Blushing at Both Ends

by Philip Kemp

  Though Charles had promised her sixty spanks, it was impossible to keep accurate count at such a rate. But, being a conscientious man, he was determined not to fob her off with short measure. The squirming young beauty must have received near on a hundred stinging swats before he finally stopped and contemplated the richly reddened globes with the sense of a job well done.

  Gently he caressed the scarlet mounds. ‘OK, my sweet, you’ve had your punishment, and you took it very well.’ Helping the girl to her feet he hugged her warmly, and for a few moments she sobbed on his shoulder while his fingertips strayed over her soundly spanked rear. When she lifted her head there were still tears in her eyes, but she gave him a sweet, tremulous smile.

  ‘Oh, monsieur, thank you! It was a lovely spanking. I never imagined an Englishman could spank a girl so beautifully.’

  Stroking his hair, she pulled his mouth down to hers and their lips met in a long passionate kiss. Charles’s hand slid round and explored between her legs. Her cleft was creamy and swollen with lust, and she moaned deep in her throat at the touch of his fingers.

  In turn her hand stroked his groin, unzipping him and releasing his engorged prick. She caressed its hot hardness, then sank to her knees and took him in her mouth. Her agile tongue licked and flickered around the head of his penis, while her fingers teased his shaft and balls, tickling his scrotum and tugging deftly down on his foreskin. Within seconds a spectacular orgasm seized and shook him, and he spent copiously into her willing mouth.

  A true gentleman, Charles returned the favour as Claudine lay back on the bed with her legs well parted. Her pussy was sweet and fragrant, and he licked deep into her before tonguing and nibbling her clit. His hands squeezed her still fiery bottom-cheeks, one finger slipping between them to explore the puckered rosebud of her anus. She too was quick to climax, writhing on the bed with full-throated groans of joy. (Thank heavens for thick walls, thought Charles.) Then, after swiftly stripping off, they dived together beneath the covers.

  Some hours later Charles awoke. It was dark, but the curtains were open and enough light came from outside to reveal that he was alone in the bed. He switched on the bedside lamp. A note was propped against it.

  Mon anglais chéri, Your naughty impertinent thanks you for her lovely spanking – et pour tout le reste. My bottom yet glows deliciously and I think of you each time I sit myself down. I leave a little something for you to remember me by. Bons baisers de ta méchante Claudine.

  His book lay where he had left it, but again the bookmark had changed. His place was now marked by a pair of delicate cream silk drawers. Charles held them to his nose and, with a sense of ecstasy, inhaled deeply.

  The next day was his last in Arles. In the morning he had his final session with Mme Hubert before taking an afternoon plane back to London. It was tempting – very tempting – to prolong his stay and seek a further rendezvous with the enchanting Claudine. But it would involve an exorbitant additional airfare – and, besides, how could any repeat performance, however delicious, be quite as intoxicatingly sensuous as last night’s? Best, surely, to leave it as a perfect glowing memory.

  Mme Hubert was on fine form, happy to prolong their talk beyond the allotted hour, and Charles’s cassette recorder reaped a last rich harvest of anecdote and reminiscence. In every way it had proved a superbly successful trip, and as he rose to leave he thanked the old lady effusively.

  ‘Believe me, monsieur Kenyon, for me also it has been a pleasure. I love to revisit these ancient ghosts, and with your help I have recaptured much that I thought lost for ever. If I live so long, I shall be enchanted to read your book, and I am glad if I have aided you a little in the creation of it.’ She smiled, and there was a hint of some secret laughter in her eyes. ‘I trust that my granddaughter too has contributed to the pleasure of your stay in Arles?’

  Charles stared. ‘Your – granddaughter?’

  ‘But of course; my little Claudine. She works at the Hotel de la Poste – as a chambermaid.’

  As realisation dawned, Charles’s eyes strayed to a photo of Anne-Giselle, all of seventeen years old, strolling arm in arm with Picasso on the Pont des Arts. Of course! No wonder Claudine had seemed somehow familiar. ‘Then – then you knew?’

  ‘Oh, monsieur Kenyon!’ The old lady was laughing openly now, but not unkindly. Once again the years seemed to drop away, revealing the mischievous gamine who had captivated Paris all those decades ago. La Giselle smiled. ‘At my age there is little one does not know. And besides – did I not promise to do all in my power to make your visit worthwhile?’

