Saturday, 8 January 2011

New Girl

Story from Janus 58.

New Girl
by Andrew Grantham

KELLY was mesmerised by what the Head Girl held in her hand. She bit her lower lip and then gulped nervously as four pairs of young, female eyes stared at her.

'I didn't think it would matter,' explained the pretty, 17-year-old newcomer to Wynstanleigh Girls' School.

'Smoking is a serious offence here!' snapped the Head Girl, an attractive redhead by the name of Wendy Tyrer. The other three girls in the room, all prefects, nodded in agreement.

'But I hadn't even started here,' protested Kelly. Her eyes, like rock pools under a blue sky, looked appealingly at each accuser in turn.

Wendy swooshed the shiny yellow cane through the air, causing Kelly to flinch. 'You were on the train,' the redhead stated coolly. 'Your luggage clearly showed your destination. You gave other passengers a bad impression of the school, even before you had set foot in the quadrangle.'

'I'm sorry.' Kelly spread her hands submissively. Although the other girls were much the same age as herself, she accepted their authority. That was one result of her upbringing in a Service environment. Kelly's father was a major in a very good regiment. 'Can't you overlook it this time – first offence and all that?'

'I won't be responsible for lowering standards at Wynstanleigh!' retorted the Head Girl. 'Make your mind up – either accept our summary punishment here and now, and that will be the end of the matter or else you will be reported to the Headmaster.' She looked at her fellow prefects. 'And we know what will happen to you then, don't we?'

The three prefects pursed their lips and nodded sagely.

Kelly sighed and despondently dropped her arms to her sides. She knew she daren't risk a bad report from the Headmaster. The brunette wanted to follow in her father's footsteps and the Army were now very choosy who they allowed into their ranks.

Kelly took a deep breath and her firm young breasts swelled handsomely beneath her crisply-laundered blouse. 'If you promise it won't go any further, I'll take a punishment from you,' she conceded.

'Agreed,' replied the Head Girl brusquely. Smiles flickered across the faces of the other three.

Apart from her fear of being reported to the Headmaster on her very first day, another influencing factor in her decision was the belief that the Head Girl would surely not be able to hurt her tender, young posterior as much as a mature, experienced member of the teaching profession. Quite possibly, the Headmaster would also write to her father to inform him that he had had to punish her, and she could think of nothing as embarrassing as that.

A small tear sparkled at the corner of one of Kelly's lovely eyes as she was pulled by the arm towards the centre of the study. She was curtly ordered by the Head Girl to bend over and touch her toes, with the promise that any shifting of position would earn extra strokes on top of the 'six of the best' she was going to get.

Wendy bared her handsome teeth at her colleagues as Kelly contritely did as she was told. The Head Girl tapped the palm of one hand with the tip of the springy cane as she came out with the shock announcement. 'Of course, you understand that you'll take it on the bare.'

'Oh no!' gasped Kelly, her head vanishing in a cascade of hair as she turned it sharply towards Wendy.

'Oh yes!' snapped the redhead. 'Do you honestly think the Headmaster will cane you with some protection on your bottom?'

Kelly sighed weakly and turned her head away.

Wendy nodded and the other three girls rolled the brunette's bottle-green, pleated skirt up around her waist. Her skimpy black knickers would have afforded no protection whatever, even if she had been allowed to retain them. Most of her impudent, chubby bottom overflowed from the tightly-stretched, black nylon. She realised that they were being removed mainly to shame her – as if being caned on the bottom at her age were not already degrading enough.

A lanky blonde girl took great delight in denuding Kelly's backside, pulling the knickers down and allowing the elastic to snap across her lower cheeks and thigh-tops as she did so.

All was quiet in the study as the unfortunate new girl's white, trembling bottom was starkly revealed. Her long, nicely-moulded legs were straddled and taut, her knickers stretched into a thin black line across her calves.

The prefects watched smugly as Wendy Tyler raised the thin cane as high as her arm would take it. There it stayed for a little while, poised above the soft, smooth, sensitive target flesh that had never been struck before.

Suddenly, it whooshed down and landed with a sickening thwack across Kelly's naked and helpless bottom. The girl took in air sharply but did not cry out.

Wendy pursed her lips, clearly disappointed that the new girl had not given a vocal reaction. She therefore put even more force into the next stroke and the cane slashed a satisfying line of flame across both sides of the long, deep cleft separating the round and fleshy globes.

It resulted in a howl of pain and a wild writhing of Kelly's pain-stricken buttocks.

Beaming proudly now, Wendy handed the cane to the leggy blonde who wasted no time in bringing it whistling down upon the burning, upthrust buttocks. The cracking impact caused the flesh to ripple and extorted a shriek of pain from Kelly.

The brunette buckled at the knees, but the sheer terror of having to endure even one more stroke forced her to quickly lock them back in position.

The remaining two girls eagerly took the proffered cane when their turns came, and when the Head Girl again held it to deliver the final stroke, Kelly's tortured bum was burning all over from the tops of her thighs to the crests of her meaty mounds.

For the last time, Wendy sank the cane into the curvaceous flesh and another line of fire leaped across her victim's scorched nates.

Hot-faced and gasping, Kelly sank to the floor, her body shattered from her ordeal.

Wendy Tyrer and her friends lit cigarettes and laughed so much they had to hold each other as they surveyed the criss-cross weals on the new girl's gyrating, lewdly up-poked bottom.

When they had recovered, they would tell the stricken Kelly that corporal punishment at Wynstanleigh had been abolished years before!

The major's daughter, however, certainly wouldn't appreciate the 'joke' they had played on her.

Thursday, 6 January 2011

A peach too many

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.4

A peach too many

Christina selected a peach from the basket and bit rapturously into the succulent flesh. She finished the fruit, licking the sweet juice from her lips, and put the nut into a used envelope. She took another peach and stood for a few moments enhancing the pleasure, while she stared idly through the window watching the children playing in Elmfield Way. Suddenly she stiffened. A battered Ford van slowed and halted opposite the door of number nine. The words FRANK ATKINS, MARKET GARDENER were painted on the sides.

The girl acted quickly. She screwed up the envelope and dropped it into her small waste-paper-bin; then taking two peaches from the basket, she put them, with the one she held, carefully into a sheet of clean paper, which she folded and pushed on to one of her book-shelves. The doorbell rang. Very quietly she carried the basket into her young brother's bedroom and hid it behind a suitcase under his bed. She thought it unlikely that the fruit would be found, but if it was Bobby would be blamed, for he wasn't above scrumping apples. As she crept back into her own bedroom she heard Mr. Atkin's angry west country voice downstairs. When her mother entered her room she was sitting at her small table engrossed in a study of Fowler's Modern English Usage. "Hallo, mum," she said innocently, "who's that shouting the odds downstairs?"

Mrs. Graves face was lined and wan. "You'll be the death of me, Christina! Where are they?"

"Where's what, mum?"

"You know very well, you bad girl! The peaches you stole. Where are they?"

The girl faced her mother with an aggrieved expression. "I didn't steal. I only picked a couple. Well, three. Oh, well, I'm sorry." She took the paper from the bookcase. "Here, the old skinflint can have them back. Tell him I'm sorry and I won't take any more."

Her mother frowned with a helpless expression. "Mr. Atkins says.... Chrissie, you're not being fair. He isn't a skin-flint. This is his living. Where are the rest? How many have you eaten? I want the truth, now."

"That's all. I told you I only picked three, and I haven't eaten any. That isn't stealing!"

The woman hesitated, biting her lip as she stared sadly at her self-satisfied, over-indulged, over-fed, daughter. She had spoiled the child. Was she lying? Christina did tell lies and this was not the first time she'd stolen fruit. "Oh, Chrissie! Of course it is! What am I going to do with you? You'd better come down."

Confronted by the market gardener, Christina was brazen and confident. "I'm sorry, Mr. Atkins, honestly. I only picked three. Look, you can have them back."

"Now you look, young miss! It just ban't good 'nough. Three peaches? A good four pound, ee picked, an' I can't afford to 'ave my fruit stole."

"Calling me a liar, Mr. Atkins?"

"I ban't calling ee nothing. But I knaw 'ow much ee tuk. My own kids ban't 'aving other people's doing it. This've been going on for years. I've warned ee more'n once, miss. This time it's the police."

"No!" cried Mrs. Graves in distress. "Oh, my God! Mr. Atkins, please! Leave Christina to me. I promise you it'll never happen again."

The man grunted. "I don' want to make things bad for you, Mrs. Graves. But this be my bread an' butter, an' I want something done about it. She'm your girl, ma'am, but... well 'er's got to be made to see sense!"

"I'm very, very sorry, Mr. Atkins," Christina said, demurely contrite, "I understand now. I know it was very naughty of me and I'll never do it again, I promise faithfully. You won't go to the police will you? Now I must go and get on with my homework, I'm behind with it." She thought complacently about the basket of luscious peaches. The man wouldn't carry out his threat, she was sure. How could he prove how many she had picked. And she knew she could handle her mother. Turning, she walked slowly up the stairs, emphasizing the movement of her buxom behind.

"Please, Mr. Atkins, there's no need for the police. It'll never happen again. I'll make her mind."

"How?" he asked sceptically. "I've 'ad trouble wi' that girl o' yours for years. Ee knaws that as well as I do, ma'am. I ban't no trouble-maker, but I must be sure 'er'll be punished."

"Punished! Oh, but... she's seventeen, Mr. Atkins. Nigh on eighteen. And she promised faithfully. I'll give her a good talking to."

"That just ban't gud 'nough. I knaws what kids needs. 'Ab'n I brought up four o' me own? Listen, Mrs. Graves. You knaws my Pansy, don' ee? Last yur 'er tuk some o' my best purple grapes. 'Er knawed it were strictly forbidden. Do ee knaw what I did, ma'am?" The woman shook her head helplessly. "I told 'er mum to take she to 'er bedroom an' see 'er got ready for bed. Then I went up wi' my strap. I keeps a leather belt for my youngsters, a thick, 'eavy'n. Poor maid were frightened sick, t'weren't the first time I'd leathered 'er bu... bottom. I made Pansy drop 'er pyjama trousers an' lie across 'er bed, an' I laid on fifteen real good wallops across 'er bare backside. Sorry, ma'am"... seeing the woman's cheeks flush pinkly... "I'm a blunt man. An' mark me, that were dree months after Pansy's eighteenth birthday."

"Oh, my goodness!"

"Ah! 'er cried 'er eyes out an' cudn't 'ardly move." He paused. "Luk, Mrs. Graves. I knaws it ban't for me to tell folks 'ow to bring their children up. But, wi' respect, ma'am, I do think your girl ought to be corrected. An' if you can't do it..."

"Oh dear! All right, Mr. Atkins, I – I'll – well, I will give Christina a good hiding. With a slipper. I haven't a strap."

Mrs. Graves went upstairs again. Standing with eyes meekly lowered, Christina apologised for worrying her mother.

"You don't care how much you worry me! You never did. You're a spoiled, selfish girl! And you eat too much – look at you!" Christina blinked and stared uneasily at the pronounced roundness of her form. It was true, she was fat; she hadn't much waist. "Anyway, I've promised Mr. Atkins I'll punish you."

Christina grinned. "How – no jam for tea?"

"Don't scoff, Christina. I am very angry. I said... well, I told him I'd... well, smack you with a slipper on your bottom. Er..." she gulped. "Bare."

"You what? Oh, mum, don't be ridiculous. I'm not a kid." She laughed. "Spank me with a slipper? At seventeen? That's daft – bare or otherwise!"

"You'll have to let me, Chrissie. I promised."

DAUGHTER: "Well I won't. Anyway, what a silly fuss over three bloody peaches!" MOTHER: "Don't use that language, child. That's all you took?" "Yes. Just three. Honestly." "You swear that? On your honour, Chrissie?" "I swear mummy. On my honour. He's got them back and I'll never do it again."

