Wet panties

I think that was the scariest day of my life to that point. Well,
maybe not *the* scariest, but definitely right up near the top of
the list. Some people might argue that a job interview is a job
interview, period. Most times I’d agree with them.

That one was different.

When was the last time you had an interview at a large, expensive
house, in an exclusive neighbourhood, where you were to meet your
prospective employer’s husband and children? The children whom
you would be in charge of for a year? Especially when you really
wanted – no, *needed* – the job? I thought not.

So I screwed up my courage, put on my bravest face, and rang the
doorbell. I promised myself that no matter what happened, I
wouldn’t go running off screaming into the sunset. When I imagined
that scene, picturing myself meeting the Munsters rather than the
Carltons, it brought a bit of a smile to my face, and maybe helped
rope in my fears a little. How bad could it really be, after all.
They were people. Rich, a bit eccentric “well, maybe more than a
bit”, but still people.

I hoped.

Fiona opened the door. She was dressed casually in a bright
yellow sun dress and sandals. That, at least, quelled some of the
butterflies in my stomach.

“Hello Trudy. I’m glad you decided to come.”

We exchanged pleasantries before she invited me into the house.
I followed her down a short hall to a nice “picture perfect,
actually” living room. Everybody in there was wearing clothes,
thank god. Fighting my nerves, and feeling giddy with relief, I
looked at the other people as they stood to greet me. I tried to
fit them in with the descriptions given to me by Mrs. Carlton,
and her introductions a few seconds later showed that I was right
on all counts.

Mr. Carlton looked just as described. Tall, weathered, handsome,
with lots of lean muscles. Black hair and pale eyes “not blue, but
that in-between colour which changes all the time”.

Timothy, their son, looked almost nothing like his father, except
for having the same hair and eyes. He was slender and soft, almost
effeminate, despite his wiry muscles and height. And he was good
looking. Very good looking.

Hannah, his twin sister, was almost the same height “height runs in
both sides of their family obviously”, with the same short black
hair, but looking at me with her mother’s bright jade-green eyes.
They had almost identical body structure, other than the obvious.
Oh, and she was gorgeous. Her mother was striking, and a very good
looking woman, but she was totally eclipsed by her daughter’s

The only other person in the room was Ms. Tiff, their housekeeper.
She was probably about the same age as Mrs. Carlton and looked to
be just as fit and toned. And just as striking. Height must run
in her family too, since she was almost as tall as Mr. Carlton.

I felt like a midget in there. At five foot one I’m not that
small, but Hannah, the shortest of the bunch of them, was close
to a foot taller than me. Mr. Carlton was much more than a foot
taller. When everyone sat down, it felt like I’d stepped out of
a dense forest and into an open meadow. “I found out later that
Hannah was five foot eleven. Everyone else was taller.”

“Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Ice tea? Some wine,
perhaps?” Fiona was looking at me, and asking in a rather polite
way. I decided that something cold would help. Definitely no
alcohol. Because I rarely indulge, and because of some inherited
family traits, even one drink is enough to make me giddy and
light-headed. That, I didn’t need.

“Ice tea, please.”

Orders for bottled water and ice tea came from all the Carltons, and
Ms. Tiff silently went to fetch our refreshments. Everyone sat
quietly, waiting for her return. It was a very uncomfortable time
for me, but they all looked perfectly calm. That made me even more
nervous. I was glad when the woman returned.

“Trudy,” began Mrs. Carlton, “this is your final interview. If you
do well now, you get the job. If anyone here feels uncomfortable
with you, we keep looking. Do you understand?”

Still fighting my nerves, I nodded, then said yes. My last job
disappeared three months beforehand when the company I worked for
went bankrupt. Despite a glowing recommendation, which is all I
ever got from them in the end, I couldn’t seem to find anything
else. There were too many trained secretaries available. Becoming
a waitress, or worse, was something to be dreaded. I was far too
shy to ever enjoy working with the public. Sitting there, meeting
those strangers, was about as wild and daring as I had ever been,
especially with what Mrs. Carlton had already told me about their
personal lifestyle.

