Seasonal songs that never need to be played again

In no particular order. Does not include novelty songs, just the standard playlist.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

My mother is a whore for presents and my father is clueless. And somehow that’s funny.

The Little Drummer Boy

Nobody likes drum solos, kid. Especially not parents of an infant. Get lost in a hurry. Also, see somebody about those animal hallucinations.

Feliz Navidad

I want to wish you a merry funeral pyre lit by the sheet music of your mindless, repetitive, pointless crap. Oh god not another repeat, seriously?

Little Saint Nick

“Christmas comes this time each year” — oh, is that it? Really? It’s been hitting me by surprise for decades — could this truly be the secret? Oh my goodness. It’s so clear now.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

The seasonal version of “99 Bottles of Beer.” Start with verse 12 and get it over with.

It’s Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas

“Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again.” Well, maybe in the severely dysfunctional family you grew up in, but I happen to love and enjoy my children and wish them close.

Away In a Manger

“No crying he makes.” As a child, I felt that this set an unreasonable standard. My resentment lingers to this day.

— Frenulum

Panties du Jour

Every morning, after her shower, still naked, she waits for me to choose a pair of panties for her. Her collection is large and diverse, so it often takes a while to decide.

Lace, silk, or cotton? Pattern or solid? Playfully little-girlish or provocatively sensual? Brief or bikini or cheekies or boy-shorts or thong? Some days, my choice reflects my mood. On others, it might just be a question of variety — we haven’t had these in a while.

I fit her panties into place, with her help; inevitably this leads to familiar signs of her arousal. We head downstairs to the kitchen, where the first thing I do is switch on the elixir-of-life machine and select a K-cup.

The coffee brews and my cup fills. As soon as it’s ready I take the first invigorating sip. I am no good to anyone, and thoroughly antisocial, until the first cup is down. I need to be left to myself in peace and perfect quiet.

I take the last sip, and pull the soggy panties from her mouth.

“Good morning, my love!”

—Frenulum

Other services available

It was my turn to drive the babysitter home. It was late; the streets were empty.

Bri — Brianna — had been our only sitter since she was thirteen and our Jasper was six months. She was seventeen now, and Jasper was half angel, half weapon of mass destruction. They got along famously; sometimes I wondered if she was the third parent in his view of the world.

Bri interrupted the quiet. “I do more than just babysitting,” she said.

“I know you’ve minded our house a couple of times,” I said, otherwise puzzled. “Is that what you mean?”

“No. I’ve discovered that there are three things I really like.”

I just waited.

Bri continued, “Money of my own, and sex, and adultery.”

How I kept the car in the lane is anyone’s guess. I just started stammering some sort of response, with nothing but confusion behind it. What finally came out was, “Adultery?”

“Yes. That means my customer…” I winced at the undisguised commercial reference. “…Is healthy, and experienced, and can’t afford to gossip or brag.”

“So… so, you’re… um…”

“Selling sex. At least for the summer. I’ll reconsider in September.”

Bri’s very matter-of-fact attitude was apparent in her calm voice. No hint of embarrassment or shame.

I drove on in silence for a moment, coping with this sudden and profound change. Bri is quite a beautiful girl, and I confess that I’ve discreetly admired her body: long, perfect legs revealed by tiny cutoff shorts, breasts barely hiding beneath a tank top, lips that seemed designed for kissing. Or not exactly kissing.

I was shocked to realize that I was actually considering her… availability. Me with a beautiful young girl. I had never imagined it, but… really?

“What… I mean… uh…” I didn’t know how to say it.

Bri filled in the blanks. “Fifty bucks for my hands, a hundred for my mouth. And so on. Or just tell me what you want, and I’ll give you a quote.”

My god, I thought, how can she be so cool about it, so detached? Was it some generational shift that had escaped my notice?

I pulled up in front of Bri’s house. The porch light was on, the rest of the house in darkness. She didn’t open her door. I was frozen between morals and desires. I’ve never so much as run a stop sign…

When I broke down and told her what I wanted from her, she was unfazed. She told me the cost in dollars; figuring the cost to my self-respect and my marriage would be up to me.

I arranged to pick her up at noon. I’d take the afternoon off, while Jasper was at daycare, and we would have the house to ourselves.

When all was settled, Bri got out of the car. Before she closed the door, she stuck her head back in.

She said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mrs. Westbrook.”

— Frenulum

Beauty at Long Odds

While they waited for the walk signal, he said, “See the girl across the street?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied.

“What is she doing?”

It seemed too obvious, but all she could think of was, “Waiting to cross?”

“What is her left hand doing?” he asked, patiently.

“Holding her skirt, because it’s windy, and she doesn’t want it to blow up and show her panties to everyone.”

“Yes. ‘Clutching’ is my shorthand for the grip and the reason.“ He led her away from the corner, so there would be more time to talk. ”It’s extremely rare for a skirt to fly up that high,“ he continued. ”If it’s a tight skirt, or one below the knee, that won’t happen. If the fabric is heavy, like the lined wool skirt of a business suit, it won’t blow up. If she’s carrying something like a purse or a briefcase, the skirt won’t have enough freedom to move. And if it’s just plain windy, rather than full of unpredictable, swirling currents, the skirt won’t have enough lift.

“Now, if all the right things come together: length, style, fabric, freedom to move, blustery breezes… there’s a very small chance that her skirt will fly up and anyone who happens to be looking at that exact moment will get a nice view.

