Tennis by Naomi Darvell
Hi kids. It's been so long since I posted the first part of this story that it seems like a good idea to recap. Donna and Lydia have been playing tennis-- rather energetic, angry tennis-- and then some spanking games in the locker room. There is a friendly locker room attendant named Jeannette who may be able to hear some of the goings-on.
[From the end of Part 1]
Without a word I roll over. "You are a spoiled girl, aren't you?" Donna asks in the quiet mesmerizing tone she sometimes uses when shifting into disciplinary mode.
Perhaps that is exactly my problem, I think, but I only say, "What about Jeannette?"
"Shhh," she says. "We'll manage." She loosens my towel, pulling the thin layer of cloth off my backside. I lie there warily with my head up, listening for any sound at the door. "Relax your bottom," she whispers. I look back at my poor damp naked flesh; just then the steam rushes out again and nothing can be seen. Donna, kneeling next to the bench now, has to feel for my bottom before she starts to slap it; quietly, but with a deadly aim straight at the thin vulnerable skin between my buttocks. She spanks until the steam ceases to come out from the vent; then she sits on the bench and pulls my head onto her lap.
I dare not have an orgasm here: at least not the one I feel coming now, which I know will come along with great moaning, perhaps even screaming. Even as Donna hugs me, tenderly gathering my hair up and pressing my head into her breast, I think that tomorrow she will be the one to scream.
There's a knock at the door. Usually Jeannette just opens it. "You girls really shouldn't stay in there much longer," she says. "I don't want you fainting in my locker room."
When we come out she is sitting in the corner by the T.V., reading a book. "You're going to play PLINKO!" the man on T.V. yells, and Jeannette laughs: at the book? At the fat people jumping up and down on the T.V. screen? At me and Donna?
"See you tomorrow, ladies," is all she says.
At our next court time the same men are playing next to us; or else four more who look exactly like them. Donna is wearing the same pink tennis skirt, with the same.... Wait a minute! Those aren't the little pink tennis panties that go with that skirt! All she has on are regular panties, underwear, and neither very thick nor (my god) very concealing, as I notice when she jumps up to volley. She knows perfectly well what she is doing: this is a teasing allusion to what I told her the night before.
She asked me why I never wore a tennis skirt, only shorts, and I told her that I got sick of wearing those skirts as a child; in fact I found the tiny little skirts and panties-- sometimes with lace or other silly decorations on them-- a sort of embarrassing kind of attire. I don't know what makes me spill my guts to Donna all the time, but I also told her that as a very young girl I was particularly fond of mastubating in those embarrassing clothes, after a long sweaty session on the court. I would go straight home, both sets of panties remaining damp if it was a hot day, and lie on my bed breathing heavily-- thinking perhaps of the tennis instuctor, Vicky, or of someone else I had seen while playing. After a while I would open the drawer of my bedside table and take out a hairbrush: black wooden paddle-type brush, not the one my nanny had used to spank me but as much like that one as possible. I had bought that brush just because I saw it one day, but it was not long before I invented this use for it. I would look at the hairbrush and think of my departed nanny, and it would seem like a good idea to rub myself with the brush. I did not pull down my panties but masturbated over them-- perhaps because my nanny never bared my bottom for spanking. She would spank me over my panties and when she was done they would be slightly damp from the exertion of the spanking, and they would cling to my buttocks in a way that embarrassed and aroused me. I was never actually spanked while wearing a tennis outfit, but once I got the idea it seemed irresistable. The dampness of my backside, increased by the double layers, reminded me of that odd erotic feeling of having heat from a spanking trapped in one's bottom by tight clothes. Then too, if the tennis panties were thick enough and tight enough I could apply the hairbrush to myself much harder than would otherwise be possible-- because once I got excited I would use it not only to rub but to swat. I would be lying there with my legs drawn up, the lower part of my buttocks exposed and sharply bent back, and when I began to feel the need to come I would spank myself hard. I had been having orgasms since I was very young but I could not remember every being able to have one without having had my bottom slapped more of less hard first. Now, masturbating, I would always end by imagining that my nanny, or whoever else I was currently fantasizing about, would come in and turn me over a knee and spank me very hard.
