Damsels in Distress (23 page)

‘That was horrible,’ Mr Porrit says a few moments later.

Cherry is still panting heavily and her behind is still throbbing. Bunty is gasping like a landed fish and sobbing with pain.

‘Absolutely, awful,’ Mr Manfry agrees. ‘I never saw such a pathetic exhibition.’

‘Pathetic? That is the word. Now let’s try it again!’

‘Well, Peter, I think they are warmed up nicely,’ Mr Porrit adjudges. ‘What do you think?’

Mr Manfry sniggers. ‘Yes, that got the circulation going.’

Cherry has collapsed on the rubber mat and is gasping desperately. She has had another three whistlers from the tawse and a couple of nasty cracks from Mr Porrit’s cane so her bottom is burning. Bunty is sobbing brokenly. She collapsed halfway through the second round of exercises, so both strap and cane have been used extensively if ineffectually on her thighs and bottom; a circumstance that afforded Cherry some most welcome relief.

Then the girls had been made to do ‘the plank’. This meant raising themselves, on their elbows and toes, holding their bodies stiff and straight between. This time they were arranged facing each other, inches apart, so as Mr Porrit slowly counted thirty, Cherry had a close up view of the strain on Bunty’s face. By five her cheeks were red and forehead creasing. By ten Bunty was grimacing horribly. Pain started to spread through Cherry’s middle by the time he counted twenty, but Bunty had long since collapsed on the mat.

‘Get up you lazy, lazy, lazy girl!’ Mr Manfry roared, bringing the tawse down three times in quick succession on Bunty’s bottom and thighs as she lay sobbing under the onslaught. At last Mr Porrit counted thirty and Cherry also slumped down.

Of course they had to do it again, and of course Bunty couldn’t make it. Naturally she received a few more tawse strokes for her pains. But this time Cherry collapsed too, just after twenty, and Mr Porrit gave her three wicked strokes from his cane. The pain was so intense she could barely breathe, but now as it slowly ebbs she begins to gasp for air again.

‘Come on now, girls, on your feet, you can’t lie there all day.’

Cherry’s legs are wobbly, but she manages to get up. She is certainly ‘warmed up’ now. Apart from the burning stripes on her hindquarters, the exercises in the warm cellar have caused her to perspire freely too. The vest is soaked and sticking to her body. Even the cotton panties feel clammy and moist.

Bunty struggles to her feet too, clearly more shaken than Cherry. The blonde’s face is as red as the angry stripes on her bare thighs. Her vest is drenched too and sticking to her skin. Previously the shape of her nipples had been visible against the tight vest, but now the wet cotton has turned translucent, and they can be seen, pressing pertly, almost as rosy as her tearstained cheeks. Her meaty thighs are beaded with sweat, as is her furrowed brow.

‘Now,’ Mr Porrit says, smiling at the two perspiring young ladies, ‘time for a spot of drill.’

At one end of the cellar is a sort of little stage. Consisting of four wooden blocks it forms a platform against the whitewashed brickwork of the cellar wall. Cherry and Bunty step up onto it reluctantly. They know what to do and take up position, facing the front, a little apart.

There is the clunking of heavy switches being thrown and Cherry blinks against the blaze of light. Mr Porrit has had searchlights fixed, directed at the stage. If the strip lighting in the ‘gym’ was bright, this is ferocious. The goose pimples on her skin are revealed by the glare. She screws her eyes up and squints out against the light but cannot see the men, who have merged into the background shadows.

‘All right, girls,’ Mr Porrit’s voice comes from beyond the bright shield of light, ‘let’s get to work. Position U-one, if you please.’

U stands for upright; U-one is standing upright to attention. Cherry snaps into position as smartly as she can. Legs straight, arms at her sides, shoulders back and chest out, stomach pulled in tight.

‘Shoulders back, Bunty,’ Mr Porrit warns. ‘Now girls, U-two.’

Position U-two is at ease, so Cherry steps sideways with her right leg so that her feet are two feet apart. She grasps her left wrist in her right hand and holds them against the small of her back, making sure her hands do not cover her bottom. Several painful sessions have drilled that particular lesson into her.

‘That was horrible. More snap, both of you, please.’

