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Authors: Philip Kemp

Blushing at Both Ends

BOOK: Blushing at Both Ends
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About the Book

Title Page

1. Room Service

2. Blushing Bride

3. Jane Eyre

4. In the Red

5. Motivation

6. Gone with the Wind

7. Academic Discipline

8. Shrewd Treatment

9. Snow White and Rose Red

10. Emma

11. Bikini Line

12. Tutoring Miss Lillian

13. Brave New World

14. Heads and Tails

15. Corrective Measures

16. First Class Training

17. Wilde Times

18. The Pirate's Bride



About the Book

‘Oh please monsieur, no more,' she pleaded, but still let herself be drawn back down into the classic position. Once again, her ripe young globes lay invitingly across Charles's lap, plump and defenceless but now yet more beautiful, adorned as they were with an opulent glow. Enchanted, he stroked the radiant cushions. They felt fiery hot and even softer than before, twin tender targets perfectly prepared for the hairbrush's burning kiss.

Full of surprises, funny and always arousing, this brilliant collection of stories is exclusively dedicated to innocent young women who find themselves faced with the delicious, scary, and sensual prospect of a sound bare-bottom spanking. Half against her will, each is inexorably drawn towards the moment when, bent over lap, desk or chair, and trembling she awaits that punishment for which her rearward curves were so perfectly designed.


Philip Kemp


Room Service


The hotel porter pocketed his two euros and departed, leaving Charles Kenyon to survey his room at the Hotel de la Poste.

It was all much as Mme Hubert had led him to expect. Plush, nineteenth-century comfort, a touch shabby, but solid. At least he would sleep well; none of those intrusive voices through paper-thin walls that he'd suffered from in swisher, more modern establishments. Good sleep was some consolation for four days in a town where he knew nobody. Nobody, that is, except Mme Anne-Giselle Hubert, née Carignac – known to history as La Giselle.

Mme Hubert was a find: one of the last living links with the fabled Paris of the 1920s. While yet in her teens she had been the friend, and probably the lover, of Picasso; the lover, and possibly the friend, of Hemingway; the intimate, in different ways and to differing degrees, of Braque, Cocteau, Modigliani, Colette, Jean Renoir, Scott Fitzgerald, Josephine Baker, Gide, Ravel, Diaghilev – you name them, La Giselle had known them, had shared their joys and their sorrows, and very often their beds. And now she was old, very old, long since retired back to her native Arles, and Charles was determined to interview her for his book on that
era before she departed, as she soon surely would, for the great salon in the sky.

She had replied to Charles's letter in a touchingly shaky hand. Yes, she would be happy to see Monsieur Kenyon: but she hoped he would understand that, at her age, to talk for more than an hour would tire her greatly. If he would be so kind as to extend their conversation over a few days? And, alas, her apartment was small, she regretted she could not offer him hospitality. But the Hotel de la Poste was a
bonne vieille auberge
with a sound
chef de cuisine
. For the rest, she would do all in her power to make his visit worthwhile.

Mme Hubert was right about the hotel chef. Charles enjoyed an excellent, if solitary, dinner before retiring to his room. Once in bed, he picked up the novel he had bought in London just prior to departure: the fifth in Eve Howard's ‘Shadow Lane' series, invitingly entitled
The Spanking Persuasion
. For several minutes he lost himself in Howard's cool, sensuous prose, in her seductive world of pretty provocative brats and stylishly dominant men, of sweet soft female bottoms lovingly bared and yet more lovingly spanked to a hot stinging blush; then he turned out the light, brought himself to a fast rippling climax and fell contentedly asleep.

The next day Charles returned to the hotel around six in an excellent mood. The first session with Mme Hubert had gone swimmingly; hesitant at first, the old lady had become increasingly fluent and animated as the memories returned to her. The years seemed to drop away and Charles could glimpse the kittenish charm that had so enchanted
le tout Paris
. The little apartment – shared, she explained, with her granddaughter who was out at work – was crammed with souvenirs, letters and other invaluable stuff that Monsieur Kenyon was welcome to borrow as he wished. His book, Charles happily realised, would be hugely enriched. To
, he treated himself to a superb lunch, washed down with a fine Aloxe-Corton, in one of Arles' Michelin-starred restaurants and spent the afternoon exploring the town, its ancient stones mellow in the late autumn sunlight.

His room had been tidied, the bed neatly made. Eve Howard's novel lay where he had left it, on the bedside table; Charles had meant to stow it discreetly in a drawer, but it had slipped his mind. But his bookmark now lay beside the volume and another, of a different colour, peeped from the pages. What on earth –? Intrigued, he opened the book and found a brief note, in a neat feminine hand:

Monsieur, Do such things interest you? I too. I am off duty at 5.00 p.m. If you would wish to talk with me about these matters, please leave a reply in same place. Most respectfully, Claudine, your chambermaid.

Charles's heart leapt. Could this be a hoax? But if not . . . That morning, leaving his room, he had glimpsed a chambermaid along the corridor. At a distance she had seemed young and shapely, and Charles had been pleased to see she wore the old-fashioned maid's uniform of short pleated black skirt, white frilly apron and black stockings, that Alan Bennett once so aptly termed ‘spanking costume'. But whether she would appear as attractive close to, or whether indeed this was the mysterious Claudine, was another matter.

