Story from Swish Vol.5 No.3.
Pre-War Spanks
Was it really so different in the 30's. We think it was. So does the author of this – because she was really there, and has her birth certificate to prove it – though not the marks!
* * *
I don't remember crying ever when I got the strap across my bottom. I wasn't the only one anyway. Sometimes I think that all girls – and many women, too – got it in those days, in the thirties. It was all so different then. Skirts were longer then. I think they created more of a mystery. Everyone wore stockings, and knickers were (let's face it) caressably silky. They covered your whole bum and it was somehow very sensuous to be caressed like that with a roaming hand right up under your skirt.
When I look back it seems that spankings were always on Sundays. Maybe they weren't, but it was truly a day when the devil found things for hands to do. Nothing on the wireless on Sundays in those days – only dull music. No TV, of course, unless you were very well off and then the screen was tiny and dull like the programmes.
The gramophone was the main thing. All those Crosby records, and the dance bands playing. Houses seemed more closed-in, too. Sure – I know that millions of the same houses still exist – but they DID have the feeling. It was something to do with brown and green paintwork, I suppose. There weren't many other colours then – or if there were they didn't get used in our house. The washing smells (all soapy) and cabbage smells added to it all. Darker stairs, too. More secrecy.
Yes, there was – I'm sure there was more secrecy. One afternoon I went out to see a friend on a Sunday. She was the same age as me and we were both in jobs. She wasn't in, so I came back. I didn't mean to let myself in quietly, but then I heard the sound – a sort of whoo-hoooing sound coming from upstairs, and in between the little cries the noise of well-worn leather meeting a naked bottom. Yes – I knew all right.
I inched my way up, all ready to cough at any moment. I needn't have bothered. It was my Aunt Helen – in the front bedroom. The door was almost wide open. Thinking it all safe, you see. I saw her naked bottom projecting over the edge of the double bed where she was kneeling, brown silk knickers wreathed around her ankles. I saw the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the arm rising and falling. I'd had that strap myself – a thick broad one. It came down lazily and it took you SMACK-CRACK! right across your bottom, and sometimes just under it where the bulge dips right in to the thighs. "Oh-woh, woh!" she was sobbing, as if her heart were fit to break. I could see the backward and forward movements of her hips as the leather surged in, lazy and burning.
"Come on, Helen," I heard him say or sort of croak, rather. "No-oh-OH!" her moans came, but she wasn't making any movement to get off the bed or really avoid the strap. Then his voice went into a bark that I'd heard often before. "Yes – come ON!" he growled. "Ow-er! Ow-er! Ow-er!" came her response. She was about thirty then, Aunt Helen. Nice and round. Attractive. SLAP-CRACK! SLAP-CRA-AAAACK! "I told you I was going to, Helen, didn't I?" – "YEHESSSSS! OW-OOOH! You're doing it too hard, you are, OH!"
I could only see her bottom in profile, though sometimes when it swung I could glimpse the cleft. Really I couldn't imagine her doing this or having her knickers down. It seemed impossible. What had she done? And why was she kneeling up and letting him? I mean, I was that naive, and old enough not to be. Blimey, I'd left school four years ago. I'd been strapped. Not like that, though.
Her quivers, her shudders, her cries went on as that heavy strap curled full across her bottom. Real peaches and cream she looked. "T....T....Tom, you shouldn't............... sh....sh.....shouldn't...... stop now............. stop!" "I told you, I told you, Helen, I'd make a woman of you, the way he never will. You need it burned into you like this – LIFT IT!" "WHA-HA-HA-HAAAA!" her voice sobbed out. Every SLAP-SPLAT! sounded louder, but it always did with that strap. I'd had it across my knickered bottom a few times. The SPLAT! was worse than the sting, but it did burn. I was always wriggly for half an hour afterwards. They used to grin. They always seemed to know when I'd had it. My skirts used to crease easily, too. He always lifted them right up over my bum, saying if my stocking seams were straight or not. Things like that.
