Stories

Red Riding Hood

red riding

The shrilling of the phone broke her train of thought. She was struggling to get going on her essay and another interruption was the last thing she needed. She glanced at the clock – jeez, 10pm already – who’s calling at this hour? She picked up the handset and frowned. “Why are TrustForce Alarms calling me?” she wondered. She stabbed the Talk button. “Hello, Rebekkah Redmoor, who’s calling?”

“Good evening Ms Redmoor. This is TrustForce Alarm monitoring service. We have an alert from Mrs Forsyth. We called her home but got no reply. This number is listed as our emergency contact.” The caller was polite and efficient.

“Yeah, that’s Grannie. Is there a problem? She’s probably asleep. Her alarm is always going off. What d’you want me to do?”

“Ms Redmoor, we require a positive confirmation of an incident before we can contact the police. We have had several false calls from this residence recently. Is there anyone able to investigate?”

“What? No. I’m here on my own. You want me to go out in the middle of the night to see if there’s an intruder before you send the police? No friggin’ way!”

“Miss Redmoor, excuse me for asking, but are you over the age of majority?”

“Yes, I’m 21”

“Well then we do require you to confirm the report. If we dispatch police to another false arlam then Ms Forsyth will be charged the cost and we will have to terminate her monitoring service. I’m sure that’s not what you would want for your Grandmother, is it?”  His tone had changed. Still polite, but now with an assertive, authoritative air like her father. “There is no need to put yourself in any danger Miss, but we do need to know this is not another false alert. If there is the slightest reason to suspect anything untoward you can call the police directly and avoid any confrontation.”

Reluctantly, Rebekkah said she would check, and hung up. She stood up from her desk and glanced outside. “Great,” she thought, “It’s snowing.” She considered her options. Grannie had no cell phone, and they said they’d already called the house. She could call her parents, but they would be seriously pissed. This was their anniversary and they had taken off for a romantic weekend, leaving her at home with the dogs. At 21 she was certainly more than capable, and they trusted her to deal with things responsibly. That came with the territory as a Redmoor.

With no alternatives, she trudged to the kitchen to winter-up, donning her red Canada Goose jacket, winter boots and gloves. She pulled a red toque over her curly auburn hair. She was about to step into the night when she felt eyes on her back. She turned to see Wolfie straing back at her, his white fangs catching the light as he panted in anticipation. “Might as well kill two birds,” she thought. She whistled to the hound. “Wolfie, come on.”

Together they headed out into the evening snowstorm. She tugged the fur collar tighter as a squall whipped shards of snow at her face. Wolfie didn’t seem to notice – to the Malamute this was like a summer’s day. Grannie’s home was behind her own home. It had always been her very own Hanzal and Gretel cottage in the woods. In summer she would cut through the back woods and pop out on Grannie’s doorstep, but in winter she took the longer route by road.

They trudged down the lane, passing the vacant lot being cleared for another new house. With her head down, she almost smacked into a truck parked opposite Grannie’s driveway. She cursed as she stomped past. Glancing inside she didn’t see anyone, just the typical junk of a forest worker’s truck – logs in the bed, chains hanging off the guard rails, the axe rack, empty, across the back window.

Reaching the house, Rebekkah saw that there was a dim light glowing behind the curtained room to the right – Grannie’s bedroom. “She’s in bed!” she muttered to herself, “Old biddy’s probably turned her hearing aid off.”

She stepped up to the door and tried the knob. She wasn’t surprised to find it open. She spoke under her breath. “One of these days, Grannie, there really will be an intruder back here. Can’t trust anyone today you know. Just lock the damn door!”

She opened the door and stepped inside, banging her boots clear of snow. She left Wolfie outside – the big dog would just shake as soon as he got indoors and she didn’t want to spend the rest of her evening cleaning up after him.

“Grannie, you awake?” Rebekkah called. She stepped towards the front bedroom.

No reply.

“You okay, Grannie? The alarm company called, said they couldn’t reach you,” Rebekkah called out.

A voice spoke, “Oh, you know,” the replying voice wavered. Grannie’s voice sounded hoarse – maybe she had a cold?

Rebekkah moved into the bedroom and reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. “Grannie, did a bulb go?”

A hand grabbed at her wrist and yanked her into the room. She was spun around so that her back was to her attacker. The man was strong, and smelt of wood and sweat. His encircling arms pinned her. She felt his breath on her neck. “My, what a pretty little thing we have here,” he breathed. He held her tight with one strong arm and slipped his free hand inside her coat. He grabbed a handful of her breast through her sweater, squeezing and groping her painfully. “Maybe not such a little girl either,” he breathed, continuing to maul her chest.

