Spilt Milk

by Sarah Steel

  Miranda was very tired. After teasing her clitoris until it pulsed and tingled with raw pleasure, she inserted her thumb into her bottom, jabbing it deep into the tightly muscled warmth. All was quiet now. The Jakob Institute was in darkness. The Head was probably taking a shower before retiring to bed. The image of the Head palming perfumed gel into her heavy breasts drove Miranda's thumb deeper into her anus. Though very tired, she still had the appetite for one more orgasm.

  Closing her eyes, she rolled over onto her belly and dug deeper between her tightly squeezed cheeks. As the climax gathered itself up into a clenched velvet fist in the pit of her belly, Miranda rasped her clitoral thorn against the wet patch on her sheet. As she jerked into the mattress, bright lights exploded behind her tightly shut eyes - green, blue, red and gold. She stiffened, trembling on the brink of her climax then tumbled headlong into its silent explosion of delight.

  The crimson, gold and blue lights behind her eyes faded slowly until only the pulsing blue light flashed. Sighing deeply, Miranda removed her thumb, easing it out from her hot sphincter, and opened her eyes. The blue light continued to flash intermittently, raking the pale walls of her darkened bedroom. Miranda sat up in bed, alert. Shaking off her lust-drowsiness, she scrambled across to her window. Down on the gravel drive, a white ambulance waited with open rear doors, its emergency lights flashing eerily in the night.

  Grabbing a robe, Miranda hurried down to the front hall, taking the sweeping stairs three at a time in her nimble stride. Several members of staff were at the open door before her. Prism, Miss Bannermann and Peters were looking on anxiously as a stretcher-trolley was being guided over the gravel. Miranda joined the anxious group just in time to glimpse the pale face of the Head lolling on a pillow. She was clearly naked. Beneath the red blanket, her proud breasts joggled.

  'Slipped in her shower,' Peters whispered.

  Miranda expressed her concern.

  'Severe wrist sprain. Probably a hairline fracture.'

  'Who do you wish to deputise for you?' Prism asked, fussing over the stretcher.

  Miss Bannermann, imperiously robed in a vivid peacock blue gown, started to speak. 'Rest assured, I will—'

  'Miranda,' came the distinct reply from the stretcher, cutting Bannermann short. 'Miranda is in charge in my absence.'

  Knowing that she would be the focus of intense scrutiny and interest that morning at breakfast, Miranda dressed carefully for her new role as deputy Head. Naked before her full-length looking glass, she examined herself appraisingly. Beneath their superb swell, her ripe breasts smothered the rapid heartbeat of her mounting excitement. She selected a white cotton sports bra and, after capturing her warm bosom in its cool cups, snapped the straps firmly at her back. She fingered each cup delicately, smoothing the cotton trim at her soft flesh. Every detail must be perfect this morning, she thought. All the eyes of the Institute would be upon her. The white panties bit into her pubis and cleft deeply; in her excitement, Miranda had dragged them up too severely. She thumbed the tight satin away from her warmth, leaving them tight, but comfortably so. She chose chocolate-coloured leather trousers. Unorthodox, perhaps, but quite distinctive. Skin-tight and shining, they bestowed upon her youthfulness a chic sophistication, an air of cool authority and competence.

  Miranda palmed her buttocks beneath the sleek second skin. Perfect. Her white shirt-blouse was finished off with a thin, dark leather tie, which she knotted loosely at her collar, leaving the top two buttons at her throat casually undone. Among the tweeds and twin-sets at the staff breakfast table, she knew she would appear devastatingly dominant and clearly in command.

  At the staff common-room door, Miranda paused. It was ajar. Through it, she heard her own name being repeated twice. Once, in a tone of surprise. Again, disapprovingly, in an echo of dismay.

  'But surely not Miranda—'

  'It's true. The Head said so herself,' Prism confirmed.

  'Impossible,' a voice of doubt chimed in.

  'I simply can't believe it,' Miss Bannermann broke in waspishly. 'In the absence of the Head, what the Institute needs is a strict mistress.'

  Miranda retreated, her eyes clouding with apprehension.

  The refectory was buzzing with speculation at breakfast time.

  All the pupils were sitting at their long wooden tables, heads together in loud whispering. The staff, who took their places at the high table, sat in dignified silence, gazing occasionally at the empty place reserved for the Head.

