“You mustn’t be tense,” he told her, running his palm, for the first time, across the jutting oval contours of her bottom, through the clinging satin of her panties. Even in the low light of the little attic room, the expanse of exposed thigh she displayed above her stocking tops gleamed as white as starlight. He could not remember ever touching anything so smooth or so soft as the insides of Laura’s thighs. She shivered at his light caresses, not knowing what would come next, but felt herself relaxing more each moment that she lay across his lap. With one hand on her waist, he drew her closer. With the other, he continued to stoke her shapely buttocks and thighs.
“Do you ever pretend when you play?”
“You mean, assume a role?”
“It’s fun to do once in a while.”
“I never met anyone who wanted to pretend.”
“Sometimes I like to pretend. With the right person and at the right moment.”
“Yes,” Laura said, “I think it might be fun to pretend that I’m five or six years old.”
“That’s perverse but I can go there,” said Hugo.
“I wouldn’t admit this to everyone, but sometimes I fantasize I’m just small.” she went on.
“That’s sweet,” he told her, bringing his palm to rest on the rise of one firm cheek. Suddenly the party seemed very far away. It was so quiet in the attic that Laura could hear his watch tick. “You’re the little girl who lives down Shadow Lane,” he continued. He paused without moving his hand, to let the notion germinate. Then he went on speaking in a hypnotic tone of voice.
“Most of the time you’re a good little girl. But today you were naughty. You brought your cat into the shop. You had a ball of yarn tucked in your apron pocket. You took it out and trailed it on the floor. The kitty saw the bright blue string and leaped on it. You laughed and dragged the sting away. Again it jumped and pounced. You ran behind a corner with the string whipping after you fast. Faster and faster you ran. You became so excited while playing that you completely forgot my rule about running in the shop. At last you were totally breathless. You’d run until your little legs felt weak. No wonder you lost your balance and knocked over the lamp.”
At this pronouncement Laura, completely caught up in the story, gasped in guilty astonishment.
“Yes, it’s very sad. You broke the frosted glass shade of the lamp. It was one of those fluted monstrosities with flowers, fruit and birds worked in relief. No one with taste would have bought it, but I’d have sold it for a profit all the same. So naturally your naughtiness has made me very cross.”
Hardly conscious of what she was doing, Laura ground against his lap. Her heart was fairly pounding and the power of suggestion had planted a lump in her throat.
“After you heard the lamp crash to the ground and you saw the kitty scamper away, you knew you were in trouble. So you came up here to hide. But the blue ball of yarn left a trail plain as day, and I followed it. I found you crouched behind a dusty old trunk, pulled you straight out and gave you a shake!”
Laura actually sobbed aloud.
“I gave you a very stern scolding. And two big tears rolled down your face. That’s because you knew that you deserved a spanking. And that was what you were going to get!”
“No! Please!” she whimpered, putting her hand back to shield her upturned bottom.
“Don’t you dare, young lady,” he told her, pinning her wrist to her side. “You’ve been a very naughty little girl!” He raised his hand and began the spanking, over her black satin panties. But each spank was no more than a sharp, little slap, the sort that one would give a child of five. He alternated cheeks and skipped two beats between each swat, to draw out this quaint punishment. When he’d given her precisely fifty of these baby smacks, he stopped to tug her pretty panties down.
He’d been spanking her so lightly, her bottom was barely pink, and yet it felt quite warm beneath his hand. Again he commenced the spanking, a fraction more sharply this time, but pausing as long between smacks.
To Laura, all this was so poignant that she felt she might really cry. She was overwhelmed by Hugo’s affection. In a strange way, being spanked softly and slowly like this was much more humiliating than being spanked rapidly and hard. Because without the distraction of genuine pain to make the experience inescapably immediate and real, the childishly light little paddling ignited a lush and voluptuous shame, hitherto confined to savored threats and fantasies.
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