This story will make much more sense if you read parts I, II, and III first. Success in Sight.
For the rest of that winter after I turned 18, Jamie continued punishing me every Saturday night, supplemented by many impromptu sessions over the living room chair and elsewhere.
The Saturday night ritual Jamie had established remained pretty much unchanged. He did add something he called the ‘warm up’ that consisted of maybe 30 or 40 hand spanks before he started with the strap. It didn’t make much difference in the end result, but it had a very personal feel that I really liked.
For me, every week seemed a little better than the last. But when I stopped to think about the situation realistically, there was no evidence of any progress toward my goal of seducing Jamie. Except in my head.
And then came that glorious spring-like Saturday in April. The same day we got Muggsy, an eager, energetic German Shepherd pup that would play a small but crucial role in achieving my heart’s desire. But that’s getting ahead of my story again.
That beautiful Saturday was when Jamie made the ritual more intimate by adding a new wrinkle of his own invention. Instead of just holding my right breast after lowering me onto his lap, that night he established an elaborate new procedure involving my nipples.
Once he had lowered me into just the right position on his lap, he reached around with his spanking hand, grasped a nipple and stretched it out. Then, before he let it go, he trapped it tightly between the first two fingers of his “holding” hand, up next to the palm, while he wrapped all five fingers around the breast. This let him hold my breast and
squeeze the nipple at the same time. Once he had his handle set, he gave me my warm-up.
Halfway through my punishment, he would shift his grip to the other breast. He would pinch and twist the nipple before pulling it out and trapping it between his fingers. (He usually made some comment like “I have to get my handle ready,” or “time to change handles.”) And if that grip didn’t satisfy him, he would stretch it out and try again. Sometimes he had to try three or four times before he was satisfied. At first he was firm but pretty wimpy about “getting his handles ready.” One time I let out a moan while he was getting his third grip, and he shot back that I should consider this part of my punishment. After that he quit being wimpy with my nipples, and sometimes I had my first orgasm before he even started the warm up.
Another thing that changed after I started sleeping in the nude: Uncle Jamie started flipping the covers off me instead of just opening my door and hollering when he came to wake me up. If I was on my stomach, he’d usually give my fanny a good slap; if I was on my back, he’d generally slap me on a thigh or hip, wherever the angle was right. About half the time, he’d bark at me to get my fanny out to the kitchen to perform some assigned chore or breakfast task. At first, I’d do what he had asked then rush back to get dressed. But after admitting to myself that what I really wanted was to have Jamie make love to me, I started doing one more thing, and then one more thing, before I bothered to get dressed. Jamie never commented one way or the other, but it was obvious he enjoyed watching me run around the house naked.
The most I ever saw of Jamie’s body was once or twice a week when he’d cross from the bathroom to his bedroom, after a shower, with just a towel around his waist. Until the next time we went up to reprovision the high pasture cabin.
* * *
You have to understand that I had been masturbating for quite a few years, and I had been indulging more often and more intensely since Jamie and I were alone. Partly this was a result of admitting my desire consciously and pursuing it actively, and partly a result of the increased stimulation Jamie was administering with his belt, strap, and hands. However, almost all my indulging was in the evening, lying in bed. Almost all.
One exception was the day in early June that Jamie was taking me to the high pasture cabin. We stopped on the way for lunch at the lake. It was in the middle of one of those early summer heat waves. I wanted more than just a repeat of the last time we stopped there, so as soon as Jamie set the picnic basket on the blanket I had spread out, I told him we couldn’t be that close to the only heat-relief in miles without taking a dip. This time I was determined to get him in, too.
I jumped up, grabbed him by the hand, and started dragging him to the water. Of course if he weren’t allowing it, I never could have budged him. But when we arrived at the grassy bank, the obvious disrobing spot, he dug in his heels. I opened my mouth to protest, but decided I’d be in a stronger position without my clothes. I let go his hand and started unbuttoning my blouse.
“Come on,” I was looking him straight in the eyes as I continued steadily unbuttoning; “don’t be a chicken.” Finally sensing that his discomfort was reaching the critical point, I turned my back so he could watch without embarrassment.
