Olympian Games

Story from Februs 22.

Olympian Games
A story from Ancient Greece

"Do you mean to say you're not married yet?" The young woman took her companion by the arm and swung her round so that their brown eyes met. "Oh, Jana, you have a lot to learn about our culture. That is not encouraged. Not yet..." Electra appeared to want to say more, but only lowered her head. She was swaying gently from side to side; it seemed that she was upset. Instinctively, Jana draped a comforting arm softly around her friend, but said nothing. The two girls drew closer together, their long dark ringlets gently intertwining in the early morning breeze. They melted together warmly and everywhere was quiet. Overhead an eagle flew towards the dawn light.

After what seemed like an eternity, Electra stirred and, lightly kissed Jana's fresh cheek as she broke free. Her expression had changed in a moment from a dreamy velvet sleep to the impish smile so characteristic of this lively beauty. Turning, she took her friend's hand in a firm grip, her strong slender fingers pressing in the softer flesh of Jana's.

"Come, we must hurry back before we are spotted," she whispered.

"You are right," Jana replied, shaking herself out of the deliciously drowsy feeling that had come over her.

The two girls skipped lightly down the steep rocky slope, hand in warm hand, towards the path which ran between their camps. Soon two silhouettes were parting with a secret kiss in the milky light of dawn. "See you in the games," called Electra, laughing over her shoulder as the two ran in opposite directions along the path: one towards the Athenian's tents, the other, naked, heading for the Spartan's.

Jana returned to find her country folk washing from ornate copper basins and sitting in the growing warmth of the morning sun. Nikias and Orestes appeared from the men's tent and sat together on a large rock. "Fetch us some olives, Jana," commanded Nikias, "and bread," added Orestes.

"May I have some too," Jana asked, flashing her big eyes at the two seated men. But she knew she could.

"You need to be strong for your throwing, so have yourself a feast," they laughed.

She was pleased no-one had noticed she'd been away. What would happen to her if she was found with a Spartan girl? Jana didn't want to think about that.

The bread was very fresh, still warm and aromatic, Jana pulled off two large pieces and gave them to her husband and brother-in-law. She took a smaller piece for herself, it was still steaming. She ate the bread slowly as she laid out flat on one of the orange robes which Agariste had bought in Olympia. The olives were plump and succulent. Jana felt sleepy lying in the sun as she thought of Electra, her strong thighs and bold character. Was this admiration she felt, was she jealous or was she in love?

The two men, nearby, chatted and drank wine from bronze goblets that sent flashes of yellow light across the girl's fine white robe and lightly tanned skin. She rolled over, her gentle, young body relaxed softly on the ground.

* * *

"In here girl!"

The magnificent Pentheus boomed out his order from a square jawed mouth and stood menacingly flexing his cane in powerful looking hands. The free end of this supple willow was always in motion: it seemed to Electra that the cane was alive.

"I think you are becoming lazy with the air of this decedent city, Electra. Are you still a good Spartan girl".

He tormented her with the tip of the quivering cane, one black eyebrow cocked in mock query. Electra immediately stood to attention, thrusting her firm young breasts sharply forward.

"Yes, sir, I am your good Spartan girl, sir," she responded with nervous haste, but she was a good Spartan.

The eyes of Pentheus fixed darkly on the tight little quiver of the girl's ripe flesh, now so proudly presented.

"Indeed," he mused, hand on chin.

Electra hollowed her back forcing her buttocks out dramatically. Pentheus walked round behind his little soldier girl. He was well used to Electra, but he still got a kick out of seeing her like this. Those two fleshy globes jutting so prominently from the base of her spine were surely the finest buttocks in all Greece. He gave her a stinging SMACK sending her bottom flesh violently wobbling. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! Oh how he loved this, he could spend all day spanking this girl. But now he stopped.

Pentheus moved round to face his athlete once again.

"I am not sure you are still the brave Spartan girl I have been training these past three years," he taunted her.

"Please sir, I can show you, sir".

Electra looked up towards her master with appealing eyes. He lifted his cane and with it, imperiously pointed to the ground in front of them. At the signal Electra knew what to do. She turned her back on fearsome Pentheus with his springy cane and, with legs pressed together, she bent elegantly from her narrow waist, placing the palms of her hands flat on the ground in front of her feet. She was bent double before him.

Now her bare bottom was offered breathtakingly for her Spartan master to test. Even bent as tightly as she was, her buttock still looked fleshy and exquisitely round and inviting. "Perhaps the cane made them grow bigger," Pentheus thought.

Then his face grew much more serious. He swished the springy cane rapidly about him as though shadow-duelling with a rapier. Swish, swoosh; it made a terrifying sound. The olive skinned, six-foot-four master of athletes then stood some two paces behind and one pace to the left of Electra's bare bottom. He stretched back with the cane in his hand, filling his deep lungs with an almighty breath and tensioning every sinew in his powerful body.

"This is what a Spartan girl needs before she wins the olive crown, Electra," he announced with gravity, whilst poised to beat her. Electra remained motionless.

Then, without further warning, the cane flashed down, Whip-CRACK!, like a starting pistol's fire, cutting ferociously into Electra's roundly offered buttocks. She was lifted onto tip-toes with the impact; Pentheus held the cane against her bottom, pressing it into the flesh he had just struck. Brave Electra made no sound. Slowly the master removed his cane and Electra settled back onto her heals. Almost languidly he drew the cane back once more. Whip-CRACK! the performance was repeated, Pentheus aimed to stripe his Spartan girl with all the exactitude of his office. So accurate was his caning that Electra was left, not with four tramlines – the result of two strokes – but three, the middle one already plum coloured where the two strokes had neatly merged.
Another four slicing cuts marched in perfect regimental formation down to the tops of Electra's stoical thighs. This accuracy was only possible because she had remained absolutely still throughout her painful caning. The result of years of Spartan training. Electra knew she now wore the sign of a well trained – that is to say, disciplined and brave – Spartan girl, now hotly striping her jutting and always bare buttocks.

"Up you get, then, Electra, you have a fine badge of Spartan courage on your saucy bum, let us not be disappointed in the games".

Pentheus's tone was now congenial, as was the playful spank with which he propelled Electra from his tent.

Outside under the rising sun, she squeezed the tears from her eyes and lightly fingered the soreness of her proud buttocks.

"She is a fine girl, really," mused Pentheus, now seated behind a rough wooden table – the only furniture of his tent. "Electra, come and eat, you need some food. Have no fear, you will use it well today".

Electra sank her white teeth hungrily into the unleavened bread which Pentheus handed to her – this was an unusual privilege.

* * *

The stadium was a magnificent sight. Crowds of thousands of people from all of Greece roared and cheered. Brightly coloured banners flashed in the breeze and loud trumpets and drums sounded on every side. The athletes stretched and limbered in preparation for the heroic feats they would perform today. Jana, in a short athletes tunic exercised among the Athenians, stretching the muscles of her supple limbs and warming up to her athletic peak. In the distance naked Electra prepared herself too, overseen by Pentheus, arms folded towering above the girls. Jana felt a strange leap in her belly on seeing Electra, under his control like that: she looked so beautiful, so brave.

The sentor's voice was like thunder, "Women of all Greece who have seen twenty summers will contest by throwing the discus".

It was time. Jana, along with three other Athenian girls, walked out of their area to the discus field where they were met by others like them of every Greek nation and city. Electra self-consciously avoided Jana's eyes – she wanted no one to know she had met the Athenian before. Standing with their tunics billowing in the breeze (apart from the Spartans) the girls were each given a coloured ribbon. An Olympian magistrate began drawing ribbons from a small cloth bag held by a servant with outstretched arms. The running order was decided, Jana was to throw fifth and Electra would be last.

Jana walked onto the circle. With her head bowed she summonsed all her strength, the past year's training running through her mind, the practised stance, the focus. She adopted the stance and remained still. The stadium was quiet.

Now!

She whipped round, uncoiling her arms, legs and spine in an elegant spin which accelerated and flew her round on the circle a second time and with her throwing arm now stretched she flung the discus, feeling it leave her finger tips, spinning high and far. It was an admirable throw. The crowd applauded and, once she was back among them, the other Athenians hugged her with their warm bare arms draping round her neck. Jana felt happy.

She watched the other girls. Some good, some not so good. Only one rivalled her throw, a tall dark looking girl from the north – she had a superior air and challenged Jana with her eyes, but she had not beaten Jana's throw.

Only Electra to come now. The Spartan girl walked with great purpose towards the circle to take up her stance. Her perfect feminine form was displayed as a public testimony to Spartan training. The Magistrate noticed another such testimony – he audibly gasped as his eyes followed her swaying hips and those streaks of livid fire – the unmistakable marks of a cane across her wobbling buttocks. Electra knew there would be many more cane stripes if she did not win this. So did the crowd. Jana, also, stared at the girl's proud bare bottom and tried to imagine what it would be like to be caned as Electra had been. Curiously she found herself not horrified by the thought, but strangely longing, almost envious of Electra's training.

The whole crowd grew silent. With complete concentration the Spartan girl now took up her stance. This was her big moment, what she had been preparing for over the past three years. The voice of Pentheus echoed in her head 'breath in the power of all the gods and unleash it on all your enemies through the discus'. Perfectly balanced, she was wound like a tight spring with a hair trigger. Suddenly, she launched into her throw. This was maximum effort, instinctive timing, perfect execution honed by repetition, practice and the cane. Electra's throw was superb. To the roars of the crowd, her discus flew high, past the marks of lesser athletes, on and on, and landed skidding rapidly past Jana's marker over the grass. Electra had won! With one hand on each hip, Pentheus raised her into the air in his jubilation. He kissed the warm buttocks which a little earlier he had flogged. He was delighted with his little athlete, broadly grinning and laughing a great thunderous laugh.

An hour later, as the sun rose to its full height, Electra walked to the rostrum and took first place. Jana then followed for second and the tall dark girl stood on the third place step. Electra bent her head to receive the olive crown and raised her arms in triumph, bright teeth flashing with joy. Then in an unusual gesture the Spartan took Jana's hand in hers and lifted it to the gods. The crowed applauded enthusiastically, Jana's eyes filled with tears of confused emotion, but Electra sensed her secret thoughts. Putting her face close to the sweet Athenian's she whispered to her "Come with me after this Jana".

