Appreciating Amanda Ch. 02

(Part 1 summarised - 18 year old Amanda has recently moved next door to a single lady in her mid thirties. Lonely and insecure after recent parental divorce and lack of stability in her family, Amanda proves interesting prey for our beguiling 'heroine')

Part 2 - Home Territory

...Now what was I was saying before your deliciously round rear end so rudely interrupted my train of thought, Amanda?

Ah, yes, I was remembering my frustration - our initial acquaintance was at first, alas, all motive for me. There was no means of deepening the nascent friendship and certainly no opportunity, given your overwhelmingly shy nature.

On your home territory, I knew that you felt entirely safe and able to enjoy reading on a rug on the grass away from prying eyes. You could simply look out at the first yellow buds on the forsythia bushes and think beautiful thoughts, completely uninterrupted by the vicissitudes of others.

In fact, I noticed that you seemed to take special pleasure in the springtime, laughing softly to yourself as you discovered another hyacinth or tulip ready to burst into flower. It was as if the association with nature freed you from the shyness you exhibited with anyone other than James, your father.

James had found that home study was the only option for your continued education when he first arrived in Peddington. You had come to the town far too late to enrol in the local college and you were well over compulsory school age. I could have pulled strings with my ladies who lunch, but decided to let things take their natural course. Let people make their own mistakes, I say. They will eventually be only too glad to find me on hand to help them tidy everything up in my own way, when the time is ripe.

As such I was not at all surprised when one day late in April James took me to one side. He said that he was concerned that, without some tuition, your chances of academic advancement were slipping away. Home-tutoring for exams to be taken was seemingly impossible to arrange given his limited knowledge of the local academic scene.

James confided that you were an intelligent girl, but lacked discipline. He liked the way your friendship with Alexandra was blossoming, but had seen that you were gradually spending less and less time on your books. I smiled and nodded and warmly agreed that some young ladies do indeed need considerable amounts of discipline.

Other than this relationship with Alex, it was not as if you were particularly gregarious: the very opposite in fact. You had not sought out friends and would have found that difficult anyhow not being in a local school. You seemed to be lost in an escapist world: just like your father at times.

I promised to exercise some influence. That very evening, while Alexandra was engaged in teasing my clitoris in that oh so special way of hers, I told her to make herself scarce.

Alex looked up at me enquiringly for a moment, but with a tug of her blonde locks she was back to her duties, her clever young tongue probing and pleasing. I've trained her wonderfully well, so much so, that I was soon lying back on the settee almost swooning with pleasure.

(This girl loves it when you swoon with pleasure, mistress. It's as if all the seasons come together in a wonderful combination of the best things in love. This girl will do anything to make sure that you have all the delight that she can afford you.)

(You found her lost and uncertain. This girl found you at the heart of your desire. She wants to stay there forever, bringing you all the bliss that using this girl affords you.)

I know that Alexandra's disappearance left you quite abandoned, Amanda. There really was no need to go on so. Every tearful sigh you uttered, every sad face you pulled, made it abundantly clear that you were missing her as you hovered between your books, your father and me. I felt quite cruel at times, but needs must.

Then, as James' business picked up at my instigation, I found it increasingly easy to monopolise your time. Yes, that was the time of the creeping hand. Do you remember how it beguiled you? I had such pleasure slowly seducing you. And the exultation that I felt as I finally managed to slide under your skirt without resistance. I can hardly describe the warm freshness that lurked there.

(Your hands are so soft mistress. This girl loves the feel of them on her limbs. You made her want to spread her thighs and offer her all up to you from the very first time your hand toyed with the patterns on that lacy skirt. It was so clever of you to admire the pattern and to get this girl talking about needlework and design as you slipped your hand under there.)

(This girl was so carried away by the arts and crafts that she did not notice your intrusion until your possessive hand was resting firmly on her young mound.)

(Her heart stopped still and she could hardly breathe when she stopped her chatter. And then she found your fingers were playing over the tight little mons that you were soon to make sure was yours in every respect.)

