The late summer breeze sighed at the bedroom window, wafting the drawn curtains and making them shiver. Lying on her bed in the darkening room, Susie dug the rubber-spiked fingers of the stolen cricket gloves into her wet pussy, parting her labial lips. Shiny-wet with her arousal, they too shivered. She grunted impatiently and dug deeper, pinioning and punishing her slit with savage tenderness. A single spike skidded up her slippery flesh, catching her clitoral thorn, and she squealed softly. Grinding her buttocks frantically into the prickly surface of her green candlewick bedspread, she grunted in response to the sweet burning ache between her thighs.
Out in the deepening dusk, high up in a shivering elm, an owl hooted, a soft, sorrowful note. On her bed her legs lewdly spread, Susie dragged her gloved hands up through her tightly coiled bush, across her pale stomach and up to her naked breasts. At each trapped globe of flesh the cruel gloves squeezed, and her nipples rose thicker and harder than the red rubber spikes pleasuring them with sweet pain.
Behind her tightly closed eyes Susie squeezed out images of the village cricket team, man by sinewy, sweaty man. The Cocks. The team took its name from the pub where she worked as a live-in barmaid. The Cocks were a virile bunch, very virile, and to the dismay of anxious sisters and jealous wives, Susie served many of their number with more than a foaming pint. Peter, who kept wicket, possessed such wonderfully skilful hands, hands that held tightly and gripped fiercely. Terry, the Cocks’s spin bowler, never failed to deliver fast and furiously. And Greg, the lithe, dark-eyed gamekeeper’s assistant, was so versatile in the field…
The spiked gloves squeezed harder. In the field… her groan melted into a naughty chuckle. The rubber spikes raked across her stubby nipples, and then painfully dimpled her tender orb. She gasped, clamping her thighs closed to contain the juice flowing from her hot pussy. Greg in the field… twisting her face into the bedspread, she tongued the rippling cotton embroidery. Greg had taken her to the secluded paddock behind Lower Grange Farm last Sunday. In the field, bare-bottomed and kneeling, she nuzzled the sweet grass as Greg took her roughly from behind.
Viciously strumming her mulberry-dark nipples, she remembered Greg’s hoarse gasps as he pounded into her faster and harder, his heavy balls slapping noisily against her wet sex as his hard length filled and stretched the tightness between her clenched buttocks. He came, and his hot seed spilled out of her bottom to scald the crease of her cleft. Still thick and at full stretch, he remained lodged inside as he spanked her, his hand swiping down to deliver a stinging crack across her helpless buttock. She remembered her shrill cry piercing the silence of the dark spinney behind them. He spanked her a second time, and then came the soft slapping of his balls again as, faster and faster, he shafted her between her smouldering cheeks. Smothering her full-throated scream of raw pleasure, she was forced to bite into a clump of pungent clover just as Greg hurriedly pulled out, and contemptuously shot his sticky load down onto the nape of her bowed neck.
Greg in the field… memories of the paddock last Sunday drew the batsman’s gloves down to her wet heat again. Spreading her sex lips wide, she drummed the spikes furiously. Tightening her buttocks, she jerked them up off the bedspread, submitting her glowing clitoris to the firm caress of a spiked index finger.
Greg… she remembered rubbing the shiny wooden bails slowly between her thighs afterwards, slowly and deliberately, as his cooling cum flowed around her neck like a rope of liquid pearls. And recalling the sweet rank smell of his semen in her nostrils, an orgasm welled implacably up inside her. She groaned softly, and twisting her slippery naked body over, she came suddenly, taken almost by surprise by the sweet savagery of her climax. She angled her gloved hand down just in time to thrust a spiked finger up between her tightening cheeks, sobbing with delight. The red rubber spikes bit into her anal passage, rocketing her into a fresh spasm, and opening her mouth wide, she bit her pillow to smother a shriek just as she had bitten into the clump of clover… bitten into the pungent clover as Greg knuckled her pussy tenderly last Sunday in the field.
‘Come along, Romulus. Heel, Remus, heel.’
Approaching The Cock across the village green, Virginia Emsley, president of the Women’s Institute, trod the soft turf firmly down beneath her polished brogues. Beside her, scurrying in her majestic wake, Alice Sneesby struggled to keep pace. And bounding alongside them in the twilight, two red Irish Setters defied the stern commands of their mistress.
‘The Cocks should take the County Cup from the Stumpies tomorrow,’ Alice panted.
‘Langley Parva certainly deserves a win,’ her companion snapped, the tartness of her waspish tone barely concealing her reluctance to call the home side the Cocks.
Alice shivered even though the summer evening was warm. ‘Why are they called the Stumpies?’ she wondered aloud, too timid of her dominant lover to ask the question directly.
‘Leave it, Romulus… Remus, come!’ Virginia barked, whipping her dog leads smartly against her thigh. ‘Damn animals,’ she muttered, rattling their chains impatiently. ‘Dead squirrel. Why are who called what, my dear?’
Alice repeated her question, this time directly.
‘The village of Selston once boasted a beautiful church,’ Virginia explained. ‘Square Norman tower. Magnificent. Cromwell ordered cannon fire on it and left the tower a mere stump. Hence, the Selston team are—’
‘Stumpies.’ Alice nodded, enlightened. ‘I see.’
‘Heel, you dogs, at once!’ the president of the WI commanded, shaking their leads.
‘The Cocks—’ Alice began.
‘Langley Parva, please.’
‘Our side,’ Alice amended quickly, ‘will certainly look well even if they don’t play well.’
Virginia followed her companion’s pointing hand. A long clothesline pegged out at the side of The Cock met her gaze. On it, cricket whites danced in the gentle breeze.
‘Oh dear,’ Alice murmured.
The two women stopped. At the end of the clothesline, Susie’s red silk knickers fluttered brazenly.
‘Oh dear indeed,’ Virginia Emsley muttered.
‘I do think the barmaid ought to be a little more discreet,’ Alice stated with marked disapproval. ‘Red silk knickers up on display like that. Really! I wish she would take them down.’
Virginia gripped the jangling leads fiercely in her gloved hand. ‘I’d certainly like to make Susie take her knickers down…’
Back from their knock-up in the nets, the Cocks were downing pints and pies as if they were at their victory supper already.
‘Steady lads,’ the landlord warned. ‘Got to keep your strength up for tomorrow.’
Behind the pumps Susie worked busily, her cleavage deepening invitingly as she bent over her tasks. It was warm work. Perspiration darkened her blouse at the armpits and glistened at the swell of her brassiere-bondaged breasts.
‘Bloody odd,’ the opening batsman was heard to remark. ‘Could have sworn I’d packed my gloves for practice.’
Susie blushed, and between her thighs behind the wispy lace at her pubic bush a deep warmth moistened her pussy lips.
‘I found your gloves,’ the Cocks’s opener announced, downing his third light ale. ‘Bit damp and smelly, though. Bloody odd.’
‘Scent of victory?’ the landlord chuckled.
Susie bit her lower lip as she concentrated on pouring out a pint, her face now as hot as her pussy.
A contented silence settled over the boisterous men for a few moments, and then they began discussing tactics. Selston’s strength was remarked upon. If only the home team’s middle order could stand up to the Stumpies’s mean bowlers.
A scraping of chairs signalled the departure of several players, and Susie brought a tray of drinks – a round of cautious halves – over to the table. Peter, Greg and Terry had grown morose. The Stumpies, she overheard, were in fine fettle – damn fine fettle.
Back at her pumps she ate a bag of salted crisps, sucking her red nails after popping each pale cracker into her mouth. The gloom from the cricketer’s table spread throughout the bar. What if Selston snatched the County Cup from her fine boys? The taste of defeat would be sharper than the salted crisps in her mouth. Defeat… she shivered at the thought.
Later, when a towel covered the pumps and mice, emboldened by the darkness, emerged to nibble at peanuts on the beer-stained boards, Susie stood before her bedroom mirror undressing slowly. Her red fingernails rasped at the straps of her bra, slowly peeling them down over her smooth shoulders. In the glass she saw the cups heave, and proudly watched her breasts spill out of them and quiver enticingly, glad to be free of the strict cotton bondage.
Shrugging off her bra, she absently thumbed her left nipple, peaking the stubby pinkness in pleasurable pain. Unzipped, her tight skirt slithered down over her nylon stockings to form a soft puddle over her shoes. Stepping out of it, and then kicking it gently aside, she slipped off her shoes and stood before the large mirror wearing only stockings and a garter belt.
She gazed steadily at her reflection in the glass. The twelfth man… tomorrow she would step in and save her boys. The scent of victory grew strong between her legs as she smiled and mentally went over the tactics she had come up with to secure the Cocks’s triumphant victory.
‘But Selston simply walked away with the best village gardens—’
‘Cheated! Know it for a fact. Grew everything under glass, and then potted out and planted on the morning of the judging,’ Virginia Emsley muttered, struggling with a tight white corset that bunched her buttocks together fiercely, rendering her cleft a mere crease between her swollen cheeks.
‘And their summer jams scooped up gold and silver,’ Alice whined. Already naked, she slipped between the sheets embroidered with pale violet periwinkles.
‘No medals for Langley Parva there,’ Virginia agreed, easing her quivering bosom out of the corset’s balconette cups. ‘Not even an honourable mention. But Selston’s was bought gold.’
Alice gazed devotedly up at the naked woman beside the bed. ‘Bought?’
‘Of course, bought. Got it all from the verger’s sister.’ She tossed her rolled up stockings aside impatiently. ‘Romulus and Remus penned up?’
Alice, inching her thighs open a fraction beneath the sheets, nodded.
‘Jolly good. No, Sneesby,’ the president of the WI barked as she tightened the black leather straps of a softly jingling harness firmly across her buttocks, ‘Langley Parva never cheats. When we lift the County Cup tomorrow, it’ll all be fair and square.’
‘Mm,’ Alice said, thrilling to the sound of the harness.
‘No cheating,’ the president of the WI whispered, deftly guiding the seven-inch ivory dildo into the socket harnessed to her pubic mound, ‘or I’ll want to know the reason why.’
A few minutes later, spread-eagled facedown on the bed, Alice Sneesby moaned as her anal rosebud puckered and softened. The tiny whorls fluttered, and began to unfurl as her sphincter opened with shy eagerness to accept the ivory dildo’s forthcoming thrusts.
‘After all,’ Virginia murmured, fingering petroleum jelly along the length of the gleaming phallus, ‘cheating just isn’t cricket. Now open up, Sneesby,’ she commanded, dimpling the mattress as she straddled the cheeks below her. Virginia eased back onto her ankles, and then lurched forward, briskly gripping and spreading her lover’s cheeks to allow the tip of the dildo entry into the dark little hole between them. ‘Come along, my girl, or it’ll go hard for you. My strap is under that bolster, and if you don’t get your bottom up right now I do believe you’ll be begging me not to use it.’
Alice cried out softly as, offering her buttocks up obediently, the lubricated phallus slid between them.
‘Good girl,’ Virginia murmured, jerking her hips to drive the thrusting ivory deeper. ‘Play up and play the game.’
By two-fifteen the heat in the tea tent was stifling. The egg and watercress sandwiches already cut and quartered lay hidden under dampened tea towels. Wasps visited the raspberry jam oozing from Victoria sponges. Brushed away by busy hands, they dipped down inquisitively to buzz over the buttered scones. Susie wandered between the linen-covered trestle tables, utterly ignored by the equally starchy women of the parish.
‘Trollop!’ hissed the schoolmistress, struggling to thumb open a jar of crab paste.
In a humid corner of the tent a silver urn steamed in preparation for the production of endless cups of tea.
