Friday, 28 May 2010

The Disciplinarian - photo story

Photo story from Janus 20.

The Disciplinarian

NO ONE could have foreseen The Disciplinarian – not even appreciative readers who have expressed delight over recent issues of the reborn Janus magazine. The Disciplinarian is so far ahead of all previous CP videos that there can be no meaningful comparison. It is not simply better: more inspired, more poignant and more severe – it is in a class of its own, the first of a new kind of corporal punishment video, the foundation of a transformed genre.

Produced by the Janus editorial team at the same high level of creative excellence and with the same profound insight into the subject that irradiates this magazine, The Disciplinarian is a brilliant television drama played out on a psychological knife-edge behind the impenetrable walls of an immensely strict finishing academy for girls... the daughters of wealthy upper-class parents with traditionalist views on education and character formation.

The video deals in an intense and powerful manner with a crisis which arises at the Academy – a breakdown of the disciplinary process as applied to one girl student, the absolutely delectable ANTONIA DU BOIS... together with the radical remedies adopted by the Director of the Academy, DR N.Z. WELTSCHEIM, to rectify the situation and bring Antonia back to heel.

Dr Weltscheim, the world-renowned German authoritarian educationalist presides with godlike power over his remote and exclusive establishment for English and European girls, run on pre-war Teutonic lines updated but certainly not softened for modern times. Dr Weltscheim, who explains that many of his pupils never meet him personally throughout the whole of their stay at his establishment, takes the drastic decision to deal with Antonia du Bois himself after receiving a memo from the Academy Punishment Officer MR McTAGGART informing him that Antonia has had to be given more than three times as many punishments as any other girl since the beginning of term.

'I am dismayed by your punishment record, Antonia du Bois!' he tells her in his frightening foreign accent. 'What a shocking catalogue of insolence, impertinence, insubordination and atrocious misbehaviour! But the most appalling aspect to your case, Antonia, is the manner in which Mr McTaggart informs me you took your last punishment from him. Our Punishment Officer tells me that you were extremely cheeky to him whilst he was disciplining you, that you made eyes at him during your nude humiliation, that you smiled at him whilst being given twelve strokes of the cane, and afterwards suggested that he wasn't strong enough to hurt you...

The Director's vast experience and penetrating discernment enable him to perceive that Antonia has what he terms 'an unhealthy desire' to be punished and that she is going out of her way to break the rigid and restrictive rules and cheeking her superiors in order to gratify these perverted instincts. Under his skilful questioning she admits, 'I used to hate being caned sir, but well, you must agree... it's a bit naughty, it's sexy being caned on the bare bottom by a man.'

'Antonia du Bois! That's a horrifying thing to say! You are a perverted girl, and we will have to straighten you out,' he berates the bewitchingly beautiful pupil. 'I know how to cure you,' he continues relentlessly in his astonishing accent, ' taking you further into physical and mental suffering than you ever dreamed possible. I am going to give you a series of evening aversion treatments – aversion to corporal punishment Antonia. I am going to teach you to hate the cane, the strap and all the embarrassment and shame they involve. These treatments will be off the record and completely secret between us Antonia...'

As indeed they will need to be, for even under conditions of the strictest discipline there are certain forms of punishment and correction that are more pleasurably imposed in total privacy and secrecy.

Antonia's treatments start the same evening at 9pm and we're not going to spoil your enjoyment by giving you a blow by blow account of the exquisitely erotic proceedings. Suffice it to say that Antonia du Bois must be the most attractive and delicious, sensitive and articulate punishee ever to be captured on film or video. As the drama deepens and intensifies, Dr Weitscheim's character becomes clearer and we see him for the hypocritical fanatic that he is. Whilst verbally punishing Antonia for having been caught smoking a cigarette since their interview earlier that day – and before he canes her for this 'most serious offence against college rules' – the Director enjoys a luxurious smoke through his black cigarette holder.

The terrifying disciplinarian takes the trembling girl to the room where he administers his 'special punishments' and there makes her bend bare-bottomed over the sofa to receive eight strokes for smoking – 'a piffling preliminary to your main discipline, Antonia du Bois!' The viewer now receives two severe shocks. First, the sight of Antonia's postured bottom – a marvel among female posteriors. And then the caning itself: eight viciously whistling strokes applied by Dr Weltscheim with all his strength to Antonia's bottom and thighs, the latter strokes evidently causing her unspeakable agonies.

This prelude disposed of, the Director immediately orders Antonia to strip and for the remainder of the video she is drilled and disciplined wearing only a pair of woollen leg-warmers to tickle his kinky fancy. In an incredibly erotic sequence the Director of the Academy now makes the almost naked girl bend and touch her toes and stand up and stretch with her hands on her head then bend again, over and over again – and each time Antonia touches her toes he thrashes her already blazing bottom with a heavy grade three-tailed tawse. This severe discipline is augmented by the Director's astounding and ferocious language as he hurls reprimand after reprimand at the sobbing, whimpering, bending and stretching girl, fulfilling his earlier promise to make her feel more embarrassed than she has ever been in her life.

'How dare you be so insolent! How dare you be so impertinent! How dare you be so disobedient!' Dr Weltscheim screams in a fine disciplinary rage. As Antonia bends for more of the same, her bottom in close-up looks as though it has been through a battlefield, and the girl's plaintive reactions to the savagely wielded strap will move all but the hardest-hearted to take pity on her plight. The Director, however, has no such feelings and is determined to reform Antonia by means of 'Good German discipline' – which includes punishment PT.

At the conclusion of her toe-touching strapping Antonia is compelled to run on the spot while Dr Weltscheim lapses into his native language in his corrective frenzy and whacks his angelic victim across her pounding thighs, producing further cries. And when she is totally exhausted, the Director gloats over her suffering.

The viewer had already been projected into a new dimension of CP experience, far more severe and convincing than in previous videos. Each moment is one of breathtaking excitement – but the last section of the video, in which Antonia has to stand nude from her thighs up, hands on her head for interrogation will simply blow you away. The beautiful vision of the well-punished Antonia pleading to be spared further punishment is literally haunting. And only now do we begin to discover just how terrible it is for a girl as attractive as Antonia to be incarcerated at Dr Weltscheim's finishing academy.

'Oh please sir. No more, sir! No more punishment,' Antonia begs. 'My legs and my bottom really sting, sir. Oh please let me off sir...'

At which the Director explodes: 'Absolute balderdash, Antonia du Bois! I think you're enjoying this, girl! Tell me the truth girl!!!'

