Trudy In Training

Story from Blushes 47.

Trudy In Training

Trudy was watching television. It was a video recording of the gymnastics from the Seoul Olympics. And her instructor was standing right behind her, emphasising the more subtle aspects of each girl's routine. Trudy's family fully approved. Mr Stevens was a splendid chap, always ready and willing to provide that little extra encouragement and coaching, and at no extra cost. Trudy would never be up to Olympic standard of course, but she would do quite well for herself at regional and national level. And she was certainly learning fast, at these impromptu evening sessions. The curtains were drawn. The door was locked. Just Trudy and her instructor.

Trudy was watching television. Dressed in just her tight leotard, she was bending tightly over the edge of the table, arms stretched out wide, fingers grasping the table edges, feet together and slim legs held straight, her head lifted, straining to watch the video recording. Behind her, Stevens flexed his favourite cane. He tapped it across her bottom, encouraging her to watch more closely.

'Watch the spring. Shoulders straight. Weight well forward...' A slim little girl on the screen performed a near-perfect routine. 'And watch as she lands. Down and...' CRACKKK! The thin cane whistled through the air and landed precisely across Trudy's bottom, emphasising the precision of the athlete on the screen. Trudy released a loud yell, and twisted her head towards her instructor. 'Yes, yes, please, Mr Stevens. Please...' The man shook his head at her. The girl was all promises, and no action. But he had a special tried and trusted technique for lazy young ladies. The video continued. She was encouraged to watch even more intently as she felt the quivering stick close to her bottom, touching the bare skin of her upper thighs, just waiting, hovering. 'Now watch, young lady. Watch!' She felt her bottom cheeks quiver in dread anticipation. 'Watch how she lands...' The lithe young figure on the screen performed a perfect landing. Her bare feet touched the ground. And Stevens' long thin cane found its target yet again. Another yell from young Trudy, and a frantic gyrating of her hips. 'Please, Mr Stevens. Please!' That last stroke had brought tears to her eyes. 'You were warned, Trudy. Clearly warned.' Stevens pointed towards the screen with the tip of the cane. 'Now you'll watch and take notice, young lady.'

* * *

Trudy's first meeting with Mr Stevens had taken place just over a year ago when her family moved into the district. She had changed, and had taken the opportunity to warm up on the apparatus before Stevens had arrived. In silence, he had stood by the side of the gymnasium, watching her, his face expressionless.

At last, she had scampered, bare foot, towards him, hands behind her back, smiling sweetly. 'How did I do?' she had asked, innocently. Two seconds later, Stevens had frog-marched her across the gymnasium towards his office, pushing her head-first into the small room.

'Never, never work out on the equipment without another person in attendance.' She was frightened by his obvious anger. 'You stupid foolish girl.' She blushed, and hung her head like a spoilt little schoolgirl. Their eyes met. 'Well?' He was waiting for her, and she stared back at him, puzzled. 'I'm sorry?' He walked to the end of the room, returning with a chair in his right hand. 'I want your apology for being so foolish.' A bolt of indignation ran through Trudy's head. She found herself shaking her head. 'No. No. Why should I...' In retrospect, it had been a rather silly question to ask a man such as Stevens. Trudy spent the next ten minutes, face-down and bottom-up, as her new instructor taught her a few basic facts about his methods and his expectations of her, each salient point well-emphasised by a firm slap of his palm across her bottom. Not such a cheeky, pert young lady crept out of his office later that evening, massaging her stinging bottom cheeks. 'Behave yourself, young lady, or there'll be trouble.' Those had been his parting words to her. She had blinked the tears from her eyes, and had hastened back to the changing rooms, praying that no-one else would be there. She opened the door quietly, hesitantly. And to her horror, was greeted by a friendly smile.

Sally was just coming out of the shower. Her slim healthy body was glistening as she stood, towel in hand. 'Hi! I'm Sally.' She glanced very quickly at the blushing youngster, standing in the doorway. 'Looks as though you've just had your induction course?'

Trudy turned to leave, wondering whether she could change elsewhere. 'Judging by the colour of your backside, I mean...' Trudy stopped, and turned again. The older girl was smiling. 'Don't worry. It happens to us all. Old Stevens likes to tan us all from time to time. Keeps us on our toes, if you'll excuse the pun...' It was a gesture of friendship. The door was closed, and the two girls became immediate friends. That evening, they walked part of the way home together, talking in whispers. 'If you behave yourself and work well, he won't touch you. It's just the lazy slackers that get tanned.' Sally had recounted her first interview with the dreadful man. 'He used his gym shoe. Made me take my leotard right down. Whacked my bare bottom 'til I was yelling.' Trudy's plans for the future were in the balance. Tomorrow she would resign from the club. There was no way that dreadful man would treat her like a spoilt child.

Foolishly, Trudy had left her leotard at home when she set off for the Centre the following morning, determined to throw in the towel. The others girls changed as usual, and scampered off into the gym. Trudy waited in the changing area, the exact words of her well-rehearsed speech to Mr Stevens, on her pretty lips. 'Get changed, young lady! Immediately!' Summoning every ounce of courage, the girl stood her ground and shook her head in defiance. 'No. I'm leaving.' For just a second she felt really pleased with herself, for finding the strength of will to stand up to him. And then it all wilted. 'Nonsense, you stupid child! My profession has invested good money in you! How dare you let us down! Get changed. Now!' Trudy opened her mouth to refuse, but Stevens continued. 'If you're not ready in two minutes flat, I shall apply my cane to your bottom. Your BARE bottom, after I have stripped you myself!' Deep down, Trudy knew he wasn't bluffing. That he was emphatic and forceful enough to do exactly what he wanted. He was about to strip her. She appealed to him. 'I'm sorry. I haven't got my leotard... 'cos I didn't think I'd be needing it...' He slapped her soundly across her bottom. 'Get undressed. Strip down to your knickers. And report to the gymnasium with the other girls. NOW!" Her heart in her mouth, her face crimson with embarrassment, young Trudy undressed. Quickly, she scampered across the cold floor of the gym, her young breasts bobbing as she ran, dressed in just her brief white pants. The session that followed was acutely embarrassing, as Stevens put each girl through her paces, one at a time, with the group watching and criticising each other. But strangely, the other girls seemed not to notice Trudy's near nakedness. In fact, nothing unusual occurred until the very end of the morning.

Stevens blew his whistle. The girls jumped to attention, their breasts heaving as they fought to control their breathing. He waited until they were in line, the tallest girl to the right, with the shortest on the left. 'A marginal improvement,' he told them. 'A very average performance from you all.' There was a quiver of anxiety from the line of panting girls. 'Stand one pace apart.' Each girl stepped sideways, with Trudy following their movements, stumbling slightly, until the young women were standing several feet away from each other. 'Leotards down.' A dozen tight leotards came fluttering down. Breasts large and small, firm, dainty, pink, bobbed into view, and hung free as the girls stooped, unhitching the thin garment from their ankles. Twelve healthy young girls stood silently to attention. Naked. Their hands by their sides, staring nervously at the man. He walked to the far end of the gym, returning with unquickened pace, with the cane in his hand. He stood behind them, his seasoned eyes scanning the row of bared bottoms. 'Touch your toes.' Another quiver of fearful anticipation as the twelve girls bent forward, fingers outstretched to touch bare toes, bottoms thrust out, awaiting their punishment. He caned them slowly. One at a time. Three strokes apiece. And after the strokes, each girl was told to fall out and return to the changing rooms. Eleven girls. Eleven bared bottoms. Thirty three stinging strokes of the cane. Frantic yells and crying. And then silence, as Trudy found herself the last girl to be attended to. One girl, in the large echoing gym hall. A pair of flimsy white pants lying on the wooden floor in front of her. Stevens with his quivering cane, walking behind her, considering her bottom. The new girl's bottom. The bottom he had smacked, but not yet caned. 'A very special lesson for you, young lady.' He told her to stand up. With her hands held above her head, he propelled her across the length of the gym towards the vaulting horse. 'Bend over, young lady. Make yourself comfortable. You will be here for some considerable time.'

In the early afternoon, Trudy staggered out of the changing rooms. Her new friend was waiting for her. 'Hey. How is it?' She smiled warmly as Trudy's tears cascaded down her blushing face. 'I told you to behave yourself, didn't I?' Sally put her arm around the younger girl. 'Come on. Let's go back to my place.'

Very late that evening, gentle knowing fingers were intruding into Trudy's very intimate secret place. She was lying face down on her new friend's bed. Her bottom was bare again, and Sally was tracing the angry cane-marks with soft soothing cool lotion. Many secrets were exchanged that night, as the two girls explored each other's past. A real and lasting friendship was born. And Trudy decided, after all, to continue with her training. 'It's not always that bad,' Sally whispered to her. 'Sometimes Mr Stevens does really nice things...' But that night, that first night, Sally would say no more. Trudy had many lessons to learn, and it was best that she met each lesson as it came. Just as Sally had learnt.

* * *

So Trudy continued watching television, late into the night. At some time after midnight, she was relieved of her leotard. Stevens had counted the cane-strokes already applied, the thin red tramlines clearly traced across the upturned bottom. There were many more lessons for young Trudy to learn. But she was promising material. Especially after a really sharp caning. When an insolent young madam finally stops fighting and just lies still, bottom ablaze, legs apart, acknowledging your authority. Trudy wasn't at that stage quite yet. But there was no hurry. Tonight, tomorrow night or next week. One day, she would learn her lesson. Until then, there was work to be done.

The cane whistled down yet again. Young Trudy bucked forward, bottom tightly thrusting, thighs parting, eyes closed, lips parted in a silent yell. CRACCKKK! 'We have lessons to learn, young lady...' CRACCKK! 'Lessons to learn....' CRACCKKKK!

Justice seen to be done!

"This is a nice, light 'the biter bit' school story by Tony Nixon from an old edition of 'Janus'. The illustration at the end is the original one from the magazine. Enjoy:-" (Alex's preface to this story)

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Story from Janus 29.

Justice seen to be done!
by Tony Nixon

I could hardly believe what was happening. It was just so unfair. Anne Hawkins and Diane Bennett had never liked me for some reason best known to themselves. The three of us had been in the same class at school for five years now, and at sixteen they seemed to have overtaken me in terms of maturity. They had blossomed from being silly little girls into very sexy young ladies, and I took every opportunity of ogling their long shapely legs under their school desks during lessons. It didn't alter the fact, though, that they were a couple of wicked bitches with a spiteful sense of humour. They delighted in teasing me and getting me into trouble, but this was the last straw! They had hidden some of their things in my school locker and then reported them stolen. A search was mounted, the things were found and, as a result, we were all three now in the Headmaster's office.

Mr. Thomas, the Head, was wearing his gown and looked most severe as he pushed the pens, coins and other items across his desk. "Are these the items you had stolen, girls?" he asked grimly.

The two girls quickly nodded and said, "Yes, sir". How could they? They were sitting in two easy chairs next to his desk and, despite everything, I still couldn't help admiring their legs.

"Anything to say, Robertson?"

"No, sir," I muttered, staring down at the carpet to hide my anger.

"I regard stealing as a most serious breach of discipline which demands severe punishment!"

