Into the Fire 5 - Bath Night
The final instalment from Blushes 2
Charles slips up.
‘Wendy?’ Charles’ voice outside the door made Wendy start
— his face appearing in the half-open doorway made her drop the soap into the
water and stand with her hands across her body while he eyed her soap-streaked
shape up and down. ‘Haven’t you finished yet?’
‘Er — yes. I won’t be a minute.’ She plopped down into the
bath and rinsed the water over her, not looking back over her shoulder but
knowing that he was still there, watching. Suddenly he was there beside her, a
towel in his hands.
‘Come on.’ He held out the towel towards her, not giving
it to her — more inviting her to come and get it. Ashamed of her nakedness —
she still hadn’t got used to being completely undressed in front of him — she
had no option but to stand up in the bath. Water streamed down her breasts and
belly, running down her legs and arms, naked and shiny in the overhead light.
He withdrew the towel and leaned forward to pull out the
plug, then, while the water drained away, he helped Wendy to dry herself,
nowhere being too personal a place for his attention, the blush on Wendy’s
fresh pink face simply added encouragement to him.
‘Turn round.’ Her bottom, damp and smooth-skinned, glowed
warm red from its immersion in the hot water so soon after it had been spanked.
Finger marks showed individually here and there as the towel brisked roughly
over her buttocks, bouncing her cheeks and pinkening the tops of her thighs
with its coarseness. Wendy panted little protests at the thoroughness of the
towel’s attentions, but to no effect. Her body — and especially her bottom —
was tingling all over by the time she was dry.
Talcum powder was sprinkled liberally everywhere,
especially in those little places where there might still be a trace of
dampness, like in between the division of her chubby bum-cheeks. At last he
tossed the towel onto a chair and went out to the linen cupboard on the
landing. He returned with a vest — nothing else.
‘We’ll have tea and toast downstairs,’ he said.
Wendy dressed herself — it took only a moment, there being
only the vest. Tea and toast was a ritual every Sunday now that Tracey had been
sent back to the training camp — Wendy would kneel before the log fire, which
she would have made up earlier, while he went to make the — oh dear! Suddenly
she remembered that she hadn’t made up the fire!
She scampered downstairs, past the kitchen where he was
busy with the kettle, and ducked into the living room. The fire was almost out!
Frantically she knelt down and fanned at the few remaining sparks with a
newspaper. Nothing much happened. Putting her face close to the grate she blew,
hard, and then sat back on her heels spluttering. Black specks of ash were
whirling in the air and had already settled on her vest and her arms, and on
her legs.
She skewered a piece of bread and held it to the fire on
the toasting prong while she tried again with the newspaper. More smuts flew
around, but that was all. More logs would hardly be the answer; she stuffed the
newspaper into the glowing ashes and it caught immediately, but there was no
more paper and hardly any time left anyway! Out in the hall she heard his
footsteps, and the clink of china on a tray. Panicking, Wendy thrust the bread
towards the dying flames from the burning paper, knowing it was hopeless,
knowing that he would relish any reason to give her another spanking, if not
worse, and this he would call negligence, in his book almost the very worst of
crimes!
For several minutes he stood there behind her, watching as the flames died, while Wendy could think of nothing else to do but stay there on her knees with the bread thrust towards the fire, waiting for the inevitable outburst.
When it came it was less an outburst than an ominously
quiet intimation that there was going to be more to bedtime tonight than a pat
on the bottom and a peck on the cheek.
‘You’ve made your vest filthy, Wendy. Take it off.’
Wendy put down the poker and did as she was told, her
breasts bobbing as the vest slipped up to her neck before she pulled it off.
She brushed her hair back out of her eyes and looked nervously back over her
shoulder.
‘And you’ve got smuts on your face — all over yourself, in
fact.’ He looked down at her in the way that he did when he’d thought of
something entertaining to do with her. ‘You’ll have to have another bath, my
girl, that’s what you’ll have to have!’ He pointed theatrically towards the
door. ‘Come on — upstairs!’
Clutching her vest to her body, Wendy slipped sideways past him, keeping well out of reach, and then darted for the door.
It took five minutes to run the bath; five minutes in
which Wendy’s already spanked bottom got another dose of the same treatment,
hoisted across his lap while he sat on the bathroom chair with steam rising all
around and condensing on her bare, upturned bum-cheeks, making the slaps sting
more on the dampness and prompting Wendy to lively and voluble response!
Weeping miserably, she was made to stand up in the bath
while she was soaped from the top of her forehead to her knees, her thighs
squeezing together as the soap was slipped in between and then lathered by
hands which didn’t hold back for the sake of her modesty. Each little squeal of
surprise or complaint brought a swift spank on the bottom or legs, making
flecks of soap fly everywhere and doing nothing to diminish the girl’s
tearfulness. Even through the lather, her bum’s freshly punished crimson glowed
brilliantly, and with more slaps arriving every few seconds she was trying
desperately to keep her eye on the spanking hand and letting the other one slip
through her defences to make her squeal some more.
‘Right — now get another towel and dry yourself. I’ll deal
with you properly in your bedroom!’
It was a flushed-faced and blushing-bottomed girl who
tip-toed along to her room a few minutes later, to find her pillow plumped up
on the end of the bed and the cane laid ominously across it. Wendy knew well
enough what she was expected to do — and what she was in for now!
