Miss Tight Brown Pants

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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Miss Tight Brown Pants

(****, M/F, Severe, cons caning)

An old man punishes a beautiful model. (Approximately 3,505 words. Originally published 2006-07.)

When the woman walked passed me, my head rotated to follow her. I couldn't believe her. She was probably in her late-twenties or early thirties, very attractive, with the face of a model. She was dressed casually in a plain brown sweater and pants, but with a certain elegance that said she was well off. But those pants!

They were a light brown (slightly darker than tan), the fabric thin and very smooth. The cloth positively clung to her body. And what a body! Slender legs a mile long, topped by one of the most perfect bottoms I've ever seen. We're talking twin rounds of glorious woman flesh pressed together like two cantaloupes side by side. The globes jutting out invitingly, the seam between tight and thin. The pants were so tight I could easily see not only the succulent underhang of the pert bum, but I could detect the distinct bulge of the woman's cunt!

I couldn't help but stare as the cheeks wobbled down the sidewalk. I looked around, half-expecting a riot of lecherous males, tongues hanging out as they followed the woman, but no one gave her a second look. Dressed like that she might as well have pranced down the street naked, yet in this sinful city such a sight was not even worth the trouble of bothering to look. Lord in my day a woman would be horsewhipped to go out in public like that!

Slut deserves a good whipping, I thought, my feet moving without me telling them, and I'd gone three blocks before I realized I was following the woman. By that time I figured I might as well continue. Besides, it was rather entertaining, watching those firm cheeks shift up and down as she walked, and imagining what discipline a long willow switch could do to those hams. Why my mother would have whipped that slut into next week!

I remembered all too well the welts left by my mother's willow switches, both on my own ass and my sister's sitter, and as I watched the brown-panted woman I thought to myself that those pants were so tight and the material so thin that a weal from a switch would probably be visible through the cloth.

Now I might be approaching the century mark, but I ain't too old to know a pretty woman. This girl was sexy and imagining her getting the tanning she deserved had me functioning in no time. No Viagra for me!

The woman turned into a large brownstone. She marched up the stairs and disappeared inside. I wandered to the foot of the stairs, suddenly a ship without a sail. I hadn't been thinking about what I going to do or even why I'd followed the woman, but now I found myself lost and strangely disappointed. I couldn't bear to leave, yet I couldn't go forward.

Suddenly the door opened the woman was there. She was staring right at me, huge brown rabbit eyes so soft and beautiful, yet there was an edge to her. "Do I know you?" she asked.

I shook my head. My tongue was tied -- I couldn't speak.

She took two steps down. "You were following me." The way she said this it was obvious she was curious, not afraid. I guess no one's afraid of an old man.

"I..."

"Why were you following me?"

Like a fool, I blurted out the truth. I guess I'm too old for the subtle seduction games of youth.

"Those pants," I grunted.

She beamed. "You like them?" She rotated, showing me her ass from all angles. "They're rather snug but surprisingly comfortable. The material's this new stretchy fabric my tailor found. He custom made these just for me."

"They fit well," I lamely added.

"Thank you. Would you like to come in? I was just making a pot of coffee."

"Sure."

Again I acted without thinking. What was I doing? Why was I going into this gorgeous woman's beautiful house? Her kitchen was the size of my entire apartment! Probably that one painting over there was worth more than I'd made my entire life.

I accepted a small piece of crumb cake and a cup of hot coffee. I could tell from the luxurious scent this was no store brand. This was premium stuff. It tasted like heaven.

As I sipped, I studied the woman. She was a little older than I'd first thought. At least thirty-five, maybe more. But extremely well-preserved. With makeup she could pass for twenty-five in the right light. She was tall, for a woman, about my height. Her face was beautiful, not cute or pretty. There was an elegance to her. But there was a down-to-earth quality as well that attracted me. She wasn't snotty or better-than-thou. Suddenly I realized that she hadn't always been wealthy. She'd probably grown up poor. She understood poor, and while she accepted her wealth, she had never quite forgotten where she came from and that showed in the slight humility that graced her countenance.

"What are you thinking?"

I stared, gulping coffee, and wondering what to say. Again, honesty saved the day.

"I was thinking that you're so beautiful, and obviously well-off, but wondering where you came from. You haven't always lived like this."

She smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile, the kind of smile that says "I like you." She nodded. "You're very perceptive.

"I was born in New Mexico. Lived there until I was six. Then moved to Texas, Oklahoma, Tennessee, several other states. My father was a trucker. When I was ten he drove off and never returned. It was a hard childhood. I have six brothers and sisters, three by different dads. My mom died of breast cancer when I was fourteen. That's when I started modeling. By the time I was eighteen, I was working runways in Europe. I retired at twenty-eight, settled here in the city. I have some investments, a few businesses I oversee. But I don't need to work."

"Your face... it's rather exotic in some way. Your eyes are so intense, luminous, I can't quite describe it."

"I'm part Cherokee," said the woman. "My father. About the only good thing he left me."

The coffee was warming me and I was growing bold. "And men? Where are the men in your life?"

She laughed. "Oh they come and go. I suppose I'm attracted to drifters like my dad. Guys who won't settle down."

I shook my head. "That's not it. You pick men like that because you want them to leave -- it's easier for you not to commit if they leave you."

The woman's eyes snapped fire. She stared at me, astonished. "Who are you?"

"Just an old man. Name's Ray, if you need a name."

She smiled again, a soft gentle smile that warmed my heart. "My name's Athea," she whispered, offering me her hand.

I brought the slender well-manicured fingers to my lips and kissed them. "Pleased to meet you, Athea."

"Same here."

"Are you lonely?" I mentally kicked myself. "Shit, I can't believe I just said that. Forget it, it was impertinent."

Athea looked somber. "Yes," she said firmly. "Yes I am."

"That's why you wear those slut pants."

She licked her ruby lips, red tongue slender and moist. She nodded. "They attract attention."

"But not the kind of attention you need."

"I suppose not."

"But you wear them anyway.

"Yeah."

"That's awfully naughty," I scolded gently. "You know they make you look slutty but you wear them anyway."

Athea blushed, smiling at her embarrassment. "You're right again, Ray. I know dressing like this brings in loose men, the kind who just want to screw me and leave, but I keep doing it. I guess I don't know of another way. I've been seducing men since I was fourteen."

"If my mother were alive, she'd take a willow switch to you."

The woman nodded. "My mother, too. She used to tan me with a leather belt. Until she got too weak from the cancer, that is. You know, I think I miss that most of all about her. She was always so strong, just one lick had you in tears. But that last year... a belting didn't hurt at all _physically_, but it just killed me _emotionally_."

Suddenly the light dawned. I knew this as well as I knew my own soul. "You need it," I whispered.

"What?"

"A good whipping."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's what you need. It's what you've been searching for all these years. Someone strong to give you what your mother couldn't, at the end."

She stared at me. Her face was a bizarre mixture of shock, horror, fear, excitement, and desire. Every emotion was clearly visible: as a model she was unable to hide anything.

Slowly, Athea nodded. "You may be right."

"Trust me. I am right."

"You are right."

There was a long pause. "So are we going to do anything about it?"

Now she looked alarmed. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"You mean... you... here... now?"

"Why not?"

Her pretty mouth hung open, the snow white rows of perfect teeth in sharp contrast with her crimson lips.

"Into the living room," I ordered. "Over the sofa arm."

I could scarcely contain my glee when she obeyed. She hesitated at the sofa arm. "Do I?" She motioned to her pants.

"Take them down?"

She nodded.

"How did your mother do it?"

"Lickings were always on the bare," Athea whispered.

"Then you know the answer."

I was slipping my long leather belt out of the loops of my pants as I watched her carefully unbutton the top of her pants. She glanced back at me nervously, eyes flashing to the heavy belt. Then she stared forward and began to peel off the pants.

She wore no underwear.

"Slut," I hissed. She closed her eyes and nodded.

She lay across the sofa arm, her butt poised at the apex. I waited for a moment, studying the magnificence of her bare ass. What had been promised by those tight brown pants was now amply delivered. Never had I see a more voluptuous yet firm bottom. Athea's ass was amazingly full and round, yet she obviously worked hard to keep in shape and the taut flesh was tight as a drum. Whipping buttock like this would be a dream come true.

