Thursday, 1 April 2010

Miss Nicola Redway, B.Sc. - photo story

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


Miss Nicola Redway, B.Sc.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Are you ready?' he enquires.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Turn around!'

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

'Bend over, Miss Redway.'

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

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

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

'Please don't hurt me!'

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes! Oh, YES!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

'NO!'

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

'I'll be a good girl!'

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


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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHEN will it happen again?

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

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Sisters

The short story from Roue 01, specially conceived as a fragment…

Sisters

...and as I have said before, hospitals aren't very secluded places, and neither are the staff's own rooms particularly private, so carrying on my disciplinary activities is restricted to some extent by the need to keep noise, particularly in the residences, to an absolutely minimum.

My own two rooms are situated at the end of a block, so at least I have only one immediate neighbour to worry about, but I still have to be careful not to draw attention to my 'goings on'. 'Goings on,' by the way, are more prevalent than may be supposed, particularly between the student nurses and those members of staff whose job it is to instruct them, so people tend to turn a blind eye to the odd student who may happen to be seen in the corridors of the senior staffs' residences.

Having to contend with this somewhat limiting situation, I have had to refine my methods accordingly, and surprisingly though it may seem, I have found that caning a girl, though potentially more audible than other methods of punishment, can nevertheless be managed with very little noise, provided the caning is administered in the right way.

The girl having arrived, I take her through to my bedroom, which is furthest from the corridors, draw the curtains and switch on the radio, not so loudly as to draw attention but enough to blend with the sound of the cane as it lands. Something rhythmic is, of course, best.

The girl then undresses, or at least takes off her skirt or jeans if she isn't in uniform, and I have her place herself in an appropriate position either on or across the bed. I find that having her in a kneeling position, while admirable from the accessibility point of view, unfortunately allows of too much movement once the cane starts its work and her bottom tries to wriggle out of the way, so unless I know she is going to be particularly obedient, I prefer to have her on her tummy, and propped up with pillows under her hips. I take her knickers off, rather than simply down, and give her another pillow upon which to rest her head. Not out of consideration, I might say, but simply because if she's going to blubber, I'd rather she had the pillow to cry into and muffle her weeping instead of letting everyone know what a baby she is. I then place a low stool between her out-stretched legs, about as far up as her knees, which will help to remind her to keep her legs apart while I'm dealing with her. I can then begin her caning.

My personal opinion regarding any kind of corporal punishment, is that it is unlikely to be effective unless the girl is sufficiently well whipped as to shed some genuine tears. At the same time, in my particular situation, I can't be too determined when it comes to laying on the cane, because I can't have the girl yelling at the top of her voice after the first couple of strokes. So I have developed a method which, while avoiding dramatic scenes, does achieve the necessary effect all the same.

Having warned the girl of the need for quiet as far as possible, I start to punish her. I never specify the number of strokes, as according to my philosophy it is somewhat irrelevant, the main object being the chastisement of the girl until, by her tears, she places herself in a position of submission to my authority.

I cane lightly at first, with perhaps five seconds between strokes, keeping each stroke across the heavy swell at the base of her buttocks, and in a band some four inches wide. The cane against her bare flesh makes little more than a plopping noise at this stage, and I give her at least a couple of dozen of these fairly light strokes to introduce the sting gradually and evenly. Her bottom slowly turns red across the plump, receptive part of the cheeks, and then, little by little, I increase the weight of the strokes until I see the beginnings of the reaction I'm looking for. This is usually a series of quick little jerks or jolts of the cheeks as the cane lands, or it may be a slowly increasing wriggle of her hips as she lies across the bed.

Having found this point, I then know that the sting is beginning to take hold, and I keep the strokes at roughly the same weight for perhaps two or three dozen more. Faint lines begin to appear across the reddening cheeks, and pretty soon she'll begin to give little gasps and occasional 'Ooooh's' and 'Ahh's' in time with the wriggling of her bottom.

I then caution her again, reminding her that I will not tolerate any unnecessary noise, and then gradually increase the strength of the strokes and slow down the rhythm, so that I reach a point where, though not yet actually crying, she is all the same quite near to tears, and her bottom is beginning to twitch with anticipation and snatch away from the cane each time it lands squarely across her sore buttocks.

This point in the caning is, of course, the most delightful and is the crucial stage of the punishment. Two or three good hard whacks would immediately precipitate the onset of tears, and would have her yelling lustily, and yet, by judging the power of the strokes, and slowing down here and there to give her a chance to regain her breath, this exquisite balance can be maintained for minutes on end, with her bottom squirming around and perhaps even trembling, and her gasped protests becoming ever more poignant, until, slowly and inevitably her quiet sobs turn to tears, and she'll have let go the last vestiges of her dignity and self-control.

This is not the point at which you should stop, but neither should you take unfair advantage of the situation. Having reached this stage she has utterly submitted herself to you. How you deal with her from here on will have a lasting effect on her respect for you and your authority.

For myself, having induced her tears, I would remind her of the reasons why she is being punished, and then, without any increase in the severity, I would give her about another dozen, in the same way as before, and would judge precisely when to stop by the effect it has on her. The last dozen or so would be slow and methodical, waiting for her bottom to stop its more energetic wriggles before each stroke, not speaking to her and not responding to any pleas or promises.

The climatic signs will be obvious as she nears the point of losing control, and when you judge the moment to be right, the punishment should end.

So much for caning and keeping it quite. Another interesting way I have of disciplining the girls is...

All Things Nice

Story from Schoolgirl Spanking Vol.1 Issue 1.

All Things Nice
by Claire Short

Every woman has a Summer: a period when the sun shines every day, all the songs in the charts seem to have been written especially for her and she knows for the first time the magic and power she possesses simply because she is alive and female.

Sonia recently had her Summer. She shared it with Lorraine and Annette at their exclusive South-coast boarding school.

Once their sixteenth birthdays were reached, they launched themselves on a wild exploration of the opportunities suddenly presented.

Lorraine quickly developed a taste for men from the lower strata of society. She craved the touch of calloused hands, rippled with pleasure at the sound of dropped consonants and elongated vowels and an illegal occupation made her drool. Had she been less sophisticated, all kinds of unflattering epithets would have been hurled at this girl and her natural curiosity would have been open to abuse. As it was, she was treated with respect because of her unadulterated Anglo-Saxon colouring and her precise speech. She was a toff and they were rough trade and both parties loved the arrangement.

Annette was less free with her favours, preferring the gentle gradual flowering of intimacy with the ex-military gentleman who ran the town's exclusive second-hand bookstore. He boasted that he could procure any volume a client might require and over the years this had built into steady demand for some rather esoteric adult literature. When the shades were drawn at the end of the day's trading, Annette's thighs opened for him, her unashamed lust begging to be satiated with the gift of his experience.

And Sonia? Sonia roamed the back streets of the sleepy town, noticing the sleazier activities of its residents and visitors. She watched men dialling numbers left in 'phone booths; she stationed herself opposite doorways belonging to "Monique, Model, First Floor" and she tailed newly-formed couples making their way to rooms rented by the hour with unwashed sheets on the waiting beds.

One day she was approached by a foreign executive who demonstrated the reclining leather upholstery of his hired car in a deserted country lane. The encounter was lucrative rather than satisfactory, but it proved as addictive as any of the snorting, shooting or smoking activities they had been warned about at school.

Three girls taking their different routes into womanhood, united by season. A disused outbuilding was made into a den furnished with oddments from their dormitory. They lazed on cushions and pillows, using the one upright chair as a table for their cans of drink and the radio permanently tuned to the local pop station. It was cosy and the atmosphere lent itself to intimate confessions. Girls who grew up together have few secrets and even fewer inhibitions and their anecdotes led on more than one occasion to re-enactments of the tricks their lovers had taught them.

Of course, it could only be a matter of time before they were discovered.

* * *

Alison Gray was just completing her probationary year as a teacher of History and Computer Science and needed somewhere quiet to write her end of term reports. She didn't know about the outbuildings, but once she spotted it on the other side of the copse, she went to investigate and a broken window gave her a clear view of her pupils.

