I sat in my study reading The Times. The news from Europe was not good: Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich was threatening to engulf Europe in war once again, less than twenty years after the end of The Great War of 1914-1918.
I felt that my recent retirement as Headmaster at a very exclusive girls’ boarding school was unlikely to be as quiet and restful as I had hoped if it was to be overshadowed by the horrors of war, of which I had had the most terrible personal experience in the Flanders trenches. My lapse into a disturbed rêverie was mercifully interrupted by the sound of the bell which hung by my front door.
When I opened the door I was surprised to see one of my former pupils, Emma Barton, whom I recognized instantly despite the passing of what must have been ten years since she left to go up to Girton College, Cambridge.
Emma had been a lovely girl and was now a beautiful woman, still slim and with the long, light brown hair which had so often brushed the floor in my study as she went over my lap for a spanking, or touched her toes for the cane. But despite her tendency to get into scrapes far too often, she had been an outstanding pupil and a credit to the school.
“Emma,” I said, “What a pleasant surprise! Do come in. Let me take your coat.”
As I took her coat she put a linen shopping bag down on the floor by the front door. I was surprised to see that she was wearing her old school skirt and blouse.
“Would you like some tea, or perhaps something a little stronger?” I asked.
“Thank you, Sir,” she replied, “that would be very nice. Could I perhaps have a dry sherry?”
“Of course,” I said, and poured her a glass from the decanter on the sideboard together with another for myself.
“Now sit down and make yourself comfortable, and tell me why you’ve paid me this unexpected but most welcome visit.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she took the glass from me, and she seemed a little nervous.
“Well, Sir,” she said, “I’ve been wanting, in fact needing, to see you for such a long time – it’s about the punishments you used to give me when I was at school.”
“Emma,” I said, “I’m sorry if you felt that they were unjustified or too severe, but that’s how I chose to run the school, and I think the results spoke for themselves.”
“Oh no, Sir,” she said quite forcefully, “on the contrary they were very well deserved and rightly severe – it’s just that…”
She hesitated for a moment and then went on in a rush with her eyes downcast, “…they gave me the most enormous pleasure. I’ve never been able to forget them, they’re always in my mind. Since I left school I have persuaded some of my boyfriends to spank me, but it just hasn’t worked in the same way that it did when you spanked me. And the canings were just sublime. I’ve been agonizing over this, but I just felt that I had to come and see you and ask you to punish me again just as you used to. I just need so much to have you spank me and cane me on my bare bottom again. I can’t explain, it’s just a need I have which must be satisfied. I’ve got to the stage where I can’t sleep at night just thinking about it.”
She stopped and looked up at me with the light, bright green eyes which I remembered so well.
“I’m so sorry, Sir, I hope I haven’t shocked or upset you, I just needed to tell you about it. I’ll quite understand if you think what I’m asking you to do is inappropriate.”
The pleading look which she gave me melted my heart.
I am quite a well-read man, and was familiar with the work of Freud and Kraft-Ebbing. In fact I had had reasons to seek out their work, because my own reactions to spanking and caning the bare bottoms of my pupils had included intense sexual arousal. The arousal was caused not only by seeing their delectable bare bottoms, their anuses and their labia, but by the act of inflicting pain by reddening those same bottoms with my hand and raising red welts on them with one of my large selection of canes.
It was of some comfort to me to learn that I was not alone in experiencing this arousal. I knew, of course, that I had to keep my arousal concealed from the girls– the professional consequences of not doing so would have been disastrous (although they may, of course, have felt my erect penis against their hip when they were being spanked). But I must admit that the temptation to reveal the other aspects of my arousal was little short of overwhelming when punishing girls like Emma: her pleasure in the punishment was impossible for her to conceal as she squirmed herself into my groin while being spanked, and while being caned made sounds which were as close to pleasure as to pain. And her bottom: as she stood upright before bending over for her punishment it clung like a white peach, rounded to perfection, on her slim frame; the cleft was long and deep; the sulci at the bottom of each cheek were deliciously defined, and then disappeared as she went across my knees for a spanking or touched her toes for a caning.
After a long pause I replied, “Emma, if it’s so important to you then I’m happy to help.”
