S is for Spanking or Birching Bordello part 5

 

Next installment of the Birching Bordello story. We finally got to the actual spanking part. Enjoy! Picture from Tumblr. To read from the beginning: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

The wide stripes that the belt leaves quickly overlap with the thin red lines made by the roses. But the marks do not scare Nick anymore. He know how to keep it just on this side of pain to draw the right mix of ouches and moans but not to send her howling. Izzie is not rolling away, trying to avoid the impact. It's the opposite, she arches her back to meet the belt halfway, the same way she thrusts back when he takes her from behind.

The leather strap caresses while hurting good, and finally it makes sense. The belt is not the enemy but a well known acquaintance that you dislike but tolerate, that you're curious about enough to consider to become friends.

Nick rubs the sting away before adding more to it. He takes a break to calm down her breathing, to gauge where she's at, to chat, because she is not much of a listener during the act.

"Reminders shall be given on a regular basis, Isabel. Don't you agree? Say, Sunday morning before you go to church." His thumb traces the invisible tiny welts from the roses, now buried in the sea of crimson, so warm to the touch. Nick wonders if they will be still there tomorrow. Note to self, check Izzie's bum in the morning. Huh, like he ever missed that thrill.

"I go to church?" Izzie breathes out, still riding the pain.

"It's nineteenth century, darling, everyone does. You won't be allowed to fidget whilst sitting on the wooden bench. That would be quite a sight to watch you, trying not to squirm too much. Maybe I will join you."

"You will?" She rolls her hips, pushing into his hand.

"Uh-huh, to have a quick shag in the carriage on the way home. To make you sore inside out."

Izzie snickers in a quite sober voice. "Look who's missed on making out in the car in his teenage years."

"Yep," he pats her warm bum absent-mindedly, "I said shag, not snog. Back to Earth, aren't we?"

"You're enjoying it, aren't you?" Her lips stretch in a proud smile.

"I thought you want me to enjoy it, Isabel." Nick's hand drops in between her legs, dangerously close to...

"Ah! Milord, but my maidenhead." She jerks away from his hand, switching back into his Victorian fiancée, Miss Isabel.

"Right, a true Virgin Mary here. Shall we call him Jesus too?" The same hand now rubs on her pregnant belly, breaking an unspoken rule they have, never to mention the baby during any spanking, any kind of scene. Izzie's lower lip quivers, she's frozen, yanked into the wrong reality. Nick curses under his breath. Way to muck up, you daft git. There is only one way out of it now: forward.

"Do you want to cry?" he asks, and waits for her nod. "Will you take some hard ones? For me?"

For me. Nick learned recently that any request, well, Izzie does not like when he phrases it as a request. But adding 'for me' at the end elicits a full body shudder from Izzie and a fervent nodding. 

"Let's count down from ten, shall we?" 

To be continued 

R is for Reminders or Birching Bordello part 4

 

This is part 4 of Birching Bordello story. Click here for part 1, part 2, and  part 3

Nick finally gets on his feet and picks up a few roses. When he drags the rose buds across her cheeks, Izzie clenches her perky butt and immediately gets a sharp reprimand on her thighs.

"Wait, what if I will need a reminder? A regular reminder?" She picks over her shoulder.

"I guess I can fit your reminders into my busy schedule," he chuckles.

"Please do not laugh." Izzie hides her face in the bed sheets.

"Am not. Not when your lovely bottom is on the line. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Nicholas."

"Off you go, then."

Nick starts slowly with lighter taps, it scares him how similar to a cane the twigs feel in his hand. He recalls the vivid image of her slapping her own palm and yelping from pain. In no time he will hear the same yelps and worse but under his strokes. He wishes it would be white roses, not red, as the petals are flying everywhere and cover the floor like splashes of blood.

"I can't." Nick stops to a halt and shakes his head.

"What do you mean, you can't?" Izzie turns her head but stays on the bed.

"It's no different from a cane."

"So?"

"Iz, I will not cane you." Bollocks, he's putting his foot down, at least for today.

"Nick, it's roses, thornless leafless roses."

"That leave the same marks as a cane."

Izzie jumps off the bed to face him. "Oh, you are the expert now!" The sarcastic remark doesn't get her far.

"Yes, thanks to you, I am."

"What do we do then?"

"You mean, what do I do??" Nick points at his own chest to make sure she understands who is running the show.

