Bedtime for Amanda

Story from Whispers 02.

Bedtime for Amanda

'It was the car first — attempting to drive it through the gates on her own after I've only given her two lessons. And then...'

'I know,' Vivienne admitted. She knew, too, about the pack of cigarettes I had glimpsed under Amanda's bed, though she hadn't — to my relief — asked me what I was doing in there while she was at her bridge club. Had she done so I suppose I would have said something flip like 'Baby-sitting', though at coming up close to seventeen within the next two months, Amanda wouldn't exactly qualify in that category despite those baby-blue eyes and the knicks that invariably matched.

'She's your daughter — not mine — it's up to you Viv', I said and made my voice sound like the tolling of a bell. 'When we're married...', I began, but she cut me off.

'Martin, you don't understand. It wasn't I who used to discipline her'.

Restlessly she got up from the sofa and peered through the Venetian blinds into the darkening street, saying, 'She should have come home by now'. I wasn't listening to her so much as viewing her. Those bulbous rear cheeks — still as firm as they had been when she was Amanda's age — showed clearly through the seat of her dress, as did the ever-stirring, upsweeping lines of her panties beneath.

She is always trim is Vivienne — stocking tops dark-banded and flesh-tight, the rims peaking up against the tugging of taut suspenders, dabs of misty perfume front and back below the circling of her suspender belt. Superb legs for a thirty-six-year old. The finished and perfected package, in fact — arse-proud, as I had once crudely called her.

She has kinks, has Vivienne. Once I knew about the two slim canes that had always seemingly been at standby (one in her wardrobe and one in Amanda's) there were no more barriers of misunderstanding between us. I learned her ways and the hesitantly trickled-out confessions of her early training.

Vivienne likes to be cane-flicked: likes and hates, I should say, but she still submits to it. There were times, it seemed, when she used to be allowed to choose between a scorching, submission-producing sixer and being circled.

If the latter phrase is a mystery to you, then it was to me also at first. Vivienne had been put into ultra miniskirts even before they became fashionable. Very tight they were when rolled-up waisthigh, she said. For 'circlings' (and I've never thought it the classiest of terms) she had to do the roll-up first and then remove her panties. Her tie was next loosened, dangling in two striped strips, and the buttons of her blouse unsnicked until her positively impudent young tits were also on parade.

'I had to walk around in a circle being flicked', she would say. The rest of the details were harder to gather from her, but eventually during our courtship I managed it. After five minutes of such 'flicking', a bottom that was flickering with tiny flames had to be presented for attention. I gathered that the taunting, stinging cane had completed its work by then.

'It was bad afterwards?', I had first asked her cautiously. I had snaps of Vivienne from all those years back that she had given me. Not a pocket Venus — she was already too long-legged then for that, her bottom a perfect peach, and most of it yielding to the enquiring lens when she wore a bikini bottom that seemed to be two sizes too small for her.

'Dunno', would come a girlish giggle from her at that under-worded question. I knew and she knew that she wouldn't just have walked away afterwards, rosy-bottomed and with twinkling legs. Enquiring hands would have done their soothing best while she sobbed. At the least, at the least. Then the sofa or the bed — I'd figured that — bouncing and gasping and clinging limpet-like as she still did when I mounted her myself, as if by her very body gestures she was proclaiming the ultimate submission to the cane and to the mastering male.

'In any event the cane corrected you', I said on that particular evening when Amanda was once again late. There was a bizarre touch in my remark that neither of us missed. That Amanda had been caned was news to me. Perhaps it accounted for the over-pert swinging of her hips sometimes — a mark of a girl who has taken what she must and emerges slightly proud of it, and awed by it.

'Tomorrow I'll take her in hand a bit', I said when Amanda had finally appeared and flipped up to bed. 'Martin, yes, but not too hard. It's bridge night for me tomorrow', Vivienne said, as if the latter event were relevant. It was, of course — for me.

A girl who has been caned can often sense when it's going to happen again. She tends to glance sideways at one and to slouch a bit, putting one foot before the other in an awkward way, self-consciously, and Amanda did just that on the following evening when her mother had departed, trailing wisps of perfume as she went.

'It's about the car, Amanda', I said as she made to exit to the kitchen to set herself up a fridge-cold Pepsi. She stopped as if I'd pulled on an invisible cord around her waist and then came back with laggard steps to where I sat.

'What?', she asked. I almost grinned at the subtle impudence in her tone. Maybe that was her intention. I had a sudden feeling that if I drew her down upon my lap and very, very slowly rolled up her loose top she would sit mute, and then wait for my cautiously-weighing hand.

'And other things', I said. 'You know already, Amanda, you know already. It can be here or upstairs — I don't mind.'

I hadn't specified what 'it' was, but Amanda knew. 'No, please, you're going to cane me, I know you are!', she blurted. Even the affected note of hysteria was false, I thought. Her nylons shimmered black as Vivienne's most often did. Her suspenders would be just as taut.

'Upstairs, Amanda', I said, my voice as crisp as a fresh packet of Smith's. 'I said, upstairs', I repeated. The word seemed right for her already. She stared at me, compressed her lips, but already she had learned that mutiny is followed by the bounty of the cane.

