Wednesday, 14 April 2010

Some More Running in the Park

It is obvious that not only my imagination is sparked by parks and goal posts. Jim sent me this story and with his permission I am putting it here. I think this is hilarious, a great thank you to Jim for this story.


Miranda and Felicia's have a friend called Tom. He is centre-forward for a pub team that plays football in the park. One Saturday evening Tom came round. He asked if he could leave two big wicker baskets at Felicia and Miranda's place:

'These need to be at the pitch by 11am tomorrow morning. I daren't leave them at my house tonight; my sister’s kids are staying and they are into everything!

Tom flipped open the lid of one of the baskets; it was full of tuck shop treats: Mars Bars; Twix; Bounty Bars; Kit-Kats; Yorkies. There were also packets of crisp with every imaginable flavour represented.

‘The lads have to have their snacks after the match; running around in the cold makes ‘em ravenous! This other basket has our clobber. I'll pick everything up by10:30, I promise.'

The girls were happy to help Tom out. Felicia intended to be up early this Sunday, anyway. She was going for a dawn walk with members of her climbing group. Miranda was far too lazy to stir at such unearthly hour; but she had promised to cook lunch.

A comfy Saturday evening was spent, in. Sitting side-by-side on the sofa, they watched Doctor Who. Occasionally, Miranda would lean over to pick some crisps from the bowl---allowing Felicia to slap the seat of her knickers, affectionately and appreciatively. A bedtime kiss and cuddle, and they were both soon sound asleep.

Miranda woke long after Felicia had left the bed. Looking at the clock, she saw it was 10.15. A bit too early to get up; but she didn’t half fancy a Kit-Kat; and there were loads of them in the basket downstairs; they wouldn’t miss one, surely? If she jumped out of bed, and ran downstairs, she could nick one before the basket was collected. That’s just what Miranda did; not bothering to pull on her pants, or put on her bra, she slid down the banister and pranced into the kitchen. She lifted the lid of the basket, and then reeled back in surprise. The basket was just about empty! There were a few stray packets of Maltesers, a Turkish delight, and four bags of prawn cocktail crisps---but that was all!? Yesterday evening the basket had appeared full to the brim!

Suddenly there was a noise in the yard! Through the crack in the curtains, Miranda saw Tom and his mates arriving to collect the baskets. She couldn’t answer the door stark naked! And if they peeked through the curtains they would see her there! On impulse, Miranda dived into the basket and pulled the lid down. She could hear Tom knocking on the door. She expected him to get fed up after a while, and go away. But that’s not what happened. Felicia had not dropped the latch on the door; and, when Tom tried it, it was open!

Miranda felt the basket being lifted into the air. Tom and his mates carried it for a few yards, laughing and joking as they went. The basket, with Miranda inside it, was slid into the boot of a car.; and the one with the clobber was slid in beside it. Despite everything, Miranda felt quite warm and cosy in the basket. She told herself that the best plan would be to wait until the basket was put down in the dressing room. Once the team had gone onto the pitch, she could: sneak out; put on a spare pair of shorts; and a shirt, perhaps---and jog off home. Of course, there was always the dreadful possibility that one of the lads might lift the lid of the basket and find her there! That would be mightily embarrassing—and something she fervently hoped to avoid; but it wouldn’t be the end of the world either; everyone would have a good laugh and that would be that. Comforted by these thoughts, Miranda closed her eyes and snuggled down in the warmth; and soon the motion of the car had rocked her to sleep.

Miranda woke to the sound of cheering voices; there were feet pounding along grass, and a ball was being kicked! Coming to herself, Miranda realised she was still in the basket. How long had she been there? She didn’t know. She could see daylight through the wicker; it seemed that the basket was outside, on the touchline, perhaps! So much for her plan of escape from the dressing-room! What was she to do? It was just then, while she was thinking, that someone came and sat on top of the lid. There was a dog yapping and sniffing too. All at once Miranda began to feel claustrophobic. Panic swelling inside her, she pushed hard against the wicker above her.

‘Here! What’s happening!?’ asked a gruff voice. Whoever had been sitting on the basket had now moved off. Naked Miranda emerged into the light like Venus from the sea.‘ Beside her was a sweaty player, just about to take a throw-in. His eyes swivelled towards her, and his jaw dropped:


Blimey!’ he said.


