Hankering for a spanking - photo story

Photo story from Janus 34.

Hankering for a spanking
by Peter French

TRAGICALLY, there is a great cavity in Marianne Burnham's life. She is suffering from deprivation. What's missing is a man.

This is the first time she has been without a regular boyfriend since she was 16 – a totally unexpected situation, now dragging into its seventh week.

That does not mean however that Marianne intends to admit defeat. There's no way she is prepared to get left on the shelf or go without her required rations of loving. She's sure it's a momentary hiccup; she has every confidence in her attractiveness to the stronger sex and believes it can only be 'practically no time at all' before she makes the right connection. At the moment her evening alternate between going out and putting herself about, frankly hoping to hook an appropriate 'fella', and staying in at home on the offchance that that bastard, Neil Harvey, her schoolteacher ex-beau, will call to say that his defection was just a terrible mistake.

How could he walk out of her life after receiving that inky note with childishly rounded letters signed 'your ever-loving Nicola xxxx'? It made no sense that he should jeopardize his promising career – promotion to Deputy Head of Biology Department now a distinct possibility – to play around with one of his own pupils. Oh, she can imagine the temptation, but she can't understand why, if the worst came to the worst and he succumbed, he couldn't then two-time her, as she would have done him. How could he possibly have a proper relationship with a silly schoolgirl so much younger than him and still living with her parents? The idea is absurd, but why hasn't he come back to her yet? Does he really imagine that this Nicola Redway creature – oh yes, she'd wheedled the girl's name out of him, after discovering that pathetic schoolgirl-crush note in his sports jacket – does he really believe that she or any other girl for that matter is going to share the same peculiar tastes as him and be willing to put up with his kinky behaviour? She's pretty damn sure there aren't that many females that actually enjoy having their bottoms thoroughly smacked... as she does.

Marianne's love-hate for the vanished Neil Harvey has been simmering apace. And alongside it, her own natural vital urges. She never realised how much she actually needed it, until it was taken away. Just lately she has begun to entertain fears that she might even be a latent nymphomaniac, with a recurring sudden and acute need for a man. In her state of wound-up frustration that very word, 'man', causes her to feel a kind of aggrieved tingling. It's not fair...

But Marianne is not one to let misadventure get her down for long, even though her feelings illustrate the truth of that classic line about 'a woman spurned'. She despises wimps and weakness and will not tolerate it in herself. Tonight is one of those nights she's staying in at home in her comfortable one-bedroom flat, and she is going to do something naughty, man or no man. It's a little fantasy she's taken to indulging herself in, these last few weeks since Neil walked out on her. It's getting just a bit more elaborate each time she acts it out. Tonight, for example, she has gone to the very same lengths to prepare herself that she would go to for Neil. The whole rigmarole of bathing the body beautiful and then anointing it, labouring with love in the bathroom, for his enjoyment.

Indeed as she got ready she paused to smile at herself in the semi-misted mirror and whisper excitedly, secretly, 'Neil's coming tonight!' She wanted to look like a billion dollar dream for him, and then, when the temperature had hotted up, surrender herself to his dominant authority. That was ecstasy, letting go, feeling giddy with sexual desire, allowing him to take control of her, warning to be manipulated by him, craving the erotic sensations, mental and physical, that carried her away totally when he took over and she gave into him, taking beautiful pleasure in obeying him and delighting him with her ordered body movements. Standing in front of him in her bedroom, this room, wearing a nightdress and high heels, he much taller than her, in his street clothes, looking down at her, hands on hips, masterful. And she smiling nervously with yielding excitement into his eyes, knowing that she would do just whatever it was he wanted but hoping that it would be over the stool.

This stool upon which she is now sitting, on the soft velvet, the door locked but the phone still on the hook in case he should change his mind even at this late hour and call. Which would be divine of course, though she'd have to sound rather less hurt than she felt if she was to get him back again. If she could bring herself to be direct and honest she would no doubt say, in that funny little-girl voice she naturally used with him: 'Please come round now darling and spank my botty because I've been naughty. Please punish me for displeasing you and making you want to leave, however I did it, I don't understand. You can even cane me if you want to,' – a delicious thrill trembles through her body as she thinks this thought – 'but don't ignore me, don't neglect me, please.'

Marianne says these words out loud, alone, dressed up to the nines, rocking gently on her piano stool. Sitting three-quarters on to her dressing table mirror, her bright eyes flick across the far ceiling as she remembers with strong longing...

...kneeling on this very stool, nightdress pulled right up with no knickers on, her hands together on the shiny dressing table surface, bottom thrust right up and out on her master's orders, his right hand pressing on the small of her back, her head turned to watch, his active left hand raised high above her shoulder height. And then...

Smack!!! His palm cracking down onto her bare arched burn, splatting the left cheek, imparting a sting she really feels. Then its partner, hard on the right buttock: Smack!!!

Marianne may have let out a gasp. At any rate her lover says: 'Keep that backside up in the air! You've been very naughty this time, girl, and you're going to get a very sound spanking for it.'

'Yes I know Sir!' – such a ridiculous wimpette squeak.

Smack!!! across the left buttock. Smack!!! across the right. Crisp and sharp in a measured rhythm of ringing percussions. Marianne presses her knees together, hoping to protect her sensitive in-betweens from the fierce and spreading sting. But she also keeps her bared bottom tautly arched, because it's what he's ordered, yet any observant onlooker would notice those beautiful full moons not only impacting and wiggling but also thrusting and rising a little to greet eagerly each next explosive Smack!!! Her face turns to glimpse him in the mirror, she likes to watch him when he 'disciplines' her; a face softened by desire. Smack Smack Smack Smack Smack Smack!!!!!, across her whole bottom now, setting her self-treasured posterior smartingly ablaze. Marianne, making gorgeous little ohhs and oohs, twists and squirms but keeps her red and stinging bottom exquisitely arched as per her lover's command, whilst he burns up considerable energy spanking it hard and forcefully without any hint of restraint.


He is obviously a spanker born and bred, committed to thoroughgoing hurtful tenderizing of her admittedly provocative bottom, as a preliminary to heated sexual intercourse. This is no tepid fetishistic patting – it's hard, masculine, mercilessly assertive, taking her to her limits, delivered with a driving chastising force she finds highly erotic. And then, before she can come down to earth, he pulls the stool from under her and seating himself on it, draws her down across his lap, over which she flows like ink on paper: making her get right over and put her head down, her hands and high heels touching her own bedroom carpet on opposite sides of his knees. A classic posture, assured by the height of his legs and the very firm pressure he applies to the small of her back, her surrendered fulcrum point. Now there can be no escaping him. Even if she wanted to, she'd be quite unable, thanks to her immobilized posture; she knows it isn't even worth struggling, though she may not be able to help doing that once the spanking gets underway again.


And then, just as if she'd been a naughty girl – indeed, telling her that she has been, and reassuring her that 'We're going to spank that nonsense out of you, I can assure you, Marianne Burnham!' as if she actually were a schoolgirl back in the bad old days when male teachers could punish them at will – Neil Harvey recommences his girlfriend's bare bottom-spanking. He's now smacking her buttocks hard, hard and resoundingly, perfectly hard enough for it to be a genuine punishment and not a love-act, but Marianne interprets it as the latter. She has no choice. Her own body, with its needs, its feelings, and its unstoppable reactions to the relentlessly intensifying scorching afflicting her nether globes, has taken over, leaving her without a scrap of mental space to calculate her response. To the multiplying, all-embracing 'tongues of flame' licking the whole focal area of her flesh Marianne can only respond in one way. Her response in turn can only be described as primal – and ultra-feminine. She really doesn't know whether she's crying or laughing or peaking, it seems like all three at once; she only knows that she loves Neil Harvey, she loves him for introducing her to spanking, and she loves him for doing what he's doing to her right now, even if it makes her howl.....

* * *

The images, both visual and tactile, are so vivid, and her emotions so powerful as she sits in her elegant long black dress on the edge of her padded bedroom stool, her eyes closing and opening wide, almost unconsciously rubbing her bottom cheeks with both hands... gradually returning to herself as the living memory fades.

She feels a flash of guilt at this release of tension, and then a tender, throaty, welling sadness at the shock realisation that those wonderful unbelievable magic moments are to be no more. Her stark return to the present moment plunges her back into that void of emotional fragmentation with its draining pain. The closest she ever came to phoning the Samaritans was shortly after he left her, but she knew she wouldn't be able to explain quite how important, and unusual, the physical side of their relationship had been, even to an invisible, sympathetic voice. And in the cold light of realisation, before she has fully finished trembling, Marianne recognises that finding a replacement for Neil could prove impossible. If he didn't propose spanking, there'd be no point in her doing so, because she needs a man more experienced than her, more 'kinky', a man who takes the initiative at all times so that she can demurely and submissively yield to his overmastering desires.

The silent phone reproaches her. She's dressed to kill, or at very least to thrill, but she recoils from the idea of yet another evening wasted in some disco or wine bar faced with endless false alternatives: so many men wanting to go to bed with her, but only for the 'usual'. Certainly having no sense of her true needs, which she would blush more than red to confess to your average randy unattached stranger. She shudders at the prospect, and seeks solace in her own available and wanting mirror image. She hazes again and then she is imagining something that never actually happened with Neil, although he did promise or threaten her with it...

She's standing in her high heels, still in just the same 'feminine' pink nightie and nothing else, with legs together and bottom fully bared, bending forward in from of her dressing table, her fingertips resting nervously on the soft padded stool. The atmosphere is breathless and extremely heightened: Marianne can think of nothing but the fact that she is bending forward just like a schoolboy for a caning, with her bare bottom so intolerably exposed he might as well have ordered her to touch her toes. The submissive rapture of her humbled but glorious posture is complemented perfectly by her fear of the instrument her left-handed disciplinarian brandishes with cruel pride – she can see him in her dressing mirror. She knows the time has come for her to receive her first-ever real-life caning, and she's scared – in a way that she has never been before a hand-spanking.


