My heart pounded so loudly in my ears, and another part of me throbbed and pressed so keenly within my pants, that I felt sure the Headmaster must at any moment sense my presence. I dared not breathe as I knelt with my burning cheek pressed to the door, and my greedy eye at the spyhole.
"Prepare yourself, young lady."
I heard the tell-tale clatter of cane leaving cupboard, and then I flinched sharply as the yellow stick whistled down past the keyhole, the Head's hairy hand appearing at its crook-handled end.
Mlle Soumise had turned towards us. Her expression filled me with lustful wonder: her wide eyes brimmed with fear and longing, while her pink tongue traced a lascivious path around her luscious lips. She turned to the desk and stretched languorously across it. Her head and shoulders disappeared from view, leaving me to savour the exquisite curve of her lower back, bottom and legs.
Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.
The Head strode round to stand behind her, flexing the cane and beaming glintily.
"Ready for your Sunday dose, Suzanne?"
"Yes, Archie, but..."
"But what, my dear?"
There was a pause and a sigh. "Oh, nothing ..." She arched her bottom out an inch or two further and adjusted her feet.
Stepping back, the Headmaster ('Archie??') raised the yellow cane and swished it down and in, with a zesty twist of his wrist at the last, to land with a resounding crack across the centre of Mlle Soumise's upturned rear. There was a gasp, and an anguished cry, then her bottom wriggled, squirmingly. I thought my mind would melt, and dribble out through my nostrils.
"Mmmm," she moaned.
The Headmaster ran the cane lovingly through the fingers of his left hand. I doubted he took this much pleasure when it was one of us boys bent before him.
Five strokes followed, each laid on with measured intensity, and each eliciting from the brave assistante ever more captivating groans of pained pleasure.
After the sixth and final stroke, Mademoiselle's hands appeared, clutching her buttocks through the tight grey skirt, fingers stretched and splayed for a full half minute before they began slowly to knead and rub at the smarting stripes I was imagining beneath.
She had just raised herself and turned towards him when I heard the handle of the door behind me turn very quietly. Truman appeared, a bottle of Tizer and a packet of ginger nuts in his hand.
By the time Truman put his eye to the keyhole, Mlle Soumise had left the study, and my friend, the brave pioneer whose persistence had enabled me to witness this enrapturing spectacle, had entirely missed the show.
When later I recounted all that I'd seen, he became sombre and pensive, before stating, "Hutton, please - never speak of this again."
And so it was. I put it down to jealousy at the time, and tried to taunt him with it, but his response was always simply to walk away in silence.
As for me, I was completely bewitched. I hardly slept for a week, and the image of the cane descending to curl and carve its cruel streaks across the young Frenchwoman's so willingly proffered bottom has haunted me to this day.
My friendship with Truman faded after that, as teenage friendships do. Yet I felt that his avoidance of me was because of what had happened that Sunday: that he sensed this fever in me, and feared becoming as obsessed as I was.
That I was not alone in falling under the spell of Mlle Soumise was borne out one summer's day some four years later, when, strolling through Hyde Park in my one smart suit on my way to a job interview, I came upon a large circle of hippies sitting in the sunshine, listening to two of their number playing guitars and singing a Dylan song. The cloying smell of hashish smoke wafted on the breeze, and I envied them their happiness and the freedom of their long hair and bizarrely coloured clothes. As I passed, I heard a voice, a voice that sent a sudden jolt hurtling to my heart.
"Oh, Archie," it said in that unmistakable French accent. "Do we have to wait till Sunday?
Maggie's Study Trip
The funeral was over, the guests departed, and Magdalen stood surveying the room. It hadn't changed in thirty years: there was that same old green leather armchair, the bizarre carvings above the fireplace and the portrait, yes, the cavalier with the long, dark hair. After her mother had died her stepfather Eric had spent most of his days in here. He was gone now, and never once had they spoken of it, but she would never forget their strange encounter that spring day in 1976 in this magical, woody room...