“In that event, a good girl yields to nature, and allows herself to increase the beauty of the universe.”

She took in every word with perfect attention, and felt her cunt grow wet and slippery, the inevitable, submissive reaction to his voice, words and tone alike. “I understand, Sir,” she said.

Having missed a few cycles of lights, they returned to the corner to wait.

“If all the right factors combine, against the odds, then you will allow your beauty to be shared. If you clutch, I’ll spank you then and there, in public, and continue when we’re home.”

His mention of discipline had its usual effect: her cunt-honey overflowed; she felt it meandering down her thighs.

He hadn’t allowed her panties that day. She felt the strong wind swirling around her legs.

— Frenulum

P.S. All of the above is my own stance on the matter of clutching. For the record, the wind-blown revelations I have seen amount to roughly 1.5 per decade. So, ladies, if it happens, consider it a message from the universe that you were chosen for your beauty.

Proctor

One of two proctors at the Seniors’ comprehensive examination, Mr. Acer alternated between scanning the room from the front, looking for unusual movements or turned heads, and strolling along the rows and columns of desks, looking for cribs or, now more likely, cell phones with dimmed screens. He varied his path to keep it unpredictable.

The girls were silent. Most were bent over their blue-books, writing in great haste; a few were staring at the ceiling as if inspiration could be found there, or rubbing eyes tired by all-night cramming.

He had just strolled between two girls, Kenzie and Celine, who had been vying all year for Most Likely to Get in Trouble. They were both quite familiar with the effects of a maple paddle on a bare bottom.

They seemed attentive to their writing. Mr. Acer passed the next pair of desks, then turned about-face without warning.

Just in time to see a piece of paper, folded repeatedly until small, pass from one girl to the other. He snatched it in transit before either girl could react.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the other students, he said, “You two, in my classroom, in five minutes.” Kenzie started to reply, but he hushed her. “No arguments. Go now, without any disturbance.” As they stood up, he collected their blue-books.

As the girls left the hall, Acer asked the other proctor to cover the exam for a while. When that was settled he left as well, and headed to his classroom.

Celine and Kenzie were standing side by side, facing the door, when he entered. They looked discouraged and anxious, which Mr. Acer expected, and embarrassed, which he had not.

He tossed the exam books onto his desk, and took the note from his pocket.

“Please don’t read that!” Kenzie exclaimed.

“Please!” echoed Celine, “It’s super private.”

“We know we’re in big trouble already,” Kenzie added, “So just assume that whatever we wrote was the worst thing it could be. Then you won’t have to read it before you punish us.”

“Please, Mr. Acer, you can paddle us every day for a week,” said Celine, beginning to cry. “Just please don’t open that.”

Their distress and pleas had, naturally, the opposite of the intended effect. Acer unfolded the note as the girls watched in horror.

He read it; his face was expressionless. Celine and Kenzie looked at each other, mortified, sick with worry.

Mr. Acer picked the blue-books off his desk, and flipped through them. “A page has been torn out of this one, which is…” Back to the first page. “Yours, Kenzie. So presumably the first message is from you.”

The girls, blushing, wishing fervently to wake from the nightmare, heard him read what they had written.

“Kenzie: would you fuck Mr. Acer?” he read.

“Celine: OMG yes yes yes!!! he’s so hot!!! you?”

“Kenzie: I would let him do anything to me.”

“Celine: like what?”

“Kenzie: IDK, but he would.”

Acer put the note down and looked at the girls: heads down, contemplating their toes, silent, squirming from shame and dread, anticipating the horrible meeting of maple paddle and bare ass.

“Are you young ladies aware that, if a teacher files an excused absence report, it’s possible to re-take the exam?”

The girls looked up at him, and then at each other. “Would you do that, Mr. Acer?” asked Kenzie, a hint of hope in her voice.

Acer took in the sight of two pretty schoolgirls, desperately pleading, ripe for the picking.

“Well,” he replied, “That depends.”

— Frenulum

Independence day

It started as some griping among a few Senior girls, about the uniform dress code. Specifically, the requirement that they wear plain, white, brief-style panties. No colors or patterns, no lace or frills, no bikinis or cheekies or boy-shorts or, god forbid, thongs. The general theme was: we should be able to dress how we want to, where nobody can see anyway — completely unaware of how often they casually exposed themselves.

The first plan for rebellion was to set aside a day when the whole class would wear their prettiest panties. That was received enthusiastically, until one girl pointed out that they would all want to show off their choices and see what their friends wore, which would certainly lead to detection and discipline.

So the plan was changed: a day for everyone to go without panties. Nobody would have anything unique to show off, and the faculty would be none the wiser.

Word spread around the Senior class, and a day was named.

Perhaps, when the day arrived, some of the staff noticed some extra whispering, giggling, or blushing faces. I imagine that most were oblivious.

I teach science. My students do lab projects quite often — I think the hands-on learning lasts longer than lectures. The lab tables are not particularly high. To look at a specimen, a scale, a graduated cylinder, a microscope, or anything else on the table, requires the girls to bend over.

They wear their kilts as short as possible.

I took in the view with the greatest pleasure. So much beauty! So much variety! My mental notebook filled with details.

I didn’t report the uniform infractions. I’m hoping that the rebellion calls for defiance to be repeated regularly and often.

Ah… here come my second-period students.

— Frenulum

The best laid schemes

Uncle Steve isn’t really my uncle. He’s, like, my dad’s best friend since they were roommates in college. Back then they both got called “Tim-and-Steve” because there was no point trying to keep them separate. Anyway, he’s been Uncle Steve to me my whole life.

