Paula’s Puzzle Picture 4 — City Lights

From Fessée 5

Letter from Fessée 7

City Lights

It’s 1995. Women’s lib is now well defunct, and our little darlings know well that their pampered rears have to pay dearly for anything which they do to offend their husbands or boyfriends!

One can, of course, easily deal with minor matters oneself — over the knee or whathaveyou, skirt up, panties to stocking tops (tights departed with Lib) and a sound spanking, does the trick. But for more serious offences, a visit to one of the spanking parlours, which are now widespread, is called for. Here couples mingle in the waiting room and individuals are called, the men for the pleasure of punishing some unknown female bottom, the ladies to expiate their sins, bending before some strange male, who will pay little heed to their pleas for mercy.

It was towards the house on the corner of Parner Street and the High Road that Susan and I directed our steps on a blustery autumn evening. It was Susan’s first visit to a spanking parlour, although before we wed I had taken a former girlfriend there several times, which I found most enjoyable, and she most painful. Susan had been across my knee already that morning for a sound slippering, which had well reddened her chubby rear, but her conduct had not improved, and that evening I took her by the arm and said, ‘It’s Parner Street for you, my girl.’ Everyone knew what happened there.

As we walked down the High Road, I heard a rhythmic slap, slap, and as we turned into Parner Street, its source became apparent. The curtains of the house had blown aside, to give a clear view inside, and there, kneeling on a chair, sprawled forward across the table, was none other than my former girlfriend, Marilyn! Her bare plumped-out bottom, thrust provocatively towards us, and as the steady slapping of a leather tawse, striped and reddened it, she squirmed and wriggled. Marilyn had not seemingly learnt her lessons with me, and Susan, who did not know Marilyn, gazed aghast at what her own ripe haunches would soon receive. An old gentleman looked on wistfully, for only couples were allowed to use the parlour, and a tight-skirted blonde glanced nervously at the scene, remembering, no doubt, the previous week, when her own wiggling backside, had been upended over that same chair.

My hand caressed Susan’s tight jean-clad rump, and as the final thwack landed on Marilyn’s suffering bottom, I smacked it and said ‘Right Susan, in we go!’

Susan was first into the room, allocated to a handsome six footer; she came out some minutes later, frantically hopping up and down, tears trickling down her cheeks, and clutching her bottom. I cuddled her in my arms, all now forgiven, as she told me how her man, Harry by name, had made her take her jeans and panties off, before sitting astride the wooden bench, and leaning right forward to wrap her arms beneath it, thus rearing up her bottom in the most taut and revealing pose. Susan had then had her first taste of the French martinette. The first few swipes of the leather thongs had stung and smarted, soon building up to a throbbing scorching heat, which had her pleading for mercy as the thin tails visited every part of her spread bottom and thighs. But her plea fell on deaf ears, as Harry plied the little whip steadily for a full three minutes, before letting her up to ease her swollen scarified tail back into her jeans. I felt the area in question — it quivered, and the jeans felt tighter than before.

But then it was my turn to lead a curvy redhead into the spanking parlour. I asked her name and why she was here.

‘Vanessa,’ she stammered, ‘cos I scorched Harry’s shirt.’ So Vanessa was Harry’s wife, that gave me a nice free rein, and I said, ‘well Vanessa, let’s see if we can scorch your bottom for you, take your knickers off.’

Obediently she reached beneath her full skirts, and wriggled down her red briefs, after which I made her straddle the kitchen chair on which we had seen Marilyn kneeling, before bending right over the back to grasp the lower rail. I tossed her skirts over her back; what a bum! Broad, firm, spread and gaping, framed by red suspenders, a target for a connoisseur. I glanced at the weapons hanging on the wall; not the martinette, the hairbrush or the slipper; this must be a two-pronged attack, as I selected the tawse which had so recently warmed Marilyn, and a thin cane.

Soon the tawse was warming to his work, and the redhead squirming as her buttocks bounced and jiggled from his impact. A couple of dozen raised her rotundities to a glowing scarlet. I put down the tawse, and Vanessa made as if to rise.

‘Stay down girl,’ I growled, glancing over my shoulder at the eager eyes, beyond the blowing curtain, as I picked up the cane. I tapped the cane against the twin tomatoes, ‘Right Vanessa, stick it right out, if you do it’s six, if you don’t it’s a dozen.’