There is a pause. Cherry always finds these moments the hardest. She knows the men are looking at Bunty and her as they stand transfixed by the bright glare of the arc lights. The lecherous men are running their eyes over the two girls’ nubile, perspiring, scantily clad young bodies, and Cherry knows they are fondling themselves.

‘And… U-three.’

U-three means widening her stance still further, and stretching out their arms horizontally. There is not quite space and her fingers briefly collide with Bunty’s, before finding their position a few inches below the outstretched arm of the taller girl.

‘What was that? Horrible, horrible. Try to put some effort into it. After all, it is for your own good. Anyone would think you did not appreciate us giving up our time to teach you this drill. All right, B-three if you please.’

The B’s are all bending over. B-three means turning, legs apart, and grasping shins just below the knees. Cherry’s bottom twitches expectantly as she bends over.

‘Bunty, what do you think you’re doing? That is B-four, not B-three.’

Bunty can be relied upon to get the position’s wrong, but the blonde girl’s travails are of little help to Cherry, because Mr Manfry gets up, with a bit of effort, onto the platform. She feels his plump hand pat her bottom.

‘Need to be more careful, little Cherry,’ he says softly, his thumbs slipping into the waistband of her knickers and pulling them halfway down her thighs.

Bunty squeals as Mr Porrit’s cane thwacks into her bottom, but Cherry’s mind is on other things. There is a horrible whooshing sound and the twin tails of Mr Manfry’s tawse cracks across her buttocks. She grips her legs harder and tries not to cry out as the pain floods through her, and it looks like she’s going to manage it until the tawse lashes her again.

‘Ooooh!’ she gasps, barely aware of Bunty yelping under a quick fire succession of cane strokes beside her.

‘Be quiet, you silly girl,’ Mr Manfry orders and cracks the tawse across her bottom again.

Cherry is in agony now. The three strokes have all been across the middle of her bottom and each time the tawse tails have bitten into already reddened flesh. The third is too much to bear, and Cherry hisses with the pain. She feels as if she’s sat on a hot iron. Digging her fingernails into her calves until her knuckles whiten she wiggles her burning bottom furiously, as if this will, somehow, banish the excruciating pain.

‘Stop making all that silly fuss, the pair of you.’

As the pain subsides to manageable levels Cherry realises the men have stepped down from the tiny stage. She tries to breathe less brokenly and ignore Bunty’s sobbing.

‘B-one!’

B-one is feet together, touching toes, and Cherry really does ‘snap to it’ this time. Her poor scorching bottom needs respite.

‘Very good, Bunty, you remembered,’ Mr Porrit says sarcastically, and beside Cherry Bunty makes a sniffling sound and sobs.

‘All right, girls, ready for it… K-three, if you please.’

The K positions are all kneeling. Cherry drops to her knees and a thump tells her that Bunty has done the same. K-three is kneeling upright with hands behind the head, which thrusts the girls’ breasts out further. The arc lights have made the stage quite hot now, and Cherry can feel the perspiration soaking more into the vest. But worse than that, her panties are still around her thighs and her sex is completely exposed in the bright glare.

‘And… wait for it… wait for it… U-one!’

Jumping up as quickly as she can, Cherry snaps into the attention position, trying to ignore the fact that her panties slip down to her knees when she brings her feet together.

‘Are those knickers bothering you, girls?’

‘No, sir,’ they say in unison. Mr Porrit likes to be called by his name usually, but when taking drill he insists on ‘sir’.

‘Still, might as well have them off,’ he says, his voice sounding a little thick with excitement.

‘They also look a little sticky in those vests,’ Mr Manfry says slyly.

‘Quite right, Peter,’ Mr Porrit concedes. ‘Take the tops off too, girls.’

Cherry does not know why she’s blushing as she strips to her socks and plimsolls in the pitiless glare of the arc lights. After all, she was already quite exposed enough, but it’s as if the little vest was a last vestige of dignity. Now she is quite naked with nothing to protect her body from the men’s hungry eyes, or their canes and straps.

As if to emphasise the point she hears Mr Manfry give a whistle of appreciation.

‘Your Cherry really is a scrumptious little piece of mischief, Norman,’ he says appreciatively.