He lives far away, but if he flies in, like for work or something, he spends a few days with us.

Yeah, so he showed up Monday night, which the pares knew about but hadn’t bothered to give me a clue. He brought me a present, like always, which was ok but still kinda like, y’know, for a kid, like he lost track of how I’m practically an adult now.

So that night I thought up this great way I could get him to notice that and maybe up his present-giving game. Next day when the growns were just gabbing, I put on my jean skirt which is, like, crazy short. I sat facing Uncle Steve and fooled around with my tablet, like I was all distracted and everything. Then after a while I spread my legs, so from Steve’s angle he’d get a perfect look at my panties right over my pussy.

I’m sure I got the details right and Uncle Steve definitely glanced my way a few times, but he wasn’t staring or anything, and he didn’t act like anything was unusual.

The next thing I tried was a loose top without a bra. It showed my nipples as bumps but also the darker circles showed through a little bit. If Uncle Steve payed attention he could see my boobs bouncing and my nipples, and through the arm holes or down the neck when I bent over, he could see them bare. My friend Chelsea says I have the best boobs in our class.

I was pretty frustrated when that didn’t work either.

I put on my sort of private-back-yard bikini, and walked to the kitchen to ask my mom if I could wear it to the beach. She said no for the millionth time, and I only argued to seem normal. But I got to pass by Uncle Steve twice, and if he didn’t pick up on my bare bottom and the tan-lines from what I can wear in public and my legs all the way up and everything… then what, ok?, what was I s’posed to do? God, I practically shoved my bare ass right into his face.

So, yeah, one last try.

Late that night he came into the guest bedroom and there I was, under the covers on his bed. When he turned the light on he saw me, and he was all “Tracy, what are you doing here?”

So I sat up and let the covers drop, and he could see my boobs with nothing on. He kinda froze there so I figured what the hell, and I pushed the covers all the way off so he could see, like, everything. I didn’t even have my legs together, so, yeah, all that.

He definitely looked at me then. Actually it was pretty intense and it almost felt like he was touching me. Really weird.

It’s not like I expected he would do any sex things with me, being my pretend uncle and my dad’s friend and all. I just wanted him to think of me as grown up and treat me that way and maybe, I don’t know, next time he’d bring me my own car or something wicked cool like that. He doesn’t have a wife or kids and my dad says he’s got money out his ears, so, y’know, why not?

He finally unfroze and came over to the bed. He was standing really close and it made me pretty nervous. For some reason I stood up, I don’t know, maybe in case I had to escape or something, but anyway we ended up facing each other. It really hit me how he was much bigger than me. I would’ve had to tilt my head up to look him in the eye but I found myself looking down instead. All of a sudden I felt like my whole plan was fucked-up stupid, and I wished super hard that I could undo it.

That’s when he put his hands on my waist. Oh god oh god what’s happening, I thought, what have I done? Is he going to pull me close, feel my body, kiss me? Is he really going to do sex with me? Like, for real? I never -- I don’t even know how. And then… oh my god, Tracy, you complete fucking idiot.

He held me. He turned me. Hands everywhere, warm, large, solid, making me tremble. I was helpless. He suddenly sat down on the bed, and then he was pulling… I didn’t even notice every move, but in seconds I was lying face down across Uncle Steve’s lap.

He started spanking me.

I reached back to protect my bottom and he moved my arm out of the way and kept going. He didn’t say anything for a long time, he just smacked my ass a thousand times. I think I probably started crying after the first few.

Then he said, “Tracy, you know I love you -- have since you were a baby. I don’t know what you’ve been up to all day, exhibiting your body and trying to provoke me. I hope you can tell me later. But you must understand that your body, your privacy, your dignity… those are valuable, and I can’t let you get in the habit of thinking they’re just playing pieces in some sort of game.”

I was crying too hard to answer. But I understood, I think.

He kept going on my ass, then. I should probably think that humiliating myself and acting like a mega-loser jerk and disappointing a guy who had always been super good to me was worse than the pain. But at the moment, pain won.

I couldn’t see the door, so when Uncle Steve said, “Well, Tim, what do you think?” I absolutely totally freaked out. But I was still held in place and there was nothing I could do.

My dad said, “That’s a good start. I think you can turn her over to me, now.” Then Uncle Steve stopped holding me. I started to get up, looking for something to cover up with, but my dad said, “Go straight to the office, Tracy. Don’t wander, don’t stop for anything. Now.”

So I had to leave the room naked with both of them watching. And my bottom hurt worse than anything I ever felt.

I wanted to find some PJs or at least panties but I wasn’t allowed. My dad’s home office is where he keeps the straps and the paddle, so I pretty much knew what was coming.

I don’t think this idea of being all grown up is working out like I hoped.

-- Frenulum

Future

He left the office and hit the down button for the elevator, thinking of nothing but where to grab lunch. He had a handful of favorites, mostly chosen based on what sort of food he felt like; all of them featured fully nude servant girls, and sometimes the variety among them was also a factor.

He heard the approaching elevator, then voices. The doors slid open to reveal two girls in the car, who fell silent immediately upon seeing him.

They were clad in standard business wear: feminine mini-dresses and heels so steep that the girls were nearly on their toes. Both had waist-length hair, trimmed for neatness but never shortened. The brunette, whom he had seen around the building a few times, sported an off-the-shoulder frock in red with white polka-dots. The redhead, new to him, wore a pretty calico print, with lace trimming the cap sleeves and hem.

