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

Decorated

There was plenty of sparkle evident at the Christmas party. Sequined dresses, jewelry in silver and gold, gems everywhere: in hair, around necks and wrists, dangling from ears. Even the normally dull men sported an ornament or two, including one kitschy light-up necktie, one diamond-studded earlobe, and one pair of reindeer antlers.

But my lovely wife drew the most attention, or at least the most comments and curiosity. She wore a simple, classic cocktail dress, with no jewelry but her wedding ring. It was her face that provided the sparkle.

Red and green glitter adorned it, from hairline to chin, in swirling, abstract, painterly patterns of stripes, curls, and tittles; some pure red or green, some a gradient from one to the other. Finally, a single stripe of gold glitter adorned her dark brown hair.

The comments were compliments. The curiosity came down to: how did you do that? To which her only reply was a smile. Finally another woman, an amateur actress, declared that the secret was spirit gum: “We use it to stick on things like false mustaches.” Her pronouncement was taken as dispositive, curiosity faded, and only admiration remained.

Earlier…

As she panted in the aftermath of a double orgasm, I pulled my cock from my wife’s snug, slippery cunt. Quickly, I scooted up the bed to straddle her with my cock abover her face. The first spurt of creamy praise arced into her hair; with somewhat diminished force, the rest began spraying over her face, decorating her in unpredictable, beautiful patterns. For a change, I made sure to avoid her eyes.

When my fluid adoration was spent, I quickly grabbed the glitter shakers from the nightstand. “Close your eyes,” I warned, and began to turn her cum-splattered face into a Christmas ornament. A touch of gold along the stripe in her hair, and all we had to do was wait a while for everything to set.

I passed the time by eating her pussy. She passed the time by cumming again.

— Frenulum

Perfect Praise

She kneels between my legs. She is wearing high heels and panties. The heels are in their customary place, and the panties pulled down to just above her knees.

The look of pure joy on her face is profoundly more moving to me, more significant, more thrilling, than the orgasm she just gave me.

Praise adorns her face and hair. Liquid praise, unforgeable evidence that she has served me beautifully. It is “good girl,” spelled out in cum.

Two bright white stripes lie atop her dark brown hair, like a tiara for a Princess. Drops and splashes sparkle on her cheeks, lips, and chin. A few droplets have fallen from her face to be caught by her panties far below.

But the bulk of my praise rests on her forehead, between hairline and eyebrows. Great globs of hot, sticky adoration. My attention is there, because gravity, viscosity, surface tension, and geometry are combining now in a fascinating and unpredictable fluid dynamic dance.

She beams her good-girl grin my way, watching my eyes watch her face.

A puddle breaks past the barrier of her right eyebrow. Cum follows the breach and flows in a cascade down to her cheekbone; the dripping bridge passes in front of her eye, stretching from lashes to cheek.

She brings her open eye closer to the tip of my still stiff cock. The glans pushes at the bridge of semen. She leans closer, and the cum-slick head of my cock feels the gentle pressure of her cornea. When she gently withdraws, three slim, silky strands stretch out between eye and cock, barely bending under their weight. Her smile grows broader when the webs are long enough for her to see.

Her left eye suddenly fills from a pool of cum that has tumbled in by way of her nose. Vigorous deep cocksucking has filled her eyes with good-girl tears; sperm flows easily into the wetness. As she feels her left eye beginning to overflow, she wipes up the spillage with my cock and touches its sticky head right to the lens; once again, she forms gossamer bridges between her body and mine.

She continues to play, cock and cum and face, until I begin to soften in her hand.

She climbs up onto my lap, snuggling in my arms, her head on my shoulder. The cum will grow clear, then dry on her face and in her hair, as she rests with me. But even as a thin, crackled, sticky film, it is still praise. It is still love.

— Frenulum

Six of the Best

Having won the lacrosse game against their arch-rival high school, the girls were in high spirits on the bus back to the hotel. One of the chaperones had already checked in, so there was no wait as keys were distributed. The girls headed up to drop off their bags, then gathered again in the lobby. A private room at the hotel restaurant accommodated players, coaches, and volunteer adult chaperones — teachers and parents — and with the door closed they could chatter and laugh and squeal without inhibition as they celebrated the victory and inhaled their supper.

