Cheeks Aflame

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.3.

Cheeks Aflame

His wife's mother had a diary – it was about to set the house on fire!

* * *

Charles Ebury frowned to himself – not because some of the pages of the old diary he was reading were stuck together, but because he knew he shouldn't be reading it. Yet like most people he couldn't stop.

It was utterly incredible to him that the diary should belong to his mother-in-law, Pamela, but there was no doubt about it. Not only was it in her handwriting, but so were her maiden name and address – just over twenty-three years ago. And pasted in the front was a picture of her taken in the garden then. She wore a bathing costume and was sitting on the grass, leaning back on her arms with her outstretched legs crossed.

Definitely she had been a doll, he could see. Two firm breasts showed clearly beneath the swimsuit and so – when he peered closely – did the slight bulge between her thighs where they were crossed. Her head was tilted and she was smiling at the camera.

Nothing would ever normally have induced Charles to look in the drawers of Pamela's bedroom – but she had asked him to. Half an hour before he had come back to her house, at her request, to find some theatre tickets she wanted. They were in the top drawer of the small cabinet by her bed, she had said. And so had the diary been. Right on top. She must have been reading it lately herself, he decided – and yet he still could not believe what he was reading:

Sunday, 8 June: Awful dull day. I knew I was in for it. Kept snapping and sulking, don't know why. I know he made it an excuse. Arm behind my back and pulled up my dress. "Pink silk today?" he laughed and gave me a smack – then another. I tell him I hate it. He doesn't stop. Kept saying oh, oh and crying. After eight big smacks he stopped. He said, I'll get them down one day. No you won't, I said. I ran upstairs. It stings me, then afterwards it burns and I can feel it warm for ages.

Saturday, 10 September: The elastic in my knickers gave! I'm sure he did it! He's so rough, though he pretends it's a game. I squealed and tried to reach back to pull them up, but he was already spanking me. "Got you at last," he said. Oh my poor bottom – it was naked! I kicked and he spanked me harder till my cheeks were pink. I fell over with my knickers round my ankles trying to run upstairs. He caught me on the stairs. He said, take them off, you can't go around like that. He took them off! I almost slid down the stairs but he held me and kissed me and said he was sorry for spanking me. I know he isn't. It makes me feel funny. I couldn't pull my dress down in front and he saw me. Oh my bottom burned!

Sunday, 2 October: Showed me a strap, said it was better than spanking. I said no, I wouldn't, not ever. He always persuades me. It doesn't really hurt, he says. I kept saying I wouldn't. It burned and slapped. Oh, it was funny. Cuddled me. I shouldn't.

Sunday, 16 October: In my nightie! Twelve stingers. I didn't think I could. I didn't expect him to do it then, that late. Wriggled like mad. He saw all of me, I was past caring. Kissed and held. He stroked me and said does it hurt still. I said it burned and it was funny. He put the light out and said cuddle more till it was better. I said no, but he did. Kissed.

Sunday, 23 October: After my bath. He said I must. Didn't know whether to or not. Terrible fascination for the feeling and shouldn't. Don't know where I am after twelve strokes. On my bed he said, let the first flames die down. Always holds my bottom now with my nightie up. Kisses and then X.

"Kisses and then X?" Charles frowned – but again he was frowning at himself and now for another reason. The excitement he felt. Images of that far-off bedroom crowded his mind. Kerrist – he shouldn't read any more, and in any case the next three pages were stuck together. Deliberately. He could find no way of prising them apart – and then suddenly to his heart-thudding dismay, the edge of one tore.

"Legs up," he read at the end of one line, then "in my..." at the end of another. Oh God! would Pamela notice it was torn? His hands shook as he scrambled the leather bound diary back into the drawer. The whole thing could just have been a girl's fantasy, he decided. No girl could write about spankings like that. No girl could possiblity give her bottom up to a strap!

Almost forgetting the tickets he had come to fetch, Charles gazed down at the closed drawer and felt all the accusations of an invasion of privacy. In those earlier days of Pamela's – he thought with a wry smile – he would have been called a cad for looking in a woman's diary. No – it had to be fantasies. They would peel away from his mind as soon as he saw her again.

