Jean Marie’s Third Piece of Spanking Writing…

My Fantasy Trip to the Emporium
By Jean Marie

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​Mr. Jones and I have been corresponding. He has been entirely circumspect and proper, a complete gentleman. I’ve fluctuated, however, trying to be lady-like, but sometimes, after a long day of teaching, then grading student papers, when it’s finally “me” time in the wee hours, and I’ve had a glass of wine to take the edge off, I may have said some provocative things. In my defense, he led me on with his mind-blowing (for me) and simply-stated (for him) suggestions…
For example, he invited me to visit across the pond in England. He matter-of-factly said that he could do a photo shoot with his models and me (after I’d mentioned that I used to be a professional model long ago). He stated the fact that if we were photographed in the nude, he wouldn’t have to show my face in the shots, if I preferred anonymity. He also stated that my spanking of a model or two could be accomplished by the mere request to do the deed.
Normally, I have a strict internal gyroscope that keeps my life spinning smoothly, in balance, and on-track. But his suggestions sent my mind reeling off its axis. I became inebriated by the intoxicating ideas he was casually offering. I started to fantasize about taking the trip to central England, doing some of the things he suggested, then elaborating on this riff.
I flew from America not to London. The capital and its tourist attractions would have to wait until the end of my visit. I had more important priorities. I flew first to Liverpool, to see all the haunts of the Beatles. Even though I’m in my early thirties and missed living through their heyday, I LOVE the fab four! Then, to fit into the Victorian mindset of my next destination, I would dress in period costume and take the train. I’d wear a dress that flowed to my ankles, with old fashioned bloomers underneath, the kind of knickers that went from my waist to my knees with lace trimming the white cotton, thin fabric, and a seam that opened in the back, parallel to my ass crack to my crotch, so that I could more easily sit on the loo. Or so that an authority-figure could have access to my naughty girl bits, to finger my pussy or bare me for a session of corporal punishment. I’d wear a whale-bone corset, not laced too tight, but that nipped my waist, making my full, womanly hips and bum blossom out underneath, and make my cupcake titties overflow the garment, so that I felt well-endowed for the first time in my life. To top it off, I’d wear a magnificent chapeau, a wide-brimmed hat. I felt like the Kate Winslet character, when she got out of her limousine to board the Titanic, if you saw that movie. My train route would take me east to Manchester, then south and east to a place called Derbyshire, where Mr. Jones’ emporium was located.
He calls it an emporium. The dictionary defines this old world term as a place where a wide variety of merchandise is available. It is truth in advertising. The emporium has a large bevy of female beauties, each seemingly sexier than the last, each unique in her own way. I expected to be met at the train station by Mr. Jones. (I refuse to call him by his given name of Asa. I feel toward him as I would a Top, a man in control of me and my every situation, a man fixated on corporal matters, especially the disciplining of all his models, myself humbly among their number for this enchanted weekend.) But a distinguished man of seventy years is nowhere in evidence. I recognize the gorgeous model, Charlotte, who waves at me as if we were long-lost friends. She too is wearing a wide-brimmed hat and period dress. I feel immediately at home in her company, particularly because of her warm smile, easy manner, and sharp sense of humor. She has been enlisted to transport me to Mr. Jones’ studio. We hop into a vintage MG roadster and are off. We take our hats off just before they blow away in the open convertible.
I find myself staring at the natural beauty of the blond driving the sportscar too fast. I can’t help myself, my thoughts pour out unfiltered.
“I hope you know that you are absolutely beautiful, not austere and perfect, but accessibly gorgeous, a lived-in, comfortable beauty, facially and in every way,” I gush, the words tumbling out of my soul.
Charlotte smiles casually at me, “Well, thanks…”
“I mean it! I had a boyfriend, we broke up about a year ago, anyway, he was infatuated with you. Keith was the one who showed me your photos on Mr. Jones blog.”
“Let me guess, he wasn’t attracted to my ‘lived-in beauty’ facially, he wanted ‘access’ to my bared bum,” and she laughed in a way that reminded me of music.
I guffaw at how she saw right to the heart of the matter, and to Keith’s superficiality, and the ice is broken between us.
“I could say the same to you, Jeanie,” she smiles. “Asa said you did some professional modeling.”
“Long ago, yes, but strictly print-work and runway stuff. I’m envious of your honesty to do nude work, especially spanking scenarios…” I realize that I’m as attracted to Charlotte as Keith was, I try to justify it in my mind because we’re sharing like tastes, that it isn’t just physical. But I’m aroused, my bloomers are wet.
