A Punishment PT Session Begins - A Tiny Snipet from an Upcoming New Book

A very belated Merry Christmas and a happy new year to all.  Sorry I have been more than a little negligent about updating the blog but I travelled to Tenerife in the Canaries for the Christmas period and neglected to update the site before leaving... And then it all sort of rushed up on me.  I Flew out on the 19th after a fairly last minute booking, returned on Boxing day (which is a little weird I guess - but loads cheaper).  Then everything was displaced, I ended up at the other half's place - my main computer is housed elsewhere and I don't use hers - then there was a bit shopping and family things in the lead up to New years eve - and New years day I traditionally take my mum to lunch; which means a few beers and usually the start of a multi-day bender (the kids are away at their gran's and there's no one at home at the flat to complain nor care, you see).  I had intended to update while away but it is difficult from my Notebook computer nowadays (I'm updating from it now and I'll have to return to edit, tidy up and add pics etc later - probably tomorrow).  Anyhow - here is a tiny snippet from a new book I have been working on to whet your appetite:

PT and Tutus In The Playroom

 As always Flora McBainstone radiated good health, the fluorescents highlighting her even, white teeth and adding a chill to her wintry smile. She stood with her hands on her hips surveying the scene, adopting that typically wide-footed, well-balanced stance of hers that betrayed her martial arts background. She rarely wore much in the way of make-up but today the way in which her face had been made up was almost theatrical. Large almond-shaped emerald green eyes glittered with subtly menacing delight behind over-blown eye shadow of close to the same hue and her high, haughty cheekbones had been picked out with rouge against her near translucent paper-white complexion like autumn-ripe windfall apples in an early frost. Her long typically Celtic red hair rather than being swept back from her face in her customary ponytail was today piled up and pinned back on top of her head behind a tortoiseshell comb device where it formed a small neat beehive of writhing, coiling tendrils.

Today Miss Flora McBainstone’s supple, wiry-muscled yet full feminine figure was clad in a long sleeved emerald green leotard worn over opaque white pantyhose. A pair of rubber soled dance pumps adorned her feet, emerald green ankle warmers covered her shins and around her shoulders she wore a thin white cardigan left open over the leotard. If anything had been missed from the image of the strict domineering ballet teacher she had conjured it was certainly not in the department of ‘encouragement’. A long, thin, tapering white plastic switch hung loosely by her side from a carrying strap looped around her right wrist, an implement so devilishly pliable that it wobbled from end to end with the slightest movement.

The Wonderous Rosaleen Young in the best (in the author's opinion) ballet spanking photo set ever - and a great inspiration!

The statuesque gym teacher once held the post of chief physical fitness instructress in one of Her Majesty's Government’s ‘young offender’s institutes’. That had been back in the day when the experimental regime that had become infamously known as the ‘short sharp shock’ had been the order of the day’. She had been in charge of that part of the system the institute’s brochure had glowingly referred to as ‘inmate rehabilitation through physical fitness’ but that was euphemistically termed by the staff ‘PE’ or physical education and that was in actuality – in Flora McBainstone’s hands at least - forced PT. It had been partly her ‘over exuberance’ in her involvement with the latter that had been her downfall and that had led to her disgraced exit from the service. At least it had been the instigating trigger of the investigation that had followed – the ‘over exuberance’ that had resulted in her undergoing a certain period of incarceration herself, not to mention being placed on the ‘sexual offender’s register’, referred to another area entirely, although not entirely unrelated.

Suffice it to say that the downright terror she had engendered in even the toughest of the female delinquent inmates had been something one had to witness in order to completely appreciate; there had been something almost tangible about the aura of authority surrounding her when she had been at the head of a class of bending, leaping and squat-thrusting young women, the shrill sound of the whistle she carried around her neck cutting through the air. That much hadn’t changed; she still carried that silver plated whistle strung around her neck on its navy and gold ribbon lanyard. Her ability to engender fear merely through her appearance hadn’t dissipated over time either, if anything she had become psychologically more astute in the way she presented herself.

Certainly the pair of teenagers presently nervously fidgeting under her gaze viewed her with no little trepidation. Subtly twisting and turning and self-consciously clasping their hands nervously before them, the look in the two girls’ widening eyes spoke of nothing short of phobic terror. It was a look that the gym mistress knew well of old; it made her smile, the red gash of lipstick defining her broadly stretching thin lips somehow managing to bring an even harder edge to features that tended to the angular, if feminine and surprisingly refined.