I got up and went into the dining room, returning with one of the armless chairs from the dining table. I sat down on it and beckoned her to me.
“Get over my lap, Emma.”
She complied, and I lifted the short, pleated school skirt to reveal the delicious bottom I remembered so well, though the passage of time had made it a little plumper than it had been ten years ago. I took down her knickers and stroked her bare bottom, which was a little softer than when I had last spanked her.
“Right, Emma,” I said, “tell me what you want.”
“Please, Sir, I want you to give me a good, hard spanking on my bare bottom.”
I began to spank her hard and slowly, eliciting a squeal every time my hand landed on one of her sweet cheeks. Each spank resulted in the familiar flattening and then wobbling of each cheek in turn, giving me fleeting, tantalising glimpses of her tight, puckered little anus. The first few spanks each left the red outline of my palm, fingers and thumb clearly imprinted on each cheek, and then as the spanking continued the whole of her bottom turned bright crimson. She wriggled and squirmed in my lap, hardening the erection which had begun as soon as I had inserted my fingers into the waistband of her knickers and pulled them to her knees. After a hundred spanks I stopped.
“How was that, Emma?” I asked.
“It was wonderful, Sir,” she replied, “just as I remembered, except even better. Please give me another spanking, a harder one.”
I gave her another hundred spanks, even harder, and after that my palm felt hot and blistered. But as for her bottom: it was deep, deep crimson and blazing hot to the touch. I rubbed it for her, gently kneading each cheek in turn, and as I did so her squirming in my lap continued ever more strongly. My erection was now rock hard.
“Right, Emma,” I said, “I think it’s time for you to be caned. Get up please, and take your knickers right off.”
She got up and stepped out of her knickers, rubbing and squeezing her bottom continuously.
“In the cupboard under the stairs, Emma, you will find two canes both of which I think you will remember well.”
When I retired I had taken my two favourite canes with me: one a thickish kooboo which I used when caning sixth-formers for less serious offences, the other a slender yet incredibly dense and flexible dragon which I used for more serious offences. Emma returned carrying both canes.
“Sir,” she said, “what about the pre-caning examination which Matron used to give me?”
“What pre-caning examination?” I asked.
“Well, Sir, she said it was something you required her to do. She used to put on a rubber glove and then smear some stuff on her finger and in the hole in my bottom and then stick her finger right up my bottom and sort of wiggle it about. She said it was to make sure that we were fit to be caned.”
Well, this was news to me, and revealed a side of Matron which I had always suspected, but of which I had never had proof until now. What possible reason could there be for a rectal examination before a girl was caned? Absolutely none. It was certainly standard practice for a girl to visit Matron before a caning to make sure that she was fit enough to be caned, but as for the more intimate procedure which Emma had described, well that was news to me.
“Actually I got to quite like it, Sir,” she said. “Would you do it for me?”
“Well, I would if I could, Emma,” I replied, “but I’m afraid I have neither the ‘stuff’ you refer to nor a rubber glove.”
“I thought that might be the case, Sir,” she said, “so I’ve brought both of them with me.”
With that she put down the two canes, picked up the bag she had brought with her and produced from it a tube of something called K-Y Jelly and a surgical rubber glove.
“Very well, Emma,” I said, “give them to me and get over my lap again.”
She handed me the tube and the glove and got over my lap. I put on the glove and smeared some of the contents of the tube onto the middle finger of my right hand.
“Pull the cheeks of your bottom apart please, Emma.”
She reached back with her right hand and did so, pulling her right cheek to the side to reveal her anus and perineum. I put my middle finger a little way into her bottom to partially lubricate her anus, and then put another large blob of the jelly onto my finger and gently inserted it fully into her bottom. She groaned with pleasure as I moved my finger gently to and fro. She alternately gripped and then released the base of my finger with her tight little anus as I carefully explored and stroked her anal canal and her rectum. After a minute or so I withdrew my finger.
“Right, Emma, get up please.”
She got up slowly, and then looked into my eyes again - hers were shining and she was smiling with an expression of the most intense pleasure. I took off the glove and put it in the rubbish bin in my kitchen. I left the tube of jelly where I had put it, on a little side table next to the sofa.
