Wonderful work, Darcy. I adore the tearful sulkiness and slender shapeliness of the girl hanging up her surplice. She knows she's going to be the first to get it. It might have been a nice touch to have left her nude apart from a frilly ruff around her neck, as well as those pulled-down panties. I can't decide whether I like even more the girl still wearing her surplice, which is fetchingly oversized - something loose and baggy beneath which a determined choirmaster or curate can push up his sweaty, wandering hands. Perhaps he's borrowed it for her from the vicar's vestry.
Friday evening, choir practice over. Elderly curate Harold Jones is keen to get on with the real business of the evening. “Get it off and hang it on the peg Chloe. I think you’ll find it’s ‘surplice to requirements’ for the rest of the session.” Harold’s little joke goes over Chloe’s head, as does the garment in question. Harold has second thoughts about going in for stand-up at the next church variety show. From the bulge in the curate’s trousers Chloe and her choir mate Sophie are all too aware of that part of his anatomy that is currently going in for stand-up. “Oh, and Sophie, don’t worry, I’ve rung your stepfather to let him know you’ll be an hour or so late due to your misbehaviour. He’ll be waiting for you; mentioned something about ‘doubling up’, said you’d know what he meant.” Sophie’s pretty features screwed up in anguish at this reminder of what she faced later. Twelve searing strokes from Mr Jones’s long whippy rattan would be “consolidated” (her stepdad’s term) with 24 scorching lashes of the tawse across her welted bottom and spread thighs as she squirmed and shrieked naked across the high wooden footboard of her bed. And with Mum away overnight visiting Aunty June, Sophie knew that her upthrust and thrashed young bum would most likely inspire her stepdad to administer further “consolidation” of a different but even more shaming kind.
While Sophie contemplated her fate, Harold had helped the slender and now nude Chloe over the familiar wooden trestle, this process apparently requiring a great deal of adjustment, podgy hands finding their way between slim, smooth thighs and guiding this way or that with a firm grasp of pert young breasts. With cane in hand, Harold took a quick glance around to ensure that Sophie, now shimmying reluctantly out of her surplice, had placed the kneeler in its appointed spot. After all, it would be a shame for a girl to hurt her knees while giving thanks for her punishment.
Down in the body of the church, the vicar, idly tidying the hymn books, ceased his task at the sound of a shrill girlish scream from above, the suspicion of a smile on his lips. Soprano? Contralto? He wasn’t sure but he had good reason to recognise which of the girls Harold was dealing with first. He made his way to the back of the church and the connecting door to the adjoining vicarage. No hurry; it would be some while before his daughter, Chloe, tottered through, red faced, tear streaked, clutching her surplice and knickers. A late supper and a final slippering before bed. The usual Friday night routine.
So pleased to have found this blog. Am I right to assume that it is under the same management as the former Spanking Magazine Stories blog which sadly disappeared? I am especially delighted to find that Darcy is still active and has produced many new drawings to delight us. I shall spend some time going through the archives and add comments here and there. Interaction through the comments facility was an enjoyable part of the previous blog (I used the moniker DfG back then). I hope my small fiction above is not inappropriate.
Welcome back, indeed! I do recall your many excellent comments on the previous blog, DfG. Your 'small' fiction, as you term it, is a top quality piece of writing and a fitting accompaniment to Darcy's wonderful illustration. We are going to be spoilt if this continues! I look forward to finding your comments in the archives, although, as far as I know there is no way to find recent comments other than by trial and error. Can one infer that your becoming 'Uncle' George has resulted from you taking on the onerous duties of guardianship? Perhaps a young niece being placed with you while her parents are abroad? Or maybe you have offered to 'babysit' the daughter of a single mum neigbour while she takes up an evening job? Do let us know how things are going, fictional or otherwise!
Thank you for your welcomes. Sadly there is no young niece waiting tearfully in an attic bedroom for uncle’s footsteps on the creaking stairs, nor does it seem likely that any neighbours are about to entrust their innocent daughters to my care. Be assured, however, that there will always be an avuncular welcome for such guests in my imagination.
"Sadly there is no young niece waiting tearfully in an attic bedroom for uncle’s footsteps on the creaking stairs, nor does it seem likely that any neighbours are about to entrust their innocent daughters to my care."
I don't know, George. It seems like the world's gone mad.
