Exertion mansion - photo story

Excellent photo story from Janus 32.

Exertion mansion



The label on the large manilla envelope said BALFOUR-COMPTON INTERNATIONAL: MR BALFOUR ONLY. He opened it to take out a typewritten dossier.

Miss Sandra Taylor:

Born 19 March 1965, Chelterfield, Glos. Education: Chelterfield Comprehensive School. Parents: Mr Ronald William Taylor, draughtsman; Mrs Linda Janet Taylor, housewife.

In July 1983 ST (then aged 18) came before Chelterfield Magistrates Court where she was found guilty of shoplifting. A young BCI operative, Miss Julie Bradley, was attending the court to note possible suitable subjects for Mr Balfour's Project and formed the opinion that ST was worth investigating; she accordingly made contact with ST afterwards. Miss Bradley, two years older than ST, was able to gain the latter's confidence and her opinion that ST was suitable material was soon reinforced. Shortly thereafter ST, who had already left the parental home, was invited to move in with Miss Bradley in her BCI-owned flat in Bristol.

ST was also found a job with a BCI subsidiary, as clerk/typist, although her skills were initially somewhat minimal. Covert observation was maintained on the subject both at her workplace and by Miss Bradley who also introduced, under the guise of personal friends, other trained BCI operatives. The relationship with Miss Bradley especially became close and she was able to get a detailed picture of ST's background.

ST apparently had a history of shoplifting going back over three years and had been apprehended and cautioned on two previous occasions. She had also at one time been passing stolen cheques. Dr Alan Southfield (BCI Personnel Psychologist), one of those introduced to ST, formed the opinion that the girl was basically weak, and had been led into her act of unlawfulness primarily by bravado and the need to impress peers. This theory was born out by the fact that her need to shoplift etc apparently disappeared once the association with Miss Bradley was formed.

Basically, as in so many of these cases, there would seem to be a complete lack of discipline or adult direction in ST's background; certainly there seems to have been none in the parental home or at her school. Dr Southfield has stated (see annex) that discipline and a certain amount of corporal punishment are likely to have a salutary effect on this individual at her present age (19), preventing any possible backsliding in the future. From all the foregoing ST would seem to be a very suitable subject for Mr Balfour's Project.

ST has accordingly been prepared in the normal way for a disciplinary visit to the Mansion. She has been told that her employers are very pleased with her work and her present temporary position can be made permanent; she can also expect promotion in the near future. The one factor which has first to be resolved is the matter of her background: Magistrates Court etc. She has now been intensively orientated regarding this, by Miss Bradley, Dr Southfield, and others.

The major thrust of this orientation has been the direct connection between the lack of discipline in her background and her brushes with the law; the need, if she is to continue in our employ, to make a demonstration of repentance and a willingness to accept physical discipline as a token of this. Finally she was given a general outline of what would take place during a visit to the Mansion.

As part of the usual carrot-and-stick approach ST was informed of the problems she would face if she could not see her way clear to cooperate. (Termination of employment unfortunately necessary for any reason; loss of BCI-owned flat; inability to get another job because of background and lack of reference from present employer; also, obviously, loss of her present friends and social life; loss of everything in fact.) Reports of Miss Bradley and Dr Southfield (annexed) make it clear that ST is, sensibly, willing to co-operate. Both are of the opinion that ST will form an excellent subject.

Note. The matter of return visits to the Mansion (if so required) has not yet been raised with the subject.

End of dossier on Miss Sandra Taylor. Detailed reports, Annexes 1-6, attached.

Mr Balfour had studied the dossier and the additional papers the evening before, over a brandy, and he now merely glanced through it to remind himself of a couple of points. He felt a slight quickening of his pulse. It was almost 2.30, the time the girl had been given for her appointment, though as usual she would be kept waiting outside for perhaps 20 minutes, to increase her mental tension. He replaced the documents in the envelope, then got up and took his binoculars over to the window.

The garden, where the girl would be put through her paces in the first part of the session, was as always slightly unkempt. One or two of his aides had more than once suggested doing it up or indeed carrying out the operation at another venue. BCI did not lack for salubrious properties both town and country, in the UK and abroad. What they could not appreciate was that this was the spot or as close to it as he was likely to get. This rambling property on the northern edge of London was exactly what he wanted, a very close resemblance to the place he had known as a boy. That actual place could not be used – even BCI money could not buy that – because it was gone, bombed in 1943.

He put the powerful glasses to his eyes and focussed, on the familiar tree, the expansive grass, seeing in his mind some of the girls who in the past had gone through their paces on that spot. Where this Sandra Taylor, now waiting wonderingly outside, would shortly be. He saw the longish limbs bending and stretching... and responding to the cane. He felt again that heady tingle of anticipation.

Moving away from the window he put the binoculars on the table and picked up his cane. It hissed seductively as he swished it through the air. In a short while it would again be in use. Sandra Tailor: another case for his Project. It had been going for three years now – his own very private campaign of disciplining wayward youth. Wayward young girls, in fact, for Mr Balfour's interests did not extend beyond females in the 16 to 20 age bracket.

Young females with still lanky limbs and slim torsos, and usually cheeky faces. Girls who should have been disciplined at an early age but because of present day lax standards hadn't, and consequently had fallen into delinquent ways. Tender-fleshed girls sadly in need of discipline and the cane. Mr Balfour's driving aim in life nowadays was to see that they got it, before it was too late.

The interest had always been there but for many years he had not really had time or opportunity to indulge it. In those years he had been building up Balfour-Compton and that itself had been such a consuming interest that everything else – even the alluring images of teenage girls – had been obliterated. But with that work accomplished, and BCI established as a major multinational, its hold on him had diminished. There was no longer the challenge, the need to press on. And it was then that this other interest, largely dormant over all those years, had blossomed out. The timing was correct, for now he possessed all the necessary facilities to indulge it.

Mr Balfour's Project: that was the rather prim title given within the organisation to what was now his life's consuming interest. It was kept very much on a 'need-to-know' basis, limited to one or two of his top aides, with more junior operatives who were involved in various aspects having a correspondingly more limited view of what went on. Some of the background work was performed by people who had remarkably little idea of the final result. Originally it had been 'Project for Wayward Girls' but that far too descriptive term had been conveniently, and circumspectly, shortened.

For he was well aware that certain people thought he was a bit of a nutter, or alternatively simply an old man indulging himself in the sensual pleasure of caning young girlflesh. Whatever they thought, there was the basic fact that he was still Mr Balfour, all-powerful in the organisation. Aides and operatives, who in any case were all carefully screened before being engaged, would therefore simply do what was required to facilitate matters. To acquire and assess and process subjects for his Project. The number on Sandra Taylor's dossier was 263.

263 in just over three years.

He looked at his watch. It was approximately 2.50, so things should now be happening. One of his staff should just about now be opening the door on that girl, Sandra Taylor, who would have been kicking her heels outside for close to half an hour. No doubt a startled look; relief that something at last was happening... or more likely rock bottom apprehension?

Trembling slightly he picked up the glasses again and went to the window. This time he focussed on the 'hatch', that narrow window-like entrance onto the garden from which he knew they would emerge. Sandra Taylor and her Instructor for the session. The 'hatch' from which so many gangling girls had first appeared into his field of vision. No sign yet, no movement. His heart was pounding. And then there it was, the glass door being raised. A white tracksuited figure emerging, followed by another.


He peered intently. She was tall with a blonde thatch of hair. A squarish youthful face, the mouth full-lipped, sensual. A soft full mouth, petulant perhaps, the mouth of a girl who had been allowed to go her own way by negligent parents – though he knew he was thinking that with the advantage of her very full dossier. The Instructor was talking to her... and showing her the cane...

She was answering, the full lips parting, but she was not arguing; her demeanour, though hesitant, was receptive, submissive. The people who had liaised with her had done their work well, the girl had been properly prepared. Very occasionally one could reach this stage only to get a lot of unseemly argument, a struggle even. That was the last thing Mr Balfour wanted, the whole scenario was then spoiled. When it had happened there had been very serious repercussions for all concerned, for he was still Mr Balfour, the redoubtable architect of Balfour-Compton, a man who did not suffer muddling incompetents.

But this one, this Sandra Taylor, was going to be good, he could see that. Docilely she began the first stage, on-the-spot running, still in her tracksuit, knees up to the Instructor's chest-high cane. A brisk young pony, blonde locks bouncing. Mr Balfour licked his lips.

He stared, eyes fixed, not to miss a detail, for now came, in a way, the moment of truth. The initial ungarbing, the removal of the tracksuit. Now he would really see what he'd got, for the brief black leotard would hide nothing. The Instructor positioned the girl with her rear towards his window, so that when the tracksuit trousers came down...

Ah yes! A truly delicious rump briefly contained, or mostly not contained, by the tight black elasticated cloth. Below appeared long lissom thighs as the trousers were lowered. Trousers off and then the top. She stood to attention; skin-tight leotard, ankle socks and trainers. A colt-like form, tall and slim, all arms and long long legs. For Mr Balfour she was a vision; his exact type. He felt slightly faint, his mind running ahead... to when she was brought into the room. He then experienced overwhelming mental sensation.

The session continued with the now stripped-off girl kneeling upright on her heels, hands at her sides, a position of penance maintained in silence for some minutes, then a similar stationary pose, standing at attention. Dislocation from her standard perspectives. An involuntary twitch of one long leg brought the cane flicking across the pale innocent-looking thigh. Only a flick, a mere touch and nothing to what young Miss would be getting shortly, but nonetheless through the glasses Mr Balfour saw the soft mobile mouth form a grimace. A young lady with overly tender flesh, perhaps?

