Diary – Chapter IV– The Engagement

Returning from a walk, we removed our boots in the yard and went in through the back door. As we entered the kitchen I was watching Joan’s backside and I suddenly lusted for her. I lifted the skirt above her waist and pushed her over the kitchen table, Grasping her knickers at both sides I tugged them savagely down her legs and ripped them off. I entered her from behind as hard as I could. She grunted with satisfaction and pushed back at me with her bottom. She responded almost immediately, and with a second push I was all the way home.

Our lovemaking was often slow and gentle, full of guile and subtle sensation. At other times Joan liked it crude and sudden. Like today.

When I lifted her from the kitchen table she said, “You bastard! Take me to bed. Please!” Her language in the bedroom had been getting remarkably bad; I found it oddly exciting. I kissed her and carried her compliant body upstairs and laid her on the bed. She watched as I undressed, that half-smile always present. We lay in each others arms as my vigour returned and we made love again. Joan orgasmed, holding my prick tight in her quim and I heard her murmur, “When we’re married we can do this whenever we like.”

It was only when I was relaxing a minute or so later that the enormity of what she had said came through to my slow brain. “What did you say, darling?” I asked.

“Mm? . . . Nothing dear,” she replied quietly. With that she held my head and kissed me long and warmly. My senses reeled and we made love again.

Later, when I got a chance to think straight, her words astounded me. Perhaps I had a chance, after all. This superior woman had been unattainable from the day I met her. I had always been amazed when she let me close to her, and we had been progressively close in school and intimate in the bedroom. I was spending three nights with her each week. But I had never considered marriage to be remotely possible. Joan was evidently thinking of marriage, so must I now take some initiative?

Joan was so much in control at school, and she ran her house without my help. Yet she had her submissive side, which I exploited to the full when I caned her and made love. Perhaps it was her submissive side which I should use here? Wasn’t it the man’s job to propose? Perhaps her words in bed were a hint? A not-so-subtle hint that something was required of me?

It took me a week to make up my mind. On Friday evening we dined as usual at the restaurant and I took her home. By now I was doing the driving when we were both together. She seemed to like me doing the normal male things. I took her upstairs and undressed her slowly, admiring each piece of her as it was revealed.

It was not the time to give her a caning. The previous one had been only two weeks before, and the marks were still showing. Once she was naked I made her bend over for me. I bent to inspect the marks and smoothed my hand over them. No, our rules were firm. No reason, though, why she shouldn’t submit for a good long spanking.

We did this quite often. I would sit on the end of the bed with Joan stretched out across my lap. With bottom slightly raised where it crossed my thighs she was perfectly comfortable. I liked to lean forward and slip my left hand under her body, searching for her mons. While spanking her I could slide a finger between her legs and slip inside whenever I wished. That way I could feel the moisture gathering as she became worked up, feel her becoming slippery and hot. I could tell when she was within seconds of a cum.

Long ago Joan had suggested shaving off the pubic hair, but I preferred to leave it in place. It was a bit wiry and coarse on my face when my head was searching that area, but I liked that. And for me a trim hairy snatch looks much better. (She liked me using a vulgar word like snatch). I’d even asked her not shave under her arms, but on that she had so far not obeyed. Lets see what effect the marriage vows will make, I had thought.

I spanked her gently. We liked the sound, and I loved to watch the rounded cheeks rippling under my hand. I spanked over the full area, and a gentle pinkness spread everywhere. This was only a start, though. Soon I was concentrating on the very rounded area, next to her thighs. Six light spanks on the right, six on the left, and six covering the divide, two fingers landing on the right buttock and two on the left. Soon the spanking was only on the rounded area. The stimulus was right over her sexual parts, and I knew she was enjoying a rising tide of sexual excitement.

She would do it before long. Without any pressure from me her legs moved slightly apart and I was able to reach a little below her most rounded parts with my spank-fingers. Gradually the space widened until I was able to spank the inside of her thighs, starting just above her knees and moving steadily upwards. Just short of her labia I paused, concentrating on a small area. I expected this would frustrate Joan, who would now be longing to feel my gently-spanking fingers on her most private place.

I heard her moaning in anguish. There was no pain; she just wanted the job completed. At this point she was almost ready to come. Always she had orgasmed within moments of spanking her open quim.

Not today, though.