To say she was shocked would not be wholly accurate. Being only in her early twenties and having attended a similar school herself just a few years previously, she knew what went on. She realised, though, that her status as a teacher meant she had to deal with the situation responsibly.

The girls were completely caught up in their tales, overlapping and interrupting one another as they demonstrated the way a garment had been removed or a limb caressed. Girls growing up in close proximity are not shy with one another and they eyed and touched one another without embarrassment. Their uniforms were dischevelled and their faces flushed as their descriptions became more graphic.

Sonia lay with her legs spread wide, revealing the lacy tops of her hold-up stockings. Not exactly regulation wear, but not directly forbidden, the shiny black sheaths exactly matched the gossamer lace panties that did, most definitely, contravene the rules. Her tie was askew and the buttons on her crisp cotton shirt were undone to expose the black lacy bra that was in any case clearly visible through the white fabric. Her pleated skirt was rucked around her waist, allowing her hand to slowly caress the small band of exposed flesh between stocking tops and pants. Despite her carefully curled hair and make-up, her eyes and mouth retained the innocence of youth – a heady mixture that ensured her popularity when she went on the prowling trips around town.

Lorraine was propped up with her back to the wall. Her legs and feet were bare and the sleeves of her neat blouse were rolled above her elbows. A natural sun-worshipper, she had taken care to acquire a slow mellow tan that set off her blue eyes and long blonde hair. Her tie was discarded and she had the top few buttons of her blouse open to reveal the start of her pleasing cleavage. The epitome of the English Rose, wholesome and inviting.

And then there was Annette. Slightly plumper than her playmates, less well-formed, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders and her eyes shone with laughter. Her white knee socks were neatly in place and even her black shoes were laced correctly. Of the three, she was the most conventional "Schoolgirl", although the things she was saying scarcely matched her image.

'I just felt there should have been a bit more,' she was complaining. 'I mean, it's good, honestly it is,' (none of them would ever admit to any experience being less than "good" and ideally it should be "incredible" or even "divine") 'but it's like I'm there and it's perfect and intense and it just goes away and then he's looking at me all expectantly and I don't know what to say.' Lorraine cooed sympathetically and they both looked at Sonia for the wisdom her wider experience accorded her.

She paused in her silent self-exploration and rolled languidly on to her tummy. As though seeking to aid her concentration before speaking, she licked slowly along Annette's upper leg, her tongue gently probing at the fleecy fabric of the traditional navy knickers.

'I don't think men realise what it's like for girls. They mistake the beginning for the whole thing,' she opined sagely, using a finger to pull aside the soft material and gently massage the moist fleshy folds beneath. Annette moaned deliriously and they all recognised the beginning of her pleasure. She lay back and reached up to squeeze Lorraine's neat breasts, gradually manipulating the buttons of her blouse and releasing the clasp at the front of her sensible white brassiere. Lorraine bent forward, letting the nipples tease Annette's pouting lips.

None of them heard the approach of Alison Gray; Miss Gray who taught them History and Computer Studies and belonged to the world of over-the-hill adults. With their eyes closed in private passions, they did not see her coming closer, her face a mixture of surprise, intrigue and worry, unsure of how to act. If she went for support, the girls would possibly be gone by the time she returned. If she confronted them, they might become abusive (and they did, after all, outnumber her). She gazed down at the orgy in progress, trying to decide what to do.

Annette's white socks settled on to Sonia's shoulders as her lover knelt and performed her ministrations with pleasure and without haste, Lorraine was fingering herself in time with the licking and sucking bestowed upon the pale nipples by Annette. Sonia's bottom was high in the air as she bent to her task, her rumpled skirt forming a dark halo around her nether regions.

Silently, Alison Gray removed the soft leather pump from her right foot and brought its sole down sharply on the lace-bedecked posterior. There was no immediate response from her victim, so she swung her arm in a wide arc and delivered a second blow, lower this time, on the naked skin above the stocking top of Sonia's left leg.

Sonia had absorbed the impact of the first slap before she realised that it was nothing to do with the current activity. By the time she had been struck again she was aware of somebody else being with the group who shouldn't be there. Her right thigh had been assaulted before she could disengage her mouth from its loving labours and respond.

Three voices were raised in simultaneous protest; Alison Gray began a tirade about loose morals and indecent behaviour; Sonia protested at the physical assault being meted out to her body and Annette howled with rage as Sonia's attentions suddenly ceased. Before Lorraine could add her own complaint she looked up and saw the pretty young teacher scowling down at them.

'Stand up all of you,' she raged. 'What do you think you are doing? I'm taking you directly to Dr Winters office.' Suddenly she felt unable to deal with the situation herself and it seemed sufficiently grave to warrant the intervention of the Head. Annette and Lorraine were dumbstruck, but desperation made Sonia bold and she stepped forward to face the teacher.

'Please don't report us, Miss Gray,' she begged. 'We'll be expelled and we're all planning to stay on next year. It would ruin everything. It was just fun, it won't happen again. We're sorry.' The strong light from the doorway behind the teacher made it difficult to read the expression on her face. 'Look, we'll do anything you say. Detentions, lines, wash your car...'

'Quiet!' Alison Gray barked. She wanted time to think. She was reluctant to go to the Head if for no other reason than that she was embarrassed to think of having to describe what she had witnessed. On the other hand, she couldn't let the girls get away with it. She looked steadily at each of them speaking slowly and deliberately.

'Right, I'm sure you realise how silly you have been. But you must also see that I cannot simply ignore what I saw. You deserve a harsh punishment, but I can see that expulsion – which would be the only option open to Dr Winters – could ruin your education careers.' She paused. 'The only alternative I am prepared to entertain is that I deal with you myself here and now and we say nothing more about it. There will be no negotiations, you will accept my punishment and today's activities will never be repeated.'

Sonia, Lorraine and Annette looked at each other, silently acknowledging that they had no choice and mumbled their assent.

'Wait here,' they were told and none of them even considered disobeying.

When Alison Gray returned she was carrying a bundle of long supple twigs gathered from the ground. She used the band that held her hair in place to tie them together and brandished the rude implement in front of the girls.

'You will each receive six strokes from this birch. It will be exceedingly painful and you will be marked for several days. This is your last chance to refuse this punishment and the alternative is an immediate interview with the Head – and you know what she will do.'

'I'll take your punishment,' Annette volunteered. She stepped forward and followed Miss Gray's instructions to bend over the chair back and rest her arms on the seat. She tucked her skirt into its waistband and waited with her legs straight and her buttocks thrust jauntily out.

The first blow landed on the thick fabric of her knickers, but even so its impact drew a long gasp of shock from her. The second one landed lower, partly grazing the naked flesh of her thighs and this time she uttered a deep throaty growl.

The third one cut low on the backs of her legs. Through the sharp pain she realised with horror that there was a good chance its marks would be visible below the hemline and began to sob with shame. Her tears brought a lump of pity to her teacher's throat, but the punishment had to be delivered in full.

A hand tugged at the waist of her sensible briefs, dragging them high and tight into the cleft between her bottom cheeks. Now the trajectory of the birch was foreshortened but its sibilant hiss was as loud as ever and its jagged nips bit into the ample flesh like a score of electric shocks. By now she was sobbing uncontrollably and was oblivious to the attack from the final two blows. Even when it was over, she remained in position until her friends guided her gently to the pile of cushions and helped her lie down on their welcoming softness.

'So, who is to be next?' the teacher asked with convincing sincerity.

'Me.' Lorraine felt she had to volunteer before her courage completely failed her. She could not trust herself to witness the flogging of her other friend and still be able to undergo her own chastisement.

She stepped forward and took up her position over the chairback. Alison Gray raised the uniform skirt and yanked down her prim white panties to her knees. Without prevarication the vicious twigs swept thought the air and bit deeply into the tender skin of the proffered rear.

Annette was too preoccupied with her own wounds to take any interest in her friend's sufferings, but Sonia watched with fascination as the prescribed six strokes were delivered.

Lorraine was determined not to cry out, but silent tears coursed down her pretty cheeks as the wicked wand punished her with merciless efficiency. When it was over she flopped mutely next to Annette, struggling to remain composed as Sonia stepped forward to be dealt with.