There was more running on the spot, knees high, long legs now bare with muscles flexing. It was hard discipline. The leotard was working up a bit on the girl's bottom... The running stopped, the Instructor spoke to her, moving in close behind. Then she was turned, to present her back view to the unseen watcher. He put the glasses down for a moment. His heart rate had zoomed up and it was fortunate he was still a fit man. He knew what he would see when he raised the glasses again and it always sent the pulse rate zooming. Which was why the young man was told to do it.

The girl's leotard had been pulled up, completely off her bottom so that it was a mere strip hidden in the cleft of the cheeks. Bare bottom cheeks facing him, she commenced to do bending exercises, legs wide apart. Gradually coming to terms with his heart-rate, Mr Balfour watched, eyes riveted.



The session continued: the deep side bends followed by a bare-bottomed handstand up against the tree; then she was face-down on the grass for the press-ups, the cane lightly whipping her legs to keep the knees straight; then squat thrusts. Not all girls could do these two exercises but Sandra Taylor made a good attempt at each, indicating there were muscles in those lissom limbs. And a malleable mind within that exciting frame. She could do them but each time the Instructor kept her at it until she could do no more, and collapsed.



Bending and stretching, on her back and side on the grass, one leg or both in the air under the stimulus of the cane, on the session went. Finally the hard running circling the lawn, bare thighs and bare buttocks pumping like pistons. There was no doubt, she was going all-out at it. The running as always signalled the end of the garden proceedings. He put down his glasses. She would now be brought inside. He stood, waiting...

She placed her tracksuit on the floor then stood before him, at attention, silent and submissive, the big blue eyes looking straight ahead. He registered her defenceless obedience. Close up now, he saw the soft upper lip beaded with perspiration. His eyes drank her in – the long, slightly trembling legs, the taut leotard. Quietly he told her to take it off.

She obeyed, then again stood straight and still in front of him. His eyes slid over this soft but firm youthful flesh, the patch of darker pubic hair. She stood quite still, not looking at him. Yes, they had done a very good job with her. He told her to get down on the floor. Cycling exercises.



She flushed slightly but did not argue. On her back she obediently lifted up her bottom and began cycling her legs in the air. He gazed, his eyes intent. It was a revealing exercise, in the nude a humiliating one it could be said, for a girl could have no secrets in that position. Mr Balfour's hot eyes did not miss a single detail.

When she was standing again he picked up the cane. He was ready now. He showed it to her and told her she was to get a severe caning. It was what she should have had years ago but it was still not too late. 'Do you accept that?' he asked.

'Yes Sir.' The voice slightly hesitant, the face a little flushed. The eyes still straight ahead.

He felt extremely stimulated.

'It will hurt. I shall ensure that it hurts because that is the only way for it to be effective.' His own voice now gruff, edgy with the shattering excitement.

The moment had arrived. The girl's soft flesh was to be chastised... like that time long ago.





He started caning her: hard stinging cracks with the thick bamboo, leaving bright red stripes, making her gasp and cry out. With his excitement mounting higher and higher he placed her in all his favourite positions, the cane all the time rising and falling, on the slim firm buttocks, on the sleek, well exercised thighs, both back and front. His blood was surging, his heart going like an express train. Transfixed in his need he pressed on.



Finally, with the girl against the mirror and watching the image other tear-stained face as he continued to cane the already red-wealed bottom, he reached it. His bursting excitement overflowing, cascading, a dazzling one-man firework display.

The need to cane abruptly stopped. He took the nude girl by the arm, turning her. He placed the cane to those soft full lips. Large tear-filled eyes looked at him... then quivering all over she kissed the cane. Yes, Miss Sandra Taylor had been properly taught what Mr Balfour wanted.

He sat down on the chair as the girl quietly gathered up her things and went out. He experienced that blissful feeling of release, of calm, of completion. Sandra Taylor had been very very good, he would definitely want to have her again. His eyes took on that glassy look which they did when he'd had a particularly good session. He was in a reverie. Seeing not the room but that garden long ago.

Not this garden but the original, when he'd been a boy of 16. And that girl, Cynthia, three years older than him on whom he'd had his schoolboy crush. Cynthia in the garden. He had known she went off to that big house twice a week, in the afternoon, and this time he had followed her, creeping in unseen through the tradesman's entrance.

Cynthia with that man, only a few yards from him.

The man had said something and she had slipped off her skirt and he had gaped, seeing for the first time her long slim thighs and tight navy blue knickers. The man took hold of Cynthia and simply yanked the knickers up, into the cleft of her bottom, so that her bum was virtually bare. Then she was bending over, touching toes, and the man had a cane in his hand and it was thwacking crisply down onto firm pale flesh.

That memory crystal clear over all those years, as though he was focussing in on it with his binoculars.

After the caning Cynthia and the man had gone into the house. And that was all he saw. He had walked home, unseeing. He had never gone there again, had never in fact spoken to Cynthia. So that was all, just the crystal clear memory.

Which now he had relived with 263 girls. In his Project.

Reverend's Reverse

Story from Roue 02.

Reverend's Reverse

Ossie hummed as he walked briskly along in step with Matron, their footsteps squeaking in unison on the highly polished parquet floor of the long corridor.

'You're cheerful,' said Matron, as if enquiring the reason why.

'Am I?' asked Ossie, and seemed to consider. 'Oh, well perhaps I am.'

They squelched and squeaked to the angle of the hall and turned down another long corridor.

A girl stepped deferentially to one side as they passed. Matron glowering at her and Ossie winking and making the girl smile in a rather confused way. At the far end of the second corridor Matron swung aside and wrenched noisily at the handle of a heavy, green-painted door. The door refused to open. Matron belatedly produced a key on a ring and rattled it in the lock. She smiled apologetically for her forgetfulness and pushed the door open for Ossie to proceed her.

The girl sitting on the hard wooden chair scampered to her feet as she saw who it was. The door swung shut behind them, and Ossie glanced around the bare room automatically, although he'd been there often enough before. There was little to see anyway, just a chair, the solid wooden table and the wall cupboard. He looked at the girl, dressed plainly in her pale green dress with the white collar to relieve the sameness, and the buttoned cuffs edged similarly. Her hair was pulled back off her face into two bunches, the severity of the hairstyle quite failing to spoil the pretty softness of her youthful features.

Ossie smiled at her in a friendly way. The girl's expression, tight with apprehension, changed hardly at all, though her lower lip became somewhat tremulous.

'This is Maureen,' said Matron. 'Maureen, say good morning to the Reverend. Wherever are your manners, girl?'

Maureen stumbled over her obligatory greeting, and Ossie nodded breezily.

'Sony to hear you've been a naughty girl, Maureen,' he said conversationally.

The girl said, 'Yes', not knowing what else to say, but wanting to be polite. Her wide eves looked up into his, as if seeking a trace of sympathy or understanding. Ossie winked at her, then turned on his heel and enquired of Matron:

'Well now, what exactly are we to do with this poor child?'

'She's to be punished for insolence. And for having the nerve to protest about it, which is why the door has had to be kept locked.'

'I see. Well - er - Maureen, I realise that you may not have been here very long, but you have to understand that although this may be a charitable institution, that doesn't mean that its codes of conduct can be treated with contempt.'

Ossie thrust his hands in his pockets arid paced slowly up and down the little room, managing to appear both pompous and faintly ridiculous in the process. He puckered his brow and looked as if he were about to deliver some profound statement on the point under discussion, but, puckered brow or no, he quite failed to think of even one other relevant remark which he might make. Having thus made himself feel something of a fool, he stopped and turned again to Matron.

'Very well then Matron. Proceed.'

Matron proceeded. Maureen, notwithstanding her anxious eyes and the maidenly blush which rose rapidly to her cheeks, was persuaded to stand in front of the table with her thighs pressing against its edge, and then to bend forward from the waist until her firm young breasts rested fully against the table top and her chin overlapped the far edge by half an inch or so. The pale green dress slid inevitably up over her hips as she was coaxed into position, leaving her tautened thighs bare for rather more than half their length, and making her press her legs tightly together in a self-conscious attempt to preserve her dignity in front of Ossie. Without needing to be told she grasped the far edge of the table with both hands, and then, turning her head so that one cheek rested comfortably against the wood, she risked a wary, embarrassed glance at Ossie, who pretended not to notice, though the helplessness in her eyes gave him a sudden pang of something that didn't feel like guilt.

Matron's chapped hands reached for the hem of the dress, and without ceremony flicked it up and over the girl's back. Her cheeks flushing scarlet, Maureen looked quickly away from Ossie, her legs bending at the knees as she tried to reduce the prominence of her bottom, stuck up as it was and displaying in all their faded glory the pair of old green school knickers she was wearing, and which did nothing to disguise the pert rotundity of her elevated buttocks.

Ossie, in his capacity as witness, felt it incumbent upon him to move into a position where his view of the proceedings would not be obscured, and as Matron bustled across to the cupboard and unlocked it, he wandered over to his preferred vantage point, stepping round Maureen's legs and for some reason finding it difficult to pass without brushing a hand accidentally against the soft velvety knap of the prostrated girl's tight stretched knickers, the feel of her bum firm yet at the same time enhanced by a softness at surface level which quite tightened his trousers.

From the cupboard Matron bad taken a fairly stout cane, and with it clasped springily in one hand, she circumnavigated the table and hove to in the lee of Maureen's looming young bottom.

Ossie, finding that his shadow from the window was failing across Maureen's verdant slopes, adjusted his position so that the sunlight was allowed to play unimpeded on the pink and faded green of her penitently proffered bum.

Matron, being one for perfection in all things, decided that Maureen's knickers needed readjustment. With some care she smoothed out the faint creases in the worn pants and then, also being one for bending the rules when it suited her, with considerable dexterity she nudged at the tight nip of each elasticated leg band as it cut across the plump buttocks and caused the stretchiness of the material to slip neatly round into the division of the girl's bottom, leaving the full, soft undersides of each pink bum cheek conveniently bared, the knickers being allowed to cover only the upper curves of the unfortunate girl's bottom, and leaving naked and quite unprotected the tenderest parts of each buttock.