Rebekkah flicked the glove off her hand and smashed her nails into the back of his encircling hand. The shock was enough for him to release his grip enough for her to spin free. He grabbed her again, face to face this time. He forced her backwards, towards the bed. She felt the bed behind her knees. The certain knowledge of his intentions spurred her again, and she pushed back just enough to allow her to bring her knee up hard and fast, smashing into his groin. He roard and fell back. She kicked him this time, smashing her boot into his hands which were now clutching at his wounded pride. With him doubled over and temporarily incapacitated, she made her escape.

The man recovered quickly, protected somewhat by his woodcutter gear and the adrenaline coursing through him.  He stumbled after her and grabbed her just as she started down the steps from the porch. Pinning her once more, he snarled at her, “You like it rough? I’ll show you rough.” He lifted her bodily off her feet. As he turned her back into the house, he stopped. Standing between him and the door was a huge beast – it looked like a wolf. The animal bared its teeth and gave a guttural growl, then leapt at the man.

He dropped Rebekkah to fight off the beast. Wolfie sank his teeth into the man’s arm and shook him like a tug toy.

“Good boy, Wolfie. Hold him there,” said Rebekkah. She took Wolfie’s leash and quickly bound the woodcutter, hand and feet.

Rebekkah stared down at the restrained man. “Yeah, I like it rough, but I prefer bondage, and I like to be in charge. Now, where shall we begin?”

 

Two sides to a story

Catherine Clarke over at Shameful Desires asked for a writing prompt recently, and I gave her a final sentence. The very erotic tale she told deserved a counter-view, so I present here the Boss’s view of the events of that day…

image

Today did not start well, to put it lightly, yet it ended in a way I could never have imagined.

I spent my first hour having my balls chewed by Miss Fitzwilliam, our noble General Manager and part-time despot. She came to us from the world of Education, and we’ve never been allowed to forget it. She likes to think we are all still students in short pants, I am sure. Every time I visit her office it feels like I’m back at my private school, about to drop my pants and assume the position. Today was no different. Month end reports showed a drop in all the key measures for the Division and she was taking it all very personally. I swear, this time she was one step short of ripping my dick off and shoving it up my arse. Fair enough, I know the results were off, but it’s a tough economy and I’m not the only one working here. Foolishly, I tried to tell her as much. She loomed over me (I’m not short, but she’s a good six-footer).

“Lack of focus,” she roared, inches from my face. “You run a slack ship,” she bellowed. I winced as I caught scent of her breakfast burrito. “It is high time we saw some APPLICATION!” She punctuated this last assessment by slapping a wooden ruler hard on her desk. I am absolutely certain she imagined my behind under that ruler as she punctuated her vitriol with smacks to the desk until the wood gave out and fractions flew in all directions. She looked down, puzzled at the shard remaining in her hand.  She took that as the end of our morning chat, and turfed me out with a final rebuke.

“If we were 20 years ago at Saint Julian’s, you would be carrying the marks of my wrath on your buttocks for many days, MARK MY WORDS. You are a pathetic apology for a manager. Get your house in order or so help me, then next time, it really will be your arse on the line!”

I was getting a coffee an hour later, still stewing over Fitzgerald and the patent unfairness of it all. Her stinging words had taken me right back to my school days.

I had been set up as a prank by my classmates. Someone had slipped a tiny sheet of equations into my pencil case before a test. Miss Greensmith saw it and sent me straight to the Head. He had bawled me out just like Fitzgerald had, but instead of slapping a ruler on the desk, he had slashed his cane six times across my trouserless buttocks, punctuating each swipe with an assessment of my worthless future as a cheat and a liar. I carried his mental chastisement for far longer than his physical one, and the chaps certainly had a field day when they saw my purple stripes in the changing rooms next morning.

These parallel injustices were playing in my mind when in strolled Miss Clarke, a half hour late and tottering on heels more suited to a nightclub than the work place.

“There’s my problem,” thought I, “There’s where my ‘lack of productivity lies’. Never done a hard day’s work in her life!” I took in her white blouse straining against the force of her out-thrust breasts, and the expanse of toned thigh revealed when she bent to stow her bag by her desk, her too-short summer skirt riding up as she did so. I swear she was an inch away from showing her panties – if she even wore any!

“Women like her, they use their sex to get on, then complain about women’s rights,” I remember thinking. “That woman radiates sex you can smell. How’s a man to do any work with that as a distraction?”

