Three sisters

26Oct10

If it had been a fairytale, it would have begun, once upon a time at the dawn of the 20th century there were three sisters, Galen reflected. Only this was not a fairytale, far from it. He had three daughters and each had been sent to try his patience. Today it was his youngest, who through daydreaming had got lost while on a simple errand. The errand in question was delivering a letter of authorisation to Galen’s banker for payment of the estate workers’ salaries.

Clara is such a handful, Galen thought. At 18 you would think that she would stop behaving like a child. Oh she was biddable enough, but she was so hapless.

Galen had thought about leaving her punishment to the governess, Miss Grant, but her idea of a punishment was a few minutes application with a slipper across a hastily bared bottom and half an hour in the corner. What Clara needed was a much firmer hand.

Even now his daughter was waiting in the corner of the old school room stripped to her shift. Galen believed that an hour to meditate before a dose of the stick was much more salutatory way of addressing Clara’s shortcomings.

However today of all days, Clara had chosen to require disciplining on a day that they had an important visitor.

Sir Roger Reynolds was seeking Emily, his middle daughter’s hand in marriage. Galen was determined that nothing should go wrong. Once before he had been too indulgent and cavalier with a daughter’s marriage arrangements and it had been a disaster.

His eldest daughter Penelope had returned home at just 24 after leaving her husband. Given the scandal he was quite sure that the wilful girl would be on his hands for some time to come.

Still, Galen thought, there was time to deal with Clara before Sir Roger arrived. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his tie and started up the ornate staircase.

*

As ordered, Clara was standing in the corner with her hands on her head. The raising of her arms had had the affect of raising the hem of her short shift, revealing her small pert bottom to the room. She shuddered and issued a heavy sigh as he entered.

Miss Grant looked up from her book and stood respectfully as he entered.

“Has she been any trouble Miss Grant?”

“No sir, she has apologised nicely and took her place in the corner without a fuss.”

Galen nodded at this and started to unbutton his jacket.

“Will you be requiring me further sir?” Miss Grant’s licked her dry lips and eyed the door hopefully as she spoke.

“Yes Miss Grant, stand witness if you will.”

The 25-year-old governess worked her jaw as if struggling to reply and then with one last look of regret to the door she said, “of course sir.”

“The medium rattan if you please Miss Grant.” Galen tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and began to rollup his sleeves.

Miss Grant walked reluctantly to the desk and picked up the cane as if it were a snake. It was far too much like the instrument of correction of her own girlhood, an unpleasant, but not so distant memory.

Galen took the dark black-brown stick from the governess with a curt nod then turned to address his daughter.

“Now then young lady what have you to say for yourself?”

Clara stuttered something into the corner.

“Turn around and face me when you talking to me.”

Clara jumped and turned at once, her hands falling to tug the shift down at the front.

“Well?” Galen barked.

“Sorry sir. No excuse.” Clara’s big brown eyes were a picture of sadness as she cast them down.

“Then there is no reason why you should not be severely punished?”

“No sir. I deserve it I suppose.”

“Take your place.”

Clara’s eyes flicked to the desk table and she baulked. It was a long walk across the room to the hateful piece of furniture. Taking pigeon steps, she crossed the room with her chin on her chest and then paused.

“Don’t dawdle girl.”

Clara bent over and stretched herself across the flat top. Taking a firm grip on the far edge she shuffled her legs together and pushed her bottom up and back as she had been taught.

Miss Grant’s heart leapt as it always did at this point. The all too familiar posture was one of her mother’s favourites. If only she could leave. She no longer trusted her own feelings.

Galen walked up behind his daughter and sized up the white billiard ball bottom as he might as he lined up for a double-cannon. His youngest girl had yet to fill-out as her late mother and Emily had.

“How many was it last time?”

“Eighteen sir. One for each… eh… year,” she said trembling with a mixture of hope and fear.

Fear because she could not expect one stroke less. Hope because she believed the age and stroke count was a disciplinary formula and she would get no more.

“You’re a strong girl, lets take this to 24 and then see where we are.”

“Oh gosh.” Miss Grant hugged herself.

“Papa, please.” Emily wailed.

“Hush, you know you deserve it.” Galen soothed.

“Yes sir.” Emily whispered as a dry sob escaped her throat.

The cane was pressed to her bare bottom and Galen tapped her nates three or four times to elicit a little gasp from his daughter. Then stepping back with a sweep of his arm he laid on the first stroke.

Miss Grant jumped and issued a little squeak, which she stifled with her hand.

