A.W.O.L.

Story from Fessee 08.

A.W.O.L.
by Nick Fowler

The continuation of the story "Victim?"

IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS WIFE'S BEDROOM Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!

'Father,' he said, 'Sally has been smoking!'

'Er, ah, what's that?' exclaimed Commander Fenwick in surprise. 'Are you sure? I carried out a thorough search of this room only this morning, as you suggested.'

'Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?'

'Of course, my boy!' snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. 'I wasn't born yesterday.'

'Very well, Sally,' said Marcus, turning to the apprehensive, but very attractive young blonde who was standing between them. 'Where are they, and why was I disobeyed? You know that I will not be thwarted in my wishes, especially when they are in your best interests – and mine! If I send for you to come to my bed, I do not want you smelling like an overabused ashtray!'

Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.

'Well, if they are not in your room,' said Marcus logically, 'they must be on you. Take your dress off!'

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband's disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her 'warder', while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker. His students would have been astounded at "Don Marcus's" other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally's eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his "executioner". Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an 'old lag' who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!

Sally pulled the short black dress over her blonde curls, and stood, shivering and vulnerable, in her bra and nylon panties, stockings and suspender belt. She might just as well have been naked, as Marcus reached inside her bra and produced a packet of cigarettes from one cup, and a box of matches from the other, like a conjurer working 'magic'.

'It would seem, Dad, that you are becoming blasé to Sally's undoubted charms if you are failing to notice such changes in her delightful contours. I noticed immediately!'

'You would!' thought Sally resentfully. 'All you do is watch! What did I see in you, you cold fish? At least your father is human. He's stern, even brutal, but at least he fancies me!'

'Well,' said Marcus, turning to her. 'Now that you conveniently have your dress off you had better be punished. Will you fetch the hairbrush, Dad, and give Sally a thorough spanking for her deceit and disobedience! It is time that she learned that orders are made to be obeyed.'

The chastisement that followed, with Sally bare bottomed across the Commander's knee, and Marcus observing from the comfort of an armchair, was a particularly severe one, as Fenwick Senior felt that he had been let down by Sally, and had been made a fool of. He had begun to feel that there was a bond of trust and affection between them, and that although he needed to be strict for her own good, he was a father figure to her, as well as a relation by marriage.

So now his resentment showed in the severity of the punishment, as the ebony-backed hairbrush rose and fell stingingly on Sally's tender buttocks, and she yelled aloud her doleful remorse at being detected in transgression.

The Commander spanked hard and deliberately, letting each firm wristy impact sink in for its full effect. Sally howled from the very first stroke, not only because it stung dreadfully, but because she had learnt that to be vocal was better than stoic suffering. If you remained silent they just went on until you did yell, and only gave you more for being stubborn. She had learnt that lesson while still quite a small girl, and much painful spanking experience since had done nothing to change her views. Besides, there was an undoubted relief in being able to open your lungs and howl blue murder! It seemed to take some of the sting out of the proceedings! It was as if the burning smart of the hairbrush was soaking into your cheeks, up through your pussy, and into your guts, and needed to find an outlet through the larynx. Otherwise it built up intolerably.

After some six of these scalding collisions between tropical wood and soft flesh, Sally burst into tears. There was nothing feigned about this, and after about ten more she was crying so hard that she imagined that even the neighbours must hear – and the nearest house was two hundred yards away! She kicked her legs and squirmed furiously. She tried to plead, and promised to be good, to give up smoking, and never start again, but the face of Marcus remained coldly impassive, and the Commander took his cue from his son.

Sally began to wonder if he was ever going to stop. Long before he did, her bottom and thighs were beet red, and felt as if they were burning with incandescent heat. At one stage she tried to reach down to protect her ill-used posterior, but the Commander barked, 'Sally, do you want the cane too?' and hastily she jerked her hand away.

But at last it was over, and she sobbed her relief as Marcus nodded, and her mentor laid the wicked brush aside and replaced her panties over a hot, prickling bottom that felt twice the size of normal.

The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug. 'Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!'

Marcus said nothing but was pleased nevertheless. It was all highly satisfactory, this wife training. At the university functions he attended alone, he sometimes was tempted to tell others of the glowing success of his marriage. He did not, however, for that would have tarnished his image as a humane and kindly man, a liberal with a small 'l'.

* * *

During the weeks that followed, more 'good old fashioned spankings' came swishing home to roost in Sally's reorganised life with painful, and surprisingly satisfying regularity. The Commander scolded her often, while he forcefully reminded her of her many shortcomings. However she was quick to notice that when Marcus was not present to witness her bottom smackings, the hand that was then so firm with her could be amazingly gentle as it stroked and patted her outraged flesh. Then her crying soon subsided, and she discovered, with a sense of shock, that she no longer felt resentment towards him. In fact, at such times, she felt better than she had at any time during the life she had spent alone with Marcus.

May 20th, some three months later, was the Commander's sixty-first birthday, and Marcus was away, attending a seminar at Cambridge. Sally announced that she had a surprise for her father-in-law, he was to sit at the breakfast table and read his Telegraph, and not move until Sally returned. 'Right?'

'Right', agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son's absence, to indulge her. Ten minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.

'Enter!' barked the Commander.

The sight that entered took his breath away. There was Sally smartly dressed in WREN uniform, the blue serge immaculate, the seams of the black nylon stockings guardsman straight, the saucy little cap jauntily perched on her blonde curls. She saluted. 'WREN Sally reporting, sir. Er, the O.C WRENS said that I should come to you for corrective discipline, sir. She said that I needed a man's touch! Er, have you got a cane, sir, or should I get one?'

The look of delight on the old boy's face told Sally that her birthday present was an inspiration. She well knew the Commander's nostalgia for the distaff side of the Senior Service, and his joy in recounting his punishments of sundry naughty WRENS, who had fallen foul of him during his long and distinguished service, was quite tedious.

'Ah well,' Sally thought, 'It's all good fun. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' That it was to her advantage to win the Commander as an ally was obvious, and should be well worth the expense of the uniform, plus a caning or two!

'Humph!' grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. 'Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.'

He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy malacca. 'Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!'

Not without difficulty Sally hitched up the tight blue uniform skirt and bent herself over, presenting a pretty sight in seamed black stockings and suspenders, yet it appeared that the effect was not entirely to the Commander's satisfaction.

'And where,' he barked, 'are your regulation knickers?' It was a good question, because Sally's delightful bottom was attired in white frilly panties. Indeed, the Service outfitters, from whom she had purchased the uniform by phone and credit card, had said nothing about naval underwear.

'Er, sorry, sir! I forgot,' stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.

'Then two additional strokes to remind you!' said the Commander joyfully. 'Get up, while I find you some.'

He rummaged in a seachest and finally came up with a pair of navy blue Directoire knickers, perhaps the trophy from some long gone disciplinary encounter, and handed them to Sally. 'Put these on.'

Sally removed her own un-WREN-like frillies, and placed her high heels into the elasticated legs of the nylon bloomers, pulling them up snugly over her thighs and bottom. They felt constricting but quite comfortable, and would, she told herself, be some protection from the bite of the cane – if she was permitted to keep them in place over her rounded bottom.