Then back up to their rooms, three girls sharing each, with a strict order that lights-out was 10:00 and not a minute later.

The adults accompanying the team waited until then, checked that the rooms were quiet and there was nobody running around the halls, and then gathered at the hotel bar for some hard-won R&R.

At 10:30, Coach Myers excused himself to head upstairs for a “look and listen.” In only a few minutes he returned, looking troubled and stern, and asked two of the women to join him. As they rode up in the elevator, he outlined his suspicions.

His colleagues soon shared them. Not only was a chorus of voices audible through one hotel-room door, but all agreed that the scent of marijuana was unmistakable.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, handing over the master key-card. “I don’t want any talk about an adult man in a student bedroom.”

Mrs. Frasier, another teacher, took the card and held it up to the RFID scanner. The LED glowed green and the lock clicked. She opened the door and the women entered. An instant later, Emma, attacking winger, squirted through the doorway at a run, clad in tee-shirt and panties and clutching the key to her assigned room. She ran straight into the restraining arm of Coach Myers, who promptly pushed her back into the room and pulled the door closed behind her, standing sentinel lest any other girl attempt an escape.

---

The next morning, six dejected, chastened, anxious tartlets sat in the waiting area for Room Six, which was the dominion of Mr. Ross, the school disciplinarian. One of them, Danielle, had been sent there more than once; for five, it would be a new experience. Whether familiarity or ignorance caused greater dread is open to debate.

Mr. Ross opened the inner door and motioned the tartlets inside.

“Catherine. Amelia. Faith. Danielle, I’m sorry to see you again. Brittney. Emma. Stand at the table, three to a side.” He indicated a conference table from which the chairs had been removed. When they had found places, he simply said “Kilts and panties.”

Six kilts were unwrapped. Six girls hesitated. Six pairs of panties were pushed over hips, down thighs, over feet.

“Bend over the table and hold hands with the girl opposite,” Ross ordered, as he circled the table collecting kilts and panties from the floor. He dropped the pile of clothing on a desk chair.

Catherine and Faith held hands across the table. Next to them, in the middle spot, Danielle and Emma did the same. At the opposite end, Brittney and Amelia held on to each other as a lifeline.

Mr. Ross addressed the exposed, humiliated, abashed, and fearful assembly of co-miscreants.

“Violation of your curfew would have been enough to bring you here. But this matter is made far more serious by the possession and use of an illegal drug. That is a criminal offense, a police matter, and those charges could put your plans, your career, your life, in terrible trouble. As of now, no police report has been made. The administration is meeting this morning to determine whether or not to do that.”

Catherine, terrified, fought back the urge to be sick, and stared wide-eyed at Faith, who also looked despairing and distressed. They made one of three matching pairs.

“In addition, some of you were found in a state of undress suggestive of sexual activity. That in itself is not a school matter, but as you are all under age, that too might be of interest to the authorities.”

“But we weren’t —” cried Brittney.

“It makes no difference here this morning,” Ross interrupted. “You’re being punished for an after-hours party and for drug use. Feet apart, now.”

The tartlets obeyed instantly, placing their feet far apart, spreading their legs and exposing their secret spots. Mr. Ross walked slowly around the table, inspecting the girls for compliance. And, though he was strictly committed to his job, he did enjoy a connoisseur’s pleasure at the sight of six bare, smooth, open teenage quims, six puckered assholes, and twelve firm, curvy, defenseless buns. A less principled man would have been imagining which girl to fuck first.

From a cabinet he chose a punishment strap, twelve inches of double-folded leather with a stout handle.

Faith was the girl nearest to him. Without further preamble, Mr. Ross raised the strap and brought it down with authority to strike the center of her ass, crossing both cheeks. At the crack of the strap every girl jumped, but only Faith released a cry of pain.

He stayed with her, plying the strap repeatedly, working rapidly, covering the sobbing girl’s buns, sit-spots, and thighs with broad red stripes.

Leaving Faith without a word, Ross moved to his right. The next blow fell on Emma’s bare butt, and in moments Faith’s endless sobbing was joined by Emma’s yelps of agony. When Emma’s rear was sufficiently scarlet, Ross moved right again, and began Amelia’s punishment. Two girls crying, one screaming.

