Girly Girl


It should have been a dream subway train ride for me. I was dressed to attract attention and my hard work at the gym had left me proud of showing off my body.

It was not a good time to be riding the subway if you did not want to be noticed; the cars were full, but not quite packed to capacity. All seats were occupied and anyone standing was in full view of the entire car. A pretty young woman who was standing in the aisle dressed like me, and grasping the overhead straps naturally garnered a lot of attention. It felt as if all the eyes on the subway car were staring at me and they probably were!

Shorty shortsI was wearing a white lace buster that clung to my torso and framed the undersides of my breasts; they threatened to pop out of their minimal restraints at every swing and sway of the train. My light blue denim shorts were styled as the shortest of short, they sat low on my hips and rode up high on my thighs. I was balanced on white heeled sandals with high ankle straps; the super high heels showed off my well toned calves and thighs to their best.

But it was a trip of embarrassment and humiliation and I wished desperately that my stop would be next. I didn’t enjoy having all of those eyes resting on me; I could imagine the sniggers and sneers from the kink aware, the frowns of dissproval and the pursed lips from the prudes. It wasn’t meant to have been like this, and it was all because of the unpredictable way in which Elise had reacted.

How it usually was

I thought that I was doing Elise a favor by coming to her house dressed like that. I know that she loved my body and I basked in her glow. In those lovely sunny days of summer, we would make our way into her bedroom where the sun streamed through the windows, tinging everything that it touched in a warm golden light.

Dust motes danced in the sun beams that would settle on me like a spotlight, and I would pirouette in delight at being the focus of her attention.

“You are such a girly girl!” she would sometimes exclaim, laughing at my child-like performance as my skirts swirled out during my pirouette and my strappy high heeled sandals shuffled in little circles on the deep, carpet piles.

She would applaud me gaily and the give me a celebratory kiss on my cheeks, rewarding me for my performance, indulging me with her attentions. Her hands would clutch my shoulders and she would draw me into a warm embrace and I would savour her favoured scent. Feminine and breezy, the signatures of summer; an ocean, a sandy beach, a hammock in the dappled light, butterflies flitting from one wild flower to the next.

Our embrace would become more intimate, our lips would touch. Her hands would move to the back of my head and trace patterns in my hair. She would twist it into tight little circlets and then smooth the tresses out to see its silky shine in the golden light. A gentle push would follow and I would find myself lying back on the bed, my hands above my head as I offered my submission.

I would feel her nimble fingers undoing the buttons of my silky blouse, but would see nothing except the swirling patterns of the crown moldings above. Her tongue would dance its way down my arched neck sending shivers of delight through receptive nerves and my mews of pleasure would drive her inexorably on.

I had learned the benefits of front fastening bra’s soon after we met, and as she clipped the front fastenings open, she would focus on my breasts. Fingers dancing patterns around to tease and delight, gently rolled buds that soon demanded much more. An exhilarating brain fuck as she sucked on one nip and tugged at the other; a wonderful sensation of pain cancelled out by the heavenly bliss of her tongue.

And as time seemed to stand still, and I wished for the moment to last for ever, I would feel a hand slip beneath my skirts and creep up between my thighs.

“Skirts, my pet, have so many advantages!” she would sometimes tell me afterwards, “that’s just one reason why I love you to be my girly girl.”

I would be delightfully embarrassed that she found me so wet and ready.

“What’s this? What is the cause of all this dampness?” she would tease.

But I didn’t care! I would open for her and feel her fingers work their magic beneath my satin panties. I would feel my breathing quicken, feel my body respond. I knew that I was behaving like a wanton hussy as I spread myself wider, my sex staining up to meet the tantalizing sensations caused by her fingers explorations.

And afterwards, she would spoon up next to me on the bed and we would cuddle. Our kisses would become deeper, our breathing more hoarse. Hands would roam freely and the air would be filled with whispers of pleasure and gasped ouches of pain.

It didn’t happen like that on that day. It didn’t happen because I was not dressed in the girly girl skirts she loved me in so much.


I watched her chalk up the thicker of her two canes with a cube of dark blue billiard chalk. I had read about chalking a cane but I couldn’t believe it actually ever happened. My eyes were transfixed on her fingers; long and slender, they grasped the chalk block delicately, her nails beautifully manicured and enameled to a feminine high gloss.

She slid the cane up and down the chalk stick like a violin bow, layering the powder on, ensuring that one side of the cane was well covered in blue. It looked like a stripe, against the blond wood of the cane, out of place and threatening, a viper’s tongue waiting to strike.

Her eyes flicked from the task at hand to catch my horrified stare; beautifully made up with deep purple smokey shadow, they reminded me of storms, a pair of dark thunder clouds floating across a clear blue sky, carrying a promise of swift retribuiton followed by a forgiving new light.

I knew that something extra was in store when she picked up the lighter cane and chalked that too, yet the full implications never entered my thoughts. My mind was in turmoil, my heart beat faster, but there was no where to turn, no safe place to run.

The tenderness of previous dalliances was replaced by a brusqueness that I could never have imagined; her voice was sharp, her hand on the small of my back was firm. She steered me to the boudoir chair and pushed my shoulders roughly down.

“Hands on the seat, push your bottom out.”

She didn’t shout or snarl but her tone was laced with menace. I complied; resistance didn’t enter my swimming head.

Elise laid two hard strokes with the heavier cane before I could even tense. They came in rapid fire; there didn’t seem to be any intent to prolong the punishment or create a sense of shame.

How wrong I was!

I was still gasping, trying to absorb the pain and collect myself when she struck me again. In that fraction of a second that it takes for the cane to connect, I knew that this one was different. The sound was swishier, the whistle through the air more pronounced. It took me a second or two to register what had happened. Elise had used the lighter cane and changed her target; my uncovered thighs lit up in pain. It felt as if a branding iron had been dragged across my naked flesh, a few inches below the crease where my thighs meet my bottom.

Elise made me stand and look at myself in the mirror before she hustled me out of the door.  Two dark blue chalk marks painted a tram line across my pale blue shorty short jeans. Should anyone be in any doubt as to how these had been made, a third line ran parallel across the top of my bare thighs. An angry red welt tinged with early blue bruising, a deep blue chalk mark deepening the developing hue.

She let me out the door and admonished me not to sit on the train; I knew later that was about exposure rather than protecting my punished rear.

“Come back later when you have changed into something more fitting. I will have champagne waiting on ice for the arrival of my girly girl lover!”

Subway stop

I felt all the eyes on my thighs on that subway train, the chalks lines telling a dramatic story of their own. It was a ride of shame offering the humiliation I thought I had escaped; it was far worse than a bare bottom spanking, a more shameful display than I had ever offered before.

As I stepped off the train into the anonymity of the platform crowd, I heard a wolf whistle from the carriage I had just left. With my face all flushed I hurried home; I knew I had to get back into my girly girl clothes and get back to Elise to make amends and thank her for correcting the error of my ways.


4 thoughts on “Girly Girl

  1. HI Gail!
    I read your excellent questions on our mutual friend Felicity Johns post yesterday and thought I would check you out. Like you, I live a hidden life as a writer of all things filthy! Only my husband knows, I think my family would be shocked if they discovered my secret!
    I am looking forward to reading your blog and I do hope you will stop by mine one day. There are links to my other two erotica blogs on my main blog.


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