Obediently her back hollowed and her hips thrust out, spreading her bottom even more, revealing it’s hidden details for the benefit of both me and our audience. She held her bottom taut and still as I caned her, firm swishes working downwards, the fifth to the soft fold at thigh top, which made her gasp, and the last diagonally across the others causing her to straighten half up, a hand behind her.

‘Naughty,’ I said, ‘stay bent, you’ve just earned one more,’ and as she once more offered me her bottom, I swished the cane firmly across her thigh tops. Vanessa howled, and her legs kicked upwards off the floor revealing a moist excited fanny. Leaving her still bent over, I hung up the cane and tawse before admiring my handiwork. Her hot quivering bottom just asked for a male organ, but this is strictly taboo, so I slapped her rump and told her to get up.

Vanessa struggled up from her undignified pose; stood, hands rubbing beneath her skirts, hips thrust forward, dry eyed but teeth clenched. ‘Oooh David, you know how to scorch a girl’s bottie, but I hope I get you again, ‘cos I like it,’ and she pecked me on the cheek, thrust her discarded panties into her bag, and ran from the room.

Susan, now fully composed, was waiting for me, and as we walked down Parner Street, I glanced back to see two more bare female buttocks, on which the cane had just drawn his first stripe. Ten minutes to home, I couldn’t wait; straight into the lounge. ‘Pants down over the sofa arm,’ I ordered.

‘But, what have I done?’ pleaded Susan.

‘Do as you’re told’ I snapped. She knew better than to argue, as she peeled down her jeans and bent over.

Her bottom and thighs were a mass of fine scarlet stripes, hot and sore. I ran the cool sole of a leather slipper across it.

‘Please no,’ begged Susan, ‘I’m so sore.’

‘Just teasing, I know what you want,’ said I, unzipping.

‘Ooh yes please.’

Letter from Fessée 8

Cross-Cultural c.p.

Dear Editor,

Paula’s erotic illustration City Lights might have been a depiction of an unpublished letter from me about a memorable incident from my past, given artist’s license as the event happened in the basement flat of an Edinburgh apartment block, the basements being the servant’s quarters of the past. The actual location will have been seen by many of the visitors to the Festival who may not appreciate that, although net curtains suffice to give privacy in daylight, the downstairs room resembles a stage so that heavy drapes are normally drawn at night, a precaution often omitted at the rear of the building where access to the clothes drying green is via a passageway formed by the walls of the bedrooms on either side.

I lived on the first floor and the family in the basement consisted of a couple with three daughters, two still at home and the younger, Jean, attending the same High School as I. On Mondays. I frequently tried, by elimination, to discover which of her many sets of pastel-coloured French knickers were being worn that day by Enid, the elder sister, as this was the traditional Scots ‘washing day’ and I ‘fancied’ Enid and was jealous of the boys who ‘courted’ her in the dark passageway after a date.

One day, coming from school, I encountered Jean in a somewhat distressed state at the bus stop; asking her what was the trouble, she showed me her hands; she’d had three strokes of the Lochgelly tawse on each and her hands were blistering with the weight of her laden brief case. I carried her case back to the flats and was surprised to receive a French Kiss (probably my first) as thanks, resulting in the start of an interesting friendship and our sharing the cover afforded by the dark underground passageway when we arrived back before Enid.

On the first of the most memorable evenings, my fumblings (‘no, leave my knickers, I dinna want a bairn’) were interrupted by voices from the bedroom through the wall on which I was leaning and I made to break off the engagement only to be told by Jean that there was nothing to worry about as her mum had asked her dad to belt Enid for staying out very late on the previous night, and they’d obviously gone into the bedroom so that Enid could be held over the bed by mum. I became even more excited at the thought as, weeks before, Jean had asked me to go easy on her bum fondling as she had her knickers pulled down for her mother’s customary 12 of the strap and I was highly turned on when, asked if it was ‘bare bum’, she assured me that this traditional way was always employed in her home for all three sisters (until the marriage of the eldest).

Perhaps realising the effect on me, Jean suggested that we go and listen in the green as we’d hear better at the window; imagine my delight when the curtain had not been made to meet due to the presence of a large plant pot on the window-sill so that I was presented by the sexiest scene I’d witnessed till then, the scene EXACTLY as illustrated by Paula — Enid with knickers around her knees. wrists held by mum and dad wielding the strap ferociously across the full width of the bare and rapidly reddening and wealing bum-cheeks. I’d missed the first few lashes but counted some 8 or 9 more as Enid screamed through the bed clothes she was biting.