“Will you cane me now please, Sir?” she asked.
“With the greatest of pleasure, Emma,” I replied. "How many strokes would you like with each of those canes?”
She picked them up and smiled.
“Can I have six of the best with each, please, Sir?” she said.
“You may, Emma,” I replied. “Give me both canes, please, and then bend over and touch your toes in the centre of the room.”
She handed me the canes, smiled again, and then bent over and touched her toes as instructed. I put the canes down and then lifted her skirt and draped it over her back. I picked up the standard sixth form kooboo, stood to her left and then placed it on her bottom exactly parallel to both cheeks with the tip about two inches to the right of the centre of her right cheek. I then stepped half a pace to my left so that the cane was at a slight diagonal.
I had learned from many years’ experience that if you cane a girl with the cane parallel to her cheeks and the tip in the centre of the right cheek (as so many caners do), then the tip bites viciously into the right cheek when it lands: the speed of the tip is greater than that of the rest of the cane because of the flex in it. This can, after many canings from a right-handed caner like myself, cause what I call “weak spots” in the girl’s right cheek, which tend to bleed all too readily. For a left-handed caner it was, of course, the left cheek which was at risk. My technique avoids this problem because on impact with the girl’s bottom the tip wraps round slightly to the right of the centre of the right cheek, with its speed slowed by the prior impact of the rest of the cane.
“You remember what to do and what not to do, don’t you, Emma?”
“Yes, Sir. I have to count each stroke and thank you for it. And I mustn’t stand up or rub my bottom after a stroke. If I do, the stroke will be repeated.”
“Quite right, Emma. Very well, brace yourself, my girl!”
I raised the cane, aimed at the level of her anus and whipped it down, cutting viciously into both cheeks. The familiar white tramlines appeared immediately but briefly before being transformed into a raised, red welt.
“Owwwh … mmm, one, thank you, Sir.”
She clenched and unclenched her buttocks once or twice, then relaxed for the next stroke which I delivered just above the first.
“Owwwh … mmm, two, thank you, Sir.”
I delivered the next three one above the other, regularly spaced, so that after the fifth stroke her bottom, from the anus almost but not quite to the top of the cleft, was covered with a symmetrical pattern of raised, red weals. She was by now sobbing with pain, but at the same time moaning with pleasure. Now for the last stroke with the kooboo. This would be on the sit spot, between the anus and the sulci.
“What do we know about the final stroke of a caning, Emma?” I asked.
“It’s always the hardest, Sir,” she replied.
“Very well, Emma, bend slightly at the knees and stick your bottom right out for me.”
She complied: her cheeks parted a little further and I stroked them softly. Her bottom was quite firm to the touch in this position.
I raised the cane for the sixth stroke and delivered it with a vicious flick of my wrist right on target, just below the first. It bit deep into her bottom, buried into the flesh before bouncing out as her bottom reciprocated with a delicious bounce of its own.
“Owwwh … mmm, six, thank you, Sir.”
“Stand up and give yourself a rub, Emma,” I said and she did so, giving me the most enormous smile.”
“You know, Sir,” she said, “whenever you spanked me I could feel your erection on my left hip, through your trousers ..... and I certainly felt it again today. Is there anything you would like me to do with it? I have an idea.”
With that she knelt down in front of me and gently unbuttoned my fly to reveal my erect penis. She stroked it gently.
“My goodness, Sir,” she said, “that’s a thick one.” She put it into her mouth and sucked on it, moving her head slowly backwards and forwards. After a minute or so I asked her to stop, since I had further plans for my erection which I felt sure she would enjoy. And at my age, the chances of another similar erection within half an hour or so were not good.
“Up you get, Emma, time for your six of the best with the dragon.”
She got up slowly, then bent over and touched her toes again. I picked up the dragon and inspected the proferred bottom. I planned to use the dragon to fill in neatly the spaces between the existing weals, starting with the one between the first and second strokes. I took up my caning position and raised the dragon high.
“Owwwhowwwh! … mmm, mmm. One, thank you, Sir.”
