Friday, 31 December 2010

Noreen: A Travelling-Man's Confession

Story from Janus 59.

Noreen
A Travelling-Man's Confession
by Richard Manton


I DOUBT if you would care to change places with me, supposing you were to see me on the train or in the dining-room of a commercial hotel. A travelling-man with a leather bag and a portfolio of documents. A face with spectacles and moustache that you might change for a million others and never know the difference. A dull fellow on his way to perform some tedious duty for a mean employer. That is how you would see me. Journeying late at night in ill-lit draughty carriages. Sleeping on starched and unfamiliar sheets, lodging on lonely beds in rented and fly-spotted rooms.

You see? I cannot lay claim to the make-believe of romance. The secret I share with you now is an episode in the most ordinary life.

You would not look at me twice. A sympathetic glance and home you go to the arms of your warm plump Louise, or your wriggling little Jacqueline, or your dreamily lecherous Michelle. Perhaps you have a fluffy young wife with a round and agile little bottom who will carry in the supper and precede you lasciviously up the stairs to bed. Or else an almond-eyed and tawny-skinned young mistress with a touch of the perverse about her waits for you in a secret apartment.

How you pity the poor travelling-man! But I do not envy your private moments with Michelle or Louise. I might give my reason in many words or few. For the moment, I choose just one.

The word might be Joanne, or Sharon, or Vicky. For the moment it shall be Noreen.

To you that name means nothing. For me it evokes an image as real as your own face in the morning mirror. A girl of nineteen. Not a beauty queen but lithe and plainly good-looking, damnably provoking as only a well-built young trollop can be! Picture a fair-skinned firm-featured young face with a resolute chin that hints at defiance. See the lazy insolence reflected in the slant of her brown eyes. The hair is lank and dark, worn in a level fringe across her forehead, cut round to touch her collar and cover her ears.

There are girls of nineteen who demand to be treated gently as Meissen dolls and others who do not. Noreen belongs to the latter kind. She is quite tall in figure, not flabby but well made. Her shape is of the kind that goes with a white blouse and plain denim shirt, or a white singlet to show her firm breasts and strong young back, matched by the tight fit of smooth denim riding-pants. The pale blue denim, strained taut as drumskin on her well-exercised young figure, shows thighs that are sturdy but not fat, hips that are robust, and a pair of nicely firmed-out globes – Noreen's bottom-cheeks under her tight jeans-seat. She has the look of a well-developed outdoor girl, who prefers sensible tight pants to the flowing skirts of the middle-class miss.

Let me tell you how I first saw her.

I shall not be so indiscreet as to give you the name of my employer nor that of the charity whose patron he remains. You know as well as I that there are young men and women who fall by the way and are reclaimed under a regime of stern moral authority and wholesome toil. Among female miscreants in their teens or twenties there are young sluts, trollops, tarts, slatterns – call them what you will – who must otherwise languish in the moral corruption of a prison. Happily, a magistrate may grant a probation and impose what conditions seem best. The charitable organisation of which I speak offers secure premises and a programme of useful labour. Two or three years of residence with enlightened supervision and demanding work is to be preferred to the contagion of the penitentiary. But one dare not consign young women to reformers – male or female – without further inspection. Who will guard the guards themselves, as the wise Roman asked?

I will. In me you see what the Russians would call the Inspector-General of those establishments which owe their existence to my employer's generosity. I am the man whom their directors dread. They know I watch keenly during my visits and travel back to London with my reports. So long as I exist to monitor them, the public sleeps content. Scandal is what authority fears most. I need not remind you what newspaper revelations followed the canings on the bare tomboy bottom of Elaine Cox, the fifth-form girl, or the naked birching of the round lascivious buttocks of Jacqueline Grant. We want no more of that.

I followed my calling for about two years, drawing up my reports promptly and neatly. I am an exact man. Those who know me would tell you as much. It was a fine day in November when I set out on my visit to Hollingsworth, the country residence where Mr Brown apprenticed delinquent beauty.

The railway does not run to that remote moorland hamlet, almost within earshot of a steep and lonely coast. There are no chance visitors at Hollingsworth House. You leave the train at a cathedral city 15 miles short of your destination. Someone waits by appointment in the station yard to drive you the rest of the way.

Mr Brown has great commercial influence in that city. He is not so great a benefactor as my employer but Hollingsworth is his 'hobby' and he spends upon it the surplus of the wealth which his business brings in.

In a mere story, chance would never play the part in my life which it did that November afternoon. Through some misunderstanding the driver who was to take me to Hollingsworth supposed that I should be on the later train. I found myself standing, leather bag in hand, in the station forecourt. I had an hour to wait. Rather than remain there, I went wandering the streets, admiring a mediaeval corner here and a Tudor mansion there. Mr Brown's name occurred several times on the boards of prosperous enterprises.

It was in passing one of these that I noticed a well-built girl of nineteen vigorously shining the floor where the treasures of Mr Brown's emporium were set out. I knew that the girls at Hollingsworth were required to work for their master. I suppose I knew that they were sometimes brought into town to do so. But I had never noticed this one on my visits to the moorland house. She had been only one face among thirty or forty. Had I not chanced to encounter her now, I do not think I should ever have picked her out.

She was kneeling with her back to me, sitting on her heels, working her cloth with vigour and determination – reflected in the set of her jaw and the wide points of her cheekbones. It was not a job to be done in flowing skirts. Noreen was dressed for her menial task in white singlet and the faded blue denim of pants. A stout leather waist-belt kept the denim tight and smooth, making her lower figure an object of great interest. Several gentlemen paused to glance or stare. She responded with a pretence at indifference or a contemptuous flick of her fringe. I believe it was this challenge in the girl's manner that made her irresistible to one's authoritarian instincts.

When she inclined her back forward a little, with the energy of her polishing, the faded blue denim of the jeans was skin-tight over Noreen's bottom-cheeks and hips, which naturally swelled fuller and broader as she sat on her heels. To this day I do not think Noreen realised the rear view she offered to these casual admirers. Yet such was her disdain for them that I doubt if she cared. Sometimes she stopped and turned her face to one of the gentlemen with a hard and most impudent stare, as if to dismiss him. But the day's work must be finished and soon she resumed it.

To reach further, it was necessary for the girl to lift her hips and go forward on all fours, the collar length of lank dark hair falling loose about her face. As she raised her haunches from her heels and went forward on hands and knees, it was possible to hear a sharp intake of breath among those who saw her. In this posture, each of Noreen's buttocks filled her jeans-seat like a smooth and taut balloon-swell, though her thighs were still the firmly-muscled legs of a well-exercised working girl. Her broad leather bell pulled the washed-out denim still closer against her rear curves.

How suggestive was the sight she now presented! The faded blue jeans were skin-smooth, shaping the firmly-stretched mounds of Noreen's behind. At the same time, as she knelt forward on all fours, the stout central seam of the jeans-seat was drawn deep and taut between the slight fatness or heaviness of Noreen's broadened bottom-cheeks. It was strained forward under her legs where a certain intimate softness of feminine flesh was moulded by the thin denim. No wonder that Noreen at nineteen had the reputation of a strapping young wench. To look at her now was to understand why. Her backside, in this posture, appeared robust and full-cheeked but firm and well-shaped at the same time. Noreen's knickers were clearly outlined through the thin taut denim of the jeans. They were briefs of elasticated cotton, usual among girls of her age and type. From the rear opening of her legs, the ridge of the hem arched up brief and tight over her buttocks, showing that the cheeks of Noreen's statuesque young backside were half bare under her jeans.

She worked vigorously in this posture for five or ten minutes, inclining her hips a little this way and that, unknowingly presenting her young behind one way and another, sometimes backing towards her admirers, sometimes kneeling over more tightly to polish under a chest or counter, Noreen's rear cheeks more fully and separately presented. The smiles exchanged among her admirers confirmed how their imaginations penetrated the smooth denim while Noreen presented her rear aspect with such unwitting abandon. Those who studied her had lost all interest except one. She had ceased to exist as a girl of character and offered them instead a single object which the theorists of fetishism insist may exclude all others. They cared nothing for her – but only for Noreen's bottom.

Those who peruse the literature of the subject know full well that the female bottom comes in types and shapes. There are the trim tight saucy buttocks of a soubrette like Jacqueline. You may find the pale oval beauty of the rear cheeks of a nymph at sixteen in Judith or Tracey. Or the full-cheeked adolescent pallor of Elaine's bottom, the appeal of the tomboy A dozen years senior to her, Joanne's full-mooned backside presents the erotic maturity of the experienced and Amazonian young wife. But whatever one's preferences, Hollingsworth House supplies them all.

Noreen was none of these. Hers was the backside of the study firm-hipped girl at nineteen, whom one puts to hard labour. There are, I know, voices to deplore that Noreen's arse should have been the sole subject of her admirers' interest. But if you will reflect upon it, did not that particular female arse tell one a good deal about the character of its young owner?

I confess that, after what I had seen, it was unlikely my visit to Mr Brown would pass without Noreen's backside appearing over a stool or trestle. My critics might maintain that this proved my own obsession. But if her bottom was an expression of her character, was it not her character upon which the chastiser operated?

I need not have concerned myself. There was a man nearby who had watched Noreen's rear view longest and closest, his tongue running repeatedly along his lips. His outrage took the appearance of excitement. Now, in an access of moral fervour, he entered the premises. I later heard, he confronted Mr Brown with a protest about the suggestive manner in which the young slut conducted herself. I cannot tell you his words but I saw animation and colour in his face. There was a tremor in his hands, indicating the offence he felt.

I would have supported his complaint but it was clearly unnecessary. Having no wish to involve myself without purpose, I walked back to the station yard and found my driver. He was a burly taciturn fellow who spoke little during the journey. From main roads we turned into lanes with tall hedges. From these we climbed the moorland slope, coming in twilight to vast horizons of darkened scrub and a sky the colour of ink. A light but stinging rain was in the air, blown fresh from the rollers that churned and broke at the cliffs' foot a few miles off. Beyond the village, several miles from the nearest farm, a track turns off the road. Bumping and swaying, we followed it for ten minutes, coming at last to the gabled mansion of Hollingsworth. A paradise in summer, I daresay, but a place of darkness and gloom in November. Mr Brown was not yet back, said Mrs Fox the senior guardian. With a glass of sherry and a volume of Barchester, I chose the leather chair and awaited my host.

Mr Brown said nothing before dinner, which we took in his private dining room waited on by two of the girls. Only when the savoury was cleared and the port set down did he reveal his preoccupation.

'I fear, sir, that your stay will be marred by a distasteful but necessary exhibition. A girl of nineteen, whom I supposed could be trusted to work for me in the city, has proved me wrong. She is to be made an example of tomorrow night. I do not suggest that you should attend. Two of our local magistrates and their ladies will be present to see that all is properly done.'

'It is no more than my duty to attend, Mr Brown,' I said. 'I know that Lord W------ would wish it.'

'As you please,' said Mr Brown a little gruffly. I do not think he was displeased but he could not be sure how I would report this to Lord W------.