The way it was, you see, in the house, was that I was able to creep up the stairs and, before I got to the top, turn almost right round and looked along the floor of the landing into the bedroom. Like I was doing now.
I never had it so hard as she was getting it, nor for so long. It seemed impossible to me then. I could hear the bedsprings sighing and singing under her knees, on and on, SPLAT! CRACK! SPER-LATT! "YOO-YOOO-YOOO-YOOOOOH!" she was sobbing. Real sobs from deep down in her. Her bottom was really red – not an angry red, but burnished and polished. All the things I was going to learn about I was listening and seeing. Including what I couldn't believe.
"All right, Helen, all right," he said in a quick tone. I saw the strap slide to the carpet and his hand go to his fly-buttons. Well, no – I didn't believe that at first. I hadn't exactly looked for a bulge there. "No, Tom," I heard her moan, she made to look round, to slide back off the bed (beds seemed higher in those days) but he gave her bottom a rare smack with his hand and she yelped and sobbed all in one voice. Then he got it out.
I almost hid my eyes. Well that's a fib. I'm sure I didn't really. It reared up, all nine thick inches of it with the bulbous knob looking like a big plum that was likely to burst with ripeness any time. I remember putting that thought into those words, and right I was. Then he grabbed her hips and his cock waggled stiffly. "All right, Helen," he said like one might talk to a nervous horse. She bucked like a horse, too, would have got up, I swear, but he held her, leaning his weight forward over her back and fumbling, fumbling until his knob found her slit.
"AH! you're juicy!" he groaned. Then a real "WHOO-OOOO!" came from her, and a silly, feeble, "Don't Tom, don't!" even though he'd already got it in and the wrigglings of her hips only excited him the more, I could see. "I've got you – all right, I've got you, Helen," he said in a voice as quiet as you like, and then he gave one heave of his buttocks and it was a knife going into butter all right. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-!" she sobbed and then her head hung down again and I could see her seared bottom pressing back despite herself while the thick shaft lodged itself inch by inch between her rolled lips.
There was a glistening there, I could see. They were only about twelve or fourteen feet away and, if he had turned to look, I could have ducked my head down all right, I felt sure. Her bottom sank slowly right back into his hands around the suspendered fronts of her thighs and – OOOH! – right in.
It was all sort of like a daze seeing it. Well, I've seen a blue movie or two in my days since then, but they were nothing like. Nothing like when you know the ones who are doing it, and doing it the way they were. "Oh, Tom – oh, Tom – oh, Tom," she kept moaning. "Didn't I tell you – didn't I tell you?" he was croaking. Then he began to pump her. My mouth was dry, my eyes glazed – but I was moist down in between all right, I heard the slaps of bottom to belly coming so loud to me – his skin white, her deep pink, his balls swinging.
I was holding my breath – almost letting it go in an explosion of sound. I don't think they'd have heard if I had. When you're like that – and didn't I know it soon enough – there's scarcely anything seen or heard except what you're doing and enjoying.
"Ah, you bitch, didn't you want this, need this?" he croaked. "Yes..... oh Tom...... you're naughty..... yes.... oh! oh my bottom!"
"It's lovely for it, you know it is. I told you, Helen, told you five years ago and you wouldn't. Remember what your Dad used to say – strapping and threshing come together." – "OOOh, Tom, ah! Don't come! Ah, you bad man, I never had it like this before, you know I didn't." – "Time you did then, eh? Oh gawd, I'll come in a minute – are you coming – wriggle it, Helen – ah, my lovely, you've got a lovely one."
Despite all her protesting and sobbing and moaning, she was surging and heaving it to him all right. That's what amazed me then, after the strapping she'd had, though I suppose I did get a funny distant feeling about how I felt when it scorched my knickers. Afterwards, I mean. There was a quick feel-up sometimes that I used to pretend hadn't happened. I was always sticky-wicky in the crotch of my knickers after a strapping, and my nipples always came up, too.