The Stumpies had arrived just after noon in a dusty convoy along the rutted, late summer lanes bearing them from Selston to Langley Parva. Losing the toss, the Cocks went in to bat. The openers were stepping up gamely to sky and six the best efforts of the visitors’ bowling.
Susie was cold-shouldered out of the tea tent. So denied access to the communal ritual of sandwich making and cake cutting by Virginia Emsley’s WI stalwarts, the spurned barmaid wandered away, her cheeks ablaze. Out in the bright sunshine she saw the first wicket quickly taken, and her white-sandaled feet took her to the steps of the pavilion, where the smell of liniment, sweat and linseed oil greeted her… and the smell of defeat. The Cocks, shielding their eyes from the sun’s glare, were watching their demise in gloomy silence. She skipped up the wooden steps, and an impish gleam lit up her dark eyes. Bending down, her soft breasts nudging their shoulders, she began whispering into the ears of the middle-order batsmen, first Peter, then Terry, and finally Greg.
As she ran jauntily back down the pavilion steps and glided across the lawn towards the boundary bushes, three pairs of hungry eyes devoured her impudent bottom swaying and rolling inside the tight sheath of her rose-print dress. Despite disaster out at the crease, the Cocks’s spirits and manhoods rose.
Following the game from behind a thick hawthorn bush, Susie plied the buttered cucumber she’d stolen from the earnest sandwich makers in the tea tent. Kissing before sucking its blunt snout for several minutes, she lowered and levelled it between her parted thighs. Gripping it tightly as she ground her soft bottom cheeks into the prickle of the sedge beneath, she brought the slippery tip of the greased vegetable an inch from her naked pubis.
Out on the pitch the first of the middle-order was taking his stance at the wicket. The leather whistled softly and the willow barked loudly in response. Something seemed to have stiffened the Cocks’s resolve. Terry, who usually returned a decent eighteen runs, was knocking up a very useful thirty-one.
Out of sight behind the hawthorn bush, Susie’s pussy juiced and her sticky labial lips parted in a welcoming smile to receive the first four inches of the cucumber. Rotating the thick shaft with a wrist trained at the beer pumps, the dark-eyed barmaid pleasured herself brutally, while on the pitch Terry reached forty-three. Then a ragged cheer rose as his incautious clip was snatched out of the air by an agile Stumpie, but Terry did not walk back to the pavilion. His grass-scuffed boots took him directly to the late flowering hawthorn in the outfield where Susie, aroused by the cucumber’s solid length, received and rewarded Terry for his sterling work at the crease.
In silence they knelt face-to-face, their knees just touching. He rolled slightly on his padded shins, and reaching across to unbutton his white shirt and tweak his left nipple, she steadied him against her. Her hand dropped to his fly and she slowly unbuttoned it. After teasing out the awkward box and tossing it aside, she fingered out his thickening cock. Lowering her face, she tantalised his shining glans with the tip of her tongue. Swearing softly, Terry stretched out his gloved hand and forced her head over his erection. Electrified by his gloved touch, the barmaid sucked hard as he clenched and unclenched his gloved fist in her hair. Sensing his imminent release she tossed her head back, rapidly bared her breasts, and captured his engorged shaft in her deep cleavage. It twitched, aching for the spurt that would ease its sweet pain, and she bunched her breasts around it. The captive penis pulsed and exploded savagely, drenching her chin and throat. Then the warm semen flowed down into a silver puddle glistening between her heaving breasts.
She cupped and squeezed them, forcing the puddle of cum to spill down in a slow trickle over her peaked nipples. Terry, muttering a soft obscenity, slumped forward, and straining towards her bunched breasts he moaned as he struggled to kiss their shiny curves. The wet nipples raked his cheek, and he took a pink bud between his teeth, sucking it devotedly. She bit her lip to suppress a cry of raw pleasure, and then he collapsed, utterly spent, against her wet cleavage, his white cricket shirt absorbing his spilled seed.
Sprawled out on the grass, his head resting on the comfortable warmth of her soft breasts, he squinted up through the sun’s glare at the lovely barmaid.
‘And how many sixes did you hit?’ she purred.
‘Only two,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Then that’s two I owe you,’ she replied, giggling. ‘A promise is a promise.’ Leaning down, she peeled the cricketer’s glove from his right hand and donned it. ‘Doesn’t he want to play?’ she teased, passing the rubber-spiked forefinger firmly down along Terry’s flaccid penis.
‘Good for another knock,’ he grunted. His shaft twitched, slowly thickening in response to the rubber spikes dancing along its developing length. Soon the dark glans winked wetly in the sunshine and Susie straddled her mount, catching his thighs between her knees, and he surrendered, spreading his arms wide. ‘Bowl me a leg break!’ he laughed.
‘Full toss,’ she whispered, gripping his erection within her gloved fist and pumping him slowly. The soft spikes raked him ruthlessly, and only moments later his muffled shout of delight sent a jay wheeling in alarm from the upper branches of an overhanging elm. His chest heaving, he gazed open-mouthed into the cloudless blue sky as his hot seed rained down, soaking the white shirt over his belly.
Peter loped from the wicket to the hawthorn with the spring of expectation in his every step. His creditable thirty-seven had included a brace of boundaries, and Susie had promised pleasure for every big hit. Sprinting into the outfield, to the puzzled frowns of the village womenfolk peering out from the tea tent, he skirted the screening hawthorn and tumbled, sprawling, into Susie’s lap.
Gathering him up and cradling him in her left arm, she guided his mouth to her right breast. The deep pink of her engorged nipple raked his lips like a lipstick as, cupping and controlling her soft orb, she tantalised the spellbound batsman. He buried his sweaty face in her pillowing flesh and nibbled at her teat before enclosing it within pursed lips and sucking on it viciously. She squealed, and tweaked his nipple through his shirt in revenge. He nuzzled a muffled apology into her cleavage and eased his face back a fraction.
‘Gently, Tiger,’ she murmured.
Nodding into her breast, his lips at her hard nipple again, he sucked tenderly this time.
Deftly fingering his bulging shaft free of his tight white trousers, she slowly palmed the head of his urgent erection as he squirmed. ‘Peter,’ she said in a warning tone, a controlling squeeze of his balls brought him obediently back to her breast, and she sensed he was close to his release.
‘Please…’ he begged.
‘No, not yet,’ she teased, cruelly denying him his ejaculation. ‘After all, you took your time hitting that first boundary. You may come when, and only when, the umpire signals play.’
‘Bitch,’ he groaned devotedly, and his sweet suffering drove him into a frenzy. Taking as much of her right breast into his mouth as he could, he nearly choked on the captive flesh as she knuckled his exposed glans furiously, and silenced by the soft mound filling his mouth, he swallowed his yell of pleasure as he climaxed. His long liquid spurt splashed her face, momentarily blinding her as his sticky seed sealed her eyes closed, so bending she nuzzled his chest, wiping her face on his shirt.
He remained flat on his back for his second promised reward as she rose and hitched her rose-print dress up over her hips, and then squatting, she guided her naked buttocks down onto his upturned face. She moaned as his nose probed between them, and groaned as she sensed his warm exhale at her anal whorl. She loosened her thighs for comfort, and shuddered as his lips and tongue greeted her hot pussy.
Kneeling astride her pinioned batsman, rocking gently on her knees and toes, Susie rode his face, gently at first. His cock stiffened, rising to salute this new delight, and his frantic whispers of gratitude tickled her pubic fringe. She squeezed her thighs together, silencing him, and then loosened them again, allowing his tongue to rasp repeatedly at her parted labia.
‘You need training, my boy,’ she muttered, her words darkly affectionate. ‘Let’s see how you cope with the seam.’ She began bouncing down onto his helpless face, spreading her cheeks apart with her hands to reveal her cleft. ‘Lick,’ she commanded.
His tongue strokes were strong and sure, the juice flowing from her cleft shining across his smothered face while at the base of his belly, his cock was as hard as his bat.
Settling her soft bottom down over his features, smothering and silencing his protest, she giggled. ‘Time to knock your bails off, boy.’
Peter’s grunt was inaudible through the ripe flesh cushioning his mouth.
Walking two fingers down his chest from button to button, she stalked his quivering flesh-spear. At its base she teased him by scratching her nails gently through his dark pubic hair. She felt him writhe beneath her, his lips protesting under her soft buttocks, and promptly punished him by grinding them down firmly, forcing him to remain perfectly still.
‘That’s better,’ she purred, approaching his erection with eager fingertips. ‘Middle stump,’ she declared triumphantly, flicking his nodding glans skilfully six times in rapid succession. He came explosively, showering semen all over his shirt. Her dark eyes gleamed with pride watching the spreading stains. As twelfth man, she was playing well with the Cocks.
Peter stirred beneath her. His tongue, a thickly muscled specimen, drove deeply up through her sphincter just as it did when she served him a scotch egg with his pint. He would scoop out the salted yolk within the savoury meat in one go, and now, his tongue’s curled tip raked her tight warmth with similar gusto.
‘Middle stump,’ she giggled, squirming deliciously down over him, ‘but not a maiden over.’
In the sweltering tea tent, Virginia Emsley frowned. An egg and watercress sandwich had left dark green leaves between her perfect white front teeth, and she sucked at them in mounting irritation. ‘Sneesby,’ she barked, patting a pocket for her dog leads.
Alice looked up from the cups and saucers she was unnecessarily rearranging.
‘Pity to keep Romulus and Remus penned up on such a splendid day. Slip along home and take them for a stroll.’
‘Oh, but the cricket,’ Alice protested peevishly. ‘I shall miss the match.’
The president of the WI tossed the leads across the tent. Alice caught them, and held them awkwardly against her bosom.
‘A brisk scamper down to the churchyard, I think. I suggest you come back across the green along the outfield. Pay particular attention to that hawthorn bush. It would appear it holds some fascination for our middle-order batsmen, don’t you think?’
‘But the game…’
‘The hawthorn, Sneesby, and then report back to me. You may find some unofficial games being played there, I suspect.’
Greg played like a windmill on a March day at the crease. He left the match with a handy twenty-four notched up, hitting four massive sixes that drew loud applause even from the Stumpies.
Behind the hawthorn he tossed down his bat and gloves eagerly. Kneeling, he kissed Susie harshly, dominantly taming her tongue with his own. Brushing aside her hands from his trousers he pushed her gently but firmly down onto the soft turf.
‘Four sixes,’ he grunted, knuckling her pussy. ‘I’ve done well at the crease, girl, so I think I’ll have a go at this one.’
Her print frock rode up her slender thighs and he gazed down at her soft pubic bush. Seeing the wet sheen on his knuckles and the glint at her juicing slit, he quickly undid and pushed down his trousers. He was astride her, and inside her, before she could catch her breath, his chest crushing her cushioning bosom as his thick length filled her. Gripping her buttocks he lunged into her, his fingertips meeting at her deep cleft and splaying the captive cheeks painfully apart. Her stretched anus became a sweet, maddening torment, another hot hole needing to be filled. She sucked hungrily on his neck, and then bit it as his throbbing shaft sent ripples of pleasure up into her belly. In minutes they came together, both almost blinded by the stinging perspiration of their brutal exertion.
‘Hell, my bloody shoulder,’ Greg muttered.
‘Susie kiss it better,’ she whispered, mounting him carefully and angling her seething pussy at the shoulder he was ruefully rubbing. Pressing her wetness into his tough flesh, she climaxed again wiping her labial lips against his cotton shirt.
Monday morning was very wet. It rained steadily, filling the rutted lanes with brimming puddles. The tea tent on the village green, silent since Sunday at sunset, sagged.