Yes dear. Thank you for that stimulating thought. Now, as I was saying: James seemed pleased at my interest in you. You seemed to enjoy our conversations. And I, well, I have to confess now, that you filled my dreams and lay in my bed many months ago, your tantalising limbs bound to the bedstead as I dedicated myself to fucking you in my sleep, night in and night out.

James was rarely with us during those increasingly intimate conversations, but he trusted me by then. I didn't want you to read any disrespect for either him or yourself in my approach. I knew that any excess forwardness could be reported. And any report, no matter how minor, could ruin all my plans for my young ingénue.

My confidence in you was well rewarded though. Your responses to my gentle overtures, led me forward little by little. Eventually, you were quite comfortable to nestle in my arms or kneel at my feet to listen to whatever wisdom I was minded to convey to you.

Discretion remained my watchword as far as any admiration for your beguiling young form at that stage. (Of course it did, mistress - Don't be a cheeky bitch, Amanda). I don't think your father was at all conscious of my interest, even when I walked over to the windows when he was explaining the wonderful pictures in Paradise Lost to me in the most detailed fashion.

I looked over my shoulder at him and he just smiled vaguely, before turning back to the illustrations of Milton's wonderful work. I had other wonderful things to lure me away: his wonderful garden and his equally wonderful daughter to name but two.

I remember you telling me how you had always lived in small city centre apartments before you arrived in Peddington. The gardening potential was limited to flower boxes that you generally took care of. I think James was slightly lost at the thought of maintaining the vast garden that he'd acquired next to mine.

The lawn stretched out forever and, beyond its vast expanse, several old apple trees and a small south facing hillock, that abutted my own property, obscured the lake from view. The beds surrounding the lawn took a god deal of care and I don't think he had the least idea of how to tend the many shrubs that had been planted there over the years.

I, on the other hand, knew the garden and all its plantings very well indeed. I'd sunbathed on the hillock, picked apples in the little orchard and made love to Karen Kincaid, the former lady of the house over the past three years in all the more shielded parts and several of the more exposed locations too.

We'd kissed next to the first sticky yellow buds of the forsythia near the French windows. We'd held hands on the lawn and stroked one another to an apex of pleasure all through the summer.

We'd fucked in the shade of the apple trees in the autumn, with over ripe fruit rotting in the grass around us. And, even though she was five years older than me, I'd spanked her to a climax over my lap right on top of that little hillock.

The memories are so sweet: I'd sat on the stump of a fallen tree and let the sounds of my slapping hand echo far into the countryside when the snow fell in winter. I tell you, Amanda, I didn't stop until her bare bottom was redder than her tear-stained face.

Always remember, though, my dear: your elders are not always your betters. Some of them can be deliciously subservient beneath the mature veneer, no matter how sneeringly superior they seem at first glance.

Take that horrid wretch Veronica Smythe for instance. Alright, dear, I do know you've taken her, used her and delighted in humiliating her on my behalf on many an amusing occasion, but more of that later.

Right now I really need you to kneel up behind me and slip your exquisite tongue into my anal tract. I just love it when you rim me, Amanda, pet. It takes me to another level to feel your moist lips and your warm breath so close to my fundament.

And then to sense the sensual movements of your languid tongue intruding into my upraised arse: why it is quite the apogee of delight. I could lie here forever while you tease me like that, I really could.

(This girl's tongue is designed to tease you mistress. This girl knows it is her duty to lave you gently when you turn over and lie on your belly. She so admires your kimono and can only enjoy the touch of the silk as she raises it over your thighs, seeing the creamy expanse exposed.)

(This girl loves to massage you gently, mistress. She craves the feel of your womanly curves and the warmth of your seductive behind. This girl likes to spread you and open you, to see the tightness opening up to her as each lick delves closer and closer to the little brown ring that marks the centre of your desire.)

(Let this girl lick and taste and tease until she can feel you pressing back into her face. Let her tongue push past the tight anal muscles and delve into your fundament, pleasing you with each movement, her face captive to your most perverse desire, miss.)

Good girl! Time, however, waits for no woman. Back to the matter or, if you like, 'mater' in hand: Karen, as you know, is Alex's stepmother. She has the same blonde hair, the same dazzling smile and the same apologetic, effusive stream of consciousness when she is caught out.