As the car resumed its descent, he placed a hand on the redhead’s thigh and slowly slid it upward, until he was lifting her dress. When his fingertips found her panties he pushed them under the edge, and soon had one bottom cheek well in hand. He gave it a few squeezes.

Both girls were young enough to have been born after the passage of the Patriarchy Restoration Act. Neither would even imagine objecting to his authority.

“Nice ass,” he observed.

The girl replied, “Thank you, sir.”

He pulled his hand out of her panties, allowing her dress to fall back into place. He turned it palm-upward in a gesture any girl would recognize. The subject of his attentions promptly crossed her wrist over his, and a faint tingle signaled to both of them that her profile had been transferred: contact information, biography, sexual experience, and so on; his cryptographic token — proof of meeting, validation for further contact — went to her. At the moment, he checked just one essential profile item, her status: Never Owned.

The doors opened. “I’ll look you up soon,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

They all left the building. As he watched the girls walk away, admiring their legs, the redhead glanced over her shoulder, smiled, and did a quick pirouette. Her dress lifted up and out to give him a charming view of white lace panties and tempting curves, accompanied by another bright smile.

The day was clear and warm, perfect for a walk, so he decided on the Black Rabbit Pub for lunch. The food was good, and the servant girls all wore bunny-tail butt plugs, a sight he particularly enjoyed.

While he waited for his lunch order, he perused the redhead’s vitals on his retinal display. Haley was her name — pretty. She had a class AAA fellatio certificate, he noted with interest, and was working on her AA-levels.

He sent a Service-Opportunity packet to Haley's Direct Internal Messaging address. Within the statutory five minutes, she would reply "No, thank you, sir" -- or grant unlimited consent to anything he could imagine. He felt confident, since she had already flirted a bit.

Some hard spanking — it wasn’t just a nice ass, it was a great one — and some vigorous face-fucking would make for a lovely way to get acquainted.

— Frenulum

Cornered, Part 4

Start with Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Author's note: I didn't mean to turn the original post into a serial. But the story just kept coming.

---

Kara’s fantasy: an older man, authoritative but caring, dressed in a business suit. Kara’s reality: just that.

Kara’s fantasy: he sees her naked. Sees her breasts and her bottom and her private parts. He can look all he wants to. She mustn’t cover up, no matter how exposed she feels. Kara’s reality: that, plus he even watched her undressing — being undressed — which felt like an especially intrusive intimacy.

Kara’s fantasy: he will spank her, and for a good reason. Kara’s reality: although she hadn’t been informed of the rules — for which Maddy would have to answer — there is indeed a reason: the pain of others must not be trivialized as mere entertainment.

Kara’s fantasy: he can touch her. Anywhere. On her face, on her breasts, on her most personal places, on her bottom. Kara’s reality: his hands settling her over his lap, arranging her, spreading her legs, pressing on her back, blistering her bottom. And… and… touching her there, when to her extreme embarrassment she was dripping with arousal.

Kara’s fantasy: being spanked would hurt, and would make her cry, but she would be grateful for the resulting redemption. Kara’s reality: pain as she had never known or imagined: deep, driven, throbbing pain, stinging and burning on the surface, aching below.

Kara’s fantasy: when the spanking is over, he gathers her into his arms, comforts her, assures her that she is forgiven, that she is a good girl with a clear conscience. Kara’s reality: she is merely dismissed.

Kara’s fantasy: after the hugs and gentle words, he parts her legs and rubs her pussy with his fingers — as she does to herself while imagining it — and her orgasm is the climax of her dream. Kara’s reality: he has touched her pussy only to exhibit her wetness to Maddy.

Maddy and Kara climbed the stairs together, both naked, hurting, tear-streaked, and displaying well-spanked bottoms, hot and red and sensitive. Kara bore the additional weight of embarrassment, because Maddy was sure to ask her why spanking so clearly turned her on.

So preoccupied was Kara with her ordeal that she followed Maddy without a thought. As they reached the top of the stairs, Kara snapped back to the here and now.

“Mad, I left my clothes downstairs!” Kara turned around to retreive them, but Maddy took her by the hand and led her along the corridor, ignoring Kara’s protests.

“We should check on Holly,” Maddy declared.

Kara’s embarrassment deepened. Yet another person to see her naked, and with her bottom aglow from a spanking? It was almost too much to take. But despite her misgivings she let Maddy lead on.

Maddy unceremoniously opened her sister’s bedroom door, and only then gave a pro-forma knock.

Holly, still nude, was lying on her bed — prone, of course. The discreet handprints on her bottom had dissolved into a uniform sea of deep pink. Holly glared at her sister. “Thank you so much for making it even worse, you pervert,” she said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” said Kara.

Holly shifted her gaze. “Not your fault. I’m sure Maddy made it sound like it would be fun.” Kara nodded.

“I’ll figure out how to deal with you later,” said Holly, returning to her sister.

Maddy picked up a hairbrush and offered it, handle first, to Holly. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Holly gingerly eased herself off her bed, trying not to put any pressure on her ass, as Maddy bent over and grabbed her ankles. Kara watched, with dismay and empathy for her best friend, as Holly delivered six hard blows to each of Maddy’s buns. The marks were crimson against skin already red.

Maddy straightened up, carefully; fresh tears marked her face. “Even?” she asked.

