Yes, she had been very surprised when after a session of passionate love-making, he had confessed to her his desire. They had been talking to each other very openly about what they liked and did not like. She liked to make love sometimes without any clothes on, he certainly was most attached to the decorative qualities of the "pleasing" clothes in all their variations. So they decided to compromise. She had been angry with him sometimes because he had not kept up to his promise, had whinged and begged her to put on "something nice." But now, as with their other domestic arrangements, everything had been sorted out. They could both enjoy all the different facets of a successful love-life. They both liked to fulfil the other partner's desires.

She had been taken back a bit when he had told her at the start of their marriage how he liked certain "uniforms." Silk and naughty underwear: that was not such a jump for the imagination, but blouses and pleated skirts - that was certainly rather strange at first! But now she had grown to love these clothes as well! Somehow she felt in a giving mood and very, very smart when she put on the crisply ironed blouse and skirt. She had grown to understand him and she felt sexy as well in these outfits. And of course, she loved his reaction as well. Sometimes understated, sometimes openly drooling and passionate. But it had been something rather new for her. But somehow, strangely enough, rather exciting.

She had taken the day off to prepare. She wanted everything to be ready for this special day. A special day for both of them: her husband and for her: his birthday. She knew what she liked and wanted and she wanted what he liked. Yes, she was ready to do everything for him.

She was nervous, waiting for him to come home. He had not taken any time off, saying that that would be a waste of a precious day. He would rather take a day off on her birthday, so that "he could attend to her properly, on her special day." She knew what that meant.

Everything was ready now. She had been very busy: the house looked perfect, his favourite meal, lamb pie was simmering in the oven. She had taken a bath and had washed her beautiful long dark blond hair. She looked perfect for him: she had also put on his favourite clothes, or at least she hoped they were his favourite clothes. She looked perfect in their perfect detached house.

He had insisted that they buy a detached house: "so that the neighbours won't be disturbed." She knew what that meant as well.

So now she waited in her freshly ironed white blouse, maroon pullover, white knee socks, white high-heels and light grey box-pleated skirt. Underneath she was wearing a white silk camisole and white silk panties. She felt prickly all over. She felt right about the way she looked. She had been wearing her uniform all day long, "to get into the feel." She liked the swing of the skirt which reached down to a little above her knees. She liked the feel of the silk and the nylon blouse, rubbing softly against her. She felt naughty and she felt sexy. Strange.

It had been a bit embarrassing though when the postman had come to the door bringing his birthday parcels. A popular husband! The postman's eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he saw the vision in front of him. He was a gentleman though and knew that this sight was not intended for his eyes. He had blushed and retreated as quickly as he could!

Choosing her uniform had not been easy. They had a special wardrobe with "pleasing" clothes. There was a long rail with pleated skirts hung on it; pleated skirts in every imaginable colour, length and material. The colour white was represented in every form; short tennis skirts, both in soft shiny nylon and stiffer nylon, pleated all the way round. Broad pleats and narrow pleats. The variation of a white games skirt pleated only at the sides and back. A longer soft silky nylon pleated skirt reaching down to just above the knees was also one of his favourites, the feeling of the material swinging around her legs. White was a very important colour. Also three different shades of blue: sky, royal and dark. Represented by two beautiful short tennis skirts and the dark blue, an expensive item from Fred Perry, beautifully crafted with full pleats, made in an exquisite nylon fibre.

Her husband was normally no fashion fan, but pleated skirts in red, orange, turquoise, black, two different shades of green, light and bottle green, purple, plum, aubergine, maroon, scarlet, yellow had all been carefully selected for their delight. All were short and all designed to give maximum visual pleasure when she bent forwards, for instance over a chair. Each skirt had its own story, where it had been bought, how much it had cost, the first time he had felt her bottom through the sometimes softer, sometimes harder material. They knew their way round every skirt. They were carefully ordered, so that they could find the skirt of his wish at a moment's notice: from lighter to darker.

Particular attention had been paid to the colour grey. Classic "schoolgirl" skirts and games skirts had been purchased in bottle green, maroon, scarlet and burgundy but that was nothing compared to the veritable orgy of proper grey schoolgirl skirts - in box pleats, normal pleats, in different lengths and shades of grey. He found the effect of the closely-fitting, breast-hugging maroon or grey pullover set against the pleats of these grey skirts appealing in the extreme.