I cast a ferocious glance at Anne and Diane who looked so smug I could have hit them. Even so I couldn't help but notice that Anne had crossed her legs and was revealing quite a bit of bare, shapely thigh, from where I was standing. Stupidly, I still fancied the pair of them like crazy. They had both taken to wearing high heeled strap-fastened black sandals over white knee socks, their skirts trimmed to just fashionably above the knee. This set their long legs off to perfection. It was strange to be thinking of such things at a time like this, but my hormones drove my brain in those days.

However I was snapped out of my short-lived reverie when the Head said, "And so, therefore, to the matter of punishment...". A shudder went down my spine.

"Now, as I see it, I have two options open to me," he began, then looked across at the two girls. "Since you brought the complaint I look to you girls for advice. Do you think the most suitable and effective punishment would be suspension from school or a sharp dose of the cane?"

I shuddered again and swore under my breath.

"Oh the cane sir!" said Diane all too eagerly.

"Oh yes sir," Anne quickly added.

They smirked at each other in a way that made my blood boil.

"I see. So you think young Robertson should be caned do you? That would clear up the matter to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, sir," they said in unison.

"Very well." Mr Thomas then took out the Punishment Book from his top desk drawer and placed it in front of himself. He opened the book and took out a pen. "I am empowered to administer the cane to pupils on the palms of their hands or on their… er... rear ends, covered by one layer of clothing. Which of these options would you consider most appropriate, ladies?"

Shocked to be consulted, Anne stuttered, trying not to snicker, "the… er… rear end, sir."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing - that my punishment was being determined by these two little liars! It all seemed so bloody matter-of-fact! By now my palms were sweating and my stomach was churning. Yet even at this point I was staring at Anne's gorgeous legs like some fetishist.

"And how many strokes would you consider appropriate, ladies?"

"Six of the best, sir," said Diane gleefully.

The Head raised one eyebrow. "Six of the best, eh? You obviously concur with me that the crime committed here deserves a severe retribution." He wrote in the book again. Then he dropped the real bombshell!

"Now girls, would you think its right that the offended parties in this case should witness justice being done?"

"Oh definitely, sir!" said Anne hastily, her face pink as she winked slyly at Diane, no doubt imagining the pleasure they would get from seeing me bent over with my trousers down

Mr. Thomas stood up grimly, pulling his gown around him. "I see. Well then you can help me with a few practicalities." He moved across to his tall corner cupboard and opened the door. "I have a fairly large selection of school canes, but basically there are four different ones to choose from." He then withdrew four canes from the cupboard and laid them side by side on his desk. He picked up a short, straight one. "This is for use on pupils palms so we can disregard it. As to the others we have the Junior, the Intermediate and the Senior cane - obviously each delivers a correspondingly greater degree of sting. What do you think this case deserves, girls?"

"Oh the Senior, sir!" they chorused, none too surprisingly. I felt sick.

The Head nodded and replaced the other three canes in his cupboard. This left the longest implement on his desk - a traditional fearsome crook handled three-footer.

"One last question, ladies," he said. "Do you feel that the recipient of the cane should be afforded the aid of a chair or be made to touch their toes with legs held straight?"

They looked at each other, flattered and surprised. "Er… touching toes, sir," said Diane after some thought.

"I see. So let's recap, shall we? You wish to remain as witnesses as I give Robertson six of the best with the Senior cane, over his underpants, while be bends over touching his toes. Is that right? "

"Yes, sir!" they both said, pink cheeked with excitement. Anne slid one shapely leg further over the other, revealing even more thigh, while I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

"For something he didn't do...." said the Head cryptically.

Time seemed to stand still in that room for a few seconds. Both girls' mouths dropped open. Smirks disappeared instantly. Anne hastily uncrossed her legs. I'm not sure who was the more confused - me or them. What on earth was going on?

"You see, ladies, unfortunately for you and fortunately for Robertson, you were spotted putting those items in his locker yourselves. I have no idea why you wanted to get a boy into trouble for something that he wasn't even aware of, but I regard it as one of the most despicable acts I have ever come across."

Both girls now looked shocked and frightened, while I felt that a ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

"I'm sorry I had to put you through that, Robertson, but I had to be sure how far they would take this accusation and the eventual punishment… and may I say how much I admire you for not saying anything against these two wicked-minded girls." Turning to Anne and Diane, he snapped, "Stand up!"

The girls looked quite pale as they scrambled to their feet. I noticed as they stood how their high heels accentuated the length and shape of their legs and the jutting swell of their bottoms under their blue uniform skirts.

"Now, Miss Hawkins, why did you formulate this plot against Robertson?"

"I-I don't know sir..." came the mumbled reply from Anne, her head bowed.

"Miss Bennett?"

"Well he… because… er… I don't know, sir..." stammered Diane.

"Don't know? You don't know why you were implicating an innocent class-mate in a serious accusation of theft?" He was at his most outraged and was putting the fear of God into me, never mind the two sexy young madams in front of him. They both stared hard at the carpet, their hands clasped firmly together in front of them.

"Whatever the reason was, there can be no excuse for trying to manipulate someone into receiving severe corporal punishment." He paused and gazed out of the office window, avoiding all our eyes. "I can see only one fair way to deal with this matter. I have filled in the details in the Punishment Book, but I have not yet filled in a name or a reason against the entry. I feel that, in the interests of justice, I should enter the names Anne Hawkins and Diane Bennett with the reason, 'Deceit and victimisation".

My heart began to pound again, for quite a different reason. The girls looked aghast and pale.

The Head turned to me. "Robertson, would it settle the matter in your eyes if these two wretched girls receive the punishment they would have had me inflict on you?"

"Y-yes, sir, it would!" I heard myself stammer.

Anne and Diane both cast me a glance that could have burned through stone. Mr. Thomas picked up his pen and scribbled away in the book.

"Six of the best with the Senior cane is a very demanding punishment," he said in a grim voice, "but since you both expected Robertson to take it without complaint, I shall expect you two girls to do the same." With that he rose to his feet and picked up the Senior cane. It rattled tantalisingly against the desk top. He flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it experimentally through the air. My loins began to stir as I watched the crestfallen girls shuffle uneasily from foot to foot, their knees rubbing together engagingly. Anne subconsciously put her hand behind her back and smoothed her fingers over her bottom as the Head swished the cane. I coughed nervously. The thought of her exposed thighs was still killing me.

"Robertson, these wicked girls were quite excited about being witnesses to what they assumed would be your punishment. I believe in justice being done and seen to be done, therefore I believe it is right that you should witness their caning."

My heart skipped a beat and I became acutely aware of a tightening at the front of my trousers. It was as if mild electric shocks were passing through my body.

"But sir!" cried Diane in shock, "please -". The arch bitch on the spot!

"Be quiet, Bennett! You were quite prepared to stay and watch me cane Robertson, so why should he not be afforded the same choice?" snapped Mr. Thomas, fiercely. There was another uncomfortable silence. "Well, Robertson, do you wish to remain?"

"Oh yes sir!" I blurted out, trying desperately not to sound too eager, and failing. "So be it," he said, moving away from his desk. "Come and sit in my chair, boy, then you are out of the way."

I shuffled around and sat on his large comfortable chair, glad of a chance to hide the huge tent in my trousers behind the leather topped mahogany desk. I glanced down at the Punishment Book which was still open. There were several entries at the top of the page - three fifth form boys had received four strokes for smoking about two weeks ago, then a few others including, interestingly, Tracie Ashcroft, a rather attractive girl in Form 5B who had received two strokes on the hand the previous week for truancy. I never knew about that. How exciting! I wished I could have looked through the whole book, but my eyes were distracted as they rested on the last entries - "Anne Hawkins, Form 5A, six strokes on the buttocks, Deceit and victimisation. Diane Bennett, ditto."

I jumped slightly as Mr. Thomas dropped the cane on the desk in front of me with a loud rattle and walked towards the centre of the spacious office to move a round coffee table into the corner. I would love to have touched that wicked, shiny cane, but I just stared at its simplicity, thinking of its latent power, and wondering how many other girlish bottoms had been visited by its avenging sting.

The girls looked transfixed with terror as the Head slipped off his black gown and hung it on a hook behind the door, then took off his charcoal-grey suit jacket and hung that up too. He obviously meant business! Striding purposefully back to the desk he picked up the cane and paced up and down the large open space in the centre of the office, lecturing the two girls about his shock and horror at their misdemeanours, flexing the cane to and fro the whole time. The girls' heads bowed lower and lower, their hands now clasped behind their backs, as though trying to protect their gorgeous bottoms from the imminent chastisement.

"It was only a little joke, sir", whimpered Anne suddenly.

"A joke, eh? You won't think it's a joke when it's your turn to touch your toes, Miss Hawkins!"

"Please sir, can't we have it on our hands?" wailed Diane.

"Certainly not! You set the terms of the punishment, now you must accept it!" Suddenly he stepped into the centre of the office, swished the cane menacingly through the air and snapped, "Take off your blazers!"

My loins stirred once more as both girls hesitantly removed their blazers and laid them on the chairs that they had previously occupied, revealing their crisp white blouses, tight over their fully-developed breasts, the snow white of the material erotically enhanced by their striped uniform ties.

"Hawkins, go and face the door. Bennett, come here!"

The girls cast a rueful glance at one another, and parted to their alloted positions. Diane looked pale and forlorn as she moved to the centre of the room.

"Stand there!" Mr. Thomas pointed with the cane to an imaginary mark on the carpet, "with your back to the window and your feet together."

I was apparently to be treated to a sideways aspect of the proceedings. The Head moved to the far side of the girl, flexing the cane in huge arcs as he did so.

"Now this will not be pleasant for either of you," he said sharply. "As I have already intimated, it is easier to take a caning bent over a chair or desk but since you would have had Robertson touching his toes, then you can be punished in the same way!"

Diane swayed slightly, her hands clenched and held rigidly against her hips.

"Now... bend over!"

Those magic words quickened my heartbeat yet again. Diane swallowed hard, then bent gracefully forward, her arms outstretched, until with fingers straight and body straining her fingertips just touched her toes. Her pleated skirt rode up her silky-skinned thighs quite a few inches, but still obscured the designated target area. I was rather disappointed but I needn't have worried because Mr. Thomas stepped forward and, with a deft flick of his wrist, flipped the skirt up onto her arched back, revealing a lovely pair of white satin-finish nylon knickers stretched taut over her exquisitely rounded bottom. Diane had obviously not expected this for she gasped in horror and began to straighten up.

"Just one layer of clothing, Miss Bennett... remember? Now touch your toes!" snapped the Head.

She complied slowly. I noticed her outstretched fingers trembling as they pushed on to the ends of her shoes. Her knees were perfectly straight and the high heels, uptilting her whole frame, accentuated and enhanced the gorgeous shape of her long, smooth legs.

The Headmaster positioned himself on the far side of the bending girl and planted his feet a little way apart for balance. Reaching out with the cane in his right hand he ensured that he was the correct distance away from his target. The tension in the room was unbelievable as he laid the final punishing foot of the cane right across the centre of the girl's perfectly rounded bottom. Diane flinched at the first touch of the cold rattan, knowing it to be only seconds away from causing her extreme pain. Mr. Thomas tapped the cane three… four… five times on the same spot. I watched entranced as the firm but fleshy bottom cheeks wobbled with each tap - a reminder of the tender vulnerability of soft female flesh. Her longish blonde hair covered her face, but I could well imagine her look of fearful apprehension. Anne cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to see what was going on, knowing that her turn was soon to come.