I lifted her off my lap and laid her on the bed. I pushed her legs apart and laid over her, holding my weight on my elbows so that we hardly touched. She glared at me and I thought she was going to say something.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

“Of course I will, you lovely man. But for God’s sake fuck me first.” She grabbed my prick and guided it firmly inside. She put both hands behind my bottom and pulled me into herself. Her first orgasm was immediate, and she had another before I had one of my own.

I remained inside her for ages, gently moving my hips and we held our sensitivity at stratospheric level. Eventually I rolled off and she raised herself on one elbow, looking down into my face. “Well, it took you long enough, didn’t it! You splendid man. Yes, of course I’ll marry you. You only had to ask. I’ve wanted you to propose for months, and I was starting to think maybe you didn’t want to get married. Luckily I was wrong.”

I pulled her over me and we kissed for a long time. Lips wide apart, exploring inside each others’ mouths. Her tongue was like an active snake and I chased it with my own. Every time we made love new excitements opened for me.

At last we pulled apart and she lifted off me. “But you are a bit of a bastard, aren’t you! Taking me ninety per cent of the way with your spanking, then stopping short. For a moment I could have killed you.”

“Maybe, honey,” I said. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’ve found the ultimate way of hurting my masochist. Start spanking, get her all worked up, but stop and do nothing more. The perfect punishment! You should have enjoyed it.”

Joan laughed and we made love again.

Next day we went to see Joan’s parents. Dad was a lovely fellow. I’d met him several times, and he was most generous and good company. Quite a rough diamond, he’d made a lot of money in scrap or some such trade. Mum was a real surprise. Tall and elegant, though grey-haired, she was a Justice of the Peace. She ran the family home with ruthless efficiency. I was frightened of her, no doubt about it. She didn’t smile much, and left most of the talk to hubby. I was convinced she would have expected a much better catch for her only daughter. She would make mincemeat of poor me.

Dad was delighted and made a huge fuss of us, especially me. The best whiskey came out, and there would have been a cigar if I had been a smoker. Mum? She said not very much, and I couldn’t tell if she was pleased. But before long she and Joan were discussing dates, churches, reception venues, wedding dresses, bridesmaids and goodness knows what else. Dad and I left it all in their very capable hands.

When we left I turned on the ignition, idly saying, “I feel sorry for your Dad. Its obvious who does the spanking and who gets spanked.

Joan looked hard at me. “You don’t get it, do you, John. You just don’t understand women.”

My mouth dropped open as I comprehended what she was telling me. No, I thought, but I’m learning fast.

The summer term ended. We had been frantically busy, and for a week or so the work continued. Governors to satisfy, plans to make, building work to organise, job applicants to interview; I wondered if we would get any holiday at all.

Eventually, though, we had worked through the jobs and suddenly everything was flat. Nothing to get up for in the mornings. Our marriage was planned for the following Easter, so no pressures there. Why not go away for a week or two? Joan had a friend with a cottage in Devon, and a phone call later we were packing for a fortnight in the sun.

We drove down to Devon where we relaxed totally. Our first morning we got up at noon and went to bed at eight. Days were spent on the beach doing not very much, and it was delightful. Day followed day, idleness succeeded sunbathing, and we were happy.

After about five days, though, boredom started to set in. Apart from the village pub there was nothing to entertain us, and we were getting restless. One afternoon on the beach I stood up to go for a swim, when Joan surprised me by suddenly yanking my shorts down to my ankles. Pulling them up rapidly I glanced round to see if I’d been observed. It was hard to say, but there were plenty of people around.

“You little minx,” I growled, pushing her onto the sand and sitting on her tummy. “I should spank you for that, but there are too many people around. I’ve a good mind to bend you over for a good caning. You must be ready for one by now. Lets inspect your backside.” I rolled her over and dragged the bikini briefs aside. Her skin was almost unblemished, so I told her to expect the worst.

“Oh, good,” she smirked. “At least it’ll be something to do.”

One snag, though. We had quite forgotten to pack a cane. And her offence was far too serious for a mere hand spanking. What to do?

Back at the cottage I could find nothing suitable. Perhaps I could cut something from a hedgerow. I took a walk outside the cottage, but there was obviously nothing. Any growing timber was rough, bent and twisted. I needed a proper wood. I walked down to the village post office and chatted to a few people, asking about woodland walks. Somebody said, “Yes, there is a wood, but its several miles drive, inland.” I was given directions, and next morning we made an expedition.