My belt was thick leather, and heavy to swing. I knew it would hurt. I wondered if Athea was prepared for such pain. I gave her no chance to change her mind and began to lash the belt across her magnificent rump. I delivered three strokes in row, hard and fast, so quickly that she was just feeling the effect of the first when the third landed.

The effect was dramatic. Instantly she knew this was not a game. Three blotches of fiery pain blossomed across her cheeks and she howled in alarm. I paused for a moment to let her recover, then delivered three more stinging strokes.

"Oh God in heaven!" she gasped, writhing miserably over the arm of the sofa. "Please! Not so hard!"

"But a spanking must be painful," I responded. "Would your mother listen to your pleas?"

She moaned and shook her head dolefully, crying out as I struck again. By now her ass was glowing pink but I was just getting started. I let the belt fly at a steady rate, with only brief pauses between strokes. Athea cried, moaned, and sobbed. Her ass quivered and danced before me, but to her credit, she did not attempt to rise up or escape.

"Are you feeling it?" I asked.

"Heavens yes!"

"Isn't this what you deserve you filthy, disgusting slut?"

"Yes!"

I let fly another rapid series of strokes, this time giving her a dozen in a row. She was howling when I finally slowed, her body shuddering and spasming out of her control. "Ohhhhh ohhhhh ohhhhh," she moaned. If she was trying to say something, I couldn't make it out.

I continued the whipping. I struck less often, but every stroke was hard and across vulnerable bare flesh. Soon Athea was reduced to whimpers and yelps.

"Have you had enough?"

"Yes!"

"That's too bad, because we aren't done. I'm gonna roast these cheeks properly as a slut deserves."

"Ohhhhhh noooooooo," she protested, but her voice was weak and faint. I whipped her buttocks hard. Each stroke of the belt left a red mark, welts forming where the edge of the belt struck. Her ass was scarlet now, slowly darkening to ruby. It was painful to look at, yet it looked so damn beautiful I couldn't help but stare. She wiggled her rump back and forth in some vain effort to cool the steaming cheeks. I rewarded her with another lash of the belt. She squealed in protest.

"How did you mother know when to quit?" I asked sternly.

Athea moaned, gasping for air. "Ohhhhh, please. Enough!"

"How!"

"She... she'd whip me until I was broken, really crying," moaned the woman.

"You aren't there yet."

"Oh please, you can't believe how much that belt hurts. I'm in so much pain!"

"Pain? I wish I had a willow switch, I'd show you pain. This belt is nothing."

Suddenly Athea was looking at me over her shoulder. She was composed, her face somber. She licked her lips hesitantly. Her eyes and face were wet with tears. "I... I have a cane," she whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"A cane. It's real. I got it when I was in England. It was sort of a lark. I joked with my boyfriend at the time that it was for me to use on him, but I think deep down I'd hoped it'd be used on me. Oh, I'm so naughty, so very naughty!"

"Stand up."

Athea scrambled to her feet, her nudity forgotten.

"Strip."

"Everything?"

I didn't even answer, just watched as she started to obey. "When you're naked, fetch the cane," I added.

Nude, she ran up the stairs. She was back in a couple minutes. In her hand was a light brown English school cane. It was at least three feet long, thin and very whippy. The wood was hard and stout and I knew this rod would hurt abominably.

"Touch your toes," I said. "If you rise up, the stroke won't count and I'll give you two with the belt across your thighs."

She obeyed instantly, her slender body pivoting smoothly, her legs straight with no bend in the knees. She hung there, perfectly positioned. I stared at the tight ball of her magnificent ass. The gorgeous orbs of each cheeks were full and rounded in this position, the deep divide between pulling open to reveal pink flesh and a tiny dirty brown hole. At the base of her bottom hung the ripe peach of her sex, the lips pursed open and dripping. She was aroused. So was I. Her ass looked stunning all whipped crimson and violet and here I stood with a real British rod in my hand ready to inflict some genuine sting. It was what I'd been dreaming about since I first saw those tight brown pants gyrate past me.

Holding the cane with two hands like a sword, I cut right into that ball of ruby flesh. Athea squealed in shocked agony, a heavy shudder passing through her body like a wave. I let her enjoy the sting for a second, then cut in again. This one was lower, into the thick base of the buttock, and harder. She groaned. I placed the third lower yet, right into the groove between buttock and thigh and was rewarded with another delicious shriek.