“To thine own self be true,” Charlotte smiles in reply. “All the models that work for Asa have a taste for corporal discipline, to one degree or another, some of us more so than others.”
“It must be thrilling to do shoot after shoot with your backside bared, positioned provocatively, buttocks redden by a paddle or cane or…” I squirm on the leather car seat, my excitement uncontainable.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Sometimes, especially if I have another, straight photo shoot the next day, we’ll use rouge on our bottoms to simulate the cane stripes.”
“But that’s dishonest!” I respond, surprised to hear this background dirt.
“You’re right. Maybe you should spank me for it! But we have to, you see, we cannot keep waiting for bottoms to cool, and then spank again, a story would take all day! We do lots of them real, it depends on the shoot.” Charlotte breathed, her eyes on mine. “Asa’s setting up the studio and the camera angles. We can do one in a schoolroom, or a bedroom, or a dungeon, or out in nature, or all of the above. But, whatever you decide, I hope we get the chance to shoot together. I think it’d be hot,” and we have arrived, so she puts the car in park, and leans over to softly kiss me on my lips. We put our hats back on, I grab my suitcase, and we get out of the small car on wobbly legs with wet crotches.
Charlotte introduces me to the assembled models. In my mind, I’m thinking about all my background knowledge to put together with each of the beautiful women before me in-the-flesh. All of them got the memo, and are dressed in Victorian period garb. They look like ice cream cones, mouthwateringly sweet and so lick-able. Big hats and boobies pushed up above the cleavage of each tight-fitting, pastel-colored gown.
“This is Samantha,” Charlotte says, and I recognize the other blond used in Mr. Jones’ stable of regular models often, but this one is cool, somewhat icy in her patrician stare, with just as hot a slender body as Charlotte’s undulating beneath her gown. Whether in actuality or just in the photographed scenarios, Sam is often a switch, both taking a caning and administering one. Therefore, I’m a little afraid of her.
“This is Kate,” Charlotte says, and a stunning, natural redhead smiles demurely at me. Her long hair is piled haphazardly on her head, giving her an air of casual ease that I warm to immediately. She has the most zaftig of figures of any of the models, with full, large breasts matched by a round, bouncy bottom. She is in the habit of posing across the spanking bench most openly, meaning high up, unafraid of exposing her nether regions. I have seen photos of lovely Kate that reveal her tight, brown arsehole, photos that impressed me so much, they took my breath away. I feel that I know her intimately in my lascivious mind, want to know her in fact in the Biblical sense of the word.
“And this is Cherry,” Charlotte says. Cherry seems younger than any of the models. She has an attitude that seems to say that she knows she’s fresh and firm and completely unspoiled. She has a pretty face with a cleft chin and startlingly hypnotic eyes, and long, straight auburn brown hair. She has a similarly cherubic set of buttocks, high and tight, but round and well-upholstered. My teeth ache when I look upon her beguiling beauty; I want to spank her for everything she embodies.
“I’m pleased to meet each and every one of you,” I say in complete honesty. “You are each overwhelmingly lovely, sexy, enchanting!”
Cutting right to the chase with the impetuosity of youth, Cherry asks, “Have you thought about which models you want to participate and what scenarios you’d like to depict in this shoot?”
“How rude!” Samantha admonishes the pretty girl. “Let’s sit inside, have tea, let Jeanie catch her breath, and then talk specifics,” and she escorts us into the large, homey cottage. We sit on overstuffed, comfy furniture with pretty, floral prints that don’t match, but rather complement one another. The chairs and sofas are arranged in a circle, so we can look one another in the eye to talk freely. Tea is served on impeccable porcelain.
As I lift my teacup, I’m reminded of Charlotte’s derriere, so fair and well-made. The only difference is that the tea service seems delicate, and easily shattered whereas sweet Charlotte’s bum seems substantial and unbreakable. I’d like to spend a whole night long trying to wear her out. My mind takes flight with this fantasy, when I refocus on reality, Charlotte is smiling demurely at me, and I blush at the juxtaposition of the two.
“Would you like a biscuit?” Kate offers. I don’t see any biscuits on the tray, but a selection of other delicacies. The scone reminds me of Samantha, with a hardness about her, the shortbread as substantial and satisfying as Kate, the jelly-filled cookie as saccharine as Cherry, and the fruitcake as varied and nutritious as Charlotte. I took the latter.
We make small talk, mostly centering around me, my career as a teacher, my love-life, my interest in spanking. I don’t like talking about myself, so was uncomfortable. But my clothing made me more so. I’d already taken off my hat when we came indoors. But, having worn the corset for hours, it was proving too much.