Ossie, fascinated by the succulent pout of the twin mounds from under the edges of the rearranged knickers, pretended not to notice that poor Maureen was about to get her caning virtually on the bare bottom, and he consoled himself with the knowledge that, after all was said and done, the child was being allowed to keep her knickers on, which was in keeping with the letter of the rules, if not the intent.

With a look in Ossie's direction, as if to be sure that he condoned her bending of the rules, Matron then gently laid the cane across the naked lower parts of Maureen's bottom, indicating without question her intention to cane on the bare, then, no reaction being forthcoming from Ossie, she drew the cane fully back behind her shoulder and unleashed the first swooshing stroke, which whacked solidly across the two cheeks together and jolted them into a quivering, twitching jerk as Maureen lurched forward against the table, the legs scraping across the floor and the wretched girl's face screwed up against the vicious sting of the cane's impact. She seemed to heave a great, breathless sigh, then, sucking in a lungful of air, she gurgled her first sobs even before the cane had been drawn back for the next stroke.

Ossie caught Matron's eye as she wound up for the next one, and he realised suddenly that she really meant to give the girl a sound whacking. The cane whizzed down again, and landed squarely across the two flinching cheeks. Maureen swerved violently away from the sting as it nipped into her bottom, and she yelped pitifully as she skittered sideways across the wooden tabletop.

'Er - how many?' enquired Ossie above the sound of Maureen's gasping sobs.

'A round dozen, that's what I thought,' said Matron, drawing the cane back again.

Ossie said nothing, but watched as once again Maureen's half naked and defenceless bum twitched and squirmed under the smart of the cane, which landed with an even louder 'Whack' than had the first two.

A dozen. Well, that was bending the rules too. Eight was supposed to be the maximum. Maureen caught his eye, her face contorted with the effort not to burst into tears completely. Ossie wondered whether he ought to do his duty and terminate the punishment after eight strokes. Maureen gasped again and spread-eagled her legs, shoving with her toes against the slippery floor. The bared parts of her cheeks were reddening rapidly, a narrow swathe of angry weals blossoming either side of the knickers tucked tightly up between her buttocks. He decided that he ought to do his duty. He watched as the wretched girl wriggled her punished bottom and squirmed her belly against the table for the next four stinging whacks, her tears coming copiously now, trickling down her face and splashing pathetically onto the table.

Then he stepped forward and held up his hand, catching Matron by surprise as he interrupted the punishment. Matron looked at him defensively. Ossie ignored her and, as if examining the effects the caning had had on poor Maureen's crimson bottom, he rested a hand soothingly on one hot and quivering cheek. Maureen choked on a sob, then lay there weeping quietly as his hand stroked across both firm little buttocks. He patted her trembling bum with an air of finality.

'That's enough I think, Matron,' he said, not looking at her as he spoke.

Matron drew breath as if about to answer, then she checked herself and reluctantly lowered the cane.

'I think she's been punished enough,' repeated Ossie. 'Er - perhaps if I simply had a word with her now -'

Matron took the hint, though rather gracelessly. She flounced over to the cupboard and locked the cane away, while Maureen sniffled miserably, still face down across the table, and Ossie thrust his hands in his pockets again and stood with his back to the room, looking out of the window. With a backward glance Matron left in a huff, slamming the door as she departed.

Ossie turned away from the window and looked down at the tearful girl. Maureen peeped up at him from under her eyebrows and mumbled her thanks.

'Regulations, my dear,' said Ossie pompously.

'Can - c'n I get up now sir?' sniffed Maureen.

'Well, in a minute,' said Ossie. 'There's just one little thing -'

Removing his hands from his pockets, he walked to the table and stood behind the girl, making a point of stepping between her parted legs, his trousers brushing against the insides of her knees. Nervously, Maureen twisted round and stared up at him. Her legs tried to pull together but Ossie's presence between them made that piece of evasive action ineffective. He reached down and, tucking his hands up under her raised dress, found the elasticated waist of her knickers. With a series of gentle tugs he began to inch them down over the swell of her hips. The girl's legs slammed tightly against his own.

'S-sir! You - you mustn't.'

'Regulations,' said Ossie mildly, and, slipping a hand around under each side of her hips, he slid the faded green knickers down from under her belly.

'But sir!' Impetuously Maureen scrambled her hands underneath herself and grabbed at her knickers, rolling over onto one hip as she tried to wriggle away from Ossie's intrusion.

'Maureen!' said Ossie, warningly.

'No sir. You mustn't - OW!'

Her half-knickered bottom jiggled very satisfyingly as he spanked one tempting bum cheek hard and stingingly.

'Now keep still girl! It's perfectly alright.'

'N-no sir -!'

He slapped her again, and she jerked one hand out from under her tummy and clasped at her already sore bottom. With a final pull her knickers dragged down over her buttocks and her struggles stretched them tightly between her thighs, where they lodged close up under the lower curves of each cheek.

'Look, the regulations insist that I inspect -' She squirmed so violently, and squealed so loudly in her virginal modesty, that he simply had to do something about it.

'Well alright then -'

He jammed her flailing hand firmly into the small of her back and, straddling his legs so that her thighs were spread apart and less able to help her in her desperate attempt to escape, he slapped hard and stingingly at her bobbing bottom, fresh splodges of bright scarlet welling almost instantly as she spluttered and then burst into tears again.

Another dozen spanks had her wriggling helplessly and bleating apologies in a series of gurgling sobs. For good measure he raised his hand again, about to emphasise his point with a last couple of really good wallops.

Matron's cough, a pointed and righteously critical comment on what she'd found as she opened the door on her return, left him stupidly poised in the very act of slapping poor Maureen's quite naked bottom. He met Matron's eyes for only a moment. There was absolutely nothing to be said.

* * *

Three days later it was a rather subdued Ossie who followed the officious Matron along the squeaky corridors to the bare little room with the locked door. She produced her keys and preceded him, without her usual deference, into the familiar punishment room.




One of the two girls was Maureen, her eves huge and anxious, the other was another new girl whom Ossie had never seen before.

Without any introduction Matron went immediately to the cupboard, then, the cane couched threateningly in her hand, she instructed the girl whom Ossie didn't know to get down across the table.

The girl blinked back the onset of tears and then, very sensibly from her point of view, shook her head dumbly and took a pace back towards the wall. With an agility that surprised Ossie, Matron pounced upon the reluctant girl and thrust her forcibly across the table. The cane swooshed faintly then cracked loudly across the bending girl's bare thighs.

She yelled, and the cane whacked again. Resistance evaporating, the girl subsided chokingly across the table. Matron flicked up the dress and, with an archly defiant glare at Ossie, tucked her fingers in the waistband of the girl's fresh and new looking knickers and dragged them down in one movement, leaving the huddling cheeks bare and helpless and the knickers inside-out halfway down her thighs.

Ossie could say nothing. He watched as Matron caned the blubbering girl soundly, deliberately counting the strokes aloud to leave him in no doubt as to the nature of the new arrangement. The twelfth stroke landed hard across the red and glowing cheeks, making them bounce visibly under the impact. The girl was allowed up and was consigned, still blubbering, to a corner, where she was made to stand with her knickers round her knees and her freshly punished bottom on display.




Maureen was beckoned to the table with a crooked finger and a flourish of the cane. Dubiously she lowered herself into position. Matron's hands fluttered with the dress, and the same pair of faded green knickers peeped shyly out from under the raised hem, they were exposed completely as the dress was hoisted up into the punishment position at the girl's waist. Matron paused, looking at Ossie as if daring him to object to the next move.

Ossie looked at the tempting curve of the prostrated girl's bottom.

'Er - how many?' he asked, making it sound like a polite enquiry.

'Sixteen,' said Matron, her eyes fixed on Ossie's.

Ossie shrugged. 'O.K.' he said, and added, 'with her knickers down, of course.'

Matron nodded. 'Of course,' she gloated.

She denuded the waiting girl's bottom with one sharp tug, the bared cheeks wobbling faintly as the knickers were yanked down. Maureen whimpered desolately, her panic-stricken eyes seeking Ossie's.

Ossie thrust his hands deep into his pockets, as much to hide the erection swelling in his trousers as to signify that he had no objection. He risked a half smile at Matron, who grinned triumphantly and raised her cane. He watched as the first, solid thwack cut across the girl's bare cheeks, and tried to ignore her shriek of protest as the pain made her squirm. He shrugged again, and leaned comfortably against the green-painted wall to carry out his job of witnessing the punishment, having decided that he might just as well lay back and enjoy it. Which he did.

Hot panties

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.4


Hot panties
From series "The St. Miriam's Letters"

St. Miriam's has closed its doors for the summer hols, but others are opening to receive the girls again after their first or second term for over-18's. And slightly-shy Sally's staying with her Aunt Linda for a week....

Dear Val

Just had to drop you a line to let you know what's been going on. As you know, I collected Sally from St. Miriam's and brought her back here since her nearest and dearest – other than me! – aren't expected back from Libya until the end of the week.

What a darling she really is. The 'establishment' has certainly knocked a lot of the shyness out of her, but then at those fees it ought to! You never told me what a lovely place it is. From the outside it reminds me of those old magazines we used to read about girls' boarding schools – all ivy-clad walls and latticed bow windows – gorgeous! But the reception area, which is all I saw of course, is very super and contemporary.

Sally says it's bits of both right inside. The dorms are quite 'cottagy' and pretty, but the gym and the dining hall are very swish. Of course I had to know about old Westward's study – with his reputation! Again, it's an inbetwecn as far as interior decoration goes, but I suspect some very interesting bottom-warming goes on in there, especially on that black leather couch of his. Sally hasn't been 'privileged' to a visit to the head's study. He did give her a preliminary spanking, though, in her dorm and (suitably!) on her own.