I didn't stop to see any more. By the sound of their mutual gasps and noises there wasn't going to be much more anyway. I tiptoed down, trembling really and truly in every limb. The world had changed – life had changed. This is what people did. And enjoyed it. I did crazy things in my head like comparing that obvious pleasure with things like eating or going on holiday. Daft comparison, I know – but I was new to it. It was such an intensity of pleasure. But then, being stupid, I played a mischievous trick, going down the hall, opening the door quietly and banging it.
What a scuffle came from up there! You can believe it. I heard Aunt Helen say "Oh God," and then "It's all down my stocking tops." Already then I knew I shouldn't have done it, but it was too late. I heard his mumblings to her, but not the words, and then he appeared, looking over the banisters, saying in a tight sort of voice, "Oh, it's you!" I said "Yes" back, quite merrily, but I must have blushed or something. He gave me such a long look. "Just coming down," he tried to say casually.
I went in, took my jacket off and sat down. I felt awful really – didn't know how I was going to behave now in front of them. Then he came down and I could see it bulging still. I think that was my big mistake – looking – or glancing, anyway. He must have noticed. I never did it before. "Your aunt didn't feel well – lying down," he said. In a way that was his mistake because naturally I had to say. "Oh dear, I'll go up." He made a gesture with his arm to sort of stop me. Too late. I was up the stairs – a bit of the devil in me, I suppose.
I don't know why on earth she didn't move any quicker. Frozen with embarrassment, I imagine. I stepped into the bedroom (forgetting I wasn't supposed to know which one) and she gave a cry, pushed her skirt down and grabbed at her fallen knicks at the same time. "Oh, Mary!" she said – half-relief, half not. I just said "Oh," but the trouble was, she guessed. Woman's instinct. I said "Oh, sorry – I thought you weren't well." I didn't mean to say it like that – a bit cheeky, I mean. It just came out that way.
Anyway, sly-like, she bided her time and waited until evening when the three of us were alone in the house again. I heard her whispering to him. It sent sort of shivers through me. They were in the dining room. Then she came in the living room. "I s'pose you thought we were mucking about this afternoon," he said, all blustery and defensive. Made me mad. "You do what you like – I won't tell," I spat at him. Then she came in. "You see – I told you she knew," she said. It was her conscience made her say it. I was scared-angry, if you know what I mean. "Oh, belt up," I said. That did it.
"Tom – you see to her," she said. I think it was embarrassment rather than anything else made him grab me. And as to Aunt Helen, I think she suddenly wanted to see it – it would salve her conscience maybe. She held me over the table while he upped and got my knickers down. I wriggled, strove, I couldn't get up. My skirt was bundled up above my hips, I had my best stockings and suspenders on, and I knew he was just staring. I twisted my face up and they were looking at each other.
"Go on, Tom do her as you did me," she said. She swore afterwards she didn't mean it the way it came out, but that was a lie. An eternity later – ten, fifteen, twenty strokes later of that strap with my bottom like a brazier – I heard her hiss to him, "Go on – have her – you might as well."
She says I made that up, that she couldn't stop him. I didn't. My tummy was pressed into the edge of the table. The first THWA-AAACK! came into me like a licking, leaping tongue of fire. "YA-HA-HA-HAAAR!" I sobbed, just the way she had – only she hadn't had someone holding her shoulders. "Oh, go on – hasn't she got a lovely bottom," I heard her say. "N.....n....n....n....NO!" I was howling even as it came in again. I'll never forget that biting burning of it – that first real one.
"Oh god," I heard him croak. That was when he had a hard-on already. "I can't," he said. "Oh Tom, you fool," Aunt Helen hissed. She let me go. I wriggled up, cheeks flaming above and below and rushed out, leaving my knickers on the floor. It was like a tomb downstairs after that, except for the hissing of their quarrelling. She went back the next day, but bloody hell did I tell her a few things before she did – on the quiet.