The lady was still speaking and I zoned back in part way through
a sentence.

“… expected to be on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a
week. Is that acceptable?”

Again I nodded my acquiescence, hoping I hadn’t missed anything

She summarized my duties in point form.

– I was to be in charge of the house, the help, and the kids while
the two of them were away on their frequent trips.
– It would be up to me to handle any problems during those
periods. Calling one of them was to be a last resort in case
of something truly serious.
– There was to be no wild parties or bacchanalia while they were
away. Small parties were okay, as long as they stayed civil.
If discipline was needed, either for the kids or the staff, I
was to administer it.
– The kitchen was my responsibility – keeping it stocked, keeping
it clean, and preparing dinner Monday through Thursday, unless
something else was scheduled ahead of time. Breakfast for
the kids before school was also my problem. Everyone else’s
breakfast, and all other meals, were either free-for-alls, or
were done on a volunteer basis.
– Both kids were to be packed up and driven to school by me in the
mornings. Getting home was their problem. A car was available
for me to use both in my duties and for my personal use.

Well, on the benefits side, I was to get free room and board, a
generous “more than generous!” salary, the free use of a car, and
lots and lots of free time. A job heaven sent for someone trying
to become a writer “Yes, a writer! Of kids books, no less! Don’t
laugh so hard!”.

I still wondered why they needed a housesitter for their obviously
mature children. They were both seventeen, after all. Fiona had
told me in our first interview that she wanted someone older,
someone with a bit more life experience to be in charge while they
were away. Me, at twenty five, with all my ‘vast experience’, would
be perfect, in her opinion. She’d also told me that Ms. Tiff
didn’t want the responsibility.

We talked for a while, or rather, they fired off questions and I
answered as best I could. Most of the questions had already been
asked by Fiona in our previous interviews, but I guessed the others
needed to ask them again anyway. Towards the end, the inquiries
started getting personal, and then became very personal and

“Do you smoke?” “No.”

“Do you drink?” “A little, but rarely, and then not much.”

“Is there someone special in your life right now?” “No.” Not since
that ass Steve divorced me. I was too ‘wild’ for him. Me! Ha!

“Do you do drugs?” “No.” “Have you ever?” “Never.” “Not even
once?” “Not even once. My parents would have killed me if I’d even
hung around people who might do drugs.”

“What about in university?” “Never been there.” “No?” “No. My
parents got me married off right out of high school. My husband
wanted a perfect stay-at-home wife, and I was it.”

“But you’re not married any more?” “No. We divorced two years
ago. No kids, he got the dog.” There were some chuckles at that.
I didn’t think it was funny during the divorce, because I loved that
old mutt, but after two years I had come to realize there was some
humour in the statement.

“Can you cook?” “Yes. My mother taught me some, and I’ve learned
a lot since. I like good food.”

“Have you had any partners since you divorced your husband?” This
question came from Mr. Carlton. “Partners?” I asked because I
was unsure of what he meant. “Partners,” he replied. “Intimate
companions.”I blushed, and I’m sure I stammered a bit, but I did
say no. I *think* I understood the question.

“Have you ever had any partners besides your husband?” I stared at
Hannah for a second, a little shocked by her question. She was
supposed to be the kid, not me. “I mean, intimate partners,” she
continued. There was *no way* I was going to answer that one
truthfully! “None except Steve, my ex.” She smiled a bit at my
answer. The way I blushed and stammered, it would have been a
miracle if she’d really believed me.

“What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done with your husband.
Intimately, I mean.” The room was quiet as I gaped at Fiona. They
were all waiting for me to collect myself and answer. “I … ah,
we never … I mean, Steve wasn’t like that. Neither am I.” Steve
certainly never was. He had ‘satisfied’ me once a week the same way
he had consummated our marriage – with the lights out, under the
covers, in the missionary position. When he was finished, he would
give me a peck on the cheek and whisper ‘I love you’ before rolling
over and going to sleep. Most times I was just warming up when he
packed it in for the night.

Hannah cut in. “You mean you’ve never done anything wild at all?”
This was getting to be a bit too much for me.