Holly smiled for the first time. “Sure.” She returned her hairbrush to its place. “So, I suppose you two are gonna go eat some pussy? Cuz somebody smells ready.”

Kara blushed fiercely. “Does everybody know…?”

“You’re noisy when you cum, sweetie. It doesn’t take a genius,” Holly replied.

Maddy quickly considered a notion that had come to her unbidden.

“We don’t have to go,” she said slowly. “It could be your turn to watch, Hols.”

Kara gasped. Surely… Maddy couldn’t mean…

“C’mon, Kar-Bear,” Maddy insisted. “We can do it on Holly’s bed.”

“But— But—”

Maddy kissed Kara to quiet her objections, and guided the two of them into bed. “Budge over, make room for Holly,” Maddy said. She urged Kara’s legs apart, got herself situated, and began to lap at Kara’s flooded quim.

Ignoring the pain, Holly sat on the bed. With three naked girls in the limited space, there was a great deal of incidental contact, skin rubbing skin, legs and arms tangled. Perhaps not all of it was incidental.

Holly slid a hand down to her open pussy, and began to frig herself with practiced ease. She had never seen any sex act in person; watching Maddy’s efforts and Kara’s reaction transfixed her.

Maddy, knowing from experience exactly when to do it, started tonguing Kara’s clit. Kara’s body tensed. Her hips rose from the bed, pressing her pussy into Maddy’s face. She moaned; the moan turned into a squeal, the squeal bcame a cry. She bucked against Maddy’s sucking mouth, while Maddy tried her best to keep in contact. Her reward for persistence came when Kara climaxed again, screaming even more.

Maddy backed off. Kara sank to the bed. Her breathing slowly calmed. Holly was wide eyed, amazed, and her gaze darted between Kara’s open, glistening pussy and her sister’s juicy face. Her busy fingers pressed a little harder into her own honeyed quim.

Maddy had rolled over and spread her legs. “Your turn now,” she said to Kara.

Kara sucked Maddy. The sisters sat side by side, both wide open; their shoulders and hips touched and their inner legs overlapped. Holly fingered her pussy with abandon. Kara’s busy lips and tongue coaxed loads of girl-goo from Maddy and drove her up toward her peak.

Kara lifter her head. She took in the scene: Maddy and Holly, sexy, open, wet; two intense faces, four pretty breasts, two enticing pussies, so much bare, beautiful girl. Without hesitation, she lowered her face and started feasting again on hot, slick, delicious pussy.

Not Maddy’s. Holly’s.

Startled, Holly pulled her fingers away. Kara seized the opportunity and licked her way up to Holly’s clit. If Holly had any thought of protest, it vanished at the first contact.

Now Maddy masturbated and watched, rapt, as her best friend ate her sister. She was intensely aroused: cunt flowing, nipples hard, breath ragged, muscles tense.

Kara rose from Holly’s quim and moved back toward Maddy. But instead of returning to Maddy’s pussy, Kara kissed her, deep and hard, on the mouth. It took only an instant for Maddy to realize that she was tasting Holly’s pussy-cream. The thought was appalling, and hot.

Kara broke the kiss and slipped down to suck Maddy again. When she sounded close to cumming, Kara moved back to Holly, once again starting off with a sister-flavored kiss.

Whichever girl wasn’t having her pussy licked kept the feeling going with her own fingers. Kara moved back and forth, over and over, until Holly and Maddy were both desperate and begging. She stayed with Maddy through her orgasm, then turned her eyes to Holly’s.

“I’m gonna make you cum now,” she promised. Tongue to clit, she drove Holly straight up to climax, until with a moan and shudder Holly found release.

Kara climbed up into the tangle of bodies until they were all at one level. She kissed Holly, then Maddy, then Holly again, enjoying the differences in sensation and reaction. The terrible ache in her bottom seemed inconsequential, eclipsed by her abundant pleasure.

Kara broke a long silence. “So… what else could we do?” she asked, and kissed each sister one more time.

---

Meanwhile…

In another part of the house, Maddy’s and Holly’s parents fucked like bunnies on amps.

“If you ever spank Kara again, I want to watch.”

“It turned her on. I could tell. She’ll find a way. Somehow. She wants it. There will be a next time.”

“Oh god oh oh I’m gonna cum again!”

“I’m with you. Close.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“I love your cunt squeezing me when you cum. So hot. So tight, Gonna make me… Ahh. Ahhhh. Ahhhhhhh.”

“I can feel your cum. Every spurt. Feel your cock throbbing in me.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“I love you,” they said in unison, and smiled.

“It’s getting late,” said the lady of the house. “I hope the girls found something to eat.”

— Frenulum

Cornered, Part 3

Read Part 1 and Part 2 first.

Since childhood, Kara had fantasized about being spanked, by an adult man dressed in a suit. The reasons for the spanking varied, though in her thoughts it was always deserved and meekly submitted to; the man remained more of a symbol than a person, silver haired, firm, and caring deeply for her. When she started to grasp the idea of sex, Kara’s fantasies became erotic, and as she imagined her dream man watching her undress, handling her body, bending her over his knee, and scalding her bottom, she would play with her… down there… and wonder about sex and love and someday having him be real.

She had never been spanked, and never had sex beyond her own touch. But she had orgasms night after night, rewinding her fantasies to play again and again. When she and Maddy became lovers, the experience intensified both the dream and the orgasms.