Perfect. The gap was precisely filled with a new, red weal. I continued with the next four strokes: the weals now covered the whole of her bottom from the level of her anus to just below the top of her cleft. Now for the final stroke, which I planned to place precisely across the site of her sulci.
“Right, stick it out for me, Emma.”
“Ooowhoowhoowh! Aaaaaah. Mmm…mmm…mmm. Six, thank you, Sir.”
“Up you get, Emma, give yourself a quick rub and then bend over the arm of the sofa.”
She bent over the arm of the sofa and lifted her skirt, presenting her deliciously striped, bare bottom for my inspection. My erection was now amazing.
“What next, Emma?” I asked.
“I want you to fuck me please, Sir,” she said. She pulled the cheeks of her bottom apart. “In my arse, please, Sir.”
I picked up the tube of jelly from the side table, squeezed a large blob onto my finger and fed it gently into her anus which she had relaxed to allow me entry. I followed up with another large blob, and then eased my penis inside her.
She took her right hand away and felt for her clitoris, which she began to massage gently as I slid my penis as far in as I could, and then began to fuck her very slowly. She alternately squeezed and then relaxed her sphincter, and we both began to moan quietly. Then she began to gasp more and more quickly as her climax approached, and we came to orgasm at precisely the same moment. We both groaned in complete ecstasy.
“Gosh, Sir,” she said, “that was the best ever!”
“For me too,” I said, quite truthfully.
She got up and I gave her an enormous hug, gently stroking and squeezing her red hot bottom with my left hand.
“Now, Emma, wait here while I get something from the bathroom for that delicious bottom of yours.”
I came back with a large jar of cold cream.
“Right, Emma, over my lap again, please.”
I sat down on the sofa and she draped herself across my knees. I lifted the short skirt once more and began to gently rub some cream into her bottom.
“Oh, Sir,” she said, “that’s so nice!”
The raised, red welts were, I have to say, quite spectacular and her bottom was still hot to the touch. After a few quiet minutes I stopped, and she got up, found her knickers and eased them up over her bottom. I fetched her coat, helped her on with it and handed her the bag. Then I offered her the tube of jelly.
“Oh no, Sir,” she said, “I don’t think so. Just keep it here for the next time ……”
“All right,” I said, and opened the front door for her.
“By the way, Emma, do you know what ‘figging’ is?”
“No, Sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, next time you may find out….Goodbye, Emma, and thank you for a quite exceptional evening.”
Sir,” she said with another enormous smile, “I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Goodbye for now, Sir.”
And with that she was gone. Until the next time.
Two weeks after Emma’s first visit I received a very pleasant letter from her, thanking me for giving her the experience which she had been longing for ever since she left school, and asking if she could visit me again in a fortnight. I replied suggesting an evening and a time which would be convenient for me, and shortly after had her confirmation that that date would suit her very well, and that she would arrive promptly at 7:30 pm as suggested. The prospect of her visit quite dispelled the dark cloud of the likely war with Hitler’s Germany which still hung over all of us.
On the morning of the appointed day I went to my local greengrocer where I purchased a hand of ginger, and then to my usual chemist to buy a packet of the London Rubber Company’s Durex condoms. Although I had not needed these on Emma’s first visit, my plans for her second visit made them a prudent purchase. I also bought a tub of Nivea cream.
The doorbell rang at 7:45, and I opened my front door to let Emma in. She apologized profusely for being late, and said that for that she deserved a good, hard spanking on her bare bottom. Taking her coat, underneath which I saw that she was again wearing her old school uniform, I said that I considered that to be an excellent idea, but that perhaps she would care for a sherry first. I invited her to sit on the sofa and poured us both a generous glass of Amontillado.
“Lovely to see you again so soon, Emma,” I said, sitting down beside her. “Chin chin and good health.”
We clinked glasses and she gave me the most enormous smile, her light green eyes sparkling with what I felt sure was intense anticipation.
“So, Emma, have you found out since our last meeting what figging is?”
“I’m afraid not, Sir, I looked it up in the OED but there was no entry for it.”