True to her character Antonia answers: 'I think you're enjoying it, sir!' and then bites her lip in horror at what she has said.

The Director's fortissimo Germanic response simply cannot be conveyed on paper... without burning holes through the page.

'Now that, Antonia du Bois, is the most disgraceful thing I have ever heard any girl say in my life!' Dr Weltscheim expostulates in total disbelief. 'It is a diabolical lie Antonia!! It is my duty to correct you, to punish this appalling error out of your wanton and wicked mind! All of your punishments are for your atrocious brand of insolence and cheek – and now I am morally compelled to give you twelve strokes of the crop for what you have said! Yes Antonia, my riding whip!'

The sweet girl's facial reactions during this epoch-making harangue give her game away. We are left in very little doubt as to Dr Weltscheim's real motives for having Antonia under his very own thumb. And when we see Antonia bending for her twelve-stroke beating with the riding whip, when we study her response to its fiery caresses, when we listen to her screams and the Director's sotto voce comments, we are wafted far, far away from the hum-drum reality of conventional scholastic establishments – into the magical element of Dr Weltscheim's total dominion over his girl pupils.

The Disciplinarian is the kind of video you have been waiting and hoping for, and perhaps wondering if it would ever be made. Yet it exceeds expectations and defies complete definition. The Disciplinarian is a brilliant, spell-binding production with marvellous action and dialogue. The video excels on many different levels as it captures and distils the very essence of discipline and correction – and the varied nuances of power and submission in interplay. The Disciplinarian makes endlessly fascinating, compulsive viewing and reviewing.

Wednesday, 26 May 2010


Story from Whispers 07.


The bathroom was cold. The water in the big white bath looked even colder. Jennie shivered. And it wasn't only the cold which made her shiver, with goose-pimples all over her bare flesh. Because she was fully aware that Mr Parsons had something exceedingly unpleasant in mind. He was the Junior Maths Master at Daneshill but also doubled as Games Master. Games included swimming, which Jennie loathed. She didn't simply dislike water, it frightened her.

How long would it be before he returned? She shivered again. Before he'd left her alone in the bathroom, he'd told her to strip. Then he'd relented. 'You can keep your knickers on,' he said with a half-grin. They were her dark blue school knickers. Well, it had been a concession but it didn't do much to keep Jennie warm.

What did he actually intend to do? Jennie looked at the cold water fearfully again. What he had said was that he intended to cure her once and for all of her absurd phobia. 'You can't go through life not being able to swim, Jennie,' he had said.

'I... can... I can!'

'Don't argue. Think of all the fun you'd be missing.'

'I don't care!'

'One day, you'll thank me.'

So there she stood in that cold bathroom, wearing only her knickers, her breasts feeling as chilled as those on a marble statue. Jennie tested the temperature of the water with her hand. It felt freezing. Then she jumped back, hearing a footstep in the passageway outside. Mr Parsons was back. Young, bearded, resolute-looking. He gazed rather over-long at her breasts, she thought. He'd really got no right to do that. But what could she do about it? Nothing. Daneshill, she often thought, was more like a prison than an ordinary school. Strict discipline was all part of the tradition and, so it seemed, most parents fully approved. Her own included.

What did it matter if he looked at her breasts anyway? He might be tempted... and so go easier on her. Before now, in one of the changing rooms, he had her knickers down and spanked her bare bottom. That had been for what he called 'absolute stupidity'; and arising again from her fear of water. It wasn't fair. She couldn't help that.

'Well, Jennie,' he said, 'this isn't going to be exactly pleasant for you. But I'm determined to cure you.'

'I... I don't want to be cured!' she wailed.

'Fear of water can only be cured by demonstrating you have nothing to fear from it. That's what I'm going to do. Get in the bath.'

'No... I won't...' At once he slapped her bottom.

'Don't be insolent! Do as I say, girl!' She could see he was quite determined. He slapped her bottom again. 'Go on, get in.'

It was hopeless. She had to do it. She shuddered. Better get it over with, otherwise she had the feeling he would keep her there all night if necessary. Gingerly she put one foot over the end of the bath and into the water. Quickly she withdrew. That water seemed to feel colder than ever.

The next moment, Mr Parsons had got her around the waist and was lifting her up. She felt his wiry strength and shrieked.

'Sttooo...oooppp...!' But it was too late. She was up, then sloshed down into the cold water. Then she was gasping and gasping and gasping as it quite robbed her of breath. Oh, she couldn't bear it! It was freezing! She tried to struggle up and out of the bath, but he kept her held down.

'There...' she heard him saying, 'that's not so bad, is it?' There was a kind of laugh in his voice, as if he were dealing with a young child and not a young woman. Rage surged up in her.

'You... you b-beast! Oooh... you're a horrible beast!' she shrieked.

'Watch your tongue, girl! Remember whom you're addressing!' Answering back and cheeking teachers was a serious offence at Daneshill. Now shivering uncontrollably, Jennie fell silent but for her gasping-sobs. Oh how long was he going to keep her there?

'P-please... sir... let me out...' It was a snivelling kind of whine. And he actually laughed.

'The demonstration has only just begun, Jennie,' he said. 'I am now going to show you that water... and especially putting your head under it... does you no harm at all.'

'Noooo!' She had always had a terror of ducking. Perhaps that was because an elder sister had done it to her when she was very young.

The protest was ignored and Jennie felt her neck siezed and her face forced down into the water. It filled her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She panicked, threshing wildly. He let her up again. Water jetted from her mouth as she yelled.

'There...' he said almost jovially. 'Nothing to it!'

'Let me go... let me out... you... you coward!' Jennie didn't care any more about cheeking a teacher. She was desperate to be released. Coward!' she cried again.

If she could have seen it, she wouldn't have liked the look on Mr Parsons' face. It was not an epithet he thought he deserved, especially from a 17 year old schoolgirl. He got his own back by pushing her face under the water and, this time, holding it there longer.

In due time, Jennie came up, blowing like a sea-lion. She was choking with rage... fighting to get out the words she could no longer control. A steam of most unlady-like viuperation finally came from her, interspersed with some of the choicest swear-words. Mr Parsons was momentarily taken aback. How could a Daneshill girl say such things? It couldn't be allowed. She would have to be dealt with. After a third ducking.