Apparently it was a medium one since he had her 'shyness' report, but I'd have given a lot to have seen her face when those tight little panties of hers came down. Delicious botty she's got and they've schooled her a bit to the cane. That took some getting out of her, but after the second evening here it wasn't so difficult. I knew that if we left it for too long she'd be harder to get, so it was a case of grab and strap.

Me, I grabbed her. Or rather I tried to lead her gently to the sofa – the one between our two windows that look out on to the garden. We'd had a nice dinner – a touch of candlelight was just right, I thought – and I knew she'd be fit for it. She did start to struggle a bit – girlish yelps and all that – when I sat back on the sofa, taking her with me so that I had her head under my arm. "Aunty, DON'T!" was the cry! Well – I expected that, but she didn't have much option because Bob upped her skirt in a flash and got her panties down.

I'd put the strap ready under the cushion of one of the chairs – the old trick for a bit of impromptu home training (and don't you and I know it, too!) What a screech she gave! I had a job to hold her, but Bob knows his stuff and got the first stroke of the leather in across her lovely white bottom with a very loud crack. From Sally of course there was a real "WHAAAAA!" and then Bob streaked another across her cheeks from the opposite direction.

Well – it didn't stop her hips from jiving, but it did stop her from trying to get her shoulders out from under my arm. I signalled Bob at that and he stopped in mid-swing! "A sixer, Sally," I told her, "that's all you're going to get – so no silly fuss. You know they said you're to continue weekly discipline during the hols, and I'm sure you don't want a note going to Mr. Westward, do you? All right, darling," I told Bob then.

Oh the sweet dear, she gave a sort of muted howl and moan all mixed up (but I expect we sounded like that at eighteen) while he snarled the next one in. You know Bob's good at it now (aha!) and he used just the right length of leather to keep it under control. She did blubber more than I expected – but that was mainly the idea of having her knicks down to her ankles in rather more homely circumstances than St. Miriam's. Which is the very thing she has to get used to now. So CRA-AAAACK! the strap went again – and of course Bob had the best view.

Blue's the right shade for her colour and the dress she had on was a mid-blue with tiny white spots and a white, lace-worked hem. Her panties matched. The skirt of her dress was flared and made a nice loop around her waist. Her nylons were seamed and I think Bob got a cockstand even before he'd ripped her knicks down.

By the time he was giving her the fifth I was doing a little quick fumbling with the buttons of her dress in the front down to her waist and slipped my hand in. Lovely globes, all silky and warm. Nipples nice and perky. I passed the ball of my thumb over them – and that made her wriggle more! (What ARE you doing with your other hand, Val?). It was all pant and go and slap-crack then, but I didn't let Bob go past the six mark. After all, it was only a tone-up! Then we got her in a quick hustle on the sofa under me and I don't think she knew what was happening for a moment. I was half kneeling up and kissing her flushed face while Bob was pressing her legs around my waist and working my skirt up at the same time. Yes, you're right – I'd left my knicks off ready for this.

Whether she really knew what we were doing I don't know. We were both ready for it as we'll ever be and Bob sheathed it in me right up to his balls while I was 'comforting' her and kissing the corners of her mouth. She couldn't unwind her legs from my waist, of course, because Bob was leaning over me and on them! He had a nice feel of her, too, underneath. I could tell that by her gaspings into my mouth and the way her calves tightened around me. Well, poor Bob (or not!) he didn't last long – not with all the excitement and his fingers touching up her gluey slot.

I will say, she didn't fight against my tongue – in fact she twirled her own quite a bit in my mouth – and by then I was being flooded, gush-gush and fondling her tits at the same time. She was making lovely noises under me, you bet, but then Bob's hose dribbled out its last and after a lot of hot pulsings, with me clenching on his cock with my dripping pussy, he very discreetly eased out and away! Well – he wouldn't have done if I hadn't told him the score in advance, but by the time that Sally could see from under me he was well out of the room.

I didn't say much – just slithered down and lay on her for a while, having a very erotic cuddle, with our thighs, tummies and pussies pressed together. She panted a bit and clutched me. I knew she'd come over his fingers and was in quite a daze. So after a nice warm, cuddly interval I just whispered "Beddybyes" to her and got her up the short flight of stairs to her room. "Darling, that was lovely – thanks," I said to her simply and left her flopping down on her bed. Well – it was the best way, and I know you'd have done the same. "It turns it around nicely," as you once told me.

Come morning I was up before her, hustled Bob off and went in with a cup of tea. She looked lovely and warm and tousled. "Sleep all right, darling?" I asked her all cheerily and, before she could answer, sat on the edge of the bed and chatted away ten to the dozen about everything except what had happened. Worked like a charm! I know you told me you did the same thing with Theresa. Bustle them about until they almost think they've dreamed it. Then..... choose your moment..... back to the stern stuff.

Well, I didn't bring it up until after lunch. By then we'd been into town and bought a few nice things. I bought her one of those thin gold necklets she likes and told her it was from her Uncle Bob. She didn't know where to look, but she put it on all right! Going back in the car I said to her suddenly, "You were a good girl last night, Sally. Keep it up." She went bright pink, but I pretended not to notice. "We all get it," I told her. That made her sit up. "Oh!" she said in a quick voice. I told her, "Yes, really we do. It's all very clannish you know, the St. Miriam's thing. I know I had to grab you a bit last night, but that was only your first. I'll be next, so don't worry!" Of course she didn't believe me, or I could see she was sort of fighting to believe me. But it had all been well arranged, like at the end of Theresa's first term – and I suppose it will be the same with Fleur Notts-Harding (really dishy, that one!), though Sally tells me she's very sophisticated and with it.

Anyway, didn't let her down. Waited until after dinner again that evening – the psychological hour! – and then pretended to play up with Bob. Sally was all silly and nervous, I could see, but we played it out so well that she couldn't very well run upstairs, as she clearly wanted to. Or at first, anyway. Apart from which, Bob pointedly closed the door to the hall and the door from the dining room, so there were the three of us back in the lounge. "You've asked for this," he said to me. Well – it was miles better than 'Crossroads', and certainly sexier! It was then that Sally started edging to the door, but Bob sort of barked at her, "No, Sally, stay here!" Down into a chair she went, facing the sofa, and probably had her thumb in her mouth for all I know.

WHOOO! Bob gave it to me all right, the sod – knicks taken right off. It had to look good. Then my skirt – me doing my little bit of protesting, but letting it die away nicely and being all obedient. "Proper posture, Linda!" he barked, and I shuffled my high heels apart, giving Sally a gorgeous view, because the chair she was sitting in is pretty low and she was virtually looking right up between, as it were. Don't want to boast, but it's a nice view!

Bob kept well to one side so that her view wasn't impeded – and then I got my sixer, crack-splat. I gave a couple of soft yelps, but kept it all muted. Playing the stern master of the house, Bob didn't actually look round at her but got a good sly peep at her open mouth and flushed cheeks. "Noo-noo-nooo-NOOOOO!" I babbled into a clutched cushion. I gyrated my bottom perfectly, Bob said afterwards, bending my stockinged knees just right to push my bottom out and getting my legs a good two feet apart by the time the fourth and fifth were sizzling in.

"But you see, dear, I didn't scream or howl loudly, and you have to remember that," I told her afterwards, "It isn't a question of being brave, pet, but discreet." She listened open-mouthed to that, too, but I could see she was learning. Bob hadn't spared her the sight of his cock that time. It was rampant and nosing out of his half pulled-down zip when he drew me up after the sixer, keeping a firm grip on my wrist, and said, "Come on – on the bed with you now." Well, of course, she didn't follow us up, but we left the door open upstairs and she certainly got the whole dialogue and all the luscious sounds that went with it!

"You want it now, don't you!" she must have heard Bob grunt, and then me doing my whimpering bit and saying, "You know I do. Oh, get it in me, darling, it's always the best time – so fantastic after the strap, oooh my poor botty, oh, you are naughty! Yes, yes, even if I weren't your wife I'd give it to you now, you know I would" ......and so on! Half an hour later – we deliberately made it last – I went into her. It was dark by then and she was lying in bed. I had a pretty, filmy nightie on. I bent over and kissed her nose and did a quick slide down beside her. It was nice and tight in the single bed.

"Oh, it does sting, doesn't it, and my poor botty's so hot still – feel it," I said. There was no way she couldn't have been feeling sexy by then and so I eased the sheet and blanket down with my feet, put her hand on my bared bottom and cuddled into her. Pretty sneaky I had to be, but it didn't take long. "Oh, darling, you just have to have it afterwards," I sort of sobbed and rolled my hot silky bottom around on her palm. That did it. In a minute I was fingering her pussy – a misty bunch of curls on a lovely plump mound with my fingertips feeling the silky skin beneath and the sweet little purse of her quim.

She began to bubble away and we began to tongue one another while I did most of the whispering. Her fingers got quite enquiring, I can tell you, and ended up in all the right places! Her mouth was open and moist and her hips were jerking. "Did you come?" I asked her. It was all in the open then. She knew that I was talking about her listening to us in the bedroom. "Yes," she breathed. Her derriere wriggled all over the sheet as I played with her clitty. "You have to have it afterwards – you know that, don't you," I told her. Lost in a world of our own, it didn't matter what I said, but I had to get that in. "Mmmmm!" she hummed. Her bottom lifted, legs wide open, and she sprinkled my fingers with her salty dew. Almost a full conversion, I thought.

I left her sleepy and dreamy, with her nightie off and looking as sweet a bundle of curves as you'll ever see. Bob was flaked out in our room, but I'd told him to keep out of the way. I gave her two more days without saying anything and Bob kept out of the way by doing his handyman act in the shed most of the time. "A sixer for you tonight, pet – got to keep you up to it – you'll be off tomorrow," I told her. She didn't say anything – just took a slightly deeper drag on her ciggy and felt for her wine glass! But I waited till bedtime. I think she sensed it was me who was going to give it to her.