"You’re just as hot as I am.” Don’t I wish,
I added to myself, and let my blouse slip to the ground. I reached back to unhook my bra, but it refused to budge. Without looking around, or raising my voice, I said, “Would you mind doing this hook for me, Jamie?”
He fumbled roughly for several seconds. When it finally opened, I quickly took a small step backward and, as I hoped, he slipped the straps off my shoulders. I had crossed my arms in front of my breasts, as if in modesty, but really to prevent the bra from just falling off. Now I closed the remaining gap between us, leaning against his chest while I “helped” him finish removing it by opening my arms. We wound up in a rather intimate if brief embrace. Then I turned abruptly, gave him a thank-you peck on the cheek, and started to unbutton his shirt. He kept making protesting sounds, but let me continue. Until I started pulling the tails out of his pants. I could see the tell-tale bulge beside his fly as he finally pushed my hands away.
Throwing caution to the wind, I laughed and said, “Come on, Jamie, the water’s not that cold—you won’t lose anything,” and I gave his bulge a teasing flick with the back of my fingers.
I didn’t wait for a reaction, I just turned around, unfastened my cut-offs, and started working them over my hips. Next I peeled my panties down and remained bent over to unfasten my shoes. “Last one in’s a sissy!” I couldn’t resist the temptation to peek at him between my legs. He had turned his back and was actually unbuckling his belt!
“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
Well, to make a long story short, I ran in and Jamie did follow a few moments later. Wearing his Jockey shorts. He seemed to have responded to my earlier teasing, so I decided to carry it a bit further by splashing water in his face, grabbing his legs underwater, and other such silliness. I shouldn’t say it like that. I was having a great time, and more important, Jamie got caught up in it and was teasing right back. So there was lots of bumping and grabbing and laughing.
We were gradually getting more intense in our exchanges, and finally I decided it was time for my main move. Next time I got behind Jamie, I grabbed his shorts on both sides and jerked them clear to his knees. I had expected to jerk and flee, but somehow I was still holding on as he spun around to defend himself and lost his balance. Legs flailing wildly, he fell away, but his Jockeys were still in my hand. Naturally I took off, determined to keep them as long as possible, with Jamie in hot pursuit. He soon caught me by a foot and hauled me back. I had no intention of giving them up without a struggle, and soon we were in a full body contact wrestling match. I loved it. But too soon, Jamie realized how far he had gone and backed off.
“OK, Jenny. That’s not funny. Come on, give me my shorts.”
“Oh, come on, Jamie, loosen up. How many times have you told me that there’s nothing wrong with nudity, that there’s no reason to be ashamed of our bodies?”
“That was different.”
“Was it? How come? You mean women are supposed to be proud of their bodies, and men ashamed of theirs?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Jenny. That’s ridiculous.”
“If you really believe it then just relax and enjoy.” I finally looked directly at him and discovered he was staring so hard at my body, he didn’t even notice where my eyes were. So I took the opportunity to study his anatomy. I couldn’t tell whether it was starting to get hard, or just bobbing in the currents, but I was thrilled with what I saw. Then, still staring deliberately at his sex, I added mischievously, “I think it feels great to feel the water all over.”
“Jennifer!” his voice was stern, but his eyes were turned aside uncertainly, “I’m your uncle.”
“No you’re not, Jamie. You’re my aunt’s former husband. You’re not related to me at all!” I was really glad to get a chance to say that to him right out loud. It’s not the sort of thing you can just casually mention out of a clear blue sky. But I was sure that keeping that fact at the forefront of his thinking was critical to achieving my heart’s desire.
Suddenly a whole new tack popped into my mind full blown. “Are you afraid that you’ll lose control of me? I mean, that you won’t be able to maintain your discipline if we have a good time together occasionally?” Here I lowered my eyes submissively, and started moving in ultra-slow motion toward him.