The teacher was feeling confident about her actions now. She knew the punishment she was meting out was effective and had no fears that her career would not be endangered by complaints from any of these girls. She ordered Sonia to remove her skirt completely, but to retain the rule-flouting flimsies. Three distinct pink marks were already evident from the spanks she had received from the teacher's shoe and the first swipe from the budded twigs spattered them with mauve flecks. The second brought Sonia to her toes and before she could sink back the third had her slumped over the chair, panting as though she had just completed a 100 metres sprint.

The areas between her briefs and stocking tops was a mass of light red tracery and purple dots and her skin twitched convulsively.

The fourth swipe made her scream aloud, feet drumming on the wooden floor, white knuckles grasping the edge of the seat.

The fifth tore the flimsy fabric of her panties, the rents in the wispy nylon highlighting the red hue they had half-concealed. Sonia's gyrations caused one of her stockings to roll down and by the time the final blow fell, she had lost all vestiges of dignity and howled without restraint.

Alison Gray left, saying nothing.

In their hideaway the three miscreants huddled together like a litter of newborn puppies, gentle fingers trying to sooth the heat from one another's scorched buttocks but only succeeding in exacerbating the pain. They had no energy to talk, but knew they shared common worries of repurcussions. Would Miss Gray really let the matter rest?

Eventually they made themselves as presentable as possible and returned to school. Apart from a few sidelong glances from the History Mistress there were no further references to that fateful day.

And, in time, the memory of the pain faded and blended into other more pleasant recollections of music and sex and new powers that came their way that Summer.

THE END

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Stepping-stones

Story from Blushes Supplement 06.

Stepping-stones

My Dear Clive,

Thank you for your timely and instructive letter which arrived at a most appropriate moment! I agree with you entirely about grading girls and am pleased to learn that under your advice they are introducing the system you suggest at the newly-opened Academy for Young Ladies (delightful title!) which appears to be so conveniently sited for both of us.

The stepping-stones in your letter – if I may call them that – are very well placed. As you say, it does very little good to simply haul a girl over one's lap occasionally and redden up her bottom till she howls. There must be a certain delicatesse about it. On the one hand the pupil (for I believe it is proper to call her such in every respect) should be strictly disciplined, while on the other one does not want to scare her off. There is an element of conditioning in it all that you rightly point to. And, I suppose, in the broadest possible sense we ourselves are subject to it also.

The cruder schools of thought will not agree with this – which is of no matter anyway. They appear to me (and I am sure to your goodself also) to be divided between the outright sadists and those for whom the first gliding-down of a girl's navy blues – if such she is rightly made to wear – represent the short fuse towards a sexual orgy.

One must undoubtedly tread the middle path. 'Softly-softly catchee bottom', you once said to me, but we were both younger then and have learned much since. In particular, I think, we have learned (and I later in practice than you) that a loudly-squalling girl upsets all if she is taken roughly and rudely. 'There is an element of coaxing', you say, and this I wholly agree with. The coaxing, if I may so put it, is the velvet surface of the iron glove. Rough seizing and rough spanking are not at all conducive to the final quiet that should follow disciplinary measures. 'The softly-breathing peace that wafts like dusk between the disciplinary sessions', as you say.

I must say, though, that the first squeaks of surprise they utter are devilishly attractive. I admit that one finds oneself repeating the same words over and over again until they become like a sort of incantation, but then they themselves are the same. Is there a girl who does not squeak, 'Don't! Oh no, don't!' when one first flips up her skirt?

You say that the first spanking should be reasonably hard – authoritative – and I agree entirely with that. I admit to dealing with Suzy thus when I first spanked her some ten days ago. I admit, too, that there was a bit of a wrestling match to begin with. It helped, I believe, that she initially thought that I was being unaccustomedly libertine, for I had occasion to 'talk to her' anyway and had her seated on the sofa beside me – admonishing her, as one used to say. Her skirt being as appropriately short as I like them to be, I stroked her leg above her knee while talking to her.

She appeared not to notice this at first, having her hands clasped together and her head bowed a little. Quite idly, I do assure you. I discovered the top of her stocking with one fingertip whereat she appeared to come to herself and jumped. She then had the impudence (I believe you yourself would call it that) to thrust my hand down, and thereat the vital struggle began.

I recall that you once told me that in the otherwise difficult position when two are sitting together, one must swing one's arm swiftly up over their backs and haul them down without hesitation across one's lap. Well – I must say that good as that advice is it does not help much when a silky nylon blouse is worn! It rucked up under my hand – slid and slithered up. A rather desperate grabbing of my fingers into the evasive material forced it even higher – to her shoulder blades, in fact – whereat, in the act of getting her well over my lap two unbrassiered twin globes exposed themselves all too briefly to my view and then were hid as she hung down.

My dear chap, yes, of course she shrieked out 'No!' – and far too loudly for my liking. Dammit, the lounge windows were both opened at the top and her cry must have floated across the garden. Do they never realise that such invites a first and very hefty smack to quell the noise – or so one hopes!

On that first occasion I failed to peel down her knickers. Too hasty, you would say, but there are circumstances, dear boy, when haste must prevail. Deirdre was due back within the hour and would hardly take well to it to find her favourite niece with her knicks crumpled on the floor. Even so, the view was exquisite! As much as there is to be said for blue serge knickers so there may be also for these translucent panties that girls are nowadays wont to wear. Suzy's lustrous apple gleamed through admirably, allowing me a delightfully close and first acquaintance with that tightly inrolling cleft of hers. Long legs she was for a seventeen-year-old, but then you always said she had.

She was the very devil to hold, I must say, wriggling like a fish across my lap as I gave her precious bulb a second and a third smack which – guardedly – were not quite so hefty as the first. What a sensation it is to bounce one's palm off of such a bottom! – 'No, please – no, please!', she squealed and beat her fists upon the floor, her titties swinging now and then into my view. I said, 'Yes, my girl, you're going to have it' – though with no great originality on my part (whereat you will surely shake your head and say wisely enough, 'It does not really matter'). I added then, 'You WILL he obedient, Suzy', which I suppose comes under the heading of an oblique instruction, for she could take it either as referring to my talk with her or the mostly-accidental movement of my errant hand which had sparked off this particular fire.

I could see her right hand clawing into the rug as I briskly spanked those sweet, resilient cheeks of hers – remarking with approval the tightness of her suspenders as I did so. Her nether cheeks were half exposed, of course, and reddened quickly as my palm swept down. She howled, she pleaded, sobbed and then – to my amazement – suddenly went limp. One leg slipped sideways and she almost fell. That parting of her long slim legs did me no good at all, I must confess!

I told myself, of course, that this was her ploy to escape from further bottom-heating – but I admit that I wasn't sure. She sobbed and mumbled as I hauled her up, balling her squirming bottom down into my lap. I had a feeling that I was intended – consciously or not by her – to ask her if she were 'all right', but I resisted that. I made to let her shoulder fall against my chest. A cuddle afterwards, I thought, but she resisted that, jumped up and ran out of the room, saying I was 'a beast – a rotten beast'.

'Go to your room!', I called up after her. – 'No, shan't! I'm going to have a bath', she yelled back down and sobbed a huge great sob and slammed a door.

Well, old chap, what should I have done? Gone up and given her seconds? Was she ripe for it? On a matter such as this I do need your advice. She swivels quickly past me when we are alone now, hasn't referred to it at all. I felt at first that I had made Grade One, but seemed to have achieved nought but a minus point! Perhaps they could handle her better at the Academy. I believe that I could just wait out a term!

Sincerely,
Mark.

* * *

My Dear Mark,

In truth you have done better than you think, dear boy, and I would point to two things therein – the first being that a screechy and totally resistant girl would never have allowed you for a second to bring her bottom down into your lap where surely there were some stiff signs of eagerness by then? The second, and more subtle, is that 'bathroom cry' of hers. Take heart from that. Females rush to the bath when they're disturbed emotionally. Had she felt deep resentment (as you fear, perhaps) she would have locked herself in her bedroom and even screamed at you that she would tell her aunt.