Poor Mrs. Graves. She was inept, and she knew it. She was only too glad to accept that assurance. She couldn't chastise her grown-up daughter. She never had given the girl a hiding; she'd known she could not keep that promise when she had made it. She loved Chrissie dearly, she didn't want to hurt her. She couldn't anyway, unless Chrissie submitted voluntarily. As for the idea of Mr. Atkins strapping his eighteen year old daughter's uncovered bottom... That was absolutely shocking! After all, she thought, such a fuss over three peaches. She looked at the small table, with text books, reference books, fountain pen, ruled foolscap paper covered with neat handwriting. She was proud of her clever child. Chrissie had made a solemn promise. She was a good girl, really.

Despite the solemn promise, when the girl went out after tea her mother decided to search her room as a salve to her own conscience. Christina anticipated that, but she was unworried. The fruit was safe and the flap was over. Mum had persuaded Mr. Atkins and she had persuaded mum. Spank her bare arse? Mummy must be getting senile!

The spoiled young lady would have felt less complacent had she seen the Ford van turn into the drive of a detached house called The Larches. It was the home of Mrs. Bentley, the large, formidable Deputy Principal of the Comprehensive.

"I be right sorry to bother ee 'bout this, Mrs. Bentley, ma'am. But I'm fair sick of it an' that's a fact. That Mrs. Graves swore 'er'd deal wi' the thieving young madam, an' it'd never 'appen again. But us've 'ad it all before. Nothing'll be done. You must know Christina Graves ma'am." Mrs. Bentley certainly did. The girl was weak-charactered; deceiptful, and had been suspected of pilfering from the school sports fund. "I do sympathise, Mr. Atkins, I will see Christina and give her a severe telling-off."

"Well, ma'am, what I wondered... After all, it's well known as you'm strict at school. I did think maybe a good dose of the cane..."

The Deputy Principal smiled faintly. "I daresay I could. But punishing a senior girl is a serious matter. I would need the headmaster's approval. And – with respect Mr. Atkins, I'm not doubting your word for one moment – there's no proof."

"Well, I knaw 'er took 'bout four pounds but I can't prove that. But there's proof 'er took three peaches – an' it's still stealing."

"True, and Mr. Norman regards stealing as a very serious offence. But as for corporal punishment – well, you know how things are these days. Some people in the county education department are against it. The maximum I am permitted to give a girl is two strokes on each hand. And that only with Mr. Norman's approval. A big, lusty girl getting on for eighteen – she'd laught at it! And girls must not be caned on the seat. More's the pity." And that was all, the man asked? She shrugged. "What else? Mr. Norman considers that suspension is wrong. So do I. There's enough truancy, without locking youngsters out of school! And obviously there could be no question of expulsion. School discipline is difficult these days."

"That's that then, I'm going to the coppers. I know damn' well that mother of 'ers won't do nothing, an' I ban't 'ab'n no more of it!"

"Oh, dear! There'd be such a scandal. Poor Mrs. Graves! And there's the school... Please leave this with me, Mr. Atkins. I am well aware that Mrs. Graves is pretty hopeless, but I'll go and see her. I may be able to persuade her to deal with the girl."

"Deal with 'er?" The man laughed sceptically. "Naughty girl an' don't ee do it again! Well, I'd be glad enough to leave'n in your 'ands for the moment, Mrs. Bentley. But that girl should be severely punished. An' I'd want proof."

Mrs. Graves made a thorough search of Christina's room. There was no more fruit. But she did find something that gave her a very bad shock. She was suddenly violently angry; she found herself actually wishing she could give her deceiptful child a good hiding. Such thoughts upset her, but there was no getting away from it – Christina had flagrantly lied to her. The girl was a thief and untruthful, and she thoroughly deserved a good thrashing. Mrs. Graves was in that frame of mind when Mrs. Bentley rang the door-bell.

Christina let herself into No. nine. Hearing a mutter of voices, she decided to go to her room. Half way up the stairs, she was stopped by her mother's voice, and it sounded oddly confident. "Oh, Chrissie. Come into the sitting-room, please."

The daughter felt a vague feeling of disquiet. She sensed a difference in her mother's manner – could she have taken it into her head to look in Bobby's bedroom? "Oh, mum, I'm tired. I wanted an early night."

"I think you'd better come down. This may be rather a late night for you, my girl."

Christina was suddenly very perturbed. Her mother looked worried, as she always did, hut her tone and attitude were different; she seemed more confident, more decisive. Well, what if she had found the fruit? Bobby had pinched it.

"All right, mum, I'll just slip into the loo, first." Emerging from the toilet, she crept into her brother's room. Bobby was at the youth club. To her intense relief the basket had been undisturbed. She went downstairs, entered the sitting-room – and stopped dead, filled with alarm and dismay. She was furious with her mother. What a dirty, lousy trick! "G-good evening, Mrs. Bentley. Did-did you want to see me? I'd have stayed in if I'd known."

Mrs. Graves experienced an overwhelming feeling of relief. She knew that her spoiled, wayward child was in capable hands. She loved her daughter and hated the thought that she had to suffer. But there was no help for it. Something had to be done.

"I think you know why I'm here, Christina."

"Those bloody peaches!"

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, girl!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean..." She turned furiously upon her mother. "Going running to Mrs. Bentley! What a thing to do! All this fuss over three peaches."

"Three, Christina?"

"I gave you my word, didn't I? I swore. On my honour. Maybe you'd like me to swear again, on the bible!" Her mother pointed silently to the table. A crumpled envelope with one sticky peach stone lay there. Christina's heart seemed momentarily to stop; the breath had been knocked out of her. That was something she had completely overlooked. For a minute she stared at the accusing bit. She looked at her mother, then at the school-mistress. She stammered: "Well, so what? It's only one."

Her mother nodded. "One too many, isn't it, Christina?"

The girl bit her lip.

"And what about your honour?"

"Well, I'm sorry, mum. I did take four peaches. I – I said three because I thought, well, I thought it'd look better if Mr. Atkins thought I hadn't eaten any." She looked appealingly at Mrs. Bentley. "After all, ma'am – well, one peach different..."

"Do you expect us to believe you?"

Christina's face turned a deep burning red. "N-no, ma'am," she whispered.

"Mr. Atkins was undoubtedly right when he insisted you'd had four pounds of fruit." She looked compassionately at the mother. Mrs. Graves' lined face was pitifully worried and distressed. "Your mother did not come to me, Christina. Mr. Atkins complained to me because he was reluctant to go to the police. This sort of thing has been going on for years. He has been a long-suffering man, but this time something is going to be done."

The girl pulled herself together. There was nothing very serious to fear. She supposed she would be caned in the morning. She hated the stick, but four whacks on the hands were nothing to worry about. She'd had that more than once from Mrs. Bentley and she knew it was the maximum punishment permitted. Thank goodness she didn't go to St. Margaret's, a local private school to which her mother had once wanted to send her. Sarah, a girl she knew who was a pupil there had once received six on the seat of her knickers. She'd said it had been agonizing. That sort of beating seemed barbarous to Christina; she was heartily thankful it was not allowed at the Comprehensive.

"Mrs. Bentley," she said humbly, "I know I've caused a lot of trouble, and I'm very sorry. It's simply that – well, I didn't think of it as stealing. After all, a lot of young kids do a bit of scrumping."

"You know perfectly well this is different from taking a few apples. Systematic pilfering of expensive fruit from a professional grower is a very serious offence, my child."

"I am sorry, ma'am. Honestly. But it's finished. I promised mum faithfully I'd never do it again."

Mrs. Bentley shook her head, grim-mouthed. "You've said it all before, girl, and you've been allowed to get away with it for far too long. Now you really are in trouble."

"Where is the rest of the fruit, Christina?" her mother asked. "It's no use trying to lie any more."

Christina hung her head. "It's under Bobby's bed, mum."

"So if I'd found it you'd have let me blame him!" Blushing crimson, the girl tried to deny any such intention, but she could not get the words out; her guilt was clear. "Oh, my God! You little bitch! You'd be willing to get your own brother into trouble!" The girl quailed, her mother had never been so angry. Her face was red, and her eyes, usually a weary blue, were shooting blue sparks. "You thieving, lying, cowardly little wretch!"

"Oh, mummy...!" Christina was aghast.

"It's true. Mrs. Bentley has told me that every teacher in the school knows what a damn' little liar you are! And you would put the blame on your own brother! You richly deserve what you are going to get from Mrs. Bentley. Deceiptful hussey! I am ashamed to think you are my daughter!"

Mrs. Graves dropped into an armchair. She knew she was weak. She's pampered her daughter, spoiled her, threatened and done nothing. Now, at last, Christina had to pay the penalty. So did she – having to watch the chastisement would be torment enough for her. "Oh, Chrissie, Chrissie! You're a bad girl! Mrs. Bentley should give you the cane more at school." Finding that discarded peach stone had hit the unfortunate woman badly, had brought home to her just what a brazen liar the girl was; the added knowledge that Christina had been prepared to make Bobby the scapegoat – which was possible, because he was no angel! – was like a knife inside her. Had it not been for those two facts, she would never have dreamed of permitting the pain, humiliation and embarrassment, that her daughter had to suffer, and which she had to witness.

The culprit was worried and apprehensive. She feared a caning, Mrs. Bentley was a hefty woman and she would use her strength. Yet – two on each hand. That was nothing. Four on the same hand would be worse, but that was not permitted. For a young woman getting on for eighteen, almost certainly destined for university, it would be more humiliating than painful.

"Now, young lady, listen to me." Mrs. Bentley's face was bleak, her voice grim. "You have caused your poor mother a great deal of worry. She has agreed – reluctantly, she is very unhappy about it – that I may deal with you. If you continue as you are, you will find yourself in the magistrates' court and probably a special school." That threat produced an unpleasant twinge in the girl's belly. "Your mother hopes, as I do very sincerely, that severe punishment now may help to change your ways before it is too late."

Christina decided to play the remorseful penitent. Standing with bowed head and hands clasped demurely before her, she said: "Yes, ma'am, I hope you will cane me very hard at school in the morning. I deserve it." Mrs. Graves marvelled. Never had she seen her delinquent child so meek!

"You may be assured of that, my girl. I intend to cane you very severely indeed. But it will not be at school tomorrow. It will be at my home. This evening."

The girl's head jerked up in alarm. '''Y-your home, ma'am?"

"Yes, Christina. You and your mother are coming with me now, in my car. I intend to administer a very severe whipping."

"Wh-whipping, ma'am?" Christina's heart was thudding, her voice weak.

"A thorough thrashing on your bare seat, with a cane. I have borrowed one from school."

The girl gaped for a moment in almost dazed consternation. Then she burst out: "No! You-you can't! You're not allowed to, you know you're not! And I won't bloody take it, anyway! Oh, gosh!" She shrank before the mistress's blazing eyes. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I shouldn't have said that. I – I don't mean to be disrespectful. But I thought..."

"I know what you thought. And you're wrong. This will not be school discipline. I am going to thrash you at the request of your mother. You do, of course, have the right to refuse."

GIRL: "How – how many strokes, Ma'am?" MISTRESS: "Fifteen, Christina." "Fifteen! On my-my bare bottom?" "Yes." "Oh, God, no! I do refuse, ma'am."

"Then Mr. Atkins will go to the police. And whatever the magistrates do with you, it will mean expulsion from the school. You know how strongly Mr. Norman feels about the school's reputation."

"But that – that would ruin my career! My whole life!" Her voice was unsteady and a little hoarse.

"A university place is a certainty for you, Christina. But not if you are expelled from school..." The woman paused, grim-faced. "No schoolteacher wants to ruin the career of a very promising student."