She swallowed at that and uttered a huge sigh that didn't impress me at all. Nor right then did it appeal to me. Later it might, but she would be mewing then, not sighing. First things first.

I made her go up on her own. It was deliberate. The ever-haunting moment of waiting: that's important; then waiting to hear my approaching footsteps, and the first sight (after how long?) of the cane. But it was the first sight of Amanda that threw me. Defiantly or not she had gone into the main bedroom where Viv and I enjoyed our romps and where the cane for her came into play. Amanda must have heard her mother's muffled squeals sometimes. Her skirt was off and her panties, too. Neatly placed on a chair they were, but my glance in that particular direction didn't last for more than a millisecond.

Amanda stood in profile to me, both hands clenched underneath her mouth as if she were already trying not to cry. Her pubic foliage decorated the alluring little hump beneath her tummy's subtle swell. Her bottom looked like a studio 'portrait' of a peach. The slightest movement of her hips and I glimpsed her nether cleft. More body language, I thought.

'Not in here, Amanda', I said. There was provocation in plenty here, and I knew it. The cane snicked forward, catching her on the side of her bottom and she squealed and jumped, saying, 'But I thought...' and then gathering up her two discarded garments and holding them coyly in front of her as she oozed cautiously past me and wiggled along to her own bedroom. In a well-formed girl, their bottoms cheeks don't jiggle at that age: they just look more enticing.

Something stiffened, surprising me. Already? Her suspender belt was black — not trimmed with vulgar red. Her stockings were so taut and flawless that they looked as if she had grown into them rather than merely put them on. Such immediate arousal in my own lower parts tended to give me the edge of sternness that is needed. It covers — as might be said in a side whisper — one's own embarrassment... or sometimes just plain joy.

I closed the door behind us. One should always close the door. Amanda edged towards her bed and stood uncertainly. 'Bend,' I said, 'bend properly, Amanda.' There was no evident surprise for her in this event. It had happened before, and probably in this selfsame room with its single bed and two white units, one on either side. There was a red, slatted chair and a wardrobe. An old Teddy Bear, never cuddled now, slumped in a corner, glassy-eyed.

Amanda's arms reached down and then her fingers spread. The tips just touched the surface of the bed as though she were delicately balancing herself. I nudged her legs apart with the cane's tip. Her bottom — that most impudent of rumps — looked peachy and superb. Superbly cane-able, I thought. My hand moistened slightly on the slender, whippy cane much as I guessed my predecessors's must have done.

'You're not dipping your back, Amanda', I said. It was as if we had done it all before — as I had plucked old words that lingered still upon the air from last summer or the year before.

'I didn't — I didn't scratch your car much', came her plaintive murmur. Her hair clouded down appealingly. If there were a gold medal for back-dipping, Amanda would positively be on the shortlist. Her cleft orb was suddenly the centre of my universe. The curl-fringed puch of her below her peach was just a bonus — at that moment, at the least.

My trousers stretched the more. I felt she knew that and expected it, but didn't turn her head to peep. She doesn't turn her head because she knows, I thought, and whistled in the cane — an act of pure male vengeance on that thought.

'Whee-ow!', came Amanda's cry. That pink streak — that pink streak that I confess I gloried in — brought her cry to a high pitch.

'You've forgotten what it's like', I said. 'Forgotten', I had said. Would she respond to that? But mulishly she didn't, wouldn't, couldn't, and the walls still held their secrets well. 'You position well', I wanted to say, but to have praised her would have been unthinkable. Much later possibly, I told myself, and after I had 'circled' her, if only Vivienne kept her bridge nights up.

Apart from one throbbing sob, Amanda was mute in the waiting seconds that followed. I gave her about eight and then... 'Feee-oowww!'. Her note was more high-reaching then, though not so loud, I noticed, as might disturb a querulous neighbour. I had placed the stroke exactly an inch below the first. The 'three-barred gate' was imminent. Her hips waggled a silent appeal and then — legs taut — were still again. 'Ooooh-wer!', she then sobbed at the next Hooo-wiittt! and her appeal was so blatant, so devlishly girlish, that I gave her ten long seconds to wait for the next.

Then the fourth lifted her, and it was meant to. Under her bulb it swept, bringing her trim high heels off the floor and bringing with it, too, a whining cry of 'No! Oh, no!'

'Yes, Amanda', I said, and my voice was nicely flat as well. 'But, but if I...', she began. 'If you what, Amanda?' 'Nothing... YOW! Oh please don't! Aaaah!'

'You're counting, Amanda. Did you ever count?'

'No, yes, no — no, I didn't, no, ah, please!'

'But we're only beginning, aren't we — only beginning? All right then, turn around, Amanda — right now, please and hands behind your neck.' And snivelling she turned, she slowly turned, my eyes travelling down deliberately between the junction of her thighs, and she blinked back tears and thrust her titties forward through her top. An offering?

'You want a drink?', I asked, adding immediately, 'Don't move. Just tell me what you want'.