'Now,' resumed the Commander, 'back down again for eight of the best. That's what delinquent ratings deserve!'

He had laid two well-placed strokes on Sally's knickered bottom, which stung despite its tight fitting and silky protection, when the phone rang. Signalling to Sally to stand up, the Commander picked up the receiver.

'Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick...'

It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone's mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties. 'I'll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick,' he told her absently.

'Permission to go outside, sir?' asked Sally impishly, an idea already hatching in her mischievous imagination. What fun it would be to go out in her uniform, and pretend to be a real WREN! Even to take the Commander's Cavalier for a spin. Of course, there would be a spanking when he found out, but he couldn't be too severe after the birthday present, and it would be worth it.

'Yes, carry on,' said the Commander, his mind on the phone conversation. Sally skipped out, picking up the car keys from the sideboard as she did so. Little did she know...

* * *

His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his 'unfinished business' in mind. Where was she? He recalled her asking permission to go outside – into the garden, he had assumed – but she wasn't there.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour. It was then that he discovered the absence of his car. She was gone! Scarpered, deserted! Well, absent without leave, at the very least. God, what would Marcus say when he returned? Thank goodness that he wasn't expected back until later. But where was she?

* * *

At that moment Sally was in a layby, being questioned by two burly Naval policemen. The sight of a pretty young WREN rating proceeding in a leisurely fashion in a smart new Vauxhall Cavalier GL, had aroused their suspicions, and they had become even more suspicious when their jeep had flagged down the car and they discovered that the WREN driver had no identification, no license or insurance, or even a handbag. They came to the conclusion that the young woman was A.W.O.L., and the car stolen. Nor would she give the name of her unit. What she did do was to become increasingly angry and abusive and call them names, finally kicking the Master-at-Arms, Taffy Evans, painfully on the shin. After that they put handcuffs on her for their own protection.

Finally she calmed down enough to tell them some cock and bull story about being on a 'secret mission' for Commander Fenwick of Queen's Cottage, Bramblehurst!

'Right ho,' said Taffy to his assistant, 'Barnacle' Bates, 'we'll take her there. I served under a Commander Fenwick once, finally swallowed the anchor about three years ago, but it can't be him, or can it? He's hardly the James Bond type. You take the jeep, I'll drive the Vauxhall with Mata Hari in it.' And bundling Sally, her wrists still locked behind her, into the back seat of the car, they set off in convoy for Bramblehurst. They entered the gates at lunchtime, which was the identical time as Marcus's M.G. His university seminar had finished unexpectedly early!

* * *

In retrospect, Sally considered that the sight of Marcus's face, on seeing her marched in, in WREN uniform, between two matlows, her wrists locked behind her in bright, steel fetters, was almost worth what was to follow. She only wished that the neighbours had been on the look-out, but, disappointingly, they weren't. However, that was the rosy view of nostalgia, after the stripes had faded. At the time it was all quite horrendous.

There were redeeming features, but hardly from Sally's point of view. Bos'un Taffy Evans was an old shipmate of the Commander's, and that made things easier, especially when his old C.O. produced a bottle of Lamb's Navy Rum. As for A.B 'Barnacle' Bates, the other member of the patrol, he was happy to go along with anything, it was all better than touring the sodding Motorway, and so long as Petty Officer Evans was happy to carry the can...!

'It's my birthday today, lads,' said the Commander expansively. 'Would you like to come back here for a meal and a yarn tonight? If you are both off duty, of course.'

'That we are, sir,' said Taffy, always happy for wining, dining, and a pipe of shag. 'Er, what about the young lady, sir? Hadn't we better take the cuffs off her?'

'I suppose you'd better!' said the Commander offhandedly, glaring at Sally, 'Not that it would hurt her to be kept in irons for a few hours. She's due for a Court Martial after you leave, and without pre-empting the verdict of the Court, I'd guess that she was in for a flogging and a spot of jankers!'

'Tell you what,' broke in Marcus, who had said little until now, preferring to leave it all to the Senior Service, 'she owes you something for that kick on the shin, Bos'un Painful, is it?'

'Oh, very, sir!' grinned the Master-at-Arms, rubbing the offended spot, and trying to recall which leg had received the impact of Sally's small shoe.

'Well,' said Marcus, 'if you'd like to carry out the sentence of the Court, we'll hold over punishment for you to administer. I believe that traditionally it was the duty of the Master-at-Arms to give floggings!'

'Quite right, sir,' said Taffy. 'Er, will the sentence be carried out on the er – bare er posterior of the young lady, sir, like they used to do with Midshipmen?'

'Naturally, Bos'un, where else?' asked the Commander in surprise.

* * *

The Naval Police patrol having departed about its lawful business, taking the handcuffs with them, it took little time to decide Sally's fate. After all, she was guilty, and with no mitigating circumstances.

'Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!'

She was told that she would be given a dozen strokes of the riding crop, at dinner that night, to be administered by the Master-at-Arms, and, what was more, Sally would wait upon them at table – both before and after her punishment, which would take place sandwiched between the sweet and coffee courses. Naturally, all her pleas for clemency were rejected. The Senior Service is a tough taskmaster!

'By the way,' asked Marcus, 'why the WREN uniform?'

The Commander explained.

'Well, since Sally so obviously enjoys dressing up, she can dress in a maid's costume to serve us dinner tonight. One of my girl students has just the outfit – won it as a bet in the last university Rag Week, I understand. I'll give her a ring, and go over and collect it. In the meantime, you, Sally, can get out of that ridiculous uniform and start preparing the dinner. Er, sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that the uniform was ridiculous, only on Sally!'

'Humph!' said the Commander. 'I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business...!'

* * *

The maid's costume which Marcus borrowed from his student may have been ideal for Rag Week's Fancy Dress Ball, but would have given any self-respecting 'nippy' in Lyons' a blue fit.

It consisted of a sexy little dress in black satin, cut so low at the bust as to be positively indecent, and so high at the skirt hem that it scarcely covered Sally's bottom – and didn't when she bent forward. It was worn with a frilly petticoat, which pushed out the short skirt even more, and black seamed nylon stockings held up by a black suspender belt. The miniscule panties were decorated with lace ruffles across the seat, and there was also a dainty frill of lace where they fitted snugly to the thighs. This travesty of traditional servitude was worn with a small white apron and a starched little cap which perched cheekily upon Sally's golden curls. She looked delicious! The Commander said so, secretly Sally thought so, and Marcus – well, Marcus kept his own counsel! Sally would have enjoyed the charade if she had not been so apprehensive about her coming whipping. However often it happened to her, she told herself glumly, it didn't get any better, or hurt any the less! She hoped that Taffy Evans was a kind man. He was far too powerfully built if he wasn't!

Furthermore it was the first time that she had had her bottom bared and whacked before anyone other than family! She tried to tell herself that it was all utterly shameful – but had to admit that the idea sent little thrills of secret pleasure through her pussy-parts. She hoped that she wouldn't be too much of a baby when the riding crop began smoking down on her tender situpon!