‘Hm,’ Mr Porrit says vaguely, ‘yes, I suppose she isn’t too bad. Bunty is looking rather delicious, too. That pale skin of hers really shows off her stripes.’

‘Have they had enough drill, do you think? Should we…?’

‘Perhaps in a minute. I think they would benefit from a little more. Girls, when I snap my fingers I want to see a really crisp B-five.’

‘Oh dear, poor little Cherry,’ Mr Manfry says softly, ‘that really does look sore.’

Cherry bites her lip and tries to stand still. She is on the floor of the cellar, bent over the wooden stage, leaning forward and supporting herself with her hands. Mr Manfry is behind her, examining her bottom with help from the arc lights. He has promised to put something on her bottom to help the stinging. There is a tub of soothing cream on the platform beside her and part of Cherry wants him to smooth it over her scorched rear. The other part is wondering what the tube of KY jelly he’s placed next to the cream is for.

Both girls got a good few extra strokes as the drill session continued. Bunty received most, naturally, but even Cherry started to forget her positions by the end, so a regretful Mr Manfry ‘had to’ use his tawse on her some more. Now her bottom and thighs feel as if they’ve been grilled. Even though the belting has stopped she can hardly manage to keep still. Tears are running down cheeks that must be almost as red as her poor bottom, and she is trembling as she tries not to fidget. It is not just the pain, no; there is an urgent tingling between her parted thighs and she is desperate to touch herself to ease it, but she dare not move her hands from the stage.

Mr Manfry and Cherry are alone in the cellar. Mr Porrit has taken a well whipped and helplessly sobbing Bunty upstairs with him to ‘help him fetch some sherry’ for the gentlemen to enjoy.

‘Is it tender, sweetheart?’ Mr Manfry asks. ‘It certainly feels hot.’

‘Oh, ah, please sir, it’s stinging terribly,’ she tells him.

‘That’s enough, Cherry; keep quiet unless you want some more tawse. For heaven’s sake, girl, that was the gentlest of pats.’

This is nothing but a lie. Mr Manfry is smacking and pinching the sore flesh of her bottom with cruel relish, and Cherry has to bite her lip and use every ounce of self-control she has to keep from crying out again.

At last he stops and picks up the cream. Cherry waits, breathless with expectation as he tantalises by standing motionless behind her. Then she feels the cool cream on her bottom, and a sigh escapes her parted lips.

It is simply delicious. Her poor bottom, so hot, so cruelly punished by the tawse, quivers as he smoothes in the cold, soothing cream. She wishes this could go on forever. Her bottom does not stop throbbing, but raw pain turns to an almost pleasant glow under his expert hands.

But of course it does not go on forever. Cherry’s stomach tightens with anxiety as she watches him put the cream on the stage beside her, and take up the little tube of lube.

‘All right, easy girl, just stay still for me now,’ he says softly, as if speaking to a highly strung dog or skittish pony.

Cherry feels the cold lube come into contact with her anus and gives a little gasp.

‘Shhh, easy girl, easy,’ he coaxes, and a finger starts to circle her sphincter, working the lube in and expertly teasing the muscle ring into unclenching.

‘That’s it, good girl, good girl,’ he murmurs.

There is something that feels bigger than a finger or thumb pressing at her bottom hole now, and Cherry lets out a little, alarmed whinny.

‘Shhh, easy girl, just relax now, that’s it…’

‘Ah, please, it’s too big…’ she mumbles against her arm. ‘I… ah… oooooh!’

With a sudden thrust Mr Manfry sinks his lubricated erection deep into her anus. In alarm Cherry wriggles, but he holds her hips and pushes ever harder. An astonished gasp escapes her as she feels his cock fill and stretch her rear passage. His paunch rests and moulds against the sore flesh of her impaled buttocks and she cannot help but moan with pleasure.

‘Do you like that, my feisty little wriggler?’ Mr Manfry grunts, as with every thrust he seems to be impaling her further. As well as the discomfort as he stretches her tight anal sphincter, Cherry’s strapped bottom flesh is being abraded by the rough material of his suit. She gasps and squeals but every desperate squirm just seems to get him even more excited. His cock, already stretching her snug passage to the utmost, seems to be getting even bigger, and Cherry whimpers as he buggers her with surprising vigour and expertise.