CP Tease

Photo-story featuring Sophie Fennington from Janus 53

Sophie Fennington sat chain-smoking with tension in her litter-strewn lounge, almost sick with excitement as her imagination vividly enacted the things her husband, Christian, ought really to do to her when he got in from work. Today, in final desperation, the normally dutiful and house-proud wife had deliberately upended the waste paper basket, left dirty cups lying around, made chaos of the familiar impeccable neatness. This time, surely, he’d blow his stack! Christian abhorred disorder of any kind, and loathed it when she smoked. Their new home was comfortably furnished, he’d pointed out time and again in a pettish kind of way. Furnished in pseudo-fashionable style as befitted the dynamic young director of a small computer software company going places. ‘So let’s keep it nice, shall we?’

Dynamic? Sophie shifted her trim backside sensuously in the chair, the ironic query twisting her pretty lips. The white wool-knit dress clung to her lissome haunches; she was bathed and perfumed, awaiting her lord and master. Lord and master? — ah, she sighed, if only… They’d been married less than a year. Their sex life was okay so far as it went, but Christian didn’t seem to want to understand her own very special needs, despite all her hints. Quite simply, she didn’t want to be the one who took the initiative, for in her mind Sophie desperately needed her husband to do that, to be the masterful male and leave her no option but to submit to his authority.

Yet she wanted to shake him, shout at him: ‘Look, I’m attractive with a good figure, sure. But I’ve also got a bottom crying out to be smacked. A nice sexy bottom — or so you’ve always said — and I have been very naughty.’ Now and again during their loving foreplay she had squirmed herself face-down across him and he’d slapped playfully at her naked rump till her entire body glowed deliciously; and he himself had obviously liked it too because immediately afterwards they’d…

Sophie giggled, shivered. Pouted like a petulant child. How often she had tried to provoke him since into being the dominant macho man she craved! But he simply tolerated her deliberate goads and calculatedly bad behaviour. ‘You women and your moods,’ he’d say with maddening mildness, and lose himself behind his newspaper. Even when, a fortnight or so ago, she had self-consciously blurted out her abiding fantasy of being a submissive schoolgirl, all he had done was to humour her ‘quaint little notions’ by taking her to a school outfitters and standing indulgently around while she chose a uniform ‘for my younger sister who’s the same size as me’. Yet since that day Christian had never so much as mentioned it! It was Sophie who had dared her way into one of those shops and bought a good old-fashioned leather tawse and a long whippy cane, concealing her blushes under thick make-up that made her look like a tart! But how on earth was she going to persuade him to use them? Heavens, he’d attended one of the best public schools in the country. Didn’t they have certain traditions?

There, he was home! Sophie heard the front door slam, and her pulses set off at a gallop. Christian’s pleasantly modulated voice, calling from the hall, had an unfamiliar edge to it this evening. ‘What a day!’ he complained. ‘That Storing man I told you about gave us a hell of a time. But I will sew up the deal, I… Sophie, where are you?’

Christian entered the living room and froze in mid speech, his jaw jutting. He had hoped to be celebrating a big sale, but the head buyer of Dauntons was proving to be a ruthlessly tough negotiator. And now, to cap it, the home of which he was so proud was looking as if a bomb had hit it — and his normally demure, fastidious wife was slumped in a chair, seemingly half-sloshed on wine. Even worse, she was smoking. His first reaction was utter astonishment. ‘Sophie…’ he faltered; ‘Sophie, what on earth —?’

Her wide blue eyes held his baffled gaze with an annoying insolence. She didn’t rise to greet him as was usual; her burning cigarette continued to stain the atmosphere and stink out the fabrics. An habitually placid man, something snapped in Christian Fennington. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he demanded to know, anger thickening his voice. ‘Get off that chair and clear up this mess!’

Sophie’s excitement almost choked her. Exquisite little thrills flittered up and down her nerves. ‘No,’ she said, as calmly as she could.

Christian’s mouth fell open. This was a Sophie he had glimpsed but never known, not like this: slovenly, disobedient, contemptuous of his unspoken standing and authority. Rage flared suddenly high, heady and unstoppable as he stormed across to her. ‘Put that filthy thing out!’ he roared, gripping her waist and forcing her to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray; and she gave a squeal as he hauled her savagely up from the chair to teeter in shock on her white high heels. ‘Clear it up, I said,’ he grated. ‘You will do as you are told!’

Hastily, for the moment as genuinely flustered as a child caught out by an adult in some disgrace, Sophie snapped to it. She had never known him so furious; his anger was unspeakably intoxicating to her. Piling used cups and clutter on to a tray she hurried from the room with her heart secretly singing.

A few minutes passed. Silence. Christian Fennington’s wrath began to modify. It started to occur to him that Sophie might be upset about something, for there surely had to be a reason for her inexplicable behaviour. Perhaps she was sickening for something… But before his anger had quite abated his wife came back into the room. Sophie still carried the metal tray — but the clutter had been removed from it, and in its place lay a long, lethal-looking leather twin-tailed tawse.

