by AnonYMous
All the same, the thought that the young whore Sian's bottom-cheeks are to be regularly whipped and salted by a stern master must give you some consolation. The hope which I draw from your letter is in the sensible attitude you show towards what has happened to Julie. Now do not pretend with me, Gussie, for I know you too well! Once they had Julie's skimpy little panties down, did you not enjoy watching some of the things they did to her? Of course you are dismayed at losing her.
But since you had lost her anyway, I believe it excited you a good deal to see her tanned and enjoyed by the men. In all this philosophy of yours towards her, I see you about to emerge as the man of sense and reason. Do let us hope so. Mr. Bowler paid us a brief visit here the other day on his way back to England. You know he has hired a grouse moor for the shooting in August-land in Kinross belonging to the Dowager Lady Lockie. In order to have everything prepared for his guests on the Glorious Twelfth when the first birds are slaughtered, it was necessary for him to return. I shall expect good reports of you from him. In your new frame of mind, I am sure you will want to hear of an amusing little adventure which occurred as Mr. Bowler was passing through. It relates to our little nymph Marit, the Scandinavian girl-student, who seems lovelier every day. I do not deceive myself in this at all. Though she is only fifteen as yet, Marit will be a calm and perfect beauty in a few years more. Her lightly suntanned face has the smoothest, the most velvety peachlike softness you could imagine. I see such perfection of shape as well, rather the form of a shield or a heart. Her nose is so pretty and short, her mouth full and beautiful but with the most elegant lips. You never saw blue eyes so open and steady, nor such silken tresses of brown hair worn just over her collar. I have maintained my system of requiring Marit to bend through the hatch for inspection each morning and evening. Even if it were not strictly necessary in the interests of morality, how could one resist the chance to pull down Marit's silky knickers and survey her narrow adolescent thighs, her slim hips and the almost elfin trimness of her bottom-cheeks? Sometimes I prefer that Miss Jones should carry out the investigation and sometimes I reserve Marit's charms for my own fondling and stroking. During the few days of Mr. Bowler's presence at the Villa Lola, I saw no reason to alter this arrangement.
I had mentioned something of it to him but, of course, he acted like a man of honour and respectability. Such dealings with Marit, he assured me, were women's work. As a worthy landowner or magistrate in England, as a most successful man of commerce, he entirely approved such moral supervision of our Norwegian beauty but it would be unseemly for him to take part in it. Matters remained like this until the evening before his departure. It was after dinner, at about nine o'clock, with the last rippling light of day fading from the lake, when young Marit bent herself as usual through the hatchway and its partition was lowered upon her back. The weather was so balmy, the eucalyptus and thyme so fragrant, that I had decided to take a stroll along the garden path under the pergola which enjoys a view across the lake towards Malcesine. A million fireflies danced in the warm twilight of the Gardonese, while the cicadas rasped among the flowers and shrubs.
I had deputed Miss Jones to deal with Marit. You may be sure that our almond-eyed young wriggler was only too glad of the chance to fondle another girl's nest instead of being always busy with her own!
Having walked almost out of sight, I became aware of Mr. Bowler's voice for he was talking to Miss Jones, having intercepted her before she reached the house. I moved closer and heard him inform her that no inspection of Marit need be carried out that evening. As master of the Villa Lola, and as Miss Jones's employer, his decision was absolute.
Miss Jones went off to play with herself somewhere nearby, for she gets a perverse thrill from doing it where the lads of the town may spy upon her and yearn in vain to supplant her busy fingers with something of their own! I thought that, since Mr. Bowler had decided to spare Marit her examination for that night, I had best go back and release the girl from her vigil at the hatchway. I had just reached the two windows, looking into the rooms on either side of the hatch, when I saw that Mr. Bowler had got there first. The rooms are almost at the level of cellars. Yet as the ground slopes away towards the lake, there are windows on one side, set high in their walls but only at the level of one's knees if one stands in the garden. Because of this and the darkness, it never occurred to Mr. Bowler that anyone might be looking upon him just then. Unlike you, Gussie, I had no idea in advance of watching our friend secretly. Indeed, I was about to tap at the window to draw his attention when I saw Mr. Bowler walk up behind Marit and fondle the tight denim-seat on her trim buttocks with undisguised affection. Before you censure him, dear cousin, consider the situation in which Mr. Bowler found himself. He was to leave for England by express train the next morning and whatever he did now would never be rumoured against him. Marit herself would never be able to say who the man was standing behind her, for the hatch was locked across her back and there was no way in which she could see.
