Blushing at Both Ends (13 page)

She was right there. Quite apart from the fact that Helena richly deserved a good hiding, Stephen found he was enjoying the experience even more than he'd expected. It was a while since he'd administered a real punishment spanking, and he'd forgotten what an intoxicating mixture of power and tenderness, cruelty and erotic delight it could be. Especially when the girl in question was as delectably spankable as Helena. Hers was a bottom that just begged to be spanked, and Stephen intended to do it full justice. Already a delicate pink blush was suffusing the lovely cheeks, and he relished the prospect of reddening them far more vividly in the next few minutes.

So, after the first half-dozen smacks he slowed down, taking his time and spanking Helena steadily and hard, covering every inch of the luscious target area from flank to flank and from the dimpled upland swell down
to
the plump undercurve where bottom met thigh. Helena gasped and wriggled at each spank, her bottom gyrating and her long legs kicking wildly, though she still made no real attempt to escape, or even to put a protective hand over her burning cheeks. The spanking was stinging far worse than any she'd undergone before, yet somehow she didn't really want it to stop. Apart from anything else, the increasing moistness between her legs was transmitting a signal she couldn't ignore.

Even so she continued to protest, if only for form's sake, though the note of indignation appropriate to the Shrew soon gave way to submissive pleas much more typical of the natural Helena.

‘Owwww! Oh please, Stephen, I'm sorry! Oh no more – please!'

‘Sorry, are you?' responded Stephen calmly, continuing to spank her with unabated vigour. ‘I'm sure you are, young lady. But you'll be a lot sorrier before I've finished. This is a very pretty bottom, but it's been begging for a good sound spanking for a long time. So that, my girl, is just what it's going to get, to teach you not to be –' he slowed down, matching an extra-hard spank to each word ‘– such – a – spoilt – little –
brat
!!'

‘Ooooh-
owww
!' yelped Helena, wriggling desperately and trying to evade the stinging smacks that were burning her increasingly tender rear. ‘No more tantrums, I promise! Not ever! Oh stop, please!'

But it was to no avail. Quite apart from anything else, Stephen was enjoying himself far too much to lay off yet. If ever a girl was made to be spanked, thoroughly and often, it was this sweet, stubborn, temperamental young actress.

In any case, it was evident that, despite her pleas, Helena was getting increasingly turned on by her punishment. Her squirmings across Stephen's lap were taking on a voluptuous quality; her bottom seemed to
be
arching itself, almost of its own volition, to meet his hand, and the warm musky aroma that greeted his nostrils told its own story.

So, for a good fifteen minutes, his hand rose and fell, steadily smacking Helena's defenceless rear. Occasionally he paused to admire the blush mantling her cheeks as it deepened from warm pink to rosy red to a rich scarlet glow.

Was ever, even in Shakespeare's day, a shrew more soundly spanked? Each smack rang round the tiny dressing room like a pistol shot. The sound could surely – Helena realised with horror – be heard up and down the corridor, leaving her colleagues in no doubt what form her punishment was taking. ‘Ooooh!' she wailed, imagining the giggles and smirks, the snide comments and solicitously proffered cushions she would have to endure the next day. Although at this rate, she reflected ruefully, the cushions might – owwww! – well prove necessary.

When at last he stopped, Stephen's palm was stinging vividly; how much more so, he mused, the far softer flesh on the receiving end. A sunset blush now adorned every inch of Helena's quivering bottom, contrasting exquisitely with the whiteness of her back and thighs. ‘OK, my pretty Shrew,' he said, ‘I think you've been tamed enough – for now.' After giving her roseate curves a farewell pat, he stood her up on her feet.

‘Ooooh!' Reaching behind her, Helena gingerly massaged the blazing mounds of her tender rear. They felt sizzling hot and swollen to about twice their usual size. ‘My poor bottom! Stephen, you bastard, how
could
you? OK, I deserved a spanking, but did you have to do it so bloody hard?' She twisted round, trying to catch a glimpse of her rearward contours in the mirror. ‘Oh my God, it's red as a tomato!'