Virginia Emsley sipped her cup of coffee, her eye fixed expectantly on the back door. The kitchen was perfumed with chicory from her beverage, which she took very strong, and with the smell of pungent sulphur fumes from the partly burnt fuel.
The garden gate creaked. She placed her cup down on the saucer, and its rattle betrayed her suppressed excitement. The back door opened. Alice entered the kitchen backwards, turning and bumping the door closed again with her bottom. Her wet Wellingtons squeaked on the flagstone floor.
‘Well?’ Virginia demanded.
‘I took those empty soda siphons back to The Cock on the pretext—’
‘Never mind all that,’ her lover snapped impatiently. ‘Did you manage to get at the laundry basket?’
Alice nodded. ‘No washing today in all that.’ She nodded through the kitchen window at the pouring rain, and then unzipping her glistening waxed raincoat, she shook free several sets of cricket whites.
‘Are you sure you got the middle-order’s kit?’
‘Oh yes, quite sure. Name tags sewn in. It was easy, just as you said it would be.’
‘Terry’s and Peter’s?’
‘And Greg’s.’
The president of the WI snatched the trousers up from the flagstone floor, and peeling them open under her nose, inspected them intimately.
‘Salt, they say, shifts grass stains,’ Alice remarked pleasantly.
‘I’m not looking for grass stains.’
Alice blushed pinkly.
‘And you are quite certain you saw that little slut of a barmaid behind the hawthorn yesterday?’
‘Oh yes. Fast asleep she was. Quite exhausted. Perhaps a touch of the sun, too.’
‘Touch of someone’s son,’ Virginia growled. ‘Hmm… nothing suggestive on these. Throw me those shirts, Sneesby. I’m damn sure I’m on the right track.’
Bending, Alice gathered up the three white shirts.
‘I knew it!’ Virginia declared shrilly. ‘There, smell that… and that.’
Alice obediently dipped her nose into the stained shirts, and wrinkled it in apparent distaste.
‘Semen!’ Virginia cried.
Alice shuddered, but her nose remained plunged in the stained cotton, sniffing deeply.
‘Better get those back to the laundry basket in The Cock before they’re missed.’ Virginia spoke over her shoulder from the sink where she was rinsing her fingers. ‘Looks as though it’s going to clear up.’
Alice clutched the semen-stained shirts tightly to her bosom, and while Virginia checked the sky through the window as she dried her hands, Alice risked a darting lick of the soiled cotton.
‘Sneesby!’ Virginia caught the surreptitious act reflected in the kitchen window. ‘By God, my girl, it’s the dog lead for your arse tonight.’
Sunbeams danced in a spindling shaft lancing the windows of the village hall. Rows of empty wooden chairs waited patiently for the buttocks of the impending WI committee. When they were filled, a little after four o’clock, Virginia Emsley called for order.
‘I have convened this extraordinary meeting to discuss events at the match on Sunday,’ she announced.
The wooden chairs creaked in quiet disappointment as their occupants groaned inwardly. None of those assembled wanted an inquest into a match lost and best forgotten. The visitors had taken the County Cup back to Selston with them, and that, unfortunately, was that.
‘I have asked the barmaid at The Cock to be present,’ Virginia continued. ‘I believe she may be able to shed some useful light on our downfall.’
Something in her tone caused the WI members to stiffen. Their chairs squeaked sharply as the entire committee leaned forward with sudden interest.
‘Ah, right on cue. Come in girl. Close the door, Sneesby, and the curtains too, please.’
Susie stepped into the sunlit village hall, grimacing at the stern black upright piano and at the pale faces of the committee.
Alice closed, and locked, the door.
Susie turned, uncertain and a little afraid.
‘We pride ourselves on matters of privacy,’ the president of the WI informed her evenly.
The sunbeams ceased their silent dancing as Alice Sneesby suddenly closed the heavy plum curtains.
Susie froze. Yellow naked light bulbs glowed overhead, illuminating the dour faces of the silent committee, nine impassive masks of disapproval. ‘What do you want me for?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Just wanted to thank you, my girl, for encouraging our boys at the crease on Sunday.’ Virginia kept her brisk tone pleasant.
Susie, wary as a perch amongst pike, fiddled with her fingers over her pubic mound. ‘Always happy to cheer on the Cocks.’ She attempted to smile.
‘Langley Parva thanks you for your efforts, I’m sure. So kind of you to encourage the men and reward their efforts.’
Susie was silent. The click of the door being locked still echoed loudly in her brain.
‘Oh come girl, we’re not all jam and Jerusalem, you know.’
Susie flushed.
‘No, we’re jolly good sports, aren’t we girls?’
The committee, a little bewildered, nodded in assent.
‘We are not here to condemn you. The middle-order hit big sixes for you, didn’t they?’
Susie giggled, and relaxing a little, she dropped her hands down to her thighs.
‘What was it, my dear, a kiss, perhaps? A kiss for every six?’
The lovely barmaid half assented with a shy nod.
‘Or a little more than a kiss, maybe?’
She suddenly wondered why the curtains were drawn. It unsettled her…
‘Speak up, girl. No secrets here. All girls together.’
She bit her lip. The buttocks filling the polished wooden chairs belonged, she knew, to indignant aunts, sisters and jealous girlfriends of the middle order batsmen. Village life was like that. A girl went with one man and immediately made several females her enemy.
‘We could hardly be cross with you for encouraging our boys to score, now could we?’ Virginia ploughed on doggedly, sweet reason dripping from her every word.
Susie remained silent.
‘Speak out, slut,’ Virginia lost her temper abruptly. ‘We’re waiting.’
Susie blushed furiously, and the air inside the village hall crackled with tension. Then the silence was shattered by the scraping of a wooden chair against the floor as the president of the WI rose majestically, and strode over to a highly polished wooden table.
‘Come here, girl,’ Virginia commanded, tapping her straightened forefinger dominantly down onto the wood.
Susie shrank back, but willing hands – those of Alice Sneesby and the village schoolmistress – seized and propelled her forward. Frogmarched to the edge of the table, she was forced facedown across it. Alice and the lissom schoolmistress then skirted the table, took up positions at the far corners, and grabbing the barmaid’s wrists, pinned them down against the smooth wood.
The soft tread of the president’s approaching brogues filled Susie with mounting dread. She writhed and twisted in an attempt to glance over her shoulder, but the hands pinioning her wrists gripped her even harder. She was helpless, face down and bottom up before the silent committee.
A shocked gasp, mixed with a murmur of delight, rose from those watching as Virginia pushed Susie’s skirt up over her thighs and buttocks, arranging its pleats across her back. Her panties bared, she shivered and tightened her buttocks defensively, squeezing her thighs together to conceal her pubic plum.
‘Don’t be so shy, slut. If the men can see it all, then so can we, hmm?’
Susie hated the skimming fingertips lightly tracing the generous curves of her cheeks through her tight panties.
‘Ah, scarlet, the colour of sin.’ Virginia Emsley took a deep breath, savouring her moment of victory by dominantly fondling the proffered bottom. Then, just as slowly, she plucked the elastic waistband of the red silk panties away from the barmaid’s soft warm skin. Susie’s cleft, a thin, shadowy crease between her pert bottom cheeks, was gradually revealed. She jerked her hips in a vain attempt to retain her undergarment, but Virginia simply laughed and yanked them down with a flourish, her cruel eyes narrowing hungrily as they took in the uncovered flesh.
‘No, please don’t!’ Susie wailed, grinding her belly into the table. Pinned down ruthlessly at each wrist, she abruptly sensed the horror of her absolute helplessness. Naked and bent over submissively she was in her dominant tormentor’s thrall.
Virginia delayed the moment of punishment, nudging the exposed cheeks and dimpling their tender mounds, perfect twin peaches poised for impending pain.
Leaving the red panties in a tight restricting band of stretched silk just above the barmaid’s knees, the president of the WI slipped a shiny red cricket ball from one of her pockets, and holding it aloft between her fingertips, showed it to the assembly. ‘As your president, I propose to punish the slut.’
The committee growled with appreciative, impatient, approval.
‘I propose to punish the slut until her bare bottom is as red as this cricket ball.’
Susie groaned, and her warm breath clouded the polished wood.
The committee grunted their unanimous pleasure at the prospect of severe punishment.
‘It is,’ Virginia went on, placing the red ball on the table, ‘my painful duty. But,’ she added in a whisper, gently scraping her thumbnail down the length of Susie’s cleft, ‘it will also be a pleasure.’
The ball trembled upon the dark sphere of its own reflection a few inches from Susie’s eyes. It gleamed like an overly polished apple offered up at the harvest festival.
Taking her stance against the barmaid’s left thigh, the president of the WI placed her left hand, palm down, on the buttock she proposed to punish. Controlling the quivering cheek to her complete satisfaction, she delivered three ringing spanks with the firm palm of her right hand.
Gasping aloud, Susie kicked her foot up and trod the empty air. Four more crisp spanks, vicious caresses of firm flesh upon soft curves, exploded across her quivering cheek. The punisher’s left hand remained firmly in place throughout, squashing the punished buttock down into total surrender before smacking it again.
Susie squealed and squirmed, her rapidly reddening cheek dancing and jiggling beside the creamy unpunished orb beside it.
Massaging the girl’s ravaged flesh slowly and firmly with the hand that had just tormented it, Virginia spoke in a soft but vehement tone as her audience watched, spellbound. ‘The slut pleasured the batsmen with her hands and then allowed them the use of her trollop’s flesh. Her behaviour was an offence to all the members of this WI and all the womenfolk of Langley Parva.’ Snatching up the red cricket ball, she pressed the polished sphere in against Susie’s spanked cheek. ‘Capital! An almost perfect match.’ The cold leather dimpled the hot curve, tearing a gasp, which melted into a moan, from the barmaid’s dry lips.
The committee, many taking their strumming fingers from their pussies, clapped with loud approval.
Susie, weeping silently, stiffened against the table. Then a fresh ignominy caused her eyes to widen and her face to blaze as red as her bottom when she suddenly sensed something soft touching the knuckles of one of her clenched hands. She managed to look up, and could not believe it when she saw Alice Sneesby using the fist she was imprisoning to knuckle her fanny. Susie bucked rebelliously, crying aloud as she tried to retrieve her hand from Sneesby’s pussy.
Virginia spanked her again. ‘Be still and silent, slut. I’ve your other cheek to punish yet.’ She smacked the barmaid’s soft white buttock five times in quick succession.
Blinking through her tears, her face pressed down to kiss its own reflection in the highly polished wood, Susie repeatedly suffered the scalding impact of a vicious hand against her upturned rump while the committee sat in spellbound silence. Across the table Alice gripped the captive wrist fiercely, and furtively raked the barmaid’s clenched hand up and down across her moist labia.
A final flurry of seven severe blows left Susie sobbing loudly, and at last the cricket ball was drawn up to kiss the blazing cheek.
Virginia sighed with profound satisfaction. ‘A perfect match,’ she judged, setting the red ball back on the table. Then she knelt down, rubbing the radiant palms of her hands together. Her face a mere few inches from the bare bottom she had just spanked, she gazed at it almost tenderly. Then she turned her face upwards and delivered a terse lecture on the merits of modesty and maidenhood to the whimpering barmaid while the committee nodded approvingly.
Finally the president of the WI fell silent and chairs began creaking uneasily, but unperturbed by the signals of growing impatience in the village hall, Virginia continued to gaze steadily at the spanked bottom. She licked her lips twice, and swallowed hard. Her eyes became narrow slits of fierce fascination. Susie’s buttocks dimpled as she squeezed them self-consciously, and Virginia’s hand rose to rest lightly across the upper curves of the proffered cheeks. She tenderly thumbed the bottom she had just beaten, and then, shuffling closer on her knees against her victim’s thigh, she pinched a finger and thumb full of punished flesh and twisted. Susie yelped.