There was no doubt that he was very aroused when she put on a favourite set of uniform clothes, like today: the maroon pullover, white blouse, light grey pleated skirt and white knee socks. Very pleasing indeed.

But nothing was neglected in their collection: Scottish style kilts had been bought in various colours; the blue and red patterns particularly liked. All tightly fitting and short - mini-kilts. Blouses various had also been bought - Academy Wear an excellent and helpful supplier - white nylon and light blue nylon. All very smart.

Three nurse uniforms were also ready for 'use'. The dark blue matron's wear as well as the traditional nurses' dress, one in blue stripes, the other in green. With matching tight belts and stockings, they were a fetching alternative to the pleated skirts and white knee socks. French maid's costumes in purest satin and lace, frothy and smooth to the touch, with accompanying cap also pleased him immensely. Black, of course with white lace but also in red. Simply gorgeous. And masses of silk underwear, again in every colour under the sun. Basques and corsets. Stockings and suspender belts.

It was a very special wardrobe. Not to forget the range of nylon shorts in blues, white and red. The luscious curves of her bottom set off appealingly against the nylon. A very full wardrobe!

It had indeed been a very difficult choice: hard to know what to put on, on this very special day. Indeed she had dithered somewhat. At first, she felt like putting on a French maid's costume to naughtily serve dinner and pour the sparkling wine, to be specially presented on a silver tray. But then she thought that this was a little unimaginative, even a little cliché. Not that he had anything against clichés, when they were the right ones! A nurse's uniform, to tend to him, to sweep away the worries of the world? But then she had decided that it must be a pleated skirt: definitely. The choice of angelic white underwear seemed obvious but which colour skirt? Yes, a white blouse to be carefully ironed, the cuffs done up and her white knee socks. She stood in front of the mirror thus clad and tried on different skirts. The trouble was that they all looked great. That sounded a little vain but it was true!

She had bitten her fingernails. When it came down to it, it had to be one or the other: either the flouncey white tennis skirt or the short box-pleated light grey. She changed herself once or twice, swirled round, bent over and looked at herself. Both absolutely precious. She put on her maroon pullover and that clinched it. It was to be the box-pleated. She ironed it quickly to make sure the pleats were crisp and slipped her white-socked legs into the skirt, did up the zip with a satisfying sound and turned the skirt round so that the back button was exactly where it belonged. She checked it in the mirror, ran her hands down the skirt to make sure that the pleats sat perfectly. She was ready.

She was fully emancipated! There were no problems about him sweeping floors or doing the washing. He did his fair share. There had been a few arguments about housework - yes, she had felt sometimes that she did more, but they had worked out these problems. She was happy: he was always ready to make her a cup of tea. He paid her those little attentions that showed her that he loved her. And she paid him big attention in important respects and showed that she loved him!

She heard the door. He was coming! She ran into the hall to meet him. He put down his case and grinned in absolute delight as he saw her. How beautiful she was, what a kind generous woman she was to treat him like this! She really threw herself into his arms and smothered him in kisses.

"Happy birthday, darling!" Not original perhaps but it said it all.

His reply was also not particularly original. "Thank you, darling!" and, getting a little better. "Where's my present then?"

"You naughty boy, you just can't wait, can you?"

"I've been waiting all day! Should have had it at midnight really."

"Well, you weren't born till five in the morning, were you?"

"You should have woken me up then at five, eh?"

"Berk," she said smiling, "but I suppose you have been pretty patient!"

He took her in his arms again, stroking her down the back, from the collar of her blouse right down to the top of her white knee socks. Predictably, she knew it would come and she had a tingling feeling waiting for it, his hand stopped on her bottom, stroked it through the pleats, squeezed her cheeks a little and saying, "You are good to me, thanks." He gave her a gentle slap on her slightly, ever so slightly quivering skirt.

She turned away and walked into the living room. He watched her greedily, loving how her long dark blond hair swept down over her maroon pullover, taking in the movement of her pleated skirt as she walked, her luscious legs, seductively coated in those socks. Topped off by those high heels.

Not that he wasn't smart himself. She had insisted on a shopping exhibition "to kit him out" - she and lingered among the collection of boxer shorts and smart pairs of socks. She had chosen these items just as carefully as they had chosen the items for their special wardrobe. Smart shirts and pullovers. And a new suit which he had been wearing today to an important council meeting. His new appearance had undoubtedly helped him today and he was grateful to her for it.

