The Naked Lady, part 2 by Pete

In part 2 Cindy’s friend Antonia gets into the act.


For the next several weeks, it seemed Cindy was trying to help me catch up for all the spankings I had yearned for, and missed, for all those pre-nuptial years. No fault was too trivial to be overlooked, and I was turned over those flawless thighs almost daily, there to howl and wail shamelessly as she warmed my always bared bottom to near incandescent levels. And the aftermaths, quite often, were even warmer. There was no question but that these spankings had an erotic and uninhibiting effect on both of us.


In the beginning the process was invariable and predictable. She’d take my trousers down, haul me over her bare or stockinged thighs, peel down my boxer shorts and blister my behind with her hairbrush . . . always persevering until I was reduced to teary-eyed, rubbery-kneed abjection. But being an ingenious, inventive and innovative woman, and, as I found out later, being coached by the “old pro” Antonia, Cindy began to branch out into a broad diversity of devious ploys and gambits with which to renew our shared interest in the delicious delights of feminine domination.


One Sunday she decided I should skip the football game. She stripped me bare and had me put on a frilly apron. I was then set to scrubbing the kitchen floor on hands and knees. Cindy assisted me in this unfamiliar endeavor via irregular but stinging applications of a particularly vicious little whalebone switch to my upthrust and uncovered buttocks whenever she felt I was slacking off. And she sets high standards! I later determined that the switch had been a present from Antonia, one of a pair of stays taken from her grand’mere’s corset.

Another time she surprised me in the living room, furtively sneaking a drag on a cigarette, a nasty habit of mine she was determined to break. Suspecting I would be taken to our bedroom for a thorough spanking, I was surprised when she ordered me to take off my belt. I had been working in the yard, and the belt I wore with my jeans was both thick and wide. She stood before me sternly, arms akimbo, sturdy legs spread wide. She took the proffered belt, doubled it, and thwacked it against her palm. She nodded toward my jeans and I dutifully shoved them down to my knees. “Bend over,” she commanded, and when I did she grabbed me roughly by my shoulders and yanked me toward her, my head plunged under her skirt. Her strong thighs clamped tightly around my ears and I whimpered, frightened by the swiftness of her assault and the unfamiliar darkness. I felt her rudely push down my shorts and then, thwack! Thwick! Splat!, she began to strap me. I bucked and squealed as my belt leathered my naked bottom, tautly skinned in this jackknifed position. My struggles only served to send us careening around the room in a strange kind of pain-filled polka, my head scrunching against her quickly moistening crotch. She strapped me vertically, and then horizontally, thwack, the crackling leather crisscrossing my shuddering cheeks stingingly, leaving a mass of crimsoned welts in its wake.

My hands clutched the fulsome cheeks of her magnificent buttocks for support as we whirled about the room, the belt falling inexorably and unerringly on my bare bottom, setting the rhythm for our erratic waltz of the whip. When Cindy at last finished, flushed and panting from both her exertions and her excitement, she threw us on the floor and we coupled with an animalistic lust we had never before experienced. Spent and exhausted we fell asleep on the spot, waking hours later to totter off to bed, for some more relaxed and luxuriant love-making.


It was soon thereafter that I met the mentor of my wife’s mischievousness face to face for the first time in more than 10 years. Arriving home from work late one afternoon, I found Cindy had company. They were seated side by side on the sofa . . . Cindy and Antonia. I caught my breath, stunned by this confrontation with the two women who had so completely dominated my soul and my body for the past 10 years. They looked much like sisters, although Antonia had to be at least 10 years older than Cindy, 10 years older than I. She looked marvelous. She wore a translucent silk blouse, the top three buttons undone to provide an entrancing cleavage, the gossamer material caressing and emphasizing the pointed tips of her raspberry-hued nipples. Her full, knee length skirt had ridden up her strong thighs, sheathed in webby black nylon. Cindy looked fresh-faced and virginal in a clinging, cowl-necked cashmere sweater and long, flowing, plaid skirt.

I stood at the door numbly, plainly overwhelmed by this revelation of my dream girl and the girl of my dreams seated together, appraising me frankly. “You do remember Antonia, don’t you Mark?” Cindy asked me slyly.

“Uh, of course,” I stammered, shrugging off my jacket and smiling weakly. “Hi.”

“Come here, Mark,” Antonia told me in a soft and husky voice that nonetheless provided no room for misunderstanding. When I did so she took both my hands in hers and, somehow, I found myself kneeling before her, straddled by her exquisite thighs. Her cool and slender palms framed my flushed cheeks. “We’ve been talking about you, Mark, Cindy and I,” she whispered. “Have your ears been burning? I’ll bet they have. Not nearly as much, though, as another part of your anatomy will be shortly.” My eyes grew wide, my mouth gaped wide. “I’m afraid so, Mark,” she continued throatily, shaking her head in commiseration, “I’m afraid you’ve been naughty, a very naughty boy. Don’t you agree?”