“Mrs. Carlton, what has my past relationship got to do with the

“Trudy, we’re inviting a complete stranger into our lives and our
home. This is part of getting to know who you really are so we
can feel comfortable with you. After all, this would be your first
domestic position.” “Yeah, aside from being a wife for five
years.” I thought it made some sort of sense. And I really wanted
the job.

“Okay. No, I’ve never done anything wild at all.” I was lying
through my teeth again. I thought Hannah, and maybe Fiona,
suspected something, but I wasn’t going to give away my secret. Not
even for a really good job.

“Have you ever been spanked?” That got my attention again, as it
was the first question Ms. Tiff had asked, and it was a very
strange one. She was looking at me rather intently, with her
eyes seeming to bore right into my skull. I stared back, summoning
all my reserves of willpower to keep from looking away. Somehow I
just knew it was a test. “Yes. By my father, when I was a little
girl.” Ms. Tiff glanced over at Fiona for a second, breaking eye
contact, and I felt like I’d just gained some sort of victory.

“Have you ever spanked anyone else?” Mr. Carlton was staring at me
with the same look the housekeeper had worn a few seconds ago. I
stared back, shaking my head, and whispered “no” to him. He ended
up glancing over at Fiona as well before I took my eyes off him.
Things were getting very difficult for me. I was almost ready to
bolt, both from nerves and from embarrassment.

“Have you ever wanted to?” Mrs. Carlton wore a slightly amused
expression, but her eyes were just as intense as the others had
been. All I could do was blush and turn my head away. I couldn’t
answer her!

I don’t know what kind of secret signals they used, but there was
no more than a few seconds of silence and some strange looks passed
between the five of them before Fiona spoke again.

“Congratulations, you’ve got the job.”

She was looking at me rather quizzically. I imagined it was because
of the way my mouth was hanging open. Composing myself, I stood to
say thank you. Then I was surrounded by trees again as they all
stood up. My hand was ignored, and they hugged me in
congratulations. I almost lost it when Hannah gave me a kiss on the
forehead. It wasn’t the kiss so much, as the way her hand casually
brushed across my bottom. I dismissed it as an accident, even
though it did leave me a bit shaken.

Fiona took me on a tour of the house and the grounds, showed me my
new room, and we made final arrangements. I was to move in the
following Sunday and start work Monday “the interview was on a
Wednesday afternoon”.

The house was large, with at least fifteen or twenty different
rooms. The formal living room (where we met), formal dining room,
and guest bathroom were at the front of the house. Fiona explained
that they were only used for greeting clients and guests. It kept
prying noses away from the private areas of the house. Certain
rooms were off limits to me until I had their full trust – rooms
like their bedroom, their home/office, and their private recreation
room in the basement. I didn’t consider that a problem.

My room, a fairly large converted workshop in the basement, was
very nicely furnished. A big bathroom, complete with everything,
was right across the hall. The only drawback was no windows, and
no working lights in the hallway. She explained that some wiring
somewhere had been removed during a renovation leaving the light
fixtures as nothing more than decoration. A tiny nightlight plugged
into the wall gave just enough illumination to keep me from walking
into something.

In the back was a decent sized pool, Jacuzzi, tennis court “it’s a
big yard”, and patio/barbecue area. As usual, and as I had
suspected, a tall privacy fence, lined with evergreen trees,
surrounded the place. They had a gardener coming in two days a week
to keep the greenery looking good.

It was when we were going back into their house from the back yard
that I got my biggest shock. Fiona had explained to me that they
ran a ‘relaxed’ house, and what that meant. Seeing it in real life
was quite different than having someone tell me about it. Hannah
and Timothy walked out from the kitchen, heading for the pool, with
towels over their shoulders. Both were quite naked. I’m sure I
looked like an absolute fool with my eyes bulging out and an
expression of shock on my face, but neither one said anything.
Fiona just looked at me and shrugged.

