This is a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
The previous episode is here.
Lucy was stroking Sir’s penis,that I was still getting used to thinking of as my Sir’s cock. He’d ordered Lucy to do that because he was determined not to take any of her virginities tonight. But her hand was fine.
He’d said that the more turned on he was, the harder he’d cane.
I don’t think Lucy wanted me to be hurt, or not too much, but I knew her: it was her nature to do her utmost to please him.
So I waited, bent over with my fingers touching my toes, and that cane having touched my lower bottom, which I’d already learned hurt the worst, I knew I was in for a very hard, painful caning indeed.
Sir said, “I want you bent tighter than that, Maddie. Palms flat on the floor.”
I said, “Yes, Sir,” and moved my hands lower, then let my palms rest on the floor. Fortunately I was a supple girl; I still am. Yoga students and girls who get the cane regularly need to be supple.
I could feel the way my body tightened. I was presented perfectly, from his point of view. My pussy felt terribly exposed, not just to his gaze, though I knew it was that, but also, in that position, to the cane. A really hard stroke could easily reach my pussylips.
I wondered if I’d be able to take that without getting up.
Sir said, “All right, Maddie. You know you’re generally expected to take a caning in silence. If I tell you to, you can count the strokes aloud and thanks me for each one. I’m not expecting you to do that. Lucy’s going to do the counting for you. So what does that mean, Maddie?”
My heart sank. “I’m not to make any sound at all, Sir.”
“That’s right, girl. Those are the rules. Do you think you’ll be able to manage that?”
“I… I don’t know, Sir.”
“I have my doubts too. There’s a choice for you, Maddie. If you accept two extra strokes, making fourteen, then I’ll allow you to scream and squeal and carry on, so long as you keep still. If you don’t take the two extra strokes, and you scream, then you get the stroke over. So, what’s it to be?”
I felt the cane touch me again, this time on my legs, about four inches below the crease of my bum. Oh god. I whimpered. I knew that I’d get more than two extra strokes if the rule of silence applied to this caning. “I’ll take the two strokes. The extra strokes, Sir.”
“I think that’s a sensible choice. So that makes how many strokes of the cane you’re due for?”
I felt tears slip from my eyes, down into my eyebrows, to get lost in my hair. I sniffed. “Fourteen strokes, Sir.”
“Good girl, Maddie. I still expect you to stay in place. Get up, and you’ll get another twelve. Understood.”
I wanted to sob already. “Y-yes, Sir.”
“All right Lucy, A little bit slower, now. I don’t want to come until I’ve got you two home with me. Now, Maddie.”
“Yes Sir?”
But he was warning me. I must have heard the cane swishing through the air, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the pain and heat when it landed across my underbum.
It was so hard. I couldn’t help it. I screamed on the very first stroke, though I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t, and my hips and bottom jerked convulsively. I only just managed to stop myself from getting up.
Lucy said, “One, Sir.” There was awe in her voice.
The next episode is here.
My great-grandfather was at Gallipoli. Gallipoli was an attempt to get a land pathway into Europe which British troops could follow, and attack the Germans closer to Germany than the stagnant lands created by trench warfare.
The road through Turkey would be opened by non-British troops, mainly New Zealanders and Australians, whose deaths in a futile and poorly planned operation wouldn’t be making headlines in England. There was a beach selected for this task, and naturally the British navy sailed straight past it and dumped the “colonial” troops into a beach where conditions would be intolerable if you lived, and where the Turks could sit up in the hills safely pouring lead onto the poor bastards on the beachhead.
Anyway, my great-grandfather was stuck on the killing beach. He did what you do under the circumstances. You try to go forward, you try to kill people wearing the other clothing style, you try to keep your head down and stay alive, and sometimes you do crazy brave things because the men you’re with are doing them too.
He came back from the meat-grinder alive but fucked. He couldn’t re-settle, he couldn’t be with his family, and he spent the rest of his life, except his last two years, trying to drink himself to death. Unluckily for him, the Mortimers have weird genes, and though he spent nearly eighty years consuming pretty much nothing but gin when he could afford it and sherry when times were worse, smoking when he could and sleeping rough, he lived until his late nineties.
In the last eighteen month of his life, when he was ninety-six, he became the live-in handyman at a block of apartments in Nelson, chopping wood (I told you we’re genetically weird), fixing fuses and hinges and water piping for the young couples living around him. He was proud of himself for the first time since 1915.
He died in the 1990s. Someone managed to locate his family and contacted my father, who wasn’t actually a relation except by marriage, and he went down and cleared up .
Anyway, my great-grandfather wouldn’t talk about Gallipoli, or Chunuk Bair. There wasn’t much to say. Except one thing. He said he was on the slopes with a donkey carrying water. The donkey got hit smack in the stomach by a cannon shell. It whipped its head around in time to see the middle of its body gone and its hind legs falling. Then the front of the donkey fell too, head facing my great-grandfather.
My great-grandfather used to say that the expression on the donkey’s face, when it realised it was fucked (grotesquely destroyed, if you prefer), was something he’d never forget as long as he lived.
I never met my great-grandfather. The only time I ever saw him was when I was nine. I was at a family wedding that he, pointedly, hadn’t been invited to. He turned up drunk, with a drunk friend, and got turned away. I missed that, but saw him later at a kid’s play area with a helter skelter. He and his friend decided to walk up the spiral of the slide, and come down the ladder.
It took them a long time but they made it, with assorted family members standing a distance away making disgusted comments. I knew nothing, understood nothing, but I did feel a kind of sympathy with him. Not “that poor man”. More like, “that’s odd but kind of cool”.
It was my mother who told me the only thing he’d ever said about his experience at Gallipoli. So I don’t know how he told that story: was it a parable about the way the New Zealand and Australian men were treated when the British decided to throw their lives onto a choppingboard? I don’t know: but my guess is that, yeah, it was that, but above all, he thought it was funny.
The people in my country have the blackest sense of humour I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Throw in having lived through Gallipoli, and I’d say my great-grandfather would have had get a sense of humour so dark it had infinite gravity.
Anyway, I’ve never given a fuck about ANZAC Day. Nor, I understand, did he.
When I see it being used by politicians to defend more stupid military deployments, for the sake of someone else’s empire, I get really, deeply disgusted and angry. And it’s nearly impossible to make me angry.
So, I think the poor sods in the army, navy or air force who get sent where their country tells them to go deserve sympathy, and most importantly they deserve real help while they’re alive.
But fuck ANZAC Day. It was bullshit in the first place, and it’s now been securely seized by right-wing, race-baiting arseholes. Fuck them, fuck the politicians, fuck the snivelling scumlicking bullies in the Murdoch press, fuck all that bullshit. Fuck, as I said, ANZAC Day.
I remember the mess it made of my great-grandfather, sometimes, in bugle-free private, and I remember that poor bloody donkey.
Maddie and her friend Lucy, in a flashback told by Maddie, take the heart and penis of their Headmaster in hand, and Maddie’s mouth while he attends to Lucy.
It’s a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
This is a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
This is a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
This is a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
SThis is a hot and quite emotional scene, but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
This is a hot and loving scene, but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.
This is a hot scene but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.