Clara let out a long slow hiss as she buckled a little at the knees.

Galen waited as the plum coloured line emerged across the centre of both her stark white buttocks. Then without warning, he struck again below the first.

Clara suppressed a long hum and gripped the desk’s edge all the harder turning her knuckles white.

Again Galen waited until the dark line had fully developed before lashing another stroke still lower.

Clara groaned and began to splutter sobs.

The next stroke took her bottom low, lifting her onto her toes. She let out a short angry shout. Galen followed up with three more in almost the same place, the last touching the fold of her bottom and thighs.

Clara broke into great heaving hoarse sobs that could be heard beyond the room.

Outside Penelope was passing the door on her way to one of her secret rendezvous with her elegant cavalry officer. It was risky but she couldn’t resist. With a cat-got-the-cream smile, she opened the schoolroom door and put her head around to take in the scene.

Clara was sobbing hard over the desk with her pert little bottom point up in the family-proscribed manner. She knew it well. By now there were at least a dozen burgundy ridges running from the crowns of Clara’s bottom to her thigh tops.

“Whatever has poor little Clara down now?” Penelope offered the perfect crocodile pout.

“Nothing we can’t address, is it Clara?” Galen said with irritation.

“No sir.”

With regret Penelope ducked out before her father asked her wear she was going. With her tight-waisted jacket and hobble skirt, she was quite sure Galen would not approve.

She hadn’t taken three steps before the next stroke struck home accompanied by a hearty yell. That’s my girl, Penelope thought with a smirk. She walked slowly, running a casual finger down the banister as she descended the stairs. Before she got out of earshot, she enjoyed four more strokes to her pretty little sister’s bottom. Her smugness was tempered only by a reminiscent tingle in her own heroic hindquarters. But those days were before her marriage.

Upstairs Clara was in bits, but Galen couldn’t help but be proud of his daughter. She hadn’t jumped up once and her legs for the most part had remained straight and her bottom elevated. Even as the caning came to a close her back was arched down and her bottom up as she had been taught. As result, the six extras he had considered would be dispensed with. As he added the last biting cuts, he glanced at Miss Grant. She was no longer white and drawn, but flushed and fidgety. Sometimes women were a mystery to him. Both Clara and Emily would walk a thousand miles to escape even a spanking. And yet in the past he had caned both Penelope and her then governess for abusing themselves in two separate incidents connected to chastisement. The governess at least had been mortified and had begged to be permitted to resign. He had taken a much firmer line with Penelope after that. He couldn’t help but wonder what camp Miss Grant was in.

“Miss Grant, Clara is to have another hour in the corner after she has pulled herself together and then she is to be sent to bed with no supper.”

Miss Grant seemed dazed.

“Miss Grant?”

“Oh… oh yes sir. Corner time, no supper.”

Galen handed her the cane and taking his jacket left the room.

Miss Grant helped the sobbing girl up and led her to the corner.

“Oh Miss Grant, I am so sorry. I shan’t sit for a month.”

“Oh don’t be silly. I am sure you will mange to ease yourself onto a cushion before the week is out.”

Clara burst into a fresh flood of tears at this news.

*

Meanwhile Sir Roger had arrived to discuss his betrothal to Emily.

“Galen isn’t she perfect?”

“Hardly that Roger, no I couldn’t say so, could I Emily?”

“No Papa.” Emily was being as demure as possible.

“In fact that brings us to an old family tradition.”

“Oh yes?” Sir Roger said pleasantly.

Even Emily perked up at this, curious to what her father meant.

“Yes. You see I have to be sure that you are acquainted with an adequate method of keeping my daughter in line. I really don’t want a repeat of the problems we had with Penelope.”

Emily gaped at this humiliating suggested.

“Papa!”

“I wish to see you give my girl here a sound spanking.”

“That’s not a family tradition.” Emily was mortified and could not have gone redder in the face.

“Well it is now.”

“I see.” Sir Roger sucked back an amused smirk and put down his glass. After all a few swats to her rear would do no harm.

“I won’t stand for it,” Emily snapped, stamping her foot.

“You will do as you are told. Now tuck up your skirts and let us have those draws down.”

“Papa no.”

“Papa yes, or I will send for Mrs Bainbridge to pin up your skirts.”

“This is impossible,” Emily said throwing up her arms and making for the door.

Galen pulled the bell-rope and then moved to block her way.

“Please Papa no.” Tears sprang to Emily’s eyes.