I couldn’t help myself. I turned and watched them walk to the pool
and dive in. Timothy was smooth all over, with muscular legs, a
tight butt, and a slim waist. He was completely hairless, except
on the head and around his genitals. What I saw up front looked
normal enough, but with only one other man “my ex” to compare with,
that didn’t mean much “videos and magazine pictures don’t count”.
It was Hannah that I stared at though. Her figure was perfect,
and her bottom was absolutely gorgeous. There was no spare flesh
anywhere, and the way her muscles tightened and flexed made me
almost gasp. My panties started getting damp.

When I finally turned away “after they were both in the pool” I
noticed Fiona staring at me with a strange look in her eyes. We
walked through the kitchen and into the dining room without
speaking. I’m sure I saw a slight red sheen on everything nearby.
My face was glowing. For a strict Catholic-raised girl like me,
getting used to their lifestyle was going to be difficult.

After Fiona and I settled a bunch of minor details, such as expense
accounts for food, shopping centres, budgeting, and “very important,
at least to me” paydays, she handed me a set of car keys.

“Here you go. It’s the blue Honda parked beside the trailer.”

“Huh?” That, and my rather blank expression, told her I didn’t
have a clue.

“The car. The one you’ll be using from now on. I’m sure it’ll come
in handy for moving, and it’s definitely faster than using public
transit.” That her words weren’t registering was obviously evident
on my face.

“Trudy, you’re working for us now. You need a car to do your job.
These are the keys to the car you’ll be using. I expect you’ll need
it if you’re going to be ready to move in here on Sunday.” She
spoke slowly and carefully, watching the words sink in one by one.

“You mean, just like that, you’re giving me a car?”

“Not quite. We’re loaning you a car. Use it, but don’t abuse it.”

So, I had a new job, I had “the use of” a nice car, I had enough
left in the bank to cover all my outstanding debts with a small
nest egg left over, and I still had my alimony coming in. Life was
good. All I had to do was get used to my employers. I was sure
that looking at naked bodies would become rather blase after a
while. I thought I could get used to it. Mom and Dad might spin
in their graves, but what the heck. Besides, Fiona had made it
perfectly clear that I could wear “or not wear” whatever I wanted.
Nudity was not a job requirement. If it had been, I would never
have even considered working for them. “I was what some would
consider a prude. I think.”

Moving in was relatively painless – as painless as moving ever gets,
anyway. So was learning the routines. Cooking was easy, since
everyone there preferred barbecue to anything else. As you’d
expect, they had every modern convenience, from a convection oven
to a built-in dishwasher. Getting the kids “Kids? At seventeen
they’re no longer kids!” to school was no problem. Helping with
homework was no problem “that was delegated to me too”. Cleaning
the stainless steel, formica, and ceramic kitchen was a breeze.
Grocery shopping for six “and with friends and special dinners,
sometimes ten, fifteen, or twenty!” took some adjustment. Two jugs
of milk three times a week, rather than one quart every few days,
two loaves of bread almost every day, buying giant economy size
everything when I was used to buying the smallest packages, and
pushing around a full “very full!” cart was strange.

What I found hardest was getting used to everyone prancing around
with little or nothing on. Even the kids’ friends often stripped
down to the buff when going for a dip. I used my nice, demure one
piece suit whenever I went swimming or sunbathing, and tried to
ignore all the tanned skin around me, no matter what my body and
imagination said.

I did *not* let Hannah take me out shopping for a new swim suit.
She said I had a perfect beach bunny body – perfect for wearing
a micro bikini. She said a new suit, and a new hairdo with some
lightening and highlighting, would have all the guys drooling over
me “yeah, just what I needed, more attention”. No way was I going
to make things harder on myself.

Believe it or not, I wasn’t a complete innocent. I’d seen two dirty
movies and, after my divorce, even bought a few indecent magazines.
Since I’d seen actors and models on the tube and in pictures, I
thought I was prepared for the real thing. It wasn’t the same.
Neither Timothy nor Steve cared if they had an erection when they
were in and around the house, so I couldn’t help but get some very
good closeup looks. Blase, I wasn’t. I tried not to be too
obvious with my staring.