'I warned you that if your behaviour didn't improve I would have to cane your bottom for you!' His imagined words ruffle her nerves, including those of her erogenous zones. 'I told you, girl, that unless I saw a considerable improvement in your performance – your sexual performance, the satisfaction you give me in bed – then I would have no alternative but to cane you. And now I am about to carry out that threat, with this extremely swishy, whippy cane, because I think that this severe punishment may do you some good. You'd better be prepared, because this cane of mine will make your bottom sting to blazes!' Marianne is swooning with excitement, all her senses swimming as her eyes are glued to the thin flexible wand rising in the mirror behind her...





Whipping her proffered bottom. Cracking across her sensitive, naked mounds! Burning them with the most incredible sensation. Making her shout out despite her dearest wish to remain quiet and conserve her evaporating dignity. The pain progressively etches itself into her quaking posteriors, searing and throbbing after the cane has been lifted off for the second stroke. The fantasy is so fantastically vivid and realistic, it's as if she can somehow watch herself from the outside being caned by Neil Harvey with his entire strength and at the same time be 'inside' her body in imagination, proudly keeping her legs straight, her knees together and her less-than-flameproof arse properly presented as instructed. Watching Neil Harvey raising his cane in the mirror, concentrating first on his face and then the flashing blurring wand whistling towards her bottom, Marianne feels the hunger of the damned, her hankering for corporal punishment intensified to a mind-blowing pitch matched only by that ferocious cracking flame... and vows, as her blazing stripes multiply, that she will belong to Neil Harvey, and Neil Harvey only, till the day she dies.

The Secret Classroom

Story from Februs 30.

The Secret Classroom
by Edward Masterson

The girl mounted the steps and stopped under the Regency-style portico. She was flanked by massive white-painted columns and a panelled door with a semicircular fanlight. It blazed with light. Although the night was unseasonably mild she shivered slightly. As Verity summoned up the courage to press the bell her knee-length coat moved easily over the sheer skin of PVC she wore underneath.

Being a Sunday evening the streets were quiet. Oh, if only Karl could be with her now, she wished. But that was impossible – as Karl had patiently explained. He had insisted she came on her own. It was like being caught in one of those tunnel mousetraps where you can see the way out but are unable to take it. And why, oh why had he been so insistent she wear this catsuit for Miss Praeger?

Miss Praeger was her boss at the branch library where Verity had worked since leaving college. So unlike easygoing old Mr Burbage who had retired from the post last year. Now Verity was kept up to the mark collecting fines and ensuring that no more than three books per ticket were issued.

'Discipline, Verity. That's what we need to do to set a good example,' Miss Praeger was always keen to emphasise.

'If a borrower cannot return a book on time it shows an elementary lack of self-discipline. The fine imposes no hardship, after all. As my papa used to say, self-discipline is the only basis for success and fulfilment in life.'

The impressive front door of Miss Praeger's house swung open with a faint creak, startling the slight figure on the porch. Although blazing with light the entrance hallway appeared to be empty. The girl crept in, pushing the door closed behind her, at the same time noting that the latch was controlled by a wire cable which climbed up one wall via a small pulley.

'There you are at last, Verity. I thought you'd never come.'

Looking up, she saw Miss Praeger leaning over the bannister under the dark skylight. Her voice still echoed in the marble-floored stairwell.

'Up you shin,' she called in a friendly tone, but the underlying timbre of her voice could still make Verity flinch. As she climbed towards Miss Praeger's dark figure she tried not to think of Morticia in the Addams family. In Verity's gloomiest moments she could lighten her mood in this way, but now the last thing she felt like doing was reciprocating the confident smile that greeted her. Tonight she saw a new Miss Praeger. Her raven hair fell free to her shoulders (unlike in the library where it was kept in a severe bun) and her dress was ankle-length.

'The stairs shouldn't be a trial for a young thing like you,' Miss Praeger intoned. She insists on treating me as if we were from totally different generations, thought Verity, even though there's scarcely ten years between us.

'You'll find the flat is quite cosy.' The door closed softly but firmly behind her. 'When I was a girl we had the whole house, but when papa passed away my mother divided it into flats. Somehow I've never felt like leaving. I suppose I must be getting set in my ways.'

This was accompanied by a refined growl, the nearest Miss Praeger got to a chuckle. Verity stood in the corridor that now served as a hall, still with her coat buttoned to her neck.

As always when she was alone with Miss Praeger she felt resolution ebbing away with each passing second. After Mr Burbage had reached retirement age six months ago Miss Praeger arrived and Verity's ordeal had commenced forthwith.

* * *

Normally Verity was out of reach, working at the issue desk. But at least once a week Miss Praeger would stick her head out of her office, to strike dread into the heart of her assistant with: 'When you've a minute, Verity.'

She still remembered one such occasion barely a month after her arrival.

'Verity, I hope you won't take what I'm going to say too much to heart.' This was accompanied by a bewitching flash of while teeth.

'I'll try not to, Miss Praeger', she stuttered. Had she absent-mindedly shelved a Cartland under Westerns or placed the latest Stephen King under DIY?

'It is to do with your mode of dress, my dear.'

Already she sounds like my mother, thought Verity, who still lived under the same roof as hers.

'I couldn't help noticing that several of the male readers were watching your derriere just now as you bent down to restock the shelves.'

'But surely you don't think I...' Already Verity felt her treacherous cheeks beginning to glow.

'Verity, dear, you must try not to be so sensitive. All I'm saying is, if you must wear jeans, and there appears to be nothing whatsoever in the library regulations to forbid it; then you might consider a more appropriate style of undergarment.'

Verity felt her head begin to spin with the onset of panic.

'You wear such skimpy things, Verity, and they are so apparent from the rear. Any young woman with a neat figure like yours must be aware of the effect you create in a pair of tightfitting trousers. Now all I'm suggesting is that you wear something more ample underneath to discourage those furtive looks. There, I'm sure I need say no more on the subject.'

She was dismissed, like some fifth-former who had been caught writing a love letter in class. So what was she to do? Karl, as always, had the answer. He went with her to the street market the next free morning and together they chose a selection of lacy thongs.

'At least the Fraulein Praeger will not be complaining any more of a visible panties line.'

His unidiomatic English for once went uncorrected as the two of them burst into uncheckable gales of laughter.

It was while trying on the underwear later that Karl first took her over his knee. He wanted to go further, but she knew she must make him wait. Her mother had not yet met him and Verity suspected she might not approve of this penniless student who had come to the UK to study law.
Verity thought she'd never have the courage to wear them to work. At Karl's prompting, however, she did. And no more was said on the matter, even if she felt Miss Praeger's eyes boring holes in her derriere.

* * *

'Well, aren't you going to take off your coat?' Verity came back to the present with a bump. Slowly she undid the buttons, knowing that she was, by this action, creeping further into the trap. But why had Miss Praeger invited her here? And how did she know about the coral-pink catsuit?

She became very aware that the figure-hugging uniform, with its back lacing down to the cleft of her buttocks, left nothing to the imagination. She took a deep breath as the last coat button was undone and Miss Praeger slipped it instantly from her shoulders.

The sensation left her feeling as if she were utterly naked. To Verity's surprise, instead of a gasp of shocked disapproval from Miss Praeger, she received a frankly approving look from top to toe.

The catsuit had naturally been Karl's idea. They went together after work on Friday to the party shop for a weekend hire. With his encouragement she tried it on in the dressing room and then dared to face herself in the full-length mirror.

When she saw every curve sharply outlined she scarcely needed any prompting. It was like a second skin, somehow accentuating the thrust of her pert breasts and buttocks. This was a new her that she could not stop admiring. The urge to create a sensation by walking straight out the door was almost irresistible.

Once they got home, of course, the shiny PVC suit went straight back on. She could tell that Karl was getting as excited as she was. He began by sliding his hands down her arms and then he transferred his touch to her thighs. The slight veiling of sensation made her yearn for his real touch all the more. Then his hands moved round to her buttocks which, after pinching quite roughly, he treated to a few playful slaps.

His hands moved over her hips and down towards her sharply delineated pubis. Already she was panting with desire as his fingers teased the sensitivities of her labial folds through the second skin. It somehow felt safe but at the same time extremely decadent. I'm not really naked, Verity had to keep reminding herself.

She didn't remember how she ended up lying over Karl's knees with her coral-clad buttocks so prominently positioned. His initial slaps gained in strength as he began to establish mastery over her, crooning all the time in his strongly inflected English: 'Nein, nein, meine Madchen, you must not struggle so. This is your big Bruder Karl who wants to make you into a good, good little girl.'

Soon his more vigorous smacks were echoing round the bare walls of his small rented room and Verity began to fear that the next-door lodger would hear. She found it difficult to get him to stop, and in a sense she didn't want to, even though the pain was becoming quite sharp. Already one hand was at the nape of her neck, starting to unthread the laces, which Verity prevented by twisting like an eel. She could see that he was very red in the face and sweating freely.

There was only one way to get Karl to stop. Verity agreed to do a strip, so that he could inspect his handiwork. Luckily, she reminded herself as Karl finished unlacing her, she had a pair of briefs on underneath.

But as she hesitantly peeled off the catsuit (how it seemed to cling!) she nearly lost the undergarment. Pulling the white cotton back into place she noticed that the crotch was warm and wet with her desire. So she barely resisted as Karl reached up from where he was sitting to pull down the waistband at the back.

He gave a low whistle, stroking the angry red patches on each buttock. They made a startling contrast to the whiteness of the rest of her body. He brought over a small shaving mirror so that she could see for herself. As she looked she felt the heat spreading down her belly and under, infusing the lips of her sex with a glow. The labia pulsed and seemed to protrude in a way she could not remember before.

Verity just had to check for herself. To Karl's delighted surprise one hand reached down and furled around her mons. Soon she was lost in her own self-induced bliss, a finger parting the lips now well slicked with her own juices. Karl needed no second bidding, peeling off his clothes with ardent fingers. Verity stood almost on tiptoe before him with her briefs around her knees, one finger still tracing her blushing cleft while the other hand lifted her light hair from her neck. She seemed to be floating away on clouds of desire.

* * *

'Well, Verity, now we can have our little talk with no interruptions.' The husky voice of Miss Praeger was a harsh awakening from her dreamlike memory. 'Come along first of all into my boudoir and we'll have a drink and relax a little while I explain what this is all about.'

