Home From Home

Story from Janus 30.

Home From Home
by Andrew Grantham


CLIFF was somewhat used to seeing Andrea. The pretty, blonde 19-year-old had been a regular visitor to his home for the past eight years or so.

Andrea had mated up with Cliff's daughter at the start of secondary school and the relationship had been maintained throughout the following years. Always a very pleasant and pretty young girl, Andrea had blossomed into a very attractive and nubile teenager.

Cliff himself would be the first to agree that Andrea appeared in quite a lot of his fantasies.

Since her parents had split up, the girl had come to spend more and more of her time in Cliff's home; the main reason being that her mother had set up house with her 'boyfriend' on the other side of town.

There was generally a good reason why the pretty blonde spent so many nights under Cliff's roof, sharing a room with his daughter – the last bus had gone, she had forgotten her umbrella, she didn't have the bus fare, etc, etc. Cliff didn't mind in the slightest. Andrea was no trouble at all and she was nice to have around the place.

She was the kind of girl who could listen to, and take, a joke without taking offence. Cliff's jokes had gradually become more risqué of late, but personal contact had never gone beyond a peck on the lips on some special occasion – and a very rare pat on the bottom; an affectionate pat of course!

* * *

They bumped into each other on the landing outside the bathroom.

It was Andrea who spoke first.

'What are you doing here?' she asked, her bright blue eyes twinkling.

'I live here, remember,' smiled Cliff.

Andrea threw back her head and laughed, her blonde curls tumbling about as she did so.

'I thought you were at work is what I meant to say!' she corrected herself.

'I've got the day off,' Cliff told her. 'I've been in the garage all morning, tinkering with the car.' He showed her his oil-blackened hands and the blonde recoiled at the sight.

Andrea's face was pink and shining and not yet made-up. Not that she needed any make-up – she was pretty without it. But it was obvious that she was not long out of bed.

'Have you just got up?' Cliff asked her.

She nodded.

Cliff's own daughter had got herself a decent job, but Andrea was still unemployed. There might be a shortage of jobs, but all the same, she made no real effort to go and get one.

'There's nothing to get up for,' she told him bluntly.

'You'll never get a job lying in bed all day!' he sniffed.

'I know,' agreed Andrea. 'I'm lazy, aren't I?' she added with a smile to reveal her gleaming, newly-brushed teeth.

'You need your bottom smacking, young lady,' Cliff wagged an oily finger at her.

Andrea laughed again. 'You'd better not,' she warned. 'I might enjoy it!'

'I might enjoy it myself,' muttered Cliff to himself as he went into the bathroom to wash his hands.

'I'll make a cup of tea,' called out Andrea as she started down the stairs.

Whilst he was washing his hands, Cliff could hardly take his mind off his daughter's pretty, blonde friend. Her legs and arse looked as if they had been poured into her faded, blue jeans. Her red, woollen sweater clung to the contours of her body.

There was a cup of tea waiting for him on the kitchen table. Andrea was already sat down, sipping her drink. She looked at Cliff over the top of the cup. It was the first time he and Andrea had ever been completely alone together. The proximity of the blonde aroused him and he wondered if he might just dare to make a pass at her.

As they drank and nibbled biscuits, Cliff again brought up the subject of job hunting. Andrea looked thoughtful. Suddenly, she put down her cup, got up and stood right alongside Cliff. He was totally unprepared for what she did next.

The tall blonde girl bent over his knees so that the palms of her hands were flat on the floor.

'What are you up to?' croaked Cliff unbelievingly.

She turned her head back to look at him. There was a trace of a smile across her luscious, full, red lips. 'You said I needed a smacked bottom,' she said slowly and seductively. 'Are you going to?'

Cliff cleared his throat. 'Yes,' he replied somewhat meekly.

It took him a little while to gather his wits about him. Here he was, with one of his favourite fantasy girls across his lap, begging for her bottom to be spanked.

Cliff recovered his wits quickly. He wasn't going to miss an opportunity like this.

'If I'm going to give you a good spanking,' he told her solemnly, 'I can't do it white you're wearing jeans.'

Andrea sighed and gave him the answer he wanted to hear. 'You'd better take them off, then,' she invited.

It was a challenge as well as an invitation. Cliff responded to her challenge. He would lower her jeans all right. No way was Andrea going to take them down herself.

Cliff slipped his hands around her trim waist and found the button he was looking for. He pushed it through the hole and then fumbled for the zipper.

Andrea giggled as Cliff pulled on the metal tag. He was well aware that he was brushing against her most intimate part. And she didn't seem to mind! He still found it hard to believe what was actually happening in the kitchen of his own home.

At last he managed to drag the fastener all the way down the metal teeth. He then moved his hands into the waistband of the jeans and tugged sharply.

Andrea humped up and down on his lap to facilitate the lowering of the denim pants. It was a little embarrassing for Cliff as she bounced about, obviously well aware of the effect she was having on him.

The jeans slid down and Cliff licked his lips at his first-ever sight of Andrea's knickered bottom and thigh tops. He held his breath, unable to believe that he was actually living out one of his favourite fantasies.

Andrea's pink cotton panties were so skimpy that most of her delicious bum-cheeks bulged out beyond the elastic borders. Her cheeks were faintly pink and beautifully curved, her thighs gleaming and generous.

