#TeamAmazeballs Content: Dhalia Learns Her Lesson

Well here it is guys. The first #TeamAmazeballs content on my site *squee* I’m so excited! Keeping my own framework in place allow to to say that this brilliant piece of custom-made erotica is brought to you by the ever lovely @HannahLockhardt  and is part of the #TeamAmazeballs project: A sex positive community sharing project where anyone is welcome to exchange their skills. If you want to know more check out this post or venture in to the #TeamAmazeballs hashtag (if you dare!)

For this particular trade we decided to write erotica based off of an image or song that we appreciated. This is what I presented to @HannahLockhardt:

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Lady Lilith, 1866–68.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Lady Lilith, 1866–68.

@HannahLockhardt went in completely blind with no idea of what the painting was called, nor what it originally pertained to and the result is breathtaking. I hope you thoroughly enjoy this fantastic content which I am elated to host.


Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.

To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.

On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.

Sometimes she would take one of those pink, delectable peaks between her teeth and bite as hard as she could stand as her fingers darted into her wet, velvety folds with urgency and desire, whipped into a frenzy as her body shook and the flesh of her stomach shuddered. She would howl like a wild beast, heedful of the servants passing only as it fuelled her wantonness and she felt a gush from between her legs.

And she would always wait for the maid to call for her, to knock upon her chamber door and ask timidly why her mistress was not yet dressed, for Doctor Edwards would soon be there and he did not tolerate tardiness.

At this, Dahlia would smile wickedly, and call for her robe, stepping naked from the bed, leaving the bedclothes in disarray, the pool of fluid clear and confusing to the poor girl’s eyes, as Dahlia well knew.

She stood smirking, idly stroking her naked stomach, her eyes fixed on the maid’s.

“First, I must brush my hair, of course.” she said finally, and the girl would watch awkwardly as she took up the brush and ran it through her fine, red hair.

Once satisfied, she would stand bare a the day she was born and beckon for her robe, which was full and flowing, but one false move and the swell of her breast or her upper thigh was exposed, and Dr Edwards’ blushes would increase sevenfold.

Not today, though. Today was quite, quite different.

Usually, once dressed in her robe – which she had insisted to her indulgent, widowed father truly was a day dress and not a frivolous nightgown – she would saunter down the staircase and find the music room door ajar, and Doctor Edwards pacing in agitation as he waited for her.

She would come to him with her eyes full of deceitful meekness and wring her hands and apologise for her tardiness – her arms pressed inwards causing the valley between her breasts to draw forward and deepen and fill his eyeline from his great height. Then she would smile, turn to close the door, secure in the knowledge he could only gape at the outline of her delicious backside, and then sit at her instrument.

Her father had brought him there to teach Dahlia the harp, which she fairly hated the sound of, but enjoyed the position it put her in, sat with her breasts jolting with every stroke of the strings and the curved ridge of the item pressed hotly between her thighs.

Sometimes she quite forgot herself and found her hips almost moving of their own accord, pressing against the rigid structure, rubbing herself against it, that peculiar apex of pleasure between her thighs. Doctor Edwards had turned from her to extract some music from his case, it was the sound of her quiet moans which made him turn back and his eyes widened in shock at the tableau before him. Dahlia’s right left hand still made an idle show of passing over the strings, but her right grabbed at her breasts through the translucent material which supported them, her nipples now exposed and erect.

He couldn’t speak. His groin throbbed. But he knew he was helpless, as her moans grew louder and her body shook and she lay back on the low chair with her arms by her sides and blissful contentment across her face. He could not admonish her – her doting father would not allow it. He could not tell him of her exploits – The Baron would simply not believe him. He could not ravish her and feel her tender flesh under his fingers – her father would have him executed. And so he watched, his cock imprisoned, and Dahlia was gleeful at yet another victory.

As one might expect, Doctor Edwards had soon grown weary of her exploits, but the money her father pressed into his hands at the close of each session made her hard to resist. But after one too many days where he had had to remove himself from the room with his music awkwardly covering the fork of his trousers, he had had quiet enough.

A few days previously, he had sent word that he would not be able to attend Dahlia’s lesson that week – He was needed in another city and would not be able to return in time. But he had arranged, if he may make so bold, for a colleague of his to attend in his stead. Someone with quite as much experience as him, who he hoped would do good work with Dahlia in his absence.

