A Certain Type Of Girl

Story from Whispers 05.

A Certain Type Of Girl

I felt the usual hot flutter of nerves as my name was called out in class. A few moments before, a Prefect had brought in a note and handed it to Miss Spencer. She gazed at it unemotionally through horn-rimmed spectacles.

'Alison,' she said, eyebrows rising slightly. I pushed myself up from my hard, wooden desk seat. 'You are to report to the Head immediately.'

In the pit of my stomach, I felt a hint of sickness. Once before I had had to report to the Head. That had been when I was 17, about six months before. What had happened, I had always tried to shut off from my mind. Without a great deal of success. Mind you, I admit I deserved it. Breaking out of the school, at night, with two other girls... then getting drunk and being picked up in town by the police. Well it was something which deserved to be punished for. The other two I broke out with got the same; so they told me afterwards. One of them actually showed me. We did not, of course, complain. Parents or Guardians would not have been sympathetic. They knew Bardley's had a tradition of a strict Code of Discipline; so doubtless that was why we had been sent to board there in the first place.

My legs felt a bit wobbly as I left the classroom — The sixth — but I managed to keep my chin up and try and look unconcerned. Everybody would be wondering, just as I was. As I walked down the parquet-floored corridor, so highly polished, I tried to think what this could be about. I couldn't recall having done anything particularly stupid of late. Just been a bit slack and, on occasions, a shade too cheeky. But that hardly merited a call to the Head's study. Perhaps, I said to myself comfortingly, it's really nothing at all. Maybe a relative is ill. Or has died. And I'm having to be informed privately. Since my parents were already dead, I wasn't over concerned. If Aunt Mabel fell off her perch I wouldn't be worried. Except about the size of her will. No... it must be something like that. There was no need to worry.

Thus it was, having convinced myself, that I knocked on the Head's door almost jauntily.

'Come...'

In I went and, immediately, my nerves flared again. There was a of sombreness about her study. Something ominous. Then the sickness in my tummy started up again when I saw a portly male figure, in formal dress, seated nearby the Head's desk. He looked like a retired Archdeacon (which he might have been for all I knew) but what I did know was that he was one of the school Governors. I had seen him several times up on the platform on Open Days. What, I wondered in sudden apprehension, was he doing there? It was lucky, I told myself, that I had taken the precaution of going to the toilet on the way to the Head's study, otherwise the sight of this formidable duo could easily have made me almost wet myself.

Trying to look unconcerned, I advanced to the front of the Head's desk. 'So this is the girl in question,' said the Governor. I felt rather than saw his eyes roving over me.

'That's right, Mr Cromer,' said the Head sternly. 'This is Alison Grey. She has been with us five years, ever since she was 13. There have already been several black marks against her.' The Head fingered the folder in front of her and once again, I recalled my last visit. My nerves were jangling. What on earth could have happened? 'It is her Aunt's opinion that she is the type of girl who needs watching and who would benefit from strict control.' My resentment towards Aunt Mabel intensified. Obviously — more's the pity — she hadn't fallen off her perch.

'From what we now know,' said the Governor superciliously, 'the girl's Aunt is perceptively correct.' He turned to the Head and I felt a certain relief that his bulbous blue eyes were not boring into me. 'You... er... have informed her of... of this... unfortunate matter?'

'I have,' replied the Head. My nerves jangled more violently. I felt hot under the armpits — and elsewhere — then suddenly chilled. What was going on? 'She authorised me to take whatever measures I thought fit.'

'Good...' said the obese Mr Cromer. His white jowls quivered softly. He licked pale pink-grey lips as he pressed his plump hands together. I could not have loathed the sight of him more, nor all he stood for. The pompous Establishment which always thought it knew best as far as girls of my age were concerned, yet it certainly did not!

'Alison!' I focussed on the Head, seeing her hard brown eyes upon me.

'Yes, Ma'am?' I tried to make my voice confident but it came out as a squeak. The Head's name was Mrs Arnold but I think she was widowed. In any event, I could never imagine any man wanting to marry her. She had the puffy starchiness of a Victorian Governess.

'Something has been brought to my attention,' she said. 'Something so... so... abominable, I felt it only my duty to call in one of the School Governess.'

I stood rooted to the spot, quivering inwardly and outwardly, wondering what it was all about. Racking my brains. 'Your trunk has been searched.'

With that, my heart seemed to sink into my shoes. A freezing sensation went through me yet, at the same time, I felt my cheeks flushing scarlet. I felt those bulbous blue eyes, almost gloating, upon me again. I knew what had been found. Yes, for sure. And now I cursed myself for being so foolishly tempted. 'Come on Alison,' my elder sister had said, 'take it back to school with you next Term. It will while away boring evenings. Not to mention night-time. I had one with me in my last Term.' So it was I slipped the vibrator (so excitingly penis-shaped) into my trunk before I returned to Bradley's. It had had plenty of use. Well, why the Hell not? Yet, needless to say, I was now regretting my weakness. If there was one thing the school was utterly stodgy about, it was anything to do with sex. To be frank, you'd have thought we were living fifty years ago.

'I... I d-don't understand...' I said lamely.

'I think you do,' replied the Head sternly. 'I am not going to embarrass Mr Cromer by mentioning what was found there. It is... too... well... too disgusting. Frankly, I am appalled that any girl in this school should behave in this way.'

I hated her. Did she not realise that sex was something quite natural? Not a sin but a simple pleasure? Even if it be a self-induced pleasure.

'I concur,' chimed in the unctuous Mr Cromer. I hated him equally. Could he have ever possibly known the Joys of Sex?

'I wrote to your Aunt...' said the Head. My blood ran cold. Aunt Mabel was a spinster who carried a banner for Mrs Whitehouse. It was doubtful, I thought, if she even knew what a vibrator was! 'I told her I thought you ought to be expelled. Then it was agreed that you stay on until the end of Summer Term.' Inwardly I groaned. Expulsion would have suited me fine. As it was, I had the rest of Spring Term and then another Term before I would be out of this place.

'However,' continued the Head, 'she was firmly in agreement that you should be soundly punished. As you were after your last escapade.'

I couldn't help glancing at the Governor, who sat quietly looking smugly satisfied. Surely she wasn't going to do what she had done before with him there! There was a hot, shivering feeling deep inside of me. This was truly awful. In a way, they had the power to do what they liked; I was helpless. No one to turn to any more.

'It is something you thoroughly deserve girl,' I heard the Governor saying. 'Frankly, the younger generation seems to have the same moral standards as the Roman Empire. We know what happened to that. No wonder this nation is in decline!'

I hated the flabby horror even more. What could he know about the younger generation? How they felt? How they yearned for freedom? Their aspirations in life? He was up to his chin in a bog of Victorian values.

'For this gross indecency, Alison,' said the Head. 'You are going to be caned. And more severely than last time.'

I felt sicker than ever. Last time she had given me six strokes of the cane — and that had been bad enough. What did she now intend? 'Surely... surely... not in f-front of him,' I found myself quavering. The idea of that was too awful!

'As a Governor, Mr Cromer, is perfectly entitled to be present,' she answered suavely. 'In fact, it is my wish that he remain... in order that he observe that serious breaches of school rules are properly punished.'

I could not check the tears of shame that filled my eyes, nor the constriction of my throat. Oh... oh... this was too awful! To be punished in front of a man! And such a horrible old man! It really was too much. I saw her standing up. My heart was pounding. Once again, I thought I might wet myself. She couldn't mean it, surely! But there she was, opening the drawer of her desk. Then out came that hook-handled cane. The one I had felt so painfully before. 'P-please... no!' I heard myself crying out. ' Pleee...eeease!'

Her features were rock-hard; the Governor's were quivering. Suddenly I knew that this was not so much a matter of discipline but something for his enjoyment. I simply wished the floor would open up and swallow me.

She came around the desk, the cane quivering up and down. In that moment, I remembered acutely the fiery pain of it. Mr Cromer's flabby hands were gripping the edge of his chair.

'Twelve strokes,' she said — and I wanted to die.

'No! I've done nothing wrong... n-not... really!' My voice was high-pitched. It didn't sound like me at all. They looked at me disbelievingly.

'How ever can you say such a thing, Alison?' said the Head. There was a note of genuine reproach in her voice. Would her generation never understand? She tapped the desk with her cane. 'Bend over the chair,' she ordered crisply. I had heard that order before, I knew just how much it hurt and beads of perspiration seemed to spring out all over my body. I tried to shut Mr Cromer from my mind. It really was outrageous that I should be treated in this way; yet, it seemed, Aunt Mabel thoroughly approved.

'C-couldn't we... we... go into another room?' I heard myself asking.

'Bend over Alison!' She was relentless. The cane tapped again. 'Don't make matters worse for yourself. You don't want us to have to use force, do you?'

Us! The thought of that creep Mr Cromer manhandling me was too hideous to tolerate. Tears flowing now, I placed myself over the chair.

