Penmanship

Abby got up from her desk and skipped to the front of the classroom, her too-short kilt swirling around her bare thighs and her ponytail bouncing. With a triumphant gesture, she put the papers on my desk.

“There you go, Mr. Franklin,” she chirped. “Five hundred lines.” She sounded awfully cheerful for a girl who had been kept late at the high school, and given lines to write as punishment for misbehavior.

She turned to leave. When she was half way to the classroom door, I stopped her.

“Abby. Come back here, please.”

She walked back to stand in front of my desk. “What is it, Mr. Franklin?” she asked, with every appearance of innocence.

“The line I assigned you to write was: ‘I will not touch myself inappropriately in class.’”

“That’s what I wrote!” she protested.

“That’s how you started,” I replied. “Then half way down the first page, ‘touch myself inappropriately’ turned into ‘touch my panties.’”

“Well… that’s what you meant, right?”

I gave her a stern look. “By the end of page one, you were writing ‘touch my pussy’… here, it morphs into ‘play with my pussy’… and by the last page, ‘play with my hot, wet, needy pussy.’”

“Well… it’s just as clear, isn’t it?” She gave me a smoldering look that no 17-year-old had any business knowing. “You always tell us that clarity is important.”

“Finally, Abby,” I continued, trying to ignore the come-on look, “You forgot the word not in every single line.”

She put a foot up on the edge of my desk. My view up her kilt was unimpeded as she began to stroke her pussy through snug white panties. “I didn’t forget,” she said in a whisper. “Because I’m not going to stop. Because… you don’t really mind seeing me do it — not one little bit.”

She put her foot down, grabbed her books, and turned again to leave as I sat there, speechless. Then she stopped, turned to face me, and added, “But tomorrow in class, I might forget something. Like… my panties.” With a wave she skipped away, looking quite pleased with herself.

— Frenulum

Economics

Jessica brought the coffee to the table; she served Cait and took her seat. The wince and the sharp gasp as she sat down did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, my! Looks like somebody got a spanking,” Cait said with a sympathetic smile.

Jessica sipped coffee, then met her best friend’s eyes.

“Yeah. A long time last night, freshened up this morning before he left for work.”

“Ouch. What for?”

Jessica sighed deeply. “Last night, with his hand, for maxing out a credit card.” She paused, and her eyes began to puddle. “Tonight, with the bamboo spatula, for having a credit card he didn’t even know about in the first place.”

“Oh no!” said Cait, eyes wide.

“Tomorrow night, with the short strap, for trying to lie about it,” Jessica continued, “And Friday night, with I don’t know what, for taking up last night and tonight and tomorrow.”

Cait contemplated her friend. Then she said softly, “And knowing you, just telling me all that has made you completely horny.”

Jessica blushed furiously. “Yes. Um… excuse me for a minute?

Cait grinned. “Sure. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or… like when we were roommates. Do it right here, and let me watch.”

Jessica paused, and then her hands crept to the hem of her skirt. Remembering when they were roommates, she knew that watching would not be enough.

— Frenulum

Spelling

Angelyn let my cock slip from her mouth so she could give Zoë some advice.

“Something you can do to make sure there’s lots of variety, when you’re licking Sir’s balls, is to move your tongue like you’re writing letters… spell something.” Then she swallowed my cock again.

Zoë looked up with a twinkle in her eye. “What should I spell, Sir?”

“Antidisestablishmentarianism,” I replied with an answering grin. She got busy on my nuts right away. A… N… T… Angelyn started laughing, which was particularly pleasant because she had my cock buried to the root down her tight little throat. I enjoyed Zoë’s tonguemanship for a while before I grabbed her by her soft curls and moved her mouth to my asshole.

With her face buried between my cheeks, I told her “Try… pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.” As her pretty tongue got busy in my ass, I wrapped Angelyn’s ponytail around my other hand.

My turn to drive.

— Frenulum

Math

(From a conversation with my belovèd. An episode of fantasy/story-telling, I hasten to add, not something personal.)

He carried her leather paddle, a terribly sting-producing instrument, and an embarrassing one, for the words “For A Naughty Girl” were burned into it.

The memory of the past times he had used it caused her eyes to prickle with hot tears, and she felt two escape down her cheeks.

“Is there any doubt in your mind that this is necessary and earned?” he asked. Redundantly, since their discussion had been quite thorough.

“No, Sir,” she replied, her voice choked.

“I have in mind the number of smacks you deserve in response to your behavior,” he said. “I want you, right now, to tell me how many you think you deserve.

“If your number is higher than mine, I will use it.

“If your number is equal to mine, I will use it.

“If your number is less than mine, I will double mine and add yours.

“Tell me now.”

— Frenulum

Wait for me

I opened the front door, stepped inside, closed it, listened. The house was quiet. Not empty-quiet, waiting-quiet. That’s an appealing, arousing, erotic sound.