As they made their wav down the narrow corridor, Verity noticed there were five or six doors before they reached Miss Praeger's so-called boudoir. She could scarcely suppress a gasp as she was shown in. It was like no other room she had seen before.

It reminded her of a very large sheikh's tent. On the walls there were animal skins and tapestries. More fur rugs were scattered about the floor. The lighting was low and it was several seconds before she could fully make out her surroundings.

To her right was an antique dresser that was used as a drinks cabinet. Otherwise the only furniture was a long leather upholstered divan in the centre of the room facing the curtained window. Incense sticks added to the unreality of Verity's sensations. From concealed speakers a hyena-like female crooned unsatisfied desires to an exotic backing.

She fell herself succumbing to the hypnotic spell of these sensations. Verity came to herself again as a cool glass was pressed into her hand. Miss Praeger stood close beside her and for the first time she noticed that the long dark gown was entirely made of supple leather.

'I think you'll like this drink; it's a herbal distillation that is claimed to energise vital forces. Now let's sit down and talk,' Miss Praeger indicated the swelling divan which squeaked slightly as they sat down together.

The smell of the leather enveloped Verity, reminding her of tight-fitting gloves and new shoes, and one favourite handbag that eventually came apart at the seams. It also reminded her of something that Karl had shown her much more recently. But no, she didn't want to think of that just now.

'You haven't tried your drink,' Miss Praeger continued, taking a dainty sip of hers. It had a sharp aftertaste which Verity did not much fancy, but at least it helped to overcome the dryness of her mouth.

'What I'm going to say may come as something of a shock. I know your Karl quite well. I too have German blood in my veins, a paternal grandfather whom, unfortunately, I never knew. Karl is patently devoted to you but he would like you to be a little more, shall we say, daring in your relationship.'

Verity gulped but remained silent. What else did this interfering woman know about her private life?

'You see, I had to call Karl in for a talk. It's these overdue fines. Yes, the ones that I now see you thought you were going to keep secret from me.'

'But Karl never mentioned...'

'No, he was under strict instructions from me not to breathe a word of this to you. He realised that if I knew that you had been renewing books far beyond their return date and falling to collect fines then the consequences for you would be grave indeed.'

'Karl needs those law books for this year's exams. There is no way he could afford to buy them, Miss Praeger. His family are not well off.' Verity gulped down some more of the tart drink as she felt her panic rising.

'That's as maybe. Your actions are a credit to your heart if not to your head, Verity. He is a fine young man, if a little too aware of his own qualities. But I was going to tell you what agreement I have reached with Karl.'

Miss Praeger inched closer on the leather divan and touched her arm confidentially. Verity's head was in a whirl.

'Of course it would be quite out of the question for him to repay the accumulated fines of the last six months, so we struck a deal. I agreed not to pass on your misdemeanours to a higher authority as long as I was free to discipline you in a private capacity.'

There was an indrawn breath from Verity. 'So is that why you insisted I came like this?'

That was actually Karl's idea. He pointed out that your costume was to be returned tomorrow and it seemed a pity not to get full wear out of it. He must have thought I would enjoy seeing you like this,' Miss Praeger gave another of those low-throated chuckles that could make Verity's heart jump.

'How am I to be... disciplined?'

'Karl told me you were developing quite a fondness for spanking. Don't blush so, you silly little goose. It's quite normal for young women who have lived a sheltered life such as you have to develop such fantasies. But now yon are old enough to begin experiencing life for real.'

'For real?'

There was a silence as Miss Praeger looked steadily into Verity's face. The girl looked away and took another sip.

Eventually the silence was broken as Miss Praeger continued in a brisk tone. 'Now finish your drink, Verity. We're going to another room, one even more special than this. As I think I told you, my father was a teacher, a wonderful teacher. He gave his life to imparting the Classics. I have created a small museum in his memory and I'd like to show you. Follow me, please.'

Miss Praeger's tall figure, stylish and resplendent in her supple maroon dress, stood over Verity. She noticed for the first time how well-endowed Miss Praeger's bosom was in the low-cut gown. In her garish party costume she once again felt at a disadvantage as the librarian led the way back along the corridor, pausing only briefly to unlock one door and remove the key. She beckoned Verity inside with a level gaze.

* * *

The new room was even larger than the boudoir, but not nearly as inviting. It had a slightly musty small, Verity noticed. There was only a skylight for light and ventilation. The high walls were dark panelled up to shoulder height and then became an indeterminate off-white. There were two rows of old school benches that had clearly seen rough treatment in the past, and beside her stood a teacher's desk on a high dais.

'Look around. You will find I have preserved many of dear papa's teaching aids. Maps of the Classical World, reproductions of suitable urns and vases, even his bust of Homer. The classroom furniture was donated by the school as a token of respect for the 30 years he taught there with scarcely a day taken off ill. It was this dedication and discipline that hastened his death, I am convinced. Of course,' she sighed, 'things are quite different now.'

Verity tried desperately to grasp some meaning from this latest twist. Dutifully she moved to take a closer look at Homer. The buzz of the striplights was distracting. Then she heard the sound of the key turning behind her.

She whirled round, to find Miss Praeger standing behind her father's high desk. Her penetrating gaze rooted Verity to the spot. Miss Praeger lifted the lid soundlessly, reached inside and produced something which was not immediately discernible in the dim light. She lowered the lid and the object was swiftly laid on top with a slight slap.

'Now Verity, the time has come for you to take the discipline which by rights you should have received mouths ago.'

She gulped, thinking that she might be in for a few slaps across the wrist or a tap with a ruler. Surely Miss Praeger, a refined and educated woman, could not be thinking of anything more severe?

'Bend over that desk facing you, with your arms stretched out to rest on the row behind.'

'But Miss Praeger!'

'Come now, girl. You didn't for a moment think you would get away with defrauding the Library Service of more than £50?' Her interrogative tone had suddenly hardened with a hint of menace.

Verity's head whirled once more. 'Surely it can't be as much as that!'

'You lost count, didn't you Verity? Well, it's what comes of lapsing into complacency. Believe me, that's a lesson you will learn painfully tonight.'

'I can't think what you mean by adopting that kind of tone. There was no intention of fraud against the library. You surely must see that,' she squeaked. 'No one else was asking to borrow the books.'

'Be quiet, girl. When I address you in this room you remain silent. You speak only when invited to by your teacher.'

Her voice was now harsh, almost metallic. There was something very strange about this room and what it was used for. She shut certain thoughts out of her mind. And then she saw what Miss Praeger carried in her hand.

Only a few nights ago Karl had produced something similar after one of their now pretty regular hand spanking sessions. They had just graduated to a long-handled clothes brush which produced a sharp crack like a pistol shot. Bui it resulted in a wonderful warm glow to her trembling globes. It was then he produced the 3-tongued tawse to show her what would he called the next pace. He meant step, of course.

There was something about the dull gleam of that grey strap that frightened Verity, plus a pungent smell of new leather that assailed her senses. Now, as in a nightmare, she noticed that Miss Praeger was running between the thumb and fingers of one hand something almost identical. But this one was far from new and its stiffness creaked slightly in Miss Praeger's grasp.

'Bend over, now, and take your punishment. Karl and I have agreed to share out the apportionment of strokes. There will be one for each pound owed to the Library Authority. You will hardly feel a thing in that outfit and the drink you have taken contains a mild herbal painkiller.'

At this Verity found herself being pushed over the desk by a firm hand in the small of her back. Although shocked by the turn of events, she was relieved to remember that she was not totally naked and defenceless. The glossy PVC skin, although now tightly compressing her haunches and labia, was at least going to take the edge of her first taste of the strap. But it was so humiliating to be treated like a schoolgirl.

'How many?' she asked in a tiny voice, looking back over her shoulder.

'We will begin with six now. But your partner will be administering some more later tonight.' Verity's shocked face was turned to face the front firmly but gently. 'You will help me by counting. Start with Six To Go.'

'Six to go.' Verity heard the creak of the ancient tawse on its upward and return journey. The sensation was only a slight burning.

'Five to go.' The next time was definitely harder, and Verity now suspected that she was being broken in gently by the experienced librarian. A slight pause as Miss Praeger adjusted her sleeve. On the fourth stroke she swore she heard Miss Praeger grunt and after that she knew that the final two would be a trial indeed.

'Two to go.' Again the unmistakable grunt and this time the burn grew in sharpness before eventually fading.

'One to go.' This time there was practically no pause before it was administered, much lower down and below the pantyline. This time Verity sprang up and rubbed furiously, angry despite herself. Then, in a trice, she remembered where she was.

'Your apologies are, I'm afraid, insufficient,' Miss Praeger declared. 'You will need to receive an extra set for indiscipline. And this time it will need to be without the catsuit.'

'Miss Praeger, please. I've had enough.'

Despite Verity's struggles the librarian swiftly began the unlacing. She felt the cooler air on her back as the laces came free. Her raven-haired oppressor pulled the second skin free of the girl's buttocks to admire her handiwork. Then the front door buzzer went. Miss Praeger shot her a quick glance which had a touch of exasperation.

'Now, I think I know who that is. You will be excused your extra punishment after all at my hand. But I see there are dark stripes left on your costume. Get fully undressed and I will bring you your coat.'

As Verity stripped off the pink garment completely she could hear Miss Praeger talking to someone over the intercom in the hall, but failed to catch the words. The girl was standing quite naked in Miss Praeger's strange schoolroom when she returned with her coat. She placed it on the high desk then made Verity turn round and display her glowing haunches.

'Mm, I seem to have let you off lightly,' the librarian stood arms akimbo with a lazy smile. 'Karl says he is in no hurry, so bend over again as you were. This time I will use the usual weapon for punishing beginners.' She brandished a heavy wooden 12-inch ruler.

This time Verity distinctly heard the whirr and knew it would be harder. The slap of the flat wooden surface surprised her. She had never dreamed the pain could be so sharp, but this time it was on her bare buttocks in the empty classroom. Holding her firmly down Miss Praeger inflicted five more in sharp succession before releasing the writhing figure of the girl.

'Ow, that really hurt!' Verity could think of nothing more original as her hands went to smooth her flaming haunches. To her dismay she had a tear ready to roll down one cheek.