Nick picks up the forgotten belt from the table and snaps the halves with a deafening clap. Quite a standoff they are having: Izzie's fists on her hips, skirts tucked in at the waist, baring a very pink butt, Nick's double folded belt tapping his knee.

"But I want roses!" She is anything but stomping her feet.

"I said, no. Bend over, Iz." Nick points at the bed with the belt.

"Or what?"

"Or else."

"Argh!"

"Remember? It's up to me, when, where, and how. Isn't that right, Isabel?" 

"Yes, Nicholas." Using her formal name, her Mayfair maiden's name, does the trick and puts Izzie back into the forgotten roleplay.

Nick twirls his fingers in the air, and she turns around and plops back on the bed. Yet her fists hit the sheets with the fervor.

"Isabel?" Nick raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, Nicholas."

"I think it's time for a reminder you were asking for. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Nicholas."

"I'm not feeling it." He taps the small of her back with the belt, and she lays her crossed wrists there. For him to hold. 

To be continued

Birching Bordello

 

Can you believe it? I took this picture in some fancy-shmancy bathroom, someone used these as decor!! 

With his hand already resting on the door handle, Nick tries to catch his breath. He skipped the steps by two, while climbing the stairs. It's not the physical exhaustion but the unknown behind this door that keeps him panting. He was giddy on his way up, on his way to her, shoving aside everything he dealt with throughout the day, antsy to finally have a few uninterrupted hours with her. Even a dinner was out of the way, Nick ate at the charity event, and Izzie nibbled enough, or so he was told. But somehow, an odd glimpse of a thought made its way from some far corner of his brain, that he was forgetting something, something that Izzie planned for today. 

Remember the line about lemons and making lemonade? Nick was famous for catching eggs thrown at him and whipping a Western omelet out of them. But the curveballs his beloved was pitching lately, man, you have to be Babe Ruth to handle it right. Nick stretches his neck and his right shoulder like he would, if he was really stepping to bat. He nudges the door open as silently as possible. Whatever there is behind that door, he will not bat an eye, he will improvise, he will... Shit! 

Luckily for him, Izzie sits on the couch with her back to the door, apparently unaware of his presence, gifting him with a few extra seconds for reconnaissance. 

She wears a dark blue, almost floor-length dress with a white bib apron and a white bonnet. Definitely not a French maid, too long, too modest. But what, a governess, a lady's maid? 

The top half of her face is fully covered by a Venetian mask made out of black velvet with intricate silver beaded patterns around the eyes. Beloved is mixing countries, cultures, and centuries, not that he would dare to mention. 

Her tits, squeezed up high by the laced corset, are loosely covered by a thin see-through shawl, corners tucked into the dress. Her small bosom, that's the word that fits this dress, bosom, rises and falls with her uneven breaths. Nervous, she's definitely nervous. As to confirm his thought, Izzie jerks her head to the side as she picks up the next rose from the vase. 

Yes, a long-stemmed rose, already as thornless as they come these days, but Izzie takes it one step further. A small white towel on her lap is covered with a heap of leaves she had already cut off. She trims off all the branches and leaves with a small paring knife, keeping just the bud at the end of  the stem. A stem that looks like a rod or a cane, Nick gulps. Izzie runs her fingertips along the stem to check for imperfections and slivers them off with the knife. She puts the knife aside and, swat! hits her own open palm. 

"Oww!" she bawls at the sting. 

Nick clears his throat, hence interrupting her solitude. 

"I'm sorry, milord," Izzie jumps on her feet and curtsies. The towel drops on the floor, spilling the leaves all over. Izzie and Nick both dive in to clean up the mess, bumping their foreheads with a loud smack. "No, milord, please, Madame Babette will kill me." She gets up and curtsies again. 

"Forgive me for frightening you, my child. No one is going to threaten your life, not on my watch," Nick grabs her chin.

When she looks up at him, her eyes widen into saucers. She frantically tugs at her shawl, pulling it tighter around her neck. Eyes cast down, the mask doesn't feel large enough anymore. 

"I didn't expect you so early. Madame Babette said," she stutters in a heavy cockney accent or more like, her best impression of it, "a gentleman, new in London, with a penchant for the English Vice." 

"Uh-huh." Nick smirks, suppressing a giggle. 

"Is anything wrong, milord?" 

"Only, your accent, never mind." The pieces of puzzle start falling into place. Madame, English Vice, thornless roses, not that it scares him less, but her sweet attempt for an accent is too amusing and a welcome distraction nonetheless. 