Andrea turned her golden head and looked up at him. 'What's the matter?' she taunted. 'Have you got cold feet?'

'I'll show you if I've got cold feet or not,' he retorted. 'I'll make your arse hot for you!'

'Ooh, Mr Fraser!' she squeaked and turned her head away.

Cliff put his left arm around her waist and raised his right hand high into the air. Taking a deep breath, he brought the flat of his hand down onto the pantie-covered target.

The flesh quivered, but there was no reaction from Andrea. He knew he hadn't hurt her. And he wanted to hurt her! Although she hadn't said it in as many words, she had dared him to hurt her.

Erotic experience it might be, but the pretty blonde still had to be shown that he was master of the house, and of the guest, too! Furthermore, he really wanted to make her arse so sore that she might just get up off it, and at least start looking for a job – even if she couldn't find one.

He gave her bottom another swipe. It felt nice, but he knew he was not causing her any discomfort. Cliff wanted to see Andrea squirming across his lap and he wanted to hear her crying out as his hand delivered distress to her lovely rump.

Of course Cliff had never been fortunate enough to spank anyone before, not even his own daughter. What he needed was practice; and what better practice area was there then the gently-rounded buttocks he had at his mercy!

Perhaps a series of short, sharp slaps would have the desired effect? There was only one way to find out!

Instead of raising his hand high in the air, Cliff lifted it only about eighteen inches. Letting it hover for a little while, he then brought it down sharply onto the exposed part of Andrea's right bum-cheek.

Serlap!

'Ooh!' let out Andrea. It wasn't a cry in the true sense, but Cliff knew he had begun to make some inroads into the girl's pain barrier.

There was a red mark on the pale flesh. He aimed for that mark.

'Ow!' This time, Andrea's vocal reaction was higher-pitched.

Cliff permitted himself a smile and decided upon his next target area – the opposite cheek!

The scarlet handmark again sprang up, the small layer of puppy fat causing the cheek to dance delightfully.

'Ouch!' The response was louder this time and Andrea squirmed in his crotch.

With his on-the-job training now complete, Cliff began to pepper Andrea's bottom with a succession of stinging smacks.

The palm of his hand began to sting as well as he covered every inch of her bare-fleshed buttocks and fleshy thigh tops.

As the intensity of the spanks increased, so Andrea's pain and discomfort increased too. Her cries became more urgent and her protests more powerful.

Cliff had to grip her tightly around the waist as she wriggled and squirmed.

'That's enough please, Mr Fraser!' she gasped eventually.

Andrea tried to rise and she turned her head to give him an appealing look.

'Oh no, it isn't!' smiled Cliff smugly. 'I've only just started. Your pretty arse is going to get a lot hotter before I've finished with it!'

Andrea had lost all her cockiness. The situation had passed out of her control. The most she had expected had been a few half-hearted slaps. Her first shock had been when he had taken her up on her teasing offer to remove her jeans. Now, he was really in the swing of it. Surely he wouldn't go so far as to...?


She gave out a cry of protest when she realised Cliff was going to take down her knicks! He put his hands in the elasticated waistband and roughly yanked them down, aware of a slight tearing sound as he did so. The pink panties joined her fallen jeans.

'Mr Fraser!' gasped Andrea, aghast that he was now staring at her totally bare bottom. Realising that he might see the precious, dewy secrets between her thighs, she stopped wriggling and pressed her legs together.

Still gripping her around the waist, Cliff re-positioned Andrea, so that she was bent over one knee only. He then brought his other leg up and over to completely trap her lightly downed limbs.

'What are you going to do?' croaked the dumbfounded blonde.

'I'm going to make your pretty bottom red all over!' he told her, tracing a forefinger around the triangle of still white flesh. 'If a job's worth doing, then it's worth doing properly. That's what I always say!'

'Please don't, Mr Fraser!' begged Andrea, her now watery blue eyes making the appeal as well as her voice.

'No, Andrea,' smiled Cliff grimly. 'It was your idea, remember?'

She set her lips in a thin line and, resigned to her fate, she clenched her red and white bum cheeks.

Cliff really laid into the unhurt white triangle, and soon her entire bottom was a brilliant, scarlet hue. Andrea cried out and her legs thrashed about wildly.

All good things have to come to an end, and reluctantly Cliff gave her delicious behind a final wallop.

What would happen now, he wondered? Would Andrea slap his face in anger? Would she storm out of the house and tell her mother? He freed her and helped her to her feet.

'Ooh! That hurt!' was all she said as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, her hands glued to her scorched bum. She didn't seem to mind that he was looking at the downy, blonde fluff at the junction of her thighs.

She pulled up her knicks and her jeans and never even mentioned anything about what had just taken place but there now seemed to be some kind of a bond between himself and the girl.

* * *

He watched her walk to the bus stop, swinging a plastic bag containing her things. Looking at her, no-one would ever guess that her lovely denim-covered bottom was as red as the sweater she was wearing.

Cliff was still tinkering with the car when his daughter returned home from work.

'I saw Andrea in town,' she announced as she walked into the garage.

Cliff dropped a spanner and the metal rang on the concrete floor. Had she spilled the beans?

'She was actually job-hunting!' exclaimed his daughter. 'Would you believe it?'

