Blushing at Both Ends (3 page)

So now Jenny – nudged, no doubt, by dear Mummy – had made her choice. And
what
a choice. I aimed a few further curses at the innocent gulls and headed into more raki. Lots more raki. By the time the boat dropped anchor at Amorgos I was stinking stupid drunk. Gathering from my boozy ravings what afflicted me, the Greek crew, with infinite compassion for the lovelorn, carried me ashore and bedded me down in a room above a tiny taverna, where I awoke the next day to a Wagnerian hangover.

* * *

When I got home the card was waiting for me – stiff, embossed, gold-edged. Rather like the people it came from, in fact. ‘Mr and Mrs James Cunningham request the pleasure . . .' The fuck you do, I snarled, hurling it into the wastebin. But later I reconsidered, retrieved it and sent my acceptance. Maybe I can show up pissed, I thought, and puke all over the wedding cake. Childish? Sure. But then, jilted lovers aren't known for their mature restraint.

The next few weeks I moped, growling and licking my wounds. There were one or two girls who might have been ready to console me, but I wasn't ready for consolation. Not just yet.

On the eve of the wedding I set out on a solitary pub crawl, but my heart wasn't in it. After a couple of pints I dropped the idea, and started to wander aimlessly. Guess where my feet led me.

The house stood well back from the street, and as I approached it I could clearly hear Jenny's dad. Unlike me, he'd evidently had no trouble sinking a few. Then, at an upstairs window I knew well from the inside, a white-clad ethereal figure. My lovely, faithless Jenny – trying on the wedding dress, no less.

I'm not sure what I planned, or if I had anything as coherent as a plan in mind, but before I knew it I'd circled round to the side door. It was locked, but I'd crept surreptitiously in, and out, too often for that to present any problem. I dug the key out of the geranium tub, let myself in and listened.

James's slurred bray and Isobel's contemptuous contralto echoed faintly from the sitting room. They enjoyed their rows – it was the only activity they'd shared for years – and would be at it for hours yet. I made for the stairs and had just reached the landing when a door opened and a slim teenager came out. She started when she saw me. ‘Paul! What on earth – why are you . . .?'

Felicity, Jenny's seventeen-year-old sister, was as dark as her sibling was fair. We'd always got on well – in fact, I think she rather fancied me, as girls often fancy their big sister's bloke. Now she gazed at me, half-alarmed and half-gleeful at my inopportune presence. ‘You shouldn't be here. What if someone sees you?'

‘It's OK. Your mum and dad are well into one of their screaming matches – they won't surface for ages.'

Felicity gave a mischievous grin. ‘Unless I tell them.'

‘Don't you dare, Flicky! Look, here's a tenner to keep quiet.'

She took the note, still grinning. ‘And if I do all the same?'

‘Then the next time I catch up with you, young lady, I'll turn you over my knee and spank you till you can't sit down for a week.'

‘Oooh!' said Flicky, her eyes sparkling. ‘That might be rather fun.'

‘Don't bet on it,' I said grimly. ‘And don't think I wouldn't do it, either.'

‘I bet you would, you sadistic beast. But don't worry, I won't tell. You go and tell my stupid dumb sister where she gets off – it's the least she deserves. Oh, Paul!' Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘How
could
she? Leslie Porchester –
yeuucch
!' To my surprise, she suddenly threw her arms around my neck and kissed me full on the lips. ‘Oh, Paul, I wish it was you tomorrow!' she whispered, and vanished down the corridor.

Moving quietly, I approached Jenny's bedroom door and pushed it gently open. Though she was facing me, she didn't see me. Her wedding dress was over her head, and she was easing it carefully off to avoid creasing it. Knowing its rustling would drown the noise, I closed the door behind me and locked it, dropped the key in my pocket, then sat down in an armchair and crossed my legs.

‘Hello, Jenny,' I said.

There was a muffled shriek from under the dress and Jenny's face, slightly flushed and totally horrified, appeared abruptly from beneath it. ‘Paul! What the hell are you . . .? You shouldn't be here! Suppose someone finds out! It's my wedding tomorrow!'

‘I know. Dear Mummy sent me an invite, remember? Probably saw it as a twist of the knife, the old bat. But I thought I'd like one last look before you turned into Mrs Leslie Porchester. So here I am.'