It would be possible for her to slip away unnoticed, she was sure. Besides, Jana cared nothing for the risk now. She knew what she wanted and she wanted it earnestly.

* * *

Pentheus was back in his tent.

"A Spartan athlete must be braver and stronger than any other, Jana. We find the only way to learn these virtues is through the submission of the body to the tutelage of the rod". He lectured the Athenian girl with deliberate gravity. "We do not play at punishment, Jana, as Electra will tell you, it hurts. It is meant to hurt – a great deal. That is the secret of the training which you seek". The grim smile he wore did not conceal the contempt of mighty Pentheus for all non-Spartan Greeks.

Jana moistened her full lips with a darting tongue and answered quietly "I need such instruction, Master".

"I will leave you to think on it for a while," declared Pentheus as he turned to leave dramatically, but Jana stopped him.

"Master, I have already decided". Her eyes were bright with passion. "It is what I need, I want to learn to be strong like Electra. I want to win like Electra".

"Then you accept the Spartan training?"

"Willingly, Master," Jana replied almost in a whisper.

"Very well, right now I am going to cane you. You will receive twelve strokes from my cane on your bottom".

Jana nodded in dumb acquiescence.

"Turn around Jana of Athens". Pentheus took on the mantle of a god in her mind as he boomed out his commands. She was ordered to bend across the table. Her tunic tautened across her full bottom cheeks. Pentheus took up his long quivering cane and placed the end against her.

At this Jana stood up.

"Just as I thought," Pentheus angrily withdrew the cane, contempt at these feeble inferiors curled his lip.

"I should not have listened to you Electra, you will pay dearly for this little game my girl".

Just in time he was stopped from flying at the Spartan girl.

"You misunderstand me, Sir," Jana said flashing him a submissive smile. Then, trembling, she unfastened the cord which tied her tunic and let the short garment fall to the ground. She stood exposed, feeling strange – a little guilty, excited and rather frightened.

"Will you not cane me like a Spartan, Sir".

She turned and bent once more over the table. This time her glorious smooth bottom, so earnestly offered up for his cane, was bare. Pentheus groaned, his gaze fixed on the deep gap between her cheeks which flared to reveal the smooth fleshy lips of her bald vagina. Jana's bottom shone with the silken smoothness of a pale rose petal. Her legs were slightly parted, but touching warmly where the chubby softness of her inner thighs was greatest. The cane was raised, drawn back to full stretch. Pentheus might have been in heaven. He sighed deeply and summoning all his power and might he unleashed his whippy cane, full force, slashing it down in a blur of furious potency. Suddenly, Jana entered the realm of fire: she had become a Spartan.

* * *

Three archaeologists were standing by a rusty trencher. Maria slammed the car door and made towards them, dodging the frenetic traffic, her tape-recorder slung over her shoulder.

"Maria Avramidou," she greeted them – breathless with rushing – "from Athens Radio".

"Ah yes, your colleague called, he said you were coming," the older of the archaeologists replied as he reached out to help Maria towards the hole. She tottered in her high heals.

"So what have you found exactly", she asked, twiddling knobs to get the sound level right.

"Oh, it's just some graves, this time, but one rather interesting one".

"Yes, tell me about that, then".

"Well we are fairly sure these are from about the middle of the fourth century BC, they are wealthy Athenians, probably it's a family tomb, there are quite a lot of these around here on the outskirts".

He began to lecture, Maria only wanted eight seconds for the midday news.

"Tell me about the interesting grave, who is in that?" she asked.

"Well, it's a woman, we don't know what age yet, what is interesting about her are the artefacts".

"Artefacts?"

"Yes, it is normal to find jewellery, coins, perhaps some pottery. In this sort of grave, all Athenian, but this one has an interesting mixture of Athenian and Spartan jewellery, it's rather unusual".

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the woman then?"

"She seems to have been buried holding on to several thin sticks and there appear to be traces of leather among them too. We haven't the faintest idea what they were for. It's the first time we've seen this".

"Have you any theories?"

"Well, not really, they often had some much-loved possessions buried with them, but we can't think what these sticks could have been. We are open to suggestions!" The archaeologist laughed.

"That's great," Maria announced, switching off the tape. She shook hands and left.
There are so many things about the ancients that we will never know, she thought, as she drove through the hot Athens suburbs, back to the studio.

______________
Unfortunately, I have changed two computers for the last years, and at me have not remained a name of its author. Only plain text. Anybody can inform me a name of the author of this story?

A Tale of Two Sisters - the story prepared by Alex Birch

Story from Janus 53.

(This is a rather nice story by Christopher James, published in 'Janus' over 20 years ago about a young man's reminiscences of holidays in the north east of England back in the 1930s. The original had a lot of Tyneside dialect pronunciation in it, which I have rather edited as I suspect many non British readers might struggle to make sense of it. But it's still a nice story: - Alex's note)

A Tale of Two Sisters
by Christopher James

It all started for me half a century ago. This is a tale of two girls; Nina, aged 18 and Rose, 16. They were my cousins. Nina, who worked in an office, was quite attractive but not a beauty, and rather broad around the hips. Rose, on the other hand, was a very pretty girl, possessing lovely chestnut hair with auburn tints, and a good well-rounded figure.

As a young man back in the thirties, I used to spend two weeks summer holiday with my widowed aunt and the two daughters, in a north-east seaside town. I became moderately intimate with Nina and we indulged in some petting, but it was frustrating for me because, despite some passionate sessions, she always kept her head and her modesty, and would never permit so much as a touch below the waist. She was certainly no prude, but in those days a girl could be 'ruined' by an unwed pregnancy without an urgent marriage – and such a contingency formed no part of my future plans.

Rose attended a girls' high school. She was on holiday and thus naturally, was more of a day-time companion for me. My Aunt Ada was soft with her girls and Rose, especially, was badly spoiled. She was volatile and ebullient, contrasting with her slightly staid sister; she insisted on having her own way, was saucy and rude to her mother, short-tempered, and apt to indulge in petulant tantrums. My aunt had given up trying to cope with her. I had dark thoughts of doing the job for her – given the opportunity!

One particular fortnight proved to be an unforgettable one. On the second night of my holiday it was fairly late and Rose had been told several times by her mother, who did not approve of late nights, to go to bed. As usual, defeated, Aunt Ada retired leaving Rose to stay up and, mainly, annoy me. I was trying to read and Rose, in a mischievous mood, was deliberately provoking me. She kept pushing my book and giggling at me. Several times I got up and gave her a playful slap on the seat of her skirt and eventually I grabbed her, sat down, and pulled her across my lap. I expected a struggle but, to my surprise, she offered no resistance and lay, quite submissive, as I pushed the skirt of her dress up over her hips.

I had had girls sit on my lap before but I had never had one face-down in this position – and very enjoyable it was. I sat, gloating over the adolescent chubbiness of her bottom, which was tightly covered by her navy-blue school knickers.

I doubt whether I had ever heard the term 'masochist' at that time. I certainly knew nothing about it and her passivity surprised and excited me. I was on the point of giving her a smack when my aunt called from her bedroom, "Rose, will you get to bed – now!" She may have heard our little scuffling. In any case, it was probably as well that she called out, for obviously spanking is a noisy business – something that, in my naivety, I hadn't considered.

Rose was on her feet in a trice. I had a sudden idea. She had been decidedly docile over my lap – and well, you never know your luck. Before she reached the door, I whispered; "If you want that spanking you know you deserve, then come for a walk with me in the morning."

She gave me a startled glance and was out of the room without a word.

After breakfast the next day, and Nina's departure for work, I remarked casually, "How about a stroll along the cliff, Rose? It isn't warm enough to lie on the beach." The unsuspecting Aunty Ada beamed and said it would be good exercise while I noticed little dots of colour appear in Rose's cheeks. After some hesitation, she said "All right, Chris." My heart leapt.

I haven't visited that part of the country now for fifty years and for all I know it may be built on, but in those days the area was unspoiled country and the cliff path was a pleasant lonely walk. We seemed to have it to ourselves. To my delight there was not another soul in sight when we reached the place I had in mind, a large, almost flat, smooth stone probably left over from the dry-walling which is typical of the area. The open air is not to be recommended for purposes of chastisement but this isolated spot seemed ideal for my unseemly purposes. We had it to ourselves, although there would certainly be more people about during the afternoon. It was open country and there was an unobstructed view in every direction. If the sound carried there was no one to hear.

"Right, my girl, how about just here!"

"What for, Christopher?" she asked, innocently.

"You know what for. That spanking you got out of last night."

"Eee, I don't know. Man, that's silly. Spankin' is a punishment."

"Yes it is – and you deserve it the way you talk to your mother. You are disobedient and rude."

Her round, pretty face was very pink as she gazed at me with limpid blue eyes. "Am I naughty, Chris? Do I really deserve it?"

"Yes you are naughty and this is way overdue. Come here!"

The imperative tone has its uses. Slowly and with apparent reluctance, the lovely 16 year old came to me. I grabbed her arm and she allowed herself to be gently pulled down across my thighs, lying with her head right down and her legs trailing to the grass. As on the previous night she was docile and passive, and allowed me to ease the weight of her warm body in order to push the skirts of her under-slip and her dress up over her hips.

In those days, girls dressed like girls and wore skirts. Again I was presented with the alluring sight of her young buttocks covered by those navy knicks; the broad rounded thighs and shapely sun-tanned calves. Oh how I was sorely tempted to pull her knickers down but I dared not. I didn't think she would tell her mother if I pulled them down – but suppose she did? There would be a terrible scandal and I would never be invited back to the house again. And of course I was too diffident to ask Rose if I could.

I gave her a slap, not too hard; she did not move. Emboldened, I gave her another, fairly hard – then another, still harder, and still she made no move. I said, "You're a very naughty girl aren't you, Rose?"

She whispered, "Yes, I suppose I am Chris – please make sure no one's coming?"

"Not a soul in sight. Now, keep still."

I administered another fifteen heavy cracking smacks upon various parts of her rump, until she was squirming and wincing. Never, as long as I live, will I forget the pure libidinous joy of that first time I ever spanked a girl.