It seems to me that, quite by accident, you HAVE begun to grade her, actually. It's early days. The next time, though, will count the most. I suggest you tell her that you want to talk to her. You are quite right about 'the words'. They come by rote, but therein offer signals and so have their value. She will almost certainly appear to flare up for a moment and will ask you blankly, 'What?'. Then I suggest you take her hand and lead her to the selfsame sofa where you sat before. Repeat the scene, repeat the scene; they have to get to understand routines, old chap.

Of course she will struggle. I want you to say to her, 'Now, Suzy, only a small one this time'. Yes, of course, you'll get all the cries of dismay, the squeaks, the protests – all of it. Repeat the words, 'A little one' – then spank her briskly. Not too hard at first. A sixer, quick and sharp: attend to both her cheeks. She will be sobbing, 'Let me up!' (or some such thing) but take no notice. Ring her waist and peel those panties down. Show firmness and determination. Keep the words a flowing, though. Yes, cut across her cries and moans, then spank her bared cheeks with a 'middle stroke' that's not too hard, but neither is it light.

A dozen? Yes! You'll be surprised at how they take it when they're tightly held and have their maidenly modesties unveiled. Then, tell her she is to have her bath. Routines – I do repeat – routines! She'll squeal and sob and kick, but carry her bare-bottomed up the stairs, give her a final smack and send her in. Tell her this time to come down afterwards, and say it firmly. Should she cry out rebelliously, do not reply but wait till she comes out (naked as she may be – girls often are) and bear her to her room and make her dress in front of you.

The reverse of what should be? Not quite. She will be so surprised that she'll obey. She has to, anyway, if naked then she is. Don't fondle her or touch her. Merely wait, reminding her to pull her stockings taut. She will be tearful, pouting – all of that. Speak to her firmly: 'Pull your knickers up more' – things like that. 'Now, let me look at you; there's a good girl'. The phrase does wonders, I can tell you that! Take her hand then and lead her out and close the door as if her single bed did not exist. It will be soon enough for both of you if you are patient, Mark, and she will know that too, but will not say.

The next step when she is 'safe' downstairs is to fondle her clothed bottom gently and tell her when you will spank her once again. Yes, difficult maybe, but then you must. I suggest you say it tonelessly – not with a crack of hope to show! She probably will blink and lick her lip. Then say no more about it afterwards, nothing at all. I know the urge is strong, but it is really better thus. To talk about it is to drool – or so they think. A single word or two is quite enough.

You will come then on the next occasion as to whether she must take her knickers off, or you. There are different schools of thought on that. I lean to neither one. Both are 'correct'. A fully-graded girl will always have herself prepared, with clean white socks or stockings taut, a bath beforehand and her knickers tight. The delicious apple must be slowly peeled, dear boy!

I wish you well. From what you say I believe it will be so. You will always have a little fretfulness. They believe it right to show it, I believe. Jackie displays herself to me with the same timidity she always did – the hesitant bending over and the legs together till they're nudged apart.

I will mention, too, that which you may not wish to ask about: to wit, the cane. Obtain a slender one and bend it much both back and forth before you use it. Weals? My goodness, no, I hate the word! There is little need for such to show if it is trimly, crisply used. I suggest you do not show it to her first, but bring it from a place of such concealment as you can once her obedience is such as to make her 'offer up'. By that I mean of course her darling chubby bottom and her knees apart a regulation twelve or eighteen inches at the least.

The first stroke should be laid out about an inch below the centre of the bottom, biting into both her cheeks. Ah yes, she'll squeal all right, but 'shush' her firmly if she does. Position her anew for every stroke, her back well dipped, her apple bulbed. Even if such is not necessary, yes. It helps to bring an interval between the swishing of the cane which – once again – should not be too hard nor too light. Six is enough at first, and then some gentle taps. 'Guide' her to such positions as you wish thereby. The taps are made to teach her to obey, and she will come to know that soon enough.

Keep your word, too, on all you do. A six is six and never is a seven! For her first caning her knickers should be down around her knees. And why? Because she is to pull them up a moment after the last stroke. She will be topless, yes, of course, and must get up and turn round for a moment's comforting, your palms assuaging the deep, quivering heat through that translucent nylon while your lips just momentarily touch hers, or brush the corner of her mouth. Praise her then, praise her. A few words wilt suffice, but say them clear. She will blubber on and let your arms enfold her, I believe. The medium becomes the cane becomes the message, don't you see.

You will want to spend more words on her than I do suggest, but don't. The temptation is to be avoided for good reason. Let her own thoughts do far, far better work than stumbled, over-eager words on your part would. Have her dress quickly, hold her hand and lead her back downstairs. She will be full of wondering – and that is mostly what you want. Her palm will be less hesitant to yours, and moist. A moist palm is the pointer to a nearly-fully-graded girl, the which I hardly need explain to you!

'But wait!', I hear you say. You search for more 'instruction'? Surely not! Take Jackie, now. I hear her upstairs in the bath. Occasionally she hums, then stops, remembering it is Friday night. She takes her time. I do not mind. In half an hour she will trip (clothes clutched in front of her) into her room and there begin to get into her uniform. It fits now where it touches, as they say, but still she looks the more appealing for it thus, the skirt too tight by now around her waist, the hem that barely reaches to her stocking tops. The buttons of her old, worn blouse will pop the moment that she kneels up on the bed: a cheekiness of nipples in the dusk, thrust forward slowly by the milky gourds from which the blouse will peel reluctantly. Their weightiness will come into my palm a little later on, but Jenny needs the cane at first, and knows she does. Silence is golden. You may find that, too – save for the hissing of the cane, of course, the broken cries, the moans – all that precedes the final crumpling of the sheets, the last moist kisses of obedience, the final pumpings of the hips (her upper lip curled back beneath my own).

I will leave her afterwards, half sleepy, wriggling still, fulfilled. Grade Three, dear boy – I trust you reach it soon!

Sincerely,
Clive.

Bottoms Up

Story from Color Climax 77.

This choice can seem strange because, first, Color Climax – magazine not from Britain, and secondly, this magazine does not concern a category ' Spanking Mags'. It is a classical Danish porn magazine. But it seemed to me interesting that in one of numbers I have suddenly found out the story which can be carried to spanking stories – so I was not kept and I spread it in a blog.

Bottoms Up
by Adrian Johnson

Mr Madsen, the draper, was sitting in his tiny office at the back of his shop, gazing through the peephole at the well-made young sales assistant who was just new dressing the shop window. He watched her graceful movements with obvious displeasure, and his podgy little fingers stroked the stubbles on his chin.

Finally he got up, opening the door. "Ah, Miss Hansen," he called, "could you spare me a moment."

Lone Hansen let the fabric fall down on the counter with an annoyed movement. Damn, she thought, what does the old duffer want now? Her thoughts moved in a more than usual disrespectful direction because it was nearly time to knock off and she had made a date shortly after. No doubt the old fool wanted her to work over time.

Sulking demonstratively she walked over to the boss, her seventeen-year-old back radiating defiance and her long shapely legs swishing provocatively.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the other apprentice and the sales assistant putting their coats on and walking out of the door, into freedom... The boss had seated himself behind the desk, pretending to look through some papers. He did not look up at her.

She got impatient. "Well, what was it?" He leaned back in his chair, his tiny eyes staring directly into hers and he slowly snapped his fingers. "Well," he said slowly, pushing the tips of his fingers against each other with a sanctimonious look, "I regret very much that I have to say this, but..." He paused and his eyes took her in, hard and questioningly.

Lone leaned against the door frame, one hand on her hips, and her mini skirt seemed to slide a little further up while the muscles of her thighs tensed. Her boss did not miss the extra flesh that suddenly got exposed, and his eyes rested on the smooth thighs a little longer than necessary. Without thinking about it he stuck out his tongue and licked his lips.

Somehow Lone felt as if she had won a victory over the fat ugly little man who might be her boss but who certainly was not immune to her attractions. She further accentuated her pose by turning her hips a little more and her eyes looked straight into his.