That was the end of the matter for the time being. I assumed, of course, that Noreen was to be whipped but had been told none of the details. It would have been wrong of me to interfere, for I was there to observe and make a report, not to implicate myself in the running of Hollingsworth House. As I lay in bed, before going to sleep, I recalled the sight of Noreen that afternoon as clearly as if it had been a photograph. In the case of a robust and defiant girl of nineteen, I thought, there was no reason why the whip should not be used upon the buxom young cheeks of Noreen's backside. In that case, I could think of no more appropriate posture than the one she had shown herself in, upon all fours. They would kneel her over a block or a heavy stool, I supposed. I could not imagine that they would let her wear a pair of jeans during her punishment. The question then was whether we were to see her rear cheeks clad in the white stretch-cotton briefs of Noreen's knickers. An interesting sight no doubt. But tantalisingly on the edge of consciousness as I drifted to sleep was the thought of seeing the full swelling pallor, the strapping young cheeks of Noreen's bottom presented bare for the whip.

Next day, as I made my little tours of inspection in the house and through the gardens where the girls were put to work, I could scarcely keep my eyes off Noreen. The incident of the previous afternoon had given her a new significance for me! I found that I loitered to watch her at work as she bent to her task, weeding or seeding as they say. Several times she flicked back her lank dark hair and stared round at me without straightening up. The slant of her brown eyes and the firm resolve of her fair-skinned features showed a mingled contempt and resentment. But I stared her out with my authority until one of the guardians ordered her to her task again.

Far from being abashed, I remained standing quite close behind this provoking nineteen-year-old. I did not disguise from Noreen that my interest was in the sturdily-rounded, smoothly-jeaned cheeks of her bottom. Prudence forbade that I should weight and fondle those thinly-clad rear cheeks in my hands. Yet by quiet smiles and indications with my eyes, I made sure that the girl knew what I was looking at and what my thoughts were. I am certain that Noreen felt, in her imagination, the ghosts of my hands in their roving examination of her and my fingers' insistent delving and running, parting and probing. For an hour or so I tantalised her like this at a range of a few yards.

That evening the two magistrates and their ladies were to arrive at nine o'clock to see justice done. After dinner, at about eight, Mr Brown withdrew to the room where Noreen awaited her retribution. I was not invited to accompany him and I can give only my impressions of the examination he carried out.

The door of the room was open just long enough for me to see Noreen. The girl was lying on her belly upon a high couch, her arms tight against the wooden legs at the front and straining down towards the floor in a rather exaggerated and unnatural manner. The pillows were not under her head but packed under her loins to raise her hips and make her rear cheeks swell out fuller and broader. Noreen's face was turned to the door to watch Mr Brown enter. If she felt butterflies in her tummy at what was to come, there was no sign of it. Under the narrow and level fringe of her dark hair, the same resolve appeared in her fair-skinned features. The brown eyes stared impudently. Indeed, two spots of anger seemed to burn at the points of her broad cheekbones. The reason for the anger was plain to see. The young hoyden was clad only in her short white singlet, obliging her to offer a view that was much in demand among her followers. The hem of the singlet was drawn up to the small of her back so that the swelling full-moon pallor of Noreen's rear cheeks was admirably presented to Mr Brown.

Before the door swung to on its automatic device, there was time to see Mr Brown approach. He sat at an angle on the couch, level with Noreen's hips but looking towards her feet. Ignoring her face and, indeed, her upper half, he circled her waist with his left arm to steady her. Leaning to do this, we were confronted at eighteen inches by a full view of Noreen's pale seat. One heard her gasps of frustration, a determined gritting of her young teeth. But the double swell of Noreen's behind was at the disposal of Mr Brown's survey.

I cannot give an eyewitness account of what occurred in that room during the next hour, while the discipline was prepared elsewhere. Nor would it be proper to tell tales. Yet one longed to be a fly upon the wall! Happy the fly when the full pale cheeks of Noreen's bottom are the centre of attention. The insect must feel swelling enthusiasm and stiffening resolve, striving to bring its busy back legs to order. The girl had been obliged to wait alone an hour like this. No doubt the daring bluebottle enjoyed a long intimate pestering of Noreen's bare backside. A most vulgar intrusion into privacy! How many men would yearn to be that audacious and intrusive fly in such a cheeky locale!

From the next room, where I waited, it was possible to hear Mr Brown's murmurs to Noreen as the girl tensed at his investigation. Her gasps were sometimes almost a snarl of defiance. The springs of the couch shifted under the squirming pressure of her knees. There were sounds as of Mr Brown smacking his hands hard, or making some similar contact. There was a smack to make Noreen's bottom turn this way and another smack to make her turn it another way. There was a smack to make Noreen lie further over and double smack to make her lie still. There were smacks for good reason and smacks for no reason. I cannot tell whether it was Mr Brown's hand or some aspect of Noreen that smarted like fire by the time the door opened again.

Nor can I verify all his words. The advice, 'You must make a start, Noreen!' is very like, 'You fat-arsed young tart, Noreen!' if a wall is between speaker and listener. But I heard some significant words, and many a sounding seat-smack. 'Each Saturday night ... over a trestle, Noreen ... backside properly bare ... bamboo teaches obedience first... your bottom, Noreen ... frantic already? ... your bottom again, Noreen! ... snakeskin ... can't? ... get it anyway, Noreen! ... chastiser naturally eager ... your bare bottom, Noreen ... shrill and urgent ... all night ... changed girl, Noreen! ... state of your bottom, Noreen! ... begin again! ... bottom smacked first, Noreen ... across your backside, Noreen!'

There was no doubt that Mr Brown's examination of the seat of this nineteen-year-old hoyden was conscientious in the extreme. I concluded that he considered the pale sturdy cheek-swell in every attitude of tension or slackening, every shifting and rounding. He observed closely the nature of the curves, fatter and softer in the lower slope. He steadied the flanks and mapped with his hands the smooth double contours. From the cool mounds he passed to the warmer incurve and subtle changes of skin tone firmly revealed. By the time he had finished, he had acquired a knowledge of the terrain that might be envied in vain by Noreen's boyfriend or her bridegroom, were she allowed to have either.

It was after nine when we were summoned to the exercise-room. There I met the two magistrates, accompanied by their ladies. I was surprised that these middle-aged gentlemen had such very young wives. But then, perhaps ladies and wives are not always the same thing. We were accommodated in easy chairs while Noreen was brought in. A tall stool was at the centre of the floor to lend her the support she needed.

It would be wrong of me to invent more than I saw – and indiscreet to colour in certain details of the next half-hour. I was able to see Noreen's face for she flicked her narrow fringe and the collar-length of her hair back in order to look round with firm-featured contempt at us. Indeed, Mr Brown ordered the young wanton to keep her face towards us so that we might observe the effect upon her. Guiding her flanks, he also required Noreen to turn the swell of her broadened bottom more fully towards us. I may tell you that the eyes of the young ladies were sparkling with anticipation and that the gentlemen already shifted as if at the tightness of their suiting.

The cupboard switch was quiveringly long and supple. Mr Brown teased out the preliminaries by measuring this way and that across the robust cheek-pallor before him. He gave Noreen a first taste with an energy that made the very air sing. She kicked out with what was, I think, a purely reflexive anger. Cautioned for that, six times across her cheek-swell and twice high on the rear of her legs, Noreen gasped and tensed. Caught twice again, she drew one knee up urgently as if to show us how he had made her smart. Not once did she straighten up. Often her shoulders lifted as if she strained to raise from the floor a weight that was too much for her. There was no weight that I could see.

With the singlet hem well above her hips, Noreen's backside was indeed properly bare. The lesson taught her was exemplary, as such lessons should always be. With such vulgar impudence as Noreen's on display, one hoped that the ritual would not end before the clock's hands reached the next five minute mark. Nor did it. One hoped, then, that the next mark would be passed. And so it was. The one after that. And the next. Nor did the pace slacken. In dealing with this robust young working-girl, Mr Brown always ensured that each impact landed long before the previous one could be contained. There is such a telling smack with supple snakeskin. One saw first a jump and quiver of Noreen's pale bottom-flesh, then a vigorous but constrained surging and rounding. But the next aim caught her at once and the restraint broke in a most unladylike display of kicking out and a salvo of vulgarity directed at her betters.

Mr Brown curbed this by saluting the lower and fatter swell of Noreen's bottom-cheeks. What posterior contortions she performed! We saw her toes curl with the intensity of it. One knee was jammed frantically into the back of the other in desperate self-containment. Twice more she kicked out and, after a pause for a vigorous reprimand, she paid dearly and repeatedly for her misconduct. Noreen's bottom assumed more attitudes and angles in tribute to Mr Brown's skill than one would imagine possible. Had it not been for the stool, I think her knees would have given under her. But by this support she was enabled to receive all that Mr Brown required.

The clock moved on again, and still he was not satisfied with his strapping young trollop, as he called Noreen. He wove her a seat of fire, making her rise on her toes at the skill of his intricate design. Had there been a recording of the event, it would have been prudent to enjoy Noreen's soprano arias for the next ten minutes with the volume turned down a little. I am sure that no tragedienne ever equalled the mask of frenzy that she turned to us now.

Mr Brown was unmoved. A close survey of Noreen's blazing cheekiness was followed by a resumption. Noreen's bottom already offered a provoking subject to an artist in tones and colours. So wild were her evasions that she had to be reminded to turn it fully to the onlookers again. Mr Brown never spoke in anger, however. His tone was impersonal and implacable, as befitted the occasion. He gave his attention to Noreen yet again, with yet greater skill and energy Then he turned to reprimand, and then to Noreen's bottom once more. She made the stone walls ring and I thought it indeed prudent that we were out of earshot of the other girls and the guardians. That shrilling outburst was expiated low down, on Noreen's fullest cheekiness. And still Noreen's bottom claimed all Mr Brown's concentration. He was far from satisfied with her.

It seemed that each time the session neared its conclusion, Mr Brown could not quite bring himself to finish off. Oblivious of the clock-hands, he flexed the singing switch, imprinting another scorching kiss – and then another.

I do not think, when he at last returned it to the cupboard, that either the ladies or the gentlemen could complain of his leniency towards Noreen. The final scene is not one that can be adequately described – or should be written down even if it could be. I will only say that it was decided, upon my suggestion, that a permanent improvement in Noreen's conduct might be effected by a visit from a certain official whose expertise is in severity. This was arranged, though a convenient date was some weeks away. Noreen was informed at once so that, as Mr Brown smilingly described it, she might enjoy a month or so of anticipation.

The cynical will always put the worst interpretation on these matters. My report on Hollingsworth House was entirely favourable. Let me tell you why. That Noreen who was under reformation broke the conditions by her wanton public display and repeated insolence, I cannot doubt. That Mr Brown, having resolved upon chastisement, took the utmost care in examining Noreen's suitability for it is entirely to his credit. That the occasion was one of propriety and prudence is shown by the presence of the magistrates and their ladies. I was obliged to urge my patron to show every favour to the worthy Mr Brown.

There are those who will give way to evil gossip. Not I. I do not presume to put a sinister construction upon events. I visited Hollingsworth House as often as I could after this, even spending my own time there at certain weekends. So strongly did I feel that Mr Brown should be supported in his moral endeavours. During my frequent visits, I had a comfortable room which looked across the courtyard to the wing where Noreen, Sian, Maggie, and several of the other girls slept. They could not leave that suite of rooms. The locks ensured that. But safety required that they should be able to reach the remote washroom at the end of the long corridor, from which a fire alarm might be sounded.

