Saturday, 7 January 2012


Story from Blushes 07.


Sometimes after she had been caned, Lizbeth would lie wriggling while he held her stockinged legs apart. To let the air flow cool beneath her, so he said. Sometimes she would blubber and he would lightly kiss her open mouth, just pecking at the softness while she sobbed.

The room would grow hazy then, blue knickers lying on the floor, her pleated skirt wreathed up around her waist, the swellings of her tits revealed where his errant fingers loosened the buttons one by one.

'Lie still now', he would urge. – 'C...c...can't!' would come her broken cry. Then he would slip his palm beneath her seared young orb and let her bounce and squirm on it, curling his fingers up sometimes – which only made her jerk the more, she thought. And tickling, there was tickling, too: sensations swirling in her slender form.

Once when his lips touched hers, she choked 'GOOO-GOOO!' and felt a white explosion in her tummy, in between her thighs. Unguardedly she clung to him, cheek to his cheek and felt the rippling light, then quivered, moaned, and let her head hang back, the pillow soft receiving it. And he had left her then, full-bared as she still was and wriggling with impatience and the stinging in her nether cheeks. The door would close, and then her fingers – quite all by themselves – began to creep down where the lovely feeling was.

'Lizbeth!', he would call sharply through the door, making her start and roll upon her tum, her hand still underneath her, secretly. She was naughty, and she knew it. That was why she had the cane. But after it, then she was naughty all the more, and no sense came to her of why or how.

'Control!' he said to her one day. She knew he must have eyes that saw through doors. It made her blush and clip her thighs together quick. Then he would smile and speak more softly, edging up her skirt. Her skirts were always shorter than she wore outside. And, dutifully, she always put them on when she came in. Her blouses, though, were three years older. Too tight: the buttons often burst. Sometimes her nipples showed, and that was rude.

He never said that she was rude, though, never said. Swinging her over like a doll upon his lap, he would peel her tiny knickers down into the limp bends of her knees and smack her bare cheeks slowly first. The first smacks – no, she didn't mind them much. They teased her as they stung, and made her jerk. He would hold her in a 'special way' then, underneath her front, moving his hand there while his palm came down.

When it came harder, Lizbeth would begin to squeak, toes kicking on the carpet and her eyes screwed up. Often a button then would pop, and then another till her blouse split open and his hand explored within, his palm relentless on her burning cheeks, ignoring all her cries and squeals.

'You must not squeal so much, Elizabeth', he told her several times – used her full name, and so she knew that it was serious and, wriggling her bottom still, would blink and bite her lower lip, her buds extended fully on their snowy crests, peeping from out the sagging halves of her thin top.

'It b...b...burns me', she would say, and he would nod as if that were a solemn thing and true.

'Of course, Elizabeth, of course. How else are you to learn. Would you prefer the cane today? No? Well, tonight, perhaps. Before you go to bed – yes, just before'.

'B...but, I can't sleep then', she wished to say, yet knew herself for hypocrite. It was not always true she could not sleep. The awful, searing stings became a glow, and he would hold his hand beneath her till there was. She wondered how he knew; he never asked. Perhaps her pouting lips were open more, stroking her thighs as he wanted to do until she ceased to buck and jerk.

The cane was awful. She had had it six times now, sometimes just with her nightie on, the frothy nylon wreathed beneath her arms, and she on hands and knees upon her bed, biting her pillow as it stung her so and made her weave her naked hips about, showing her... OH! she didn't dare to think what he could see when he arced the cane beneath her bottom and made her lift it higher, higher still, and with her knees apart to help her keep her balance, so he always said.

Lizbeth wanted to ask her mother how she ought to be and if she was really naughty all the time, but her mother ran two shops of hers and had so little time. Once, confidentially, Lizbeth had asked her mother if she, too, had ever had the cane. Their conversation was so nice and cosy at the time, and her mother had listened to her question, then had laughed.

'You have to learn, Lizbeth. After all, you are a growing girl', she said, but did not answer Lizbeth 's question, not at all. – 'But, M...M...Mummy, almost every day I...' – 'Yes, I know, dear; you must learn – that's all I said', her mother answered her mysteriously, then opened her accounts book and picked up her pen, which made Lizbeth feel broody all the more. She wouldn't ever be spanked or caned again – she swore that to herself and brushed right past her uncle when she met him on the stairs, as if to say, 'I won't – and I don't care!'

At the call for dinner, Lizbeth felt hungry and went down. The nights were drawing in, her mother said. All mothers said the same thing, thought Lizbeth, save about spankings, canings, but she was not sure of that. Her friend, Cindy, was often spanked and had her knickers pulled right down. She knew that. Cindy had told it to her when they slept together once.