* * *
"Look – I'm sorry about that," he said while she was being seen off at the station. " 'S'all right," I muttered. I felt embarrassed, funny. He put his arm round my waist. I went to move away but I didn't. "You could have done – she was holding me," I said. The words came straight out of my mind really. I didn't mean to say them. He gave me a squeeze and I giggled. "You going upstairs at all?" he asked all awkward. "Dunno – why?" I muttered. Another squeeze. "Go on," he said. I knew we had half an hour at least. It was funny how neither of us had to say anything. It was just THERE.
I didn't let him take my knicks down at first. Not until after the first whippy, searing four – me bent over my bed. "Yes?" he asked. I felt his thumbs dive into the waistband. I hunched up more. I didn't say anything. He drew them down slowly, feeling the silksmooth skin of my bottom all the time, like he knew he could now. "You'll be alright now – I can really give it to you now, can't I," he said. It wasn't a question. He was sort of talking to himself. The jellied cheeks of my naked bottom quivered and clenched as he stroked fire into them. It was crazy. Between strokes he would feel me up under and around my pouting slit and say "Sorry" each time! I was moist. He could feel I was moist.
"Oh, Mary," he said after he'd done it several times. I was hardly making a sound. I had my eyes shut tight. The burning stings were too much sometimes, but I knew I wanted to take them like she had. I began to puff, to moan. I couldn't stop my hips swivelling. I was wicked, I was offering – he knew I was – all pouting and peeping was my pussy. I mewed and whined, thinking, "Oh god, do it yes, do it if you want to."
But that was the irony. We got interrupted in turn. They came back early. He rushed into the bathroom, I made noises like I was clearing out my cupboard. If anyone had seen me – knicks kicked under the bed, skirt creased everywhere, and my bottom wriggling like I had fleas, they wouldn't have believed it. The frustration was awful.
It was a whole week after that before I was strapped, pumped and creamed the way I wanted to be.........
Pre-War Spanks
Was it really so different in the 30's. We think it was. So does the author of this – because she was really there, and has her birth certificate to prove it – though not the marks!
* * *
I don't remember crying ever when I got the strap across my bottom. I wasn't the only one anyway. Sometimes I think that all girls – and many women, too – got it in those days, in the thirties. It was all so different then. Skirts were longer then. I think they created more of a mystery. Everyone wore stockings, and knickers were (let's face it) caressably silky. They covered your whole bum and it was somehow very sensuous to be caressed like that with a roaming hand right up under your skirt.
When I look back it seems that spankings were always on Sundays. Maybe they weren't, but it was truly a day when the devil found things for hands to do. Nothing on the wireless on Sundays in those days – only dull music. No TV, of course, unless you were very well off and then the screen was tiny and dull like the programmes.
The gramophone was the main thing. All those Crosby records, and the dance bands playing. Houses seemed more closed-in, too. Sure – I know that millions of the same houses still exist – but they DID have the feeling. It was something to do with brown and green paintwork, I suppose. There weren't many other colours then – or if there were they didn't get used in our house. The washing smells (all soapy) and cabbage smells added to it all. Darker stairs, too. More secrecy.
Yes, there was – I'm sure there was more secrecy. One afternoon I went out to see a friend on a Sunday. She was the same age as me and we were both in jobs. She wasn't in, so I came back. I didn't mean to let myself in quietly, but then I heard the sound – a sort of whoo-hoooing sound coming from upstairs, and in between the little cries the noise of well-worn leather meeting a naked bottom. Yes – I knew all right.
I inched my way up, all ready to cough at any moment. I needn't have bothered. It was my Aunt Helen – in the front bedroom. The door was almost wide open. Thinking it all safe, you see. I saw her naked bottom projecting over the edge of the double bed where she was kneeling, brown silk knickers wreathed around her ankles. I saw the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the arm rising and falling. I'd had that strap myself – a thick broad one. It came down lazily and it took you SMACK-CRACK! right across your bottom, and sometimes just under it where the bulge dips right in to the thighs. "Oh-woh, woh!" she was sobbing, as if her heart were fit to break. I could see the backward and forward movements of her hips as the leather surged in, lazy and burning.