“Never mind,” I said, “you will find out at first hand after I have given you a good hard spanking for your tardiness this evening, but in the meantime let’s enjoy our sherry. Now tell me what you have been up to as far as your career is concerned. I know that you got your PhD after you graduated, and I hear on my grapevine that you have now been offered an academic post.”
“That’s right, Sir,” she replied, “I did some post-doctoral research on the influence of the French Revolution on English literature, and I’m now a lecturer in the English department at my old college.”
“That’s wonderful, Emma, many congratulations.” We went on to chat about what had happened to some of her old school-friends while we finished our sherry.
“Well, Emma,” I said, “I can tell you that while I have seen some of your old friends since they left school, none of them has come back to see me for the reason that you did last time.”
“Well, Sir,” she said with a rather coquettish smile, “you may find that I have been something of a pioneer in that regard.”
I raised an eyebrow and smiled, and left it at that, though I have to admit that my penis stirred slightly at the prospect of certain of Emma’s friends ringing my doorbell for the same reason as hers.
“Now then, Emma,” I said, putting down my glass, “I think it’s time for that good hard spanking on your bare bottom that you said earlier you deserved.”
As on her last visit, I went into the dining room and returned with a suitable armless dining chair which I placed in the middle of the room. Then sitting on it, I beckoned her and she put down her glass and approached me.
“Right, my girl, over my knees.”
She draped herself carefully over my lap, with her toes touching the floor to my right and the palms of her hands flat on the floor to my left. I lifted the pleated skirt and laid it over her back, and then inserted my fingers into the waistband of her knickers.
“Lift up, Emma,” I instructed; she raised herself slightly, allowing me to ease her knickers down to her knees, and then relaxed across my lap again.
I stroked her bottom gently. It was even more magnificent than I had remembered, soft, white and warm, with exquisite, flowing curves and a long, deep cleft into which I allowed my fingers to stray, brushing her already moist vagina and softly touching the little puckered bud of her anus. She gave a faint moan of pleasure.
“Now, Emma, tell me what you deserve.”
“I deserve a good hard spanking on my bare bottom for being late this evening, Sir, and it is to be harder and longer than the one you gave me last time.”
“Very well, Emma, brace yourself,” and I began to spank her. My hand fell heavily on each cheek in turn, causing that delicious, flattening wobble each time it landed. At the beginning of the spanking, the imprints of each finger and the thumb were clearly visible, scarlet outlines on each cheek, but as it went on the marks of the fingers merged into a crimson patch on each buttock, with only the outline of the thumb remaining distinct from the rest. And towards the end, even the thumb marks had become indistinguishable in the twin, bright red hillocks into which her buttocks had been transformed.
Emma gave a little gasp as each spank landed, with the occasional “Ow” of pain and a rather more frequent moan of pleasure. She began to wriggle and press her groin into my lap. I counted the spanks carefully. Last time she had had two lots of one hundred, with the second hundred harder than the first. This time I gave her three hundred, and harder than the second hundred last time had been. When I finished she was gasping and breathing heavily, moaning with pleasure, and her bottom was both bright red and red hot. My hand was also sore, with small blisters beginning to form at the base of each finger.
I slid my hand between her thighs and searched for her clitoris, and she eased back slightly to allow me access. It was a swollen bud in a moist bed, and as I stroked it firmly she began to orgasm, and then she came with a series of increasingly heavy, singing gasps, ending in a loud and falling sigh.
“Oh, Sir,” she said, “that was so good, the best ever.”
“Well, Emma,” I said, “let’s see if we can’t improve on it a bit later. Now up you get.”
She stood up and gently squeezed and rubbed the red cheeks of her bottom. As she got up her knickers had fallen to her feet and she carefully stepped out of them, picked them up and put them on the sofa.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing those for a while, Sir,” she said.
“You’re right, Emma,” I replied. “And why don’t you take off the rest of your clothes too? I don’t think we need the school uniform for the rest of the evening.”
She smiled, and took off her skirt, tie, blouse and brassiere and stood facing me. My God she was beautiful, I had never seen her completely naked before. She was slim, with quite small but perfectly-formed, pert breasts. It was at that moment that I think I fell in love with her.
“Follow me, Emma,” I said, and led her into the kitchen.
