Miss Nicola Redway, B.Sc. - photo story

Nicola Redway often appeared on the pages of Janus. In Janus 23, Janus 34 and Janus 46 she was yet schoolgirl. And now, in Janus 68 - she is already adult woman...


Miss Nicola Redway, B.Sc.

WHAT am I doing here with him? Why did I say I'd do it? I am Nicola Redway, adult, graduate in science and mathematics now – not the girl who laughed her way through life with Priscilla Waters at Farnsham Grammar.

The mature man and his lovely young consort sit in the lounge of the five-star hotel in London's Mayfair. He sips coffee, wanting his head to be clear so that every moment of this encounter may be savoured to the full, and remembered later in completest detail. She is having wine, gulping it a bit. Brave, though. Poised and elegant in pin-striped business dress. Almost impossible to believe that very soon those supremely curvaceous flanks on which she perches so nervously on the chair will be bared like luscious moons. Impossible.

Impossible. I can't go through with it. And yet I said I would. Frankly, I'm scared scatty: my hands are trembling and my legs shiver. Curse you Prissy, wherever you are – stop laughing like that! Yet the fear itself is like champagne...

'Shall we go up, Miss Redway?' The voice isn't quite as deep nor as cultured as her fantasy chastiser's, yet his eyes are suitably cold, and his mouth as grim as any she has dreamed about. She likes that. Cold, forbidding, strong, unopposable. Already she is out of control and under his spell. The fear transmutes to a terrible thrilling which almost makes her gasp as she starts to stand. No words are possible. She nods.

I'm walking along a strange hotel corridor with a man I scarcely know. He inserts the card-key into the door of the room he has booked expressly for this purpose. Would I go to bed with him? Sorry, I just don't see him that way – yet he exerts such fascination for me I'm scared to think. I'm inside the room with him, the door clunks shut behind us. How will I be feeling when we eventually leave?


'Excuse me, Mr Thorpe,' she gasps. 'I shan't be a moment.' Slipping into the ensuite bathroom Nicola seeks refuge, a breathing-space. He turns on all the lights so that the scene so soon to be played out in earnest will he fully illuminated; then he settles down to await her appearance, sensing that through apprehension she will take her time. He is nervous too, and perhaps a little glad of the respite. Yet he has no doubt that she will honour their agreement made with blushes, murmurs and averted eyes only three days before.

The moment grows into minutes as she struggles to compose herself. It's Nicola Redway's first job after graduating from university. She is proud of her degree. She isn't sure which happened first: her awareness that Bill Thorpe was Head of Research and Development in the scientific instruments company she so recently joined; or the rumours whispered by fellow employees that he is a bit 'peculiar' in his tastes. Nor is she quite sure which came first: the giggling admission from Linda, the accountant's secretary, that Mr Thorpe had implied – in fun which somehow wasn't fun – that he would like to, well, smack her; or hearing that a vacancy for a junior research assistant had arisen in his Department.

Nicola's keenly analytical mind has always thirsted for challenge and discovery. To be a research scientist is an ambition cherished from her youth when she giggled her way through life, so innocently wicked, with her friend Priscilla. That innocence had been dented once when they were being especially naughty and the dishy Mr Harvey had spanked Prissy over his knee, then her across the desk. Young Nicola's knickers had been lowered and that manly hand had clapped, smacked on her bare backside. It had hurt quite badly at the time – yet forever afterwards, whenever she recalled it (which was often), the entire situation bad seemed delicious somehow...

Two years later when at Priscilla's parents' home, the two friends had remembered that occasion together; and, just for fun, Prissy had whacked her with a ruler and hit her bare bottom hard with a cane. Both girls, perhaps a little to their surprise, had relished it – but it never happened again. Two isolated events in five years could hardly be called over-indulgence; yet ever since those carefree times, like an unquenched thirst, the memory of that extraordinarily arousing icy heat tingling through her seat had haunted Nicola's fantasies.