"OK, what is it?" she said with a voice which clearly expressed her impudence and arrogance. Mr Madsen was obviously trying to pull himself together, and without looking straight at her he quickly said, "The other day, Miss Hansen, I saw one of your friends meeting you here after work. She was wearing a dress which I thought I recognised as one of our models." He made a pause and tried to look at her. Lone did not answer but looked straight ahead, and her look grew less arrogant.

"Afterwards I went over the stock," the boss went on, "and that particular model gown was not there." His voice had an edge to it now, and his awkwardness had disappeared. "You're a thief, Miss Hansen," he said abruptly. Lone gave a start. "How are you going to explain that precisely your friend came into the shop in a model gown which is only sold in my shop, and which has not been sold?" Madsen raised his voice and went on. "Why don't you answer, the rest of the staff do not know anything about the gown, so it must be you who sold it!"

Lone was still silent. But slowly a deep flush covered her face. Hell and damnation, she thought, what do I so now?

How was she to explain to the old duffer that her wages were not nearly enough for all the things she wanted. And that the theft of the gown had been an impulsive, desperate act to get out of an acute financial difficulty. And that Bitten had been more than willing to buy the gown. She was seething with rage at Bitten who had been so daft as to walk into the shop in the stolen gown. And even more she damned the boss and his fat little cheeks and his sneaking eyes and his podgy little fingers that sometimes pinched her bottom slightly when he was in a friendly mood. Damn it all... The tears came into her eyes, not in remorse, more in a sort of childish vexation at being found out... And to deny it would be hopeless.

She looked openly at her boss but he misinterpreted her tears and thought he had defeated her. He suddenly became almost paternal and kind. "Of course you understand," he said, "that..."

"I'll pay it next week," she blurted out.

He gave her a long look and suddenly all his kindness vanished from his eyes. Was she tougher than he had thought, was there no remorse behind the tears, was she after all the damned bitch she looked like when she had leaned against the door frame and nearly had made him come in his pants.

"Pay," he almost sneered, "do you think you can be let off a theft just by paying. Do you think you can get off free by offering to pay the next time, too, or what, Miss Hansen? No, I am afraid I shall have to turn you over to the police..."

He looked at her to see the effect of his words. Lone looked down. If the police was informed about this she might be sentenced to prison, she thought, and in any case her parents were bound to know. She trembled at the thought of her father's reaction. He'd be furious, bawl at her, and perhaps beat her up. Just as he did the other day when he had surprised her and Orla in her room. Her father had entered exactly at the moment when Orla had been putting his dick into her hole. The old man had gone completely berserk and had slapped Orla's face, too.

Mr Madsen followed his victory up. "Perhaps you'll be sent to a detention centre... perhaps this is not the first time you have stolen, I am sure we can look forward to a lot of interesting stories."

Lone was utterly dejected. "Won't you please let me off, I'll never do it again." Her voice was faint and her shoulders drooped. "Please don't hand me over to the police, dear Mr Madsen..."

"Well..." Madsen enjoyed his role as judge, his short body seemed to grow in the chair. "I really don't know what else I should do, had you been my own daughter I would have preferred to settle the matter with a spanking, but this seems to be out of the question." He shook his head regretfully. Now he could watch the girl freely, her impudence having vanished instantaneously. She was a lovely piece and in spite of her seventeen years she could boast some highly grown-up curves: her taut arse stretched the short mini skirt to bursting point and her breasts looked firm and large. He loosened his collar and untold possibilities rushed through his brains. This could be it, the possibility of laying his hands on some tender flesh, and not just pinching a fat little arse. His mouth dried up at the thought... and if he played his cards properly this would not be the only time. She was completely in his power. "You must understand," he said, "that I have to do something, I can't just for..."

"You may smack my bottom, if you want to!" Lone was hardly able to get it out, her eyes were still glued to the floor and she had to swallow hard. "As long as you undertake not to tell anybody..." Madsen rubbed his hands underneath the desk in an ecstasy of lust. "Do you realize what you are saying," he asked. Lone nodded and looked at him for a moment. Saw his round face with the flushed cheeks and the greedy eyes. She began to suspect something... would he stop at smacking her?

Madsen took a sheet of paper from one of the drawers. "I'll just draw up a statement that you are doing this voluntarily," he said, "and I must ask you to sign it. We might also find a solution as to the price of the gown," he added, "you must bear in mind that I have lost money on it."

He placed the statement on the table and handed her a ball point. She slowly came closer, then bent over the desk, hesitating to sign.

Madsen leaned back, watching her closely. Not a single curve escaped his eyes and as she bent he had a tantalising glimpse of black panties underneath her skirt. Her face was streaked with tears and her usual pout had tensed into two tight lips. When she raised herself after signing the document, she was humble and fearful, and her lips quivered when he locked the statement up in one of his drawers. He gave her a smile and said, "Well now, Miss Hansen, I hope you won't regret that you have signed. Besides, a smacking won't harm anybody, and perhaps you should have had more. Who knows, some day you may be grateful to me!" He laughed an oddly sneering laugh.

Lone took a step back when his fat hands reached out for her hips. "Come on, little lady," Madsen said, "let's get it over." He wheeled his chair back, pushing his arse forward to make room for her across his knees. He patted his thigh, "Come on," he said with shining eyes.

Lone shivered. She stepped forward hesitatingly. Looking at his bulging thighs she was filled with loathing. She almost screamed and nearly rushed out of the door. Madsen seemed to sense her feelings. He reached out and clutched her arm firmly. "You are not going to make trouble, are you!" he said madly, "Get your knickers off!'' He released her arm and she remained dull and motionless in front of him. "Please, not on my bare bottom, please, please..." Lone sobbed and her body shook violently.

"Will you get started, you bloody bitch," Madsen bellowed. His rage was deliberate. He was going to bully this saucy tart into doing every thing he told her. He did not give a hoot for the gown and the money he had lost. But he was going to teach that impudent little hussy that he would not tolerate her slighting looks and remarks any longer. His manhood would soon make her cry with pain.

Lone began to pull down her knickers. She felt her boss's greedy eyes burning into her flesh. The black, gossamery knickers were now below the edge of her skirt.

"Please, won't you let me off?" Lone pleaded as if it were her life. But the fat little man was immovable.

Lone gave up and with a deep sigh she let her knickers flutter on the floor. A helpless tool in his hands she stepped up to him. Her hands were hanging down passively and her face was devoid of emotion. Madsen's, on the other hand, was flushed a deep crimson, his expectations were soaring higher and higher, his fingers were restless and his cock seemed to be ready to burst through his trousers. He exulted at her submission and her fear, not for one second did he realize that he might be doing another human being irreparable harm. Or perhaps he enjoyed the thought...

He suffered from a disease common to many short men: he loved and feared tall women at the same time, and this one... goddamn her, he would put her in her place.

"All right, across my knees!" he ordered abruptly and hoarsely, pinching her thigh. "Ah, those lovely legs," he said, "get down before I begin to use other methods."

Filled with loathing Lone lay down across her boss's knees, closing her eyes when she felt his stiff cock pushing against her belly. He smelled, of sweat and urine.

With happy eyes Madsen watched the incredibly delectable arse that pushed against the skirt. Although her charms were still covered up, he sensed her deep cleft and he could clearly smell the intoxicating scent of young woman. His voice cracked when he told her to pull up her skirt. But Lone was still passive, her eyes were closed and she was on the point of fainting.

"Then I have to do it myself." Madsen slowly removed part of the skirt, exposing the taut white skin. One hand slid across one of her buttocks and he gave a tentative push with one finger up her arsecrease. Lone started and raised her head.

"Don't, please don't," she said.

Now she became aware of her uncomfortable position, her head almost touching the floor, and she tried to get up but Madsen shoved her back. "Here we go," he said. He raised his right hand, hesitating just a few seconds before he hit the buttocks with a stinging slap. He could clearly see the marks of his five fingers on her white skin. Lone gave a painful moan. "Shut up!" Madsen screamed, "I'll teach you to steal from me, I'll teach you to answer back!" He screamed at her defenseless body which only moved whenever his hand hit the rounded buttocks. She sobbed silently, hating this tiny little man who humiliated her in this brutal way. She managed to grasp one of his legs with both her hands and tried to bite him. But a stinging smack made her stop and she reverted to her former passive state.

