500 words exactly, excluding the required words in the first and last sentences...

Category 'Firsts and Lasts' (Original selection...)


Wandering Hands

"Stop that!"

I'd caught her this time, lying on the bed, touching and stroking herself, dreaming the afternoon away.

She shot up into a sitting position, flushed and guilty. "I'm sorry..I just thought I'd come and lie down for a few minutes..." Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the bedside clock.

"That's another afternoon wasted, " I snapped "You're never going to achieve anything if you sneak up here to play with yourself every day. If you're not going to exert any self discipline I shall have to give you some alternative discipline."

She made a face at me and muttered something about "spoilsport..no fun".

"Just get off that bed RIGHT NOW!"

She slid off the bed, insolently slowly, and came over to me. After a momentary silent pause she sighed, just a shade theatrically, turned away and laid face down over the foot of the bed.

"OK, get on with it then," she muttered.

I twined my fingers through her hair and pulled her upright. "Oh no, not a playful little spanking. This time I mean it. You just stand there. And take you clothes off."

When I returned she was standing naked, but still her hands gravitated to the damp warmth between her legs.

"Get your hands off yourself and on to your head"

She looked at the cane I was holding and reluctantly put her hands on her head.

I tapped the cane sharply on the outside of her thigh. "Perhaps the memory of a taste of this will persuade you to keep you hands off yourself and your mind on what you're supposed to be doing."

She winced as I kept slapping her legs with the tip of the cane.

"And since I can't cane your memory I'll have to cane your hands, won't I?"

She yelped as I smacked the cane sharply across the back of her legs. "No, not my hands, please, you know I hate it."

"That, young lady, is precisely why I'm going to cane your hands, now hold out your right hand."

I took my time, tapping her hand with the cane until she was holding it in a satisfactory position. By the time I had delivered four slow, hard strokes across the palm of her hand her eyes were already misting with tears. Four more on her left hand and the first tear was trickling down her cheek.

"Now smell your hands," I snapped.

She raised her sore hands to her face, smelt the pungent odour of her earlier pleasures.

"What are you going to remember when you smell that in future?"

She spoke through clenched teeth "I'll remember getting my hands caned...Sir."

"You may, but not vividly enough. Hold out your right hand again."

Very slowly and reluctantly she held out her hand again. She sobbed out loud as I whipped the cane four more times, hard and fast across her outstretched hand. Her left hand shook as she held it out for its quota. She was involuntarily withdrawing by the time the fourth stroke was on its way, but I still caught it.

I allowed a few moments for the crying to subside. "Go on, touch yourself now. Get both hands down there."

She winced with the pain of bending her hands as she fingered herself.

"A real pleasure, is it, playing with yourself? A memorable experience? Let me see your hands now."

They were swollen and red, purple lines starting to colour up. And dripping wet.

"You're utterly shameless, aren't you? Even now you're dripping like you're on heat."

I held her wrists and put her hands over her face. "Good, is it? A nice wholesome scent? Wipe it over your face, enjoy it."

I pulled her hands down. Her face was red and streaked with stringy, pungent moisture.

"Have you learned your lesson now?"

She nodded dumbly, breathing hard.

"Not quite, I think. Right hand up."

Her expression was blank as she slowly brought up her hand. I lifted her chin with the tip of the cane. "Look at me while I'm disciplining you. What happens when we wait between canings?"

That brought her back: I wasn't having her dissociating, trying to put herself outside the experience.

"It hurts more" she said in a small voice.

"That's right, breaking it up makes it more effective. Now, you right hand again."

She cried again as I delivered a slow, hard stroke across her bruised hand. Her own juices wetting her hand served only to further increase the sting and burn. I drew out the last three to her right hand over a good couple of minutes, making her wait and anticipate. She could hardly bring herself to offer up her left hand for its final strokes, but I had time to wait........

A little later, when we were lying in bed I asked whether she had learned her lesson.

"I should think so," she pouted.

"Very good," I said. "Give yourself a vigorous round of applause................"


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