Watching Holly’s father spank her was like having those imagined images rendered in high definition, in three dimensions, in surround sound, and brought to life. She watched Holly, naked and unresisting, submit to her father’s authority; she drank in the sight of her bottom, reddening until it seemed impossible that she could bear another spank; she felt herself aroused, dripping wet, entranced, and though she bore Holly no ill will, she wanted the spanking to go on forever.

But Holly, weeping, was dismissed. And Kara’s best friend Maddy, shedding her school uniform for the second time, dropped the bomb. “Your turn is next.”

Suddenly, the older man in the suit had a fixed form. Suddenly, spanking flashed from fantasy to future. Suddenly, a fire-hot bottom seemed more terrible than redemptive.

The spanking of Maddy began. She screamed less than her sister had, but kicked more, and at the sharpest pains she threw her head back, sending her long hair flying.

“I should go,” Kara thought. “I should get out of here. Maddy didn’t warn me what I was getting into. I thought we were just going to watch Holly.” Now she watched Maddy’s bottom as the impact of the spanks sent ripples through her buns and legs.

“I can just grab my stuff and go. It’s not like they’ll chase me. I don’t even need my stuff, Maddy can bring it to school tomorrow. I’ll be a block away before anyone even notices,” Kara said to herself.

“I’m not taking my clothes off for her dad. I’m not going across his lap. I’ve only even met him, like, five times. He can’t spank me — I’m not his daughter. He can’t tell me what to do.”

Yet, despite all her defiant thoughts, Kara remained in near paralysis, watching her friend, watching the man with grey hair and a suit and a core of authority. Her dream realized. It was as if she were watching herself in one of her own fantasies, her oldest and most private thoughts.

Kara’s pussy leaked. Without panties to absorb the flow, her honey trickled down her thighs.

Startled, she realized that Maddy’s spanking was over, and that she hadn’t made a single move toward escape. Tear-drenched, Maddy came over to her and reached for the buttons of her blouse. Kara was motionless, transfixed, blushing, trembling, as Maddy stripped her out of blouse, bra, and kilt.

Maddy’s father… Holly’s father… Kara’s solidified fantasy… reached out a hand, and helped Kara fold over his lap. In spanking his daughters, he was always detached, concentrating on granting absolution and reinforcing expectations. But when he looked at Kara, he saw a lovely, sexy, naked girl, in intimate contact and with more to come. It was perhaps inevitable that, in arranging her position, he parted her legs quite a bit more than he had with Holly and Maddy.

Kara’s private anatomy, featuring well-protruding inner lips, drew his attention, but not as much as the abundant girl-cream.

He spanked her.

Kara’s dream became her reality. The spanking took place as she had imagined so many times, as far as positions, postures, and procedures. But she had never imagined the intensity of the pain. One spank was more awful, more stinging, more aching, more shocking, than in her fantasies — and there was not one, but hundreds.

She sobbed like Holly. Kicked like Maddy. Grew aroused, as in her dreams.

After the last swat connected with Kara’s crimson bottom, Maddy’s father did something quite unusual, decidedly presumptuous, and highly effective. He laid his open hand on Kara’s pussy, exposed between her parted legs. Just for an instant — barely enough for Kara to notice.

He held his hand up where Maddy could see it, and spread his fingers apart. Strands of cunt-honey spanned from each finger to its neighbor, glistening and beautiful.

“Maddy,” said her father, “I think you should take Kara back up to your bedroom. Apparently she’s in need of your attention.”

— Frenulum

Cornered, Part 2

Sequel to: Cornered

Pieces of school uniforms lay scattered on the floor of Maddy’s bedroom. Maddy and Kara lay entwined on Maddy’s bed. Having enjoyed the mutually orgasmic results of “Let’s chill,” they were content with an occasional girl-flavored kiss.

Maddy sat up suddenly, listening. “My dad’s home. Do you want to watch?”

“Yes!” said Kara.

“Well hurry, then, get dressed.”

The girls scrambled for clothing. “I can’t find my panties,” Kara exclaimed in alarm.

“They’re here somewhere. But never mind, just go without, we need to be downstairs,” Maddy urged.

So it was that Maddy, her sister Holly, her father, and her best friend Kara, found themselves together in the living room.

Maddy’s dad was finishing a speech to Holly. “We’ve given you every opportunity, and I’ve overlooked some faults while you seemed to be improving, but this was just too much, and evidently intentional. It stops right now.”

Holly, facing the corner, did not reply. Her shoulders trembled with sobs. When her father was seated, he simply said “Come.” Holly turned and, after the slightest hesitation, walked toward him.

Kara watched, fascinated and aroused. Holly was just as pretty and sexy as her sister, with smaller breasts and fairer hair but otherwise much alike. Kara’s imagination briefly flared with an image of the three of them, but Holly reached her father’s knee and all attention shifted.

No spoon. No strap. No tawse or cane or paddle. Just one large, hard, heavy hand, spanning an entire bun, pounding with regular, unstoppable force into Holly’s bare ass.

The marks of her earlier spanking were quickly obscured by handprints; before long, there was only color, pinks and reds merging into an agonizing blaze.

Kara’s pussy was flooding, oozing, dripping; it had something to do with Holly’s naked exposure, but much, much more to do with the severe, painful, inescapable spanking meted out by an authoritative older man in a suit and tie. That image was straight out of Kara’s nightly fantasies.

Holly screamed and kicked and cried, but she never tried to block a spank and never moved her bottom out of its place. After what seemed to Kara like an awfully long time, the spanking came to an end.