Jenny looked flabbergasted. She also looked gorgeous. Her slip had come off with the dress, leaving her in just a white lace-trimmed bra, matching white silk knickers, tan stockings and white high-heeled shoes. Her tousled honey-blonde hair had fallen loose in sweet confusion down her back. She had never seemed more desirable. Lust rose in me, along with anger.

‘You've got to go,' she exclaimed frantically. ‘I can't talk to you now, you know that.' Her expression softened slightly. ‘Oh, Paul, I'm sorry, really I am. But it was the only way. You never offered to marry me, did you? And anyway you'd have made a lousy husband.'

‘Maybe so. But did it occur to you to find something better than that lump of rancid sheep's turd you're shacking up with tomorrow? How did you think I'd feel, imagining him running his greasy fat fingers over your body, sticking his slimy little dick into –'

‘How dare you!' Furious, Jenny hurled her wedding dress over a nearby chair. ‘Who the hell are you to say who I can or can't marry, you . . . wastrel? What do you know about Leslie, anyway?'

‘I know you don't love him. You don't even like him. You wouldn't so much as tolerate him and his sweaty pawings if it wasn't for his dad's money!' I stood up, seething with anger. ‘Shit, Jenny, you always had your mercenary side, but I never thought it went this far. You really are just a greedy, callous, spoilt little bitch, aren't you?'

Her eyes blazed. ‘I don't have to listen to this! Just fuck off, why don't you? Get out now – or I'll scream for help!'

‘Go ahead, no one'll come. Your parents are squabbling downstairs, they'd never hear you.'

‘Flicky's in her room – she'll hear me.'

‘Sure she will, but she won't do anything about it. She knows I'm here; I met her outside on the landing.'

‘I don't believe you! What did you do – bribe her, threaten her?'

‘Both, since you ask. I gave her a tenner, and told her if she said a word I'd spank the living daylights out of her. And I will, too, if she does. Although, come to mention it, my girl –' for a glorious intention was rising like the sun in my mind ‘– I can think of someone who deserves a damn good spanking far more than young Flicky. And it would relieve my feelings no end to dish it out.'

Horrified realisation dawned in Jenny's face. ‘No! You wouldn't dare! I'll scream!'

‘Too right you will,' I said, advancing upon her. ‘And before I'm through with you, young Jenny, you'll have plenty to scream about, believe you me!'

‘No!' she shrieked and turned to flee, aiming to take refuge in her bathroom. But high heels are treacherous things, and she teetered off-balance just at the opportune moment.

Grasping her wrist, I sat down on the bed and with a sharp tug brought her sprawling across my lap, face-down in prime spanking position. She kicked and struggled wildly, calling me every obscene name under the sun, but I captured both her wrists in my left hand and held them out of the way, while with my right hand I tugged the silken knickers down over her ripe curves, well clear of the target area.

And what a target area it was. Full, white and shapely, Jenny's glorious rearward curves swelled
delectably
upwards, bare and rounded and lusciously spankable. Her struggles made the tender flesh quiver enticingly – as well as providing further stimulation for my already rampant erection. With joyful anticipation I stroked and squeezed the smooth plump globes; they felt deliciously cool and soft. ‘Such a gorgeous bottom, my sweet,' I told her, ‘it fairly begs to be spanked. And it's going to be, too – hard and very thoroughly. Because a damn good bare-bottom spanking is the very least you deserve for being such a spoilt mercenary brat. And, since I'll probably never get the chance to do this again, I'm going to make the most of it now.'

‘No! Help! Let me go, you bastard! Help!' yelled Jenny, writhing indignantly. ‘I'll kill you! Don't you dare!'

‘Oh, I dare, my sweet. In fact, it'll be a pleasure. A very special wedding present, from me to you with lots of love – the finest spanking of your young life!'

‘Ooooooh!' wailed Jenny apprehensively as I raised my hand and, with a feeling of sheer sensual delight, brought it down with stinging force on the lush curve of her right bottom-cheek. I was rewarded with a loud yelp of protest from Jenny, followed by another as I smacked the left cheek just as vigorously.

‘Owwww!' yelped Jenny, wriggling desperately. ‘Stop it! That bloody well
hurts
!'

