By a Fingertip

A nice short story from Blushes 25 illustrated with pictures of one of their prettiest models.

The shorts were — well, tiny was the only word that could possibly be applied to them; tiny and tight and embarrassingly high-cut both before and behind. Fresh on they had been crisp and neat, even if over-snug, but now, after what must have been fifteen minutes of Bolero’s insistent, lilting rhythm — the brass was beginning to bray from the speakers and the timpani were forcing the pace along — they were fine-creased along the valleys of her groin at either side, with other creases darting in from the straining side-seams in counterpoint every time she bent at the hips, legs straight and wide apart, back hollowed despite the forward stoop so that her bottom sat up perkily, head held as high as possible even as she swung side-to-side from the waist and touched her toes with opposite hands; now, the little shorts were damp with her perspiration and threads popped every time she swept down to brush her toes with her fingertips. But she kept at it, breathing hard, her long pony-tail swishing across her shoulders sometimes tossing forward over her face until she stood up for the arms-above-the-head and back-bend bit which pulled those silly shorts up indecently tight between her legs and let him see the soft under-fullness of her tits, sometimes even a nipple, as the lifting of her arms raised the purposely-shortened, half-length vest, but about which there was nothing to be done if she were to maintain the rhythm.

She would — she would — she would, even if she was running out of breath and hot-cheeked and feeling swimmy in the head from the exertion and all that swooping down and swinging back up; she would — she would — she would, because if she didn’t, right to the end of the piece, there would be another smarting spank from the eighteen-inch wooden ruler which had already visited her bent-over bum thirty or forty times since the first fluted notes had trilled from the stereo speakers.

In snatched glimpses between her legs — forward, swing, swing — and out of the corners of her eyes — back, sway, sway — she could see him behind her, the ruler poised in his hand, — forward, swing, swing — upside-down face with glinting spectacles — Smack!! — A gasp, a panted protest — ‘Oh, ohh-ooh!’ — back, sway, sway — at the edge of her vision — forward, swing — Crack!! — ‘Ah, ooo, ooo!’ — a toe untouched, a trembliness of the taut-muscled thighs — back, sway, sway.

‘Come on, girl! Don’t lose concentration!’ Her firm young bottom squeezed its tight buttocks together, then she had to swoop forward again, hollowing her back, pushing her heels down to keep her knees unbent, bottom sticking up, defenceless, stinging, more bare than not, silly shorts yanked so tight that the back seam tucked right into her bum-cleft and the diagonal up-sweep of the legs pinched tight across her tender-pink buttocks; the ruler smacked again, hard, and her knees folded inwards; a hand wandered distractedly towards the cheek which caught most of the sting —

‘Don’t you dare!’ Gasping, open-mouthed, bum-cheeks flinching at anticipated spanks which didn’t come — yet — Sally soldiered on —

----//----

Exercise is only part of Mr Hoskins’ routine. After her morning at the piano — that’s what she is doing in this man’s house, supposedly tuning herself up for the Young Musician of the Year Competition in two months’ time — Sally is now sitting on a low wall out in the garden, stringing together a daisy chain whilst she waits for Mr Hoskins to come down from the house and do the afternoon lecture on ‘motivation’. Mr Hoskins is known to be extremely good at this psychology business, which is why her aunt has consigned her to this ten weeks ‘fine tuning’ with the acknowledged master of the art. Sally’s aunt has for years been determined that her niece will win the ‘Young Musician’; Sally is now coming on nineteen and there isn’t too much time left — Mr Hoskins is Auntie’s last resort. Sally pouts miserably and wishes away the weeks till she can escape the awfulness of Mr Hoskins’ regime.

Sore bottoms aren’t any longer Sally’s only problem. Yesterday, which was Saturday and therefore only a half-day of tuition, was when Mr Hoskins caught her doing ‘it’. Sally has, of course, argued — shamefacedly, humiliatingly and blushingly — but argued that her doing ‘it’ really has nothing to do with Young Musician of the Year, Mr Hoskins or anyone else. Mr Hoskins has not seen it that way; he has raised the several spectres of ‘dissipation of effort’, ‘concentration loss’ and ‘wrong mental attitude’ and has even telephoned Auntie to report the aforesaid lapse, and to suggest that, however, the problem might be susceptible to the solution he has in mind. Auntie has not requested details; ‘I’m sure you know best, dear Mr Hoskins. Sally is entirely in your hands.’