“Up to your room, Holly,” said her father. She left without a word, and Kara watched her as she climbed the stairs with her bright red bottom on display.

Holly disappeared. Kara turned back to the living room. To her great astonishment, Maddy was stripping off her school uniform.

“Maddy, what —”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Maddy said. “The price for watching a spanking is a spanking. So it’s my turn now.” Naked, she arranged herself on her father’s lap.

She looked Kara right in the eye. “Your turn is next.”

— Frenulum

Cornered

Passing her friend in the hallway between classes, Maddy blurted “Chill at my house after?”

“Meet you at your locker,” replied Kara. No further conversation was possible in the rush of students.

They met after last period and strolled to Maddy’s house, both girls nursing a certain excitement at their interpretation of “Chill.”

Maddy burst through the unlocked front door with her friend Kara close behind. “Mom I’m home!” she yelled, and a muffled answer from far away apparently acknowledged.

Kara stopped suddenly. “Um, Mad?” she asked, gesturing with a tilted head. In the corner of the living room stood a girl, facing the walls, naked, arms folded behind her back, displaying a bottom marked in colors and patterns indicative of a painful ordeal.

“That’s my sister Holly,” Maddy said.

Kara took a few steps closer. “She got spanked?”

“Yeah. By my mom, looks like.”

“How can you tell?” Kara asked, mesmerized by the statue-still girl in the corner.

“Those are spoon marks,” Maddy said, coming closer and pointing. “Wooden kitchen spoon. Only my mom uses that. Here, come and see.”

Kara drew close and bent down. “Those look awful,” she said.

“You can touch her,” Maddy offered, “Or smack her ass, if you want. She’s not allowed to move.”

A close observer might have seen Kara’s nipples respond to the invitation.

“Really?”

“Sure.”

Kara knelt for a closer look; after a minute’s inspection, she put a hand on Holly’s bottom. A hiss of indrawn breath was Holly’s only reaction.

“It’s actually hot,” said Kara, glancing up at Maddy. She gave the tender bun a firm squeeze, provoking another gasp from above. “I can spank her, you said?”

“Sure,” Maddy replied. “Corner time is fair game.”

Kara got to her feet, took a half step back, and swung. Smack!

“Owww!” Holly yelled at the fresh stab of pain.

“Huh. Pretty cool,” Kara observed. “How long does she have to stand there?”

“Depends what Mom told her. Probably half an hour, unless whatever got her in trouble is really bad. Then she’ll have to wait until Dad gets home. His spankings make Mom’s feel like a kiss. Hey, if my dad spanks her, we can watch if you want.”

“Really?”

“Holly will hate it, but my dad won’t mind.”

Kara took one last appraising look, then reached for Maddy’s hand. “C’mon,” she whispered. “Let’s go to your room and make out. My pussy’s already creamy.”

The schoolgirls raced up the stairs.

In her corner, quietly, Holly began to sob.

— Frenulum

Job Opportunities

The four Summer interns hadn’t met before their first day, but quickly found similarities to encourage friendship. All were girls, all recent high school graduates, either 17 or 18 years old, all with a common if somewhat fuzzy view of the careers that interested them. They did not notice that they were each particularly attractive: beautiful girls are used to having beautiful girls around them, so it wasn’t remarkable.

There had been no mention of an office dress code, but each one had, on the day of her interview, picked up on the general tone of the place. On their first day, then, three wore a professional-looking skirt and blouse combination, with hair pulled back, subtle makeup, and modest heels. The fourth chose a dress but otherwise fell in line.

The “big boss,” as they thought of him, gathered them together and said some welcoming words. They were then turned over to their immediate supervisors for work assignments, and got busy to the best of their understanding and talents.

The second day was much the same for three of the four interns. But as for the fourth…

Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her makeup was night-club ready. Her push-up bra displayed her breasts to great advantage, her cleavage decorated with delicate lace. She wore a skirt that almost failed to cover her ass, so tight that every curve was temptingly spankable, slit in back for greater provocation. Thigh-high stockings wrapped her long legs but fell short of the skirt’s hem, leaving an eye-catching expanse of bare thigh between. As a final decoration after the long span of delicious, silky curvature, fuck-me heels tilted her feet and fastened around her ankles, as if to promise that they would stay in place no matter how hard the pounding.

Three girls were aghast. How could you…? What on earth did you…? You look like a…! What happened to…?

The fourth calmly said, “Didn’t you listen yesterday? Only one of us is going to be hired at the end of the summer.”

On the third day…

— Frenulum

Company

I was cooking for the party with an eye on the clock, growing more anxious by the minute. All the guests were friends, and if something went wrong or wasn’t quite ready in time, nobody would care — except for me. I wanted everything to be perfect. I was stressed and getting a little bit frantic.

My husband was helping, fetching ingredients for me or putting them away, cleaning up as I worked so we wouldn’t have a huge mess to deal with later. Since he can’t read my mind, I suppose it wasn’t really surprising when he put away the butter before I was done with it.

What was surprising is that I lost my temper, and sort of yelled at him. Well, not really “sort of.” I shouted. Ranted. I think I used the word “stupid” once or twice. When all I needed to do was to ask him to get the butter out again, or fetch it myself.

He just took it. He didn’t say anything. He kept on helping. But I knew the look in his eyes. I knew what I had just earned.

When the last dish went into the oven, he surveyed the kitchen and asked me to confirm that everything was either ready or in progress. It was, and I did.

He led my by the hand into the living room, and sat in the middle of the sofa. All he said was, “Now.”