‘Silence,’ Virginia commanded.
The barmaid began sobbing quietly again, and as their president stood up, steadying herself briefly against the table, the committee stirred and sat up expectantly. Enthralled, they gazed at the scene in unblinking silence.
‘You may think my punishment of the slut a trifle harsh,’ Virginia began. ‘She did, after all, in her own sordid way, try to secure honour and victory for Langley Parva.’
Susie’s mind seized on the words, and she dared to hope full penance had been paid and that her pain and humiliation were over. But as her tormentor continued speaking, her hope vanished.
‘But the truth is that this barmaid, I am reluctant to say, with her own hands brought dishonour and defeat to the village.’ Launching into a scathing tirade, Virginia Emsley explained how Susie’s debauchery had unwittingly exhausted the batsmen, sending them spent and useless in to bowl and field. The outraged aunts, furious sisters and speechless girlfriends of the middle-order batsmen gave full verbal vent to their fury. Baying for vengeance, they rose in unison and pressed forward, encircling Susie’s bare buttocks.
Virginia Emsley held up her hand. ‘Be seated,’ she ordered sternly. ‘This is a formal committee meeting of the Langley Parva WI Ladies. Pray be seated.’
They obeyed her, muttering angrily.
‘Yes, dishonour, for which she has been chastised, but defeat, as well. In rewarding the batsmen, she ruined them. Greg missed four chances behind the wicket. The slut handed Selston the County Cup,’ Virginia concluded, and then added in a feral whisper, ‘which is why she has still to suffer our wrath.’
As the full magnitude of the barmaid’s crimes – and their consequences – dawned upon the outraged committee members, their president knelt once more, and producing them from her pocket, unfurled her dog leads. The first was carefully threaded around, and then between, Susie’s ankles, drawing and binding them tightly together. Her flesh whitened where the stern leather bit deep. The second dog lead was secured around her trembling thighs a couple of inches below the spanked buttocks, and the crimsoned cheeks bulged invitingly above the restricting band of hide.
‘Miss Inchtipp,’ Virginia said, calling over her shoulder to the verger’s sister. ‘Did you remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ Miss Inchtipp replied. ‘I plucked them from my raspberry bushes.’
‘One apiece, if you will.’
Excitedly, the verger’s sister distributed yellow whippy canes to the eagerly outstretched hands of the committee. Virginia, accepting and closely examining her bamboo rod, placed it on the table. Susie, glimpsing the eighteen inches of cruel wood through tear-spangled eyelashes, jerked and wriggled violently. The cane rattled eerily as it was jolted and rolled towards her, coming to rest teasingly against her lips.
Miss Inchtipp had miscalculated, leaving herself without a cane, so improvising she started to unbuckle a vicious looking belt.
‘Miss Inchtipp, would you be good enough to sit at the piano?’ Virginia requested firmly. ‘Play for us during the slut’s whipping. Something spirited, I think. She is certain to be loud. Jerusalem, fortissimo.’
The verger’s sister sat at the upright and fingered the bass notes powerfully. As the village hall echoed to the stirring tune, the WI committee rose and approached the terrified barmaid bent across the table. It was an orderly if impatient line as they shouldered their quivering canes and awaited the signal for the chastisement to commence.
Virginia Emsley snatched up her cane. Thrumming it twice down, practice strokes to test the suppleness of her whippy wood, she remarked almost casually to Alice and the schoolmistress, ‘Hold her tight, girls. Very tight.’
Alice nodded vigorously, lust flashing in her eyes. The air around the table was heavy with the musk, with the raw scent, of female arousal.
The cane glinted as it sliced down, and Susie shuddered as her bare bottom received the stripe. ‘There, I’ve opened the scoring. One stroke apiece to redress the dishonour,’ the president instructed the assembly.
With the piano thundering out Jerusalem, the brigade of cane-wielding matrons and young women stepped up one by one.
Swish, whack! Swish, whack!
Pinned and helpless against the table the barmaid begged for mercy, but the piano drowned her pleas beneath its majestic swell of notes.
Swish, whack! Swish, whack!
The whippy wood hissed, cane by flashing cane, lashing down to slice the red-striped buttocks below.
Swish, whack! Swish, whack!
A fifth, and then a sixth crisp cut kissed the naked cheeks, decorating their round curves with searing stripes; thin red welts that gradually turned a pale purple shade of intense suffering.
Standing beside the cane-striped buttocks, the president nodded her satisfaction as each member of the committee stepped up to ply the bamboo. The final blow, delivered by Terry’s mortified aunt, caused Susie to scream, a rising A-sharp note that beat Miss Inchtipp’s efforts at the piano.
After each outraged committee member had administered a stroke apiece across the barmaid’s bare bottom, they stood in a semi-circle, panting slightly and nursing their canes affectionately. Two verses of Jerusalem were sung with gusto, Virginia Emsley joining in.
‘No, please do not sit down,’ the president urged. ‘Keep playing, Miss Inchtipp, you are quite splendid at the keyboard.’ She turned and once more knelt at Susie’s bamboo-striped bottom. Lingeringly, her face a warm breath away, she inspected the severely whipped cheeks, then briefly, for a fleeting second, she appeared to lurch forward accidentally and press her stern face into the warmth of those punished cheeks. Then kissing each one openly and mockingly, she stood up. Clapping her hands she attempted to speak, but Miss Inchtipp, in a rapture of her own, ground her heavy buttocks into the leather seat of the piano stool and hammered out Jerusalem until the rafters nearly shook.
At last an eerie silence settled over the hall, which was broken only by the snuffling sobs of the beaten barmaid.
Virginia plucked up her thin bamboo cane and tap-tapped the upturned cheeks. ‘Like Langley Parva, I am afraid your efforts with the wood must be bettered, girls. Insufficient stripes scored.’ She flashed her audience a smile, and the committee, as they always did, laughed dutifully. ‘You have, with your canes, avenged the dishonour, but not the defeat.’ All assembled nodded. ‘So now, like our team last Sunday, we are obliged to follow on. Two strokes apiece, please.’
As before Virginia opened the scoring, delivering two vicious cuts with her cruel cane. Susie grunted, dulling the wood’s sheen with the warmth of her anguish, which had only just begun.
Nine centimetre spiked heels. Katie waggled her bare bottom. Perched on the high-heels, her rounded cheeks were thrust out, proud and pert. The heels also straightened the curve of her sinuous spine, drawing her shoulders back and causing her breasts to lift deliciously. She glanced down at their budding warmth. Not much of a cleavage, not yet, but then she was only twenty years old.
The shower next door was turned off. Peeping anxiously over her shoulder in case Charlotte caught her vainly preening before the ornate looking glass, Katie staggered slightly, spreading her arms out to regain her teetering balance. She drew her thighs together, bunching her soft buttocks.
The sandals were definitely too much, the softest goatskin dyed an outrageous shade of parboiled lobster. And they had cost three hundred pounds. Charlotte had absolutely forbidden the extravagance, but Katie slipped the leash, returned to the exclusive shop in Milan’s Via Montenapoleone and bought them. She could have purchased more sensible silver mules for less than half the price, and she bit her lip now gazing down at the outrageous pink high-heels. She had better hide them until they got back to London. If Charlotte found out about them she would administer a severe spanking that would leave Katie’s bottom rosier than the sandals prompting the punishment.
She sighed. It was warm and humid. It had rained in Milan for the first three days of their holiday, but here in Naples – Napoli, she corrected herself, frowning, determined to improve her Italian – it was molto amido. She liked the word amido, which meant moist and warm. Bending her right knee and bringing the soft goatskin shoe up to kiss her naked bottom, she reached down and tugged it off. Grasping the supple sole she brought the tip of the slender spiked heel to her pubic nest. Probing delicately, she teased her sticky labia apart. Her shiny flesh was a shade darker than the heel probing it, and she sensed the heat at her damp slit. Amido, molto amido. She closed her violet eyes and imagined the feel of the other spiked heel sliding up between her cheeks. Her buttocks clenched and her anus shrivelled in delicious dread.
‘Better try the Museo del Mare this afternoon,’ Charlotte announced, entering the bedroom from the bathroom clutching a large white towel to her wet hair.
Startled, Katie opened her eyes, which darkened to indigo with fear. Briskly stepping out of her other pink sandal she snatched them together at her bottom and, blushing slightly, turned to face the older woman. Her dominant lover.
Charlotte, now sitting on the edge of the bed in a black bustier and sheer black denier stockings, angled her elbows and fixed the towel, turban like, on her head. Her large breasts rose, threatening to spill out of the bodice’s constricting cups. As her fingers tucked in the towel she languorously drew her legs together and crossed them. The sheer denier whispered as her slender thighs kissed and caressed each other.
‘The Museo del Mare?’ Katie repeated, suppressing her panic.
Charlotte nodded. The towel threatened to topple, but capable fingers pinned it sternly back into place. She glanced across at the reflection in the ornate looking glass, and her brown eyes narrowed suspiciously as they spotted nervous fingers twisting around pink sandals in the glass… pink sandals pressed up against naked peach-coloured cheeks in a pathetic attempt to conceal them. She stretched her left foot out, arching toes sheathed in glossy black. She studied them carefully, twisting her foot slightly.
Katie relaxed somewhat. Opening her legs, she planted her feet apart.
Adjusting her towel again, Charlotte glanced into the looking glass. Her full red lips tightened imperceptibly as she saw the supple soles tap-tapping silently against the naked girl’s widening cleft. ‘It’s going to be hot tomorrow,’ she remarked. ‘Sweltering. We’ll stick to the beach.’ Her tone was casual, almost bored.
Katie tried to judge how many steps it was to the bathroom. She could temporarily stash the sandals in there out of sight. ‘Hot tomorrow?’ she echoed, feigning interest.
‘In July and August,’ Charlotte murmured, thumbing her bustier to ease the bulge of her swelling breasts, ‘the butcher’s shops here in Naples—’
‘Gli mascellerias,’ Katie translated to herself automatically.
‘Are forbidden by law to sell pork.’
‘No chops, then.’
‘And every night after sunset the mosquito swarms—’
‘Mosquito, zanzara,’ Katie said as she inched towards the open bathroom door.
‘Tu parli italiano molto bene,’ Charlotte complimented her.
‘Grazie, but,’ Katie simpered, ‘I’ll never be as good as you are.’
‘And,’ Charlotte purred dangerously, tossing her towel aside, ‘do you lie well in Italian, too?’
Katie froze while at her bare bottom the sandals dangled from her anxious fingers.
‘I saw you in Milan in the trattoria by the railway station. She had scarlet nails and was old enough to be your—’
‘No, that was nothing,’ Katie protested. ‘I swear!’ And it had come to nothing. The beautiful red-nailed matron in the yellow dress had simply crushed a brown sugar cube into Katie’s milky espresso. No words had passed between them, only a mutual longing.
‘She gave you a little present, hmm?’ Charlotte, thoroughly enjoying herself, teased sadistically. ‘Gloves, perhaps? No, let me see… a handbag, perhaps?’
‘We didn’t speak,’ Katie whispered. ‘I swear, we—’
Three smart taps at the double doors silenced her. They opened slightly and a musical female voice enquired, ‘Permesso?’
‘Avanti,’ Charlotte drawled.
A deliciously lovely maid uniformed in the lemon-and-cream tunic and apron of the Hotel Amalfi staff entered the room, and paused to adjust the little white cap perched precariously on a riot of dark, glossy curls. Then she went perfectly still when she saw Katie standing before the bed utterly naked. ‘Mi scusi, signorina,’ she gasped, crushing the fresh white towels against her bosom.