Now it was about to happen again. And she was scared. And exhilarated.

When she'd plucked up the courage to apply for the R&D job, Bill Thorpe had told her he really needed someone with two or three years' experience, while she was still on three months' probation with the firm. He'd been just off to lunch, in a rush as always, and suggested she join him. He was terse, hard-faced, brusque – and when she was slow in reacting to a shrewd scientific question, he had said, in a teasing yet utterly serious way, 'If you worked for me you'd have to be sharper than that or you'd be across my spanking-bench in double-quick time!'

Quite how they came to be here for this especial purpose is something Nicola still marvels at. By subtle nuances of eye-contact, bodily expression and voice-tone they had recognised each other's unfulfilled needs: the manner in which she had 'amusedly' pursued him about his mythical spanking-bench had informed him of her particular thirst which only his own hungry desire to apply chastisement to the bottoms of attractive girls could assuage. More wine, and two lost hours later, this assignation had been arranged. No tawdry pact had been made: had the R&D job been a bargaining point, Nicola would have refused in dismay – for the mutual compulsion which has brought these two people together today is beyond such considerations.

Take all decision from me. Don't ask me, because I'll only say no. But I WANT to. I'm scared. Don't ask; make me, please. The fear is dreadful – dreadfully... exciting. TELL me...

Nicola emerges from the bathroom, fingers twisting in acute apprehension. So mutely pleading, softly submissive, perfumed, eminently feminine. He steps up to her.

'Are you ready?' he enquires.

His presence is menacing, overwhelming. Her nerve breaks. It isn't just the pain, but the sheer humiliation of what he will expect her to do. 'I can't... I don't think I want to go through with this,' she blurts. 'I'm sorry...'

The man holds firm. 'Miss Redway,' he intones, again with that gut-wrenching edge of menace. 'You have given your word. Am I to believe that you are now breaking it?'

The reproach has a particularly telling effect upon Nicola thanks to the high ethical codes she absorbed during her upbringing. Her eyes, alluring yet alarmed, flinch from his bitter glare. He knows she wants this, and exults that the lovely young woman's awareness of his own responding need is holding her there, as well as her sense of honour. 'You know perfectly well why we are here,' he scolds sternly. 'Don't you?'

Demurely, sweetly, hands writhing together, Nicola nods. Once she would have giggled loud, and made a joke. Not now. 'I intend to discipline you soundly, Miss Redway. On your buttocks. Do you understand?'

Her response is so quiet it is barely heard. Her head dips forward. 'Yes...'

He's unbuttoning my dress, all the way down. I can't move, don't want to move. He's taking it completely off; I feel that cold exciting gaze roaming over my naked thigh-tops, satin panties, white suspenders...

'Turn around!'

Nicola presents her back, feels him gently lift her woollen top; knows that he is assessing, perhaps admiring (she hopes) her buttocks that are his to chastise. She does not see his secret smile – but senses it, and responds with a gleam of naked pleasure in eyes both wistful and afraid. A curious quality of pleasure, which squirms inside the belly and tingles the flesh. He leads her to the dressing-table.

'Bend over, Miss Redway.'

Nicola places her hands on the flat top and leans forward across the chair-back, hugely conscious of her image in the mirror and of the dramatic prominence her bottom has suddenly assumed in the proceedings.

'I'm going to spank you first,' comes the curt, precise voice. 'Let's have your knickers nice and tight.'

He's tugging my panties up into the cleft, exposing the cheeks of my bottom. How precise he is, this scientific boffin! If I ever work with him, he'll be a stickler for precision. This moment is misty, dreamy. In the minor I can see myself faintly smiling, far away. Please, please don't hurt me...

'Please don't hurt me!'