Her babydoll nightie doesn't cover much anyway. "Take it off now," I told her firmly after I'd given her two, with her kneeling on her bed. She obeyed me, all flushed and squirmy. Bob waited outside in his pyjamas – though she didn't know that. At the count of five he stepped quietly in, half knelt on the bed just in front of her and drew her face down to his exposed cock. For a moment she made to jerk her mouth away, but I gave her a sharp 'number five and a half', as I told her it was. Bob pressed her tight, soft lips down around his big cock gently. Then her bottom reared to the sixth and another two meaty inches of prick oozed into her mouth.

I gave her hot botty little smacks with my hand then until she had sucked him off. Then I rolled her into bed and Bob switched the light off and departed. Round one! Oh heavens – look at the time. Write soon!

Love, LINDA x x x x x

Susan

Story from Roue 01.

Susan

'Four-thirty sharp after school then young lady,' she heard the headmaster's voice as if it were in another room, 'and I mean sharp, don't keep me waiting.' Mr Watkins ushered the pretty young girl out of his study door into the old corridor of the Edwardian wing of the co-ed Grammar School, and for twenty seconds or so he peered over his half-rimmed spectacles at the retreating figure walking slowly and disconsolately back towards the newer part of the building.

To his pupils Mr Watkins was quite an awe-inspiring, austere man of about sixty, invariably thought to be lacking in human warmth; a stern disciplinarian of the 'old school', a 'just beast' as most of the boys and girls described him. Every pupil without exception would have been astounded to have been able to read what was going through Mr Watkins' mind as he followed intently the trim figure of Susan Miller as she disappeared from view; he almost regretted not having dealt with her on the spot rather than having to wait seven hours at least before that entrancing little rump would be jiggling bared, rosy, and tingling across his knees.

Still, it had its compensations; he would have all day to imagine Susan's thoughts whilst she had to go through her usual routine of class-work, and there was a decided twitch in his trousers at the thought of the evening's 'duty' in store for him.

After all, it wasn't every day he managed to find a really cast-iron excuse to strap one of the older girls these days, and even when he did they were usually so unattractive and so upset by the whole procedure that any pleasure he might have derived from the proceedings was evanescent. He had a shrewd suspicion that things would be very different with the young lady he would be dealing with tonight. Her looks and sultry pouts virtually told him that she was ripe for just what he had in mind after school. What a good thing it was that his study was so secluded, especially after hours. Mr Watkins closed the study door with a sense of real satisfaction, even for a confirmed bachelor a headmaster's duties still had their little bonuses from time to time.

Satisfaction was a long way from Susan's mind as she sat at the desk in 5B classroom and tried in vain to concentrate her mind on what Miss Rawlings was explaining so lucidly about the procreative cycle of the bee. She should have worked harder last term, there was no doubt about that. Then she needn't have tried to cheat in the end of term exam, and she wouldn't have run the stupid risk of being caught.

Being caught was bad enough, but being reported to old Watkins was awful. He'd been so serious about it too, she hadn't realised just how sanctimonious and righteous he was about such things, though she might have guessed from his face. He went on and on so, lecturing away – blah – blah – until she'd have done anything just to stop his jawing. All she could think of doing was to stand there with her head bowed and her hands behind her back, twisting her little hanky, occasionally peeping up at him through her eyelashes. She hadn't really paid a lot of attention to what he was saying exactly, until suddenly she heard him bark out –

'Look at me girl.'

He hadn't spoken loudly, but the precise way in which he said it had made her feel quite goose-fleshy with fright, and he looked so severe now.

'So, Susan, what t have decided is to either expel you, in which case you'll have no exam results next term, and you won't be able to go to the training college, or give you the choice of coming back this evening for a good dose of the strap. Now which is it to be?'

Slowly the meaning of what he had just said sank into Susan's consciousness; expel... no exams... no college... the strap. 'God, he really means it... the strap... he can't... I'm sixteen... I know he straps the girls sometimes... but he couldn't... str-str-strap a girl of my age... I'll be expelled. No... no... I can't, Mum'll kill me... I'll have to plead with him.'

Mr Watkins' deliberate voice interrupted Susan's bemused thoughts abruptly.

'Come along young lady, don't keep me waiting all day. What's it to be then? A short sharp lesson, or expulsion?'

Susan stuck her lower lip out in a sulky pout, and her words came out in a quiet, almost inaudible whisper.

I don't want to be expelled.' Then as an afterthought, she added reluctantly... 'Sir.'

Mr Watkins couldn't help smiling inwardly at the way Susan had announced her decision, but he was determined to stretch out the interview to increase her shame.

'I don't want to hear just what it is you don't want, Susan, tell me what exactly you do want at once.'

Susan's face was a picture, she could feel the warmth of her blush rising up from her shoulders towards her neck above the collar of her white cotton blouse.

'I want you... to... to... str-str...' she stammered with her mouth dry, and her tongue trying ineffectually to moisten her quivering lips.

'Speak up girl,' the Head prompted, 'I can't hear what you are saying.'

'...want you to strap me,' she blurted out in a rush, wishing there was a trap-door in the floor so that she could disappear from his piercing eyes.

Mr Watkins gave a little rub of his hands together, but he wasn't satisfied yet.

'You want me to strap you, do you? Might I enquire where you think I am going to strap you, on what exact part of your anatomy, young lady? Tell me that please.'

During the ensuing silence Mr Watkins couldn't help but feel some sympathy for the blushing teenager as she stood there wriggling her feet on the carpet. After about thirty seconds, which seemed to Susan like as many minutes, he took pity on her inability to say what she must have realised was in store for her.

'As you seem to have nothing to say,' he said, 'I want you to report to me here after school. Make sure you change into the knickers you normally wear for tennis, you can collect them from the changing room at lunch-time. I invariably make a point of strapping girls only after they are wearing really thin tight brief panties, make sure you comply with that rule. Off you go now.'

Susan stumbled blindly through the study door which Mr Watkins was holding open for her. She could feel the hot shameful tears running down her cheeks, and as she walked down the corridor she had to brush the hair back from her tear-stained eyes.

All that had happened that morning came back with the vividness of reality, as Susan heard the bell that signalled the end of school for that day. School always finished at four-fifteen, and Susan lingered on in the loo of the cloakroom until the sounds of her fellow pupils had disappeared. She knew her Mum wouldn't be home until after eleven tonight as it was her late shift at the sweet factory where she worked as a chocolate packer. Dad was at sea for the next two months, so no one would know what time she got home from school. Susan was well aware that the Head knew these facts only too well.

The apprehension of the day had actually made her have to ask to be excused from class twice, but whilst she was changing her thick blue school pants for her clean white cotton tennis briefs she knew she would have to 'pee' again before her strapping. As she pulled up the rather too brief white panties she felt a shudder of anticipatory fright tremble her thighs.

Susan quickly stuffed the blue gym knickers into her satchel, and peered anxiously out of the cloakroom door. To her intense relief the corridor was deserted both of pupils and staff, the last thing she wanted was to have to tell anyone why she was still in the school.

Although she didn't really want to go too quickly towards the Head's study, she was forced by the circumstances to walk smartly and silently through the two corridors which linked the newer part of the school to the old grim, austere, Edwardian block which was occupied solely by the Headmaster and his secretary, Miss Winton.

Miss Winton had been delighted when Mr Watkins had given her the opportunity to leave at 3 pm. to catch up with her shopping. A spinster of nearly fifty, she had been with the Head for fifteen years now, and had a shrewd suspicion that Mr Watkins always gave her the afternoon off when he was going to chastise one of the girls. Miss Winton thoroughly approved of the strap for the young hussies around this school; she would have been delighted to give the Head a hand if he'd asked her; as it was, it was the least she could do to make sure he had the right conditions to 'strap them properly, as they deserved'.

Susan gave a long sigh of relief as her luck held, and she reached the safety of the door outside the Head's room, her breathing a little gasping as she summoned up the courage to knock on the door. At the very moment when she was about to rap gently on the oak panel the door opened, and Mr Watkins peered over his half-rimmed spectacles at the frightened girl.

Without a word Mr Watkins ushered Susan into his study, and shut the door behind her. Susan heard the faint click of the lock as the Head carefully turned the key. There was in fact no chance that anyone except the old, partly deaf school porter would be around at all by 4.30, but Mr Watkins was a careful man, and the last thing he wanted was any invasion of his privacy for the next hour. The task of ensuring complete privacy concluded, his next task was to lead the young girl over to near the fireplace.

Susan found herself contemplating the school trophies ranged along the mantelpiece, and the flickering flames of the Head's fire, whilst he opened one of the drawers of his desk. Suddenly she felt him come round behind her and stand with his back to the fire about two feet in front of her. She found her horrified gaze rivetted on the black two-tailed strap he held in front of her face, and as he ran the twin tails through the fingers of his left hand, almost, it seemed to Susan, with pleasure, her legs trembled in spite of all she tried to do to stop them.

'I don't think I have had to strap you before have I Susan?' queried the Head, knowing full well what her answer would be.

'You strapped me about three or four years ago,' whispered Susan.

'I had overlooked that occasion,' remarked Mr Watkins with a slight smile. 'Let me see, how old were you then?'

'Nearly thirteen. Sir,' answered Susan, who remembered only too vividly the smarting sting of the strap across her young buttocks.

'And how old are you now, Miss?' asked the Head in an oily voice.

'I'm just sixteen,' she said, almost in tears.