I took my coffee to my desk, lost in my self-pity. As I glanced up I realised I had a perfect profile of her chest. As I stared I realised she was constantly fidgeting. She was continually shifting in her seat like she had an itch to scratch. Her tits joggled as she shuffled around. I could stand it no longer. In two seconds I was up and standing at her shoulder. I looked down at her, suddenly aware that my stance had given me a perfect view right into her cleavage. I reached for the mail as a distraction, but all the while I felt my eyes drawn to the strain of her white blouse, a button too many undone and revealing rather too much of her firm, smooth breasts and the edge of a pale-yellow brassiere. Her breasts were the size of large navel oranges but with the flawless texture of silk. I could see the push of her nipple, straining to be free of its bounds.

I coughed and she glanced up. I quickly adjusted my eyes to hers, but I know she saw me staring at her breasts. She didn’t speak, just parted her lips so slightly and dragged her tongue across the underside of her top lip.

I know I started slightly. “The little hussy is taunting me,” I thought. She looked away and returned to typing. My view cast downwards from her chest, to her waist and to the spread of her hips. She sat a little taller, thrusting out her buttocks as her lower back dipped inward.

“This is a woman in need,” I thought. “I can smell her need, her want.”

“My want, Mr. Smithers?” She looked up from her work, a look of confusion and – something else – on her face. OH MY GOD –I had spoken aloud!

In for a penny, as they say. I might not have a job tomorrow. “Yes, Miss Clarke,” I said. I cleared my throat again. I leaned forward and whispered, “I can smell your want.”

She froze. “Excuse me?” She was trying to be all uppity now, but I knew that’s why she had come to work today dressed like that.

“Your want, Miss Clarke. I can smell it,” I said. “I’m finding it quite distracting. In fact, I’ve been distracted by it for several weeks now.”

She sat, staring up at me, confused but with something underlying – was it fear? No. Anxiousness? Possibly, but mixed with an eager anticipation. “She wants this,” I thought, “I was right”. I pressed home on my advantage.

“It is quite distracting, Miss Clarke, that hunger that you have.”

“My … hunger?”

“Your hunger.” And here I whispered again. “Between your legs.”

Her hands rested lightly on the keyboard, tremoring slightly in time with her shortened breath. I fancied I could see her heart fluttering in the soft flesh of her bosoms.

“Your distraction is becoming a concern, Miss Clarke. A concern I need to address. Nip it in the bud, so to speak, before things get out of hand and Miss Fitzgerald becomes involved.”

She said nothing. The tension was palpable. Her fingers still rested on the keyboard, twitching as she tried to control her emotions.

“I think, Miss Clarke, that I need to deal with this behaviour, this distracting behaviour, so that we can move forwards. You know we have high standards, and that failure must be punished.” I took the back of her chair. “Miss Clarke, please stand.”

She looked at me and slowly, stood up. She nervously smoothed her skirt over her bottom. She was flushed, her heat accentuating the musky scent of her perfume.

“Good. Now, Miss Clarke, please bend over your desk.”

I could see her nipples clearly now, making their presence known through the sheer fabric of her blouse. “She wants me, wants this,” I thought, and I felt my penis stiffen at the thought.

“Miss Clarke, lean over,” I whispered.

She pushed aside her keyboard and some papers and then, very slowly, she lowered herself until her elbows rested on the desk. Her bottom thrust outwards against the loose fabric, but I wanted more, a better target, a better view.

“Miss Clarke, all the way down please,” I said. She lay her chest on the wooden surface of the desk, arms stretched forward to the far edge. Now her bottom was presented optimally, clearly outlined through the thin summer fabric. Her feet were slightly spread. I leaned down to whisper in her ear. Her scent was delightful. “Miss Clarke, you know what I am going to do with you…”

I reached forward and picked up the ruler she kept on her desk. A solid 18” wooden ruler, aged by many hands. She gasped as I swished it experimentally.

Could I really smack her bottom? Should I? She wants me to, or she would have slapped my face and stormed over to Fitzgerald. The ruler seemed to have a life of its own as it whipped down and smacked across her skirted cheeks.

She jumped and yelped, more from shock than pain, I know. She didn’t really feel that little swat.

“Miss Clarke, control yourself,” I whispered. I smacked her again and this time she let out a low moan, telling me he wanted more, she wanted to be punished. I gave her another half dozen or so smacks, but this was not working for either one of us.

“I do not believe you are getting the message, Miss Clarke,” I panted, “I need to take this further. Please raise your skirt.”

