A Way in a Manger

A festively titled photo-story from Fessée 10 with lovely Susie Jenkins, who also made a few videos. I'll post one tomorrow.

‘I tell you,’ I heard him boast just the other day, ‘I tell you, if this barn could speak, it’d have a tale or two to tell!’

‘If this barn could speak!’ Of course I can speak, and can tell more than just a couple of tales.

Take last Tuesday. for example. A quiet day, reasonable weather and everybody working out of doors. Then some time in the early afternoon, Susie Jenkins arrived. As soon as she entered I knew the score, but it was a new experience for her. She was a little apprehensive, but she had a firm tilt to her jaw, which I quite liked, and she was dressed casually but appropriately with a white shirt tucked into black breeches with traditional riding boots and hat.

She sat on a bale, fiddling with her crop, obviously wondering what to expect. She wouldn’t have picked up any rumours in the village because they’re always too embarrassed when it’s all over to say anything: so she sat there with this resigned air, like she wanted to be somewhere else, but it was nothing that couldn’t be postponed if it was absolutely necessary.

Well, eventually Bill Jones arrived, blustering the moment he reached my door. I can’t remember the exact details, but it was something about irresponsible townies and honest farmers trying to make a living from the crops that got trampled under horses’ hooves. As I say, I’m not certain, but that’s one of his favourite lines and it would have fitted the scene.

He usually tries to prolong this bit. He lectures and hectors, pacing up and down with his hands behind his back, then turns abruptly with his finger pointing and voice raised as he sums up their crime and demands reparation. Then the girl pouts, stammers her apologies and offers all kinds of services as compensation and is outraged when she finds herself up-ended and her sit-upon being put-upon.

Well, that’s what generally happens, but Susie wasn’t to know that. When Bill came in and began his tirade she just looked at him. Then with icy disdain, she slowly raised her middle finger in an obscene gesture!

Now, Bill is not used to young women behaving like this and for a moment he was utterly speechless. Then a glint came into his eye. Her non-verbal communication had given him an excuse to move on to the next stage without the usual haggling.

‘Bitch!’ he hissed, and grabbed her wrist with one hand while the other swung in a wide arc and landed with a crack on the side of her face. She was not slow to respond and raised the crop which she was still holding and aimed a blow at his bulky torso. He managed to block this by thrusting her backwards and in the scuffle her shirt came undone, revealing the fact that she was bra-less underneath. Bill didn’t waste any time playing court to her charms, however. He pushed her down onto the straw, then deftly flipped her over on to her front. Her cap came off in the process and her auburn bob fell loose around her face.

She had a lovely face, a broad oblong with regular features, her only make-up a slick of crimson lipstick.

It was interesting to see her wrestle with brutish Bill: she made no attempt to restore her clothing, but writhed and bucked in a vain attempt to shake him off as though the indignity of being pinioned was the greatest shame that could befall a young woman. But all her protests were silent: the lovely mouth pursed and pouted, her cheeks strained, but she refused to give her captor the pleasure of hearing her plead or cry.

Even when he grasped the waistband of her breeches and began to yank them down her thighs, the only sound she uttered was a sharp intake of breath. Mind you, Bill made a similar sound himself when he saw her wonderful rump. It was long and curved, rising with identical twin hillocks that sloped languidly down into firm, tapering thighs.

A bottom begging to be beaten, and Bill could barely contain himself. Pinning her firmly with one arm, he raised his other and brought it down swiftly so that his palm struck her flesh with that unique, almost liquid sound that characterises a first slap.

He likes them like that, partially-clothed but with the important bits exposed. And judging from her lack of underclothes, Susie is quite happy to flaunt her assets. Where they differ is in the fact that he likes to spank girls’ naked buttocks, but she apparently does not welcome such attentions to her rear-end.

Bill began talking to her in a low growl that was difficult for me to follow. It sounded like a list of instructions, but she didn’t seem to be obeying them if they were. He droned on, his mouth close to her ear, caressing her bottom and patting it gently but firmly with an increasingly heavy hand. Her mouth seemed to be opened in a permanent, silent ‘O’ and she was oblivious to whatever he was whispering to her.