  2

  Blushing Bride

  THERE SHE STANDS at the altar, my lovely Jenny, my golden girl, the close-cut ivory satin wedding dress outlining her superb figure, its sleek fabric hugging the curves of her beautiful bottom. And there beside her stands . . . someone else entirely. Not me.

  Do I feel bitter? No, not now. Not since last night. Because I know a few things that fat oaf standing beside her doesn’t know, maybe never will. And one of them is that his blushing bride, not twelve hours ago, was blushing far more vividly, and in a very different fashion . . .

  I read Jenny’s letter on a scruffy little Greek steamer somewhere in the further reaches of the Aegean. I’d picked it up from poste restante at Piraeus the evening before and thought I’d save my pleasure in reading it until the next day, relaxing on deck with a glass of rough raki in my hand. So I opened it against an idyllic backdrop of impossibly blue sea, soaring gulls and tiny deserted grey-brown islets.

  Jenny and I had been together four years, since I was twenty and she two years younger. My golden girl, I called her. Long honey-blonde hair, skin that glowed like sun-warmed stone, a sensuous mouth, liquid brown eyes and the kind of body men dream about. The only reason she wasn’t with me now, exciting lecherous glances on a Greek beach, was that she had her final exams to finish. The letter, I assumed, would tell me how they went.

  ‘My darling, beloved Paul,’ it began, ‘I don’t know how to tell you this . . .’ and ended three pages later, ‘My sweet darling, please, please forgive me.’

  In between came the dagger stroke. She’d dropped me. To marry – my howl of fury panicked the gulls – Leslie Porchester.

  Leslie Porchester. A fat, balding slob – I speak, of course, quite objectively – with no redeeming features whatsoever. Except that his father, some pompous City pinstripe, was stinking rich.

  The nickname ‘golden girl’ bore an ironic side-meaning. Jennifer had a fatal weakness – for money. She’d been comfortably brought up – ‘spoilt rotten’ was my taunting version – despite her dad’s heroic attempts to pour his wife’s fortune down his throat. She liked to be comfortable, and a bit more than that. And she knew – we both knew – that I’d never be a good steady provider. We’d had plenty of discussions and more than one row about what I called wanderlust and she called irresponsibility. A few settled months, and I got restless. I’d take off, travelling light and sleeping rough, wherever the fancy took me. I wasn’t, as Jenny’s mother would put it (and often did) – ideal husband material.

  So now Jenny – nudged, no doubt, by dear Mummy – had made her choice. And what a choice. I aimed a few further curses at the innocent gulls and headed into more raki. Lots more raki. By the time the boat dropped anchor at Amorgos I was stinking stupid drunk. Gathering from my boozy ravings what afflicted me, the Greek crew, with infinite compassion for the lovelorn, carried me ashore and bedded me down in a room above a tiny taverna, where I awoke the next day to a Wagnerian hangover.

  * * *

  When I got home the card was waiting for me – stiff, embossed, gold-edged. Rather like the people it came from, in fact. ‘Mr and Mrs James Cunningham request the pleasure . . .’ The fuck you do, I snarled, hurling it into the wastebin. But later I reconsidered, retrieved it and sent my acceptance. Maybe I can show up pissed, I thought, and puke all over the wedding cake. Childish? Sure. But then, jilted lovers aren’t known for their mature
restraint.

  The next few weeks I moped, growling and licking my wounds. There were one or two girls who might have been ready to console me, but I wasn’t ready for consolation. Not just yet.

  On the eve of the wedding I set out on a solitary pub crawl, but my heart wasn’t in it. After a couple of pints I dropped the idea, and started to wander aimlessly. Guess where my feet led me.

  The house stood well back from the street, and as I approached it I could clearly hear Jenny’s dad. Unlike me, he’d evidently had no trouble sinking a few. Then, at an upstairs window I knew well from the inside, a white-clad ethereal figure. My lovely, faithless Jenny – trying on the wedding dress, no less.

  I’m not sure what I planned, or if I had anything as coherent as a plan in mind, but before I knew it I’d circled round to the side door. It was locked, but I’d crept surreptitiously in, and out, too often for that to present any problem. I dug the key out of the geranium tub, let myself in and listened.

  James’s slurred bray and Isobel’s contemptuous contralto echoed faintly from the sitting room. They enjoyed their rows – it was the only activity they’d shared for years – and would be at it for hours yet. I made for the stairs and had just reached the landing when a door opened and a slim teenager came out. She started when she saw me. ‘Paul! What on earth – why are you . . .?’