Across the table, Brittney, Danielle, and Catherine felt the agonized grip of her partner’s hands, and waited in dread for their turns.

Those turns came to each of them, as Mr. Ross completed his orbit of the conference table. In time, six voices contributed sobs, cries, and moans to the general din.

Standing behind Catherine, the sixth girl, Mr. Ross addressed the group again. “Now, I have one question. Who brought the weed?” The teammates remained silent.

He kept watch on the three faces opposite: Faith, Emma, and Amelia. He saw no movement of eyes, which meant that the dope had come from one of them. He crossed to stand behind the three, and said “I will only ask this once more: who brought the weed?”

He watched faces again. Brittney looked straight ahead, but Danielle and Catherine each glanced quickly to her left. Amelia, then.

Ross’s second circuit of the table, strap flying without mercy, renewed the sobs, the crimson striping, and the agony of six very repentant girls.

“Catherine, Danielle, Brittney, Faith, and Emma, you may return to class. Stop back after dismissal to collect your panties and kilts.” Five simultaneous gasps erupted as the girls realized that their scorched bottoms would be an object lesson for their classmates for the rest of the day. But, eager to escape the scene of their torture, they fled.

“Amelia.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You and I need some more time together this morning.”

“I understand,” she replied, eyes downcast.

Mr. Ross went back to the cabinet to select another, fiercer instrument. But first, as a bit of self-indulgence, he decided an episode of bare-hand over-the-knee spanking would be appropriate and traditional. “Come here, Amelia,” he ordered.

— Frenulum

Friends++

Isabelle and Rose were idling away a Saturday afternoon in Izzy’s bedroom. The Best Friends Forever were no strangers to the purposeless passage of hours together.

Rose sat in Isabelle’s desk chair, swiveling back and forth much as an oldster might occupy a front-porch rocking chair. Izzy lay supine on her bed, toying mindlessly with her hair and staring at the ceiling.

The sixteen-year-olds were classmates, teammates, confidantes, friends since babyhood; continually hanging out together, almost twin-like in their inseparability.

Rose broke a lengthy silence. “What are you gonna wear to the dance next Saturday?”

“I got a new dress for it,” Isabelle replied.

“You bought a dress without taking me shopping?”

“I was out with my mom when I saw it, and they only had one in size 2, so she bought it on the spot.”

“Can I see it?” asked Rose, halting her swivel-chair oscillations.

“In the closet,” said Isabelle lazily, “On the left. Midnight blue.”

Rose hopped down from the chair and went to the closet for a look. She reached in, grabbed a hanger, and pulled Isabelle’s new dress out into the sunlit bedroom. She held it up, admiringly; turned it front to back to check out the cut and ornamentation; turned it back to front again.

“Let me see it on you,” Rose suggested.

Isabelle didn’t really feel like stirring from her bed. “You try it on.”

“Really?”

“Why not? It should fit us about the same.” This was true, as the two girls were much the same size and shape, right down to the so-called vital statistics.

Rose draped the dress over the chair. She unbuttoned her denim short-shorts and wiggled them past her hips. As they fell to the floor she pulled her tank top up and over her head. She turned to pick up the dress, not noticing that Isabelle had stopped fiddling with her hair and was no longer staring at the ceiling.

Isabelle, in fact, was staring at Rose, who stood in panties and camisole as she unzipped the dress and removed the hanger.

In a slightly strained voice, Isabelle said, “Not over your cami. You won’t appreciate the neckline.”

Rose heard the faint undercurrent in her best friend’s voice. They had seen each other in underwear, dressing for events together, and in bikinis at pool parties and the beach, but Isabelle’s suggestion would mean crossing that line, and it had not sounded entirely casual.

Rose put the dress down again. “Like this, Izzy?” she asked, and directly facing the bed, slowly pulled her camisole upward, revealing her waist, her navel, and the undercurve of her breasts. She paused there, locked eyes with Isabelle, and pulled her camisole up over her breasts, baring them, and then over her head. As her hair fell back into place, Rose tossed her head to swing it back over her shoulders.

Isabelle’s eyes darted from Rose’s face, to her breasts, to the lacy panties covering her private parts, then reversed the trip. “Try the dress now,” she whispered.