They were exciting times. She was 18 and had been touring boyfriends like there was no tomorrow. In retrospect she could see she'd been on a desperate search to fill the love-gap left by her father's death four years earlier. Her mother's re-marriage had seemed a betrayal and her own sleeping around was also maybe a form of revenge. Boys wanted sex and she was game, and enjoyed the affection, the romps and the panting, but none of it really filled that gap.
David was sweet and a bit daring - they'd been seeing each other a few weeks. He appeared, that Saturday in May when her parents were out, and took her for a walk in the woods.
"Hey," he said when they were a safe distance away. "Guess what I've got?"
"What?"
"These," he said, opening a tiny paper envelope to reveal six or seven small pills: red ones, white ones, blue ones.
"What are they?" she asked.
"Bicentennial acid," he replied excitedly. "From America. The best. Do your head some good, they say! Want to try one?"
She was intrigued. "Why not?" she said, picking out a red one and popping it down her throat. He swallowed one too and they wandered on through the woods.
Half an hour later she was doubled up in paroxysms of hilarious laughter as they stumbled around in a clearing. Every simple thought seemed the funniest thing.
And two hours later they were staring in wonder at a spot on a tree trunk about seven feet up where they could see the bark pulsating as if there were a heart beating behind it. Life streamed and everything seemed to breathe in tune with their bodies. Everywhere luscious colours vibrated.
"Hey, Maggie ... I'm ... hungry," said David, his voice seeming to advance and recede. "Can we get something at your place?"
They re-traced their steps somewhat circuitously to the cottage. Maggie saw her step-father's car parked out front and suddenly felt a chill: he'd been increasingly angry at her recently, with many disapproving remarks about her attitude to her mother and himself. She'd thrown their concern back in their faces, angry still, without quite knowing it, at her father's place usurped.
"Wait here," she told David. She went inside and slipped into the kitchen. She gathered two apples, some cheese and a bar of chocolate and was just tiptoeing across the hall when the study door opened and there stood her step-father.
"Magdalen," he boomed, his voice echoing it seemed to Earth's far ends and back, "come in here."
She froze. The disorientation in her mind left her speechless: her usual so easily casual rebuttal wouldn't come and instead she found herself following him curiously into the study.
He closed the door after her and told her to put the food down on the desk.
"Come over here," he said, walking across and turning to stand before the stove. She was unable to move. The walls were melting and the colours in the room seemed so brown and warm she started to sweat.
Then the very strangest thing happened. She looked at the portrait of the cavalier, and then at her stepfather and... the two became one. She just stared, awestruck, at her stepfather who appeared now to be dressed in extravagant seventeenth-century garb, his hair hanging down past his shoulders. His face was sort of the same yet different too. She scarcely registered any of the speech that followed, absorbed instead by the timbre of his voice as it echoed and boomed around her ears.
"Your mother and I ... Magdalen ... in complete agreement ... impudence ... if you behave like a child ... unfortunate duty..."
But when the cavalier suddenly shouted,
"Get over here, NOW!" she jolted and found
herself obeying. And within moments she was bending over the armchair, her skirt lifted, feeling her knickers coming down. She giggled; it felt like a wonderful, exciting game. And when the leather strap smacked into her bottom she squealed with delight. It felt lovely - a light sting that started to warm her in more places than one. She was staring now at the red coverlet on the seat, watching the colours swirl and merge, and they matched the warmth spreading from her buttocks as the strap landed again. While the thwacks continued, each imparting a hotter sting, Maggie became utterly absorbed in their rhythm. She started to move her hips around slowly trying to ensure that her bottom was thrust, as the strap landed, most eagerly towards it. She loved this strap, she rose to meet it; it delighted her; its heat was making her more and more ecstatic and she moaned with it, answering each SMACK of its impact with an "Oooooh!" of her own, in a dialogue of delicious, naughty incitement.