In other words, Mr. Bowler might do whatever he wished, secure in the knowledge that he would be safe from the law, from scandal and even from the possibility of accusation by the nymph herself. All that must have counted as a strong persuasive. Then consider the temptation which Marit herself presented, though it was an innocent one on her part. The tight pants of washed pale blue denim shaped those narrow and almost fragile-looking thighs delectably. The rightly rounded elfin cheeks of Marit's bottom were parted by her posture and the rear way between her thighs was easily accessible. To undo her at the waist and take her pants down would be the work of a moment. Mr.
Bowler smiled to himself. He went back and bolted the door on the inside to prevent interruptions. Very gently he undid her and pulled the denim pants down and off. With her slim-legged look and narrow hips, the briefest panties were enough to cover Marit's most important areas. Mr. Bowler pulled them down and made her step out of them. He tucked them in his pocket and I believe they are destined for that formidable collection kept by Joshua Snook, our worthy neighbour and a most venerable justice of the bench. If so, Marit's knickers may prove to be the most diminutive of many pairs in his desk. Perhaps they will suggest her shape and character to the old gentleman as the larger cotton briefs remind him of his whipping of the fuller-cheeked bottoms of Pauline Cox or Kim Roberts at nineteen or twenty. Now Mr. Bowler paused to inspect the charms before him. His hands examined the young nymph's slim bare legs, for Marit's thighs are hardly thicker than the upper arm of a well-built coal-heaver or labouring man. Mr. Bowler's hand smoothed reassuringly up and down her agile flanks, then fondled the resilient young cheeks of Marit's bottom. He seemed almost content with her, but not quite. A brief stroking between her legs caused him to “tut-tut” and shake his head at the evident lascivious-ness of which she had been found guilty. There was nothing for it now but the severest reprimand. Indeed, how could this worthy justice, this pillar of England's moral establishment do other than what he did? Mr. Bowler went to fetch the school spanking-strap. This device is cut from supple leather, being about two inches broad and eighteen inches long, divided into three flat tails at one end. Marit, of course, could see nothing of what he was doing, yet she must have guessed by the long pause that something of the sort lay in store for her. As she waited I shifted my position a little so that I looked through the next window which showed me her face and the upper part of her body through the hatchway. She is a beauty, Augustus! A real Venus in the making! I make no apology for descanting again on the calm loveliness of the smooth young face, the pretty little nose and that most delightful mouth with its fine young teeth. She twisted her head a little as Mr. Bowler felt her teasingly between her slender thighs and the brown tresses fell this way and that about her collar. Yet beauty at fifteen needs a regular spanking! So our friend-worthy gentleman that he is!-swung the heavy strap to and fro a little as he contemplated the bending nymph in all her nude desirability. Then he raised the tawse and smacked it down with passionate force upon the
slim little cheeks of Mark's pretty bottom. Frantically the girl jammed one knee into the back of the other to contain the naked smart of leather across her bare buttocks.
A man of weaker character would have been deterred by the girl's wild cry at the scorching pain of the leather, or by the writhing of her slender legs. Not Mr. Bowler! He aimed the strap six times across her writhing thighs and hurt her so that now Marit screamed under the discipline. To spank her legs with the leather strap was not part of the punishment itself but merely the means used to make her keep still while the sentence was carried out. The strap now whacked and smacked across the demure young cheeks of the Norwegian girl's arse.
Marit squirmed and writhed over the shelf of the hatch like a pretty fish caught helplessly in a net. No blame, nor even the least reproach would ever attach to Mr. Bowler for what he did. For that reason he was exceptionally severe, his mouth tight and his eyes shining as he raised and thrashed the strap down with all his strength. Pretty Marit veiled as if her rump and belly were being impaled on a red-hot spit. One could see that her young bottom and thighs would appear superbly bruised the next day, in a manner almost unknown outside the English disciplinary system. With all his skill, born of experience as reformatory and penitentiary disciplinarian, Mr.
Bowler laid into the pretty little teaser! He paused presently and laid the strap down. It was time to examine his handiwork. His fingers tested the scarlet flush which covered Marit's buttocks and the upper part of her legs. How she thrust her hips out and eased her thighs apart a little for his fondling! See what a lascivious nature the little charmer has! She offered herself to his intimate fingering and seemed as if she would egg him on to do more. Here was the most interesting problem about her behaviour, Cussie. Marit had now been soundly smacked with the strap and was about to get some more.