  Felicity, Jenny’s seventeen-year-old sister, was as dark as her sibling was fair. We’d always got on well – in fact, I think she rather fancied me, as girls often fancy their big sister’s bloke. Now she gazed at me, half-alarmed and half-gleeful at my inopportune presence. ‘You shouldn’t be here. What if someone sees you?’

  ‘It’s OK. Your mum and dad are well into one of their screaming matches – they won’t surface for ages.’

  Felicity gave a mischievous grin. ‘Unless I tell them.’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Flicky! Look, here’s a tenner to keep quiet.’

  She took the note, still grinning. ‘And if I do all the same?’

  ‘Then the next time I catch up with you, young lady, I’ll turn you over my knee and spank you till you can’t sit down for a week.’

  ‘Oooh!’ said Flicky, her eyes sparkling. ‘That might be rather fun.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ I said grimly. ‘And don’t think I wouldn’t do it, either.’

  ‘I bet you would, you sadistic beast. But don’t worry, I won’t tell. You go and tell my stupid dumb sister where she gets off – it’s the least she deserves. Oh, Paul!’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘How could she? Leslie Porchester – yeuucch!’ To my surprise, she suddenly threw her arms around my neck and kissed me full on the lips. ‘Oh, Paul, I wish it was you tomorrow!’ she whispered, and vanished down the corridor.

  Moving quietly, I approached Jenny’s bedroom door and pushed it gently open. Though she was facing me, she didn’t see me. Her wedding dress was over her head, and she was easing it carefully off to avoid creasing it. Knowing its rustling would drown the noise, I closed the door behind me and locked it, dropped the key in my pocket, then sat down in an armchair and crossed my legs.

  ‘Hello, Jenny,’ I said.

  There was a muffled shriek from under the dress and Jenny’s face, slightly flushed and totally horrified, appeared abruptly from beneath it. ‘Paul! What the hell are you . . .? You shouldn’t be here! Suppose someone finds out! It’s my wedding tomorrow!’

  ‘I know. Dear Mummy sent me an invite, remember? Probably saw it as a twist of the knife, the old bat. But I thought I’d like one last look before you turned into Mrs Leslie Porchester. So here I am.’

  Jenny looked flabbergasted. She also looked gorgeous. Her slip had come off with the dress, leaving her in just a white lace-trimmed bra, matching white silk knickers, tan stockings and white high-heeled shoes. Her tousled honey-blonde hair had fallen loose in sweet confusion down her back. She had never seemed more desirable. Lust rose in me, along with anger.

  ‘You’ve got to go,’ she exclaimed frantically. ‘I can’t talk to you now, you know that.’ Her expression softened slightly. ‘Oh, Paul, I’m sorry, really I am. But it was the only way. You never offered to marry me, did you? And anyway you’d have made a lousy husband.’

  ‘Maybe so. But did it occur to you to find something better than that lump of rancid sheep’s turd you’re shacking up with tomorrow? How did you think I’d feel, imagining him running his greasy fat fingers over your body, sticking his slimy little dick into –’

  ‘How dare you!’ Furious, Jenny hurled her wedding dress over a nearby chair. ‘Who the hell are you to say who I can or can’t marry, you . . . wastrel? What do you know about Leslie, anyway?’

  ‘I know you don’t love him. You don’t even like him. You wouldn’t so much as tolerate him and his sweaty pawings if it wasn’t for his dad’s money!’ I stood up, seething with anger. ‘Shit, Jenny, you always had your mercenary side, but I never thought it went this far. You really are just a greedy, callous, spoilt little bitch, aren’t you?’

  Her eyes blazed. ‘I don’t have to listen to this! Just fuck off, why don’t you? Get out now – or I’ll scream for help!’

  ‘Go ahead, no one’ll come. Your parents are squabbling downstairs, they’d never hear you.’

  ‘Flicky’s in her room – she’ll hear me.’

  ‘Sure she will, but she won’t do anything about it. She knows I’m here; I met her outside on the landing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you! What did you do – bribe her, threaten her?’

  ‘Both, since you ask. I gave her a tenner, and told her if she said a word I’d spank the living daylights out of her. And I will, too, if she does. Although, come to mention it, my girl –’ for a glorious intention was rising like the sun in my mind ‘– I can think of someone who deserves a damn good spanking far more than young Flicky. And it would relieve my feelings no end to dish it out.’

  Horrified realisation dawned in Jenny’s face. ‘No! You wouldn’t dare! I’ll scream!’