'Fancy!' was all Cliff said in reply.

'Dad!' began his daughter. Then she waited for a little while before continuing: 'Andrea wants to ask you a big favour.'

'What's that?' he wanted to know.

'Andrea wants to know if she can come and live here!'

A Good Company Wife

Story from Janus 24.

A Good Company Wife
by Simon Banks

A good Company wife was expected to co-operate. If she didn't, her husband could expect to remain firmly at the very bottom of the ladder...

The room was plushly furnished, the pile of the carpet seemingly a foot thick and the modern paintings on the walls looking very much like originals. The view from the tinted picture window was of the shimmering river fifteen floors below with, beyond, a panoramic sweep of London. The man, smiling, led the young woman to an armchair which gently but firmly moulded itself to the shapely outline of her body. She crossed her legs a little nervously as he smiled again, looking down at her.

'A drink, Mrs Mitchell? No? Very well. Now, first of all, I must emphasise, I cannot emphasise too greatly, that anything I may discuss today is in the strictest confidence. It must be repeated to no one. Not even, I am afraid, your husband.'

He would be in his fifties, a somewhat bulky figure in an exquisitely-cut Savile Row suit, his sleek round face dominated eyes that were sharp and appraising. But then they were entitled to appraise because he was Mr Rollison, a very very important person in that very large and very powerful conglomerate, Hanbury International; and she was no more than the young (21) wife of an equally young (23) and very junior (and also very new) recruit in the same organization.

Yes, Angela Mitchell accepted that Mr Rollison's eyes were clearly entitled to appraise her just as much as they liked. In any case simply to be sitting there in that opulent office in the company of this most important person was, for Angela, more than a little overwhelming.

He sat down closely opposite and gave her another frank appraisal, this time primarily aimed at her knees. She coloured slightly. With her best grey linen suit she had on nylons and suspender belt – they had recently become rather fashionable again. She felt a moment's panic that she might be showing nylon tops – plus bare thigh and black suspender straps. And such a display would hardly go with the image of a proper young executive's wife.

But at the same time to tug at her skirt might make her appear prudish, and silly: a silly and inexperienced young woman. She felt even more out of her depth, and decidedly vulnerable.

The phone call had come as a shock. His secretary inquiring if she was likely to be in town at any time and if so could she visit Mr Rollison for a little chat. Angela knew it was not unknown for the wife of a new recruit to get such an invitation from one of the top men. To make the ladies feel part of the Company. But even so... She had met him before, at the reception which she and Gerry attended. But there had been so many new faces and names that neither the face nor the name really registered.

She smiled rather nervously. 'Oh, I am very discreet, Mr Rollison. I appreciate... well, in business...' Her sentence tailed off into nothing: she thought, I certainly sound silly.

He smiled: the smile of a man who, unlike his visitor, was sure, confident. She was very pretty, curling auburn hair cut short, a soft full-lipped mouth. And the figure too, softly rounded: he had especially noticed at the reception the full firm backside in her tight short dress. Yes, a very attractive package: young, soft, ripe, probably inexperienced. She would be much appreciated. Would she prove receptive, though? Co-operative?

He said smoothly, 'A wife can be a most important asset for a young man at the beginning of his career, Mrs Mitchell. She can help his career immeasurably. On the other hand...'

Angela nervously recrossed her legs. Mr Rollison did this time glimpse nylons and black suspenders. He continued, 'Because there is a certain area where she can be of great assistance to the Company. On the social side, I am talking about. And if she can be helpful in that way, I can assure you it is not lost sight of in terms of her husband's advancement.'

Angela said seriously, 'Of course I am extremely keen to help my husband in any way I can... and naturally the Company as well.'

'I am thinking specifically of foreign visitors,' said Mr Rollison. 'The Company has major international dealings as I expect you know, and we constantly get foreign clients... German, French, Swiss, American. The Company entertains them of course but, well, some clients do like a more personal touch.'

He looked frankly into the pretty face, the green-hazel eyes. 'You can understand, Mrs Mitchell, I am sure, that a visitor may wish for a lady's company, that is perfectly natural. We do our best and we can certainly provide a professional companion, but a professional person, however charming, can never have the fresh natural appeal of a young married lady.'

Angela felt herself colouring. What exactly were these young married ladies supposed to do?

Mr Rollison obviously guessed her thoughts. He leaned forward confidentially. 'Mrs Mitchell, I will be frank. We do get visitors who require a lady for the very basic reasons. Quite simply they require, among other things, sexual intercourse, and we do have clients who are only happy if they can have a young married lady for this purpose.'

He smiled. 'The appeal is obvious, of course. With a young wife, such as yourself, they are clearly getting something very choice: a fresh and lovely young woman whose body has not been sampled by every Tom, Dick or Harry. And I can tell you, again in the strictest confidence, that we do have young wives who are prepared to perform this service for the Company. I hope I'm not being too frank for you.'

Angela Mitchell's face had turned a delicate shade of pink. She nervously shifted her position. This was really awful!

Mr Rollison smiled again. 'But I am not asking you to do that, Mrs Mitchell. I can sense that you would not find it at all easy to offer that service to the Company; and therefore you can rest assured that it will not be requested.'