‘Avanti, avanti,’ Charlotte beckoned.
Still clutching the pink sandals behind her in a desperate bid to conceal them, Katie could not modestly cover her breasts or pubic mound, and the maid eyed them both appreciatively as she walked deeper into the room. Disappearing into the bathroom she deposited the fresh towels, collected used ones from the rush basket, and curtsied briefly before departing.
‘Stay exactly where you are,’ Charlotte said sternly, detaining Katie’s surreptitious progress to the bathroom, ‘where I can keep an eye on you. You need watching, my girl.’
Katie twisted around, the sandals still pressed up against her bare bottom.
‘No,’ Charlotte said more loudly, ‘she would not give you a handbag. It would, I think, have been a more sentimental gift, like a pair of shoes.’
‘No, believe me, she—’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte nodded decisively, ‘an extravagant present, like those impossible pink sandals I forbade you to buy when we were window shopping along the Via Montenapoleone.’
Katie bowed her head, blushing. Shuffling forward, she knelt at the black nylon-clad feet of her stern mistress and reluctantly produced the pink heels, offering them up in submissive surrender. ‘I bought them,’ she murmured. ‘I swear I bought them. I can show you the receipt.’
‘You bought them, you say?’ Charlotte luxuriated in the delicious drama of dominance and contrition about to be enacted, pausing to savour the power she wielded over the submissive naked girl at her feet. ‘You bought them?’
The blonde head nodded twice.
‘In spite of my strict instruction not to do so?’
Katie shivered apprehensively.
‘And you can prove it? You can provide me with a receipt?’
Katie nodded again, carefully avoiding Charlotte’s penetrating stare.
‘Fetch my hairbrush and my hand cream, bitch.’
Katie attempted to rise.
‘On your knees and crawl,’ Charlotte whispered venomously. ‘I said crawl.’ The brown eyes, flecked with cruel golden lights, followed the soft buttocks as Katie set the shoes down and crawled on all fours across the carpet towards the antique wooden dressing table. She collected her mistress’s large hairbrush, along with a tube of expensive unscented hand cream, and then crawled back towards the bed. It was a short but painful journey. Gripping the brush between her teeth, she hobbled back on two knees and one hand, her left clutching the tube of cream. She slipped once, crushing her breasts and grazing her nipples against the carpet. At the bed again at last she lowered her head and placed the hairbrush at the feet of her dominant lover.
‘It would have been the strap, bitch,’ Charlotte remarked briskly as she scooped up the brush and vigorously tackled her damp hair with it. ‘The strap,’ she hissed, ‘if that red-nailed whore in Milan had so much as touched you.’
‘No, no, it was perfectly innocent,’ Katie whimpered.
‘Innocent?’ the older woman repeated harshly. ‘Nothing is ever innocent with you, my girl. Quite a little string of innocent infidelities behind you already, haven’t you? I thought we had left all that flirting behind us in London. No, as I say,’ she continued suavely, ‘it would have been the strap for you, but as you merely ignored my instruction not to buy the pink sandals, we will be quite content with a severe spanking.’
‘But—’
‘Across my knee, bitch. You have a painful lesson to learn and I am perfectly prepared to teach you.’
‘I’m so sorry!’ Katie blurted. ‘I will obey you from now on. I’ll do everything you say, I promise!’
‘Promises made under the threat of pain and punishment are easily made, bitch. I intend to make sure you keep them.’
‘I will, I swear, please believe—’
‘I believe in discipline.’
‘I won’t spend another lira, not a single lira, I swear.’
‘You will certainly have to exercise more discipline, as must I. On your feet.’
Brushing aside the abandoned pink sandals, Katie inched closer to the bed, her naked breasts bouncing softly. A black shiny foot flashed out, arresting her progress. The toes whitened within the dark stockings as they pressed into Katie’s left breast, the sole of the foot pushing dominantly and flattening the bulging flesh. The kneeling girl gasped as the foot ground into her suffering orb, rasping the nipple painfully.
‘Knees apart,’ came the crisp command, and the bed squeaked softly as the woman sitting on it shifted her weight.
Watching the smooth back of the hairbrush tap-tapping the open palm of her punisher, Katie obeyed, inching her thighs wider, and then wider still. Her labia peeled apart and she felt her clitoral hood stretch.
‘Funny how you’re prompt to obey when your bottom is bare,’ Charlotte chuckled darkly, tossing the hairbrush down on the bed and squirting some hand cream onto her palm as she brought her toes down to rest in the blonde fluff of Katie’s pubic bush. The shiny black nylon crackled slightly as it nuzzled the girl’s fuzz and slid between her parted thighs. ‘No,’ she warned as Katie inched her thighs together in an effort to trap and tame the instep at her slit. ‘Open up, bitch.’
‘Please, Charlotte, don’t,’ she whimpered, and began to cry.
‘Save your tears until they’re needed, and they will be shortly, I can promise you that.’
She snuffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘You must be disciplined, my girl. In a little while I am going to put you over my knee and spank your bare bottom with the hairbrush, understand?’
Katie’s tear-spangled eyelashes brushed her cheeks and her sulky mouth kept a sullen silence.
‘Do you understand?’ Charlotte demanded quietly.
‘Mmm.’
‘It’s high time you were severely punished, Katie.’
The naked blonde flickered her sorrowful gaze up to meet her chastiser’s stern regard.
‘Flirting like that in Milan. How many times must you be told? If you want to belong to me, my girl, it’s time you began to tow the line.’ She raised her foot slightly, studying the wet sheen on her stocking. ‘Why, I do believe my sweet little bitch,’ she murmured approvingly, bending down to briefly finger the damp patch, ‘that you are almost as pleased by the prospect of your punishment as I am.’
Katie, closing her eyes, moaned a soft denial.
‘Up with you, come along, I want you across my knee.’
Slowly, with awkward reluctance, the girl rose and obediently bent over the waiting black nylon-clad thighs. A firm hand, the fingers still slightly sticky from the hand cream, alighted at the nape of her neck. She squirmed, snuggling down across the soft warmth of her mistress’s legs.
‘Over a little more.’ The controlling hand at the nape of her pinioned neck propelled Katie the required angle across her lap, and she sighed as her breasts spilled down and Charlotte’s free hand came to rest, the knuckles turned inwards, upon her buttocks. Then the velvety palm moist with hand cream turned to cup and squeeze each ripe, upturned cheek with a sure grip. Her captive flesh suffering sweetly, Katie cried out softly as a dominant thumb tip ravaged her yawning cleft.
Two polite taps sounded at the double doors again.
The thumb tip tapped three times in sharp succession at Katie’s tight little sphincter.
The double doors opened a fraction, as did the anal rosebud, in response to Charlotte’s, ‘Avanti!’
‘Mi scusi,’ the pretty little maid said breathlessly, her eyes widening in shock even as they glimmered with delight.
‘Avanti,’ Charlotte beckoned imperiously. ‘Put it down there, per favore.’
Blushing as she stumbled in a dizzy confusion of voyeuristic pleasure at the sight of the bare-bottomed girl bent across the knees of the stern English signorina, the young maid carefully deposited a silver tray bearing two glasses and an uncorked bottle of Chianti on a nearby table.
Charlotte briefly inspected the label for the little black cockerel – the DOM seal of excellence – nodded her approval and gestured to the girl to pour.
Uncertainly, shyly peeping down, and then quickly averting her gaze from Katie’s naked bottom, the uniformed domestic carefully poured out a brimming glassful. As the dark, purplish wine filled the sparkling glass, the silver etched insignia of the Hotel Amalfi grew visible – a leaping swordfish.
Charlotte looked closely, and saw there were in fact two sleek creatures cresting the waves in tight formation. ‘Due, per favore,’ she smiled, absently caressing the naked buttocks lying across her black thighs.
Katie blushed furiously as she squirmed beneath the pretty maid’s open-mouthed gaze.
‘Grazie,’ Charlotte nodded.
‘Signorina.’ The maid bowed gracefully, her nervous fingers clutching the Chianti bottle tightly.
‘She has been very naughty.’ Charlotte lightly spanked Katie’s bare buttocks and the taut cheeks quivered under her palm. ‘Wicked. Molta cattiva.’
The maid pressed the Chianti bottle against her bosom.
‘Molta cattiva. You understand?’
The pretty young woman blinked and nodded vigorously, trying desperately, but failing, to drag her wide dark eyes from Katie’s pink cheeks.
‘I am going to punish her the English way,’ Charlotte announced casually. ‘And the English way to punish a naughty female is to spank her bare bottom. Spank her bare bottom severely.’ She reached out to put down the glass she had just drained and to pick up the second one.
Mincingly slipping one white pump behind the other, the Italian began retreating towards the double doors.
‘What is your name, my dear?’
‘Elisabetta,’ she whispered.
‘Elisabetta,’ Charlotte repeated, savouring the syllables in her mouth just as she had savoured the dark Chianti. ‘And are you a good girl, Elisabetta?’
Elisabetta gazed at Charlotte’s wine-wet lips as if mesmerised. ‘Ah, si, signorina, always I am the good girl.’
‘Always? Surely not. Life would be too dull, no?’
Elisabetta fiddled with the scalloped trim of her apron.
‘And when you are naughty, Elisabetta, how are you punished? What is the Italian way, hmm? La via Italiana?’
Elisabetta blushed becomingly and her soft little bottom bumped against the door as her hand scrabbled frantically for the golden handle. Then with a shy, ‘Mi scusi!’ she disappeared and the doors clicked closed behind her again.
Crack! Crack! The sharp sounds of savage discipline, of the back of a hairbrush swatting against soft buttocks, were slightly muffled by the doors at which Elisabetta knelt, listening. She closed her eyes tightly as she imagined the scene in the room she had just left.
Crack! Crack! Again the savage blows rang out and Elisabetta’s dark nipples thickened, straining painfully as they grazed the cotton cups of her black lace bra. Crack! Crack!
The stern older woman, the punisher, was la zia, and the beautiful young blonde being beaten was la ragazza. That was what they called the English couple down in the hot kitchens of the Hotel Amalfi. La zia, with cruel red lips, lips wet with wine now and pursed in concentration. Elisabetta recalled the swollen breasts swelling half out of the tight black bustier, and moaned softly. She recalled the long, slender legs sheathed in black nylon and the bare-bottomed blonde, the pretty little ragazza, lying across the shimmering black thighs.
Crack! Crack! Elisabetta removed her frilly apron, and after unzipping her skirt with trembling hands, she eased the lemon-coloured cloth up over her hips.
Crack! Crack! She shook her tumble of black curls away from her face and placed her warm ear to the door.
Crack! Crack! And then the sound of an anguished sob followed by a squeal of protest from la ragazza. Elisabetta was listening to the punishment of a naughty female the English way, and between her plump bottom cheeks, parted where they nestled against her pumps, her cleft ached sweetly.
Crack! Crack! Her ear pressed against the door, eager for the sound of the vicious hairbrush stinging the bare buttocks helplessly exposed to it, the maid fingered her wet pussy frantically through her moist cotton panties.
Crack! Crack! The ragazza was sobbing openly now, no doubt squirming and writhing under the cruel brush as Elisabetta tongued the door hungrily, sensuously lapping the glossy paintwork. In her mind, behind her tightly closed eyes, she was licking the back of the warm hairbrush and then tonguing the hot curves of the blazing red buttocks.
Crack! Crack! Elisabetta drove a finger, swiftly followed by a second, into her wet heat. Adding a third digit she climaxed, shuddering in the throes of an intense, silent orgasm, after which she collapsed, spent and helpless, against the doors.