'Never mind, your Karl will finish off the job later. Put on your coat. I will keep hold of this for tonight and give it to you clean tomorrow.' She held up the catsuit.

Verity felt she must find out the truth, even if it was unpleasant. 'How do you know so much about Karl?'

To her surprise Miss Praeger came over and held her gently at arms' length, giving her a genuine look of concern. 'Verity, my dear, your innocence does you credit. But I think you need to ask your Karl a few questions, especially about what he does most Monday nights.'

'Do you know where he goes?'

'Why yes, he comes here with one or two other gentlemen who enjoy watching a young girl such as yourself receive punishment at my hands. It is all very civilised, I assure you. We have drinks in the boudoir afterwards. But, of course, they all pay me generously for making the arrangements.'

'You do this as a business?'

'On a branch librarian's wages, my dear, I could never afford to keep this place up.'

'But how could Karl possibly afford it?'

'Believe me, Verity, he could afford to come every night if he wished. His family treat him generously. I understand you have not yet visited his luxurious flat just around the corner of the square.'

'I thought he lived in that boarding house. So why ever couldn't he pay the library fines for the overdue books?'

'Because he wanted to put you in my hands for an evening. With the best of intentions, he thought I could bring you on a little. And that is exactly what has happened. I hope you enjoyed your first taste of CP and will go on to enjoy more.'

Miss Praeger sighed softly. 'Now Karl is waiting for you in the hallway. Enjoy the rest of the night.'

The evident sadness in Miss Praeger's voice made Verity wonder about her love life. For the first time she felt she was seeing a vulnerable side of her superior. Impulsively she went up to her and held her fleetingly in a cheek to cheek embrace.

Then, with a 'See you tomorrow' tossed over one shoulder, Verity made a beeline for the door. Tripping delicately down the staircase she looked down to see Karl's squat figure dark against the white marble floor of the hallway. He was due her an explanation. And she knew she would get it, eventually, when he was ready. Hugging her nakedness, she was strangely excited at what awaited her beforehand.

Sports day

Story from Roue 02.

Sports day

'It's the only bright spot in the week these days,' said Marti sulkily to whoever was listening. 'Comes to something when all you've got to look forward to is the Branch's Weekly Figures and drawing pretty coloured lines on a potty graph!'

'Who's got the grumps today then?' The cold presence of Mrs Oliver entering the room gave her the shivers, but a smile emerged as Marti quickly explained.

'Bit fed up about the weather really, Mrs Oliver, it's supposed to be Sports Day tomorrow – and it looks like it's going to be a miserable day.'

Mrs Oliver strutted past the desk very breezily, answering Marti from the desk in front and not even looking over her shoulder. 'Look on the bright side dear, remember, think positive...!'

Marti didn't hear the rest: she'd heard all this eyewash before. Whoever had heard of a woman manager of a Bank anyway?

Marti finished typing the tape in the audio machine and started checking her work slowly. She was feeling fed up with the situation again. It had been a bad idea to volunteer for the staff of a new branch when she did, even though her old manager was a bit of a rogue and had his own way of keeping his staff on their toes (or his lap, more like!).

She hadn't realised that a new branch would be so slow and boring. She really missed the old crowd at the main office, with the dilapidated furniture and tatty staff room. Everyone here was trying so hard to make a good impression that the fun had gone out of working. She had really been looking forward to the Annual Sports Day and intended to make up for the fun she'd been missing.

It was a good day after all and the sports field was filled with a happy, excited crowd.

Marti, like all the other competitors, wore her running strip throughout the day and had no need to change into her track suit, as the sun was so hot. It was a sight for sore eyes – so many shapely bottoms dotted around this colourful crowd. Their shorts were nice and tight – it was a wonder some of them didn't split! Perhaps that was really the main attraction and the reason why so many supporters gathered along the race track instead of the refreshment tent on such a hot afternoon!

Marti was obviously enjoying her 'fun day' and her white outfit was as tight and shapely as the rest. Her plump little bottom certainly attracted the stares and glances as she swaggered around the bustling throng.

'Nice to see you again Martina.' The voice behind her sounded very familiar. She turned her head.

'Oh, hello sir.' It was her old manager. 'I didn't see you there.'

'I thought I recognised you.'

'But I had my back to you,' she said with a knowing smile.

That's what I meant. I see you're still as saucy as ever. How's the new branch then?'

'Not too bad I s'pose.'

'Miss us, do you?'

'Well, it's not so interesting. Yes, I do miss the old crowd,' she confessed.

'Same old Martina, always jumping the gun. You should know the grass isn't always greener over the hill.'

His tone sounded familiar, and his smile was not as friendly as Marti had thought. She suddenly realised he wanted to spank her.

'It's always been a fault of yours my dear. Remember, I was always having to chastise you for acting without thinking first?'

'But Sir, it's different now. You're not my manager any more.'

'Of course I'm not, and your replacement has her faults too, I'm sorry to say.'

Suddenly Marti was jealous. She had expected him to have missed their spanking sessions in the Board Room after work. He had even let her claim the overtime money for the time he'd kept her after office hours, just in case anyone suspected why she stayed. Perhaps that's why she wanted to leave his branch after all. She had told herself that she was fed up with always getting a good hiding for such human mistakes, but really she was getting worried about the way the others pulled her leg because of the overtime she had to do to keep in with the Manager.

What a fool she'd been. And now another girl had taken her place, and she was left with a boring old job she didn't even want.

'See you later then.' He left without expecting her to reply.

Marti's day was spoilt now. She decided to withdraw from the rest of the events and go home early.

What Marti didn't anticipate was his appearance in the changing room.

'Not feeling well?' he asked.

'Leave me alone, I'm going home,' she said dismally. She had taken off her top and bra, ready for a shower, and now fumbled for her top as he locked the door behind him.

'I thought you might go and do something rash like this. You're still as headstrong as ever.'

He drew a chair from a pile stacked up along one wall and beckoned her over to it.

'You can't wallop me any more,' she blurted.

'But Martina, you've asked for it. How could you let our district down by pulling out of the team so selfishly?'

'No, you can't. You know you can't.'

Those tight little white shorts emphasised her round inviting bottom, just begging to be punished. His palm was twitching with the anticipation of this long awaited moment. Her cheeks would bounce up and down as she protested in her endearing way about the injustice of it all. He would have to be patient and persuading. No use letting an opportunity like this slip away when he'd timed it so well up to now. He could hardly wait to get those soft fleshy thighs across his lap, her smooth pink skin silky to the touch yet wobbling and wiggling at his command.

'Oh, but I can my dear, and we both know that I will. Now, think before you do something silly. We don't want the rest of the staff to find out how you've let their side down do you?'

She nearly stormed out in one of her moods, but realised what a fool she'd look if she reappeared after telling everyone how bad her headache was.

He shoved the chair a couple of inches nearer to Marti. She took a deep breath and looked round at him as though defeated. As she turned to walk towards him, her top swung open and revealed a pair of pert and tempting young tits. She stood there with her breasts peeping out beautifully. He started to get excited for more than just a spanking. Had she deliberately tried to arouse him? This was a new Marti, he had to handle it even more carefully. Perhaps after all he had got more of a hold over her than either of them realised.

She crossed the room slowly, her tits swinging rhythmically. He was mesmerised. She was lovelier undressed than even he'd imagined. Perhaps it was the fresh air that made him feel so randy, he didn't know, but certainly he was going to make up for lost time.

Marti didn't really mind his hungry attention, in fact his eyes on her boobs sent a sensation round in her tummy she hadn't experienced before. She had forgotten they were showing in her outburst of temper. But what was the difference now anyway? He'd seen them! Seen one pair, seen them all. That's what she thought about men. He's just got that fatherly feeling for her anyway. Always wanting to spank her like her dad did when she was a kid. It suddenly felt nice to have bare breasts, her parents had always seemed embarrassed about their bodies, and at school she had only got ribbed about how big they were. Fellers had squeezed and prodded them in the backs of cars and rummaged about inside her jumper to give them something to brag about to their mates. Nobody seemed to think she was anything special, or her body really fanciable.

She bent over the chair obediently. Her bum was perched high on the back, her legs straight and her breasts brushed against the inside of arms which rested on their elbows on the seat of the chair. The back of the chair pinched into her belly and she had to jump up and down, when the stinging slaps came, so that the chair back didn't dig into her tummy too much. She didn't know what was hurting her most, his palm or the chair.

Slap, Crack, Whack.

'Ouch!' 'Oooo!' 'AAhhhh!'

'Keep quiet. Stop complaining. Hold still.'

The sounds echoed in the empty room. Marti's squeals and moans were muffled in the chair and the more she was slapped, the more the chair scraped along the floor.

Marti's bottom hadn't lost its bounce, even though the shorts were stretched tight across her cheeks. He had to compose himself to give her the punishment she deserved and he was enjoying it. What a good idea to have her over the chair.

She continued to protest that he was heartless and how glad she was not to have him for a manager any more. He told her to hold still and quieten down unless she wanted double the punishment for being so obstinate.

But the enjoyment wasn't fully satisfying. He kept thinking about those lovely tits out of his sight.

He stopped suddenly.

'Stand up Martina,' he ordered.

'I want you to take your things off.'

'Oh, a new game is it? Just for ex-offenders?'

'Just take those shorts down. Do as you're told for a change.' The voice of authority weakened her usual spitfire temper.

She sulked. He liked that. What a child she was. Her tummy had a red ridge right across it where the back of the chair had dug into it. Obediently, off came her shorts, then her top, she turned her back to him shyly. When her knickers came down, she covered her pink-blotched bottom with her hands outstretched.

The little girl was naked. Her temper gone. She looked cuddly and warm instead of prickly and sharp.

Had he only meant to look at her soft body? Those full breasts with the kissable nipples. Her firm but round belly and that lovely smackable bum. Dare he touch her, he could give her a spanking to be proud of now she had no clothes to get in the way. And the anticipation of her bare body over his lap was too tempting.

He picked up her clothes. Inspiration!

'Follow me,' he said. He walked past her, took her hand and led her to the store room.

There in the corner was a pile of foam mats. They were generally used for Judo training, but he had his own kind of use for them today!