She turned around, holding two parcels, both carefully wrapped and decorated with purple satin ribbon. He sat down gathering up his presents on his lap: she stepped quickly into the kitchen, uncorked the sparkling wine and handed him a glass. He took his glass and clinked hers as she wished him a Happy Birthday again. Impossible to open his presents with a glass in his hand, she put it down for him on a small side table.

He opened the first present slowly, unusually for him, respecting how carefully it had been wrapped. White lace and satin appeared - he took out the garment, smiling. No, not just smiling: his ears burned red! Yes, it was a dream of a wedding dress, exquisitely tailored in shiny white satin and with beautiful details and borders in Nottingham lace. The underskirts which puffed out the dress were made of frothy tulle.

"Put it on, darling" he whispered.

"Don't be silly - it'll get dirty, you berk!"

"Well, I suppose so; I'll just have to wait. But you've certainly made a good choice - thanks, darling" He got up and squeezed her tightly, their tongues met.

"So now, the second parcel." He held it up to his ear and shook it. "No idea!" he admitted. It felt hard, like cardboard, but it wasn't a book. The wrapping parted revealed a cardboard folder, with the words written carefully on it: "For my darling, a very special treat."

He opened the folder and was greeted by a large-size photo of his wonderful wife, smiling mischeivously at him, dressed in a light-blue blouse and maroon games skirt.

He looked with glee at the mass of photos, feeling the blood rush to his wars again and himself stiffening. What a lovely, lovely surprise. He had taken some photos of her before but she had been rather reluctant to pose for him: "I'm not a porn model, you know!" They had even argued about it. "Why do you need them anyway? You've got me all the time - you don't need bloody photos as well." He found it difficult to explain: Men like looking!

Now she had done exactly what he had so often desired. He flicked through the photos again - a huge pile of large photos of her in different clothes - light blue blouse with maroon games skirt, white blouse and grey pullover with white tennis skirt, white blouse with silky black pleated skirt and black stockings, white blouse with bottle green box-pleated skirt, white blouse with navy-blue pleated skirt, white blouse with scarlet box-pleated skirt, in short with all his favourite pleated skirts! And of course French maid and nurse's uniform, each carefully photographed and posed.

She posed, up to his favourite antics. He had fallen in love with her because of her beautifully open smile. And there she was, smiling up at him, saying "I love you." She stretched over in the photo, pushing up her skirt-clad bottom towards his gaze.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," he could hardly find words to express his gratitude. She smiled shyly.

"How did you take them?" Suspicion crept into his mind, "Did you go to some studio or something?"

"God, you are a berk sometimes! Course I didn't! Automatic shutter, you prat!"

"It must have taken you ages!"

"Well, it was difficult not to tell you! I thought you might be pleased!" she simpered. Yes, she really simpered.

What a great birthday it was already! They had not been particularly flushed with money after their marriage and had been forced to sell her wedding dress. He had been secretly sad - he had hidden his desire to make love to her in her wedding dress: somehow it hadn't seemed right. Now she had given them both an even more beautiful dress and clearly signalled to him that it was alright for her: she wanted to hug him encased in satin, lace and tulle, white suspender belt and stockings. Oh, darling!

The romantic sexy photos, mainly in soft focus, aroused him enormously. He had better put them aside for the moment! He felt a love drop coming. Control yourself!

"So, enough of that now!" She wagged her finger at him. She went into the kitchen, deliberately swaying her bottom at him. He could hardly control himself! She put on an apron and took out the lamb pie. He lit the candles on the table.

"Hey, sit down! You're not allowed to do that" she giggled.

He did as he was told. They sat down to their meal, sipping their sparkling wine. They chatted about nothing in particular. He made compliments about her cooking - he ate slowly and enjoyed lingering over the taste, again unusual for him, the man of the hasty snatched meal. She gazed at him lovingly. He met her eyes, took in the depth of their beauty. When she was angry, she would stare at him accusingly, unswerving: that would drive him wild but the love that emanated from her eyes now entranced him. She cut him another piece of pie. She poured gravy over it, unwisely from a rather higher height than she had intended. A splash of gravy stained her maroon pullover.

"Silly of me to have taken off my apron," she sighed.

"Yes, it was a bit, wasn't it?" he said.