Like their gym mistress the two girls were also clad in leotards, but there, with that term ‘leotard’, the similarity ended. Whereas their teacher’s was modestly opaque and generous in its styling and cut, the leotards worn by her two ‘pupils’ were skin-tight, high-cut at the hips and of a shiny, scantily sheer nylon fabric laced through with just enough Lycra fibre to ensure a suitably contour-conforming fit. Indeed, although superficially styled on the traditional school leotard, the skimpy garments accentuated every curve and bulge they covered while conspiring to leave the large majority of the wearer’s bottom open to the elements. The rear consisted of little more than an expanded backseam, perhaps a finger-and-a-half width of fabric running from the rear of the gusset panel and up between the buttock cheeks.

Far worse than the exposure per se - as far as young Alice Marchment was concerned at least – was the rationale behind the design and the manner in which the garment tended to both draw the buttocks apart while pressing them rearward; the styling made even Angel’s slim boyish backside appear fulsome, and her own heart-shaped creation positively bottom-heavy. The former rationale was of course to ease access of the girl's bottom to the encouragement provided by the gym mistress’ cane or switch; the latter styling aspect was partly a consequence of the selfsame feature that was presently causing the backseam of Alice’s leotard to protrude outward from between her full-bottomed cheeks like a miniature glossy black tent.

At the front both girls’ Lycra-covered crotches notably puckered inward around a circular indentation sited between the clearly and embarrassingly delineated outline of their labia as if something there were drawing in the fabric. Higher up and Alice’s full breasts were thrusting out into the stretched, thin material of her leotard like a pair of torpedoes giving off black stretch-nylon bow waves, held in place and kept elevated by a built-in underwired support. Even her companion’s flat chested form had been persuaded to make a showing of fabric covered cleavage.

Both girls’ hardened nipples were protruding shamefully out into the air, extruded through a pair of rubber-lined, elasticated sphincter-like circular openings sewn in to the front to their costumes - a favourite target for their gym teacher’s martinet on those days she chose to wield it; she believed in concentrating correction around those areas most closely associated with a girl’s sexuality. The latter was all about creating ambiguity in a girl’s mind, arousal with punishment and punishment with arousal - and all stirred together with the exposure of her own body and the sight of the displayed female form. It all came together in the form of a confused and conflicted sexuality.

But it was the site of the tented protrusion at Alice’s rear that had caught the gym teacher’s eye – and her ire. True the girl had only just that minute drawn on her leotard, but Flora McBainstone could plainly see the girl’s coy attempts to avoid the inevitable back there, wriggling her buttocks and self-consciously plucking at the fabric from time to time with the fingers of her left hand as if somehow that would avoid her notice. She was across the floor in two broad strides, whipping the switch across the backs of the girl’s thighs before landing a slap with her outstretched palm squarely on the apex of that dinky little tent protruding between the girl’s buttocks. There came a squeal of shocked pain from Alice, then a breathless gasp as the ‘tent’ disappeared, the fabric flattening and pulling in to the crease between her bottom cheeks urged on by the rubbery elasticity of the leotard’s back seam.

“There! Is that better, more comfortable now?” Again reaching behind Alice’s back the tight-lipped, smiling gym instructress gave a little tug at the top of the backseam, at the point at which the fabric broadened out into the body of the girl’s leotard. Then coming closer still, her breath brushing Alice’s flushed cheek, she reached lower, pressing her index finger on the button-like thickening at the centre of the leotard’s back seam and manipulating it with a circular motion. There came a sharp yet playful slap to Alice's naked rump - and with that the gym teacher was gone, striding across to retake her place standing on a raised platform before the two girls.

In the cloying warmth of the room a thin sheen of perspiration was already adding a healthy shine to both girls’ flesh, the delicately musky perfume of feminine sweat lingering on the air. Flora McBainstone took a deep breath, coughed out her instructions and blew on her whistle. Simultaneously she set the metronome she had set up on the table by her side in motion – she couldn’t see the need to have the distraction of music intruding into the proceedings. Smiling almost playfully, but with an unmistakably cruel twist to her lips, the gym mistress slashed her riding crop through the air, making the leather tab at its end whistle and both girls to wince in fearsome anticipation.

“Plié – demi-plié first… Begin!”

Both girls began to slowly drop, their knees pulling wide apart and the gussets of their leotards pulling correspondingly tightly into their crotches. In the demi-plié the dancer bends at the knees keeping her thighs and knees directly above the line of her toes while maintaining her feet turned outwards to either side.

“Now, let’s move it up another notch, shall we? Grand-plié…up, down, up down...”

The grand-plié meant performing that same sideward-facing knee bend motion but taking it down to the deepest possible position, the motion fluidic and continuous, not as much as pausing at the downward extreme before reversing the motion and rising by straightening the legs equally smoothly.

“Up…down… up… down…”