“Uh, well, I’m not sure exactly . . . ” confused, not sure of what was expected of me, I lapsed into a kind of addled silence.

“Well then,” Antonia said brightly, “suppose we give you some time to think about it.” She sprang lightly to her feet, took my hand in hers and led me to the far wall. “This seems like a good place for meditation,” she said, turning me so I faced the bare plaster. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable. Do let down your trousers, and your shorts as well.”

I blushed a bit, perhaps more from excitement than embarrassment, and complied, allowing the specified garments to slither off my hips and down around my ankles. I heard a soft, rustling sound behind me.

“Perhaps this will help shield you from any, um, distractions,” Antonia went on musically, and my vision was quite suddenly veiled by the diaphanous and musk-scented fabric of her lace-trimmed silken panties inverted, as they were, over my head. She deftly folded up my shirt tails, tucking them neatly inside of my tee shirt. Her hand gently explored my now totally defenseless buttocks. “Nothing seems to have changed much,” she said drily, joining Cindy in a fit of irrepressible giggling.


I stood there in a numb and serene daze for perhaps 30 minutes. I could hear them chatting softly, my ears indeed burning as I realized, from what little I could make out, that they were chatting about me . . . Cindy about my domestic discipline . . . Antonia about my only too obvious, long term leering. “What do you think, Mark?” Antonia’s voice rang out suddenly, startling me. “What do you think about someone who goes around undressing women with their eyes? Isn’t that a naughty thing to do?” My stomach knotted in dread, a dread mingled with relief in the knowledge that it would soon be over.

“Uh, yes Ma’am, I guess it is,” I confessed truthfully, for even as I spoke I had visions of her naked body.

“Well then, I guess you had better come over here, so we can do something about it.” I turned, reaching down to haul up the trousers and shorts puddled around my feet. “NO!” Antonia commanded, “Leave them as they are.” Awkwardly then, hobbled by the offending garments, I shuffled across the room, peeking through one leg hole of her panties to make my way. Blushing furiously at my humiliation, stooped over in a vain attempt to conceal a considerable erection. Cindy had moved to a nearby chair, smiling with warm compassion, or was it anticipation? Antonia had hiked her skirt up to her hips, and I could almost make out the golden blondeness between her legs. “Really, Mark,” Antonia remonstrated when I had reached her side, “do take off those ridiculous panties.”

Flushing at Cindy’s barely repressed snicker, I snatched off the dainty garment and let it flutter to the floor. “I can’t believe Cindy allows you to be so sloppy, Mark,” Antonia said sternly, “please fold it neatly and place it on the coffee table.” Grimly I complied, only too aware of the smirking expressions of my twin tormentresses. When I turned back, Antonia was gesturing pointedly toward her waiting lap. Wondering why I had ever conceived of this as exciting or enjoyable, I clumsily clambered over the sleekly stockinged surfaces of her sinewy limbs. The electric thrill that lanced through my loins at first contact answered my unspoken question.


“Remember this?” Antonia said kind of tauntingly as she thrust her ivory-backed hairbrush before my downcast eyes, “It will be very happy to meet you again, after all these years.” I didn’t bother to nod, just grimaced as she rubbed it teasingly over my naked flanks. Thankfully, she didn’t make me wait very long, but started right in, spanking me with a vigor I only dimly remembered. Her technique was quite different from Cindy’s, who spanked me rhythmically, alternating between cheeks and proceeding up and down my bottom in a methodical manner. Antonia was more creative and unpredictable. The spanks landed randomly, some hard and fast, some slow and deliberate.


Not that it mattered much, I bawled and bleated with equal zeal under both regimes. As the tears began to flood out of my screwed shut eyes, I opened them to find Cindy looking at me intently. As our eyes locked together, I could swear she winked! Antonia must have spanked me 50 times, before she paused. I gasped to catch my breath, thankful it was over.

But I was wrong again. Once I had regained control of myself, Antonia began again. I howled and begged, but it wasn’t until I received the full measure of what Antonia considered appropriate punishment did she stop. By then my bottom was on fire.


Released at last, I sprang up off of Antonia’s lap and kicked away my pants and loafers. On stockinged feet I pranced about the room, whooping loudly and rubbing my red hot rear for all I was worth. When my feverish antics had subsided, just a little bit, Antonia got up and came over to me, smiling oddly. She gripped my arms, kissed me warmly on the mouth, then suddenly kicked my legs out from under me. She held me firmly as I toppled, lowering me gently to the floor. I lay there warily, amazed at the strength of her slender arms. She straddled me, facing my feet and kneeling on the floor, her knees alongside my waist. She took my erect cock and yanked it up rudely, my hips arching up off the floor. Taking her hairbrush from the coffee table, she tucked it underneath my bottom bristled side up, and released me. As I settled back, its thorny spikes pricked my tender, aching flesh unmercifully. I tried hard to keep my hips up in the air, screwing my eyes shut from the effort, but fatigue soon set in and, whimpering, I steeled myself to endure this new torment. I opened my eyes and watched in unbelieving horror as she s l o w l y settled backward. She lifted up her skirt to reveal the dimpled cheeks of her truly voluptuous derriere, a derriere that unerringly moved closer and closer toward my face. I was just about to cry out when she settled it firmly upon me, the twin cheeks imprisoning my face. She squirmed and wriggled ecstatically, her silken skin caressing and enveloping me in its musky warmth.