She took a damp cloth and started to rub the stain. Most of it was gone, but a sharp penetrating eye could still see where it had been. It did not spoil the whole effect of her uniform, but he knew it was there and it niggled.

"Lucky that didn't happen earlier." she said quietly.

"What do you mean? Didn't you put the things on just now, before I came or what?"

"No, no, love. The whole day, to get myself into the feel of things, you know what I mean."

"Oh darling: you didn't go shopping in that lot, did you?"

She laughed. "Well, I put a long coat on, you know. Perhaps a flash of naughty white sock in the supermarket but nothing more!"

He grinned. They cleared away the dishes and made themselves comfortable.

"Well," she continued, giggling, "the postman was a bit surprised when I opened the door!"

"Why was that?" he said, frowning slightly.

"I'd forgotten what I had on. I just opened the door, you know. I think he was a bit astonished. He went all red and ran away."

"Did he now, madam?"

"Yes, darling."

Just a couple of little mistakes - harmless, weren't they but she could feel their excitement and their nervousness rising. They both liked that - grasping eroticism out of little moments, little games and rituals. Inwardly she smiled. And she knew that he was smiling inwardly as well, even though he pretended to look serious.

"And how did you like flashing your uniform to the postman?" he asked in a mock stern voice.

"Hmmm....well..." she stammered.

"I know you have done everything here beautifully but we can't let these mistakes just pass by, can we now?"

"I suppose not, darling"

They had a special chair. She could bend over and hold on to the back comfortably whilst pushing out her bottom towards him. He got up and placed the wooden chair in the middle of the room. He nodded his head to her. She smiled. The next part of the birthday treat.

She walked slowly, as though reluctantly, deliberately slightly swaying her hips, slightly exaggerating, so that the pleats would shake a little more. He loved that. And she loved it that he loved it.

"Now take that pullover off, please"

She did as he requested and then stretched herself right over the chair, holding herself firmly. Her bottom ready, the material of her pleated skirt taut.

"A little higher if you can, please," her husband said quietly.

It was a funny feeling bending over like this, waiting for the first smack. It was a tense erotic feeling - how would it feel when his hand came down on her bottom? A nice warm room was important - nothing worse than being spanked on a cold bottom: that really hurt! Well, their living-room was always kept nice and warm, particularly as his birthday was in January and it was bitterly cold outside.

"Well, are you ready?" he asked softly.

She nodded and waited, her bottom straining into the air. She could nearly feel the air heating up as his hand came down, the first "smaaack!" She felt the warmth of his hand, the passion and love of his whole body transmitted in the energy of that smack. It did not hurt - she felt only the love in his hand, wanting to make those pleats shake and the silk of her panties ring.

"How many smacks should I give you?"

"Ten, please. Don't you think that is enough?" came her answer.

"Well, it will do for a start, I suppose."

She had half stood up again.

"Bend down over that chair!" He said in a supposedly strict voice. A lovely game.

She grasped the back of the chair again. "Higher!" She knew she should stick her bottom even higher in the air, straining towards him, tingling and waiting to receive the warmth and love in his hand.

The spanks did not really hurt - they were not meant to either. They were like a dull thud or crash. However, she was meant to feel them alright and after the fifth smack, she did hold onto the chair tighter, leaning even a bit more forward, her face held down, counting how often he had already spanked her. Number six came down a little harder and she felt a little reddening tingle. She cried "oooh!" more because she was surprised - the tingle actually felt warm and somehow nice.

He paused a moment; she waited - she turned round and saw him come towards her again. He lifted up her skirt and rubbed her bottom cheeks through the silk French knickers. The feel of his warmed hand through the cool silk on her slightly warmed bottom cheeks. Warmth and refreshing coolness at the same time - it was a perfect erotic moment. She felt like giving herself to him at that very moment. Inwardly she groaned pleasurably. He massaged her a little, squeezed her and slapped her gently.

"That didn't count though!" He insisted. "Still four smacks."

Number seven was delivered between her bottom cheeks, a little high, number eight to her right bottom cheek, nine to her left.

The final smack of this over-the-chair spanking; she knew that the last one was always a little harder. She pushed her bottom again further towards him and waited. He was standing there, enjoying what he was looking at. He loved her, he loved her. He felt again her bottom, stroked her down to the bottom of her skirt, flattening out her box pleats and let his forefingers slide down her legs down to her socks. He stroked her down to her high heels.

"Higher, please."