'And no doubt thinking that sixteen is much too old for a strapping I expect. Well I can tell you it isn't. Whilst a girl is at this school and under my control, serious misbehaviour, or naughtiness of the kind I find offensive, will inevitably lead to the sort of punishment I am about to give you; is that plainly understood?' His voice was sharp and severe in tone as he uttered these words.

'As you have been strapped before you will be familiar with my methods, just do as you're told, I want no disobedience or struggles, or I shall be forced to expel you after all, and I doubt whether your father and mother would approve of the conduct leading to your expulsion. Doubtless you agree?'

Mr Watkins walked slowly across the room towards a high-backed armless chair near to a bookcase, and stood there contemplating Susan in her short-skirted gym-slip, its tight belt throwing into prominence the fullness of her young hips, her school tie sliding down between the cleavage of her developing breasts, her white blouse, knee-length socks and barred black shoes setting off her schoolgirl image to perfection. Mr Watkins once again blessed the authorities who insisted on uniform for the school.

During the minute or so that he eyed Susan up and down, he consciously kept flicking the strap against his left palm, watching Susan's apprehensive eyes following the snaky ends of the thick black shiny strap. Suddenly it seemed to Susan that he remembered what he was about to do to her, and he sat quickly down on the chair, and put the strap on a low table in front of his legs.

'Come along Miss... it's time we started,' he said, and a crooked index finger beckoned Susan to his side.

Mr Watkins parted his trouser-clad thighs just enough to guide Susan's shaking legs between his knees, and then closed them firmly.

'You obeyed my instructions about your undergarments, I hope young lady?' Mr Watkins' voice was quite brusque.

Susan nodded as she heard her distant voice emit a hoarse, croaky 'Yes... sir.'

'Be so kind as to lift your skirt up, so that I may inspect your choice, and find out for myself whether they meet with my approval.'

Susan felt a hot blush erupt over her face as she slowly lifted the hem of her gym-slip higher and higher under the Head's instructions, until she had her clothes bunched up in front around her slim waist.

Mr Watkins' steely eyes were fixed on the revealing display of rounded creamy thighs which promised more and more as the hem went higher. Susan's panties were thin cotton and clung tautly to her contours, and as the Headmaster reached behind her hips and clasped her thinly covered bottom cheeks in his hands, she stiffened her body, and he felt her buttocks nip tight.

'Oh please... no... no... please sir... oh... don't... oh don't... oh no, not my... oooh...' Susan was near to tears as she pleaded in vain to stop him from slowly peeling her panties down over her hips, deliberately holding them down at the front with both hands and staring with hawk-like eyes up to the top of her briefs where they had stuck clingingly to her damp thighs on the chubby insides. Susan felt the hot waves of blushing shame flood over her averted face, and then she felt the final ignominy of her partial stripping as his fingers eased her knickers down from the insides of her tightly held thighs. Mr Watkins pretended to find this difficult and his slow fumblings somehow managed to allow him to repeatedly and apparently as if by accident brush his finger-tips across the soft fair hairs of her pubic mound, and gently titillate the outer lips of her pussy and the softly curved tops of her chubby thighs.

When he had lowered her panties down to mid-thigh, and seemed at last to be completely satisfied with the amount of girlish flesh he had bared, the Head parted his legs enough to allow Susan to obey his order to –

'Come round to my right side, and bend well down across my knees girl.'

Poor Susan quickly did as she was told, her relief at no longer having her most intimate girlish secrets on display under Mr Watkins' eyes and fingers, quite a little reduced by the thought that other vulnerable parts of her charms were both visible and highly palpable.

The Headmaster, who had thought that his previous pleasure during Susan's preparation was a definite highlight in his career, was rapidly discovering that having a semi-naked pretty teenaged blonde girl wriggling into different positions across his trouser-clad thighs became a sensual experience of unusual quality.

The next minute or so was devoted entirely to placing Susan in the most perfect position for her strapping, and she was completely unable to understand why, when he had adjusted her and patted her into a certain seemingly satisfactory place across his lap, he had to start all over again. After what seemed to Susan an eternity of suspense, the Headmaster seemed satisfied at last. By then Susan was straddled across his spread knees, her breasts just beyond his left thigh, and her soft tummy and the folds of her gym-slip skirt between his parted legs. His left hand held her shoulders down firmly across his left leg, and she was commanded to –

'Press hard up with your fingers and toes Miss, and get that bottom really high up – right up now, and keep it up whilst I'm strapping you so that I can give you a really good spanking.'

Susan by now was ready to do anything if only he would get it over with, and she pushed her bottom higher and higher, aided by Mr Watkins' right leg lifting her a little.

'Good... good girl... keep your bottom up like that... exactly as I want it –'

Susan felt his right hand running over her smooth, cool cheeks, and she just couldn't stop them tautening in nervous anticipation of her smacking.

'Do try to relax your buttocks Susan,' she heard him murmur softly, and he went on fondling her pertly chubby bottom cheeks whilst he went on talking gently to her, almost like a father.

'I don't really want to have to strap you Susan, you know, and make your pretty little bottom smart and tingle. I know you're going to wriggle and kick and cry a lot, but I must do my duty you know.'

There was a short pause, the room silent except for the plaintive sound of Susan's sobbing tears as she began to cry, and then the 'SPLATTTT' of the strap as the two tails landed dead centre of Susan's right cheek. It wasn't a hard stroke, Mr Watkins believed in working up to a climax with his chastisements, but it had the young girl wriggling like a cut worm across his thighs, and the Head noted with satisfaction that Susan's fair skin reddened nicely without too much effort on his part. His experienced judgement told him that a healthy tingling stinging smarting sensation would be what the young lady across his lap would be feeling right now as the prelude to what she had in store.

To Susan that first stroke of the stingy black strap had come as a surprise, by no means as gentle as the Headmaster thought it to be. All day she had keyed herself up for this strapping, and now it had started.

Mr Watkins took his time before he whacked the strap down hard across Susan's left cheek, waiting until some of the wriggling produced by the first crack of the twin thongs had died down, and the fresh stings across her untouched flesh elicited a tensed-up wiggle from her bottom and a sobbing protest from Susan which drowned the 'Splatt' of the third stroke.

He began to warm to the job in hand, and Susan's bottom started to rise and fall, wriggling like a samba under the steady sensual stimulation of the pliant leather. For the next two minutes or so the enclosing four walls of the study seemed full of Susan's almost continuous sobbing cries, punctuated every few seconds by high-pitched gasps as the tails of the tawse flicked wickedly across some particular exquisitely tender area of her chubby girlish thighs or buttocks.

The Headmaster knew full well how to lay a strap across a naughty teenager's cheeks in such a way that the creamy skin became uniformly rosy over the twin summits of her behind, and most masters would have then called it a day.

Not so for Mr Watkins. He deliberately paused for a minute to allow Susan to squirm entrancingly across his lap, too engrossed in her own misery to notice the rapidly hardening ridge in his trousers pressing up against her soft tummy. Slowly her sobbing grew less heart-rending as he let her think her ordeal was over, until with perfect timing, dead on cue, he held her really firmly down and restarted her strapping.

This time the Head was in earnest, and poor Susan began immediately to find out what a real strapping was all about. He had to use all of his skill and superior strength to keep Susan clamped down across his left thigh whilst her hips bounced around like twin beach balls with the rapid hard strokes of that strap.

By now Susan's cries were echoing round the study, and the Head was thankful that old Bert, the school porter, was almost stone deaf. He began to sense that despite Susan's movements she was starting to derive some strange sexual enjoyment from being chastised, her sobs were changing subtly from pain to pleasure and her jerking movements across his thighs were no longer the wild uncontrolled movements of a girl being punished. His eyes began to feast on the rhythmic contractions and relaxations of Susan's rosy buttocks; and then he began to strap her more gently, timing the strokes of the tawse so that the tails curled erotically across her cheeks.

Susan's legs began to straighten out in time with her other movements, thrusting her hips forwards across his hard right thigh and elevating her rounded red bottom up as if to meet the descending leather strap in mid-air. At each moment of impact there was a gasp from the young girl, and her thighs scissored in a state of tension before she subsided back across his knees, lying there crossing and uncrossing her feet, her fists clenched and her face distorted by the sobbing.

About ten fairly fast, light strokes of the strap were enough to bring her to a climax, and he felt Susan's hands grip his left leg tightly and felt her fingernails through the cloth of his trousers as she tautened like a drawn bow over his lap.

He stopped strapping her, and gazed avidly down at her buttocks, tense across his knees, her ankles crossing as she scissored her creamy thighs one against the other, gently rolling her rosy buttocks with the aftermath of her first erotic strapping. He extracted full measure from her plight until she had stopped sobbing except for the occasional sniff, and reluctantly he set her on her feet. For a full minute he kept her there standing on the carpet, her panties halfway down her sock-clad calves, and during the whole of the time he held the skirt of her gym-slip high up at the back with his right hand to display her stinging bottom, making her look back over her shoulder so that he could watch her tear-stained face as he lectured her.

'I hope you aren't going to be naughty again Susan, or I might have to give you another dose of the strap you know – now run along my dear, get dressed now, and may I suggest a warm bath and an early night in bed before your mother returns home.'

As Susan bent to pull up her knickers she felt a last little stingy slap across her tempting bum.

A girl and her governess

Unfortunately, I do not know precisely, from what magazine this story. It seems to me that it was old Janus

A girl and her governess

She was sitting on the beach, a tall slender girl with a graceful figure, wearing a light-red bikini. She wanted to be alone, but she was constantly aware of how people around her looked at her. She tried her best to turn her head away as she didn't wish to meet their staring eyes. She was leaning backwards on her arms with her palms down in the sand, stretching her long legs in front of her. Every now and then she looked up in the sky where there were few clouds and occasionally a passenger plane passing by.