Charlotte walked straight past the large green glass tank while Katie stopped to stare into it. Within the sealed unit a delicate little seahorse floated, suspended in eternal silence. She reached out and tapped the glass. The exquisite little creature seemed to wink its orange eye before spindling slowly around. She screamed softly as she watched it turn. It had been spliced cleanly in half, split from the tip of its nose to the flourish of its curled tail. She stepped back, horrified, as the creamy-white exposed skeleton twisted into view.
‘Signorina?’ a smartly uniformed female attendant raised a concerned eyebrow. ‘A glass of water?’
She nodded faintly and staggered backwards into an empty leather chair. Seconds later the Museo del Mare guard was kneeling by her side offering her a glass of iced water, and nimble gloved fingers quickly unbuttoned her silk blouse. Then the attendant bit away her right glove, leaving it dangling from clenched teeth, and Katie murmured softly as she felt the touch of cool knuckles dimpling the soft swell of her exposed breast. The hand turned, and the firm palm cupped and squeezed her tender orb soothingly.
‘Leave her to me,’ Charlotte snapped, advancing menacingly across the polished marble floor in a staccato of quickening footsteps.
The guard shrugged, pouting sulkily, and slipped her hand out of Katie’s unbuttoned blouse. ‘La signorina is unwell.’
‘Nothing the matter with her,’ Charlotte growled. ‘And should there be, I have a sure and certain cure.’
That night, a little before nine o’clock, they left the hotel and strolled through the warmth of the gathering dusk to the Ristorante del Pesce.
‘Criminal not to eat fish when in Napoli,’ Charlotte remarked briskly. She was always cheerful after a session of punishment. ‘Let’s see what this one has to offer.’
Thigh-to-thigh and hand-in-hand, gli paia Inglesi scanned the menu cards posted outside the glass doors.
‘Triglia rossa,’ Katie enthused, executing an excited little dance, and the sudden display of unsophisticated eagerness pleased Charlotte immensely, making her feel completely in control.
‘Red mullet, is it?’ she said. ‘I dare say they’ll do a decent mullet in fennel sauce for you here.’
The restaurant was thronged, and they were surprised to see Elisabetta, now in the regulation black and white uniform of a waitress, weaving through the crowded tables towards them.
Katie reddened, and her eyes cast down, she whispered her order for the mullet.
‘Triglia?’ Elisabetta waved her stubby black pencil. ‘No, no, signorina, you must have the swordfish. Very good, very fresh.’
‘How fresh?’ Charlotte quizzed.
‘My father catch him every night.’
‘Busy family, hmm? And you work here as well as at the hotel?’
‘Everyone in Napoli works all the time. So many taxes.’
Which none of you ever pay, Charlotte thought to herself, and agreed to the suggestion of swordfish steaks. Elisabetta assured them of their freshness again, suggesting they have them grilled with fresh garlic and herbs.
‘Sweet meat, swordfish,’ Charlotte opined, and Katie, her eyes still averted, fiddled with a breadstick.
‘The swordfish,’ Elisabetta sighed passionately. ‘Molto vero in amore. So faithful in love. How you say it, please? Fidelity, no?’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte nodded, flashing a keen glance across the spotless linen tablecloth. ‘Fidelity. Isn’t that what we say, Katie?’
The young English girl blushed furiously and the breadstick snapped in her twisting fingers.
‘Ah, si, fidelity. The swordfish is so loyal to its partner. When my father catches one, all he has to do is wait.’
‘Wait?’ Charlotte asked, perplexed.
Elisabetta tried not to remember kneeling at the double doors, her ear pressed against the wood, playing with herself as the stern zia punished the beautiful, bare-bottomed ragazza with the hairbrush. ‘Wait,’ she nodded emphatically, ‘for the partner, the other swordfish. Always they swim as una paia. How you say? As a couple, due. When one is caught, the other swims and swims around the boat until it is dead. Then my father, he takes it from the water. They live and they die together, like Romeo and Juliet.’
Later Katie said she did not care for the garlic. It left a sour taste in her mouth.
‘Sweet meat,’ Charlotte pronounced, swallowing her final mouthful with relish.
The next day was very hot. They went, as planned, down to the thin strip of silver beach. Charlotte dozed, her brown eyes protected from the glare of the sun by the twin panes of her large black sunglasses. Katie, still sore from the previous afternoon’s chastisement, lay tummy down across a blue towel. Cupping her chin in her hands, she thought about the last turbulent twenty-four hours. The painful discovery of the pink sandals, bitter accusations of flirting, the bare-bottomed punishment and Elisabetta, the lovely dark-haired maid witnessing her humiliation.
A statuesque German spread a silver and gold coloured towel down across the scorching sand alongside Katie’s. She was slender and supple and her buttocks were deliciously tight.
Fidelity… Katie remembered the hairbrush and closed her eyes. Behind them she saw the seahorse floating in its glass tank and suddenly recalled the wave of nausea that had seized her. Then she remembered the gloved hand unbuttoning her blouse, and the warm palm cupping and squeezing her exposed breast followed by Charlotte’s stern indifference, which masked a fierce jealousy. Later, Elisabetta again at the restaurant and the sour taste of garlic… Elisabetta tossing her dark, tumbling curls over her shoulder…
‘Bitte.’
Katie turned her head and saw the bronzed German sun worshipper holding out a bottle of lotion.
‘Bitte.’
Smiling, and then swiftly checking to make sure Charlotte was still asleep, she rolled over, wincing as the hot towel kissed her sore bottom. She collided gently against the German’s sleek thigh, wearing only a tight white bikini, and the woman’s eyes devoured her cleavage. Softly cupped and subtly under-wired, the swimsuit’s top lifted her breasts deliciously, causing them to bulge invitingly.
Up on one elbow and accepting the proffered lotion, Katie studied the foreign beauty, who had squeezed her voluptuous breasts and fleshy buttocks into a green and gold spangled bikini with a daringly strapless bandeau top through which mulberry nipples strained, and a bottom that was a mere thong disappearing between the taut bronze cheeks.
‘Bitte,’ the woman repeated, thumbing off her top and offering her naked breasts to be oiled.
Katie shot a sly glance at Charlotte before squirting the richly scented lotion into her open palm and then wiping her hands together.
Slowly and firmly, she greased the German’s full bosom, working the oil deftly into each quivering mound and teasing each budding nipple with her fingertips.
Two seagulls squabbling over a ragged piece of bread up in the blue sky screamed raucously, and caused Katie to look up in alarm. The woman arched her back up off the towel and spread her thighs a little. ‘Bitte,’ she persisted.
Katie returned to the fleshy bosom, kneading and knuckling the deliciously firm yet pliant pillows of warm skin. At her pussy, a drop of arousal darkened the crotch of her white swimsuit.
The German grunted suddenly, turned over onto her belly and jerked her buttocks up. ‘Bitte!’
Straddling the sunbather’s thighs between her knees, Katie rode the slender limbs of the woman beneath her. Squirting the expensive lotion lavishly over both bronzed buttocks, she tossed the bottle aside, splayed her fingers and oiled each tender cheek in turn. A daring thumb jerked the thong to one side, and she saw the dark little pinkish-brown anus wink up at her.
‘Bitte,’ the woman sighed.
Oiling the anus with a lotion-coated forefinger, Katie became engrossed in her task, and shuddered as she felt the rectal muscles tighten, grip and retain her probing finger. So engrossed did she become that she ignored the renewed screaming of the squabbling seagulls overhead, and failed to notice Charlotte’s brown eyes narrowing and flickering, lizard-like, as she carefully raised her sunglasses.
They never rowed in public. It was not the English way. It was not their style to make a scene. Jealous passions and the tears they provoked were always spilled behind closed doors. So Charlotte warned Katie of her awakening by exaggerated sighs and stretching, and then merely commented upon the heat before politely enquiring of the German beauty if she was staying at the Hotel Amalfi.
‘Ja, in room three-sixteen,’ came the instant reply. Busy thumbing her thong back between her oiled buttocks, she directed her answer to Katie.
‘I see,’ was all Charlotte said; two simple words but they frightened Katie, instantly quickening her pulse. Caught in the act, she feared the strap.
Donning an airy white cotton shirt over her swimsuit, Katie stood up, stretched and announced her intention to go for a walk. Charlotte remained silent, and the German settled into a doze.
She walked down the beach towards the waves breaking gently on the shore. As she trod the hot sand she knew Charlotte’s angry eyes would be devouring the sway of her buttocks, judging their ripe roundness in readiness for the punishing strap. The thought tightened her sensually quivering cheeks, rendering the cleft between them a mere crease into which her swimsuit sank.
A gentle breeze brought the myriad smells of Naples to her nostrils. Not the aromatic mix of lemons, basil and extra virgin oil, but of open drains and uncollected refuse. Ugly smells from the hectic, heaving city huddled against the sea.
Katie shivered. Afraid of the strap awaiting her bottom she paced the sands, deserted now after sunset. She was cold. No, not cold, just afraid of her impending pain and punishment. She hugged herself and her shirt rasped against her nipples, budding within the stretchy cups of her matching white bra. The shirt’s scalloped hem tickled the pert swell of her buttocks like teasing fingertips, and she shivered again. The crisp Swiss cotton had been nice in the fierce afternoon sun, but in the moonlight it afforded little warmth.
The staccato crackle of a Vespa roaring along the seafront esplanade broke into her consciousness. Vespa, the Italian word for wasp. The scooter’s snarl faded and died off in the distance. Vespa. The sting of a wasp could be so painful – as painful as the sting of a leather strap. She glanced up, her anxious eyes scanning the floodlit expanse of the hotel. Up in their room was the cruel strap; the cruel length of leather awaiting her bare bottom.
The strap. Charlotte had bought it in Bonn two-and-a-half years ago on their first trip abroad as a couple. It was never used lovingly, in pleasure or in play. The tip of the strap had never been raked against her nipples or used to tease her clitoris, to tantalise and deliciously torment. The strap, Charlotte had decided, was to be used for the single and sole purpose of discipline. It was kept out of sight furled up in a yellow suede bag. She only need mention it and their bickering would suddenly cease, giving way to Katie’s whimpered apologies. Charlotte need only take it out of the drawer and dangle the yellow suede bag from her fingertips, and Katie would fall to her knees mumbling apologies into the musky warmth of her mistress’s pubic mound. The strap was a potent symbol of their relationship – the dominant and the submissive, the punisher and the punished.
From time to time the strap was taken out and stretched at full length. At such times Katie would peep anxiously as Charlotte thumbed vitamin E cream into the dark leather to keep it pliant – pliant and supple. Katie hated the strap. She hated its sharp bite and the burning pain across her bare buttocks as the broad pink welts it created deepened into a crimson blaze. She hated even more being arranged over her stern chastiser’s lap, being pinned down dominantly, bare-bottomed and utterly helpless. She hated being bared and prepared for her punishment like a naughty schoolgirl across the knee of the gym mistress subjecting her to strict discipline. She hated the slow administration of the stinging strap across her naked cheeks; cheeks that tensed tightly at the thin whistle of the lashing leather, cheeks that flattened under the broad width of punishing hide, cheeks that wobbled slightly beneath each fresh blaze of scalding pain.
Then afterwards the humiliating ritual. ‘Kiss the leather,’ Charlotte would insist, and blinded by tears of shame and torment, Katie would be forced to kiss the doubled length of leather dangling before her lips. She would be forced to kiss and taste with her tongue the tang of the dead hide.
‘Signorina.’
The velvety whisper startled Katie out of her troubled recollections. She turned and saw Elisabetta, apparently returning to the hotel after her evening stint at the Ristorante del Pesce.