She offered him the tray with a smile that dazed his senses. Teasing and wickedly wanton. Enticing. A smile that challenged, and threatened to mock.

But Christian’s blood was up. Solemnly he took the tawse and fondled the pliant thongs, fondled them with a sensuous thoroughness which made her pupils dilate with longing. Total understanding for the first time fused their minds together. She wanted, wanted it; as much as he had always cherished the dream of doing this to her, but had always been unsure, had never been able to summon the courage. Till now.

Christian swallowed hard to contain his mounting elation. ‘You will raise your skirt to your waist,’ he found himself saying in strong, firm tones, ‘kneel up on the seat of that chair and bend forward.’ The excitement Sophie felt was close to delirium as she inched the clinging wool up her thighs and over her hips, exposing the round bare cheeks of a perfectly formed maidenly bottom. Deliberately she had put no panties on: the dream was coming true. As Christian carried the coffee table into a corner to give himself more room to perform the breathtaking task which had presented itself, and removed his jacket with great and solemn purpose, Sophie knelt on the armchair cushion and leaned voluptuously forward over its squashy leather back to grasp the bookshelf immediately behind.

Her every muscle tensed with delicious terror as Christian’s cool, but slightly shaking, hands carefully positioned her bottom to just the right angle. Soft yet firm, pert and deeply cleft, the buttocks pushed provocatively outwards and upwards in an irresistible gesture of supplication. Full and round and beautiful. The skin flawless — like virgin snow, thought Christian; petal-soft. He drew back the tawse and watched his wife’s body tauten, the lusciously presented buttocks quiver as her muscles locked and unlocked in exquisite anticipation. Time held its breath: they would always remember the hiss of their inhalations, the insistent clock-ticks, the creak of the leather seating as Sophie braced herself bravely, a split-second before their lives changed forever.

Then the twin-tailed tawse flashed through the air and collided with stinging, stunning force against the beautifully contoured flesh of that ripely out-thrust bottom. Although Sophie made no sound but a barely-audible grunt, she was shocked upright by the abrupt, bone-deep intensity of the pain, and covered her flaring buttocks with frantic hands. ‘Get down!’ he growled, and as she thumped forward, clawing in frenzy at the books on the shelf, her bottom shuddered to the second flailing impact which overlapped the first. She gritted her teeth, turning to mutely plead, seeing him lift the tawse shoulder-high and whip it down again.

When it struck full-bloodedly across her buttocks for the third time Sophie wanted to scream, to spring off the chair, to run. But this is what she had always dreamed about: he was being strong, unopposably masculine. There was no escape. So intense was her concentration to contain the searing agony of the strokes he was inflicting, Sophie made no sound, stayed curiously mute. It was as though she had retreated into a previously unknown compartment of her inmost self, intent only on coming to terms with and absorbing the lashing pain-blasts in her bottom and transmuting them to jets of sweetest pleasure.

Whop! As the next fiery slash turned to honey in her blood, sweet and oozy, Christian heard his wife sigh. He angled his body to deliver the next hearty stroke with even greater severity on her jutting, swaying buttocks; and then again. The staccato impacts of leather on flesh were becoming hypnotic, and he knew he should stop.

Sophie, still strangely silent, wrenched her head round to peer at her manly chastiser as her bottom prickled and blazed, crimson-wealed from the vigorous down-strokes, wiggly and thrilling. Back came the tawse, to rip through the rapt silence and strike once more on the now-so-eager, jerking target. ‘Ohhhmm.’ The single, soft exhalation reminded him of the noises she made during love-making.

‘One more,’ grunted Christian, and brought the thongs down on the reddened, divinely taunting buttocks with a final swiping thwack. His wife’s lips worked as if about to speak, but no words came as he gripped an arm and dragged her from the cushion. Had she had enough? Christian was himself fired up, and Sophie’s expression was entranced, as if she had entered a new dimension of heightened consciousness. Slowly her eyes focussed on his, glowing, teasing, taunting.

‘More?’ said Christian incredulously. ‘You want more, don’t you!’ He too was breathing jerkily; face flushed, eyes alive. An unknown power coursed through him, sensually vitalising. ‘You saucy madam!’ he bit out. ‘Get across my knee, I’m going to smack that cheeky arse of yours until you scream.’

She made no sound or resistance as he dragged her stumbling to the chair in front of the table, sat down and pulled her forward across his wide-spread thighs, hooking his right leg over behind her knees to tightly trap her bare, slender legs. For a moment he surveyed the beauty of her bottom, and soothed caressingly, in awe, at the livid blotched patterns the tawse had made on the curved springy surfaces.

And then the gentleness stopped as he drew back his open palm and sped it to the soft womanly mounds of his wife’s bare buttocks.

The hard hand smacked home with a loud clap. Sophie squirmed but made no sound. Again the palm fell, spanking divine spurts of fire into her wobbling flesh: smack, smack, slap, spank!

