Final grade

On the last Friday of the school year, I left early, about three-thirty. Nobody would mind. All of the serious academic work was done; next week would consist of special events, assemblies, parties on various excuses, and tearful farewells for the Senior girls.

As I walked home, I looked back on the year. All things considered, a good one. After twenty-six years in the classroom I didn’t have to fret about mechanics; the challenge and excitement came from the ever-changing collection of students with their individual styles, personalities, contributions, and needs.

The year had held only one disappointment: Maddie, a Senior, who had slid away from academics in the last semester. Not just in my class: all her teachers had commented. I was going to have to fail her, which would mean a delayed diploma, a serious hitch in her college plans, summer school — all sorts of heartache and disruption. Such a shame. I had tried to get through to her.

I took my jacket off as I walked, and enjoyed the sunshine. Winter had been long and frigid, and Spring was all the more welcome for it.

I was half way up my front walk when I noticed that the porch swing was moving. Curious, I mounted my front steps.

“Hi, Mr. Mills,” said a voice from the swing.

“Maddie, I’m surprised to see you here,” I replied. The object of my recent thoughts was lying on the swing, her head against one arm rest, stretched out along its length. She still wore her school clothes: a white cotton blouse, the official pleated plaid skirt at its quite unofficially abbreviated length, white ankle socks, and black flats. Between the skirt hem and socks was about a mile and a half of gorgeous bare legs, a sight to which years of teaching had not entirely inured me. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m gonna fail math, right?” she asked, voice low and lazy, not betraying any real concern. Before I could answer she continued, “Yeah, I am. Any way to fix that?”

I felt so bad for her. Smart, popular, beautiful, and out of options. But it was too late. “No, Maddie, I’m afraid not. There’s no time left for re-tests or extra credit. Grades are due on Tuesday.”

“Thought so,” she said. Her eyes searched my face, and I hope found concern and kindness.

She slid her near leg sideways toward me, so it fell off the side of the swing. She tucked her other foot toward her, raising her knee. Her kilt slid up her bare thigh as her legs parted. I found myself looking up between them at pale pink bikini panties stretched tautly over her pussy, the thin cotton curving inward in the center to outline her cleft.

Slowly, she reached down with one slim finger, and trailed her fingertip along that line. The cotton dampened, clinging even more tightly.

“So,” she said, eyes directly on mine. “The only question is: would you like me naked, or would fucking me in my uniform turn you on even more?”

— Frenulum

Urban rose

Without warning, he held out his hand. “Give me your panties.”

Shocked, she hesitated. “What, here? Right now? But I —” She glanced at the rear-view mirror, and caught the cabbie watching her.

His hand never wavered, but he said nothing more.

Blushing, cautious of exposure, she reached under her skirt and slowly worked her panties down her legs. When they came into view, she checked the mirror again and blushed harder. Finally, she slipped her panties past her heels and, after a second’s pause, placed them in his open hand.

He regarded the morsel of pink cotton and white lace for a moment; he opened the side window and tossed her panties out of the cab.

Before she could react with surprise, he spoke. “Orders are to be obeyed. Don’t hesitate, don’t evaluate, don’t wonder. Just act, instantly.”

Meekly: “Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll have to handle the Directors’ presentation today without your panties. I hope the lesson was worth the price.”

The cab sped on, the driver watching the back seat from time to time.

An hour later, a grey-haired gentleman on his morning walk spied the pretty pink panties lying on the curb. “Ah, those were the days,” he thought, and smiled.

— Frenulum

(Inspired by an actual such observation, as interpreted by my belovèd.)

Well, that’s what he said

As she walked through the hallways, a murmur followed her, growing stronger with each passing second. It was composed of gasps, cries of astonishment, and whispered speculation.

She blushed a little bit, but she had made her mind up before leaving for school.

As she gathered her books at her locker, she could hear the background noise. She could sense other girls gathering at the intersections to peek down her hallway, to see if the rumors were true.

When a friend dared to approach, a question clear on her face, she dismissed her with a look.

By the time all the students were settled into their seats in Calc II, everyone had heard. Even the teachers.

