‘I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Eve,’ Ross said, his voice sounding less assured and authoritative. In fact, he seemed more than a little hoarse. ‘I know it’s still early, but I think we should go to bed now.’
‘Was it good?’ he asked sleepily.
‘Yes, Ross,’ she replied, embraced in his arms, ‘it was great.’
Reluctantly she disentangled herself from his embrace.
‘Stay,’ he said.
‘I’m not going anywhere, silly,’ she replied, undoing her basque. ‘This thing just gets a bit uncomfortable after a while.’ She smiled at the little boy pout he put on. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a wicked grin, ‘tomorrow is a bank holiday Monday. If you like I’ll put the whole lot on again.’
He laughed. ‘Funny to think that some girls only wear their wedding dresses once,’ he said. ‘What a tragic waste.’
‘Hm,’ she mused, ‘I’m only worried that mine is going to wear out, the amount of use it gets.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said with an adoring smile, ‘if it does I’ll buy you another one.’
He kept his eyes on her as she unclipped the suspenders of the basque and put the lace confection to one side. Then kneeling on the bed she felt her bottom; there was still a perceptible glow of heat against her palm.
‘Ooh,’ she sulked, ‘you didn’t have to spank me so hard, you rotten beast.’
‘I barely touched you, you little minx, but I will really skin your bottom if you don’t come here this minute.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said in her sweetest, most submissive tone, batting her eyelashes coyly, ‘and shall I keep the veil and stockings on?’
Squeak Piggy Squeak
Mr Porrit puts the phone down and looks up at Cherry, with a sly smile.
‘That was Peter Manfry. He’s going to bring Bunty over for a spot of training. We thought we’d work you two girls together for a few hours this afternoon. Won’t that be nice?’
‘Yes, Mr Porrit,’ Cherry says softly. But of course she’s lying through her pearly-white teeth.
First of all there is not going to be anything nice about ‘a spot of training’. Cherry has only been with Mr Porrit for a fortnight, but that is quite enough to have discovered that his idea of ‘training’ is not nice at all. Not for the eighteen-year-old girl getting trained, at any rate, though Mr Porrit certainly seems to have a nice enough time actually training her.
Nor is there anything pleasant in the prospect of being ‘worked’. In Mr Porrit’s peculiar language it seems to mean a girl being punished and painfully humiliated, not to mention having the men fuck her, or making her suck them off.
And there is also the problem of Bunty. Bunty might not be dim, exactly, but she is certainly prone to panic. The couple of times that Cherry has been trained with her so far have been awful. Bunty’s panics are bad news for Cherry, especially when it comes to playing what Mr Porrit calls ‘two girl games’. That there will be two girl games with Bunty this afternoon is a foregone conclusion. That Cherry will end up getting punished as a result of Bunny panicking, a stone cold, stomach-churning certainty.
So it will not be nice for Cherry, though no doubt it will be lovely for Mr Porrit and Mr Manfry. Mr Porrit is a man who lives for training girls. Plump and balding, in his late fifties, he looks like a solicitor or banker but seems to be retired. At any rate his afternoons are spent ‘working’ Cherry, and sometimes his friends’ girls too. Mr Porrit has a lot of friends. Mostly they are other middle-aged men, but there are also one or two women and a couple of younger chaps. They have two things in common, however. They all talk in Mr Porrit’s peculiar language, and they all have their own girls.
It will be nice for Mr Manfry too, of course. Mr Manfry is fat rather than plump, a large jolly man who spanks extraordinarily hard, and he seems to have a bit of a thing for Cherry. Certainly, last time he brought Bunty round he could not keep his hands off her. Cherry licks her lips anxiously, remembering those meaty hands.
Fortunately, perhaps, Cherry does not have much time to dwell on what is going to happen. Mr Porrit lives alone, apart from Cherry, and he does not do housework, so she has to wash up the breakfast things, and then she has to make the beds and vacuum. Mr Porrit then disappears down the stairs to the cellar, while she makes his lunch.
Cherry prepares ham and tomato sandwiches and tries not to think about the cellar and what he might be getting ready there. The cellar is Cherry’s least favourite part of Mr Porrit’s big semi-detached house, though there are other places, like the back bedroom, that she’s not too keen on either.