How appealing she looked, Stephen thought, with tears in her hazel eyes and her face flushed (though
nowhere
near as red as her other cheeks). She pouted at him reproachfully, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that belied her feigned resentment. Her robe had fallen open, giving him a full-frontal view of her charms, but Helena didn't appear to notice, seemingly far more preoccupied with rubbing her stinging rump. The action made her breasts jiggle charmingly. Stephen reached out and stroked first the left one, then the right. The small brown nipples stood proud beneath his fingers, perking up hard as he caressed them. Still stroking with one hand, he allowed the other to stray down over Helena's gently rounded belly and between her legs. Her cleft was hot and sopping wet, and at the touch of his fingers she moaned softly and moved closer to him.

Dropping to his knees, Stephen buried his face in the auburn curls of her pubic hair, tonguing her swollen clitoris, while his hands reached round to stroke and squeeze the hot tender masses of her glowing bottom. Writhing and moaning, Helena caressed his head before yielding to a shuddering series of climaxes that finally left her quivering beside him on the floor, her eyes closed in ecstasy while her hand reached down to his groin to liberate his throbbing erection.

Later – quite a lot later – they lay naked together on a prop fur rug Stephen had found in a cupboard. Helena lay face-down, her head pillowed on Stephen's shoulder, while he gently stroked the rosy curves of her well-spanked bottom. ‘Shakespeare knew his stuff, all right,' he murmured in her ear. ‘Taming does shrews a lot of good. I think I must tame you some more, my sweet Kate.'

‘Sadistic bastard!' Helena responded, pinching his thigh, then yelped as he retaliated with a crisp smack on her still smarting rear. ‘Owww! Beast! Chauvinist pig! I ought to report you to Equity.'

‘You do that. And of course you'll show them this pretty red bottom, won't you? And tell them how randy
it
made you to have it spanked? We could even put on a repeat performance, just for the panel. I bet they'd enjoy that. They'd probably sell tickets.'

‘Brute!' said Helena, but she snuggled closer. ‘Oh, all right, yes, it did make me horny. But next time, don't spank me
quite
so hard, OK?'

‘That, my favourite actress,' said Stephen with a wicked grin, caressing the soft radiant mounds of her bottom as he luxuriated in the thought of many such erotically punitive sessions yet to come, ‘will depend entirely on how you act.'

9

Snow White and Rose Red or,
The Three Lessons

ONCE UPON A
time there was a beautiful princess. She was tall and slim and dark, with hair like ebony and skin like ivory. She was the only child of her father the King, and had many suitors. Some came in hope they might marry her and inherit the kingdom, but many more came drawn by her great beauty. Some were handsome, some were rich, some were brave and some were clever. And a few were all these things. But she favoured none of them. She was lovely but cold, and no man had ever warmed her. For this reason she was called Princess Snow White.

The King was in despair. He had no son, and Snow White was the child of his old age. His wife had died in childbirth and the King, heartbroken, had never married again. Now he was aged and white-haired, and on the frontiers the neighbour states waited and watched his kingdom with greedy eyes. If only I had an heir, he would lament silently in the long dead hours of the night. If only my beloved daughter would marry, and secure the succession. If only she could meet a man who could warm her.

‘Does none of them please you?' the old King begged his daughter. ‘You are but eighteen, my child. We old
folk
may have cold blood. But at your age, my darling, the blood should run hot in your veins. Does none of these fine young men warm your interest?'

‘None of them, father,' replied Snow White with cool disdain, gazing at her pale beauty in the mirror. I am so lovely, she thought; what man could be worthy of me?

‘The Prince Magnifico, now,' suggested her father, ‘a fine young man, surely, strong and valiant?'

‘Valiant indeed, father,' said Snow White. ‘But very stupid.'

‘Then what of Count Lodovico, my dear? Witty and cultured, is he not?'

‘Very witty,' said Snow White coolly. ‘And he squints.'

‘The Archduke Bernhard, then? A tall handsome fellow, much admired.'

‘Tall, handsome and penniless,' said the Princess, yawning. ‘He cares for my fortune, not for me.'

The King sighed. ‘Earl Pomposo is vastly rich, my dear. Richer than I, indeed.'