Mr. Daniels faced the class. “Miss Anderson?” he began.

She rose and stood beside her desk; she met his questioning, accusing gaze.

“Would you tell me, please, why you have chosen to disrupt the school today by parading about in your panties?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “My father saw me headed out the door this morning. And he said ‘Angela! You are not going to school in that skirt!’” There were some muffled giggles from the class. “And I was carefully raised, sir, to be a perfectly dutiful daughter.”

— Frenulum

Training

I pressed the intercom button. “Myra, Sir, how may I help you?” answered a not-yet-familiar voice.

“A small Bushmill’s, neat, in the library please.”

“Right away, Sir.”

A few minutes passed, then the door opened. Myra slipped in carrying a silver tray with a glass, and a small plate with a selection of cheeses and breads. I was impressed, and said so. “Your own idea?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, with a slight blush. “I thought, if you weren’t in the mood, there would be no harm in putting them back away later.”

I smiled at her. “I do appreciate initiative, my dear.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“It’s 5:20, Myra. Why have you not changed from your afternoon to your evening uniform?”

She glanced down at herself. A fitted dark-grey dress; a white lace waist-to-hem apron more for style than efficacy; high black heels, sheer black stockings, garter straps; lace in her hair and around her wrists. And, befitting her status as a new trainee, a short narrow leather paddle hanging from her belt. “I — I’m sorry, Sir. I’ve been so busy, and there just wasn’t time to — ”

“Busy with what?”

“Dusting, Sir. Sandy gave me a list of rooms that needed to be done over.”

“Sandy is your mentor?” She nodded.

“Wait here, please.” I tapped the intercom again and waited through one buzz.

“Kelly, Sir, how may I help you?”

“Find Sandy and send her to the library right away, please.”

“Of course, Sir. On her way.”

The wait was of a few minutes only. Sandy entered the library, properly attired — which is to say barely at all — for evening service. I saw her sizing up the situation, and then a little bit of a defeated slump of the shoulders. “Myra,” I addressed the apprentice maid, “You’ve made a few mistakes this afternoon and evening, and so instead of giving you the evening shift off, I would like you to work it. Go to your room, look up the evening service dress code in your manual, prepare accordingly, and return here. Take your time and get it right.”

“Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir,” she replied.

“Before you go —” She turned back to me. “Leave your daytime panties with me.” Without hesitation, Myra reached up under her brief skirt and tugged her panties down and off, dropping them into my outstretched hand. Then she left to take care of her instructions.

I turned my attention to Sandy. “Strip to heels,” I ordered, and she hurried to comply. I took my feet off the ottoman and with a gesture indicated that Sandy should stretch across it. She had enough experience to position her bare bottom on its right edge. I wadded up Myra’s used panties and stuffed them into Sandy’s mouth.

“As you know, your job is to help the new girls find their way. To guide them into good behavior, to call their attention to things that might be overlooked, to suggest and remind them of ways to offer superior service.” As I spoke, I rummaged through the drawer of the end table, finally selecting a wide two-tail tawse. “It is most definitely not your task to lead your charges into trouble, misbehavior, or poor performance. Remember, you are not competing with each other for a position here. I train servants for other households. Everyone will be most satisfied if everyone is performing up to her abilities.” Without further lecture or fuss, I began to strap the defenseless, naked, offered-up bottom before me, meting out a reminder of good behavior in very full measure indeed.

Myra returned, my evening servant for the next few hours, in time to see the last few minutes of Sandy’s first episode. There would, of course, be others through the evening. Something for Myra to call to mind some day in the future, when a skittish and easily confused new lass was put into her hands for special guidance.

It is true that, for the most part, I train to a professional level and then meet the needs of other households. Rarely, but occasionally, I do keep a girl for my own staff. I sipped my drink, watched the play of pinks shifting on Sandy’s bare ass, and thought that perhaps I might take Myra to bed with me. There are some talents that must be evaluated and developed personally.