I had been very fortunate. Lucky that by pure chance I had discovered Rose's penchant for getting her bottom smacked; lucky that we had this quiet spot with no-one else walking along the path. To me, at the time her response was puzzling. Undoubtedly she got a sexual thrill from having her bum walloped, but at that age she didn't understand that any more than I did. To me, too, spanking was supposed to be punishment. I'd previously had no idea that girls enjoyed it. But both Rose and I had clearly got sexual satisfaction from the experience. But she had to rationalise it. It had to be punishment for misbehaviour; and she was never deliberately naughty in order to get a spanking, that would have been too obvious. It was just fortunate for me that she was a naturally recalcitrant girl.

I couldn't wait for another suitable occasion. But I didn't have to wait too long. Only two days later Aunty Ada was annoyed at breakfast because Rose was doodling on the table-cloth with a pencil. When she tried to take the pencil away Rose, in a fit of petulance, threw it across the room.

"You can pick that up!" snapped her mother.

"No!" replied Rose

"Don't you say no to me, my lass!"

"No!"

"You saucy little baggage! Now pick it up!"

"No, I'll not!"

To my amazement that was the end of the matter. Rose remained where she was, the pencil remained where it lay. In hindsight, I believe Rose was putting on a show for me, but in any event that was all the excuse I needed. When after breakfast I told Rose she ought to take another walk along the cliffs with me, she licked her lips and put her tongue out at me.

"Cheeky brat!" I said.

Her mother was in the kitchen and Nina had left the house. Rather pink in the face, Rose grinned and said slyly, "So I'm going to catch it again, am I?"

"Yes you are. The trouble with you is you're spoiled."

Surprisingly, she nodded. "Me Mam's too soft. Me Dad wouldn't've spoiled us. He was strict. He used to use the tawse." I was ignorant in those days. I knew all about the cane but I had never heard of a tawse.

"It's a leather strap split in two. So it's got two thongs. Gosh, it hurts like hell! Me Mam's still got it."

"So why doesn't she use it on you?"

"Eee, she's too easy. She never touches us. Nor Nina when she was younger. I've been strapped at school though, but not much. It's beastly!"

We took our little walk as far as the flat stone but we had to wait because there was another couple behind us. Once they were out of sight the countryside was quiet. The only signs of life were the wheeling, swooping sea-birds, a few cattle behind the dry-stone wall, and the distant short, urgent blasts from a destroyer that was leaving the River Tyne.

She came across my lap without a murmur and I pushed up her dress. She was still wearing the same type of navy school knickers. This time my hand hovered uncertainly – oh but those knickers were tantalising – and this time the temptation was totally irresistible. Rebalancing the weight of her soft, shapely body, I started to ease her knickers down gently, taking my time, giving her every chance to protest, but she merely turned her head, smiled, raised her hips to assist the descent of her underwear, and whispered "Ooooooooo – cheeky!"

I was feeling bold, bad and a little scared. Even if her mother found out there could be no question of her going to the police. But my imagination was overworked. Just supposing...This could certainly be called sexual assault and at that time youths could be sentenced to a birching, and that was a fearful thought.

The birch was a dreaded implement. To many people these days it sounds barbarous. Yet I sometimes wonder whether it was such a bad thing. It was a scandal in any family; it was utterly degrading, humiliating, and extremely painful. I doubt whether many offenders would go back for a second dose.

Even while the dire possibility of being flogged was running through my feverish mind, my pretty cousin was naked from the waist to the knickers around her thighs, and I was caressing her smooth white rear; very yielding but firm-fleshed. And obviously she was not finding the situation unduly embarrassing or shameful. That was the first time I had seen a girl's nether parts bare and I was trembling with licentious delight. Oh Hell!! Another couple were appearing in the distance. Hastily I bundled Rose off my knees. "There's someone coming!"

"Bloody hell!" she muttered. Pulling her skirt down to cover her knickers she squatted on the grass.

"You needn't swear," I admonished her.

"That word's nothing," she giggled.

"It is coming from a young girl. It's very naughty and you will be getting a few extra spanks for that."

We had to wait until the couple had passed us and were out of sight. Spanking a girl in the open is decidedly risky but we had nowhere else to go. There was no-one else to be seen and Rose again came across my lap quite willingly. Indeed, I was amazed at her docility; at the time I certainly was an ignoramus. She wriggled, rubbing her thighs together as I fondled her uncovered hips, the plump, gorgeously enticing, rounded, satin-skinned cheeks and the inviting cleft. I was experiencing a strong urge to put my fingers into that dark little chasm, but I decided 'better not.'

Suddenly she giggled and turned her blushing face round. "Eee, man, you're cheeky," she said, "I can feel something sticking in me."

"What did you expect?"

It was embarrassing but there was nothing to be done about it, and Rose was not naive. Her thighs were writhing and I could feel moisture on my trousers. She was randy as hell! I said , "I'm going to do it really hard, this time."

"Oh I dunno about that, Chris. You really think I deserve it?"

"You damn well deserve it after that display this morning. You're bad tempered, disobedient and defiant. And you swear!"

After another good look round, I brought my open palm down good and hard upon the soft, fleshy side of her buttock. She winced. I slapped hard, she was wincing and crying out. I smacked with regular blows upon the sides and middle of her writhing nates. She was moaning and beginning to weep loudly.

SMACK! – Oooooh – SMACK! – Aaaagh – SMACK! I must have given her twenty to thirty really hard slaps. It was certainly a noisy affair but only a few cows were within earshot. Even at that stage it was a very strange business to my mind; I had given her a really good hiding.

When I stopped I twisted her over so that she was sitting on my thighs. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed her tears away. She wriggled a little, her skirt still rucked up to the top of her thighs, then sat, totally unconcerned by her immodesty, for her knickers were still round her knees.

"I'm goin' to tell Mam," she whispered reproachfully," You bloody 'urt me!"

"And I suppose you are going to tell her about the way you're sitting on my lap showing me everything you've got?" Well, in for a penny in for a pound! I simply could not resist lightly touching the softness within the little pubescent triangle of brown hair. It was wet and tempting – but I refrained from any actual sexual interference. I was pretty certain she would not dare say anything about this to my aunt.

Nor did she – but I had a shock when I talked to Nina on the following Sunday afternoon.

Nina had started her summer holiday, my aunt had gone to Newcastle, and Rose was in her bedroom, leaving me and Nina alone. We were lying on the hearthrug, indulging in a wet, juicy, open-mouthed kiss. I began to pat her bottom. "Nooo" she whispered. Putting her hand up behind her she grasped my hand and pulled it up around her waist.

"I only want to touch," I protested.

"No, Chris, I'm tekkin no chances after what I've heard about you," she said with a sly grin. Then she gave me the shock of my life. "And who said you could spank our Rosie on her bare bum?"

For a moment I was taken aback then I muttered guiltily, "She told you about that?"

"Course she did. We're sisters. We tell each other everything, me and Rosie."

"Oh but she let me do it."

"Mmmmm. Tekkin 'er drawers down and walloping 'er bare bottom?"

"She agreed she deserved it."

"Don't worry, Chris, me Mam won't find out."

"I reckon she wanted it. Come on, give us another kiss." We kissed, bruisingly, then drew apart as Rose suddenly walked into the room.

She grinned mischievously. "Been givin' our Nina a bit of a poke, have you, Chris?"

For a few seconds there was dead silence. That might not seem all that outrageous these days but 50 years ago decent, well brought-up young girls would scarcely have heard that expression, let alone use it. I was genuinely shocked and horrified. Then Nina gasped; "Rosie! How dare you!"

"Dirty minded little brat!" I snapped.

"Bet you'd like to all the same," Rose replied defiantly.

"Our Mam would go mad if she knew," Nina said.

"Yaaah she'd only tell us off!"

"You deserve to get your bottom smacked again for that," I remarked.

"Yes," Nina joined in, "how about givin' 'er a damn good hiding while our Mam's out?"

"Nina you rotten beast!"

"You don't seem to mind it too much," I said. "Anyway I think you're begging for it. That was disgusting."

"Do I really deserve another walloping, Chris?" She turned to me, her eyes lowered and her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. As our eyes met the pink suddenly blazed crimson.

"Yes, you do," I replied. This was beyond my wildest dreams – even her sister wanted to see me spank her. "Look at the way you were carrying on this morning! Saucy and downright insolent. How your mother stands it, I don't know."

"Yes, you're right," Nina joined in. "Cheekin' Mam – and you swore at her!"

"I did not!"

"Oh yes you did. You told Mam to bloody well shut up. That's very nice coming from a 16 year old girl!"

"And now she's using obscene language," I said, "I think she should have another spanking, Nina."

"So do I. She can be a little bitch at times –"

"Don't call me a bitch!" Rose replied hotly.

"All right, little devil then. Anyway you need a good hidin'. Give her a good spankin', Chris."

Waiting no longer, I commanded Rose to go to her room. The feeling of power was marvellous. "And you better be waiting with your knickers down!" I added.

Her blue-grey eyes were very round, her tongue licked her lips and a crimson tide once more crept into her pretty cheeks. "Yes, Chris," she murmured meekly. "Don't be too hard on me. I'm sorry I'm a bad girl. And I shouldn't have talked about poking Nina."

"What are you wearing underneath today?" Nina suddenly asked her sister.

"Cami-knicks"

"Eee that'll be nice for you, Chris," Nina tittered. "Do you know how cami-knickers work?"

I had no idea how cami-knickers 'worked'. I followed Rose into her bedroom. Nina came in, also, to watch. We were going to have an audience and the thought got me very excited. This time, I decided, we'd have a change of position. "Lie on your bed, Rose. And pull your dress up!"

She looked at me uneasily; she was obedient but apprehensive. She lay prone, at full length on her bed, with her legs slightly parted. I realised immediately the significance of cami-knickers, they are a very sexy garment. Nina was watching with evident, lascivious eagerness. She was so wanton – she didn't seem to care what I did to her sister. Yet I mustn't touch her! I unfastened the buttons with quivering, fumbling fingers, my heart beating wildly. Relieved that I had been able to cope with them, I pushed the intimate garment well up over Rose's hips.

Staring down at seductive curves of her now familiar, fine, fleshy buttocks I was nearly drooling. I had to swallow repeatedly. There was no indication of redness from the previous spanking. I looked up at Nina. This was really a new experience, having her present. Her dark brown eyes were round and shining and as she gazed at her sister's glorious white derriere, the pink tip of her tongue showed between her lips.