He sat back in his chair. 'However there are other pleasures to be had from a pretty young woman besides penetrating her sexually. Tell me, my dear lady, when you were a girl did you, at school or elsewhere, ever receive what is known as Corporal Punishment? Did you ever get your undoubtedly pretty bottom spanked, or perhaps slippered?'

Angela flushed. 'No... certainly not!'

Another smile. 'It is not at all unknown, you know. Let me say this then: you must surely be aware that a gentleman, well, a lady also but perhaps mostly a gentleman – that he may obtain considerable pleasure from such an act? From spanking a girl's or young woman's bottom? Indeed from applying the cane to it as well. You must be aware of that?'

Angela, now in considerable confusion, shock her head. Feeling distinctly unhappy she heard Mr Rollison say:

'You are evidently a very innocent young woman, Mrs Mitchell. That of course is no problem. Not at all. Freshness and innocence are always highly prized. As long as you are agreeable, naturally. The fact is we have a certain client. A very important client. A gentleman from Zurich...'

* * *

She came out in a daze, hardly able to believe it. Mr Rollison's suggestion... it just took her breath away. On the train home it seemed that all the other passengers – the commuters, the wives back from their shopping trips – were looking at her as if they knew. Knew that she had just had that really awful proposition put to her.

The proposition: that this man, Mr Vollmann his name was, Hanbury's very important Swiss client, would be visiting next week and would like a companion one afternoon. He would like a pretty young married woman and in Mr Rollison's opinion Angela Mitchell would fill the bill admirably.

'Just a friendly visit,' Mr Rollison had said, 'Nothing at all to get excited about.'

With a rising sense of panic Angela had asked for it to be spelled out.

'Oh, just the usual. I suppose he'll want to spank your bottom and quite probably cane you as well. But don't worry, he won't cause any damage. It won't leave any permanent marks, we would have his agreement on that score.'

She had just looked at him, open-mouthed.

She didn't have to go, Mr Rollison had stressed that. Oh no, the Company would certainly not force an employee's wife into something she didn't want. She had the choice. But what a choice, because Mr Rollison made it clear that a good Company wife was expected to co-operate: and if she didn't her husband could expect to remain firmly at the very bottom of the ladder.

Or, thought Angela, suddenly experiencing a tremor of panic, they might even find an excuse to sack him. Gerry had been very fortunate to get the job with Hanburys and his salary, even the starting one, was very good. Without it, well, it would be goodbye to that super ranch-type house that they'd both set their hearts on. For which they had already gone to the Building Society to inquire about a mortgage.

Sitting there on the homeward-bound train she suddenly realised she was sweating. That prospect was just too terrible to contemplate.

So the choice was stark. She couldn't tell Gerry. Apart from Mr Rollison's instructions not to, she could see this was something she had to work out for herself. It was Friday, there would be the whole weekend to think about it. Agonize about it. Mr Rollison had to have an answer by Monday, because he might have to arrange someone else. Someone else, clearly, whose husband would then be a favoured man.

She could see in fact that there was no real choice. She would have to agree. Grit her teeth and however mortifying it was, let it happen.

The weekend was awful, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Gerry knew of her visit to Mr Rollison but assumed it was just a courtesy call. He wanted to hear all about it, all about that very important man. She was rather vague, said it had been a very short visit. He had a very plush office, though. That at least she could safely say. On Sunday they drove out once more to look at that dreamy house.

And on Monday morning she phoned Mr Rollison with her inevitable reply.

* * *

Wednesday was the day. Wednesday afternoon when this man, Mr Vollmann, was presumably free from his important dealings with Hanburys. At least being the afternoon meant there should be no problem with Gerry knowing. She would simply be out shopping if he called.

Travelling up on the train she felt just numb. Grit your teeth and think of England, she told herself. Or that dreamy house. On this warm June day she had on a knee-length summer dress, tight at the bodice showing off her firm breasts, and with a full skirt. Also her nylons and a suspender belt again with medium high heels. That was what the older woman's voice on the phone had suggested – a short full skirt and the nylons.

'I understand Mr Rollison rather likes nylons on a lady.' The voice had been calm and confidential, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be discussing. But then if you were used to talking to Company wives who had agreed to go to bed with clients, perhaps it was no big thing.

The confidential voice had further advised against too much make-up. 'Just a nice fresh and rather innocent appearance. Oh and underwear: nothing too exotic in that area, please. Smart but simple. White or pastel shade would be excellent, but nothing garish.'

It was incredible – but obviously Hanburys went to some trouble to cater to their clients' wishes.

The hotel was an expensive one in the West End and she felt rather like some high-class prostitute going in there in the afternoon. That feeling, that her body was available for use, had already been heightened on the journey across London. She had taken the Underground rather than a taxi, which would get her there all too quickly. The tube was crowded and she had had to stand in a crush and for several stops there had been an insistent male hand, openly feeling her bottom through the thin summer dress. It had been awful but in the crush there was nothing she could do, and he had just kept on doing it to her.

So she was no longer numb but fully aware, biting her nails almost, as she rang the bell. He opened the door and smiled.

'Ah, Mrs Mitchell, I believe?'

He was what you might imagine as a German: a squarish rather stern face with gold-rimmed spectacles and grey-blonde hair smoothed down. About Mr Rollison's age: fiftyish.

