Friday, 24 September 2010

The Provider - the photo story in two parts

Story from Janus 94.

The Provider. Part I

STEPHEN MORLEY laughed. Thinner after the illness and acrimony which had attended his divorce, he was putting his life together again. The stockbroker-belt house had gone with his increasingly neurotic and intractable wife. Good riddance to both! Stephen was free now, newly installed in a large flat on the smarter outskirts of town.

Laughter had become a rarity over the past few months, and Stacey Gibson provided a wonderfully refreshing tonic. Having arrived in London from her native Yorkshire only a couple of weeks before, she had had trouble finding accommodation until Stephen invited her to use his spare room for as long as it took, and the happy-go-lucky Leeds girl's smiling face and cheery conversation were ample recompense.

It was Harriet who was the problem.

Stephen knew it had started with that bloody watch, the cheap old thing he had given to Stacey for no other reason than the girl needed to know the time for some appointment or other. But Harriet had behaved almost as badly as his ex-wife would have done, blowing the incident up out of all proportion and insisting that she was his woman and that any gifts should come to her and not 'some common tart who can't even speak properly'.

All that had been quite bad enough, but when Harriet not only took it upon herself, during Stephen's absence, to take the watch from Stacey as though it were rightfully hers, and then peremptorily order her out of the flat, Stephen knew that something fairly drastic would need to be done.

And he knew precisely how drastic that something might well need to be.

They heard the front door slam as Harriet came in, and both fell silent as the pretty brunette entered the room. So quiet had it become, they might have fancied they could hear the ticking of the disputed watch on Harriet's wrist.

She scowled at Stacey. 'Not gone yet?' she said in snooty Oxbridge tones. Stephen sat up straighten, and glared. He had found this girl a good job in his chartered surveyor's partnership, and they had been living here together for almost three months. Harriet's declarations that she loved him had a hint of desperation about them – as if, so it seemed to Stephen, her impassioned avowals were the only currency in which she felt she could repay him for his kindness. Yet this dark-haired girl with her serious demeanour and aching jealousy really was in love with him, he was sure.

'How dare you take the watch I gave to Stacey!' said Stephen in angry response. 'How dare you tell her to leave.' Bloody heck, the northern girl thought. She shivered with strangely pleasant thrills, feeling incredibly smug at the sight of the much better brought-up girl in trouble on her account. Her host was on his feet in front of the sullen brunette. 'This is my flat, young lady, and I decide who goes and who stays!'

Harriet merely looked defiant. 'Right,' he said. 'You will return Stacey's watch to her, and apologise.'

Stacey stared in fascination as the other girl struggled for an appropriate response, but the words which finally blurted forth were those of a teenager rather than an adult woman. 'Won't!' she said. 'That tart gets nothing from me. This is our place, Stephen – can't you see she's after you?'

'You wicked girl!' he exclaimed. Entirely unfazed by the insults, Stacey was enjoying the drama. She smiled openly at Harriet, like the cat that got the cream. 'You will do as I say,' said Stephen icily, 'or else submit to a punishment you will never forget!'

Harriet gasped. Never, she thought, and certainly not in front of this air-headed bimbo from the back of beyond with the boobs and bum. She knew well enough what Stephen meant when he talked about punishment, and she was damned if...

'The alternative is to collect your things and get out of this flat for good. I will not have that kind of behaviour under my roof. Do I make myself understood, Harriet?' There was neither reply nor movement. 'Very well,' he went on. 'Take off your top.'


'As you have presumably elected to stay, and refuse to apologise, I'm assuming you've decided to accept the good hiding I intend to give you. Take off your top!' Stephen sat down and surveyed Harriet coldly. The silence was terrible. Then the girl's will seemed to collapse. Slowly, miserably, she drew the knitted top up over her head and cast it aside.

'And now the skirt.'

Harriet wriggled out of the tight skirt and stood wretchedly before them, unaware of how fetching she looked in her scant bra and panties, suspenders and stockings. As she crossed her arms defensively in front of her body, the wristwatch was prominent.

'If you persist in behaving like a spoilt, sullen brat,' Stephen went on, 'you must expect to be treated like one. Take off your knickers and bra and come over here.'

'You c-can't, Stephen!' Harriet's face, pale before, flushed red. But his grim expression sent its own message back. Her fingers fumbled to release the bra and peel it off, and Stacey's eyes shone as she watched the other girl's breasts spill free.

'The panties too. Now!'