There were many nights when the light burned in the washroom at the end of their long corridor from midnight until the lamp paled in the light of dawn. I recall myself that I once put a hand on the shade at seven in the morning and it was still warm! On those nights when the light burnt in the end washroom, Mr Brown was present in that place. I gather it was his custom to supervise certain maintenance work at night. A good deed done in secret, no doubt. On these nights, the guardian reported to me with a smile that Noreen was not in her cubicle at the time of checking. Her clothes remained except for one short singlet and her briefs, in which she customarily slept. It was certainly true that one would see the light in Noreen's cubicle go on briefly and then the light of the washroom go on and remain for several hours. Then that would go out and Noreen's window be briefly lit before Mr Brown and the overseer left. But this I regard as coincidence and of no significance. Once or twice I have seen the same coincidence in the case of Maggie or Sian.

Only the malicious will make anything of Noreen's absence in the distant tiled apartment, where a drink of water was to be had. Her prolonged absence from bed might seem unusual – but what possible reason would Mr Brown and his overseer have for detaining Noreen in that washroom, clad in her singlet and briefs, for several hours of the night? I made a point of being the first to enter that spacious and high-ceilinged room on several mornings. Judge the case for yourself. I do not think you would intervene on Noreen's behalf.

I found nothing ominous about the tall and heavy stool being left carelessly at the centre of the floor. A pair of Noreen's knickers, the stretch-briefs, lay discarded on the tiles. Merely her slovenliness to be sure. I daresay Mr Brown and his overseer must have worked there several hours, for fifteen or twenty of their cigarette-butts were trodden out on the floor and the air was still smoky. They had been clearing a drain, I think, for three or four garden canes lay splintered on the table. Such slim rods are useful for clearing the pipes. Two looped lengths of sash-cord, rather frayed and knotted at regular intervals, suggested that these industrious gentlemen had also been at make-do-and-mend with the windows.

Noreen, whose visit presumably interrupted their worthy labours, deserved little praise. The white threads caught on the rough top of the stool matched the damage to the belly of her singlet which I observed next day. She was sluttish enough to lie over furniture rather than walk round it to reach what she wanted. Low down on the forward legs of the stool, the varnish had been badly marked by a furious and energetic scratching of fingernails, which I know was her deliberate vandalism. One of her shoes lay in a corner, where she had kicked it with considerable energy. The tiles were marked by her shoes, whose tips were scuffed as if by Noreen rising on her toes to reach right over the stool. The legs of the stool itself were snubbed at their ends as if she had budged it on the tiles with her full weight upon it. Skin had scuffed on the stool legs as well. When I saw that Noreen's bare knees were slightly grazed, I thought she deserved it for pressing herself so roughly against the furniture. The violence of her energy I leave you to imagine!

I made my report accordingly, praising Mr Brown's industry and recommending that Noreen's insolence and brooding resentment required a lengthening of her probation by two more years. On the night after I informed Mr Brown that this request was granted, I noted that the washroom light went on at 11 pm and off at 3 am. The second night it burnt from 2 until 5 am. The third from midnight until 6.30. I heard not a single untoward sound from that distant lighted place, except those one hears at night in the country – what I took to be the screech owl and the muffled but urgent mewing of a female cat.

Sometimes it is taxing to make precise observations. The night after that, the light in Noreen's window went on briefly at 11 pm and the washroom lamp burned for an hour. Then all was dark. At 1 am the girl's light shone for a minute and the washroom light for two hours. And then again at 4.30, the brief light in her room and an hour of the washroom light. I believe I should have slept through it all. But the moment that washroom lamp showed, it brought such plaintive protests from some screech-bird or other that you would have thought murder was done three times that night, long and slow.

I concede that on many mornings there was no doubt that Noreen appeared subdued, or rather cautious and thoughtful. Where is the harm in that? She also walked carefully and cautiously, as if on an invisible tightrope and sat down in a somewhat strained and unnatural manner. One day, when the time came for her to shed the working-jeans in favour of a denim skirt she was, as usual, in the presence of two guardians, Mrs Fox and Miss Stuart. Of course she did not strip off her underwear in front of them but merely the top layer.

The hem at the seat of her white stretch-briefs arched up high and tight over each cheek of Noreen's backside, not entirely concealing her complete rear view. Miss Stuart smiled at what was now revealed as the nineteen-year-old girl turned her back, bending down to pick up the fallen jeans from the carpet.

Turning to Mrs Fox, Miss Stuart said that she now understood why Noreen had been so pensive and self-absorbed all day. Miss Stuart explained that she had had no idea that the exemplary discipline upon Noreen, ordered by the inspector, had been carried out the night before.

Mrs Fox smiled too, for Noreen heard every word that passed. She explained that the judicial ritual was not to take place for another fortnight. It would be more formal and rigorous than any that had so far marked the young trollop's education. On the previous night Noreen had received no more than a bottom-smack or two, given casually for her impertinence to her betters. The formal reckoning that lay in store was to be a prolonged session of far greater intensity. When Noreen was told the precise date and time, and what to expect, said Mrs Fox, several days and nights of waiting would follow. At night one would hear the restless and sleepless movements of this nineteen-year-old culprit, the gasps and sighs of her frantic self-pity at the appointment awaiting her. Noreen might be glimpsed lying there and looking over her shoulder, desperately examining her own backside in the mirror, as if to catch a final glimpse of it in its present unblemished pallor. In her sleepless apprehension there would be touchings, frettings and squirmings, until Noreen's bottom itched in her dread anticipation.

Mrs Fox reported all this while Noreen stood there aghast. And then the glances of amusement and satisfaction which Mrs Fox and Miss Stuart exchanged were turned upon the insolent girl. Noreen was unable to take her gaze from the smiles of the two women as the dismay in her contemptuous young face turned to panic.

I would not have you imagine that my life is taken up with Hollingsworth House, for it is only one of the almost twenty establishments under my supervision. I might as well have talked of Joanne or Heather, Lesley or Louise, Sharon or Vicky. But I have chosen to begin with Noreen, for that surely is a story to reassure you that you need not pity the plight of the travelling-man with his case and his portfolio of papers.

The camera as well as the pen is used in submitting reports to our patron. Copies of the photographic gems are also made for the inspector. As I sit here, a selection hangs framed before me, all the same subject. The first two would be the pride of any lensman. Full-plate studies, they present facial portraits in a variety of moods. There is Noreen with her defiant resolve in her firm young jaw and profile, contempt in the slant of her brown eyes. There is another similar, where she has shaken her fringe clear and is looking back over her shoulder, the lank dark hair just lapping her collar. Another shows her firm young face upside down, lank dark hair falling, as Noreen looks back fearfully at something in the room through the arch of her own bare legs.

There are a dozen portraits in all and you would marvel at the change of expression on the young trollop's face. Noreen looking back over her shoulder again, frantic at what is happening, knowing she can endure only a few seconds more of the minutes or hours to come. Noreen with mouth wide and wild, eyes brimming. What satisfaction this would have given her followers! Then Noreen, a big girl of nineteen, chastised and self-pitying as a well-smacked infant.

By no means all the close-ups are of her face. A dozen more are equally informative. Noreen's bottom immortalised as she bends to some labour or other, unaware of the interest taken in her. The full-plate shows the jeans drawn smooth as her skin over the swelling hemispheres of her buttocks. The tight line of Noreen's briefs just visible from between the back of her legs and up over each cheek. The central seam drawn deep and taut as a hawser between Noreen's bottom-cheeks, making this a most suggestive study of the seat of beauty-caught-bending. A swelling full-cheeked masterpiece, the more suggestive for the subject's unawareness of this public display.

Then a quartet of Noreen's backside bare over the stool, caught from a variety of angles. Several more full-plates display the cheeks of Noreen's bottom in every stage from pallid smoothness to the indescribable embroidery of a lesson taught by an expert teacher. The willow-pattern was never printed more fiercely nor with greater ingenuity than this.

A man cannot always find pretexts for a visit to Hollingsworth, least of all when there are so many other calls upon his time. But science has reduced the miles to naught, in one respect. To be sure, a travelling-man must sometimes spend a night in a rented and fly-spotted room, but the telephone by his bed may ring. He may pick it up and hear the voice of Mr Brown. Indeed, the benefit of the telephone is that when the caller places it carefully one may hear all that passes within ten feet of it. Mr Brown has a voice that is calm but clear.

'Pants on the chair, Noreen ... Now the sofa, if you please ... Over the scroll at the end ... Forward tightly ... Quite still for the inspection ... Ah, one must always start at the bottom, Noreen, with a girl of your sort ... Much rounder and fuller, if you please ... Now, smack on target, Noreen! ... And smack again! More tightly over! ... More bottom-swell, Noreen ... Such absurd modesty, when the door is safely bolted! ... No danger of interruptions, Noreen! ... A well-caned seat for you later on, Noreen ... Something to admire in your mirror tonight! ... I can feel your heart beat faster, Noreen! ... First I must cure my itchy palm ... Smarting from that bottom-smack, Noreen? ... One to make your cheeks clench! ... Another to make you jig! ... Anyone would think you'd sat bare-bottomed in spilt rouge-powder, Noreen! ... Keep properly still for the next one ... I'll have you looking like a hand-reared girl before I go to the cupboard for the switch ... Right where it smarts, Noreen! Quite still! ... Other bottom-cheek, Noreen! ... Does it feel like sitting on a wasps' nest? ... More of your bottom, Noreen!'

The travelling-man in his shabby room closes his eyes and listens contentedly for the next hour. Is it reality or illusion, the shifting of sofa-springs, the gasps from a determined and insolent girl of nineteen? The sounds of Noreen bottom-smacked, the printing of the fire-red willow-pattern on sturdy pale moon-cheeks, Noreen's arias and Mr Brown's commands – true or false? Others might hesitate but a travelling-man knows the truth. His smile conveys the answer as he listens. No prude is he. He may be well to the rear in ferreting out the secrets of Noreen, Sharon, Vicky, Joanne and their kind. But his audacity behind closed doors with young married women, or adolescent tomboys, would surely raise the temperature of the hot-blooded fly on the wall.

The printing of a vividly smarting willow-pattern seat for Noreen to contemplate ruefully in her bedroom hand-mirror is a long and intricate process. With the firm-cheeked spread of Noreen's backside over the sofa, it could hardly be otherwise. It would be unreasonable to expect Mr Brown to ignore an opportunity for adding an intimate leather cirlicue or a lurid stripe on the lower and falter swell of Noreen's bottom. The listener thoroughly enjoys the sounds in his lonely room, smiling at the thought of his next visit to teenage Sharon or mature Joanne or Noreen herself. He settles down and listens intently to the soprano wildness of a strapping young trollop.

I remember a weekend in Mr Brown's private rooms during March. The house had been in his family for generations, the walls hung with portraits of previous owners. After several inspections I noticed a photograph, a family group including servants, taken at the turn of the century. I scrutinised it, astonished to find a likeness of Noreen staring from the row of housemaids.