I thrashed Rose even more severely than before. I smacked, hard and systematically, upon every portion of that beautiful posterior. She jerked and wriggled, wincing, gasping and moaning, but she remained stoically in position. I had a hard, betraying bulge in my trousers but I could only ignore that!

I beat her forcibly and determinedly, producing large inflamed areas upon the sides of her writhing behind, upon the middle, upon the upper parts near the waist, upon the lower parts where it curved outwards from the thighs. She was crying , but I continued relentlessly upon the upper parts of her thighs. SMACK! "Ooooohhhh no, Chris, n-no more… oh, owww, stop… please!" She howled at every slap, crying like a baby in between. She was squirming and rolling until she rolled on her side.

I straightened myself, breathing hard through my open mouth. My hand was stinging like fire. Almost the entire area of that delicious bare bottom, and the tops of the thighs, were stained a fiery red. I had to wipe my slavering mouth with my sleeve.

When I looked at Nina I saw that she was gazing, her face very pale except for one glowing red spot in the middle of each cheek. Rose was lying, sobbing, squeezing her burning bottom with her fingers.

"Eee, man," said Nina, "that was some spankin'!" Her hand was overtly pressing her skirt into her groin. I was wishing I could relieve my own needs.............

"Yes," I said to Nina, "and I can see how much you enjoyed watching it. How about allowing me to smack your very delightful arse?"

She giggled. "You don't know how delightful my arse is – nor you're not going to! I'm not like Rosie – she loves it! I'll go and get some cold cream for her bum! God that looks sore!" As she gently creamed her sister's crimson, burning skin, Rose was still weeping. Poor Rosie! Yet she had been literally asking for it.

What a pair they were. It was beyond my youthful comprehension at the time, but Rose really did get some strange aberrant sexual thrill from having her backside walloped. And Nina was just as salacious as her sister despite her own reluctance to be touched. She loved to be a voyeur at her sister's punishments but she simply would not trust herself in intimate situations.

Durign my second week there, Rose had another furious breakfast row with her mother which resulted in an egg being knocked to the floor after an altercation which also involved Nina and again her mother refrained from any physical response, but maybe my Aunt Ada was more in tune than we thought. "Cheeky young besom!" she said angrily, "Somebody should give you a good smacked bottom!" It sounded like an open invitation and Nina and I exchanged glances across the table. Unexpectedly Rose suddenly had an attack of contrition. "Sorry I was so rude, Mom," she muttered. "I'll clean up the mess!"

She didn't believe that was going to save her bottom, surely!

Having done the washing up, my aunt, probably glad to get out of the house for some peace and quiet, said she was going shopping and why didn't the three of us go to the beach? But this was not part of anyone's plans for the immediate future.

"I suppose I'm getting another spankin'?" Rose licked her lips, almost smiling.

"You can count on it," I answered. "Using that language to your mother! You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"I am, Chris, I'm sorry. It just comes out."

"You're still going to get a damn good hiding!" I said, and suddenly I was becoming ambitious. "Rose, where is that tawse you mentioned!"

"Noooo!" For the first time there was fear in her voice.

"Oh yes," said Nina with wide eyed enthusiasm, "that's what she'd ve got from our Dad. It's in Mam's wardrobe." With obvious growing excitement, she said, "Bet you've never seen a tawse, Chris. I'll go and fetch it."

"Noooo," Rose cried, her eyes wide. "He's not touching me with that!"

"You'll get what just what you deserve," I said. "Now get upstairs!"

It was up to Rose. I could do nothing against her will but, to my joy and thundering excitement, she didn't argue, just sniffled and walked slowly upstairs. I followed her into her bedroom, and Nina entered, carrying an implement I had never seen before.

"This is the tawse, Chris." She proffered it and I grasped it curiously.

It was brown leather, pretty thick; although not limp like a belt, and heavier than one, its two thongs bent quite pliantly between my hands. This, I thought, was a splendid instrument. But – was I going to be permitted to use it? I thought it was likely that the culprit might not be entirely averse to another spanking, but with this formidable piece of leatherware? I noticed that Rose was eyeing it, unsmiling but with a strange expression, almost of fascination; she flinched when I brought it hissing down with a crack on her bed. I could try anyway – who could tell, with a strange ambivalent creature like Rose?

"How long do you think your Mam will be, Nina?"

"Oh, a good hour. She's pretty slow, shopping. Chris, are you going to give our Rosie a good tawsing?"

"Nooo," said Rose again, pleadingly. "Spank me, Chris. Oh God, I don't want the tawse. I've not had it since poor Dad died. It's awful!!"

"It's just what you're going to get, my girl!" I said, boldly.

Rose tried a desperate ploy. "If I'm going to get it so should our Nina. She hit me at breakfast, twice."

Nina paled. "Not on your life!" she said hurriedly. "I'm not being beaten!"

"But you think Rose deserves it?"

"Aye I do. She chucked that egg on the floor!"

"But you did hit her twice. Come on, Nina, one stroke of the tawse for each blow. It's only fair."

I perceived that Nina was in a quandary. She undoubtedly wanted to see her sister thrashed, but she clearly feared for her own bottom. After an agonising pause she finally said "All right, but only two strokes."

How did this thing compare to a cane? I made a wild guess. "Six strokes for you, Rose." My heart was pounding as I waited for a reply. If she refused at least she would take a spanking. Nina suddenly tittered, she was staring at the tumescence thrusting through my trousers. I felt hot all over with appalling embarrassment. "I can't help it," I mumbled. There was nothing I could do about it.

"Ooooooo you are a bad lad, Chris!"

"Well how do you expect me to react," I demanded, "thinking about thrashing the bare bottoms of two pretty girls?"

"Oh nooo. I never said bare bottom. I wouldn't dare risk it," she gasped. "Just look at the state of you and before any girl is naked!"

"Come on, Nina," I said. "Surely you're not a coward! Your little sister, two years younger, is going to take six on her bare bottom and you won't even take two?"

Still she hesitated. The difference between these two was becoming increasingly apparent. I still could not understand it, but although she was clearly scared, Rose got a real thrill out of being whacked on her bare bottom, whereas to Nina it was merely a painful punishment and horribly embarrassing. Yet her prurient interest in her sister's chastisements, and her encouragement to me to punish Rose, showed that she too was affected by the same strange tastes.

"Come on, Nina," said Rose encouragingly, "just keep your thighs together. If you won't do it, I won't!"

"Oh, all right," she grudgingly conceded. "I'll get my knicks down – but only two strokes, Chris. And no touching me with that – thing of yours!"

Red-faced, I promised. "We'll get yours over first, Rose. Take your knickers down – or are you wearing cami-knickers?"

"Cami-knickers. Er… undo me," She turned her back. God, she intended to get undressed! This was getting better and better. I unbuttoned her dress and she shrugged out of it, letting it drop to the floor. Her waist-slip followed. She wore no stockings and her legs were tanned – as that so provocative rump was going to be. To my joy, she unlooped her cami-knickers and stepped out of everything. She stood, nude except for her bra. She was adorable. I admired her pubic triangle and suddenly felt that I was in the naughtiest and most sexually arousing situation I had ever known. I realised that my entire body was trembling.

"Now," I ordered. "Bend over. Right over!"

Obediently, she swung right over and stood with her fingertips just touching her toes, legs a little way apart. I couldn't understand her. It was a very humble and abasing posture and grossly indecent in front of a boy who already had a painfully stiff erection. I could see everything she'd got. She was completely wilful, apparently getting a kick out of lewdly exposing herself in front of me and her sister.

Only six strokes but that was doubled with two thongs. I knew I certainly would not have wanted to take her punishment. I intended it to hurt. I brought that vicious tawse fairly sizzling down...

Rose gasped loudly as the leather swished and cracked squarely across her taut, resilient bottom cheeks.

Again the wicked instrument fell with an explosive report, the two thongs flattening themselves, biting into girlish buttocks. The girl winced loudly and her body jerked.

WHAP! "Owwwww" It was a throaty quavering cry and Rose jerked upright. "Oh God, Chris, please no more!"

"You're getting three more. You're bad tempered, foul mouthed and disobedient! You'd better lie across the bed!"

Rather to my surprise, because she could have refused, she obeyed and lay with her behind curved over the edge of the bed. It was glowing deep red and she was weeping quietly, with short, quick, indrawn breaths.

Again I raised the tawse, held it high and brought it swishing down with all my weight behind it. She uttered an agonised yell and her whole body twisted.

WHAP! "Oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhhh!" She was now crying piteously and I was breathing hard.

She shrieked at the final blow, squirming onto her side then went back onto her tummy and her hands went behind her, squeezing the reddened skin, which was swelling into broad weals. After a moment she stood up, slowly and stiffly, completely unconcerned about her glaringly exposed private parts. Her mouth was wide open, her face bore an expression of anguish. Tears were trickling over her cheeks and her hands were still clasped to her bottom. I suspected that she had derived little if any pleasure from that thrashing.

Not so her older sister. Nina was standing with a glazed expression, her breathing fast and light, her cheeks pink with pleasure at the sight of her sister's whipped bottom. I broke the spell.

"Right, Nina. Your turn. Two whacks."

Nina came out of her trance, her face suddenly pale. She looked very scared. "I-I don't want to... I-I've changed my mind."

"Oh Nina," Rose wailed. "You must. You promised. Look what I suffered."

Nina bit her lip. "All right. I suppose I have to. But I'm not undressing like Rosie. I'll just take my knicks down."

She pulled her underpants down and let them drop, pulled up her skirts and without being told, bent over and gripped the edge of the bed. I gazed , enraptured , at that sublime posterior, the deep shadowed cleft large and magnificently rounded – sheer poetry. God, how I wished I could caress her bottom cheeks; I suspected they were extremely erotogenic. But I had given my word.

She was brave however. She lay perfectly still whilst I brought the thick strap down twice with all the weight of my shoulders behind it. I loved its fierce swing, which was entirely devoid of consideration for the soft sensitivity and succulent tenderness of teenaged female flesh, and even more ardently I adored the tawse's deafening sonic impact with the smarting buttock mounds. Nina jerked and groaned at each but that was all. Her eyes were filled with tears as she straightened herself and her hands were under her skirt, squeezing and pressing. She seemed like a cat on a hot tin roof.