'It's awful – really is', said Cindy and chewed the pillow as she spoke.

Lizbeth thought of that at dinner as she ate. Her uncle had glanced down several times now at her legs, but that he often did.

'Lizbeth, you've got your long skirt on', he said and clucked his tongue. – 'I know I have – so what?', said Lizbeth crossly, then her mother stared at her and said she shouldn't answer back.

'Don't want to wear it', said Lizbeth and she left her sweet half eater and jumped up and ran upstairs, her face is red at her own daring. – 'I'll see at her,' she heard her uncle say. – 'Yes, dear,' her mother answered meekly in a tone of voice that Lizbeth had never heard in use before, and Lizbeth clenched her fists and said swear words beneath her breath. He wanted an excuse. He wouldn't get it though. Slipping her day skirt off and folding it away, she got her short skirt out and was just about to step within it when the door opened and her uncle stood there, jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled.

'Lizbeth!', he barked at her, and then she jumped. – 'Mum!', she tried to call but her lips felt glued. Especially when he entered, closed the door again and pointed to the bed.

'Please, no! Oh, not tonight! Please no!', she quavered, stockinged thighs together as she spoke, the skirt gathered round her ankles, slipping from her fingers.

'Lizbeth - come HERE', he growled and in that growl was all the menace of his waiting palm. Dragging her feet, head bowed, she stepped to him, her twisting thighs exposing in between the puffed vee of her panties.

'M...Mum!', she bleated, but her voice was low, as if she feared to call it out too loud. He knew that; she could see it in his eyes that fell to the small dark triangle underneath her knicks. And then his hand snaked out, and she was slammed against him timidly, her thighs a-quiver and her nylons rasping to his legs.

'How often have you had the cane?' he asked. His voice was softer then. He even stroked her hair and clasped her like a palpitating bird to him, face pressed against his shirt front. And Lizbeth was all weak, as she had never meant to be. 'S...s...s...six', she stammered, and was prayed she had got it right. – 'And it is not enough, Lizbeth. Your bottom need some extra treatment yet – right here,' he murmured. Then his hand slipped down into her panties at the back and felt the warm and silky globe and made her gasp the way he put his finger in between her cheeks, making her reach up on her toes, her fists clenched at his shoulders, trembling as she was.

'I want to go out... I want... I want', she stammered, felt her face go red. – 'What you want, Lizbeth, is something else – something you haven't quite realised as yet, and young girls have to learn. Didn't your mother tell you that as well?'

'She did, yes, but I – OH! Oh, please, no!' Gliding down beneath his hands, her panties wreathed her ankles in a tiny pool and left her shamefully exposed. Her bum cheeks quivered as he tasted them, the palpitating, silky hemispheres, and Lizbeth dared not move, thought of her mother bursting in. But then, the front door slammed and Lizbeth gallantly burst away, peered down through her window and saw her mother entering her car.

'MUM', she called, but all too late. Her uncle stood unmoving and his eyes somehow forced her then again to turn to him, hands fluttering around her pubic growth until he shook his head and – gulping then – she dropped both arms and hung her head.

'You are ready to be caned again – you know you are', he uttered. – 'NO! I'm not, I won't, you can't, I've... OUCH!' Quicker than she could move he had her by the waist, raised on foot on her single bed and slung her puppet-like over his uplifted thigh, her bottom orbed up to the ceiling and her fig like lovelips shown. Squealing, she tries to move, but he had ringed her waist in steel-like grip.

'A spanking first, I think', he said, then SMACK! and SMACK! and SMACK! his palm came down, bouncing from the resilient hemispheres while Lizbeth cried her outrage to the wall, her body jack-knifed full over his thigh.

'Don't, don't! Oh, please! Oh, uncle no!', she screeched and at her cry his rising hand was halted. It came down instead to soothe the tingling, burning orb while Lizbeth squeezed its cheeks and held her breath.

'It was to have been six, Lizbeth. Alas, I told you several days ago you squeal too much – alarming neighbours, people passing by. Take off your blouse and come downstairs in – say – five minutes. That will give you time to meditate. Five minutes only, Lizbeth!'

A dumbness seized her then. She sniffled and pretended that she was about to cry, but no tears came. It was all a mix-up in her pretty head. If it was to have been six why didn't he? Hands fumbled at her blouse and took it off. Her panties slid down and she stepped out of them. Self-consciously, she bent at the low mirror of her small white dressing table and brushed her hair. And then... and then he called again, 'Lizbeth!'