* * *

The Commander's birthday dinner was a great success – mainly because Sally hadn't cooked much of it! It had been delivered by a restaurant. Taffy and 'Barnacle' Bates could scarcely keep their eyes off Sally, as she moved around the table, serving from a hostess trolley, and it must be admitted that Taffy's preoccupation with the disciplinary task ahead of him quite blunted a usually excellent appetite. He hoped that no one could sense his 'hard on' under the table.

After the sherry trifle had been appreciated, demolished, and cleared away, the Commander excused himself and returned dragging a large, pony sized, Victorian rocking horse which had long been in the attics of the old cottage. It was a beautiful beast, grey and mottled, benign and handsome, still polished in its varnished paint. How it must have delighted some long dead child. What a price it would bring in the sale rooms! But now Marcus and the Commander had another use for it.

The Commander led Sally across it. He held the horse's reigns to keep it still, and indicated that Sally should mount. The stirrups were short, suitable for a child, but not a grown girl, and Sally had to bend her knees. Her bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches, the skirt of the ridiculous maid's costume riding up. Sally's plump cheeks were like full moons upon which the ruched knickers strained alarmingly. Marcus moved forward and with some difficulty peeled them down over the out thrust, pouting globes. 'Barnacle' Bates, whose erection was as rampant as Taffy's, hoped that he was not about to disgrace himself beneath the linen table cloth!

Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.

'I think,' said Marcus, 'that the chastisement will be more salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!'

'Oh no,' pleaded Sally, 'It's going to be bad enough as it is!'

The reply to this presumptuous comment was a warm up spanking from the Commander that lasted almost ten minutes, and brought a hot stinging glow in its wake. It was almost a relief when Marcus returned with the olive oil and quite impersonally coated the hot, scarlet flesh with it. He could almost be dressing a salad, Sally thought indignantly. How could she have ever thought that she loved such an unfeeling block of marble!

In the meantime, to complete his victim's utter subjection to the prescribed punishment, the Commander slapped the deep, wide cleft of her buttocks, while Sally howled in protest, but to no avail.

The preliminaries over, the Commander produced a leather-bound riding switch and handed it to Taffy Evans, saying in judicial tones, 'Right, Master-at-Arms, a dozen strokes, and lay on well!' Then he jerked on the reins of the rocking horse, causing it to rear up and present Sally's rump as target for the first biting stroke. Grimly she hung to the animal's wooden neck, grasping its real horse-hair mane for scant comfort, and yelped as the plaited leather cut into her plump flesh.

Taffy took his time. Between strokes Sally looked over her shoulder, taking in the stern expression of the Commander, the gloating elation on Marcus's face, and the pop-eyed disbelief of 'Barnacle' Bates. There could be no mercy expected there! Fortunately she sensed that Taffy Evans was not using his full strength, which was as well, or he would have cut her bottom into ribbons! As it was each stroke burned and stung abominably!

What a team the Bos'un and the Commander made! As each stroke fell the Commander would let the horse, and Sally's whipped buttocks, down, only to rise again into the trajectory of the next downward stroke of the riding switch.

At the eighth stroke, Sally, who had tried to keep a count of the punishment, gave up, and just hung on waiting for it to end. If only, she thought between wails and gasps of pain, and pleas to be a better girl in future, if only she had never told Marcus that she had been brought up on smack bottoms! If only, just for once, she could be a distributor of punishment, instead of a victim! She owned to being a silly, reckless, little fool, but...

Taffy brought down the switch on an already tender spot and Sally howled, just howled. It was a combination of pain, misery, and a realisation of her ignominious position, dressed in a ludicrously sexy costume, and bent, half naked, over a rocking horse, having her bare buttocks soundly whipped for the gratification of four men, two of whom had been strangers until a few hours earlier.

Marcus watched the whipping with cold interest. That afternoon he had toyed with the notion of summoning her to his bed for an hour, as he had hardly seen her for several days, but he had decided that it might not be prudent. It might give his wife the wrong idea. Comforting her wasn't in his interests. In his opinion any punishment to Sally's deserving bottom should be painful, both during and after its application, and for as long as possible. His marriage was benefitting beautifully from these attentions to the defects in his irresponsible wife's demeanour. What a good idea of his father's to bring in an expert!

'Last three!' said the Commander to Taffy. 'Excellent work so far!'

"Crack! Crack! CRACK!" As the horse rocked and reared in its final disciplinary canter, and Sally bawled to the full extent of her lungs, all others present enjoyed this finale, the salute to her welted behind of a skilled disciplinarian.

It was the most expertly delivered beating that Sally had ever endured, and was certainly far more than she had bargained for when she had set out, so full of mischief, in the Commander's car that morning. Somehow she slithered off the rocking horse and stood swaying on her feet, moaning and sobbing as she clutched her palpitating, cringing hemispheres, the tears streaming down her face.

'Alright,' said Marcus unsympathetically, 'You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!'

'That,' he thought smugly, as he saw his wife painfully pull up her panties and head for the kitchen, 'is how married life should be!' He was 'Don Marcus', university lecturer, master of his own life and family, in the most scorching and primitive way. And the lessons would go painfully on, for as long as he chose, and until he was satisfied. It certainly beat being a liberal with a small 'l'!

Victim?

Story from Fessee 04.

Victim?
by Nick Fowler

Marcus considered himself to be a civilised man, a small 'l' liberal, and yet here was Sally, his young wife of only a few months, offering a solution primitive in its primordial savagery. Suddenly he was shocked and excited, where, moments before, he had been furiously angry.

'Alright,' said Sally again, looking at the dented wing of their once immaculate M.G. 'Mea cupla. I did it. I was careless. I can't pay you, 'cos I don't have any money of my own, as you well know. So, take it out of my deserving hide. Put me across your knee and give me a jolly good spanking. It's what Daddy would have done.'

Standing there before her in the drive, clothed in righteous indignation, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, Marcus looked so adorably pompous that Sally could scarcely suppress her giggles. She did love him, but he was a wimp at times.

'What Daddy would have done...?' repeated Marcus in astonishment. 'Surely not what....'

'Not what his Beatitude, the Rev. Canon Horace Willoughby-Yeates, would have done?' interrupted Sally irreverently. 'You bet. Either him, or Mummy. His view of atonement was positively Judaic. He once gave me eighteen of the best with a springy cane for nicking 50p out of the offertory plate. After all, my need was greater than St. Jude's. I'd just laddered my last pair of decent tights.'

Really. Marcus looked at this remarkable girl as if he was meeting her for the first time. She was the same petite, impish, blonde that he had married, a mere two months after meeting her at a Special Interest Holiday on English Drama that he had been running, but yet somehow she was not the same. There was a devil-may-care, do your worst, hang the consequences, look in her cornflower blue eyes that he found both challenging and disturbing.

'So,' said Sally provocatively, arms akimbo, 'are you going to beat me, and forget it, or do you propose to nag me to death slowly, over the next six months, whenever I take the car out on my own?'

The vision of Sally, knickerless, and with her dimpled bottom up, across his knee suddenly appealed to him enormously. There had been undeniable hiccoughs in the smooth running of their marriage or late. As there must be, he appreciated, when a stuffy academic falls for a lively, lovely girl, twelve years his junior. He hadn't had much experience of girls, he admitted that, but he had never thought for one moment of spanking her.