Karen is also a secretary at the university college where I hold tenure. Her partner is long gone and she is reliant on the income her secretarial duties bring her.

Unfortunately criticism of her work at college some two years ago had culminated in a difficult incident, involving the accessing of an examination paper in her care.

I still remember how embarrassed she appeared to be when she came to my study that afternoon. Eventually I managed to get to the bottom of the matter (no, not your bottom dearest -- please don't get too obsessively anal!).

I could have been mean, but, knowing her situation, resolved to be supportive. I honestly wanted to be kind and reassure her, but she was having none of it, standing there shame-faced before me, her head bowed as if she were a naughty school girl.

She was nearly forty, some five years my senior, for goodness sake. Yet, there she stood that afternoon, her hands behind her back, babbling her sad little excuses incontinently until I finally lost patience and told her to shut up.

She looked up at me in mute admiration and I quickly realised that she wanted something more of me than liberal guidance and forgiveness.

"There really is nothing more to be said, Karen," I said, shrugging my shoulders and looking out of the window, wanting her to be gone so that I could get back to my work. "You know that I can get you out of this fix with a few words in the right places."

"Oh would you really, miss," she started to blurt again. "I'd be ever so grateful. I promise you I will. And it will never happen again."

"Until next time," I said brusquely and frowned at her until she fell silent once more for a little while at least. We stood there for a few moments, contemplating each other silently. She opened her mouth and then closed it, thinking better of it.

"Are you not quite done, Karen?" I added icily, to reinforce my position, seeing that she was about to gush again.

"Yes miss."

"All this needs is a little sensitive handling."

"You are ever so kind, miss."

"Do you feel in my debt then?"

"I'm certainly obliged to you, I'm sure."

"I am not one to take advantage of such obligations."

"But miss..."

"Yes?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as I walked across to the cupboard. I had intended to take the missing exam paper and to add it carefully to the others, closing the affair, but I was conscious of her anxious eyes boring into my back.

"I would be really pleased if you were to take advantage of me, if it pleases you, miss," she confessed.

You see me today all self assured and you will not believe that I was quite taken aback by this. Yet I was far from experienced then and she took me by surprise. Somehow I managed to trip.

In seeking to regain my balance, I spilt the contents of the shelf across the floor with a loud crash. I closed my eyes, with a frustrated sigh, totally irritated at my clumsiness.

When I eventually opened them I found Karen scrabbling at my feet in an endeavour to gather the papers that were scattered widely across the floor.

Alongside them, posed indelicately between the kneeling woman and myself, I saw an old school cane, lying there like an unanswered question.

Karen had paused in her tidying and was staring at it in fascination, as if the curling wooden object were a venomous snake. I couldn't tell if she was horrified or delighted. I laughed nervously: "It's not mine you know, Karen."

"No miss. It's fate."

"You feel fated to suffer some consequence for your actions then?"

"I feel fated to be caned by you, miss," she said in a very small voice.

"Your small town morality demands it, does it?"

"I suppose so, miss."

"You need my urbanity and my hand on your bottom?"

"The hand wouldn't be enough, miss."

"Don't you dare be feisty with me, girl," I asserted myself and saw relief in her eyes. She evidently needed this ritual of control as much as she desired the pain of surrender. "You are in enough trouble as it is."

"Yes miss. Sorry miss."

"Well, I would not want to leave you morally deprived, Karen. Pick it up."

"What miss?"

"The cane, you ninny; and then get your sorry form over my desk. You have a bottom that needs to be beaten."

"Oh yes miss; thank you miss, right away miss."

I watched as Karen walked slowly across to my desk. I really just intended to tap her playfully across the behind a few times and then send her on her way, but Karen soon put paid to that notion.

Before I could object, she'd raised her skirt and slid her knickers down to her knees, exposing her motherly flanks immodestly.

"What on earth are you doing, Karen?"

It was my turn to bluster as I walked across the room, half-wanting to get her to cover up, half-wanting to lock the door and see what might happen were we to be completely undisturbed.

"I'm getting ready to be caned, miss," Karen said matter-of-factly. "When I was at school they always caned on the bare. Your predecessor here, Mrs De Vere caned me on the bare."