The Deputy Principal was bluffing; no sixth-former destined for university would be expelled for the sake of a few peaches. And she was very unsure about her right to inflict a Draconian flogging – she knew what the views of certain members of the education committee would be. The girl sank into a chair, put her face into her hands, and wept. Then she appealed to her mother. How could her mother do such a thing to her. Did her mother want to see her whole life ruined because of a bit of bloody fruit? And she'd die if she were beaten like that. "You've brought it on yourself, you wicked girl!" Mrs. Graves burst into tears.

It is questionable whether a convicted felon riding in a cart from Newgate to Tyburn felt worse than did Christina during her short car ride. Her thoughts were a feverish jumble. She was terror-stricken. She felt a little sick. She was convinced that any punishment on the bottom must be sheer agony. But – fifteen!

Fifteen awful wallops on her bare skin...! Sarah hadn't had more than six, over her knickers, and that had been awful. The distressed girl had always accepted the fact that she was a coward, terrified of pain; and she had ever been complacent when committing some misdeed because of the knowledge that her mother would not beat her and she could not get much at school. Now that complacency had been brutally kicked from under her – as though she had a rope around her neck and the trap had been sprung. She couldn't believe it. On her bare behind! Oh, God, no! It simply could not happen to her. And inflicted by the powerful Deputy Principal... And it was an additional wrench to find that she was not even permitted to keep the basket of peaches; she considered she had a right to that. Before returning to The Larches, Mrs. Bentley drove to the market garden and Mrs. Graves took the fruit to the house. It almost broke Christina's heart; a terrible caning, which probably would kill her – and no gorgeous peaches!...

The teacher showed mother and daughter into a large bedroom. She tossed a cane, which she had brought from the car, on to the bed. Then she went to make a telephone call. Mrs. Graves picked up the implement of correction and fingered it. "Well, this is it, Chrissie," she said sadly, "I haven't seen one of these for more than twenty-five years."

The recipient of it felt as though she had a big lump of hard suet pudding in her stomach. "Oh, God! Mummy, I'm scared! This – this is medieval!"

It was a long, slim rattan with a curved handle. The usual school implement, to which Christina was not a complete stranger. She looked at its mute menace, the thick, stubby end, the joints upon its rusty-yellow surface; dread lay like a weight on her tummy. Why, oh, why, had she been such a little fool? That bloody peach! Just one! One discarded nut...! And she was supposed to be a clever girl.

"Bend forward a little, Chrissie." The girl looked at her mother in surprise. "Er-mummy?" Suddenly hopeful – "Are you going to give it to me?"

"No, dear. I'm just – curious. Bend forward, just a little." Looking at her mother holding the cane, Christina felt a sudden surge of affection and it seemed to be part of an odd little sensation near her navel. She obeyed diffidently, feeling foolish and embarrassed – yet in a queer sort of way she rather liked it. Impulsively, she bent right over, so that her taut skirt provocatively outlined her protruding hindquarters. She did not know why, except that it was somehow part of the sudden feeling of love and remorse she felt towards her mother, and a little tingle of excitement at the idea of bending over for her mother to cane her backside. But of course that was merely because mummy was only pretending... She felt a tap against her well-curved rear, then a sharp little rap, not hard enough to sting; but she was distinctly aware of a funny feeling of pleasure in her nether area. "Perhaps I should have given you this on your bottom years ago. Stand up, darling."

Christina straightened herself. "Mummy, would you give it to me?" – "I can't Chrissie."

"Why? You could give me the same – fifteen on my bare bottom. I'd rather have it from you." As she spoke a very odd thought came to her, a very strange thought indeed; it seemed to come from nowhere, cast up from the unplumbed depths of her mind. It was a conviction that some time she must persuade her mother to beat her on her behind, for no other reason than that she wanted it. It was a stupid, infantile, notion! And that afternoon she had contemptuously refused a spanking.

Mrs. Graves shook her head, and threw the cane on to the bed. "I couldn't, child. I just couldn't. It has to be very severe."

"Oh, mummy!" The girl could hardly speak. "I'm so frightened!"

MOTHER: "My poor little girl! Oh, why did you have to do it?"

DAUGHTER: "A few peaches!"

"It isn't just that. It's your lies. You swore, Christina! It was a shameless deceit. And to do such a thing to Bobbie!" "I didn't do anything to him. No-one need have known anything about it." "If they'd been found in his room..."

Christina suddenly read something of the hurt in those faded blue eyes, which were a little tearful, and for the first time the realisation that her mother was suffering too, penetrated her self-centred, self-pitying awareness. "Oh, mummy, I'm sorry. Do you hate me?"

"Hate you, Christina? Oh, my darling! You know how much I love you. I'd give anything in the world if you didn't have to be caned."

"But, mummy, I don't. Tell Mrs. Bentley you've changed your mind."

"I haven't changed my mind, Chrissie. I see now how wrong I've been all these years. I have always known how deceiptful you were! I could never bring myself even to smack your bottom. My poor girl, I'm sorry, but you must be punished. In a way you will never forget!"

"It's wrong," moaned Christina, "it's brutal. Oh, mummy, let's go home. You can beat me. With the slipper. Or – or a stick from the garden. As hard as you like. With nothing on."

Like many weak-charactered people, Mrs. Graves had been shocked into surprising obstinacy. "No, my girl. No! My mind is made up. You must be very severely whipped. You begged for it – now stop whining and take it! My God, how do you think I feel?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not very brave." The girl felt utterly miserable. She knew her punishment was just, but it seemed dreadfully harsh. It would have been better had her mother spanked her years ago. Perhaps corporal punishment should be more severe at school. Half to herself, she muttered: "It's so humiliating. I'm an adult. My behind... all bare. I'll be sick with shame!"

The distressed parent suffered another sharp pang. There was to be even more humiliating indignity and shame which her poor child knew nothing of.

Mrs. Bentley entered the room, carry a thick foam-filled cushion taken from an easy chair. She placed it upon a low table, which she pulled into the middle of the room. She sent Christina to the toilet, then spoke to Mrs. Graves. "I'm afraid this is going to be very distressing for you, my dear." The anxious mother, sitting in a wickered armchair, was still a shade lachrymose. "I must warn you – Christina will probably cry very loudly. She may even scream. You must be prepared for that. But on no account, no matter how much noise, you mustn't interfere. Promise, Mrs. Graves?"

"It – it won't harm her? I mean – the shock, perhaps?"

"She is a strong, healthy girl. I've caned girls very severely in the past. They get over it, and the weals heal."

The mother had many doubts, she was sick with worry and anxiety; but her daughter's deceipt had hit her too badly. The girl had to be punished. And it was her duty to be present. She would steel herself to Christina's suffering, much as she dreaded it. She believed – she hoped – that the sharp shock of severe discipline now would be sufficient to shake the girl off the course she had been taking; might perhaps save her from a life of sordid dishonesty and unhappinness. Mrs. Bentley, too, was not entirely happy. Dubious about the legal position, as well as the professional ethics involved, she saw the mother's presence as a wise precaution. She was convinced that what she had to do was her moral duty, but anticipation afforded no sadistic pleasure.

Picking up the instrument of justice, the mistress flexed it between her big hands, curving it almost into a loop. She saw that the culprit's unhappy eyes were following every ominous movement, her face was pallid and looked drawn. Mrs. Bentley was genuinely sorry for the girl, as she was for the unhappy mother. She felt, indeed, that there was poetic justices in Mrs. Graves' having to witness the anguished squirms of her beloved offspring, to her agonized cries under the flailing rod; that perhaps it was not an unfair penalty for those years of lack of maternal commonsense and proper guidance.

"You understand why I am doing this, Christina?" – "Yes, ma'am."

"Tell me." She wanted it firmly fixed in the offender's mind.

"For – for stealing fruit, ma'am." Poor Christina was inwardly squirming under the humiliating ignominy of having to go through this in front of her mother. "And and..."

"Yes, child?"

Child! Just a naughty child! She, very nearly an undergraduate, "For lying when I said I only picked three peaches. And..." She gulped. It had to be said. "I'd have let my brother take the blame if I could."

"Yes. That was cowardly, wasn't it? Contemptible!" – "Yes, ma'am."

"You will never forget this thrashing, and you will never forget the reasons. Now undress." The girl took off her light summer jacket, removed her shoes, pulled down tights and briefs and stepped out of them. Then she looked hesitantly at the mistress. "Strip. Everything except your brassiere." With abashed head lowered, Christina obeyed. Her face was not pale now; she could feel the burning colour that suffused her cheeks. She could still hardly believe it, it was like a nightmare. She was actually stripping, for a flogging! She felt very bad inside herself, but she was honest enough to blame nobody but Christina – and a malevolent fate. She was a liar, thief, coward. She deserved a bloody good walloping! she thought bitterly. Christ, she'd be glad to get it over! With her back turned to the two women she took off her dress; finally, slowly and reluctantly, her waist slip. She stood with abject head bowed, tormented by abasement and shame. There could be no modesty for a young lady that had to be flogged.

Mrs. Graves, watching the gradual unveiling of her daughter, was disturbed by her unsightly corpulence, and again had to accuse herself of neglect. She had not seen Christina in the nude for a long time, probably five years, and had taken for granted the fact that she was putting on flesh. She had let herself be cajoled into giving her excessive pocket money. The child stuffed herself with sweets, ice-creams, chocolates and crisps; when she remonstrated she was ignored and she let it slide. Christina, too, was very conscious of her fat. Rounded fatty breasts; thick waist; belly rather too well curved; large soft buttocks, the flesh flaccid like a baby's; good straight legs, but fat thighs and calves.

''Right. Across that cushion! No, right across it," as the delinquent bent over it. Pulling herself up, she lay with her tummy pressed into the cushion, head and shoulders hanging on one side, toes just touching the floor. Anticipating tearful pleading and objection, Mrs. Bentley was relieved that the girl was not making difficulties. Mrs. Graves was also thankful that her unfortunate child was behaving so docilely. She was amazed by Christina's submissiveness and obedience, and she was impressed by the potency of a supple cane in the hands of an authoritative person – it was a bitter object lesson in the handling of recalcitrant kids!

Christina could have cried with the bitterness of her outraged pudency, and was fervently wishing that her mother was not there to see her humiliation and degradation. In that ignominious position she seemed to be all arse! She had sometimes enjoyed a giggle with other girls about "titties", and "bums", but never in her life had she been so woefully aware of her own posterior. Her fear and misery were intensified when her mistress grasped her arms and tied a pair of nylon tights around her wrists. They were soft and her wrists were not bound tightly together, but the consciousness of her helplessness made her feel something like despair.

So taut was she with nervous apprehension that she nearly screamed when she felt a cold, hard touch across her buttocks. Oh, God, help me bear it! The stick was lifted, there was a pause of a second or two, during which the suspense seemed unendurable – a sudden loud swishing sound, the sibilant menacing music of the rod – a blow across the crown of her upturned rear, which she scarcely felt... Then, with devastating suddenness, a feeling that she had never experienced and different to that which she had expected: a very peculiar sensation, a sting of razor-sharpness, like a thin hot wire cutting through skin and tissue to the very centre of her being, the shock of which snatched at her breath so that, for seconds, she could neither laugh nor cry, and she wanted to do both.

The punisher too was aware of an unusual feeling; a tingling sensation that seemed to be physical but which was not, something that seemed to be pleasurable but which afforded her no pleasure. She understood it, she was on the verge of sexua! titillation.

Thinking about it later, she realised that there had been a degree of perverted pleasure, especially as the convulsive jerking of the girl's limbs had offered glimpses of a small round, puckered rosette, and part of pink intimate lips with tufts of brown curly hair. It was evident that such chastisement could well induce some sensual thrill, and she thought it could be unhealthy to indulge too much.