My imagination kept running wild. At breakfast I pictured myself as
naked as Fiona, walking around like nothing was out of the ordinary,
then casually sitting in Timothy’s lap and sliding myself onto his
manhood. Or sitting in the family room, watching TV in a chair with
Mr. Carlton, casually jerking him off while he had his fingers
buried inside me. Or out suntanning with Hannah, running my hands
all over her body, especially that exquisite backside with those
perfect glutes, while supposedly applying sunscreen. Or having her
lay me down on the grass so she could use her fingers and tongue to
excite me for hours and hours before allowing me any relief. Of
course, I never let on about my fantasies. I never caught any of
them acting in an improper manner either, but that didn’t stop me
from daydreaming about what happened when I wasn’t around.

After staring at any of their naked bodies for a while, with my
mind getting lost in the erotic possibilities, my crotch would be
soaked through and I’d have to go change my panties. Sometimes
several times a day. After the first week I had to go buy more
panties, since I didn’t have enough pairs to last between washdays.
Not while I was around them, anyway. My fingers were also very
busy any time I was alone.

I was sure Hannah knew I stared at her just as much as at her
brother. I never said anything or did anything, and neither did
she, but sometimes I caught an odd look or a glance when she
thought I wasn’t paying attention.

Why was I looking, you ask? Why did she get my panties damp? That
was my big secret. It’s because she reminded me so much of Sally.
Tall, skinny, athletic Sally. Same black hair, same flawless tanned
skin, same wonderful bottom.

We were friends from our first day in junior high. When I hit
puberty “got hit, actually” at fourteen, I went from ‘AAA’ at the
start of summer to ‘B+’ when school started again. The boys were
merciless in their teasing, saying I was wearing falsies, or had
tissues in there or water balloons or something. Some even tried
to stick pins in me to see if I’d pop.

Well, I’ve always been shy and a little less than physical, so all
I did was cry a lot. The vice principal, the principal, some of
the teachers, and even my parents, all made it seem like it was
*my* fault – as if I asked for these things! Well, Sally finally
got fed up with the way some of the boys were treating me “and her,
since she’d also started developing” so she beat a few of them up.
Some more than once. They eventually got the message.

She and I spent a lot of time together after that, and, well, one
thing led to another. First she showed me the bruises and scrapes
she got from the different fights. I *had* to put creams and
ointments on them, of course. Then I started massaging out the
pains and knotted muscles. I showed her the tiny wounds from the
pins, and the bruises from the pinchings, so she proceeded to put
some ointment on my sore spots and massaged it in “much to my

Things took a rather degenerate turn “as my father would have said”
when Sally got kneed in the groin during a soccer game. Naive me,
despite a lifetime of admonitions by my mother that I was supposed
to keep my hands away from down there at all costs, decided that
I could do a better job of fixing the hurt than Sally could. She
let me massage in the medication and the next thing I knew she was
moaning and panting and sweating and she wouldn’t let me stop. It
was the first time I had ever seen anyone have an orgasm.

When she was finished, and she finally got over the shock of finding
out that I didn’t know what had happened, and got over the bigger
shock of learning that I’d never had one myself, she gave me a few
lessons on masturbation. And then a few more. Then I had to
practice on her – just to make sure I was doing it right, of
course. And she practiced on me. Repeatedly. By the time she
moved away, a year later, I knew her body better than she did,
inside and out, by sight, touch, and taste. Especially by taste.

Of course, none of our parents knew anything about it. My parents
would have “literally, I think” killed me, and I didn’t trust anyone
else in school to keep that kind of a secret, so we never told.
Nobody knew. After she was gone I retreated back into my shell,
but by then I definitely knew what that little bump was for. I
never had the guts to try and find anyone else like her, though.

I’ve missed her ever since.

It was about three weeks after I started that the Mr. and Mrs. went
on a trip together, some sort of business thingy for him “he was
a something-or-other engineering consultant”. They were gone for a
week, from Sunday to Saturday. Tuesday, while they were gone,
*it* happened for the first time.

Hannah and Timothy got into a big fight, in the kitchen, and broke
some of the China and glassware. Despite my nervousness and my fear
“hey, they’re both a *lot* bigger than me” I stopped the fight and
got things ironed out. I don’t remember exactly what it was about,
but I do remember that it was over something trivial. That’s when
Ms. Tiff stepped in.