Without hesitation, she reached back and slowly slid the fabric up, revealing her cheeks and tiny lace panties.

“Beautiful, Miss Clarke, ” I breathed, “Just beautiful. I may need to have you after this, Miss Clarke.”

She swallowed again. “More, please, sir,” she whispered.

I took the ruler again. Smack! The sound exploded across her almost-bared cheeks, and a pink rectangle blossomed.  I smacked her again, three, four times. She was whimpering now and her cheeks had a pinkness to them. I dropped the ruler and slipped my fingers into the waistband of her panties. I eased them over her cheeks and down her thighs. I rested my hand on her cheek, feeling the warmth. I spanked her, open palmed, and she yipped. I did it again, then I got into a rhythm and I slapped her firmly and rapidly. She squirmed and yelped, but with no real resistance.

Finally, I stopped and I cupped her cheeks, feeling the firmness and the heat. Her white bottom was now a delightful rosy red. I traced her bottom cleft and she clenched as I pressed a finger inwards towards her anus. I gave her a sharp smack and she relaxed so that I could tease her cheeks apart and view her delightful hidden offering. Beneath, I could see she was wet, open and ready.

I undid my belt to release myself. She gasped as she heard the leather pull loose from the fabric loops. She glanced at me and I saw a need different to the one I had expected. I glanced at the belt in my hand, and at her naked buttocks. I swear she twitched her bottom, enticing me onwards. I folded the belt in my hand. As she lay there I whispered to her, “This is because your cunt is so wet, Miss Clarke. I … need to teach you a lesson.”

Before I knew what was happening, I had raised my arm high and swung that belt downwards with a crack. She cried out as the leather whipped around. I did it again, strapping her seven or eight times. The deep red weals popped even against the rosy glow of her earlier spanking. She was crying now, and I was as ready as she. I dropped my trousers and stepped between her legs. She pushed back to meet me and I slid easily into her wet, tight cunt. I Slid deep, feeling the grip of her all the way in, and I rested there, balls deep.

“Tell me what you want, Miss Clarke. Tell me now.”

Please fuck me!” 

That was what I needed to hear. I slid slowly back and forth, and she countered my thrusts perfectly. I quivered as I fought to control my orgasm, desperately trying to squeeze out every sensation from this moment. I realised I had wanted this woman for a very long time. She was murmuring, “Oh my God!” as we discovered each other. I could hold it no longer and my orgasm ripped through me like a freight train through a tunnel. As I came I rammed hard and deep, pushing her over her own edge as I did so. I am proud to say, she screamed as she came.

We lay there for the longest time, with me slumped across her back. Finally, I got up, plucked a handful of tissues from the box on her desk and cleaned off before rearranging myself.

“Miss Clarke,” I said, “You are remarkable. I will have you again.” And I went into my office and closed the door so that I could sit and dwell on the serendipity of life.

Through the glass door I could see Miss Clarke as she rose and tried to pull herself together. I saw her sit and suddenly jump up again. I leaned forward, curious, before I realised why and I laughed to myself, recalling my own chastisement years before.

“Yes,” I thought, “She will be sore for a while, and bruised for longer. We won’t have any problems with the dress code for awhile. We won’t be seeing those short shorts this week, that’s for sure. But I think it was very much worth it.”

 

image from Dreams of Spanking

Teacher’s Critique

“Ah Rudi, thank you for staying behind. I think we need to have a chat about your contributions to the Creative Writing workshop.”

“What do you mean, Alicia?” Irepkoed, acting the innocent. I had hoped for a reaction to “The Yellow Dress” and maybe this was it, I thought. She had provided my inspiration when she wore a short yellow summer dress to our summer school class a few weeks ago. I hoped this might be the moment to break the formality of our student-teacher relationship.

“Well I hope you realise I’m no prude, but I don’t feel we can do a proper group critique when you write about caning a young lady’s naked bottom, and the …” she struggled for the right words, “The aftermath. What will the ladies in the group think!?”

“Well they might quite like it.” I was a little flippant. “Better than their trite love stories at least. They probably all have 50 Shades of Grey in their library.”

“Not the point and you know it!” she snapped. “You know there is more art in showing rather than telling. What’s left to the imagination is at the heart of erotica. Graphic displays belong with pornography, and that debases us all.”

Clearly I’d touched a nerve. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me what you mean.”

“Okay, let’s take this section;” Alice read the passage, her crisp English accent adding a certain frisson to the words.