He was a lecturer in English at the University of Petworth, staid, respected, but somewhat humourless. He sometimes wondered what Sally saw in him. He would have been surprised to learn that not only did she admire his academic brilliance, but also considered that he had 'hidden potential'. Sally liked playing her hunches regardless, and Marcus, she told herself, was going to develop as a human being, in ways that he little suspected. Ways which he would have dismissed as ludicrous.

Now suddenly it seemed to Marcus his own inspiration that the chastisement of Sally was not only something desirable, but long overdue. She was far too frivolous, and at one or two college functions had been positively embarrassing in her disrespectful attitude towards important influential senior colleagues upon whom Marcus's advancement depended. Perhaps spanking was the curb she needed. Yes, thought Marcus, the salutory sting on his hand upon her soft, young buttocks might well be the answer.

'Alright,' he blustered, trying to sound authorative, as if the punishment of naughty young women was something that he indulged in all the time, 'you asked for it, and you're going to get it, and I hope it will be a lesson to you. Come into the house.'

Demurely Sally preceded him to the lounge. Marcus might have been startled to see the small triumphant smile which played around his young wife's lips. This was not how a sinner should look. Surely she should be apprehensive at the prospect of smarting flesh and humiliation of the spirit... However, Marcus was so flustered by the breakneck speed of events since Sally had pranged the car into the garage door that he hardly noticed the roguish spring in Sally's step which spoke of mischief rather than fear.

Marcus seated himself on the wide leather couch, which had been a wedding present from Canon Willoughby-Yeates, and Sally knelt, and then wriggled herself companionably across his thighs, squirming into a position that would present her shapely but not overlarge bottom to best advantage, while leaving it softly resilient to the hand of justice.

Her skirt was tight and black. Would it be better, Marcus debated, to work it up past her slim hips, or to unzip it and pull it down. He chose the latter means of denudement, experiencing an unexpected thrill as he masterfully undid the button that held the waistband, and firmly slid down the metal fastener to breach the bastion between him and retribution. Sally appeared undismayed, and raised herself a little to faciliate the skirt's descent to her ankles. Beneath it she was wearing stockings and suspenders and white nylon panties, and through the translucence of the silky fabric the flesh of her bottom could be glimpsed by Marcus as pale, creamy pink. After due consideration he decided to keep them on her. To begin with, anyway.

The first ten minutes or so Marcus devoted to soundly slapping the lower thighs and lush undulations of the foothills of her buttocks. Yes, it was a fascinating experience to watch the creamy flesh colour to a coral pink, and then red, under the semi-transparency of the little nylon knickers! Then, tiring of that ploy he carefully lowered them and gave twenty more minutes of his time to bringing the whole of her nude bottom to a satisfying and angry crimson. Sally's cheeks quivered and shook violently, and she gasped, though did not cry out, as Marcus vigorously applied condign discipline to the soft cushions of her posterior. Having started, it must be admitted that he was now loath to stop, quite carried away on this wave of dominance. He was, he decided, evidently cut out to be an assertive husband, and if Sally was accustomed to this kind of punishment then there was little point in pussy-footing!

His right hand was stinging quite painfully from the unaccustomed exercise when he finally stopped and stood Sally on her feet. He looked into her flushed face, quite expecting to see... What? Revulsion, subjection, anger? But the radiant expression that it carried showed that although she was now busily engaged in gingerly feeling a most horrendous smart in her scarlet bottom, she was very far from subdued. Also if she was suffering remorse at a couple of hundred pounds' worth of car damage she was hiding it well. It seemed that he had given her carte blanche to behave badly, to crunch the car whenever she wanted to. Marcus had the nasty feeling that she had out-manoeuvred him into giving her a 'punishment' that she wanted, and now he would have to forget about its cause, as in honour bound.

Sally looked meaningfully towards the stairs that led to their bedroom, but as Marcus showed no sign of responding to the unspoken invitation, she signed, pulled up her knickers, and kissed him affectionately before resignedly beginning preparations for the evening meal. A girl couldn't have everything, and she already knew that Marcus had to be ill to go to bed during daylight hours.

Marcus remained on the couch and pondered this new problem as something quite outside of his experience. Spanking might make a model wife out of a hoyden, but somehow he doubted it on this afternoon's evidence. He loved her, but...

(He loved her butt, as the Americans would uncouthly say. My God, what was happening to him? That was almost a joke, and he never made jokes, or understood them.)

'Pull yourself together, Marcus Fenwick M.A., B.Litt.' he told himself severely, 'and ask yourself what you are going to do about your wife. She is extravagant, has no sense of what it costs us to live in this style on a junior lecturer's salary. She is slapdash, untidy, and only a passable cook. She is hopeless in the garden, and so unreliable as to be useless as a joint wage-earner.'

Marcus appreciated that spanking could give him a control over Sally that he had lacked so far, but it was a two-edged sword, and one that he wanted to cut with, without slicing his own fingers. It was obvious that Sally liked corporal punishment far too much. His problem was how to turn a 'turn on' into a deterent.

* * *

COMMANDER RONALD FENWICK R.N. (Rtd.), Marcus's father, who has paying his usual Sunday visit, straightened up from pruning the roses. He liked to tackle the overgrown 'jungle' of a garden, and fortunately was gifted with green fingers.

'Have you thought any more about my selling up my place, and making my home with you and Sally?' he asked Marcus, gesturing toward the delightful, but far too large for two, Queen Anne cottage which was their home. 'Roseacre's' far too large for me,' he continued, 'and it would make sense if I sold it, bought into your place, and came to you. I know that money's a bit tight for you. As you know, I get a bit lonely on my own, since your Mother died, and not only could I contribute towards expenses, but would be company for Sally, while you are away at the university.'

It was not the first time that the Commander had made the suggestion, and Marcus and Sally had given it serious thought, and decided, 'yes'. But now, delaying the news, Marcus carefully steered the conversation into talk of juvenile delinquency. Before retiring from the Navy, Fenwick senior had had a reputation for being a strict disciplinarian, and now Marcus was anxious to learn his father's views on a gang of teenagers, boys and girls, who were terrorising a local housing estate.

'Only one cure for those young louts,' the Commander snorted, 'Take down their unisex jeans and give 'em a damned good thrashing on their bare behinds.'

Marcus had suspected that that would have been his father's opinion, but it was useful to have it confirmed. Surprisingly he did not know too much about his father, and it was only since the old boy's retirement that they had become close. When his father was home on leave from the Navy, Marcus had usually been at boarding school, and then had come university, and his career. But the death of Marcus's mother had formed a bond between them.

Encouraged by his father's 'hang 'em and flog 'em' attitude, and with his own plans for Sally firmly in mind, Marcus now expanded this punative discussion to include the family environment, discussing, severity, implements of correction and techniques. Ronald was uninhibitedly forthcoming, and it was an incredible piece of good fortune when he disclosed to Marcus that he had actually used to spank his mother during the early days of their marriage.