"Come on, Helen," I heard him say or sort of croak, rather. "No-oh-OH!" her moans came, but she wasn't making any movement to get off the bed or really avoid the strap. Then his voice went into a bark that I'd heard often before. "Yes – come ON!" he growled. "Ow-er! Ow-er! Ow-er!" came her response. She was about thirty then, Aunt Helen. Nice and round. Attractive. SLAP-CRACK! SLAP-CRA-AAAACK! "I told you I was going to, Helen, didn't I?" – "YEHESSSSS! OW-OOOH! You're doing it too hard, you are, OH!"
I could only see her bottom in profile, though sometimes when it swung I could glimpse the cleft. Really I couldn't imagine her doing this or having her knickers down. It seemed impossible. What had she done? And why was she kneeling up and letting him? I mean, I was that naive, and old enough not to be. Blimey, I'd left school four years ago. I'd been strapped. Not like that, though.
Her quivers, her shudders, her cries went on as that heavy strap curled full across her bottom. Real peaches and cream she looked. "T....T....Tom, you shouldn't............... sh....sh.....shouldn't...... stop now............. stop!" "I told you, I told you, Helen, I'd make a woman of you, the way he never will. You need it burned into you like this – LIFT IT!" "WHA-HA-HA-HAAAA!" her voice sobbed out. Every SLAP-SPLAT! sounded louder, but it always did with that strap. I'd had it across my knickered bottom a few times. The SPLAT! was worse than the sting, but it did burn. I was always wriggly for half an hour afterwards. They used to grin. They always seemed to know when I'd had it. My skirts used to crease easily, too. He always lifted them right up over my bum, saying if my stocking seams were straight or not. Things like that.
The way it was, you see, in the house, was that I was able to creep up the stairs and, before I got to the top, turn almost right round and looked along the floor of the landing into the bedroom. Like I was doing now.
I never had it so hard as she was getting it, nor for so long. It seemed impossible to me then. I could hear the bedsprings sighing and singing under her knees, on and on, SPLAT! CRACK! SPER-LATT! "YOO-YOOO-YOOO-YOOOOOH!" she was sobbing. Real sobs from deep down in her. Her bottom was really red – not an angry red, but burnished and polished. All the things I was going to learn about I was listening and seeing. Including what I couldn't believe.
"All right, Helen, all right," he said in a quick tone. I saw the strap slide to the carpet and his hand go to his fly-buttons. Well, no – I didn't believe that at first. I hadn't exactly looked for a bulge there. "No, Tom," I heard her moan, she made to look round, to slide back off the bed (beds seemed higher in those days) but he gave her bottom a rare smack with his hand and she yelped and sobbed all in one voice. Then he got it out.
I almost hid my eyes. Well that's a fib. I'm sure I didn't really. It reared up, all nine thick inches of it with the bulbous knob looking like a big plum that was likely to burst with ripeness any time. I remember putting that thought into those words, and right I was. Then he grabbed her hips and his cock waggled stiffly. "All right, Helen," he said like one might talk to a nervous horse. She bucked like a horse, too, would have got up, I swear, but he held her, leaning his weight forward over her back and fumbling, fumbling until his knob found her slit.
"AH! you're juicy!" he groaned. Then a real "WHOO-OOOO!" came from her, and a silly, feeble, "Don't Tom, don't!" even though he'd already got it in and the wrigglings of her hips only excited him the more, I could see. "I've got you – all right, I've got you, Helen," he said in a voice as quiet as you like, and then he gave one heave of his buttocks and it was a knife going into butter all right. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-!" she sobbed and then her head hung down again and I could see her seared bottom pressing back despite herself while the thick shaft lodged itself inch by inch between her rolled lips.
There was a glistening there, I could see. They were only about twelve or fourteen feet away and, if he had turned to look, I could have ducked my head down all right, I felt sure. Her bottom sank slowly right back into his hands around the suspendered fronts of her thighs and – OOOH! – right in.