Was she trying to divert Mr. Bowler to other things by offering the sweet little love-nest between her legs and even the tight little dimple of her arse for his consideration? Or had the tanning truly overcome all Marit's sense of shame and reserve, so that she was ready for anything which her chastiser wished to do to her? That question was not yet to be decided. Mr. Bowler stood back, smiled to himself, and raised the strap again. Though Marit's rear cheeks were already the colour of a pair of skinned tomatoes, he thrashed and thrashed and thrashed again with the wicked strap. How many bare-bottomed strokes would a strict teacher want to inflict upon Marit in the course of a classroom discipline? Would it be twenty, or forty, or fifty? I believe one must expect the number to be high because she is such a little charmer, so calmly beautiful, and yet so indifferent to her elders and betters. Whatever the number might be, I assure you that Mr. Bowler went far beyond it now! Not that I blame him, for one really wished to see Marit taught a lesson in obedience.
Beauty at fifteen, knowing herself to be beautiful, can often be a tiresome little creature and needs an experience of this sort to bring her to heel. I thought he would never have done with her! In the intervals of the tanning there was such gulping and sobbing from Marit, such brimming eyes and moues of self-pity. Then Mr. Bowler swung the strap again and her pretty mouth opened to its widest, most distended shape, Marit shrilled at the things which were being done to her. The strapping had caused her flushed rear cheeks to look somewhat swollen and indeed the outline of the strap appeared printed on them, sometimes across and sometimes slanting. But what was worse for the little charmer was when Mr. Bowler deliberately allowed the tails of the strap to curl between her slim legs, or in between the rounded little cheeks of Marit's adolescent bottom. I fear that he made her endure a few dozen of these intimate flickings before he was satisfied with the state of his girl-pupil. And then, Gussie, came the strangest part of all this. Mr. Bowler went out and came back with a collection of hat-boxes and other impedimenta from which he produced a complete outfit of new clothes for the girl. Nor would he permit her to be attended by a maid, for Mr. Bowler dressed her himself. While she bent through the hatch, he drew stockings up her legs and secured them with garters. Her crimson and swollen buttocks were now covered by French silk panties. Skirts and petticoat followed. Last of all the most charming little boots completed the picture. He summoned Miss Jones to finish off the toilette by adjusting the upper clothes.
By ten o'clock, Marit had overcome her tears and was dressed in the most coquettish little sailor-girl costume that ever a Princess of Wales aspired to. Yet all this was to a purpose. For now that she had been dressed so finely, Mr. Bowler proposed to take her visiting, and set off to pay a call upon the Signore, our most illustrious neighbour. It was a test of Marit's ladylike qualities and the determining of whether she was still a child at heart or already a woman. The difference, Gussie, is simple but significant. When a girl-child has been smacked with the strap as Marit had just been, she blemishes the best society by forlorn little whimperings and whining for several hours afterwards. If she is a young woman, she does her best to conceal the discomfort of her burning and strap-swollen bum-cheeks under an appearance of demure compliance with every command. So Marit was taken as a guest to the Signore's villa, where she acquitted herself as a young woman of fifteen. I understand that they were extremely exacting with her. Marit was required, as a matter of politeness, to sit bolt upright on a hard little chair with a coffee-cup in her hand and to answer with extreme politeness when spoken to by her elders. The Signore was quite bowled over by the little coquette-as who could fail to be? He asked a hundred questions about her, where she came from, who her family might be, whether she would be missed if some arrangement was made for the winter months to prevent her return to the cold northern climate. He required a recital of all the bad habits which she might have acquired upon her arrival at adolescence and all the disciplines she had received even as a very little girl. In short, his fascination with Marit was unqualified, though I hear that the girl herself went into a state of the most charming blushes at some of his inquiries and could not manage to utter a word in reply. In order that their private interrogation of her should not be overheard by the servants, they dismissed the two maids and required Marit herself to be their waitress. As she moved among them, skirts rustling and the silken stockinged legs whispering together, they continued to discuss her.
Perhaps it was the embarrassment of this, or the need to bathe her smarting bottom with cool water, or even a more mundane feminine consideration which then prompted Marit to withdraw to the tiled lavabo for a few minutes. Yet she had scarcely closed the bolt upon her solitude and begun to unhook her skirt when a door in the side-wall opened and the Signore with two of his bravoes entered.