'Needed to, my boy. Lovely gal, but one of the flightiest young women I have ever met, and with me being away so much...'. He looked at his son searchingly as if suddenly doubtful of his parentage.

Marcus, slightly shaken, returned this confidence by telling his father about his recent discovery that Sally was spanked by her parents, almost up to the day of her marriage to him, and went on to describe in detail the accident to the car and its consequences.

'I hope that you warmed her bottom good and proper,' said Ronald, with a chuckle. 'Reminds me of a WREN I had serving under me in Portsmouth. Gave her an extra three strokes for not wearing regulation knickers, if I recall. It happened like this...'

But Marcus had learned enough to be going on with. 'How would you like to move in with us, and chastise Sally for me when the need arises?' He interupted. 'She'd be delighted – for you to live with us, I'm not sure about the other,' he added with unaccustomed honesty.

His father looked at him in astonishment. 'But would you mind, me boy? Me chastising your Sally, I mean. It's not as if I'm her father.'

'Father-in-law, and that's as good as,' replied Marcus enthusiastically.

'Besides, I know that she likes you. From my point of view I should quite enjoy seeing her getting her just deserts, and it would be a salutory experience for her to be punished by a third party – and it's not something I'd like any Tom, Dick or Harry to do. It certainly needs to be kept within the family.'

'How right you are,' said the Commander, his eyes gleaming with reawakened desire. He was no hypocrite, and only too well recognised the degree of sexuality is such as bizarre proposal, for himself and for his son. But the idea undoubtedly turned him on, as it would most red blooded men. It would be a cold fish indeed who could even contemplate the idea of spanking an attractive girl's bare bottom without feeling a distinct thrill. For the moment he wondered why Marcus was 'farming out' such a delectable responsibility. He shrugged. What the hell. Never look gift horses....

Nevertheless Ronald was canny enough to appreciate that he would need to keep a grip on his emotions, and realise that this was punishment and not sex. In the past, however much had he enjoyed spanking that delightfully curved portion which lay between his wife's suspender belt and stocking tops, and the occasional delinquent WREN, he had always kept the issue separate from lovemaking. When spanking had been a titillating foreplay before love then Helen, his wife, had known that it was intended as stimulation. Perhaps that was the mistake that Marcus was making. Secretly he felt that his son was a bit of an odd ball. Ah well, it takes all sorts, thought the Commander, who was given to thinking in cliches.

* * *

MARCUS lost no time in initiating the new, strict, regime. On the very first evening after his father moved in with them Sally stacked the dinner dishes after their meal and said cheerfully, 'Well, they can stay there until morning. Perhaps the fairies will do them.'

'I don't think they will,' said Marcus aggressively. 'But you will. I am sick and tired of coming down in the morning and seeing unwashed plates with food scraps and congealed gravy on the table.'

'If only we had a daily woman,' Sally pouted. 'Perhaps we can afford one now that Ronald's here and contributing.'

Marcus banged his fist down on the dining table, making the crockery rattle alarmingly. 'I consider it a grave discourtesy to my father to talk of his money, when it's only a matter of laziness on your part.'

Sally sighed, and looked at her father-in-law, and raised an eyebrow.

'Sorry, Ronald. Oh, dear, I've put my foot in it again. It seems as if I'm in for another spanking.' She spoke more archly than she intended, being rather embarrassed that Marcus's father should be witness to a family 'row' so soon after his arrival, but she was also glad that he was there, because this time any 'consequences' would surely be taking place in their bedroom. Her bottom cheeks twitched in anticipation, visualising Marcus perhaps unleashing a hitherto unknown passion. How could be resist, turned on, and already on the bed....

The supercharged eroticism of her thoughts almost made her miss the quietly menacing tones in which Marcus now informed her that she certainly did deserve a spanking, but that this time his father was going to administer it.

For a moment she was bewildered and disappointed, but then brightened. Perhaps voyeurism was his turn on, she thought. Before she could investigate her own feelings about this intriguing subject Marcus's father took control.

'Right, Sally,' he said sternly, 'I warn you in advance that this will be a sound spanking, and will make your bottom very red and hot. You may cry if you wish, but if you struggle, or try to resist, or attempt to get up before I have finished I shall fetch my cane from the bedroom and start all over again.'

The Commander's icy tone made it abundantly clear that this was no fun thing. He really meant it. Sally gasped. The deliciously erotic stratagem whereby she had planned to seduce her passionless husband through spanking had suddenly turned sour on her, and her father-in-law, who she had previously admired as a kindly, bluff, old seadog, was changing into a tyrant before her eyes. What was Marcus about to let happen?

'If you feel that strongly about the sodding washing up, Marcus,' she protested, 'I'll go and do it. There's no need for all this drama. You should have said how you felt about it. Getting your father to spank me is a terrible idea. So it is that you should, come to that. I'm much too old to be spanked. It's utterly humiliating. So we'll forget about me ever suggesting it.' And turning on her high, pretty heels, flared skirt swinging about her knees, she headed for the kitchen.

The older man moved quickly, blocking her path with his body, and drew her to him. Holding her close he raised her skirt above the waist with his left hand and with the flat of his right palm landed two vicious smacks to the softness of her knickered bottom.

Sally yelped her dismay, and her soft round eyes filled with despair as she saw her husband's cold, unfeeling response. There was no help to be expected from him. She now realised that there was no going back. She had introduced spanking into the domestic scene, and now, like Goethe's 'Sorcerer's Apprentice' it had turned upon her a hundred fold. Automatically she obeyed the Commander's instructions and positioned herself on her knees on the carpet, with all her weight on her palms.

Her chastiser threw one leg over the obeisantly kneeling body, clenching his trousered legs tightly about Sally's waist. She was now held securely, with her skirt pulled up to the small of her back to shamefully expose her panties, which in that strained position were pulled snugly into the dark furrow between the voluptuous globes of her buttocks. She gasped as a hand forced her down even further, so that her bottom reared, and the straps of her suspenders cut painfully across the flesh between stocking tops and panty-waist.

The Commander swung his palm in a blurred arch of movement, and brought it cracking down with a resounding smack on the tantalising spheres of Sally's nubile flesh. The speed and force of the ruthless assault, followed by the searing smart, made her try of wriggle free, but she knew herself to be firmly imprisoned.

Fascinated, both men watched the crimson patch that spread swiftly beneath the flimsy, silken panties, which barely covered the squirmingly upraised bottom.

'I warned you,' snapped the Commander, 'what would happen if you tried to free yourself. Marcus, perhaps you will kindly fetch the cane that you will find hanging in the wardrobe in my bedroom.'

While he was put of the room the Commander continued his hand spanking with seemingly renewed force. Small yelps became shrill cries. This really was punishment, the kind of thing that she had left home to escape.

Marcus returned, carrying a supple malacca cane, and his father paused for a moment as if to assess his helper's reaction. That Marcus had no sympathy for his wife's wriggling and painful gyrations was evident as he said, 'Dad, I think that to impress Sally with your role of supervisor of all of her future activities you should give her quite a sound caning. Better that she knows now the kind of correction that she can expect to receive in my name, and in my interest.'