“I’m sorry, this is unbearable!” I blurted out, and all around me, pretty faces looked horror-struck that I was displeased. “It’s just this corset, is anyone else wearing one? Mine isn’t even laced-up tight, but I can’t stand it any longer.” If I’d been wearing a blouse, I would have had access, but instead, I stood and pulled my gown over my head and off, then unclipped the front of the corset and removed it, too. This meant I was reduced to wearing only those bloomers. Finally I could breath, but I blushed because I was now exposed, nearly nude.
Seeing this, understanding Kate stood up and said, “Ladies, our guest shouldn’t be made to feel conspicuous,” and she joined me in pulling her gown off and removing her corset. Her breasts were heavy and drooped a bit, they were the breasts of a motherly-type, an earth-mother, a flower-child decades too late. I wanted to nuzzle my face into them, kiss their bounty, suckle their warmth. Instead, I simply sit on my chair and feel the moisture seep into my cotton knickers.
Cherry decides to join us in solidarity, and in a trice is just as nearly-nude. Her tits, by contrast, are firm and pert and barely bouncing, topped with pink, perfect nipples.
Like blond twins, Charlotte and Samantha then stood and disrobed. The only difference between them was their facial features and the set of their boobies, with Sam’s widely perched on her chest.
I smile in incredulity at the unlikely portrait of all these beauties sitting in just their old fashioned undies. I put my hat back on my head, which seemed all the sexier, and everyone followed suit. And we all started to giggle, all tension now gone, boobs bobbling and bouncing with our laughter.
Now it seemed appropriate, so I said, “To answer your question, Cherry, I think I’d like to utilize all your talents. I’d like to shoot a scene in the schoolroom where Sam is spanking Kate, and I’m tasked with punishing Charlotte. Then, I’d like for both Charlotte and I to punish Cherry with a dual caning in-class over a desk. After that, I think I’d like to film Charlotte and me outside in the sunshine playing together.” Looks are exchanged all around, everyone seems excited and happy with this plan, all except Cherry.
“Why must I get caned, by two people at once?!” she asks.
“Because your arse is so ripe,” I answer, “and because your attitude on display right now cries out for it.”
All the other girls burst out in spontaneous applause, and Cherry sits in rebuffed silence.
I add, “And no rogue is to be used at all. Every red bottom will have to be earned.” Knowing looks are exchanged, and Cherry is sitting even more uncomfortably. She won’t be sitting at all soon.
We adjourn to the schoolroom set, where I meet Mr. Jones for the first time. He is distinguished as anticipated, white-haired, craggily handsome, powerfully built. I’m secretly glad that he won’t be spanking me because I’m in the mood for something playful, not harsh. We exchange our wide-brimmed hats for straw boaters suitable for schoolgirls, and we’re ready to shoot. Because it’s a still shoot and not video, I can sit out of the shot and watch as Samantha spanks Kate. True to form, Kate leans over a desk deeply; we can all see all of Kate’s considerable charms. Samantha spanks her thoroughly. Kate squirms and squeals as her buttocks are belabored, and suddenly I’m sitting in a puddle of my arousal.
I lean over to Charlotte and whisper, “How do you stand it? I’m about to jump out of my skin I’m so turned-on!”
Charlotte takes me by the hand and leads me away from the set, back into the cottage. “In all the modeling shoots you did, you never did porn, did you, Jeanie?” I shake my head. “On a porn set,” she continues, “there’s a ‘fluff girl’, whose job it is to keep the male actors aroused, and keep the females able to contain their excitement…” Charlotte pushes me back onto the sofa and applies her pretty mouth to my aroused pussy. She’s my fluff girl, and a skilled one. I climax hard in a series of wracking orgasms. Just as suddenly as she started, Charlotte wipes her glazed mouth with the back of her hand, and takes me by the hand back to the set, her job done.
Sitting back down on the director’s folding chair I’d just occupied, I beat myself up mentally for not seizing the opportunity to kiss my juices off her face, or at least to say ‘thank you’.
“Great!” Mr. Jones exclaims. “Thank you, ladies! Are you ready Jeanie and Charlotte?”
We both nod and get up, take our positions on the realistic schoolroom set. I decide not to pull Charlotte’s white bloomers down. I want to break into this by small steps. I just open the back of the garment as Charlotte bends over a desk. Her perfect, pale posterior peaks out at me. I start to spank her. I’m so glad that she ate me out and let the pressure off or I would’ve exploded. It was SO sexy spanking this beautiful woman, feeling her buttocks warm beneath my punishing palm, seeing her cheeks turn to pink, to rosy red, to tomato, then to magenta. I didn’t let her off easily, I spanked Charlotte for all she was worth.