The same blush of yesterday is on Sally’s fresh cheeks now as Mr Hoskins crepe-soles along the path then sits down beside her, an unconvincing smile of encouragement looking out of place.

‘Well now —’ It’s awful, of course. No matter her objections of yesterday that it is nothing to do with anyone if she feels the need to do a few finger exercises of her own devising. Mr Hoskins puts things into neat little logical packages that an innocent’s mind finds it impossible to unwrap, even when the speciousness of the reasoning is fairly plain.

In a few minutes Mr Hoskins has expounded his theory, and Sally has managed no adequate refutation of any of his precepts; with considerable misgivings and not a few self-pitying tears, Sally agrees it will be necessary to re-enact the entire event — yes, including even the actual physical repetition of the lapse itself — the ‘discovery’ — Mr Hoskins coming in and ‘catching her at it’ — and then, and this is the therapeutic follow-on which Mr Hoskins deems necessary — there is to be an ‘expurgation’, awfulness of awfulness, awfulnesses, which is to centre around Sally’s performing of the ‘regrettable act’ itself whilst this performance is watched by Mr Hoskins, from close quarters; this is designed to make Sally’s mind associate ‘it’ with thoughts of humiliation — she’s pretty certain it’ll achieve that — and to make her feel guilty — since it will be in Mr Hoskins’ presence — about her ingratitude in daring to allow herself even to think of self-gratification when others are doing so much on her behalf.

There is to be another ingredient. Mr Hoskins, who has read a lot of books about this kind of thing, assures her that it is most important that she should come to associate doing ‘it’ with the idea of it being, all in all, an unpleasant experience. Sally looks up at him from under her eyebrows, her mouth beginning to pout; yes, that is a most important part of it, and Mr Hoskins is planning to give her — at the same time as she is doing ‘it’ — a thorough spanking.

‘At the same —?’ Sally is bewildered.

‘Yes. I have it all planned, Sally dear. You’ll see. And there is one more thing —’

The one more thing has to do with ‘motivation’; why not, this is supposed to be a discussion about motivation, isn’t it? Mr Hoskins explains that it is most important that Sally should want it to work. It’s like smoking, like over-use of alcohol — Sally has to be enthusiastic about the whole thing or they’ll simply be wasting their time.

‘So —’ Sally twiddles her daisy-chain as she tries to picture what is supposed to happen; ‘so I have to want you to spank me —’ Mr Hoskins nods, ‘Yes, spank you hard, or it won’t work.’ Sally thinks of ‘exercises’ and hopes fervently that it won’t be the ruler again, ‘an’ — and I must want to do — you know —’ Mr Hoskins is enthusiastic, ‘Yes, that’s it.’ Sally knits her brow, trying to get it right, ‘and I’m not to mind if I find the whole thing — er — utterly —’ Mr Hoskins helps her out. ‘Humiliating. Yes, well, that’s sort of it. Only — you see — it’s quite important actually, that you should mind — d’you see?’

Sally doesn’t think she’ll have any trouble in that regard.

----//----

The chair on which Mr Hoskins has put Sally is probably the only one in the house which creaks — no part of his plan — but the quiet complaining of the wood as the girl rocks a little back and a little forward takes the edge off the quiet in the room. Sally has been allowed a white shirt — nothing more, and her bottom has already been quite well-spanked to provide a warmed-up ‘background’ for the spanking she has yet to come. Mr Hoskins is seated to one side of the kneeling-up Sally, just about arm’s length away; at first he had her face him — she had blushed scarlet — which, he felt, increased the humiliation for her, knowing that there was nothing hidden. Then, because he would, of course, want to be able to have her bottom ‘to hand’, he had made her turn to how she was now. The tip of a nipple peeps from the undone shirt. It is pink and quite erect, and the breast trembles faintly as Sally does ‘it’.

They have already done the ‘discovery’ bit, Sally spread out on the bed with her shorts pushed down and her hand inside her knickers, wailing quietly in embarrassment as he makes certain that her fingers are actually ‘busy’; ‘Won’t work, you see, if we don’t do it properly.’ Then him making her stand up, feeling foolish with her shorts round her ankles and her knickers neither off nor on, then her being made to shuffle around the bed for a little ‘over the knees’ bum-smacking, the pain in her bottom and the embarrassment making her cry almost at once, though her wriggling rather less than she would have on other occasions on account of feeling obliged to do her very best to co-operate. The ‘discovery’ done, this is now the ‘disgraceful act’ itself, or, as Mr Hoskins thinks of it, the ‘juicy bit.’