He muttered the start of some kind of denial. I really had him off balance now. So I plunged on. “I didn’t think there was any question of your maintaining your authority. There certainly isn’t any question of me accepting your discipline. You must know, Jamie, trying to escape that is the furthest thing from my mind. But you may not know that I really appreciate what you’re trying to do for me… really appreciate how much you care. And I’m sorry when I fall short of your expectations. Gosh, now that I think of it, I may never have said it in so many words, Jamie,” by this time I was standing right in front of him, our eyes locked together; I put my hands on his arms and continued, “so let me say it now: Thank you.”
I rose up on tiptoe and gave him a brief, gentle kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for caring enough to watch over me, and helping me always try to be better.” I leaned just barely closer. “I deserve every stroke, every crack...” here I let my nipples just graze the hair on his chest... “every twist and squeeze. I deserve them all, and probably many more. So I thank you very much.” And I kissed him on the mouth. Not long and not hard; I didn’t want to spook him. And I didn’t. Which was good because I had one more—well actually two more to go.
“And I want you to know,” I continued practically before the kiss had ended, “that no matter what ever happens between us, I hope you’ll never stop my punishments.” And I gave him a full-length hug. No special squeezing or grinding, of course. But for several seconds we were locked tightly together. I must admit, I’ve never had to work harder at anything in my life. Holding still, I mean, with his sex pressing against my stomach. But I managed it, and also to back away again before he panicked.
I stepped back a pace and held his shorts out to him. “Here. I’m sorry. You can put them back on. If you want to.”
Well, we swam calmly together for a few minutes. With Jamie holding his shorts in his hand. I was really so cold by then I was ready to get out. But neither of us wanted to be the first to quit. It’s like now we each had to prove to the other that we were OK about skinny dipping together.
After doubling what I considered the minimum time to make that “statement,” I headed for shore and scrambled up the bank to my towel. When I turned around, Jamie was just leaving the water. He’d put his shorts back on. I smiled at him as he walked nonchalantly toward me. Partly because I thought he was so sweet. And partly because wet Jockey shorts are no covering at all. (Although I must admit that what I was seeing now didn’t bear much resemblance to what I had observed while we were fooling around in the water.)
By the time Jamie arrived, I was stretched out on my stomach on our picnic blanket, soaking in the marvelous warmth. I watched Jamie dry off through half closed eyes. I’m still not sure if he thought I was sleeping, but before getting dressed, he peeled off his shorts, carefully finished drying, and then pulled on his jeans without them.
Once he was covered up, I stirred and opened my eyes and told him I’d like to soak up some rays before we went on to the cabin if he didn’t mind. He knelt beside me and stroked my hair for a moment.
“OK, Jenny, if you want to.” His hand flowed down my back and came to rest lightly on my fanny. “But don’t think getting sunburned down here...” by then her was stroking and caressing my bottom like he did after a strapping, and I had reflexively parted my legs, “...will get you out of your punishment tomorrow night.”
“Of course not... Uncle Jamison.” Which produced the longest, most genuine laughter I had ever heard from Jamie. At least since Poppa died. “But now that you mention it, would you please put some suntan oil on it for me?”
“Sure. Why not? Of course what I ought to do is tan it myself, first. For teasing your poor old uncle so mercilessly.”
“You’re right,” I quickly agreed, pushing myself up on my knees, then settling back on my heels. “Do you want to use your hand or your belt,” trying very hard to convey to him that if he said belt
, I would remove it for him.
He looked me searchingly in the eyes for several seconds, then, “My hand will be sufficient, Jenny.” I just waited, because with no chair for him to sit on, I wasn’t sure what to do. “Well, let’s see... OK, on your hands and knees.”
I straightened up, then bent forward as prescribed. He got on his knees beside me. Our relative positions weren’t quite the same as usual, but close. After much fussing and tugging on various parts of my anatomy, he finally decided it was as good as it was going to get. He reached under me and grabbed a breast. It obviously didn’t feel right to him. He tried the other one, then a second grip, and then he let go. “Well, that’s not going to work in this position. That’s all right. I’ll do your nipple punishment afterward.”
I hadn’t realized he considered that a separate category of punishment... Well! something new to think on.