The Head suddenly set his face into an expression of steely determination. I crossed my legs self-consciously, somewhat alarmed by the swelling in the front of my trousers yet revelling in its cause. Mr. Thomas swept the cane well back. Diane's buttocks tensed and tightened as she anticipated the stroke. I wondered how hard he would hit. I supposed they would be let off lightly, being girls.

Then, suddenly SWISH! THWACK!

Diane Bennett let out a yell like a scalded cat, shot bolt upright, clasped both hands to the seat of her knickers and rubbed like hell!

"Owwwwww Aaaaaahhhh!" she whimpered, tears already pricking her eyes.

Good God! I thought. No mercy here because they're girls! Far from it!

"Get back in position!" the Head boomed. "I've hardly started with you!"

My heart pounded like mad. Diane hesitated slightly, but bent to touch her toes once more. Her skirt was again flipped back, the cane tapped once more on the stretched nylon drum before it, perhaps an inch lower than last time. Then...

SWISH! THWACK!

Another loud yelp and Diane was up again, hopping from foot to foot and massaging her injured rear. Anne Hawkins had turned to watch the cause of the awful sound effects and was looking scared to death.

The Head suddenly exploded. "Miss Hawkins! Turn and face that door immediately! Miss Bennett, bend over and stop making such a fuss! I've seen Juniors take the cane better than this."

"B-but sir..." she whined, snuffling slightly.

"Touch your toes girl!"

She was indeed making a fuss, but the Head was certainly on form. He was whacking that yard of swishy rattan down with a vengeance onto a tender target that I guessed had never even been spanked before. Hesitantly Diane bent forward.

"Skirt!". This time Mr.Thomas made her reach back to flip her own short skirt to the small of her back. How I wished I could have seen the two raised red stripes that must have been adorning that pretty posterior. Her knees were bent this time and she appeared to be trying to lower her bottom out of range.

"Straighten those legs. Now!"

They straightened. Her trembling fingertips stretching to reach her toes.

"If you get up again, Miss Bennett, or if I have to remind you once more of the required position to take a caning, I will get Robertson to hold your hands tightly and put you across the desk for the remaining strokes!"

Oh God, no! I thought. She'll be bound to detect my excitement - my sweaty hands, my shaking fingers, maybe even see my stiffie... but then there will be the thrill of staring into her eyes as the cane bites and watching the pained contortions on her sexy face.

Tap, tap, tap... SWISH! THWACK! Another squeal after the explosion of sound but the Head's threat had worked because, although her fingers left her toes and her knees sagged slightly, she did more or less maintain her undignified, submissive position. Within seconds she had regained her posture, even though she was making high-pitched moaning sounds which aroused me considerably.

Tap, tap, tap... SWISH! THWACK!

This time a shrill shriek and a frantic rubbing together of thighs, mobilising her scorched rear into a very erotic side to side wiggle. Her hands made white-knuckled fists then slowly straightened out again. Now she grasped her ankles firmly and braced back her legs.

On this stroke, I endeavoured to savour the technique a little more. The 'Tap, tap, tap' was quite low down her thinly-covered bottom cheeks, then a fairly substantial swing back and suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! punctuated abruptly by the satisfying (to me!) Thwack! of rattan against sensitive girl flesh. Diane yelled loudly and I realised that she had started crying quite considerably. I also noticed that when she yelled she jerked her head back, causing her hair to toss in the air. Deep muffled sobs came from Diane as Mr.Thomas prepared for the last stroke.

This one was so low down that he was tapping to get his aim almost on the rounded crease where bottom becomes thighs. This meant that, due to the V shaping of Diane's knickers, the cane would be biting into bare flesh. Diane must have realised this and moved her bottom to one side. The Head gave a sharper warning tap then, as she responded, and as if to catch her by surprise, he swept the cane swiftly back and flicked it sharply down again in one energetic stroke.

SWISH! THWACK!

Diane tossed her head back and let out a ghastly shriek. I swiftly re-directed my gaze on her rear-end, in the hope that I would at last see a red line from the visitation of the stick to the lower extremities of her cheeks, but I was foiled. She must have realised that her torturous punishment was at an end and so leapt upright, rubbing her throbbing sit-upon furiously and attempting to stamp the pain away in a peculiar dance routine. Her hair was stuck to the tears on her cheeks, she was crying loudly and unashamedly and making a hell of a fuss, but for her at least, it was over. Her twisted expressions of exquisite agony were testimony to the punitive power of Mr. Thomas' right arm and its lithe, three-foot rattan extension.

The Headmaster let the cane drop down by his side. "Well I can't compliment you on taking your punishment particularly well, Miss Bennett, but at least you did take it without the need for Robertson's assistance. Let us see if Miss Hawkins can manage to do the same. Now go and face the door!" He then turned to Anne. "Miss Hawkins - take her place if you please!"

My heart began thumping again, because I had to admit that Anne was the one I really fancied and I couldn't wait to see her arse wriggling under its painful ordeal. She looked resolute as she moved forwards. She was obviously trying to hide any fear, but her wide staring eyes and flushed cheeks gave away her suppressed panic at the plight in which she now found herself. As Anne moved forward, Diane shuffled painfully over to the office door and stood facing it. Anne and the Head were too preoccupied, but I watched in delight as Diane put her hands behind her, under the back of her skirt lifting it high as she did so, then plunged both hands down inside her filmy white knickers, one hand on each cheek, obviously an attempt to ease away some of the throbbing, burning sting. She was still sobbing very quietly and uncomfortably shifting her weight from foot to foot as though she just didn't know what to do with herself. How I wished it was my hands down her knickers feeling those painful ridges and all that radiated heat! I could hardly tear my eyes away but I had to, for it was 'top of the bill' time.

Anne was standing staring downwards at nothing in particular but she was desperate to avoid my eyes. She was an incredibly sexy girl. Shorter in height than Diane but beautifully proportioned. She was well-spoken and obviously from quite a wealthy background, with a kind of serene arrogance that made you want to take her down a peg or two. Yet, despite this, she had a warm side to her nature at times and I often thought Diane was a bad influence. I smiled to myself at just what a warm side she would be presenting in a few minutes time! I had fancied Anne right through school and had fantasised about her often, but this was more gut-churningly exciting than anything my brain had dreamed up for her! I suddenly thought of the possibility of holding Anne's hands across the desk in front of me if she didn't take her 'six of the best' well. And staring into those large blue eyes, watching the pained expressions wax and wane. My mouth went quite dry at the thought!

Once again my reverie was interrupted by Mr. Thomas' voice. "Stand there!" With his left hand he took Anne's arm firmly and pushed her to the spot that Diane had just vacated. It was then I thought I had gone to heaven. Anne moved to stand with her back to the window, as Diane had done, but, presumably because it gave him more room, Mr. Thomas firmly turned her to the side which, to my delight, left me facing her bottom! I noticed that she gasped and rubbed two nervous sweaty palms on the sides of her skirt as she awaited the next instruction. She didn't have to wait long!

"Bend over and touch your toes!"

I saw her swallow hard then, without hesitation, she bent forward, stretched out her arms and effortlessly touched the ends of her shoes with her fingertips. Her legs, somehow even smoother and slightly more tanned than Diane's, were kept rigidly straight. With one accomplished, swift movement the Headmaster flipped back her school skirt. My blood raced as I gazed at the silky smoothness of her beautifully rounded thighs. Her knickers were much briefer than Diane's - smooth, white nylon again but with lace trimming - altogether more breathtaking than her friend's. They were cut away at the sides, making the 'V' that just covered her bottom all the more pronounced. It was clear that if the cane landed on the lower part of her cheeks it would be whacking essentially totally bare bottom! And what a bottom! So perfectly round and smooth with not an ounce of surplus fat.

The Head began to move into position and once more estimate his posture for maximum swishing power. I glanced across at Diane whose hands were still inside her knickers, now rubbing a little more carefully and slowly. Mr. Thomas swished the cane through the air a couple of times, as if to force everyone's attention once more. He rested the cane about half way down Anne's curvy rear. Not on bare flesh this time. Her bottom cheeks tightened in reflex action but as the Head 'tap, tap, tapped' the cane on the same spot I watched as the muscles relaxed again and her buttocks spread back to their full roundness. Her bottom was firmer and more resilient than her friend's and so full and sumptuous to my eye. Mr. Thomas drew back the cane then...

SWISH! THWACK!

Anne's bent frame jolted visibly on the sharp impact of the stinging rattan, but I was amazed and a little disappointed that she didn't make a sound and barely shifted her position. At first I thought my mind was playing tricks and he hadn't hit her properly but the Thwack! was every bit as loud as the strokes of Diane's punishment. Then I wondered if Anne was maybe spanked at home and was more used to corporal punishment. Or perhaps this wasn't the first time she had found herself in this painful position in the Head's office! I did recall him saying earlier "This will not be pleasant will it, Miss Hawkins!" as if she had some prior knowledge of a caning. How I would have loved to flick through the Punishment Book to see if my theory was correct, and if so read the detail and the reasons.

The Head was tapping with the cane again - lower as I had hoped. This time the tip would land on bare skin. I was determined to watch Anne's reaction more closely this time.

SWISH! THWACK!

Her body jerked slightly and I noticed her eyes screw tight shut, but she still didn't make a sound. Diane glanced round in amazement at her friend's stoicism and stopped her own childish grizzling immediately, perhaps embarrassed now by the fuss she had made. I couldn't be sure if I saw a red mark where the cane tip had made contact because of a thin line of shadow caused by the lace trim of her panties… but I was definitely going to see something this time. The cane was tapping a good two inches lower than the previous stroke. As the Headmaster drew the stick backwards I saw Anne tense herself, her eyes screwing tight shut.


SWISH! THWACK!

This time the pretty girl's body jerked and there was a definite audible sucking-in of air between partly closed lips, but still no real reaction. I was impressed by how well she was taking her punishment and thrilled to see a vivid red stripe had sprung up on the part of her bottom where the cane had landed, surprisingly stretching an inch or two round the curve of her cheek where the stick had flattened the flesh on impact.

A bead of sweat had formed on the Head's brow. Unexpectedly he spoke.

"You are taking this well, Miss Hawkins. Congratulations… How many is that so far?"

A pause, then a muffled and very unhappy voice said, "Three, sir..."

"Ah, half way there… Perhaps young lady you would be so good as to count the next strokes out loud?"

Why had he demanded that? I asked myself, somewhat puzzled. He repositioned himself, then...

Tap, tap, tap... SWISH! THWACK!

The firmer whack of the rattan on Anne's more resilient flesh was quite distinctive, and was sounding decidedly meatier as the target area lowered and the stick bit into more and more unprotected skin. There was another jerk of her body, almost as though she had received an electric shock, and another stifled gasp from Anne.

In a consciously restrained voice, the unfortunate girl mumbled, "Four...", but the tell-tale higher pitch of her voice and the distinct quavering at the end of the word, followed by a gulping swallow told us that she was not as composed as she would have us believe. A red band of fire sprang up beneath the previous one, darkening in colour as I watched.

Anne shifted her weight slightly from foot to foot, but still maintained her position. Her face was now flushed and she bit her bottom lip as that ominous 'Tap, tap, tap' began again. This stroke was aimed at the lowest curve of her gorgeous bum. Slowly the cane went back.....

SWISH! THWACK!

Boy, but that was a corker! Harder than all his previous strokes that day. Anne's head jerked back a little and she swayed slightly, her knees buckling a little after the customary reflex jolt of her whole body. She just held on to an anguished gasp which she managed to stifle into a sharp intake of breath. Another fiery red band leapt up exactly on target.

Hesitantly she stammered, "F-five..." in a voice cracking with pent up emotion.

Now I had fathomed the Head's plan! He really was a master of the caning art. Calling out the number of strokes was to test and then help break Anne's stoical vocal restraint. I also had to admire his skill in laying on the strokes so neatly parallel and smack on target. He had obviously had a lot of practice. How I wished I had his job!

Anne's breathing had become short and urgent and I watched with fascination as her inflamed buttocks clenched and unclenched, frantically trying to ease the build-up of smarting pain.

The tension in the Head's study had now reached fever pitch. Diane, forgetting her instructions about facing the wall, was watching with a mixture of amazement and admiration at her friend's fortitude, presumably willing her to keep it up to the bitter end. I, on the other hand, was aching for Anne to break her silence on the final stroke. Anne herself was obviously determined, having got this far, to maintain her silence and her pride. Her face however registered just how difficult that was becoming, as did that continued mobility of her thighs and those lusciously striped bottom cheeks.

Mr. Thomas had a look of even more sheer resolve on his face as he planted his feet further apart and focused hard on his target. He laid the cane right along the natural line between Anne's thighs and her backside. This stroke was going to hit virtually all bare flesh as the 'V' of her filmy panties had moulded itself into the hidden contours of her lower bottom. She flinched at the touch of the polished wood on her sensitive skin, but she managed to control the muscles in her bottom as her buttocks relaxed and resumed their normal rotundity. Her fingers were trembling as they pushed down harder onto her toes, bending them back and causing her knuckles to go white.

The room suddenly fell very silent. All that could be heard was Anne's deep, laboured breathing. This was soon punctuated by that familiar 'Tap, tap, tap'. To prolong the agony the Head tapped away for a much longer time.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Eventually he swept back the cane dramatically. Anne drew breath sharply and held it... but the swish didn't come. He was keeping her waiting for this one. Of course! He was trying to catch this deceitful, yet so sexy, little minx by surprise, in the earnest hope of intensifying her already considerable suffering.

After quite a few seconds Anne turned her head slightly, in order to see what the Headmaster was up to. As she did so she let go of the breath she had been holding for restraint! That was the cue he had been waiting for.

SWISH! TTTHHHWAAAAAACK!!

She was caught completely unawares, as had been the intention, by an incredibly hard stroke and her whole frame jerked forwards. Her head shot back, her mouth opened wide as she gasped for breath and her eyes dilated, wide with shock. She nervously and rapidly gulped in air to control a scream of agony which almost emerged but was stifled. Instead, deliberately and just retaining control, but with great feeling, she simply said "Ooooucchh!" out loud.

She had started to straighten in a reflex action, but as she regained her composure after the searing sting of that wicked last stroke, she touched her toes once more and straightened her legs.

Through tightly gritted teeth she forced out the word, "Six...". Her voice was strained, quavery and almost falsetto.

The sixth band of fire had sprung up on her lovely skin and I gazed at her partly-visible bum. A rosy glow had now spread over all the visible area, but the raised red ribs stood out, running alongside one another. And beneath those flaming marks, her bared thighs trembled.

Anne's breathing had become quicker and even more desperate than ever and her chest was heaving. It was clear from the expression on her face that just one more stroke would probably have finished her resolve, but the Head was a man of honour.

"Stand up, Miss Hawkins," he commanded.

Stiffly and painfully slowly Anne straightened herself up, allowing her skirt to fall and hide that glorious and thoroughly-thrashed rear end of hers. Her face was scarlet, her lips thin and tight as she gasped and gulped for breath between clenched teeth. Her eyes were moist and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek, yet she was evidently determined not to give us the satisfaction of seeing her cry properly. Her hands instinctively pressed against the seat of her skirt and the source of her unconcealable pain.

"Piece of cake eh, Miss Hawkins?" taunted the Headmaster somewhat cruelly. "Oh that was the easy part. Your problems really start when you have to return to class and sit down..." he consulted his watch, "...in about two minutes."

Anne stared at a fixed point straight ahead in order to keep all her concentration and self-control, for she was clearly only fractions away from real tears. Indeed her beautiful eyes were already very shiny. Her hands, tenderly cupping her stinging bottom through her skirt, were now gingerly massaging the afflicted area.

The Headmaster walked towards the desk and laid down the cane. "Both of you, over here!" he ordered.

Two well-punished and subdued girls shuffled forwards. Diane had stopped crying, but was still flushed and continued to rub her bottom vigorously, though now through her skirt.

"That was a lesson I hope you will never forget," the Head said sharply, "but if you do, I will be only too happy to remind you - and the next time...." he left the sentence unfinished and an unspoken threat hanging in the air. "Now get out of my office, the pair of you!" He was stern to the finish and it was clear to both quaking girls that they could hope for no mercy if they were ever sent to him again.

Both girls made for the door, Anne still very stiff and smarting. As they disappeared out of the door, both of them were rubbing their blazing hot bottoms in a most alluring way, as if it was impossible to take their hands away. They were utterly chastened. I felt that I really had seen justice done!

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This story has been scanned and prepared for the publication on the Internet by Alex Birch

Bedtime for Amanda

Story from Whispers 02.

Bedtime for Amanda

'It was the car first — attempting to drive it through the gates on her own after I've only given her two lessons. And then...'

'I know,' Vivienne admitted. She knew, too, about the pack of cigarettes I had glimpsed under Amanda's bed, though she hadn't — to my relief — asked me what I was doing in there while she was at her bridge club. Had she done so I suppose I would have said something flip like 'Baby-sitting', though at coming up close to seventeen within the next two months, Amanda wouldn't exactly qualify in that category despite those baby-blue eyes and the knicks that invariably matched.

'She's your daughter — not mine — it's up to you Viv', I said and made my voice sound like the tolling of a bell. 'When we're married...', I began, but she cut me off.

'Martin, you don't understand. It wasn't I who used to discipline her'.

Restlessly she got up from the sofa and peered through the Venetian blinds into the darkening street, saying, 'She should have come home by now'. I wasn't listening to her so much as viewing her. Those bulbous rear cheeks — still as firm as they had been when she was Amanda's age — showed clearly through the seat of her dress, as did the ever-stirring, upsweeping lines of her panties beneath.

She is always trim is Vivienne — stocking tops dark-banded and flesh-tight, the rims peaking up against the tugging of taut suspenders, dabs of misty perfume front and back below the circling of her suspender belt. Superb legs for a thirty-six-year old. The finished and perfected package, in fact — arse-proud, as I had once crudely called her.

She has kinks, has Vivienne. Once I knew about the two slim canes that had always seemingly been at standby (one in her wardrobe and one in Amanda's) there were no more barriers of misunderstanding between us. I learned her ways and the hesitantly trickled-out confessions of her early training.

Vivienne likes to be cane-flicked: likes and hates, I should say, but she still submits to it. There were times, it seemed, when she used to be allowed to choose between a scorching, submission-producing sixer and being circled.

If the latter phrase is a mystery to you, then it was to me also at first. Vivienne had been put into ultra miniskirts even before they became fashionable. Very tight they were when rolled-up waisthigh, she said. For 'circlings' (and I've never thought it the classiest of terms) she had to do the roll-up first and then remove her panties. Her tie was next loosened, dangling in two striped strips, and the buttons of her blouse unsnicked until her positively impudent young tits were also on parade.

'I had to walk around in a circle being flicked', she would say. The rest of the details were harder to gather from her, but eventually during our courtship I managed it. After five minutes of such 'flicking', a bottom that was flickering with tiny flames had to be presented for attention. I gathered that the taunting, stinging cane had completed its work by then.

'It was bad afterwards?', I had first asked her cautiously. I had snaps of Vivienne from all those years back that she had given me. Not a pocket Venus — she was already too long-legged then for that, her bottom a perfect peach, and most of it yielding to the enquiring lens when she wore a bikini bottom that seemed to be two sizes too small for her.

'Dunno', would come a girlish giggle from her at that under-worded question. I knew and she knew that she wouldn't just have walked away afterwards, rosy-bottomed and with twinkling legs. Enquiring hands would have done their soothing best while she sobbed. At the least, at the least. Then the sofa or the bed — I'd figured that — bouncing and gasping and clinging limpet-like as she still did when I mounted her myself, as if by her very body gestures she was proclaiming the ultimate submission to the cane and to the mastering male.

'In any event the cane corrected you', I said on that particular evening when Amanda was once again late. There was a bizarre touch in my remark that neither of us missed. That Amanda had been caned was news to me. Perhaps it accounted for the over-pert swinging of her hips sometimes — a mark of a girl who has taken what she must and emerges slightly proud of it, and awed by it.

'Tomorrow I'll take her in hand a bit', I said when Amanda had finally appeared and flipped up to bed. 'Martin, yes, but not too hard. It's bridge night for me tomorrow', Vivienne said, as if the latter event were relevant. It was, of course — for me.

A girl who has been caned can often sense when it's going to happen again. She tends to glance sideways at one and to slouch a bit, putting one foot before the other in an awkward way, self-consciously, and Amanda did just that on the following evening when her mother had departed, trailing wisps of perfume as she went.

'It's about the car, Amanda', I said as she made to exit to the kitchen to set herself up a fridge-cold Pepsi. She stopped as if I'd pulled on an invisible cord around her waist and then came back with laggard steps to where I sat.

'What?', she asked. I almost grinned at the subtle impudence in her tone. Maybe that was her intention. I had a sudden feeling that if I drew her down upon my lap and very, very slowly rolled up her loose top she would sit mute, and then wait for my cautiously-weighing hand.

'And other things', I said. 'You know already, Amanda, you know already. It can be here or upstairs — I don't mind.'

I hadn't specified what 'it' was, but Amanda knew. 'No, please, you're going to cane me, I know you are!', she blurted. Even the affected note of hysteria was false, I thought. Her nylons shimmered black as Vivienne's most often did. Her suspenders would be just as taut.

'Upstairs, Amanda', I said, my voice as crisp as a fresh packet of Smith's. 'I said, upstairs', I repeated. The word seemed right for her already. She stared at me, compressed her lips, but already she had learned that mutiny is followed by the bounty of the cane.

She swallowed at that and uttered a huge sigh that didn't impress me at all. Nor right then did it appeal to me. Later it might, but she would be mewing then, not sighing. First things first.