Madsen was now in a state of euphoria, his hand moved up and down and he called her all the foulest names he could think up.

After a while, however, his arm grew tired, the angry smacks lost their force and his face took on a saner expression. Lone had not moved, she was still lying across his lap like a lifeless doll. He wheezed and puffed. "Well," he said, "have you had enough?"

She seemed to wake up and began to move. Her bottom was burning as if it were on fire, but she did not answer. She could still feel his big tool pushing against her belly. She raised her head and tried to get up. But her boss shoved her down again. "Oh no, we're not finished yet," he said. "What was your age, now? Seventeen, isn't it? I think I'll just check whether you're still a virgin." With one hand he pushed her thighs apart so that her cunt crease appeared. The other hand slid under her and tried to slip into her pussy. Without realizing what she was doing, she raised her belly and thus helped him find her clitoris. The short, fat fingers screwed into the tight little hole and to her surprise Lone felt a sensation not unlike lust...

Madsen reacted violently. "So you've tried it before, you dirty bitch!" A stinging smack made her shift her arse and he tried to get all five fingers round to her cunt.

Lone felt drawn towards the strange blend of pain and beginning pleasure. She wanted more and screwed her cunt against Madsen's hand, while at the same time she tried to avoid his slaps. "Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he screamed. He let go of her cunt, tearing madly at her skirt, ripping the material to pieces. Lone could not control her feelings any longer. The pain from her crimson buttocks mingled with the randiness from her cunt. She almost liked it better than when Orla touched her up, he was far too considerate. She rubbed her belly against Madsen's stiff prick and felt his vehement reaction. He moved his hips to and fro in rhythmical shoves. Then he suddenly stopped and pulled her on her feet in front of him. She had closed her eyes, standing with her legs apart and her cunt gaping randily.

The boss encircled her thighs and hips with his arms, and screwed his mouth into her cunt, his tongue lapping at her slit till she panted with lust. He was no longer a disgusting little man, he was a lover who sent delicious thrills through her body.

Her cunt was soaking wet and she was approaching her climax when Madsen stood up. Leading her across the room, he made her lie down on a couch. As she watched him tearing his cock out of his trousers, she forgot all about his ugliness, she only had eyes for his stiff cock.

He bent over her and she spread her legs in expectation but he roughly pulled her round till she was kneeling on all fours.

He stepped behind her and she felt his hot hands groping on her tender arsecheeks. She whimpered softly when she felt him pulling her buttocks apart and pushing his mouth against her arsehole. Just as his fingers had moved in and out of her cunt, now his tongue penetrated her tiny tight arsehole. He panted but continued to push his tongue into the sensitive orifice. She was surprised and a little nervous... she had never thought of using her arsehole for making love.

Madsen leaned back, pulled the buttocks even further apart and eyed the glistening little hole with glee. "Oh, what a delectable arsehole!" he exclaimed.

Lone was not prepared when she felt the knob of his cock pressing against the rim. "But it's the wrong hole!" she screamed and tried to pull away. But Madsen's fat cock was already buried in her arse. She thought he was splitting her bottom, she opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly the pain changed... His fingers were frigging her cunt feverishly and the feeling of having his balls rubbing against her buttocks made her just as randy as had he stuck the cock up the other hole. Madsen moved faster and faster and his hands tickled her cunt at the same speed. Black spots appeared before her eyes when she felt the orgasm swelling inside her and at the same time she felt her boss emptying his cock in long spurts into her twitching arsehole...

She collapsed on the couch and did not even notice that Madsen withdrew his prick from her.

Half an hour later they were sitting together on the couch. Madsen had found a bottle of sherry, the mood was friendly and Lone had got her saucy look back. "You're a dirty old man," she said, but she said it almost with love in her voice. "And it's very nice of you that I may choose some new clothes instead of those you tore up." Madsen spread his arms, "Just take whatever you fancy, my dear, only tell me when you do." Lone smiled across the brim of the sherry glass. "Cheers," she said, "don't worry, I'll tell you." And her smiling eyes held sweet promises. Madsen could not help patting one of her maltreated buttocks and she moaned a little but added, "I like to get new clothes often!"

Monday, 29 March 2010

Lonely & Far From Home

Story from Februs 36.

Lonely & Far From Home
A Short Story by Colin Weaver

The quarrel seemed to spring up out of nothing. Sharp words passed and then the bosomy Latin beauty slapped the smiling young man's face. He seized her and pulled her face-down across his thighs as he sat down on a handy tree stump. Her straight skirt stretched tight across her opulent rump and his hand smacked down on it six times, with the girl showing no response beyond a startled squeak. Then the scene faded and was replaced by the two of them walking along a woodland path, apparently on the best of terms.

Gina sighed and aimed the remote control; the screen went blank as the video stopped. The rest of the film, a musical comedy made in 1932, was of no interest to her. Should she rewind and watch the spanking again? Gina shook her head. Four times in one afternoon, she decided, was enough. Instead, she lay back in the armchair, closed her eyes, and played the scene through again in her mind, with herself in the girl's place.

It would have been much better, of course, to have had the real thing, to have gone thrillingly, breathlessly across the hard thighs of Jeff, instead of fantasising about an actor who, by this time, was certainly too old lo deliver a good spanking. But even if Jeff had been here it would have been useless to hint at her desires: she had learned that in three years of marriage. Not that Jeff was sexually selfish or, within his own limits, unimaginative, but any suggestion that a spanking would be an exciting change would be greeted with a roar of laughter. 'You don't want to bother with that kinky stuff!' he'd say. There's nothing like a bloody good screw, Gina my love!' – and in fact it was always very good indeed. But Jeff was not here and would not be for another three weeks. When he got back from the oil rig there would be love and laughter and whatever this cold Northern town could offer in the way of riotous celebration. But for the present he was there and she was here, and she was lonely and bored, and there was this irrational craving to have her bottom tanned!

Back home – she still thought of Oxford as home, though God knew when she would go back – she could have gained satisfaction and relief from her secret hoard of CP magazines and videos. But she had scrapped the lot, afraid that they might be discovered during the hasty packing when they had had to move North so abruptly to seize the career opportunity which might never come Jeff's way again. All she had now was the one old film with its brief spanking scene, taped from the TV.

Gina jumped to her feet and started to pace the room, pausing to scowl in self-mockery at the mirror on the wall. The face in the glass grimaced back at her, even wearing that discontented expression it was an extremely attractive face, with it's short, skilfully cut fair hair, well-proportioned features and the dimpled chin which made her look younger than twenty-six.

'You should be ashamed of enjoying such kinky thoughts!' she scolded the reflection. 'What would a psychiatrist say?'

Despite her ill-temper, Gina smiled at the mental picture of herself reclining on a couch while some solemn, bearded figure hovered over her, note-book in hand.

'Tell me, Mrs Morgan, when were you first aware of these desires for – ahem – correction?'

'Well, Doctor, when I was in my teens there was this Youth Leader...'

No! No! No! She could never tell anyone about Marjorie Fenn! It would be betrayal, treason, profaning the memory of a happy, loving though often painful relationship which had lasted until Gina was almost twenty. Gina was not the only one, of course. After the twice-weekly meetings of the Youth Club it might be Caroline who was invited to go home with Mrs Fenn for coffee and a chat. Or Kim or Melanie, Christine or Denise. Gina was never jealous of the others. There was a kind of invisible bond, an unspoken understanding between "Mrs Fenn's girls" although they never discussed their experiences except for careful hints and oblique allusions. They certainly never compared marks!

Gina's turn had come every three or four weeks, and she still remembered vividly the quivering mixture of fear and excitement as she went with the handsome, black-haired widow in her secluded bungalow. There had been coffee, certainly, and relaxed friendly chat, giggling together like schoolgirls despite the twenty year age gap, about the gauche young men of the neighbourhood and their clumsy attempts at romance. Marjorie could give good advice, too, about problems arising in Gina's first office job, or about parents who sometimes seemed unreasonable.

But then Marjorie's tone would become more serious, and Gina would wriggle uneasily on her chair under the older woman's steady gaze.