"Oooo, Chris," she said through her tears, "I never thought I'd agree to this, when we met you off the train in Newcastle'"

And neither did I. The climax to a special and wonderful holiday!!

_____________
This story was scanned and prepared by Alex Birch.

Beauty and the Birch – the story prepared by Alex Birch

Story from Janus 37.

(Reference in the story to 'The Tisdall girl' is an allusion to Sarah Tisdall, a Foreign Office clerk, who was jailed for 6 months in 1983 for passing information on cruise missile deliveries from the US, to the 'Guardian' newspaper. – Alex's note)

Beauty and the Birch
by David Anderson

Not for the first time, eager hands stroked, patted and pinched Jenny's firm young bottom.

And, not for the first time, those hands were her own.

Frankly, she loved her own bottom – and she had every reason to. It was a connoisseur's bottom. A full, soft, creamy bottom without a trace of fat or blemish. The high-cheeked, haughty, naughty bottom of a young girl just become a woman. And this morning, like every morning, fresh from the shower and almost dressed, she lovingly fondled every flowing curve and every graceful swell of that delectable rear.

She cupped each cool, silky buttock in her palms, revelling in the sensual feel of her cheeks. Long, slender, shameless fingers journeyed to the warm, moist valley below and explored her secret centre of pleasure.

Not since her mid-teens had Jenny regarded her bottom as a strictly private place. It was a thing of pride and beauty, to be wantonly flaunted to the yearning gaze of every creature that considered itself to be a man. A bottom for public display in the tightest skirts and even tighter jeans.

She looked back fondly to the days of her first awakening to her bottom's potential as the source of the most exquisite pleasures. It had begun with illicit schoolgirl spankings in the dorm, followed by more intimate, mildly Sapphic, delights.

Now, in the quiet, cosy cocoon of her bedroom, as dawn turned to morning, she caressed her buttocks without guile or modesty, and remembered each slap and pinch. And thrilled to them all.

She had intended to wear a certain pair of knickers. Peter's favourite knickers. The skimpy little red pair. It was to be the biggest day in all her 21 years, and she'd wanted to mark the occasion by clothing her buttocks in the knickers Peter loved best.
But she'd left them... somewhere. Anyway it didn't matter that much; she decided to go without underwear for she much preferred the roughness of coarse denim against her bare, delicate skin. The very notion of her glorious bottom shielded from roving eyes and anonymous fingers by the merest layer of thin, cheek-hugging blue jeans drove her wild with wicked anticipation.

Seams strained, seemingly threatening to rip apart as she tugged the jeans down over her thighs and waggled her shapely arse comfortably into the faded seat. One final wrench of the centre seam between her buttocks, and then into the hall to check her suitcases.

It was coming up to 7 a.m. They were booked on an 8.40 flight to happiness ever after in a Caribbean paradise.

* * *

The tiny alarm built into Armstrong's expensive wristwatch bleeped 7 a.m. He was in the building two hours earlier than usual, and far from his office.

In this tiny, Spartan room, the man who did some of the Ministry's least diplomatic jobs tied the third and final cord around the last five inches of the thick bundle of birch twigs.

He had been out at dawn in a copse near his quiet Surrey cottage, selecting and cutting the thinnest, sappiest twigs nature could supply. Looking now at the finished rod, he began to experience a dark and perverse emotion he thought he had long buried.

It was an exact replica, perfect in every painful detail, of the birch that flourished in countless schools up to and beyond the 1880s. It was more than some bizarre exhibit in some chamber of horrors; it was intended to be a working model.

He had made the birch to the Colonel's precise specifications. Whippy, bud-bearing twigs, 32 inches in length, the sensate effect of which could scarcely be other than cruel.

"I want her thrashed!" the Colonel had roared. "I want her stretched across a desk with her bottom bare, and birched until she screams for mercy!"

Armstrong was sure that the Colonel shared his own predilections. He had, after all, received his education at a traditional public school in the Twenties. The cane swinging twenties. And hadn't he, on many occasions, heard the Colonel recall that the last birch to be used in the school had been kept for posterity on display in a glass case in the assembly hall?

And there lay the true source of Armstrong's fascination. The sure and certain knowledge that exact replicas of this freshly-made birch had whipped the squirming bare bottoms of whole generations of hapless schoolboys.

It was a scene he had once dreamed of; a scene he would very soon enact.

* * *

She had called a cab, never dreaming that they might intercept her call. There was no reason to suspect, as she left the elegant Bayswater flat she rented with her allowance from Daddy, that they would even consider tapping her phone.

Such things didn't happen to mere junior clerical officers, even when the papers they shuffled came in folders marked 'secret'. They certainly didn't occur to Jenny, whose mind, as the taxi sped out of the city was racing with more romantic matters.

It was only when the taxi was flagged down by a motorway patrol car that the first suspicion formed. She glanced at her watch as the cab pulled into the lay-by – ten minutes time and she would join Peter at Heathrow Airport.

But there was no doubt at all in her mind that the madcap adventure had finally crumbled when the two officers and the man in the fawn overcoat ignored the driver and came straight for her!

* * *

Armstrong left the birch on the table; apart from the old office-issue swivel chair he had brought with him, it was the only stick of furniture in the bleak basement room.

He pushed against it a few times, sat on the age-dulled surface, testing to see if it would bear the frantic writhings of the victim who would shortly be bending over it.

Satisfied, Armstrong lowered himself carefully into the rickety swivel chair and lit a cigarette. He still couldn't quite believe his good fortune. Not that he hadn't offered the task to the Colonel, out of deference to the old man's seniority. But the Colonel had sorrowfully declined. Much as the prospect of slavering over the hot bottom of a pretty girl was exciting, he doubted whether his pacemaker's guarantee would apply in such unusual circumstances.

* * *

One of the pigs had groped her arse. She'd felt it quite plainly when they hauled her out of the car.

She'd lost her balance and tripped on a paving slab. Willing hands had steadied her, and one of them had helped himself to a generous portion of buttock. Those damn tight jeans – they were just too inviting.

She felt none of her usual pleasure in having her bottom mauled by rough male hands. She was just terrified. She knew one thing; these men were not common or garden police officers.

At first, she'd sat passively between the two uniformed men. After all, what was the worst that could happen to her? Six months, and out in four? If the Tisdall girl could do it, she certainly could. And, in a perverse sort of way, she rather liked the idea of being a martyr for a political cause. The truth was entirely less honourable, but she wouldn't say a word about that; and she was sure Peter had even more to gain by granting her the status of public heroine in his newspaper column.

All that had changed when the car doubled back towards London. The last thing she remembered noticing was the fact that, unlike any other police car she had ever seen, this one had dark purple-tinted windows, and a similar screen behind the driver's compartment, through which it was impossible to recognise any landmarks.

Where in the world have they brought me? This was uppermost in her jumbled thoughts as she was dragged up some stone steps. Is this a police station? as they frogmarched her briskly down an echoing corridor. Please God... as she was shoved brusquely into an elevator... let it be a simple, ordinary police station... as the lift began to descend.

* * *

It was doubtful if Jenny, had she seen him, would have recognised the Colonel. He was a creature of the shadows. The man who ran the Ministry's internal security at the highest level.

He dished out the dirty jobs. Jobs that most of the Ministry, and certainly the general public, never got to hear about. Armstrong jobs.

Armstrong reached inside his jacket as he heard footsteps and a girl's voice raised in protest in the corridor outside. Yes, the evidence was all there. He rubbed the soft, flimsy material between his fingers, feeling a sudden surge of sexual arousal at the thought of their daily intimacy with the girl.

The door was kicked open by the man in the fawn overcoat. Another of Jenny's captors followed, pushing the frightened, struggling girl before him. Armstrong stared at her and was utterly entranced by the girl's loveliness.

She held herself with the assurance of a woman who knew she was beautiful; the cool hauteur of the young career woman. But behind it all he saw the spoiled little child, the child used to getting her own way. Now she was a little girl lost, little girl very frightened.

For a second she thought she recognised him; had she, perhaps, caught a fleeting glimpse of him at the office? But no, she'd have surely remembered. The cynical twist of the tight mouth, eyes of the coldest blue, a body, enhanced by the narrow cord slacks and the brown leather jacket, that was firm, uncompromising muscle. This was a man few women would find easy to forget.

She let loose with a barrage of indignant complaints, but he was already dismissing his two apes, and ordering the door to be locked from the outside.

The two of them stood alone at last in the windowless room. Walls of whitewashed brick disappeared into shadows cast by one single naked light-bulb.

She trembled as the cold seeped through the thin jeans and skimpy cotton blouse. By now, she should have been jetting sunwards with Peter.

"Who are you?"

"Let's pretend I'm your Headmaster. And you have been summoned for punishment."

"But I haven't done –"

"I should tell you that since the Sarah Tisdall affair, we've been particularly vigilant in the matter of Cabinet Office leaks. A newspaper editor said at the time that the girl's arrest would put a paper shredder into every editor's office. Well that remark put one of our chaps in every newspaper office too."

"I want to phone Daddy."

"We've already spoken to him. Now shut up and listen. Two days ago a highly classified document went missing from a department in Whitehall – Your department, Miss Chalmers. Last night it turned up again. In the briefcase of a Fleet Street foreign affairs editor."

"You searched Peter's case?"

"And guess what else we found!" He reached inside his jacket and, with all the flair of a stage magician, he produced an all-too-familiar pair of red knickers. "Exhibit A for the prosecution, I think." he said smoothly

She made one last desperate attempt. "They-They're not mine."

"Oh come now, Miss Chalmers. You are known to be a very affectionate girl. Is there a man in your department who wouldn't recognise these knickers? One chap in particular even recognised this little cigarette burn right here where it fits your pretty little bum. Apparently, you were draped over his lap one evening when a spot of hot ash happened to land. Happily, I understand, he was able to prevent any possibility of immolation by the rapid application of a slipper."

She blushed scarlet. "I-I want to see Peter."

"He's tied up with a colleague of mine at the moment. He won't want any more to do with leaked documents in the future. Or with you for that matter."

"That's a lie!" She was close to tears.

"And that, Jenny Chalmers, is effectively a confession. Truth is, you have been used. You really think he was waiting for you at the airport? Why should he? He's a married man, Jenny. You'd given him what he wanted. I mean the document, of course, but I shouldn't disregard your undoubted physical charms."