Meanwhile, he had put his arm around my waist and pulled me snugly against him. He started right in. He was deliberately moving the point of impact to cover my entire bottom and upper thighs. But these were more like slaps than spanks, strictly ritual. A token of submission, not punishment. Almost before I knew it, he gave me one solid, centered spank and announced, “OK. Up on your knees again.”
He circled around, pushed my calves apart to make room, and then knelt behind me with his knees between mine. He sat back on his heels and pulled me back so I was sitting on his thighs. He reached around and grasped my nipples. Then let go, shifted my position a bit, told me to lock my hands behind my head, and pulled me back further, so I was leaning against his bare chest. As he took a new grip on my nipples, I was afraid he would feel my heart hammering just beneath his hands.
He proceeded to pinch, squeeze, pull, and twist my nipples, singly and together, in tandem and opposed. I was starting that final climb to orgasm when he suddenly stopped. He didn’t release his grip, just stopped moving. His voice, almost against my ear, was low and raspy, “This isn’t right.”
My heart sank. Just when I thought things had been progressing so well. But then he continued, “I really shouldn’t be punishing you. You were right. I was being silly.”
Relief flooded through me with such intensity I was instantly back to the brink I had been teetering on before. I let my hands unclasp and with one reached back to pull Jamie’s head forward, so I could press my cheek against his, at least close enough to be the gesture I wanted it to be. “Thank you,” I whispered against his face. “For saying that, I mean, you don’t know how...warm that makes me feel.”
My other hand was just kind of floating in midair. I couldn’t figure out where to put it. I wanted desperately to place it on the back of his, and guide it onto my breast, but I was sure that was too blatant for now. “I don’t care about the punishment—you know that, don’t you?” He grunted affirmation. “I’ve already given you blanket permission, you know, to punish me for anything at all...” I placed my free hand on his arm, near the side of my breast, as tacit endorsement of its presence there, without being too forward. I also turned my head a trifle more, so I was almost whispering in his ear. “...or to punish me for... nothing... beyond the fact...” here I snuggled a little closer into his lap and was rewarded by contact with the unmistakable bulge of his erection, “...that it pleases you to do so.”
“I don’t enjoy — seeing you suffer,” he protested.
“No, of course you don’t –” I had released his head and now spoke out loud, “– that’s not what I meant at all.” I deliberately wiggled my fanny — ever so slightly — against his erection. “And you know it.” I didn’t give him time to reply to that. “Besides, I don’t ‘suffer’ from your punishments. There’s a whole world of difference between experiencing pain and suffering. I do experience pain when you punish me, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, for a limited period of time. But what happens as a result of that is certainly not ‘suffering.’ And you know that, too.”
This produced a slight twitch against my buttock. “OK,” he conceded with a tiny chuckle and a light squeeze of both nipples. A parting squeeze, I realized, but was delighted when he merely moved them down, encircling my stomach — high and low. His upper arm was snuggled against the underside of both breasts, the lower hand splayed across my abdomen, sort of implying he’d include my entire torso if his hand would reach that far. This position was less sexy, but infinitely more intimate. I brought my free hand down and started gently caressing the back of his splayed hand with my fingertips.
“So you see, don’t you, that not only do you not have to justify your punishments to me...” I let this sink in—and he was certainly receptive, “...but to do so implies that you doubt me. Doubt my sincerity. Understand?”
“I... I can see that...” I was sure it wasn’t all registering in his mind, but his emotional response was certainly positive... and hungry. And eager.
“So let me say one more time that I really am happy to submit... myself... to your discipline... your wishes... your pleasure.” I put my arms on top of his, hugging him hugging me. I felt like I was not quite on top of the world, but awfully close.
“Well, my dear, we can’t while away the whole afternoon. And I’m starving!”
So he passed out the sandwiches and we sat there on opposite sides of the blanket, eating our lunch. I felt like that painting of the naked lady having lunch in the woods with two or three guys all dressed up in their suits and ties.
I was sure I was going to have to remind Jamie about the suntan oil. But as soon as we finished eating, he said, “So where’s that sun screen?”