"I do mind, milord," she sticks out her chin. "Not everyone is born into one of the best families of Mayfair, but I work there and learned a thing or two." She switches to the poshier version of London accent. "Is that bet-tah, milord?" 

"Alpha, beta, I'm not sure," Nick grins. Still can't recall what is the scenario for today. "What else did Madame Babette say about me?" he probes. 

"That milord is to be married in a week."

"That's right," Nick nods. 

"But, milord, I did not expect you to be..." 

"Handsome? Ah! Now I remember, sorry darling, you're not a scullery maid but his --" 

"Hush, milord, you probably hit your head too hard. Let me fix your costume." 

Izzie loosened his tie and pulls it out completely. She unbuttons the top button of his shirt and turns up the collar. The tie goes back in a shape of a bow. She cards through his hair to smoothen it forward and up. 

"Here," she steps back to admire her own work. "Now you look more like one of those Bridgerton boys."

"That's Regency, darling, I thought you were aiming for Victorian." 

"Is there much difference?" 

"Only a hundred years or so, but do not let that detour you," he smiles broadly. "You know Bridgertons? I knew you look familiar, sort of." 

"No, no, I know their cook. I'm a scullery maid." She turns away. 

"Of course." Nick grabs her wrist to examine her fingers. Funny enough, Izzie's fingers aren't of the daintiest as she constantly washes the paint off them and scrubs them relentlessly at the end of the day. "May I ask for which household?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. Nobody knows I work here at night, that's why I wear a mask." 

"That's an exquisite mask. Where did you get it?" 

But Izzie's attention is all on the belt on his waist, so not conforming with her strict Victorian attire standards. 

For Birching Bordello - part 2, please click here

It's the weekend, so time for another Saturday Spanking story.

Sweeter than macarons

Nick shifts on his feet, clearly aware of his shortcomings in the gifts department. Don't get me wrong, he showered Izzie with flowers in all shades of white, her favourite colour, including lotuses from Thailand, flew in macarons from Paris, and bought even more sets of lingerie in white, pink, and lavender, granted the last part was more for him than for her. But last night, when Izzie mentioned that she wants a gift that money can't buy, it was a bit of a short notice.

Now, she was tapping her white pearl nails against an open Valentine card, with four lines in his neat, almost calligraphic handwriting.

Lotus is white
And so is Izzie's skin 
Not where it's tanned
But the parts only I can see. 

Her hand hovers over to the box of macarons in all colours of the rainbow and zooms onto the dark pink one. Nick grins, as she already ate one of those and he kissed her after, tasting of strawberries, his favourite. Now her breath will smell of strawberries again, lovely.

"Hallmark quality?" he sheepishly nods at the card.  

"Please don't quit your day job." Izzie's tongue picks out to lick off the crumbs from the corner of her mouth.

"May I?" Nick gestures at the envelope sealed with red wax that suspiciously looks like the low temperature candles they had fun with last week.

"All yours," Izzie bites her lower lip, suppressing the smug.

Nick breaks the seal, and a single sheet of handmade paper slips out of the envelope. Izzie's handwriting is not as neat as his own, but it's the lines, the burning words that make him stumble and blush.

Sweeter than rainbow macarons
Bitter than darkest chocolate 
Sound that makes me swoon 
Sting that causes to choke on it

Redder than any roses
Thorns peeling layers away
Wonderful metamorphosis 
It's the only way

Laughing at silly jokes
Or biting on pretty please
Squirming under the strokes
Down on hands and knees

Spending the day in harmony
Melting the stubborn guilt
Ruin me, mark me, pound me
This day stays, roses wilt

And without saying a word, Nick obliges. All. Day. Long.

Thick Brown Leather

Here we go, a brand spanking new poem, partially inspired by Erica's recent post, and I threw in some Valentine's vibes. Also with a mini-challenge to write an Ode to Belt without mentioning the word.

Red thornless roses, petals drop
From sheer force of sweetest torture 
The sting, the bite, old chestnut trope
So many other ways to scorch her

The whitest shirt with rolled up sleeves
The snaking through and buckle sound
The darkest eyes that never leave
My face, my heart,  once lost and found

Of all the things that turn me on
The doubled over all-time winner
Thick brown leather, thanks a ton
Turns us into eternal sinners

The watch is ticking on his wrist
As loud as my heart is leaping 
Competing with the other beast
His arm will yield in nearing whipping

Of all the things that count more
The only one that really matters
To clean the slate, to set the score
And chocolate for quiet after