He sat on a pile and pulled gently to get the sulky, shy Marti onto his lap, lying full length across the mats, with her tummy resting softly on his thighs. She covered her face with her hands.

'No more – please sir – I'm sorry I didn't think first, I really am.'

'I know, Martina. Then you always are. Now, no more protests. Today you'll learn your lesson properly.' And with that, a firm hard hand landed loudly on her wobbly bum with a sharp cracking sting.

Marti bounced up. 'Oooo! I'm sorry. I'll try not to –'

Whack!

Bang!

His hand was strong and firm on her soft uncovered cheeks. At first it stung rather than hurt her. Before it was really painful but now, with the soft mats under her, she found it much easier to move without hurting herself.

It was stuffy and hot in the store room and Marti's body was damp with sweat. Apart from his cracking slaps, it was very quiet, there weren't any echoes in here and Marti felt her smarting buttocks get sorer and sorer. She stifled the squeals in her hands. His lap was firm and comfortable. He gave her an almighty slap on her pink outstretched thighs. She responded violently, kicking and jumping up and down.

'Ahhh, that hurt!' The fiery temper returned in a shot!

'It was meant to. And here's another!'

CRACK!

'Oi!' She tried to turn her slithery body off his lap.

'STILL!' he yelled – the anger in his voice quietened her instantly.

A series of sharp painful whacks followed, reddening the firm thighs to match the well-blotched cheeks. He was very pleased with himself. She felt lovely under his masterful palm.

She had no control over her tears. Tears she hadn't cried for years. But she couldn't stop them, or the whimpering.

'Please stop. P-please,' she sniffled.

He suddenly felt very silly. He hadn't meant to reduce this little spitfire to tears. He had never gone this far before. It had been enough for him to feel their soft bouncing bodies on his thighs and punish their delectable pink bottoms till they turned a nice shade of red.

His desire to take Marti into the store room in her naked state had turned a little bit sour on him. He hadn't been expecting her to cry and blubber like this. He stopped his spanking and almost told her to dress and go home, but he let her lay there a minute to see what happened.

'Oh Sir, I'm glad you stopped.' She looked round at him. She was shaking and her fists were clenched tight.

As he stroked her damp, crimson bottom, he was amazed how hot and slithery her skin felt.

'Ooooo!' she murmured, and a shiver went down her spine at his soothing touch.

Up went her backside and she nestled closer to his body. She stopped crying and was making that soft cooing sound, so unlike the scornful Marti he was used to. Her breasts pressed down, delicately resting on his legs. His body became alive with sudden passion.

"Mmmm, oooo, mmmm.' The soft breathless mumblings and the slow bobbing body thrust up against him was crying out for more.

His forehead was dripping with sweat and his palms sticking to her fiery, upturned cheeks. He buried his face in her hot beautiful bum, kissed and hugged the smarting thighs and felt her soft bouncing tits on his ever-hardening prick.

The exciting tingling feeling shooting through her body was uncontrollable. She felt every muscle move instinctively to his touch and his wet tongue sliding up and down her thighs sent her into a state she could not explain.

'Oh! Oh! Oh!' She was jumping up and down now as he reached down, biting her cheeks and squeezing her swinging breasts.

'Hang on Martina, don't let go yet.'

She had no control over her body as he picked her up, and laid her face upwards on the mats. He shoved long and hard inside her, with the appetite of a wild animal.

Marti spread her legs outwards, enjoying the sensual pleasure of the result of her spanking, instead of the usual angry mood it put her in. Her usual fiery temper had been transformed into a fire of desire and lust.

She seemed to take ages to reach her climax, while writhing up and down with excitement and making some of the most unusual noises. But he gave her the satisfaction of reaching her climax before giving her his final oozing thrusts. His satisfaction was doubled with the beautiful sight he surveyed as he lifted his heavy body from the naked beauty beneath him.

'I'll leave you now Marti, you'd better get dressed or something.'

'Yes sir, thank you.'

'Thank you too my dear. I'd better get back, I've got to do some prize giving.'

'I don't expect I'll see you again till the Christmas party, will I?' She got up and looked for her knickers.

'Oh, did I forget to tell you that you're coming back to me next month?'

'You didn't say anything to me.' She looked at him curiously.

'Yes, my girl's leaving, so I'm having you back. OK with you is it?'

'Do I have much choice?'

He smiled, blew her a kiss and left.

'Don't forget to put the mats back properly, will you?' he called through the part-opened door.

'Hmmm!'

Marti was in a kind of a trance. She hurried around, clearing up and dressing, and got herself thoroughly confused. She'd better get home quickly. She couldn't think straight. She was so excited; it felt like she had won the pools or something.

But she couldn't resist a peep into the marquee, where the prize giving was taking place. She stood well out of view of those who thought she'd gone home. How disappointed she started to feel, seeing all those lovely prizes being presented to the winners. That radio could have been hers if she hadn't been so impatient. Still, she felt pretty smug about the prize he had given her, and smiled secretly to herself.

She looked up at her boss, standing at the top table so sedately. No one would have imagined how he could have got an innocent girl so worked up just a few minutes earlier! He gave his speech and stepped down, leaving the rest of them to finalise the occasion.

Marti decided to slip away before he saw her, but had a bit of a shock as she glanced over towards the changing rooms. There, filing into the sanctuary of her sexual enlightenment was a line of girls in little white shorts and tight tee shirts, being led through the door by – him!

'The swine,' she fumed. 'He's only going to spank the losers too!'

If only she had realised! Obviously he hadn't a hope of Marti being amongst them if she had taken part in her events. She'd been a dead cert to win! So he'd devised his twisted plan to lure her away from the races and onto his lap. What a fool she'd been, she was right back where she started months ago after all!

Tight cheeks. All the way! - The story in two parts

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.4

Tight cheeks

BONANZA! A super-double-feature begin here!

* * *

The washing-up could wait, Sandra decided. She liked to read the morning paper first and take it easy. But her father-in-law had other ideas – and how easily Sandra took those was something else.

'You haven't tidied the kitchen up yet, I see', Frank said as he came into the living room where his daughter-in-law Sandra sat reading her way through the morning paper.

Sandra's eyes flashed immediately. What a bloody cheek, she thought. It hadn't been her idea for him to come and visit them so soon in their new house and right now she wanted to be left on her own. It was a lovely morning and she felt lazy. Sod the kitchen!

'No, I haven't, not yet – so what?', she flared watching him flop into the chair opposite hers. But he was regarding her mildly and almost with amusement. 'Nothing much', he shrugged, 'but his mother always does it first thing, or one of his sisters. It's nice to see a tidy kitchen after breakfast – an hour after breakfast', Frank added carefully. There was a slight flush on her cheeks which he had expected.

'Well, I'm not...', Sandra began. She had meant to say she was not his wife or one of his daughters, but it might sound too rude. 'I'll do it in a minute', she said shortly, hating even having to say that to him. Inside her she was fuming. No gentleman would ever have said such a thing. He should have just waited for her to do it. 'Anyway, I'm going to have another coffee – you want one?', she asked, trying to take the edge off of the mood.

He nodded genially and watched her spring up – a lovely lithe young thing, small for her twenty years but perfectly curved in all the right places. Her tits bobbed firmly under her thin grey sweater. Obviously no bra on. And tiny panties, too. He could see the ridging vee of them under her skirt as she swept out. Frank leaned back and sighed. It was one bottom he hadn't unveiled and spanked yet, and he meant to. Sandra was going to be real bouncy under his palm when he got down to it. Would it be new to her? He'd wondered about that in the past year of her engagement and then marriage to Mark.

The thought stirred him more and he got up and strolled out after her. Sandra stood with her back to the door, waiting for the electric kettle to whistle. Like a train coming out of a tunnel, she always thought and gave a guilty, sideways look at the cups, saucers and plates still waiting to be washed-up on the sink top. Then with an awful start she felt a big pair of hands suddenly smooth under the tight cheeks of her bottom.

Sandra jerked out a surprised 'Oh!' and moved one step sideways, turning towards him, but was disarmed immediately by her father-in-law's grin. 'I bet it's been spanked for leaving things untidy', he said. He could still feel the round warmth of her bottom on his palms. Beneath her skirt and sweater she obviously had nothing on but her panties and nylons. Sandra stared at him and then half giggled. God, he was rude, touching her like that! 'I haven't – no I haven't', she said and moved back slightly warily while pretending to tidy the things on the sink.

Frank's eyes narrowed in surprise, 'Never? Never been spanked?', he asked and there was such surprise in his voice that she almost laughed. It wasn't true, but she wasn't going to tell him so. Bui it made her blush, and that was maddening. It was funny being alone with him like this and she was not sure whether she liked it or not. 'Ah, well', he said quizzically and gave her quite a nice smile, 'I guess I'll have to see to you some time then'. Sandra's pretty mouth opened. At five feet three herself and he nearly six feet, he seemed to tower over her. She knew that feeling. Especially when she had done something wrong.

'Oh, I s'pose you know all about it', she said sarcastically, and wished she hadn't. It seemed to invite him further remarks, and it did. 'A bit – I've had some practise', he answered, 'and don't be sarky, or...'.

Sandra spun round to face him. She wasn't going to put up with this. 'Or WHAT?', she snapped, 'listen, I don't have to take anything from you and this is my house and... NO-OOOOOH!'. The surprised screech trilled from her throat as with a single sweep of his arm he hooked her waist and lifted her clean off the floor. 'You stop IT!', she squealed, kicking madly, but he had lifted her right up and she found herself swinging crazily in his arms like a cradled doll as he carried her back into the living room.

'You're not GOING to!', Sandra yelled wildly, feeling for a moment as if the floor were collapsing. For in falling backwards into the armchair he had occupied a few minutes before, he had taken her with him and with a cry of total alarm Sandra found herself dangling over his lap, bottom up, with a steely arm encircling her twenty-one-inch waist.

Frank held her tight, feeling a little breathless that he had acted so quickly and on impulse and stirred already by the bulbous brushing of her breasts as they had passed over his thighs. She would quieten in a moment. They always did. 'You don't want your new neighbours to hear?', he managed to get in among her outraged shrieks. For a moment it made no difference to a wildly head-shaking Sandra, but then the realisation broke in on her of how her screams might sound and for long seconds she lay there protesting more quietly while Frank's hand rested casually on the upcurve of her bottom.

