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Sophie and her Mother

Miles is disciplined by an old school friend and her mother.
I had often wondered what became of Sophie Dupree, and was absolutely delighted when her name popped up on Facebook. I sat back in my office chair and memories of a wonderful summer came flooding back.

It was our final year of school when boys and girls were mixed for the first time; eighteen year olds full of shyness and bravado. No one would have described Sophie as the most beautiful girl in the class. To be honest, she was more pretty than beautiful. I remembered the heady combination of Sophie’s posture, manners, voice and the choice of language she used. I think her mother may have been ballet teacher, which must have contributed to her grace and style.

I never met Sophie’s mother, but I will never forget our first conversation on the telephone when I called to ask about a homework assignment.

“Hello, Ascot 555-5562,” a voice as crisp as a BBC news reader answered.

“Hello, may I speak to Sophie please?”

“May I ask whose calling?”

“Miles, Ma’am.” I don’t know why on earth I called her ma’am; I had never called anyone ma’am in my life, but it just seemed to be the natural response to her tone.

“Well Miles, I am afraid Sophie is being disciplined and cannot come to the phone.”

“Oh… sorry… ”
I didn’t know what to say. “Should I call back later?”

“No, Miles. Sophie will be sent to bed after her punishment.”

“Okay, I shall see her at school tomorrow.”



Did I hear or understand that correctly? Punished and sent to bed! It sounded like she was being given a spanking or something.

The next day I arrived at school early, hoping to catch Sophie before class. She was a little quieter than normal; her pretty face blushed as we made small talk. Did her mother tell her I had called? Was she waiting for me to say something? Nothing was said and as the days then weeks started to pass, my fantasy of Sophie Dupree having her pert bottom spanked grew stronger.

The summer was drawing to an end and along came the realisation that we would all go off towards our respective universities. These were the best of times, with a seemingly endless string of parties where we talked into wee hours of the morning. Sophie and I had become quite close, not in a romantic way but as part of the same small circle of friends. To be truthful, I was far too afraid of risking our friendship by asking her out.

When we found ourselves alone after one such party, I rather awkwardly broached the subject of the telephone conversation. After her initial shock and embarrassment, Sophie opened up and the full story came out.

Sophie and her mother had a very close and loving relationship with no secrets. Sophie was a bright girl and had always been a straight A student; that was until the results of her mock 'A' Levels showed a clear change in direction. Her mother was more concerned than angry, putting it down to exam nerves. In a girly heart to heart that followed, Sophie confessed that she had not been concentrating on her work and became distracted. Sheepishly, Sophie confessed to an overwhelming compulsion to masturbate at every opportunity when privacy allowed.

Sophie said that she couldn’t remember who came up with the initial idea, as it was one of those conversations where one suggestion built on another, but from that day on Friday night was deemed Masturbation Night.

All would be done to make these nights as special as possible. An array of toys was purchased, including special little balls which Sophie could insert as soon as she returned from school. Sophie would feel the excitement mount as she ate her evening meal and would often be fidgeting on her seat by the time she politely asked to leave the table.

Sophie would skip up the stairs to her bedroom and her private pleasure while her mother cleared the table and washed the dishes. After a relaxing bath, Sophie would come back downstairs to watch weepy romantic movies with her mother over hot chocolate.

Masturbation at all other times was prohibited. If Sophie confessed to unauthorised pleasure, she would receive twelve of the very best on her bottom with a tawse her mother had been given by a student’s mother. If Sophie was caught masturbating or incriminating evidence was found, the punishment would be even harsher. For this purpose, a school cane was obtained from a specialist shop in London. They both knew that honesty would not be an issue, as Sophie would never lie to her mother when questioned. Mrs. Dupree was not a tyrant and Sophie could always ask for what became known as a ‘private moment’ if she had been well behaved and was up-to-date with her studies.