Still, the possibility was too good to miss, and in any case what had he to lose? The next morning when Charles left to see Mme Hubert, another note lurked in the book.

Dear Claudine, I am amazed by your impertinence, and I think we should certainly discuss it. Kindly
to my room at 5.15 p.m. precisely. Do not change from your hotel uniform. Yours sternly, Charles Kenyon.

That day Mme Hubert was on even better form, and it was as well that Charles had brought his trusty cassette recorder, since he had trouble concentrating on her lively and colourful memories. Images kept distracting him – images of a short black skirt to be lifted, of lacy knickers to be lowered, of rounded white globes that bounced and jiggled and took on a rich roseate glow beneath stinging spanks. In the afternoon he again tried to distract himself with the sights of Arles, but impatience got the better of him and he was back at the hotel soon after four. His note was still in place, but a few words had been added.

Monsieur, I have indeed been most impertinent. I am sure you will know how to reward me as I deserve.
A bientôt
. Contritely yours, Claudine.

In a fever of anticipation Charles settled himself to wait. Another chapter or two of Eve Howard would put him in the mood, he thought, but he couldn't settle and found himself constantly glancing at his watch. Slowly, slowly the hands crept round to 5.15. No Claudine. By 5.30 Charles felt like kicking himself with disgust. Of course it had been a hoax, how could he have been such a fool as to think otherwise?

He had all but decided to go and find consolation in a friendly bar when there came a shy tap on the door. ‘
!' called Charles. And she did.

As a teenager, Charles had harboured a crush on Leslie Caron, seeking out such films as
An American in Paris
to lust wistfully after the actress's gamine appeal. Far more than Bardot, with her blatant sexiness, Caron had always seemed to him the epitome
sensual French allure. Her dark-haired beauty, her full mouth, her dancer's grace and her figure, at once petite and delectably curved, had fuelled many of his secret adolescent fantasies. Now, gazing at Claudine, he felt himself transported back to those hot randy nights of fervent masturbation. This girl could have been the young Caron's sister. Something else about her was familiar, too, though he couldn't think what.

‘Oh, monsieur, I am desolated to be late.' Her voice was husky and musical. ‘There was
une crise
– I could not get away sooner. Please do not be too angry with me.'

After closing the door, she came and stood before him, her hands clasped behind her, the picture of obedient submission. She was a delicious sight. The old-fashioned uniform fitted her perfectly, emphasising her pert breasts, the slimness of her waist and the lush swell of her hips.

Charles became aware that he was gaping, and recalled himself with an effort. ‘Ah – yes, Claudine, your lateness will be taken into account,' he said, adopting a tone of stern reproof. All day he had been mulling over the words of a speech to initiate this little piece of theatre, and now they recurred to him. ‘But it's your impertinence that we must talk about first. Is it normally your practice, mademoiselle, to pry into the books in guests' rooms – let alone dare to leave them provocative notes?'

, monsieur! Never before have I done such a thing. I am desolated – I beg you to forgive me!' Claudine hung her head. Everything in her posture and expression conveyed humble contrition, but she couldn't quite conceal the mischievous sparkle in her eye. This girl, Charles realised, knew exactly what game she was playing – and was enjoying it hugely.

‘Forgiveness is all very well, young lady. But before you can be forgiven, I think you deserve to be punished. Don't you?'

‘Punished, monsieur? But how?'

‘Well,' said Charles, as if mulling deeply over this difficult question, ‘I suppose I really should report this to the hotel management. I'm sure they wouldn't be amused. But I would hate to put your job at risk. So I think, all things considered . . .' He paused, savouring the moment, watching as the girl shifted uneasily from foot to foot. ‘All things considered, Claudine, I think it would be best if I put you over my knee and gave you a good sound spanking.'

‘A spanking, monsieur?' The young woman looked convincingly shocked, for all the world as if such an idea had never occurred to her. ‘You mean . . . to smack me on my bottom?' She pronounced the last word with an equal stress on each syllable –
– as if to emphasise the roundness and ripeness of that part of her anatomy.

‘I do indeed. Very hard – and very thoroughly.'

‘Oh, but, monsieur – I am not a child! I am twenty-two years old – much too old to be spanked on my bot-tomm!'

‘Do you think so, Claudine? Well, you're about to learn otherwise.'

The maid pouted, swaying her hips mutinously. ‘But it will
me, will it not?'

‘Oh, I expect it will,' responded Charles happily. ‘In fact I'm sure it will. Especially since I intend to spank you on your bare bottom, young lady.'

Claudine's brown eyes widened in well-simulated dismay. ‘On my bare bot-tomm? Oh,
, monsieur, that would be shameful! Please, I beg you, do not offend my modesty! Spank me on my
je vous en prie
– see, they are only light.'

Turning, she bent forwards slightly and flipped up her skirt at the back, presenting to Charles's gaze a heavenly prospect: beautifully rounded twin globes jutting enticingly towards him, their ripe curves hugged by cream silk drawers discreetly trimmed with lace.

BOOK: Blushing at Both Ends
7.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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