‘I always come along the beach,’ the Italian explained. ‘It is so beautiful, no? Look.’ She pointed, stretching her arm towards the surging waves. They stood side by side, their thighs touching. Then the pert waitress curled her small hand over Katie’s hip and they nestled closer. ‘Look,’ she cried again excitedly, ‘the fishing boats! My father!’
Katie, pressing hard into the other girl’s soft warmth, strained up on tiptoe. On the dark band of the horizon she could just make out tiny pin-points of red, silver and green dancing lights.
‘There are three boats tonight,’ Elisabetta informed her proudly.
‘Are they fishing for swordfish?’
Her small hand slipped down to lightly caress Katie’s left buttock. ‘No, tonight they fish for tuna.’
The two young women turned towards each other. For a full minute they just looked into each other’s eyes, then sank slowly to their knees, their breasts bumping together gently. Then the waitress bowed her head submissively and rested it in Katie’s lap. ‘The tuna is not like the faithful swordfish,’ she whispered.
‘No?’ Katie murmured, the fingers of her right hand dominantly raking through a riot of dark curls.
‘The tuna, it lives for the moment, for a new love with each change of the tide. A fresh pleasure every night.’
Katie bent her head and kissed the waiting, sulky mouth with vicious tenderness. They rose up off their heels and ground their pubic mounds together, and the English girl grew more dominant, pinioning the Italian down firmly against the sand. Unbuttoning Elisabetta’s uniform feverishly she sought and found the delicious breasts, exposing them to the silvery moonlight.
‘Kiss them,’ Elisabetta pleaded.
Katie fondled the lovely bosom savagely before pressing her parted lips at each eagerly proffered nipple and sucking hard, very hard, grunting her raw pleasure as Elisabetta wriggled like a netted tuna and squirmed her buttocks against the sand.
‘I want—’
‘What?’ Katie teased. ‘What do you desire?’
‘Punish me.’ She twisted her face away shyly. ‘I want to be punished the English way.’
Katie felt the pulse in her throat and further down at the wet heat between her thighs. Punishment, the English way. Her mouth felt dry and her head spun with dizzy delight. Elisabetta had asked to be spanked!
The pretty little Italian’s bottom was delicious. The soft peaches dimpled to the firm touch of a dominant fingertip and danced beneath Katie’s caressing palms. Parting the round cheeks she watched, holding her breath, as the dark cleft deepened in the ghostly moonlight. Resting her spanking hand briefly against the obediently proffered buttocks, she ran her free hand up the spine of the supine young woman until it was buried in the dark tumble of curls at the bowed neck. Her fingers flexed around the soft nape, and then gripped tightly. Elisabetta mewed like a kitten at its cream, inching her thighs open and exposing her glistening pussy to the moonlight. Katie then let her hand sweep slowly down over the naked swell of flesh, and resting it lightly across the girl’s thighs, she angled her thumb-tip in at the wet slit. The pretty little Italian wriggled impatiently, jerking her soft cheeks up in eager expectation.
‘The English way,’ Katie whispered.
The sharp sound of three hard smacks rang out in the moonlight, rising over the sound of the tide. Elisabetta squealed, and then nestled deeper into her punisher’s lap. Katie, a little uncertainly at first, quickly thrilled to the task of punishing the bare bottom beneath her, and after six rapid blows she paused to caress the warm cheeks. The girl across her lap sighed contentedly, crooning a tuneless song beneath her breath.
‘So,’ a harsh voice suddenly snapped, ‘this is where you are.’ Charlotte’s stern statement froze Katie’s hand an inch away from Elisabetta’s hot bottom. ‘Do not disturb me when you creep back into the room. Stay out of my bed and sleep on the floor tonight, you understand?’
Avoiding eye contact with her angry mistress, Katie nodded in contrite silence.
‘And,’ Charlotte’s voice was dangerously low, ‘you will remain in the hotel tomorrow morning. I shall be going out after breakfast. I must do a little shopping, but I shall expect you ready and waiting for your punishment when I return.’ Turning abruptly, she strode away into the darkness, her quickening footfalls silent upon the sand.
A little shopping… vitamin E cream for the strap. Katie shivered in dread at the prospect of the punishing hide slicing down across her naked buttocks, but unconcerned by the brief drama that ended so abruptly, Elisabetta jiggled her spanked cheeks invitingly.
‘Stupid little bitch,’ Katie whispered fiercely. ‘I’m going to get it good and hard now, and it’s all your fault.’ Her hand rained down with vicious force across the girl’s bottom. ‘All your fault,’ she accused, ignoring Elisabetta’s cries.
Katie tiptoed around their hotel room the next morning. They did not speak. Breakfast was a wretched affair, the silence deafening.
Charlotte showered, towelled herself dry, and then went back to bed. Propping herself up on her pillows she covered her breasts with wild strawberries, spliced and iced, which arrived as instructed with the breakfast tray. It was her way of combatting the effects of the Italian sun.
The treatment lasted an hour, during which time she ostentatiously read yesterday’s English newspapers, holding the broadsheets aloft to deny Katie any reassuring glances. Tossing the paper aside finally, she plucked up the wild strawberries, threw them away, wiped her bosom, dressed and left the room in silence.
Once she was alone, Katie searched frantically for the yellow suede bag. Haunted by the image of the curled hide within it, she desperately sought to unearth the strap from Charlotte’s hiding place. Just to hold it. Smell it. Examine it. Somehow she thought finding the strap, holding and touching it, would reduce her terror and torment. But apparently Charlotte suspected this was what Katie would do and hid it well to make sure her submissive young lover passed an anxious, troubled and ultimately fruitless hour.
Charlotte returned to the hotel carrying a curious green canvas bundle, tightly wrapped with waxed cord. She placed her purchase on the bed and instructed Katie to strip and shower. ‘You know how I want you, properly washed and prepared.’ These were the first words she spoke since their encounter on the beach the previous night. ‘I prefer to punish a nice clean, freshly washed bottom. And you need not bother with talc or body lotion after your shower. Now hurry up.’
‘No, please,’ Katie mumbled, rising out of her chair. ‘Please don’t—’
‘Into the shower at once,’ Charlotte commanded curtly.
Katie sank tearfully to her knees and shuffled awkwardly towards her dominant partner. Once at her feet, she stretched her fingers out and clutched the polished shoes before her.
‘That will get you nowhere,’ Charlotte said impassively.
Katie crushed her breasts into the carpet as she inched towards the impassive shoes. Craning, she kissed the shiny leather. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she gasped. ‘I truly am so sorry. And I’ll never look, never touch…’
Charlotte lifted her feet one at a time, extricating them from the lips of the penitent blonde sprawled across the carpet.
‘Oh Charlotte, please, not the strap. I beg you.’
‘Into the shower, and if you are so averse to the taste of leather across your bare bottom, so be it. No strap.’
‘No strap?’ She could scarcely believe she’d heard right.
‘I shall not use the strap to punish you,’ Charlotte repeated patiently, and Katie practically skipped into the shower. Stripping quickly, she stepped under the hot downpour and reached for the scented shower gel.
‘No gel for you.’ Charlotte, similarly stripped and naked, stepped into the shower behind her and snatched the bottle from her hand. ‘A brisk flannel will get you clean enough for me.’ She snapped open a coarsely textured cotton flannel sponge and held it up under the water. ‘Legs apart,’ she barked.
‘No, don’t, please,’ Katie whimpered.
‘Arms out.’
Katie spread her arms obediently, pressing both hands against the pale blue tiles, and as Charlotte flicked the wet flannel up between her thighs her fingers spread out in agony. The cloth punished her exposed pussy, making her squeal in torment. Charlotte delivered a withering sermon to her victim as she next ravished her breasts with the rasping flannel, concentrating on the sensitive nipples. Katie hung her head in shame, her silence a loud acknowledgement of her guilt.
The cruel sponge, doubled up in Charlotte’s avenging fist, was knuckled up savagely between Katie’s parted thighs, forcing her to beg for mercy. ‘I’m sorry!’ she gasped. ‘I love you! I love you!’
‘Nobody else?’ Charlotte hissed.
‘Nobody else!’ The penitent gulped. ‘Please forgive me.’
‘Forgive you?’ Charlotte echoed as the punished blonde sank to her knees. ‘But of course I forgive you. I always do.’
‘You forgive me?’ She looked up beseechingly, blinking water out of her eyes.
‘Yes,’ Charlotte spoke decisively, ‘I forgive you.’
‘And no strap?’ she whispered, still scarcely able to believe it.
Charlotte squatted behind her, forcing the flannel between the wet, slippery cheeks to rake the sensitive cleft between them. Katie moaned softly as the cruel cotton was dragged across the tight path of dark velvety flesh buried between her buttocks. Then she sighed, and thinking her cruel punishment with the leather strap a danger now removed, she offered her bottom submissively.
Back in the bedroom she towelled herself dry, and on Charlotte’s command donned a special item of lingerie – a seamless translucent body-liner in peachy flesh tones that clung tightly to her soft nakedness like a second skin. The fit was so severe she had to finger the suit away from where it bit lovingly into her flesh, bunching and lifting her breasts whilst sculpting the ripe swell of her buttocks. Each plump cheek wobbled as the thong cut into her cleft. Thumbing the taut crotch from her moist labia, she looked very sweet and very vulnerable in her bare feet.
Charlotte, in a slightly brooding mood, selected a clinging black tulle top. The padding at her pubis narrowed severely, rising up past her pussy to bury itself deeply between her buttocks. Cut very high at the hip, it allowed for maximum freedom of movement. She looked athletic and sinuous and very, very powerful in matching black high-heels.
The green canvas bundle remained unopened upon the bed. Katie approached it inquisitively. Bending down, her breasts bulging, she fingered the bundle. ‘What is it?’
‘A present,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘You’ll see. All in good time.’
‘A present? What for?’
‘Just a little something to ensure we remain a couple and truly together from now on.’
Katie’s fingertips stroked the canvas-wrapped bundle lingeringly, but they could make no sense of what lay concealed within.
Charlotte picked up the phone, and speaking in faultless Italian gave an order to room service. Several minutes later, three smart taps at the double doors broke the somewhat tense silence.
‘Permesso?’ Elisabetta’s voice asked uncertainly.
‘Avanti,’ Charlotte replied.
Katie turned, her face suddenly pale and anxious. Remembering how she had been discovered with the maid on the beach, she blushed as Elisabetta entered the room bearing a silver tray. There were, she noticed, no glasses to accompany the bottle of exotic Italian liqueur. A thick wedge of ciabatto bread rolled gently across the tray as it was placed carefully down on a small cherry wood table.
‘Close and lock the door, Elisabetta, per favore,’ Charlotte requested firmly.
The maid smiled timidly, her eyes darting from Katie’s body-liner, through which her blonde nest and dark nipples peeped, to Charlotte’s bold, figure-hugging sheath of black tulle. ‘No glasses, signorina?’
‘Non, grazie.’
‘I lock the door when I go, no?’ the pretty maid asked.
‘You lock the door, si, but then you stay.’
Katie’s eyes widened anxiously, their soft violet deepening to a concerned indigo. Something, something indefinable yet palpable in Charlotte’s tone, alerted her to danger. She froze like a gazelle hearing a twig snap beneath the predatory paws of a lioness.
Elisabetta remained where she was, looking beautifully puzzled.
‘The door,’ Charlotte insisted.
Katie shivered, but then she remembered her mistress saying there would be no strap. ‘I shall not use the strap to punish you’. Those had been her very words.
After retreating to the double doors and turning the key, Elisabetta turned, approached the tray on the cherry wood table again, and stood docilely beside it.