It was another hot day, and Joan wore a light summer dress and little else but sensible walking shoes. We found a car park belonging to a stately house. Much of the estate was wooded, and several planned walks were signposted through the woods. I had a knife with me, and thought it would be a simple matter to find a suitable tree and cut one or two sticks.

To my disappointment the branches on every tree were crooked and useless for my purpose. We searched for ages. What about the birch, I thought. Surely that is used for whipping people? We knew very little about trees, but at least we were able to recognise a silver birch, of which there were plenty in the wood. But even these looked unpromising when I wanted a long straight length of timber of a certain thickness.

After an hour I was ready for giving up. At last, though, I spotted something which should be ideal. We found a large number of very young trees, about eight feet high, I learnt later these were called ash plants. The stem was fairly straight and it had lots of twigs and tiny clusters of leaves. I cut one down, cutting off each end and trimming the twigs from the remaining three feet or so. It wasn’t perfectly straight, but good enough for our purpose, I thought.

“Are you going to punish me with it tonight at the cottage? Joan asked.

“No,” I replied. “I’m going to do it right now. Take off your knickers and bend over.”

Joan looked a bit shocked, and looked round to see if anybody was about. Seeing nobody, she shrugged and reached under the dress for her knickers, which she took right off and put on a nearby branch. It looked a bit like a white flag. Good, I thought, she’s surrendering to me.

We found a flat bit of ground with room to swing my stick. Joan was less jaunty now, but she bent at my command and held her ankles. I lifted the dress over her back. The sight now revealed never fails to delight me. I could see the outline of her bikini bottoms thanks to our sunbathing.

“Right,” I said. “Eight strokes! And I shalln’t be holding back.” I stepped away and delivered the first stroke.

It was on target and felt satisfying, to me at least. I caned her relentlessly, pausing only a few seconds between strokes. Joan was quiet at first, but I soon had her gasping and making little cries. She half stood up after the seventh, and again after number eight, but her tight discipline forced her to stay down until I ordered her to stand.

Before I could do so I heard a male voice close behind me. “Is that all she can take? Well, you can’t expect much of girls, can you!”

I spun round and confronted the man. Joan came up beside me, spitting. “What do you think you’re doing, spying on us!”

The man laughed. “What do you think you’re doing in my wood?” he asked. “Enjoying yourselves, obviously.”

Joan was furious. “I don’t care whose wood it is,” she cried. “Its just not manners to spy on people. You were hiding, weren’t you! Lurking behind a bush and getting off on watching us.”

“Well it is open to the public here, so you can’t have been all that keen to keep you affairs private,” he said. “Anyway, I thought you might let me join in.”

“I’ll let you join in, yes,” replied Joan, angrier than ever. She took the stick from me. “Well, take your trousers off, my lad, and I’ll give you a taste if that’s what you want.”

She gestured towards his trousers, and to my amazement he started to take them off. “Yes, and those grubby underpants, too,” she added. The man removed them, and to my surprise he was more than a little hard. She gestured to the patch of grass where she had been bending over, and he walked over willingly enough, smirking. I could see he expected a pretty gentle sort of smacking.

“So you want a real beating, do you?” she said. “Not just a light thwacking like the one you’ve just spied on?” His superior smile was answer enough. “Right then. You’ve asked for it. Shall we say four dozen?”

“OK,” he answered. “You’re only a girl. I can take as many as you like.” Brave words, but perhaps he was not quite so confident now.

“Right! Forty eight strokes, and proper ones, not like the taps I’ve just had. Is that it?

The man said nothing.

“Bend over, then!” She watched as he slowly shuffled his feet apart and bent over to hold his ankles. He couldn’t quite keep his legs straight, but he presented a large target. Joan lifted the tail of his shirt over his back and prepared for the first stroke. He was burly, and very hairy. Not a pleasing sight for me, but Joan was obviously raring to go.

The first stroke surprised me. I’d never seen her put so much effort into it. I worried that the cane would last out; we had no backup. She laid into him without pity. Joan was gasping for breath before he was. She paused for respite after the first dozen. The man started to straighten up, but she shouted at him and he obediently resumed his position.

She took the next twelve rather more slowly, flexing her muscles from time to time. The state of the man’s backside was becoming spectacular. Especially on the right hand side the skin was colouring vividly. The weals turned red and black almost at once and looked nastier than any I’d ever seen. I was shocked that at least a third of the strokes landed on his legs. I could imagine how desperately painful that would be. Joan was normally so accurate, and could keep almost every stroke on the buttocks. It may have been due to the effort she was putting in, or more likely it was deliberate. She wanted to hurt him.