Trying to control her trembling she went in. The plushness of the suite matched Mr Rollison's room. He offered her a drink but she refused. It wouldn't calm her, would just as likely make her feel sick.

They sat down, he started asking her about herself, about Gerry; told her she was very pretty, very charming. Then said he presumed she took part in CP with her husband. And his friends as well? He seemed most surprised at her statement that she had never done it before. Wasn't it a well-known fact that the English were very keen on CP?

'So, a real beginner, eh? That is very nice for me!'

She flushed, felt sick.

'Shall we begin then? I am as it happens very keen on the schoolgirl scene. I would like you as a schoolgirl, Mrs Mitchell. A big schoolgirl, a Sixth Former, is that it in England? You will make a most charming one.'

He got up and went to a box on the table. Opening it he took out a navy pleated skirt, a white blouse, then a red-and-white striped tie.

'You see, Mrs Mitchell: your school uniform. I believe it will fit. So if you will now take off your pretty dress and put these school items on.'

Angela gulped. She had never expected this – but did it make any difference? What was coming was going to be the same. She stood up. Reached for the zip of her red-flowered dress.

He watched, eyes alert, as she slipped out of it. She had a waist petticoat underneath and he told her to remove that as well. Underneath, her plain brief white nylon knickers matched her light bra and the white lace suspender belt which fastened her dark nylons. She grabbed quickly for the school uniform.

Mr Vollmann fastened the tie for her – then reflectively squeezed her breasts. 'Very good!' he said. 'Excellent!'

Then he lifted her skirt. 'I especially like your nylons and the suspender belt. Most erotic. In this school that you go to we will say they are especially required by the Headmaster for all the Sixth Form girls. A requirement simply for the Headmaster's own pleasure, I may say!'

The hand that wasn't holding up her skirt took hold of one suspender and snapped it against her thigh. Then he dropped the skirt and sat down on an upright chair.

'Now Mrs Mitchell, you have been sent to your Headmaster for some fault or other. Perhaps you have failed to do your homework, for instance. The Head is very strict with the bigger girls like yourself, an 18-year-old. You could easily be 18, Mrs Mitchell, you know. Because at 18 a girl should obviously know better.'

'He therefore intends to spank your bottom. It will of course be your bare bottom: it is always the bare bottom with the big girls. So stand close in front of me, please. Good. Now please lift your skirt. Up round your waist.'

Could this really be happening? Perhaps it was simply a bad dream... She pulled up the school skirt.

His voice in the almost flawless English. 'Good. A little higher. That is very good! Now your Headmaster always likes to take his pupils' knickers down himself. So now we do it.'

His hands came out, to the waistband of the virginal white nylon knickers. Fingers into the waistband, then smoothly sliding them down, to her nyloned knees. She cringed: she knew she wasn't dreaming. The eyes glinted behind the spectacles, she knew were real live eyes – staring fixedly at her red-brown bush.

He smiled. 'Most charming, Mrs Mitchell. Almost perhaps one could say the tail – the brush is it in English – of a red squirrel. Not quite so bushy perhaps but certainly a splendid object.'

She gasped as his hand reached out and briefly fondled it.

'Now turn round please. Let us see, as you might say, the seat of the action.'

She turned, still holding the pleated skirt high, and presented her full round buttocks. Another gasp as his hand, slightly cold, took hold of them, fondling, squeezing.

And then the next thing she knew she was over his lap, her head down near the carpet. And his hand was first fondling her bare bottom again and then was coming down: Smack!... Smack!... Smacking sharply down onto her soft bare flesh.

It stung, each smack a sharp smarting impact but worse than that was the feeling of humiliation, of subjugation. That she was having to lie there, bare-bottomed over a stranger's lap and allow it to happen. She thought afterwards that having actual sexual intercourse, though shaming, could not have been quite so humiliating.

He kept on spanking, his hand systematically landing on every square inch of her bottom. Then, presumably when he'd had enough, he told her to get up.

She stood, thankfully allowing her skirt to fall back down. Was it just possibly all over? Mr Vollmann's eyes were gleaming.

'Good, Mrs Mitchell. Very good! You have a most spankable bottom. Now we quickly move forward – shall we say three days. You are unfortunately back in your Headmasters study once more. Another fault, I am afraid. Perhaps late, or seen going out with boys, something like that. Anyway, your Head is most concerned. Obviously a spanking will not be sufficient this time.'

'No, unfortunately for this pretty schoolgirl it must now be the cane. So please now take your knickers down and take them right off. With your Headmaster it is always the knickers right off for a caning.'

Angela stood there, transfixed, as he walked across the room and came back with a cane.

'Come along! Quickly! Your Headmaster does not like delay. There will be six strokes on the bare bottom.'

The only thing she could think was that she had to go through with it and presumably the sooner she did the sooner it would be over. She reached her hands up under the skirt. The white nylon knickers came down; she stepped out of them, gave them to Mr Vollmann's waiting hand. Then numbly, as instructed, she bent herself over the arm of an armchair, her face down in its seat. She felt the skirt pulled up to her waist baring her upthrust buttocks. She bit her lip, clenched her hands.

Then THWACK! A horrendous stinging pain as the cane whipped into the full meat of her bottom. It was almost unbelievable, breath-stopping. She heard herself let out a desperate gasping howl, while her bottom made frantic writhing motions. Then Mr Vollmann's hand on the tortured rear, intimately gripping it as he pushed it back high on the chains arm again.