Seventeen-year-old Stella had decided to spend as much as possible of this day by the lake. She wanted to because the next day and perhaps for a few following days it would be a little awkward for her to come down to the beach at all. No girl at her age would like to wear a bikini and stroll around on the beach among lots of people if she were in the same predicament.

The thought stayed in her head, and suddenly she felt a strange sensation and a tingling feeling between her thighs which made her involuntarily press her slim thighs together. She imagined how exciting it would be if she walked around down here on the beach in her brief shorts or in her bikini tomorrow. How they would be staring at her.

This afternoon, her governess – as mother liked to call her, or Miss Hilton, as daddy addressed her, had taken the car to a shop in Portsmouth. There she was going to buy something she had been talking about for the last three days. It was something, she had told Stella, which would be very useful in the upbringing of teenaged girls.

When she returned she would be waiting in the little cottage Stella's parents had rented for the summer before they went on their trip abroad. At half-past-four she would have tea ready for them and after Stella had washed the dishes, Miss Hilton had said she intended to let Stella make her first acquaintance with a new implement she had acquired.

Stella's first acquaintance? That was what she had said. But what would it be? Stella shuddered in the warm sun as she thought about it.

Her parents were rather strict. Not so much her daddy. But her stepmother, who had married daddy a little more than nine years ago. She tried her best to keep Stella in line. And the girls' school where they had placed Stella a couple of years ago was also a very strict one. Too strict as far as Stella was concerned. It was the bad results Stella had had at school which had led to her parents advertising for a governess during summer.

There had been surprisingly many applicants to the post as governess for two months, or eventually longer, who were willing to live with a teenaged girl in a rented cottage nearby Portsmouth. The salary promised was good and they were to have dinner at the hotel in order to diminish the household work and there would, of course, be a woman who would help with the cleaning once a week.

A few of the applicants had been called for an interview. One of them left at once when she heard that she was to have a girl who was aged seventeen. Another was too old to her step-mother's liking. Then there had been Miss Hilton, who was only 22. Stella's parents liked her and Stella found her nice-looking and so close to her own age so she voted for her too.

It was rather embarrassing for Stella, when her step-mother, at a second meeting with Miss Hilton, talked with her about the general behaviour of teenagers and Stella's in particular. She called Stella a tomboy and said she needed somebody who could teach her how to behave properly.

"Since you, Miss Hilton, are rather young I can't be sure if you would be able to handle Stella if a situation arose where there would be a need for sterner measures."

Miss Hilton smiled and looked at Stella, who was listening to their conversation. Then she told her about herself and that she had been brought up rather strictly. She was twenty-years-old when she moved from home to be a teacher at a girls' school on the east coast.

At that time it was less than a year since she had got her last chastisement from her mother. In her work she had had to slipper a few girls, but they had of course been younger than Stella. As she really was in need for work to support herself, she felt confident that she would be capable to handle a seventeen-year-old, as the girl would be her only responsibility. In her class there had been 29 pupils. From her home she really had learnt from her mother what was to the most good for unruly teen-aged girls. Stella knew what elders meant when they talked about "what would be good for teenagers". All grown-ups seemed with those words to be referring to the same thing. It had to do with attending to a certain part of a girl's anatomy.

Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted. Two rather pleasant-looking boys with short-cut brown hair stopped almost right in front of her. She felt their eyes looking her over. They stared openly at her trim well-rounded but rather small breasts and her sun-tanned long tapering thighs.

Stella tried to ignore them as she didn't wish them to start a conversation. She inclined her head backwards and shut her eyes, feeling the sun burning in her face.

As she didn't look up, the boys soon splashed away further along the beach in feet-deep water. Stella drew in her breath, and her young apple-formed breasts heaved, pushing out and up, tautening the thin top of her bikini in a way the boys certainly would have liked to have watched. But they had already found a couple of other girls with which they now were fully occupied, trying out their whole register of boyish charm.

Stella wrinkled her nose and looked out over the lake. She saw people of all ages enjoying the water and the warm sunshine.

Stella had bathed enough for today. She became aware of how her watch ticked away. Soon she would have to collect her things and return to the cosy little cottage where she lived with Miss Hilton. She had promised to be back at half-past-four. Her governess expected punctuality, a fact which Stella had been reminded of at several occasions these last days. And Miss Hilton had said that she would have tea ready for them when Stella was back. And after tea... Stella shivered as if she suddenly felt cold. She remembered Miss Hilton's words.

"When you have washed up the dishes after tea I want to see you in our living-room. We will have a couple of hours then before we have to go to the hotel for dinner. It is time for you to learn the error of your ways and decide to try harder to behave more like a grown-up. You know what your parents told me about you. And I want to show you that I fully agree with them!'

At that time, before Miss Hilton left the house in the car and Stella went down to the beach, Stella had been standing in their little living-room red all over her face, and felt both excited and embarrassed at the same time.

Miss Hilton. Stella had to call her so. Her governess was not much older than she. Only 22-years-old and Stella was seventeen. She felt is strange to listen to a girl not more than five years older talking to her in that way and at the same time be aware of what she really meant.

Stella's parents had promised Miss Hilton that she would have their full support in everything she deemed necessary to do in her efforts to take good care of their daughter.

She had better be home in time, Stella thought. She started to pick up all the things she had scattered around her. She brushed the sand off her feet and legs and raised, taking her bag, and leisurely she walked up the huts to change clothes.

At twenty minutes past four she was home. Miss Hilton smiled when she came into the little kitchen where the table was laid for tea. Stella sat down and Miss Hilton poured her a cup and talked about the nice weather they had and how much traffic there had been on the road to Portsmouth. She had come back earlier than she had counted on so she had helped Stella with ironing a couple of her blouses and a skirt. Now she wanted Stella to wear them instead of the gingham summer dress she had on.

Stella went obediently to change her clothes. As she shut the door she looked at the garments which were laid out on her bed. She flushed as she saw them. Her stepmother must have put them in her luggage. It was the things mother wanted her to wear at home during the evenings and week-ends. They were very childish. Mummy wanted her to look younger than she was.

"As long as she behaves as a tomboy she must be dressed as one," her stepmother had explained to her father.

He had just grunted and nodded as he told them that he thought Stella looked lovely.

The real reason was that her stepmother didn't like people to think that she was old enough to have a daughter who was seventeen-years-old. She would have preferred having Stella look like an eight-year-old child. But as she couldn't, she tried to dress Stella to be somewhere in her lower teens instead of in her upper. Some of her mummy's friends really thought Stella was around thirteen or fourteen-years-old instead of her seventeen.

Stella was a little more than medium-height, with narrow hips and a very slim waist. She had girlishly long legs and felt proud of them. Her hair was light-brown, curling round a delicate face with big eyes and almost unusually long lashes. All that made it difficult to make the girl look younger than she was. But with this kind of dress Stella's stepmother found that the girl often seemed to convince people that she was the age she was dressed to look.

The skirt on the bed was light-blue and much too brief. It left more than half of her slender thighs bare. The blouses were two. One white and one light-yellow and both buttoned up to the neck. Stella knew how these blouses stretched across her small breasts, particularly when she felt excited and her breasts pouted out and became firm and she felt that nice tingling round her tits.

There was a tie to match and white knee-length socks and the dark-blue shoes her mother had bought as she couldn't find light-blue ones in the shops where she asked for them.

Reluctantly Stella changed her clothes. There was a package with a set of underclothes which Miss Hilton must have bought for her. They were in soft nylon and light-pink. Stella liked the look of them. They felt smooth and tightfitting against her skin.

"Ready soon," Miss Hilton's voice called through the door. "I'm waiting for you in the living-room. It is ten to five."

"Yes, Miss," answered Stella meekly but loud enough to be heard without opening the door.

Quickly Stella put on her low-heeled shoes and then rose and went to the large mirror on the door to her wardrobe. She looked at herself in the mirror with a defiant expression in her face. She saw a tall long-legged girl dressed like a little schoolgirl. Her brief pleated skirt didn't cover much of her long sun-tanned thighs, and the blouse – the light-yellow one – stretched tight across her now firm and tingling breasts. She felt strangely excited as she looked at herself dressed like this. It would be the first time Miss Hilton saw her as her mother liked to have her dressed since she first had started to buy these kind of clothes for her about two years ago.

Since then she often had to show herself like this to her stepmother and her friends in their home in Wimbledon. And also at some other occasions, when her mummy had something quite else in mind when Stella had been a naughty girl.

Slowly and a little embarrassed she went into the living-room. Miss Hilton was standing at the larger of the two windows through which the sun still was shining brightly.

"There you are, Stella," she exclaimed as she looked at her seventeen-year-young protegee. "You really look just charming, dressed like that. They will certainly like to look at you at the hotel tonight."

Stella winced and her cheeks flushed.

"Oh no, Miss. Not there. Not like this. I'll be so ashamed. Don't have me go there in these clothes, Miss."

"Why not, Stella? You must of course have nylon stockings on as it is evening instead of these childish knee-socks. But I can assure you that everyone will think you are one of the prettiest girls they have ever seen."

Then her voice got sharper.

"You must remember not to talk back. Little girls who talk back must get spanked you know. You will have to learn to be more obedient just as a child should be. And you now really look like a little child, my dear."

Stella bent her head and pursed her lips as she didn't want Miss Hilton to get more angry than she already had been a few days.

"Now let me show you what I have bought just for you today, my sweet little girl. I suppose you liked your new underclothes and you have them on. But here I have something else. I think you know what it is? Perhaps your parents have one at home."

She produced a length of yellow rattan bent like a walking-stick at one end. She swished it through the air a couple of times. The sound it made sent a shiver through Stella's slim body.

"Yes," she whispered reluctantly. "Mummy has one. It's a cane, Miss."

"Good," smiled Miss Hilton. "I'll let you have this one today. It is just so springy and so thin as I like canes to be."