After this there was nothing left. She crumbled completely and fell back on pitiful tears. And these didn't mollify Armstrong in the least. Rather they served to engage his desires.

"Now, Miss Chalmers, I'm going to get what I want... which is you bending over that table with your pants down!"

"Whaaaaaaat?" she shrieked in horror.

He moved away from the table and, for the first time, she saw what lay upon it.

"Christ, you're not going to use that thing on me, are you? You can't!" she half gasped, half shrieked.

"Would you rather spend the next ten years in Holloway Prison?"

"Ten years?"

"I suppose you expected 6 months like the Tisdall girl. This government has been embarrassed once too often by moles like you. They are prepared to charge you with a far more serious offence than merely passing on classified information."

Armstrong was lying, of course. No Court in the land would consider Jenny's offence treasonable, and most would let her off with a fine. However the Colonel had decided that an example needed to be made of this girl, and that rumours of unsubstantiated drastic punishment might circulate around the rest of the Department making any other would-be mole think twice.

Given time, Jenny might have reasoned this out for herself. But Armstrong was too clever to give her that kind of breathing space.

"It will be over and done with in minutes, Jenny," he insisted. "Come on now, be a sensible girl. Drop those pants and get yourself across that table!"

For a moment, he feared she wasn't going to fall for it. But she must have been too upset to think straight. For she turned away, affording him a spectacular view of her provocative bottom. And sobbing softly, she lowered her hands and with numb, fumbling fingers, began to unzip her jeans.

* * *

She was yelling fit to burst by the time the eighth stroke had lashed with wicked force into the centre of her naked, defenceless buttocks.

She was being flogged. There was no other word for it. No beating she had ever suffered as a schoolgirl could be remotely compared to the thrashing she was enduring now.

Through the haze of pain, and the blur of her copious tears, she dimly remembered the routine of her spankings and canings at school. The hardest strokes had just seemed to bounce off her bottom. Such a firm, resilient bottom that seemed to absorb the severest punishment and then come back for more. Even that never to be forgotten 12 stroke caning she received at the age of 18 on her bare bottom, laid on with full blooded force by her Headmistress, had left her bottom scorched and welted, yet able to take a good hot slippering two evenings later with little more than the usual discomfort.

But the pain that was tearing into her buttocks now, this was more terrible than anything she had ever experienced or imagined. The ninth stroke met her arse with a force that nearly lifted her clean over the table.

And she had congratulated herself on her cleverness! She bit deeply into her wrist as the birch lashed into the middle of her upturned buttocks.

How clever she was to outsmart the Whitehall ferrets!
Then – the flaring agony as the twigs splayed across her wide, tightly-stretched bottom cheeks and bit deeply into the soft flesh, scorching it to Hades!

Her whole body bucked an inch or more above the table as pure pain lanced through her, then collapsed with a bone-jarring thump against the unyielding mahogany surface. The breath was driven out of her in great, wracking sobs. How much more could she endure?

She lay there, writhing like a worm on a fish-hook, fighting to control her frantically thrashing legs. Not realising that every lascivious twitch of her wriggling buttocks inflamed Armstrong to new heights of birching frenzy.

For Armstrong, it was as if the outside world no longer existed. This was the only reality. The shapely, writhing, squirming female bottom to be flogged and flogged until the birch disintegrated.

This is real, he kept telling himself. He saluted his heroes, those stern schoolmasters of old, who had wielded the birch with zeal. Yet none of them, he was triumphantly sure, had ever whipped so voluptuous a bottom as this!

Swinging the heavy bunch of birch twigs as far back over his right shoulder as he could reach, he allowed the convulsive movements of Jenny's fiery bottom to subside slightly before sweeping the birch down and under to lash the very undercurve of her arse with a sharp series of whipping thwacks.

The girl's anguished howls were the purest music. Her ravaged buttocks and thighs the most exquisite tapestry. So erotic in their churning, scarlet agony. Was that a dozen? Who cared! The whipping lust was on him now and he flogged those blazing, fierily stinging cheeks with renewed vigour.

The birch rods fanned as they sang through the air, and splayed to cover the widest expanse of bottom at the moment of impact; each thin, sharp twig clawing into its own fleshy prize.

As for the state of Jenny's poor bottom, none of her lovers would have recognised it now. The rich creaminess was an ugly mass of purple, red and violet blotches. The smooth, graceful curves were cruelly ridged. The silky texture was pitted and scored with countless tiny welts. The cheeks looked as if they had been attacked with a million tiny needles, or worse.

AS swollen and livid as it was, her bottom was even more appealing to Armstrong. This was his handiwork, and he delighted in it. Was that twenty strokes she'd had? Damn it the girl could take double that. She had no choice.

Later, she was taken up in the elevator to the car that had brought her. Considerately, they allowed her to lie face down, her trousers still round her ankles, on the back seat before driving her to a private clinic where her harshly-used bottom would receive treatment of a more soothing kind.

* * *

The Colonel switched off the TV monitor, pocketed the tape cassette, and went through to join Armstrong in an interrogation room. They were far below the corridors of power in the building where Jenny had worked.

"Good view, Sir?"

"Saw the lot, old boy. Spectacular isn't the word. Damn fine show! You fairly flailed that little chit's rump!"

"What happens to her now, Sir?"

"Out of the country. We won't fire her – too dangerous. We've fixed her up in a British Embassy in some far off outpost."

Armstrong smiled. "The sort of place where news-hounds fear to tread?"

"Exactly. And the kind of place where they lop off so many hands and feet that no one is going to raise an eyebrow about a well whipped bottom – and she is well aware of that!"

Armstrong finished wrapping up what was left of the birch. He heard the Colonel cough behind him, an odd, guilty little sound.

"I've had my eye on this girl in the Far East section."

For a moment their eyes met and an unspoken message passed between them. Armstrong finished the Colonel's sentence. "Sally Evans."

"That's her, Armstrong. Bright girl. Should do well if she can be trained out of cheeking her superiors and broadcasting her liberal opinions."

Armstrong nodded. "I'll be down at my cottage this weekend, Sir. I've a few birch trees that need pruning."

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This story was scanned and prepared by Alex Birch.

The Schoolmaster's wife - the story prepared by Alex Birch

Story from Janus 25.

The Schoolmaster's wife
by R.T. Mason

It was Priscilla Browne's first Chapel on this, her first morning at Kingswood School and she found herself seated on a rather uncomfortable backless bench with the other Masters' wives. When the School filed in to the chapel the Masters and wives had to stand. The Upper School had to pass along directly behind the bench where the Junior Masters' wives were now standing, and the first time it happened Priscilla assumed it was an accident: a boy's hand brushing against the cheeks of her bottom.

But then followed a second, and a third, and then a fourth; and two of them were quite unmistakably bold 'feels' of her rather ripe bottom, contained this particular morning in only a thin summer dress with wispy brief knickers underneath. She bit her lip and sensed that she was flushing. But she could hardly make a scene on this very first morning at the School.

At the end of the short service the same thing happened; staff and their wives standing while the School filed out, at a somewhat leisurely pace. And again three or four boys, either the same ones or others, did it again; treated themselves to an open appreciative feel of the posterior of this new and very pretty young Master's wife. And again there was nothing Priscilla could do except stand there, mentally squirming, and letting it happen.

It was definitely a shock introduction to life at Kingswood, a somewhat minor Boys' Public School, but Priscilla decided, for the present at least, to say nothing to her husband, Derek. He, new like her, of course, to Kingswood, had to go off to teach his first classes and so probably had enough to think about. Directly after Chapel, though, Priscilla found herself walking in the Quadrangle with another young wife, a pretty brunette, who, like Priscilla, was in her early twenties. She introduced herself as Angela Bowen.

Angela asked if Priscilla was settling in all right. Then added, laughing, "I expect your bottom got a few feels and pinches in Chapel?"

Priscilla was horrified. So it was evidently not an isolated incident. Her pent-up feelings burst forth, "It's simply outrageous! Doing that to a Master's wife! Haven't you complained to the Headmaster?"

Angela chuckled. "You've got to be joking! Have you met the Head yet? You've a treat in store! He's the worst of the lot!"

Priscilla had not in fact yet met Dr. Stirling. She had unfortunately been indisposed when she and Derek had been due to come and look over the School before term started and so Derek had gone by himself. This, the first day of term, was the first Priscilla has actually seen of it. It was considered that wives had an important role to play in supporting their husbands so she had been interviewed along with Derek for the job – Derek to teach English and to take charge of a School House. It was seen that Priscilla would have a major supporting role in this latter function. The interview had been in London with the Board of Trustees and Governors. And none of them had pinched her bottom, although she blushed as she remembered that one or two of the men had stared with evident interest at the pretty blonde girl and her shapely figure, full firm breasts and equally ripe and firm young backside.

Priscilla was due to meet the Head for the first time for coffee later that morning, and Angela Bowen's words did not have her exactly looking forward to it. Worst of the lot? What did that mean?

She knocked and entered his study with some trepidation. He was a large man, tall and bulky, with sharp appraising eyes. Eyes that went quickly over Priscilla's shapely form as he rose to greet her. After the boys in Chapel and Angela Bowen's warning, she half expected him to pinch her bottom right away. But he didn't – oh no, it must have taken him all of five minutes!

He had led her over to his French window overlooking the lawn – after a friendly greeting and saying how sorry he was that they had not been able to meet before. And was she settled in all right in Delaney House? Then, after a few words about the School, he said how glad he was to find that she was such a pretty and shapely young woman.

"Naturally the Governors would have taken that into consideration when they appointed you and your husband. A lovely woman does so much for the boys' morale in an otherwise all-male school. And of course it does wonders for the Headmaster's morale as well!"

He laughed rather loudly. "Yes indeed. A lovely woman with a very shapely figure. Including a rather splendid bottom, I must say!"

And at that point he simply reached round behind her and took a firm hold of Priscilla's backside. A much more firm and no-nonsense grip than any of the feels she had received from the boys in Chapel.

Priscilla gasped and involuntarily squirmed. But what do you do when you are the very new wife of a very new and junior Master and it's the Headmaster who has a hold on your bottom? Priscilla felt she didn't have a lot of choice but to let him continue.

