace told a different story.

  A hour or two later, the galleon’s longboat beached in the same bay Isabel had left barely twenty-four hours before. Charles and Isabel, the sole passengers, disembarked while the bald giant Jem rested on his oars and grinned at them. ‘Hope you wasn’t too uncomfortable, m’lady, a-settin’ on these hard seats.’ He chortled.

  Isabel blushed. The boat’s wooden seat had indeed reminded her very tangibly that she was sitting on a bottom still rosy and tender from her most recent spanking. Her uneasy shiftings, it seemed, had been more evident than she thought.

  ‘Enough of your impudence, Jem,’ ordered Charles, pushing off the boat. ‘Get yourself back to the ship. I’ll signal you later.’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n,’ said Jem, and rowed off singing cheerily to himself. The words were none too clear, but they seemed to be his own personal version of the old ballad ‘Cherry Ripe’.

  Charles laughed. ‘A rough fellow, but good hearted,’ he observed, and led the way along the beach, in the opposite direction to the Abercrombies’ villa.

  ‘Where are we going?’ enquired Isabel.
‘Do you not risk being captured?’

  ‘Oh, I think I may hazard that for your sake, my sweet,’ said Charles carelessly. ‘As for where we are bound, you’ll learn that soon enough.’

  At the far end of the beach a path led through the trees. In a few moments a fine colonial villa with a pillared portico came in view. Showing no caution, Charles marched up to the front door and entered boldly. Bewildered, Isabel followed at his heels.

  They found themselves in a spacious hall, flagged with black-and-white tiles. A grand double staircase curved before them. No one was to be seen.

  ‘Hullo there!’ called Charles, setting the echoes ringing. ‘Is nobody at home, dammit?’

  In response, a portly middle-aged woman came bustling out of a doorway. ‘Why, there you are, Master Henry!’ she exclaimed. ‘A fine time to be off playing your pirate games, with the whole island in an uproar! Lady Isabel Abercrombie has vanished – kidnapped, it’s feared! And who, may I ask, is this young lady?’

  But Isabel was staring open-mouthed at her companion. ‘Henry? But you said you were –’

  ‘Charles? Why, so I am, my love.’ He made her a low bow. ‘Charles Henry Trevelyan at your service, my lady. This is Martha, our trusty housekeeper. And Martha, this is – or, rather, was – Lady Isabel Abercrombie.’

  ‘Was? What on earth do you mean, Master Henry?’

  ‘What I mean, Martha, is that she is now, and has been since yesterday, Lady Isabel Trevelyan – my wedded wife.’

  ‘Your wife?’ Martha’s jaw dropped. ‘Master Henry, if this is another of your pranks . . . Oh my Lord sake’s, I must tell the mistress!’ She turned to go, then dropped Isabel a flustered curtsey. ‘Begging your pardon, m’lady – if you really are m’lady, that is – oh, mercy me!’ She scuttled off calling frantically, ‘Madam! Madam!’