I took my clothes off. Everything but my panties. Once I was stretched across his lap, he pulled them down to my knees.

When it was over, and my bottom was on fire and covered in dark red splotches, and my face was wet with tears, he helped me up and led me to face the usual corner.

It wasn’t until then that I realized… Oh, no! Corner time is always thirty minutes. The guests would arrive in ten.

There was absolutely no point in pleading.

— Frenulum

Storm

The thunderstorm was at its peak, as if its epicenter were directly above the house. Thunderclaps came one after the other; lightning flashed so often and so brightly that, even through the curtains, the room seemed illuminated by powerful strobe lights.

She was being spanked, for cause. His love and hope for her outweighed his reluctance to cause her pain. Perhaps a better description would be: he was generously giving her a spanking, an opportunity for atonement, absolution, and redemption.

She was in his study, bent over his desk, wearing high heels and, around her knees, panties. Her legs were parted, and her bottom was a patchwork in shades of red. She sobbed, and clutched the far edge of the desktop.

Two very different things, a thunderstorm and a spanking, with quite a bit in common.

The regular sound of his hand striking her bottom, so hard that the SMACK echoed off the walls, was the spanking’s thunder.

The flashes of pain on her ass, bright, crisp, compelling, setting fires where they struck, were the spanking’s lightning.

The tears that coursed from her eyes, and the pendant drips of arousal from her flooding pussy, were the spanking’s rain.

And, just as wind would, in time, blow the thunderstorm away, her transgression would be dispelled by the spanking, forgiven and erased from memory. The air would be clean and clear and fresh again.

— Frenulum

(With thanks, as always, to my beautiful Muse)

Strictly enforced

Dear Graduates-to-be,

Congratulations once again on your success! The faculty, staff, and I look forward to celebrating your wonderful achievement at Commencement this Saturday. The event marks a significant milestone in your life.

I regret to say that, over the past few years, we have noticed an increase in poor behavior during Commencement. A few reminders are therefore necessary:

- Respect the solemnity of the occasion!

- No variations to the graduation regalia, in particular, no decoration of the mortarboard cap

- No choreographed demonstrations or displays, by groups or individuals

- No signs or banners

- Show appreciation through applause only — no shouting!

- Ladylike behavior at all times. Remember, you are now representing the Academy to the world

In addition, please make it very clear to your family and other supporters that when your name is announced, they are not to conduct any demonstration, including shouting your name, blowing air horns, and so forth. These outbursts are disruptive and delay the ceremony for everyone else.

This year, for the first time, we will issue pink slips to students whose behavior is unsuitable. Furthermore, disruptions by family and friends will also result in a pink slip *for the student*. Mr. Ross will be keeping Room Six, the discipline office, open on Saturday. To ensure your attention to this matter, diplomas will be withheld while any pink slips are outstanding.

Let’s have a wonderful Commencement, and celebrate your success with the dignity you deserve.

Mrs. Rachel B------, Dean of Students

---

Several girls gathered to discuss the email. There was a great deal of shared disappointment over thwarted plans.

“Hey, I have an idea,” said one Senior, Meghan. “You know Krissy?”

Provoking the inevitable question, “Chrissie with a C or Krissy the bitch?”

“Krissy the bitch,” Meghan responded, the other girl being well-liked.

“Ok, what, then?”

“We all tell our families that K-the-B has won some sort of special honor — I don’t know, top student or something — and that they should all cheer out loud when her name is read.”

“But —”

“But exactly,” Meghan said, as smiles began to dawn all around.

— Frenulum

Ceremony

The gym was loud with the excited voices of 120 girls as the Senior class gathered to pick up their graduation regalia: pristine white academic gowns trimmed with ribbons in the school colors, and white mortarboards with the obligatory tassel. Many unwrapped the gowns on the spot, to try them on and to preen for their friends. At some point, some voice asked what to wear underneath the robes on graduation day.

Various opinions were offered, mostly along the lines of sundresses or party dresses, until one popular and influential girl spoke up. “I’m not gonna wear a stitch under mine.”

To the many objections that arose all at once, she replied “It’s going to be ninety degrees on Saturday, and these things are polyester. I for one don’t want to faint from the heat. And anyway, it’s not like you have to change in public.”

Word spread, with the result that the entire class fell in with this practical solution.

On Saturday, as the graduates processed through the crowd of proud families, the Sun’s brilliant back-lighting produced a beautiful display that is still talked of today.

— Frenulum

Change of Life

The chauffeur opens the back door. She emerges. She wears a bespoke suit, sheer hose, a soie-de-chine blouse, with jewelry tastefully abundant and entirely genuine. Her stiletto heels are so tall that her feet are nearly en pointe; she is so accustomed to them that her stride is long and confident. She exemplifies a template: debutante, sorority sister, socialite, trophy.

He waits at the front door, watching her approach. She holds his eyes until they are close, then drops her gaze. He stands back to let her in.

He grips her hair and pulls downward; she sinks to her knees. He strokes her face and, when her mouth opens in response, puts three fingers inside her, stroking her tongue as she struggles against reflexes.

He says: “Welcome. Your room is on the third floor. Turn left at the top of the stairs, and look for the door with a bow on it. Your uniform of the day is laid out on your bed. You may have an hour to freshen up and change.

“I do not expect to hear your voice until I ask you a direct question, or cause you to cry out. You may go.”

He watches her as she ascends the stairs to her new life.

— Frenulum