'Skirt up!' I pulled it up. Just an ordinary gym-slip... yet what an effort it cost me. Beneath were of pair of navy school knicker-briefs. Standard issue. Boring and utilitarian. Only during the Holidays could I wear something more grown-up.

'Knickers down, Alison!' Oh Lord... I thought she might have spared me that, in view of the Governor's presence.

'Please... please... Ma'am...'

'Knickers down, Alison!' She was as adamant as a judge, but far less impartial. 'I won't warn you again, I shall ask for the Governor's assistance.'

I knew I was defeated. I knew now that I had to endure not only the awful pain but the sickening shame of exposing myself in this obscene fashion. Bitterness filled me. Was it not I who was being punished for being 'disgusting'? Yet, surely, were these two not far more 'disgusting' than I?

Oh what was the use? They had the authority. The power. There was no one to help me. A huge, deep-rooted sob burst from me as I pushed down my knickers and bared my bottom before the Head. And the bulbous blue eyes of Mr Cromer.

By stretching arms fully, I could just grip the far edge of that desk. That was what one had to do. I felt the flesh of my bottom tautening. Knew sheer terror for a moment. Knew abysmal humiliation, too. A horrible old man was able to gaze upon my most intimate secrets. That couldn't be right... it couldn't be!

The cane lightly tapped my flesh and I cried out in dread. 'NO... I've done nothing.'


'You are a wicked libertine!' came the response. Then I heard the whistle of the cane... then felt the agonising bite. It was worse... far worse... than my memory had let me believe. In an instant, I was up off the chair, hands pressing to the searing weal which had just been raised... then I was down on the floor, kicking and squirming, the dust of a thick pile carpet in my nostrils.

In time, my gasping cries subsided; there was silence but for my sobs. How could I possibly stand twelve like that?

'Get back over my desk, Alison,' came that relentless voice. Had she no compassion? No understanding? This punishment was far and away too cruel. 'If there is one thing a girl deserves to be made to suffer for,' continued the Head in the same tone, 'that is lustful sexual indulgence in secret.'

'I agree,' came the Governor's voice.

'Back over the chair, Alison!'

Sobbing, I dragged myself up bent over again. Only by thinking of that repulsive Mr Cromer actually holding me over the chair enabled me to make the necessary effort. I felt my bottom flinching and twisting: I just couldn't stop it; one leg stretched out. 'Are you're sure you don't need any help, head?' It was him again! Oh the awful creep!

'Not at the moment. Governor,' came the response. 'Perhaps a little later it may be necessary...'

Then the cane shrieked through the air again and bit agonisedly into my poor flesh. Oh the pain... the unbelievable pain! Once more, on the instant, I was down on the floor, kicking and squirming, hands pressing in a futile attempt to ease the awful torment.

Oh how could I possibly endure ten more like that? How could they expect me to? I was only made of flesh and blood. And had they any idea just how excruciating a full-blooded stroke from such a cane was? It was doubtful. Otherwise, surely, hard-hearted as they might be, they would not have inflicted such pain upon me.

'Get back again, Alison.' I was sobbing and sobbing and sobbing. Yet, in truth, it had only just begun. This was true punishment. True terrible punishment. And, in the world in which I was growing up, quite undeserved. All the same, by some miracle of will-power, I hauled myself up once more and fell across the Head's desk.

In a flash, she had laid on the third blazing stripe.

* * * *

I seemed to have been in that room for hours, not just about fifteen minutes. There was no end to it. Just pain and more pain, my mouth salty with my tears, my throat hoarse with my cries and pleas. It made no difference. That remorseless caning proceeded. At some stage, I don't quite know when, I realised Mr Cromer was holding my wrists... keeping me over that chair... whilst the Head unhurriedly completed that awful caning.

Then, mind in a turmoil I realised it must be at last over. I was face down to the carpet again, a grille of fire across my poor, poor bottom. Turning slowly, peering through a mist of tears, I saw I was alone in the Head's study. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed my blue knickers in tatters on the floor.

What had those monsters done to me? Oh I didn't deserve it! I didn't. I couldn't stop the great heaving sobs coming from me. There wasn't only the pain (which was almost unbearable) there was the stark injustice of it all. No one, even if they were in authority, had a right to treat a young woman in this fashion. Even if a frigid spinster like Aunt Mabel had agreed. My only comforting thought at that moment was that, before very long, I would be out of the ghastly place. No longer a so-called schoolgirl but an independent woman in my own right.

Lying there in incessant pain, my hands clasped to my bottom, I realised why I had not run away from this place ages ago. Simply because, if I had done so, Aunt Mabel would have cut me out of her will. The Bible was right. Love of money is the root of all evil. I pressed and pressed, but the pain remained.

Should I stay there? Should I go back to class? In the end, I decided to go back to my Dorm. And there make good use of a cold flannel. And, if I could find any, some soothing cold cream.

When I got to the Dorm, a quick search revealed that the tell-tale vibrator had been removed. I felt a horrible sense of loss... and a furious anger. I suppose it was the same kind of reaction of that of a five-year-old child who has had its Teddy Bear stolen.

The Legacy

Story from Janus 63.

The Legacy
by Andrew Grantham

The old solicitor found the girl's proximity highly arousing. He peered at the pretty blonde with the blue, saucer-like eyes and curling, shoulder-length hair. One leg was crossed over the other. What legs, too.

He sighed, regretting his age, and began to read the will. Denise smugly waited for the announcement that Rose Cottage had been left to her by 'Uncle' Harold, as he had always promised.

'To my God-daughter Denise, I bequeath my collection of Corporal Punishment implements...'

Denise nearly fell off her chain.

The only other person present, a tall, good-looking young man sat not looking at the girl. He had done a lot of looking at her in recent years. Just looking – his advances had been firmly rebuked.

'To my nephew Roger, I bequeath all my property...'

He was getting Rose Cottage as well as the big house in the country! Denise stared malevolently at 'Uncle' Harold's nephew.

The tall young man with the authoritative bearing sat impassively. Roger invariably got whatever he wanted. He was a very shrewd person.

Denise knew why the will had been altered. She had discovered that 'Uncle' Harold was 'into' CP and she had ranted and raved at him, calling him, amongst other things, 'a lecherous old devil'. Denise, liberated but spoiled and petulant too, had even stopped seeing him for a while. She bitterly regretted it now, of course.

The solicitor carried on with the minor bequests. Denise, however, stormed towards the door and slammed it as she left. It was what she often did when she could not get her own way.

* * *

Later that evening, Denise sat on her settee, trying to concentrate on the television. A flimsy bathrobe was knotted loosely at her waist. The bell rang and she unravelled herself then padded to the hallway. Looking through the spyhole, she saw a wide-angled distortion of Roger. Should she let him in?

She slipped the chain and opened the door, hiding behind it so that only her head appeared in the opening. Roger was carrying a long package.

'What do you want?' she asked sullenly.

'I've got something for you,' he said politely. The blonde sighed, but opened the door fully. Once inside, he looked her up and down, mentally undressing her. On the defensive, Denise raise her collar oblivious to the fact that her shortie housecoat was now well above her nicely-rounded knees.

She ushered Roger towards the settee. He politely waited until she was seated herself. Then, he sat down. Denise was now aware of how much thigh she was revealing. Aware too of what she had on underneath her housecoat – nothing.

Roger began to unfasten the package, the girl wondering just what was inside. Of course! Out poured an assortment of canes, whips, martinets and the like.

'Get out!' she cried angrily, rising to her feet.

Roger made no move.

'I'll get you thrown out!' threatened Denise.

'Steady on.' He held up one hand and thrust the other inside his jacket. He produced a long white envelope. Denise recognise 'Uncle' Harold's handwriting. It was addressed to her. She snatched at it childishly.

The young man watched the changing expression on the pretty girl's face. Her eyes widened. Her mouth slacked open. Her head shook slowly from side to side.

'I don't believe it,' she croaked.

Her godfather's letter started off by saying how much he loved her but how upset he had been over her woolly-headed, feminist attitudes. He could not now see his way clear to bequeathing her the property. Perhaps the 'implements of correction and pleasure' would serve as a reminder of him and also as a salutary lesson to her. However, Roger had faithfully promised him that he would let her have Rose Cottage if...

'You expect to use... those... those... things on me!' she roared, pointing a shaking finger at her 'bequest'.

'I don't expect to, Denise,' replied Roger calmly. 'It depends how much you want the cottage.'

'Whose idea was this?' she snapped.

'Does it matter?' he answered.

'I shall contest the will,' she announced defiantly.

'By all means,' shrugged the young man. 'It could however prove a very costly undertaking. Supposing you lose!'

Denise bit her lip at that. She might be made bankrupt.

Roger observed her hesitation. 'It's got to be the bargain of the year,' he suggested. 'Don't you agree?'

'No, I do not!' rapped Denise, sitting down but neglecting to realise that her housecoat had ridden up her shapely thighs.