  The pupils ate frugally, enjoying their weak tea, toast and fresh fruit. The staff had to make do with deliciously aromatic coffee, kippers, flaky croissants and home-made raspberry preserve. Peters, in from a two-mile jog, braced herself for bacon, sausage and eggs.

  The whispering rose an octave to a murmur of surprise as Miranda entered the refectory and assumed her place at the high table. Her hand grasped the small bell and shook it briskly as she exercised her prerogative - as Head - to let breakfast commence. The excited murmur remained in the air. Miranda held up her hand, gesturing for silence, and was relieved when it was instantly achieved. The girls adored Miranda and were eager to give her loyal support.

  After a brief announcement, outlining details of the day's activities, Miranda said grace impeccably, and took a fork to her glistening kippers. Around her, the refectory was filled with the barely audible sounds of tea being poured and toast being buttered. Smiling, Miranda talked easily with her staff, with a sympathetic and generous word for each of them. Miss Bannermann doggedly refused to be drawn into conversation, stolidly munching a croissant. Miranda noted the sullen scowl on the economics teacher's face. With her seniority, she had clearly expected to be appointed the Head's deputy.

  A shrill squeal rang out. All the girls stopped eating and stared as a petite brunette stood up abruptly, sneezing violently. A cloud of pepper hung in the air where she had shaken out her napkin.

  'Silence,' Miranda barked. 'What is going on?'

  The brunette was incapable of speech. Several girls sitting beside her attempted to explain. Miranda rose from her chair and strode towards the sneezing girl.

  'Go and wash your face in cold water,' she said, her gentle tone comforting the tearful girl. 'You, girl,' Miranda pointed to an adjacent blonde. 'Take her to the bathroom.'

  The blonde steered the snivelling brunette out of the refectory. An expectant hush filled the room. Turning to address the silent pupils, Miranda maintained a quiet tone - all the more menacing because of its cool control.

  'Who is responsible for this stupidity?'

  The question was greeted in silence, but Miranda noticed that none of the girls avoided her searching gaze. There was no evidence of concealed guilt on their upturned, anxious faces. Puzzled, she quickly sought her own solution. Breakfast was prepared by a domestic - a treasure from the neighbouring village - before the pupils arrived. They arrived together. For Miranda, it was as clear as a Greek translation in which every word fell into place. None of the pupils could possibly have sabotaged the napkin.

  Glancing across to the staff table, Miranda caught the ghost of a mocking smile on Miss Bannermann's face. There was malice in her smile. No. More than malice. There was a challenge.

  'The foolish girl responsible for this outrage will come to my study before noon for punishment. If not, I will personally administer a bare-bottomed caning to every girl after lunch. Dismissed.'

  The girls filed out in silence as Miranda rejoined the top table.

  'Excellent,' Peters murmured, tackling her bacon and eggs. 'I think you handled that episode very well.'

  Others agreed, nodding vigorously as they chorused approval.

  'Very firm. Fair, to give the stupid culprit a chance, but firm.'

  'A sensible decision. Stern, but sensible—'

  'Just a spot of house rivalry,' Miss Bannermann observed, licking raspberry jam from her thumbtip. 'I am sure of it. That girl was a Corinthian. A Spartan did it. No doubt about it. Cane the Spartans,' she pronounce
d judiciously.

  And blunder into your little trap, Miranda thought, sipping her coffee noncommittally. Blunder into your cunning little trap, Bannermann. To do so would be to alienate half the girls at a stroke - and earn the contempt of the rest.'

  'Do you think the girl responsible will own up and take her stripes?' Emily asked, absently fingering the leather belt at her trim waist.

  'Depend on it,' Miranda replied in a tone of finality, 'I will have whipped the culprit before noon.'

  Miranda sent a message to Miss Bannermann's class at eleven-forty, requesting the economics teacher to call into the study at the end of the session.

  'You sent for me?' Miss Bannermann said rather impatiently, juggling an armful of text books. 'I am extremely busy but,' she condescended, 'I am prepared to help you, of course.'

  'Yes, I need your help,' Miranda replied. 'I'll need all the help I can get to keep the Institute running smoothly in the absence of the Head. The hospital said that it may be a couple of weeks.'

  'Has the guilty girl come to confess? Or are you going to cane all the Spartans?'