SMACK! Bill Thorpe's broad, capable hand sweeps down and spanks with commanding firmness against Nicola Redway's right buttock. The pain is strange: scarcely discernible at first, then swelling into a brief fierce stinging which sinks into wobbly bottom-flesh as greedy for the sensation as a parched throat gulping water. A sigh hisses out of her, eyes tightly shut in a kind of fleeting ecstasy.

'Owoo!' The palm slaps hard on her left buttock, driving sparkly darts deep. Nicola's yelp echoes round the walls in the wake of the smack; her head sways, eyes still raptly shut.

Please more, please MORE. Did I say that out loud? No, it's in my mind, thank goodness. It would never do if I were actually to speak it...

'Please!...' she begs. But please what? Please spank me. Nicola is too shy to bring herself to say it. She arcs her spine, pushing backwards. Please. SLA-A-P! That devastating hand, board-hard, slams against her right rump again, loud and echoing, burning, beautiful. SPANK! The left one. Nicola wriggles her gorgeous bottom as if to shake off sparks as the palm continues its strict tattoo, moving into rhythms which dance through her blood, spurting sheets of heat deeply into each lushly-curved hemisphere as it collides and bounces back, again and again: left, right, left, right...

His hand is spanking my bottom on alternate cheeks. Urgently, hard – like I've always dreamed it. I don't want it to stop. I hear him grunt with effort, and he mutters in his own secret joy. I'm making noises too, mews and yelps and odd little whimpers. My entire bottom is coming alight. It prickles, sizzles, smarts. I've missed it so much...

'Yes! Oh, YES!'

Oh gosh, I'm shouting. Shouting what? The walls echo the torrent of hard, urgent claps. My bottom must be cherry-red. It's like being delirious, a delirium of wicked joy and swarming pain. One down, two dozen...

Bill Thorpe stops spanking. His right palm is smarting fiercely from the repeated lusty impacts on those hypnotically entrancing posteriors.

'Stand up, Miss Redway!' She does so, hands clutching at her smouldering bottom-cheeks. 'We'll remove this for the next phase of your punishment.' It is a statement, not a request. He lifts the sweater up over her swelling breasts, her head, and her eyes are on him in frightened fascination. She doesn't need to guess too hard what the 'next phase' will be. He is going to use an implement, like when Priscilla caned her that unforgettable time. But he is bigger than Prissy, and a lot stronger, and far less sweet-natured.

'Turn around!' There's an edge in his voice, giving the quiet sounds a stronger impact than a shout.

Bill unties the black hair-ribbon, observing that his own fingers tremble slightly. Miss Redway's long dark tresses spill free. He can smell the hair's fragrance. Her body is almost too perfect to contemplate: young, ripe, firm. Like her bottom, silken-smooth and delectably proportioned.

'Open the top drawer there and bring to me what you find in it,' he now says.

I knew it. Two canes. They feel cool as I lift them out, each one springy with latent energy. I'm standing before him, offering them so he can make his choice. My bottom is hot. He selects the slightly thicker cane, looking up intently at me, seeing how my expression changes. I watch him get to his feet and place three pillows on one of the beds. Excitement welts up in me: a surging need to surrender to the coming pain, yet a dread that I shan't be able to bear it. He points with the cane, which shivers along its lengthy, supple shaft as if eager to be at me...

'Get up on the bed and lie across the pillows with your buttocks upmost.'

Bill watches the beautiful girl kneel obediently on the mattress, pushing her blush-bright rear towards him. He bends the pliant cane almost double in this hands, testing its spring while he contemplates that perfectly structured feminine bottom framed by her black stocking-tops and the virginal suspender-belt; glossy knickers trapped between the gorgeously rounded cheeks.

'I'm going to bare your buttocks completely now, Miss Redway,' he says slightly hoarsely, 'and give them six hard strokes of the cane. Prepare yourself.'


I hear him breathing faster, feel the urgency of his fingers as he peels my knickers with voluptuous slowness off my bottom and down my legs. I am utterly exposed, my backside is high and naked, waiting. I feel I'm going to scream with the tension. His clothing rustles as his arm rises behind me, and that dreadful lovely thrilling spreads, freezing me where I lie...