‘Oh sir,’ came her voice at last, teasingly little-girl-like. ‘I’ve been so naughty, sir. Ohh! Oh, you’re spanking my bottom, sir. Spank it hard!’ In her intensifying pleasure Sophie again wrenched her head around to look at him, reached for and gripped his collar in a spasm of raw desire as his heavy hand blasted against her buttocks. She wanted to scream, to bite, to kiss; his belabouring palm was like glorious thunder on her bare, bare arse-cheeks, crisp and hard and firm; and as he spanked on and on she continued to gasp out in pouting tones, ‘Ah, sir! Ohh, sir! You’re making my bottom feel it’s on fire. Oh sir…’

With a final vigorously-delivered spank he ordered her to stand. Christian was shaken, profoundly aroused in a way he had never experienced. He felt ten feet tall with the strength of a lion. Yet still Sophie provoked and teased, her blue eyes igniting with wicked sauciness, sensing his extraordinary arousal which echoed her own, exulting in the forceful dominance which was also serving — she was oh-so-aware — to make him feel like the real man she wanted him so much to be.

‘Is that all you can do, sir? A few little slaps?’ she goaded, wiggling her bare, crimsoned bottom in front of him, wildly stimulated at being naked from the waist down and utterly vulnerable.

Christian clenched her arm. His senses lurched between hard fury and melting delight at the coquettish, saucy-bottomed wanton his wife had become. He would show this provoking minx, once and for all!

‘Go and put on that school uniform,’ he rapped out. ‘And bring the cane! If you’re going to behave like a wickedly naughty fifth-former I intend to treat you like one!’

At the command, Sophie’s insides seemed to dissolve. She scurried out, her puce buttocks swaying in a ragingly seductive manner. Thanks to her scrambling haste, driven by her body’s demands, it seemed only moments later that she returned and stood submissively before him wearing the grey pleated gymslip, the white blouse and striped tie. The sight of his wife dressed like that took Christian’s breath. The white ankle-socks and high-heeled shoes set her exquisite young calves off to perfection — and the delightful, taunting, infuriatingly appealing smile she gave him as she offered the cane served only to stimulate him further.

Christian took the cane and led her to the middle of the carpet, well away from any impeding furniture. ‘Raise your skirt, girl,’ he spat out. Sophie did so, teasingly, to show that she now wore brief white cotton panties which clung tightly to her rounded posterior. Christian swallowed hard again, and managed to continue. ‘Push down your knickers,’ he instructed hoarsely, ‘then bend right over and grasp your ankles.’ Her transformation was totally convincing; he could see her objectively, as a schoolgirl.

There was a steeliness about her husband now. With legs apart Sophie did as he had ordered, leaning steeply forward to expose buttocks which gleamed like blushing moons above the white band of lowered panties clinging to her thighs. She sucked in breath as Christian laid the cool cane briefly against the fleshy, up-tilted hillocks, swung back and swished in.

Thwack! The first stroke swiped her bottom with such insupportable agony that Sophie’s entire body jerked in frenzy and her hands flew back to grip both nether-cheeks. And again, so absorbed was she in coping with the shattering pain-slash, she uttered no sound.

‘Hands away!’ he shouted, swishing the whippy cane even harder against the quivering globes so that a red line sprang up neatly on the surface of the skin directly beneath the first. Sophie wasn’t smiling any more — she was being genuinely punished by a masterful male, doubled humiliatingly over and being soundly caned on her bare bottom by a husband who had every reason to do so. Just as she had always dreamed.

Crack! The next scything cane-cut brought up a third livid stripe on Sophie’s already soundly-beaten buttocks, and she gritted her teeth in her strange deep stillness and squeezed her eyes shut, dazed and shaken by the hot branding impacts.

Swack! Firmly, snappily, the cane hissed and bit its living delectable target; swung back again for its next fierce journey to her bottom. The pretty ‘schoolgirl’s’ legs began to wobble as Sophie’s ripely-presented buttocks jumped and shivered to the stick’s repeated explosions against her dainty flesh.

‘No more,’ she keened at last in a tiny pleading voice, and Christian knew that the day was his. ‘I’ll be good now — I will, sir.’

‘Keep bent right over,’ her husband commanded. ‘You’ve only had five.’ Back came the cane, climbing, pausing — then down it swooped to collide with majestic vigour against the striped, indented target. ‘Six,’ he called. ‘You may pull up your knickers.’

Sophie Fennington did so, somehow. For a while she could not straighten up. Thoroughly tawsed, spanked and caned, it seemed as if flames swarmed over every inch of the lushly-curved meat of her bottom. Frantically she rubbed each roasting, smarting mound, marvelling at the spreading warmth as the scalding heat of pain slowly modified to an almost unbearable pleasure.

Christian stood before her: a husband to truly respect now in every way. A man, commanding and masterful. He knew now, as well as she did, that there would be many more occasions when she would surrender to a thoroughgoing thrashing at his hands. For both, it was the beginning of a new and passionate development in their marriage.

Still leaning forward, still rubbing her bottom with eager intensity, Sophie kissed him.

To be continued in Mister X from Janus 54. On a side note, here is a nice drawing of Sophie I found on the internet that looks like it was inspired by the cover photo from this set: