It was our final year of school when boys and girls were mixed for the first time; eighteen year olds full of shyness and bravado. No one would have described Sophie as the most beautiful girl in the class. To be honest, she was more pretty than beautiful. I remembered the heady combination of Sophie’s posture, manners, voice and the choice of language she used. I think her mother may have been ballet teacher, which must have contributed to her grace and style.
I never met Sophie’s mother, but I will never forget our first conversation on the telephone when I called to ask about a homework assignment.
“Hello, Ascot 555-5562,” a voice as crisp as a BBC news reader answered.
“Hello, may I speak to Sophie please?”
“May I ask whose calling?”
“Miles, Ma’am.” I don’t know why on earth I called her ma’am; I had never called anyone ma’am in my life, but it just seemed to be the natural response to her tone.
“Well Miles, I am afraid Sophie is being disciplined and cannot come to the phone.”
“Oh… sorry… ” I didn’t know what to say. “Should I call back later?”
“No, Miles. Sophie will be sent to bed after her punishment.”
“Okay, I shall see her at school tomorrow.”
“Goodbye.”
Click!
Did I hear or understand that correctly? Punished and sent to bed! It sounded like she was being given a spanking or something.
The next day I arrived at school early, hoping to catch Sophie before class. She was a little quieter than normal; her pretty face blushed as we made small talk. Did her mother tell her I had called? Was she waiting for me to say something? Nothing was said and as the days then weeks started to pass, my fantasy of Sophie Dupree having her pert bottom spanked grew stronger.
The summer was drawing to an end and along came the realisation that we would all go off towards our respective universities. These were the best of times, with a seemingly endless string of parties where we talked into wee hours of the morning. Sophie and I had become quite close, not in a romantic way but as part of the same small circle of friends. To be truthful, I was far too afraid of risking our friendship by asking her out.
When we found ourselves alone after one such party, I rather awkwardly broached the subject of the telephone conversation. After her initial shock and embarrassment, Sophie opened up and the full story came out.
Sophie and her mother had a very close and loving relationship with no secrets. Sophie was a bright girl and had always been a straight A student; that was until the results of her mock 'A' Levels showed a clear change in direction. Her mother was more concerned than angry, putting it down to exam nerves. In a girly heart to heart that followed, Sophie confessed that she had not been concentrating on her work and became distracted. Sheepishly, Sophie confessed to an overwhelming compulsion to masturbate at every opportunity when privacy allowed.
Sophie said that she couldn’t remember who came up with the initial idea, as it was one of those conversations where one suggestion built on another, but from that day on Friday night was deemed Masturbation Night.
All would be done to make these nights as special as possible. An array of toys was purchased, including special little balls which Sophie could insert as soon as she returned from school. Sophie would feel the excitement mount as she ate her evening meal and would often be fidgeting on her seat by the time she politely asked to leave the table.
Sophie would skip up the stairs to her bedroom and her private pleasure while her mother cleared the table and washed the dishes. After a relaxing bath, Sophie would come back downstairs to watch weepy romantic movies with her mother over hot chocolate.
Masturbation at all other times was prohibited. If Sophie confessed to unauthorised pleasure, she would receive twelve of the very best on her bottom with a tawse her mother had been given by a student’s mother. If Sophie was caught masturbating or incriminating evidence was found, the punishment would be even harsher. For this purpose, a school cane was obtained from a specialist shop in London. They both knew that honesty would not be an issue, as Sophie would never lie to her mother when questioned. Mrs. Dupree was not a tyrant and Sophie could always ask for what became known as a ‘private moment’ if she had been well behaved and was up-to-date with her studies.
Sophie recalled an occasion where she couldn’t resist the urge to comfort herself through the fabric of her cotton panties after being sent to bed following a belting after confessing. The caning on her already welted bottom was so severe that poor Sophie had to miss swimming and netball practice for the two weeks it took the cuts and bruises to fade.
Panties embroidered with each day of the week were purchased, which Sophie had to leave on when she went to bed and give to her mother before she had her morning shower. Being caught with the wrong panties resulted in an automatic spanking, for which her mother favoured an old hairbrush.
I think now that Sophie had started to open up to me she just wanted to get her secret out. She even shared the embarrassment of having to go to ask her mother for a clean pair of panties after not wiping her bottom properly.
As we talked through the night more details emerged. The tawse was always applied while Sophie knelt on the bed with her knees parted as wide as possible before hugging a pillow and resting her head on the mattress. Sophie never in so many words admitted the punishment aroused her, but told me that her mother would always place a towel between her knees. My mind’s eye pictured a perfect little anus and a swollen vulva slightly parted with a clear, sticky strand slowly falling towards the towel.
The strappings themselves were religiously consistent: three from the left, three backhands from the right and the same again. There were a few accidents when these punishments were first introduced where the tails of the tawse caught the delicate folds of Sophie’s sex or bruised her little anus. Sophie said that she would scream and wail but her mother would simply apologise profusely and then repeat the stroke properly before completing the rest of the dozen.
Once, half-way through a strapping, Sophie asked if she could be excused to go to the toilet. Her mother replied, “Of course sweetheart,” but on her return restarted her punishment from the beginning. Sophie blushed as she admitted soaking the towel between her knees on a several occasions.
That was the last time I saw Sophie but the images were etched in my mind. We chatted on the phone a couple of times from university but our conversations were awkward and we simply ended up going our separate ways.
To cut a long story short, two weeks after clicking the ‘Add Friend’ button, I found myself sitting opposite the fragrant Sophie Dupree in a quiet restaurant. We had a pleasant meal, caught up on the last twenty years and reminisced about the old school. The subject of discipline never came up but I didn’t really mind as it was just lovely to see Sophie again.
After walking Sophie home we continued chatting over coffee at her kitchen table. For some reason my eyes were drawn to the open door of her washing machine and the white cotton inside. Halfway through a sentence, Sophie suddenly announced, “Sorry! I have to go for a wee.”
As Sophie danced out of the room, I couldn’t resist having a closer look in the washing machine. Then drew out a little pair of white cotton panties by the lace trim. Glancing in the direction where Sophie had left, I turned the cotton triangle inside out and studied the gusset. There was what resembled a crinkled cream-coloured petal still slightly tacky to the touch. The aroma was simply intoxicating. I couldn’t resist carefully pulling on the trim around the legs to tease the gusset apart so the delicious petal could be loosened and then gently ripped from the cotton. It came away in one piece and I placed it on my tongue like a communion wafer. As the petal returned to its natural sticky state, I caught Sophie’s reflection in the kitchen window and froze.
As I turned to face her, she turned away to the wall.
“I think you had better go,” she said quietly.
I looked down at the wad of cotton now folded in my hand and read the single word stitched into material. ‘Tuesday’.
Fool! Fool! Fool! Idiot! Fool! What had I done? Poor Sophie. I had spoiled everything.
After a restless night I picked up the phone and called.
“Sophie, I am so so sorry.”
“This is Celia, Sophie’s mother, I think we need to have a little chat so you had better come round straight away.”
Celia Dupree opened the door and ushered me in past a quiet Sophie who was sat in the lounge. Mrs. Dupree was an elegant lady who had matured gracefully; there was no doubt where Sophie got her looks from.