  ‘Too right you will,’ I said, advancing upon her. ‘And before I’m through with you, young Jenny, you’ll have plenty to scream about, believe you me!’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked and turned to flee, aiming to take refuge in her bathroom. But high heels are treacherous things, and she teetered off-balance just at the opportune moment.

  Grasping her wrist, I sat down on the bed and with a sharp tug brought her sprawling across my lap, face-down in prime spanking position. She kicked and struggled wildly, calling me every obscene name under the sun, but I captured both her wrists in my left hand and held them out of the way, while with my right hand I tugged the silken knickers down over her ripe curves, well clear of the target area.

  And what a target area it was. Full, white and shapely, Jenny’s glorious rearward curves swelled delectably upwards, bare and rounded and lusciously spankable. Her struggles made the tender flesh quiver enticingly – as well as providing further stimulation for my already rampant erection. With joyful anticipation I stroked and squeezed the smooth plump globes; they felt deliciously cool and soft. ‘Such a gorgeous bottom, my sweet,’ I told her, ‘it fairly begs to be spanked. And it’s going to be, too – hard and very thoroughly. Because a damn good bare-bottom spanking is the very least you deserve for being such a spoilt mercenary brat. And, since I’ll probably never get the chance to do this again, I’m going to make the most of it now.’

  ‘No! Help! Let me go, you bastard! Help!’ yelled Jenny, writhing indignantly. ‘I’ll kill you! Don’t you dare!’

  ‘Oh, I dare, my sweet. In fact, it’ll be a pleasure. A very special wedding present, from me to you with lots of love – the finest spanking of your young life!’

  ‘Ooooooh!’ wailed Jenny apprehensively as I raised my hand and, with a feeling of sheer sensual delight, brought it down with stinging force on the lush curve of her right bottom-cheek. I was rewarded with a loud yelp of protest from Jenny, followed by another as I smacked the left cheek just as vigorously.
/>   ‘Owwww!’ yelped Jenny, wriggling desperately. ‘Stop it! That bloody well hurts!’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so,’ I retorted. Strangely enough, the thought uppermost in my mind was ‘Why the hell did I never do this before?’ And who knows, maybe if I had, things might have been very different.

  But, meanwhile, there was a job to do, and I had every intention of doing it thoroughly. So, taking a firm grip on my struggling perfidious darling, I administered several more ringing spanks to her ripe young bottom, while her language grew steadily more unladylike. It’s always good to have your work appreciated, and Jenny’s squeals and shrill invective were a pleasure to hear.

  ‘Owwww! Shit! I hate you, you fucking bastard!’ she yelped. ‘Stop it! Let me go!’

  But I hadn’t the least intention of letting her go, not for a long time yet. For a start, I was enjoying myself far too much, relishing the feeling of my palm smacking down on those tender trembling cheeks; the ringing sound of each spank, and the gasps and yelps it drew from the wriggling victim; and, above all, the supremely erotic sight of the warm pink blush that was beginning to enhance Jenny’s squirming, bouncing flesh-cushions. Already, after only a couple of dozen spanks, a rosy glow suffused every inch of her beautiful bottom, contrasting delectably with the whiteness of her back and thighs.

  ‘I always said you had a sexy bottom, my love,’ I told her, still smacking her hard and steadily, ‘but you know what? It looks even sexier when it’s all nice and red. And it’s going to be much, much redder than this before I’m through, my sweet. Brides are supposed to blush, aren’t they? Well, you’ll soon be blushing like no bride’s ever blushed before!’

  ‘Owwww!’ wailed Jenny, her blonde mane tossing and her long legs kicking frantically as the heat built up in her spank-warmed rear. ‘Help! No! Stop it, you bastard! I’ll – yowwww! – kill you for this! Help! Mummy! Daddy!’

  True to her word, she yelled at the top of her lungs as my vengeful hand continued to crack down across her squirming rump, each spank ringing round the room like a pistol shot. For all my confident assertions, I was a little worried that somebody might hear. But no one came. Poor Jenny, the moneyed comfort she so enjoyed had become her trap. So large was the house, so opulently solid its doors and walls, that no sound reached the ground floor. Young Flicky was in earshot, of course – gleefully listening at the door, I guessed. But no hint of the punishment being meted out reached the ears of Jenny’s parents – not the sound of a merciless male palm smacking rhythmically down on soft pampered female bottom-flesh, nor the desperate yelps and squeals of the owner of the reddening jiggling bottom in question.