Sophie recalled an occasion where she couldn’t resist the urge to comfort herself through the fabric of her cotton panties after being sent to bed following a belting after confessing. The caning on her already welted bottom was so severe that poor Sophie had to miss swimming and netball practice for the two weeks it took the cuts and bruises to fade.

Panties embroidered with each day of the week were purchased, which Sophie had to leave on when she went to bed and give to her mother before she had her morning shower. Being caught with the wrong panties resulted in an automatic spanking, for which her mother favoured an old hairbrush.

I think now that Sophie had started to open up to me she just wanted to get her secret out. She even shared the embarrassment of having to go to ask her mother for a clean pair of panties after not wiping her bottom properly.

As we talked through the night more details emerged. The tawse was always applied while Sophie knelt on the bed with her knees parted as wide as possible before hugging a pillow and resting her head on the mattress. Sophie never in so many words admitted the punishment aroused her, but told me that her mother would always place a towel between her knees. My mind’s eye pictured a perfect little anus and a swollen vulva slightly parted with a clear, sticky strand slowly falling towards the towel.

The strappings themselves were religiously consistent: three from the left, three backhands from the right and the same again. There were a few accidents when these punishments were first introduced where the tails of the tawse caught the delicate folds of Sophie’s sex or bruised her little anus. Sophie said that she would scream and wail but her mother would simply apologise profusely and then repeat the stroke properly before completing the rest of the dozen.

Once, half-way through a strapping, Sophie asked if she could be excused to go to the toilet. Her mother replied, “Of course sweetheart,” but on her return restarted her punishment from the beginning. Sophie blushed as she admitted soaking the towel between her knees on a several occasions.

That was the last time I saw Sophie but the images were etched in my mind. We chatted on the phone a couple of times from university but our conversations were awkward and we simply ended up going our separate ways.

To cut a long story short, two weeks after clicking the ‘Add Friend’ button, I found myself sitting opposite the fragrant Sophie Dupree in a quiet restaurant. We had a pleasant meal, caught up on the last twenty years and reminisced about the old school. The subject of discipline never came up but I didn’t really mind as it was just lovely to see Sophie again.

After walking Sophie home we continued chatting over coffee at her kitchen table. For some reason my eyes were drawn to the open door of her washing machine and the white cotton inside. Halfway through a sentence, Sophie suddenly announced, “Sorry! I have to go for a wee.”

As Sophie danced out of the room, I couldn’t resist having a closer look in the washing machine. Then drew out a little pair of white cotton panties by the lace trim. Glancing in the direction where Sophie had left, I turned the cotton triangle inside out and studied the gusset. There was what resembled a crinkled cream-coloured petal still slightly tacky to the touch. The aroma was simply intoxicating. I couldn’t resist carefully pulling on the trim around the legs to tease the gusset apart so the delicious petal could be loosened and then gently ripped from the cotton. It came away in one piece and I placed it on my tongue like a communion wafer. As the petal returned to its natural sticky state, I caught Sophie’s reflection in the kitchen window and froze.

As I turned to face her, she turned away to the wall.

“I think you had better go,” she said quietly.

I looked down at the wad of cotton now folded in my hand and read the single word stitched into material. ‘Tuesday’.

Fool! Fool! Fool! Idiot! Fool! What had I done? Poor Sophie. I had spoiled everything.

After a restless night I picked up the phone and called.

“Sophie, I am so so sorry.”

“This is Celia, Sophie’s mother, I think we need to have a little chat so you had better come round straight away.”

Celia Dupree opened the door and ushered me in past a quiet Sophie who was sat in the lounge. Mrs. Dupree was an elegant lady who had matured gracefully; there was no doubt where Sophie got her looks from.

I was told to sit at the kitchen table. As my back was to the lounge, I couldn’t see Sophie and was partly relieved by this. Mrs. Dupree took a seat opposite and looked down at the unmistakeably identified panties on the table between us. I couldn’t tell whether I was blushing or white with the blood drained from my face; I had never felt so humiliated.