On the draining board were the hand of ginger I had bought that morning, a paring knife and a small kitchen knife.
“Now I’m going to prepare a fig, Emma. I’m going to cut as straight a piece of ginger from this hand as I can, about four inches long, and then I’m going to pare off the skin and shape it until it as nearly cylindrical as possible, with one end thicker than the other. Then I shall make a shallow groove all the way round, just below the thicker end. And then, if you are willing, I shall insert the fig into your bottom and cane you.”
“Gosh, Sir,” she said, “that sounds exciting! Let’s do it – but what is the groove for?”
“I shall gently push the fig into your bottom, thinner end first, and when the groove reaches your sphincter, your sphincter will automatically contract into the groove, preventing it from slipping all the way inside.”
“I’m guessing that the fig’s going to burn my bottom, Sir.”
“I’m told that it will, Emma, and that if you should clench the cheeks of your bottom during the caning, the intensity of the burning will increase until you unclench them again. I’ve found that most girls don’t clench their cheeks as each stroke is delivered, but they often do afterwards.”
“Hmmm,” said Emma, “I honestly can’t remember whether I do or not.”
“I’ve seen you do it during some canings, Emma, but not during others – maybe it depends upon how you’re feeling on the day. I’d advise you to try to make this a non-clenching day.”
“I’ll see, Sir, I think I’ll have to try it out at some point just to see what happens,” and she gave me a slow smile and a little wink. This girl was just perfect, I couldn’t believe my luck.
During our conversation I had cut the longest and straightest finger from the fig, complete with its portion of the palm, and begun to prepare it, alternately paring and washing it off under the cold tap in the kitchen. When the paring was complete I began to fashion the shape of the fig with the kitchen knife until it resembled a small, straight carrot, cylindrical but tapering slightly from one end to the other. Finally I cut the shallow groove all the way around, just over a quarter of an inch from the thicker end.
I wasn’t going to tell Emma, but this was the first time I had prepared and used a fig – I had read a number of accounts of the practice in my collection of Victorian erotica, and after Emma’s first visit I had determined that the time had come to try it out on someone whom I guessed would be a willing participant. She had not disappointed me. Throughout my preparation of the fig she had watched carefully, smiling, and I swear once or twice licking her lips. But I wanted to be sure.
“Emma, are you sure you want to go ahead with this? Please tell me if you’d rather not.”
“Yes please, Sir, I want you to put the fig up my bottom and then cane me really hard!”
“Very well, Emma,” and I rinsed the fig once more under the cold tap, then took her by the hand and led her back into my study.
“I think we’ll dispense with Matron’s pre-caning examination on this occasion, Emma,” I said. “I’m not sure what effect the KY Jelly would have on the juices from the fig. Please bend over the back of the armchair and pull the cheeks of your bottom apart.”
Again she smiled, and then draped her beautifully elegant body over the back of my armchair. She pulled the cheeks of her absolute peach of a bright red bottom apart, revealing her tightly puckered little anus.
“Now try and relax your bottom, Emma, and I’ll insert the fig.” As I gently and very slowly pushed the fig into her bottom she began to groan very gently.
“How does it feel, Emma?” I asked.
“It does burn, Sir,” she said, “but I do like it very much – you’ve burned my bottom many times, but never before on the inside, I love the feeling.”
I gently pushed the last inch of the fig before the groove into her bottom, and saw her sphincter contract and grip into the groove. She sighed with pleasure.
“Right, let go of your cheeks and up you get Emma. You know where I keep the canes, please go and fetch me the dragon.”
“Yes, Sir,” and she got up, gave me another beautiful smile, and then walked (dare I say somewhat gingerly) into the corridor. While I was moving the chair back to the dining room, I heard her open the cupboard door, and then she returned, presenting the dragon to me like an offering, resting on the palms of her outstretched hands.
“Thank you, Emma,” I said. “Now, go to the middle of the room, then bend over slowly and touch your toes.”
She turned her back to me, showing me her delicious, crimson bottom in all its gently rounded perfection, with its long, deep cleft and its beautifully carved and completely symmetrical sulci, which gradually disappeared as she bent over and touched her toes. The fig looked just right, nestling into her cleft too deeply to be struck by the cane.
