Miss Bridget's Girls

by Robin Bond

  At last Mrs Davidson lowered her arm. Taylor’s bottom was stroked instead of beaten; Mrs Davidson’s hands were surprisingly tender as they caressed her.

  “My, look how red you are!” Mrs Davidson exclaimed. “And how hot your bottom feels. A good solid basis for a proper beating.”

  What could a proper beating be? Wasn’t this it? Taylor thought it surely was.

  “After a strapping, I like to follow with a paddling,” Mrs Davidson said. “It deepens the colour and makes the bottom so sensitive to what is to follow.”

  What is to follow? Taylor felt that a paddling would be quite sufficient in itself. Mrs Davidson produced a large wooden paddle, heavy and menacing. She patted it against Taylor two or three times, then raised it and brought it down hard, right across the centre of Taylor’s ass with a heavy thud. She howled. The pain seemed to go right through her, shaking her to the core. The paddle rose and fell. Taylor trembled, her legs went weak, had she not been tied she would have dropped to her knees. As it was, she could do nothing but absorb the pain.

  Mrs Davidson stopped and rubbed Taylor’s bottom again. “One thing I do like about a paddle,” she said, “is that if you do it hard enough and accurately, then at the centre of each buttock, in the middle of the dark red skin going purple already, is a little patch of lighter colour. Perhaps the paddle chases all the blood out. I don’t know, but it looks very satisfying. A good bruise will form there later.”

  There was something almost hypnotic about Mrs Davison’s voice. It was low and musical, and its even tones, so matter of fact, offered a deceitful promise of solicitude, whereas in fact they presaged only more pain.

  “I like to finish with a cane, my dear,” she went on. “I try to lay a few strokes in a neat grouping right across the centre of the bottom, where they will be visible for several days to come. Depending on the girl of course; it’s so interesting how different girls bruise in different ways. Some are hardly marked at all even after a severe caning, while others have bruises so deep you think they will stay for ever. In your case, my dear,” Mrs Davidson went on. “I think, from what I can see already, that they should last a good week. Let’s hope so.”

  With that she picked up the cane, took aim for a moment and slashed it right across Taylor’s rump. Taylor shrieked.

  “My goodness, you do make rather a fuss,” said Mrs Davidson. “Well, you can scream all you like. You’re tied up nice and tight, and no one can hear you here. I’ve had this room sound-proofed for just such occasions as this.”

  She struck Taylor again, the cane landing in an almost identical spot. The pain was burning, searing, as though she was being struck with a rod of fire. The caning went on. Taylor wished for the relief of subspace; just sink into it and let the pain wash over her. But it didn’t happen. There was only pain, nothing more, nothing less, except that every stroke hurt worse than the one before.

  When Mrs Davidson finally set the cane down, Taylor was sure that, finally, was the last of it. But she was mistaken. Mrs Davidson went back to the chest of drawers. This time she drew out something that looked like a policeman’s truncheon, made of heavy black rubber.

  “This is my new acquisition,” Mrs Davidson said. “It’s very nasty indeed. I’ve only tried it once, and the girl just screamed and ran away. Fortunately, you are tied up nice and tight. Resign yourself to the pain, my dear, which will be of a different order from anything you have known. But it’s only a few strokes; I don’t think a little girl like you could stand any more.”

  Taylor wanted to say, I can’t stand any more as it is. But she knew it would be useless. There was that in Mrs Davidson’s voice indicating that protest would be in vain. Taylor took several deep breaths as Mrs Davidson took aim. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the arm raised, then the truncheon hit her. It was true; it was a pain like no other, a deep, excruciating agony that went right through her, that shook her whole body as if she were a rag doll. Taylor was still shaking when the second stroke fell. She’ll kill me, she thought, and then she partly lost consciousness, only dimly away of four more strokes, and then it stopped.

  “There, there,” said Mrs Davidson encouragingly. “It’s all over now, dear. I’ll untie you and then we’ll go and have a nice drink, shall we?”

  Taylor’s knees felt weak as she staggered down the stairs, holding the rail carefully. Once more Mrs Davidson was behind her, greatly enjoying the sight of Taylor’s bottom, black and blue already.