He changed tack and hauled her roughly to her knees. At this she began to actually voice her protests, which was much more rewarding. It was obviously the indignity rather than her nudity or punishment that she found disturbing and so he concentrated on emphasising this aspect of her disciplining.

Dragging her torso across his thigh, he began her spanking in earnest, the sound of his palm striking her tender flesh making sharp retorts that bounced across my cavernous spaces and buried themselves in the bales stacked around my walls.

Since Susie was refusing to give any verbal response to his actions. Bill too fell silent and between them they produced a series of breathy grunts punctuated by the clap of flesh on flesh. The effect was like a radio broadcast of a slow-paced tennis match. Visually, however, the scene was much more arousing.

Because her knees were so close to Bill’s booted feet, her bottom was thrust out to form the widest, roundest, softest target possible. There was no tension, she did not clench her cheeks at all, no matter how hard the blows, and gradually they took on a shade of pink that worked its way through all possible hues to turn crimson at the apex where many of the handprints overlapped.

Bill liked that. He took time to run his hand lightly over the engorged nates. feeling the heat emanating from them and the skin pucker under his touch. A shudder went through Susie’s body, like a cat flexing its skin to rid itself of some minor irritation.

‘Right. Up,’ he barked. He wasn’t going to waste words on someone who wouldn’t bandy them back. He led her, shuffling in her disarrayed clothes, to the nearby stanchion and positioned her. There was no need for any form of restraint: they both knew her pride would prevent her from trying to escape her punishment. She gripped the ‘Y’ of the supporting beams, tummy tucked in, bottom demurely yet defiantly jutting out to welcome its chastisement.

CRACK!

The air whistled as the crop sliced through it, the single slash culminating in a sound like a champagne cork popping. Nothing had prepared Susie for the blow and even her stoicism could not prevent an animal wail forcing itself from her throat.

Across the rosy satin cushions, a scarlet streak appeared, its edges ribbed with white. Even as I watched this blurred and merged to settle into a magenta weal, raised visibly from the surrounding flesh.

With deep breaths, Susie quelled her distress, but as soon as she was still, another swipe brought the cruel whip down lower on her haunches and she screeched out, abandoning all dignity. She still made no effort to evade Bill Jones and his punishing rod, but she made no pretence of being able to bear its work in silence.

A third strike brought a fine film of perspiration that covered all her visible body and her hips rocked from side to side as she strived to shake off the intense heat now pervading that succulent arse. Bill was pleased with his handiwork: the three welts were testimony to his mastering of the proud filly. He ran a finger roughly over their contours, and even with her lower lip nipped tightly by her dainty, pearly teeth, Susie could not help but moan.

‘Turn around,’ Bill commanded, and she obeyed without hesitation. She eyed the crop warily, obviously worried it might be applied to more tender and vulnerable areas, but Bill isn’t in to that. Bottoms are what he likes, and chastised ones he adores.

‘Let’s get those clothes off,’ he ordered quietly, then roughly bundled her out of the already dishevelled habit.

‘Very nice. Raise your arms so I can get a good look.’

She was back on safe ground. She posed any way he told her, knowing that she had something worth showing off. The tears were blinked away, the breathing was back under control. With her modesty defended by crossed ankles, she stood tall and confident, daring the man to show his lust.

The trouble with Susie was, she just didn’t understand Bill. It never occurred to her that her tanned hide was not the foreplay but the act of gratification itself, and the appreciation of her nudity was just the aftermath.

‘Right, I’ll leave you to think things over,’ Bill told her, gathering up her clothes and leaving. ‘Sit on the bale — and I mean SIT on it — and reflect on the consequences of your earlier stupidity. I’ll be back when I think you’ve learned your lesson.’

So Susie sat, convinced (wrongly) that Bill was watching from some hidey-hole and would punish her further if she disobeyed. Gradually the fight went out of her and she slumped and sobbed softly into the crook of her arm. Silly girl. She was already fading from Bill’s consciousness and what she ought to have worried about was that he’d get so involved on the farm he would forget to return her clothes for several hours.

It’s like Bill says: if I could speak, I could tell a few tales.

And, if he would listen, I could tell him a few about his predecessors.

Ah, those were indeed the days, my friend!