That attractive but plain, firm-featured look, the broad points of the cheekbones, a slant of the brown eyes, lank dark hair with its level fringe, must be common among young sluts of her sort. I confess my taste is modern. Victorian damsels are seductive in frills or petticoats. I prefer to see Noreen's bottom as she kneels on all fours to her labour, big-cheeked in that posture but not flabby, smoothly and tightly clad in Falmer jeans. On occasions of formal severity, I prefer only a plain white modern singlet, short enough to leave Noreen's backside and hips full bare when she bends over.

A modern slut has no inhibitions under correction. Stung to fury, Noreen will curse her chastiser and the onlookers as 'bastards' and use expletives one prefers not to record. It is delightful to see her begin like that, incurring extensive extra discipline. More delightful still when, Noreen's bottom well-patterned but the drama still only beginning, there is pleading and promising, turning soon to wild shrillness and unimaginable vulgarities. Noreen, the modern girl, offers extreme possibilities to a disciplinarian!

I could not resist asking Mr Brown about the photograph. He smiled and inquired if I believed in ghosts. I do not, and said so. But I agreed when he said that one might believe in family likenesses. Noreen was descended from the vision in the sepia photograph, he told me, another female bumpkin who had worked at Hollingsworth House in her day and tasted similar corrections.

He was about to tell me more. From the way the smile played on his lips, I guessed what it was before he spoke. He knew, of course, of my passionate interest in Noreen. He had seen the full-plate photographs of her face in varying moods, the dozen camera-portraits of Noreen's bottom in varying conditions and postures, which grace my study wall. He knew my eagerness to see her over trestle or stool. There can be magic in a name, he said. I had picked out not only a likeness – there were several of those – but the very girl of the past who had a similar character and whose name was also Noreen.

----------------------------------------------

Happy New Year!

Saturday, 25 December 2010

The Club – the story in two parts

The Club - part one
Story from Blushes 07.

Across a golf course, half-hidden by tall trees and flanked by neat lawns, one of those houses that an estate agent might describe as 'substantial' was hosting the seventy third meeting of the 'selection committee' of one of the most exclusive organisations in the country, Masonic Societies not excepted.

The lady of the house was away visiting her sister in Bournemouth; The Committee had no need to fear interruptions - they were free to concentrate completely upon the 'Candidate' which kindly providence had provided for their delectation that afternoon.

Through the terrace windows of the sitting room at the back of the house, golfers could be seen wheeling their trolleys across fairways and taking detours through small copses and around bunkers. Distant though these perambulating figures were, the young subject of the committee's appraisal felt for all the world as though she were on public exhibition, even though commonsense told her that it was unlikely that anyone on the golf course would be able to see into the house. Yet, although the outside world was actually unaware of her presence in that most private room, the inescapable fact was that the pretty, chestnut haired girl was on show and with ample reason to be feeling acutely embarrassed about it too!

Four chairs, on which were seated the members of the committee, had been placed at the corners of a small rug, each chair and its occupant facing into the hollow square. In the middle of the rug, and at the focal point of everyone's attention, the girl could hardly have been dressed more provocatively, considering that each pair of eyes, as they wandered and loitered and lingered here and there about her saucily endowed young figure, were windows onto the souls of some very lasciviously-minded gentlemen indeed!

None of those attentively-watching rou├ęs could have failed to guess that their visitor had at some time been a member of the Girl Guides, and it would not have taken much imagination to have worked out from the close fitting skimpiness of what was left of the Guide uniform, due allowance being made for those girl-shape enhancing alterations that had been made to it, that it's wearer must first have been fitted out in that particular outfit at least two years, and a couple of smaller sizes ago! No Girl Guide one would ordinarily see, no matter how lustily embosomed, could have countenanced appearing in public with her breasts so lewdly uplifted and blue cuddled; with her nipples made prominent even without erection, simply by the closeness of the fit of her uniform blouse; as were the deliciously handful-sized young tits which this 'Girl Guide' thrust unwillingly yet unavoidably out in front of her. Badges on the breast pockets pulled at their stitching - as did the pockets themselves - and enhanced the out thrusting burgeoning of the girl's firm and up tilted titties. Buttons tugged at buttonholes and threatened to disengage on the instant, at the onset of a passage of heavy breathing. Lanyards, tags, tapes, and name panels, all were arranged in such a way as to highlight the uniform and to catch the eye, yet all conspired to lead the onlooker's attention to those succulently out-pressing young breasts.

Pulled in snugly at the waist, the blouse led the eye down to navy blue shorts with white piping at the side seams, not entirely authentic Girl Guide rig, but once seen, enough to persuade anyone with a passing interest in teenaged female anatomy that such a change in Guides uniforms could only make for greater appreciation of the movement's underlying qualities and substantially inflate 'Bob A Job Week' into 'Fiver A Peek Week' if only you could have one of the little darlings come and dig up your garden!

The shorts were a delight in themselves. Tight around the out swells and incurves of the 'Guides' impudently cheeked bum, the legs were somehow still loose where their edges gave way to bare girl-flesh at hip and thigh top and under-buttock, so that in the imagination a finger slipped up between shorts and skin might traverse the high-cut hip and slide down the cross-bum cheek diagonal and still have just enough freedom to interlope between close pressed inner thighs and seek out warmth and inviting moisture in shadowed nooks. And yet again, this finger-tempting looseness of fit around much of the edges of the shorts somehow snugged up around the girl's plump pubic swell, the indiscreet centre seam being perfectly placed and sufficiently taut-stretched in a vertical direction as to coax a visible labial division precisely in the middle at the very apex of bare and soft-skinned thighs.

Upon this tantalisingly displayed involution, two pairs of eyes rested in between excursions up and down, while the girl's bottom too, and the palm-tingling slap-ability of the backs of her thighs, caught the eye of those two of the committee immediately presented with the half-bared aspect of the girl's decidedly asking-for-it bum. Ankle socks, clean and crisp against lightly tanned claves, and shined-up black patent shoes with flat, school-girl heels, neatened the whole presentation; those shoes, turning slightly inward at the toes as would those of a child as her confidence slipped away from her moment by moment, were what the girl's eyes focussed upon, for want of anywhere else to look not rife with the risk of encountering an ironically smiling face, as she fought back her feeling of helplessness and framed the desperately supplicant word on her soft pink lips.

"Please -"

"Please, sir," prompted Alec, with a patient smile.

The girl stammered a "Sorry -" then licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. She tried again.

"Please sir -" The note of humiliated pleading in her soft voice did not go unappreciated; around the room tweedy twitches and worsted stirrings in seated laps recognised the promise that the girl was beginning to show.

"Please, what, Charlotte?" enquired the "Chairman" of these proceedings, with a benign and sympathetic smile.

"Please -" Charlotte hesitated, confused.

Asked directly, "what?" she found that she couldn't exactly say what.

"P-please sir - I'm - I'm," her protest stumbled and lapsed into silence.

"Think she's tryin' to say she's shy, Mr Chairman?"

"I think that's what it is, old boy," murmured Algernon; he raised his voice so that the girl turned nervously towards him "Don't want to show us your little titties, my dear? Eh? That what it is?" Charlotte's pink cheeks warmed instantly - she cast her eyes down to the floor again in consternation.

"Not so little titties," said Max, unhelpfully.

Charlotte's freshening blushes scorched her cheeks.

"Rather nice titties, actually," chimed in George.

"Perhaps it's because she's not wearing a bra," said Algernon.

"Tut-tut," cooed Max. "Naughty little Charlotte - eh? Naughty little girl, aren't you, hmm?" Charlotte's hot cheeks positively glowed with shame!

"Vote," said the Chairman, keeping order, "As to whether or not the committee wishes to have a peep at this young lady's tits, her protests notwithstanding."

"Hear, hear," said George enthusiastically.

"All those in favour?"

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Most certainly!" declared Max.

"Motion carried," said the Chairman unsurprisedly.

"And a stroke of the strap, for being awkward," suggested someone.

"Stroke of the cane, old boy," insisted Algernon. "Lovely cheeky young bottom like that? Needs the cane, that's what I say!"

"Ooogh!" That's what Charlotte said, though under her breath.

"Vote," said George. "I vote for the cane too!"

"Haven't seen her bottom yet!" complained Max. "I say we decide once we've got her pants down, that's what I say."

"Let's have 'em down, then!" said George.

"Order!" said the Chairman, and everyone shut up, whilst Charlotte's chubby young bottom twitched involuntarily, not entirely unfamiliar with the sting of both those perfectly-designed castigatory instruments.

It was at this emotionally charged juncture that the telephone rang in the hall outside the sitting room.

"Brief adjournment," declared Alec, and went to answer the 'phone.

It was Charlotte's 'sponsor' wondering "how are thing's goin', old chap?"

"We're - ah - still considering the matter," said Alec guardedly. "Let you know just as soon as we've completed our - er - deliberations."

The caller, anxious that nothing should go wrong, insisted on bending Alec's ear for several minutes more. Back in the sitting room, with the embarrassed girl now hiding her crimson- cheeked face in her hands, the "selection committee" congratulated themselves on having hit upon so delicious a prospect as young Charlotte seemed likely to prove. Blushes! How delightful!

"How old did Alec say she was?" asked Algernon of Max in a half guarded whisper.

"Sixteen and a half - I think", said Max, his eyes loitering around the invitingly out curved bit at the tops of the insides of the girl's thighs where the soft-pouting peach-cleft bridged the little opening at the very top of her legs.

"And - said to be still quite intact," said George not bothering to modify his voice for the sake of the girl's blushes.

"'Quite' as in 'almost', or 'quite' as in 'absolutely'?" asked Algernon, pedantic as ever.

"Quite, as in 'intacta'," said George peevishly. "She'd hardly be 'intacta' if I'd meant 'almost', would she!"

Algernon and the others stared wonderingly at the bewildered Charlotte, who had never realised she was in - in - whatever they had said she was. All three speculated that if it was actually true, then Charlotte was a novelty such as none of them had ever supposed they would come across in a lifetime of interviewing girls sponsored by would be members. The reasons for this shared wonderment, verging on frank disbelief, were as convincing as they are shameful to relate.

The 'organisation', the 'society', the 'club' if one wished to think of it as such, had at one time been called the "Guardians' Club". To outsiders overhearing those intrinsically innocuous words in a pub, they might have meant nothing very exactly but would have given an impression of a responsible and respectable organisation engaged, in all probability, on 'good works'. To those select few made privy to the real portent of the title, an entirely different picture of the club's activities would have manifested itself!

Potential 'recruits', discreetly yet eagerly sought out by established members, would all have two things in common; each would be in a position of responsibility in respect of a ward or step-daughter or at least a teenaged girl having not yet attained her majority, and all, this last to be ascertained by cunning, discreet enquiry or, if all else failed, by setting a temptation and closely watching the "bait", all would have a taste for girls of exactly the same tender and vulnerable kind that they had in their care or charge. It would be put to them that the subject of their guardianship was an invaluable asset; a chap willing to share his good fortune with others - to put "his" girl into a common "pool" in the sense that he would be prepared to let her go off to another member's home for the odd weekend and not ask awkward questions when she came home slightly cross-eyed and short of a pair of knickers or two in her suitcase - such a fellow, provided he was discreet, would be entitled to stake a claim on another chap's "contribution" and have her to his house for a day or two.