'You're not going to', she gritted, her heels kicking up in vain. 'I'll tell Mark!'. Frank grinned down at the long golden hair which lay tousled now about her face, the strands all parted at the back. 'You won't – not after I've finished with you', he said and began sliding the back of her skirt up. 'NA-AAAH!' she screeched again then and vainly tried to reach a hand back to stop him, but her skirt was short and already her stocking tops were exposed. 'Please no... please no... please no, no!', Sandra spluttered wildly.

'All right', his voice came to her, fingers splayed across the bare flesh of the back of one of her thighs. 'I'll tell you what I'm going to do. We'll make a bargain if you like. I'm going to give you six smacks through your panties – not taking them off. That's if you agree – for being untidy and sarcastic, too. If you don't, I swear I'll rip them down and give you a hard dozen – and you'll feel it. Well?'.

Sandra's palms rested on the new carpet which her nose almost touched. He was going to – she knew he was going to, whatever happened now. 'But no – look – please – I don't want – six is too many', she blathered, scarcely knowing what she was saying now. And worse, he accepted it as agreement, his big hand immediately sweeping her skirt right up until her knickered bottom was completely exposed to him while Sandra endeavoured to choke down another would-be scream. 'Right! Five, then, and not six – I'll go along with you', she heard him say, his eyes searching the exqusite half-bared cheeks which mounded up so pertly to him.

Delicious. That was the only word. Tight and small and beautiful – and he could see almost all of it. Her panties were next to transparent and the curve of her groove where the chubby cheeks inrolled made a dark but clear shadow beneath. 'D.. d.. d...!', Sandra stuttered and grabbed with one hand at the short leg of the armchair as she somehow felt the rising of his hand. Oh God, she hadn't had this for well over a year now! Then... SMACK! came his palm, bouncing off of her bottom and bringing a long howl from Sandra whose eyes tightened up just as her nether cheeks did under the sudden stinging.

Her bottom jerked up, giving Frank an even better view. Her legs were in perfect proportion to her body and looked as pretty as in a stocking advertisement. Sheer and gleaming, her dark nylons ended halfway up her thighs, the sides and fronts drawn up in tight peaks where the suspender clips held them. Then a long wail broke from Sandra again as his palm met her already smarting cheeks in a second and louder SMACK! that made her head jerk up.

'St... st... stop it – please – oh!' she howled, but the arm clamp around her waist was as tight as ever. There was no way she could escape now as Frank well knew. It was the best position to start them off when you had a really strong arm. Later, when their bottoms got more used to the stings and absorbed them with petulant but more passionate wriggling, it was different. That was when you peeled their panties down without too much of a struggle and got them kneeling on the bed maybe. And later... but no, he would have to think about that, with Sandra.

The rosy hue on the exposed parts of her cheeks was a delight to see. So was the way her already tight checks squeezed upon one another. 'All right, all right', he soothed in response to her increased sobbings, and Sandra thought he had actually relented and stopped, but instead he began to stroke and soothe her bottom, working his fingers a little beneath the backstrap while she squirmed, her back arching. Then again it came, SMACK! and oh! the pearls of tears rolled from her eyes and down her face.

'No! oh no!', she squealed yet again, but Frank was firm with her as he knew from experience that he had to be. Sandra no longer seemed to care that he was actually now caressing the silky backs of her thighs – something which only a few minutes before would have seemed impossible. 'I... I d... don't w... want!', she sobbed, only to be answered by his hand moving comfortingly over the hot globe of her botty and gently squeezing the cheeks as she winced. But the wincing was as nothing to the deep-burning sting she next received as her father-in-law's broad palm bounced off her resilient derriere for the fourth time.

'NA... NA... NA... NAAAH!', Sandra sobbed, her knees bending upwards as if in that way, too, she could help squeeze out the hot pain. 'There, there!', she dimly heard him saying and felt herself swung up again. This time her scorched cheeks bumped full down in to his lap and the sudden contact make her jerk and clutch at his neck for fear of falling backwards. Her eyes were sheened with tears, her petal mouth half open. It was a mouth beyond resistance and before Frank knew what he was doing he leaned her face back and kissed it.

'D... d... d...', Sandra stuttered against his mouth. She had meant to say don't, but the word lost itself in the unexpected kiss and her bottom was wriggling so madly that she scarcely knew what was happening. Her skirt was up and her thighs showed. Then Frank leaned her back swiftly so that the back of her head came between the corner of the chair and his shoulder. Moving his lips from hers he kissed away the tear streaks than had run down her pretty face and slipped his hand higher up her thigh until his thumb felt a soft burr of curls beneath the vee of her panties.

Then, as quickly as he had fondled her, his hand slid down again and stayed over one rounded knee even as Sandra seemed to come to her senses. Struggling and pushing with her arms she managed to squirm up and push her skirt down. 'Oh YOU! how COULD YOU!', she burst and, escaping his quickly-extended arm, ran into the kitchen where she leaned for a long moment against a worktop, wondering how on earth it could have all happened. No, he couldn't have touched her afterwards, not really, not between her thighs. She must have dreamed that. Her eyes closed and she swayed. Oh hell, her bottom stung still. The fire was spreading, as it always did after she had been spanked, but if he ever found out about THAT...

Then suddenly he was there, coming in so quietly that she scarcely had time to jump before he placed his arm around her shoulders. 'Sorry', he said thickly and with such apparent sincerity that a half smile actually came to her lips and she looked up at him. 'I mean it', Frank said, 'I really am'.

It was crazy to even talk to him now, Sandra thought, but the words came floating from her mouth before she knew it. Often when she tried to get really angry she only managed a silly-grin. For a brief moment she looked up at him and then her eyes dropped. 'I should think so', she said, trying to make her voice sound outraged. His arm was firm and strong around her shoulders. 'Spanking me like that and... well... spanking me', she finished lamely. But he had had his hand up her skirt afterwards – she knew it. 'You're horrible', she said, 'and you're...'.

Frank turned her and spun her against him so that her juicy tits bounced into his shirtfront. This time his hand took the nape of her neck and held her. After the first spanking you had to show them who was master.

'You'll get it again', he said quietly and watched all the conflicting expressions in her eyes. A bubling of protesting words began to come from her mouth, but as suddenly as he had gripped her so he released her. 'Now tidy the kitchen', he said and walked out, closing the door.

'OH!', Sandra screamed after him. She reached for the chrome doorhandle and then let her hand fall back. It was no good and she knew it. He bloody well knew she had to wash up sometime and her bottom cheeks were throbbing. Only four, but he had smacked real hard. Harder than she had used to have. She turned to the sink, stiffening her legs slightly and stretching her back against the sensations that moved in her now. I wanted that, she thought crazily and then tore into herself – as people do – for ever thinking such a stupid thing. Then to her relief she heard the distant sound of the front door closing and realised that he had gone out.

Leaning against the sink she breathed a sigh of relief, then reached her hand up beneath the back of her skirt to feel the hot silkiness of her bottom cheeks. If he had stayed she wouldn't have known how to behave or what to say or do. Then she heard his car start and began to cry to herself a little hysterically. I don't want to, I don't want to, she thought in self-induced hysteria even while Frank – driving off – was smiling to himself. First round won. Now he had given her time to think about it. Staying in the house would have been too awkward. He would give her until after lunch. A lot of it would have hazed over then. The first time it was always best this way. If it were her first time. He doubted it even more now. When he had lifted her up into his lap her nipples had been peaking through her sweater, but he had deliberately not fondled her tits. That would come next time. Then gradually...

A little flushed and quiet, Sandra served supper that evening to Frank and Mark. Her father-in-law had returned at four thirty that afternoon and both of them had acted slightly stiltedly as if nothing had happened. But there was a feeling in her that kept welling up and wouldn't go away. It would happen again, she knew it would. The breath seemed to leave her body at the thought. When she dressed the next morning and put on self-supporting stockings and her wispiest panties, she told herself that she only wanted to feel good.

Almost unseeing she made breakfast and kissed Mark goodbye. When Mark had begun to make love with her in the night she had slid her mouth down his body and for the first time with him settled her mouth warmly and softly over his knob, rearing her naked bottom up beneath the sheet while he groaned his pleasure. Oh, do it to me! she had thought madly – the way she used to have it, her bottom made so hot that she never knew what she was doing, then her mouth pulled down until she had begun to suck, sobbing and gulping still and telling herself she mustn't. Sometimes the come had rushed and gobbed into her mouth. At other times she had been lifted and turned around again, her scorched bottom weaving wildly before her hips and seized and...

Oh no, she mustn't ever think of that again. And she must wash up – she would in a moment. Before he caught her out again. She would just read the paper first, though. And if he tried to spank her she would scream and scream and... Her mind wandered crazily, trying to collect itself amind the short, sillier items of news. Inside herself she was trembling as she half listened to the sounds of her father-in-law moving around upstairs. It was as if she had two different minds – one that wanted her to go and wash-up and the other that was going to rebel. Deliberately.

None of which prevented Sandra from jumping up guiltily when he descended. In a sudden panic she made for the kitchen – but too late. Appearing from the hall, he stood in her way, smiling. 'You see how easily it happens again?', he asked. Then the rest was a blur – a wild struggling and screeching which availed her nothing. And this time he didn't carry her to the armchair but upstairs – slung head down in a fireman's lift over his shoulders while her fists drummed on his back and her legs kicked.

'You're not going to!', Sandra yelped. Her foot scraped the new paint off the bedroom door as he carried her in. She tried everything – she tried to get away as she told herself ever after. She knew all about being spanked on a bed and how easily they could roll you on to it afterwards. But thoughts and protests were no good, for she was across his lap already where he had seated himself solidly on the edge of the bed and her mistily-veiled bottom was bared to his view where he had flipped her skirt up.

'WHOOO-HOOO!', Sandra blubbered a few seconds later as the first resounding SMACK! made her bottom cheeks quiver like jelly, 'Oh STOP it!'. But Frank had her now in the fully glory of her semi-transparent panties and the charcoal-shaded self -supporting stockings which reached only halfway up her thighs and made her legs look even more erotic. 'YEEE-AAARGH!' came her next screech, her flawless, chubby cheeks going a deep pink already under the second and third steady, hard smacks.