“You need to punish them.” She was looking at me with only the
slightest shadow of a hint of a smile. Both kids “they were acting
like kids, anyway” had their eyes glued to the floor and their hands
behind their backs – the perfect picture of guilty and contrite
children. I half expected one of them to start toying with the mess
on the floor with the toe of a shoe. I would have laughed, if they
weren’t all so serious about it.

Ms. Tiff looked at Hannah and her brother. “Do you agree that you
should be punished for this?” Both of them nodded, rather
reluctantly it seemed.

They looked so forlorn and woebegone I almost said no way, until I
noticed the corners of Hannah’s mouth twitch, like she was trying
very hard to suppress a smile. That’s when I decided to play their

“Punishment it is, then,” I said. I had to think fast. “What do
you recommend, Ms. Tiff?”

She looked at me, again with that same almost-smile. “There is only
one punishment in this household. The only question is one of
degree and severity. Children, go prepare yourselves. We’ll meet
you in the drawing room shortly.” I watched them both leave, and I
swear I saw Hannah crack a smile just before she disappeared from
my line of sight.

Ms. Tiff helped me clean up the mess and throw out all the broken
bits and pieces. Then she made me sit and have a cup of coffee with
her before going and seeing to the twins.

“Patience. Anticipation is a big part of punishment, both for you
and for them. You’ll learn.” Her words didn’t help to calm my
nerves. It was almost an hour later that Ms. Tiff said it was
time. We went into the study.

Both kids were there, naked, facing the far wall. Ms. Tiff sat me
down in a large, old, very solid wooden chair and handed me
something that looked like a ping pong paddle, except that it was
covered in leather rather than rubber. I was very confused.

“Timothy, you first,” she said. He turned from the wall, walked
over to me, and lay down across my lap! Bottom up! Right then, I
knew what they were expecting, what that paddle was for, and what
all those questions were about back in that last meeting. No *way*
was I going to administer corporal punishment! At least, that’s
what *I* was thinking. Ms. Tiff had other ideas.

“Ms. Hennersly,” “that’s me”, “I believe twenty five strokes with
the light paddle should suffice. Begin immediately.”

“N-no. No. I can’t – you can’t expect me to – no, please …”
Through my rather incoherent refusals, the woman just stared at me
with that same almost-smile on her face. When I ran down, she was
still staring, I was still seated, the paddle was still in my hand,
and Timothy was still lying across my lap. With him there, I
couldn’t have gotten up anyway. She walked over, took my hand “the
one with the paddle”, lifted it up high, and then brought it down
fast and hard on the boy’s bottom. Up until then I hadn’t realized
just how strong that woman really was. I guess being over a foot
taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than me “all muscle and bone”
did make a difference.

She repeated her actions a second time, then a third, then a

“We begin counting,” she said, “when you are swinging the paddle on
your own. Soft blows don’t count. If you stop, we begin the count
again. Both Timothy and Hannah are aware of these rules, and they
know that if you balk or refuse or strike too softly, they will get
worse later. Please continue.”

I could hardly believe what was happening. I raised the paddle and
brought it down. The smack sounded loud in my ears.

“Too soft” she said. I thought it was far too hard. I did it
again, harder.

“Too soft again. This is punishment, Ms. Hennersly, and these are
big children. They need to feel the paddle for it to do any good.
Now swing away!” I tried again, putting a little more force behind

“Ms. Hennersly. Please. These children know what a paddling is.
They knew what the punishment would be when they had their fight.
If you cannot administer discipline, as is stated in your agreement,
you will be terminated. Mrs. Carlton will see to that immediately.
Your job is on the line. Please begin. We are still waiting for
the first blow.”

Looking at the reddened cheeks of Timothy’s backside, it looked like
he’d already received more than his fair share. However, he hadn’t
moved, and neither had Hannah. Somehow I managed to figure out that
those two were old enough to be on their own, but were still living
at home despite what appeared to be brutal treatment. They
obviously knew what was happening, and what to expect. It was my
job on the line too, so, swallowing my misgivings, I reared back and
let fly.