The cellar covers the whole footprint of the house and is unusually deep, so the ceiling is quite high. Cherry thinks that Mr Porrit probably bought the house for the cellar. He certainly seems to have spent plenty of money on it, over the years.
He keeps looking at her and winking as they eat their ham sandwiches. As usual he sits opposite her at the kitchen table.
‘I’ve a couple of surprises for you down there,’ he says ominously. ‘Eat your sandwiches, sweetheart, you will need your strength later on.’
But Cherry finds it very hard to swallow; her mouth is much too dry. She drinks more tea and nibbles at the sandwich. She wishes she could leave it but knows that is not allowed.
After lunch Cherry has to get herself ready, a quick shower and then dress in training clothes. Sometimes this means stockings and suspenders, which are Mr Porrit’s favourites, but today it is just a very thin, tight vest thing. It is much too short to meet the brief white cotton knickers, so there is a band of bare flesh around her midriff. The rest of the outfit consists of white knee socks and white plimsolls.
Cherry catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and blushes. She is a pretty girl with a shock of nut-brown curls. Mr Porrit calls her figure on the shapely side of slender. Her breasts are a nice size if not overly large, certainly high and firm. Mr Porrit says her bottom is a ‘peach’, but Cherry cannot see it properly herself. At least her legs are long and, Cherry thinks, rather shapely. The white socks make her look coltish and girly, but the worse thing is that she can see the outline of her nipples through the tight vest.
‘Cherry, stop admiring yourself in the mirror and come down, Mr Manfry and Bunty are here!’
Cherry blushes a deep shade of crimson. Mr Porrit often does that. She wonders how he knows. Swallowing glumly, she sets off down the stairs, where Mr Manfry and his Bunty are waiting in the hall.
‘Cherry,’ Mr Manfry smiles up at her as she descends, rubbing his fat hands together, ‘you look even lovelier than the last time. If you ever get tired of her, Norman, you know where to come.’
Bunty stands a little behind him. She is a tall girl and big built; buxom and curvaceous and just a little plump. Her face is pleasant, quite pretty, though not gorgeous. As usual, she looks a bit peculiar and a lot uncomfortable.
Bunty has blonde hair that’s been plaited into two pigtails, just above her ears. She is wearing a pale blue plastic raincoat, done up to her throat, but by the time Cherry reaches the foot of the stairs she has unbuttoned it and begun to take it off.
Beneath the coat she’s wearing an outfit almost identical to Cherry’s, but she looks quite different in it. If Cherry’s vest is a little too revealing, Bunty’s is absurd. Her large breasts look as if they’re about to burst out of the tight little top, which is stretched up and out and thus shortened even further, the hem straining only a few inches below her bust. She also looks like she’s about to split her cotton panties, which dig deep into her generous flesh at waist and crotch.
Judging by Bunty’s face, which would make most beetroots look pale, she is perfectly aware of how exposed she looks. The blonde girl hangs her head and looks at the parquet floor.
‘Look Cherry,’ Mr Manfry says jovially, ‘here’s Bunty come to play.’
‘You remember Bunty, Cherry,’ M
r Porrit steps up behind her and presses a hand in the small of her back. ‘Cherry has been looking forward to this all day, haven’t you, Cherry?’
‘Yes, Mr Porrit,’ she answers in a slightly hoarse whisper, colouring a little. She knows not to contradict him, especially not before a training session. But still she finds it peculiarly humiliating to be made to lie about her feelings. Her hands clench a little at her sides as the men look at her and chuckle.
‘Well,’ says Mr Porrit, at last, ‘I suppose we had better make a start. Shall we go?’
Mr Porrit’s ‘little collection’ takes up most of one of the longer, whitewashed cellar walls. Today, as usual when they have company, they have to go and admire it before ‘getting down to business’. Cherry doesn’t know which is worse; being ‘worked’ is extremely vexing, and standing looking at things might seem preferable. The problem is that Mr Porrit’s collection is a vast array of implements designed for punishing girls. There are canes, dozens of them, rattan, dragon, kooboo and lots of other names Cherry has had to learn. There are the riding whips or crops, a score or more. Cherry has to be able to distinguish a polo from a dressage whip. There are tawse, straps, cats, martinets and floggers, plaited dog whips, signal whips and bullwhips, and the best collection – such is Mr Porrit’s proud boast – of American quirts in England, if not Europe. All in all the wall presents a gloomy prospect, especially for are a girl who is about to be ‘worked’.