I hung up my coat. Left the laptop bag in the hall. Wandered into the kitchen. There was a glass of wine on the counter. I smiled, raised it in a silent thankful toast, and sipped. Deep flavors: blackberry, chocolate, oak. I took another sip.

Quiet. She was waiting for me. Just a matter of hunting for treasure.

I found her in my study. Kneeling, eyes lowered. In heels too high to walk in, stockings, garter belt, and a ribbon around her neck. We call that ribbon a depth gauge.

Her hands were behind her head, with her fingers interlaced. I wondered how long she had been waiting. She was so still.

I took one more sip of wine, put the glass down, and unbuckled my belt.

— Frenulum

Is this a hint?

My belovèd just sent me this image:

Hmm, maybe if I try really hard to read between the lines… :o)
— Frenulum

True that

I may not know how to fly but I know how to read, and that’s almost the same thing.

— Gregory Maguire

Spankies

A lamentable deficiency in my education was remedied by chance this morning. I ran across a posting on line by a former high-school cheerleader, who mentioned that the color-matched uniform panties beneath those delightfully right-sized skirts are known as “spankies.”

I could hardly believe that such a garment, already imbued with so much fantasy potential, could have such a marvelously inspirational name, but a few minutes of grepping around the internet confirmed it. Why, there is even a Spankies R Us store.

Not sufficiently distracted already, I ran across this bit of advice:

“While you may have to stick to plain, solid spankies during competitions and games, the sky’s the limit for practice spankies…”

Practice spankies.

Practice spankies.

Practice spankies.

That does it. My brain is shot for useful things for the rest of the day.

Practice spankies…

— Frenulum

Boundaries

“Eat it,” he said.

I hesitated. I love his cum — in my mouth, on my face, in my hair, wherever. In my pussy, naturally. I love the taste of it: spicy and uniquely him. The texture. The… I don’t know, the naughtiness of it, if that makes sense.

But for the first time, I wasn’t sure.

His voice softened. “Eat my cum, babe,” he said, gently urgent. “Lick it all up. Taste it. You want to.”

I looked. Hesitated one more second. I caught his eye, and his loving gaze. Encouraging me to cross a boundary, as he has so often led me to do.

With a deep breath and a shiver of excitement, I bent over, and began to lap his cum as it oozed from my sister’s cunt.

— Frenulum

Speed

(Based on a conversation with a friend: thank you!)

“Hello?”

“Hi, love! My third-period Seniors just finished their exam, and I have a period free, so I thought I would see how you’re doing. How is working from home going?”

“Well, until a moment ago.”

“Why, what happened?”

“The mail arrived. It contained something quite disappointing, Sherry. Do you know what I mean?”

“<gulp> Um…”

“Were you expecting anything?”

“<gulp> Um… I… Well…”

“Considering that almost every day of the year you are home before I am, and have the first chance to sort through the mail, is this something I would have seen at all?”

“I, um… I…”

“Sherry, was I meant to know about this?”

“Um, well, yes… yes, of course. Of course!”

“I am quite sure that we were home together last Wednesday, the date of the ticket. But I don’t recall a single mention of it. Then, or any day since.”

“Oh. Well. I. Um… I thought…”

“I know very well what you thought. Very well. Listen to me.”

“Yes.”

“Heels and panties, in our room, facing the window, five minutes and not a second more after you get home this afternoon.”

“Yes sir.”

“I expect you at the usual time.”

“<gulp> Yes sir.”

“Sherry. Really? Posted 45, cited for 60, which means probably 65? Really?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I need you. I need you safe. I can’t have you taking chances like — Sherry, there has to be no more of this.”

“No sir.”

“We’ll see to that when you get home. Good luck with your afternoon classes.”

“Thank you. Sir, I love you!”

“I know. I love you. Bye for now.”

Bare and smooth: addendum

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Bare and smooth

It should be no secret to readers of my erotica that I have a strong preference for a hairless pussy. One thing I have wondered for a while is how prevalent shaving/waxing/etc. is in the general population. Certainly among those who model it’s commonplace — but what about the girl next door?

I finally stumbled across the first reputable measure I’ve seen:

Indiana University researchers Debby Herbenick and Vanessa Schick found in a recent study that nearly 60 percent of American women between 18 and 24 are sometimes or always completely bare down there, while almost half of women in the U.S. between 25 and 29 reported similar habits.

Good to know. Though there is quite a bit of wiggle room in “sometimes or always.”

For the record, I don’t think men are exempt. I think it would be ungentlemanly to force something hairy down a lady’s throat, take steps accordingly, and encourage other men to be considerate as well.

By the way, in Neighborly, I mentioned the girls of a high-school swim team going bare, and added in the author’s notes that this was drawn from a true example. I have heard from several people over the years that this is quite a usual girls’ team practice. How very pleasant to contemplate!

— Frenulum