Sally could hardly believe her ears, and her burning buttocks and throbbing loins robbed her of any further will be resist. Quietly she did what was asked of her, and in only a few moments she was positioned, as commanded, over the square oak chest in the middle of the room, which Marcus considerately covered with a rug.

'The quicker you learn, Sally,' said the Commander, 'that things around here are going to go the way that Marcus wants them, then the more comfortable it will be for your bottom.'

The Commander! That was how Sally was beginning to think of him. Nor Ronald, or Pops-in-law, or any of the old affectionate, jokey names. The new realisation of the meaning of his rank seared home like a stroke of the cane. One who commands. He who is going to command me, and I am going to obey! she thought.

Her insides jellified, and she foolishly attempted to protest that it wasn't fair. The protest was cut short by a searing stroke of the slim, wicked cane, scoring across her bottom. She gasped, and sobbed, 'It isn't, it isn't.'

'What isn't?' asked Marcus inquisitively, having heard only the end of the tearful little objection.

'Fair, that you should be the master in your own home,' replied his father, his stinging strokes of the cane continuing upon Sally' bottom, although not yet at full force.

Marcus smiled in haught superiority. If he had had qualms about his wife's bottom being caned they were now forgotten. Now he actually relished her agony. He would show her the natural superiority of men, and Fenwick men in particular. He would be the master of his house, every minute of each hour of the day.

'I think six of the best to begin with,' the Commander said, 'On the bare, naturally.' And suiting action to words he inserted his fingers in the waist band of Sally's little knickers and pulled them down to below her stocking tops, the bottom so exposed was already hot and angry looking with one or two strips where the harder cane strokes had made an impact.

Satisfied that there was no impediment to the painful progress of the cane, he laid it tentatively across poor Sally's scarlet bottom, as if to measure the swing accurately, and raised the wicked wand preparatory to the first promised stroke. Soon she was writhing again under its dreadful dominance.

'Oh, oh, oh,' she yelled, as both men gloried in the rod's contact with the jiggling flesh, and as the cane travelled hotly downwards over her bottom, six strokes somehow became nine.

All will to resist her husband's demands vanished, and she submissively sobbed, 'Stop, oh please stop. I'll do anything.'

'Three more,' said Marcus to the Commander implacably, triumph reflected in his voice. 'You might as well make it the round dozen.'

Sally was now about ready to establish a new and satisfactory routine, he reflected. Meals on time, a house kept clean, and television programmes only of his own choice. Sally's 'proper yelling', as the Commander's flexible cane bit home for the final time interrupted his contented reverie, but no matter. Sally stood up, her hands clutching her scalded bottom cheeks, her face streaming with tears, her clothes dishevelled. Most satisfactorily woebegone and sorry for herself.

His thoughts turned to the voicing aloud of more important matters. 'Go upstairs, Sally', he said, 'and make the bed up in the second guest room. It will be for me. From now on we are sleeping in separate rooms, because I have no wish to be disturbed when you rise every morning at seven and begin the housework under father's supervision. When I command you to my bed it will be for a visit of one hour's duration, maximum, probably less. Father will let you know when. Is that understood?'

'Yes, Marcus.'

'Good, now off you go, and straight to bed when you have carried out your instructions. Just this once the washing up may wait until the morning.'

'Yes, Marcus.'

Sally fled. She was longing to soothe the 'scarlet torment' that was her ill used bottom, but didn't dare. Not until her husband's bed was made and turned down ready for the Master to slip autocratically between the chaste white sheets.

In her own room, as she now supposed it to be, she viewed her welted buttocks in the mirror. Her own father had said often enough that she benefitted from a thorough, knickers down, thrashing, and now here it was, back again. What ever had possessed her to actually seek a spanking from her husband. She pressed her burning, naked flesh into the cold of the mirror glass, and signed with the blessed relief of it. Her thoughts relived the half hour. She had not taken much notice of Marcus's father before this, dismissing him as an amiable nonentity, retired, and therefore 'past it'. But now, thinking of him, the likeness to her own father's dominant attitude held a strange excitement. She got into bed, the tingling in her bottom chasing sleep away, and reflected ruefully how brief had been the interlude of 'normal' marriage. Her hand slipped down between her thighs. She was back, enfolded in an all too familiar prison of authority, and the perplexing thing was that though it should have been hateful, it was somehow strangely comforting.

-------------------------

Continuation of this story

The Outfit

Story from Uniform Girls 39.

The Outfit

Bathed and perfumed, Vanessa studied herself carefully in her bedroom mirror, turning this way and that self-critically, but unable to suppress a smile at what her reflection showed.

It was four years since she had last worn her Sixth-Form outfit, and her further development since then was shown by the way her bottom more proudly filled-out the short, dark-blue pleated skirt which she had managed with just a little difficulty to clip around her waist. Her old striped tie had been a bit scruffy and she had had to wash and iron it the day before. It looked all right now, lying in the valley between her firm tits whose peaks thrust through the cotton of her blouse.

And that, too, was tight, but she had expected it to be. A few twisty movements and a couple of buttons at least would soon burst. Like they had been made to four summers ago, but that was a blush-making thought, causing her bottom to stir with the reminiscences that returned to her, but which she always tried to blot out.

If she had never told David about that, then she wouldn't be wearing what she so saucily was now. With each twirl, her abbreviated skirt floated above her tightly-rimmed stocking tops. Pale rims of thighs – now plumper than they used to be. Suspender clips. At fifteen she had changed from white socks to nylons. At times they had seemed to her to become an even greater and more bottom-stinging attraction than her spotless socks had been.

At seventeen – so Vanessa could not help remembering now – she had had her first caning. 'Friday nights are caning nights', she had been told, and not all her edging away, her clutching at the hem of her skirt, her hoarsely-whispered pleas had stopped her panties from coming down. Right off even, once. Oh! – and that time... that was what she had told her husband about, soon after their wedding night two months ago.

Eighteen and a half was too young to marry, her mother had said, but Vanessa hadn't listened. And as for David, he had gone on and on at her to put on her old school outfit again.

'You'll cane me', Vanessa had pouted – pouted as she had once used to do. – 'I won't. Don't be silly. We haven't got a cane. I just want to see you in it – how you look. Cute, I imagine. After all, your figure and your height...' – 'Yes, I know', Vanessa had interrupted hurriedly. She had heard the same before... when her outfit had been new. How that could have been an excuse for caning her, she couldn't imagine.

'Well, then...' David had said. He was a bit weak, Vanessa thought. An older man would have simply told her to put it on and not have discussed it. It was that sort of obedience that the cane had taught her; she knew that deep inside herself. David might just spank her, though. After all, it was all so tight and revealing and she had even taken the trouble to go to the local school-outfitters and get a pair of blue knicks into which (truth to tell) she had only just managed to squeeze. The crutch rubbed her as she walked – rubbed and cuddled at the same time.

Perhaps she should put her hair in a bow, too – at the back. There was one somewhere in one of her drawers. Even as she opened it to look, the doorbell rang and Vanessa shot upright and stood very still. Oh god, she couldn't go down to answer the door dressed like this!