'Y...y...yes, please. My Pepsi and...' But I didn't wait for the 'and'. Was there a lightning flickering of her eyes to my straining crotch? It didn't matter now, perhaps. I was out and back in a moment with the cane. I made her drink from it, standing as she was standing, and damned cute she looked — I give her that. She swallowed, gulped, swallowed again. I saw her eyes go to the red chair where I'd laid the cane. The moment was irresistible.

'In a moment, Amanda, in a moment', I said.

'Oh, but couldn't you... I mean... well...'

'Take your top off then', I said. We were both duelling, but I held the longer rapier. The challenge was deliberate. She knew it was.

'All right'. It was a small 'All right', but it counted in every direction we could both think of. I laid the near-empty can on the top of her unit and watched commandingly as she peeled it off and shook her hair. Her tits were melons waiting for just one more summer. The perky buds were ripe with promise, cherry-shaped, not pointed as I'd thought.

'I haven't finished with you yet, Amanda — you know I haven't.' 'Oh, but please, my bottom...!' 'Is hot?', I finished for her. I moved towards her with deliberation, watching to see if she would start back, but no movement came. Telegraphing the movement of my arm, I extended it around her hips, bringing her nipples to rub against my shirt and very slowly caressed around, beneath, her bulb. She flinched.

'Don't flinch, Amanda', I said sharply.

'But my bottom...' 'I said, don't flinch, Amanda'. 'Yes, yes, all right, I'll try'.

My fingertips had urged where fingertips should not have done, depending on your point of view. The questing tips were explorers in her throbbing realms. Her legs stiffened but she didn't jerk.

'That's better. You have to learn, don't you?', I asked. There was a mute nod from her at that. 'But... but if you cane me again...'

'Not tonight. That was your starter only, Amanda. Sunday. Your mother will be out next Sunday afternoon, won't she?'. I was insistent, pushing her. A modern throwing down of the gauntlet, if you like. Still caressing her hot nether cheeks, I looked down deliberately between us. There was quite a lot to see on either side. My fingers had not fled the nest as yet. 'Yes', Amanda mumbled. 'And what?', I asked. 'Wh...wh...wh...what you've just done. I s'pose it's because I've...'

'It's because, Amanda — just because', I said. There didn't have to be a spoken reason and she knew that well enough. 'You understand?', I asked and she nodded, looking down as well, her stockinged legs quivering slightly as my hand at last trailed down her thighs, and she too felt its stickiness. All messages received and understood.

'All right, you can dress now', I told her. That surprised her, I believe, though maybe my next sentence didn't. 'Turn round again, bend over and show it to me again', I said. The edge of lewdness in my words probably didn't escape her as she half reluctantly obeyed and, as she did, I looped her waist and gave her pink-striped bottom a hard smack!

'Wow! What... what was that for?', she wailed, and received another for interrupting, this bringing a gritting wail from her of high surprise. 'Now dress', I said, and watched her do it mutinously, turning away from me as she lifted each leg to draw her tiny panties up, lips pouting broodily and in dismay. I took her hand then (one should often take their hands) and led her out, feeling her bottom with a boldness that her own mood of submission encouraged, and she knew it did.

My hand was becoming even more inquisitive when we reached the foot of the stairs and, with a sudden strain of panic in her voice, Amanda said, 'I want to have a bath'. 'Go on', I said. I let her go without a sound. She had only just finished doing all the mysterious things that females do in the bathrooms when Vivienne returned.

'Amanda's all right?', she asked. Her eyes were querulous, and I said, 'Yes, of course she is'. We both knew what her question held. Moving back to the foot of the stairs she called out, 'Are you all right, Amanda?', and maybe my heart missed a beat for a moment at that, but a cheery voice came down, 'Yes, I'm all right. Going to bed now — goo' night', and then the closing of her door.

'I'm tired', Vivienne said. The very air had tremored for a moment, but was still again. 'Sure. You go to bed. I'm just going to read for a bit', I said. She gathered up her bag, was gone. I heard her door close — gratefully! My turn to sigh then. I picked up a book, lounged in a chair and read. In fifteen minutes Vivienne snored. She really snores, I mean. Odd, that. Maybe I'll tell her about it, but not yet. A small explosion would never wake her, as she often says.

I read a little more and listened. Snoring still. I got up and clicked off the lights. Amanda would be curled up and not sleeping yet, I knew — her bottom tingling still a little bit, and thinking, thinking, thinking on.

There was no sound from behind her door as I turned the knob. She appeared at first to be asleep and did not stir. A nipple showed above the sheet's white edge, her face turned sideways to the wall. Her hips shifted a little as I looked. More body language, yes. I took off my shirt and tie and other things, drew down the bedclothes gently, saw her nightie rucked up to her waist.

Her head didn't move. Her lips did, just. 'Is Mum asleep?', she asked. I sidled in beside her and she stirred her hips again. 'Yes', I said simply. It was as if a conversation, once rehearsed, was being repeated. I turned her chin. Her eyes looked blankly into mine.

'You know why I have to cane you?', I murmured. My hand found pouting lips between her thighs, a rasp of curls and silken skin.

'Yes' Amanda said, and 'Yes' again, and moaned and twisted in the lulling dark.

The cane can be quite ruthless, yes, of course, but so can women, too — at any age...