Blushing with shame, the proud young woman stooped and eased the panties down. Then, naked save for her stockings, shoes and suspenders, she stood in acute humiliation before them.

'And now the watch!'

Harriet pulled the watch from her wrist and held it sulkily out. With a pert little 'Thank you,' the Yorkshire girl took it. She stifled a giggle, and that sound made Harriet feel awful.

Stephen removed his jacket, then patted his knees meaningly. 'Come on, over you go!'

'No, Stephen – please no... Not in front of her,' she faltered. But, again, his glare brooked no opposition. As Harriet lowered herself across his thighs, she had never known such appalling indignity. She felt that tart's eyes on her. Glancing resentfully at her, she was met by a smile of triumph. His hand stroked her bottom, and she flinched.

Stephen loosened his tie and exchanged a smiling glance with the raptly-watching Stacey. Then he raised his hand and brought it down. Hard.

A tremendous clap blasted into Harriet's senses as Stephen's palm struck fire into her naked rear, but before the pain abated another shattering smack pancaked her buttocks and refilled them with even brighter heat. Harriet squealed and squirmed as stinging smarts ignited the soft cheeks. God, she was being spanked. Spanked. And that little bitch was watching it happen, and enjoying every second.

Spank-spank-smack. Stephen was in his element, and Stacey knew it. She could see how he exulted in the swaying weight thrusting against his thighs while his hand rose and fell, Harriet's grunts and gasps accompanying the staccato smacks of hard flesh striking soft. Still eagerly gazing, Stacey squirmed round in her chair as if to get closer to the punished girl and relish even more intimately the meaty slaps as the other's buttocks bounced and trembled. It was sexy for her then to feel her own bottom tingle with ghostly responses as she pressed it back against the cushion with little sensuous pushes. She started to giggle.

'No, Stephen! No! N-n-n-no...' Harriet's words were scarcely intelligible, forced through clenched teeth, her sensitive features contorted. She felt his hand clamping her waist while she jerked and twisted under the torrent of stinging smacks. And as Harriet squirmed, exposing herself unavoidably to both Stephen and the cheap little squirt who had caused all this trouble, she wanted to scream and cry at the injustice of it all.

For four or five minutes the air was loud with pleas and squeals and noisy slaps as Stephen spanked on. The sight of Harriet's naked arse squirming and bucking across his lap was making Stacey uncomfortably excited. She found herself wriggling even closer, enthralled at how the other girl's buttocks shuddered and rippled, reddened like ripened peaches, pushed up and down and from side to side as though in the throes of orgasm. Stacey's eyes saucered in response to an anguished yelp when an especially heavy spank landed, and although enjoying Harriet's discomfiture as much as Stephen appeared to be, in an odd kind of way she wanted to comfort the poor, humiliated, punished thing.

Stephen gave a last hefty smack. Harriet's burning buttocks wobbled, settled to stillness, clenched in anticipation once again... then relaxed when no more came. She was gasping and swallowing hard as she rose to her knees, her bottom seething with prickling sparks as she rubbed and squeezed, gripping each flesh-padded mound and soothing them with cooling fingers.

'Stand up, Harriet! Face the curtain and hang your head, you wicked girl!'

Oh hell, oh hell. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. Surely it was over now? Surprisingly, Harriet had not cried, though her eyes felt hot and stinging. She stood as instructed, her legs trembling in nervous reaction. Still stroking and soothing at her throbbing bottom, she felt there could surely be no greater misery than this.

But she was wrong. 'Fetch the cane would you, Stacey?' Stephen was pointing to a cupboard across the room, and the breezy Yorkshire girl was happy enough to do his bidding. She returned with a beaming smile, carrying a slender crook-handled rod which quivered to the touch.

'We'll have you on the chair over here.' Harriet sucked in breath. We – oh, how could he! 'Come along, kneel up. I haven't finished with you yet!'

The attractive brunette shuffled miserably to the chair which was still warm from where Stacey had been sitting. She knelt on the seat and bent across its back. 'Push that bottom up and out!' Stephen ordered.

As Harriet strove to obey, arching her spine so that her buttocks were lewdly out-thrust, Stacey scrambled on to the other chair and watched avidly. Fixing her gaze on the reddened buttocks, she waited entranced while Stephen tapped the trembling flesh with the cane and, planting his left hand in the small of Harriet's back, raised the cane and brought it sharply down.