Rose turned to retrieve it, revealing to Isabelle that her panties were thong-cut and her buns were as bare as her breasts. Her friend’s gasp at the sight was not lost on her.

She slipped the dress over her head, adjusted its position, and reached back to fasten the zipper. She walked back to the closet and shut its door, to use the full-length mirror mounted on it.

“Oh my god, Izzy, almost half my boobs are showing!”

“I’m going to wear a push-up.”

“You want to flash the whole school?”

“I tried it. My nipples don’t show.”

“But, still.”

“Yeah, ok, I want people to notice me. I want attention. Is that so crazy?”

“Jeez, Izzy! You aren’t exactly unknown, Miss Student Council, Miss Top Ten.”

“Exactly. It’s always because I’m smart and work hard and stay out of trouble. I want to be pretty, Rose. I want the boys to notice. I want to make their little dicks hard.”

“Isabelle!” Rose exclaimed, blushing. “Don’t talk like that!”

“I’m just being honest with you. And by the way, since when do you wear fancy lace panties with your butt hanging out? Is that what you wear to school?”

Rose blushed again. “Not with those short kilts, not on your life. No… just… on weekends, sometimes, I like to… feel a little more grown up, even if it’s a secret to everyone else.”

“Take the dress off.” Isabelle turned Rose around and pulled the zipper down. Rose complied. Isabelle took it and tossed it aside. As Rose began to turn back to face her, Isabelle put her hands on Rose’s bare shoulders and stopped her.

“What are you doing,” Rose asked.

“Looking at your panties. Doesn’t it feel weird to have the thong stuck in your crack?”

“I got used to it pretty soon.”

“That would drive me crazy.”

Rose hesitated, biting back the words that had sprung to mind. But… was it really such a big deal? Weren’t they as close and open as two people could be? Hadn’t she already crossed the boundary?

“Try them yourself,” she offered.

“Try… your…”

“Here,” Rose said, slipping her panties down and off. She turned to face Isabelle and offered her panties in an outstretched hand. Her eyes were full of challenge.

“I… I don’t…”

“You’ll never know without trying,” said Rose.

In a daze, suffused with unprecedented thoughts and new, enticing sights, Isabelle hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of her track shorts and panties, and pushed them down her legs together. She took the panties from Rose’s hand. As she stepped into them, she was conscious that her parted legs exposed her privates, and that Rose was watching intently. At the same time, bent over to pull up the panties, she was staring directly at Rose’s girl parts, though Rose’s legs being together meant that there was little to investigate.

Isabelle pulled Rose’s panties into place, covering her mons and offering the slightest relief from exposure. It was Rose’s cue to turn Isabelle around. She knelt behind her friend and tugged the back of the panties up just a bit more firmly.

“How does that feel?” Rose asked.

“Like there’s something stuck in my butt. Like my bikini has crept up and I should reach back and pull it down. Like you’re staring at my ass from an inch away and I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

“You were interested in seeing my body.”

“I looked, sure. It’s not like I planned it.”

“Oh, really?” Rose said, “And whose idea was it for me to try on your dress?”

“I was just being lazy!”

“And who told me I couldn’t appreciate the neckline without bare boobs?”

“I… well, it’s true!” Isabelle protested.

“Take your top off,” Rose whispered, rising to her feet and turning her friend to face her. “I want to see you, too.”

“Oh, Rose, I —”

“C’mon now. Fair’s fair.” Without waiting for Isabelle to react, Rose began unbuttoning her shirt for her.

“Rose?”

“Let’s get this off. There. Now the bra. Good. Wow, are we like identical twins or what?”

They turned to the mirror, taking in the sight of their mirror-image figures. Isabelle felt heat, shivers, excitement, embarrassment, fear, anticipation, and sensations without name washing through her body. She felt, and saw in the mirror, her nipples grow erect.

She turned toward Rose to say something, but Rose’s face was already close and they were kissing, each for the first time ever. Isabelle raised her arms to place her hands on Rose’s back, but Rose reached down to grab Isabelle’s bottom. Their kiss deepened, and one of the girls slipped her tongue into the other’s mouth.