She knew that fifteen strokes of a willowy rattan across the young girl's naked, very tender, nates were going to be intensely painful. She had to be harsh, relentless, for Christina's own sake, she sincerely believed that. Nevertheless, she had no wish to be unnecessarily cruel or sadistic. She carried out her task slowly and carefully, poising the cane before bringing it whipping down. The first few cuts were administered with some restraint, but hard enough to hurt – and hurt they did. The wretched girl uttered a loud gasping cry at the second and a louder cry at the third; then, with stoical determination, clamped lips and teeth together breathing noisily through her nose, tears stinging her eyes, while two more stabs of burning, stinging anguish bit through her. The sixth, somewhat harder, made the victim's body jerk, and wrenched a squealing cry from contorted mouth, and water ran over plump cheeks.

She whimpered quietly, while Mrs Bentley paused for a few seconds. Six thin, parallel lines were branded, in varying depths of redness, across each creamy-white fleshy hillock. Raising the instrument, she poised it, lifted it well back, and brought it down good and hard to slash into the junction of cheek and thigh. THWACK! – "Ooooh!" Those anguished howls had a special anguish for the distressed mother. It was a poignant penalty for the inept upbringing of her wilful child; she suffered mentally as Christina did physically.

The beating became more forceful. The rattan bent resiliently as it struck, biting viciously into the fat yielding flesh so that it seemed as though the skin must be cut. But when it was raised, nothing was visible but a whitish mark, which rapidly turned to a pale pink, then a delicate carmine, deepening through deep rose to assume an angry crimson as the stripe began to swell; then to a slightly concave weal, wine red, edged with thin lines of scarlet. The victim's position, loosely bound arms hanging limply, toes just touching the carpet, her weight absorbed by the cushion, rendered her helpless. She could scarcely wriggle, nor could the natural physiological reaction contract her buttocks fully.

After nine resounding whacks the unfortunate girl was crying with loud raucous howls like a baby; her shoulders were shaken by sobs, tears were forming a little damp patch on the carpet. All of her bottom was on fire, each scorching stroke stabbed through her body cutting her into two, and she was sure she was being lashed to pieces. The heartrending cries affected the mistress so that she wanted to curtail the punishment, but she told herself that she must harden her heart. The girl needed a flogging. Playing at it could conceivably do more harm than good. She put all her weight behind the final whacks, bringing the swishy implement slashing down with long, powerful, almost savage swings.

SWISH-WHACK! – "Ooh-ah! No-no mo-more! Christ! P-p-please, ma-ma'am! Oh, stop! Ooooh...!" Choked by streaming tears, broken by convulsive sobs, the pitiable pleas were scarcely coherent. Tears were oozing over Mrs. Graves' wan cheeks, too, and it was all she could do not to rush to stop the thrashing. Please, God, make it stop! She's a bad naughty girl and deserved to get the cane but she's had enough!

The eleventh stroke produced a ringing shriek. From the corner of her eye the teacher saw Mrs. Graves start up from her chair. She shook her head sternly and motioned the woman to sit down. A glistening bead of crimson had appeared upon the swollen, inflamed, wealed flesh. The next wallop was aimed to avoid it, but produced another shining smear of blood, and another loud scream, but the punisher would not let herself be softened. She did not regard fifteen as excessive for a healthy young woman. She had had some experience of severe caning at a strict private boarding school, and had twice given fifteen strokes. In one such case the offender, a tough, obstreperous sixteen-year-old, had taken the castigation bending over, with nothing more than a few gasps and winces. When it was over she had straightened up, grinned, with wet eyes shining, and – wearing nothing below her shirt – had performed a few steps of the can-can. Now, the mistress was shocked by the results upon her present subject, and was thankful when, after two more ringing cracks across the upper part of Christina's tormented rump, she threw the rattan down.

Christina had no urge to retrieve her pride by any show of boldness. She would gladly have grovelled, kissed the rod or her mistress's feet. She vowed to herself that she would never, ever, steal so much as a penny or a small green apple. She had one lesser ordeal to come.

The chastisement over, she lay prone on the carpet, being patted and consoled by her mother. She stopped weeping, but whimpered and groaned with the almost intolerable burning ache of her livid swollen weals. As the intensity of pain eased slightly she accepted what had happened – she'd asked for it, and in a bizarre way she was glad. But it was to take time before her distraught parent could endure, with equanimity, the scarifying mental picture of her beloved daughter ceremonially flogged like a criminal.

With a shock of incredulity, Christina learned that Mr. Atkins had arrived to inspect the physical results. "Oh, ma'am, no! No, please! I can't let him see!" Mrs. Bentley had made the arrangement believing that the additional shame and disgrace would help in impressing the culprit's culpability deep into her soul. Now, touched by the child's pathetic state – face, stained and grubby, reddened puffy eyes – she felt pangs of remorse. But she could not go back on her promise to the grower. "I'm sorry, my dear. It is fair that he should see for himself. You can call it part of the punishment."

"It'll shame me! I'm too old to let a man... Oh, mummy, must I?" She must. Mrs. Graves had consented reluctantly. Remembering the man's scepticism when she had promised to spank her daughter, she thought it wasn't a bad thing that he should see with his own eyes the penalty that had been paid. "Darling, he knows what a naked girl looks like. And he thrashed his daughter's bare backside with a leather strap when she was your age."

"I'll die with shame!"

"No you won't my dear," said Mrs. Bentley. "You'll find it won't be so bad, and he'll only see your back." That was to prove inaccurate. "Stand with your legs together and hold something against your front."

Any sexual thrill the man might have felt was neutralized by the jolt he received at the sight of Christina's savaged rear. Inflamed swollen flesh; thick, reddish-purple weals; ugly livid knots and dark trickles of dried blood where weals crossed. "My!" he ejaculated. "Oh, my! Oh, the poor maid! I'd not have wanted it to be like that. It were common 'nough for us kids to get the stick 'cross our backsides at school. But I never see nothing like this, never! I'm right sorry it 'ad to be me as brought this on ee, Miss Christina. Don't s'pose you'm feeling too friendly, like."

"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Atkins. I – I... Well, I was a bad girl and I got what I deserved. Now it's over I'm glad Mrs. Bentley was severe!"

"Eh, lass? You are?"

"It's made me see how bad and – and stupid I was. I'll never steal again. Never!"

"Well, miss, I'm all the more glad as I brought along a little something as might 'elp to take the sting away a bit. Yur's four pounds each o' my very best quality peaches an' Victorias."

The girl swung round, holding her dress round herself. She saw, standing by the door, the familiar basket together with a corrugated carton. "Oh, Mr. Atkins!" she gasped in delight. "Oh, I say! Thank you! I don't deserve them!"

" 'appen not, but I'll never forget 'ow pleased my Pansy were, I walloped 'er bare bum for goin' after grapes. Layin' on 'er bed, too stiff to move, she were, poor kid. I went an' picked 'er some fruit. Give I a smashin' kiss, 'er did!"

For one reason and another, Christina was becoming a little randy, despite the fact that her bottom was still burning and aching intensely; and in her delight at the unexpected gift she was ready for a cuddle. "Would you like one from me, Mr. Atkins?" she asked mischievously.

"Needn't ask that again, my lover!" Taking her in his arms he kissed her mouth. To his blissful surprise, she responded ardently, lips straining against lips in a long, luscious kiss. During their embrace the dress dropped to the floor – Christina was never sure whether it was an accident or not. Relinquishing his delicious, buxom, bundle of femininity, the man stepped back, breathing hard – and what he saw elicited a whispered "oooh – oh, my!" For several seconds the girl stood, quite wantonly, with parted legs and a brazen smile upon her tear-stained face, Atkins stared, bewildered and ecstatic, at a very full mount of Venus and tempting pink labia not entirely concealed by a luxuriant growth of brown hair. Then he spun round to confront the two women, who were staring, too astounded to speak.

He grinned, red-faced and guilty. "Payment for me peaches – what a peach! Eh, wait'll I tell the missus I kissed a lovely young naked female an' seen a beautiful bare be'ind an' all er"s got! Cor – er... give I peaches!"

When he had gone, schoolmistress and mother stared at each other. "Well!" said the latter. "Ar!" said the former, with a faint smile. "An' I 'opes 'er does!"

"Brazen hussy!" Mrs. Graves said to her blushing daughter. "If you hadn't just been whipped, I – well, I damn well would spank you!"

The girl smiled at her mother and said softly. "I think you should, mummy. When my bottom is better."

"I think so too," the Deputy Principal commented, "but I suppose we asked for that. Take a couple of days off from school, Christina. And we'll see the school doctor and talk about a diet for you, my dear. Right?"

"Right, Mrs. Bentley. And – and thank you for whipping me. And for letting Mr. Atkins see my bare bot. Eight pounds of fruit – and what a kiss!"

"H'm! You certainly should keep a sharp eye on this young lady, Mrs. Graves. And a hairbrush or slipper on her bottom when she needs it."

"I was thinking the same thing, Mrs. Bentley. I think this unfortunate affair has served a very useful purpose, after all. I was wondering – do you think you could let me have this cane?"

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Governor's prerogative

Story from Roue 12.

Governor's prerogative

It was of course always possible for just one more girl to be accepted at St. Angela's even when all the places were officially filled - if she had a Governor's special recommendation that is. And she could even be a girl who was not in the normal category of intake - again if she had that recommendation. Which is how Pauline Duncombe came to join St. Angela's at half term.

Mr. Grimsley had just by chance happened to see her for the first time in the car park of the local shopping centre - a pretty blonde teenager, shapely in the uniform of the local comprehensive school. She was with her mother who was carrying some shopping bags and she herself was pushing a laden shopping cart to a no-longer-young Ford Escort which by the purest coincidence was parked next to Mr. Grimsley's own vehicle, a resplendant Rover. They had almost reached their vehicle when disaster struck in the shape of some unseen obstacle which, coming into contact with a wheel of the cart, sent it suddenly toppling over and throwing purchases in all directions. And the youthful shopper, unable to stop herself, rapidly followed suit to finish up in a heap on top of the upended cart, her skirt up round her waist and displaying a most attractive bottom rather skimpily clad in tight pink nylon knickers.

Mr. Grimsley was unnaturally not decidedly impressed by this sight, the more so in that the spread-thighed position the girl had finished up in was particularly revealing. But unfortunately the mother, once she'd recovered from the shock, sprang into action, pulling her daughter's skirt down and then hauling her to her feet. Berating the girl for clumsiness she at the same time made anxious inquiries as to the possibility of broken limbs, and Mr. Grimsley, at his most solicitous, was quick to assist and in fact to this end was able to get a friendly hand quite high up on a most attractive youthful thigh. Emboldened, he was about to reach further, to those brief pink knickers, when the lady unfortunately pronounced her daughter whole, and attention had to be turned to the scattered groceries.

Mr. Grimsley, continuing to assist, found himself getting a rundown of the Duncombe family problems. Which at present centred around Pauline who it seemed was due to leave school having just turned sixteen, but with only minimal qualifications and no hope of finding a job. In Mrs. Duncombe's view it was all the fault of the government: 'Really, I think its quite scandalous what they're doing to this country. I mean there's just no jobs for the young people. My Jim says....'

Mrs. Duncombe, a not-unattractive woman in her mid-30's, did have this tendency to run on a bit when she had a bee in her bonnet. Mr. Grimsley was not listening to all of it, his eye on the shapely Pauline every time she bent to retrieve a carton, but he did get the general gist alright. And without much effort the brilliant thought came to him that here was a first class candidate for St. Angela's. True it would mean bypassing the normal entry procedure but wasn't that a Governor's prerogative if he felt it justified? And was the school not set up to serve the community? Indeed it was, and this charming girl would obviously benefit immeasurably from a couple of years in St. Angela's. Get a few O Levels which he gathered were somewhat lacking at present and thus greatly improve her chance of a job when she did leave. And also of course get some most beneficial disciplinary training, a subject sadly de-emphasised at the typical modern comprehensive. Yes indeed! He pictured again that ripe bottom, those tight pink knickers, which had been so generously displayed only moments before. Just the sort of girl to benefit from St. Angela's.