Thwack. The stick struck across the crown of the twin-peaked target, leaving a line of fire. Harriet clawed at the chairback, panting hard as she struggled to absorb the pain. The cane soared and hovered, swooped and struck.

Harriet heard Stacey giggle. The indignity of this even overtook the pain that lanced her buttocks. Just you wait, she thought bitterly, I'll get my own back, somehow...

'Aaaagh-ohhh!' The cane scored another crimson track immediately below the first, favouring the right buttock yet igniting the left one too with its fiery kiss. Kneeling on the adjacent chairseat, Stacey jigged and fidgeted with excited fascination.

Whop! Harriet shrieked as the third searing stroke landed, driving more burning hurt into her tightly-bent bottom. Her body spasmed, her head jerked upwards and she glimpsed the grinning Stacey. Damn the bitch!

'Hold still! Face the front!' Pleading whimpers came from Harriet. The cane-shaft rose and quivered, swung swiftly in. This time it struck the rounded surfaces with a sound like a snapping twig, then recoiled as if eager to repeat the activity. Which it did, hard and true, striking up into the softer undercheeks of the girl's tormented bottom and driving out a wail.

'One more. Stay down!' The watching Stacey squirmed on her heels with voyeuristic delight, feeling her own buttocks tingling more strongly in perverted inverse sympathy with the other's. Stephen measured his distance, took aim, and swung the cane for the final time. The shaft created a brief groove in the burning softnesses and leaped away, leaving the flesh to spring back into shape, each bottom-cheek marked with a sixth scorching line.

It was over.

Stacey sniggered wickedly.

'Stand up, Harriet.'

Slowly, painfully, the girl did so. She sniffled, but controlled her tears, eyes still averted. Her bottom throbbed and stung as if it had been attacked by a swarm of furious hornets. At last Harriet lifted her head and looked directly at the pertly smiling Yorkshire girl. 'All right,' she said in a muted voice. 'I'm sorry, Stacey – okay?'

At that, Stephen was content. Justice had been done, and peace restored. As he gazed in satisfaction at the evidently contrite young woman he had so soundly spanked and caned, Stephen felt that harmony and a sense of order had finally returned to his life.


The Provider. Part II

HAD STEPHEN been aware of just how deeply Harriet's humiliation had gone on account of her punishment in front of the giggly Yorkshire lass, he would not have slept so easily that night. When bedtime came, Harriet denied him the comforts of her body and elected to sleep alone on the couch, simmering with a strange quiet rage which Stephen dismissed as a sulk.

But for Harriet sleep was impossible. In the dark early hours she slipped on pants and top, stole to the cupboard where Stephen kept his implements and took something from it. Then she crept to the spare room, opened the door and darted inside.

Stacey was dreamfully asleep when Harriet flipped on the light and rushed to her bedside, snatching up the watch from the chair. The Yorkshire girl woke with a start, and saw Harriet shaking the watch in her face.

'You bitch!' she spat. 'This is mine. And how dare you laugh at me this afternoon!'

'Laff? It were only a whacked arse. And if yer think I'm after your bloke, I'd rather do handstands in hot milk.'

'A whacked arse?' echoed Harriet venomously. 'Oh is that all it was.' She scowled, and raised the implement she had brought in with her – a heavy black strap. 'I'll give you whacked arse!'

Stacey's sleepy eyes widened. 'Will yer?' she goaded mischievously. 'With that?' In a surge of movement she knelt up on the bed and turned her back. Then, still saucily smiling, she flipped up her short nightdress to expose a bare, lushly rounded little bottom. 'Go on then,' she invited. 'Give this a few whacks if it mecks yer feel better.'

Harriet breathed hard, eyes fixed on that taunting rear. She drew herself haughtily upright. 'Bend over, then,' she hissed.

'Be my guest,' Stacey chirped, and got into position. Harriet simply could not comprehend how the northern girl could treat it as a joke. She had been abused and humiliated in front of this woman this very afternoon, and still she was laughing. 'It's wailing for yer,' came the slightly muffled voice from the bed. 'Coom and get it!'

Harriet stared at Stacey's bottom straining up towards her, open and inviting. She stepped up beside the blonde, put a hand on her back as Stephen had done with her, lifted the tawse high and brought it down.

The twin-tailed leather slapped full across both bottom-cheeks with a loud clap. Harriet jumped, it must have hurt like mad. Yet Stacey merely gave a slight murmur and wiggled her hips invitingly.