Once more, Jennie's face and head went under the water and, while it was there, she realised that fury had overtaken her fear. She didn't mind the water so much, she just minded what he was doing. It was so utterly humiliating! Just like a farmer dipping a sheep. Intolerable! Once more, when she surfaced, spraying out water, she let fly with an obscene verbal barrage.

Yes... her fear had definitely gone. So, it could be said, that the Sports Master's methods had proved successful, could it not?

Jennie found herself released. She struggled up, half slipping, hair streaming with water, her body glistening with it, her knickers soaked. Her teeth were chattering. She uttered another expletive as she got out of the bath and got a stinging slap on her bottom for her pains. The cold and the wet seemed to make it hurt more.

'You see,' he said, 'I told you there's nothing to be scared of. We'll have you doing a length of the pool in no time.' Jennie looked at him with something like hatred. This bully was being proved right. The water had certainly not harmed her; just frozen her. Her paramount reaction was anger.

'You... y-you won't...' she almost spat out. And got her bottom smacked again.

'I've had enough of your backchat, Miss,' snapped Mr Parsons. 'I've never heard the like of it from a pupil before. And, as for your foul language... it was like that of a fishwife, not a schoolgirl!'

Jennie's teeth were still chattering. She realised now that, in her fury and frustration she had over stepped her mark. But was that really her fault? Mind you, he was looking grim. Most likely he would report her to the Head. Then she knew what would happen. It had happened once before.

'I think, Jennie,' he said, 'I shall save the Head the trouble of giving you the caning you have earned yourself. I shall give it to you myself... here and now!'

Jennie's teeth chattered even more loudly. 'O-oh... oh please... sir... please give me... a chance... I was so scared... I d-didn't know what I was saying...' The thought of a cane on her wet, bare flesh was unbearable!

'You were just in a rage, my girl... lost control of your tongue. As you know, that's unforgiveable at Daneshill. It is a school designed to bring up decent young ladies, not skinheads. Come on... let's have those knickers down!'

'P-please... oh... please... just this once! I'll s-swim in the pool... I will... I will!' Jennie was getting desperate.

'I said, take those knickers down!' A hand slapped on to the soggy blue knickers; Jennie yelped loudly. Once... twice... three times.

'Owww... oowww... owww!'

Jennie decided she had no option. As fast as she could she thrust down the knickers.

'Take them right off... come along!' Mr Parsons bent and picked up a cane from under the bath. He had placed it there earlier for such an emergency. Mr Parsons had once been a boy scout and still remembered their motto. He looked at the girl's glistening body. Yes... the willow was definitely going to hurt on that taut, cold flesh. Serve her right; she'd be far more likely to keep a civil tongue in her head in future. Over you go... over the side of the bath!'

'Pleeee...eeeease...' She was shivering uncontrolably. Very understandable. The cold flesh tautened even more. 'N-not... hard... ooohh... not hard... I couldn't bear it!'

Mr Parsons nodded understandably. He wouldn't be too hard on her. Just hard enough to keep the memory alive for many a day! 'Hold the other side of the bath, girl!' That glistening bottom curved even more invitingly. Eminently caneable!

'S-sir!' It was rather a squeak. 'I... I'd do anything... anything... if you didn't c-cane me!'

The implication of that plea was obvious, thought Mr Parsons. Another bit of cheek. As if he could be dissuaded from his duty by such girlish provocation! Still, he had to admit, he was sorely tempted. No... no... he must cast such thoughts aside. He was a master, she a pupil; there could be no such relationship. Certainly not as a kind of bribe. That was unthinkable.

Except, maybe, when the girl got into the sixth. When she was eighteen. When she was on the point of leaving. Ah... then... maybe! Fiercely, Mr Parsons put aside all such thoughts. He must concentrate on the matter in hand.

'Jennie,' he said sternly, 'I do not exactly know what you are trying to say. I simply hope it is not what, for a moment or two, I thought it was.'

'I... I m-meant... sir...'

'If I were you, Jennie, I would say no more.' There were sobs of defeat. How humiliating, at her age, to offer a man something so precious – and have it refused! It was almost as unbearable as bending naked over a bath, shivering with cold, waiting to be caned.

When none of it was any of her fault!

'Ooooh... I wish I were d-dead...' Mr Parsons smiled. It was a remark he had heard before, under similar circumstances.

'I expect you do, Jennie,' he answered indulgently. 'Meanwhile, you will get your bottom up higher.' Jennie made the effort, but none too successfully. Her flesh was cringing at the thought of that cane.

Then it came. Whistling. Biting. A white-hot streak of agony. It filled Jennie's mind; her whole being. She gasped, just as she had done when plunged into that icy water. Breathlessly. Higher... ever higher. Then she screamed. She turned, arms raised pleadingly. ' aaahhh... no... that's too much!'

Mr Parsons surveyed the bright red, encircling weal with satisfaction. No doubt at all that had hurt a good deal. 'Better to get six from me, isn't it, Jennie, than a dozen from the Head? That is what I would recommend... and I have never known him turn down my recommendations.'

The girl groaned despairingly. Would twelve on a dry, warm bottom be worse than six on a wet, cold bottom? It was such a difficult decision to make. What she did know was that the cane was there, poised and ready. Ready to give her immediate pain. That made the decision all the more difficult. Twelve? Ah no...

Jennie opted for immediate torment. 'Y-you... sir...'

'Good girl,' Mr Parsons smiled with satisfaction. He had thought, disagreeable as it might be, this nubile youngster would see it his way. 'Let's have that bottom well up again then.'

Oh how reluctant it was to rise. Turning this way and that. Anticipating. The flesh incessantly flinching. Yes... he must remember this. A cold, wet bottom was a far more vulnerable bottom.

In his mind's eye, he envisaged a scene where a girl might be made to wear what used to be known in Victorian days as 'whipping drawers.' Those drawers would first be well saturated with water. Yes... a nice idea that. Still, he must concentrate on the matter in hand. He brought the cane down sharply again on Jennie's upthrust behind.

With a gasping shriek, the girl lost her grip on the far edge of the bath and almost fell back into the water. She was on her knees; sobbing. Suffering no end. Yet there were still four more to go. Was she going to be able to take them?

'I... oooh... I p-promise... anything... I'll do anything... oooh... please... just stop…'

There it was again... that outrageously provocative suggestion. Mr Parsons gave the girl her third stroke even harder than the previous two, holding her over by the shoulder as he did so. Jennie writhed frantically along the slippery bath-edge, squealing out in pain.

'Ahhh... no more... no more...!'