She pushed herself still further forward - he raised his hand again, enjoying the noiseless swish and movement as he came down on the middle of her bottom. Moderately hard. He lifted her skirt, stroked her French knickers again. Let her go: she stood up and swirled around.

He took her in his arms, stroking her long hair, sliding down her back down to where her skirt waist band started. He loved to feel her back, the transition from the nylonness of her schoolgirl blouse to the start of the stiffer proper skirt. He looked at her to check that her blouse was tucked in properly, the back button and zip of the skirt where they should be. Perfect. He stroked her breasts lightly. She was ticklish, laughed and pushed him away a little.

"No, no, you insolent madam, you don't do that! Over my knee!"

He sat down now on the chair - knees comfortably placed to receive her! She knew again what he wanted her to do. She walked over and put herself over his knees, her hands touching the ground, holding herself. How he adored this sight - how beautiful it was for him!

First, he started to gently stroke her bottom, taking in the simple wonderful sight of her pleated-clad bottom over his knees. How great, how exciting this view of his adorable wife! He simply wanted to take her in visually - he stroked her hair gently again. He looked down her body encased in his favourite clothes - the crisp white blouse, the folds taut at the arms and shoulders as she supported herself. The full pleats of her skirt, no longer covered at all by the maroon pullover - her white blouse properly tucked in tidily into her skirt. Wonderful!

Yes, he passed his hand down her skirt, the pleats falling in ecstatic exciting forms for him. The short skirt, her bare legs down to her neatly pulled-up socks. A perfect vision, the perfect woman!

Not only this view set him afire. The whole situation - somehow like something out of a play, removed indeed from normal life - excited his nerves immensely. The aural delight of his hand coming down on her bottom, the ritual of her in these positions intended for their delight. Yes, it was strange but somehow exciting for her too - draped over her husband's knee. But it was not humiliating but rather a release. She could not explain it to anyone else and she did not need to. They understood it! And that was enough. It was a release, to put herself completely in his trust, she could let go completely in this position, straining to hold herself up but also somehow completely relaxed. Waiting for her spanking. She liked the pause - she liked the feeling of him adoring, appreciating her, knowing how excited he was by her. That was comforting, reassuring, beautiful. She wanted to feel his hand gently crashing down on her. It was a crashing sound, melodramatic, yes, but not hard: they had learnt each others' limits. He used to spank her very hard but he had learnt that she did not want that - it turned her off. She wanted to feel him, but she didn't want him to hurt her. That was the contradiction of crashing gentleness!

He smiled to himself, stroked her back, feeling her back again through the nylon of her tight blouse. He raised his hand, paused a moment: yes, she could feel him waiting that moment - and then his hand came down lovingly again on her bottom. There was no need to say anything to each other - she would enjoy trusting, giving herself, he enjoyed the pure burning sensuality of the situation. He smacked her quickly a couple of times and then motioned her over to the sofa. It would be more comfortable for her there - she arranged herself over his knee again, making sure that her skirt was properly in place.

"That's better," he said, "And now some more, my dearest!"

How long would her spanking go on? That was always the question, the tension of not knowing, that was also somehow exciting. Sometimes she liked it to be sharper but then shorter. But today, she felt, they were both in a lingering mood. He would take his time and now that the blood didn't rush to her head, stretching out towards the ground!, she did not mind him taking his time.

He, for his part, was always in a bit of a quandary. Spanking was definitely an art-form for him. But each smack was a different feeling, each smack on different parts of her bottom. That was indeed the crux of his problem: each part of her beautiful delectable bottom had its own delights. Higher, lower, left and right. He would spank her on each bottom cheek, easy enough. So he flattened down the pleats again and smacked her with the full hand, first on the left cheek, then on the right. Yes, hmmm that was nice. But all the other variations! He spanked her again, on each cheek, but this time using his fingers more than the full hand - he smacked a little less hard when using his fingers, because he knew the danger of really stinging her was greater. Then the subtle differences of the geography of her beautifully giving bottom - a spank more to the side, a spank more towards the middle? And, of course, the absolute perfection of a full flat-handed spank on the lower part of her bottom, in the middle! Yes, that was probably his favourite way to spank her.

The subtle differences, the differences in angle, in sensation, in the sensation in his and her minds. Unusual for someone not interested in this subject, but fascinating, delightful, ecstatic, inspiring for the Enthusiast. And he was undoubtedly an enthusiast.