So it was not Doctor Edwards in the parlour that morning. This person was a female – evidenced by her long gown and neatly rolled and pinned hair. Close to, if not older than his sixty years, and quite as full of figure, when she turned to fix her gaze on Dahlia, her bosom jutted out and the neck of her gown was lower than any she had seen on a woman of such advancing years, revealing an almost immodest bust that made Dahlia blush in spite of herself.

But her face was stern, she barely nodded at the girl when she entered. Her father turned and smiled, indulgent and unknowing as ever.

“Dahlia my love, so prompt! Alas the Good Doctor cannot be with us today but he has sent us Mrs Heather, who he says is quite as talented a tutor as he is and you shan’t fall behind in your studies.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She said quietly, her eyes fixed on Mrs Heather, or rather, on her hands, which were clasped at her waist, around the handle of a hairbrush, its surface as flat and wide as a prayer book.

“How queer.” thought Dahlia.

As she stepped further into the room, her father patted her shoulder and departed, leaving the two women alone.

Dahlia held her hands in front of her primly, as the older woman advanced on her.

“Hello, Mrs Heather.” she began, her voice thin and weak. She shook herself and opened her mouth to speak again, but Mrs Heather was now so close she could see the pulsing of her blood at her throat. She looked down at Dahlia and stared, coldly. She slowly raised her hand and rested the fingers to Dahlia’s cheek.

“Perverse, child, you are perverse.” she said after what felt like an age.

Her fingers were bony, chill under Dahlia’s chin.

“I am not a child.”  She said. “I am not a child. I am a woman.”

Mrs Heather laughed.
“A twenty one year old is not a woman. You may well bleed as a woman does. You may have hair on your cunt and beneath your fair limbs; your hips and breasts may swell in mimicry of womanly fullness, but you are not a woman.”

Dahlia grew peevish in spite of the peril she surely knew she was in.

“I am not a child, And my father is paying-”
Her protest was cut short by the brutal bite of Mrs Heather’s palm against her cheek. Dahlia felt her flesh burning red and her eyes smarting. She clasped her hands to her face in alarm at the pain and unwarranted punishment, but also alarm at the quickening she felt between her thighs as the pain flared. Mrs Heather held her hand to Dahlia’s burning cheek as she continued.

“I am well-versed in your misdemeanours, Dahlia. Your father is indeed paying myself, as he paid Doctor Edwards, to educate you and make a fine young lady of you. And he has tried manfully to make a lady of you. And you, in your turn, have certainly played the little slut when this parlour door was closed, haven’t you?”
“I-” Her palm gripped harder before Dahlia could protest.
“Do not lie to me. I have been informed of your various lecheries. Your perversions and your wickedness. How you have displayed yourself and debased yourself in Doctor Edwards’ presence. And he has called upon me to educate you, where he has failed. For I am well versed in punishments for wicked girls who think themselves above piety and gracefulness. Take off your gown.”

Dahlia was sure she had misheard her. Again, she opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. After all, where Doctor Edwards had bore her teases and never uttered a word, this woman was evidently made of far sterner stuff.

Mrs Heather finally released her, and Dahlia reached for the ties of her robe. The little ribbons of silk were sticky under her damp palms and her fingers seemed useless. It almost took forever for her to untie the simple bow beneath her breasts. Mrs Heather grew irritable and stepped to her again, drawing the ties apart and allowing the dress to fall to the floor. And all the while with the hairbrush firmly in her other hand.

“Little slut.” She spat, eyeing Dahlia’s body, turning stiff in the chilly air. She allowed one finger to trail from her collarbone, down her naked belly and between Dahlia’s legs. Dahlia gasped and Mrs Heather’s eyes flashed as she brought the finger forth again, glistening. She held Dahlia’s gaze, the finger she pressed to the girl’s mouth.

“I see, Dahlia. I see all.”

Dahlia felt the imprint of her touch as she moved away and sat in the low seated chair Dahlia would use to play her harp.

“Come here.” She instructed.

Dahlia walked towards her. Mrs Heather indicated her lap.

“Lie across me.”

Dahlia coloured even more deeply.

“No, I shan’t. You intend to punish me, to beat me like a child. Tell my father if you must, but I will not be beaten.”
Mrs Heather shook her head.

“Such a wayward thing, you are.”
She reached for Dahlia’s wrist. She was older, yes, and she was stout. But within her there was power, and her grip was strong. It was simple enough to overpower Dahlia and make her fall across the older woman’s knees, her wrist still held in her vice-like fingers.