Mr Parsons gave her the fourth, just as hard as the third. The language this girl had used was quite unforgiveable. Then there was the matter of these suggestive pleas. It really was just too much! Daneshill was a disciplined school, not a potential white-house! Still, it could not be denied that that was a most enticing, young naked body.

There was just the faintest ebbing of resolution...

'Only two more to go, Jennie,' he said almost kindly. 'Be a brave girl. Let's have that bottom up nicely again. Mmmm... yes... yes... but still a little higher.'

He struck swiftly, whilst the curve was as high as it was ever likely to get. But he did not strike quite so hard. Was his heart being softened? Was not the temptation possibly not becoming too great? She was seventeen, after all... and looked older. She was of a legal age. A girl with a mind of her own.

And a body of her own.

Mr Parsons sawed the cane across that cringing bottom flesh. 'I'm thinking of giving you a really good hard one, Jennie,' he said. The nates clenched violently.

' I beg you!' She was looking up at him imploringly. 'Anything...' she said.

Anything... for just one more stroke. That was interesting. Most duty done, but not fully done. Mr Parsons set aside the cane.

The floor of the bathroom was cold, wet and stony hard. In an odd way, that had its own sexy attractiveness. Mr Parsons had always rather enjoyed unusual 'milieux' for this kind of little adventure. The front seat of a Mini, the back of a lorry, in a barn. Now it was a bathroom. In any event, Jennie was no longer cold but very warm, even is still slightly damp. A most athletic girl, the Sports Master decided.

'You don't have to continue swimming,' he said, some time later.

'No? But now I think I will, all the same. Sir.' she said. Then kissed him very lavishly.

Bottom row

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4

Bottom row

Summer – and the living is easy, as the song used to say. In the mornings, when the sun comes bright through the windows into the lounge and they wear their thin white skirts, I can see through them when they stand against the sunshine. How lovely and subtle and feminine the lines of their legs seen as through a veil! And then above all the profile of their bottoms, the proud pert thrust of them, and the shadowy vision of their panties cupping their cheeks so lovingly and tightly.

Naked bottoms are, of course, delicious to see, but I also have a penchant – and I'm sure every man has – for a tight round bottom sheathed in tiny panties. 'Cupped' is the better word. More descriptive, I think. Very tight and semi-translucent panties seem to hold the female bottom in readiness, even to make the darling cheeks rear up a little higher – but that is a visual illusion.

I have spanked Marianne several times – playfully – but never yet Linda. The smallness of her waist bewitches me, and the young-womanly way her hips curve out as though to announce themselves. Marianne's bottom is slightly plump, like a ripe plum in fact, and so resilient to my palm. Linda's will be a little smaller and (or does the imagination make it so?) tighter? To spank them together, or – better – to bring a loving strap to their bottoms together, would be fantastic, and I confess to having dreamed of it many times.

Marianne does become flushed when I spank her playfully. Two weeks ago in this very room I bent her under my arm, and, although she said weakly "No", hoisted her thin skirt to her hips and had her display herself to me. She wore stockings then (on this warmer day neither are wearing them) and my fingers flirted a little with the creamy rims of her thighs where her nylon tops bit into her flesh and made very tiny ridges above. I dared not linger on that too obviously, though, and gave her a first little stinger.

"OUCH!", she squealed, over-dramatically, for it could not have hurt her, and I would never do so. – "Be quiet, Marianne!", I said sternly, for she secretly likes 'male rule', and so she let her head and shoulders hang limp while I applied another SMACK! of my palm. Bent well over thus, her panties drew in at the back until the thin nylon strap seemed almost to be sucked in between her neither cheeks, leaving them wickedly naked to my seeking eyes. There was a pink tinge on the snow-white halfmoons from their contact with my hand, and I gave her another.

It was slightly harder, I confess and her "YEEE-OOOOH!" was louder, but still she did not desperately struggle up. I suppose if she had done I might have stopped. It is after all a sport of sorts in which the female must show herself submissive, and should like doing so. I am sure Marianne does, despite her protests and the fact that I have to playfully chase her through the house until I have her over. – "Not my skirt!", she will protest, but it comes up all the same. The moment of unveiling is especially thrilling as is the first contact of my yearning palm to her full moon.

How juicy it feels – yet even as I write the word, I really seek another. Rich as the English language is, it can never really express the sense of firm, yielding flesh – that glorious vista of a proud female bottom poised like a moon in the heavens above two shapely legs. I know how I want her – I know how I want them both – with legs slightly apart and toes turned in. When I last spanked Marianne – her 'sweet sixer', as I called it - I DID quickly lever her warm, curvy legs apart with my wrist after the second or third SMACK!, but they closed quickly again.

I said nothing. It was a defensive movement that I must overcome, though some afficionados are – from what I read – quite content to have polished high heels close together. There is a lovely 'awkwardness' of posture, in having a girl poised as I prefer with, as I say, the toes turned inwards a little and legs reasonably well apart. Besides, it gives her better balance. I did venture to say that to Marianne afterwards, wriggling as she was and holding her own palm to her bottom which by then she had covered.

"No, I think it's rude", she said rather comically as if that excused and covered all. I wanted to ask her then, "Do you like me spanking you?", but felt it too open a question. There is a 'heavy' and slightly flushed look on her face when I let her up. Her eyes seek mine and then dart away. I cannot help but look at her tits then, imagining her nipples stiffer than they were and persuading myself that I can so see them through her top.

Perhaps one day I shall slip my hand beneath one or other of those lovely gourds while I am spanking her. Perhaps one day I shall – having awarded her the sixth and last – squirm a quickly-enquiring finger under the strap of her knicks and feel her furry haven. I swear it will be soft and moist. Such thoughts quicken in my mind as they both come into the living room, blue ribbons binding their long brown hair at the top against a breeze, for we have arranged a picnic today.

"Is the hamper in the boot of the car?" – "Of course – yes" – "Where shall we go?" – "To Anerley Castle, I thought" – "Oh great, yes" ....and so the chatter goes on, their brown suntanned legs more fully revealed as they get into the Jag. Wild fantasies enter my mind as I take the driving seat. I want – yes – to spank both their bare bottoms and to hear their sobbings while I lick their fur as they lie wriggling their hot bottoms, kissing away each other's tears. Maybe the high summer is heating my blood – but surely it must theirs also? The drive takes less than an hour. I know the place well enough – well enough for me to park the car in the right place and to lead them along by the lake to a cool spot beneath the branches of huge elms where most others frequently do not come.