And she was succeeding. After another brief rest at twenty four, she carried on. She was still putting all her weight into the stroke, and was as effective as ever. The man was getting distressed. I was amazed he was still able to remain in place. He was muttering, though I could make out nothing he said. He was shaking his head from side to side, and jerking his body up a bit at every stroke. By now his hands were only on his knees, and having trouble even to keep them there.

After number thirty Joan paused. “Of course, I’m only a girl, so you must be finding this girly-type caning quite easy! Or do you want to give in?”

He half straightened and turned his head to her. “No, I’m not going to give in. Do your worst.”

“OK, then. If that’s what you want, here it comes. Go on, bend over properly!” And she struck him again, it seemed to me harder than ever. I couldn’t see how he could take another dozen and a half.

As it happened, after the thirty fifth, the man half stood up holding his bottom. He was gasping for air. He didn’t turn his face towards us, but I could see it was twisted up. The man was in agony, and close to his limit.

“Not so cocky now, my lad, are you!” Joan crowed. She walked round him. The stick she pointed at the man’s prick. She touched him with it, and got no response. “And this isn’t so cocky, either. Well, aren’t you going to bend over for me? You haven’t even had the first three dozen. There’s another stroke to come before you can have a rest. Well, what about it?”

The man reluctantly transferred his hands to his knees and bent over again. Joan gave him one monumental cut and he straightened up again, quickly, hands going back to his bottom.

Joan prowled round him, touching him with the stick, taunting and teasing. She was especially attentive to his prick, which still showed very little sign of life.

She managed three more strokes, after each of which the man stood up clutching himself. His face was red and he was sweating.

“Give up?” asked Joan.

He nodded.

“So you’re all talk, aren’t you!” she jeered. “Four dozen girly strokes was going to be easy, wasn’t it! Well you’re nine strokes short, my lad. Nine strokes still to come. Shall we come back tomorrow for those? Or perhaps we’ll make it eighteen, because you couldn’t hack it today. You need more practice.”

The man said nothing, keeping his face averted. He went for his clothes and started to struggle into them. He had trouble with the trousers, probably because he was trembling, and managed to fall over twice. We watched this botched performance, Joan’s anger turning to scorn. We still stood watching as he walked stiffly away and out of sight through the trees.

We said very little on the way home. Arriving at the cottage we went upstairs. “Oh, I’ve forgotten my knickers,” Joan said. They must still be hanging on that tree.”

“Well, not to worry,” I said. “I’ll buy you another pair, and we’ll leave the other where it is. Perhaps the chap will go back tomorrow and take them for a souvenir.”

I eased the summer frock over her head and laid her gently on the bed, face down. I applied some witch hazel. We had taken to using witch hazel because the bruising dispersed so very much faster. And maybe I didn’t want to wait another month before her next deserved punishment.

Towards the end of the holiday I was watching Joan put on a performance for me. Sitting in front of the dressing table, she had slipped her bra off and with hands on head was admiring herself in the mirror. She turned to left and right, pretending to admire her breasts. In reality, of course, she was only doing this to tease me. I watched, perfectly willing to be teased, and loving every moment. Her breasts were perfect from any angle and I never tired of looking at them.

Suddenly it came to mind that I had made a promise. I’d promised Joan to give her a “Special,” to replicate a barbaric punishment common at her old school. I think I told you, Diary, in an earlier Part, about her guilt in allowing a friend to suffer this punishment, by not owning up herself. It meant a lot to Joan that this demon should be confronted and so defeated. It was up to me to spring it on her suddenly, and I had wanted to do it as soon as possible, to get the evil moment out of the way.

I realised I had done nothing, partly because it was so distasteful to me. Coward!

As soon as our cottage holiday was over I determined to hurry on with the “Special.” I wondered if Joan still wanted to have it. As soon as I found myself in the house alone I went into the bedroom. I started to look through Joan’s chest of drawers. I soon found what I was looking for. In the bottom drawer I found schoolgirl shorts and vest, neatly folded. Dark blue school-type knickers. There were plimsolls and short white socks. A simple plain bra. And, what took my breath away, two lengths of pink ribbon. I remembered Joan had been particularly struck by the insistence on girls wearing these in their hair on punishment days.

So Joan had meant what she had said. I saw no way out of it. The sooner I got on with it the better. And certainly it must be done before the end of the holidays. How about tomorrow?