Panic stricken at first, I soon found I could breathe and began to enjoy the womb-like environment. Especially when she began to roughly fondle my genitals. I could hear her chatting with Cindy as she painfully squeezed and pinched my obviously responsive member. Just as I felt I was about to explode, she released it and sat back, her entire weight once again on my face. When my turgidity slackened, she took hold of it again, manipulating it to the brink of ejaculation. She repeated the process several times, teasing me ’til I ached from frustration. The phone rang then, and Cindy sprang up to answer it. It was for Antonia, and somewhat reluctantly she climbed off me to answer it.

As I lay there panting, Cindy loomed over me, smiling down with pursed lips. “All tuckered out? Did all your dreams come true?” I realized then they hadn’t. That while Antonia’s obvious and eccentric eroticism was exciting, it was no substitute for the thrilling and rewarding relationship Cindy and I had built together. Still pained by Antonia’s prickling brush, I tried to smile back. Cindy bent down and, reaching inside her skirt, removed her panties. Stepping around me, she swiftly knelt as Antonia had done, fluffing out her long skirt so that it enveloped me, tent-like, from my knees to my head. Her lovely fundament quivered deliciously above me in the sudden dimness, just inches from my adoring face. She gently tugged at my still stiff prick until I raised up my hips, and removed the agonizing brush. I almost wept with relief and gratitude. Tentatively, as if unsure of the process, she eased her bountiful buttocks upon me. The plump cheeks trembled and twitched around my waiting face uncertainly. I heard Antonia’s high heels clicking on the floor, and then Cindy’s posterior plopped rudely downward, propelled by Antonia’s hard shove.

“Don’t be shy!” I heard her giggle, “he won’t break.” The phone call had been from her husband, who had confessed some unnamed but unpardonable sin that required her immediate attention. Bidding us both the best of luck, she retrieved her hairbrush and, whistling happily, whisked out the door.

Left alone, I felt serenely content, inhaling and glorying in my intimate contact with Cindy. Her bottom seemed fuller and softer than Antonia’s, her musky essence somewhat sweeter. What had been, for Antonia, a gesture intended to demean and debase me, seemed, with Cindy, to be one of intimate bonding. She squirmed and wriggled experimentally, sighing with pleasure as my face caressed her lovingly. I remembered, then, what had been the highest accolade a girl could be awarded when I was in high school . . . “She can sit on my face – anytime!”

As she bent forward to fondle and kiss my engorged genitals, my tongue slipped inside her and we gasped in mutual pleasure. After what seemed an eternity, but was in reality only a minute or two, she slithered around and we came together in a truly inspired coupling. We didn’t talk much about that night, but came to an unspoken agreement that our somewhat bizarre relationship should be a private one.

Cindy still chats with Antonia quite often, and the synergistic reaction of their two arcane imaginations has resulted in some fairly strange experiments. Cindy disciplines me often and hard, always on the “bare,” and most usually in the traditional over-the-knee position. A standard dose is 30-40 with the back of her brush, another dozen or so with the bristled side, and a final 15 or 20 with her hand. She seems to relish the flesh to flesh “feel” only a hand spanking can provide. She “puts me under,” as she calls it, quite often as well, sometimes for hours on end. She has pursued a series of vigorous campaigns to correct all of my bad habits one at a time, each based on ingenious applications of corporeal discipline. I no longer smoke, swear, drink hard whiskey, ingest caffeine . . . or often sit in comfort. I have come to appreciate the care and attention these spankings represent, and the uninhibited and imaginative sex play that often follows. My fantasy, once existing only in my mind, now is an integral part of our everyday reality . . . and we love it!


One response to “The Naked Lady, part 2 by Pete



    thanks for the story;

    just to inform for my new email adress:




    Envoyé: dimanche 14 août 2016 à 20:09 De: "Rollin Hands Disciplinary Tales" <> À: Objet: [New post] The Naked Lady, part 2 by Pete

    Rollin Hand posted: "In part 2 Cindy's friend Antonia gets into the act.   For the next several weeks, it seemed Cindy was trying to help me catch up for all the spankings I had yearned for, and missed, for all those pre-nuptial years. No fault was too trivial to be ov"


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