But they didn't. In her forth-fifth year now, Pamela was a superb example of mature womanhood not run to fat. Her five feet six figure had all the firmness of her daughter, Diana, to whom Charles had become married recently. For both it was their second marriage and both – as it had seemed to him during all their intimacies in the past year, had led spotlessly respectable lives. But had they? Had Diana ever shared such fantasies? Had Pamela lived them? Outwardly she was so calm and sweet, and yet now for the first time Charles found himself looking upon her with new eyes.

With half-guilty fascination he fastened his glances again and again on the plump sphere of her bottom, envisaging the large pale cheeks netted in tiny nylon panties – the very bottom which years before... No, it wasn't possible! There was not a hint in her manner or speech of such outrageous things – legs kicking, knickers down, nightie hauled up... nightie off even and 'X'. Some girlish code. He dare not even think about 'X', though it haunted him for all the days his mother-in-law stayed with them.

Taking her back home in the car was stranger still. He was conscious totally of her now as a woman. Again and again while he drove his eyes flirted down to her still shapely legs and there began in his mind to be something incredibly erotic in the faint outline of her suspenders beneath her flowered dress and the rolling of her hips as she preceded him into her house.

"You'll stay for a drink, Charles?" she asked and he nodded. There were, after all, only a few years between then. "I'll change first – you don't mind? I should have taken more dresses," he heard her saying, and then he was gone and he was left for a short while to contemplate his Scotch.

He had just finished his glass when something made him turn towards the door. It was not just the sound of Pamela's approaching footsteps but something else. Something that seemed to have been transmitted into her expression.

And in her hand she held the diary.

"Charles," she said brokenly, "you read it. You READ it! Oh, my God!"

There followed ten minutes of weeping in a chair and ten minutes of Charles stroking her hair and trying to say something. Not only was she sobbing but talking in a quiet, choking voice, endlessly on, as if something had been released in her. "I needed... needed it... Charles, don't you understand? Please, if ever you tell..."

Pulling himself together at last, Charles stopped her in full flow. "I understand and I will never tell – never Pamela," he told her firmly, and as if to underline his words, slipped down on his knees in front of her, placing his hands on her thighs. Pamela blinked back tears. "The sh...shame of you knowing... how could you ever understand," she choked and would have held her small lace hanky to her eyes but he drew her hand down.

"Your mascara is spoiled and your lipstick is smudged, Pamela. Come – freshen up and we'll talk. I'll come up with you." Unsteadily getting up, Pamela sagged against him, giving Charles a tingling thrill at the bumping of her firmly-jellied breasts. Then, placing his arm comfortingly about her waist, he led her up, feeling the surging roll of her hips and – despite an effort not to do so – glanced down sideways at the majestic globe of her bottom.

Guiding her to her dressing table he sat on her bed and watched the repairing of her make-up through her mirror. When at last she turned on her stool her lips were lustrous again, her eyelashes dark-shaded and the eye-shadow renewed. Her hand reached out to his shyly. "Charles..." she said.

Neither remembered the exact second when he rose and kissed her – nor could he comprehend the sudden passion of the moment as her tongue first hesitantly touched his. Like a scented doll she allowed herself to be drawn up blindly and then their footsteps dragged together for a long moment until they fell on the bed, enclasped. For a brief, flurrying moment her beringed fingers fought his as he drew up her skirt until the pale flesh of her thighs was exposed.

"Ch...Charles... think of Diana," she gasped against his mouth, but the flame was too high in them already. "Your bottom – I am thinking of your bottom, Pamela," he breathed, finding at last with his seeking hand the glorious, half-naked cheeks. Pamela wriggled madly for a long moment as his fingers sought her groove. "Ah – you want me for that only..." she husked and received his answering laugh. "Didn't he?" he riposted and her face hid itself in his shoulder. "He... he str...strapped me first, Charles."

Charles rose up on one elbow. He could scarcely believe even now that he had her uncovered to the waist. Her legs were glorious and her large, fleshy bottom was moving to the seeking of his hand. "And afterwards?" he asked and watched her arm fling itself over her eyes. "Strap me first," she breathed, "Oh God, strap me hard, Charles – I'm so wicked!"