Bill stares at the exquisite sight stretched in total yielding along the bed. Gently he rests the cane across Nicola Redway's rosied bottom-cheeks, watching the sleek muscles quiver at the cool shaft's touch. Then he lifts it aloft and brings it whistling down.

sss-SNAPP! The stick sinks savagely into the pillowy summits and leaps up, leaving a cry in the air and a red tine glaring. The girl's body slams flat, fingers wrenching at the coverlet as she fights to absorb the amazing pain.

'NO!'

NO! No more. I hadn't remembered how much it HURTS. No more, please. I'll be a good girl – I will... I will –

'I'll be a good girl!'

The cane climbs and swooshes down a second time to collide with searing authority with that tenderest hind-part where buttocks meet thighs. A flash of agony flares through Nicola's arching body, causing her to kick her leg and press her face to the bed with pitiful moaning cries. I can't bear any more, I made a mistake, I –


'Aghh!' Nicola screeches as the swishy stick strikes into her bottom with an echoing CRACK! – this time across the crown of her rumps, flinging back her head, kicking her legs. Tears blind her, another line of blistering heat has been etched into her tender nether-flesh, intensifying like the others.

'Please no! No more!' The words rip from her throat. But I WANT more, and he knows I do. Why is this so utterly, savagely, sweetly, beautiful –?

For a few panting seconds he allows the cane to rest across the springy curves of her bare bottom, and she groans at the teasing kiss. Then it rises yet again, hovers close to the ceiling, and flashes down. SWILLP! As her left buttock ignites Nicola writhes, pressing her hands on the bed as if to struggle up, yet forcing her bottom higher.





WHAACK! At the fifth stroke her feet kick up and her upper body convulsively rises. 'Oh! Oh... YES!' She no longer knows whether she is saying it aloud or the words are in her mind. Harder. Please, oh please. Their communion is instinctive and complete. He makes her wait for the final stroke, aims carefully, then brings the cane whipping down to bite with lovingly controlled force into her left bottom-cheek alone. As the shock-waves sear in she arches her back, stinging buttocks rearing, muscles trembling and tensing. Then, with a sigh, she lies still.

'You may get up from the bed, Miss Redway.' The beautiful young woman wipes her face with the back of her hand as she rises to her knees, then steps quivering to the floor. 'Remain exactly as you are,' the voice of authority now rasps, 'and stand on the luggage bench.'

Nicola is beyond questions. Painfully she mounts the slatted boards and takes up position as instructed: hands to her sides, head penitently drooping, panties around knees. As the minutes pass her sobs subside, and her bare buttocks sizzle and throb with that unique sensation she has dreamed about for far too long.

For ten minutes precisely, Bill Thorpe contemplates the lovely, chastened girl. Then: 'Kneel down on the boards,' he instructs, 'and take your weight on your hands.'

Nicola obeys. Her will has surrendered to his. Tomorrow will be different, a reversion to her normal wilful ways. Pride, application, the famous Redway laughter – all will be back. But during these few brief hours today she loses herself completely in the incontestable luxury of submission as she lowers herself on all fours and awaits his further instructions.

After a further ten minutes silent with excited tensions the man rises from his seat and goes to the door. Coldly he says, 'You will stay in that position, and not dare to move, until I choose to return.' Then he exits from the room and the door thuds shut.

My knees hurt on the hard boards, my body aches with the strain of holding this posture. My bottom smoulders with burning ice. Deliciously. For days I will carry the cane-marks, the mottled bruising from the spanks. My intrigued fingers will touch the ridges as I peer behind me, fascinated, into the mirror. Will it happen again?

WHEN will it happen again?

Miss Nicola Redway, B.Sc., waits on her hands and knees in the hotel room throughout the long afternoon. And waits. Perhaps, when he returns – if he returns – he will tell her.