In time, they made their way to Isabelle’s bed, and Rose’s panties, soaking wet, were tossed aside. Neither girl knew what to do, nor what to expect, nor anything else but the immediacy, excitement, desire, and passion of the moment.

Mouths found breasts. Hands found asses. Legs entwined. Fingers found pussies. Pussies were opened so eyes could explore. And inevitably, lips and tongues were drawn to open pussies to feast on secret pink flesh and flowing girl-cream.

The first one to cum did so keening and squealing, crying out in ecstasy and gratitude. The noises drowned out all other sounds.

So when Isabelle’s father appeared in the bedroom doorway, it was a complete surprise.

— Frenulum

Spooning

“Sir? Are you awake?”

“Mmm, apparently.”

“Wanna spoon?”

“I’ll be outside spoon.”

“Mmmmmm. You’re so warm.”

“I was about to say that to you.”

“I love this feeling, touching you all at once.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Sir?”

“Mmm?”

“There’s something, um, well, lodged between my cheeks.”

“Oh, that? That’s a bit of safety equipment, to keep you from rolling over and falling out of bed.”

“I see. It feels like it’s… throbbing.”

“It’s hydraulic. That’s normal.”

“So it’s keeping me safe?”

“Well, safer than nothing. If you really want to feel secure, I can switch it to docked mode.”

“Docked?”

“Right… here.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh. That’s even safer?”

“Guaranteed.”

“Then… I would like that, please, Sir.”

“Ok… I’ll just… Align things like this… And…”

“Sir! It doesn’t fit! Ahhhh!”

“I promise it will… just need a little more pressure…”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

“There. See?”

“Ohhhhhhhhh. I’m sure I can’t roll off the bed now!”

“This particular bit of safety equipment also has an oscillating mode.”

“Would you like that?”

“Definitely.”

“Whatever you decide is best for me, my Sir.”

“It works like… this…”

“Oh! Ohhhhh! Oh oh oh SIR! I’m so glad you were awake!”

“And I’m so glad… that I have the joy of taking care of you."

— Frenulum

Dreams

A light drumming of fingers on the door wakes him. He is not a “light sleeper,” he is a fragile sleeper, disturbed by anything. Perhaps he was already awake.

The door opens. It is Belle. Not all that long ago, he had the staff rotations in his head, and would know which girl to expect. Lately, though, the days have become confused, and he could not have predicted who would appear first.

Once upon a time the girls had had uniforms, but he changed the rules to let them decide what to wear. Variety made for interest. Belle wears black T-strap sandals with a five-inch heel, over white ankle socks with an eyelet lace collar. Fuck-me shoes and little-girl socks, always a spicy combo. She wears a mini-apron, white, also lacy, just enough to cover her pussy and a bit of leg. Her black collar matches the gloss of her heels; the white lace cuffs at her wrists match her socks. On the prominent nipples of her small breasts there are clips, and a delicate chain hangs from one to the other.

In her hair is the lace headband of a maidservant, the only ornament that remains of the compulsory uniform.

Belle draws back the bed-covers, kneels between his legs, and begins to suck. As he stiffens and grows, she does not back down. He is an exceptionally endowed man, and Belle is the only girl on staff who can take him all the way into her throat. She does so, with enthusiasm, and he moans in pleasure.

She throats him, hard and deep, without hands of course, stroking him with her plunging face. When he explodes, his cum coats her throat and flows into her stomach. She won’t taste him until she lifts back and holds his oozing cock in her mouth, coaxing out the last drops with her tongue.

There is another pro-forma knock at the bedroom door, and Kitty comes in, pushing the breakfast cart. She kisses him first, and then kisses Belle, at length, so he can watch. Kitty sets up the breakfast tray and moves dishes to it from the cart. The scent of coffee fills the air.

Kitty is wearing sheer black stockings, suspended by a lacy black garter belt, and Barbie-pink platform pumps. Her balconette bra is in matching pink, and her generous breasts are proudly presented, nipples erect. She wears the servant’s lace headband, and as usual her kitten-tail butt-plug. If she were to omit that fetching accessory, she would feel a great deal of pain when he used her asshole. The stretching helps, at least a little bit.