He groped and fondled at her full firm cheeks, and then gave her bottom a sharp slap. "And speaking of your bottom, Mrs. Browne, leads me on to another matter. Discipline. Discipline for our young wives, that is. Sometimes young wives become troublesome in a place like this and, heaven knows, their husbands have enough to worry about. So what I like to do, if our young wives get into any little problems, is to treat them just the same as I treat the older boys. I give them a good caning."

Could she possibly have heard correctly? Priscilla's incredulity must have shown by the manner in which her face flushed bright red and her mouth dropped open.

"Yes, Mrs. Browne, a sound caning." He smiled disarmingly. "To be perfectly frank, caning a pretty young woman is a very pleasant diversion after dealing with young males all day. And I can assure you it is something I shall look forward to with great pleasure in your case."

He gave Priscilla's bottom another sharp slap and indicated that the interview was over.

* * *

Still in a daze Priscilla happened to see Angela Bowen again just a little later. Smiling brightly, Angela asked how Priscilla had got on, then invited her over to her own House, Perceval, for another cup of coffee.

"Did he get his cane out?" laughed Angela.

Priscilla was now prepared to believe anything! "He-he doesn't really cane us, does he?" she asked weakly.

"Oh I'm afraid he does, dear. Whenever we give him the excuse and sometimes when there is no excuse at all. I'm afraid, like he says, we are a pleasant diversion from the boys."

"But – but does your husband know?" asked Priscilla, incredulously.

"Oh yes, of course he does. And he just has to accept it as one of the Head's little quirks. After all he values his position here... and it's not as if the Head was screwing me, is it?"

"When-when does he do it?" asked Priscilla, completely stunned and feeling a little weak at the knees.

"Like I say, whenever he gets the excuse." She poured the percolated coffee into the cups. "And that's another thing, of course. Have you ever been in charge of a school House before? I mean you have the same degree of responsibility as your husband, and that's how the Head views it. And if you can't control the little monsters, that's one sure way of giving dear Dr. Stirling a wonderful excuse. So ask yourself, Priscilla, can you control fifty hormonally charged boys who are all dreaming of getting you naked and giving you a good shagging?"

Priscilla felt her skin pricking with little beads of perspiration. She had never taken charge of a group of boys before, as this was Derek's first regular appointment. She stared at Angela and bleakly shook her head.

"Drink your coffee," said Angela. "The trick of course is to get the Head Boy and all the prefects on your side, then the battle's won. But getting them all on your side poses its own problems. Of course, you could be like Susan Rogers, whose husband runs Lamont House, and simply allow the boys to screw you. She never has any trouble with discipline."

Priscilla gasped in disbelief. This just couldn't be happening!

"No, it's true," said Angela. "Mind you, Susan is a little tart. She loves screwing them anyway."

Priscilla, struggling to maintain composure, asked what Angela did to ease the pupil problem.

Angela flushed slightly. "Let's just say I'm very friendly with them, without letting them have... er... you-know-what. I sometimes let them watch me undress and sometimes – well, I do sometimes let them spank me."

Priscilla gave another incredulous look, and Angela smiled. "There's no need to look like that. It's perfectly normal for boys of their age to want to see a woman's body and also, well, have a little intimate contact with it. Spanking is harmless enough."

"Wh-what sort of... spanking?" asked Priscilla, now struggling for breath it seemed.

"Oh well of course they want your bare bum. A good hiding with your knickers down. And I do usually agree to that."

* * *

So now you know it all, thought Priscilla. Bottom pinching in the chapel, the Head canes you, and on top of that you have to let young boys spank your bare bum! Quite, quite inconceivable!

She went back to her own sitting room, her mind bemused by the morning's revelations. She still hadn't formally met the members of her House – that little treat was scheduled for this afternoon. And what would happen then? Could she possibly cope after what she knew now?

Derek came in ten minutes later, his first classes at Kingswood over. He seemed quite pleased and said it hadn't gone too badly. "And how about you, darling?" he asked, kissing her. "Are you getting your bearings?"

She managed to force a smile. "Er... yes, slowly," she said, and left it at that. As he settled down with his newspaper she unhappily reviewed her problems. There was presumably nothing she could do about getting her bottom pinched in Chapel; clearly you either stood still and let it happen or made a scene. And what would that do for Derek's prospects? Quite simply she wasn't prepared to make a scene. And the Head? Well, she could only wait and see about him. But the boys in the House? Surely she didn't have to suffer the humiliation of pandering to their every whim?

The Head introduced Derek and Priscilla to the members of Delany House right after lunch. Forty boys ranging through to 18 plus. Derek made a little speech after Dr. Stirling, then Priscilla stood up, smiling, to let them see her. Smiling outwardly but cringing inside as she thought of what Angela had said. 'Get the Head Boy and the prefects on your side'. Then it was plain sailing. But to do that........!

The real shock came right after the House meeting. Derek had to go and take a class and Priscilla was to serve tea to those very same dreaded Head Boy and his prefects in their living room. Five strapping youths, all of them just a few years younger than Priscilla's 22 years... and what had Angela said? All dreaming about stripping you naked and giving you a good shagging. Priscilla blushed hotly and gritted her teeth.

In her sitting room the Head Boy, Robert Maidment, tall and dark, said, "We're really pleased to see you here, Mrs. Browne. And clearly Delany House is now going to have the prettiest wife in the school."

As Priscilla blushed slightly one of the others added, "And the one with the best figure too!"

The others enthusiastically nodded and voiced agreement, their eyes running all over her body. 'Christ!' thought Priscilla, becoming nervous. She quickly excused herself to go into the kitchen and make the tea. But they all immediately followed, crowding around her. A hand slid over her bottom cheeks.

She tried to move but they were all swarming round. "Look," she said imploringly, "Please...."

Robert Maidment said, "A Housemaster's wife is always very friendly to the prefects, Mrs. Browne. That way we all co-operate to keep the other little tykes in order."

"Yes, miss, very nice and friendly," said a thick set youth she could only remember as Desmond something. "And by the way, Mrs. Browne, you really do have a gorgeous pair of tits."

And then, before Priscilla knew what was happening they had all moved in on her; all five at once grabbing and groping. She felt like the ball in the middle of a rugby maul. One boy was trying to unfasten her dress, another had his hand up her skirt and was twiddling with a suspender, three or four hands were trying to squeeze her breasts at the same time.

Priscilla did the only thing possible, she let out an ear piercing scream. One could imagine the sound echoing across the whole of the school and it did have some effect. They let go of her.

Straightening her dress and with tears in her eyes, she gasped, "You boys should all be ashamed of yourselves. You're acting like wild animals. I've a good mind to tell my husband!"

Robert Maidment, his face a bit red, said, "Now that wouldn't be a good idea, miss. We didn't mean to rough you up. It was just spontaneous and we got a bit carried away. But the fact is that in this school, the Housemaster's wife is always nice to the senior boys. That's just the way things work here."

"What does 'being nice' mean, exactly?" asked Priscilla, still flushed from her struggles.

"It means let's see what you've got under that dress, for a start," said one of the other boys with a leer, "we're starved for a sight of soft rounded female flesh!"

Desmond added, "And Mrs. Bowen lets us spank her bottom too." As Priscilla reddened, he added casually, "Her bare bottom, naturally."

She spat back angrily, "Well I'm not doing any of those things, they're disgusting and degrading. I'd advise you to forget this conversation."

She gave them tea and cakes with the thought that maybe her strong stance just might have got through to their better natures but she could tell from their general demeanour that it was a forlorn hope.

An hour after they had left, sullenly, there was a knock on her door. It was the Head Boy again. He told her that the junior members of the House were likely to be very boisterous that evening and there wasn't a lot the prefects would be able to do about it. Priscilla turned slightly pale. This was blackmail. She tried to argue the issue but he nodded politely and walked away.

That night there was a minor riot in Delany House, boys shouting and screaming, rampaging about all evening and the racket continued after Lights Out. Derek, white-faced, did his best to produce some semblance of order; but as soon as he'd got one dormitory quiet, a riotous noise would erupt from another. His repeated queries of the Senior boys as to why they were doing nothing to help quell the disturbance finally drew a comment from one prefect:

"If your wife was more pleasant to us, Sir, we'd be more inclined to get involved."

Things finally quietened down when the Head came over, breathing fire and thunder. He said he would see Derek and Priscilla about these shameful goings-on in his study in the morning... separately.

"Whatever is all this about?" asked a bewildered Derek Browne when he and his wife were finally alone in their sitting room at about 12.30 am.

"The senior boys want me to undress for them, that's all!" said a tight-lipped Priscilla, "and that's just the start. Of course I said I wouldn't."

"Whaaaaaattt?"

"You heard. It's the done thing here, didn't you know? A Housemaster's wife is supposed to be nice to the senior boys. Yes, that sort of nice! Susan Rogers lets her senior boys screw her!"

Derek gasped in horror. "Jesus, they haven't asked you for that, I hope!"

Priscilla said, her voice tense, "No – not yet! Though I expect they'd all like to."

In the morning, with an air of ominous calm about Delany House, came the reckoning. Derek was to go and see Dr. Stirling at 9.30 am, Priscilla at 10. Before these dread appointments, though, there was Chapel. In which Priscilla, this morning in a pink-flowered blouse and blue skirt, suffered the same treatment as the day before. Standing at the backless bench with the other wives, her bottom was openly felt up when the boys filed in and again when they went out. It was hateful but today she had more worrying things on her mind – that 10 am appointment.

In the Head's study Derek found himself well and truly 'on the carpet' as Dr. Stirling told him, in icy tones, he expected much better from his Housemasters. It had been an utterly weak and disgraceful performance. But Derek could hardly blurt out what Priscilla had told him as, in any case, it would make him look extremely foolish.

"It won't happen again, Headmaster," he said, hoping he sounded confident and sure of himself.

"It had better not!" replied the Head grimly, "or you may find this tenure to be of short duration. You haven't made a very good start!"

He was still looking grim when Priscilla knocked and entered, though now the grimness was tempered with a feeling of pleasurable anticipation.

"Do you have any word of explanation for last night's disgraceful business?" he sternly addressed the unhappy-looking Priscilla.