Twenty seconds and then it rang again, more persistently, making her squeeze up her eyes as if she didn't even want to see herself. Not knowing who it might be, she waited. The master bedroom faced out on to the rear garden and she daren't creep down and look. Footsteps... faintly going. Phew! Whoever it was had gone and she could free herself from her momentary tenseness. Then with an awful start she heard the back door into the kitchen open and called nervously, 'Who's there?'

'Me, Vanessa', came a deep voice which she recognised, half with relief, as that of David's father, Ralph. Footsteps again – but this time coming up the stairs! – 'No, wait!', Vanessa called desperately, but the sounds did not cease. – 'Why? Aren't you dressed?', he asked and then – a few feet as he by then was from the bedroom door – Vanessa put her hands up to her face like a little girl and gritted out, 'Yes, but...'.

Ralph ignored that. The bedroom door was ajar and he opened it. – 'Why didn't you...?', he began and stopped as Vanessa bit her lower lip and clipped her legs together, standing almost exactly as she used to do on Friday nights. Their eyes met and snagged like thorns before Vanessa dropped her gaze, feeling his attention like an electrical charge all round her curves. But to her amazement he said nothing about her abbreviated and school-girlish attire. – 'I asked you why you didn't open the door, Vanessa, Come here!' he barked. And it was a bark, and the memories quivered in her all anew. Half slouching, she dragged her feet towards him across the deep-pile carpet – wondering why she did and yet knowing why.

'I d...didn't know it was you', she stammered. – 'Which is a poor excuse. General lack of politeness, Vanessa. I have been wondering about you lately, and that's why I came round. You have a broody look about you sometimes, do you not?'

Vanessa hung her head, was silent first, then shook it slowly. – 'If... if I'd known it was y...you I w...would have answered the door'. – 'Dressed like this?' Ralph queried. He had said it at last, and he knew he was going to make her answer. – 'Well...', Vanessa began, but then feeling a strain of silent impatience in him, forced her to say, 'yes'. He was so much older than herself that she knew somehow she had to say it. They demanded it of one: obedience.

His hand touched her hair, making her start a little. It slid down, fondled the back of her neck and then trailed down her back. There was no bra-clips, no straps – and in any case the fulsome thrusting of her jellied tits told him that the blouse was her sole garment above her waist. – 'You almost fibbed then, Vanessa, did you not?' he asked, producing a sudden inward trembling in her and a sense of apprehension.

'Didn't', she mumbled, and then a quick, anxious 'No!' burst from her lips as his hands toyed beneath her skirt-hem at the front and fingers slid around her stocking tops. But at that cry, his hands encompassed the backs of her thighs, gripping the firmly-fleshed columns just below the bulge of her bottom and rammed her body into him so that she uttered a little 'Ah!'.

'What?', Ralph asked sternly. – 'All right, all right, I almost fibbed, but...' — 'There are no buts, Vanessa, and you know it', he answered, gripping her so firmly that despite all her surreptitious efforts and a little wriggling of her hips she was unable to draw the lower part of her body back from his, her tits bulbing into his shirt-front. – 'Oh no, please don't', she murmured all too quickly, the words forming such a confession – coded as they were – that he instinctively knew her meaning.

'But I have to, don't I? And you know I do. I have to do something about your broodiness and your fib'.

'No! No, you don't', Vanessa choked and tried to make it a sobbing sound, but did not quite succeed. And he was moving her now, moving her until her back came against the wall. – 'No, please look. David...', she began with a panicky tremor in her voice, only to be cut off by his sharp response. – 'David will be late tonight, Vanessa. He was going to call you but I told him that I would tell you instead. Very late, and now I have to get you ready for what you need, don't I?'

'Ah, no!' Her cry – her cry again too late. One hand of his had cupped itself beneath the ripe peach of her bottom while the other fondled up her lovelips through her tightly-knickered crotch. – 'Get you ready', Ralph repeated amid the little whining sounds that issued from her lips, 'Somebody has to see to you now, don't they'. – 'St...stop it!', Vanessa whimpered. The easing of his finger, the growing of the moisture beneath which seeped through the blue serge was making her knees wobbly. Pressing her moist palms against the wall, she averted her face from him, blushing and yet not daring any longer to resist.

Slowly, very slowly, her father-in-law brushed aside her dangling tie with his free hand and commenced unsnicking the near-bursting buttons of her blouse one by one, causing Vanessa's fingers to press tighter to the wallpaper and her breath to hiss out. Tugging her top out from within the tight confines of the waistband of her school skirt, he unfastened the last two and let the sides fall away, bringing her tie to hang between her bared tits whose brown nipples showed their prominence.

'I... mer... mer... mer... mustn't' she whimpered, this bringing from him such a stern and demanding 'what?' that Vanessa knew she daren't say it again. It had never been any good, anyway, saying that. His fingers fondled the luscious melons, causing her nipples to tingle.

'I have three things to spank you for now, Vanessa. What are they? quickly, or your bottom will burn even hotter than I mean it to. Look at me when you speak, please!'

Meeting his eyes then – her own slightly glazed, her knees flexing despite herself, Vanessa blurted, 'Because I nearly fibbed and because...' – 'Yes, Vanessa go on'. His forefinger up between her thighs stayed its movements then save for a subtle brushing back and forth of the tip which made her feel just as quivery. – 'Broody – you s...said I was broody, and... oh, I can't think!'

'Can't? But it's easy. What is the opposite of 'must'? Didn't you say the opposite to me just now?' His voice coaxed; his fingertip, moving like a metronome, coaxed. The sticky, liquid seeping through her knicks was too obvious for either to hide their awareness of it. – 'Yes', Vanessa whispered. It was a submissive 'Yes'.

'Good. You have learned; I thought you had. On the bed, my dear with your knickers off. You have precisely thirty seconds to do this or I shall fetch a cane. From my car, yes. I do have a cane. In a way it has been waiting for your bottom, Vanessa, so quickly please – and counting now!'

'Ow!', Vanessa gasped. There was something that told her he was speaking the truth. 'All right, all right!' Her words were as hurried as her actions, wrestling down her school knicks as she had to and clambering up on to the bed, though clamping her thighs together as she flipped her skirt up to reveal her naked bottom to his view.

'Suspenders. I like your suspenders', she heard him say as if they were the only thing he was looking at. Then came such a slap on the backs of her thighs as made her screech and jerk her head up even as he said, 'Legs, Vanessa, legs! We do not keep them close together, do we now?'

Choking back a sob, Vanessa mutinously shifted them apart, but far too gingerly for her father-in-law who – knowing that he had to quell every sign of rebellion in her now – placed his hands on the backs of her bent knees and pulled them apart, producing thereby to his view the appealing fruit of love that nestled underneath her bottom's bulge.

'Fibs. We don't want fibs, do we, Vanessa?' smack! His palm rebounded from her out-thrust globe, bringing a stricken cry from her. 'Nor do we...' – smack! – 'want you to remain in broodiness, Vanessa, eh? Did you speak? Did you?' smack – smack – smack!