"It's right out of the way here" – "Yes, but it's nice". They quarrel on that lightly among themselves while I open the old wicker basket and start to lay things out. Then they help. – "You've brought a lot of wine", is said. – "Yes, but it'll keep – it's all in the cooling box", I reply. Heat and wine go well together. Will they become drowsy and let me raise their skirts? But I am meandering. It is their bottoms you want to know about, to see – together – even as I do: the two ripe, split peaches.

Linda lies back first, finished with eating and drinking, drawing her skirt up of her own accord until I can almost see her baby-blue panties. Marianne settles down, too. Lazy humming of insects. All the beguiling sounds of summer. Then Lady Luck comes to me and smiles. Marianne sleeps, head on her arm. Linda murmurs, eyes closed. Pretending to tidy up, I get behind her and stretch out on the slightly sloping grassy ground. Easing my hand forward inch by inch, I move the back of her skirt up little by little. She does not stir. Oh, glory of glories, her bottom half bared and the milky swelling wonder of her cheeks seen at last!

She stirs, rolls on her hip more towards Marianne. Her cunny will be sticky already in this heat. Holding my breath, I draw the hem up until her thinly-knickered bottom is fully exposed. Dare I? But I can't resist. Just one juicy big smack – or two. Will it start her off? Not too hard, though – don't startle her, I tell myself and – with pulses racing – give her a little pat on her pert and half-bare bum.

So light it is that she utters a sort of "MMMMMPFFF!" and makes to move, but still has her eyes closed. Another? Dare I? Will she 'wake' – scream, screech? I can't help myself. If anything the gentle smack across her dreamy, tight globe is lighter, but I know she feels it. – "WOOOO!", she chokes and moves her hips. The darling – she can feel it all right, and likes it. Or does she dream and do I kid myself all too hopefully? Thankfully, Marianne doesn't open her eyes. I try a new tack – one that will not over-please the caning and hard-spanking fraternity, but I prefer to tell it how it was. They will be better pleased with my later episodes. So yes – I had best say now that this was Linda's very first moment of 'tutoring', and I would challenge anyone to have done it more effectively.

What I did was to begin to pat her bottom rhythmically with the full breadth of my palm. I did it as softly as possible so as not to arouse Marianne – though after this distance of time I do not believe she heard. Hence it was pat-pat-pat rather than SMACK-SMACK-SMACK, but the sensation was exquisite. So slowly did I do it that I could feel the full chubby cheeks of her, the vee-ridges of her knicks, and the spreading warmth of her lovely botty. Another puffing breath or two from her. Glory of glory, her hips moved a little and she drew her knees up so that I could smack her 'bulb' the better, getting my hand under so that now and then my extended forefinger actually touched the tight, nylon-sheathed fig of her quim.

I felt truly dizzy – my wildest dreams not quite realised, yet I knew I was on the brink of them. A full dozen times or so I pat-smacked her and then suddenly the breath hissed in through her nostrils, her legs straightened and she made to sit up. All happened at once then. – "WASSAMATTER?", Marianne asked and stretched and opened her eyes, but in that moment, brief as it was, I had sat up also – my prick admittedly straining up through my slacks – and reached for the cooler box.

"Just pouring some more wine", I said. – "Don't want any", Marianne mumbled and closed her eyes again. Linda saw me looking at her thighs and drew the hem of her white skirt down. My eyes questioned hers. She blushed and said "All right" and – when I filled her glass – drank pensively and perhaps as thought a bit defiantly. Finishing it quickly, she got up and said pettishly, "Want to go for a walk".

"Me, too", I said and then looked down and asked, "Marianne?". I'd got up as Linda had so Marianne had a worm's-eye view that I rather forgot she would have. For a long moment she stared up at the projecting outline of my rodding cock, then turned away quickly and said, "No – you go. Don't be long". I said "All right", in a croaky voice and walked by the side of Linda. The ground was narrow there, between the shrubs and trees that hid the road, and the encroaching edges of the lake.

Linda didn't say anything, head coming up to my shoulder beside her. I knew she'd felt my hand at her bum and hadn't stopped me or jerked her hips away as she might have done. Maleness is sometimes a handicap – it makes for impetuousness that often spoils things (Hear, hear! - Ed). Without thinking, and we being entirely on our own, I reached my hand behind her and gave her pert bottom a little smack. – "OUCH!", she said, "No don't!". – "You like it lighter", I said. – "I don't – I don't like it – YEE-OUCH!", she repeated for even as she DID jerk forward then in our walking I gave her another on her warm, tight moon. Her lips pursed, her eyes screwed up and I could really almost FEEL her bottom cheeks tightening together.

"Stop it – you", she squealed and ran forward. There was an old shed of sorts there where once boats had been stored and she ran behind it, I following so quickly that I reached and grabbed her in the shelter of it, so to speak. It was a narrow, grassy passageway and, again, shrouded by trees. I held her wrist. – "You did it while I was sleeping", she said and tried to pull away. – "You didn't mind", I replied. – "DID", she said and looked half sullen. – "No. No, you didn't. Besides, I want to spank you property – tonight – will you?"

My words came out all in a rush. I would get no marks for subtlety – I knew that. – "Shan't, no – it stings me. Besides, you... you had my skirt up", she accused and stared at me really funnily. – "No, it came up. I just couldn't resist. Please let me", I pleaded.

Never plead. Always do it. I learned that quickly, though actually I had never pleaded with Marianne indoors. I always just did it, quickly, on impulse, and always of course when she was unprepared, but she had never struggled strongly either. – "I don't want to. Oh, don't let's stay here. Come on", Linda said, but she wasn't angry. It was my one hope left that she wasn't. – "If you do – just a little one tonight", I said. – "No – you'll do it hard and, anyway, she'll hear", Linda said with damning logic, perhaps not realising that she was making what I call an 'outside excuse' and not simply refusing.

"She won't if she's asleep", I said. "Huh! So will I be probably if she is. I thought you were getting a new car this week", she replied as though to change the subject quickly. – "No, next week. Thursday. In the evening. You can come with me", I told her. We moved out from behind the shed. – "I might", Linda said. – "And then you can have your spank", I said. – "No!", she laughed, but at least she laughed. – "What have you been doing?", Marianne asked when we got back. She looked at my flies, but it was down by then. Linda had never noticed my hard-on, or had she? – "Just walking'', Linda replied quickly and I realised she could have said, "Oh, he's been saying terrible things", but she didn't.