By the time Charles had come upstairs again. Wendy had
spread-eagled herself across the end of her bed, her tummy on the pillow, her
toes on the floor, her legs straight, her hands stretched forward and out on
either side to clasp the bedclothes. The cane which she had left on the
bedspread beside her, whispered against the candlewick as Charles picked it up,
and then its cool length was laid teasingly across both reddened bum-cheeks,
patting and bouncing against the firm flesh of the plumped-out buttocks, making
them quiver and squeeze together in anticipation of the caning to come.
And come it did; six strokes, hard and painful, all over
in two minutes but in that short time Wendy had been transformed from a
nervous, expectant girl into a blubbering child, wriggling against the rumpled
bed with her hands clutching at her bottom while she sobbed out her distress
into the bedclothes. Left across her bed to cry out her tears, Charles tucked
the cane pompously under his arm and left, returning a moment later to say ‘Get
into bed. I’ll be back.’
For thirty minutes or longer, Wendy lay quiet as a mouse
under the bedclothes, listening to him walking around downstairs, jumping every
time she thought she heard him pacing along the hall to come up to her room.
Under the blankets she was still naked, knowing that was how he would expect to
find her. When he did return he had the cane in his hand again: overcome by
fright Wendy burst into tears and hid her head under the sheet, but the
blankets were whisked away and she was hauled out of bed, sobbing as she was
made to walk in front of him along the upper landing, her bottom flicked by the
cane at every second step. Skittering away to either side, crying loudly at the
fresh smart being kindled in her bum, he piloted her into the big bedroom at
the end of the house which was almost never used.
The bed was huge, with posts at each corner which
supported a canopy of pink silk. It was old-fashioned and high off the floor;
standing with her thighs against it, before she was pushed forward and made to
topple across it, the mattress was on a level with the tops of Wendy’s legs. It
made a perfect, almost waist-high platform for a caning.
The six cane strokes Wendy had already been given were
faintly-raised ridges across the crowns of her cheeks, closely grouped yet not
overlapping. The six she was now given were aimed lower down, up under the
outswell of her buttocks, and were so painful that her hands had to be held in
the small of her back so that her struggles should not interfere with this
second instalment of her caning. The six strokes left her wriggling against the
bed, her crying leaving her too breathless to protest when some cooling cream
was produced from a chest of drawers and smoothed none too gently around the
plump curves of her bum, between the thighs being just as important a place,
apparently, as anywhere else, the slippery fingers finding places that you
wouldn’t have thought would need creaming in the ordinary way, except that by
now Wendy didn’t need to be told that this wasn’t anything to do with what
ordinarily happened.
It began gently enough — a slippery probing, a careful
dilation, while Wendy’s eyes widened in apprehension. Her nervous wriggles were
ignored — her legs were eased apart and kept there by the pressure of his legs
against the insides of hers; her hips were tilted up to the required angle by
his hands under her belly, and then the filling-up feeling, inch by careful
inch, the widening, the coaxing the understanding finger slipped somehow down
between her thighs so as to touch a tender, titillating spot.
Wendy’s hands began to reach backwards, groping,
flustering, protesting mutely, while the invasion continued and became a coming
and going, a thrusting and a pushing, while thoughtless hands wandered
lasciviously over her up-tilted bum, careless of the cane-marks, even seeming
to seek them out deliberately.
Wendy’s tears now seemed less frantic, prompted no longer
by pain or even fear so much as by the emotional aspects of what was happening
to her. Despite herself she began to respond to the rhythm, lifting a little,
rising up to meet him at every push. Charles’ discretion intervened at the last
moment; slipping backwards he allowed the benediction to fall in warm splatters
over the girl’s crimson bottom, seeing her shiver at the unexpected sensation.
Silly though it was, of course, Wendy found herself in the bath for the third time that evening — well, she couldn’t go to bed like that, could she — and she was asleep in bed, on her tummy, by the time Charles found that there wasn’t any hot water for him. Wendy, presumably, would not have been in the least sympathetic even had she known, which she didn’t. She’d heard as much as she wanted to hear about bathtime for one day.
A satisfying conclusion to these five linked pieces. The application of cooling cream to the freshly spanked and caned buttocks as well as being a kindness to the punished girl also, of course, affords a great deal of sensual and stimulating pleasure to he who provides such 'comfort'. In addition, as the delving and slithering fingers find their ways into various nearby sensitive and tender nooks and crannies, the pretext is then very firmly established for an, er, very satisfying conclusion! As was the case on this occasion. Bravo!
ReplyDeleteI do hope Wendy will be caned in the morning for selfishly using up all the hot water.
The 'conclusion' is rather nicely described, with all the necessary intimate details to allow us to visualize the proceedings. I do like the cause and effect in this story. It would have been a quiet Sunday afternoon with tea and toast by the fire, but for Wendy's negligence in not making up the fire. That being the 'very worst of crimes', Wendy has raised Charles's ire sufficiently to receive a double dose of the cane. The second dose is delivered in the 'big bedroom', to match the seriousness of the crime, but also because Wendy has raised something else of Charles's, she has earned herself a 'seeing to'.
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