“Now how many strokes would you like, Emma?” I asked. “And how is the figging going?”
“The figging is going very well, Sir, for me a very pleasant burning sensation. And you were right about the buttock clenching. When I do this,” and she clenched her buttocks until they were tight, “the burning increases in intensity.” She unclenched her cheeks. “But I think that I’m soon going to feel a much more intense burning on the outside of my bottom. Can we start with twelve of the very best, Sir? And then I’ll tell you if I would like more.”
“Very well. Twelve of the very best, it is, and you know the drill.”
“Of course, Sir.”
I took careful aim at the level of the inserted fig, and whipped the first stroke into her waiting bottom.
“Owwwh … mmm, one, thank you, Sir.”
As with her caning on her visit, her vocal reaction was a most satisfying blend of pain and pleasure. The first stroke raised the familiar white tramlines which stood out starkly for a moment or two against the bright red background left by her spanking, and then turned into a raised red ridge, of a much darker hue than the rest of her bottom.
I continued to cane her, aiming as always to distribute the strokes evenly from just below the top of the cleft to the point where the bottom meets the tops of the thighs. With care, a twelve stroke caning can result in no overlapping strokes, with just the slightest of gaps between each red ridge. Throughout the caning, she continued to shout with pain and then groan with pleasure after each stroke. But she remained still, neither jumping up nor reaching for her bottom. For the twelfth stroke I had left a gap between the tenth and eleventh strokes, about halfway between the fig line and the tops of her thighs.
“What do we know about the final stroke, Emma?”
“It’s always the hardest, Sir.”
I raised the dragon until it was behind my head, and then leading with my elbow I flicked my wrist over and whipped the stroke precisely into the gap I had been aiming for.
“Aaaahhh, Aaagghhh. Oh my God, mmmmmhhhhhh! Ooohhhh. Twelve, thank you, Sir. Oh, Sir, that was fantastic!” she gasped.
“I’ve got a throbbing, burning bottom on the outside, so sore yet so wonderful, and the pain has seeped inside, turning into pleasure and melting into the burning on the inside, and both are making me very, very excited.”
“Do you want any more?”
“I think I’d like another six please, Sir.”
“Very well, Emma, but looking at your bottom I think another six will be all that it can take for today.”
I gently stroked her bottom, which was red hot, with twelve evenly spaced ridges which felt hard to my fingers. If I aimed carefully I could fill in the slight gaps in the strokes which had landed between the fig and the point where her bottom met her thighs. I drew back the cane and slashed it into her bottom.
“Owwwhowwwh! … mmm, mmm. Thirteen, thank you, Sir.”
I saw her clench her buttocks once or twice and heard her soft groans of pleasure as she did so. I continued the caning, and this time each stroke elicited a scream of pain from Emma, merging into an ecstatic sigh of delight. After the seventeenth stroke the lower part of her bottom comprised a series of conjoined red, hard ridges – there was just one slight gap halfway between the fig site and the lowest stroke. I slowly raised the dragon.
“Prepare yourself for the last stroke. Have you anything to say, Emma?”
“Yes, Sir. Please make this the hardest stroke you have ever given to anyone.”
I considered delivering the last stroke after a two or three pace run-up, but decided against. The desired level of accuracy might be compromised. Instead, I stared intently at the spot I had chosen for the eighteenth stroke, lifted the dragon so high above my head that the tip pointed to the floor behind me, and then delivered the final stroke.
The dragon whined its song of pain and pleasure.
“Eeeeeeyaaaah! oooowhh! oooowh! mmhhhh! Ooohhh. Aaaaah. Yes! Eighteen! Oh thank you so much, Sir.”
“Up you get, Emma.” She rose and turned to face me, there were tears running down her cheeks but she was smiling ecstatically. She wrapped her arms around me and buried her head in my chest. I reached down behind her and gently stroked her throbbing bottom. My God, it was hot.
I led her to the kitchen, asked her to bend over, then gently eased the fig out of her bottom and put it into the rubbish bin. Taking her by the hand I led her into my bedroom, where I sat on the bed and asked her to lay across my lap. I reached for the tub of Nivea cream which I had left on the bedside table, removed the lid, took out a large dollop and began to massage it gently into her throbbing bottom. The raised, dark red ridges left by the cane, already beginning to take on a bluish hue, felt hot and proud to my caressing fingers.