“My daughter is extremely upset,” Mrs. Dupree began. “She was so looking forward to meeting you again and is now very disappointed. I need to ask how you feel towards Sophie?”

“I adore her and I am so sorry I have ruined things...” I started to blabber.

Mrs. Dupree raised her hand to stop me.

“Lack of self-control is far too common these days and not just with young men.”

I think I may have seen her eyes briefly flicker towards Sophie.

“Your choice is quite simple, you may apologise, leave and never contact Sophie again or you can let me resolve this unfortunate incident here and now?”

“Mrs. Dupree, I am so ashamed and I will do absolutely anything to make it better and...”

Once more Mrs. Dupree raised her hand and cut me short.

“Sophie, come here please!”

“Sophie, as you know I have never punished you when angry and have always maintained that discipline should be dispensed when in full control of one’s emotions. Today I shall make an exception. I will take Miles upstairs and give him our standard punishment for loss of self-control, after which you will cane him. You will cane him until you no longer have anger, feel Miles has atoned sufficiently and, most of all, you have forgiven him.”

I felt a little glimmer of hope as I heard Sophie reply, “Yes! Thank you, Mummy.”

“Miles! Upstairs with me!”

As we arrived in Sophie’s bedroom, I had the image of Sophie being in a similar position all those years ago. Mrs. Dupree slipped off her dress but her modesty was retained with her 1950’s style panti-girdle.

“Honestly! Don’t look so shocked, Miles,” she said. “I am only making sure I can get a decent swing.”

Without waiting to be asked, I removed my shoes and socks, then my trousers.

I was told to remove my underpants and kneel on the duvet with my legs apart; it was clear that the former ballet teacher was not impressed by my lack of mobility.

I had seen a tawses before in adult shops, even picked one up out of curiosity and tested it against my palm. This soft leather ‘toy’ had no resemblance to the strap Celia Dupree was now holding, which was around an inch wide and good quarter inch thick. Mrs. Dupree explained the markings, the stamp of the manufacturer and the letter ‘H’ which signified that it was deemed Hard. As I felt the solid tips of both tails in my fingers. I realised I was not going to get off lightly.

To my dismay, Mrs. Dupree put the strap aside, explaining that it was the one she used on Sophie and that I needed something more severe.

“I always wondered if I would have the opportunity to use this,“ Mrs. Dupree said as she passed me a long package wrapped in brown greased paper. This was so much heavier than the first and was stamped with three letters ‘XXH.’ I didn’t need to ask what they signified.

My head was pushed down onto the pillow and I felt open and exposed. I was genuinely frightened and all thoughts of Sophie had gone from my mind.

The start was announced by a curt, “Twelve strokes! Count!”

I got the words, “One Ma’am” out before the pain hit me.

The second stroke silenced me for a while as I came to terms with the solid tips sinking into my right cheek. Eventually I managed to get the “Two, Ma’am!” out, closely followed by “Three, Ma’am!”

Celia walked around to my right and measured the leather across my buttocks before a fierce backhand took my breath away. I managed the next two quite well; perhaps she was feeling a little sympathy and didn’t strike as hard.

I was now half way through and Mrs. Dupree returned to my left. The tips of the tawse struck the soft skin around my anus like bullets. I lost all composure, jumped from the bed and squatted down to nurse my wound. Shaking my head in disbelief, I looked at Mrs. Dupree for a response but she simply waited impassively until I managed to get back into position.


“Eight... Ma’am!”

I was aware of Celia Dupree’s breath on my cheek as she whispered, “Sorry Miles, we are back at one again.“

God knows how I managed to endure the next twelve strokes but somehow I made it to the end.

We returned downstairs to see two foot stools positioned in the middle of the lounge across which was balanced a fierce looking cane of smoked wood.

“You don’t want to mark your new blouse, darling.”

“Of course Mummy, sorry.”