Yes, he would take his time today. It would be a long, pleasant drawn-out spanking for her today. He smacked her again, starting a long succession of ritual rhythmical slaps, varying the spanks on different parts of her bottom - from the middle to the sides of her cheeks and then to the lower middle of her bottom again. He raised his hand nice and high but always restrained the power of the motion. She moved herself to make herself more comfortable, resting her chin on her fists, feeling the pleasure of his hand rhythmically smacking her bottom. Yes, she could feel his hand moving through the air! As each spank was delivered to each different part of her delectable bottom, she could feel a certain additional slight smart.

But it didn't hurt - it was a pleasurable glowing, the sensation that the nerves in her bottom, indeed the nerves in her whole body had come completely alive. Strange as it was, she found this heightening of this sensitivity arousing. Now he was "getting in his stride" - the smacks were coming with a released regularity: oh yes, she felt it, how he was enjoying himself. And she enjoyed release, a warm glowing feeling in her. He spanked her more quickly now and more often on the same spot. Oooh! She heard him groan in pleasure. She was concentrating too hard to be able to respond, feeling how his warm, loving hand showed her his attentions - full of loving warm energy. Yes, they were both starting to become ecstatic in the rhythm. It was difficult for him not to spank her harder in his joy but he restrained himself, knowing that a part of his love was to respect her! He did not want to hurt her, cause her pain in any way - he wanted to feel with her the ritual rhythmical slapping, giving and taking, the sheer bodyliness, the sensual intense feeling of his laying his hand on her body, of her letting him do that, receiving. He closed his eyes for a moment. Wow! He must slow down for a moment or he would explode! He could feel himself stiff and straight, burying itself into the folds of her skirt. She could feel his arousal and celebrated it!

He stopped a moment, raised her skirt and pulled the French knickers down around her thighs. He stroked her bottom gently, almost slightly concerned. He slapped her bare bottom a couple of times, appreciating how her cheeks moved, a picture set against her pulled-up skirt and her white blouse reaching down to the top of her bottom.

"Another six smacks," he said softly.

"Make it twelve: it is your birthday," she replied, smiling to herself, " A little bit harder, if you want."

He pulled her skirt down again. "Ok, just a touch," he panted.

They were twelve full spanks, all delivered lovingly to the middle of her bottom. She raised her bottom to receive them, nearly kneeling up. They were now both very excited - her breathing had started to get shorter and faster. His ears burned bright red.

"Stand up, darling"

He got up as well and he took her by the hand. She went first up the stairs, at first rubbing her bottom a bit and then pouting her skirt at him - provocation! He gave her a gentle slap which surprised her "Ooh!" She dashed up, laughing.

She fell onto the bed which had sensuous white satin bedsheets.

He took off his clothes swiftly, leaving only his boxer shorts and he sunk down on the bed beside her. Her hand strayed, their tongues and cheeks met in unity and ecstasy. Lying there side by side, his hand was busy, sometimes caressing her parts, sometimes slapping the still pleated skirt clad behind. He lifted the pleated skirt up, slipped himself into her, and then drew the skirt over himself. Yes, this was the centre of the mystery for him: the two symbols, the two parts of her womanhood. One her sex, the other, the aesthetics of her sex. Her sex covered in the billowing, falling beauty of the skirt, covering, hiding, emphasising,

tantalising all at once. And he was also allowed to enter these two parts of her womanhood. Yes, how good and kind she was to him. And he was good to her as well, tenderly thrusting and feeling how his gentleness and sensitivity heightened her desire.

"Go on then, spank me," she whispered lovingly to him.

He did not need to be asked twice. And now he could no longer contain himself. As he and she thrust deeper into each other, as their beings mixed deeper, their passion grew and their tongues stiffened and thrashed in each other's mouths, he spanked her harder - the depth of his love drawing his hand up higher and bringing it down with a noisy slapping: yes, perhaps a cliché, but like the waves breaking on the shore. He felt that she understood and treasured this; and it was so, she felt loved all over her body by his busy tender limbs, pampering her in many ways. They felt the explosion coming - they thrust towards each other, just as she thrust her now warmed bottom towards the last full-handed spank which crashed down on her.

Exhausted, he took her in his arms, stroked her hair and face. They fell asleep, one of his arms around her shoulder, his other hand flat on his still pleated skirt clad bottom.

It had been a perfectly wonderful birthday.