'Lie still!', Frank said sternly as the upper part of her dangling body writhed over her knees. 'Lie still, Sandra or you'll get eight instead of six. You HEAR me now?!' – 'HA-AAAAR!', she gasped as the fierce flames swept through her botty. Her legs straightened and her shoulders slumped. 'You hear me, Sandra?', Frank growled, his hand splayed across her hot cheeks, 'WELL?'. He waited – waited in the breath-rushing silence that followed. For a second or two he could actually hear the bedside clock ticking, and then it came... a small, quiet 'Yes' that barely reached his ears.

'That's better', he soothed, 'Now lift your botty – well up. Come on now and I won't smack so hard – all right?'. – 'Y... yes', Sandra's whisper came. She felt him stroke her thighs and her half-bared bottom checks and sobbed within herself. It wasn't fair – it wasn't. How she bore the next ones she never knew. Whatever he said about not smacking her so hard, they were stingers – real stingers. Her bottom reared to each one, hands scrabbling madly in the carpet.

'No, I won't, I WONT!', Sandra began to sob even more madly when he then lifted and rolled her on to the bed, as she knew he would, and squashed down beside her. Frank ignored her. He knew such tantrums of old and how she would cuddle into him, tightly, defensively, while he stroked her hair back from her brow. Her tits bulbed into his chest and he wondered idly how big her nipples were – but he would find out soon. 'D... d... don't sp... spank me again', Sandra blubbered. Her legs and hips would have wriggled more if he hadn't been cupping her bottom. Half fearful she let it sink into his palm, seeking the pressure to help squeeze out the raging heat.

'There, there – it's all right – it's all right', Frank soothed. He knew she didn't expect him to promise anything now. And he knew too that she had had it before – the way her face was pressed in hiding into his shirtfront. Very delicately he slid his fingers under the backstrap of her panties and felt her clutch at him tighter. 'No – please!', Sandra burbled, but he ignored her, stilling her jerks and quivers as he toyed gently in the groove where the checks inrolled and then drew her in more tightly against him.

'Lovely little botty – such beautiful legs', Frank breathed against her warm ear and Sandra closed her eyes tightly. She couldn't help wriggling her bottom still and it was helping him – helping him to be wicked. Her nipples were hot and tingly, pressing through her top into his chest. His finger moved inwards, making her press with a startled, helpless cry full into the awful big thing she could feel under his slacks.

'Don't – you m... mustn't!', she whimpered, but now he had begun to push her head down, down. She tried to resist, but he was too strong. Her arms, released from her instinctive clinging to him, found themselves around his waist as her small, slim body was almost reversed upon him. Not daring to open her eyes she heard the small hissing sound of his zip. Something that felt like a huge, swollen plum urged itself against her lips. There was a salty, fleshy taste and then her head was pressed remorselessly down, her lips opening blindly to engulf the big, meaty knob in their moist rosebud.

'Good girl – good girl, Sandra', she heard from somewhere above her. A last tear rolled down her cheek to the corner of her mouth and slid in turn upon the throbbing shaft of his cock as she began to suck on it steadily...

* * *

All the way!

How far will Frank go with Sandra? And what is her husband doing in her Mum's house? This sure beats 'Soap'!

* * *

Mark called in occasionally at his mother-in-law's on his way home from the office. Generally he did so to pick something up for Sandra, but this evening even though there was nothing to collect he found himself driving towards the house.

Marcia, his mother-in-law always welcomed him warmly and so did Sandra's sister, Claire. 'Mark and Marcia – we have the same names you know', Marcia had told him once laughingly. He had always thought of them as a close and cosy family and now that his father-in-law was in America on an extended business trip, he seemed to be made even more welcome. Claire, who was nineteen and as shapely a piece as he had ever seen, ran to make coffee as soon as he arrived.

'Stay for a bite of supper', Marcia urged him. 'I know Sandra won't mind. Your father's staying with you for the week, isn't he?' Mark nodded. Rather oddly he had always had an eye for Marcia who like many smooth-skinned women had kept her shape very well. Careful of her appearance and always well made-up, she wore that evening a form-fitting grey wool dress that clung tightly to the plump globe of her bottom and her large, firm breasts. Sitting as she was in an armchair opposite him, Mark furtively admired the strong, shapely lines of her legs which were sheathed in bronze stockings. The swelling up of her thighs above her exposed knees made him think of sleekness and warmth and richness.

Something must have showed in his eyes because Marcia smiled at him as she lit and cigarette and crossed her legs higher so that the hem of her skirt dragged up another two inches. When Claire entered with the coffee, Marcia modestly toyed with the hem and eased it back down. But Claire had things to do in her room, it seemed, and once she and Mark were alone once more, Marcia leaned back more, shifting her bottom on the seat. Blinking slightly over the rim of his cup, Mark suddenly had a dazzling vision of darker stocking tops and a shadowy gleam of white above. But Marcia was chatting away normally and he was sure she had no idea how with every movement the wool dress seemed to be creeping higher up her legs.

'There's something I want to send over to Sandra by the way, dear. Would you like to come up and fetch it?', she asked when they had finished their coffee. Mark's answering 'Yes' coincided then with the clattering run of Claire downstairs. She wore a loose cotton top beneath which her unbrassiered tits bobbed jauntily, and a new pair of jeans that seemed to have been poured over her, so tightly did they wreathe her pert bottom. 'I'm off! Back at about eleven', she declared while her mother smiled at her and twisted in her chair, giving Mark an even more breathtaking view which this time included her broad, ruffled suspenders, their white plastic clips drawing her nylons up in tight peaks.

'See you', Marcia said as Claire waved to Mark and then vanished. Her skirt had creased itself in folds above her round knees, but she made no movement to smooth them out. 'Won't take a minute to find it, if you want to come up', she said.

Mark had never been up into the main front bedroom before, and certainly he had never followed his mother-in-law up the stairs so closely, as he did now, savouring every second of the view of the rolling cheeks of her bottom which bulbed so luringly into the thin wool. 'I won't forget your supper, Mark', she declared, leading him to the bedroom. 'Oh – don't worry, I'll get something at home', he replied, taking in the room. Then, seeing a strange flashing above him, he stepped back while Marcia laughed at his momentarily startled reaction to the mirrow tiles with which the ceiling was covered in the area immediately above the bed.

'Brian's idea', she said referring to her husband, 'and – well – mine too in a way. It gives more light in the room. They're expensive. Funny feeling seeing yourself upside down, isn't it – but of course when you lie down it's different – see?'. Having seated herself on the bed she lay back and smiled up at Mark's reflection in the ceiling. But it wasn't her smile so much that he was looking at. Rather it was the fact that the hem of her dress had really ridden up so that he could not only see her thighs in the ceiling minor but the incredibly sexy vee of her panties which bulged slightly over a hidden wad of curls.

'You'll get dizzy, Mark, staring up', she laughed, 'sit down a minute'. It WAS dizzy-making in fact and Mark did sit down. Right next to her, but jumped again as he found something beneath him and pulled it out from under him. Marcia had sat up again. 'It's a strap', Mark said as if he had made a great discovery. It was broad, thick and shaped off at one end to a handle. At the other end it was split exactly in the middle, stretching up for about six inches.

'It's a tawse', Marcia said. Her stockinged thigh touched his warmly. 'At least, the Scottish people call it that. It's for naughty bottoms – didn't you know? Never used one? No, I bet you haven't', she laughed and got up, sauntering over to her dressing table which was covered with crystal flasks and items of make-up. 'It must hurt', Mark said wonderingly. The leather was a good quarter of an inch thick.

Marcia came back and looked down at him and Mark was more conscious than ever of the voluptuous curves of her body, the outlining of her thighs beneath her dress and the jutting of her breasts. She had married young, he knew, and was barely touching forty. 'Sort of', she said. There was a trembling of excitement in Marcia and she was trying to hold it down. What she was thinking about was too wicked to think about really, but it was as if she were on a wave, being carried forward. Brian had been away for three weeks now and it was too long.

'It hurts and yet it doesn't, you see Mark', Marcia went on. 'My husband has always kept a tight ship, as he call it, so...'. Deliberately she let her voice trail off and waited. Mark held his breath. 'You mean he actually... I mean... '. It wasn't a new strap. It looked used, supple. Marcia bit her lip and sat again so that her knee pressed against Mark's. 'Well – perhaps I shouldn't have told you, Mark, but yes – when we're naughty. Six for ordinary discipline and a dozen for rebellions, as he calls them. It used to be hand-spankings until he got this. It feels different – much different', she mused.

Sitting together, their faces were close now. Her perfume wafted to him even more deliciously. Her mouth was lustrous – her eyes wide and half amused. 'Yesterday I'd have got it – I scraped the side of the car going out', Marcia said, 'I'd have had a real burner – a dozen, I'm sure'. – 'Would you?', Mark asked thickly. His heart was hammering. He had a crazy desire to kiss her and fondle the weight of her tits. Her eyes were taunting him, he felt, her long dark eyelashes fluttering. 'Across my bottom – panties off', Marcia said softly, 'but I know you wouldn't dream of it, Mark, and so...'.

Their breaths flowed together, so close were their faces in the quiet of the bedroom. 'If... if you... if you wanted me to', Mark husked, not believing that he had dared say the words. Marcia dropped her eyes and played with the hem of her dress, 'It would do me good, Mark. A woman has to be under a man, don't you think'. Beringed fingers slid warmly across the back of his hand. 'But you'd better lock the door first, in case Claire comes back'.

'Yes', Mark said. He knew it was a dream – it had to be. His legs felt slightly wobbly as he rose, feeling the springiness of the mattress. The key was in the lock and he closed the door quietly and turned it. 'Only six, Mark, please', Marcia said when he turned, making to step back.

She was kneeling – kneeling on the bed. Not only that but in the few seconds it had taken him to lock the door Marcia had drawn the hem of her grey wool dress full up to her waist, exposing to his glazed eyes the sumptuous moon of her bottom whose hemispheres plumped out from either side of the backstrap of her panties in a pale gleaming of rich flesh. Her shoulders were down so that her back formed a sloping line which accentuated even more the wickedly erotic offering of her bottom. Her face, resting on her arms, was turned away from him, but he could see her closed eyes and pouting lips in the mirror of her dressing table.