“In the basket,” I replied, starting to move toward it.
“No. You lay down. I’ll get it. Actually,” he continued as he rummaged through the basket, “you wait on me a great deal. So this time I’m going to do all the work. You get to just lay there and relax.”
I had stretched out on my stomach, my head propped up on my elbows, while he searched. When he knelt by my side, he told me to lay flat, and pulled my arms down by my sides. Next I felt the familiar touch of liquid on my tush, but what followed was somehow different. First off, he was using both hands. But beyond that, it took me a bit longer to realize: he wasn’t being furtive.
As he covered my bottom with the oil (I had deliberately chosen it instead of lotion because it stays slippery longer), using both hands, it was as if he considered it two separate parts. There was no coyness about ‘spilling in the crack.’ To completely cover each hemisphere, his fingers glided the full length of the cleft, numerous times. Then he started on my thighs. As soon as he reached the inner side, I opened my legs for him — as far as I could with him kneeling so close. This time, as he reached the upper end, he didn’t shy away from contact with my sex. Of course, he didn’t actually oil it.
But he did thoroughly oil the crease where it joined the tops of my thighs — firmly and without rushing.
When that was done, he announced, “I may as well do your back while I’m at it.” And he proceeded to give me a marvelous massage. I was really grooving on the firm touch of his fingers. He traced every muscle on my back (with a reprise of my butt), my sides, shoulders, and neck. I was so relaxed from the waist up I could have drifted off to sleep right then. If I hadn’t been so excited from the waist down.
“Turn over!” His command shot through me with a jolt. I didn’t think I hesitated all that long, but he was soon barking, “Come on, come on. I haven’t got all day. I’ve got to oil your nipples — then I’ll do the rest of your front if you’d like.”
By that time, I was resettled on my back. Not exactly relaxed, but quiet. True to his word, he started on my nipples. It was really a wild sensation. After all the pinching and twisting, this was pretty tame stuff. He was making the same moves, but of course with a layer of oil, the result was more like teasing. It was funny though. While the rough stuff I was used to responding to seemed to make a mysterious connection directly to my sex, this treatment emphasized the sensitivity of the skin. It was very sensual.
So was the rest of his frontal massage. He treated my legs and pussy the same as he had from the rear, which added a bit to my excitement. But overall, he just kept me at a beautifully pleasant plateau. Within sight of the big O, but not right on the brink. He wound up with his hand resting possessively on my abdomen, with his little finger pressed against the top of my mound.
Finally he got to his feet, and muttered something about checking for signs of a mountain lion on the other side of the lake.
“Half an hour is all the sun you should have anyway,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll be back by 12:30.”
I was so wrapped up in my fantasy—that the massage was really foreplay and when he finished oiling my entire body, he would simply discard his jeans and start making love to me—I scarcely noticed when he left.
I told myself in romantic fervor that I wasn’t going to masturbate, after having Jamie’s hands in such intimate contact, after making such great progress toward my heart’s desire (I was sure we had), I was never going to make myself come ever again! I was looking forward to release from this tension, but only at Jamie’s hand, I vowed. Then within minutes, laying there soaking up the sun, the edge started to slip from my excitement and I started feeling that if I let this plateau of excitement fade, I’d be throwing away something that Jamie himself had given me.
So thinking of Jamie’s hands, I touched myself. No comparison. His hands were so big. And slippery. Of course! I poured a small puddle on my tummy, got both hands oiled up, and started on my nipples. It felt much better that way. Once I started, it wasn’t hard to recapture the fantasy. I quickly regained the plateau, and then re-enacted the conclusion of my “massage” the way it would have gone if I’d been in charge. My fingers were a poor substitute for Jamie, but I still had the most spectacular orgasm I’d ever experienced sans benefit of a burning bum. * * *
For two months I tried everything I could think of to get Jamie to make a move on me. I bumped and leaned and brushed against him in the most creative ways whenever I could. I continually invented new ways to bend and twist and reach, giving him the most enticing view I could imagine whenever I was naked in front of him. Which continued to be a bit longer every week. He almost always had a distinct bulge in his pants whenever we were together, and he had a telltale wet spot so often he finally quit trying to hide it.