Mr. Grimsley was a man of action when he wanted to be, definitely not one to miss a trick, as the saying goes. With the result that a quarter of an hour later he was sitting in the living room of the Duncombe's council house while his hostess bustled about preparing tea, at the same time making frantic efforts to tidy up. 'Oh dear, this place is such a mess! If I had known someone was coming.... Pauline, can you please move those.... And fetch some biscuits for Mr.... Mr. Grimsby was it, Sir?'

But Mrs. Duncombe need not have worried, for Mr. Grimsley alias Grimsby was not at all concerned about the somewhat untidy scene. Truth to tell he gave it no more than a cursory glance as his mind instead focussed on St. Angela's.... the Punishment Room.... and this sweet girl obediently bending over the back of that chair.... her knickers (St. Angela's regulation type of course, not the pink ones) lowered....

Containing his excitement he broached his proposal - indeed his most generous offer, for as was later relayed to Pauline's father there would be no fees involved whatsoever and furthermore Pauline's uniform would be provided by Mr. Grimsley himself. This latter magnificent claim was somewhat short of the truth - the uniform in fact would be provided by the local rate payers (unknown to them of course). But even if Mr. Grimsley was not actually putting his hand in his own pocket, as he might give the impression, undoubtedly his heart was in the right place.

The elder Duncombes were quite overwhelmed by the prospect: 'Its just what our Pauline needs. A real answer to a prayer,' said Mrs. Duncombe, and husband Jim, could not disagree. Pauline going to boarding school for two years and at no cost! He shook his head in disbelief. Pauline herself was not quite so enthusiastic. It meant another two years at school when she had been all set to leave and be regarded, so she thought, as an adult - notwithstanding the absence of a job. But she was not a rebel and could grudgingly see the benefits which were rapturously explained to her.

It seemed that a place would be found almost immediately and she was to go round next week to Mr. Grimsley's rather ostentatious house over in the expensive area of town to be measured for the uniform. Next Monday right after school. To Mrs. Duncombe it all seemed unbelievable. 'An answer to a prayer,' she said - for perhaps the thirtieth time.


Cycling home with no knickers on is undoubtedly an ordeal for a somewhat she 16-year-old but that was what Pauline found herself having to do at 4.30 on that sunny Monday afternoon after an hour at Mr. Grimsley's house. Well she could hardly consider pushing her bike all the way home, for it was at least two miles from Mr. Grimsley's to her house. She was not the most confident of cyclists and really needed to keep both hands on the handlebars: so that only in desperation could she risk dropping her hand to a skirt which inevitably kept continually riding up. Over and above this there was the ever-present fear that a sudden gust of wind would, well, simply, instantly, reveal all. It was really an awful ordeal and as she approached her home she only hoped that she had managed to keep within the bounds of decency. She had got some whistles from those men on the building site, but then they always whistled when she cycled by so hopefully that didn't mean they'd actually seen anything.

Yes she thought she'd managed alright but then at her gate it just had to happen. Her mother was there talking to old Mr. Billings next door, and as Pauline dismounted right in front of them the saddle caught the hem of her skirt and held it up as she got down. Cripes!

Cripes indeed! For there revealed for all to see was a full clear view of everything - and everything meant just that, including that well-developed brown bush which a nicely brought up 16-year-old definitely does not display in the middle of the street. Mrs. Duncombe, horrified, could not believe her eyes but commendably she was very quick to react, as likewise she had been earlier in not dissimilar circumstances in the car park. And at once she darted forward to interpose herself between Mr. Billings and her daughter before frantically grabbing the skirt down. He must have seen but, well, he was getting on a bit in years and his eyesight was said to be none too good. So one could only hope for the best, thought Mrs. Duncombe as redfaced she unceremoniously thrust her daughter into the house.

(Arthur Billings, left outside and a little bewildered by all the sudden action, was not in fact quite so impaired in his vision as Pauline's mother believed; as could have been gathered by anyone listening to him later regaling his cronies in the Pensioners Club: 'These modern girls - I really don't know what they're coming to. Half of 'em don't even wear any knickers you know. That young Pauline Duncombe next door to me for one: not a blinking thing on under her skirt as I've seen with my own eyes.')

Back inside the Duncombe house a shocked and scandalised Mrs. Duncombe was giving her daughter, as she would say, a piece of her mind:

'Don't tell me, my girl, you actually went to Mr. Grimsley's without your knickers?'

'No Mum. I had them on but he made me take them off. He's keeping them so he can make sure of the size for the school ones.'

Cynthia Duncombe blinked and gulped at this decidedly unexpected statement from her daughter. Well, it was not something a mother could easily accept at face value. For could he really need to take her knickers for that reason? The other possibility of course was that Mr. Grimsley was a Dirty Old Man.... but she didn't want to think that of their new benefactor. So she decided she didn't want to hear any more about it.

'Well I suppose its alright Pauline. But go and put some on now right away. And you'd better not say anything about it to your father. He might not understand.'

The visit to Mr. Grimsley's house hadn't really been that bad, Pauline thought as she looked for a pair of knickers. Not as bad as you might possibly think from the fact that she'd come away without any on. He had only made her take them off just before she left and she had them on for the measurements. She was made to lift her skirt though - up round her waist - while he put the measure round her hips and then round her waist just below the raised skirt. He had fumbled around a bit in the process, of course.

He didn't make her take her blouse off for the bust measurement either though he did feel her tits first, and quite deliberately, not even trying to pretend it was accidental like men sometimes did (old Mr. Billings next door for one). But Mr. Grimsley quite openly squeezed them and then told her she was a big girl for her age. He was really quite friendly though, telling her all about St. Angela's and what a good school it was. Yes it hadn't been too bad really.

Except right at the end, of course the bit she would rather forget, when she had taken her knickers off and was ready to go. At his front door when she was just waiting for him to open it. Instead of that he had suddenly asked her what sports she liked and at the same time his hand had gone up under her skirt... to her bare bottom. His hand simply taking hold of her bum.

He shouldn't have done that, she knew: no-one had ever done that before, but there was nothing she could do about it. Well, she couldn't tell him to stop - not Mr. Grimsley, with all he was doing to get her into St. Angela's. So she just had to stand there and let him do it, looking more and more embarrassed but trying her best to say something about tennis, her favourite sport, as if nothing was happening, while all the time his hand was there - squeezing her bare bum. Finally he took his hand away, and opened the door for her.

Yes that last part at Mr. Grimsley's had not been nice. But still, he would not be at the school: he was a governor not a master so she would not normally be seeing him. She pulled on a pair of knickers and went downstairs to see what Mum had got for tea.


Mr. and Mrs. Duncombe were really surprised at how quickly the arrangements for Pauline's transfer were made. 'It just shows' said her Dad 'what you can do if you can pull a few strings.'

The uniform and all the sports equipment etc. came through just two weeks after her visit to Mr. Grimsley and she really looked smart when she tried on the uniform. 'Quite the young lady,' said Mum. She would have a week off after leaving County Comprehensive and then Mr. Grimsley would drive her to St. Angela's. It would coincide with their reassembly after the half term. 'Him going to all that trouble,' said Dad admiringly 'he's what you call a real old-fashioned gentleman.' (It is unlikely that Mr. Duncombe would have been quite so enthusiastic had he known that the 'old-fashioned gentleman' had already had his hand on Pauline's bare bottom. But then, of course, he didn't know.)

Pauline herself still had mixed feelings about it all. She had never been away from home before except to stay with her aunty; but then, like her mother said, it was really quite an adventure and she was sure to make some good friends there. She wasn't too happy about being driven over by Mr. Grimsley though, remembering her visit to his house. She wished her mother or someone could come as well but they weren't, so that meant she was likely to be getting her tits felt again - at least.

The big day, the day to be taken to St. Angela's, dawned bright and sunny. 'What a lovely day for a drive' said Mum. 'I wish I was going. You really are a lucky girl.' And she looked admiringly at the big plush Rover.

She waved until the car disappeared round the corner at the end of their street. She told herself once more what a fortunate girl her daughter was. Pauline, waving back, was not so sure. 'Well off we go,' said Mr. Grimsley and his hand, in a friendly way, pushed back her skirt and squeezed a softly rounded thigh.

It proved to be - well, an eventful journey. A most pleasant and satisfying one for Mr. Grimsley without doubt; but for Pauline any pleasure in the sunny day, the pleasant drive through tranquil English countryside, was very much only part of the picture. For when the Rover finally drove smoothly in through the school gates the young passenger now had:
(a) once more no knickers on, and
(b) a reddened and decidedly sore bum. Yes, the young lady had been initiated en route.

It was perhaps not surprising that Mr. Grimsley, with Pauline all to himself for the day, would take advantage of this to introduce the new pupil to that essential part of life at St. Angela's. For, like bending the rules to get her into the school in the first place, this also was surely a Governor's prerogative. In fact it was something which he had planned and looked forward to with keen pleasure, regrettable as this might seem to some. But as she was 'his' pupil he had determined that he and not the Headmaster would have the privilege of this introduction. And to ensure this, knowing the Head was quite capable of caning such an attractive new girl on her very first day, he knew he had to do it before she was handed over into the Headmaster's care.

It had all gone very much to plan, during their break for lunch. And Pauline had unwittingly helped by providing the excuse he had been looking for when she accidentally knocked over a thermos of tea on the picnic rug. Redfaced she had blurted out her apologies, but at the time Mr. Grimsley had not seemed too bothered....

Mr. Grimsley was an experienced man and did not rush things. They finished the picnic and then he suggested that Pauline lie down for a short rest: 'most beneficial for a growing girl'. Though she did not consider herself in that category she did as she was asked, stretching out on her back with legs primly together and skirt down as far as it would go. But almost immediately Mr. Grimsley's hand was up under the hem of the skirt gripping her thigh just above a knee as he started talking - about St. Angela's. And as he talked the hand started moving up.

Pauline was not at all happy about this development for it was obvious what his hand was going to come to if she remained lying on her back. The only answer was to turn over on her front - which she did. This of course left her bottom unguarded but there was nothing much she could do about that, and at least she had knickers on.

Concerned primarily with what his hand was doing (and it didn't take long to reach those taut school knickers), Pauline was not really paying attention to what Mr. Grimsley was saying. Suddenly she realised she was being asked a question: 'What... Pardon?'

'I said were you spanked or caned at County Comprehensive. You really must pay more attention, my dear.'

'Oh, sorry Sir. No, no.... nothing like that.'

'Well, as I've already explained to you, if you were taking the trouble to listen, these measures are normal procedure at good schools such as St. Angela's. But I'm sure its something you will very soon get used to.'

He gave Pauline's bottom a reassuring squeeze. She winced but his hand was now of secondary importance as the implication of what he was saying dawned all too clearly on her. It meant that at St. Angela's....

'Anyway, what I intend now is to give you a brief introduction to this. That matter of the spilt tea: it was rather clumsy of you and I'm sure you'll agree that a lesson to remind you to be more careful would be most appropriate. So when you've finished your rest, and before we set off again, I propose to give you a little lesson,' his hand squeezed, 'on your bare bottom.'

Pauline couldn't believe she had heard correctly. But: 'Yes, its definitely what this part of your anatomy needs, especially if you've managed to reach the age of 16 without ever having it attended to. So if you're ready I think we could proceed.'

Pauline got slowly to her feet, a look of disbelief on her face. Surely he wasn't actually going to....? But evidently he was for Mr. Grimsley had gone to her case, and after a quick look came up with one of her new school plimsoles. 'I think this will serve our purpose.'

She was taken by the arm and led along the lane deeper into the woods. 'Now if we can just find a suitable spot....' They walked about 100 yards and then Mr. Grimsley stopped; in a sunny clearing where there was a large fallen tree. 'Yes this would do nicely,' he said, patting the horizontal trunk which had its upper surface about two feet or so from the ground. 'Just the thing.'