  'I propose to punish the culprit,' Miranda replied softly, closing the door behind Miss Bannermann and locking it. 'That is why I sent for you.'

  'I don't think I quite understand you. Do you need my help when it comes to chastising the guilty party?'

  'Up to a point, yes. I need you to undress, completely, Miss Bannermann, and present your bottom for my strap.'

  The text books clattered to the floor. Miss Bannermann's blustering outburst was quickly checked by Miranda - who had produced a leather strap and snapped it harshly.

  'Silence,' she commanded. 'Strip and get across that desk, Bannermann. No,' she continued, her sharp tone rising, 'don't deny it. I know it was you. And I have all the proof I need.'

  'Proof? Preposterous—'

  'Proof which I am fully prepared to put before the staff common room, if you insist,' Miranda purred, fingering her length of supple hide.

  She was calling Bannermann's bluff. The mistress could not bear the indignity before her colleagues, Miranda calculated. It worked.

  'There is no need for all this,' the economics teacher blurted out quickly. 'I - I was merely testing you. Put you on your mettle.'

  'Across the desk, Bannermann. I promised the entire Institute that the guilty party would be punished before noon and I intend to keep my word. Or do you want me to summon the rest of the staff?'

  Broken, Bannermann started to wheedle and plead. Miranda remained resolute, toying with her strap. Moments later, she was rewarded with the sight of her economics tutor bending, bare-bottomed, across the polished surface of the desk.

  Levelling the strap, which she held doubled up in her firm grasp, Miranda ordered Bannermann to spread her thighs wider apart. The soft cheeks wobbled as Bannermann reluctantly obeyed, proffering her rounded buttocks up for the bite of the leather and exposing her dark fig.

  Crack. Crack. Miranda lashed the leather down, searing each cheek with vertical strokes that striped the swollen globes of creamy flesh with a vicious weal. Naked across the desk, Bannermann crushed her breasts into the desk top, raking her stubby nipples into its polished wood. She grunted aloud at each stroke.

  Swish. After the second scalding stripe, Miranda flicked the strap upwards, kissing the exposed slit with the cruel hide. Bannermann gasped aloud. Crack. Crack. Swish. For a full eight minutes, Miranda continued to whip the reddening cheeks, bringing the leather up after each double lash to sting the wet labia of the writhing nude.

  Bannermann's lips mouthed silent obscenities into the polished wood as she groaned and squirmed, her blazing cheeks dancing in agony under the lash and her wet slit throbbing on the verge of orgasm. Miranda tossed her strap down and, pressing herself into the punished nude, finger-stroked the weeping fig, instantly propelling Bannermann into a loud climax.

  'Am I strict enough for you?' Miranda whispered.

  The economics mistress hammered her belly and hips into the desk as she came.

  'Now that you have the measure of my mettle, are you prepared to be my assistant? Be my deputy? I need you, Bannermann. So does the Jakob Institute. Will you serve?'

  'Yes,' moaned the sweetly suffering nude as she threshed in her hot-bottomed ecstasy. 'Yes,' she hissed, parting her thighs painfully wide as Miranda drove three fingers into the hot wetness of the whipped nude. 'I will serve you.'

  Spanking Memoirs

  The waiters moved silently between the tables, like ushers at a funeral service. Afternoon tea at the Royal was always a sombre occasion, conducted in hushed tones and full solemnity. At her customary window table, from which Regents Park could be fully appreciated, Nanny Stevens was entertaining Nanny Pearse to egg and cress sandwiches, a madeira cake and a moist chocolate sponge, together with endless cups of Gunpowder tea.

  'Of course,' Nanny Stevens reminisced, 'spanking is a more intimate punishment. One can actually feel the bottom growing hotter.'

  Chivvying some stray cress with her tonguetip, Nanny Pearse countered with her confession that she preferred the cane.

  'They shiver at the swish and then shudder at the stroke,' she affirmed. 'And there is nothing quite so satisfying as counting the thin, red lines across the punished cheeks. Touching them with the cane tip and counting out each stroke aloud.'

  'Flesh upon flesh,' rejoined Nanny Stevens. 'Nature fashioned the buttocks to receive the curved palm of the spanking hand. A perfect fit.'