In many ways, I could play him at will. I was soon able to make him put me over the chair whenever I felt like a little extra stimulation. On Saturday nights, he spent longer and longer massaging my bottom and thighs, with more and more “accidental” touching of my outer lips, in addition to his now-routine wet forays between them. But I still wasn’t able to entice him to openly feel me, or deliberately make me come.
In short, all my carefully planned efforts to seduce Uncle Jamie were, as Poppa used to say, “close, but no cigar.” It was a strange incident indeed that ultimately turned things around, that finally led to the sacrifice of my virginity on the altar of Jamie’s manhood. (I had seen that phrase in one of the confession magazines at the drug store, and those were the words that came to mind whenever I thought about my burning ambition that spring and summer.)
It was an incident as weird in its development as in its consequences...an incident I could never have staged even if I had conceived it. Here’s what happened...
One very hot day in early August, Jamie told me he was going over to help our neighbor install an upgrade for his inventory program. It was an hour’s drive each way, so I knew he’d be gone at least three hours, and I only had one quick chore to finish. I was feeling particularly horny that day, and as soon as he left, I decided I’d worry about the chore later and take care of my personal itch first.
Some “special treatment” was all that was in my mind, but I decided I had plenty of time to come up with something very special. So I headed for the barn. I hadn’t masturbated there since Jamie caught me “indulging myself” that first time.
I very seldom had this much time by myself, but in the back of my mind was the thought that it held abundant possibilities for setting up a fantasy scene. And of course there were so many odds and ends, so many sundry...things...that could become (or be imagined as) implements some resourceful master had devised to torture or tease or please...a helpless maiden.
Such were the images that had me so preoccupied as I approached the huge central barn that I scarcely noticed the darkening sky and distant thunder that heralded the arrival of a long-overdue cold front.
Stepping through the door, I waited for the pungent stillness to engulf me. But the thick impatient heat was quicker, assaulting my body with hot clammy hands like a thoughtless lover. With visions of a medieval torture chamber stirring my blood, I quickly shed my clothes and advanced into the “chamber” with my hands crossed behind my back as if bound.
Stepping up to a pair of ropes hanging from the rafters about two feet apart, I extended my arms as high as I could reach, grabbed hold and bent my knees until I was hanging as if strung up by my wrists. A couple of minutes was all I could take of that. It’s really hell on the shoulders.
Next I found a coil of nylon rope and started experimenting with binding up various parts of my body. I quickly discovered that you can’t do much about binding your limbs by yourself. So I concentrated on my torso, which was what I was interested in anyway. But the novelty quickly wore thin and it came to me with crystal clarity that whatever appeal there might be in bondage was not centered in ropes and knots and body parts, but in the relationship between the participants.
I wandered into Uncle Jamie’s workshop. One of the first things that caught my eye was a set of chisels for wood carving. It was the graduated sizes of the handles, smoothly rounded to fit the palm, that set my mind awhirl: a perfect little set of penises. Well not really perfect. But available. And once again I started trying to imagine what it would feel like to have Jamie’s actually inside me. I knew it had to be, if not ecstatic, at least... pleasant. But that was hard to keep in mind on those occasions when I had gingerly pretended that the latest in a series of slim, smooth, well-lubricated objects was about to be forced past that damn barrier.
I took the smallest chisel and started rubbing it idly along the already slippery avenue of Eros while I rummaged through the clutter on Jamie’s workbench. A package of miniature plastic clothes pins! Intrigued, I twirled the chisel handle to insinuate it between my lips and then squeezed my legs together to hold it so I could use both hands. I unclipped one of the pins from the card and, without even thinking, let it close slowly on my left nipple. The sensation was electric: sharp enough to get my attention without being excruciating. So I took a second one out and clipped it on my right nipple. I could feel the pre-orgasmic ripples start in the heart of my sex. .