You may be sure that her skirts and panties were soon removed without any effort on her own part and that she was in a moment lying on the marble table which ran along the wall. The Signore was not taken aback by the red strap-prints on her smarting buttocks, indeed they seemed only to inflame his own passion for her. He was a most solicitous adorer. His fine waxed moustache tickled her between her slim Nordic thighs while his lips browsed on the humid mossy folds of her young cunt. He gave her just a thrill-and something of a fright!-with his knob, not going too far in. Her slim thighs almost had to “do the splits” to accommodate him thus far. To have given Marit a baby so early in her life would have been inexcusable, yet it was necessary for her to feel the flood of passion inside her. The entrance between the young nymph's buttocks was so tight that only a very daredevil would have attempted it. Yet the Signore is a hero sans pareil! It required half an hour of his teasing pillow-talk, a little vaseline, smelling salts, and the most extreme yielding on the girl's part to accomplish this. He was a loving tyrant to her in this final act, for he guessed that there could be little pleasure for her.
At last he murmured gently, preparing her for the finale. “Keep your bottom quite still, mia bella! You shall have it now!” The brown tresses swept her collar as she turned her face in some alarm. There was no ecstasy for her on the first occasion, only a slight grimace of revulsion at the feeling
of warm slipperiness squirting deep in her young bottom. I may tell you that young Marit's private diary, now in my possession, confirms all this. She was disgusted at the sensation and yet secretly flattered that it had been done to her by a man famous even in the schoolbooks of Scandinavia. You see, dear Gussie, the charming paradox of pleasure. Such a girl may admire or even love the man, while hating the submission she must make. Had it been other than the seed of a sublime poet which she carried in her young backside as she walked back to the Villa Lola with such cautious demure steps and her head modestly lowered, I daresay the entry in her private diary would have been greatly different. Mr. Bowler might tell you of a case which furnishes an instructive contrast When he returns, ask him to show you his photographs of Elke Mahne, a sixteen-year-old Austrian pupil. She is a girl of medium height with straight brown hair cut short at her collar, an insolently pouting mouth, a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones which form a setting for her sly hazel eyes. Elke had been lesbianised at her school in Vienna and taught other tricks by boys in the woods of Linz. You might see her lying on a beach in black woollen singlet and pants of tight faded denim, shouting and groaning in the arms of one young fellow after another. To the scandalised English families she turned the pert high-boned face with its bell-shape of light brown hair. She also showed the seat of her tight denim-pants which was softly filled.
At sixteen years old Elke Mahne's bottom-cheeks had a slight seductive fatness to them which had not yet turned to flabbiness. The Signore had her at his disposal but, you may be sure, a young slut like Elke has no taste for sublime verses. She was less innocent, more promiscuous and rebellious than Marit. Yet the perfect artist intercepted her and commanded his valet to prepare the scene, behind the bolted door of the tiled space. It was necessary to strap her wrists to a pipe as she lay on the ceramic floor. Her denim pants were removed and with his own hands the Signore took down Elke Mahne's knickers. He spread vaseline between the buttocks of his ill-natured Austrian girl and used her just as he used Marit. In the light of her inexcusable promiscuity, most English moralists would applaud the fact that she was made to provide for the Signore's pleasure without tasting any herself. Elke gasped and cursed, she whined and grizzled, as he stretched her round the rim of his stiffness and entered her backside. Because she was indifferent to the finer things and could not appreciate his poetic reputation, she did not behave with Marit's decorum. When he pumped his gruel into Elke Mahne's sixteen-year-old bottom, she made a sound of disgust in her throat and wailed that the squirting of the warm spawn in her young rear made her feel sick with revulsion. You see the paradox, my dear Gussie? Elke Mahne retched at the outpouring, loathing the man. Marit lies and receives it with reluctance-yet thrills at knowing that the man who does it to her is a marvel in nature! When one thinks of it, after all, the greatest passion in the world may end as the meagre and brief outpouring of a substance which, if it does not cause one to avert the eyes, at least has no sublime attractiveness. For all that, life must come to an end without its aid. Hence the importance of poetry and the sublime poet of the Signore's type. It is the poetic dimension which makes palatable the continuation of our species. All honour to Petrarch, then. Would we admire him more for having splattered the thighs of his fair idol with a substance inferior to a spoonful of gruel? And is not Marit right, after all? Must we not honour the Signore for the feelings which his words planted in her heart rather than for the squirting which he left in her trim little bottom?