Bless Marianne. I mean that. The heat and wine gave her a headache, she said. We got back early, at about five, and she went straight into her room and closed her door. She didn't put her radio on, so I knew she'd be sleeping. I took deep breaths inside me. Linda ran up and had a bath. I waited. When she finally came down she had a different, flowered skirt on and a new white top. She sort of tried to avoid me and sat nervously, but I always figured the living room was mine as much as theirs. I did it all wrong, maybe. (Don't we all sometimes? - Ed). She was about to sit down and pick up a magazine when I caught her. Off balance – just as her knees were bending. Unfair, yes. I had to.

"NO!", she squealed. – "Be quiet – you'll wake her", I said. Or rather, I SNAPPED. Struggling like a wildcat I got her over a small table, almost knocking over a vase of flowers. – "No! Don't, don't, don't! You can't! Won't let you! OOOH! NO!" – That last cry, of course, was for her skirt coming up. I clamped her slim waist so tight with my free arm that only her hips could waggle. She'd changed her knicks. They were pale mauve, and perhaps even more transparent. The silky shadow of her tight groove, her twinkling legs. I almost fainted. – "You can't! Don't! No! Won't let you! YEEE-AAAARGH!"

That was a REAL smack I gave her. It must have stung deep into her pert, apple-round botty. What a yell she gave! – "NO-WOH! – "Linda, STOP it! You'll bring her down", I warned. – "D..d...don't CARE!", she sobbed. I held her throbbing botty cupped then. – "Yes, you DO", I said with no logic whatever, but miraculously it worked. Her throaty sobs died, her knees tight together. – "P...p...please don't sp...sp...spank me", she choked, but in a much quieter voice.

"Only a little one – you have to learn", I said, and wondered even as I spoke those words how often they have been said before in similar circumstances. – "Noooo!", came her answering whine. – "YES, Linda", I replied firmly and then gave her another, though not such a blaster. – "GAAAAR!", she wailed and her thinly-sheathed botty rolled all around, her waist twisting in the ringing of my arm. – "Only four more – I promise", I said, and that's a phrase I DO recommend. – "BOOO-HOOOO!", came from her. She made to press up from the table with her arms, but I had her well over and gave her her third. I didn't mean it to be so hard, but as luck would have it I was right.

"OH-WAH!", came from her and then a sort of "ZOOOOOOH!" sound, but this time there was a sort of infinitesimal surrender of her supple body. I could sense it. The others were lighter. I wanted them to be. Burn – and then urge. It so often works. – "You little beauty", I ground at her in giving her another. Couldn't help myself. Her sobs were plaintive and sweet and I swear her bottom stuck out more. I knew I must praise her – but that severity (even of a put-on kind) must be the key in future if I was to get her knicks down as I intended. Hers and Marianne's both. And soon.....

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

Gentlemans American relish

Story from Blushes 19.

Gentlemans American relish

The voice over the phone had that very special British quality that can really do things for the American ear. The female American ear primarily. Indeed do things to other parts of the female anatomy as well. An unmistakably upper-class British male voice. A commanding drawl, redolent of rolling English acres and perhaps the odd castle or two. Gentlemen riding to hounds in red coats – though in their British way they called them pink. Oh yes, Louise Sorenson felt quite weak at the knees – and possibly just a little moist at another part of her anatomy. As she listened, doing her best to concentrate, to what this marvellous voice was saying.

A gentleman's companion... An English gentleman's companion... This summer. Well, wasn't it just too marvellous.

Not for herself of course. Although Louise, a well-preserved and handsome young matron in her late thirties (actually just turned 40), could easily picture herself as an English gentleman's companion. But no, it was of course Bobbi-Jean. Louise and Al Sorenson's elder daughter, just turned 18. A very lovely girl, a beautiful brunette, tall and with a truly lovely figure. Who was due to start her first semester of college in the fall and wouldn't it be just too wonderful for Bobbi-Jean to spend the summer in England. A gentleman's companion. Associating with the British aristocracy and thereby getting some of that marvellous English upper-class poise.

Louise had heard of this marvellous possibility from a friend of a friend. Someone who knew someone at the Embassy. It had seemed too good to be true – but now here was this wonderful plummy Englishman's voice telling her that yes it was true. There were English gentlemen happy to take a personable young American girl into their lovely English homes. For an educational and cultural stay.

But... there was of course competition. As you could imagine many, many American girls were desperately keen to be accepted. Places were necessarily limited. So it was very competitive. There had to be a screening process. Naturally. That stemmed the euphoria for a moment. But only a moment, when a mother had a daughter like Bobbi-Jean. A truly lovely girl who was talented and so personable as well. Bobbi-Jean was bound to pass any screening test. Once she was first advised as to how she should conduct herself: eager to please, and project herself. In a ladylike way of course.

* * *

Bobbi-Jean smiled winningly, if a little nervously. Eighteen-year-old American girls do have poise and confidence but nonetheless she was naturally somewhat nervous. Sitting now in this Englishman's lovely lounge. Not in England, not yet, but here in the States still for the screening. Mr Edward Hatfield's lovely house here in the Maryland countryside. Staying here for the weekend with Mr Hatfield to see if she was suitable for one of those marvellous, marvellous English visits. A gentleman's companion. A truly marvellous month in August. If Bobbi-Jean did well at this screening. So naturally she was just a little nervous.

'Bobbi-Jean,' Mr Hatfield said. 'You American girls have such pretty names.'

Bobbi-Jean smiled attractively again. Her full, ripe American mouth, adorned with Pink Gloss lipstick but not too much, parting slightly to show the fine, even pearly white teeth. Sitting opposite Mr Hatfield with the afternoon sun slanting in through the high windows. Mr Hatfield who was tall and good-looking in an English aristocratic way. In his country tweeds and those English mirror-bright no doubt hand-made shoes.

Bobbi-Jean had similarly chosen for the occasion (or rather her mom had) an attractive tweed skirt, and Scottish plaid mix of greens and blues. Plus a form-fitting sleeveless blouse and, a more sophisticated touch perhaps, a pair of black leather high-heeled courts. Louise Sorenson had driven her daughter over but was now departed. Leaving Bobbi-Jean alone with Mr Hatfield, for the duration of the weekend. To be put through her paces as it were. Yes, it was just a little daunting.

'A pretty name for a very pretty girl, eh?' observed Bobbi-Jean's host. At which the pretty girl produced another of her winning smiles, also a demure and becoming blush, modestly replying, 'Oh I don't think so.'