She put it back among the brown papers on the settee and held up a strap of brown polished leather with two tails. As she let is swing up and down, she asked Stella if her mother also had one like that.

"Yes, mummy has a tawse. It is just like that one," Stella panted.

"Very good. We will see if you will have to feel it where it does you the most good some other time. Here I have something else. The lady in the shop told me it is very useful for wilful young girls in their upper teens.''

Miss Hilton held it up and Stella looked at it with her eyes wide open. It was something she had never seen before.

"It comes from France," Miss Hilton explained calmly. From the hands here are five of these rounded straps. "They are genuine leather. She told me it was a very common implement used when girls in France are disobedient. Even if you only get five whacks with it you will have twenty-five stripes across your bottom. I was told, it always should be used on the bare bottom. It can be used for milder punishments instead of spanking a girl with the hand, as the lady said to me."

"It looks awful," gasped Stella with a look of respect in her eyes.

"Yes, and I hope I'll not have to use any one of these except the cane you are going to have now. It is up to you. Today I'm going to let you have ten with the cane."

"Oooh nooo, nooo, Miss Hilton. Please. Not ten," Stella pleaded. "It will hurt too much."

Miss Hilton raised one finger warningly and Stella pursed her lips at once. She looked anxiously down holding both hands clasping at her brief childish little skirt, as if she wanted to protect herself. Miss Hilton picked up the slender pliable cane instead. Then she gripped the young defiant girl round her upper arm and led her to the settee.

"I want you to bend over this arm and lie down like an obedient little girl," she said tersely. "You can put your head into the cushion if you want to. You will be free to kick with your legs as much as you like. I think it will be easier for you if you can kick and scream, when I use the cane as it has to be used to a naughty girl. Now, Stella, will you obey or must I add a couple of more whacks to your punishment?"

Miss Hilton touched Stella's bare thighs below her brief skirt with the cane as a reminder of what the young girl had coming.

Stella hastened to obey. She bent over and lay down across the arm of the settee. Her tummy and upper parts of her thighs rested against the hard clothed arm and her hands found the cushion. She buried her head in it shivering and breathing hard. Her legs were stretched out downwards with the toes of her shoes resting on the floor.

She really felt anxious now. More anxious than when her stepmother used to chastise her at home. Her governess was so young, not more than a girl a few years older than she was. And yet she seemed to be so strict so she had to be obeyed. And then, Mummy seldom let her have more than six or eight.

Stella held her eyes tightly closed and her face deep down in the cushion. She didn't have to see. She felt everything that Miss Hilton did. Hands folded up her skirt above her waist. Stella wriggled a little as she felt strangely excited as she knew she was showing Miss Hilton her bare thighs all the way up and her bottom tightly enclosed in her new thin and tightfitting nylon knickers. She trembled all through her body in anticipation as her governess was making her ready to be punished.

"These knickers are really nice," Miss Hilton said as she slapped the girl a couple of times on her nylon-clad behind. "I bought them a little small for you to have them rather tight round your bottom. But I think we will have to get them up a little." Her fingers grasped at the elastic waistband and pulled her knickers up so they were really taut across Stella's bottom. Stella knew that she had almost half of her bottom bare.

"Now, Stella. I told you it would be ten. Prepare yourself. You know this will hurt."

Stella's thin knickers didn't protect her at all. She felt the pain burning across her buttocks as the first whack splatted down and the cane made its first white reddening line in the pale skin inside her knickers where her body hadn't been tanned by the sun. She let out a muffled cry and pressed her thighs tightly together and tensed her bottom hard.

The next whack, about ten seconds later, made its welt a little below the first and Stella cried out again and wriggled her hips in agony. Still lower down she felt the third, burning her skin but now she had been better prepared and she tried not to yelp but she wriggled and kicked scissoring with her legs in the air.

There was a pause and her governess told her not to wriggle too much and Stella just hid her face deep down in the cushion.

Almost half a minute later the cane fell across the middle of her bottom-cheeks and Stella only gasped though the cane still hurt just as much as before. Number five swished across her thighs and this time she cried out in a shrill voice.

"No, please nooo, Miss. Not there. Not on my thighs. I don't want marks there. Please," she snivelled pleadingly.

As the cane continued to fall Stella cried out loud for each whack she got. Seven and nine both fell across her thighs and the ninth was worse as the cane curled round her right thigh and did hurt more than the others.

After the last one Stella cried and wept still lying bent over the arm of the settee. Miss Hilton put the cane away and stood looking down at the weeping girl's well-rounded knicker-clad bottom. Through the thin nylon she could see the welts the cane had made in her flesh. On the bare parts of her buttocks the welts were like reddish double-lines right across both her trembling cheeks. They were longer on the right side than on the left. And then there was one which seemed to leap round her thigh longer than the rest of them. It had formed an ugly welt on the outside of the thigh. Stella's whole bottom was red and the three stripes below her bottom looked worse than those across the buttocks.

"You can stop crying now, Stella. You have had your punishment. Let us hope it is the only one I need give you. Stand up and you will find you will soon fell better. You can stay in your room if you like. I'll tell you when it is time for dinner at the hotel."

Stella closed the door to her room. She needed to be alone for a while. She tried to dry her wet cheeks with her knuckles and went to stand in front of her mirror. She hoisted her skirt and pulled knickers down to mid-thigh. With her back turned she looked over her shoulder to see her backside in the mirror. Her face formed an agonising grin. She looked at the red welts across her trim little bottom and knew they would last at least a full day or two. She wouldn't even be able to wear shorts as the cane had marked her down across the backs of her thighs. Those marks would show well below the brief shorts she had. She would have to choose slacks or jeans. If she was careful she might have one of her short skirts and try to remember not to bend over but to kneel down instead, if she wanted to pick something up from the floor or the ground.

But Stella knew it could have been worse. Miss Hilton had been rather soft on her. Stella had known occasions when her stepmother had been much stricter. Now not more than ten, fifteen minutes after, it hardly felt at all.

She rested lying on her bed for half an hour or a little more. Then she remembered what her governess had told her about nylon stockings.

She had put on her suspender-belt and her stockings and it was when she should fasten the stocking on the outside of her right thigh. She felt how sore she was where she held her fingers. Of course it had to be right under the strap. She tried to fasten it but just before she went out from her room she unhooked it and let the strap hang inside her little childish skirt.

Miss Hilton smiled at her when she came into the living-room. Stella looked a little demured as she stood by the round table and looked down not really knowing what to say.

Her governess then asked her how she felt and Stella wrinkled her nose a little and, blushing, she told her that she was all right. But she had a mark on her thigh where she was sore and couldn't fasten her suspender-strap across it.

"Yes, I know where it is, Stella," Miss Hilton said. "You wriggled a little too much and I couldn't help that the cane made you sore there. Let me see if I can help you."

Miss Hilton held the girl standing by her chair and lifted her short skirt at the side. She looked at the hanging suspender-strap.

"Oh, you have a nasty mark there, Stella. But you can't have the strap loose. You will have to grit your teeth and hope it will heal soon, I'm afraid."

A few minutes before eight o'clock they went into the dining-room at the hotel. A lot of eyes followed them as they slowly made their way over to their table. Stella was blushing as she knew that they were all looking at her childish dress and particularly at her very brief skirt and her long shapely legs and thighs. She felt embarrassed and at the table she tried desperately to hide her legs under the table-cloth.

Miss Hilton looked at her smiling and told her that she didn't have to be ashamed.

"They just like to look at you. All of them think you are pretty. There is nothing wrong with being a pretty girl, is there? There is nobody who knows that you have marks from my cane on your nice little behind. You only need to sit still and smile. I hope the chair isn't too hard for you to sit on, or is it?"

"Oh no," Stella whispered. "It is quite comfortable. But please don't talk about that. Someone might hear what you say."

"You are right, my child," the governess said in a lower voice. "I'm not going to tell them. I do think you will be a very nice and well-behaved lady soon."

"Yes, miss. I'll do my best," Stella promised. "But please. Can't you let me have my other dress at dinner. It is so embarrassing when they all look at me as they still do."

"In a couple of days, perhaps," her governess answered sounding a little more stern again. "You know, I'll have to see first if you really are trying to behave."

Stella winced a little where she was sitting on her chair and made a grimace.

"Oh no, Stella. That's not what a girl would do if she wants to be treated like a grown-up."

As the waiter appeared at their table and began to serve them, they had dinner quietly and talked only about everyday topics. After a while Stella got used to sitting in the dining-room in her childish dress and almost forgot about the other guests' occasionally staring eyes.

When they left the hotel, there were several of the elderly gentlemen who smiled at them and bowed as they passed, and one held the door open to them and said that as he had seen them at dinner before he hoped that they would come back several times.

"Pretty ladies always make a dining-room less dull than when it is filled only with old people."

* * *

That summer with her governess became a cherished memory for Stella. Still more than ten years later she sometimes liked to remember this particular day. The first day she was punished by her governess and she had to wear her childish dress at the hotel. But she remembered the rest of the summer too. The whole arrangement had really been to her best. Miss Hilton had proved to be an excellent teacher at Stella's school-subjects. The next year Stella had passed her A-level test very much to her parents' surprise. Stella was very thankful to her governess for that.

Miss Hilton had visited their home rather often during a couple of years and been a good friend to the whole family. Stella had never complained about the two months they had spent together in the little cottage where Stella had been kept under strict surveillance by Miss Hilton. Stella had been chastised almost every week at least once by the governess. Miss Hilton had most liked to use the martinet and Stella had been taken over her lap many times. Almost always it had been with her skirt up and knickers down. Afterwards she had to have dinner at the hotel in her childish dress and there they had been very popular among the guests and almost all of them wanted them to sit at their table. Stella also learnt to find it more exciting than embarrassing to have been seen dressed as a very young childish teenager and nobody was ever told that she was seventeen-years-old.