  Mrs Davidson thrust a tumbler half full of whiskey into Taylor’s hand. “Get that down you, girl, and you’ll soon feel better,” she said.

  Mrs Davidson engaged her in small talk for a while. Taylor wondered if that would be it. Had Mrs Davidson exhausted her sadistic desires? Surely she would want to have some sort of closure. Taylor had rather assumed that because Mrs Davidson was so anally fixated she might want to fuck Taylor in the ass with a dildo, or something like that. Though feeling a little the worst for wear, Taylor thought she would find that agreeable enough.

  Taylor was still naked, but she didn’t feel self-conscious. After all, Mrs Davidson had got a good look at her by now. But then, a little to her surprise, Mrs Davidson began to pull up the skirt of her dress. Underneath she wore black stockings and suspenders, and a matching pair of black satin knickers. She put a hand inside them.

  “I’m going to masturbate now,” she said. She seemed to have no shame about this, merely getting herself comfortable. Taylor watched Mrs Davidson’s hand moving slowly.

  “While I’m pleasuring myself,” Mrs Davidson said, “I want you to kneel at your end of the sofa, with your bottom towards me, so I can get a good look at my handiwork while I make myself come.”

  Taylor got into position. There’s no accounting for tastes, she thought. She’d certainly never had an older woman jerk off in front of her. Or behind her, to be correct. But after all, Mrs Davidson was paying, and so she was entitled to do as she wished. And it wasn’t hard to understand why a woman such as her, with her strong desire for marking a girl’s ass, should like to get a good look at the results.

  It didn’t take Mrs Davidson long to get satisfaction. She pulled her skirts back down. “You did well, my dear,” she said. “I shall commend you to Miss Bridget. She trained you well. A few squeaks and squaws were only to be expected. You are a brave girl. Perhaps you’ll come back soon, when your marks are gone. I like the feel of that truncheon in my hand. We’ll have a nice long session with it.”

  Taylor nodded gracefully. In truth any session at all with that nasty thing would be more than she could wish for, but girls who wanted to please Miss Bridget couldn’t hope to please themselves.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Bridget divided lesbian girls into three categories. First were the out and out lesbians, who had never been touched by a man and never would be. Second were those girls who were to some degree, even if slightly, bisexual. She knew that some of her girls would, if left to their own devices, have occasional sex with boys. But of course Miss Bridget strictly forbade that. It took away the girls’ energies and made them less focused on their role within the Circle, which was to pleasure older ladies who had the means to secure their services.

  And then there was a third category, girls who when they arrived at St Swithin’s were still in a pre-sexual state, not yet awakened. A proportion of such girls were lesbians, though they did not know it yet; for, unlike the other girls, their every waking moment was not full of thoughts of sex. They had come to St Swithin’s to learn, to prepare themselves for life and for a career. Sex could wait.

  Flora had an uncanny ability to seek out such girls and to know which of them could have their undeveloped sexuality turned decisively into the lesbian channel. Miss Bridget had asked her more than once how she knew that a girl who apparently showed no interest in sex would when aroused prefer girls to boys. Flora had replied that she didn’t know. She just had an instinct. Miss Bridget asked was it in the way these girls talked, or moved, or sat, o
r what they said, even if they did not talk about sex? Flora replied that it was all and none of these things. She just knew.

  Just a week after the beginning of the new college year, Flora had singled out one such girl. Clara looked younger than her nineteen years. She was pretty in an ethereal way: curly blonde hair, large blue eyes, a sweet little mouth and a slight, willowy figure. Flora could see that the girl was lonely; she had yet to make any friends at the college, and so Flora took her under her wing. She took her for walks around the grounds, she introduced her to some of the girls from the Circle, the quiet ones, though she could see that Clara had no idea of how these girls were drawn to her, how they would each and every one have jumped at the opportunity to take Clara into bed and initiate her into the pleasures of all-girl sex.