Edward Hatfield's cool grey eyes appraised. A lovely girl alright. That ripe mouth! And a lovely figure. With those firm tits thrusting out the front of the fitting pink blouse. And the delicious nyloned knees modestly showing at the hem of the plaid skirt. Oh yes, a really splendid example of the teenage American female. Which was so much in demand in certain quarters back home.

Yes, Bobbi-Jean Sorenson was exactly what was wanted, Edward Hatfield could tell that right now. No need for any testing. Not really. Except of course that one had to be sure. One had to take this business seriously. Because it was conceivable that even the prettiest girl with the most exquisite bottom and boobs might not suit. If she turned out to be entirely uncooperative. An entirely uncooperative girl would not do at all. Generally speaking of course American girls were not entirely uncooperative: not with a British gentleman. But one could not assume that. That was the purpose of this weekend. To determine cooperativeness. And also, naturally, to provide a little pleasure for Edward Hatfield. One of the perks of his position, his role. Which he was very pleased to accept.

Edward Hatfield proceeded with general, reassuring chat. Plus also a nice bottle of white wine, a couple of glasses of which can also reassure a somewhat nervous girl. Reassurance was needed because of the tests. Which shortly had to be broached. Discipline for one thing.

'Discipline Bobbi-Jean. That is a subject we need to discuss. We British do I suppose have more of a thing about discipline. Discipline for girls we are talking about. English schools I should say practise discipline to a greater extent than American schools. Which I get the impression tend to be more free and easy. Would that be the case?'

Bobbi-Jean said, 'Uh... yes.' Not too sure about this talk of discipline. Mr Hatfield's rather intent grey eyes were keenly on her. On the firm thrust of her impressive boobs it seemed. Bobbi-Jean knew she had impressive boobs.

'Corporal chastisement, Bobbi-Jean. None of that? You haven't experienced anything of that? Being spanked. On your bottom. With your skirt off and your knickers as we would say, your panties, off. You've not had that?'

'No!' Bobbi-Jean's pretty cheeks were distinctly pink now. At the thought of it. Edward could picture it too: voluptuous cheeks of Bobbi-Jean's splendid bottom equally pink. Or even bright red. With his right hand belabouring them. Bobbi-Jean's knickers – panties that was – down around those delightful knees and that plaid skirt up round her waist. The thought was stimulating in the extreme.

'Ah. Well an English gentleman would need to know a girl was disciplined. We believe it is character forming. An English girl has her character formed at school. As she gets her bottom spanked, Bobbi-Jean. And the cane too. Have you thought about the cane my dear?'

'No! No, we don't... do any of that.'

'No need to worry. I'm sure we can do something about it. A little later. If you really want one of these visits and I'm sure you do. Now then, the other thing is fitness. Being in shape. That's a big thing nowadays. Probably no problem there I imagine. I mean that is something you're keen on over here.'

'Right. Yes.' Bobbi-Jean happier with this. Not at all sure about that discipline talk but certainly happier with this. Yes, she was in pretty good shape she told her host. Tennis, swimming, all that stuff. Aerobic dance.

'That's very good. You certainly look to be in shape,' Edward Hatfield smiled. 'And have a lovely shape, eh Bobbi-Jean? Would you like to show me?'

Because of course it was now time to move forward. The lovely girl had had a glass of wine and should be somewhat relaxed. It was time to get things going. To Bobbi-Jean's quizzical look Edward Hatfield explained.

'Take your clothes off, my dear. I would say you were in marvellous shape but I do need to check that. Our people do want fit girls. To get the full benefit from a visit. A fit body means a fit, alert mind, that's the thing.'

Take her clothes off! That was a bit of a stunner. Though Mr Hatfield had seemed to be looking with some interest at her boobs and legs. Al least she had good boobs and legs, Bobbi-Jean knew that. Just about everyone said so. Dr Kreutz their family doctor, and Mr Cerucci her school principal (ex-school now of course) and... well just about everyone. And of course Bobbi-Jean's mom had advised her to do just whatever Mr Hatfield wanted. If she wanted one of these great trips, which Bobbi-Jean really did, you bet. But.

What did Mr Hatfield want? What would he want? Exactly. To look at her pretty good body for one thing. As Mr Cerucci had looked at it – and of course Dr Kreutz too, though he was of course a doctor. Mr Hatfield wanted that. And then? Well, she couldn't pursue that line right now. Right now... Bobbi-Jean had to do it. What Mr Hatfield wanted. Take her clothes off.

Standing up. A slightly embarrassed smile but Bobbi-Jean isn't shy. Not really. She hadn't been shy for Mr Cerucci when he wanted her to take her clothes off. Out on that picnic, just the two of them, when they'd had the serious chat about college etc. Mr Cerucci had wanted Bobbi-Jean to take her clothes off, in that secluded spot out in the woods, and Bobbi-Jean had. It was smart to be nice and cooperative with your school principal if you hoped to get good grades at the end of the year. Especially your senior year, with college etc. And similarly with Dr Kreutz. Bobbi-Jean had taken her clothes off for Dr Kreutz without being shy. Several times. Everything off and then up on his examination couch. Dr Kreutz's hands checking that there were no problems with a girl's special regions. Those special parts of her anatomy. Dr Kreutz was very keen on that. That checking. So...

So no real shyness as Bobbi-Jean unzipped her skirt and slipped it down. And then her waist slip. Oh my! What truly marvellous legs! Revealed right up to their origin where the pale, silky thighs start from the very briefest pair of semi-transparent pink panties. The marvellous limbs clad in shimmery white stockings, the tops tautly fastened with the slim straps of a white garter belt... the stockings and belt come on the advice of Bobbi-Jean's mom, guessing that English gentlemen, like the typical American male, greatly prefer such underpinings to pantiehose. Had Louise Sorenson guessed that it might be necessary for her daughter to reveal something of herself?

'Truly delightful!' is the expressed opinion of Edward Hatfield. As he beckons Bobbi-Jean close. The lovely girl meekly obeys. 'Yes truly delightful.' His hand gently caresses the nude backs of her thighs above the stocking tops.

And now before requesting that she strip further Edward Hatfield softly voices a certain question. A most intimate query. Not that it will make a whole lot of difference regarding the hoped-for visit. Whether Bobbi-Jean is or not still as they say virgo intacta. Either way is really OK. Because while some gentleman will prefer a girl who is still in that style others are not so choosy – or indeed may rather have a girl with a certain amount of experience.