Because the "vetting" team did their work carefully, refusals were unknown; girls who were packed off on trains on Friday nights with only the vaguest idea of where they were going or why, and equipped only with the instructions that they were to be "good girls" when they got there, came home on Sunday evenings somewhat more broadly educated than when they had left.

With regard then to the three committee members whose eyes still wandered speculatively around the briefly covered little bits of Charlotte which most took their fancy - Charlotte who was still blushing profusely and worrying what it meant when they'd said she was in - something or other, only if she'd but known it she needn't have bothered, because whatever it was, she wasn't going to be it for very much longer - and with regard to those members doubts as to the likelihood that young Charlotte was what she was said to be, even if for not much longer - well, their caution in accepting the truth of that statement was not entirely without foundation.

Because, if one worked it out, there was a glaring inconsistency in the notion that a chap who was so anxious to get inside the knickers of another chap's girl, that he would let his own girl, in the hands of a complete, indeed unknown stranger, to be used or abused in just the same way as he meant to take advantage of that other girl, that he would nevertheless have declined all the opportunities that having a girl of his own and all to himself must inevitably have presented him with all along. In short, it was asking them to believe that the delightful, nubile Charlotte had long been in the clutches of a self-confessed lecher, yet that same lecherous gentleman had apparently entirely overlooked the fact that she was unquestionably available and unarguably fanciable!

Well, if it was true, then Charlotte's sponsor was a man in thousands - certainly there wasn't one of them, nor was there any other member they could think of, who hadn't failed miserably in the art of self-control where he alone had succeeded!

When Alec returned from his evasive one-sided conversation with Charlotte's sponsor, he wasted no time in getting the meeting under way again - he had other things to attend to back at the school and time was getting on.

"Right then - a vote, wasn't it?" he looked around and then treated the flush-cheeked girl to another of his sympathetic grins. "Some doubt as to whether Charlotte ought to be made to show us her titties, wasn't there?"

The aforementioned tits self-evident in the most unconcealable way, Charlotte stood with close pressed thighs and childishly in-turned toes as the vote as to whether she should be made to render the committee visible evidence was taken and found to be in the affirmative, a tear or two slipping heavily down her cheek as she was made to unbutton her blouse, whilst the vote in respect of the punishment she was to receive for having dared to protest at being treated so humiliatingly was called for and passed. Six, after all - six strokes of the strap, on her bared bottom, and the few tears became a frightened outburst of sobbing as the instrument itself was produced from a hook behind a chair.

Charlotte's buttons almost popped open once the first was undone, and together the girl's firm young breasts bobbed free of the over-washed and stitch-straining blue blouse, nipples unaccountably stiffening even as they made their appearance.

"Shorts off!" she was told, and her blouse was taken from her, then aflame with blushes, she groped for the waistband of her skimpy little shorts and pushed and wangled and wiggled them down over her hips until her plump bottom-cheeks spilled out and thrust themselves saucily towards Alec and one of the others whilst her close little haze of blonde pubic hair attracted its own share of attention at the front. Charlotte's shorts dropped to the floor at her ankles and all at once, there were no more secrets. Just helpless, humiliating nudity and teardrops, which fell uncontrollably onto her uplifted breasts.

"Turn round," said Alec, and again, "Turn round."

Shuffling steps took Charlotte through three hundred and sixty degrees, with peeps through her fingers at all four faces in turn, the men's eyes wandering unashamedly up and down her naked body. She stumbled, her breasts bobbing, and she looked down to find that she had tangled her feet in her shorts. She stooped to untwist them but was told to take them right off; she wasn't going to need them! She picked the shorts up and they were taken from her, so that she had only her ankle socks and her shoes to show that she had ever been a Girl Guide.

"Pretty little thing, isn't she!" said Max condescendingly. No-one dissented; Charlotte's bottom trembled as she was made to turn round yet again.

"Hands on your head," said Alec coaxingly, and Charlotte had to do as she was told; red-faced she folded her hands together on her head and her tits lifted and pushed out even more. From the corner of her eye, she could see the firm erectness of her nipples and she began to wilt at the knees as she saw eyes taking in that unwitting demonstration of feminine arousal - certainly she wasn't aroused! She was panic-stricken! Several comments were made which she was too confused to catch, but the words "strap" and "bottom" permeated her bewilderment.

"Over here -" said Alec. Charlotte turned to find him indicating a table standing to one side of the circle of chairs; the strap was on the table.

"Please -" she pleaded, but she was nudged towards the table and in a moment she was bent across it, hands led to fingertip holds on the far edge and her bottom elevated by something cushiony placed under her hips.

"Oh, n-no -!"

They strapped her deliberately, no one bothering to remark that only six strokes had been decided upon, the strap visiting her jiggling, wiggling bottom perhaps two dozen times whilst she squealed and struggled but got her bum well strapped for all her frantic demonstrations. She wasn't allowed up even then; slowly her tears cleared from her eyes and she found herself looking out of the long window across the golf course while murmurings and shufflings went on behind her. Max's voice raised itself a little above the others claiming priority on the grounds of seniority, while Charlotte strained her will power and kept her legs wide apart in accordance with the last instruction she'd been given, her bottom singing still with the lingering tingle of the strap's harsh kisses.

Behind her, it seemed that some measure of agreement had been reached; her hands were taken one by one and folded together in the hollow of her back, where they were held in a grip that was firm but not painful. The insides of her spread-eagled thighs flinched suddenly from a scratchy contact with rough tweed trousers.

When Alec called Carlotte's guardian some thirty minutes later the phone seemed to be answered almost before it rang.

"Mr Romsey? This is Alec -" A startled squeal from the back of the house prompted him to cover the instrument with his hand; "I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible - the committee has decided to accept your application for membership -" He waited for the enthusiastic gentleman on the other end to subside; "Perhaps we could have a chat about that when I bring Charlotte home later?"

Another squeal, distant but quite loud enough to be heard on the telephone, rather undermined Alec's attempt to keep the conversation formal.

"Er - yes, it is, actually," he had to say. He felt awkward for a moment, and then an imp of devilment nudged him into saying "I think she's complaining that someone's pinched her knickers."

He remembered that she hadn't been wearing knickers. Oh well - that wasn't what she was yelling about anyway! He left it to the man on the other end of the line to make of it what he would and returned to his pretence of formality.

"Ah - perhaps you'd let me reconfirm a detail or two whilst we're speaking. Guardianship - she is your legally appointed ward, I think you said?" He made a note on a pad.

"Yes - yes, I see. Until she's eighteen, I presume. Yes - which will be when?" His pen hovered over the paper, then it's top fell off with a plop. Alec's eyes wandered guiltily around as he listened. At last, he made the note on the pad.

"Oh, I see - I must have misunderstood -" Alec ran a finger round his collar.

"So she's actually -" he wrote it very small, subconsciously.

"And a half - yes, yes - oh, no - no, I don't suppose it'll make any difference." Not now, it wouldn't anyway.

Alec put the phone down quietly and tucked his pen back into his pocket. Another muted cry from the committee room made him start, but he kept his pace even as he went back to the others, a man with a secret now.

--------------------------

The Club - part two
Story from Blushes 08.


Dennis Romsey regarded his young ward Charlotte with affection. Now that Alec, Chairman of the Club had departed, he somehow felt he could talk more freely. Silly that, really, because Alec had always been open and honest with him.

"So you had to go before the Committee, did you my dear?" "Y-Yes, Uncle..." replied the girl... and blushed furiously. She always called Dennis 'Uncle' though there was no blood relationship between them. He was simply Charlotte's legal guardian until she was eighteen.

"And... er... how did you get on?" He smiled encouragingly and his eyes roved lustfully over his ward. That ripe young figure was literally bursting out of that Girl Guide's uniform he had made her wear. The Members of the Committee would have appreciated that, he reflected with satisfaction. Perhaps it was the deciding factor in his being accepted in the club. Clever of him to trick her out in this fashion. "I... I was frightened and... and... so a-ashamed..."

"Well, well, Charlotte, I suppose that's understandable. After all, you are still very young and those gentlemen are rather getting on in years. Like me. Still, that's over now. And, as you heard the Chairman of the Club say, I have been elected as a Member."

Somewhat to Dennis's surprise, Charlotte covered her face with his hands and burst into tears. "Oh... ohhh... how could you, Uncle?" she wailed.

"I do not think it is any business of yours, young lady, as to how or why I want to join any organisation," said Dennis sternly. "Frankly, Charlotte, I am fast coming to the conclusion I have been far too lenient with you in the past. That is going to change."

"Ohh...oohh... Uncle..."

"I have already had some discussion on the subject with the Committee. Now that I am a Member, I shall have more. Doubtless I shall get some good advice. Dry your tears and stop snivelling." Dennis pulled out a handkerchief and threw it across. Charlotte dabbed at her reddened eyes.

"You ...mmmfff.... don't know what ...mmmmfff.... what they made me do," she sobbed.

Dennis Romsey seated himself in an armchair and lit a small cigar. "Perhaps you had better tell me," he said.

"I.... I... mmmfff.. don't w-want to," replied the girl.

"What you want is neither here nor there," snapped Dennis. "You will tell me." He was most intrigued to know what his 'Candidacy Contribution' had gone through. One day he might be a Member of that Committee!

Charlotte bit her lips furiously before answering. "They... they made me take my clothes off..."

"Really?" Dennis was faintly surprised that the Committee had gone so far at such an early stage. "All of them?"

"Y-Yes," nodded Charlotte. "But that's not all..."

"Well?"

"They p-put me over a t-table and... and... oohh... they st-strapped me..."

Dennis was even more surprised. And excited. The Committee certainly didn't do things by halves! "I expect you deserved it," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"I didn't... I didn't... it was horrid!" cried Charlotte. She felt she couldn't bring herself to recount what had happened after that.

"I think you'd better show me," said Dennis, drawing heavily on his cigar.

"Show you? Show you what?"

"Your bottom, of course, young lady." Dennis felt his pulses throbbing.

"After all, if they've harmed you, I shall take it up with the Committee. Even further maybe."

Charlotte hesitated, blushing furiously again. How awful it was! First those horrid men... and now her Uncle. Still, it might be worth it; he might take some action. She turned and, for the second time that day, removed those tight-fitting shorts. No knickers beneath. Down her tapering thighs, they went... to reveal two delightful gibous-moons of flesh covered in a mass of pink-red swathes.

Dennis Romsey's eyes feasted; his pulses pounded more furiously. They had indeed given the girl quite a good hiding, but nothing too serious. All traces would have gone in a few days. Stubbing out his cigar, he stood up, walked across to his ward, and lightly ran his hand over both buttock cheeks. They felt deliciously soft and warm.

"Oh don't... don't!" gasped Charlotte, flinching and twisting away.

At once, Dennis delivered two stinging slaps on the tender flesh, making the girl yelp loudly. "Don't tell me what and what not to do, Miss!" he shouted. "You're far too cheeky and it is obvious to me that you should have had this sort of treatment long ago."

Charlotte's hands were clasped to her bottom, her head hung and she continued to sob. "Are you... g-going to... speak to... t-them?"

"I certainly am," replied Dennis jovially. "I am going to send them my approval."

Charlotte turned, eyes flashing. Dennis saw the downy, blonde triangle. "Ohh you couldn't... oohh... you b-beast... you beast!"