Even when the blows became more forceful and the slap of the leather on her flesh sounded like shots from a musket, and the burning in her bottom grew more intense and painful, still Maggie continued the circular dance of her hips and ... pushed her bottom to meet its playmate whilst her moans rose in tone, became yelps and even screams, but always cries at least as much of pleasure as of pain.
When finally it stopped Maggie didn't notice for several seconds. She continued her gentle, sensual gyration and thought she heard and felt that same sharp crack. But gradually the silence registered and she turned and looked up quizzically as if to ask why he'd stopped. Her bottom was hot and throbbing and her vagina wet and yearning.
She could never remember how she left the room that day or what her stepfather said, if anything - they never spoke of it again, though her mother looked at her strangely for many days.
She did remember running, laughing in joyous freedom with David back to the woods, her hot, bruised buttocks jiggling joyfully at her back. And never would she forget how they collapsed into some ferns and kissed and made sweet, psychedelic love there in the dappled spring sunshine beneath the breathing trees.
"Maggie?"
She awoke from her reverie, glanced up at the cavalier once more and turned.
"Yes, my love?" she said.
"Are you ready?" asked David.
"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."
News from Flagifun Farm
Flagifun Farm
Birching Bottom
Yorks
December 31st 2011
Dear Friends,
Heavens! Has another year passed so quickly? It seems so little time ago that I was writing last year's round robin letter bringing you all up to date with our doings here at the Farm.
First, let me thank you all for your kind responses to last year's appeal for slippers and hairbrushes - your generosity was overwhelming, and our collections are now quite impressive. Bob has begun work on a display area in the East barn, where we hope to mount an exhibition of the slippers sometime in March (we have, I'm told, over 200 different makes, shapes and sizes now). We've had very kind messages of support, too, from the President of The Beano Appreciation Society of Wakefield, who promises to organise a coach party as soon as the exhibition is ready. The hairbrush collection now numbers 63, and we appeal once again to you all to search your attics and garages for any bristly heirlooms you can spare. As before, there's a free invitation to our Easter Open Day for all who donate.
Our little community has grown during the year to 27, with the addition of a charming couple who moved here from London in September. They have settled in brilliantly, taking up residence in Rosy Cottage, which became vacant after Henry and Gary moved to San Francisco (where they are having tremendous fun, we hear). Rachel helps out in the office (as well as showing great promise as a film star!), and her partner Susan has proved invaluable doing editorial work for our online magazine, Flagifun Fundamentals.
In March, we hosted the Third International Mistresses Convention, which was a huge success, as those of you who attended will testify. We had dommes from as far afield as Seattle and Sydney, strutting their stuff for a glorious long weekend of devilish fun, laughter and pain. The climax, as usual, was the Grand Thrash, in which no fewer than 17 of our guests, along with our own Miss TakeMeNot and Lady Leather, took part. Runners-up prizes of our home-produced rattan canes went to Duchess Dotheboys from Australia and Sizzleya Suzie, currently based in Singapore, while first prize was unanimously awarded to Mistress Scornucopia, of Edinburgh, whose skill with both cane and birch had participants whooping with delight, admiration and, in the case of her targets, extreme discomfort. As you may imagine, communal dinners were, for several days after, served in buffet form and taken standing up by many of the community.
This year's Green Man Celebration took place over the Mayday bank holiday weekend, as usual, and all were agreed that it was the most exciting ever. We chose an excellent spot in the heart of the Wyre Forest to set up camp, with Milly and Margaret doing a wonderful job with the provisions once again. This year's theme was 'Unusual Positions', and it inspired many extraordinary moments, some of which you can view on our website (go to Gallery, Green Man 2011). How David managed to hang between those two branches for so many strokes of Penelope's switch nobody quite knows, and Lisa's lovely bottom looming from the hollow of the oak tree into which she had managed to squeeze herself was a sight I shall never forget. Her cries as the men laid on the stripes with the willow wands sounded as if they were coming from the Underworld! We managed to avoid any embarrassing repeat of last year's encounter with the Wiltshire Police (Alfred and Becky were finally released in June), having only one or two passing dog-walkers to deal with on the Sunday afternoon. May I remind you all that you are most welcome to join us for this year's Celebration, on the same weekend; contact the office for details of venue nearer the time.
