Join the Dots…

From Blushes Supplement 20

The wretched and bewildered Susan is at this moment partway up the back stairs with her bared bottom pressed against cool panelling, arms stretched high above her head and naked tits lifted and out-thrust by the verticality of her posture, waiting for she knows-not-what, for sure, though she knows that she isn’t going to like it.

A chill draught wafts along the hallway and contrives somehow to turn back upon itself and ascend the bare-boarded stairway that is set aside for the use of the servants; Susan’s nipples stand out stiff as chapel coat pegs, pink and wilfully erect as though advertising a state of erotic arousal to any casual passer-by — Susan hopes fervently that there will be no passers-by — whereas the girl’s metabolic state would be described less accurately as one of arousal than as one of near panic.

Her fat little bum is still twitchy from the application, some half an hour previously of a semi-rigid bundle of twigs that Mrs Burgess would have called a ‘birch’, had she been asked, and which had stung Susan’s jerky, snatchy-away bottom more than her imagination would have credited before it’s swishy tendrils had actually wrapped themselves around her plump, pale-skinned bum-cheeks. Pale no more though, being etched across the firm outswell of either crown with a fine tracery of thin, stingy weals that blend for the most part into an over-healthy flush of hot roseate hue.

This is the state of play at this moment. The questions that trouble the trembly-lipped and hot-bottomed maid are shortly to be answered, but as yet she has no idea what her fate is ultimately to be.

Has Susan’s bottom had all it’s going to get of that bum-stingy birch rod? Or will Mrs Burgess come down from the servants upstairs sitting room and make the girl squirm and squeal some more?

Will the gardener and that young lout whom he calls his assistant, come clumping in from the garden in their muddy boots, and espy the new maid in her state of déshabillé half way up the stairs? If so, will the gardener do to her what he did once before, when he discovered her in a similar situation the week before last, with strap-marks striped warmly around her fat bottom? And if he does, with that boy looking on and grinning all over his freckled face, will Susan shriek in protest and risk catching another dose from Mrs Burgess, or will she just bite her lip, squeeze her eyes shut and blush all over her pretty face?

Worst of all, will the drawing room bell ring and will Susan be sent, hot-bottomed and with her knickers still pulled down, to serve tea to the Master, and will he wag his head and tut-tut mockingly and say ‘This girl’s bottom hasn’t been whipped nearly enough, Mrs Burgess — kindly rectify that situation, at once.’

Is that the creak of the sitting room door? That, the distant tinkle of the drawing room bell, or that the lewd laugh of the gardener’s boy as they come in for their afternoon tea —?