My own dearest Lizzie,
My heart leapt for joy when an envelope came bearing upon it your own unmistakable hand. I read your bold account of the good Sultan Ibrahim and his novel method of carriage propulsion! It is true, my sweet, there are young termagants like Elaine who, by every moral right, should be put to discipline of this kind. Almost all the educators and justices of England would agree with me in that.
By the same token, one respects a wife who is loyal to her husband and duties. Once she transgresses, however, is there any reason for trying to shield her from the ravishing of the world?
In my own small way, I too have had a victory over a recalcitrant girl. I speak of our young trollop Noreen. But what insolence still dwells in those hard, pale features and brown eyes.
The other night, Miss Martinet, aided by her staff, was awarding discipline to certain strapping young wenches like Noreen. The procedure for this is, indeed, singular. There is a long bench over which the girls kneel, presenting a row of tightly clad backsides. Their wrists are strapped to a rail on the far side, so that they kneel over the bench on all fours. Lastly, a long screen is lowered from a rail to the backs of their waists, so that they cannot see who stands behind them.
That night it was Miss Martinet who walked down the row. She indicated the fate of each delinquent, for the benefit of the grooms, by chalking on the tightly clad seat-cheeks. Thus a number chalked on the left cheek indicated strokes to be given by the person responsible. A number on the other half showed the preliminary to be given by a groom with a gym-shoe heel.
I vowed to curb Noreen's ill-mannered conduct. So, as Miss M. walked down the line, I watched closely. She strolled up and down the row several times. Pausing she applied the chalk to the robust young cheeks of Maggie's seat and inscribed the numbers "20" and "12." A moment more and she drew "30" and "12" where a pan- of tight, grey pants was strained over the full, young cheeks of Susan Underwood's bottom. Sue, with her soft, blond beauty, was a girl whom it would be a pleasure to get into trouble. So it went on until the tour of duty was complete. To my dismay, however, Noreen was un-chalked!
The remedy for that was simple. The curtain had been arranged so that the culprits could not see who was chalking them. It was also intended to prevent a groom with a grudge from adding to the punishment of a girl with whom he had a quarrel. In this case, however, Noreen was easily identifiable. The collar length of her dark hair was concealed as she lay over the bench. Yet, in kneeling over it, she offered an unmistakable alternative profile. The pale jeans seat was taut across her firm, statuesque buttocks, the central seam drawn taut and deep into her arse-crack. The lower softness of her bum-cheeks almost closing over the seam could belong to only one of the miscreants.
I stood there, as if I might Miss M., or whoever had been deputed to this task. Then I ran a hand over the thin, taut denim, which sheathed Noreen's backside. As I did so, she caught her breath, knowing that she was about to be marked with the chalk which lay conveniently to hand. Under my stroking hand I could feel the tensing of her buttocks and her taut, young thighs.
Perhaps it was because she had believed herself safe, having escaped the weekly reckoning, that she now reacted with such consternation. I ran a hand between the rear opening of her thighs and gave her cunt-pouch a good feel through the tight cloth. I continued so long that I began to feel Noreen moistening herself in the clinging pants despite her predicament.
I drew my hand away and left her in suspended animation, so near and yet so far from her fulfilment. My hands were now busy again with the firm, sturdy cheeks of Noreen's arse, stroking, parting, and thumbing. She pushed back impatiently with her hips but, much as she urged it, she could not quite bring herself to beg for the masturbation to continue.
Then I took the chalk, and she was tense and still so that she would be able to feel the shape of the numbers written. On one cheek, I wrote "12" for the groom with the hard-heeled rubber gym-slipper. Noreen cried out, "No!" in a protest at this preliminary discipline. Then, on the other cheek, I chalked a "36." She cried out in alarm, for she had good reason to know what that would mean.
Greatly looking forward to the night ahead, I now tiptoed away to my room and awaited events. I sat in the easy chair, reading the fancies of the Sporting Times and smoking a thoughtful pipe, as if I had been there all the evening.
Presently I was aware of a disturbance in the next room, to which the grooms had taken my culprit. Noreen still displayed her firm-faced indifference, no more than a flick of her dark fringe or a stare from her impudent brown eyes. They had, I think, held her over a tall stool with her pants undone and pulled down to her ankles.
From the gasping and protests I concluded that one of them was fiddling with her as she was secured. They could not, of course, unbutton themselves and do what they wanted in this situation. Yet it was impossible to believe that they would not play "dirty girl" between her legs with their fingers and between the cheeks of her backside.
The laughter and smiling stopped. One groom spat lightly on the rubber gym-shoe heel. There was a whack! and a smack! To judge from the sharp intake of breath, it had stung her hard, for her pale bottom- cheeks were jumping and quivering like spanked jelly under the impacts.
One could tell that Noreen was biting her lip not to cry out, as if seeking to deny the groom his triumph over her. He, on the other hand, was grinning back at her, sensing his victory in her tensing seat-cheeks and loud, uneven breath. She held out as the gym-slipper tanned her twice more, and then let out a long gasp.
"Now the first cheek all over again, Noreen," smiled the groom. "No, don't squirm your seat like that, you young trollop! We'll see to it that Mr. Charles's cane has something to work on!"
I gathered that even when the discipline was finished there was further hostility. A sound of struggling was caused by one groom working the singlet up in order to play with Noreen's tits. The other positively could not draw his fingers away from between her legs and bum-cheeks.
At last they brought her in, wearing only the white singlet, which ended at her waist. In the customary manner, she was made to stand in the corner with her back to the room like a spanked schoolgirl in disgrace. She was not permitted to speak until spoken to, nor to move until ordered to do so. I was to keep her there in that posture until it was convenient for me to complete the discipline. Her wrists were strapped together in front of her, but she was not otherwise restrained.
So I sat there and read the racing column over and over while I smoked a pipe and drank another glass of hock and seltzer. Or so it appeared. In truth, for the next half hour or more, my eyes peeped over the edge of the Sporting Times. I simply could not draw my gaze from the deliciously provoking view which a young slut like Noreen offers in this situation. To keep her waiting was also a means of heightening the drama-comedy or tragedy, according to one's view. They had left the stout, leather belt of her riding jeans strapped tightly 'round her waist, narrowing her there and emphasising the proud swell of her hips and seat.
What was rather appealing was the way in which she stood with head bowed, the dark hair just lifted clear of her collar at the back. I was able to admire her strong and straight young back, the firm robust young thighs, the cheeks of her well-made bottom, still blushing deeply from her tanning and marked in several places by the muddy print of the gym-shoe heel.
I noticed that, as a half-hour ended, Noreen grew increasingly restive. How shall I describe it? Her thighs seemed to shift and tense together a little. The cheeks of her bottom pressed together spasmodically, reducing her arse-cleft to a thin, tight line.
I stood up and walked across to reprimand such wilful disobedience. "You were ordered to stand still, Noreen! Since you seem to find such difficulty in obeying a simple command, we must enforce that instruction with the cane! Perhaps that will cure you of fidgeting. Bend over! Right over! Do you hesitate, you young slut? Obey the command! At once!"
Rather awkwardly, as it seemed to me, and breathing audibly, Noreen bent to touch her toes. I went down on one knee behind her and my hands made a brief but intimate examination of her strapping young backside. Then I turned away to take the cane from its cupboard.
As I did so, I heard from behind me the sound of a loud and vulgar raspberry. I swung 'round. I must admit that Noreen, her mouth open in alarm, did not look like a girl who had just pressed her tongue between her lips and blown off that street-urchin rudeness. Yet I can hardly believe that my ears deceived me at such close range! Moreover, the young strumpet certainly showed open defiance. Though her pale, firm-featured face was suffused with consternation, she had straightened up and was standing with one hand pressed to her behind. I had certainly given no permission for such a change in posture.
"Very well, Noreen," I said quietly, "if you will have it so, you will. I should very much like to give your backside a long session with the pony-lash tonight. Unfortunately, such extreme discipline must be approved by Miss Martinet. Be assured I shall apply to her in the morning. Tonight you shall have the cane."
In order that I might enjoy the retribution fully, I thought it prudent to require her to pull her pants up and to have her escorted to the stable-block, well out of earshot. Would I not be approved of by those passing admirers who had seen the strapping young wench standing slack-hipped as a whore? When the grooms had secured her on all fours over the padded birching stool, would not those admirers have stood agog at the same sight? The pale-blue jeans seat was splitting tight over the strong, well-made cheeks of Noreen's backside. A flick of her dark hair and she was staring back with the same firm-faced impudence which had greeted their admiration of her in this pose.
I undid her at the waist and pushed the pants to her knees, adding one more strap to pinion her sturdy legs together just at the base of her thighs. My finger teased the rear pout of her vaginal lips. My hands fondled the pale, sturdy swell of her bottom-cheeks. My fingers fiddled remorselessly between those cheeks for several minutes, despite the tensing and shifting of her seat.
"Thirty-six strokes of the bamboo across your behind, Noreen. That is your allotted penalty for a week's misconduct. After that, we must add something for your disgraceful conduct in the other room."
Now, under the level fringe of dark hair, her eyes filled with dismay. Yet I had endured enough of her impudence and was resolved.
"You fear you will not be able to bear it, Noreen? Fortunately, the choice is not yours. You will be made to bear it all the same."
She could not take her eyes off the long, rippling bamboo. I was determined to subdue her quickly. She gave a gasp of fright as I measured the first stroke very low, across the light creases which divided Noreen's statuesque buttocks and thighs, a supremely sensitive area.
"Six strokes in succession across there, Noreen, to teach you manners!"
The first lash of the bamboo across that path made her fingers clench and thighs press hard together. A flat smack! of the cane across the same track brought a half-suppressed cry. With wicked but righteous accuracy, I landed two more on top of those. Noreen screamed as the last two whipped the swelling bamboo print of the others.
"And two more across there, Noreen. Just where the edge of the chair comes. Remember this when next you are tempted to be insolent."
Twice more I caught her there. Noreen's bottom-cheeks were writhing, as if she were seated bare on a red-hot saddle. What a tale of woe might be read in that hard young face now; Noreen's tears were brimming and coursing down. I touched the cane across the crowns of her buttocks, where she was so broad. "Eight strokes here, Noreen. Right where you sit." Wide-eyed and wild-mouthed, she made the rafters ring. I allowed her a pause after the second batch. Then I put my lips to her ear. "And now, Noreen, your thirty-six." At nineteen, Noreen is so strongly built I quite thought she would break the straps in her frenzy at learning this. But they held her. I continued to murmur to her-for my bark was to prove worse then my bite-explaining the leniency of such discipline. There were countries in the world, I told her, where such insolence by a slave girl to her master would be rewarded by one last night. There, too, she would be
on all fours, though strapped down astride the traditional bench, her thighs conveniently parted and rump-cheeks spread. The grave-faced vizier would watch the two burly, lion-clothed minions during the long night. The whips and the implements of the brazier would be eagerly employed upon Noreen's bottom there, no less than between her thighs. Monstrous devices would impale her both ways. Without remorse, dawn would bring the belly skewer to nineteen-year-old Noreen and the leather collar would be tightened inexorably. The final scene would reveal Noreen tumbled arse-upwards in a dark pit, the food for predators.
Such words do more good than all the canes in the world. With the thrashing at last finished, I undid the straps which held her ankles and legs.
If you imagine her lashing back at me with her feet kicking wildly, you are quite wrong. Noreen set her knees wide apart with frantic haste, thrust her hips back, and begged for love in the humblest and most pleading terms. She sobbed for it, if only as a temporary respite from correction. What could I do? Laying down the cane I knelt behind her and unbuttoned myself. Then my stiffness parted the way through her love-pouch from behind and into her warm, receptive depths. Gently at first, then harder, we rode together until the bomb of passion burst and I flooded her most copiously.
How she feared now that the caning might resume! Lowering her shoulders and straight dark hair, she raised her seat and begged for love another way. When I said that she deserved to be caned for suggesting such a thing, she pleaded all the harder, most vulgarly offering me her "arse" and promising "a good time" with it.
My finger soaped her tight portal of Sodom. "Too late to recant now, Noreen!" I said, smiling at her. "Will you still think it worth the excitement when I cane you for this afterwards? Now lie more tightly over the scroll."
I did not, of course, punish her as I threatened. Taking her breasts in my hands as the guide, I rode Noreen's arse in the grand manner, spending copiously inside it. When it was over, she knew that the caning might follow. I could scarcely believe her next request. I undid her and staggered to the chair, from which I have not had the strength to rise since being squeezed from Noreen's rear. Yet I gave my consent to her suggestion. As I pen these last lines, she kneels before me and takes in her mouth my stiffening… My darling Lizzie, I can write no further… Ah, Noreen, you delicious young whore! Your tongue-use it again like that! Ah!…
… A leather strap round your throat, Noreen, that I may guide you by its reins… Rise now, turn, and bend… Sit upon the love-lance… Deep in your behind. Noreen!… Move up and down gently… And thus, my sweet Lizzie… Harder, Noreen, you young bitch!
Believe me, Lizzie, your own adoring Charles.