'Uh... no. Not exactly...' is Bobbi-Jean's reply. Shivering slightly at the stroking hand – because where Mr Hatfield now has it, high up on the under-thigh and indeed with the fingers sliding onto inner-thigh flesh... is a most sensitive region.

When Bobbi-Jean says 'not exactly' she means no. She is, as one might say, several removes away from being a virgin. There is her boyfriend Carl for one, an on-going relationship. On-going sexual activity therefore. And others too. Mr Cerucci for another one. Bobbi-Jean's ex-school head. He has also... more than once. Although Carl doesn't know that and nor, certainly, does Bobbi-Jean's mom. But a girl needs to be cooperative with her school principal. What with college etc. The first time was on that picnic.

So 'not exactly' means no. As Edward Hatfield elicits. It is not a problem he tells her. 'Some gentlemen will be very happy with that.'

'Uh... yes?' The lovely girl hadn't actually thought it was a consideration. Had she? She gives a little surprised whimper. The hand has slid right in, between her legs. And up. To the skimpy crotch-spanning strip of the diaphanous pink panties. Mr Hatfield's fingers suddenly right at the ripe bulge of Bobbi-Jean's business. Bobbi-Jean's cunt. 'No, that's not a problem at all,' he repeats. And then, removing his hand, Edward Hatfield suggests that Bobbi-Jean now remove the skimpy panties. And they will go over to the table.

His very lovely polished round table. An English antique without any doubt. But Bobbi-Jean's thoughts for the moment cannot be on this splendid item of furniture. Not when she is removing her panties. To leave herself in just the tight pink top and stockings and garter belt. Plus of course the elegance of her black high heels. A stunning vision certainly. And now...

Bobbi-Jean is having to get up on the table. On this glorious polished surface in which one can see one's face with the clarity of a mirror. In which now one can see various parts of this lovely American girl reflected with a similar clarity. For from a sitting position Bobbi-Jean has to get on her back. Lying on her back with her knees raised. Those very smart high heels sacriligously up on the marvellous surface. But perhaps it is not sacriligous, when they belong to, are part of, this work of art which is Bobbi-Jean Sorenson stripped down to her shimmery white nylons and garter belt.

There are two things now for the table business. For Bobbi-Jean on her back on Mr Hatfield's lovely table. The first is very reminiscent of those visits to Dr Kreutz. One his up-on-the-table examination visits. The other, which will follow, is in the area of discipline. Girl disciplining.

But for the first it is very like a visit to Dr Kreutz. With Mr Hatfield saying he would like to check things out. Just relax. Etc. What he wants to check is the same thing that Dr Kreutz always wants to check. Bobbi-Jean's thing in fact. That plump furry item nestling between Bobbi-Jean's marvellous thighs. Which are now parted, knees raised, on the table.


What exactly is Mr Hatfield investigating? Apart from clearly, Bobbi-Jean's pussy. It is not likely that he doubts her claim to be no longer a virgin. No. Perhaps... he simply likes investigating... for its own sake... With no object in view beyond the sensual pleasure of handling this wondrous part.

That is the first bit of this table business and it does continue for a little while. With Bobbi-Jean inevitably getting more and more involved.

Aroused in fact. Until, yes, she does actually come. Not wishing to, but a girl can't exert a lot of control over these things. If she gets to the point where she is going to come... well, she comes. It is something which simply happens. With the usual threshing about, shuddering yelps, etc, that one gets. Perhaps this indeed has been Edward Hatfield's object all along: to bring Bobbi-Jean off.

With this accomplished, or at least when it has happened, he proceeds to the second matter. Disciplining. That area in which American girls are so lacking in experience. With his clothes brush. Which he is going to use on upside-down bare bottom is fully exposed. 'It is of course a splendid positioning; there is no better position to have a girl in to receive a lesson in chastisement. Because she is so exposed and so aware that she is exposed. That sense of utter vulnerability. Not just her bottom of course but... all the rest too.

Bobbi-Jean is told to grip her raised knees; to hold herself firmly in this position. And not to move. When the back of the brush.


Whacks in.

* * *

'How did you like that, Bobbi-Jean? Your first taste of it?'

Edward Hatfield has just come into this cozey room: his den where Bobbi-Jean has been left to wait for him. She is standing by the fire with her hands on her head in a pair of pink pyjamas. Or rather is wearing the bottoms of a pair of pink pyjamas, in a pretty flower pattern. Bobbi-Jean's splendid torso from the waist up is bare. Those magnificent full, firm tits (which Mr Cerucci and Dr Kreutz and quite a few others as well as boyfriend Carl all so much admire) are gloriously nude.

Bobbi-Jean shakes her glossy brunette head. Because she hasn't enjoyed that experience at all. She has been told to wait like this, with her hands on her head. After her shower. Which Bobbi-Jean had after that business on the table. No, she didn't enjoy it at all. That brush! Which went on and on whacking into her poor bare bottom. And being in that awful position! Upside-down. Showing just everything. Is that the sort of thing a girl can expect on her trip to England? If she gets the trip. Mr Hatfield, though, has said she should. Because she is such a lovely girl and she did do well in that first test, with that awful brush. Upside-down on that super table.

Edward Hatfield, moving close, slides his hand over Bobbi-Jean's boobs. They really are magnificent. Jutting right out in her hands-on-head position. Glowing pinkly from the shower. This big nipples are quite erect, carmine coloured. So inviting. Inviting you to take a delicious suck; and to do all kinds of other things to Bobbi-Jean Sorenson as well. Oh yes, there is no doubt at all that this girl is the very tops. What pleasures are in store for those lucky gentlemen awaiting in England! And what pleasures still for Edward Hatfield. Tonight! And all of tomorrow. Sunday night as well. He will certainly have to pace himself. Before the glorious girl is returned to her mother with the Approved label very firmly in place.

'I think we'll do a little more of the discipline,' Edward murmurs, gently stroking the lovely tits still. 'You did so well that first time. But we do need practice, don't we? So... can you slip the pyjamas down my dear?'

'Yeah...' Bobbi-Jean grateful at least to be able to lower her arms. Ease her aching shoulders. 'OK Mr Hatfield.'

Is he going to want to fuck her? Or is it just going to be this disciplining? Jesus. She doesn't want that brush again. No thanks. But it's in a good cause, isn't it? This trip. As long as any English gentleman she is a companion to... isn't only interested in whacking the daylights out of her ass.