'Yah-haaar! Oh no, please, I won't be, I won't be!', she babled while Ralph longed to caress her now hard-nippled tits and feel her honeypot again. Not yet, he told himself, not yet. Laying his open hand against her cleft, he could feel already the heat he had induced, the subtle throbbing underneath the silky skin. – 'What else do we not want, today or in the future, Vanessa? Come, you can remember now'. Splatt-smack!

"Don't, don't – oh don't!', Vanessa sobbed. There were real tears now, the pearls upon her cheeks. She was crying for her yesterdays, he thought, and smack! – he made her supple hips to jolt again. – 'I said, I said... oh, please... I mean, I said mustn't, and I mustn't – ' 'Ah, there's the conundrum you see', he laughed, 'for you must, Vanessa, and you know you must. Naughty girls flaunting their school ties between their tits are often spanked, sometimes for being naughty and sometimes because they are going to... what?'

'Oh-woh!', Vanessa sobbed. She knew what he wanted her to say, and – ah! – oh god, another burning smack that made her bottom feel on fire. 'Be...because they are g...going to be naught-tee!', she blubbered, feeling her salt tears upon her lips.

'Sometimes even before they are caned, yes. Not always, but sometimes. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes', repeated Ralph and with each smacked hard into her bulbing cheeks bringing a long howling cry from her. One leg kicked back and almost caught his thigh, and then she fell, fell flat upon her tummy, scrabbling with bent fingers at the quilt. Her hips squirmed and her bush rubbed furiously upon the smooth material – then she was still, eyes closed, her breathing soft. At the first new touch of his hand upon her bottom, Vanessa quivered visibly and then was still again, hiding her face, her fingers clenched while lazily his thumb trailed up and down her cleft where the red cheeks inrolled.

'I would like tea now, Vanessa. Remove your skirt, tidy your hair, button up your blouse and come down thus. Five minutes, girl that is all'.

'But D...David!' Such a tearful little cry.

'David will not be home tonight, my dear. You forget that I am his father and his boss. I sent him up to Manchester. He won't be back tonight and you – you naughty girl – have wasted precious seconds. I am going down. I expect you right on time, Vanessa. Hurry, please'.

'Oh-wer!' Her cry followed him but he ignored it. Within another half a minute he heard her scuttling into the bathroom and smiled. The cane was in the kitchen where he had left it when he entered. Marvellous of her to dress like this. Love's play – but there were other ways. He had to make it real for her and would. Those timorous footsteps that he finally heard made him sit down and pick the local evening paper up, not even glancing at her as she hurriedly walked by and vanished with a twinkling of her heated bottom into the kitchen.

Ralph felt even cosier then. Tight black stockings, peaking at the front and back where her suspenders clipped. The blouse that would flare around her waist, the gently-swinging tie. Upon her equally hesitant entry after the kettle had whistled its song, Ralph continued reading that which he did not really care about, looked at her briefly once and said, 'Kneel down before me, Vanessa, while I drink my tea. Hold this'.

'Oh no! But you said...', gasped his young daughter-in-law as she found herself grasping the dreaded cane. Equally awful was the fact that he could look down between her legs and see her crisp triangle there – and did, as if reflectively. Receiving no reply, she asked timidly, 'Aren't you? I mean...'

'Am I going home tonight? No, Vanessa. Stand now, hands behind your back, holding the cane. I may not have to use it, of course'. He placed his cup on a side table by the sofa as he spoke. – 'May not have to – not yet', he said and beckoned her with his hand until once more Vanessa half-blindly shuffled forward and stood with downcast head between his legs. 'Do you think I will have to?', he asked, and Vanessa shook her head dumbly, unable to look straight at him. – 'Well?', he asked sharply. His hands reached behind her, carving the resplendent and still very warm cheeks, feeling and fondling the deeper bulge of flesh beneath.

'D...d...dunno', Vanessa mumbled. She wanted it to be finished with and over. She wanted it never to happen. He held her springy cheeks apart for a moment, causing her to suck in her lower lip, then let them spring together again. Deliberately his hands fell away. To see if she would move. Vanessa did not move. But then words burst from her that she never knew she meant to speak. – 'I know you're going to cane me, I know you are!', she burst wildly and fell to her knees, pressing her cheek upon his thigh as if seeking protection.

'Yes. I have to, don't I', Ralph said quietly and stroked the back of her head, causing her to sob again. He waited and allowed the blubbering, glubbing sounds to die away. 'Have to', he repeated, 'Perhaps now, Vanessa, perhaps now'.

'Oh, no! no! 'Something stark and stiff was pulsing close against her cheek. She did not want to think about it, did not want.

'It doesn't take long. You know it doesn't take long. Up now – come on – up, girl, up!'

Drawn up, Vanessa wanted to cuddle into him. That had worked sometimes – had almost worked, hands stroking her bared, waiting bottom as she stood, head buried in a shoulder and room so quiet.

'If... if I...', she began and stopped. – 'If you what, Vanessa?' But she merely shook her head. She couldn't say it – not to him. Though if he caned her... Oh god, now they were going out – the stairs a mountain that she had to climb, his hand beneath her orb, her every movement mastered as they went.

The bed looked as if it waited for her – but they always did. – 'Take your tie off Vanessa and undo your blouse'. The cane fell from his hand on to the bed, its end a finger pointing in between her legs. Amid the fumbling of her fingers he walked out. The dusk was like a cloud within the room. A lawnmower whirred somewhere; a young child, screaming, had a tantrum, then was quiet.

Vanessa could hear the soft movements in the bathroom. It had never been this way before – had always been more quick before. Hearing the bathroom door open and the padding of his bare feet, Vanessa quickly turned her back though not before she had glimpsed that he was naked, stiffly armed.

'Why I have to cane you, Vanessa. You know why', Ralph said cryptically and admired her naked girlhood as she stood, her fingers slightly clenching as she stood. – 'I asked you', he said slowly as if she had difficulty in comprehending English, 'I asked you if you know why'. Her tie lay crinkled on the floor, her pleated school-skirt, the blue knickers that would still be faintly moist.

'It st...stings me', Vanessa whimpered. In the mirror – she could see him in the mirror, oh so stiff!

'Why you have to be caned – to be caned first. You know why?', he asked her once again and closed the door, picked up the cane and stood again behind her back. The skin there rippled and was still. – 'You have a superb young bottom, Vanessa', Ralph said with deliberation, and then added, 'Bend, please. Bend right over, legs apart'.

'I don't...', began Vanessa all too defensively as she so unwillingly paraded her cleft cheeks up to him again – and then immediately, hooo-wittt!, and 'yah!' she screamed and cupped her buried face. The red streak showed: a thin line full across her offered peach.

'Once again – just once again we'll try, Vanessa, now. You know why I have to cane you first?' – 'Yeh-esss! I do!' – swooo-ish! Her ardent, pleading cry again that bounced from off the walls and fell like a discarded sheet. – 'And tomorrow, Vanessa, when I return again tomorrow afternoon and finding you wearing your school clothes, you will know again then, won't you?' – hooo-wittt!

'Ah, don't! I do know, yes, I do know – honestly!'

'Three more, Vanessa. Stick your bottom out'. And the room was whirling, whirling all around. Her legs apart, her bottom urging out, mind screaming no, and yet... yet afterwards...

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...