A Room with Yellow Curtains

Story from Blushes 3

A blue-skied day is declining into a still evening, trees stand as silent sentinels along the railway track which skirts the bottoms of neat, rectangular suburban gardens, and sounds carry further than usual on the calm air. A man on a bicycle rides slowly along the footpath which is squeezed between concrete-posted wire netting beside the railway and the mostly dilapidated fences which line the uniformly-sized plots of green lawn with their variegated flowerbeds, tall wigwams of bean poles, wooden sheds and general end of the garden clutter.

From somewhere comes the squeal of an excited child, and several flat-sounding noises, indefinite and unaccounted for by anything the man can see over the fences. From somewhere comes the cry of an excited child, and then there is another sound, a frightened squeal close at hand. The sound of an ill-fitting window being closed firmly floats to his ears, seeming loud in the stillness.

The cycling man continues sedately along the pathway, the intermittent burr of a hand-propelled lawn mower breaks into the quiet, and distantly there comes the whine of an electric train as it rounds a curve some half a mile back along the line.

Behind the hastily closed window, prostrate across the end of a yellow-quilted bed, a wild-eyed girl in her mid-teens gasps frantically and clutches at the eiderdown with scrabbling fingers, feeling the quivery touch of a cane’s cool finger brush teasingly up round the curve of her bottom-cheeks, loitering out of her sight but not by any means out of the orbit of her awareness, waiting for her to wriggle back into the required bottom-high position so that it’s pain-lending length can donate a further reddening weal to the fund of minutely blistered stripes which already cuddle her bottom in their heated embrace.

‘C’mon, c’mon — lift up — get it up nice and high Amanda.’

He coaxes quietly, not hurrying her, interested to see only that she obeys him eventually, and does lift her flinching young bottom up to meet the cane — how long it actually takes her to do it is really not important — she has half an hour to learn to get it right.

Dubiously, with wet-eyed glances over her shoulder and with involuntary little jerks of her hips as she senses the eagerness with which the cane waits upon her bottom’s reluctant presentation of itself, the girl braces her toes against the floor and hollows her back, elevating her nervous bum-cheeks while keeping her tummy down against the bed, her pert buttocks plumping out apple-round as they offer themselves up in all their naked helplessness.

‘Come along now Amanda —’ The cane taps encouragingly across the crowns of her cheeks. The girl whimpers in fearful anticipation but pushes out her bottom another despairing half-inch, trembling as the cane flicks teasingly across its fastidiously selected aiming point, gasping in a breath as the light contact retreats from her warm-skinned cheeks and hangs Damoclean in the air behind her.

‘Up, Amanda — keep it up!’

‘Yes sir —’ she whimpers, struggling not to jerk away at this very last moment, and the rest of her breath escapes her lips in a startled squeal as the cane stoops from shoulder height to meet the firm, defenceless under-curve of her plumply helpless bum.

Several trains lumber along the railway behind the row of houses, and then from the window of one a pale face looks out; a girl, counting houses from the end of a street and deciding that those yellow-curtained windows must mean that is her tutor’s house. She looks away, back into the carriage, and edges her skirt nearer her knees as a man opposite looks at her legs. The train slows for the station and the girl gets up, feeling the man’s eyes on her hips. She gets out at the station and slams the door behind her and runs up the stairs of the footbridge. She shows her return ticket and hurries out of the station, suddenly acutely conscious of her bottom and the navy knickers close round its plumpness. She gulps as she adds up the minutes to when those knickers will probably be coming down — half an hour at the outside. She slows her pace as she turns left out of the station forecourt and goes unhappily along the road towards the house with the yellow curtains.

Another train leaves the station and rumbles along the track which passes the bottom of the gardens; its electric moaning recedes into the distance. The lawn-mower is still being pushed up and down the same small grass oblong, and a boy on a bicycle is clinging one-handed to the wire fence bordering the railway, his feet still on the pedals, watching the trains go by.

Amanda probably hasn’t heard the train’s passing — she is really only aware of two things; the smart in her bottom and the presence of the cane somewhere behind her, once again waiting for her tender young buttocks to elevate themselves to the required position.

The waspish tip of the cane stings the back of one firm thigh and Amanda gasps urgently and pushes her hips up off the bed.

Flick — flack — flick! She clutches at the backs of her legs and collapses against the yellow eiderdown, her face buried in its tear-dampened softness. She bleats miserably, for a moment seeming almost to have forgotten that it’s bottoms canes are really meant for, not the backs of girls’ thighs who won’t lift their bums up properly when they’re told to.

‘Up, Amanda — come on now, get that bottom up!’

‘Ooh — ooooh — oooh!’ With hesitant starts and as many nervous retreats, Mandy pulls her knees up under her and hollows her back, pushing her cane-marked bottom out behind. Her tender buttocks tweak together fitfully — she strains her head round to catch sight of the cane but doesn’t see it before it arrives with a solid, meaty sound across both her elevated bum-cheeks.

She squeals and falls forward on the bed again, her hands covering her face, her bottom bouncing as she worms her hips against the bed. Her tutor stands back and runs his eyes over the crimsoned stripey-ness of the girl’s bum and decides that probably she has had enough of the cane for this visit. As if responding to a cue, the doorbell rings downstairs. Amanda seems not to have noticed it — her tutor leaves her just as she is and goes cheerfully downstairs to answer the door.