'Even though you're such a grown-up young lady, Gina, I think you still need to be spanked, don't you?'

Marjorie always said "need", never "deserve". Somehow that made it easier to stammer out, 'Y-yes, Marjorie, I suppose so.'

'Very well, Gina. Come upstairs, please.'

In the bedroom, with its subdued pink lighting, cheerful floral curtains securely drawn, it seemed so natural for Marjorie to sit on the end of the bed and smilingly beckon, for Gina to submissively take her place across Marjorie's lap, her slim young body resting securely on the plump thighs beneath the neat black skirt. Then there had been the uncontrollable fiery blush, the little mewing noises, half protest, half appeal, as Marjorie calmly turned Gina's skirt up waist-high and took her knickers down. The incomparable, unforgettable mixture of shame and fear and excitement as the pretty teenager meekly awaited the spanking which she would never have dreamed of accepting from her parents.

Marjorie's spanking were always extremely thorough, even when she had a girl across her lap for the first time and knew that the pertly rounded teenage buttocks bouncing and burning under her firm hand had never experienced the sting of punishment before. She had once remarked to Gina that the expression, "a playful spanking" was as great an absurdity as to speak of a dry shower or a cool fire. Since Gina had just spent five extremely painful minutes having her bare bottom soundly smacked, and was tearfully pleading with Marjorie not to continue the spanking with a slipper, the comment had been impressed on her memory.

The uncomplaining acceptance of a well-smacked bottom placed a girl on the first level, so to speak, of Mrs Fenn's exclusive little group. After she had taken half a dozen spankings she would be considered ready for promotion to the second level, which meant punishment with a substantial, three-tailed leather tawse. Gina winced and reminiscently caressed her shapely posterior as she recalled those occasions in Marjorie's bedroom, the feeing of the candlewick bedspread under her hands and knees as she knelt there, waiting. Marjorie strapped with a vigour and enthusiasm which would have won warm approval from an old-time Scots schoolmistress. The blubbering young lady who had endured a dozen of the scorching best across her crimson, welted backside invariably vowed, 'Never again! Never, never again!' and yet, only two or three weeks later she would be impatient for Marjorie's next invitation.

For the girl who reached the third level there was the cane, not only across the bottom but upon the sensitive flesh of the thighs, with a spanking before or after the caning. 'How she used to make me howl!' thought Gina, in rueful recollection.

Gina had invariably arrived home late from an evening with Marjorie, but oddly enough her parents never complained. Nor did they comment when her reddened eyes showed that she had been crying or when she obviously found it uncomfortable to sit down. At the time, Gina had thought them unobservant. Now it seemed clear to her that many of the local parents, her own included, knew more about Marjorie Fenn than their daughters suspected. Presumably they were, for their own reasons, grateful to her. At any rate, Mrs Fenn was still a popular and respected Youth Leader without a breath of scandal about her.

Gina shook her head. Memories were all very well but she needed more than that. Was it possible, she wondered, to buy CP magazines here? She had not seen any since she came to Bannerston but there must be a demand for them here as elsewhere. Then Gina remembered a shop on the outskirts of the main shopping area, which she had once entered to buy sweets. There had been a lavish display of top-shelf girly magazines. She had not looked at them closely – there could have been CP mags too.

She reached for her handbag to check that her car keys were there, but then she hesitated. Parking space in the centre of Bannerston was always hard to find during the working day and she couldn't think of anywhere near the shop in Todhunter Road where the car could safety be left. Better to trust to the local bus service.

Half an hour later she stepped off the bus behind the Arndale Centre and made her way down Todhunter Road until she found the shop she remembered. She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and entered. There was only one other customer, an old woman buying a lottery ticket at the counter. Gina walked over to the wall where the magazines were and started to look along the top shelf. She felt half indignant, half amused. She had often been aware of such magazines in one shop or another, but this was the first time she had deliberately paused to inspect them. She had never realised that there could be so many different poses for the display of nineteen year old breasts, bottoms and thighs. Gina was gazing with astonishment and a little undeniable envy at a particularly explicit issue of "Big Tits" when a voice in her ear said, 'Looking for anything special, love?'

She couldn't help jumping and blushing as she looked round into the face of the shop owner, a gaunt young man with prematurely receding hair and two front teeth missing. For the life of her she could not bring herself to ask, 'Have you any spanking magazines?' On the other hand it would be absurd to pretend that she was looking for a copy of Good Housekeeping. She took the first magazine which came to hand without looking at it and said as calmly as she could, 'I'll take this one please.'

The man's scanty eyebrows twitched briefly, but he just said, 'That's five pounds, please. I'll put it in a bag for you, shall I?'

Walking out of the shop, fare burning, Gina felt like the startled person in a National Lottery commercial who finds an enormous finger pointing down from the sky. Common sense told her that passers-by could not be aware what was in the plain brown paper bag but when she came to a small snack bar she was glad to go in and order a cup of coffee to give herself a chance to recover her self-possession. There were no other customers and the girl behind the counter disappeared into an inner room as soon as she had served Gina.

When Gina took the magazine from the bag it was a relief to find there was no lurid picture on the cover. Just 'Contacts! Contacts! Contacts!' in bold black type, plus the month and price. Gina opened it to see what she had wasted her money on. It contained many small advertisements from friendly young ladies who wanted to meet generous, good-natured older men with various forms of entertainment in mind. An editorial note warned primly that entries from ladies seeking financial gain would not be accepted, but Gina was in no doubt that she was holding what she thought of as a tart's shopping catalogue. She shook her head as she looked at the photographs which accompanied many of the adverts. Like many women who occasionally entertain brief fantasies about "going on the game" she had never realised just how low a standard of physical attractiveness was needed to make a living of sorts in that way.

Then Gina realised that some of the women pictured were holding canes or whips. They tended to be more mature than the others, their homely, middle-aged housewife faces sometimes combining oddly with plump bodies squeezed into tight basques and black-stockinged legs poised uneasily on high, stiletto heels. Others were dressed more conventionally: a combination of full-sleeved white blouse with straight black skirt seemed popular. Their advertisements varied in style. Some were commanding: 'Madame Domina orders slaves to report for strict discipline. No wimps tolerated.' Others favoured a milder approach: 'Aunty Rose will teach naughty boys a lesson. Firm but understanding. Special consideration for first-timers.'

Gina found herself blushing again and was grateful that no-one else was there. The idea which had come to her took a little getting used to. The women who advertised were, after all, professionals. So long as they were paid, would it matter to them whether the bottoms they chastised were male or female? And what did they charge anyway? Gina had drawn a hundred pounds from a bankcash dispenser, intending to pay a couple of bills and do some shopping. Surely that would be enough.

Gina knew that if she spent too much time thinking about it she would lose her nerve. Men did this kind of thing all the time, didn't they? All right, she would take a chance too. Passing over both Madame Domina and Aunty Rose, she decided on, 'Sandra. Discipline in all forms, mild to severe. Full equipment available.' Gina made a note of the phone number and rose to leave.

Once outside, she headed for the nearest phone box. With shaking fingers she inserted the money and called the number. The phone at the other end was lifted but nothing was said. 'Hullo? Sandra?' said Gina.

'Yes, I'm Sandra.'

'I – I'd like to pay you a visit,' said Gina.

'Look,' said the wary voice, 'if your man's been to see me, that's something...'

'No, no!' protested Gina. 'It's nothing like that. I just want to come to you as a man would. For – for the same kind of thing. I saw your advert in a contact magazine.'

'Oh! Oh, I see!' The voice sounded faintly amused now. 'You know you have to pay, don't you?'

'How much?'

'I usually charge the men sixty pounds,' said the unseen Sandra. 'I don't know, perhaps you should get a special rate.'

'Sixty will be all right,' said Gina. 'Now, how do I get to you?'

Half an hour later, having followed precise directions, Gina was approaching the front door of a house in one of the older suburbs. She felt very nervous. Suppose the woman tried to blackmail her afterwards?

Or perhaps Sandra had a male protector who might rape and rob her! Gina told herself firmly that Sandra couldn't stay in business if that kind of thing went on. She rang the doorbell.