A quick, breathless "AH!" jolted from her throat as he rolled her over on to her tummy and tucked the hem of her dress upwards around her waist. Her feet dangled over the edge of the bed and he drew them back until her high heels rested on the carpet. Trembling with excitement he hooked thumbs and fingers into the waistband of her mauve nylon panties and slowly uncovered the big, gleaming orb of her bottom whose richly-fleshed cheeks inrolled into a deep cleft where a faintly gingery tone showed. Broad suspenders of the same shade as her panties spanned the sides and fronts of her swelling thighs.

Charles drew the wispy panties off of her ankles. They were perfumed, the crotch slightly damp. He leaned over her, hearing the catch of her breath as he eased her dress higher until it looped under her armpits and unclipped her bra. The big melons of her breasts hung free, the nipples thick and pointed. "God, you're beautiful, Pamela – did he caress you first, sometimes?" Pamela hid her face, biting on her wrist. "No – yes – sometimes – oh, don't ask me – the strap – the strap, Charles, it's in the wardrobe."

"Yes," he replied simply. His palms sweated slightly as he passed them for a moment over the silky-warm surfaces of the hemispheres. The desire to pass his fingers upwards between her thighs and feel her quim was tremendous, but something told him to wait. Unsteadily he went to the wardrobe and drew down from the shelf the thick strap that lay coiled there.

"Your husband – he straps you?" Charles asked and watched the slight waiting movement of her hips. "No – he doesn't know," Pamela's muffled voice came. Even now she couldn't believe herself that it was going to happen, after so many years. Perhaps it would feel different now and she would hate it and... "WAAAH!" she hollered as a sudden, unexpected sleeking of the strap burned a path across her offered globe, leaving a brief trail of fire in its wake. The big cheeks squeezed as to ward off the invader, but before she could recover, the snaking leather hissed in again from the other side, making her hips jerk violently.

"Oh God, Charles, wait! I c...can't..." she began – but he had expected that and his hand smacked her bottom heftily with a loud-sounding SPLAT! at the first movement of her hands to pull down her dress.

"Pamela! don't be naughty!" he growled, improvising from her diary, "bottom up now, as you promised – come on!"

"No, I don't... I don't want to!" Pamela howled as if she herself were being driven back through the years. "Yes, Pamela, give it!" she heard his voice snap even as the next sizzling CRA-AAACK! seared full across her magnificent bottom, drawing a teeth-gritting cry from her lips.

"Oh, Charles, no!"

But he ignored her, as he knew she wanted him to, and the voluptuous spectacle she presented with her tits swinging free and the pink-striped, fleshy splendour of her bottom swaying and jiggling above her sturdy, well-curved legs was now a totally-irresistible invitation.

"You bad girl – you want to be MADE to, don't you? Don't you always?" he husked. CRA-AAACK! SPER-LATTT!

"YEEE-OOOH!" Pamela whined, twisting her hips lasciviously as the fire spread deeper into her, leaving a throbbing beneath the stinging surface of her bottom. She had never answered – she never would – he had to make her. "D...d...d..." she blathered wildly, jerking her bottom in to every cracking slap and then thrusting it out lewdly again. Oh God, yes, it was the same – the urging, impelling leaping of the flames through her bottom, the sweet hurting of it. And being made to take it – MADE to even while she was sobbing, trying to screw her bottom cheeks away from that wicked, awful strap and biting her fingers.

As for Charles, the thrill of having her almost naked and under his control with the leather snaking across her bottom at his will, had brought his cock up to such a full stand that he had released it from his flies.

"Answer – ANSWER, Pamela!" he gritted.

"Yes, all right – yes, yes, you make me – oh, you do make me – NO! – stop IT!" Pamela howled as his hands roiled her over on to her back and she saw the swollen crest of his penis glowing. Frenetically she made to scrabble her dress down, but it was twisted up too high under her arms and with a breathless gasp he was already coming down upon her.

"It's w...wicked... NO! you can't! not with m...me! OH!" Her stockinged legs twisted wildly, her burning bottom squirming on the bedcover under his weight as the velvety-smooth crest of his prick found the rolled lips of her quim. "Please, no please no, you mustn't!" Pamela mewed even as the long, thick shaft of flesh urged up between the spongy walls of her slit, his arms curled around her thighs, lifting them high and apart until with a shuddering groan he embedded the whole of his cock in her.

"OOOOH!" Pamela's voice juddered. She squeezed on his cock and felt him mouthing and sucking upon her nipples. "D...d...don't do it to me!" she whimpered, but the words were part of the game she had played long ago and her nyloned calves, released from his mastering grip, coiled themselves tightly about Charles' buttocks.

