Blushing at Both Ends (12 page)

Abel contemplated the slim lovely girl lying prone across his lap, every inch of her soundly spanked rear blushing a hot cherry-red. Gently, he stroked the twin trembling masses of fiery flesh. ‘OK, Louise,' he murmured, ‘it's all over. You've had the spanking you were asking for. Up you get.' He helped her up off his lap and hugged her, and she clung to him, sobbing and shuddering on his shoulder. When at length she disengaged herself, her brown eyes were still wet with tears, but she gave him a tremulous smile as she gingerly rubbed her flaming curves. ‘Bloody hell,' she complained, ‘you spank horribly hard, Abel. I bet Abelard never spanked Héloise as hard as that!'

‘On the contrary, I bet he did. And she'd probably have been the first to complain if he hadn't.'

Louise gave a rueful grin as she carefully eased her panties back into place. ‘Mm, you may be right. But at least she didn't have to get jeans on again afterwards. Oooh, owww, help! I think my bottom's too swollen to get into them!'

There was a spring in Abel's step as he strolled home to North Oxford that afternoon. Spanking Louise had proved a deliciously stimulating experience – for both participants, he suspected. In fact, though her work would no doubt show an immediate improvement, he foresaw that she would still feel the need of further disciplinary incentives from time to time. It was an enchanting likelihood.

He let himself into his apartment. The door on to the patio was open, and a tall slim honey-blonde girl
wearing
well-filled white shorts was leaning over the parapet with her back to him. After approaching quietly, he delivered a resounding smack to the nearside of the proffered rump.

‘Owww!' exclaimed Mary Linklater, swinging round and clapping a hand to her injured rear. ‘God, you made me jump, you rotten – mmm!' Further invective was cut off as Abel pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly.

‘Now how could I resist such a tempting target?' he demanded, his hands sliding down to cup and squeeze the lush globes of the target in question.

‘When did you ever – mine or any other girl's?' enquired Mary sardonically as, after extricating herself, she headed in to retrieve a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

‘Well, you know what Oscar said,' he teased. ‘I can resist anything except temptation.'

‘Talking of which,' said Mary as they settled back on the patio with their drinks, ‘you're looking rather pleased with yourself. Didn't you have a tutorial with Louise Gray this afternoon?'

Abel nodded.

‘And didn't you say she'd been falling behind with her work?'

Abel nodded again, unable to repress a sly grin.

Mary's blue eyes widened. ‘You so-and-so! You set her the Abelard essay, didn't you?'

Abel's grin grew broader.

‘And she read the letters, and came and all but begged you on bended knee to spank her? That damn trick works for you every time, doesn't it?'

‘Not
every
time, alas. But often enough to be worth trying. And I'm sure you remember, my love –' he favoured her with his most charming smile ‘– just who inspired the idea when she discovered Abelard's letters on her own account – and then came and offered up her lovely bare bottom for chastisement?'

‘Abel Kendrick!' Mary exclaimed in mock outrage. ‘Has anyone ever told you you're a kinky, sadistic, underhand scheming lecher?'

‘And has anyone ever told
you
, young lady,' Abel retorted, reaching out to pull her across his knee in one practised movement, ‘just what happens to impertinent female students who indulge in wanton abuse of their poor long-suffering tutors?'

‘No! Don't you
dare
!' Mary yelped, struggling indignantly.

Disregarding her protests, Abel took a firm grip on her shapely torso and tugged her shorts down to half-mast – revealing, as he'd guessed, that she wasn't wearing panties.

‘
No
, Abel! Not on the bare! Not out here! What if someone sees us?'

‘If they do, my sweet,' said Abel, happily contemplating the prospect of spanking a second soft bare and beautifully rounded girlish bottom in the space of one afternoon, ‘I'm sure they'll be gratified that standards of academic discipline haven't slipped since the days of Peter Abelard.'

8

Shrewd Treatment

‘JEMMA!' HELENA MASON'S
voice cut through the hubbub of the crowded greenroom. ‘Jemma, where the hell is that sodding brooch? You know I need it for Act Five!'