'Blimey' thought Miranda, 'it's the lad who came in for the Lacan book yesterday!'


There was a substantial crowd watching the match, and they let out a collective ‘Ooh!’ as they caught sight of bare Miranda. Feeling all the eyes upon her, she turned deep red. Looking to her right side; Miranda saw the gruff man who sold flowers in the market. He was busy restraining his dog, but paused and, for a moment, their eyes met in mutual recognition. That was enough for Miranda! She jumped out of the basket and fled across the pitch, weaving between the legs of dumbfounded players as the spectators roared:

‘It’s a streaker! Whoaahay!

Dashing around the black-clad referee, who was frantically blowing his whistle, Miranda tried to make her way to the far end of the pitch, where the crowd was a little sparser. But she slipped on some mud, and went full face into another patch of mud. Big hands tried to grab her; but she was pumped full of adrenaline and easily shook them off.

Running straight towards the goal mouth, Miranda dodged the spidery goalie, but found herself caught, like a fly, in the sturdy netting. She managed to wriggle her breasts through; but her bum wouldn’t follow. Miranda was stuck there, her tits and legs dangling and her bottom exposed to whatever wrath might be wreaked upon it. The stern referee approached, causing her a thrill of apprehension. She imagined he might take the linesman’s flag and smack her bottom with it. Miranda could hear Tom among the mêlée of voices. Luckily, he hadn’t recognised her face under all the mud, and was less likely to recognise her bum! Someone said:

‘We need to cut her out of there!’

‘No!’ said the referee, ‘We mustn’t damage council property! It’s the groundsman’s job to deal with things like this. We need to carry on with the penalty shoot-out and finish the game.’

‘But the ball might hit her!’ someone objected.

‘If it does,’ the referee said in reply, ‘it will only hit her on the arse; and her arse deserves to be spanked---hard! If you were my daughter, young woman, you wouldn’t sit down for week, after causing all this mayhem. I advise you to move away from here, so we can carry on with the match. If you choose not to…well, it’s your own lookout.’

Of course, Miranda couldn’t move, but had to stay there as the hard leather ball was blasted towards her behind. Five times she was thwacked! The first one scorched into the left side of her bottom! The second shot seared her on the right! She yelled and kicked her legs throughout. The spectators cheered ecstatically as each of the next three balls landed smack bang in the centre-line of Miranda’s smarting bottom, which, by now, was glowing red. In fact, the force of the final ball was so great that it knocked Miranda straight out of the netting which had been holding her. Naked, muddy, and red---she ran off for home. She passed all the Sunday morning regulars--who she and Felicia saw so often in the park. Out onto the boulevard she raced. Cars, mistaking her bottom for a stop sign, screeched to a halt. On, and on, she ran until she was home.

Closing the door, thankfully, behind her, Miranda headed straight upstairs and ran the bath. Her bottom was throbbing, her heart was pounding; she was out of breath, but hugely invigorated by he whole train of events. All she wanted to do now was relax in the bubbles.

Later on, as they sat down to dinner, Felicia had no idea why Miranda kept shifting uncomfortably in her seat. ‘It’s not as if I spanked her this morning,’ she thought.

For her part, Miranda had no idea that it was Felicia’s climbing club who had raided the missing treats. Felicia, herself did not know about that. As for Tom, he and his mates were still celebrating their 5.3 victory. Missing Mars bars were the last thing that Tom was giving any thought to. Only the gruff flower seller was thinking about Miranda—or, more specifically, about her arse.


3 comments:

Anonymous said...

I think many peoples imagination must be workng overtime with this plot.However I think Felicia with her keen instincts ,always fine tuned will have been very curious about your wrigglng about at the dinner table.She would have demanded that you go across her knee so that she could take your knickers down ,to examine your bottom!She wold have been shocked at the redness and with a few good slaps would have elicited the full amazing story! Sympathy would not be high in her thoughts- quite the opposite and it would only be question of when she punished you and what instrument would she choose! Personally I would be thinking of a cane -I expect she has one hanging in cupboard some where in the house! But Felicia might have given you a couple of days to recover from your ordeal before giving you ,say a dozen, naturally on the bare- after a spanking! MH

Miranda said...

Dear Anonymous, I can see that your imagination has been working overtime too...hope you enjoyed the story, I did.

Hugs

Miranda

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