He slipped his fingers into her waistband, and slid the knickers off her cheeks and down to her feet. He could sense the bounce of her cheeks as he palmed them, and the sight of her tight hole revealed deep in the cleft. He imagined it was he who then applied twelve hard, slow stripes to her cheeks. Afterwards, with her still bent, he would step behind her to paint the red stripes with the juice seeping from his hard cock. With his orgasm mounting he imagined sliding his cock deep into her tight, young cunt, gasping as his release came.

Hearing my words read aloud by this beautiful woman sent shivers through my body, exiting through my penis and jolting him into a full, steaming erection. As she finished reading the atmosphere almost crackled. She looked up from the page.

Her voice caught a little as she critiqued my work. “Obviously the imagery is very strong, Rudi. But I wonder if it might be stronger still if you were to paint a picture and show the reader the situation, rather than telling them your fantasy. Allow the reader to see themselves in this young woman’s place perhaps?”

I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I croaked out a reply. ”Well, you see this is all imaginary,” I began. “I’ve never actually been in this situation. I don’t think I quite know what you mean.”

“So you’re breaking a second cardinal rule, which we will address shortly. But in the meantime, perhaps I can help. Have you ever written from life?”

“You mean, like sitting at the beach and using words to paint the scene? Yes, I’ve tried that.”

“Okay, so let’s try that route. I want you to paint the picture you see.” And with that, Alicia bent from the waist in front of me. She slid her hands over her buttocks and down her thighs to catch the hem, and then slowly lifted the fabric up her legs and over her cheeks. I know I gasped out loud as she revealed her bottom. Her cheeks were full, lightly tanned and essentially naked. A black strip of lace plunged from the waistband down into her cleft, where is disappeared between the full twin moons. She spread her feet slightly and the cup of fabric encasing her mound came into view.

“Now,” she said, “I want you to use all your senses to embrace what you see. Your writing will be so much stronger as a result. Feel my bottom, use your eyes, be aware of my scent.”

I stepped closer and gingerly cupped her cheeks, sliding my hands up and around her smooth flesh. My fingertip lingered on the slight scratch of the lace, hooking beneath the dividing strip to ease it up and out of her cleft. I could smell a perfume mingling with the scent of her arousal as I slid my finger down the lacy divide to the dampness where her mound was cupped.

I was lost in the sensations of this beautiful bottom. Alicia broke the spell. “I think you need to know what it feels like to cane a woman, if you are to write good erotica,” she said. “Under my desk there’s a package.”

I retrieved the slender bundle and withdrew a length of rattan, maybe two feet long with a bound handle and 3/8 inch in diameter. The wood was burnished brown and seemed old.

“Take your aim carefully. You want to strike my cheeks, and not whip around the side. Stand to my left and extend your arm so that the tip rests midway across my right cheek.” I did as instructed, still in awe that I would actually cane this delightful bottom. Alicia reached back to check my placement of the cane.

“Good, now pull back and let me have it!” I moved my arm back to a 45 degree angle and snapped it back down. The effect was very underwhelming, and lacked the crack I had imagined. Alicia was ready with a sharp critique. “You’re too stiff!” she snapped.  You need to end with a flick of the wrist. Try again.”

I positioned myself again, pulled back and snapped the cane into her cheeks. It felt better but didn’t have the satisfying thwack I had imagined. And Alicia had barely moved at all under the impact.

She sighed in irritation as she straightened. I know I whimpered a little as her skirt fell, hiding those delightful twin moons. Had I lost my chance to stripe her cheeks and maybe more through my own inadequacy?

I realized she was speaking to me still. “You need to give it more oomph. Here, let me show you.” She took the cane from my hand and snapped a stroke into thin air. 

“No, that won’t work. You can’t get the effect without an impact.  Bend yourself over and I will show you what a proper stroke feels like.” 
I hesitated, naturally, stammering my preference to decline her offer.  “Oh come along, Rudi. We’re both adults here. You didn’t think twice when it was my bum on the line!” she laughed. “Get your shorts down and bend over. You can’t write what you don’t know.” 

As I continued to prevaricate she reached forward, grabbed my waistband and whipped my shorts down, dragging my underpants off in the process. My erect cock bobbed  as he was suddenly exposed. 

“Oooh, now that’s a nice surprise for a lady,” she smiled, as she squeezed my shaft gently. Then, using my cock as a handle she guided me into position. And so i found myself bent over, hands on knees and feet spread, waiting for my first ever caning.

