Harem Pants

HAREM PANTS

By

GEOFFREY STIRLING

She was wearing black and white patterned harem pants, loose, and elasticated at waist and ankles. They were very thin, so thin that he could feel the texture of her lacy knickers beneath them and, underneath, her bottom cheeks, soft and malleable, inviting caresses, begging to be manipulated, gently squeezed. She was in her favourite position, lying across his knees, head down to his left, just off the carpet, feet down to his right, as he sat on the edge of the bed, the bed to which she hoped to be moved in due course, when he had done that which he did, when he had thus positioned her. She pushed up into his circling hand, opening her thighs slightly, inviting a more intimate caress. He did not disappoint.

They had been at the festival all day, wandering from stage to stage, enjoying the music, the weather, and the beer. She knew that he enjoyed looking at the girls, their festival clothing, coloured hair and wild jewellery; knew that it excited him, made him more attentive to her, and that when she dressed like that, with the pants, flowing top, silver pendant on a leather thong and flower garland on her brow, he thought it made her look twenty years younger, in her late teens. It made her feel younger too, and freer, but mostly she did it for him.

She liked the crowds, when they stood at the front, hemmed in by strangers, collectively enjoying and responding to the act. Often, she would stand directly in front of him, his chin on her head, her bottom pushing back into his groin, dancing her hips and feeling his penis through his jeans, upright, the shaft pushing between her cheeks, his arms around her, hands occasionally descending to her thighs, sliding round behind her, between them, out of sight, fondling his favourite part of her anatomy. Those hands and her bottom talked to each other, promising greater contact, and intimacy, later.

Now it was later; the stages were silent and dark, and the crowds had flowed their way out through the gates, past the security tables and the ticket office, towards tents, camper vans or homes, leaving flattened grass, overflowing waste bins and abandoned refillable or recyclable drinking vessels in their wake. They would be back next day.

The taxi had delivered them home and he had made them tea, then, taking her by the hand he had led her to their bedroom, lit candles, and stood her facing him whilst he sat on the bed, his hands on her cheeks again. She knew what was coming but still, when he told her that she had been a very naughty girl, she felt those butterflies and that familiar tingling below the waist. He paused, and then completed the spell, the incantation, "So, I'm going to take your knickers down and spank your bottom, your bare bottom. Come across my knees."

She practically threw herself into the required position, wondering what to expect. She never knew what she would receive: hand or implement, soft or hard, unless she really had been naughty or petulant. Then it would be hard, right from the first spank. Otherwise, he always started softly, but still hard enough to smart, and slowly built up. Even if she hadn't been bad, he sometimes made her cry. Somewhere inside, if not in her bottom, she liked that, liked the emotional release, liked the kicking and struggling, out of control, firmly held in position by his strong arm until it was over, and she could be cuddled.

If it wasn't a punishment, and tonight it was not, he always started by handling her bottom, reacquainting himself he said, not that they were strangers, he and her bottom. Tonight, she was fondled, first through the trousers and her knickers, his fingers finding dampness, down there, between. Then with his hand inside them, on her bare cheeks. She loved the moment when he started to bare her, feeling the elastic of her trousers sliding down, exposing her knickers and much of her cheeks, then his hands at her knickers, one pushing up underneath them, encompassing both soft round cheeks as the lace was tented over the back of his hand. She wanted this process, this baring and exploring, to endure, but she was also impatient, impatient for the moment that her last protection would slither down her thighs, her bottom would be naked before him and she would feel the first smack and hear her own involuntary reaction, the little cry of surprised shock; naughty or not, it always hurt more than she remembered.

Her response would be physical; her bottom bucking up in response to each succeeding smack, her legs kicking. She couldn't kick as freely as she might, with ankles encircled by the pants and her knickers at her knees. She liked that too, her freedom restricted as though she was lightly bound.

This night he used only his hand and there were no tears, just a hot stinginess, some yelps and much wriggling. He spanked her for about fifteen minutes, pausing halfway through to ease the cuff elastics over her heels and remove the pants, followed shortly by her knickers. Unrestrained she parted her legs widely, dipped her tummy between his thighs and pushed her bottom up, displaying herself to him. When it was over, he laid her face down on the bed, pushed her top up so that her bra strap was visible and smothered her red bottom with kisses, savouring its warmth.

He left her there, bottom up, whilst he removed his clothes, then, sitting her up, pulled her top over her head and undid her bra. Her breasts too were kissed, and her mouth, as he manoeuvred himself over her. She opened her legs--surrendering again, but even more gladly.