'Yes – yes, all right!', she quavered back, running her hands down her sleek thighs to make sure her stockings were both taut. Leaving her room, she tripped along the landing, turned the first corner of the stairs and then stopped as she saw him standing down below, cane in his hand.

"OH!', gasped Lizbeth. With every downward step she took she seemed to twinkle at him from between her thighs, and that unmoving upward look of his saw everything. He had taken his tie off, too. His shirt was all undone. Her firm young titties bounced in her descent. Unable as she was to close her legs at all, she blinked and knew not where to look. At the foot of the stairs she all but bumped against him. Then his hand came up and circled round her neck and gripped the nape of it between his thumb and fingers. Not so tightly, though as when he first had spanked her weeks ago, but just enough to guide her straight along into the living room.

It was there that Lizbeth saw the change. He had drawn the sofa from the wall and turned it so that it had its back to her and stood at an angle across the floor.

'Over now, Lizbeth', he said, the urging of his strong hand was implacable. Her lips felt dry. The back was awfully high. But then he ceased to hold her neck and lifted her about her hips and, with a sudden squeak from her, caused her to hang upon the rolled and puffy surface so that her toes hung just above the carpet and her head hung down into the cushions at the front.

'Listen to me carefully, Lizbeth. The next time that I call you down, you will find the sofa placed as it now is. I will not lift you. You will raise yourself upon it as you are, and wait. You understand?'

'But uncle, please!'

'A plea unheard, Lizbeth. Let your legs dangle and beware, young lady, that you do not kick. I want you to imagine henceforth that your mother is upstairs, perhaps asleep, and will not wish to be disturbed by silly howls and protests. Do you hear?'

'Yeh-ess!', she whimpered. All that she could see were the flowered cushions underneath her nose, the rim of the sofa, and a bit of floor. Her bottom orbed upon the sofa's top. She tried to keep her legs together, but they seemed to hang apart, her nest and cleft both offered to his eyes. Her titties tingled and her fingers clenched.

SWOOO-ISSSSH!.... She heard the sound like an oncoming breeze, and then the sting – deep sting of it – burned through her nether cheeks and brought a muffled shriek. Oh, the harsh bite of it, the burning... No!.... It wasn't f...f...fair...

'Do you know why I am caning you, Lizbeth?'

'NO-WOH, I don't, I d...d...don't!', she sobbed, and then let out a sharper squeal as a white flame seared beneath her bulbing bum, and was immediately followed by another. – 'AAH! YEEEEEE-EEK!', she screeched, but gallantly bit back the cry by bringing her palm close underneath her mouth.

'Excellent, Lizbeth! You need approval just as much as you need discipline, and will henceforth receive them in almost equal measure, given your obedience. NO, girl – you DONT slide back!', her uncle growled as Lizbeth vainly tried to toe the floor. The cane swished underneath her pink-striped orb and forced her up again, bringing a doleful squeal from her.

'Compliance to the wishes of your elders, Lizbeth, will reward you. Do you understand?'

Reward? She did not understand at all, wanted to cry out that she did not, but even as the words buzzed in her head, the whistling of the dreaded cane once more made her perfect bottom cheeks roll like a ball on an uncertain edge.

'Oh, woh-woh, yes!' she screeched despite herself. And then he waited, waited while she squirmed, legs clipping, parting, ankles turning in, toes swinging into the sofa's padded back. Until she stopped and then hung limp again, breath hissing from her nostrils as she waited for the next.... the next.... the next, unconscious that he was listening to a subtle changing in her muffled cries, her sobs, her pleadings. Even those, despite herself, began to die away. She was swirling, falling, falling, in the flickering flames that seeped into her and made her nipples sparky to the soothing of the cushions underneath her wobbling breasts.

He stopped at last. But had he stopped? Encased in sheening heat, Lizbeth became aware of darkness as he stepped away and clicked the light off, and the living room was dark save for the moonlight's milky spread of paleness in the gloom. A faint zizzing came to her that sounded like a zip or something – then he padded back to her and she thought that he was going to draw her down, but instead he took firm purchase of her hips and stilled them while she held her breath and wondered at the hot, smooth, plummy something she could feel that nubbed demandingly along the silky tunnel between the tops of her thighs....

The house was quiet when Lizbeth's mother returned. 'The sofa's out of place', she said, with that quick eye a woman has.

'I guess I must have moved it, yes'. He got up, yawned, and said, 'She's fast asleep. She's feeling better now, I think'. He didn't say precisely how that condition had been achieved, though.

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