— Frenulum

Art appreciation

If you were the woman at the garden party on Wednesday afternoon, with well-tanned skin, wearing white bikini panties under a light-weight white cotton sundress, and standing with full sunlight shining directly upon you like an x-ray spotlight…

Thank you very much.

— Frenulum

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

Peeking (2)

Seriously, I wonder sometimes how you ladies ever get out of the house in the morning. I would be so tempted, were I possessed of such a beautiful gem, such an artwork in flesh.
Oh, just one more little peek. Just for a minute or two before I finish dressing. Oh, my, so pretty! That is just… two more minutes, what could that hurt? I’ll just look. I won’t touch… won’t touch, not even a little… just looking for a bit and — oh! Oh my! Oh that feels so — Ahhhhhh yessssssss…
And once again, an hour late and on the day’s second pair of panties already.

The first Peeking post offers more of the same if, like me, you can’t get enough.
— Frenulum

Peeking

Of all the many wonderful things there are about being a girl, one is surely this: whenever you want to see one of the most breathtakingly beautiful wonders of the natural world, all you have to do is look down and peek.

— Frenulum

Too late wise

I was looking at a photograph today of a girl wearing her panties at half-mast, in preparation for a spanking, and out of the blue I found myself wondering if those who design panties spend any time thinking about how they will look when submissively lowered.

Immediately, another thought hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: panties are designed! Somewhere in the world there are people who design panties for a living. They select or even commission the fabrics, choose the decorative trim, decide on the shape and form and coverage (or lack thereof), and cut and sew samples. And they put them on models, check the look and fit, and make adjustments as needed. As a job.

Which leads to an inescapable conclusion:

I have terribly misspent my entire working life.

— Frenulum

Story potential

My belovèd enjoys pictures with high story-potential as much as I do, and we were looking at this one together a little while ago. I think we ended up with about half a dozen story lines it could plausibly illustrate (some a bit easier to argue for than others).

How about using the comment link below to say what story comes to your mind?
— Frenulum

Enjoyable

Just tripped across this photo, and the joy apparent in it made me smile. May it do the same for you.

— Frenulum

Cunt-honey

I can’t recall when I started using the phrase “cunt-honey” for a lady’s natural, welcome, useful, tasty moisture. I feel that it was before I started writing but cannot definitely put a finger on it.
I like its assonance. I like the interplay of explicit bedroom language and the soft, sweet, commonplace.
And of course as a writer it’s good to have a bag of synonyms handy, so it’s not juices juices juices juices every time the subject comes up.
This illustration is exquisitely appealing, I find. Click to see it full-size, lest you miss the detail that really makes the photo.

— Frenulum

One of my readers?

I like to think so :o)

— Frenulum

Details

Although the photograph is spare, revealing little — no faces, for one thing — it presents a wealth of details to spark countless possible stories.

Please comment (you may do so anonymously) and let us know the story that bloomed in your mind.
— Frenulum

Erotica-inspired orgasm

In a comment on another post, reader hecate wondered about whether men and women were equally socialized not to discuss sexual topics. I can offer some perspective on that.

[Stipulation: people who write to me are a self-selected subset of the population, and generalizations based on their behavior are not statistically sound.]

I assume it to be common that people masturbate while they read erotica. That’s why they choose to read erotica rather than, say, baseball stats, I think it’s safe to (generally) say.

The men who write to me almost never allude to this. They comment on the plot, or a character, or the nice editing job. And the very rare times the subject does come up (groan), it's usually a mention that the story was entrancing enough that it stopped being a wank session. One fellow wrote, very sincerely apologetic, “I’m sorry I didn’t cum, I got so caught up in the story. I hope you don’t mind.”

The women who write to me almost always mention masturbating and cumming. I get detailed accounts of which plot points or even individual phrases got them off; I get shame-free tales of soggy panties and spotted skirts and puddled chairs; I get told that they are making their keyboard sticky but that there’s no point in washing up since “I am going to read it again and cum some more.”

So perhaps women are not socialized to discuss their sexuality in public. But when they have a safe, private outlet for it, they do not hold back.

Which, by the way, is kinda hot. Thank you, ladies!

— Frenulum