Then I saw what looked like one of Jamie’s T-shirts sticking out of a drawer. I pulled it open and sure enough, it was. Carefully arranged to conceal…a whip! I was so startled that the chisel slipped to the floor, nearly stabbing me in the foot. Distracted, I took the clips off my nipples and didn’t even notice my receding excitement. “It must
be a whip,” I said nearly out loud. There was a roll of plastic lacing like we used to make lanyards and bracelets and stuff in craft class. But Jamie had made something like a cat-o’-nine-tails. I hesitantly picked it up and lashed it against my thigh. Again harder. And again. The plastic strands, maybe 12 or 15 of them, stung the skin. A lot. But they weren’t heavy enough to cause bruises or do any real damage.
I had a flash vision of Jamie attaching the clothes pins to my nipples and using the whip on my tenderest skin. As if to underscore my feelings, a low rumble of thunder sort of vibrated the barn. I hastily replaced the chisel and the clothes pins and carefully arranged the whip and T-shirt exactly as I had found them. I didn’t want to do anything to jinx my premonition. I felt as if even thinking about it too openly might somehow wash away the possibility that I was the object toward which Jamie had lavished so much preparation time and thought.
Or was I inventing the whole scenario? Was there some other, ordinary, explanation I was overlooking? To avoid such unsettling thoughts, I transferred my attention to the approaching storm. The wind and lightning were building rapidly. It was going to be a doozie.
Feeling more restless and dissatisfied than ever, I wandered into the livestock wing where our prize ram, Julio, was penned. He was gentle as a lamb—usually. That was one of his strongest assets. I entered the pen, as I had a million times before, to pet him and perhaps offer a treat. He was much livelier than usual and I suddenly remembered my lack of covering as he bumped me none too gently and started nosing my lower regions. Then I remembered that we had one ewe that had come in season a month and early. That’s why he was so agitated. Now he was sniffing the area of my recent attentions. Already half excited when I entered the pen, I almost came when his long, raspy tongue snaked out to probe roughly between my legs. But he quickly became more insistent and despite my curiosity, I decided it was time to bail.
The enclosure was a waist-high “fence” of smooth horizontal poles. Stepping on the bottom pole, I was just swinging a leg over the top pole when I felt his nuzzle slip between my legs, stopping me in mid motion. His tongue immediately took up where it had left off before. But in this position — with my back toward him, my fanny jutting out at a preposterous angle, and my legs wide apart — his tongue had a clear path from one end of my sex to the other. Tracing its way along the now thoroughly wet crevice, it seemed to linger deliciously between my cheeks. Between his direct stimulation and the excitement from my sense of flirting with danger, I could feel my climax building rapidly.
It was clear to me by now that Julio was not sexually aroused by my smell, only mildly interested. Maybe my love juice tasted salty to him. But in my new position, it was easy to imagine him trying to mound me like a ewe. That was the “threat” I was entertaining with mounting intensity when I was jarred by a brilliant flash, followed almost instantly by an ear-shattering thunder clap. The lights flickered once and were gone. Already skittish from the storm, Julio, with his muzzle jammed between my legs, jerked so hard when the thunder boomed that he lifted my hind-end clear off the floor.
I lunged forward, between the partition poles, to escape my “fate worse than death.” Of course, by the time I had climbed to “safety,” Julio was at the far end of the pen, ignoring me completely. Even though the danger on which I was building was all in my head, the adrenaline charging through my body was entirely real.
So, with my heart hammering my excitement right behind my throbbing nipples, I decided to finish up with a frontal assault: “Hand to cunt combat,” I thought to myself, feeling wonderfully wicked. And to add the last bit of spice, I imagined my captors were about to tie me in the pen, leaving me not only utterly and lewdly exposed, but also helpless to prevent myself being ravaged by the slavering beast. (Sorry, Julio!)