The sharp voice. 'Keep the bottom up, please!'

A short fearsome pause, then THWACK!... it juddered into her soft flesh again. She yelled out once more, bottom squirming.

The pause again, then the third agonizing THWACK! And after that they seemed to all merge into each other, and she could no longer tell what the number was. He had said it would be six but all she knew was the enormity of the pain. Continually rising as the horrendous sting from one stroke was added to by the next.

She had thought beforehand, wouldn't it be awful if I cry? Angela Mitchell, 21 and a married woman, being caned on her bare bottom and crying! But well before the end she was crying, hot desperate tears, but now tears seemed the least of her worries. All that mattered was the dreadful stinging agony in her rear. A stinging agony that seemed to go on and on while her backside twisted and squirmed and her thighs, at first so primly together, were now no longer so – but she had no thought for that either.

Finally, though, the cane was not coming down any more. Had she had six, or twenty-six? she didn't know, but Angela now heard his voice:

'That is the finish. You can get up now.'

The pain was still there, for the moment still as bad as ever but at least it was over. Unsteadily she got to her feet. Mr Vollmann, little beads of perspiration on his face, asked if she would like a drink now.

Still tearful, Angela stuttered 'Yes'. And managed to ask if she could wash her face.

Cold water splashed on her face in the bathroom, and then back to the gin-and-tonic Mr Vollmann had ready, made her feel a bit better. Gingerly, Angela sat on the settee, acutely conscious of the state of her bottom. It still stung awfully but at least the caning was over.

She suddenly remembered she was still wearing that schoolgirl outfit – and also she had no knickers on. Biting her lip Angela glanced across at Mr Vollmann who was sitting opposite.

'Ca-can I get my clothes on now?'

He smiled. 'Oh really Mrs Mitchell, you are in such a hurry! Are you now ready for the next stage then?'

Angela looked... Was she hearing correctly? Surely her awful ordeal was over; he had finished...

Her unasked question was at once answered. 'There is of course one more session for the pretty schoolgirl. You see she is a very silly girl and a few days later is back in the Headmaster's study once more. More ill-discipline of some description, I expect.

'And when a girl returns for a third time the Head always takes her to the gymnasium, for a session of strenuous exercise in which she is kept up to her mark with frequent application of the cane. For this session she wears only a little sleeveless vest, with nothing else.'

He stood up, went to that box again and took out a white cotton sleeveless vest.

This is the garment, Mrs Mitchell. A little vest which of course will allow complete freedom for the girl's exercises and also, at the same time, allow very good access for the cane. So now, as you are ready, will you please take off all your clothes and put on this garment.'

* * *

'Hello darling! Did you have a good day? Mine was great!'

Gerry, home from the office, had come bounding in and enthusiastically grabbed his wife. Angela smiled inwardly as she returned his kiss. She had some idea what his 'great day' might involve.

It was Friday, 48 hours after her afternoon with Mr Vollmann. So she had had 48 hours to get over it but it was still vivid, almost unbelievable, in her mind. Being spanked and then caned, and especially that last bit when she had had to take off all her clothes and put on just that miniscule vest which barely reached to her waist. And then, virtually nude, had had to do those exercises, running on the spot and stretching and bending and high-kicking, and lying on the table on her back cycling her legs in the air. While all the time at any sign of flagging Mr Vollmann's cane whipped out at her bottom and thighs. Mr Vollmann and his simple pleasures – it had just about driven her out of her mind.

Gerry continued exultantly, 'And I've got the most fantastic news! You'll never guess: not in a hundred years!'

She would guess of course. Because she knew what his great surprise was, but naturally it would never do to tell him that. She knew because that very afternoon Mr Rollison had told her. Had told her right there in their very own flat.

He had phoned that morning saying that he planned to come over in the afternoon: he had something to tell her. A bombshell! The last thing Angela could have expected, having Mr Rollison at the flat. She did some frenzied hoovering, dusting; not that he probably noticed. He said he had come to congratulate her on her visit with Mr Vollmann. That gentleman had apparently been extremely pleased with her. In fact...

The 'in fact' was obviously going to be Gerry's surprise. In fact, said Mr Rollison, Mr Vollmann was now ready to sign the very important contract they had been working on for some time. It would be signed in Mr Vollmann's Zurich office and he had suggested that if Mr Gerald Mitchell went as part of the Hanburys team Mrs Angela Mitchell could accompany him. And during the course of the negotiations, which might take several further days, there would be opportunity (more than once probably) for Mr Vollmann to entertain Mrs Mitchell. Or, depending how you looked at it, vice versa.

Angela had felt herself go all hot and cold.

'Next week,' said Mr Rollison. 'All the arrangements are in hand, and your husband will be informed today. So you'll be hearing about it from him when he gets home, I daresay.'

He had smiled a rather sardonic smile and then pulled her to him. 'Yes, Mrs Mitchell, you seem to have been quite a hit. But we really shouldn't keep it all for the clients, should we?'

That obviously was why he had come round to the flat rather than simply telling her on the phone. Because he then sat down on their settee and pulled her over his lap. And pulled up her skirt and pulled down her knickers. And there and then in her own living room gave her a spanking. Afterwards he had laughed and told her she would soon be getting an appetite for it.