Minutes later, returned to our love-making, I breached the two barriers, knickers and Nature’s own, for the first time, taking no precautions and earning weeks of worry (ill-founded).

Weeks later, during a sisters squabble, Jean very unwisely let Enid know that we’d watched her getting her bare bum treatment. By this time, her Admiralty civilian father was working abroad and Enid took her revenge by telling her mother that Jean and I frequently indulged in heavy petting and more in the dark of the understairs; mortification on the night that we were suddenly exposed to the flashlight glare of Jean’s mothers’ torch! Ordered inside and into the presence of a gloating Enid, I thought that their mother was taking the revelation very calmly whereas, in fact, she was seething. The ‘dressing down’ lasted about an hour, ending with the reasonable edict that, from then, our love-making area was out of bounds and that, if we were to continue our relationship (I later found that she hoped that we’d marry, as she had been told that I should have a very bright future) then we should do so in Jean’s bedroom with an unlocked door and ‘no touching below the waist until you are engaged’.

There had been talk earlier of ‘I’d tell your mother but I know she’s not got over the loss of your brother at sea’ and I really thought we were winning until I heard ‘Jean is going to get a right good leathering now and if you are the man I think you are, then I hope you agree to take the same’.

Enid was nearly drooling as mother went to fetch her 3-tailed Lochgelly, the pain-dealing potential of which I well knew from school over the past 10 years. Ordered to take down her knickers and get over the bed with Enid holding her shoulders pressed into the bedding, I then watched Jean get the most severe 12 I’d ever seen (my worst at school having been 6 on outstretched and cupped palms); I might say that this was a terrible experience — but I’d be lying, although I was painfully embarrassed at my enjoyment of Jean’s flogging being evident when I removed my clothing from the waist down! Enid, the sexy bitch, was surreptitiously squeezing and massaging my palms as she prepared to see me thrashed and I knew that this was going to take every ounce of courage for me to ‘take the 12 like a man’ when her mother spoke the words through clenched lips, adding ‘you think you know what a leathering feels like at that school of yours but now you are going to feel this strap’s opinion of nasty young men’.

I took every one of the 12 as bravely as I could but came near to pleading for mercy after the first four or five as the tawse began to revisit the weals on my bare arse. The aftermath surprised me; ‘I’ll leave you for an hour to console each other and then I’ll bring you some supper.’ It was not a very dangerous situation as neither Jean nor I felt like sex during that hour, but, if Jean had produced the cold cream earlier… we might have risked a considerable measure of intimacy as we regularly indulged in mutual masturbation and each had also ‘gone down’ on the other.

Some years later — I was now ‘an officer and a gentleman’ — I called; all three daughters were married and away from Edinburgh. Mother, now alone, had the makings of a drink problem and she poured large measures of ‘the Malt’ as she told me of her hopes that I’d become a son-in-law ‘especially when I look at you now’, this confession leading to her admission that she dreamed often of my erection as she’d seen it on the night of our shared punishment with her tawse.

Asked if she still had the strap, I was surprised and a little ‘turned on’ when she ‘dug it out’ from her underwear drawer and returned to the room, flexing it as she’d done on ‘the night’ and working the three 3/4" broad and 3/8” thick tails as she looked me in the eye and slowly let her glance travel my body length. It was Gladys who suggested that, after her confession, she should have had a taste of the leather after Jean; I did try to tell her that I found her bum as attractive as the others in the family I’d seen and that the ‘taste’ she’d suggested would inevitably result in a hot sex session.

For the next hour. three words were most frequently repeated in a female voice that had suddenly become the most seductive I’d ever heard — ‘harder, harder’ then ‘faster faster’ and ‘rougher, rougher’. The rest of that leave ensured that I’d always appreciate ‘the older woman’! with her greater experience than her daughters, her lesser inhibitions and her ability to suffer for the sex pleasures of her lovers.

I never saw her again despite her assurance that she’d procure a genuine birch for my added stimulation.

Please pass on my congratulations and thanks to Paula.

Yours truly,

K.R.B., Nigeria