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Miss

Posted at 21:22 on 22 Nov 2010 by Pandora / Blake

Tags: kink, March Middleton, other pictures, Short stories

This weekend I had the not inconsiderable pleasure of March Middleton's company. We enjoyed a stimulating evening together, during which March developed a liking for Tom's vicious little pocket-tawse, and demonstrated her ability to spank really quite hard when she knows she can get away with it. There was a lot of giggling (I do like sleeping with people who are inclined towards laughter during sex) and once my bottom was pink and tingling, we turned our attention to other pursuits which were just as satisfying.

The prefect/schoolgirl dynamic from the story she wrote me (now completed - and I not only have permission to include it in the members area of my site, but she's mulling over the possibility of appearing with me in an accompanying photoset...) persisted. At one point, as we sat facing each other crosslegged on the bed, winding down some conversational thread or other, March quipped, "Well, what should we tuck into first, the sardines or the fruitcake?" If I hadn't wanted to film a school dorm midnight feast scene before, I do now.

A couple of hours previously, by way of settling down to things, she showed me the "rude book" which was the star of her story: Miss, the 1912 (I think) novel by "Sadie Blackeyes" (otherwise known as the French author Pierre Dumarchey). I haven't read it, but skimming through it assured me that I wanted to; if anyone wants to buy me a Christmas present, the hardcover edition would be lovely. Mostly, though, I was distracted by the pictures - selected illustrations from various editions, many of which were beautiful, compelling and hot. I wanted to borrow it the next day to scan a couple of them in to show you, but we didn't get a chance; it'll just have to wait until I possess a copy of my own.

I'll leave you with another snippet from the story which kicked it all off, by March herself:

March's aim seemed devilishly accurate. The arc of the brush finished, again and again, on exactly the same spot. The hollow sound of the impact was startlingly loud in the quiet house.

Twelve, March! Pandora muttered, teeth gritted. If only she hadn't been such a fool as to move this might have been the last stroke. But there were two more to come and March seemed to be hitting harder every time. Why had she agreed to this?

March brought the brush down again, putting greater force into the stroke and matching the impact exactly to the red rectangle on Pandora's left buttock - a companion imprint graced the right-hand cheek. Thirteen, March!, she heard, in something that was almost a wail. The last stroke, then; March raised the brush and slammed it as hard as she could into the trembling girl's right buttock.

Fourteen, March! cried Pandora, and burst into tears.

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