The smack was almost deafening, and was followed by an almost
immediate cry of “One!” from Timothy. Ms. Tiff finally smiled. I
cut loose with another one, with the same results, except that the
count was two. A pair of deep red marks, one on either cheek,
showed where the blows had landed.

Three followed two, then four, then five, and so on. I alternated
sides, moved up and down, and generally targeted any area that was
less red than the rest. By the time twenty five was reached, my
arm was getting tired and I was getting quite warm.

Timothy stood, turned to look at me, and through the tears and sobs
he quite plainly said “Thank you Ms. Hennersly. I’m sorry for what
I did wrong, and I promise not to do it again.” It sounded like a
scripted line, something he’d said many times before. It was hard
to believe that I’d just paddled the bare bottom of a man much
bigger and stronger than me, and that he was thanking me for it!

Ms. Tiff sent Timothy out of the room and gave me several minutes
to regain my strength “and breath” before ordering Hannah into my
lap. There it was, that perfect derriere, those exquisite glutes,
tanned, naked, and right under my nose. I couldn’t help myself.
I touched and caressed her bottom, stopping only when I heard an
“ahem” from The Battleaxe. Red-faced, I began.

“One!” Hannah screamed. “Two!” “Three!” And so forth. Near the
end, she was squirming around, wiggling, and practically bouncing up
and down in my lap. I stopped at twenty five, hot and squirming
myself, almost feeling like I was vibrating. “Again!” she
shouted. Confused as anything now, I looked to Ms. Tiff for
direction. She simply nodded. So I did. Her entire backside was
glowing bright red. Once more Hannah shouted “Again!” That time
when I hit, she nearly lifted up off my lap. She immediately
shouted “Again!” despite the sobbing and moaning I could plainly
hear. So I did, again. She went rigid in my lap, every muscle
tense, and just hummed. I put my hand on her bottom, and she
huffed and squealed and squirmed and panted. Finally she got up.

“Thank you Ms. Hennersly. I’m sorry for what I did wrong, and I
promise not to do it again.” Despite the tears and moans, there was
a definite smile on her face, and her entire upper body had a flush
to it, almost as though she’d just, well, you know.

Ms. Tiff sent Hannah on her way as well.

“What do you think of our method of keeping an orderly house,” she
asked, still smiling.

After thinking about it for a few minutes, I replied. “I’m not
sure. Isn’t it a bit, er, drastic?”

“That depends on your definition of drastic. I know some parents
prefer to drag the punishment out for days, even weeks, but not
here. It’s done, it’s over with, and now everyone can get on with
what they want to do.” The way she said it, it almost seemed to
make sense. I wasn’t going to commit myself to liking it, not then,
not for a while, and maybe not ever.

“Okay, if you say so. So this is it? No more? No grounding, no
docking of allowances, no curtailing of privileges, nothing. We all
carry on as if nothing had happened.”

“You’ve got it! Mrs. Carlton was right, you do catch on fast. Come
on, let’s go have another cup of coffee. My treat.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be along in a while.” I had to sit there for
some time, waiting for the fluttering in my stomach to settle down,
waiting for the tickling in my clit to stop. Sure enough, when I
stood up there was a large wet spot on the chair. I wiped it up
with my skirt. I’d leaked right through my panties and everything
else. There was also a wet spot on the front of my skirt, on the
right side, just about where Hannah’s crotch had been positioned.
My imagination said yes she did, but the logical part of me said
no, it’s impossible. Nobody could get off on a paddling! So I
promptly shoved that thought as far back in my mind as I could and
tried to forget about it. I went and changed my panties and my

Late that night, just before I fell asleep, a forgotten bit of
conversation came back to me. Fiona had said I was to administer
any needed discipline to the kids *and to the staff*. Did that mean
I was to paddle Ms. Tiff, The Battleaxe, if she did something
wrong? A shudder ran through my body, and I tried to convince
myself it was just shock and a little fear. My buzzing clit and the
sudden flood of moisture tried to convince me otherwise.