Sandra had not been one of those who included a photograph in her advertisement. When the door opened, Gina saw a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman wearing black-rimmed glasses and soberly dressed. She looked, thought Gina, a little disappointed, more like a respectable librarian than a tart.

'Come in!' said Sandra, smiling. Gina caught a glimpse of a neat, clean hall with flower pictures on the wall. 'Upstairs, please, and turn right at the top.' Gina followed the instructions and found herself in a conventionally furnished bedroom. The curtains provided privacy but admitted adequate light.

'Well,' said Sandra. 'This makes a nice change from podgy middle-aged men playing at naughty boys. Do you want to tell me your name, dear?'

'I'm Gina.' She laughed, shakily. 'I – I suppose I'm playing at being a naughty girl. Do women come to you?'

'Sometimes,' said Sandra, 'a man and a woman come together, and I punish the woman while the man watches. I always talk to the woman first, thought, and make sure she's here of her own free will and knows what to expect. You're the first one who's come on her own. I should tell you, I usually ask for the money in advance.'

'Oh yes, of course.' Gina handed over the notes.

'Thanks, Gina. Now, what did you have in mind? Shall I just go through the motions to give you a thrill without really hurting you? Or shall it be the real thing? I can be quite strict, if that's what you want.'

Gina licked her lips. Now that the moment of decision had been reached she found herself shaking, but the idea of backing down now was unthinkable.

'The real thing, please, Sandra. I should warn you, I'm not sure if I can keep quiet if it really starts to hurt.'

'Go ahead and yell!' said Sandra, cheerfully. 'The old lady next door is a good friend and she's stone deaf anyway. Hadn't we better agree on a code word, though?'

'I don't understand,' said Gina.

'When I began in this business,' explained Sandra, 'I used to stop whacking a man as soon as he asked me to. They used to be furious, say I shouldn't have taken any notice. Then once or twice I half-killed some poor sod who really did want me to stop! So, now I get them to agree on a special word to use when it's definitely getting too much, instead of 'Please' or 'Stop' or 'Don't!' One of my regulars always says 'Banana!' when he's had enough.'

Gina laughed nervously. 'That sounds like a good idea. But – when I used to be punished, I just had to take what came, there was no way of stopping it. I think I'd rather leave it to you.'

'As you like,' said Sandra, serenely. 'Now, one more thing.' She opened a wardrobe and Gina gulped at the sight of the canes, straps and whips within. 'As you can see, I've a fine assortment of equipment and it's liable to leave some spectacular marks. Could that be a problem for you?'

'There mustn't be any marks three weeks from now.'

Sandra nodded. 'I'll bear that in mind. Well, are you ready?'

'Yes, Sandra.'

'You will call me Miss!' There was no trace of good-nature in the tone now.

'I'm sorry, Miss.'

'You will be! Take off your clothes.'

Gina kicked off her shoes, removed her expensive black jacket and matching trousers, took off her burgundy silk shirt. Timid and hesitant in bra and briefs, she glanced at Sandra.

'That's pricy underwear, Gina. Where did you steal it?'

'But I didn't...'

'Don't you dare argue with me, girl! I told you to strip!'

Naked and shamefaced, Gina watched as Sandra moved to the dressing table and picked up a short leather paddle before sitting on the bed.

'This comes a little later, Gina, after a good hand-spanking. You'll find I can smack a lot harder than Mummy used to do.'

'It wasn't my mother!'

'Don't answer back! And I told you to call me Miss. You are making me very cross indeed, Gina. Come here!'

A few moments later Gina was face down across the older woman's lap. Her position brought back memories of her evenings with Marjorie but the humiliation was worse than anything she remembered. Sandra, she realised, was an expert in making her clients feel guilty, in convincing them they deserved correction. Gina remembered the intimidating contents of the wardrobe and she squirmed unhappily.

'I'll give you something to wriggle for, young lady!' said Sandra, with obvious enjoyment. Gina felt a hard, stinging slap on one cheek of her defenceless bottom, then, a moment later, on the other. 'It's quite a long time since I had a naughty girl to deal with and I'm going to make an extra special effort for you.'

Then the stinging hand descended again and again, settling into a steady, methodical spanking rhythm with extremely painful results for Gina's quivering buttocks. Gina was sure that Marjorie's spankings had never hurt so much, severe though they had seemed at the time. The fact that she had paid to receive such treatment seemed to make it all the harder to bear. As Sandra spanked, she scolded, reprimanded, reproved, not for any specific faults but for Gina's alleged bad character and shameless behaviour. Gina found that she was crying, not just with the pain of her smacked bottom but because of the injustice of being so unfairly lectured. When Sandra realised that Gina was weeping she began to tease her cruelly.

'Oh, poor Gina, have you got a sore botty, then? You shouldn't be such a naughty girl, should you? You needn't think I'm going to let you off because you're a cry-baby! It's time for the paddle now.'

There was a momentary pause, then Gina yelled with shock as tough leather thwacked down on the smarting flesh of her tender bottom. Sandra's hand had stung badly enough but the paddle inflicted a scorching pain which had her howling and wriggling across Sandra's lap in utter indignity, pleading and imploring.

'Your poor bottom does look sore, Gina,' mocked Sandra. 'Shall I smack your legs instead?'

'No, don't!' sobbed Gina. 'Thai's enough! Please Sandra, that's enough!'

'You know I can't take any notice of that,' said Sandra, sternly. 'It's your own fault, you should have agreed on a code word. And you're forgetting to call me Miss, aren't you? Right my girl, it's red-hot smacked legs for you!'

With resounding whacks of the paddle Sandra methodically worked her way down Gina's right thigh from bottom-curve almost to the knee and back again, then punished Gina's left thigh in the same way, ignoring Gina's frantic entreaties. For the rest of the spanking she alternated the paddle-smacks between Gina's roasting bottom and her scorching, scarlet thighs.

'All right, Gina,' she said at last. 'You can get up now – but don't think I've finished with you.'

Weeping bitterly, Gina scrambled to her feet, clasping her tormented buttocks. She could hardly believe that this relentless disciplinarian was the pleasant lady who had greeted her.

'I've got a brand new cane here,' said Sandra, turning to the wardrobe. 'You shall have the full benefit of its first use.'

'Please, Miss,' whimpered Gina, 'I'm so sore already. Do I have to be caned?'

'When you used to be punished,' said Sandra, 'were you never caned after a spanking?'

'Yes, Miss,' admitted Gina.

'Then you can certainly take it from me! I'd make you touch your toes but I doubt if you could stay down. You'd better lie face down on the bed.'

Gina miserably obeyed. 'How – how many am I going to get, Miss?'

'Sometimes I let my naughty boys off with six,' said Sandra. 'But you're such a bad girl I think you'd better have twelve.'

'Oh, but Miss...'

'And three more for arguing! Now, will you have them all on your bottom or shall I give you some on your legs?'

'All on my bottom please, Miss,' said Gina, squirming unhappily. She was aware of Sandra moving round to the side of the bed and then she felt the cane drawn lightly across her glowing buttocks.

'Don't you wish you'd been a good girl, Gina?' teased Sandra. 'I'll do better, Miss!' said Gina, desperately. 'I'll try so hard, I promise I will – Aaaaaah!'

She writhed, gasping, as the searing weal rose upon her shapely rear. 'Good intentions are not enough, Gina,' said Sandra, severely. The cane descended again, and again, the carefully aimed strokes dealing out their blazing admonishment in slow, deliberate sequence. The weeping, writhing woman on the bed, the flushed, bright-eyed woman wielding the cane, performed the age-old ceremony of stern retribution and agonised repentance. And then, at last, it ended.

When her sobbing had died down a little, Gina became aware that Sandra had joined her on the bed, that the other woman too was naked. Raising a tear-stained face she blurted, 'Sandra, I'm not gay!'

'I didn't say you were,' was the soft answer. 'But when you used to be punished, didn't anyone comfort you afterwards?'

Gina remembered Marjorie's gentle kisses, her consoling caresses, the long, skilful fingers which rewarded Gina's endurance with ecstatic delight.

'Oh, yes, Sandra!' she said. 'Oh, please!'