Dahlia screamed, and began to kick out her legs as she tried to struggle free. Mrs Heather laughed, placing the cool wooden casing of the hairbrush against Dahlia’s buttocks.

“You may scream as much as you wish. You may throw a hundred tantrums. You know that only you and I will hear them. You would do well to calm yourself as the louder you scream, the harder I shall have to hit you for you to hear it and learn from your crimes. Now, will you be still?”

“I will not be still!”
-CRACK-

The noise cut through her sobs like a whip. Where once Dahlia’s skin was creamy white and dimpled, it was now a-blush over the wide, curved surface of her backside. Stunned into silence, Dahlia felt a second alarm as this new burst of pain made her insides twist and her thighs dampen even more, spilling onto the fat thigh of Mrs Heather. She swallowed and held her breath.

“Now, can you be still?”
Mrs Heather’s voice was softer, now. Dahlia ceased her convulsing legs and held her breath.

“There, now. Much better.”
She raised the brush aloft again, but this time the smack was a gentle caress and Dahlia only squirmed with restless pleasure.

There were two or three more, and then she felt the smooth surface of the brush, soothing over her reddened flesh.

“Now, I shall count to ten. Ten strokes for your wilfulness and bad behaviour. Then we shall see if you are contrite. Shan’t we, Dahlia?”
“Yes Mrs Heather.”

“And you shall count aloud to each stroke, as a part of your punishment.”
“Yes Mrs Heather.”

“Good girl. One.”

“One.” Dahlia repeated through gritted teeth as the brush descended on her.

“Two.” She was setting a quickened pace, no sting allowed to subside as the next one fell.

“Three, four, five, six, seven.” Dahlia could barely catch her breath as she imagined she could feel the bruises forming and blackening her flesh and this idea made her chafe against Mrs Heather’s thick taffeta skirts , the fabric biting at her belly and upper thighs and driving her to distraction and still her wrist was still held fast in Mrs Heather’s iron grip.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, tears of pain and frustration but also a peculiar, tremulous kind of bliss that made her calm and sated.

“Eight…. Nine…” Mrs Heather had slowed a little, as if saddened that the final blow had approached. The tenth was as sharp and bright as any of the others, and then as Dahlia softly whispered the number, she felt the implement placed gently against the small of her back, and Mrs Heather’s heavy hand on her tender arse, stroking and cosseting.

“There now, Dahlia. You have taken your punishment very well indeed. I was told you were a wanton and wicked girl, but in truth you only needed to be put in your place and reminded it is not you who controls your destiny.”

Once more, Mrs Heather’s fingers made their way between Dahlia’s legs, and to the patch of dampness that had gushed forth against her own.

“You have so needed this punishment you have been quite overcome, I see.”

Dahlia jerked in surprise when the fingers did not halt at the soft, hair covered mound, instead delving deeper inside where the gush emanated from. Dahlia had never felt so peculiarly filled. Her own fingers were babyish and thin, Mrs Heather’s were deliciously thick and seemed to know her body as well as she did, snaking into her and over her and over that pleasure point that she herself had rubbed and rubbed time and time again.

Mrs Heather leaned over her and with her lips brushing Dahlia’s ear, murmured.

“A girl who takes her punishments well, must surely be rewarded for being such a fast and obedient learner.”

Her fingers began to move faster and Dahlia shuddered as Mrs Heather worked, her own chest heaving with lust. She let go of Dahlia’s wrist and brought her palm down over her mouth as the girl reached her climax and moaned loudly yet sweetly against it.

“Good girl, Dahlia.” she soothed. “Good girl. I can see you are going to be quite the perfect student for me. We shall make a fine young lady of you. Your obedience will be prized above all your physical attributes, fine though they are.” Here she playfully tapped Dahlia’s behind as she set her upright.

“Now, come sit on my lap. You have had a day that came all in a rush, there will be no more punishments today.” and Dahlia perched herself, wincing at her tender flesh against the rough taffeta, on Mrs Heather’s knee, resting her head against the older woman’s shoulder.

Mrs Heather kissed her forehead and held her tightly, until the clock sounded one o’clock, and the lesson was over.


Holy shit, amirite? What a fantastic piece! Tune in next Satruday for more #TeamAmazeballs content and check out my part of the exchange here

Until the next review!

Emmeline.

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