Looking bewildered Pauline was wondering what the significance of the tree was when Mr. Grimsley, with a 'Now then, young lady', put the plimsole on the trunk to give him two free hands and ran both of them up under her skirt to the waistband of her knickers. And then with one smooth practised motion slid the knickers down to mid-thigh. 'Now get over the tree trunk please. Bend over it.' She could hardly believe this was happening. But the tree trunk was real enough. And so were her lowered knickers and Mr. Grimsley now standing with the plimsole back in his hand. 'Come on please, get over.'

Biting her lip she obeyed, stretching herself over the trunk with her hands on the ground the other side as he instructed. She waited, trembling, hair falling down over her lowered face, as Mr. Grimsley lifted the pleated skirt, up to her waist, to reveal the unhappily upthrust bottom. Fearfully, legs tight together, Pauline sensed the plimsole being raised over her bare bum.... and then....

Thwack!.... the awful reality as it slapped down squarely across both buttocks leaving a bright pink imprint. Her whole body jerked in instant automatic response, air involuntarily expelling through her lips in a sibilant 'Oooff!'

It stung like hell, a sting that was still increasing when a second 'Thwack!' landed to leave another stinging imprint just below the first: 'Ooooff! Ooooohh! Oh Please!' And then a third....

As is virtually inevitable when a girl is getting it for the first time Pauline was soon in tears, floods of them, as she wriggled and squirmed an increasingly burning bottom. And the tranquillity of that fortunately isolated woodland glade was likewise increasingly rent by anguished tearful cries of 'Please', 'Oh Please Sir', 'No more Sir', 'Ooh I can't take any more' and others in like vein. But Mr. Grimsley continued inexorably, now holding the squirming girl in position with an arm round her waist as he meticulously ensured that no part of her bottom escaped the attention of the plimsole. He gave her 20 in all before he was satisfied that the lesson was complete.

Yes the lesson complete and a job well done. He put the plimsole down while the girl remained slumped over the trunk, skirt still up round her waist and one hand now gingerly feeling her exposed bottom. The pretty schoolgirl bottom now done to a turn as it were and fairly glowing, a uniform bright blushing pink. The young pupil quieter now but continued sobs and sniffs adding evidence of the effectiveness of his work. It was indeed an admirable example of the exercise of a Governor's prerogative. And really he could certainly congratulate himself, he thought, as he mopped a perspiring brow.

The journey to school could now be resumed. But first Mr. Grimsley, from his considerable experience in such matters, thoughtfully advised Pauline that her smarting bottom would be more comfortable if she were to leave her knickers off. And in fact having said this he personally slipped them off while she was still standing shakily by the fallen tree. The knickers disappeared into his pocket. (And they were not subsequently returned so that he now had two pairs of Pauline's pants. An unsympathetic observer might well decide from this that Mr. Grimsley had a thing about such undergarments.)

Well, by the time they reached the school Pauline had somewhat recovered from her ordeal. Those tears which she had so abundantly shed had now gone, and while she was not exactly smiling the face was dried, the blonde hair neatly back in place once more. She was not smiling because for one thing she was still very sore with now the knowledge that this was the kind of thing to be expected at St. Angela's. And then there was the matter of her knickers - she was not the sort of girl to be happy without them on, sore bottom or not.

And indeed it was fortunate that the Head, welcoming Pauline and looking her over with a keenly appreciative eye, was not aware of the absence of knickers. For to Mr. Payne girls had them off for only one thing - the cane. And she could easily have found herself, brand new girl or not, being unceremoniously bent over his desk for a second, definitely more painful, dose of what she had so recently received.

And that would not have been nice: it really would have been too much for Pauline for one day. But anyone who knew the Head and who saw that appreciative look he had given her would know that she was not going to have long to wait for it.

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Bottom Burners

Story from old Swish.

Bottom Burners

Caned by her son's friends and she has to submit to them!

Brushing her hair before her dressing table mirror, and then re-applying her lipstick and eye-shadow, Cynthia wondered vaguely why she was bothering. Her friend Avril's son, Michael, and his friend, Seamus, would hardly be concerned with the appearance of a thirty-six year old woman. They would be more interested in girls of their own ages. Still, it was nice to look presentable, Cynthia told herself. Rising from her stool and giving her blonde hair a last pat, she hitched her skirt up and tightened her suspenders.

Not that she could possibly tell these boys – or young men – much, she told herself. She had spent just five years as a schoolmistress at a girls' private school. Their future experiences in going into teaching would hardly compare with the rather cloistered atmosphere of St. Hilary's. But still, Avril had asked her to give them what tips she could about how to deal with pupils, about different curriculums and such, so she would at least try.

Heavens, they were here! That was quick! "I'll go!" she heard her sixteen year old son declare as he clattered out of his room and ran downstairs. Well, there was no great hurry, Cynthia thought, smoothing her close-fitting grey skirt down over her well-rounded bottom. She heard the entry of Michael and Seamus and descended slowly, her high heels clicking on the parquet flooring of the hall as their voices came to her from the lounge.

Both Michael and Seamus stood up immediately, which pleased her. She wished that her own son was just as polite. – "Mother said....", Michael began and received a flashing smile from Cynthia. – "Yes, I know. You want to hear something about teaching. Well, I'll do what I can. You'd like a cup of tea first, I'm sure. Won't be a minute", Cynthia replied and moved out again to enter the kitchen, her son running after her as she did so.

"You don't mind if I go out? It'll he so boring, Mummy. I've heard it all before when you've been telling Daddy about..." – "Yes, of course", Cynthia said vaguely, and called after him "You'll be back by six, though?". She glanced at the clock as she spoke. It was just past three o'clock. Her visitors had been punctual at least. – "About seven, or a bit later", he called back with all the careless abandon of youth, and then in moments the front door slammed, leaving the house momentarily quiet.

Humming to herself, Cynthia was just emptying the kettle into the pot when Michael drifted in hesitantly and asked if he might carry the tray for her. – "Why, yes, how nice of you, Michael", she responded and felt quite a warm glow that Avril had brought her son up so well. His friend, Seamus, seemed just as nice. – "Well, then, was there anything you wanted to know in particular?", she asked minutes later as they drank their tea and nibbled chocolate biscuits.

"Well – there WAS one thing. Mother said it was best to ask you, Mrs Sanderson. We've both been wondering about discipline. I mean, degrees of discipline and all that", Michael said. Cynthia felt his eyes fall on her rounded knees as he spoke. Her skirt had ridden up a little in sitting down. But that must be her imagination, she chided herself.

'Oh well, yes – there are degrees, as you quite properly put it, Michael. First, there's the old business of giving a hundred lines or so, and then..." – "Oh no, I didn't mean that, Mrs Sanderson. I was referring to something else. I meant C.P. Is it not called that?", he asked innocently, bringing a slight flush to Cynthia's cheeks as she placed her cup and saucer down.

"Well, yes, but of course, Michael. I was at a girls' private school and....", she had begun when, with an unnerved start, she watched him get up and move towards her. – "Well, you must have very good experience in that direction, Mrs Sanderson. I do wish you would show us", he said. "I – er, what?" Cynthia responded in astonishment. When Seamus then got up, she placed her hands on the arm of her chair and made to get up, too. As she did so, Michael leaned down and, with seemly politeness, assisted her to rise.

"You see", he said gently, "I overheard mother saying that it was a matter of standing by one's convictions. I know she is a bit wary of talking to me about it too much, so I wanted to ask you – does one take knickers down oneself or does the miscreant have to do it?"

"M....M....Michael, really!", stammered Cynthia blushing to the roots of her hair. He was still holding her arm after drawing her up, and she tried vaguely to loosen his grip but without success. – "We only want to know, Mrs Sanderson", Seamus's voice came to her ear. "For instance, if a girl is wearing a mid-length skirt much like yours – though, of course not half so nice, does one have to pull it up oneself, like this, or...."

"OH! Oh my God, how DARE you!", screeched Cynthia as with one upward sweep he bared the pale columns of her thighs which swelled up so gloriously from her tightly-ringing stocking tops, and – therewith – the tight, powder-blue panties she wore. Their semi-transparency betrayed the luscious pallor of her bottom cheeks beneath, to say nothing of the golden wadding of her pubic curls which mounded into the narrow crotch and where Michael's eyes seemed to burn in. Open-mouthed, she made to grab her skirt down, but Seamus's arms ringed her waist, pinning hers to her sides and leaving her skirt wreathed up around her curving hips.

"It's just that we have to know, Mrs Sanderson. After all, if a Sixth Former were to struggle as you are doing, one would have to deal with her more sternly, would one not? I must ask you to bend over now, Mrs Sanderson. The arm of the sofa, Seamus, I think". Michael uttered with all the solemnity of his nineteen years.

"My God, no! If you dare, if you.... STOP IT!", squealed Cynthia as she was spun around in the strong grip of Seamus and bent doll-like over the rolled arm of her own sofa with her half-naked bottom orbing up. Her hands pounded at the cushions while Seamus thumped down on to the seat and held her over. – "Looks like one has to take their panties down oneself, Michael", he said in a serious tone. "Evidently yes", Michael answered and then, to Cynthia's utter shame and outrage, thumbed her most intimate garment and brought it sleekly down her curvy legs until it trapped her ankles.

"If you don't let me GO!", squealed Cynthia. The upper part of her body twisted frantically, but Seamus again clamped her arms to her sides and held her helpless. – "The courage of your convictions, Mrs Sanderson! How often did you cane a bare bottom yourself, I wonder? We do have to find out – to discover reactions, and so on", Michael uttered. Unseen by a squirming and fiercely blushing Cynthia, he drew out from within the left leg of his trousers a shortish but whippy cane which he had filched from his father's wardrobe that morning.

A flush settled over his smooth features as he drank in the voluptuous vision that Mrs Sanderson was being forced to offer now. Her bottom was plumpish but firm, the cheeks velvet smooth and inrolling to form a deep and inviting furrow where the skin assumed a faintly gingery tone. Moving restlessly as her long, stockinged legs were, he caught delicious peeps of her well-furred mound, and licked his lips.

"You – you – you horrible young brutes. I shall tell my husb..... YEEE-AAAARGH!". The shrill cry ripped up from Cynthia's throat as the cane made its first searing bite across her swelling orb, leaving a pink line in its wake that made her blonde head jerk up and fall again as the merciless arms of Seamus hugged her tightly down.

"Really! Did the Sixth Formers whose knickers you caused to descend make such an unearthly noise, Mrs Sanderson? Do you really want the neighbours rushing in to find you like this? You are only getting a regulation sixer, you know", Michael uttered with a well-put-on sternness that amused him. "I shall accord you two more, and then Seamus will have the honours – or rather, he will put in some practise. Mother said I would need practise in everything".

"WHOOOO! She didn't mean.... NEEE-AAAARGH! Oh my God, it stings, it burns! Stop it!"

"Mrs Sanderson, really!", chided Seamus who was enjoying every moment. Her tits mounded against his ringing arms as Cynthia struggled. Wearing on top as she was, only a pale pink jumper, he could feel her nipples poking through the thin wool against his forearm. Michael, meanwhile, was gazing with excited pride upon the tramlines he had now caused to appear across both ardent cheeks – lines that were broken only by that adorable, deep cleft between her madly wriggling demi-globes.

He raised his arm again slowly while Seamus's eyes gazed expectantly up into his face. Something else he had overheard his mother saying to his father came back to him. "It has to be allowed to sink in slowly", she had laughed, and Michael thought he understood now. Besides, another idea had also come to him.

"Please... please... please!" Cynthia was sobbing helplessly. Somehow, surely, she could win them over from giving her a full sixer, she thought, then heard Michael's voice saying to her, "Mrs Sanderson, listen carefully. It may be that you yourself are only a beginner, but that is precisely the type of young lady we may one day have to deal with. Bottom-burning is intended to bring obedience, I believe? Well, we shall see. Upon your promise to prove as submissive as you no doubt coached your own young ladies to be, then you will receive only two more strokes. Don't you think she is rather overdressed for this, Seamus?"

