Blushing at Both Ends (2 page)

Gulping almost audibly at the alluring sight, Charles reached out to pat the proffered roundnesses. The silken fabric felt enchantingly soft. The plump mounds over which it was stretched felt softer still.

‘Very pretty,' he murmured. ‘So pretty, in fact, that I would hate to risk damaging such an exquisite garment. No, my dear, we must remove it from harm's way.'

So saying, he slowly eased the silk drawers down over Claudine's rearward curves, revealing pale flawless bare bottom-cheeks that trembled charmingly at being robbed of their last protection. As she felt the drawers descend, Claudine uttered a reproachful little ‘Oh,
mais non
!', but made no move to prevent him.

Taking the girl by the hand, Charles drew her towards him. ‘Time for your spanking, young lady,' he said gently. ‘Across my knee with you, now.'

Claudine gazed at him appealingly. ‘Oh, monsieur, please – you will not smack me too hard?'

‘No harder than you deserve, my girl,' Charles retorted as he arranged her face-down over his lap in the time-honoured position and turned back her brief skirt. ‘And no harder than you can bear. This pretty bottom is very nice and plump; I think it's quite well upholstered enough to take a good sound spanking.'

‘Ah, cruel!' murmured the maid, but she lay submissively across his thighs, making no attempt to escape while Charles stroked and squeezed the lovely orbs of her naked
derrière
, relishing their succulence, savouring the exquisite moment of anticipation.

‘You have a superb bottom, my sweet,' he told her, ‘absolutely made to be spanked. I've only one criticism: at present it's rather too pale for my tastes. But we'll soon change that.'

Joyfully Charles raised his hand and brought it down hard on the pouting bare bottom, connecting with a crisp juicy smack. The girl caught her breath as it stung her defenceless flesh, and gasped again as a second
spank
, equally sharp, stung the other cheek. Charles paused to admire the matching pink handprints that now adorned the creamy mounds, then settled down to spanking her with a steady rhythm, gradually increasing the force of his smacks, distributing them across every inch of the glorious rump placed so invitingly at his mercy.

He hadn't exaggerated; Claudine's bottom was truly made to be spanked. Full and peachy, the sweetly rounded globes swelled provocatively upwards, begging to be smacked; the pale sensitive skin coloured readily, and the whole target area was soon suffused with a becoming blush that deepened as her punishment progressed. At each spank Claudine gasped and wriggled, kicking her black-stockinged legs and causing the frothy tangle of her drawers to descend from knees to ankles until, catching on one of her high heels, they were sent flying, like a tiny silk parachute, into a corner of the room.

Charles was no novice at this game, but rarely had he had the joy of punishing so fetchingly pretty and delectably spankable a girl. Nor did he feel any compunction in spanking her long and hard; for all her feigned distress, it was clear she was enjoying the experience no less than he was. Her breathless little cries of ‘Oh – oh – oh!' sounded not so much plaintive as ecstatic, and as the heat built up in her nether regions she ground herself shamelessly against his thigh. So he took his time, relishing every stroke and feasting his eyes on the lively dance of her bouncing bottom-cheeks. For fifteen minutes or more his hand rose and fell, turning the soft quivering globes from warm pink through rich rosy red to a glowing scarlet.

Finally he paused and helped the girl to her feet. There were tears in her dark eyes and she stood pouting at him reproachfully as she rubbed her blazing curves, but her eyes were sparkling and the hint of a
mischievous
smile played around her lips. ‘Oh, monsieur, you spank a poor girl so terrible hard,' she murmured. ‘
Oh mes pauvres fesses
! How shall I ever sit down tonight? It is cruel of you to spank me so hard!'

‘Is it now?' retorted Charles, grinning wolfishly. ‘Well, that's just too bad, young lady, because we're not through yet. We still have the small matter of your lateness to deal with. Were you not ordered to be precisely on time?'

‘Oh, but, monsieur,' protested the maid, ‘that was not my fault!'

‘Maybe not. But it's your bottom that will pay for it,
ma chérie
. Go to the dressing table and fetch me that hairbrush – and keep your skirt well raised. I want to admire my handiwork.'

Claudine pouted mutinously again, but obeyed, and Charles was treated to the delicious spectacle of her rosy well-spanked bottom-cheeks trembling and undulating as, holding her skirt high above her waist, she sashayed to the dressing table on her high heels. She picked up a black wooden-backed hairbrush, brought it back to Charles and held it out doubtfully.

‘You will not spank me with this, monsieur? It will hurt most fearfully!'

‘I'm sure it will,' said Charles calmly. ‘Now, back across my knee with you, Claudine.'

‘Oh please, monsieur, no more,' she pleaded, but still let herself be drawn back down into the classic position. Once again, her ripe young globes lay invitingly across Charles's lap, plump and defenceless but now yet more beautiful, adorned as they were with an opulent glow. Enchanted, he stroked the radiant cushions. They felt fiery hot and even softer than before, twin tender targets perfectly prepared for the hairbrush's burning kiss.

Charles rubbed the broad wooden back of the brush across the girl's rosy mounds, making her wriggle with apprehension. ‘You were fifteen minutes late, my sweet,'
he
reminded her. ‘So you're going to get four hairbrush spanks for every minute of tardiness – sixty spanks in all.'

‘Oh
non
,' wailed Claudine, wriggling in alarm and causing her lush, roseate curves to tremble exquisitely. ‘
Sixty
more spanks? It is too many, monsieur!'

‘Any more argument from you, my girl,' said Charles happily, ‘and I'll double it.' Raising the brush, he took careful aim, and . . .

‘
Aïeee!
Ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou!' squealed the girl, her body jerking as much from surprise as from pain.

Charles had changed tactics. Where his hand-spanking had been steady and measured, he now applied the hairbrush in a rapid fusillade of crisp hard smacks, making the girl's bottom bounce and wobble so fast it seemed like a scarlet blur. Claudine's dark mane of hair tossed wildly and her legs flailed as the merciless high-speed assault built up the heat in her bottom so fiercely she felt as if it must surely burst into flame.

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.