"That is quite enough of that," said Dennis firmly. He gripped the girl by one arm and pulled her towards the armchair. "Such language from a girl to her Guardian!" In moments Dennis was reseated on the chair but now with Charlotte - kicking and shrieking - pinned across his lap. He felt the voluptuous softness of her... saw the quivering-pink blancmanges that made up her bottom. "They were obviously too lenient. As I have been. A matter that will be remedied."

"Stooopppp! Ohhh stoooppppp! I'm so tender already..."

"Good!" Dennis was grinning lustfully. In swift succession, he slapped left and right cheeks. Then he laid an even harder slap across the centre of both. Charlotte yelled loudly and kicked and wriggled even more frantically. Much to Dennis's pleasure. Taking a firmer grip on his victim, he began to smack the luscious young bottom, helpless before him, just as hard as he could. Left, right and centre!

Left, right and centre!

Moreover, he went on doing so until the palm of his hand was burning hot.

* * *

"Dennis Romsey?" Dennis recognised Eric's voice at once.

"Yes. Nice to hear from you, Eric. Thanks for accepting me as a Member."

"Think nothing of it, old boy. You could scarcely fail with your 'Contribution', you know!"

"I see you gave her a good strapping."

"Ah, so you took a look, did you?"

"I did indeed." Dennis was finding it increasingly easy to talk about such matters without any embarrassment. "What can I do for you?"

"A Member has been enquiring if Charlotte would be free next week-end. We'd have her picked up on Friday night about six. Back on Sunday afternoon."

Dennis felt a slight tingle of his nerves. It was beginning. "Oh yes, I'm sure she will be free," he replied. "In fact, I'll make sure she is!" He paused and was about to ask a question when Eric answered it for him.

"Thanks, old man. Of course, you'll be sent a 'Replacement'. That's one of the Club's Rules."

"Ah... I see..." Dennis felt his throat tightening up a little. There were many questions he wanted to ask and again Eric answered before he could put them.

"Her name's Abigail, she's seventeen and a half and has been on our 'books' longer than most. So she's quite experienced. Still needs a firm hand though, if you follow me."

"I do, Eric, I do!"

"Have you got a cane, by the way?"

Again Dennis felt that tingle but more strongly. "Er... no... not actually... not yet..." Foolish of him not to have got himself properly organised.

"I should get one before the week-end," said Eric with a laugh. "If you have any difficulty, I'll get Abigail to bring one with her."

"That... that might be better," said Dennis quickly. He had just realised he did not quite know how to go about acquiring such a thing in this day and age.

"Right then," said Eric. "She'll be along early Friday evening. 'Bye for now, old boy."

"Goodbye," said Dennis. His hand was trembling slightly as he put down the receiver.

* * *

Dennis paced the room nervously. Night was falling fast and Mrs Dodds, his Housekeeper, had already been in and pulled the long velvet curtains. She would be gone any moment now, he thought. How kind of him to give her the weekend off! Hopefully, she would be having quite a few of those in future. Time for a good stiff Scotch, Dennis told himself. Since it was six o'clock on a Friday night, he deserved one. Needed one, too!

As he drank it at unusual speed, he distantly heard the front door close. Alone at last, he thought with an inner smile. For the moment, anyway. Dennis poured himself another Scotch and, seating himself on a couch, drank this one more slowly. His nervousness was fast ebbing away to be replaced by excited anticipation.

The front doorbell rang and the sound seemed to tingle through his nerves. He went along a thickly carpeted hallway and opened the heavy oak door, hearing a car driving off as he did so. There, in the light of a mock stagecoach lantern, stood a quite enchanting sight.

"I'm Abigail," said this vision with lustrous, doe-like brown eyes. She carried, Dennis noticed, a long canvas case which probably normally contained hockey sticks and the like. But now?

"Come in, Abigail," he said, inclining his head... and still not quite believing it was happening.

The girl, half-smiled, stepped in and at once removed her round school hat and a dark green raincoat. Dennis saw that she had deep brown hair plaited in a single pigtail. He also saw that Abigail had retained her school uniform. Perhaps that is de rigueur on these occasions, he thought. The uniform consisted of a white blouse, a skirt the same colour as her raincoat, calf-length white socks and black slip-on shoes with buckles. There seemed to be a lot of white limb-flesh beneath a remarkably short, pleated skirt and the tops of those white socks.

She turned to him, pale, unsmiling, yet not lacking in self-assurance, it seemed. "Which way, Sir?" she enquired decorously.

Dennis nodded towards the half open door of the sitting room. "Through there," he said. "Better bring your bag..."

"Ah yes." Abigail bent, with an elegant sideways movement of her knees, and picked it up. Then, hesitant yet determined, she moved towards the door.

Once in the sitting room, Dennis had a far better view of his 'replacement' ... and was well pleased. This Abigail looked rather older than her seventeen and a half years, with breasts high, firm and rounded thrusting through her blouse, dark nipples being clearly visible. Surely, she must be wearing a bra, Dennis told himself. Perhaps a half-cup one. He'd find out soon enough.

"Sit down," he invited, indicating a wooden, straight-backed chair. He himself took the sofa. Abigail's skirt rose high, one thigh crossed slowly over another, giving Dennis a quick flash of triangular pale green nylon.

"I understand I am to stay her until Sunday afternoon."

"That is correct. Normal procedure, I believe?"

"Yes," nodded Abigail. She bit her lower lip.

"In there?" He pointed at her canvas case.

"My night things, Sir. Toiletries. Things like that."

"Anything else?"

Abigail swallowed hard. "Er... yes, Sir. A strap... and a cane."

"Ahh.... yes... I think you ought to get those out." Dennis's anticipatory excitement was mounting. "Most gentlemen have their own," said Abigail, unzipping the canvas bag.

"I am a new Member of the Club," announced Dennis and immediately regretted giving any explanation. On the table beside her, Abigail placed a strap of pale brown leather, some eighteen inches long and an inch and a half wide. It was no thicker than an average wooden ruler. Alongside it, she put down a smooth, yellow, hook-handled cane, typical of the ones used in schools.

There was a silence. To be honest, Dennis did not quite know how to proceed. What excuse could he find for using those implements? The girl, newly arrived, had committed no fault. Perhaps he would have to bide his time.

"Would you like to go and tidy up, Abigail?" he asked.

"Thank you, Sir," replied the girl politely. She rose from her chair and left the room with demure obedience. Dennis felt prickles of sweat under his armpits.

Abigail was back within five minutes. Now she looked paler and more tense. She came and stood directly before Dennis's chair.

"I... I'm sorry, Sir," she said, "while I was in your bathroom, I broke a small vase carrying potpourri. It was most careless of me."

Dennis felt his pulses beginning to pound again. Had it been an accident or was this girl deliberately setting herself up? Since he was new to all this it was difficult to be certain. On the other hand, Eric had told him that Abigail had considerable experience. Surely he should be leading and she following; yet it seemed to be the other way round. Did it really matter though?

"Yes, that was very careless Abigail," said Dennis slowly. The tension was increasing within him. "That was a gift from my dear, late Mother. Much treasured."

"Oh I'm really sorry," said Abigail. She looked it, too.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be punished for such an error."

"Yes.... yes... I deserve to be," said Abigail. Incredible, said Dennis to himself. Why was she agreeing not protesting?

"I am going to have to cane you..."

A little gasp... a nervous twitch of the lips. "Y-yes, Sir... if you must."

"I am afraid I must," said Dennis. He got up from his chair and took hold of the hook-handled cane. How supple it was, how easily it swung! What a thrill it gave him simply to hold it in his hand. "You will kneel and bend over the sofa arm, Abigail," he heard himself saying.

"Yes, Sir... oh p-please, don't be too severe on me. It really was an accident."

"You will then pull up your skirt and take down your knickers."

"Yes, Sir... if you say so, Sir..."

"I do say so," intoned Dennis, blessing the day he had first been put in touch with the Club. He watched almost ecstatically as this shapely young creature knelt at one end of the couch and pulled up her skirt high. A most curvaceous bottom was revealed, the skin exceedingly white, most minimally covered by a pair of pale green nylon briefs. Oh God, what beauty, thought Dennis! Superb! Whilst Charlotte was plump with puppy-fat, this girl had womanly development, even at so young an age. How quite, quite charming!

"Take those knickers down..." Naturally, there was no need for Abigail to do so. Such a flimsy item offered no protection. Yet, they must come down. The girl must be fully exposed. Fully shamed. Was it not all part of her punishment? Abigail pushed down the briefs to her knees. Nakedly her bottom curved, thrust up and out by the end of the couch. A perfect posture for a caning!

"P-please, Sir... not too hard," came a whimper. Abigail's face was buried in a cushion, her clenched hands gripped the edges of it.

"I am giving you half a dozen, Abigail," announced Dennis.

"Oh Sir... no.... ooo.... please.... please..."

"You deserve nothing less for such carelessness," said Dennis firmly.

"Beyond that, I have been told you are experienced. If you were new to discipline, it might be different."

"Oh... oh... Sir..."

Dennis tapped the soft white flesh with the tip of the cane. It quivered, then it twitched with sudden dread. Oh what a joy to see! Suddenly he realised he did not know quite how hard he should lay on the cane. Very hard? Hard? Medium? Mildly? His knowledge of such degrees of severity was minimal.

Ultimately, he decided on something between hard and medium. To start with, anyway.

Carefully he measured Abigail's delicious bottom, sawing the cane to and fro. Then, suddenly, he raised it high and brought it whistling down. Sssswwwiii..... iiipppptttt.

There was a muffled half-gasp, half-cry from the velvet cushion and Abigail's bottom performed a series of quick, juddering gyrations. Yet she remained in her kneeling posture over the couch's end, hands gripping the cushion more tightly, knuckles white. Dennis contemplated the thin, pink-red, twin tracked weal he had just raised with infinite satisfaction. It ran across, virtually halfway down Abigail's bottom, encircling most of the left cheek and all of the right, leaping the cleft between that lush curvaceousness. Yes, he thought, this girl must be experienced. Most youngsters would have leapt up after a cut like that.

Unhurriedly, Dennis sawed the cane across Abigail's soft white buttocks... and was delighted to see them give a convulsive twitch of dread. He was sawing about an inch above where he had laid on the first stroke. Slowly Dennis withdrew the cane, raised it high... Ssswwwiii... iiippppptttt!

The cane zipped down and fell just about exactly where Dennis had aimed it. That was most gratifying. So were the even more urgent gyrations of Abigail's bottom, during which her long thighs splayed a little to reveal some delightful girlish secrets even more openly.

"Ooww.... aaaggghh.... oh p-please not so hard, Sir!"

Was he laying it on too hard, wondered Dennis? Being himself inexperienced in such matters, he had no means of knowing. It was very possible, however, that the girl was pleading in this fashion in an attempt to induce him to go easier on her.

"I think, Abigail," he said, finding his voice rather thick, "you had better take your knickers right off. Otherwise you'll very likely rip them."

He paused, flexing the supple cane with relish. "You deserve to be caned hard for such carelessness. And you're going to be." Dennis watched as Abigail first knelt erect, then stood to let her knickers slip down over her knees and down her calves. She stopped to remove them from around her ankles and, once more, Dennis was favoured with a delightful view of most personal possessions.