Harriet was suddenly furious. She swung the strap higher and brought it whistling down with all her strength. This time the sound was like a gunshot. Stacey's bottom crimsoned where the strap had struck, and she gave a loud oof! 'That's more like it,' she murmured, but the frantic clenching and unclenching of her buttocks belied her casualness.

'Get flat on the bed, face down,' snarled Harriet. She was shaking with tension and her heart was pounding. Stacey seemed only too happy to oblige, making encouraging noises as the other girl positioned her. Then she turned her head and grinned.

Whack. The strap flew down, hit and swung, struck in again with biting force. Stacey's face was intent now, eyes shut, the smile changed to a grimace.

'Not so funny now, is it!' grunted Harriet, warming to her work. Whap-whap-whap. Her arm became a blur as she struck and swung, struck and swung, seeing the compact globes shudder and wobble, growing redder and hotter at every stroke.

Stacey was surprised. Bugger it, the girl was stronger than she'd thought. Harriet was angry, wanting to cry, outraged, with years of problems boiling up and out as the tawse struck and struck. Stacey's bottom felt on fire, a hard keen sensation between freezing and boiling, yet she knew it would quieten to a rampant smouldering once this sensitive, doting, sad-faced biddy had finished releasing her pent-up resentment.

Thwack! Thwack! This was better than screaming or breaking windows, castrating her man or crying blind vengeance to an unheeding world. This was a warm, receptive bottom brave enough to physically take on all of Harriet's emotional hurt. And as the minutes passed in a noisy melody of slaps and grunts and oofs and sighs, it almost seemed to Harriet that she was starting to love this bottom, especially when Stacey began to jerk it up and down to meet each stroke, as if answering a lover's thrusts.

The last two strokes came furiously down across the backs of Stacey's thighs. The pain was excruciating. For the first time she shrieked out loud, then sank her head forward, gasping. Harriet sat weakly on the bed and gazed at her with a small strange smile. In time, Stacey turned her head and they looked at each other. There was pain in her eyes, her bottom hurt. Gently, tentatively, Harriet's hand reached out and rested on the other girl's buttocks, feeling the heat inside them.

At the intimate contact, Stacey sighed. The hand was welcome. Sensing this, Harriet began to stroke the rosy globes, and new sensations began in her.

Stacey lay prone, watching, watching. Slowly, Harriet began to unbutton her cardigan. There was the ghost of a smile from Stacey now.

'Yes,' she murmured. 'Yes...'

The two young women continued raptly to watch each other as Harriet pulled off the cardigan. Her nipples had already stiffened, and her breathing was ragged. Quietly she sat back on the bed, still looking, and felt the warmth between them start to spread.


  1. Dear Dmitry,
    Nothing to do with this story but I wanted to tell you that I've found another example of someone looting unashamedly somebody else's writings.
    This is the looter's site:
    And this is the story she has been copying for months: the point of forgetting that in her story there are wardens and in the original one there are prefects and thus leaving the word "prefects" time and again.
    My comments and appeals to honesty fall on deaf ears and she quickly cuts my comments out.

  2. Hi, This a is a fantastic post, a great example of a specific genre that I very much love, ie. traditional/ vintage female to female two-tailed tawsing.

    Wonder if you have anything else similar, would be great to see if you have. My thanks again for a super blog,


  3. Something you must know: the return of Uncle Peter:

  4. More than a month with nothing new!

  5. What's the matter with you, Dmitry? Tired? Ill? It's such a long time since your last post!

  6. Hi all!

    I have returned.

    Thanks all for kind words!

    Indeed, some time ago I have lost interest to a blog. No, I wasn't tired. This so-called "lack of motivation". Preparation of texts takes away a lot of time, and after all I don't receive any financial benefit from it.

    Dear Ordalie!

    Thanks for the information. I have already noticed that our friend :) has returned. The only thing that I can tell about it: to spit! And to spit on all others bloggers who prefer not to prepare texts independently - but to take texts from another's blogs.

    I wanted from other bloggers only one thing: several words of gratitude when they borrow results of my work. Only the small note in the end of the post that was copied from my blog: "Thanks Dmitry for preparation of this text " - and it would be enough.

    It has appeared what to achieve it from some bloggers is impossible. So I have decided not to waste my time for useless squabbles. I simply will sometimes, when I will have a free time, to laid out in a blog the next story from old magazines.

    Any person can copy and spread them anywhere. One and only request - some words of gratitude for preparation of texts. Or I ask too many?