A Spanking and Caning Story from Janus. To see more stories click here.
The Provider. Part II
HAD STEPHEN been aware of just how deeply Harriet’s humiliation had gone on account of her punishment in front of the giggly Yorkshire lass, he would not have slept so easily that night. When bedtime came, Harriet denied him the comforts of her body and elected to sleep alone on the couch, simmering with a strange quiet rage which Stephen dismissed as a sulk.
But for Harriet sleep was impossible. In the dark early hours she slipped on pants and top, stole to the cupboard where Stephen kept his implements and took something from it. Then she crept to the spare room, opened the door and darted inside.
Stacey was dreamfully asleep when Harriet flipped on the light and rushed to her bedside, snatching up the watch from the chair. The Yorkshire girl woke with a start, and saw Harriet shaking the watch in her face.
‘You bitch!’ she spat. ‘This is mine. And how dare you laugh at me this afternoon!’
‘Laff? It were only a whacked arse. And if yer think I’m after your bloke, I’d rather do handstands in hot milk.’
‘A whacked arse?’ echoed Harriet venomously. ‘Oh is that all it was.’ She scowled, and raised the implement she had brought in with her – a heavy black strap. ‘I’ll give you whacked arse!’
Stacey’s sleepy eyes widened. ‘Will yer?’ she goaded mischievously. ‘With that?’ In a surge of movement she knelt up on the bed and turned her back. Then, still saucily smiling, she flipped up her short nightdress to expose a bare, lushly rounded little bottom. ‘Go on then,’ she invited. ‘Give this a few whacks if it mecks yer feel better.’
Harriet breathed hard, eyes fixed on that taunting rear. She drew herself haughtily upright. ‘Bend over, then,’ she hissed.
‘Be my guest,’ Stacey chirped, and got into position. Harriet simply could not comprehend how the northern girl could treat it as a joke. She had been abused and humiliated in front of this woman this very afternoon, and still she was laughing. ‘It’s wailing for yer,’ came the slightly muffled voice from the bed. ‘Coom and get it!’
Harriet stared at Stacey’s bottom straining up towards her, open and inviting. She stepped up beside the blonde, put a hand on her back as Stephen had done with her, lifted the tawse high and brought it down.
The twin-tailed leather slapped full across both bottom-cheeks with a loud clap. Harriet jumped, it must have hurt like mad. Yet Stacey merely gave a slight murmur and wiggled her hips invitingly.
Harriet was suddenly furious. She swung the strap higher and brought it whistling down with all her strength. This time the sound was like a gunshot. Stacey’s bottom crimsoned where the strap had struck, and she gave a loud oof! ‘That’s more like it,’ she murmured, but the frantic clenching and unclenching of her buttocks belied her casualness.
‘Get flat on the bed, face down,’ snarled Harriet. She was shaking with tension and her heart was pounding. Stacey seemed only too happy to oblige, making encouraging noises as the other girl positioned her. Then she turned her head and grinned.
Whack. The strap flew down, hit and swung, struck in again with biting force. Stacey’s face was intent now, eyes shut, the smile changed to a grimace.
‘Not so funny now, is it!’ grunted Harriet, warming to her work. Whap-whap-whap. Her arm became a blur as she struck and swung, struck and swung, seeing the compact globes shudder and wobble, growing redder and hotter at every stroke.
Stacey was surprised. Bugger it, the girl was stronger than she’d thought. Harriet was angry, wanting to cry, outraged, with years of problems boiling up and out as the tawse struck and struck. Stacey’s bottom felt on fire, a hard keen sensation between freezing and boiling, yet she knew it would quieten to a rampant smouldering once this sensitive, doting, sad-faced biddy had finished releasing her pent-up resentment.
Thwack! Thwack! This was better than screaming or breaking windows, castrating her man or crying blind vengeance to an unheeding world. This was a warm, receptive bottom brave enough to physically take on all of Harriet’s emotional hurt. And as the minutes passed in a noisy melody of slaps and grunts and oofs and sighs, it almost seemed to Harriet that she was starting to love this bottom, especially when Stacey began to jerk it up and down to meet each stroke, as if answering a lover’s thrusts.
The last two strokes came furiously down across the backs of Stacey’s thighs. The pain was excruciating. For the first time she shrieked out loud, then sank her head forward, gasping. Harriet sat weakly on the bed and gazed at her with a small strange smile. In time, Stacey turned her head and they looked at each other. There was pain in her eyes, her bottom hurt. Gently, tentatively, Harriet’s hand reached out and rested on the other girl’s buttocks, feeling the heat inside them.
At the intimate contact, Stacey sighed. The hand was welcome. Sensing this, Harriet began to stroke the rosy globes, and new sensations began in her.
Stacey lay prone, watching, watching. Slowly, Harriet began to unbutton her cardigan. There was the ghost of a smile from Stacey now.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Yes…’
The two young women continued raptly to watch each other as Harriet pulled off the cardigan. Her nipples had already stiffened, and her breathing was ragged. Quietly she sat back on the bed, still looking, and felt the warmth between them start to spread.