The very next night something else happened. I got woken up
sometime in the wee hours by someone touching my foot. With a
high-pitched squeak and a sudden jerk, I was wide awake “sort-of”
and crammed into the corner where the wall met the bed.

“Shhhh” I heard. It was almost pitch black, what with no lights on
except the tiny night light out in the hall, so I couldn’t see
who it was – just a vague blurry shadow on my bed.

“Who is it? You shouldn’t be here! You’ll get me in trouble!
Go on, git! Scram! Shoo!” No, I wasn’t making much sense, but
then again, it wasn’t exactly something I’d expected or been
prepared for. Whomever it was grabbed hold of my foot again and
held on, despite my struggling and kicking. Like I said before, I’m
not really a very physical person, and everybody in the house was
in better shape than me, not to mention taller and heavier.

He “I automatically assumed it was Timothy, since as far as I knew
he was the only male in the house” started stroking my leg and foot
and making soothing noises. It was almost like he was trying to
calm down a terrified animal, which at the time I was “terrified,
that is”. I don’t know whether that actually did any good, or
whether I realized I couldn’t really do anything anyway, or if I
just ran out of adrenaline, but I did calm down eventually. That’s
when the kissing and licking started and I got scared all over
again. He never did touch anything other than my feet and calves
that night, but he definitely touched every part of them, and he
soon had me calmed down again “sort of”. An hour later, he
left. Even when he was out in the hallway, all I could see was a
vague shape.

By then I was calmed down. Very, very calmed down. I never
realized how sensitive my feet were. I had to change my panties
again. “Hey, I hadn’t had anyone for over two years by then! You
go without for that long and see how much it takes to get you

Everyone was acting normally at breakfast the next day, including
Timothy. Everyone but me. I jumped at the slightest sound, or any
sudden movement – a raw bundle of nerves for sure. Maybe that’s
why he never came back that night, or for the rest of the week.

When the Mr. and Mrs. got back, Fiona and I had a long talk about
the events of the previous week. She seemed quite surprised when
I told her about Timothy’s midnight visit to my bedroom, but did
promise to have a talk with him about it. Not about visiting,
because she considered us both to be adults, but about not leaving
when I told him to. That rather surprised me, since I had
automatically assumed that fraternizing with the hired help would
be a no-no. She laughed again, and said the only one she’d be mad
at for visiting would be her husband, and she definitely knew where
he was that night “yeah, 2000+ miles away”.

As for the rest of it, she said “It’s part and parcel of your
duties as majordomo of the house “her exact words!”.” She was
satisfied with the punishment, so as far as she was concerned the
event was settled and forgotten. She did tell me that all
disciplining was handled by her when she was at home, so I shouldn’t
have to repeat that scene very often.

Two nights later, my midnight visitor was back. That time I
wasn’t “quite as” frightened.

“What are you doing!?” I whispered towards the shadow. “You
shouldn’t be here!” All I got in return was some fingernails softly
skimming up my calf, and a tongue licking in between my toes.
“Stop that! Stop th… oh. Oh!” The fingernails were now tracing
a line up the inside of my leg. They stopped short of my panties,
circled around a bit, then started down the other leg. My mind said
that it had to stop, that I should order Timothy out of my room,
but my body had the deciding vote. It melted. All I could hear was
a faint whine, and after a while I realized it was coming from
me. He had his way with both my legs, caressing them, touching,
skimming his fingers up and down, using his lips, and, what really
started my belly fluttering, licking up the insides of my thighs.
By the time he left, I was nothing but a quivering, shaking, leaking
lump of gelatin. He hadn’t even touched any of the naughty bits!

I had to get myself off, twice, and change my panties, before I
could even think about getting back to sleep. And the next day was
a school day! “Up early, fix breakfast, drive the kids to school,
then come back and catch up on the sleep I’d missed.”

Thinking about it now, I guess I could have locked my bedroom door
after the first visit. There was a deadbolt on it, and it did
work. Why I didn’t, I don’t know. I can only imagine that after
being continually stimulated for several weeks, and not having had
*any* personal attention for years, I was rather vulnerable.
Other than that, I have no excuses.

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