Today Mr Porrit is showing Mr Manfry his US college paddles. These are long heavy things with elaborate decorations. He has about a dozen on the wall.
‘Most of these are fraternity paddles, of course. Used in their initiation ceremonies. But these,’ he took two slightly smaller paddles from their hooks, ‘are genuine sorority spanking paddles. This one,’ he held up the darker one, ‘dates back to the fifties. It was used until the early eighties, so it must have tanned thousands of co-ed bottoms in its time.’
‘Phew!’ Mr Manfry whistled with admiration. ‘Imagine that! All those poor sorority sisters bending over… may I, or is it too fragile?’
‘By all means, the thing is tough as old boots; I guess it could deal with another thousand initiations if it had to.’
‘Thanks, Norman. Bunty, turn around and touch your toes.’
Bunty blinks anxiously at the thing before turning and obeying. Cherry wonders as she sees the blonde’s broad bottom presented how panties can be stretched so tightly and yet not split. Her mouth has gone familiarly dry, and her heart is pounding. The men take their time, chatting and chuckling, utterly relaxed and at their ease.
After what seems like an age Mr Manfry raises the paddle, and just before he brings it down he looks at Cherry and winks. Then the paddle sweeps down to meet its target. The polished maple connects with a smack that echoes around the cellar, and sends a bolt of fear into Cherry’s soul.
Bunty yelps with pain and hops about a little. The men tut tut and say this will never do, so Bunty has to bend again and get another smack from the paddle. This time Mr Porrit administers it and Bunty gasps, but more or less keeps her legs still.
Cherry waits for the order to bend over, but amazingly it does not come. The men put the paddles back and then turn to the girls.
‘Would you like to get warmed up first, my dears?’ Mr Porrit asks with hypocritical consideration.
‘Yes please, Mr Porrit,’ Cherry answers, with Bunty still sobbing a little from the paddle pain, joining in a little raggedly at the end.
‘Very well, what do you think, Peter? Squat thrusts or a tummy session?’
‘Oh, tummy session, definitely. Bunty needs some work there, and also,’ he lowers his voice confidentially but keeps it loud enough for the girls to hear him, ‘once they have done their abdominal crunches they will need to do “the plank”.’
Cherry isn’t looking forward to ‘the plank’ at all, but she is quite glad it is going to be a ‘tummy session’. The reason is simple but rather selfish; Bunty is much worse at it than Cherry, so hopefully Bunty will get most of the punishment and she will be spared.
‘The gym’ is an area of the cellar with rubber matting, some benches and a couple of electric powered treadmills. The lighting in this area is fluorescent and it is therefore very bright. The girls are made to lie on their backs with their feet towards each other, and Mr Manfry takes a tawse from the collection. Mr Porrit has a thin, very whippy cane.
‘All right, girls, an easy one to start, abdominal crunches,’ he says. ‘Feet on the floor, legs bent, you know the drill, hands up to your ears. Ready, steady, and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, pause. Very poor. You both need to work harder. After all, we are doing this for your benefit, not ours. Come up further. If you don’t do the next set a lot better I am afraid you might not much like the consequences.’
He starts counting again. Of course, Cherry was doing close to her best the first time, so it is hard to lift her upper body further, or move more briskly. Every time she raises herself she sees Bunty between her legs. Bunty is red-faced and wild-eyed, and it is clear she is not raising her torso high enough.
‘Cherry, that was truly poor. Bunty, raise your legs.’
Cherry has a moment to get her breath back. Bunty has to raise her legs, and then Mr Manfry seizes her ankles and pulls her feet back over her head. Then Mr Porrit steps forward and cracks the cane across the backs of her thighs. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. Bunty squeals and jerks, but Mr Manfry holds her steady.
‘You are a lazy trollop, Bunty,’ Mr Porrit says, ‘but you will do better even if I have to skin you.’
‘Stop whimpering, you silly girl, Mr Porrit barely flicked you,’ says fat Mr Manfry.