Moments later Sophie was in her bra, tan tights and white panties; I could just make out the word Thursday.

Celia Dupree was still very much in control of the proceedings, giving clear instructions.

“Over you go, Miles!”

“Remember, Sophie, don’t stop until you are sure you have completely forgiven him.”

“Start off with six from each side and strike as hard as you can.”

Celia took my hands and whispered in my ear, “Be strong my darling and it will soon be over.”

Nothing could have prepared me for that first cut of the cane; my body tensed and I was frightened to relax again. The next blow came down on my tight muscles and by the third I simply let myself flop. I must have been squeezing the life out of Mrs. Dupree’s hands.

Once the first dozen were complete I became aware of Mrs. Dupree gently rubbing my shoulder, “It’s okay,” she whispered and I felt safe in her hands. Looking up to her daughter with a gentle smile she announced, “We are ready for the next twelve darling.”

Her choice of the word we was comforting; it was as if she was sharing my burden. The next dozen were easier to bare and I was holding but no longer squeezing Mrs. Dupree’s hand.

There was then silence for several minutes and the respite was delicious. Mrs. Dupree gave my hands a little squeeze before nodded to her daughter.

My shoulders started to rock, tears began to flow and by the end of the dozen I was inconsolably weeping.

There was no break the next time. I just heard Mrs. Dupree say, “Carry on darling.”

My sobs became louder and another twelve had been completed.

Finally I heard Sophie’s voice say, “I think he’s had enough Mummy.”

The wave of relief just sent me off sobbing again. Mrs. Dupree rubbed my shoulders and kissed the back of my head. I felt safe, even when she said, “Okay darling just give him one last set to make sure.”

I can’t remember how these felt. I only remember sobbing my way through them and the sense of relief that my punishment was at an end.

I was slowly helped up and able to look at Sophie for the first time; her eyes too were soft with tears. Neither of us could speak. Her lips tightened, she shook her head, and we embraced.

I was placed over the stool again but this time Sophie was holding my hands and rubbing my shoulders as her mother dressed my wounds.

My breathing had returned to normal and I had stopped sobbing when I became aware of Mrs. Dupree talking to Sophie again.

“All forgiven?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Thighs, I think.”

“No, Mummy! He has had more than enough.”

But I don't think Celia Dupree was asking a question.

I was helped up again and once my legs had stopped shaking. I found myself standing on a low stool, painfully aware of how I was exposing myself to the two ladies.

Mrs. Dupree rummaged around and returned with a most severe looking leather strap; unlike the tawse, this one looked more like an old luggage strap.

I was taken aback by Mrs Dupree’s next question, “How many would you like, Miles?”

I couldn’t answer and just looked at her in disbelief; disbelief that Mrs. Dupree was going to flay my thighs and disbelief that I was being asked to decide how severely.

Alter what seemed like an age, but was probably only a minute, Mrs. Dupree spoke again, “How many, Miles?”

I opened my mouth to say six, but in that fraction of a second between my brain sending the signal, I glanced at Sophie and the words “Eighteen please,” came out. I wanted to correct the mistake but was unable to speak.

Mrs. Dupree took control once more. “Sophie, please gag him and hold him clear.”

I watched Sophie whisper something to her mother and then put her skirt on before removing her underwear. She folded her panties with the gusset outermost and squatted and wiped herself with them as if she had just been to the lavatory.

The panties were placed in my mouth and I clenched the cloth between my teeth, conscious of the sweet nectar squeezed onto my tongue. Sophie took the head of my flaccid penis and stretched it out so the skin was taught before firmly gripping the shaft and pulling it up towards my belly. I turned my head and looked into Sophie’s soft eyes.

Mrs. Dupree exhaled like a Wimbledon tennis player and the pain started. Sophie gripped me tighter. Tears rolled down my cheeks and my thighs burned as stroke upon stroke landed.

Sophie and I never broke eye contact.

End of Chapter 1

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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