Wonderful work, Darcy. I adore the tearful sulkiness and slender shapeliness of the girl hanging up her surplice. She knows she's going to be the first to get it. It might have been a nice touch to have left her nude apart from a frilly ruff around her neck, as well as those pulled-down panties. I can't decide whether I like even more the girl still wearing her surplice, which is fetchingly oversized - something loose and baggy beneath which a determined choirmaster or curate can push up his sweaty, wandering hands. Perhaps he's borrowed it for her from the vicar's vestry.
ReplyDeleteFriday evening, choir practice over. Elderly curate Harold Jones is keen to get on with the real business of the evening. “Get it off and hang it on the peg Chloe. I think you’ll find it’s ‘surplice to requirements’ for the rest of the session.” Harold’s little joke goes over Chloe’s head, as does the garment in question. Harold has second thoughts about going in for stand-up at the next church variety show. From the bulge in the curate’s trousers Chloe and her choir mate Sophie are all too aware of that part of his anatomy that is currently going in for stand-up. “Oh, and Sophie, don’t worry, I’ve rung your stepfather to let him know you’ll be an hour or so late due to your misbehaviour. He’ll be waiting for you; mentioned something about ‘doubling up’, said you’d know what he meant.” Sophie’s pretty features screwed up in anguish at this reminder of what she faced later. Twelve searing strokes from Mr Jones’s long whippy rattan would be “consolidated” (her stepdad’s term) with 24 scorching lashes of the tawse across her welted bottom and spread thighs as she squirmed and shrieked naked across the high wooden footboard of her bed. And with Mum away overnight visiting Aunty June, Sophie knew that her upthrust and thrashed young bum would most likely inspire her stepdad to administer further “consolidation” of a different but even more shaming kind.
ReplyDeleteWhile Sophie contemplated her fate, Harold had helped the slender and now nude Chloe over the familiar wooden trestle, this process apparently requiring a great deal of adjustment, podgy hands finding their way between slim, smooth thighs and guiding this way or that with a firm grasp of pert young breasts. With cane in hand, Harold took a quick glance around to ensure that Sophie, now shimmying reluctantly out of her surplice, had placed the kneeler in its appointed spot. After all, it would be a shame for a girl to hurt her knees while giving thanks for her punishment.
Down in the body of the church, the vicar, idly tidying the hymn books, ceased his task at the sound of a shrill girlish scream from above, the suspicion of a smile on his lips. Soprano? Contralto? He wasn’t sure but he had good reason to recognise which of the girls Harold was dealing with first. He made his way to the back of the church and the connecting door to the adjoining vicarage. No hurry; it would be some while before his daughter, Chloe, tottered through, red faced, tear streaked, clutching her surplice and knickers. A late supper and a final slippering before bed. The usual Friday night routine.
So pleased to have found this blog. Am I right to assume that it is under the same management as the former Spanking Magazine Stories blog which sadly disappeared? I am especially delighted to find that Darcy is still active and has produced many new drawings to delight us. I shall spend some time going through the archives and add comments here and there. Interaction through the comments facility was an enjoyable part of the previous blog (I used the moniker DfG back then). I hope my small fiction above is not inappropriate.
ReplyDeleteGreat to see you back! The other blog sadly remains suspended by Google.
DeleteWelcome back, indeed! I do recall your many excellent comments on the previous blog, DfG. Your 'small' fiction, as you term it, is a top quality piece of writing and a fitting accompaniment to Darcy's wonderful illustration. We are going to be spoilt if this continues! I look forward to finding your comments in the archives, although, as far as I know there is no way to find recent comments other than by trial and error.
DeleteCan one infer that your becoming 'Uncle' George has resulted from you taking on the onerous duties of guardianship? Perhaps a young niece being placed with you while her parents are abroad? Or maybe you have offered to 'babysit' the daughter of a single mum neigbour while she takes up an evening job? Do let us know how things are going, fictional or otherwise!
The expression on the face of the second girl is astounding. Welcome to the 'New Moral Order', my dear! There is no escape.
ReplyDeleteWelcome back, Uncle George!
ReplyDeleteThank you for your welcomes. Sadly there is no young niece waiting tearfully in an attic bedroom for uncle’s footsteps on the creaking stairs, nor does it seem likely that any neighbours are about to entrust their innocent daughters to my care. Be assured, however, that there will always be an avuncular welcome for such guests in my imagination.
Delete"Sadly there is no young niece waiting tearfully in an attic bedroom for uncle’s footsteps on the creaking stairs, nor does it seem likely that any neighbours are about to entrust their innocent daughters to my care."
DeleteI don't know, George. It seems like the world's gone mad.
I'll be listening out keenly for uncle's footsteps on posts both past and present for the creak of imaginative comment. Most absorbing reading.
ReplyDelete