“It’s for your own good,” Galen said gently with a firm paternal smile. “I don’t want you ruining your reputation as Penelope did.

The housekeeper entered proceeded by a glower, it was obvious that she had been well briefed before hand.

“Now Mrs Bainbridge you really can’t let him.”

Mrs Bainbridge had been more of a mother to Emily since she had been 12 and was apt to accept no nonsense. Sitting on the chaise-long she pulled the struggling Emily across her lap. There was a brief tussle as Mrs Bainbridge took a packet of pins from her pinafore and placed them in her mouth. Then intent on the task in hand she began turning up Emily’s skirts.

“I say,” Sir Roger baulked. “Are you sure about this?”

He watched awe-struck as one by one Emily’s skirts, petticoats and slips were tucked up with pins to the back of her bodice. Then once the paper-thin and drum-tight pantaloons were on show, Mrs Bainbridge undid the drawstrings at the sides and slipped them down and off.

“Nooo.” Emily squealed.

Sir Roger adjusted his trousers awkwardly as his mouth went dry. He was a man of the world but Emily’s tight split and high-set bottom was the most splendid he had ever seen.

“Now sir, belabour those sassy cheeks until my girl here knows who is boss.”

Mrs Bainbridge had by now deposited Emily face down on the floor and stood away. Emily lay half-naked with her head buried in her arms. She was wild with the shame of it and yet there was a certain frisson being naked before her beloved.

*

Penelope found her gallant officer resplendent in his uniform waiting in the barn at the edge of the estate. He cocked his head and offered her a slight bow as he twiddled his moustache, but she had no time for small talk and began to hastily disregard hours of carefully preparation along with her clothes.

Despite an infinitely more complex dress to contend with, Penelope was naked except for her stockings by the time he had only removed his sword and tunic.

She did not wait but fell to her knees before him and unbuttoned his flies. This was not quite the behaviour he had been expecting from a lady but as her tongue flicked his manhood, he no longer cared. Seizing his thighs, she took his cock-stand deep into her mouth and began drawing it elegantly back and forth between her lips.

*

Emily was firmly across her fiancé’s lap with her neat bottom bulged upwards over his thighs. Her father had promised her a sound caning in the schoolroom if she resisted her husband-to-be in the smallest regard.

“This is an outrage,” she wailed. “I’ll… I’ll… ooh….!”

Sir Roger began the spanking with short sharp flicks of his hand. The sting in her bottom set Emily squealing and gasping and in very short order, her bottom held a delightful blush all over.

“Now sometimes you must spank hard and other times you must spank long. On occasion, if you are man enough, you must spank hard and long. Tears are desirable, for only then are you sure she has been tamed.”

“Well quite.” Sir Roger did his best to hide his irritation at being instructed.

“If she does not submit readily to any spanking you chose to give her then you must resort to the cane. I promise she will be as biddable as… well as a young woman should be afterwards.”

“Please Papa I’ll be good, really I will.” Emily had resorted to her best lemon pout even as the first tear rolled down her cheek.

Sir Roger, sensing victory, picked up the pace and so that Emily kicked her legs prettily and her bottom took on both the heat and colour of an autumn fire.

“Will you submit to your future husband?”

“Yes Papa, oh yes,” Emily wailed.

“That means you will fetch the cane then, in case Sir Roger wishes to punish you further for your unseemly resistance.”

Emily looked up in horror, but did not dare protest further. As she stood tearfully clutching at her bottom, Galen misunderstood her intention.

“You will leave your skirts where they are and run along to the schoolroom at once.”

“But…”

“We have no male servants, so I suggest you are quick as to make it less likely that the stick will be used.”

Emily scurried from the room, her skirts still pinned so as to provide an open curtain for her bare legs and neat and very red bottom as it bobbed from the room.

“Another glass of sherry?”

“Capital.”

*

Emily was mortified to find that Miss Grant was in the schoolroom to witness her shame. Then she saw a very well welted Clara standing in the corner and knew the reason why.

“It seems to be a day for bringing errant young ladies into line.” Miss Grant observed with some amusement.

Emily’s face turned a peony shade that competed handsomely with both her own bottom and Clara’s.

“I… that is… the cane. I am to fetch it down.”

Miss Grant’s mouth twitched a little and she slipped across the room and lay her hand on the medium rattan that had so efficiently chastised Clara’s naughty bottom not an hour earlier. Then with wry smile, she moved her hand across and took up the senior cane that had once been employed on the more robust Penelope some years before. She handed it in triumph to Emily.

“Please I think…” The terrifying object transfixed Emily; it was a legend in their house.