  The waiter at the nearby table adjusted his white cloth to conceal his gathering erection. An Austrian learning the arts of silver service, he did not fully understand these strange English nannies, but he liked what he heard.

  'It was frequently the master of the household that caused the most problems.'

  Reaching the cake stage, Nanny Pearse bit into her Victoria sponge with vigorous relish only partly restrained by the dictates of decorum. Crumbs tumbled down upon her proud bosom, which bounced as she swept them away, nodding her agreement with the last statement.

  'Men,' she sighed. 'Always more trouble to a nanny than the rest of the household.'

  'In my post at Holland Park—'

  'With Lady Bellingham?' Nanny Pearse queried.

  'Just so. Lord Bellingham was in Hong Kong most of the time, but her brother was in residence.'

  The talk turned to the perverse habits of the aristocratic male in general and his intense interest in 'Nanny' in particular. Nanny Stevens was celebrating her fiftieth birthday at the Royal. Her iron-grey hair was flecked with silver but her strong face remained free from the tell-tale lines of age. It was a face that had been scrubbed every morning and every evening and had never known creams, cosmetics or lipstick. The skin was soft and translucent. She was striking rather than beautiful. The mouth was always pursed in grim resolve. Nursing her china cup, she recounted the buttocks she had blistered with slipper, crop and cane.

  Her companion and lifelong friend was equally handsome. Nanny Pearse had a stern face, her severity sharpened by a hint of red lipstick on her full mouth. Both nannies were trim-waisted, broad-hipped and heavily bosomed. They wore their authority gracefully, exuding a natural dominance. Shopgirls, cabbies and those they had chastised across their knees shivered in their wake.

  'He was the brother, you say, of Lady Bellingham?' Nanny Pearse asked, catching up a loose thread of conversation and weaving it seamlessly into the flow.

  Nanny Stevens sighed and helped herself to chocolate cake. Dabbing her lips daintily, she launched into an account of her experiences above stairs in Holland Park.

  He would hover around on the landing, she recalled, or lie in wait at the top of the stairs. 'Skulking in the shadows, hoping to corner me.'

  'Bed?' Nanny Pearse tilted her head slightly.

  'No. The usual. Punishment. Surprising how many of them seek discipline. No, no,' Nanny Stevens said briskly. 'He simply wanted to have his bottom smacked. I was quite safe from... the other problem.'

 
Nanny Pearse nodded understandingly - mentally brushing aside the occasion when her employer, a lusty race-horse owner, had bedded her on the eve of The Oaks twelve years ago. The way he used his crop would have caused comment in the Jockey Club, she remembered, shivering pleasurably.

  '-in the bathroom,' Nanny Stevens was saying, breaking into her companion's distraction. 'And wearing nothing but his socks. The hot tap was running, the soap dish was a mess and there was toothpaste on the linoleum.'

  'Dear, dear,' chimed Nanny Pearse. 'I trust you chastised him.'

  'After a stern lecture—'

  'For such slovenly behaviour—'

  'Bent him over the bathtub for a good, hard spanking.'

  The waiter hovered, agog, as Nanny Stevens gave a detailed recollection of the severe chastisement: how the man had howled, how his bottom had reddened, how his semen had squirted up and slithered down the perspiring tiles.

  'Ah,' her companion responded, alert to the last detail. 'So he responded.'

  'Copiously. I made him wipe it all up with a flannel.'

  'My dear, I'm so glad you made the wicked man wipe up his own mess,' Nanny Pearse replied fastidiously.

  'I made him kneel and draped the flannel over his spanked bottom - and the bounder had the temerity to relieve himself once more. All over the linoleum.'

  The Austrian waiter jumped as he poured hot tea over his hand instead of into a cup at the adjoining table. Excusing himself profusely, he whimpered as he scuttled away to the double swing doors leading to the kitchens.

  'Happy birthday,' Nanny Pearse beamed, raising her cup.

  'Bottoms up,' Nanny Stevens replied, accepting the toast. 'Now, do tell me all about little Alice.'

  Nanny Pearse frowned. Little Alice, her niece, was a twenty-two-year-old blonde currently nannying in Bath.

  'Something in your manner tells me that Alice is not entirely happy with her new post. They are in electronics, aren't they?'

  'I never can quite think of the Quantocks as "silicon valley", can you? Yes. The family fortune was made in chips.'