Were Club Members permitted? The thought flashed through his mind. He should have asked Eric; even though the man might have thought him a fool for being so naive. There was plenty of time. A whole weekend lay ahead. More than likely, he thought, the girl herself would give him some lead.

Once more Abigail knelt and draped herself over the sofa-end.

How provocatively her bottom seemed to thrust up at him! Heart pounding, Dennis measured it once more, now aiming an inch below the first weal. This time, he told himself, I'll give it to her just as hard as I can. Then she'll realise I take no notice of her pleas.

Ssssswwweee.... iiiiipppptttt. Making an extra effort, Dennis was not quite so accurate. The cane caught only less than half of Abigail's left buttock cheek, all of the right, with the tip zipping round and biting into her soft flank. "Yeeeooowwww!" This time Abigail's head jerked up off the cushion and her cry of pain was loud and genuine. Her bottom squirmed left and right, left and right, juddering violently. Dennis heard the blood singing in his ears. That really got to her, he thought. Still, I mustn't overdo it. 'P-please, Sir... p-plee... eeease not so h-hard..." came the muffled beseeching as Abigail's head went back into the cushion.

Dennis once more sawed to and fro. An inch lower, since it was now his intention to work down the buttocks to the overhang. That was where the last stroke was planned to fall.

"Do you think you'll be more careful in future, Abigail?"

"Yes, Sir... oh yes... Sir!"

"Good..." Up went the cane again... and down it whistled once more. Hard, but not quite so hard as the previous time.

Sswwwwiiiii..... iiiipppppttttt! Abigail not only squirmed and jerked as her head thumped up and down on its cushion, her long limbs kicked out, thighs splaying once more. Delightful! Quite delightful! Dennis looked at the four encircling weals, so bright against such white skin. Two more to be raised yet. To and fro... to and fro... sawed the cane. Twitch and quiver... twitch and quiver... went the flesh.

Sssswwwwwiiii..... iiiipppppttttt! Number five buried itself momentarily deep into the soft flesh, then the cane sprang away again. Oh how it made her yelp! Oh how it made her squirm! Round and round, back and forth, belly thumping on the curve of the couch arm.

One more to go. Lustfully Dennis sawed the cane across the very tops of Abigail's thighs, just where they joined the fulsomeness of her young bottom.

"No.... oooo.... please..." Abigail's head was up and twisted round. He saw tears shimmering in those doe-like eyes; observed the half-open mouth, lips wet and quivering. He had indeed lighted upon a most sensitive area, it seemed; even while Abigail's head was still turned he raised the cane swiftly and brought it whistling down precisely in the target area. Thus he was able to glimpse the shock and pain on those pretty features before, with a shriek, Abigail jumped erect and, hands clasping urgently to the lower part of her bottom, performed a pavane of pain around the couch. Dennis's hand shook slightly as he replaced the cane on a table nearby. His pulses were pounding and his throat was dry. That, he told himself emphatically, was just about the most exciting experience of my life!

"Go and wash those tears away, Abigail," said Dennis blandly. "And, this time, while you're in the bathroom, I should be rather more, careful."

"Y-yes ...mmmfff.. yes, Sir..."

Dennis watched the girl move from the room in that way of hers, hands still pressed to her bottom. I guess, he thought, smiling faintly, that cold flannel will not only be pressed to reddened eyes but to far warmer areas as well!

When she came back, Abigail looked brighter, though still pale. In her hand, she carried her knickers, fiddling with them with nervous fingers. He wondered if she was perhaps waiting for permission to put them back on, how charming, such consideration!

Wanting to think about this first encounter with one of Eric's girls - that was how he thought of Abigail, since he had not yet met any other Club members - Dennis said she could take her case upstairs and unpack.

"Yes sir", she said, and fiddled with her knickers and looked uncertainly at him until he had to ask her what was bothering her.

"Um - I was just wondering which room, sir. The little room at the back or the big one at the front."

The room at the front had a double bed; Dennis said she could put her things into the back room for the time being. Abigail nodded and went upstairs lugging her case and Dennis turned to the telephone trying to remember Eric's number.

This he would have to check up on - suddenly he realised that Charlotte would have arrived at her weekend destination by now, and might very well be in much the same situation as was his own visitor - yes, he'd better check with Eric right away –

Thursday, 23 December 2010

Fantasy house

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4

Fantasy house

A nice surprise for Mike when his wife says she likes it!

"What did you get this for?", Janet asked her husband. Crossing her elegant legs and leaning back in her easy chair, she turned the pages of a book he had brought home that evening. Glancing across at her, Mike smiled to himself. Whenever Janet was pleased or shy about something, she always dropped her head slightly as though to try and veil her eyes,

"Nothing special – but it looked interesting. It's the first proper book I've ever seen on – er – well, spanking", he replied. – "Proper?", Janet laughed and looked up at him and then down again, "These drawings and photos are a bit – well – saucy?" Smiling, Mike rose to sit on the arm of her chair, slipping one arm around her shoulders. At thirty-two Janet was in full bloom, neither pretty nor beautiful but, in his eyes, just plain gorgeous. – "It happens", he murmured, stroking the back of her long brown hair.

"Oh yes?", Janet replied pertly as her upturned face received a kiss. Returning her eyes to a page, she read slowly for a moment. Mike waited. She was absorbing the words, he knew. – "This Beatrice Bentwick – d'you think she's a real person?", Janet asked quietly while still scanning sentences. – "From the way she writes, yes. She's obviously had a great deal of experience. I'm sure no one could make that all up".

"Mmm.... 'That Art of Training Young Ladies'....", Janet read from a chapter heading, then reached her grey-green eyes up to his and said with a twinkle, "You never tried to train me". – Mike took the book slowly from her hands, closed it, and laid it on the floor. – "There's always time", he said and drew her up. Janet gave a little quiver of her curvy body and nestled into him, head on his shoulder. – "Why? D'you want to?", she asked throatily, and drew in her breath as his hand wandered down her back and shaped the bold bulge of her silky bottom. – "Yes", Mike said and could feel himself trembling. Little by little his cock thickened and stemmed up, making its throbbing length felt through his slacks against her thigh.

Janet's fingers tightened on his shoulders. "You wouldn't spank me hard, would you?", she breathed. – "Dunno. No. Not very", Mike said. It was almost like they hadn't been married for eight years – almost like he had never held her and palmed the glorious orb of her bum. He could hear her breathing softly through her nose, the gentle sound conveying the strange sense of excitement that was gathering between them. – "You want to? You want me to spank you – like a naughty girl", he asked while Janet still hid her face. It seemed an eternity before her quiet husky "Yes" came to his ears and then, in a voice he never normally used, Mike asked sternly, "You spoiled your homework last night, didn't you?".

A giggle from Janet. Her head shook. "No, silly, I'm a bit older than that", she whispered. – "How old, then, Janet?" – "Well – say eighteen and I've just thrown ink, in a temper, on the manuscript of your new novel.... and some of it went over your slacks", she added for good measure. – "Ah now, THAT does deserve a spanking. Up to your room, young lady, and prepare yourself. Go on. You know what you're going to get", Mike pretended to thunder. Janet almost blushed for real and tried to cling to him while Mike in turn strove to push her away towards the door. – "You... you... you'll take my n...n...n... knickers off, like you did last time, I know you will", Janet trembled, making Mike marvel at the realism she was putting into it. – "AND your skirt, young lady. Ink on my slacks indeed! You realise I shall have to take them off?" – "Oh!", gasped Janet and turned and fled out of the living room to run upstairs.

Mike gave her three minutes, all in a complete daze of wonderment that what he had wanted for so long was about to happen. Crazy that he had never asked to spank her before or even playfully attempted to, but somehow he had been inhibited about it. Now at last... – "Janet! Are you ready?", he called, striding into the hall and shouting up the stairs. – "Y..y..yes", came her muffled response and with heart thumping Mike mounted the stairs. She hadn't gone into their own bedroom, he realised, but more appropriately into one of the two single ones where her sister sometimes slept when she stayed. It was a pretty room with a single bed covered with a blue and white duvet, a white unit beside it, a white single wardrobe and a cane chair with a red cushion.

The door was open and Mike gulped as he saw his adorable curvy wife kneeling submissively up on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, with her skirt and panties neat beside her knees. Her pale full thighs looked dazzling against the dark of her stockings and the black frilled straps of her suspenders. It was almost as though he had never seen her before – never had let his eyes wander so slowly over the luscious pale moon of her bottom with its inrolling cheeks and the small dark tuft of curls beneath that shrouded her quim.

It was ridiculous that he was trembling slightly, but the way Janet had lowered her head and shoulders right down, hiding her face and dipping her back to make her orb even more prominent, she looked sexier than he had dreamed she could. – "First, young lady, I have to take my slacks off – the ones you've ruined. You hear me?" – "But you.... but you...", she stammered. – "And my pants – it's soaked through to them as well. Aren't you naughty? Weren't you naughty?", he asked, stripping off quickly. – "Yes, I know I was, but you shouldn't – I mean – oh!", Janet exclaimed as something fell beside her and with a quick peep she saw his discarded garments. Biting her lip and closing her eyes, she waited, though not for long.

SMACK! came Mike's hand against her bulging cheeks and a startled cry of "OH-WOH!" burst from her lips as his palm stung fire into her. "DOO-WOOO-WOOO! That's too hard!", she sobbed and waggled her hips so sexily that Mike almost put his thick upstanding prick to her there and then. – "Now Janet, move your knees apart more. Do it!", he said throatily and watched as with the spreading of a first pink tinge through her pale bottom, her knees moved hesitantly away from one another until they were straddled wide and her slit offered itself more openly to his eyes.

"I w...w...won't be naughty again. I.... NEEE-OUCH!", squealed Janet as the second caught her full under the bulge of her bottom, making her hips jerk up and leaving the imprint of Mike's palm and fingers clearly visible for a moment in white until slowly it faded into the splurging pink. Mike heard her really sob then and almost stopped, but he recalled what he had read in the book he had bought that day: 'Initial treatment should be gentle and steady – not being intended to over-alarm or to sting the miscreant too deeply. She will learn slowly to return to treatment without too many misgivings...."

The words came back to Mike as with sudden decision he moved sideways more and clamped one hand down on the nape of his wife's neck. – "NOO-WOOH-WOOH!", Janet gurgled immediately, but instead of then getting the further hard-stinging smack she expected, Mike began to spank her more lightly and rhythmically – 'according to the book' as he told himself with delighted grin and an ever-throbbing cock that tentpoled the front of his shirt. "NOO-WAH!", gurgled Janet to every SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! that made her firmly-jellied cheeks quiver and tighten. Her breath came faster, hips surging back and forth as though magically to meet his hand. The little broken sobs that came from her were so girlish and appealing, yet in some strange way they invited more... and more... and more, Mike thought.

Good God, he'd never laid a hand to her bottom before, but here she was behaving like a – yes – like a trouper. – "You naughty girl, you naughty girl", he heard himself repeating almost as mechanically as her bottom waggled, growing redder and redder until with a sudden little cry she fell forward, her legs widespread, the fronts of her stockinged toes on the carpet and her torso wriggling. Dear heavens, what a luscious, submissive sight she looked, all roses and cream, Mike thought as her broken cry came to him, "Oh yes – all right – yes!" and he flung himself upon her, feeling the hot butterball of her bottom wriggling madly to his long, thick corker, urging her back up into a kneeling position on the bed while the swollen crest of his tool nubbed against the oily pouting lips of her slit.