"Stay down," I warned, as her body writhed, threatening to rise.

"Shit that hurts!" she muttered, but obediently stayed in position. She held her breath as I thrashed her three more hard strokes, all low across the base of her ass where there was the most flesh. I loved seeing that fatty tissue bounce and vibrate as the cane sank and rebounded.

"Oh heavens, not so low!" Athea grunted. "Please, not all in the same place."

"You mean here?" I tapped the tip of the cane across the succulent underhang of her presented rump.

"Yes."

"But that's where you need it the most. That's naughty voluptuous flesh that begs to be punished, flesh that needs to be whipped raw."

Athea groaned, a desperate guttural cry for mercy. I gave her none, slicing the hearty rod across her cheeks again and again. Within moments, it seemed, her ass was a mass of pretty red, blue, and purple lines. They were angriest on her right buttock, so after a while, I switched, striking her backhand, to leave some nice purplish weals on her left hip.

"You didn't know I was a professional tennis player in the 50's, did you?" I said to Athea. She didn't answer, concentrating on enduring the pain. "I still play once or twice a week. My legs don't have the spring they used to, but I've got good upper arm strength."

"I'll say," she yelped, her breath coming out in a deep sigh a few seconds after a particularly harsh backhand cut.

"Actually, it's all in the technique; I'm not really swinging that hard." I snapped the cane across her lower hemispheres where the flesh was dark and contusioned, watching another vivid weal slowly blossom.

"Please!" Athea begged. Her voice was ragged and harsh. I looked at her face which was streaked with tears, but she was not weeping.

"I don't think so," I said sternly. "Your mother wouldn't have stopped now."

I cut hard across her upper thighs making her yell loudly. She half-stood, reaching back with her hands and jogging in place, wiggling her rump frantically. It was delicious to watch, but completely forbidden.

"That stroke doesn't count, and you just earned more of the belt."

"Not across my legs, please," she pleaded. "That hurts abominably."

"Of course it does. And if I don't miss my guess that's where your mother concentrated her blows." I waited for a response, but none came. "Am I right?"

Another cut to the back of her legs prompted her to squeal out a frantic "Yes!"

What followed was the real whipping. A couple dozen strokes whipped in hard from each side had her thighs crisscrossed with thick red and purple weals that pulsed angrily. As the whipping mounted, Athea's struggles increased until finally she flung herself away from me, flying to the couch and throwing herself onto it, sobbing uncontrollably. Even a blind man could have told she was crying for something far deeper than the pain, so I threw down the rod and let her sob for a while.

I don't know how much time passed. Five or ten minutes, maybe more. Finally her shuddering sobs slowed and became sniffs and moans, and then she just lay there, panting heavily. Then she groaned and rose up onto her knees. Her beautiful ass and thighs were a mess, the angry weals looking horribly painful now, outside of the blind lust of the whipping.

But Athea was smiling at me as she wiped the tear stains from her face. "Thank you, Ray," she said, her voice slightly tremulous but forceful. "That was, indeed, exactly what I needed."

"Any time, ma'am," I said pleasantly. It was a polite thing to say; I hadn't realized she'd take me literally. But after that first successful session Athea had me come back many times, once or twice a month. Not nearly so severe, of course. Sometimes just for a quick paddling, maybe a few weals from the cane.

She smiled at me, then approached. Her hand reached to my crotch, fondling the hardness of my erection. "I think I can help with this," she said gently. Her sweet touch had me ready to burst.

"Damn, you ARE a slut!"

She laughed. "I guess you'll just have to whip it out of me."

"That make take a while."

"I've got plenty of time."

I had never felt so aroused in all my life as I did when that naked woman crawled in front of me and took my hard cock in her mouth. I spurted almost immediately, her cheeks bulging with my cream, flecks oozing out the corners of her lips.

"That was too easy," Athea said as she gulped down my fluid. Her tongue darted out to lick her ruby lips clean. "How about we go upstairs to my room and try for a slower one?"

"Sorry, but it will take me a while to get hard again."

"That's okay." Athea picked up the cane and the belt. "I can think of something to get you excited."

Like a puppy dog I followed that glorious, wagging ass up the plushly carpeted stairs. Athea wore her weals with pride and damn if they didn't make her butt look even sexier!

The End

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