I retrieved a length of board leaning by the doorway and placed it across the poles forming the corner of the pen in the center of the room. The corner post went clear to the ceiling, so when I perched myself on my improvised seat, I could lean back against the post, with my legs dangling inside the pen. Playing out the scene in step-by-step detail in my head, I raised my arms and clasped the post above my head, imagining my wrists securely bound there with thick rope. Then I lifted my right leg over the pole extending to my right and imagined my ankle being bound tightly in place. Lifting my left leg to the opposite pole was much harder — there was nothing to push against. But eventually I had both ankles hooked over the rails so I was spread-eagled. Except I wasn’t spread-eagled enough to achieve the desired effect.
After much maneuvering, I managed to slide my board seat slightly forward, so my legs were drawn more than 90 degrees apart. Finally I had myself positioned perfectly. Just the right amount of tension and discomfort to help sustain the illusion without overwhelming it.
All my activity had seemed to capture Julio’s attention again, and he came trotting over. Rearing up on his hind legs, he gave my sex a quick whiff. Apparently it wasn’t appealing enough to be worth the effort and he went to searching for stray kernels in the far corner. But his mere presence bolstered the illusion.
I “released” one hand from the post and started reenacting the attack of Julio’s tongue on my sex. As the storm raged unabated, I brought my other hand down to work my nipples over. Every time the thunder barked, my torturers gave me a double whammy: a savage simultaneous jerk on one of my nipples and one of my nether lips. Getting carried away with this simulated torture, I jammed my middle finger against that pesky barrier in the center of my wide-open sex, and tensely awaited the next thunder bolt. When it came, I gave a reflexive thrust, and cried out loud as the sudden pain tore through my core. But before I could fully comprehend what had happened, a dark shape separated from the shadows near the doorway.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Jamie’s voice thundered as his body materialized in the next lightning flash.
I absolutely froze in shock-fright-shame-excitement, as he approached. Finally I managed to croak out the only thing I could think of in those humiliating circumstances, “How did you get back so soon?”
“Culvert washed out,” he answered, caught off guard. Then gruffly added, “Must have been God’s hand. Who knows what you might’ve gone and done if I’d taken any longer.”
I started to move my hands to gain some leverage so I could close my legs.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he barked. “Stay just like you are until I get back.” I could hear him rummaging around in the other room, and then came the distinctive hiss of a propane lantern. He returned, holding it high before him, ducked between the partition poles, and stopped a couple of paces in front of my wide-spread legs.
After an eternity of silent inspection, he stepped forward and snatched my hand away from my sex. “Holy Jehoshaphat, girl, are you starting to bleed or did you cut yourself?”
I hadn’t noticed the blood until then. There was certainly plenty of it on my hand and smeared between my legs. But even at a glance, I could tell it was already pretty much dried up.
“Well, Jenny? I’m waiting for an answer.”
“No?! No what?”
“No I’m not getting a period.” Somehow I managed to keep my voice level. “And no, I didn’t cut myself.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then the strangest look crossed his face, but after a moment, he regained his composure and snapped at me, “Don’t play games with me, Jenny.”
“Well, I’m not sure...exactly...”
“Stop this nonsense at once, young lady.” And then he added more gently, “You’re not usually so…devious. I believe you know exactly what happened. Exactly what you did. And why you screamed.”
I suddenly knew he had been watching me for a long time. And that it was silly of me not to be perfectly explicit... to make it clear to Jamie that a significant barrier to achieving my heart’s desire had been eliminated. I knew instinctively that Jamie would see it that way. Eventually. So I proceeded to describe, and demonstrate, exactly what I had done. I wasn’t too crazy about repeating the pain of the first thrust, but I was determined. I was going to slowly insert my middle finger, all the way to the knuckle, right in front of his eyes.
That thought was exciting enough that by the time I executed the move, I couldn’t believe how easily it slid in, with the merest hint of discomfort. But I was right about Jamie. I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. So I started to gently slide it in and out. But that was too much even for his fascination.
“Stop that now!” he shouted. “Don’t move a muscle. Stay just like you are until I get back.” At the doorway, he turned and added, “You must be punished where you have sinned,” and he left carrying the lantern. To be continued...
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<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/spanking/jennifers-tale-part-iv.aspx">Jennifer’s Tale, Part IV</a>