‘We are relaxing in our lingerie, Elisabetta. Why don’t you do the same? Come,’ Charlotte gestured, ‘take off your uniform.’ Her tone was one of steely politeness. Nevertheless, the maid understood it had not been an invitation, but an instruction.
‘Signorina…’ she murmured, anxiously fiddling with the hem of her apron.
‘At once.’
Katie watched in awe as the lovely maid wriggled and squirmed out of her blouse, apron, skirt and stockings, and as an afterthought, kicked off her white pumps.
Charlotte padded slowly across the carpet towards the small table. Its polished surface reflected the swell of her breasts bound tightly within the stretchy black tulle as she stood above it. ‘How very appropriate,’ she murmured approvingly, intimately inspecting the nearly naked servant shivering slightly in her white lace bra and panties.
Elisabetta shrank slightly from the caressing knuckles of Charlotte’s inverted hand. Her olive-hued bosom whitened as the dominant fist firmly depressed the cupped flesh of her breasts. The snow-white bra was lightly under-wired, the exquisite cups individually formed and fashioned to capture and contain each brimming breast. And the delicate white straps bit lovingly into the pretty maid’s slender shoulders.
‘Bellissima!’ Charlotte sighed, dappling her fingertips just below Elisabetta’s taut belly. The panties, severely cut away to expose both sumptuous bottom cheeks, were of a matching snow-white satin, and the trembling maid’s dark pubic bush rasped slightly against the lacy weave as she nervously trod the carpet. ‘So pretty,’ Charlotte said approvingly, her thumb-tip returning to torment a peaking nipple. The fine interweaving of the bra and high-cut panties gave them a delicious, stretchy sheen, intimating the olive flesh bound within their snowy embrace was at once pliant and soft, obedient to the touch. ‘Delightful,’ Charlotte murmured, stroking the suspicion of a seam dividing the pubic mound and the labial lips below with an idle fingertip. ‘Take them down for me, if you please.’
Elisabetta stepped back, her dark eyes widening as they filled with wonder. Then suddenly tossing her head back impetuously, she quickly palmed her panties down to her thighs. The stretchy fabric drew her slender legs together, binding them tightly above her knees.
Charlotte smiled, nodding her satisfaction with the maid’s prompt submission to her stern command. ‘What a beautiful bush, my dear,’ she remarked, taking a finger and thumb full of the tightly coiled fuzz and teasing it out with delicate dominance.
Elisabetta, her toes digging into the carpet, inched forward a fraction. Bound at her lower thighs by the restraining stretch of her panties, she stumbled and bump-kissed her pussy against Charlotte’s levelled fist. As her pubis collided with the gently clenched knuckles, her fleshy bottom cheeks wobbled.
Katie moaned a low, jealous note. Charlotte’s brown eyes narrowed, but ignoring the blonde, she gazed directly at the dark-haired girl’s bosom. ‘Such exquisite breasts, Elisabetta. Show me.’
But before the maid could obediently slip away the white straps to bare her breasts, Charlotte, still rhythmically knuckling the exposed pussy, buried her face down between the cups. She kissed the satin tenderly over each soft mound before sucking both nipples fiercely, and when, some minutes later, her mistress’s head rose from the maid’s cleavage, Katie glimpsed the darkening wet stains left by the cruel lips at the snow-white cups. ‘Noooo!’ Her sharp protest rose to a shrill whine.
‘So?’ Charlotte hissed, spinning round. ‘Now you feel the pain of jealousy, the pang of betrayal? Now the hurt begins to make you moan?’
Katie shook her head. She did not speak, but remained sullenly silent.
‘Oh, but you do feel the pain, don’t you?’ Charlotte insisted.
Katie, bowing her head, blushed and nodded.
‘Here in Naples they use the same word for fishing and flirting.’
Elisabetta agreed. ‘Si, signorina, it is exactly as you say. To fish is the same as to flirt.’
Charlotte, now at the bedside, scooped up the green canvas bundle and plucked open the wax cords binding it. To Katie’s utter surprise, the green canvas disgorged four pieces of a fishing rod – four lengths of whippy cane, a reel and an unruly ball of fishing line. Each segment of the rod was delicately tapered. The thickest section, which held the reel, had a cork handle and narrowed to a hexagon approximately six centimetres in diameter. The whole thing was varnished, giving the yellow whippy wood an evil sparkle.
Charlotte selected, tested and discarded the first three segments of the rod, but when her fingers curled around the most slender, supple length, they tightened. Then she crossed to a door of the large fitted wardrobe, and opened it. A brass hook, for bathrobes or some such garment, was affixed to the white door. ‘Come here,’ she commanded, and Katie moved meekly forward. ‘No, face me.’ Katie turned and pressed her back and bottom against the inside of the open door.
When satisfied, Charlotte returned to the bed, picked up the fishing line and bit off a short length. Then returning to her submissive victim, she ordered Katie to present her hands together at breast height. The fishing line quickly bound her thumbs, reddening them as it bit gently into the flesh, and then forcing the bound thumbs up, Charlotte used the hook to pin them to the door above her wriggling captive’s blonde head. ‘Fishing, like flirting,’ she said ominously, ‘is a pleasure that brings pain. There is to be no more. No more fishing. Do you understand me?’
‘You said you would not punish me,’ Katie protested.
‘No, I didn’t. What I said was that I would not use the strap to punish you. Try to pay attention. You really must listen to what I say, my girl.’
‘But that’s not fair,’ Katie protested again.
‘Not the strap,’ Charlotte confirmed. ‘No, I have chosen something far more appropriate to beat you with, my dear Katie. No fishing. No flirting. I think once I have finished with you, you will remember that.’
‘No, please,’ Katie begged, writhing in her simple but devastatingly effective bondage.
‘Bring me the ciabatto,’ Charlotte ordered, and Elisabetta pulled up her panties and brought the hunk of bread as instructed.
Charlotte took it, pulled it apart into equal halves, and unceremoniously forced each piece into the two girls’ mouths. Katie petulantly tried to spit it out.
‘No, don’t you dare do that,’ Charlotte warned. ‘Bite into it; it will silence your screams.’ Elisabetta’s fingers fluttered up to her lips, but the tip of the cane flashed and swept them away. ‘No, bambina, you too must bite hard.’
Above the bread stuffed obscenely into her mouth, Katie’s eyes widened as they filled with trepidation, but Elisabetta snatched the ciabatto out of her mouth and darted towards the locked door of the apartment.
‘Come back here at once,’ Charlotte commanded ominously.
‘No, signorina, per favore,’ she begged breathlessly.
‘Bite the bread.’
Elisabetta remained standing uncertainly before the locked door.
‘Do as I say, or I will make you wish you had never been born, bambina,’ Charlotte threatened, and then smiled cruelly as the maid faltered, and then retrieved the chunk of bread and awkwardly pressed it between her lips.
‘Now bend over. At once.’
Hugging her bra-encased breasts, Elisabetta obediently bent, her dark tangle of curls curtaining her tear-filled eyes. Charlotte flexed the thin bamboo cane and tapped the taut buttocks twice. Elisabetta dropped her hands from her breasts. One cupped her pussy while the other drifted to her bottom in a pathetic attempt to protect it from the terrifying tap-tap of the cane.
Charlotte swept the fingers away, ordered the maid to touch her toes, and then lashed the proffered bottom eight times in swift succession.
Elisabetta squealed through the ciabatto and stumbled forward two paces after the fifth stroke. She let the bread drop from her mouth after the seventh blow, and squealed breathlessly as the final swipe sliced viciously down across her poor buttocks.
Then running the length of bamboo through the tangle of tumbling curls, Charlotte stood supremely triumphant above the sobbing girl, and angling the tip of the quivering cane under her chin, she forced her to raise her head obediently.
Bound and helpless against the door, her stretched arms twisting as they hung from the hook above, Katie writhed in an ecstasy of anguish as she watched, wide-eyed and fearful, as Charlotte discarded the cane and knelt beside the sobbing maid. She peeled Elisabetta’s panties down, and eight pale pink cane strokes were slowly revealed as the lacy material slipped away from the whipped cheeks – eight cane stripes gradually deepening into livid lines of crimson pain. Rolling the delicate garment all the way down the girl’s slender legs, Charlotte pressed her face against her exposed bottom.
Grinding her bottom against the unyielding wood behind them, twisting helplessly in her bondage, Katie was forced to watch as her mistress lingeringly licked each cruel weal, tonguing the whipped cheeks of the weeping maid in a delicious display of tenderness.
Gradually Elisabetta ceased sobbing and inclined her scalded buttocks to her chastiser’s mouth. Suddenly gripped by the erotic alchemy that transforms pain into pleasure, she mewed as Charlotte’s firm tongue continued to lap at her reddening welts, and then began moving up and down the dark crease between her severely caned bottom cheeks.
Blinded by her searing jealousy as much as by the tears it prompted, Katie writhed in her bondage. Slumping back against the door she sobbed and nearly gagged on the hunk of ciabatto wedged between her clenched teeth, soaking up the saltiness of her meandering tears.
Charlotte turned her head, and gently rested her chin on the maid’s reddened buttocks. ‘Excellent,’ she murmured, noting Katie’s anguish. ‘It is so important you feel the pain of jealousy, too.’
Katie, impotent in her bondage, sobbed breathlessly, and Charlotte’s eyes narrowed as they scrutinised her sub’s misery. ‘And after the pain of jealousy, you will experience the pain of my cane.’ Rising and leaving Elisabetta, who promptly slumped wearily and curled up on the carpet, hugging herself and moaning beneath her breath, Charlotte approached the young blonde pinioned to the door.
As the menacing punisher neared, Katie jerked with renewed apprehension in her helplessness.
Charlotte plucked something from the package on the bed – something small and sharp that glinted between her fingers.
It flashed as she swept her hand up, and Katie had just enough time to make out the silver fishhook and cower slightly before it sparkled and looped towards her breasts.
There was a brief but brutal sound of torn fabric, and the taut stretch of her bodysuit shrivelled away as the hook glanced and ripped, leaving both her breasts utterly naked and vulnerable. As they spilled out, bouncing gently, Charlotte retreated to scoop up the length of whippy cane. Gripping it firmly, she advanced once more upon her squirming victim.
‘Punishment, Elisabetta, the English way. Observe.’
The maid, whimpering, pushed herself up onto her knees and turned to face the bare-breasted blonde, in bondage against the wardrobe door.
‘La via Inglesa,’ Charlotte whispered sinisterly, and the bamboo also whispered sinisterly as it sliced through the air into the exposed breasts, just above the nipples, three times in swift succession.
Katie’s feet threshed as she wailed into the ciabatto gagging her.
Charlotte aimed the cane down, planting the next three vicious strokes across Katie’s upper thighs. Each slice bit deeply into her soft flesh, leaving livid welts visible through the nearly transparent bodysuit. ‘The English way,’ she murmured, and on the carpet behind her, Elisabetta covered her face and moaned into her cupped hands.
‘Compose yourself, my dear,’ Charlotte told her, ‘and get up.’
The maid scrambled to her feet.
‘Take it,’ Charlotte ordered, and Elisabetta, her fingers trembling, accepted the length of supple bamboo.
‘A dozen strokes to commence with… yes, we will open the account with a crisp twelve cuts,’ Charlotte pronounced, and turned Katie to face the door. ‘Now begin.’
Elisabetta raised the cane, paused a moment, and then whipped the beautiful buttocks before her. A thin red weal instantly appeared on Katie’s cheeks, attesting to the ferocity of the kiss bequeathed by the cane.
‘As hard as you can, Elisabetta,’ Charlotte urged quietly. ‘You must understand; no mercy can be shown when punishing a female with a cane the English way. No mercy whatsoever.’