Dry-mouthed, Mark swung the heavy strap at first awkwardly and then coiled his fingers more tightly around the slimmer end which curved in to form a handle. Inwardly smiling to herself and feeling a tight-jerking thrill course through her, Marcia waited with her own pulses beating as fast as his own. He wouldn't be as good as Brian with it, but the searing kiss of the leather always thrilled her. It made her feel dominated, submissive – wanted even. And mastered. She heard Mark move right behind her, positioning himself. Lifting her bottom higher, she slid her stockinged knees a little apart, knowing very well the lips of her quim would be pressing visibly through the net of her nylon panties. With Brian they always had to be off, but she daren't make such an offering to Mark – yet.

THWAA-AAAACK! came the first then – making her jump almost as much as it did Mark who was at first fearful of leathering her either too softly or too hard. But the leather had a weighty impetus of its own, as he discovered in that first stroke and the SLAP-CRACK of it against the bold ripeness of her bottom was a pleasure to be believed. A long wailing moan came from Marcia whose eyelids closed more tightly as she went down into her private darkness of pleasure. OOOH! it stung! The first one was always the worst, even after all these years.

Brian adored hearing the cry of 'NO-OOOOH!', but she couldn't whimper it to Mark. He might believe her and stop! 'NA-AAARGH!' she choked next as a second searing stroke flared a deeper heat into her out-thrust checks, making her hips move sensuously in a wriggling motion that brought Mark's cock up to a full stand. Jeee-ZUS, she looked glorious – so wanton, so exposed. If only he dared rip her knickers down. Yet at the same time the surging thrill of having her submit her half-naked bottom to him over-rode all his other desires. Holding the other end of the tawse outstretched with his free hand, he stepped back half a pace and swathed it out and down in an even broader arc so that the resulting CRA-AAAAACK! was the loudest of all, making Marcia's fingers dig tightly into the quilt.

'NO-OH, Mark!' she squealed without thinking. The blazing stinging of the stroke bit right through her, flaring out broad strands of fire into the cheeks which tightened on the backstrap of her panties, sucking it further in between them, 'P... please, no!' she stammered, moaning, as the next came, but Mark himself was nearing the apex of desire and with wild fingers had slipped down the zip of his slacks until his cock pronged up fully into view. Wow, it gave you a hard-on, he thought. Everything about it – the luscious bottom, the wriggling hips, and the heavily-dangling tits that pressed down through her dress, their nipples pointing through the wool.

'Yes! Yes – come on!', he heard himself croak, realising for the first time how both were part of a mutual act of desire. No sooner had the words left his lips than another scorching stroke bit deep into Marcia's bottom, making her writhe and choke out. 'YEK-AAARGH!', she sobbed and the pearls of tears on her cheeks were real, 'Mark! no more!'.

But Mark didn't listen, and that was his second lesson. A woman or girl who didn't want to be spanked or strapped would somehow kick and wriggle and scream her way out of it. If she didn't it was because deep down she needed what she was getting. CRA-AAAAACK! and Marcia's shoulders quivered, rose and sank down again, the brazen cheeks of her now almost naked bottom flared with red over the creamy skin. And more and more, it seemed to Mark, the rolled lips of her quim impressed themselves visibly through her panties. But how many? Had he given her five, six, seven? He couldn't remember. She would shriek if he hurt her badly, but instead her bottom thrust back after every stroke as if impelled by a shunting movement of her hips. Was she crying really? Guilt flooded his excitement. Then as he raised the tawse again Marcia twisted her neck and in the mirror he could actually see the tear-streaks on her face, and a smudge or two where her mascara had run. Oh God, Mark thought, I've overdone it. He forgot that his prick was stemming up naked from his flies as Marcia suddenly rolled over, flinging one arm over her eyes, her luscious stockinged thighs apart in all their gleaming richness.

Mark stared down at her and trembled. The tawse slipped from his hand as if he had never wanted to pick it up, but he would now, attain and again he knew. 'I'm... I'm sorry...', he began, 'I got carried away, I mean I... OOOOH!'. For in the same moment that the words tumbled from his mouth, Marcia had flung back her hair and sat up. She had seen his standing cock as she turned and she knew what he needed. What Brian always liked. The last act of surrender to the mastery of the strap. The knob was thick and gleaming as she drew it into her mouth, gently frigging his swollen stem.

'NYNNNNG!', Mark groaned. Her mouth was like a sponge, sucking him in, and he felt the tip of her tongue run around the crest of his cock which had now buried its first five inches between her lips. 'GLUG!', he choked as Marcia's fingers moved sensuously up and down while her free hand sneaked into his pants and cupped his balls, her bottom squirming on the quilt as she did so. More strongly then she began to suck, wetting the length of his prick with her saliva. Brian adored shooting his jets of come into a warmly-enclosing mouth. So would Mark. He had earned it, wicked as it was, but they had gone too far to draw back now. The very heat in her bottom seemed to be impelling her to do it. Sliding her long tongue under his cock she sucked it further in and felt his trembling...

* * *

'Mark's going to be late, obviously', Sandra was saying. She was still trying to forget what had happened on the bed upstairs that morning, but she couldn't, and the way Frank moved so confidently and easily about her maddened her. Men were so bloody cocky, she thought with a sickly tightness of guilt.

'He'll probably be back around eleven – watching television at your mother's, I imagine', Frank said. Sandra had drawn her golden hair back with blue bobbles that she hadn't used for a long time, and now she looked even younger. 'Well – I'm going to wash-up', Sandra said firmly and moved away from the window and away from him. She wasn't going to give him another chance. It had all gone too far. Before they had had supper together she had carefully changed into a longer dress.

'Sure', Frank said easily and managed to plant a kiss on the top of her head as she went past him, 'There's a good show on TV at nine – we'll watch that'. – 'Yes O.K.!', Sandra said distantly. She still didn't believe what had happened after her spanking that morning when he had pushed her head down and down until her mouth had touched his cock and then – oh God – she had actually let it slip in her mouth. But then somehow she had recovered herself and run out of the room. At least he hadn't followed her. In fact he had gone out again and she had spent the day alone. In a way that had been worse. Maybe it had made her think about it more, but that was even crazier.

When she walked back into the living room he was sitting watching the TV and had poured a drink for her. But it was on the low table next to the sofa where he was sitting. Making a careful arc around him as she intended to, Sandra lifted the glass and made to go to a chair when he took her wrist. 'You'll spill the wine!', she squealed and caught her balance just in time. But he had hold of her still. 'Sit and be cosy', her father-in-law said cheerfully and with a little protesting cry Sandra felt herself drawn down beside him. 'I want to watch the television', she answered moodily.

Even then she wanted to giggle, and that itself was maddening. Worse, she was blushing and her eyes weren't really taking in the TV at all. To try and hide her confusion she drank too quickly and choked, spilling wine out on to the skirt of her dress. 'Oh!', she jerked, as angry at herself as she was at Frank whose handkerchief flashed out immediately. Before Sandra could move he had slipped down on his knees and was mopping at her dress.

'All right?', he asked and his eyes crinkled up in the same old way as he smiled. Again Sandra infuriated herself. Instead of saying something cold and distant she allowed a silly grin to touch her lips. 'Huh! and that's what you should be – on your knees – after what you did', she jerked.

Instead of rising immediately he tucked his wet hanky away and laid his hands on the tops of her thighs. 'Maybe', he said quietly, 'but naughty girls have to be seen to. You know that very well, don't you?'. Sandra shook her head violently. 'No, I don't', she protested but the nervous, silly grin wouldn't go away. 'You do', he replied calmly, 'and it'll be the strap next time'.

Putting her almost empty glass down, Sandra tried to get up, but his big palms were still on the tops of her thighs. 'No – you're not going to!', she blurted and it seemed to her as if she had said those words so many times and seen the meaning of them slipping away from her. 'Oh Christ, you don't think I'd ever let you do THAT!', she jerked. But he was smiling again and that was even more maddening. She HATED him!

'You will', he said with such utter certainty that Sandra sat frozen. 'No', she said in a small voice – but it was as if she had not spoken. 'The tawse – that's what you need, love', she heard him say, 'It'll bring you up better for it than my hand did'. – 'Huh?', Sandra heard herself cry out, 'I don't know what you're talking about, I'm never going to let you do that, I'm... OOOH!'. Her knees were lifted suddenly high, so that her kicking legs found themselves over his shoulders with her skirt scooped up. Wriggling madly as his face wedged itself up between her thighs, and slipping down more on to her back, Sandra tried to reach blindly for his hair, to pull it and tear it as she hoped, but found only empty air. Drawing her stockinged legs widely apart he heard her gurgling cries as his tongue found the soft puckered lips of her slit through the vee of her panties.

'WHA-AAAAH!', Sandra screeched. He had reached right under her bottom and was drawing her panties down until the waistband was at the back of his head and his mouth had swooped deep into her pussy. 'N... n... n!', Sandra stuttered. Her feet drummed his back wildly, her bottom jerking to the in-leaping of his tongue until she felt herself floating, floating, floating...

* * *

Half an hour later Mark was making his way downstairs under the pleased smile of Marcia. 'You'd better go now', she whispered and kissed him as they stood in the hall. Mark nodded. He was still in a daze, but the firm fleshy bottom he was fondling through her dress was real enough. 'Next time...', he murmured and Marcia laughed and escaped his seeking mouth. 'We'll see', she said, 'we'll see'. It had been a bit of madness on her part that must never happen again, though she had a tingling feeling that it might. Brian wasn't due back for weeks yet. 'Come round again next week, won't you', she added impulsively and then closed the door.

* * *

In her own living room Sandra found herself on the rug, not only without her panties on but her dress, too.

'Mmmmmm!', she moaned as Frank's big cock pistoned steadily and slowly in her tight pussy. Eyes closed, her stockinged legs wound themselves ever more eagerly around his waist. Her breath jolted as his balls smacked rhythmically against the undercurve of her bottom. It was the wickedest thing she had ever done, and she would never, never do it again.

Or at least, not until he used the tawse on her...