Jemma, Helena's dresser, looked up in surprise – as did several other members of the National Shakespeare Company. ‘Sorry, Helena, I haven't seen it. Isn't it on your dressing table?'

‘Of course it bloody isn't – d'you think I haven't looked there?' Furious, Helena rammed her hands into the pockets of her dressing robe. ‘Goddammit, Jemma, can't you – oh.' Her hand emerged again from the right-hand pocket, holding a costume brooch. ‘Oh shit. I must have . . . Jemma, I'm really sorry.'

In the awkward silence that followed, Helena realised attention was focused not on her, but on someone behind her. She turned. In the doorway stood a stocky man in his forties with a neat brown beard: Stephen Berman, the play's director.

‘I'd like a word with you, Helena, if you don't mind – after the show.' Stephen's voice was quiet, as always, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.

‘Sure, OK, Stephen,' muttered Helena, shamefaced. ‘Jemma, I'm really – I – oh, hell.' Brushing past Stephen, she fled down the corridor. Behind her a buzz
of
voices arose, shocked and delighted at this new source of gossip.

That was the trouble with acting, Helena reflected, safely back in the refuge of her dressing room. Roles could take you over. The more you set yourself to get into the character, the more the character could get into you. Especially, she had to admit, if there was a little of that particular character in you already.

Not that she was really prone to throwing tantrums – not compared to some actresses she could name, anyway – but, yes, it had been known to happen. And just recently it seemed to have been happening quite a lot. Could it just be because she was playing Kate in
The Taming of the Shrew
?

Whatever the cause, five weeks into the play's six-week West End run the short-fused, prize-bitch side of Helena did seem to be getting out of control. This evening had been the worst so far. All in all, it would be a relief when the run finished, and she could move on to
Twelfth Night
. Olivia was a much more agreeable role – not a weak woman by any means, but far better-natured than Kate.

Meanwhile, though, there was the last act of the
Shrew
to get through. Helena tried to put herself into a suitably submissive frame of mind for the final contrition scene:

Such duty as the subject owes the prince

E'en such a woman oweth to her husband:

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel . . .?

If only, she thought, Mike wasn't quite such a nice guy. Oh, he looked well as Petruchio, and swaggered convincingly, but there was no fire behind those warm brown eyes. In their fight scenes he considerately pulled
all
his punches, which was more than Helena always did. She'd landed him a good clout or two, she knew, hoping to provoke some kind of response – hell, if the
Shrew
wasn't about sexual attraction expressed through sheer physical antagonism, what was it about? – but Mike was too much the gentleman to retaliate in kind. No wallops in return – not even so much as an angry glance.

Which reminded her, there was something else to be got through this evening: her little talk with Stephen. He was a good director, imaginative, open, supportive and utterly professional, expecting no less from all his team. Normally the soul of patience, unprofessional behaviour was the one thing that angered him – and Helena's outburst, she was uneasily aware, had been anything but professional.

As if hoping to atone, she put all she had into her performance and was rewarded by rapturous applause at the final curtain.

Afterwards, some of the cast drifted into her dressing room to congratulate her – but diffidently, as if knowing she was in disgrace. And, in due course, when Stephen arrived, they quietly slipped out without needing to be told. Jemma unobtrusively vanished too, and Stephen closed the door and – Helena noted, with a twinge of what might be alarm or excitement – locked it.

‘Well?' he demanded, standing over her. ‘What have you to say for yourself?'

Helena had removed her make-up and wig and, sitting at the dressing table in her robe, was brushing her short auburn page-boy cut. She had planned to apologise, but at the sight of Stephen's stern expression some imp of perversity possessed her. She smiled provocatively at him in the mirror. ‘What
should
I have to say, Stephen? Didn't I give a good performance?'

‘On stage, yes. But during the interval – what about
that
performance?'

‘OK, I went a bit OTT. But I told Jemma I was sorry.'

‘Oh, and that makes everything all right? Helena, your behaviour was utterly unprofessional –' oh, that dreaded word, thought Helena; now I'm for it ‘– and you know it. And it's not the first time. You've been behaving like a spoilt bitch for weeks, and I've had about enough of it.'