It was all sort of like a daze seeing it. Well, I've seen a blue movie or two in my days since then, but they were nothing like. Nothing like when you know the ones who are doing it, and doing it the way they were. "Oh, Tom – oh, Tom – oh, Tom," she kept moaning. "Didn't I tell you – didn't I tell you?" he was croaking. Then he began to pump her. My mouth was dry, my eyes glazed – but I was moist down in between all right, I heard the slaps of bottom to belly coming so loud to me – his skin white, her deep pink, his balls swinging.
I was holding my breath – almost letting it go in an explosion of sound. I don't think they'd have heard if I had. When you're like that – and didn't I know it soon enough – there's scarcely anything seen or heard except what you're doing and enjoying.
"Ah, you bitch, didn't you want this, need this?" he croaked. "Yes..... oh Tom...... you're naughty..... yes.... oh! oh my bottom!"
"It's lovely for it, you know it is. I told you, Helen, told you five years ago and you wouldn't. Remember what your Dad used to say – strapping and threshing come together." – "OOOh, Tom, ah! Don't come! Ah, you bad man, I never had it like this before, you know I didn't." – "Time you did then, eh? Oh gawd, I'll come in a minute – are you coming – wriggle it, Helen – ah, my lovely, you've got a lovely one."
Despite all her protesting and sobbing and moaning, she was surging and heaving it to him all right. That's what amazed me then, after the strapping she'd had, though I suppose I did get a funny distant feeling about how I felt when it scorched my knickers. Afterwards, I mean. There was a quick feel-up sometimes that I used to pretend hadn't happened. I was always sticky-wicky in the crotch of my knickers after a strapping, and my nipples always came up, too.
I didn't stop to see any more. By the sound of their mutual gasps and noises there wasn't going to be much more anyway. I tiptoed down, trembling really and truly in every limb. The world had changed – life had changed. This is what people did. And enjoyed it. I did crazy things in my head like comparing that obvious pleasure with things like eating or going on holiday. Daft comparison, I know – but I was new to it. It was such an intensity of pleasure. But then, being stupid, I played a mischievous trick, going down the hall, opening the door quietly and banging it.
What a scuffle came from up there! You can believe it. I heard Aunt Helen say "Oh God," and then "It's all down my stocking tops." Already then I knew I shouldn't have done it, but it was too late. I heard his mumblings to her, but not the words, and then he appeared, looking over the banisters, saying in a tight sort of voice, "Oh, it's you!" I said "Yes" back, quite merrily, but I must have blushed or something. He gave me such a long look. "Just coming down," he tried to say casually.
I went in, took my jacket off and sat down. I felt awful really – didn't know how I was going to behave now in front of them. Then he came down and I could see it bulging still. I think that was my big mistake – looking – or glancing, anyway. He must have noticed. I never did it before. "Your aunt didn't feel well – lying down," he said. In a way that was his mistake because naturally I had to say. "Oh dear, I'll go up." He made a gesture with his arm to sort of stop me. Too late. I was up the stairs – a bit of the devil in me, I suppose.
I don't know why on earth she didn't move any quicker. Frozen with embarrassment, I imagine. I stepped into the bedroom (forgetting I wasn't supposed to know which one) and she gave a cry, pushed her skirt down and grabbed at her fallen knicks at the same time. "Oh, Mary!" she said – half-relief, half not. I just said "Oh," but the trouble was, she guessed. Woman's instinct. I said "Oh, sorry – I thought you weren't well." I didn't mean to say it like that – a bit cheeky, I mean. It just came out that way.
Anyway, sly-like, she bided her time and waited until evening when the three of us were alone in the house again. I heard her whispering to him. It sent sort of shivers through me. They were in the dining room. Then she came in the living room. "I s'pose you thought we were mucking about this afternoon," he said, all blustery and defensive. Made me mad. "You do what you like – I won't tell," I spat at him. Then she came in. "You see – I told you she knew," she said. It was her conscience made her say it. I was scared-angry, if you know what I mean. "Oh, belt up," I said. That did it.