Alicia talked me through her preparations in real time. “Arm out straight, cane tip in the middle of the far buttock cheek. Tap a couple of times for luck,” – her ‘taps’ were rather more solid than I had envisioned! – “And then back and down with a flick of the wrist.” As she spoke I heard the brief whistle as the cane descended and then the momentary sensation of the impact as my nerve endings shot messages of surprise and pain to my brain. The reply was swift and unequivocal.

I shot upright. “Jeezus that hurt! Did you have to do it so hard?” I was rubbing my rump in indignation, forgetting for a moment that I had already delivered two strokes to Alicia’s tender cheeks.

“Don’t be such a baby. That was a gentle stroke. Your heroine gets 12 from you! Get back over. You need to know what you’re writing about.” She was teasing my deflated cock with the cane tip as she spoke, and quickly got the reaction she had intended. 

“When we’re done, you can try again on my behind, see if you’ve improved enough to finish the story.”

 Driven once again by my groin and the unstated promise of more action to come, I reluctantly assumed the position once more.

“Now, to give this caning some purpose, let’s apply some rules.” Alicia was clearly getting into character. “You must count and say ‘thank you Miss’, and if you move, you get extra,” she instructed. “Now you gave your young lady 12, so you get the same. Count!” The cane whipped down, far harder than last time. “ONE!” I yelped. “Thank you Miss.”

I don’t know how, but I stayed down for all twelve strokes. I was sweating, panting and quivering as she dropped the cane and gently ran her fingers over the criss-cross of welts that decorated my cheeks. I knew now that a caning was not some lighthearted erotica, but a serious, painful experience. And yet, now the immediacy of the pain was over the heat and tingling suffused into a depth of sensation I had never felt before. I felt alive, so alive and invigorated, cleansed almost. 

I felt Alicia’s hand as she cupped my balls from behind, gently teasing life back into my cock.

“Now, that’s a caning,” she whispered as she stroked my shaft. “And if I recall your narration, you took this and fucked your heroine. We can swap over for that part, or if you prefer, I have a dildo in my bag …”

The Yellow Dress

Rob trudged around the mall lugging a small wardrobe full of bags as his daughter and wife strode on ahead, chattering happily as they spent his hard-earned money. He stopped to adjust his grip on the bags, trying to recover circulation to his fingers. “First trip home in three months,” he muttered, “and I have to spend my day trailing round the mall like a friggin’ pack horse. Fuck my life.” He glanced up to see his wife and daughter sashaying ahead. ‘Fuck my wife more like,’ he breathed, watching the sway of her hips, tightly encased in denim. It had far too long since he’d seen her on her knees waiting for him to take her from behind, or take her any ways for that matter.

He watched the pair sauntering along, arm in arm. It was getting harder to tell them apart from the back these days. At 17 he had to admit, young Meghan was developing some very attractive curves, and Susie was looking so hot in those tight blue jeans. He recalled how she’d been horrified at turning 40 last year. She’s hit the gym hard, spending almost every morning burning off the pounds and toning up while he worked his butt off on the rigs. If he could just get a taste of that ass he would be a happy man, but since he’d arrived home two days ago she had been early to bed complaining of a headache and her time of the month. He sneered to himself. “No sign of a headache now, that’s for sure. Retail therapy must sure be a thing then.”

Just then Susie turned back. “We’re popping into la vie complète. Meghan says they have some lovely summer dresses. Why don’t you pop over to the Apple Store or something? We might be a while. After that you can get me a latte. I’m pooped!”

“You’re pooped!” he snapped. “I’ve been away working for three months and now I get to carry my wages in your shopping bags. I must be carting a month’s wages right here.”

“Now don’t make a scene! If they’re too heavy for you, take them back to the car, poor little lamb,” Susie crooned back. “Stop putting a downer on our day by being such a party pooper. You know how I love getting some quality time with my little girl. Don’t spoil it!” With that she turned, tucked her arm into Meghan’s and strode into the expensive looking store.

Rob stalked back to the parking lot and threw the bags into the trunk. He stayed outside for a while, cooling off, then wandered back inside the mall. He stood outside la vie complète for a few minutes, and then peered inside trying to spy the girls, but he couldn’t see to the back. Eventually he stepped inside, feeling very conspicuous amongst the sheer gowns and underwear. He found some easy chairs next to the changing rooms and settled down to wait.

Rob whiled away some time admiring the lithe young bodies of the shoppers as they came and went from the changing rooms. One of the girls posed in front of a full-length mirror at the entrance, checking out the fit of her dress. When she stepped away, Rob noticed that she’d moved the mirror. He realised he now had a partial view down the length of the changing cubicles, thanks to a convenient reflection from another mirror at the corner. Mostly the curtains were all firmly drawn, so he amused himself watching pants falling beneath the doors, imagining the lacy lingerie that must be revealed inside each small space.