  Flora took Clara to her room and suggested some reading she might do for her classes. She spoke about the college generally, its traditions and customs. She even gave her a glass of wine; Clara had never tasted wine before, and soon was light-headed. But Flora did not take advantage of her state. She knew that a premature advance would spoil everything. With girls like Clara you had to wait for the moment when, overcome by desires of which they had no previous experience, they themselves were the initiators. They had to want a kiss on the mouth, had to want a hand on the thigh, had to want fingers stroking their knickers and then sliding inside.

  Clara was very shy. She came from one of the mountain states; was it Idaho? Her family were religious and strict. Sex was never mentioned in her house; it simply didn’t exist. Later, Clara wondered how she herself had ever been conceived. Gradually Flora socialised her. She told her that one of the girls had expressed admiration for her. “Me?” asked Clara. She couldn’t believe that anyone would even notice her.

  “Believe me, these girls notice you,” said Flora. “They can all see how pretty you are. You have a lovely face. And your body is graceful.”

  Flora was looking forward to the moment when she got to see that body naked. She imagined Clara’s small, shy breasts, with little pink nipples. She imagined her tight, round little bottom. And she imagined her cunt, its delicate pink lips unfolding to reveal the coral depths. But she was resolved to keep a check on her desires until such time as they might be unleashed.

  Clara blushed. “Thank you, Miss Flora,” she said. She didn’t know why everyone called her Miss Flora when all the other girls were known simply by their first names. But if everyone did it, she thought it right to do it too.

  “Which of the girls you have met so far do you think is the prettiest?” Flora asked her.

  “Oh, gosh, search me,” said Clara She had a curiously old-fashioned vocabulary, as if she had been brought up in a time warp.

  “Shall I tell you which one I favour?” Flora asked.

  “If you like,” said Clara

  “I like Sophia,” said Flora. “She has such a beautiful mouth, anyone would want to kiss it. And she has an eye-catching bosom.” Flora had had the pleasure of seeing the bosom close up, naked, and had touched Sophia’s breasts with great pleasure. She discovered even greater pleasure when she discovered that Sophia was addicted to spanking. The two had spent a very stimulating afternoon recently when Flora had given her a real workout that left her bottom sore and bruised. On that occasion, however, the breasts had gone untouched.

  Clara wondered if it was proper to refer to a girl’s person in that manner, though secretly she had herself noticed Sophia’s impressive bosom and rather envied her for it.

  “Have you ever kissed a girl?” Flora asked. It was surely time to move things on a bit.

  Clara was surprised by the question. “I’ve never kissed anyone, Miss Flora,” she said shyly.

  “Would you like to?” Flora asked gently.

  “I don’t know,” Clara said hesitantly. “I suppose I wouldn’t know until I’d tried.”

  Flora decided to try a different tack. “Don’t you feel it’s too warm for a sweater?” she asked.

  Clara was wearing a rather boring blue wool jumper, which hung loosely, not revealing anything which Clara might herself have in the way of a bosom. “Perhaps,” she said.

  “I’ve got a lovely shirt I bought, only I think it’s a little too small. Would you like to try it on?”

  Clara blushed again. “Well,” she said, then her voice trailed off.

  Flora fetched the shirt from a drawer. “Take your sweater off,” she said.

  Clare sat unmoving, looking uncomfortable.

  “What’s the matter?” Flora said.

  “Please, Miss Flora,” she said. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

  Flora laughed. “Do you think I haven’t seen a girl’s tits before? You don’t need to be shy with me.”

  Clara sat still. “I can’t,” she said desperately. Not even her mother had seen her naked since her breasts had started to swell. But the thought that they hadn’t swollen much made her even shyer than ever.

  “Clara,” said Flora sternly. “We are all grown-ups here. We don’t need to have these silly schoolgirl inhibitions. Now take it off, or I shall be offended.”

  Offending Miss Flora was the last thing Clara wanted; she was the only friend she had. Slowly, still blushing, she took hold of the sweater and raised it, pulling it over her head. Immediately she let the sweater go, she moved her hands to her breasts to cover them, but not before Flora had seen a pair of sweet little pink-tipped breasts.

  “You know,” she said as Clara hurriedly put on the shirt, “not everyone likes big breasts. Some of us girls actually prefer the little ones, firm and trim.”