I made her go up on her own. It was deliberate. The ever-haunting moment of waiting: that's important; then waiting to hear my approaching footsteps, and the first sight (after how long?) of the cane. But it was the first sight of Amanda that threw me. Defiantly or not she had gone into the main bedroom where Viv and I enjoyed our romps and where the cane for her came into play. Amanda must have heard her mother's muffled squeals sometimes. Her skirt was off and her panties, too. Neatly placed on a chair they were, but my glance in that particular direction didn't last for more than a millisecond.

Amanda stood in profile to me, both hands clenched underneath her mouth as if she were already trying not to cry. Her pubic foliage decorated the alluring little hump beneath her tummy's subtle swell. Her bottom looked like a studio 'portrait' of a peach. The slightest movement of her hips and I glimpsed her nether cleft. More body language, I thought.

'Not in here, Amanda', I said. There was provocation in plenty here, and I knew it. The cane snicked forward, catching her on the side of her bottom and she squealed and jumped, saying, 'But I thought...' and then gathering up her two discarded garments and holding them coyly in front of her as she oozed cautiously past me and wiggled along to her own bedroom. In a well-formed girl, their bottoms cheeks don't jiggle at that age: they just look more enticing.

Something stiffened, surprising me. Already? Her suspender belt was black — not trimmed with vulgar red. Her stockings were so taut and flawless that they looked as if she had grown into them rather than merely put them on. Such immediate arousal in my own lower parts tended to give me the edge of sternness that is needed. It covers — as might be said in a side whisper — one's own embarrassment... or sometimes just plain joy.

I closed the door behind us. One should always close the door. Amanda edged towards her bed and stood uncertainly. 'Bend,' I said, 'bend properly, Amanda.' There was no evident surprise for her in this event. It had happened before, and probably in this selfsame room with its single bed and two white units, one on either side. There was a red, slatted chair and a wardrobe. An old Teddy Bear, never cuddled now, slumped in a corner, glassy-eyed.

Amanda's arms reached down and then her fingers spread. The tips just touched the surface of the bed as though she were delicately balancing herself. I nudged her legs apart with the cane's tip. Her bottom — that most impudent of rumps — looked peachy and superb. Superbly cane-able, I thought. My hand moistened slightly on the slender, whippy cane much as I guessed my predecessors's must have done.

'You're not dipping your back, Amanda', I said. It was as if we had done it all before — as I had plucked old words that lingered still upon the air from last summer or the year before.

'I didn't — I didn't scratch your car much', came her plaintive murmur. Her hair clouded down appealingly. If there were a gold medal for back-dipping, Amanda would positively be on the shortlist. Her cleft orb was suddenly the centre of my universe. The curl-fringed puch of her below her peach was just a bonus — at that moment, at the least.

My trousers stretched the more. I felt she knew that and expected it, but didn't turn her head to peep. She doesn't turn her head because she knows, I thought, and whistled in the cane — an act of pure male vengeance on that thought.

'Whee-ow!', came Amanda's cry. That pink streak — that pink streak that I confess I gloried in — brought her cry to a high pitch.

'You've forgotten what it's like', I said. 'Forgotten', I had said. Would she respond to that? But mulishly she didn't, wouldn't, couldn't, and the walls still held their secrets well. 'You position well', I wanted to say, but to have praised her would have been unthinkable. Much later possibly, I told myself, and after I had 'circled' her, if only Vivienne kept her bridge nights up.

Apart from one throbbing sob, Amanda was mute in the waiting seconds that followed. I gave her about eight and then... 'Feee-oowww!'. Her note was more high-reaching then, though not so loud, I noticed, as might disturb a querulous neighbour. I had placed the stroke exactly an inch below the first. The 'three-barred gate' was imminent. Her hips waggled a silent appeal and then — legs taut — were still again. 'Ooooh-wer!', she then sobbed at the next Hooo-wiittt! and her appeal was so blatant, so devlishly girlish, that I gave her ten long seconds to wait for the next.

Then the fourth lifted her, and it was meant to. Under her bulb it swept, bringing her trim high heels off the floor and bringing with it, too, a whining cry of 'No! Oh, no!'

'Yes, Amanda', I said, and my voice was nicely flat as well. 'But, but if I...', she began. 'If you what, Amanda?' 'Nothing... YOW! Oh please don't! Aaaah!'

'You're counting, Amanda. Did you ever count?'

'No, yes, no — no, I didn't, no, ah, please!'

'But we're only beginning, aren't we — only beginning? All right then, turn around, Amanda — right now, please and hands behind your neck.' And snivelling she turned, she slowly turned, my eyes travelling down deliberately between the junction of her thighs, and she blinked back tears and thrust her titties forward through her top. An offering?

'You want a drink?', I asked, adding immediately, 'Don't move. Just tell me what you want'.

'Y...y...yes, please. My Pepsi and...' But I didn't wait for the 'and'. Was there a lightning flickering of her eyes to my straining crotch? It didn't matter now, perhaps. I was out and back in a moment with the cane. I made her drink from it, standing as she was standing, and damned cute she looked — I give her that. She swallowed, gulped, swallowed again. I saw her eyes go to the red chair where I'd laid the cane. The moment was irresistible.

'In a moment, Amanda, in a moment', I said.

'Oh, but couldn't you... I mean... well...'

'Take your top off then', I said. We were both duelling, but I held the longer rapier. The challenge was deliberate. She knew it was.

'All right'. It was a small 'All right', but it counted in every direction we could both think of. I laid the near-empty can on the top of her unit and watched commandingly as she peeled it off and shook her hair. Her tits were melons waiting for just one more summer. The perky buds were ripe with promise, cherry-shaped, not pointed as I'd thought.

'I haven't finished with you yet, Amanda — you know I haven't.' 'Oh, but please, my bottom...!' 'Is hot?', I finished for her. I moved towards her with deliberation, watching to see if she would start back, but no movement came. Telegraphing the movement of my arm, I extended it around her hips, bringing her nipples to rub against my shirt and very slowly caressed around, beneath, her bulb. She flinched.

'Don't flinch, Amanda', I said sharply.

'But my bottom...' 'I said, don't flinch, Amanda'. 'Yes, yes, all right, I'll try'.

My fingertips had urged where fingertips should not have done, depending on your point of view. The questing tips were explorers in her throbbing realms. Her legs stiffened but she didn't jerk.

'That's better. You have to learn, don't you?', I asked. There was a mute nod from her at that. 'But... but if you cane me again...'

'Not tonight. That was your starter only, Amanda. Sunday. Your mother will be out next Sunday afternoon, won't she?'. I was insistent, pushing her. A modern throwing down of the gauntlet, if you like. Still caressing her hot nether cheeks, I looked down deliberately between us. There was quite a lot to see on either side. My fingers had not fled the nest as yet. 'Yes', Amanda mumbled. 'And what?', I asked. 'Wh...wh...wh...what you've just done. I s'pose it's because I've...'

'It's because, Amanda — just because', I said. There didn't have to be a spoken reason and she knew that well enough. 'You understand?', I asked and she nodded, looking down as well, her stockinged legs quivering slightly as my hand at last trailed down her thighs, and she too felt its stickiness. All messages received and understood.

'All right, you can dress now', I told her. That surprised her, I believe, though maybe my next sentence didn't. 'Turn round again, bend over and show it to me again', I said. The edge of lewdness in my words probably didn't escape her as she half reluctantly obeyed and, as she did, I looped her waist and gave her pink-striped bottom a hard smack!

'Wow! What... what was that for?', she wailed, and received another for interrupting, this bringing a gritting wail from her of high surprise. 'Now dress', I said, and watched her do it mutinously, turning away from me as she lifted each leg to draw her tiny panties up, lips pouting broodily and in dismay. I took her hand then (one should often take their hands) and led her out, feeling her bottom with a boldness that her own mood of submission encouraged, and she knew it did.

My hand was becoming even more inquisitive when we reached the foot of the stairs and, with a sudden strain of panic in her voice, Amanda said, 'I want to have a bath'. 'Go on', I said. I let her go without a sound. She had only just finished doing all the mysterious things that females do in the bathrooms when Vivienne returned.

'Amanda's all right?', she asked. Her eyes were querulous, and I said, 'Yes, of course she is'. We both knew what her question held. Moving back to the foot of the stairs she called out, 'Are you all right, Amanda?', and maybe my heart missed a beat for a moment at that, but a cheery voice came down, 'Yes, I'm all right. Going to bed now — goo' night', and then the closing of her door.

'I'm tired', Vivienne said. The very air had tremored for a moment, but was still again. 'Sure. You go to bed. I'm just going to read for a bit', I said. She gathered up her bag, was gone. I heard her door close — gratefully! My turn to sigh then. I picked up a book, lounged in a chair and read. In fifteen minutes Vivienne snored. She really snores, I mean. Odd, that. Maybe I'll tell her about it, but not yet. A small explosion would never wake her, as she often says.

I read a little more and listened. Snoring still. I got up and clicked off the lights. Amanda would be curled up and not sleeping yet, I knew — her bottom tingling still a little bit, and thinking, thinking, thinking on.

There was no sound from behind her door as I turned the knob. She appeared at first to be asleep and did not stir. A nipple showed above the sheet's white edge, her face turned sideways to the wall. Her hips shifted a little as I looked. More body language, yes. I took off my shirt and tie and other things, drew down the bedclothes gently, saw her nightie rucked up to her waist.

Her head didn't move. Her lips did, just. 'Is Mum asleep?', she asked. I sidled in beside her and she stirred her hips again. 'Yes', I said simply. It was as if a conversation, once rehearsed, was being repeated. I turned her chin. Her eyes looked blankly into mine.

'You know why I have to cane you?', I murmured. My hand found pouting lips between her thighs, a rasp of curls and silken skin.

'Yes' Amanda said, and 'Yes' again, and moaned and twisted in the lulling dark.

The cane can be quite ruthless, yes, of course, but so can women, too — at any age...

The Tenant

"This is a short story by Matthew Martin from an old edition of 'Janus' and tells the tale of a most manipulative landlord. Oh 'working girls' in this context is the British 'girls who go to work' not the American rather more squalid interpretation! Read on :-" (Alex's preface to this story)

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Story from Janus 29.

The Tenant
by Matthew Martin

I could see that she was desperately keen to have the flat. Owing to the various rent control acts and the idiotic persecution of landlords by successive governments, there was an acute shortage of furnished accommodation in London, especially for young unmarried working girls. When I advertised the place in the 'Rentals' column of The Times giving only a box number as the address to write to, I had over fifty replies. From these I made a short list of twelve (you can tell a lot about people from the sort of business letters they write) with whom I communicated either by post or telephone to give more particulars or ask more questions.

I always give preference to the daughters of ex-servicemen whom I have found to be better brought up than the average. Also I lean towards girls born overseas, for example in New Zealand, Australia or South Africa. Corruption spreads outwards from the centre of a decadent civilisation, so the further away from London you start life the better you are likely to end up.

In the end I arranged to interview the six applicants who appeared most suitable, taking into account social background, education, intelligence and earnings (which had to be enough to pay the rent). They were to meet me on the premises one evening arriving at half-hourly intervals. The last to appear was a girl I shall call Jean. Aged 25, as she had told me in her letter, she was a pretty brunette on the small side (which I prefer) and with a nice figure. She was dressed to kill in silk shirt and white linen trousers and used all her charms to convince me that she was the ideal tenant I was looking for - quiet in all her habits, very tidy, punctilious in all her money dealings, with excellent references - and also (though of course this should have played no part in any decision) she was very attractive.