'No, I can't guess,' she told Gerry.

She listened, making appropriate sounds of amazement, as he told her of the German trip. She pictured herself again in that little white vest and nothing else, doing those exercises – some of them revealing not just her 'squirrel's brush' but everything else as well. And that cane: it had hurt dreadfully but now... well, there was and element of excitement to it.

Gerry was saying, 'Let's celebrate!' And leading her upstairs.

Upstairs, on the bed, her knickers quickly off. Gerry on top of her, inside her...

She disengaged her mouth from his kiss. 'Gerry: have you ever... wanted to spank a girl? Or cane her?'

'Nope.' He continued to thrust into her. 'Why?'

'Oh nothing. It's just... This girl I know vaguely. She was talking about it. She said... quite a lot of people do it.'

Angela put her arms round her husband, squeezing him. She thought of the coming trip to Switzerland and Mr Vollmann. And there was also Mr Rollison – he was obviously going to want more. And then... other clients? She shivered. If she was going to be the good Company wife she would have to agree to whatever was wanted.

The good Company wife hugged Gerry tightly as she felt a powerful sexual response begin to well up inside her.

Doing the course

Story from Blushes Supplement 06.

Doing the course

'He b...b...beat me!', Jane howled. Sitting in one of the four twin-bedded dorms, she rocked back and forth with her hands over her face – 'All right, now, all right', Linda soothed, plumping her own firm young bottom down on the same bed and circling the other girl's shoulders with a comforting arm. 'He didn't really, Jane, and we don't use that word here. It was a tawse, wasn't it – a thick strap with a split end to it?'

'It doesn't matter wh...what it was', sobbed Jane, disregarding her companion's arm and falling sideways so that her tear-streaked cheek rested on the pillow, her body twisted awkwardly. It was bad enough that she had been made to bring her Sixth Form uniform to wear here and – worse – to have discovered when she had first opened her suitcase on arrival that all her dinky, pastel-coloured panties had been removed before she left and replaced with blue serge ones that she never seen before. They were new and she could only just wriggle her bottom into them.

'Try and lie still, on your side – it helps', Linda soothed. She rose and lifted Jane's sullenly-sprawled legs full on to the bed, deftly slipping down beside her. – 'He d...did it!' Jane sobbed, huddling her hot face into Linda's shoulder and causing that young lady to raise her eyebrows. Very delicately she reached down behind Jane's back and fingered the hem of her short pleaded skirt.

'No he didn't, sillikins. It was only a first lesson in obedience. Haven't you ever been spanked?', Linda asked, prompting a shacking of Jane's head followed by a hesitant, sniffing, 'Not much'.

'But you have a bit. I know the tawse feels worse the first time, though it depends who spanked you and how hard he did it', said Linda, putting a little question mark at the end of her words which produced nothing but an incomprehensible murmur against her ear.

At that moment it was her duty to soothe the new entrant. None of the girls who were sent to the Summer School were booked in for longer than a week, and all of those whose little dorm she shared assumed and accepted that Linda had arrived just a few days before. It always worked, even though she had been there since the Edwardian house had opened its doors and initiated its curriculum a year before. Nineteen now and as nubile as any of the 'pupils', Linda's role as monitor and persuader suited her perfectly.

Right now she had to decide what sort of confidential report she would be able to write about Jane in the morning. Some girl squealed, were petulant, cried themselves to sleep. It all depended on the first touch of her tapered fingertips to their totally or relatively untutored bottoms. No girl emerged from her first foray into the study downstairs with her knickers still on. The rule was that they had to return for them immediately after breakfast, their others having been taken away in advance.

'L...L...Linda, what... what are you doing?', Jane cringed as a palm floated light as a puffball over her stinging bum. – 'Just soothing you; it feels better when it's held afterwards, honest. Mine was – by the girl who was in here then', fibbed Linda smoothly, curling her fingers under the lightly-throbbing orb in such a position where she could extend the index one where it would surely be most needed.

'No, Linda, stop it', Jane mumbled, feeling her earlobes burn as the surface of a finger soothed up and down where her inrolling cheeks formed a secretive chasm. – 'It's all right. Tell me about it. I s'spect he was the same as with me. He wasn't too horrible to you, though, was he?'

'I told you... told you what he... No, Linda, please – I want to lie still'.

'I know, I know,' Linda's soft voice came, her lips brushing Jane's warm ear in a way that made the passing caress seem accidental. It would be like playing a very delicate minuet on a violin, Linda had been told when she had escaped discipline herself by promising to act out the very role she was now enacting. They never seemed to realize, Linda thought as she allowed a petulantly-murmuring Jane to roll on her back, that they thereby became more vulnerable... to her at least.

The trick was to whisper, as if confidentially, against their pouting mouths, essaying little would-be assuaging kisses inbetween – kisses that flicked and pecked at first rather than held. And to go on whispering and stroke their further cheeks while her own exposed stocking top rubbed against the nearest leg of the newcomer.

It had never failed to work yet, even when they did turn away afterwards a little shamefully and bring out more forced sobs into their pillows. Never had it failed to produce – for a minute or two at least – the long, luscious girl-to-girl kisses that Linda had found more and more she wanted rather than anything else...