"Tom – you see to her," she said. I think it was embarrassment rather than anything else made him grab me. And as to Aunt Helen, I think she suddenly wanted to see it – it would salve her conscience maybe. She held me over the table while he upped and got my knickers down. I wriggled, strove, I couldn't get up. My skirt was bundled up above my hips, I had my best stockings and suspenders on, and I knew he was just staring. I twisted my face up and they were looking at each other.
"Go on, Tom do her as you did me," she said. She swore afterwards she didn't mean it the way it came out, but that was a lie. An eternity later – ten, fifteen, twenty strokes later of that strap with my bottom like a brazier – I heard her hiss to him, "Go on – have her – you might as well."
She says I made that up, that she couldn't stop him. I didn't. My tummy was pressed into the edge of the table. The first THWA-AAACK! came into me like a licking, leaping tongue of fire. "YA-HA-HA-HAAAR!" I sobbed, just the way she had – only she hadn't had someone holding her shoulders. "Oh, go on – hasn't she got a lovely bottom," I heard her say. "N.....n....n....n....NO!" I was howling even as it came in again. I'll never forget that biting burning of it – that first real one.
"Oh god," I heard him croak. That was when he had a hard-on already. "I can't," he said. "Oh Tom, you fool," Aunt Helen hissed. She let me go. I wriggled up, cheeks flaming above and below and rushed out, leaving my knickers on the floor. It was like a tomb downstairs after that, except for the hissing of their quarrelling. She went back the next day, but bloody hell did I tell her a few things before she did – on the quiet.
* * *
"Look – I'm sorry about that," he said while she was being seen off at the station. " 'S'all right," I muttered. I felt embarrassed, funny. He put his arm round my waist. I went to move away but I didn't. "You could have done – she was holding me," I said. The words came straight out of my mind really. I didn't mean to say them. He gave me a squeeze and I giggled. "You going upstairs at all?" he asked all awkward. "Dunno – why?" I muttered. Another squeeze. "Go on," he said. I knew we had half an hour at least. It was funny how neither of us had to say anything. It was just THERE.
I didn't let him take my knicks down at first. Not until after the first whippy, searing four – me bent over my bed. "Yes?" he asked. I felt his thumbs dive into the waistband. I hunched up more. I didn't say anything. He drew them down slowly, feeling the silksmooth skin of my bottom all the time, like he knew he could now. "You'll be alright now – I can really give it to you now, can't I," he said. It wasn't a question. He was sort of talking to himself. The jellied cheeks of my naked bottom quivered and clenched as he stroked fire into them. It was crazy. Between strokes he would feel me up under and around my pouting slit and say "Sorry" each time! I was moist. He could feel I was moist.
"Oh, Mary," he said after he'd done it several times. I was hardly making a sound. I had my eyes shut tight. The burning stings were too much sometimes, but I knew I wanted to take them like she had. I began to puff, to moan. I couldn't stop my hips swivelling. I was wicked, I was offering – he knew I was – all pouting and peeping was my pussy. I mewed and whined, thinking, "Oh god, do it yes, do it if you want to."
But that was the irony. We got interrupted in turn. They came back early. He rushed into the bathroom, I made noises like I was clearing out my cupboard. If anyone had seen me – knicks kicked under the bed, skirt creased everywhere, and my bottom wriggling like I had fleas, they wouldn't have believed it. The frustration was awful.
It was a whole week after that before I was strapped, pumped and creamed the way I wanted to be.........
Both arousing and intriguing: who is the man? Obviously not Helen's husband. And is Mary his niece?
ReplyDeleteFantastic story my only fear was wondering who the man was. Not her father I hope.Perhaps the lodger?
ReplyDeleteWho knows? The authors of Swish are very often leave some things to the imagination of readers... So that each of us can have on the opinion of his own.
ReplyDelete