‘I should bloody well hope so,' I retorted. Strangely enough, the thought uppermost in my mind was ‘Why the hell did I never do this before?' And who knows, maybe if I had, things might have been very different.

But, meanwhile, there was a job to do, and I had every intention of doing it thoroughly. So, taking a firm grip on my struggling perfidious darling, I administered several more ringing spanks to her ripe young bottom, while her language grew steadily more unladylike. It's always good to have your work appreciated, and Jenny's squeals and shrill invective were a pleasure to hear.

‘Owwww! Shit! I hate you, you fucking bastard!' she yelped. ‘Stop it! Let me
go
!'

But I hadn't the least intention of letting her go, not for a long time yet. For a start, I was enjoying myself far too much, relishing the feeling of my palm smacking down on those tender trembling cheeks; the ringing sound of each spank, and the gasps and yelps it drew from the wriggling victim; and, above all, the supremely erotic sight of the warm pink blush that was beginning to enhance Jenny's squirming, bouncing flesh-cushions. Already, after only a couple of dozen spanks, a rosy glow suffused every inch of her beautiful bottom, contrasting delectably with the whiteness of her back and thighs.

‘I always said you had a sexy bottom, my love,' I told her, still smacking her hard and steadily, ‘but you know what? It looks even sexier when it's all nice and red. And it's going to be much, much redder than this before I'm through, my sweet. Brides are supposed to blush, aren't they? Well, you'll soon be blushing like no bride's ever blushed before!'

‘Owwww!' wailed Jenny, her blonde mane tossing and her long legs kicking frantically as the heat built up in her spank-warmed rear. ‘Help! No! Stop it, you bastard! I'll – yowwww! –
kill
you for this! Help! Mummy! Daddy!'

True to her word, she yelled at the top of her lungs as my vengeful hand continued to crack down across her squirming rump, each spank ringing round the room like a pistol shot. For all my confident assertions, I was a little worried that somebody might hear. But no one came. Poor Jenny, the moneyed comfort she so enjoyed had become her trap. So large was the house, so opulently solid its doors and walls, that no sound reached the ground floor. Young Flicky was in earshot, of course – gleefully listening at the door, I guessed. But no hint of the punishment being meted out reached the
ears
of Jenny's parents – not the sound of a merciless male palm smacking rhythmically down on soft pampered female bottom-flesh, nor the desperate yelps and squeals of the owner of the reddening jiggling bottom in question.

So how could James and Isobel Cunningham, bickering sterilely in their luxurious drawing room, have guessed that Jennifer Anne, their beloved elder daughter, the lovely blonde bride-to-be, was no longer as they imagined, coolly admiring the image of her shapely self in all her wedding finery? That, instead, to her great surprise and indignation, the nubile young beauty now found herself turned ignominiously over her disreputable boyfriend's knee – humiliatingly bare-bottomed and face-down across his lap, her knickers down around her knees and her luscious rear end squirming and blushing beneath the stinging strokes of the first real spanking of her young life?

No, there was no help for poor Jenny. No Seventh Cavalry, no protective father or adoring mother riding gallantly to her rescue. It gave me an intoxicating sense of power to know that this delicious young creature was wholly at my mercy. I could go on spanking her just as long and as hard as I liked, working off all my anger, grief and jealousy on those soft, smarting bare bottom-cheeks.

So I took my time, spanking her steadily and deliberately, pausing to let the sting of each smack sink in to her quivering rosy mounds. For a good ten minutes I spanked Jenny to my heart's content, smacking alternately left and right, taking care to cover every inch of her peachy twin globes and paying special attention to the sweet soft undercurve where bottom meets thigh. With every smack the blush deepened on her bouncing flesh-cushions, until every inch of her ripe rearward curves was mantled with a sunset glow. She was still kicking and squirming at each spank, but no longer made any serious attempt to escape, and her
indignant
yells gradually gave way to gasps and wails and increasingly tearful pleas to be let off.

And when at last I finished – for I had to stop sometime, if only because my arm was getting tired – Jenny lay sobbing and gasping across my thighs, the trembling mounds of her soundly smacked bottom glowing like ripe tomatoes. I stroked the crimson curves gently, then slipped my hand between her legs. Her cleft was dripping wet, and she groaned at the touch of my fingers, writhing round on my lap and lifting her tear-stained face to mine.