“This one is suitable for a woman. Are you not a woman?”

Emily took it and backed away to the door.

Downstairs the men were in good spirits and she was directed to stand in the corner like an errant child and hold the cane under her reddened buttocks, which she was direct to thrust backwards a little in submission, so that they were perfectly framed and presented.

“Shall she be caned anon?” Galen studied his future son-in-law carefully.

“I will think on it.”

*

Sir Roger had long gone home and both Emily and Clara were lying restlessly in bed nursing sore bottoms. Both sets of nether cheeks had been soundly enough caned so that all sitting privileges had been revoked for both women for days to come.

Although it was close to midnight, Galen was pacing his study waiting up for Penelope. Normally he did not concern himself with his eldest daughter’s comings and goings, but tonight there had been several inconsistencies in the various maids’ accounts of her whereabouts so he had checked her room.

The creak on the back stair sent him to the study door. A very dishevelled and somewhat glowing Penelope was half way up the staircase.

“Perhaps I could have a word with you.” Galen’s growl came as an order not a request.

“Father I… well I suppose you know where I have been?”

“I trust you have been discreet.”

Penelope nodded. There was no sense in lying now. Lying would make things worse. She rarely ever felt shame, but this time she had broken a promise to him.

“Now or on the morrow?” He asked dejectedly.

“Is that your way of saying I am not too old to have my bottom smacked?”

“When it comes to you, we have been beyond simple bottom smacking since you were 16-years-old.”

“Yes I suppose we have. I’ll take it now if I may. Or do you plan elaborate humiliations for me tomorrow?”

“If it wasn’t for your sisters, you would learn the meaning of humiliation. As it is, it suits me for this to be between us.”

She followed him into the study. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the yard-long birch rod standing in a bucket.

“That, sir, looks rather fierce.”

“You will consider yourself to be confined to this house until further notice,” Galen said quietly ignoring her comment. “Or else this will be just the start.”

“Yes father.”

Penelope removed her clothes rather more slowly than she had for her cavalry officer. But all too soon, she was naked except for her blouse.

“You will place yourself over the scroll-end of the Ottoman and I will bind your wrists and ankles.”

Penelope returned a tight nod.

For once she was very self-conscious as her opulent, but firm bottom pushed upwards at the ceiling. Especially as her father had to come near to bind her wrists and feet with silken cords.

“This is going to hurt quite a bit.” Galen shook the excess water from the huge bundle of birch rods.

“Yes sir.” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

Using both arms he swept the rod in a huge arc leaving a broad band of fire across her bottom. Penelope’s usual stoicism deserted her and she screamed. The sound took them both by surprise.

Pins, needles, hornets and fire all competed to burrow into the flesh of her backside, the sensation was quite intense and new to her.

Galen slow counted to eight in his head and then sent the rod searing across his daughter’s bottom again with much the same affect. Five times he repeated this action before pausing to rest.

Sob-wracked Penelope shuddered as she wept into the leather upholstery. Galen noted that her epic bottom already held a texture overlaying the scarlet stain. In a few places he could see that he had drawn. He was ready for this. He took up a vinegar soaked rag and almost tenderly mopped her flesh.

The humble acid drew an electric response and Penelope reacted as if whipped again.

Then after a while, Galen resumed the birching. By the end of the second set, she was raw and could not keep still.

After another round of gentle bathing, Galen was ready to continue. He was not as young as he had been, but he would outlast Penelope. After all he could take his time and they had all night.

Ends.



9 Responses to “Three sisters”

  1. DJ, this is an epic, I don’t envy the daughters.

  2. 2 opsimath

    Thank you, Damaian, for another extremely well crafted story. I think you have managed to capture the spirit of the ‘dwarian era beautifully in this very arousing story.

    Thank you.

  3. 3 opsimath

    That should, of course, have read ‘dwardian! I really should have gone to Spec-Savers. Sorry.

  4. 4 Karl Friedrich Gauss

    Yes, one could well imagine a tableau like that unfolding, perhaps a hundred years ago. One wonders how long it will be before Miss Grant finds herself in a similar situation…

  5. Delicious, erotic and sinful – I loved it!

    Love, licks and lashings,
    -Lil

  6. 6 allie

    Great story! The beginning of a series…I hope!

  7. 8 Pat

    I loved the story, and was on edge for all of it. I love the picture of the girl with the ample bottom too. …..oh…the ideas!

  8. 9 Brian

    A pity there are no pictures of a well-birched bottom


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