“Mmm, oh, that’s lovely, Sir,” she sighed. “The burning inside my bottom has almost disappeared, but the outside is still throbbing, and it’s spreading into that lovely, warm feeling I always get in my private bits whenever I’m spanked or caned. Please keep rubbing my bottom, it feels so good.”
I was happy to oblige and continued to rub cream into her bottom for several minutes while she murmured sounds of utter contentment. But after a while her murmurings became a little louder and she began to squirm into my groin. I thought that we were both ready for the next phase.
“Up you get then, Emma,” I said, patting her bottom gently, “and lie on your tummy on the bed, with your head at the foot and your feet at the head of the bed, while I get undressed.”
I undressed and folded my clothes neatly on a chair in the corner of the bedroom, then lay down beside her with my head beside her feet, and my feet beside her beautiful head.
“Now, Emma,” I said, “please get up and kneel astride me with your beautiful bottom up in the air, then start to suck my cock while I taste the ginger.”
She did as she was bid, and as she knelt astride me and bent forward, the cheeks of her gorgeous, red, striped bottom parted as she took my rock hard erection into her mouth; I began to lick her sweet little anus gently. My tongue tasted the ginger and I felt a slight burning sensation. As I continued licking her, the burning became a little more intense. She had reached between her thighs with her right hand and was pleasuring herself with little moans as she continued to move her lips up and down my penis from her lips to the back of her mouth, her teeth gently brushing against my incredibly stiff erection as she moved her head up and down. I was also beginning to groan with ecstasy, and it was time for the next phase.
“Emma, this is wonderful but we need to move on. Please get up and lay down beside me head to head. Now tell me what you want me to do next.”
“I want you to fuck me in the arse first, Sir,” she replied, “and then fuck me in my cunt.”
“Exactly what I had in mind myself, my darling girl, but first we must take precautions.”
I reached for the packet of condoms which I had also left on the bedside table, and handed it to her. I had thought it prudent to wear a condom when I fucked her in the arse, because I did not wish to risk burning my penis with the remains of the ginger juice. And of course it was essential for the consummation of our coupling when I fucked her in the place Nature had designed for that purpose.
“Put one on for me please, my lovely Emma.”
She extracted one of the condoms from its packaging, handed the packet back to me and then carefully rolled the condom she had selected down to the base of my erection. I got off the bed and asked her to do the same, and then bend over the side of the bed with her elbows resting on it. She did so. My God, her bottom was sublimely beautiful, the most beautiful of the many that I had seen. I parted her hot, red, striped cheeks, gently eased my penis deep into her bottom and began to move it gently to and fro.
As I did so I reached the fingers of my right hand into her soaking wet labia, searching for the little bud of her clitoris which I found and began to stroke, gently at first and then a little more firmly. We were both groaning loudly and very close to orgasm.
I withdrew from her bottom and thrust my penis into her vagina. Almost immediately we both climaxed with loud moans, I penetrating her as deeply as I could, she thrusting her soft bottom into my groin so that I could feel the heat left by the caning. I withdrew, turned her around and took her in my arms, and we both lay down on the bed. I covered her face and lips with the gentlest of kisses, she stroked my grey hair and gazed at me, smiling that beautiful smile.
“I think I’m in love with you, Emma,” I said.
“Mmm. I’m not sure I’m in love with you, Sir, but I’m certainly in lust.”
“That will do for me, my darling girl,” I said. “How often do you want to do this?”
“I think once a month would be about right, Sir,” she said, “that should leave enough time for the marks to fade so that I can present you with a pristine bottom.”
“Excellent, Emma,” I replied. “And now can I offer you dinner? I know a lovely little restaurant in Soho which has very soft chairs.”
“I should like that very much, Sir.”
We both rose and went to the bathroom. I disposed of the condom, which had a satisfyingly large amount of sperm in the tip, and we both washed and then returned to the bedroom and began to dress, already thinking about the next time.
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