"I have something of a tradition to follow then," I murmured, locking the door and then picking the cane up, before flexing it in my hands: "the good old, bad old days."

"Yes," she smiled. "Should I take my blouse off too?"

"What would you want to be doing that for?"

"Mrs De Vere always said that no whipping was complete without nice red tits all present and correct."

"Mrs De Vere went on to take charge of the Further Education College, did she not?"

"Yes, she did."

"And does she continue her strict regime there?"

"Yes miss. My stepdaughter, Alexandra, tells me that even star students have been seen standing outside Mrs De Vere's door after hours."

"Alexandra?"

"Yes miss. She's a star student after a fashion, but says she welcomes the direction even at eighteen years of age."

"As does her mother at thirty nine," I commented wryly, as I brought the cane down on Karen's upturned behind for the first of many whippings in our association.

"Yes miss. Thank you, miss."

"You like this, don't you," I grinned, slashing down twice more.

"I love it miss," she moaned, jerking as she received a further three blows on her bottom.

"The exercise is quite invigorating," I mused, applying a little further force.

"That's it, miss. Cut through me. Look to the other side of the flesh."

"My, you are full of helpful advice."

"Ooooh! Thank you, miss. What's good for the beater is good for the beaten, miss."

"And what does Alexandra say?"

"She tells me that her college principal says star students should be spanked at home if they are to retain their cutting edge."

"And you oblige?"

"I want her to succeed, miss."

"Have you had enough yet?" I asked, looking from the cane to her freshly striped bottom.

"That's for you to determine, miss," she winced as I ran my finger along one of the red lines.

"I have a lot to learn evidently."

"You have a natural gift, miss," she sighed as I slid between her legs to caress her gently there. "Oh and that's so nice too."

"And is this "nice"?"

I slipped my fingers against her sex, sluicing up and down her slit, teasing the moisture from her until she was putty in my hands, her body trembling under my ministrations.

"Oooooh, yes miss!"

"You are a very naughty girl, Karen Kincaid," I grinned, slapping her bottom affectionately, rubbing the recently inflicted stripes to make her wince a little.

"Naughty is as naughty does, miss," she smiled back at me wickedly, looking round slyly as I embedded two fingers in her pussy and started rotating them, gradually accelerating the pace until I could feel her tremble. I will never forget how her warm, moist vaginal flesh clung to my penetrating fingers.

"What are you saying, girl?" I said, withdrawing my fingers and swatting the dissolute woman hard with the palm of my hand.

"I'm saying that you also have a penchant for spanking miss."

"I blame you entirely."

"I quite understand miss."

"You have a very spankable bottom, Karen."

"It's not quite as spankable as Alexandra's, miss."

"Do you spank Alexandra on the bare then, Karen?"

"Is there any other way, miss?"

"Do you enjoy spanking your step-daughter's bare bottom?"

"I do as I'm told, miss."

"I take it Mrs De Vere is responsible for the telling?"

"Yes miss."

"Is there anything else I should know about your disgraceful household, Karen?"

"Sometimes Mrs De Vere comes to visit us."

"Oh does she now?" I grinned, reinserting my fingers and gently pistoning them in and out of Karen's very wet cunt. "Do tell me more about these bacchanalian goings-on."

And Karen, already a slave to my insinuating fingers, told me everything about her relationship with my predecessor. Apparently Mrs De Vere had discovered a real exhibitionist streak in both mother and step-daughter.

She was delighted to exploit their need to show themselves off. She would sometimes even spank them head to toe over the same table, making the step-daughter count the mother's agony and vice versa until Mrs D had sated everyone's love of chastisement.

Unfortunately Mrs D appeared to be focussed solely on the disciplinary aspect. Neither Karen nor her daughter had the effrontery to challenge her and request other pleasures. Bottoms were reddened. Tears were shed. Cries were heard. Yet that was the sum of it.

Once Mrs D had exhausted her swing and departed, mother would look to step-daughter. Then both would look to the floor and turn away, before retiring sheepishly to separate rooms. There, lying in solitary bliss, Karen Kincaid and Alexandra would recollect the events of the evening over cocoa, a nicely turned-up radio programme and a frenzied session of masturbatory fantasy.