As he breakfasts, Kitty and Belle share his cock and balls, with plenty of girl-girl kissing for visual appeal. It won’t be much longer before he recovers, ready for more attention.

Robin enters. She wears red ankle-strap heels and a red ribbon tied in a bow around her neck, with the obligatory headdress. She has brought a tawse and a paddle in case the morning girls have misbehaved in any way, or in case they’ve been perfect but he’s in the mood. Finding no room to add her face to the suck-fest, she contents herself with finger-fucking her colleagues.

He is fully erect again, and considers the nine-hole menu in his bedroom. What pleasure shall he choose? All of the options are promising. Perhaps…

---

“Nurse Robins.”

“Doctor Katz, Doctor Bell.” Professionally courteous, the three of them.

“Any developments?”

“No. It’s been a week since he opened his eyes. The morphine is maxed.”

“Not much else we can do.”

“No. Is he responding to any stimulus?”

“Not as far as we can tell. He gets an erection now and then, that’s about it.”

“Must be good dreams.”

“Let’s hope so. Ok, page me if there’s any change.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

They leave him to his last dreams.

— Frenulum

Glass Ceiling, Part 2

The doors to the CEO’s suite opened silently. A moment later, Cassie emerged into the spacious reception room, crawling on her hands and knees. As the doors began to swing shut behind her, she rose unsteadily to a kneeling position. Then, grabbing the arm of a chair for balance, she stood.

The knees of her stockings were gone, and they were laddered extensively in other spots. Two of the garter straps had torn free. Cassie’s ass cheeks, sit spots, and upper thighs were a deep crimson, patterned with strokes from at least a tawse and a crop, perhaps more. The color looked all the deeper in contrast to the fluffy white bunny-tail plugged into her asshole.

Cassie’s hair was a tangled mess, sticky with drying cum, glued to her face in several gooey spots. Her cheeks were streaked with trails of eye makeup; her lipstick was gone and her lips were swollen.

The receptionist, prim, neat, dressed, and calm, said “It appears you were able to plead your case.”

Cassie nodded without really processing the remark. She looked around the room dazedly, her eyes wandering aimlessly from place to place. “What happened to — where’s my suit? My underwear, where’s my blouse?”

“I have no idea,” replied the receptionist. “I’m afraid I’m far too busy to keep track of other people’s belongings.”

“But. But I. I can’t go back to my desk like this!”

“You certainly can’t stay here,” the receptionist answered, as if Cassie had proposed something indecent or, worse, contrary to company policy.

As Cassie stood in the office, nude, bedraggled, embarrassed, and buns on fire, one outer door to the reception area was pulled open, and another employee entered from the elevator lobby. Like Cassie, she was nude, sporting only a pair of high platform heels and a pink polka-dot bow around each of her long blonde pigtails. Unlike Cassie she was fresh, perky, and smiling. She was tall even without the heels, long-legged, and displayed the toned body of an athlete — perhaps, given the fresh-faced blonde-haired stereotype, a cheerleader.

“Hello, Mrs. Bartlet!” she chirped; then noticing her colleague, “Hey, Cassie! What a nice surprise!”

“Laurel,” Cassie answered, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was looking at the company org chart? And I noticed there was a blank box above you? So I thought maybe I should apply!”

“But — you’re just an intern! You haven’t even finished college!” Cassie protested.

“I haven’t even started college,” Laurel said with a giggle. “But I just turned eighteen? So if I fuck an old man it’s legal? So I just figured what the heck, give it a shot, right?” She turned her attention away from the sputtering, speechless Cassie. “Mrs. Bartlet, is he ready for me?”

“Mr. Biggles just finished another interview, so I think we had best wait a bit, dear,” said the receptionist, with a kindness Cassie had never heard in her voice. “Are you all prepared?”

The pretty blonde turned around, swinging her pigtails, bent over at the waist, and reached back to spread her buns. “Cleaned out and lubed up, Mrs. Bartlet!” she chirped, as Cassie looked on, dumbfounded. Laurel stood up and turned back, grinning.

“Remember, dear,” said the receptionist. “It’s not only acceptable to cry a little bit, it will work to your advantage.”