She shook her head miserably. Well, what could she say? It was probable Dr. Stirling already had some idea why. "When there is disruption in a House, Mrs. Browne, I always attribute a lot of responsibility to the Housemaster's wife. She has to learn to get along with the boys in her care. You are going to learn that... and quickly I hope!"

Priscilla bit her lip. "Y... yes, Dr. Stirling," she muttered miserably.

"Yes indeed, Mrs. Browne. And what did I tell you about what happens to the young wives here when they fail the trust placed in them? I give them the cane, Mrs. Browne. Will you therefore kindly pull down your knickers and then bend right across my desk!"

He went to the door and locked it – while Priscilla stood rooted to the floor with shock, her heart thumping. "Look... Dr. Stirling... you can't mean that... I'm not a pupil, I'm a grown woman!"

"Undoubtedly you are, Mrs. Browne. Undoubtedly fully-grown and especially so in all the best parts. And it is one of those best parts which is now going to feel the sting of my cane. And why on earth shouldn't a fully grown woman be caned, eh? So get those knickers down, please! At ONCE!"

What could she do? It seemed that all the others got it. And... at least it was private. Just her and Dr. Stirling. And no one else had to know. She finally, hesitantly, raised her hands and slid them up under her skirt. Looking fixedly at the carpet she slid her knickers down to the tops of her nylons.

"Over the desk!" instructed Dr. Stirling. Papers, inkstand etc had all been thoughtfully cleared to one side.

"Good!" he said. He pulled up her full blue skirt and there indeed were a pair of brief pink nylon knickers at the tops of Priscilla's dark nylons. And then the full pale upper thighs and, above them, a splendid bare bottom; two ripely rounded globes of creamy female flesh.

Dr. Stirling gave this splendid bared bottom a preliminary appreciative smack. There was a satisfying sound of flesh meeting flesh. The bottom wobbled delightfully at the contact. Priscilla, her face in close proximity to the polished desk-top emitted a sharp gasp. This whole business was simply mortifying!

And then after a slight pause; CRACK!... An unbelievable pain in her defenceless rear as the cane swished vigorously down. She let out an agonised yelp. Her bottom went into a desperate flesh-wobbling dance.

Then CRACK!... A second vigorous stroke across the full meat of that so appetising backside, very close to the line of the first. A second desperate yelp... the bottom's frantic dance re-intensified... and CRACK!... a third... then CRACK!... a fourth. At which point Priscilla sagged somewhat at the knees and Dr. Stirling had to haul her back into position, her juicy bottom now with its four distinct red stripes.

"No!" she cried. "No more please!"

But there were naturally two more to come. Because, as in all good schools, six of the best was the norm. And at Kingswood School that naturally applied to pretty young wives as well.

When he had finished he dropped the cane and ran his hand approvingly over Priscilla's smarting backside.

"There now, Mrs. Browne, I found that most enjoyable. But for the sake of your husband's career, not to mention your own bottom, I hope you quickly get matters sorted out over in Delany House."

Her hand went up to wipe away the tears.

Priscilla saw Derek again later in the morning when he had a free period. Looking tense, Derek said the same thing as the Head. "Look, we've got to get things sorted out..."

She looked at him bleakly. For the moment at least she couldn't bring herself to tell him that her bare bottom had just been caned by the Head. It was just too humiliating. "So you want me to agree to the boys demands then?" she asked.

"Pris, we've got to get the senior boys co-operation. Otherwise – well I could lose this job. And, I suppose they only want to have a bit of fun, really."

She replied angrily. "What they want, Derek, is for me to let them spank my bottom. My bare bottom! You want me to agree to that, do you?"

Derek flushed guiltily. "No, I don't actually want it to happen but... well... if they won't agree to anything else. And if they don't go any further... ask you for... you know... that. I suppose they just see it as a bit of fun thing."

"Well it's not my idea of a fun thing," Priscilla replied unhappily, "...letting five 18 year old boys get their hands on my bare bottom."

"Well you better talk to them anyway. Talk to that Robert Maidment."

* * *

Priscilla saw Robert Maidment at lunch time. Controlling a tremor in her voice she said they'd better have a chat. Derek was conveniently out at a staff meeting and took the Head Boy into her sitting room. "That... er... situation yesterday was quite awful." she said quietly.

Robert Maidment nodded in agreement and said he was sorry.

"No you're not. And I suppose the same thing will happen tonight if... if I don't..."

He shrugged his shoulders. "We'd like to co-operate, Mrs. Browne, but you have to co-operate too. It's Kingswood tradition you see."

"It can't be tradition," she cried, "not that you force your Housemaster's wife to... to..."

"Oh, not force, Mrs. Browne! The tradition here is to persuade. We'd much rather you did it of your own free will. But every wife co-operates, just ask the others. Mrs. Mather, she was the Housemaster's wife here before you, miss, she was quite happy to let us... eventually. She used to take her knickers down every day for us. She wasn't half as pretty as you though."

Red-faced, Priscilla asked, "What... what exactly are you asking for?"

He replied, his voice calm and even, "We want you to take all your clothes off in front of us. Give us a good look at you naked. And then we'll want to spank you. That's all."

Priscilla's voice sounded to her as if it was coming from another body as she asked, shakily, "How... how often will all this happen?"

"Twice a week, I'd say," he calmly replied.

Priscilla gulped. His words hung in the air, and she could feel pin-pricks of perspiration beading her skin as she suddenly had an all too vivid picture of it – a picture she tried in vain to erase. Her thoughts twisted and turned – so, without her being aware of it, did her hands – but she could see no way out of it. She glanced at Robert Maidment, still calmly surveying her, then she quickly looked down at the carpet.

"Look..." she began desperately.

She did the best she could. She got him to agree that it didn't have to be all of them at once. That would have been quite unbearable; five boys and her... whereas at least one at a time allowed some delusion of equality, even if she did have to shamefully submit to it. It would be each of the five boys once every two weeks. And she would either take all her clothes off OR she would get across the boy's knee, then let him take her knickers down and smack her bottom. The boy could choose one but not both.

That was agreed, which was awful enough – then Robert Maidment, sharp-eyed as ever, said, "To show good faith though, we all want a try-out now. So that we know you're not having us on, Miss."

Priscilla gulped; felt the pin pricks of perspiration again. While Robert Maidment stated his further conditions. Then she began to feel really shaky.

"Can you please go out after tea?" Priscilla asked Derek quietly, an hour later. When he looked blank she added, somewhat hysterically, "Out! Out of the House! Out of the School! Anywhere! Or do you want to stay around and watch how your dear wife keeps the senior boys happy in this awful place?"

Derek flushed and bit his lip. "I-I'll go into town... maybe see a film," he said lamely.

Only a couple of minutes after he left there was a knock at the door. Robert Maidment. With the feeling that she was in some kind of nightmare, Priscilla let him in, then closed the door... and locked it. As she did so the boy's arms came around her waist.

She started to push him away but he said "Hey, that's not a very good start, is it!" and then she stopped fighting. He pulled her up close against him. His face was red and she could feel his stiff erection. His hands cupped her bottom.

He said smoothly, "Now that's much better, Miss." And then his hands began pulling up the skirt of her dress and her slip. Pulling them right up to her waist, then his hands were at the waistband of her knickers, yanking them down roughly. His hands on her now bare bottom, squeezing and groping.

Priscilla weakly pushed him away and said, softly, "Come on then... if you're going to do it..."

And then she was over his lap as he sat on her sofa. Her head down near the carpet and her bottom up over his lap. Her naked bottom. And his hand starting to smack crisply down on those bare buttocks. Jolting sharply into the full firm bare cheeks in a briskly rhythmic tempo.

He was smacking her hard and it stung like hell but worse than any pain was the thought that such a humiliating thing could be happening to her. That she, newly married Mrs. Priscilla Browne, had an 18 year old boy spanking her bare bottom. Her eyes were rapidly filling with tears, not so much of pain as of mortification.

At last Maidment stopped and let her get up. Tight-lipped, fighting her tears, Priscilla pulled up her knickers and adjusted her dress. Her bottom really stung. Robert Maidment smiled a wolfish smile. "There now. That wasn't so bad, was it, Miss? You might get to like it soon."

Priscilla said nothing. Then he told her he'd like some coffee and, obediently, she went to make some. With any luck he would drink it and go and her ordeal – for the moment at least – would be over.

But, eyes bright over his coffee cup, Robert Maidment said, "And now I want to see everything you've got, Mrs. Browne."

She stared at him, open-mouthed with horror. He said, evenly, "That was part of our bargain wasn't it?"

No it damn well hadn't been part of their bargain! But what was the point of arguing? As he said, pointedly, "We all want a nice quiet night in Delany House tonight, don't we Mrs. Browne? I'm sure your husband does!"

Trying not to look at him, trying not to think of her shame, trying not to cry, Priscilla made herself comply. Standing in front of him she took off the pink dress. And then her slip. Then, cringingly, her bra. Her full, firm breasts pointing at him. Her large nipples, she realised with deep shame, were, for some reason, erect.

"Well those are something special, Miss," he exclaimed, grinning. "And now, very slowly, the knickers off please. You can keep your nylons and suspender belt on but please spread your legs..."

She was beyond shame now and her shapely bottom, when he eventually made her turn around, shone scarlet in comparison to the rest of her pale trembling flesh.

* * *

When Derek got back at 11 pm, Delany's like all the other Houses, was as quiet as a mouse. Priscilla, he found, had already gone to bed. She was lying in the dark staring up at the ceiling.

"Well, it's quiet at least," said Derek hesitantly, turning on the bedside lamp.

Priscilla said nothing.

He looked at her, then looked away in embarrassment. He didn't ask what had happened. Whatever it was it couldn't have been too bad, he convinced himself.

"Yes," he said finally, "I think things are going to work out all right here. I mean once we accept that boys will be boys."

Priscilla remained silent.

She was thinking of Robert Maidment, of course. And of the two other senior prefects who were due to come round, one at a time, and attend to her tomorrow. And the following day the other two. Perhaps I'll get used to it, she thought. Maybe I'll start to like it, like he said. After all it was true that boys will be boys. She tried to think that maybe she was helping them. After all they must get so frustrated in an all male world...

Derek repeated. "Yes, dear, I think things will be all right. It's just a question of getting to know them well, don't you think?"

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This story was scanned and prepared by Alex Birch.