'Nobody else need know,' persisted the young heir. 'What does injured pride matter? And an injured bottom, of course.'

'That's the bit I don't like,' retorted Denise.

Roger smiled. 'You never know, my dear. You might just like it. Lots of girls do.'

'This girl doesn't,' sniffed Denise. She got up and glared at her visitor. 'Now, go! And take...' She indicated 'Uncle' Harold's CP implements. 'Take those with you.'

'They belong to you now,' Roger reminded her.

'Rose Cottage should have belonged to me.' Her voice broke and she sat down, sobbing.

'It can still belong to you,' insisted Roger.

'Very well then,' croaked Denise. She put her head in her hands. 'You win'.

The young man was taken aback by her sudden, out-of-character acquiescence. Denise herself didn't really know what it was that had made her yield so abruptly. Probably, the lure of the lovely old cottage outstripped her pride and her ideals.

She looked up at Roger, somehow now feeling very submissive in his presence. She experienced a little twinge in her tummy. 'If you cheat me,' she warned, 'I'll have you through all the courts in the land.'

Roger shrugged out of his jacket. 'That won't be necessary, Denise,' he informed her. 'My word is my bond.'

He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet. As she rose, the ties of her housecoat slackened and the sides fell apart.

Her breasts were full and firm, with nipples like tiny, pink gems. Her slim waist flared out to wide hips which were supported by long, well-sculpted legs, with thighs that were solid and inviting. An entrancing triangle of blonde hair adorned her crotch.

Denise made a grab for the garment with her free hand but Roger stopped her.

'There seems to be little point in concealing your charms,' he said softly, although blood was pounding in his temples and his heart was racing. That body was going to pay dearly for her denials.

Denise reddened. She had stripped in front of males before to have sex, condescending to show herself off to her soon-to-be-lovers. This time however, she felt how a slave must have felt in the old days.

'This whole thing is under protest, Roger,' she said, her voice quavering.

He said nothing. He simply removed the housecoat from her shoulders. She stood before him, her upper arms concealing her nipples and her hands crossed in front of her 'vee'.

The girl's gaze fell to the various implements lying on the floor. Her breasts heaved and her pulse began to quicken.

'I think we'll start off with the cane,' Roger announced, bending his tall, lithe frame to pick up the gleaming yellow wand with the rounded handle. He held it in front of Denise, who shrank back from it.

'Lie across the settee with your hands on the floor,' he commanded.

Denise hesitated but then, biting her lip, she crawled across the settee and took up her position. She just thanked God that none of her feminist friends could see her in such an embarrassing, humiliating situation. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. 'Uncle' Harold would have been well pleased, no doubt.

Roger inspected her superb bottom, poked up nice and high due to the way her body was folded. The cheeks were well-rounded, solid, appealingly pale in colour and bisected by a long, deep cleft.

He tapped them with the end of the cane. Denise flinched and her body tensed. She tried to concentrate on the pattern of the carpet but her concentration lapsed when she felt the cane rise from her bottom.

Roger aimed for the meaty summit of her upthrust buttocks. He brought the cane down hard to land right on target.

The response of the nude victim, experiencing a cut of the cane for the very first time, was immediate. Denise yelped. She pressed her fingers into the carpet and bent her legs backwards from the knees.

'Stay still!' warned Roger sternly.

She turned her head to look at her attacker, but her waterfall of curls blocked her view. The pain in her bottom was stingingly awful. Why on earth had she allowed herself to be a party to such a bizarre arrangement?

Roger launched his rod into action once more. This time, it landed with a very sharp sound on the undercurves of her delightful, enticing bottom.

Denise squealed and pressed her hips and pubis into the padded arm of the settee as the rattan rebounded. Her body vibrated as if an electric current had been passed through it.

Roger paused, watching the pale flesh become illuminated by two neon-red lines before raising the much-used cane once more.

The third slash buried the wood momentarily into the fleshy top of her quivering buttocks. Denise yelled out as the fire in her rear intensified, soaring to a new peak. Her feet churned on the settee, causing her thighs to part and reminding Roger of the secret delights hidden from view – delights which had always been forbidden to him.

'How much more?' panted Denise, painfully.

'I shall decide that,' retorted Roger sharply.

The unviolated areas of her twin hemispheres above and below the middle angry red line wriggled invitingly. Roger chose the lower portion for the next visit of the well-tried rod.

The first three strokes had really hurt Denise. The fourth one did so, too. Roger spaced it midway between the centre and the lower stripe. The stinging slash made Denise feel as if her whole body was being consumed by a raging fire. Nowhere, however, did the fire burn fiercer than in her frantically humping bottom.

'Please!' No more!' she shrieked. The thick pile of the carpet soaked up the tears dripping from her eyes. Her body sagged warily.

'I think you can cope with a couple more,' Roger told her coolly. 'Then we'll call it a day – this time.'

'Hurry up!' sobbed Denise.

'There's no hurry,' drawled Roger.

'Bastard!'

No one used words like that to Roger and got away with it. He slashed at her bucking behind with the cane. The random stroke landed almost diagonally across her rump, bisecting two of the earlier stripes.

Denise howled and the lower part of her body made suggestive movements against the settee's upholstered arm.

Roger watched her performance, a smile spreading across his face. Denise thrashed her head from side to side, as if by shaking it she could rid her body of the horrendous hurt flowing from her violated nates.

The young man eyed the strip of still unblemished flesh near the top of her lewdly heaving bottom. He waited until the striped mounds stilled a little, then he raised the cane above his shoulders.

It whirred down in a blurring arc to land squarely across her ravaged seat. The room echoed with shrill cries as Denise reacted to another red hot wire of pain blazing through her scorched bottom.

Roger tapped the wailing girl on the shoulder. 'Get up now, Denise,' he said quietly.

A short while later, the young couple stood locked in each other's arms. Denise, her eyes still moist, felt highly aroused. The awful pain she had experienced had subdued to a very pleasant and comforting tingle. She pressed herself closer to Roger.

'You will keep your promise, won't you?' she sobbed.

'Of course I will,' he assured her.

Denise suggested they adjourned to the bedroom. Roger decided it was neither the time nor the place to tell her the council had slapped a demolition order on her beloved Rose Cottage.

The Old Hand Takes Command

Story from Phoenix 14.

The Old Hand Takes Command

The headmistress looked across at Commander Relton RN (ret.), and the understanding flashed between them. "This school was founded for the daughters of ladies and gentlemen, Commander," she explained. "They come here for the acme in correction. It is here that they learn the meaning of obedience to the very last letter. We spare no trouble at all to correct the disobedient streak you find in all children, and that is why, when I read of your dismissal from your last teaching post that I wrote to you."

The Commander had certainly received a startling letter from the straight-backed woman sitting before him now.

Dear Commander,

Please pardon the liberty that I am exercising in writing to you, but I read with anger of your dismissal from Gordons Boys School. I read the report that you were inclined to thrash harshly and that because of complaints you were forced to tender an early resignation.

I am headmistress of a Girls School and we run it on a Very Strict Curriculum. We have a post vacant at the time of writing and I have discussed this matter with other members of my Staff. We have agreed that a person of your qualifications would fit in here. We will endeavour to persuade you that this is a School of the type which you were obviously trying to implement at Gordons. Should you think the post appeals to you, I would be pleased to grant you an interview at your earliest convenience. Then I shall be pleased to explain our aims and intentions with our young ladies.

Yours faithfully,
Diana Goodchild.

The Commander had read and re-read the heaven sent opportunity and had immediately telephoned; thus the reason for him sitting there, sipping tea which had been served by a bright schoolgirl of about sixteen. He had tried not to notice the swelling calf that swept down from a short gymslip, and he was inwardly pleased at the spotless white starch blouse that had covered the peeping buds of breasts. Dianna Goodchild also liked what she saw. A tall man of forty five, broad and sun burned, his blonde hair clipped close to his large but not ugly head. His steel blue eyes were the perfect harshness that she required, and she liked his bearing. Royal Navy. He knew something of discipline and he had accepted her offer of full time employment. He had covered his surprise with extreme camouflage, as the data that she had given him would make the hair bristle on any neck. The girl who delivered the tea curtsied to her Headmistress and then to him. Whilst she stood still, her rigid attitude of standing to attention pleased him. Yes... this school was one after his own heart.

"You see Commander," she continued when the girl had left, "we encourage the utmost obedience from these daughters of the gentry. The mode of punishment is left entirely to the teacher and it cannot be too severe. We try to install a certain amount of humiliation into the girl who is to be flogged. I find the pulling down of her knickers whilst she is touching her toes helps to install the right amount of discomfort, and when this is done in front of the whole school, then all the better. Sometimes you will desire to flog a girl in privacy of your own room. I find the best time is when she is prepared for bed; a nightie pulled well above her waist and up to her neck usually has her in the proper frame of mind, especially the older girls." The retired Naval Commander felt himself stiffen; it was just what he was looking for. A pupil that could be thrashed, humiliated and would have to do as she was told... yes, decidedly, this was the place.

"Do the parents complain?" he ventured. "Indeed no. We explain this form of correction and discipline in our school curriculum and the parents accept or leave it, entirely up to them. I have a waiting list as long as your arm, so I do not get over bothered. But you would be surprised at the number of parents that accept the position.... in fact we have a mother who insisted on being present whilst her blooming daughter received a public thrashing, and the woman came all the way from Northern Rhodesia to observe it." The Commander was shaken by the Headmistress's self assurance. She was a good looking woman, with bristling breasts and a straight back, her legs were shapely and except for the tweed, she would have been a stunner. She felt him appraising her and crimsoned with heat under her dress. She had never wanted another man since her fiance had died two years ago, but this man almost old enough to be her father had her squirming. This school had been started by her father, and she herself had been brought up in it; no favours had been shown to her as a pupil, and now that her father had died, she was left the business and became Headmistress. Twenty five years old and the owner of this flourishing school. She explained all this to him. He had been surprised to see such a young woman in charge but that her life had got off to a disciplined start was evident in her manner and bearing. "I'll introduce you to the staff," she said, rising from the desk. He opened the door for her and she sighed inwardly at the manliness of this strong handsome ex-sailor. The other teachers were from her father's days and they looked just what they were, spinsters who had missed the boat at an early age and were now prepared to take it out on school girls with rod and birch. He first met the girls at evening meals and as he walked in, a very undisguised gasp went through the dining room, but it was hushed as Dianna Goodchild snapped her fingers at them.

All the girls rose from their seats like at a Military Parade; not a seat scraped, not another sound was heard. He ran his eyes over them expertly. By great Jehosaphat, there was some talent here and no mistake... some of those arses were going to sting before the term was over. The tables were in a very large U and in the centre of the U about fourteen girls sat, separated from the others and the Commander guessed that they were older and probably prefects. At the head of the Senior table, a golden haired beauty sat, her head held high and the way in which she stared ahead of her, Relton had her down as the head girl. Dianna Goodchild explained to him that the centre table was indeed reserved for Prefects and that their mode of conduct was more severely watched. Instead of it being a privilege it meant that they really had to watch themselves.

"Marion is Head Girl; she has not had a thrashing now for twelve months... hasn't deserved one in fact." Dianna Goodchild sounded almost sorry, but the Commander let it pass.

"All the girls are between fifteen and nineteen years of age. Marion is only seventeen and even though there are older girls, she is better suited to the job. The school uniform... white blouses, gym skirts and the knickers are coloured according to their status. For instance, a naughty nineteen year old girl would be reduced to wearing blue knickers. It is easy to ascertain a girl's previous behaviour by the colour of her knickers." She showed him the rest of the school and then took him to a room at the very end of a corridor.

"This is the punishment room and when and if you think you should use it Commander, in here," she opened the door "you will find a thorough selection of punishment rods, canes, small whips and strapped frames. It is absolutely sound proofed. If you see the red light on outside please do not enter as it means that a teacher is in here, with a pupil, and it is a golden rule amongst the staff that we don't enter whilst the red light is on. If you have occasion to come here with a pupil, please switch this down like this... and you'll be assured that you will never be disturbed. My fiance and I used to court here," she said blushing furiously. The Commander smiled and his flashing white teeth caused her a tremor of wonder through her lower regions. She was a very beautiful woman, he decided, and if he won her to his side, then he could really go to town with some ideas of his own for the punishment of school girls.

* * *

The first morning in a classroom he eyed his class with a practised eye. She had given him this room on purpose. The girls were indoctrinated, yet they could still be a nuisance to the disciplined regularity of the school. They were blue knicker girls, and that meant their behaviour needed watching. There were three girls of fifteen, several more of sixteen, most of them seventeen and one of them nineteen. He'd have to read their reports later. He told them the piece to study in their text books and in one hour he was going to listen to the translations. A girl coughed, and the Commander reading through his notes waited to hear a responding cough. In a boys school this action of a mild cough usually was the signal for the whole class to develop 'whooping cough' silly little snits, he thought. Heaven help them if they thought his good swarthy looks betrayed any softness. He was just itching to get a pair of knickers round one of their ankles... The answering cough came, just slight, but he recognised it for what it was; a signal for the whole room to start a paroxym of coughing. He timed the next one, they were obviously counting, ah yes... fifteen counts and then a cough. He counted to fifteen himself and was as though deeply engrossed in his study. Suddenly he jerked his head up just as a smiling girl coughed. The smile vanished in a fit of horror-struck embarrassment. The whole class was looking at the girl as though expecting it to be her turn. They shot their eyes to the front and saw cold eyes of steel surveying them. As a team, twenty two faces blushed. "Who coughed first?" he asked quietly. Not a response. "Who's idea was it?" His eyes bored into the front row of seats and eyes turned from his. "I want to know who's idea it was and who started the coughing." His voice rose just slightly, but it was like a thunder storm to them. Oh Lord! Twenty two bottoms squirmed uncomfortably. He looked big and strong.

"Come here," he commanded one girl, a pretty fair haired lass of about sixteen. She rose up as soon as his finger pointed to her and walked with grace to the front of the class. He took the two foot ruler from the top of his desk. "I want your back to the class," he told her. With obvious reluctance she obeyed him, and stood there like a statue. "Bend over and touch your toes," he ordered. The upsweep of her skirt pleased him as it uncovered her long swelling thighs. He took her knickers and pulled them down round her legs. Her rounded bottom was a picture of sheer poetry. He slowly lifted her gym skirt to the waist so that her flesh was completely uncovered. "Twenty four strokes," he told her. The enormity of the number numbed the girls into a frigid silence. He raised his hand and the ruler was falling through the air, whistling as it gathered momentum... 'thwack'... a large red mark appeared where the ruler had sunk deeply into the soft fleshy buttocks. "Little... 'thwack'... school girls... 'thwack'... must... not 'thwack'... cough... 'thwack'... as... 'thwack'... a... 'thwack'... collective... 'smack'... body... 'screech... in class." Smack... screech... smack... ooooohh... noooo pleeeeeease... smack... screech... and so on until the girl touching her toes thought her rear was on fire. Twenty four smacks in all and her buttocks were red and sore.

"Stand up," he snapped. She groaned as her skin complained bitterly as she straightened up again. Her skirt hid the belaboured bottom and she was crying without reservation. By Jimminy but what a lovely arse, he thought, absolutely champion. Might just as well have another look at it. "Show the class your bottom," he ordered her. With reluctance she lifted the skirt to her waist and the remainder of the class glued their eyes to the flogged flesh before them. He looked down at her uncovered pubes and was delighted at the shame she showed as she realized his eyes were drinking in the secret that was revealed at the top of her legs.

But he made her stand there for ten minutes whilst he looked at her backside and then round at her front again. She had lovely legs and her hairy triangle fitted into the top of them with perfect symmetry. He looked round the class room and pointed to the oldest girl there, who was about nineteen. She reddened as he ordered her next to the first victim. I wonder what her pubic hair is like, he thought. Now was the time to find out. His hand came down unexpectedly on the first girl's arse and he told her to dress herself and rejoin the group. Her crying was reduced to small sobs now, and as she sat down she mouthed an ooh.

"What is your name?" he asked the second girl.

"Pamela Forsythe Danton, Sir," she answered.

"And were you involved in the eternal 'cough's" he asked sternly.

"I did not organise it Sir."

"Who did?"

"I do not know Sir." The girl was standing to upright attention like a Guardsman on Parade, and this pleased the Commander.

"Were you going to cough as well?"

"Yes Sir." She answered as her face crimsoned in profuse tomato fashion.

"And who were you to follow?" he asked. She remained silent. "Very well then... we must see mustn't we?" He selected a thin hellish cane and the girl swallowed the lump in her throat. "Touch your toes," he told her. She responded immediately in obedience. "Patricia!" he called out. The smallest girl in the class jumped to her feet. "Yes Sir." "Come out here and take Pamela's knickers down." He knew that this would humiliate the older girl, and that was just what he was trying to accomplish. Patricia felt horrible at having a young girl pull the covering knickers from her bent buttocks. "Now lift the skirt above her bottom, let the class see her anatomy ready for punishment." He gloated. It really was a lush pair of buttocks. They were round and perfectly placed. The crevice between was inviting to the eye and the smoothness of the rich silk textured skin was now tight and waiting for his punishment. He looked around and selected the next eldest girl, and by far the strongest looking. "State your name," he said curtly. "Yvonne, Sir.... Yvonne Brantonwaithe." Lord, what names, he thought to himself. "Right, Yvonne you may have the pleasure of caning Pamela's behind and I want to see a stripe for every stroke." Yvonne smiled maliciously, but wiped it from her face immediately. She did not like Pamela very much anyway, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. The girl raised the cane above her head and her other hand was straight down to her side. She looked at the Commander and he, sitting on the front desk, nodded his head. The cane swished down and caught the arse in the tender spot exactly cutting the globes in half. Pamela wheezed out in complaint. Down it came again and this time the bottom wriggled noticeably. The other pupils looked on in animalistic glee. Up went Yvonne's hand and down came the cane like an automated machine. "Aaaaaagh... no more Sir pleeease... swish crack... Ooooooooohhhh noooo... swish crack... pleeeease Sir... oh oh oh... screech... pleeease Sir... screeeech.... oh my bottooooom... screeech!" It was a mystery to the Commander how the girls managed to keep their bottoms bent with such inflicting pain, but the fact that they remained bent pleased him. After twenty four skin tearing and stinging strokes, the girl was allowed to straighten up... Yvonne was sent back to her seat, whilst Pamela remained with her back to the classroom, her whole body shaking furiously and her tits were heaving about like wild things under the starched crispness of her blouse. "Show the class the area of punishment," he insisted. The nineteen year old felt more than naked as she lifted her skirt and showed herself off from the waist down to her ankles. The Commander sitting now at his desk could see that she did indeed have luxuriant pubic hair. Silently the class appraised the charms of the older girl. "Next time I catch you out in a misdemeanor," he promised her, "you shall remove your clothes completely before the whole class and I shall stand you on the stool over there and personally flog your hide!" "Yes Sir," she sobbed. "Return to your place," he said with a wave of dismissal. When the class had settled down again he addressed them. "I am fully conversant with all your stupidities and silly mannerisms, but let me tell you this, if any of you as much as blink against my instructions, I shall bring you to the front and remove every stitch myself, whoever you are, big or small and I promise you that you won't sit down for a month. Now this applies to anything that happens in this class. I say you have half an hour to translate, then half hour it is. Half hour and if you do not know the answers then I'll educate you through your rear ends. Understood?" His eyes swept over them swiftly. He saw the respectful fear in their eyes and that pleased him. "In the ten minutes that we have left, let there be a silence that the dead would fear, and let us have some learning for which your parents pay for... and for goodness sake stop snivelling, Pamela." The girl stopped abruptly.

* * *

In the afternoon, he was to take the prefects and the Head Girl in Art and Nature study. They brought their own plants, flowers and various botanical items to paint onto the papers before then. He was quite a hand at painting himself and so after a preliminary start, he told them to begin. His eyes roved over them and he could not fault one as delightful young ladies. The Head Girl was a striking beauty, and her stiff attitude told him she had been well trained in the business of behaviour. She coveted her position as Head Girl, and to lose it would break her heart. She was no angel and David Relton knew this, but he would be hard put to catch her out. He walked round them on soft gum shoes, and had passed behind them before they were aware that he was there. Then as he came up behind the Head Girl he had the shock of his life. Before her she had a small handful of roses, but on the board before her she had drawn the figure of a nude man with a prick much too big for him. He reached up and took out his pencil. His heart thrilled... caught red handed, those red knickers were going to drop for him after all. "Stay in after the class is dismissed," he wrote on the drawing, and the girl gasped with a loud outburst of breath. Her face reddened profusely and as she started to stand to offer a furtive explanation, he put his forefinger over his lips to silence her. She squirmed about in absolute horror for the rest of the afternoon. So engrossed in her drawing had she been that she had forgotten where she was. Oh Heaven help me, she thought. No other girl was aware of the transaction between the Head Girl and the Commander. The bell rang and it was the end of the day's lessons. "Dismiss," he said curtly. Immediately two girls went round the class collecting their masterpieces, and then took them to him. After that, the class stood as one and fled out silently... that is except for Marion. When the classroom had emptied, she stood red faced and stiffly to attention. "Shut the door... and lock it, Marion," he said with quiet authority. He sat at his desk and watched her buttocks wriggle to the door, then she locked it, and returned to him. "Now what have you to say for yourself?" "Nothing Sir... I'm very sorry," she offered. "Yes, I am sure you are, but what should I do now, Hmm?" She licked her pretty dry lips and her face showed the fear she felt. "I should cane you and then report you to Miss Goodchild," he told her. "Please.... please, Sir, I don't want to loose my position here. I'll take anything in the way of punishment... anything... but please don't jeopardise my prefectship. I'd have to wear blue knickers and sit with the other girls... I'd be laughed at and they tease horribly a girl who has forfeited her position." She was imploring him now with an earnest appeal. "I think you are probably an excellent Head Girl," he told her softly, "but that position must be held by the pupil most befitting to hold it. Now you are obviously a rather twisted girl who deserves to have her bottom caned... hard, and you deserve to be thoroughly shamed. I think I'll suggest a public thrashing after the evening meal. Then we can show the other girls what we do not require in our head girls." She buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly at the idea of a public thrashing. Anything else she did not mind, but to be publicly whipped was the worst form of disgrace. There were so many girls there who would enjoy the spectacle of Marion tied across a table whilst each and every teacher whipped her across her naked buttocks. She could hear the jeers now. "Please, Commander Relton." She sobbed and begged. "Please... I'll take my punishment from you, Sir, any punishment. You can flog me until you skin me but do not take my rank away from me. Do not let them punish me...... It's a man's place to thrash a girl, not other women," she reasoned. Everything was going along nicely, thank you he thought. "Very well," he said as though he had just made the decision. "I shall require you to attend the punishment room and I shall personally punish you and it will not go down in the records."

"Oh thank you, Sir," she cried emphatically, "thank you... thank you very much, Sir. When shall I report?" Her composure was returning quickly with the relief of his pardon. "Tonight, at seven o'clock," he told her. "Yes Sir," she answered. He knew the corridor would be empty at the time and he did not want to be seen entering the room with Marion.

* * *

He entered his daily 'Chastisement Report' up in the book as fully as possible and then signed his name with a flourish and took it to the next tutor. She was a spinster with a massive fifty inch bust and gushed at the Commander when he walked into the Staff room and handed it to her. The teachers had a rotation with the book, and each took it to the next person on the list. He did not know this but the Commander had made quite a hit with the other women, and they were delighted to have such a man on the staff. They knew what kind of a man he was and being strict disciplinarians themselves they not only admired him but secretly envied him. How marvellous some of them were already thinking to be a strong handsome man with the authority to take the cane to those plump girlish bottoms and teach them a well-deserved lesson. Little did they know what a good start he had made and they would have been amazed, though approving, if they had had the slightest inkling of how he intended to continue.

As for the Commander, as he walked away he was feeling very pleased with himself. He knew he had found the right berth. It was like taking command of a new ship, thinking back to his days on active service. He had no doubt that he'd taken the right decision in accepting this job. These little minxes would have to watch their step, though of course he hoped they wouldn't be too well-behaved. By now the whole school would know what a tartar he was and they would soon learn that he intended to continue in the way he had started. They would rue the day they heard of Commander Renton.

A Lesson For The Teacher

Story from Februs 38.

A Lesson For The Teacher
Short Story by Madeleine de Vichy

SHE LAY THERE, face down, blonde head cradled on folded forearms and felt this might be a mistake. A big one. She'd never been interested in this; the one friend she knew who'd dabbled still blushed and burbled unconvincing babble about pleasure and pain: the only piece she'd ever read on it had made her feel sick...

But she wasn't sick now... nor babbling... nor trembling. Breathless maybe... hot certainly... damp, too... but not sick, not now. So how could this he? Right here, right now, nearly naked with a man she hardly knew... her bottom in black DKNY knickers plumped up over three big cuddly pillows... wailing. For what?

Was she mad?

Maybe, but in her head she knew that this was new and exciting and she loved him and that's all she wanted to know. If spanking be the food of love, spank on, give me excess of it. Poetry, too. Whatever next?

But it'd hurt, wouldn't it? Could she stand it? Or would she have to say 'Stop!' Scream 'Stop!' and loudly?

She sighed into the rumpled blue cotton of their love-tossed sheets, still alive with the scent of their rolling coupling. She smelled her own Rive Gauche; his smell, too... but what was his smell, unlabelled, unsaleable, unforgettable? But it was beautiful and her lips caressed the crumpled blue cotton and she breathed in deep.

He'd called her "My Lovely" and she'd asked him to keep saying it. He called her gorgeous and beautiful and generous and sweet. She wanted to believe him. Oh, sod it, she did believe him and he made her feel real and warm and damp. Very very damp... but would it hurt? Could she bear it? Or would she have to say 'Stop!'.

Even now she couldn't believe she was really here, doing this. He hadn't talked her into anything; hadn't even tried, and she hadn't sought it out. It happened just naturally like tiny spring buds turn magically into achingly-innocent summer-green leaves.

Well, yes, there had been that one game-playing slap on her pinkly bare bottom as they rolled together across the blue cotton playground they'd created one unexpectedly vivid morning... but that was her fault, chatting perversely to this all-too-human man about god-like Greek fishermen and their golden, gloriously-muscled perfection as they'd swaggered, flashing-eyed and oh-so-fanciable, across the summer vacation sands of Lesbos... funny how it was always the men - never the pretty dark-haired giggling girls in their cut-down shorts and tiny tight while T-shirts - who strutted and posed in her head those troubled, restless, sleepless nights.

And that slap - not really a smack, certainly not a spank - had started all this, made her willing to look deeper, eager to taste, to feel freer, more feminine... naughtier... maybe even dirty.

Dirty. The one small word in her mind now turned her on and when it came from him she felt the warm, damp, moistness begin to soak through the clingy featherlight black of Donna Karan's silently-whispered invitation to sin.

Dear Donna, Thanks for the invitation. I ACCEPT!

Now, face down, she thought about him. Could he see the moist patch? Did he know what she was thinking? Did she care? Why didn't he just get on with it? Right now, in her own secret assessment, she felt like a whore.

That one word, even unspoken, deep inside her own head, could almost make her come. If he said it, close-up, hand on her arse, tongue in her ear, fingers touching, tickling, teasing her... ahhhh!

Her bottom - it was only her arse if it was ready to be smacked and hard -was more sensitive now than ever she remembered, wriggling and twitching untutored; it had a mind all its own and she knew that if he didn't spank her soon she'd... she'd... what? Cry? Beg? Demand? Walk-out? No, not that. She'd simply ask him to do it... politely, saying 'Please' then 'Thank you'. Doing it nicely always worked. She hoped.

But she wanted to be spanked hard - not some mimsy-whimsy limp-wristed tap or slap or apology for a tickle. No, it had to be hard and it had to be soon and she told him, dearly and precisely, surprised at her own good manners: 'Please spank me now... and hard.'

His voice - and she loved his voice, low and not-wholly common, nice vocabulary, Rough-Trade-brutal-but-with-inbred-cheek - and she loved it when he said 'Fuck'; sometimes she asked him to whisper it just so she could hear it and get warm and hot and damp and randy and want to fuck him hard right then and there.

Then she knew she WAS a slut... and she loved every single second... every fucking second of it.

Why, then, did she feel so supremely feminine right now, face down, moist and warm and waiting to feel his hand spank her bare arse? And why did that jolt of mild fear stoke-up the scary, spooky, wanton, willingness she'd never ever expected to feel, any place, any time, any life?

She wasn't confused, just wanting him to do it, wanting it to happen, deciding then and there to "reward" him later if she liked it - her lace-edged black knickers would be slipped secretly under his pillow afterwards, a keepsake, a bedtime comforter for a nice man, a good lover, but only if he did it well... but now she knew why she was here. This was trust and love and something else, something she'd never felt before, something she'd always somehow hoped to find, without knowing what it was she sought.

And she was loving every second - every fucking second of it.

So what was he waiting for? Her bottom wriggled more obviously now - he'd said how much he loved that; it just 'did it' for him, and surely he'd pull down her knickers and make her take it on her bare-naked arse?

He would - wouldn't he?

Surely he would?

Please!

He was over her now, leaning down, lips pressed to her ear, his tongue tracing a warm damp line round the loop above her earlobe. She shuddered, moaning softly, wriggling against him, feeling his cock harden against her thigh. Pressing hard against it, hoping to bribe him into giving her what she wanted... the good hard spanking she so richly deserved.

Deserved? Richly? She was shocked by her own choice of words. She'd never thought about it like that before.

'You sure you want this?' There was tiny doubt in his voice. 'I don't want to hurt you. I couldn't live with that. If I hurt you I'd feel like... well, like shit. I love you. I can't hurt you. Are you sure, certain, you want this. Are you?'

Her voice, Middle-England, posh - yes, she'd had elocution as a teenager - was very firm: 'Yes, I am quite sure. Now please do it, and very hard, please. Is that all right?'

'Very hard? How hard is very?'

'I think you know. I'll tell you if it's too much. Now, please, spank me.'

He was going to protest again. Had his arrogant bottle finally gone together with his outspoken willingness to give her 'Whatever You Want' - the old Quo hit had become his mantra of sexual treats, an eternal promise of love between them. Had that gone with it?

'Very hard, please.' Her voice was suddenly firmer. No-nonsense. Meaning it. Get it done. Right here, right now. 'Please.'

Then her calm evaporated with his next unexpected words: 'Right, then, get your knickers down, down round your thighs, leave 'em there. Understand?'

The jolt hit her belly first, it tightened in alarm-cum-excitement-cum-shock. Her heart beat a little faster. He couldn't mean it, could he? Her mouth seemed to have gone dry and suddenly she knew it had never been this good before. She had never been this turned-on. It was fucking amazing. Her breath seemed harder to find, the very idea had winded her imagination and she felt like a total whore. Her bottom wriggled and she lay there wrapped in the feeling that suddenly all was good and right and well with her face-down world.

His voice again: 'Do it, or nothing happens. Your choice. Make-your-mind-up time,' and he looked hard at her naked back, seeing the pressed-down swell of her left breast, wanting to touch it, resisting the temptation, waiting for her to push down the black DKNYs and to show him the plump while mound of her warm, round, touchable, kissable, spankable arse.

He's trying to get out of it, she thought as her hands reached down and eased the waistband loose, wriggling a little, inching the tight black roll of flimsy damp fabric down and onto the white softness of her upper thighs, feeling the panties cling like silken rope, hobbling her legs in a harmlessly-perverse pretence of Tie-Me-Up-Tie-Me-Down.


As she did it, another surge of erotic power crackled through her, shafting straight to her most secret, most sensitive places. The warmth there was suddenly unbearably delicious and she wanted to come like never before... but first she wanted him to spank her, then to fuck her and then she'd suck his cock.

One simple order, 'Take your own knickers down' had turned her fear to longing and her longing to aching, dizzying need.

She ached there, right there, moist, breathless... wanting, and now she knew that her arse really did have a life all its own. Deliciously, shamelessly. Whatever You Want, Whatever You Like... Whatever would Mummy say?

And through it all she knew that tonight she'd learned something about herself which she would never have believed. She really was a whore and she was ready to go. Turned-on and feeling the warmth seeping through every inch of her body. She glowed, she was content and she wanted his hand - his lovely hard firm hand - on her vulnerable, unprotected bare-naked bottom. Both cheeks, one at a time or both together.

Just do it.

PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!

'How many?' his voice was businesslike. She hesitated, unsure, unwilling to go too far white not wanting to flinch from the 'fun'. 'Ten... very hard.' Her voice was sure and firm. Suddenly, no doubts, she knew what she wanted and it would always stop if she called 'Stop!'.

Now he dithered. 'Ten? You sure? Quite sure?'

Her voice held up. 'Yes, quite,' and then it started. S-L-A-P! and it stung like hell, his hand fell bigger than it looked and his fingers were suddenly longer, more-supple, almost cruel. It stung, but it didn't hurt in the way you think of "hurt".

He told her to keep count. Not difficult, his hand fell with long aching pauses between smacks.

'One... two... three... Christ, that hurt. I've lost count... two... three... four... five. It feels hot. Am I marked?'

She was. His fingers had left vivid scarlet trails across both pink cheeks of her plump bare bottom but he ignored the question. 'Keep counting. How many is that?'

'Five'.

'So how many to come?'

'Five?'

'Five what?'

'Five, please.'

His hand, palm flat, fingers spread, fell and she screamed a little low scream. 'Six'.

'Say thank you.'

'Six, thank you.'

Then, 'Seven, thank you... eight, thank you... nine, thank you' and she waited for the last one. 'How many more?' he asked.

'Just one, please.'

His hand rested on her bottom, fingering the red marks, pinching lightly her overheated flesh.

'And where do you want it? Here?' his hand tapped the enflamed left cheek of her arse, 'or there?' he tapped the scarlet round on her right.

'There. Just there. The right, please.' That side didn't seem to hurt so much. His hand fell and it hurt now. 'Oh, fuck.' Breathlessly, she swore against the cotton sheet, half hoping he hadn't heard. Bad move. 'And two more for filthy language. Naughty girl.'

She wanted to protest, say 'No', but his hand fell swiftly, mercilessly, before she even knew it, two more slaps racked her angry, red bottom and he moved back, leaving her to explore the sensation. Slowly she raised her head, no tears, no regrets, just an absolute longing to be held and kissed and made to feel loved. Her arms opened to him and they clung together. Her mouth on his was violently demanding, lips wet, tongue urgently seeking inside his mouth.

'Hold me.' He held her, tightening his grip, tasting her mouth, pushing her down, forcing her down, trapping her arms under his, feeling her weaken and seeing her eyes sparkle and flare as she felt his strength and knew she was imprisoned in the pleasure of her pain; her body, her mouth no longer her own. And, above it all, she felt a gentle, soft contentment ease through her. She closed her eyes and let the feeling run away with her.

She felt his hands on her, tugging at the waistband of her lowered knickers. She stirred. 'Pull them up... right up,' he told her. 'Right up 'til you feel them touch your clit... then keep them there.'

Her immediate thought. One word: 'Bastard!' but she did as she was told and the knickers, pulled tight, cut into her, slipping easily into the warm wet furrow of her sex. Her clitoris, enlarged now and hungry for touch, ached as Donna Karan's unknowing designer cruelty caressed and kissed and tugged and licked her sexual centre and made her scream out to come.

She touched herself, one finger only... but how did he know these things? Clever clever dirty sexy man.

His voice again. 'No hands. Use this.' A vibrator; lavender vinyl and very light, buzzed gently into life as he twisted the button-control to high. She took it, eyes locked in his, and told him, 'Only if you watch,' and, skilfully, wickedly, she played the vibrator through her stretched wet knickers. 'Is that what you wanted?' she asked. He could only gasp and nod.

It went on for ten-fifteen-twenty minutes. He didn't look away. Wouldn't. Couldn't. The vibrator - she'd called it Harry; who the fuck was Harry? - moved inside her knickers, her guiding hand became more-certain and her eyes closed, her hips came up and her head went back with a long low moan from the back of her throat, EEEEEK-ing out over her lips into a beautiful, depraved, despairing bubble of obscene self-satisfaction.

And, as it happened, her bottom wriggled harder than ever before and he felt it touch his thigh and instantly felt his cock harden into unflinching granite with a hidden core of pure steel stairrod. Now it was his turn to say: 'Aaaaah!'

The teacher lay there, eyes still closed, feeling a generous warm soft glow spread from her bottom to her whole grateful body. She turned, eyes locking on his: 'And now,' she said in her posh polished educated classroom voice, 'I think it's time you fucked me... and very hard. If that's all right... please.'

'That'd be fine,' he said, moving over, brushing his hard cock against her thigh. 'But do I get good marks, teacher?'

She nodded, pushing her panties right down and finally off - mustn't forget to leave them under his sweat-stained pillow later - and opening her legs wide.

The pink suburban bedroom - for some reason she called it The Cake - took another spin around the world and suddenly, unexpectedly, she found herself thinking that this lovely randy man was about to come top of the class.

And she smiled the kind of smile that only the truly gifted can truly smile.

A Room With a View

Story from Janus 90.

A Room With a View
by John Undermeyer

MY SISTER, Penny, is 23 but could easily pass for 19. She married her boss, Robert, who is twice her age and divorced, with two teenage sons who live with their mother. We told her not to do it. We said that in ten years' time or so, when Robert lost his vigour and she still needed regular sex, she'd be sorry. She went ahead anyway.

Two months later I married Gus.

'You don't understand,' Gus said to me during our engagement. 'Penny married Robert because he's experienced.'

'Experienced at what?' I asked, and Gus looked at me as though I'd just been found under a gooseberry bush.

'At lovemaking, Dopey. Penny had a few men of her own age and they left her unsatisfied. She thought she'd try a one-night stand with Robert and he kept her going till morning. She had no idea it could be so good.'

It occurred to me to ask Gus how he knew this but I realised Robert must have told him. At that moment the man himself came into the room. He was tight-lipped, ashen, and clearly in a rage. 'I have sent your sister upstairs,' he said to me. 'I do not intend to explain why. I am sure Penny would not want anyone to know what she has done. But I 'm going to punish her.'

Robert was long and thin like a pencil and twice as sharp. He ran his own business and everyone who worked for him agreed he was decisive and immediate in everything he did. Here was ample proof!

'No need to explain things to us, old man.' Gus turned to stare out of the window. 'We're only weekend guests here, after all.'

'Thank you, Gustavius.' Robert looked at me pointedly. 'Now if I might have a word with Gus alone...' he began.

I realised I'd better leave the room. Three minutes later Robert appeared in the hall. He had the most evil-looking crook-handled cane in one hand and he took the stairs two at a time without giving me a second glance. No sooner had he disappeared than I felt Gus touch my shoulder.

'Follow me,' he said, and proceeded to lead the way through Robert's big old house to the kitchen where a second set of stairs led up to what used to be the servants' quarters. When we reached the first floor Gus signalled me to keep quiet and we tiptoed to our bedroom which was immediately adjacent to the one used by Robert and Penny. On the wall to the right of the double bed was a large oil painting. Imagine my surprise when Gus motioned me to help him lift it down. Its removal revealed a wide pane of slightly dimmed glass looking straight into my sister's bedroom. The scene I saw through this window in the wall was tense and poignant and so shockingly intimate that I covered my face with my hands and tried to hide at first.

'For God's sake, Gus!' I breathed. 'Put it back at once. They'll see us!'

'No they won't,' he grinned. 'On their side this is nothing but a mirror. Robert told me about it when he first decided to buy the house. Showed me this too... watch.'

Gus turned a tiny dial which the painting had also hidden. As it clicked on we could suddenly hear Penny's voice through the wall.

'I'm so sorry, darling,' she was pleading in an urgent, breathless voice. 'I truly am. I love you with all my heart and wouldn't do anything to hurt you. But you were away in Denmark and Peter came to the house and we drank and ate and then drank some more and by the time I noticed the clock it was too late for him to leave. I didn't mean anything to happen...'

I clutched Gus by the arm. 'Oh no,' I whispered, 'she's been unfaithful to him and he's found out.'

'Certainly sounds like it,' Gus murmured back. 'I wonder how?'

I slowly uncovered my eyes and peered through the glass at my sister. She was stark naked and I felt a surge of envy at her slender young body, shoulder-length brown hair and pert little breasts. Five foot seven, elfin-like in expression, fragile and pale to look at now and desperately vulnerable as she gazed tremblingly at her enraged husband.

I studied her profile with its fine straight nose and lovely dimpled crescent beneath, which curved down to a ripely full-lipped mouth now open in dismay. She had a firm jawline and a neck as graceful as a sea bird's. I noticed Gus running his eyes down over her shapely-breasted chest. A groan escaped my sister at her husband's stern words, and her nostrils widened slightly. Then she dropped her head in complete submission.

'Why doesn't she refuse the cane?' I said to Gus, wondering at her silent agreement. He gave me that look which said simpleton, and I already knew the answer. Penny could refuse the cane but she knew she would be punished in one way or another. Robert could devise something much worse and longer-lasting. They were due to island-hop in the South Pacific this summer. Penny could forfeit that, and never know if Robert took someone else with him. He could easily make up an excuse to have a companion, to help keep contact with the office while he was away.

But right now he was pulling the dressing-table stool out from under the dresser. The seat had a satin cushion-top and was wide enough for two people to sit on. Robert lifted it with an audible grunt across the room until there was ample space around it, then he set it down and stepped back.

'Over you go.' His voice came clearly through the speaker into the room where Gus and I watched absorbedly. I marvelled at my younger sister's obedience. She neither protested nor resisted. There was a dignity in the way she knelt at the stool, placed her hands on top of it, then raised her slim hips and positioned herself so that her tummy lay perfectly central across the burgundy satin, letting her head and hands drop to the other side. Her flowing brown tresses tumbled forward, obscuring her face and brushing the floor.

I continued to watch through the glass, amazed at the strange beauty of the scene. Robert, tall and impeccable in his neat dark suit, stood back to look at her. I had no idea what he was thinking but he paused for a full minute while my naked sister lay perfectly still and silent over the stool, waiting with extraordinary passivity for her husband to begin his punishing work. Penny was presented so that her bottom faced the mirror and Gus and I could see it in all its glory. I was always known that my sister had a lovely behind, but it was Gus who put its perfection into words.

'I've never seen anything,' he murmured into my ear, 'that quite so invited the cane. I have admired botties in the aerobic class you go to. I have been attracted to botties on beaches and at your riding school. I have blinked at girls on ice-rinks and on the parallel bars. You have a lovely bot yourself,' he said diplomatically. 'But for sheer floggable perfection, for tight, perfectly equal halves of a heavenly apple, for the most seductive tennis-girl buttocks in the whole history of the game – this is the one. The perfectly adorable, cream-skinned, tight, tempting and totally unmarked bottom.'

'Quite nice, I suppose,' I said, not without a certain edge to my voice. 'It won't be so attractive when Robert's finished with it though.'

'Hmm... I don't know,' chuckled Gus and I punched his arm, half-amused, half-angry.

'You're just jealous, my love,' he said. 'You almost wish it was happening to you.' Gus moved close to me and fondled my bottom. I pulled away but I had to admit to myself that the whole scene was undeniably arousing. And partly the excitement came from secretly spying on Penny when she could have no idea that I was watching her. How embarrassed she could feel if she knew that my gaze was attached to her arched buttocks and my heart was pounding from the thought of the cane.

Gus turned to the mirror again and gazed through. 'Those cheeks are so beautiful I could almost let her off,' he said wistfully. 'It's almost a shame to bring a rod to them. It's as if Robert were about to damage a famous painting. Bring a hammer to Michelangelo.'