Seamus gaped at him for a moment, but then a look of comprehension passed across his face. The luscious Mrs Sanderson was like a wriggling fish. He was having a devil of a job to hold her. – "Yeah, right", he answered, "given that she takes her skirt and top off, then we WILL deal with her more lightly. Well, Mrs Sanderson?"

"Oh God!", Cynthia sobbed. Her bottom burned so fiercely that the thought of another four strokes of the cane across her throbbing globe was too awful to contemplate. Whatever she did now they were going to cane her still. – "Well, Mrs Sanderson?", she heard again and in her imagination saw the awful cane being raised behind her. – "Yes, yes – all right!", she sobbed. Seamus slowly released his grip on her then and got up.

"You are on your honour, Mrs Sanderson. Otherwise....", she heard. Seamus stepped away from her. An awful silence descended momentarily in the lounge. Legs trembling and hips weaving, Cynthia rose up and worked her panties right off, holding her back to them both. Fingers shaking, she slid down the zip of her skirt and stepped out of it, leaving it in a limp pool on the floor. – "Now your jumper, Mrs Sanderson", came Michael's voice as he and Seamus's eyes gloated over the superb curviness of her firmly-fleshed figure. Swallowing heavily, Cynthia peeled it up and slipped it over her head, globing her naked tits out to them in profile, her pinky-brown nipples perkily-poised on the snow-white gourds.

"Now, Mrs Sanderson, you will bend over, please, of your own accord, palms flat on the seat and your bottom well thrust out. Otherwise...." – "Y...y...yes, all right!", she choked. Anything, anything to get it over now. Two more, though. She would never be able to take them! Holding her ankles and thighs desperately close together. Cynthia obeyed until her red-streaked bottom was poised like a full-blown peach, her bare tummy resting on the rolled edge.

"Excellent, excellent. You will accord this miscreant her final two", Michael said throatily to Seamus who then took up the prime position behind the glorious offering while Cynthia waited breathlessly, gazing blindly down into the Dralon cushion beneath her.

"The first will be right across your bottom, Mrs Sanderson, and the second will he just underneath. You understand that? You understand that you are not to spring up? I'm throwing your knickers, skirt and jumper to the other side of the room, just in case", Seamus said. Gritting her teeth, Cynthia tried not to reply, but she knew they were waiting for her to do just that – or else.... "Y...y...yes... all right", she stammered.

"You deserve two more, do you not, Mrs Sanderson? You deserve to be caned for your rebellious attitude at the beginning? WELL?" – "Oh! I – er.... I, er... Yes", whimpered Cynthia to her own utter despair. Her swelling cheeks tightened in anticipation as she heard Seamus step back half a pace. Panic rose in her. – "Please, look, I.... NEEE-OOOOH!", came her uprising squeal as the fiercest of flames seared her orb, causing her to gyrate her hips madly. "GOO-GOO-GOO!", she sobbed helplessly, uncaring of the wickedly erotic display she was now giving as her tits swung heavily and her hips worked frantically from side to side.

Both Michael and Seamus waited then. Neither, in truth, had ever thought it would be quite so easy. Both in their hearts preferred older women, full-bottomed and full-breasted, to girls of their own age, and this one was a creature of exquisite beauty who had preserved her curves perfectly and whose bum was as round as a Dutch cheese. Would she spring up? For a moment each held his breath, her golden-furred quim winking at them as Cynthia's legs worked this way and that.

"Good. Give her the last one, Seamus – as we promised. I believe she is going to be a good girl in future", Cynthia heard. Her sobs resounded louder then, but Seamus ignored them. He had given her almost a full minute of 'absorption' time and now Mrs Sanderson was due for a teal tamer. SWOOOO-ISSSSH! hissed the cane. Arcing from left to right it took Cynthia right under the wondrous bulge of her bottom and brought a piercing "YEEE-EEEH-EEEEK!" from her as the fierce lightning of it coursed through her twin hemispheres.

"BLUB-BLUB-BLUB!", she sobbed as Seamus laid down the cane. Her hands scrabbling wildly, she clawed at the cushions and dragged herself over onto the seat of the sofa where she lay curled up, writhing and twisting, her hot bottom bumping about until finally she uttered a huge, open-mouthed, sobbing sigh and covered her face shamefully with a cushion, drawing her stockinged legs up as closely as she could....

Two hours later when her son let himself in, he heard hrs mother splashing in the bath. She was singing! She sounded quite happy, he thought.....

Monday, 3 January 2011

The Olympic Spirit

Story from Februs 39.

The Olympic Spirit
A Short Story by Samuel Lovell

We English tend to assume that when it comes to the thorny, if erotically, enticing issue of corporal chastisement, we are quite literally world beaters. Ben Farrow certainly considered his predilection for the tanning of female behinds to be a peculiarly Anglo-Saxon disease. It caused him untold angst especially during the early seventies when he was a student of ancient history at Leeds University. Within a puritanical atmosphere of women's rights and growing political correctness, his passions left him extremely uneasy. He also found that the so-called permissive society was less evident than certain sections of the press had led a small town boy like himself to believe. He was in his third and final year before Jessica finally agreed to full physical relations. It was a relief, no doubt, and to them both if the truth be known but there was still a glaring omission to his sexual cravings.

Little did he realise that his charming yet timid girlfriend held emotions just as strong as his own. Sadly, they left her feeling scared and abnormal. Being an intelligent young woman she know this was a silly reaction, but she had nobody in which to confide which meant the problem festered away untreated. Considering they had been courting for two years, it may seem odd that they had never even discussed the matter. Like so many couples, however, the very seriousness of their relationship somehow prevented further exploration of each others sexual psyches. It was almost like trying to imagine their parents making love and as one can appreciate, that is rather unsettling. Fortunately, life has an uncanny knack of pushing the inevitable along and so it was with Ben and Jessica one lazy Sunday afternoon.

They had taken a break from their studies and decided to spend the day watching nonsense upon the television. Ben's house-mates were away, affording them some unexpected privacy; it was a situation he intended exploiting to his own advantage. With the curtains shut, the door firmly bolted and a large supply of cider in the fridge, they snuggled together on the sofa. It all seemed to be heading for their usual quick bounce which for once would not take place in utter darkness. Then fate decided to lend a hand with the assistance of the British Broadcasting Corporation. A series of classic Elvis films was to be aired starling with Blue Hawaii. The scene so infamous to spanking fans caught them both unawares and for that matter practically naked. As Jenny Maxwell was hauled over the King's knee our two young lovers were both glued to the set. The brief scene affected them deeply and with their many inhibitions dulled by the alcohol the rest came quite naturally.

It begun as a nervous joke, but within a few minutes Jessica was over Ben's knee getting what for with vigorous aplomb. The release was incredible, both mentally and physically as their frantic lovemaking demonstrated. Sadly, the pathway to liberation then reached an irritating impasse. They were ready to move on having talked the issues through sensibly. Spanking was most definitely for them, of that they were certain. Quite understandably, however, it was an aspect of their relationship which they wished to keep private. Their activities, therefore, were curtailed by the egg-shell thin walls and the presence of house-mates. They attempted to compromise by whispering fantasies to one another as they made love, but nothing could really compensate for the real sting.

So it went on right up to their finals which, though stressful, at least offered a distraction. Then with surprising suddenness it was all over and they were free to leave. After a week of drinking and general merriment, Ben suggested that they sell everything and go island hopping in Greece.

'All right,' agreed Jessica cocking her head in the manner he found so attractive, 'but if my Morris Minor has to go so does your motorbike.'

'Anything but that,' he pleaded suddenly.

'Imagine a quiet cove, your lap and my naked bottom,' she replied with a roll of her brown eyes.

'I'll ring Exchange & Mart right away.'

* * *

Within a fortnight they were boarding the plane to Rhodes having taken advantage of a last minute cancellation. Being a student of ancient history Ben had hoped to start their adventure in Athens, but the prospect of laying his hands upon Jessica's pert little behind certainly made up for this disappointment. They spent three blissful weeks on the island finding numerous hideouts where they could indulge in their fancies. Already, however, the presence of organised tourism was making itself felt and after being caught by a German family in the throes of a good rogering the pair decided to move on. So, they caught a ferry to Karpathos in the hope of finding greater seclusion.

As the quay at Pigadia drew closer they smiled at one another, sensing immediately the unworldly isolation that is such a striking feature of this Dodecanese island. They had always preferred a long day's walk in the Yorkshire dales to the overcrowded and smoky bars of the Leeds student scene. It was quite natural therefore that they went in search of rugged and picturesque serenity rather than a busy night-life.

Alter dropping their rucksacks off at a small apartment they wandered down by the harbour and ate in one of the restaurants. The sun was still quite warm when they finished and both had only one thing in mind. Around Ben's waist was a leather belt he had purchased back in Rhodes and they were as yet to christen it. After taking note which way most people were heading, they set off in the opposite direction. This took them up a steep coastal path, past a small while church and up over the rocks. As they climbed ever higher Ben watched Jessica's buttocks as they strained against her tight hot pants. He could barely keep his hands off them as they jiggled from side to side and if they had gone on much further the bulge in his jeans would have rubbed itself sore. Fortunately, they came across a series of caves and without a word they both wandered into the largest one.

'Strip, you naughty minx,' Ben growled once they were submerged in the half light.

'Must I, sir,' pleaded Jessica, theatrically, her fingers already unfastening her bikini top.

'I'd be quick if you value the skin on your arse,' Ben threatened and on one swift movement he pulled the belt from round his waist.

'Oh yes, sir,' mewed Jessica, highly impressed by Bon's authoritarian manner.

They both enjoyed playing these little games before getting down to the real business of warming Jessica's nates. It gave the whole affair a certain edge and now they were becoming accustomed to their roles, the effect was greatly enhanced.

Jessica quickly disposed of her clothes allowing Ben to wallow in her naked glory. There wasn't a spare ounce upon the girl, even her breasts, though fulsome, displayed a youthful tautness. After admiring her exquisiteness for a moment or two Ben gave the order to touch her toes. This was a new twist, for in the past, she had always bent over his knee. Being supple and athletic, she achieved this classic pose with ease, presenting a target of supreme beauty. Her orbs practically begged to be whipped and her sex seemed to glisten in anticipation. She felt glorious, so vulnerable yet safe with her dearest Ben at the helm.

He folded the belt in half and cautiously lifted it back. The moment the leather swooshed across her orbs he knew that the blow was a trifle tame.

'Ow,' said Jessica with a giggle, thus confirming Ben's concerns.

Right then, he thought, try this one for size and he really let it fly. Jessica suddenly regretted her outburst of sarcasm as a dose of very real pain exploded across her denuded behind. It stung like crazy and she let out a piercing squeal that surprised them both. Then a lovely feeling of submissiveness overwhelmed her senses and she settled down to await the next instalment. Ben was quite shaken by Jessica's vocal response and placed a little less venom behind the following blow. His confidence quickly grew however and the rhythmic sound of leather slapping flesh soon filled the air.

By the end Jessica's rump had assumed a bright scarlet hue without suffering any lasting damage. On the whole they both thoroughly enjoyed the experience yet something was still missing. Later, after making love, the two discussed events in the open style that had become their fashion.

'You held back, didn't you?' Jessica questioned, as she nibbled at Ben's suntanned neck.

'A little, but only because you nearly jumped out of your skin.'

'It was just a shock that's all,' she explained. 'It feels different to your hand, stings more at the time, but it's not throbbing now and I kind of miss that.'

'So you want it harder?'

'Yes and I want to yelp. It's rather good fun.'

Over the coming days they visited the cave quite regularly with Jessica's naked behind suffering harsher and harsher punishments. This led to a fair degree of bruising which made sunbathing on the beach amongst their fellow travellers impractical. Again, they decided to press on, in search of some idyll that would suit their needs entirely. They wished to stay upon Karpathos, however, having fallen in love with its grey mountains, rocky promontories and anachronistic lifestyle. So, they caught the local caique around the island to the village of Olymbos. It was an interesting trip made all the more so by the flimsy nature of their boat and its susceptibility to break down.