  Clara blushed more than ever. She didn’t know what to make of this. Why were they talking about breasts? Though she did notice she was getting a funny feeling, somewhere in the depths of her belly, somewhere near to that place she had never yet named, scarcely even thought of.

  “I think it’s only fair, since you’ve been so brave, that I show you my tits in return,” Flora said. She stood up and undid her shirt, removed it, then reaching behind her back deftly unhooked her bra and let it fall. She stood there, displaying herself for the other girl. Clara didn’t know where to look, though she did take a peep. Miss Flora’s breasts were definitely bigger than her own, with dark nipples. Clara looked away.

  Flora came closer. “Wouldn’t you like to touch them?” she said.

  Clara thought she ought to leave. It was getting to be most uncomfortable. Yet something held her back. Flora stepped nearer and, taking one of Clara’s hands, put it to her left breast. Without knowing what she was doing, Clara closed her hand around the soft round breast.

  “Doesn’t it feel good?” Flora said softly. “Put your hand on the other one too.”

  Clara did as she was told. She daren’t look Miss Flora in the eye. Something was tingling lower down. She felt strange between her legs, as if she had got a little sticky. Flora put her arms around Clara’s neck and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You can kiss my tits too if you like,” she said.

  “No,” said Clara. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Perhaps you can’t,” Flora whispered, “but I think you’d like to.”

  Best not to rush the poor little mouse, Flora thought. She moved away and began to put her shirt back on, leaving aside her bra.

  “I think I’d better go, Miss Flora,” Clara said.

  “I’ll introduce you to some more of the girls tomorrow,” Flora said. “I know they are dying to make your acquaintance.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Flora,” said Clara hurriedly, quickly putting on her sweater. “And thank you for the shirt. It’s very nice.”

  Clara was disturbed by this encounter with Miss Flora. Although she no longer shared her parents’ religious views, she had not freed herself from their legacy, mainly a strong sense of guilt. She felt that it had been wrong to expose herself to Miss Flora. And wrong also to peep at Miss Flora’s breasts when they were naked. And worse still to touch them, although it had not been her idea.

  And yet l
ooking and touching had given her a funny feeling between her legs. Back in her room she put her hand between her legs, slipping a finger under her knickers. She was wet. Why was that? She stared at her finger. It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t any colour at all. She put it to her lips and tasted; there was a faint bodily flavour. And perhaps a slight odour too. What did these things mean?

  Guilt came over her again. She should be punished for her moments of weakness. Standing in front of the mirror she took off the shirt Miss Flora had given her and stared at her breasts. She put her fingers to her nipples and found them hard. She remembered that her mother had always told her that sensuality was the worst sin for a woman. Clara pinched her nipples hard as a punishment. Something twitched down below. She dug her nails into her nipples until she gasped. “You wicked, wicked girl,” she said out loud. “You should be punished.”

  She looked around for something appropriate. In the kitchen area at one end of the room was a pot stuffed with utensils. Clara picked out a wooden spoon. She went back and stood in front of the mirror again and started to smack her breasts with the spoon, as hard as she could. It hurt, more and more. Her nipples got harder still and her breasts got pink. And down between her legs she could feel she was wetter than ever.

  It’s down there where I should really get the punishment, Clara thought. That’s where the wickedness is. She took off the rest of her clothes and stood looking at herself naked in the mirror, something she had hardly ever done. What was it that Miss Flora had said? Her body was graceful. And she said she had liked her breasts. (Clara couldn’t bring herself to call them tits, like the other girls did. It sounded smutty.)

  Clara turned round and twisted her head to get a view of her back. Would the other girls like her bottom? She reproached herself not only for sensuality but for vanity too. She picked up the wooden spoon again and struck herself between her legs. It was a hard blow and Clara gasped as she put her hand on her crotch to soothe herself.

  “Take your hand away this minute,” she ordered herself. “You’re in trouble, young lady.” She began to smack her cunt, a stream of solid blows aimed squarely between her legs. The pain was really bad, but she knew she needed it. She deserved it for being a slut. “Slut,” she said out loud. “Take your punishment.”