“Great job, Jeanie! You, too, Char!” Mr. Jones yells enthusiastically. Charlotte pops up off the desk and into my arms, we hug and kiss, and as our hungry mouths part, she whispers, “Return the favor? I need a fluff girl!”
I fairly run with Charlotte back to our perch on the sofa in the cottage. I apply my tongue to her humid and headily fragrant pussy, and Charlotte clamps her thighs around my head and doesn’t let me go. It is some of the most meaningful and satisfying sex I’ve ever shared, with man or woman, stranger or lover of long-standing.
Charlotte gets off her back smiling broadly. “Let’s go cane the snot out of that deserving Cherry!” she exclaims.
By the condition of her rock hard raisins for nipples, Cherry is excited about what’s to come, but she’s also apprehensive. The pretty girl is pacing like a nervous leopard. Charlotte takes command.
“Kneel on the desk, stick your ass up high in the air,” she instructs, handing me a thin rattan cane as she grips her own.
“Can I keep these on?” Cherry pleads as she holds the waistband of her bloomers.
“No,” Charlotte says definitively, and yanks them down. Her ample bottom jiggles as it’s bared.
I just smile, I couldn’t have given directions any better. Clearly Charlotte has an ax to grind against the sharpening stone of Cherry’s callipygous bottom.
“Whenever you’re ready, ladies,” Mr. Jones calls out.
Regardless of whether Cherry was ready, Charlotte and I alternate giving the round target stripes with our canes. The bum bounces provocatively as each lick lands, her toned musculature flexes, the flesh relaxes as the girl absorbs the sting, and the cycle is repeated. The lovely song of “swish, thwack, yeow” is sung for twenty refrains. Then silence except for sniffling and soft sobs as the lovely lass dismounts and rubs her flaming backside. I envelop the girl in my arms and kiss her tear-steaked face.
“You took that very well! It made for a sizzling hot shoot!” I praise.
“You needed that, and deserved everything you got,” Charlotte added. I shot Charlotte a reproachful look, then blocked with my hand the spank that Charlotte tried to land on Cherry’s welted cheeks. “Well, it’s true!” she said in her defense.
“The other girls all hate me!” she sobbed in my arms.
“Part of it is just because you’re young and vivacious,” I consoled. “Part of it is because you can be a brat, so work on that…” and I gave her bottom a sharp spank for emphasis.
I disengaged from Cherry’s embrace and filled my arms with Charlotte. We strolled out to the meadow, with Mr. Jones clicking off photos of our bloomers-half-covered-backsides as we went. We laid down among the wild flowers. He kissed for a long moment, then I smooched my way down her lithe form, from her collarbone to her nipples to her innie belly button, and into her muff via the slit in her drawers. Then I turned her over and pulled her knickers down and off. I was confronted with a delicate tattoo of a bow just above her ass crack. It looked to me as though her perfect body had been giftwrapped just for me and tied up with a ribbon. I kissed the blue tattoo then trailed my tongue down into her crevice. I parted her buttocks with both hands and pushed my tongue into the orifice I found there.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” Charlotte sighed as an orgasm approached.
I removed my tongue from her tooter long enough to joke, “No, I’m just a girl, but I know it feels heavenly, so I understand your confusion,” then licked her there all the harder.
A climax rocked her world. Charlotte flexed her cheeks and nearly broke my nose. When she was through, she pushed me down into the garden and reciprocated the tongue bath. All the while, Mr. Jones shutter clicked in rapid-fire succession.
All too soon, my time was up, our photo session was over. I got dressed while every other female just stood there naked and watched. I kissed each of them goodbye, finishing the circle with Charlotte.
“I’ll remember you forever,” I confided with all sincerity.
“And if you don’t, you’ll have some sexy photos to remind you,” she said to brighten the mood.
Mr. Jones drove me to the train station. I thanked him profusely, then boarded the train to London.
He said through the open window, “You can trust me, no one will see your photos except you and me.”
“No, publish them on your blog. Just don’t publish my name for some anonymity. I want the world to see the beauty of your work and of all your models.”
A radiant smile broke out across his handsome face. “And you! Did anyone ever tell you that you have a spectacular ass?” Passersby looked over at us.
“Yes, about ten years ago. It’s nice to hear that again!”
The train started to move. Mr. Jones walked along side. “Retire from teaching and come work with us,” he offered. “It’ll keep Charlotte young, and keep Cherry in her place…”
I just laughed, closed the window as the train picked up speed, and was alone with my thoughts.

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