Now they have to raise their legs, pointing their toes at the cellar ceiling and as Mr Porrit counts they have to raise their bottoms from the mat. Cherry hates this exercise. It hurts deep in her belly. It hurts even without Mr Porrit’s thin cane and Mr Manfry’s strap to encourage them.
‘One, two, three, four, five, six,’ Mr Porrit counts out as pitilessly as a metronome to twelve. Bunty is gasping, wheezing and panting. The men exchange glances. Mr Porrit starts again.
‘One, two…’
‘Come on, Cherry, buck up,’ orders Mr Manfry, and she keeps lifting her bottom, stomach muscles screaming, as he raises the strap. It hisses horribly and cracks across her bottom. Cherry can’t help letting out a yelp. It hurts like hell but she has to keep her bottom pumping. Somehow she gets to the magic twelve.
‘Keep going to twenty,’ Mr Porrit instructs, cracking his cane across Bunty’s bottom for punctuation. Cherry gasps with trepidation as the strap rises again.
‘Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…’
Cherry’s stomach muscles are rebelling and her bottom is aflame. Blinking tears away she glimpses Mr Manfry smiling as he brings down the tawse again. This time the two stiff tails lash her across the tops of her thighs. Cherry has her teeth clenched but a shriek of pain escapes them. It burns! It scalds! It scorches! Her thighs feel like he’s skinned them. She gets to twenty and collapses, gasping and panting, aware only of the pain in her hindquarters, and somewhere, far in the background, that Bunty is shrieking as Mr Porrit belabours her bottom with the cane.
‘That was horrible,’ Mr Porrit says a few moments later.
Cherry is still panting heavily and her behind is still throbbing. Bunty is gasping like a landed fish and sobbing with pain.
‘Absolutely, awful,’ Mr Manfry agrees. ‘I never saw such a pathetic exhibition.’
‘Pathetic? That is the word. Now let’s try it again!’
‘Well, Peter, I think they are warmed up nicely,’ Mr Porrit adjudges. ‘What do you think?’
Mr Manfry sniggers. ‘Yes, that got the circulation going.’
Cherry has collapsed on the rubber mat and is gasping desperately. She has had
another three whistlers from the tawse and a couple of nasty cracks from Mr Porrit’s cane so her bottom is burning. Bunty is sobbing brokenly. She collapsed halfway through the second round of exercises, so both strap and cane have been used extensively if ineffectually on her thighs and bottom; a circumstance that afforded Cherry some most welcome relief.
Then the girls had been made to do ‘the plank’. This meant raising themselves, on their elbows and toes, holding their bodies stiff and straight between. This time they were arranged facing each other, inches apart, so as Mr Porrit slowly counted thirty, Cherry had a close up view of the strain on Bunty’s face. By five her cheeks were red and forehead creasing. By ten Bunty was grimacing horribly. Pain started to spread through Cherry’s middle by the time he counted twenty, but Bunty had long since collapsed on the mat.
‘Get up you lazy, lazy, lazy girl!’ Mr Manfry roared, bringing the tawse down three times in quick succession on Bunty’s bottom and thighs as she lay sobbing under the onslaught. At last Mr Porrit counted thirty and Cherry also slumped down.
Of course they had to do it again, and of course Bunty couldn’t make it. Naturally she received a few more tawse strokes for her pains. But this time Cherry collapsed too, just after twenty, and Mr Porrit gave her three wicked strokes from his cane. The pain was so intense she could barely breathe, but now as it slowly ebbs she begins to gasp for air again.
‘Come on now, girls, on your feet, you can’t lie there all day.’
Cherry’s legs are wobbly, but she manages to get up. She is certainly ‘warmed up’ now. Apart from the burning stripes on her hindquarters, the exercises in the warm cellar have caused her to perspire freely too. The vest is soaked and sticking to her body. Even the cotton panties feel clammy and moist.
Bunty struggles to her feet too, clearly more shaken than Cherry. The blonde’s face is as red as the angry stripes on her bare thighs. Her vest is drenched too and sticking to her skin. Previously the shape of her nipples had been visible against the tight vest, but now the wet cotton has turned translucent, and they can be seen, pressing pertly, almost as rosy as her tearstained cheeks. Her meaty thighs are beaded with sweat, as is her furrowed brow.
Damsels in Distress Page 18