"Oh do let it to me" she pleaded, "It's exactly what I want and you've done it up so well." As she spoke she fixed me with a sparkling gaze and the eager expression of a child begging for a sweet.

Other things being equal I usually reward the most attractive applicant - not only physically but with the pleasantest personality. I had been rather taken with two of the other interviewees, both of whom were keen to rent the place, but Jean's enthusiasm swayed me in her favour. It was as though she was trying to will me into accepting her as my tenant. Such determination, I felt, deserved to win - and might also perhaps, make her more willing to pay the price.

"All right," I said, "You've got it. I'll sign you on" It didn't take long to complete the formalities. I had two copies of the printed tenancy agreement with me and we filled them in together, sitting at a table with details of rent, length of lease, method of payment, etc. I made her sign one copy, and also write a cheque and a banker's order in my favour; the cheque for the first month's rent in advance and the order for the monthly installments. I had decided to charge no deposit for once. Jean followed the proceedings with mounting excitement and I sensed her mood of exultation.

She had been searching for six months, she told me, and mine was the first decent place she had seen going at a rent she could afford. To the homeless the acquisition of a home of their own is perhaps the most precious thing in modern life. Much too precious to be given away!

She had done her part and it only remained for me to add my signature to the tenant's copy of the agreement which would entitle her to take possession.

With my pen poised I leaned back in my chair.

"Wait a minute," I said coolly. "There's something we've forgotten."

From joyful anticipation her expression changed to one of surprise and alarm. Was the prize to be snatched away from her grasp at the last minute?

"Forgotten?" she repeated anxiously.

"Yes, the key money."

"Key money? What's that?"

"Haven't you heard of it? In these days no furnished flat changes hands without the payment of key money."

"But what is it for?"

"Oh just a little bonus given to the sitting tenant by the one taking over."

"I see." She sat with eyes lowered, looking dejected, then raised them and asked how much it would be.

"Well it's usually about three months rent on a yearly lease," I replied, "but I'd accept two from you."

"That's another four hundred pounds. I just haven't got it."

Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper, and the change in her attitude from jubilation to utter despondency was so tragic that my heart began to soften. However I had made my plan, it had worked so far, and I was resolved to go through with it - or at least put it to the test.

"Too bad," I said, "But perhaps we might come to some arrangement." At this her spirits seemed to revive but she looked at me curiously.

"How do you mean?"

"Well you could pay in kind, couldn't you?"

She looked at me, first in bewilderment, then with understanding, and finally with an expression of contempt.

"So that's the catch," she said angrily. "I suppose that was in the small print you told me I needn't read. But I wish you'd told me sooner. It would have saved me wasting my time."

She got up from the chair where she had been sitting, picked up her bag and, avoiding any glance back at me, headed for the door.

"No, hang on," I said, "That's not the catch. You're jumping to the wrong conclusion. I'm not trying to get you into bed with me, although no doubt that would be very enjoyable."

She turned and glanced towards me, her expression still hostile.

"Then what do you want?"

"Instead of paying me key money I want you to let me spank you."

I expected at least surprise, if not shock, but there was none. It seemed there were few girls who were not au-fait with the erotic context of spanking even if they had no experience of it.

"So that's it," she said coldly. "Another kinky."

"Call it that if you like. Personally I consider myself a perfectly normal man. I have been happily married for more than thirty years, have four grown-up children and a loving relationship with my wife. Spanking is a hobby, that's all. If I spot an attractive bottom I like to explore its.... possibilities, and yours has definitely taken my fancy."

"It seems I'm being blackmailed."

"Oh I wouldn't say that. After all, one good turn deserves another. I rent you the flat, which you're dying to have and you bare that lovely bottom which I'm eager to spank. A fair exchange don't you think? Incidentally has it ever been spanked before?"

"Not since I was a kid. I had a boyfriend who wanted to do it but I wouldn't let him."

"Why not? You might have enjoyed it."

Her nose twitched in distaste. By now she had become more relaxed again. "Well to begin with it would hurt. And then... it's kind of degrading. I mean to be treated like a naughty child."

"Aren't you ever naughty?"

"I don't think so."

"Well haven't you been using your sex appeal to soften me up from the moment you came into this room? Aren't you wearing those skin-tight pants for effect, showing me every inch of that curvaceous bum? Isn't that selling yourself?"

She gave a smirk of self-satisfaction.

"Well, who doesn't - if you've got it, flaunt it. What's wrong with that anyway?"

"Nothing, from your point of view. But I think it's naughty and I'm going to punish you for it - and pretty severely."

"Now hold on. I haven't agreed yet. I'll have to think it over."

"OK but be quick. I promised the other two an answer in 24 hours. Each of them is ready to sign on the dotted line. So you can sleep on it and let me know in the morning."

"Have they agreed to pay this key money?"

I grinned. "I didn't ask them for it."

Her mouth dropped open and her cheeks reddened. "But that's not fair. Why not?"

"Their bottoms held no attraction for me. One was too skinny and the other was too fat. Yours is just right. It's a peach and I'm shameless I know. I can't wait to get my hands on it."

In fact I wouldn't have waited if she'd been wearing a skirt. But it was too much trouble wrenching at trousers so tight you can't get them past the wearer's hips.

She looked at me with an expression halfway between defiance and amusement.

"You'll have to wait. I haven't decided yet."

"Oh yes you have. You're not going to lose the chance of a flat you've been dreaming about for six months just to spare your pretty bottom a good warming up!"

She put out her tongue and nervously licked her lips.

"If I've got to go through with it, I'd rather get it over."

"No chance. Thinking of what is to come is part of your punishment and a hell of a lot of my pleasure. Besides you might change your mind. So ring me in the morning."

As she preceded me towards the front door I had a good view of her rear. Rather small, but plump and perfectly rounded, the two buttocks formed an undulating motion as she walked, alternately raised and lowered in a gentle rhythm. The temptation to touch her was irresistible. When she stopped at the door I laid my hand on the curved surface and let it rest gently. She turned her head sharply and glared at me indignantly, but her lips were trembling and, in a second, broke into a half grin. I knew then that it was in the bag.

The next day, as can be imagined, I didn't get through much work. As expected, Jean phoned me early to say she had accepted my proposal and that I would meet her in the flat that evening. "No trousers please and no tights underneath either," I told her. "Wear your shortest skirt, some nice knickers, a suspender belt and stockings."

For the rest of the day my mind could contain only one thought; that of the moment when the lovely girl would be prostrate across my lap, skirt up and knickers down, proffering her delectable little bottom for the attentions of my palm. However I had not yet decided how far I would go with her.

Although I had plenty of experience of CP it was always in a mild form. I am naturally a rather gentle person and never liked the idea of hurting anybody seriously. In any case the pleasure I take from flagellation derives as much from preparation as execution; overcoming the resistance of the victim, enjoying her act of submission, relishing the dread of the pain, then revelling in her humiliation as, with nerves quivering, she obeys the ritual commands; to take down her knickers, to bend over the table, to spread her legs etc etc. Probably my pleasure reaches its peak when the last garment is removed and the luscious globes are left naked for my eyes to feast on.

Having reached this point of satisfaction I would usually let the girl off lightly, with perhaps a dozen hard smacks of my hand on each of her cheeks, followed by a dozen with the strap covering both of them, and ending with six moderate strokes of the cane. This would leave a hot and smarting bottom, coloured all over a bright pink, but only slightly marked and leaving no lasting discomfiture.

I only once administered a genuine thrashing, and that was to a young divorcee I was having an affair with, who confessed to being unfaithful when I was away one weekend. I made her strip completely and bend over the back of a chair, with her hands grasping the seat; then gave her twelve with a riding switch, using full throttle. Halfway through the punishment she begged for temporary respite, which I refused. However I'd noticed, standing to the left of her, that only her right buttock was marked where the end of the switch curled round her hip. So I made her lie on a sofa with two cushions under her tummy and continued the whipping standing on her right. This evened things out, leaving the whole surface of her bottom aglow and with six livid weals scarring each cheek. They remained visible for several weeks.

The funny thing was that as a result of this encounter the two of us simultaneously fell in love with each other - but that's another story.

To return to Jean, as I said, in administering beatings to submissive females I had always erred on the side of leniency, partly because of a fear of doing injury. I had been told in no uncertain terms by one lovely young lady that I was 'too soft by half' and that women were well padded enough to handle considerably more than I was dishing out, so I decided to try out my new 'hard man' approach on young Jean.

When she arrived at the flat she was wearing one of the shortest miniskirts I had ever seen; it barely reached to the tops of her tautly braced stockings. Her long slender legs ended in high heel shoes. A close-fitting blouse revealed her breasts as small but prominent beneath a bra which was clearly visible through the transparent material. She appeared to be calm but in her demeanour there was also something slightly apprehensive. I had left on the table a copy of our tenancy agreement which awaited my signature and I saw her glance towards it.

"Is that for me?" she enquired.

"No, I haven't signed it yet."

"When are you going to?"

"When you have paid off the key money."

"Which will consist of what?"

"Oh... spanking, some strapping, caning."

She blanched. "How much? I mean how many times?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"My mood, your reaction, my judgment of what you can take."

She looked tentative. "It sounds pretty open-ended."

"Yes it is. Take it or leave it."

She hesitated. "And-and it's going to hurt me - a lot?"

"Well if it didn't it would be no fun for me. You can back out if you wish. There's still time."

She gave me a long look as if to measure my intentions. I went to a drawer and took out the cane I had bought for the occasion. It was a long, thin flexible instrument, as I demonstrated by making a cut through the air with it.

"Is that what you're going to use on me?" she asked quietly and I nodded.

"OK," she said between gritted teeth, "let's get it over."

I placed a chair in the middle of the room, sat down and beckoned her to approach. She stood beside me and I put my hand under her skirt, feeling first her smooth firm thighs, then sliding my hand between them where they joined at her crotch, lightly fingering the cleft between her buttocks, finally exploring their satiny surface under her snugly clinging briefs.

"Do you really have to do THAT?" she gasped in a strangled voice.

"Just a reccy. Examining the terrain before launching the attack. But we'll have these off."

Using both hands I grasped the waistband of her briefs and pulled them down to her ankles. Without waiting to be told she stepped out of them, leaned down and flicked them away.

"Right," I said, "Now over you go!"

Putting my arm around her waist I tilted her forward and she fell face down across my knees. Her miniskirt, which scarcely covered her bottom, fell with her, revealing the two plump cheeks of as sweet a little bum as any addict could wish for.

The investigation and fondling of the most intimate parts of her body had already aroused me sexually and this was becoming evident. Before settling her over my thighs I freed my erection from the constraint of underwear and allowed it to stand upright inside my flies. With my left hand round her waist I then drew her towards me until her hip was pressed against the bulge, the hard touch of which was doubtless not lost on her.

As Bernard Shaw wrote, when commenting on Frank Harris's pornographic autobiography, the description of one copulation is very like another and the same is true of spanking. Hence I do not propose to give the reader a blow by blow account of the spanking I administered to Jean. I began with my hand, but soon developed a sore palm so I took off my belt which I have used as a strap on many a bare bottom. It is actually an old stirrup leather about two feet long and an inch wide. Doubled in two it carries quite a bit of weight and can be wielded effectively with little more than a flick of the wrist.