As he watched, he noticed one curtain that was partly open, right at the end. He caught brief glimpses inside as the occupant moved around. Suddenly, he saw her bottom revealed as she whipped her jeans down and off. As she turned he got the briefest glimpse of naked cheeks. ‘She’s wearing a thong,’ he thought. He also caught a glimpse of something else, too. What were those marks on her bum? They looked like lines. And then the view was gone as she stepped aside. When she was revealed again, she was wearing a long yellow dress with a sunflower pattern. He admired the swish against her tanned legs as she turned, then sat up straight again as she dropped the dress to her feet and stepped out. This time he got a clear three-quarter view of her bottom as she bent to retrieve the dress. And as she did so, he could clearly see several evenly spaced dark lines cutting across the pale flesh.

He gasped with the shock, hiding the sound with a fake cough. ‘Oh my jeezus,” he thought, “she’s been caned!’ His member stiffened up at the delicious sight and all it suggested, and then she was gone. He drifted into daydreams, imagining the scene that must have unfolded for the girl to get those stripes, stirring up memories from long ago when Susie used to lay across his lap for a spanking.

“Dad!” Meghan prodded him back to reality. “What are you doing? Come on, we’re leaving.” Rob stumbled to his feet, trying to adjust his underwear as he did so, and stumbled out of the store behind his wife and daughter.

******

The brief glimpse of that caned bottom played over and over in Rob’s mind over the next few days. He was constantly aware of the erection in his pants every time his mind drifted back to that momentary glimpse. He found himself sneaking to the bathroom, or his shed when his imagination stirred.

In his fantasy, the unknown girl was wearing the yellow dress. She would turn her back and bend, submitting herself to his will. He imagined lifting the dress slowly, revealing first her toned, smooth legs and then her taut buttocks clothed in the briefest lace. He loosened his pants and pulled out his cock as he settled into the fantasy.

He slipped his fingers into her waistband, and slid the knickers off her cheeks and down to her feet. He could sense the bounce of her cheeks as he palmed them, and the sight of her tight hole revealed deep in the cleft. He imagined it was he who then applied twelve hard, slow stripes to her cheeks. Afterwards, with her still bent, he would step behind her to paint the red stripes with the juice seeping from his hard cock. With his orgasm mounting he imagined sliding his cock deep into her tight, young cunt, gasping as his release came. The fantasy helped reduce his frustration at Susie’s coincidental ‘time of the month’. Every night for a week she’d gone to bed in PJs, and he’d had not even a glimpse of her toned body since he’d arrived home.

******

A few days after the shopping trip, Rob was sitting in the living room watching TV when he heard Meghan coming downstairs. She called out to him from the stairs. “Bye Dad, I’m off out. Dave’s picking me up. See you later.” As he turned to say goodbye he caught the briefest glimpse of her as she stepped out of the door, and the long yellow gown decorated with sunflowers floating around her legs.

Bianca Neve Part 14

We left Bianca cooling her buns after tasting Spanky’s strap. What fates might befall her now? Read on – or go back here to start at Part 1.

She was alone in the woods, locked inside her own body and strapped down to this infernal contraption. She’d been buggered, tongued and whipped. Her glowing red buttocks were punctuated with the fat sausage sticking out of her cunny, looking no doubt like a particularly rosy cheeked Pinocchio caught in lies after lies.

And now she felt a growing itch, then the beginnings of a burning in her cunny. Her soft walls gripping the meaty length grew more tender, more irritated. She recalled that the sausage was spiced, and the spicy surface was mingling with her juices to inflame and sensitise her flesh. She felt the wet dripping down her thighs as her cunny wept.

She had always feared the gloaming, when the creatures and underlings emerged. Now, trapped and vulnerable, who knew what horrors might befall her with the coming of the night. What had gone before would be naught to what nightmares the Warlocks of the Taint might envision with such an alluring target. How could the dwarves be so stupid as to leave her out here, vulnerable and alone!