Jolting her hips, she allowed him to suck in her tongue as the crisp hairs of his pubis ground into her own thicker, darker ones. Senses swimming, Charles began slewing his cock back and forth in her gripping cavern. It was the last thing on earth he had ever expected to happen, but she was a magnificent fuck and the big globe of her bottom was hot on his palms now, her tongue working eagerly in his mouth as they swam down into their blind moment of passion, each thinking with hot guilt of Diana, Diana, Diana...

* * *

Just as Diana right then was thinking of Charles. He would be a couple of hours at least, she had thought, and immediately after his departure with her mother she had slipped out to her car, guilt and excitement flooding her. But just this once more, she told herself. Half an hour later when a front door opened to her, the thought came into words and tumbled from her mouth. Or almost did.

"I only came for a moment," she said breathlessly.

Tony regarded her fondly. "Take your coat off," he said and took it from her as it slipped from her shoulders, kissing her cheeks while she gave a nervous laugh and turned her face away. "You want coffee," he asked. Diana could feel her heart beating so quickly that she could scarcely speak. "I'll make it. D'you want me to?" He laughed. "Yes, I want you to," he said with deliberate double meaning and watched the tight jiggling of her bottom cheeks as she turned towards the kitchen.

He felt nervous himself, his palms sweating, the way they had done long ago when he had made up his mind to spank her. She had never resisted – not fully – but they had never spoken about it. The first time it had happened, it had been like a laughing game with Diana desperately trying to pull her skirt down and choking, "No! no, I won't... you mustn't!"

Resistance was the salt of it. They both knew that by now. The times she had made his prick stir and thicken, he thought, as he followed her into the kitchen. Did she know? Hadn't she ever realised? The thought quickened the movement of his hands as he reached the doorway to the kitchen behind her and drew her back against him. Wow, what a real globe it had become through the long years since she had left college.

"Don't... you mustn't," Diana choked. The bulb of her bottom pressed back into his loins. Didn't he realise that she could actually feel his prick sometimes? Did he know? Her thighs quivered as the intimate warmth between them grew and she tried to move forward. "You can't... you know you can't," she husked, but she always said that. When he turned her, she slumped against him, feeling his fingers soothe down around and under her matured bottom, finding the ridges of her panties and her stockings tops with his fingertips.

"Please no..." Diana quavered, feeling his hands slip lingeringly down the backs of her thighs to draw up the hem of her dress. "A little one – just a little smack," he coaxed, "come on." She squirmed, but his free arm now gathered about her waist held her. "I don't w...want you to see my b...bottom – oh please, please no." But he was moving, taking her with him, walking stiffly backwards into the dining room, towards the table where he had so often spanked her.

But it was different now. He was kissing her. Kissing her cheeks and her eyes and her nose and her sultry mouth. And his hand was groping far up her skirt now, fondling the ripe flesh of her bottom where the cheeks bared themselves on either side of the backstrap of her panties.

For the first time, Diana began to struggle more than she had ever done, but his grip was like steel. Howling and squirming she felt herself being turned and bent over the table, his fingers clamped on the back of her neck. "No! you're not going to!" she shrieked, desperately trying to reach back before he could rip her knickers down. The elastic gave and they fluttered to her ankles, her skirt up. Clawing wildly at the table top, she shrieked once as the fierce splatting of his palm bounced with a loud SMACK! off of her brazen cheeks.

"NOW, Diana!" he growled, "now be STILL! I've warned you."

"No! AH! No! AAAAH!" her sobs came, racking deep in her throat as his palm began to descend rhythmically. Oh God, it had never been like this – he had never ripped her panties down before, not ever, and he was holding her down so tightly that she couldn't, couldn't get up, and he was burning her, burning her, burning her. Her bottom gyrated, trying to escape the repeated smacks, but there was no way. Her bottom flared and flamed.

Oh God – what was THAT – It wasn't his hand any more! He was holding her hips and bending right over her and – OOOH! Both hands reaching back, Diana tried to strain away, but her bare tummy was pressing down on the table and the wet lips of her quim had already parted treacherously to his knob. "You can't, you can't!" she sobbed, but they were doing it, and somehow she always knew they would.