Eventually, Olymbos came into view, clinging somewhat precariously to the mountainside. As they stepped ashore they were immediately struck by the women of the village who still wore the traditional apparel. Their elegant white dresses made Jessica feel rather conspicuous and she was relieved to find a hotel so quickly. It was here that they met Vanna for the first time. She was the proprietor's daughter and to their surprise spoke excellent English.

'I live in Rhodes for ten years working with the tourists,' she explained while taking them to their room. 'Then my father bring us back home to Olymbos saying it will soon be full of tourists too. He wrong so far, but it's beautiful yes?'

'It is indeed,' Ben replied and he couldn't help but think that Vanna was rather beautiful too.

Jessica noticed how her lover stared at the girl's behind as she placed fresh sheets on their bed. She could have made an educated guess as to what was going through his mind. A few months earlier she would have felt threatened by Ben's lascivious reaction, but now she had a new confidence in the strength of their bond. They were growing that was for certain, both together and outwards. Where it would all lead Jessica was as yet unsure, but it no longer scared her as it had in the past. There was perhaps another sensation simmering below the surface that she could not as yet express. Still, it stirred some pleasant currents in her loins and she began day dreaming about a sore bottom and a satisfied libido.

'Are there any quiet beaches or coves close by Vanna?' she asked innocently while flashing Ben a knowing glance.

'All the beaches on this side of the island are quiet, but I know what is a cove not?'

Once this minor linguistic problem was solved it became obvious that Ben and Jessica's love of spanking alfresco would be well catered for around Olymbos. Vanna promised to show them several solitary spots the following day where they could swim and sun bathe, 'however they liked... yes!'

That evening, however, the village was celebrating and she insisted that Ben and Jessica joined the revelry. The cause of this riotous affair never became clear though there seemed to be a religious theme hidden somewhere below all the singing and drinking. Whatever the motive, young and old alike partied into the early hours with hardly a pause for breath.

They were slightly fragile when Vanna awoke them early the next morning with a tray of feta cheese, bread and olives. She seemed none the worse for wear, her brown eyes sparkling as she ushered them out of the hotel in her bossy yet charming manner. To Ben's delight she had cast her traditional garbs aside opting for shorts and a thin pale denim shirt.

'Mama shouts at me for dressing this way,' she said as they wandered out of the village. 'She says it makes talk. I don't care I like less clothes when it's so hot!'

'I suppose,' Jessica replied thoughtfully, 'but I do adore the embroidery on your dresses.'

'Yes, if s beautiful, but not always,' Vanna continued in her husky tones. 'Sometimes it's best to be free of all clothes... yes!'

'Oh yes,' agreed Ben, suddenly taking an interest in the conversation.

You turncoat, thought Jessica who had suggested a touch of naturism back on Rhodes only to be told it was out of the question. Ben was no prude, however, to him it was simply a matter of aesthetics. He found the contrast between the milky white flesh on Jessica's bottom and the brown skin that surrounded it most enticing. If pressed, he would explain in detail how it highlighted the target area, thus ensuring he always hit the right spot. Never mind, Jessica decided with a hint of amusement, if anyone is going to suffer from sunburn it will be him and that dangling beast of his.

They followed in Vanna's wake as she strode effortlessly over the razor sharp rocks for a good half an hour. Then she led them down a preposterously steep crevasse, around numerous large boulders and out onto a long thin stretch of shingle which sloped down to the gently lapping sea.

'You like?' she asked in her demanding style.

'It's wonderful,' Jessica replied as she dropped her bag to the floor.

'And nobody but me comes here,' Vanna continued. 'Come let's go in for a swim, it will wake you two sleepy people up.'

She then pulled her shirt up over her head to reveal a pair of rounded breasts that were tipped majestically in dark ebony. Jessica feared Ben's eyes would pop out of their sockets not to mention the strain on his shorts. For a moment she felt a pang of jealousy, but then she bared her own buxom chest and realised quite smugly that they were just as ripe as their Greek friend's. Vanna meanwhile had pushed her shorts down to her ankles and kicked them aside. Her buttocks were oval and long, blending into her broad fleshy hips. Jessica also removed her shorts and the two girls skipped excitedly down to the water. Ben who was enchanted to near senselessness by the whole scene noticed the bruising on his girlfriend's behind at the last possible moment. Vanna won't spot them, he thought vaguely more concerned with the rather incriminating condition of his manhood than anything else.

With this in mind he stripped quickly and charged straight past the frolicking girls, plunging into the cool blue water. Upon rejoining them he discovered that Vanna was more observant than he had earlier assumed.

'Did you do this to her bot-bot?' she accused pointing her finger at him. 'You wicked man, you are, I think.'

'Well, errr,' Bon stuttered flushing with embarrassment.

'Oh, he's most wicked,' Jessica teased, less perturbed than her boyfriend by their lapse in discretion.

'Still it's such a cute little thing,' Vanna crooned and her hand reached out and grabbed Jessica's rump. 'I like to give it a... what do you say... spank?'

'Yes,' giggled Jessica, her heart quite a flutter.

'A good spank myself, over here, yes!' and she tapped her knee.

'I wouldn't mind,' Jessica beamed, 'and I'm sure Ben won't either.'

'I can see that for myself,' laughed Vanna pointing at his aroused condition.

Then she took hold of Jessica's wrist and dragged her up the shingle beach to where their towels lay. Ben, as was becoming his habit, followed close behind, his chest pounding in amorous anticipation. He could hardly believe that Jessica was the same shy girl he had tried so hard to impress back in Leeds. That life suddenly seemed a million miles and as many years away. He felt so alive that it hurt, but what an exquisite pain it was and how he wished to endure it forever.

Vanna picked up her towel, but instead of drying herself she laid it on one of the smaller rocks. Then she sat down upon it and beckoned Jessica to come closer. She required little encouragement, her backside was just itching for a hard slapping. Her enthusiasm was heightened further by the novelty of being bent over such a luxuriously feminine lap. This discovery caused a delicious tremble to pulsate down her spine and she became aware just how wet she was between the legs. She felt quite ashamed at enjoying her humiliation especially when she considered that Vanna was practically a stranger. Somehow that made it all the better and she determined to savour every moment.

'Over you go,' Vanna instructed. 'I spank your bot-bot till it nice and red yes.'

'Don't hold back she's much tougher than you think,' Ben joked his eyes wide as saucers.

'It is the same with all women,' Vanna replied with a touch of curtness.

Once snugly in position Jessica cocked her head to face Ben and winked at him. He winked back, both revelling in the simple joys of the flesh. Then Vanna's hand connected crisply with Jessica's buttocks. They were still cold and damp with salty water. Jessica liked the feel of it even more than usual and she moaned rather than gasped.

'You naughty girl,' Vanna scolded playfully, 'I not stop till it very sore now.'

That was just fine by Jessica who stuck her nates out invitingly for the next smack. Vanna obliged wrapping her hand around the upturned target with all the strength she could muster. She watched as the finger marks leapt from the pale flesh before giving it another then another. Jessica's bottom twitched and wriggled which delighted her chastiser not to mention the silent Ben. He stood transfixed, breathless and rather giddy as the blows began to fall at an unrelenting pace. Even in his wildest fantasies he had never imagined witnessing such a vividly stimulating display of erotic discipline.

Jessica meanwhile was completely immersed in that heady mixture of pleasure and pain that had come to represent the epitome of her sexuality. To her utter amazement she then realised how close she was to climaxing. That had never happened over Ben's knee though she often thought it might. She felt a little guilty, but there was nothing that could stop her going over the brink.

'Oh, you are terrible,' Vanna laughed when she realised what was happening. She obviously didn't mind for her fingers dipped lightly into Jessica's honey-pot thus aiding the girl to even higher peaks of ecstasy. 'That feels good yes?' she said as Jessica shuddered to a halt.

'Oh God, YES,' she wailed joyfully.

'Now maybe you do the same for me?' Vanna asked expectantly.

The idea of switching roles had never really occurred to Jessica and now she was faced with the prospect it held little appeal. She was by her nature highly submissive in the sexual arena yet it seemed only fair to accommodate Vanna's desires. After a moments hesitation she found the solution. 'I think it would be better if Ben took charge of your punishment,' she said upon rising to her feet. 'His hand is much harder than mine.'

'Yes, I'm sure it is,' Vanna replied examining his muscular frame. 'Well Ben, do you want to spank my Greek bot-bot?'

'The girl's I punish call me sir,' he said in mock annoyance.

'Yeees, sir,' Vanna pouted.

Moments later she was over his strong hip with her expansive behind taking the brunt of a passionate hiding. It was now Jessica's turn to watch proceedings and it aroused her far more than she had anticipated. In fact it was all she could do to keep her fingers from drifting down between her legs. She resisted however, suspecting that Ben would quell her lusty desires in due course. For the time being he continued to belabour Vanna's hide only stopping when the constant rubbing of her belly across his manhood brought him close to a highly premature ejaculation.

Vanna stood up and rubbed attractively at her smarting behind.

'Is it red?' she asked Jessica while attempting to look over her own shoulder.

'As a tomato.'

'But not marked like yours.'

'No he uses his belt to do that.'

'He do it to me?'

'I'll do it to you both,' Ben interrupted decisively, having become tired of them scheming as if he was not even there. 'And to make things more interesting we'll have a little competition.'

'Whatever do you mean?' Jessica quizzed.

'England versus Greece for the honour of being crowned Queen of the Hardy Bottoms,' he announced dramatically. 'So both touch your toes and the last one to rise will be our winner.'

'And the prize?' asked Jessica amid an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.

'It stands proudly before you,' he replied to yet more laughter.

'I think I understand,' Vanna said as they pulled themselves back together, 'but what is this touching toes mean.'

All soon became clear and the two girls bent over thus proffering their very different behinds to the waiting Ben. Both were exquisite, complementing one another like a fine wine does an equally excellent meal. Their unsurpassable quality certainly caused Ben to hesitate for a moment, his eyes skipping from one set of chubbies to the other.

'Stop leering and hurry up,' moaned Jessica.

'That's, stop leering and hurry up, sir, to you,' Ben rebuffed and he gave his beloved a mighty whack to force the point home.

Predictably, Jessica squealed like a wounded animal which led Vanna to assume Greece was going to claim the gold modal easily. It had been quite a while since her last bare behind whacking, but never in her life had she made such a racket. With a certain amount of pride she then remembered the Dutch boy back on Rhodes who had beaten her rump black and blue with a wooden sandal. If she could not only take but enjoy that kind of treatment then a mere belting would be nothing. Ben had become highly proficient at his task, however, and the smarting blow that wrapped around Vanna's buttocks caused her to gasp in alarm.

For some reason the two girls then turned their heads and looked into each others eyes. Their expressions must have been similar for both realised instantly that this was going to be a protracted affair. Ben certainly had the necessary energy and aptitude to keep their nates dancing, patiently gracing their behinds with stroke after torturous stroke. Jessica screamed herself hoarse while Vanna simply groaned. All three gave and took from one another, balancing upon the precipice of fulfilment for longer than seemed possible. Finally, with their buttocks crimson and wealed Ben threw the belt aside.

'You've both won,' he declared as he took hold of their hair and pulled them towards him. "Now, come and claim the spoils.'

They did so eagerly, hardly noticing the rough shingle as they fell into a desperate menage-a-trois.

Life would never be the same for Ben and Jessica after their time with Vanna in Olymbos. The path was set and they were now compelled to follow it whatever the consequences. Diversity, they found, could be a difficult cross to bear in such an intrusive and unforgiving world. So, once a year, at least, they returned to Vanna and the quiet little cove where their passions could be free.