'Oh, shut up and watch!' I practically snarled.

As we now both continued to do, staring fixedly through the secret pane as Robert held the cane in his right hand, horizontally across his chest, and ran the palm of his left hand lovingly along its slender length. He did this several times: stroking the cane, caressing it, transferring the warmth from his fingers into the tenderising wood. After a few moments he stopped the stroking movements and began tapping his palm slowly, edging backwards as he did so, measuring his distance from Penny's tense waiting body. I was fascinated to see how the cane bent under pressure and now quivered in the air between taps as though it were truly alive and eager to perform its shocking task.


'That's about right,' said Gus in a tightening voice. He was riveted by the scene. I must admit it had me quite entranced, too, even though Penny was my sister. Or perhaps, because she was my sister – I just don't know. My feelings were so confused. The cane moved upwards till it pointed to the ceiling, and Robert stood on tip-foe. Then, faster than either of us could follow, it whirred through the still air of the bedroom and suddenly it was home.

Deep and solid it struck, sinking into Penny's fleshy bottom-cheeks. The noise of the impact sounded strangely metallic through the tiny microphone. Penny's arms and legs all moved and her mane of shining brown hair swished as her head jerked backwards.

The sounds of her pain rushed from her open mouth in breathy cries. Her feet – the soles of which were facing us – drummed on the carpet. Robert kept the cane pressed against her stricken bottom-flesh for about five seconds before lifting it away. It was then that I saw the furrow it had ploughed.

And still, and still, and still, she continued to react to that first bite of the supple cane.

Gus and I were standing close by the spy-window, transfixed by what was happening only feet away on the other side of the glass. I was holding his hand very tightly, and his was squeezing mine.

'I felt that in here,' I gasped. 'I hope she doesn't have to take too many of those.' I bit my lip in sympathy. Gus said nothing, but continued to stare intently at the scene. What a charge passed between our palms! How strange I felt inside!

We saw that Robert had shifted slightly when delivering the stroke, and now he moved his feet back into place and slowly raised the quivering wand. Down it came, striking like a furious snake! Penny was still jigging about when the second stroke landed, only a hair's-breadth away from the first. I marvelled that Robert could be so accurate. Was it beginner's luck, or...? My thought was stopped in mid-track by Penny's cries bursting through the microphone. First a long, screeching 'Aaahhhhgh!' then by 'Oh, please... please...' Her head rolled to and fro, her streaked bottom lifted from the stool and shook vigorously, and her legs seemed almost to be cycling from the knees up.

Each time the whippy wood imprinted its shape into the full, fleshy softness of her buttocks, Penny's body became taut as a bow-string and I noticed how, in a completely reflex action, her pubis was working against the satin stool-top. It was a grinding movement, a thrusting-downwards of her centre point, squeezing and squashing her abdomen against its flat support in a manner more suitable to be seen by a husband than a sister. Which made me feel even more wicked to be secretly watching Penny receive her punishment for adultery.

This squashing, squirming rhythm stopped as the cane was lifted off and my sister's bottom tensed, still and fearfully expectant. The pain must have been gnawing like rodent teeth through the flesh of her buttocks, curvily silken flesh which had never before been even so much as touched by an angry spank, so far as I knew – never mind a hard, narrow, burn-producing cane!

I turned to Gus, who grinned at me sheepishly. I had caught him with his hand adjusting the part of himself that was never touched in public. I affected not to notice, then changed my mind and tutted disapprovingly.

'Sorry, darling,' he grunted softly. 'But you must admit your sister is beautiful. So much like you,' he lied.

'And Robert is being awfully strict, and I'm only human too,' I whispered, confessing my own weakness by clinging to him tightly. 'Oh, that bottom!' he moaned. Now sparks seemed to shoot through our clothes as we held each other. Four eyes lifted again to the glass. Whatever jealousy I had felt dissolved; we were as one.

Robert's first two strokes had been calculated, controlled, with a decent pause between them, and Gus and I expected that the punishment would go on as it had started. I had already assumed that Penny would get the statutory six – which, believe me, would have been a terrible punishment no matter how young, healthy and brave you were. But when Robert raised the cane for the third time and brought it swishing concisely down, he began a series of whisking raps to my sister's flinching, twitching bottom which followed one another as though he were conducting a fast-playing orchestra. Up and down! Up and down! And down again, again, again. The swift staccato cracks of the limber rod against Penny's jiggling buttocks were clearly audible through the tiny loudspeaker, as were her pants, gasps and whispers.

This absolutely new and different kind of punishment, lighter yet infinitely faster, left Robert with his hair falling over his face, his cheeks puffing, his eyes fixed like some pilot in a storm, his breath snorting as he flicked and tapped and flicked again as if he were almost toying with Penny, although it could not possibly have seemed a game to her. I saw – and heard – that she could hardly bear it.

At first Penny yelped and twisted at the stinging, whippy nips but soon she was writhing so energetically and spasmodically that she had to grasp the stool with both hands to stop herself from tumbling to the floor. This did not in any way inhibit Robert's spiteful wristy flicks. Gradually the turmoil in Penny's lovely young body grew desperate, and slowly but surely she wriggled herself to the edge of the stool and half tumbled, half let herself down on to the carpet where she lay kicking and twisting, rising a little off her knees and falling back, undulating like some primeval rippling creature. Moaning, whimpering and yelping as she begged her husband to relent and stop the constant rain of stinging cane-pricks, yet giving herself up to them nonetheless.

As Penny, naked and utterly vulnerable, jerked and twitched on the carpet, tears rolled oilily on her downy cheeks while she looked up at her husband, acknowledging that she deserved this relentless manifestation of his wrath, but pleading piteously for it to stop. Penny rolled a little nearer to the glass through which Gus and I so raptly watched this incredible spectacle. She was kneeling, her bottom up, three-quarters towards us, her face down and hidden when Robert finally stopped his nippy, zippy cascade which made my whole body quiver in sympathy with Penny's.

Gus gripped me tightly, his eyes glued to the deeply divided moons of Penny's hypnotically weaving bottom. There were two vivid lines where the first two cane-strokes had fallen, but the rest of her seat was covered in perhaps a couple of dozen red dots where the very tip of the cane had stung like a giant wasp, jab and away, sting and away, prick and away, each wasp-tail adding its own injection of venom into that previously pristine bottom.

The plain result was that Penny's buttock-muscles were working in a churning reflex action. Her cheeks clenched tightly, squeezing the cleft between them into a ruler-straight line. Then they relaxed, only to spasm tight again, squeezing the firm mounds together. Open and shut, open and shut. It was the kind of movement, jerky and uncontrolled, that I only experienced myself when Gus worked me to that zenith of perfection and I burst forth inwardly, yielding and grateful for his steady loving attentions. Indeed, I had previously had no idea that a cane could make a dainty feminine bottom like Penny's do what in my experience was normally inspired by the action of another rod altogether. And still the spasms went on! I guessed Penny was desperately trying to dissipate the wasp stings, though the appearance of her posterior contortions gave an altogether different and supremely erotic impression.

The jostling, bucking and contracting had a mesmerising effects on us both as we stood, highly aroused, with our noses against the glass. I think Gus would have liked my sister's lovely smooth bottom to go on clenching and unclenching like that, rhythmically gripping and ungripping, tightening and relaxing forever. Although I was becoming envious again of the rapt attention he was paying it I sensed that, like myself, he was wondering whether there was any pleasure now beginning to meld with the self-evident pain. I did nothing to distract his looking. I must admit that my sister's spongy undulations had a remarkable effect on me: I actually felt myself doing it too, clenching and unclenching my own buttocks – whether in sympathy or excited unison I could not be sure.

Finally Penny gained control, first of her stinging bottom and then of herself. She must, I am sure, have realised that although Robert had at first determined to show her no mercy, he had in fact been kinder with his flurry of wasp stings than if he had delivered six single, full-out strokes – and that the darting, nippy cane had stung, certainly, but not burned and flared deep and hard as it might otherwise have done.

We continued to watch through the glass, open-mouthed in a kind of wonder as Penny began to pick herself up, then walked slowly and penitently towards Robert, her head hung down and arms outstretched in entreaty, asking to be forgiven.

'I'll never do it again,' we heard her say in a tiny, plaintive voice, so alien to her normal bright confidence. 'Not even think about it, my darling Bobby. Not ever again, I really promise. I'm sorry... I deserved it all.'

It was then that Gus switched off the eavesdropping system and told me to help him replace the picture. As the adjoining room regained its boundaries he took my hand and, with a gentle yet urgent movement, reminded me of what I had earlier seen him adjusting. And later than that, after Gus had shown me visible evidence of how eagerly he needed attention, and I had sought tactile confirmation of his stunning firmness of purpose, another set of girlish buttocks began to clench and unclench, tighten and relax beneath him, and another feminine voice was moaning and whimpering, gasping and crying out...

I felt so pleased, and so naughty, that I do believe I deserve the cane.