‘Oh, you have, have you? Well, I crave your pardon, my liege!' Helena slipped off her stool and knelt at Stephen's feet in mock supplication, launching into a parody of the
Shrew
speech. ‘My director is my lord, my life, my keeper . . .' What on earth are you playing at, girl? she asked herself. Are you
really
looking for trouble? But the provocative impulse seemed beyond her control. ‘My head, my sovereign; one that cares for me . . .'

Stephen's dark eyes blazed with fury, but he still spoke quietly. ‘Right, young lady, you've asked for it. In fact, you've been asking for it for some time.' He sat down on the stool she'd just vacated. ‘Stand up, please.'

Given what she suspected Stephen was about to do, Helena found his ‘please' irresistibly amusing. She stood up, grinning. ‘Well, of course, since you ask me so nicely . . .'

Stephen smiled grimly. ‘You find it funny, do you? OK, my girl, let's see how much
this
amuses you.' Seizing her by the wrist, he pulled her down across his knee. ‘You like playing the Shrew, it seems. Well, let's see how you enjoy my performance as Petruchio!'

Rather to her own surprise, Helena scarcely resisted – partly because she felt a good spanking was just what she deserved. But also it made sense in dramatic terms: Stephen was providing exactly the sort of response she'd been trying to elicit on-stage from Mike. And then, of course, Stephen
was
quite fanciable, and the thought of being spanked by him, she had to admit, was very exciting. Helena had now and then had her bottom
smacked
by a boyfriend, and had found it quite a turn-on.

Stephen, too, was aware of a distinct current of sexual excitement underlying his anger. His chief impulse had simply been to punish Helena as she deserved, but now that it was about to happen . . . She was a very fetching young woman, of course, with just the sort of looks he liked: a wide sexy mouth, cheeky grin, long legs, small firm breasts and a slim waist that elegantly set off the lush swell of her hips and buttocks. More than once, during her recent displays of temper, he'd felt tempted to smack that sweet shapely bottom. And now as she lay submissively across his lap – almost too submissively, in fact, a bit of spirited resistance would have added spice – the thin robe outlining her ripe rearward contours, he could feel a huge erection straining eagerly at his trousers, and knew that Helena could feel it too, pressing against her belly.

He flipped aside the robe. Under it, as he had suspected, Helena was naked, and there was revealed to his gaze a beautifully rounded bare bottom, sweetly shaped for spanking. He rested his hand on the nearest plump globe, squeezing it gently and making the tender flesh tremble beneath his hand. It felt deliciously cool and soft. ‘“Who knows not where a wasp doth wear her sting? In her tail,”' he quoted Petruchio. ‘You have a very pretty tail, my sweet Kate. And, believe me, it's going to have quite a sting in it before I've finished.'

Helena wriggled apprehensively. She knew she had a sexy bottom, and to have Stephen admiring, and indeed feeling, its naked charms was quite stimulating, especially since he was obviously getting turned on by it. But the allurements of her rear end, she suspected, wouldn't distract him from subjecting it to severely punitive treatment – rather the reverse, if anything. Stephen might be turned on, but he was still very angry and in no mood, she guessed, to let her off lightly.

She wasn't left long in doubt, since her glorious bottom offered an irresistible temptation to Stephen's palm. He pushed the robe well clear of the target area, exposing her slim back almost up to the shoulder-blades. ‘Right, young lady,' he said, raising his hand, ‘tantrums I don't tolerate in my productions. Nor spoilt brats. And if you act like one – then
this
is what you get!'

‘Owwww!' Helena gasped in surprise as Stephen's hard hand connected stingingly with the curve of her right cheek. Smack! The left cheek this time, followed by four more smacks that alternated right and left in rapid succession. ‘Hey! That
hurts
!' yelped Helena. ‘Bloody hell! Stop it!' She was a good actress, but she wasn't acting now – and neither was Stephen. These spanks were for real; by comparison, the smacks her boyfriends had given her were mere love-pats. After only half-a-dozen strokes, her bottom was already smarting furiously, and Stephen, she could tell, had scarcely even started.