With this implement I rapidly transformed the pale surface of Jean's 'moon' into something more resembling the sun, rising or setting, streaked with darker tints where the strap had fallen. I didn't count the number of lashes I gave her, but just went on until I felt that enough was enough. Of course she struggled and kicked and cried, first in protest then in anguish, and tried to protect her burning backside with her hand, but I prevented this by twisting her arm behind her back.

Eventually, realising her helplessness, she resigned herself to the punishment, and the rest of it was carried out without resistance and to the accompaniment of gasps of pain and subdued sobbing.

When at last I finished and released her arm, she didn't try to get up but just lay there weeping quietly and gingerly feeling her burning buttocks. To help cool them I laid my hand on the hot surface and gently began to stroke it. This seemed to have a soothing effect and she stopped crying. After a while I turned her over, at the same time pulling her up, and sat her on my knees with one arm supporting her shoulders and the other caressing her flank. Her eyes were still swimming and her cheeks tear-stained, but the woebegone expression was giving way to one less lugubrious. Perhaps it was just relief that her agony had ended, perhaps some secret satisfaction in the way she'd endured it, perhaps some stranger sensation she didn't fully understand, but she seemed content to stay on my lap and feel my hand underneath her bruised and smarting bottom.

I changed the position of my hand and moved to the warmth of her crotch where my searching became more insistent. Her face flushed, her head dropped on my shoulder, then she lifted her face to mine and our lips met in a passionate kiss.

She withdrew her mouth, met my eyes with hers and whispered, "Have I paid the key money?" I nodded and smiled. "The rest is voluntary," I grinned and she curled up on my lap.

She glanced at the cane, which I had placed on the table beside the tenancy agreement and said, "What about that?"

"Oh that will keep until the next time," I replied cheerfully.

"And you'll sign the agreement?"

"Of course, but I may have to add a clause."

"Which says what?"

"That the tenant places her bottom at the disposal of the landlord whenever he needs access to it."

"I think I'll sign that," she whispered.

"Sensible girl!" I said and folded her into my arms.

—————————————————–

This story has been scanned and prepared for the publication on the Internet by Alex Birch

3-2-1!

"This is a story by Colin Weaver which appeared in 'Februs' some 7 years ago and is one of those rather nice light-hearted futuristic judicial solution stories. Lovely Paula illustrations too, as always. Enjoy:-" (Alex's preface to this story)

Story from Februs 44.

3-2-1!
by Colin Weaver

Myra walked out of the courtroom and down the steps of the House of Justice. She felt grateful that the trial had been held in private, without the archaic mummery of bewigged barristers and the gaping faces of moronic jurors pretending to give wise verdicts upon matters they could not possibly understand. Just the three Assessors, considering the evidence against her and courteously listening to her defence.

Not that there could really be any defence. Even now that sentence had been passed and she wore the scarlet sash from shoulder to waist to announce her assessed guilt to the world. She was glad she had not tried to lie, to bluff, to make futile excuses for an offence which had been so blatant. The quiet, grave voice of the Senior Assessor had asked the only question that really mattered. "Myra Leverson, did you pollute the atmosphere and breach the climate control regulations by using an illegal petrol-engined lawnmower on the fourth of April, two thousand and thirty eight?"

Which of her neighbours had informed on her she didn't know, and it hardly mattered. Whoever it was, she felt almost grateful to them. How could she have been so irresponsible as to tinker with that shameful relic from the Years of Waste, the antique machine inherited from her grandfather, and then bribe that sly, smirking man with the dubious reputation to obtain the petrol for it? As it was she could only be grateful for the compassionate laws which allowed consideration to be shown to her sex. A man convicted of the same offence would certainly have gone to prison. As it was...

Her friends were waiting for her at the foot of the steps, Lucille and Toni and Cheryl. It was plump, loquacious little Toni, incapable of discretion, who asked the inevitable question, "What did they give you, Myra?"

Myra licked her lips and swallowed, reluctant to say the words, as though to repeat the sentence would somehow confirm the awful reality of it. But it was real and somehow she must accept and endure her punishment as many a foolish woman had done before her. When it had happened to others she had laughed and made unfeeling jokes, as people did. She did not feel like joking now. She took a deep breath and said "Three-Two-One!"

"Oh!" That was Lucille, always tender-hearted, Myra's cousin and oldest friend. "Oh, poor Myra!"

Myra shook her head. "I deserve it," she said. She managed the ghost of a smile. "Next time I visit one of you I hope you will find me your softest cushion to sit on!"

"How long, Myra?" asked the practical Cheryl.

"The sentence has to be completed by two weeks from today. I-I suppose I better start as soon as I can."

Three-two-one. Three sound spankings, two thrashings with a formidable tawse and one application of a supple stinging cane, at least twelve strokes on Myra's naked, squirming buttocks. All of which Myra would have to arrange herself.

It was not considered desirable for the State to maintain official chambers of punishment as paid agents of correction. Instead the culprit, once sentence had been passed, had to seek out for herself those who would carry it out. It might only be a single spanking. It might, for serious offences such as tobacco addiction, amount to six months of regular exemplary chastisement, at the end of which the culprit would be utterly determined never again to offend against the law.

When the system had begun there had been attempts to evade it. Some women had persuaded or bribed people to merely go through the motions of punishment or to omit it altogether an simply sign the official form certifying that correction had taken place. In every case the deception had somehow become know to the Assessors and their reaction had been draconian. By the time that a dozen people had started long terms of hard labour it was generally agreed that only an idiot would try to beat the system. Even the slightest suspicion that any of the punishments had not been carried out with sufficient vigour meant that the culprit could expect an order for it to be repeated.

"For God's sake, let's find a pub!" said Myra. "I've never needed a drink so badly."

When they entered The Grapes several of the other customers glanced with sympathy or amusement at Myra's red sash, but only the buxom blonde barmaid commented. "Hard luck, dear," she said. "I got done last year for vandalising my boyfriend's car when we fell out. Before the month was up I was sure I was never going to sit down in comfort again."

"If that was meant to be consoling," said Myra, when she had served them and left, "it didn't work! It's no use putting it off, I'd better take my first spanking today. Now who's the best person to ask for a good smacked bottom?"

Parents and blood relations were generally ruled out by the law. "Not," remarked Myra, "that I would fancy going across my mum's knee for the first time at twenty-four years old!"

Sometimes husbands or other male partners were called upon to execute justice. "The trouble with that," observed Cheryl, "is that once they've had the chance to tan your arse, they just want to keep on doing it. It doesn't take much to give some men ideas."

"It doesn't take anything to give my Gunnar those ideas!" said Toni plaintively. "I've been spanked at least once a week the past year whether I deserved it or not!"

They all knew and liked Toni's burly Swedish flatmate.

"It's because you have such a lovely spankable bottom!" said Lucille. "Honestly, sometimes I'm tempted to put you across my knee! Anyway, when Gunnar spanks you, you know it's not really punishment!"

"Well it feels like it by the time his big hard hand has been smacking my poor bum for five minutes!" pouted Toni.

"I suppose you've been spanked, Myra?" asked Cheryl. "I mean, surely we all have at some time, haven't we? Who was the last person to turn you over and spank you?"

"It was a man called Terence Sheldon," said Myra, thoughtfully. "I worked for him for a little over a year. He spanked me five - no six - times."

"Bare bottom?" asked Toni with prurient interest.

"The first time I got it on the seat of a tight skirt and he laid it on long and hard enough to make me very very sore! When he realised I wasn't going to make a fuss about it - I had deserved it, after all - he promised to take my knickers down the next time - and he did! Yes, I think Mr Sheldon would be a good man to approach."

When she phoned him a little later his voice was comfortingly matter of fact. Yes, he'd heard about the conviction. Of course, she could visit him that evening.

Had there been a trace of amusement in his voice? Myra hoped not; he was perfectly civil and good-natured when he welcomed her at the appointed time.

"Come in, Myra, nice to see you again. You remember my wife don't you?"

Yes, Myra remembered the tall elegant woman who smilingly greeted her. The family also included, she recalled, a teenage son and daughter. As though reading her mind, Mrs Sheldon said, "Michael and Fern are out with their friends. We thought you'd rather not have them here while...."

"That was thoughtful of you," said Myra, blushing. Of course, Mrs Sheldon knew why she was there. Her nervousness and embarrassment increasing, Myra looked from husband to wife and stammered, "Shall we - can we -?"

"You wouldn't like a cup of tea first?" enquired Mrs Sheldon. "Oh I suppose you'd rather get it over with. You won't mind if I watch, will you?"

Of course, Myra did mind, but there was supposed to be a witness present during punishment. Anyway she could hardly banish Mrs Sheldon from her own living room. Myra gulped, "I'm ready when you are, Mr Sheldon."

Mr Sheldon calmly removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat down. "Come here, Myra. I'm sure you remember exactly what to do."

Remembering all too clearly, Myra went towards Mr Sheldon and went across his lap, wriggling until she was in the right position, keeping her balance with outstretched hands and toes. That afternoon, Myra and her friends, giggling nervously, had discussed the most appropriate costume for a young woman who was going to be soundly spanked. As a result she had ruled out anything provocative, despite Lucille's suggestion of, "Wear your sexiest knickers, and perhaps he won't smack quite so hard!" She was wearing a plain white sweater, a short, pleated fawn skirt, white ankle socks and flat brown shoes. Now she felt her skirt being turned up, and her simple white briefs pulled down almost to her knees. She recalled the extremely unhappy occasion when she had last displayed her bare bottom to him. This time she was also displaying it to Mrs Sheldon which did not make her feel any better.

"If it's any consolation, Myra," said Mrs Sheldon, unexpectedly, "I know exactly how you're feeling - and I don't suppose it will be long before Terence has me in that position again!"

Myra was so surprised she almost laughed - until Mr Sheldon's hand descended with the first resounding smack. As spank followed stinging spank it seemed obvious that Mr Sheldon had been keeping in regular practice. No doubt the graceful Mrs Sheldon had often gasped and yelped and wriggled just as Myra was doing now. Smack! Smack! Smack! Mr Sheldon's hand slapped Myra's bare burning cheeks with a relentless rhythm and her eyes filled with tears. She had always tried to take her punishment bravely, not to start weeping too soon, and though her bottom was stinging furiously she knew that the spanking was far from over. He hadn't even smacked her legs yet.

When at last he commenced a methodical slapping of her soft white thighs it was almost a relief, momentarily, to have her suffering bottom spared the impact of his practised hand. By the time her legs had been thoroughly smacked, though, Myra was howling, sobbing and imploring as she writhed across his lap.

"Oh, p-please, sir, please, I'm sorry! That's enough, surely that's enough?"

"I must make sure, Myra," he said, "that the sentence of the court is adequately carried out. We'll continue with something you haven't had before, at least not from me. Jane, do you remember where that big wooden backed hairbrush is?"

"Where you left it last time you paddled me with it!" was his wife's reproachful reply.

"Bring it to me, will you? It's just what Myra needs."