“Yes, ma’am! I’ve practiced lots. Oh, Sir, your cock is so big, and my virgin asshole is so tiny, I don’t think you’ll fit! Sir, please be gentle, that really hurts, you’re stretching me, oh please, you’re so deep!” Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes — which she blinked away as a smile returned to her face. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Excellent, my dear. Now, just relax for a bit until I call you.” The receptionist turned back to Cassie with a sudden frown. “You were dismissed,” she said, acerbically.

“You can’t — ” stammered Cassie, “She can’t — she’s just a kid, she’s been here for three weeks, you can’t seriously think —” She broke off, unable to utter the thought of reporting to a no-experience airheaded teenager. Then another thought occurred. “And anyway, why have you been so nice to her compared to me?”

Mrs. Bartlet finally treated Cassie to a smile. “When Laurel made her appointment — in advance, I might add — her request was made with skill and enthusiasm, and repeated often.” She began slowly to slide the hem of dress upwards. “Would you care to try to improve? No? Then pull that tail out of your ass and get back to work.”

Cassie fled, with sounds of laughter behind her. In the elevator lobby, a nude, chastised, cum-coated mess, she pressed the Down button.

— Frenulum

Glass Ceiling, Part 1

Cassie paused at the doors to the CEO’s office. They were twelve feet tall, wide, heavy, and imposing. She put her hand on one handle, took a deep breath, reminded herself of her mission, and pulled.

She found herself not in the presence of the Chief Executive, but in an opulently furnished reception room, at the far end of which was another pair of massive doors.

Cassie wore her best business suit, finely tailored navy blue wool over a cream silk shell. Feminine but business-appropriate heels, hose, and pearl stud earrings completed her outfit. She was every bit a match for her surroundings; still, her stomach twisted as she caught the gaze of the receptionist, seated at a mahogany desk to her right.

The receptionist was a mature woman with a careful up-do, a grey wool dress, and spectacles hanging from a cord around her neck, resting upon her substantial bosom. She eyed Cassie critically before asking “May I help you?”

Cassie gave her name, and asked to see Mr. Biggles, the CEO.

“On what subject?”

“I’m overdue for a promotion,” Cassie explained, “And a raise. And I’m not getting anywhere with my manager or H.R. or any of the usual channels. So I decided to go straight to the top to make my case.”

“I see,” said the receptionist. She pushed her chair back from her desk to get a fuller view of the importunate employee. “You feel entitled, and you want Mr. Biggles to attend to you personally.”

“Not entitled,” Cassie insisted. “I worked hard to earn a better position. I’m just frustrated that everyone in charge won’t see that.”

“Mmm-hmm. Poor little thing. Well, if you want to plead your case to the boss, you’re sure not going in dressed like that.”

Cassie was startled. “Like what? This is my best —”

“A girl who wants C-level attention goes through those doors naked and crawling.”

“You — you can’t be serious!”

The receptionist sat quietly.

“This is, this is the twenty-first century! That’s ridiculous! That’s outrageous! I’m calling H.R.,” Cassie sputtered.

“The same department that doesn’t listen to your demands for a promotion?”

Cassie flushed angrily. “Well, they’ll listen to this.”

“It’s been so nice to make your acquaintance,” the receptionist said, and turned her attention back to the monitor on her desktop, dismissing Cassie entirely.

“But. But I came to see — damn it, I need to see Mr. Biggles!”

“So you said. Take your suit off.”

“I will not!”

“As you wish.”

The two women stared at each other, one enraged, one cool and impassive.

“Seriously? Naked? Crawling?”

“Humiliation is currency at this level. As is obedience. Jacket, skirt, blouse. Now.”

Seething, shocked, outraged, and out of options, Cassie slowly complied.

“Bra and panties. Keep the garter belt, the stockings, and those quite ugly heels.”

Biting back a retort, Cassie unhooked her bra and, finally, slid her panties down and stepped out of them.

“So much better,” said the receptionist, “Now let me see you crawl.”

Embarrassed and angry, Cassie got down on her hands and knees and took a few slow paces toward the interior doors.

“Oh, no no no no no,” she heard. She turned her head and saw the receptionist seated in her desk chair, with her dress pulled up to her waist and her legs spread over the arms of the chair. The woman’s pussy was bare, open, and shiny with juices.

“You don’t have an appointment yet.”

— Frenulum