Her brain whirred and tumbled through the tales of evil and dread that were told round the fires at the Palace of the evils of the Night Woods. She had heard the whispered tales under cover of the darkness in the palace, when the maidens terrorised each other before slipping into soft, arm arms for comfort. Aside from the Warlocks, all the maidens whispered of the Spirit of the Fallen. The Spirits were drawn to the scent of a Virgin wherever she may be. Tales were told of young Virgins stolen from their beds – they would be whisked away to endure an eternity of pleasuring the long dead Knights of the Bloodied Cloth in the Kingdom of the Dead. And if not the Spirits or the Warlocks, then there was the worst of them all, the Throbber. He was said to have a penis the breadth and length of a man’s arm. It was said he would rip a maiden’s cunny wide open when taking his pleasure – even splitting her in two if she were particularly tiny down there. And no mortal man would lie with a maiden who had taken the Throbber, for his Cockling would never touch the sides.

What fate might befall poor Bianca, strapped, exposed and helpless in the night woods? The next episode will be here soon …

Bianca Neve part 13

Did Spanky subdue the vaginal bats? What in God’s name is he doing anyway? Go back here to follow us from the start.

“I don’t know. Only one way to find out. Any good miner knows, only way to check out underground is to put on yer lamp and get in there,” replied Knobby, very enigmatically. “But we need a canary, check it’s all safe.”

“You can’t shove a canary up her cunny you dozy pillock!” Spunky guffawed.

“I was being metaphorical you wassock! Mebbe you should be Dopey!” sneered Knobby. “What I mean is, we need to know the ground’s safe. Now what can we use?” Bianca heard the scratchy sound of beards being tugged in thought. “ I know – Dopey, you said she fed the beasts with a sausage. Go get one. We can poke her wi’ that. If the beasties are still alive they’ll latch on and we know it’s too dangerous – if not, in we go!”

Moments later, Bianca felt the rough end of the thick sausage push against her cunny, then slowly slip inside. She felt every ridge and bump as it slid deeply home and stopped there. She could imagine the sight she now provided – spread wide over Spanky’s contraption with her red bum glowing like a beacon, thighs thrust apart with a giant sausage sticking out of her conija.

After several minutes she heard murmurs.

“How long does it take,” whispered Tiny.

“Don’t know – it might be like baiting a deer trap,” whispered Spunky.

“Why are we whispering?” whispered Spanky.

“Oh just get up from there!” shouted Knobby. “Ye’ll see nothing til we pull out the sausage. If it’s still whole we’ve nowt to fear!”

“Ay, and we can still have sausage for supper!” piped Dopey.

“So what do we do? We can’t just leave her here in the middle of the room. We can’t get by.” That was Tiny.

Knobby took charge again. “Let’s just get her outside. We can leave her there while we finish the chores. We’ve still a lot to do – looks like she didn’t get any work done today and we’ve spent too long trying to wake her already. Look, it’s almost dark out. Come on, let’s carry her out on Spanky’s table.”

With that, she felt herself hoisted aloft. In moments she was outside, feeling the cool evening air on her bare flesh. She felt herself lowered and then a blanket was throw over her shoulders and back. She heard footsteps moving away and a door slammed.

Part 14 is here. Hurry over there before it disappears.

Bianca Neve Part 12

And so it goes on. I’m wondering why I ever started this . Still, if you want to catch up, you can start here.

At last she felt herself carried off the bed. She was draped over a soft but firm contraption. She felt herself tip forwards so her head was down, knees apart and butt high.

“Don’t forget the straps boys!” shouted Spanky. “We don’t want any accidents when she wakes.”

She felt straps being fastened around her waist and thighs to hold her steady. Once she was positioned, there was a hushed silence behind her. She could feel their eyes drinking in the sight she offered with her exposed bum and sex. She imagined Knobby was stroking his cock once more, and Slurpy eyeing her wet folds warily. What she didn’t imagine was the sudden, biting line of fire as Spanky’s leather strap whipped across and around her buttocks, leaving behind a line of fire and a sharp nip where the strap kissed her outer thigh. Internally she stiffened, screamed and struggled – but all the while she remained locked inside her own body. Again and again the pain bit into her soft, vulnerable buttocks as Spanky got into his rhythym, laying on the strap with a vigour in time to his own growing excitement.

She thought it would never end. Her bum cheeks were on fire as the strap whipped down again and again. And then she felt the surging begin again as her pleasure grew in time with his lashes. She climbed higher and higher as his strap bit harder and harder until she stiffened, froze and then released. Behind her she heard a gasp.

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Knobby. “By ‘eck lad! You’ve broken summat inside I think!” He looked around at the hushed crowd. “Did you lads see that? Like a geyser that was, right out of her cunny!”

“Oh no! Do you think she’s alright?” asked Spanky, his voice suddenly fearful.

Well we can’t leave it there! Part 13 is here.