"It's not fair!" wept Myra, wriggling. "The court only said sp-spanking. That means with your hand."

"It means with hand or slipper or hairbrush, as you know full well," said Mr Sheldon. "I really should have used the hairbrush on your delightful arse while you worked for me. How fortunate to have the chance to to make up for missed opportunity!"


Myra did not feel at all fortunate when she heard Mrs Sheldon return and felt the smooth, hard wood of the brush resting on one roasting bottom-cheek. She stared at the floor with tear-blurred eyes and remembered that she was only at the beginning of her fortnight's penance, that there was much worse to come. Then she shrieked as the hairbrush smacked into her bottom for the first time.

* * *

It was two days before Myra could pluck up courage to seek her next spanking, but she dared not wait too long. Girls who did not space out their corrections properly through the punishment period were liable to to find the last few days sheer hell. Sometimes they failed to complete the entire sentence in time - and that meant the horror of getting it all over again.

Myra went to her former headmistress. Miss Nicholls was quite used to visits from remorseful former pupils who had fallen foul of the law. She was often sympathetic when a girl had been silly rather than sinful, but those who expected leniency soon found out how mistaken they were. Miss Nicholls used a short leather strap with a smiling ruthlessness which had Myra sobbing out desperate pleas for mercy as she writhed across the ample lap.

"Please, Miss," said Myra afterwards, "shouldn't that count as a tawsing?"

Miss Nicholls shook her head. "It most certainly should NOT, young lady! You'll notice a difference when you feel a Lochgelly laid across your backside by an experienced hand. Come to think of it, I'll give you a note for my old friend Mrs Macilse. Promise you'll go to her, Myra!"

"Yes, Miss Nicholls," said Myra meekly.

For her third spanking, Myra went to Gunnar who turned her over his knee and smacked her shapely bare rear to a blazing cherry-red while Lucille, Toni and Cheryl watched. They were her dear friends and they were very fond of her, but there was a secret delight in watching her howling and kicking in tearful disgrace as her well-deserved spanking lasted a full ten minutes.

"One week gone," said Myra afterwards, "and three spankings taken. I think I'm entitled to a day to cool down!" So it was the following Monday when she arrived at the suburban house and presented the note from Miss Nicholls. The handsome, grey-haired woman read it and smiled. "It's a busy day for me. Come in, Myra, I'll attend to you as soon as I can."

There were already two girls in the room to which Mrs Macilse led her. One was tall and slim with long, glossy black hair tied in a thick plait by a red ribbon. Myra could not see her face, since she was standing in a corner with her hands on her head and her brown shift dress pinned waist high. Myra couldn't help looking at the girl's bare bottom and wished she hadn't. 'My God,' she thought, quaking, 'is that what the tawse does?'

Mrs Macilse noticed Myra's shocked glance. "Jenny's been a bad girl," she said casually. "I had to give her twelve, and, if she doesn't mend her ways she'll be back before the weekend for another dozen. When she comes out of that corner I'll send her to Dot Nicholls for a good skelping. She's only twenty but she thinks she's too old to be spanked. She'll soon find she isn't!"

"It's the shame of going across someone's knee that Jenny hates," said the other girl. "I think she'd rather be tawsed, even though it hurts more."

"I can guarantee her plenty of both," said Mrs Macilse. "Our well-connected Jenny will feel more at home with her knickers down than fully dressed by the time Dot and I have finished teaching her some manners. She'll be the best behaved girl in her social circle, believe me! Now, Angela, what did I give you last time?"

"Six," said the girl, unhappily, "but I got one on each hand as well." She was a fair-skinned, auburn-haired girl with a pert, pretty face. She looked about nineteen.

"That was probably a mistake," said Mrs Macilse. "You've got a nice, sensitive bottom and it responds beautifully to the tawse. I think I should concentrate on it, at least for the next three or four visits. Perhaps this time you should get twelve - all on your bottom."

"Oh no!" whispered Angela. "Oh please!" Her big grey eyes filled with tears.

"You'll have something to cry about in a minute," said Mrs Macilse. "Maybe twelve is too severe just yet, but you can certainly take nine. And so can you, Myra."

Myra found herself shaking. Three sound spankings inside a week had taken their toll in physical pain and demoralisation. It was hard to accept that the most severe part of her punishment was still to come. But she had no choice; each stage of her penance must be endured in turn. "I-I'm ready," she said in a shaky voice.

"Ready are you? My, you must be in a hurry." Mrs Macilse sounded amused. "You'll be begging me to stop, soon enough. You can watch Angela's leathering first and see what to expect." She pointed to the big sofa. "Over the arm, Angela, and we'll have a look at your cheeky bare bottom."

Over the arm went Angela. Her brief blue skirt was turned up and then she lifted her body a little to let Mrs Macilse pull down her knickers. Mrs Macilse ran an approving hand over the firm, round teenage rump. "It's remarkable how soon your marks fade," she said. "Not much sign of the last lot. Still, you'll soon have a fresh glowing set."

The idea of watching Angela's punishment, knowing her own would follow, did not appeal to Myra. "May I make a suggestion," she said. "Since there are two of us to be strapped, why don't you punish us both together? I could go over the other sofa arm and you could strap each of us alternately."

Mrs Macilse laughed. "Most of my visitors would rather postpone their tawsing than ask to have it sooner!" she said. "I really should keep you in suspense while you watch Angela being strapped but - all right, Myra, over you go."

Upended over the sofa arm, her head and shoulders next to Angela's from the other end, Myra felt her own skirt raised, her own bottom bared. "Let's hold on to each other," whispered Angela. "It will make it easier to bear."

Myra put her left arm across Angela's firm, warm back and felt an answering embrace. "Cuddles, eh?" said Mrs Macilse, reproachfully. "Naughty girls! I shall smack your legs!"

Myra winced as hard stinging slaps punished the backs of each thigh, heard Angela gasp as she suffered the same fate.

"And now," said Mrs Macilse, with unmistakable pleasure, "it's tawse time!"

She took the tawse from the table then walked around to stand behind Angela.

"Angela," she said. "You remember my friend, Mr Lochgelly, don't you? He wants to meet you again." There was the sound of tough leather thwacking solidly upon naked teenage buttocks and a shrill yelp from Angela. Myra lay, shaking with panic, aware that Mrs Macilse was walking round to her end of the sofa. "Mr Lochgelly," said the amused voice behind her, "loves to kiss pretty girls on the bare bottom!" Myra felt a sharp impact, and then a band of burning biting pain across the centre of her bottom. She yelled with shock, and if it had not been for Angela's firm clasp she might have jumped up.


To and fro strolled Mrs Macilse, from Angela to Myra and back again, pausing to contemplate each squirming, suffering feminine bottom before raising the tawse and delivering another scorching stroke. Myra and Angela sobbed and writhed and howled out their full-throated duet of abject misery as they endured a long, thorough, agonisingly efficient tawsing. When each had taken nine of the very best, Mrs Macilse spoke again. "And now, because you were bad girls and I had to smack your legs, you'll get a little something extra."

"Oh no!" wailed Myra.

"We're so, so sorry!" blubbered Angela.

Crack! Crack! Mr Lochgelly kissed each girl once more on the tender lower curves of quivering buttocks already desperately sore and incandescently hot. Then they were allowed to rise, and this time Mrs Macilse raised no objection as they clung to each other, weeping noisily.

* * *

All this time Myra had been on leave from her job. On the Thursday of the second week she was summoned back to work.

"Miss Leverson," said Mr Brown, her immediate boss. "I understand you are undergoing a course of correction and that's why you took leave."

Myra blushed to the roots of her hair. "Yes sir," she muttered.

"Without making mention of this conviction to your employer as you are supposed to do! This could be quite serious, Myra"

Myra hung her head, regretting her bashful stupidity.

"I have often thought," said Mr Brown, slowly, "what a remarkably attractive bottom you have. Maybe..."

Myra sighed. "Alright Mr Brown, I get the picture. I have to fit in another strapping from someone so it might as well be you."

Myra had hoped for privacy but he pushed her into the outer office. In front of the whole staff, he put Myra over her own desk with her skirt up and her knickers in the waste basket. She was hotly aware of her shame, knowing that every eye was on the shapely bottom that Mr Brown so admired.

Then the tawse swung down and for the next few minutes Myra's office colleagues watched and listened, fascinated, as the attractive brunette took a damned good hiding; the juicy smacks of leather on naked female flesh; Myra's shrieks and sobs and heartfelt entreaties; the squirming body and flailing legs revealing to horny male clerks those secret valleys they had hitherto only fantasised about, and the awesome effect of the vigorously wielded tawse upon Myra's defenceless buttocks.

Mr Brown did not have the experience of Mrs Macilse, but he had great enthusiasm and a strong right arm. After Myra's punished rear had endured a red-hot dozen she wailed, "Mr Brown, I can't take any more. I just can't!"

"Perhaps," said Mr Brown, "we could come to an understanding. If you agree that from now on you will go across my knee as an accepted form of office discipline."

"Yes, yes, you can spank me whenever you like! But no more tawse now - pleeease!"

"Oh I think you can take three more," said Mr Brown.

Crack! "Oooooooooooh!"

Crack! "Aaaaaaaaaaaagghh!"

Crack! "Eeeeeeeeeyowwwwww!"

* * *

"Myra," said Toni, a couple of days later, "You still have a caning to come don't you?"

"Yes, it's the last day," sighed Myra. "I'm not trying to avoid it - but who is going to cane me?"

"Why not go to Mr Sheldon again?"

"You're not allowed to get punishment from the same person twice," said Myra, but she phoned Terence Sheldon anyway.

"No problem, my dear," he said. "Come over tonight. Everything will be arranged."

* * *

"So," said Myra at 7.30 that evening, "Who is going to cane me?"

"Jane!" said Mr Sheldon. "She has a great deal of experience."

His wife laughed at Myra's look of surprise. "No I haven't caned the kids - and certainly not Terence! I belong to an elite group of women who enjoy both giving and taking punishment." She hesitated, then added, "There might be an opening for another member. I sense something about you."

"That," said Myra, "is something to think about later. For the present I'd like to get my punishment over."

Mrs Sheldon looked at her thoughtfully. "Trousers tonight I see. Well that was a bit silly. Very well, take them off - and your shoes, socks and knickers."

A little later, Myra, blushing furiously and naked from the waist down was trying to avoid Mr Sheldon's eye. Two chairs had been placed back to back.

"Kneel on one," instructed Mrs Sheldon. "Bend over and grasp the seat of the other."

In that position, Myra's bare bottom felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. Which, she realised, was the idea! She closed her eyes. 'I've learned my lesson,' she told herself, 'I really and truly have!'


And then the first expertly delivered stroke of the cane thwacked agonisingly across her quivering buttocks.

Much later, when she had been allowed out of the corner after a seeming eternity of weeping repentance, she reluctantly squeezed her throbbing bottom into trousers which had somehow become too tight.

"Jane," she said. "You'll forgive me if I don't make an immediate answer to your offer, won't you? I have a very painful fortnight to get over first. Meanwhile - do you know anybody who wants to buy an antique lawnmower?"

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This story has been scanned and prepared for the publication on the Internet by Alex Birch