"DA-DOOO-DA-OOOOH!", Janet moaned, her head and shoulders falling as the thick, throbbing stem of ironhard flesh oozed slowly up into her until her burning bum screwed itself in tightly to his belly and glowed its fervent heat to his flesh. – "You... you... you...", Mike gritted in wonder. – "M...m...making me.... making me n...n..naughty... OO-OOH!", came from Janet as with seconds the pulsing rod of his root was buried full into her warm clinging nest and his balls came to rest beneath her fur. With a wild jerk, as if in tempestuous regret, she made as though to wrench forward to dislodge him, but with a growl Mike held her, ringing her slim waist with his arms and drawing her supple form back into him.

"I'll... I'll teach you, you bad girl you", he choked, "Isn't this what you really wanted, isn't it?" The fantasy was becoming so real now – the fantasy that she was not his wife but some other – that his head swam with it, and with her face buried and unseen he could well imagine her someone else. – "NO-WOH-WOH! OOOOH, t...t...take it out! AAAARGH!", Janet moaned.

"Come on, come on, you bad girl – take it", he growled, making her hot bum smack loudly into his belly, the front of his shirt draped over the back of her hips. – "HAH-OOOH! I mustn't! Oh, it's so b...b...big! OOOH-ER!". The bed squeaked faintly as they jolted, his cock slewing juicily in and out of her now until her sobs resolved into moans and petulant little whimpering sounds of pleasure came from her. – "Say it, say it! You want to – don't you? You want to?", came Mike's voice to her, bent full over her rippling back as he now was, and within seconds came her heartfelt cry, "Oh yes, oh yes, I... I do, I do! Oh, it's naughty... oooh!"

"Ask me, you naughty girl – ask me!", came Mike's insistent cry until Janet, rotating her hips savagely in all the wanton pleasure of the moment, sobbed, "Do it to me, yes, d...d...do it to me! Oh, but you mustn't come, you mustn't!" – "Jeezus, I must! Oh, baby!", croaked Mike. Through all their years this was the lustiest and most exciting fuck they had ever had, and he knew that Janet knew it. PHEW! after this he would spank her and spank her and..... "PMFFF!", he gritted, loosing his first hosing jet of sperm into her and hearing her gurgling cries as it was followed by another and another while Janet sprinkled his balls with her own bubbling libation....

Then it was quiet... And in the quietness Janet coiled herself, wriggled from his slimed tool and cuddled herself full length into him as they lay together, panting. Mike stroked her hair. – "You were spanked before, weren't you," he said quietly. – "What?". Her reply came so softly that he scarce heard it. – "You were. I know you were", he said and turned her on to her back, gazing fondly down into her flushed face. – "I knew you'd know", Janet murmured, "I always.... I always wanted you to... well, to spank me and....". Her voice broke. "I s'pose you hate me now", she added with apparent mournfulness.

"Probably", Mike said with a grin, "but not if you tell me all about it". – "All?", she quavered as he kissed her. – "ALL", he answered firmly "and then we'll have to decide, young lady, on your future treatment. If you were really VERY naughty, then I might have to bring a strap to you". Janet blushed and worked her lips, not knowing whether to giggle or not. – "I was... well, a bit", she confessed. – "Go on, young lady. I want to hear everything. And if I don't", Mike said warningly, feeling with a certain wonder his prick stirring again already against her smooth warm stocking top.

"Well, you see, one day...." Janet began. "Knickers off....", Mike heard as a cloud of words came from her, a cloud that seemed at one and the same time both to fuzz his brain and yet excite his mind.... "bent me over.... smacked me... oh, he smacked, and I cried, Mike, I did, and I thought he would stop but he went on and on until I blubbered and blubbered and my bottom grew hotter and hotter and...." – "And it was like just now, wasn't it?", Mike concluded from her. Janet compressed her lips and nodded, looking half fearfully up into his eyes. – "He... he took it out... he.... I mean he didn't come.... oh!", and her face buried itself in her shoulder.

Mike said nothing for a moment, his prick now strumming up full length against the silky lush flesh of her thigh. – "There'll be.... there'll be a penalty to pay, y'know", he said. – "P...penalty?", came a muffled voice. – "A penalty, yes, Janet, and a severe one. Not only must you be strapped tonight, but your sister also when she comes at the weekend". – "Huh? Angela? But Mike... oh, Mike, you wouldn't.... would you?"

"You said it wouldn't be her first either – didn't you? That slipped out just now, though maybe you didn't realise it, Janet". His voice was stern. Her fingers tightened on his arm. – "You mean it, don't you?" she asked and received his nod. – "And you said something, in all your excited babbling just now, about YOU wanting to spank a girl, Janet. Now you did!", he accused, and biting her lip with a pleasure she could not conceal, his wife pushed him gently and sat up, mischievously reaching out to coil her fingers lovingly around his long, hard tool.

"I did, yes, Mike. I mean, I do. Is it awful of me? But not Angela – not my sister", she said quickly. – "Some other girl, then – not young, not too old. Someone like you were. You could be the headmistress, Janet, and I – well, the gym master, or something", he said. Janet could no longer suppress a laugh then. – "You MEAN it", she said wonderingly, "oh, you do, don't you? Really mean it?". Excitement had never been so intense in her, nor in Mike, as she could see from the glow in his eyes, let alone feel from the eager pulsing of his prick.

"Come on", she breathed, lying back again, "it does make one want it, doesn't it?" – "Yes", Mike said simply, "but not now. Restraint, darling, as per Miss Bentwick's book, right?" – "Oh no!", Janet pleaded and tried to grasp his prick again, but he drew his hips back. – "Oh yes, my love. It'll keep you on tiptoe – like it did quite a few years back, remember?", he asked with a tinge of sarcasm. – "But... but we don't know anyone", Janet pleaded, hooding her eyes sensuously, "except....". She stopped and bit her lip. – "Except? Who?", Mike asked eagerly, smacking her hand playfully away as it tried to stray close. She had to have discipline now, he realised with an intense thrill – and she had to know it.

"Huh!", Janet responded mockingly, but then seeing the look on his face, said "Well.... a girl who works in a shop near here. She's nice. A little bit shy but only a little bit. I WAS going to ask her round for coffee some time". – "You mean you are", Mike grinned and stood up, blatantly displaying his waggling weapon, "I know she's attractive, or you wouldn't have bothered, darling. Make it Saturday evening, huh?"

"But... but Angela's coming!", Janet responded, sitting up. – "That's right", Mike said solemnly and began drawing on his pants. – "But...", Janet began again and then was silenced as he raised his hand. – "You will now, young lady, receive eighteen strokes of the leather tonight for that objection. You'll see this girl in the morning and invite her – right". Janet gulped. – "Yes, all right", she said meekly and then giggled, "but I'll spank her, too".

"We'll see, darling", Mike said and left it at that. Angela was three years younger than his wife – married but separated, and had a luscious, fleshy-firm peach of a bottom. She'd take it – he knew she would, but like Janet she would have to be schooled. Going downstairs, he waited until Janet appeared, poured drinks, and said, "Now you read a chapter to me each night from the book – and you'll REMEMBER everything – right". – "Yes", Janet said dutifully. She had always wanted him to be masterful, and now he was being. She hadn't told him yet that she had been strapped – to spur her on, but he'd get it out of her.....

* * *

"Talk to Angela when she arrives", Mike told her just prior to the Saturday. – "Yes, I will", Janet said simply and, when her sister did arrive, took her up to the bedroom and closed the door. When they came back down, after what seemed an interminable half an hour, Angela looked apprehensive and questioning, but Mike studiously ignored her. She had to bend over first, before his wife's young friend, Sally, did. When Angela sat down in the living room, he watched her tidy her skirt and bring her knees together. Nice, round knees – thighs that swelled. He envisaged the gripping of her stocking tops, the warm bulb of her bottom nestling in her panties. Janet came and sat beside her on the sofa and smiled tentatively.

"You've told her?", Mike asked brusquely. Janet nodded. Angela gave a little start and clutched the hem of her skirt again. – "Mike, I can't... I don't want you to", she pleaded, her eyes widening as he stood up and towered over them. – "Your schooling – and you know the type to which I refer, Angela, was never completed in my view. I intend that it should be. You are under discipline here, as your sister now is". – "No!", Angela's voice blurted out and she made to try and jump up, but her knees hit Mike's and she sank down again. Janet gripped her wrist and said, "Angela, please!"

"NO! WOO-WOO-WOOH!", came Angela's throbbing cry as the tawse seared her, drawing fire in its wake into her quivering halfmoons that visibly tightened where a pink band spread. – "Ha, yes, go on!", Janet blurted, only to be silenced by a warning waggle of Mike's finger, whereat an almost prim look came over her face. – CRA-AAAAACK! Scarce had Angela tried to recover from the first stroke than the second laid itself stingingly into her rich moon. – "YEEEEEECH!", came her screech while Janet, bending slightly forward with her knees bent on either side of her sister's waist, pressed down with both hands on Angela's hips and so helped to hold her still.

"I shall ask you one time, Angela, how many you first received and how old you were", Mike said. – "No! Shan't tell you! I didn't! Janet's a fibber, she..... NEEEE-YNNNNG!", her voice broke off as a third stroke blasted waves of heat into her enticing, naked derriere. "BOO-HOO-HOOO! tell him, Janet – tell him I didn't! Tell him to stop!" – "Go on, Mike, until she talks", Janet said levelly, her own hips and bottom working up and down as Angela endeavoured still to thrust her off. – SCRA-AAAAACK! – "THOO-OOOH-OOOOH! Please no! It b...b...burns! HOOOOO!"

"Again", came Janet's voice implacably. She knew as well as her sister that the tawse did not actually hurt – not when it was wielded properly as Mike was doing. It burned and it stung, sure, but after a while..... "No, no, don't! I did!", came Angela's sudden wail. Mike let the tawse hang down by his side. – "Go on, Angela", he said tonelessly. – "I was... was.... was n...n...nineteen and I g...got six". – "The first time, yes. And the second?", Mike asked. Maybe Angela could somehow sense him raising the tawse again for her hands clawed more fiercely into the duvet. – "A d...d...dozen....", she stammered and began to cry in such a baby fashion that Janet wasn't at all impressed, but Mike – to her surprise – stepped back and coiled the strap slowly around his hand as if ruminating.

"All right – let her up. But she's to stay up here, Janet, until teatime. I'll cane her tonight before she goes to bed. It'll be a light one only", he added helpfully and strode out, marvelling at his self-control, but knowing it needful. Closing the door, he heard scufflings and then the long, accusing sobs and muffled words of Angela mingling with the sometimes sharper, sometimes comforting ones of Janet. "I'm going home", he heard Angela wail and then Janet's cool, smooth reply, "No, darling, you're NOT", and he went downstairs. It was the same house now and yet not. In a way it was a house where fantasies were coming true. And he had Sally to deal with yet. She might need just a warm-up baby-spank first. Maybe he'd make a concession and let Janet and Angela do it playfully. That would warm Sally up for the real thing later.....

Stick around – It's all going to happen!