‘Rich he is,' retorted Snow White. ‘And a notorious coward. What woman could marry a poltroon and keep her pride?'

‘I despair,' groaned the King. ‘Is there not one among so many who is brave and clever, handsome and rich? Young Duke Sveynbart, now?'

‘Indeed he is,' said the Princess. ‘You might add that he stinks of garlic.'

‘Oh, daughter,' cried the King, ‘think of our poor subjects. What will become of them if I die with no male heir? The ravening wolves who prowl my frontiers will devour them. And you, my darling child, they will force into whatever loveless alliance suits their purpose. Is there no man alive who can warm you? If only your sweet mother were here to counsel me!'

Snow White was not malicious, simply cold and spoilt, and in her cool way she loved her father. She
softened
a little. ‘Poor father,' she said, ‘I would marry to please you if I could. But I must marry a man who can warm me – and no man has yet been able to do that.'

That night the old King had a dream. His beloved wife, as beautiful as her daughter but warmer far even in death, came and stood by his bedside. ‘What ails you, sweet husband?' she asked gently.

‘Oh, my darling,' murmured the King, ‘why did you die and leave me? How may I save my kingdom? Where can I find a man who will warm our daughter and make her blood flow hot in her veins? Help me, my love, or we perish.'

And, in his dream, the lonely old King's dead wife lay down beside him, and took him in her arms and comforted him. And very quietly she gave him her advice.

Next day the King summoned his heralds for a proclamation. ‘I am old,' he said, ‘and weary. To be King is a task for a young man. I would fain resign the throne, and live out my last few years in peace. If any man, be he noble, merchant or peasant, can warm my daughter, the Princess Snow White, and make her love him, he shall marry her and become King. Their marriage, and the coronation, shall take place the very same day.'

When this was proclaimed, there was great excitement throughout the land. From city and town, village and hamlet, young men flocked to the capital, each one certain that his charms were irresistible, and that he alone could warm the Princess's ardour. One by one they came before her, and their eagerness was chilled in the cool green glance of her eyes. And one by one they fell silent, and turned away in despair.

As the last suitor despondently left the palace, he met a young man at the foot of the steps. ‘Best to hurry,' said the suitor. ‘The palace gates will close soon.'

‘What are the palace gates to me?' asked the young man. ‘I have sold all my goats' cheese, and am on my way home.'

‘Have you not heard the King's proclamation?' asked the other.

‘What do I care for kings or proclamations?' said the young man. ‘I have my hut and my goats. They are enough for me.'

So the suitor told him of the proclamation, and how no man could be found to warm the Princess.

‘Oh, is that all?' said the young man. ‘It sounds easy enough. Still, if no one else can do it, I may as well offer my help.'

So he marched into the palace and came before the King.

‘Who are you?' demanded the King.

‘My name is Garth,' replied the young man. ‘I am twenty years old. I am a goatherd and I live in a hut by the forest. I came to the city to sell my goats' cheese, and they told me no man could warm your daughter. So I have come to offer my help.'

‘You believe you can do it?' asked the King, amazed.

‘Of course,' said Garth. ‘It is no great feat.' And he looked at the Princess. She gazed back with her cold green eyes in her pale face, as though he were an insect.

‘Do you still think you can do it?' said the King.

‘Certainly,' said Garth. ‘But it must be on my conditions.'

‘Who are you to speak of conditions to me?' roared the King.

‘No one in particular,' said Garth. ‘But I thought you wanted help.'

‘Very well, then,' said the King. ‘Name your conditions.'

‘I can do nothing with her here, in this cold marble palace,' said Garth. ‘She must come and live in my hut for a week.'

‘What?' exclaimed the King. ‘You think I will let my beautiful virgin daughter, a Royal Princess, live alone for a week with you, you clod-hopper?'

‘Her virginity will not be harmed,' said Garth. ‘You have my word on that.'

‘The word of a goatherd?' cried the King.

‘It is as good as the word of a King,' said Garth. ‘Better, probably.'

At this the Princess, who had listened in disbelief, broke her silence. ‘And what about
my
opinion?' she enquired icily. ‘Had anyone thought to ask
me
if I would live in some smelly goatherd's hut for a week?'