Sally has her eyes closed — his idea, wanting to help her out because he wants to be sure she actually does ‘come’. Mr Hoskins reaches out and rests his hand lightly on her bottom; she opens her eyes and looks round. A little slap; ‘Come along now Sally —’ She licks her lips and turns away, cheeks colouring, buttocks trembling slightly under his hand. He lets her go on, she’s having trouble concentrating, of course, but he means to have her up there until she does do it, so she’ll have to get her act together.

Four minutes, five. Her hips have begun a gentle swaying motion, her breasts wobbling a tiny bit. He begins to pat-pat-pat her bottom, gently, coaxingly, with stroking and cupping of the palm and the odd squeeze.

‘Now, don’t forget —’ His voice is subdued, with encouragement in its tone, ‘— don’t you dare forget, Sally, to let me know, hmmm? Understand me, Sally?’

‘Mmmm.’ Her reply is half-hearted, preoccupied. He smacks her bottom enough to smart a bit but probably not enough to take her mind off what she’s doing. ‘Ow.’

Even ‘Ow!’ isn’t altogether convincing; she’s getting there, sneaking it up on him. He lets her do it, little spanks teasing her bottom, hot slaps on warm bum-cheeks, hand lingering, pleasuring itself with the feeling of tension building in her body, communicated via the nervy, shivery ‘buzz’ in the feel of her rhythmically-oscillating hips.

‘Don’t you dare —’ Another slap, warning her not to, not till she lets him know.

‘No — no —’ No, I won’t forget? No, I won’t tell you? No, don’t spank me anymore? He spanks her again anyway, just in case. Her bottom edges away as she turns her hips, her fingers still busy; she gasps; perhaps it’s the sting? Perhaps she’s getting close? He rides the gentle movement as she sways forward and back, his hand cupping her buttocks, slipping across the warm cleft to the other cheek then back again.

‘C-ck —’ What? He smacks her, quite hard, and she bleats and her buttocks flinch. His voice is quiet, not breaking the spell.

‘Want to tell me something, Sally? Hmm?’

‘I — I’m —’ She is, too. He slaps her bottom.

Put your hands behind your back.’ Her bottom trembles under his hand.

‘Ngh? Wh—?’ Her mouth is open, lips wet.

‘Put your hands behind your back, Sally.’

‘N — no, please —’ A good, hard spank. She jerks her hips forward, away from any more spanks. Her hands wander unwillingly towards the small of her back; eyes still closed she begins to push out her lower lip into a pout, not daring to but wanting to make it happen.

He leaves her in her shivery limbo for not-too-long, then he rescues her, replacing her fingers with his own, she pushing forward onto his hand eagerly now, shamelessly, desperately.

Two good spanks; she jolts forward each time, swings a little back. He spanks her methodically, timing the smacks to coincide with the push and pull-back of her hips. She picks up the cadence without needing to think, a hint as much as she needs, the smacks making her thrust forward, his pube-cupping hand nudging her back; she oscillates between spanking hand and sympathetic, knowing fingers, until she doesn’t need any more spanking to keep her going, though he spanks her anyway.

She is a slack-lipped, shivering, flinchy-bottomed but exhaustedly-grateful girl when he lets her do it; she slumps, head drooping, thighs pressed together, hair falling over her face. He leaves her a space in which to realise what she’s done, then stands up, speaks to her quietly.

‘Say ‘thank you’, Sally.’ She looks up, eyes big.

‘Mmm?’ She licks her lips and suddenly colour floods her cheeks. She won’t look at him; her hands come round to hide her pubic hair.

‘Say, ‘thank you’.’ He brushes her hair back from her face. She mumbles, still staring at the floor.

‘Th-thank you.’

‘And now, better get off to bed.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice tiny, awkward.

‘A bit more ‘Ravel’ in the morning, eh?’ She doesn’t answer, her blushes hot in her cheeks. ‘Yes, I think so, Sally. A bit more ‘Ravel’ for you tomorrow, my girl.’