Our Midsummer Madness party drew fellow flagifunsters from all over the country, with the Great barn decked out in red and mauve for the occasion. At times on the Saturday night, the place resembled a painting by Hieronymous Bosch (except, with a canvas, you don't hear the screams!). Peter and Denise did a stalwart job mopping up and providing plasters for the over-enthusiastic (Peter having gained his Nursing degree in April, incidentally - many congratulations to him).
We continue our tradition of Friday Night Reckonings, when members of the community vote on who most deserves a punishment spanking. I know some of you have expressed concern about this, and have intimated that it has been a factor in making you wary of joining us as residents. I can only say that there has been not a single complaint from any of those chosen as victim in the 15 months the custom has been in practice, and everyone agrees that it contributes very effectively to community harmony. To illustrate this, Susan has kindly given me permission to share with you what happened in the last week of October, when she happened to gain the most votes, mainly as a result of a moment of carelessness when she nearly set fire to the West barn during a hot wax session with the Templetons.
She had only been with us a month and, to the best of anyone's knowledge, had yet to be spanked in company. In her partnership with Rachel, it is the latter who is the most enthusiastic bottom, Susan having generally avoided any CP since her schooldays. Susan was understandably rather upset to discover at lunchtime that she had been 'elected', and she spent the afternoon canvassing various residents, trying to see if the vote could be overturned; she insisted the Templetons had been more to blame. She failed to understand, of course, that it made no difference - the votes had been cast.
However, when all were gathered in the Hall after dinner, and Susan appeared in the customary Penitent's costume (a simple white gown, with a portion cut away in the back to reveal the offender's bottom) we were witness to a most affecting scene that endeared Susan to us all and cemented her place among us. Before mounting the horse, she apologised meekly not only for her carelessness, but also for her attempts to change the community's decision, and confessed that she had been extremely nervous, but that she now accept
ed whole-heartedly that she deserved to be punished. (The frequent looks she cast at Rachel during this short speech led many of us to believe that strong words must have passed between them!)
Susan was then hand-spanked (one on each side) for two minutes by Mary and Robert, the Duty Officers for the day, before choosing Rachel to administer the strap - in retrospect, not a wise choice! Perhaps motivated by the embarrassment she felt Susan had caused her, Rachel really laid it on! But Susan took her twelve-stroke whacking with great fortitude, and then stunned us all by asking for six of the best with the cane from yours truly! At first I demurred, as she had received the customary punishment for a Friday Night Reckoning, but on her insistence I accepted the task, and - let me not be charged with hypocrisy - enjoyed myself thoroughly.
I chose a thin, light cane so as not to add too harshly to her already bruised behind, and gave her six modest but nicely whippy stripes, with plenty of time between each one for her to experience their lingering, linear sting. Her little yelps gave great delight to the whole company, and when she rose at last from her prone position and clutched her delightfully coloured buttocks, she was greeted with an enthusiastic round of spontaneous applause. Never let it be said that we are not, for our sins, most appreciatively perverted! There is good reason why our motto is 'Perversa et Superbus' (Pervy and Proud).
Susan went round with a broad grin (and the occasional wince) the whole weekend.
Community finances are healthy. Heather's new riding school is doing well, especially at weekends (and despite an unfortunate incident when she mistook a vanilla customer for 'one of us' and let fly with her crop - a profuse apology and the promise of a free lesson soon mollified the shocked Mrs R, who has subsequently shown signs of interest that suggest she might soon be tempted by a transfer to the Discipline group). Ken's workshop is still turning out the finest canes in the North of England, with orders especially buoyant in Germany and the Netherlands. Our online enterprises are also enjoying a steady income, with our new 10-minute caning clips, featuring new resident Rachel, proving especially popular in the English market.
Spanking Cheat: ... and other short stories Page 8