Donna is sort of like a terrier: she digs her teeth into something like this: some secret, some point of vulnerability; and she refuses to let go. Right after I told her, she got up and went to fetch her tennis outfit from the laundry room. She pushed me down on the sofa and unbuttoned my jeans. I knew she was going to put those pink panties on me and I started laughing because I knew they would be far too big. "Stop that!" she exclaimed, and rolled me over part way so that she could administer a slap on the back of my thigh. I lay there passively and let her lift my legs and slip on the stupid garment. To give it some tightness she took hold of the waistband and yanked it up. Then she pulled me down across her lap and began to swat. "Is this how your nanny spanked you, Lydia?" she kept repeating. Only after a lot of begging on my part did she agree to use the hairbrush--- both ways.
Now, at the tennis club, I have no idea what sort of twisted logic has made Donna decide to "forget" her pants, but I have to believe it is some type of provocative gesture, aimed at winding me up. I walk up to the net. Donna comes to meet me, bouncing a ball rapidly up and down on the face of her raquet, flaunting her superior coordination as she always does.
"What happened to your pants, Donna?" I whisper.
"I had to send them back to the laundry," she said. "They got all wet. Some naughty girl got spanked in them and she got them all wet." The volume is gradually going up.
"For god's sake will you keep your voice down?" I hiss at her. I begin to feel seriously angry: a good thing, in a situation like this-- where Donna seems to be demanding punishment-- because this woman is extremely hard to dominate. I cannot even attempt it unless I feel a useful surge of purposeful anger.
"O.K.; that's it, Donna. Come with me." I take her by the wrist and she follows willingly enough, until she sees that we are headed neither for the locker room nor to the car, but to the patch of grass right behind the tennis court. "No, Lydia," she says. "No. I'm serious." She doesn't look back, but I do: the four men on the next court are looking our way.
Thanks to the dense green mesh shading the courts on all sides, they will not be able to see us; but surely they will have some idea. Donna hates to be punished in front of strangers, although she does it to me all the time.
"You tried to embarrass me in front of them," I say, "and now you're going to be the one who's embarrassed. I hold her arm very tightly, digging my fingernails in a little, and she decides to go along quietly. Between this little spot of ground and the golf course there is a large drop-off full of bushes and trees. I decide that I will not humilate Donna egregiously by letting the sound of slaps be heard. Instead I put a finger to my lips and beckon her over to a hedge with fronds which look as if they might do for switches. As I let go of her wrist I reach around under her skirt and give her a good hard pinch on her lower buttock. This well-timed pain seems to send her into a submissive enough mental place that she actually helps me break off a few short, whippy sticks.
Donna bends over and lifts her skirt a little, expecting to be switched while standing. "No, I want you to lie on the grass," I say. Kneeling down next to her, I haul her skirt up over her hips but even in my excitement I dare not take down her panties, so close to this group of strangers. I pick up the first switch and begin to sting the buttocks which appear to be pouting voluptuously at me. Donna sticks her bottom up and spreads it a little, inviting harder and harder strokes. She has this way of being incredibly provocative with her bottom. The harder I spank, the less it seems to register.
I have broken three or four switches, and my arm is tired. Donna has got to be pretty sore; the skin that emerges below her underpants is covered with a lace-like pattern of red lines. Still she lies there almost voluptuously, as if I were giving her a massage or something. If we were alone, I think I would be determined to go on spanking to the point of making her cry and scream; here and now, I want at least some sign of capitulation. I decide to take off one of my tennis shoes.
"No, really," Donna says. "Please don't slap me so they can hear; that shoe would be awfully loud."
"Pinching, then." I say. This is what Donna uses to punish me when we are in an airplane, or a hotel with thin walls.
"All right," she says. Oh, yes, her voice is taking on that little submissive tone, a kind of sob. I lean over her and take her hair in my left hand, winding it in a thick rope around my wrist. My right hand sneaks in under her waistband and I pinch the childishly firm flesh with my thumb and forefinger: small pinches, but hard. Meanwhile I whisper in her ear, "Do you like to be pinched, Donna? Does your bottom need pinching?"
I slip my hand back out of her panties and go to work on her lower bottom-cheeks and inner thighs. "Lydia?" she says finally. "I hate to tell you this, but I'm so excited that it doesn't hurt at all any more; it won't hurt again until after I've come."
"What should I do, sweetheart?" I ask her.
"Take me home and paddle me really hard," she says, sounding for once entirely abjectly submissive. I lift her up and kiss her. At least the tennis court is empty now-- we have to retrieve our racquets.
Wintermute