* * *

'There was no great problem, then', Brian said the next morning just before breakfast while Linda stood at his desk, by his side. – 'No, none. You can see', Linda replied rather quickly. Her skirt was even shorter than those of the Summer School pupils. Every forward step displayed her black-ringing nylons and the milk-white, outward swelling flesh above. Every time she took a report in, his hand would ease up the backs of her own curiously male-mutinous thighs, stroking them absentmindedly, or with a studied air of absentmindedness.

Sometimes his insinuating hand would roam upwards to her bulbing bottom and Linda would draw air in sharply through her nostrils while his palm cupped the lower bulge of her bum, never moving but simply taking possession of that which she had never otherwise yielded to him.

Looking down, her own eyes scanned the brief report she had written, just as his own were doing, coded as her sentences were. – 'Cried a bit, but then was relaxed. Stroking not rejected until two or three minutes, but then grew pettish, said she wanted to sleep. Evidently spanked a bit before arrival. Wouldn't say how much'.

At the penultimate sentence, she watched him shake his head and pick up his pen. – 'We don't use the word 'spank' – not in reports; I've told you that; they need to be shown sometimes to their – er – guardians, Linda', he said, running the ballpoint back and forth across the word until it was illegible. – 'Write 'dealt with' – it's more generalised. Best to add it in your own writing', he suggested.

Linda knew what would happen next as she took the pen from him and bent awkwardly forward. A curling forefinger sought upwards between her warm, silky thighs, just as her own did with the girls. – 'No! You promised!', she said sharply, but knew she had to write the word first. It was always a breathless little race to get desired alterations down before his fingertip actually reached under to the puckered crotch of her knickers.

The result this time as, as often, a photo-finish that brought her jerking up to step away, her eyes accusing. – 'You did promise, you did!' So often had she said it, and so often he smiled with that awful cynical smile and shook his head.

'You had best send Jane in then, immediately after breakfast, hadn't you?', he asked as her footsteps took her back towards the door. Her hand on the door as she made to exit unreplying, his next words halted her. 'Agreements are made to be broken, Linda', he said mildly, causing her to shake her head defiantly. – 'Not this one', she answered, though wishing she could put more certainty into her tone. It was the last week of term, anyway. She would be going back to live with her boyfriend until next summer, and he knew that, was possibly even a mite jealous of that, though such a word never crossed the air between them.

* * *

Told in a whisper that she was to go and collect her knickers at 9.30 in the study, Jane clutched at her breakfast napkin for a moment and wondered why two of the other girls at the table seemed so sparky even though they had done five days there. They must have been through it awfully. The girl next to her, who looked a bit younger than herself, seemed utterly to have lost her voice. She had arrived on the morning of the day before, whereas Jane hadn't reached there in her father's car until late afternoon.

Did all the girls have their knickers off now, Jane wondered. – 'Oh, it's awful', she murmured half to herself, but the other new entrant heard her and said 'Yes' and then blushed when one of the others looked up and giggled. By nine-thirty, when the spacious hallway seemed twice as long as it had before, butterflies tremored in Jane's tummy as her slightly-quivering legs took her to the Principal's study.

The 'Yes?' that greeted her knock was a casual one and she entered to find him seated on a black leather couch that lay alongside the wall opposite the bow window, his jacket neatly folded over the back of his chair.

'Here, Jane', Brian uttered more abruptly. 'And close the door', he added as a pair of black-sheened, twinkling legs hesitated. The blue serge knickers that she had worn the evening before lay folded over once on the nearest corner of his desk.

'Sir?', Jane asked warily. His hand was extended to her as if in friendship – quite unlike the reception she had had from him some fourteen hours before. Drawing in her breath in a way that made her rounded tits lift appealingly under her tight, white blouse, she stepped forward and felt herself drawn down to sit beside him.

'You see, it's going to be all right – fine – Jane, when you have learned', Brian said as if he were in the middle of a discourse rather than beginning one. 'You were told the schedule, weren't you, eh?' – 'Well – er – yes. There's gym and there's make-up lessons, and there's bits of French conversation, fashion talks, tennis, and... well, sir, I forget the rest'.

'You do?' His smile was quizzical. To her great surprise he took one of her hands off her lap and held it lightly, running his thumb over its smooth back as if ruminating on his next remark. 'You forgot two things, Jane. Don't you remember what they were?', this bringing a flush into her checks and a nervous little movement of her longish legs whose thighs yielded the greater part of their gently-swelling sleekness to his interested gaze. – 'There was something about riding, wasn't there?', he prompted, making Jane's mouth part prettily.

'Well, yes, sir, but... but one of the girls said you didn't have any horses or ponies here and I thought... Well, I thought it w...was a mistake', Jane stammered. 'Or, I mean...', she put in apologetically, but he was already shaking his head benignly. – 'The second, which you also forgot, Jane, was that which I had cause to make you experience last night. Discipline and dutifulness. They are our two most important D's. Unzip your skirt, Jane, please, while we talk'.

'S...sir?' – 'Again, Jane? I seem to remember that you said that last night. You have a free hand, Jane – use it'. The slight trembling of her fingers, accompanied by the faint hissing of her zip, seemed to go unremarked by the Principal whose gaze had settled rather on the promising melons between which her striped tie dangled. Indeed, as Jane awkwardly worked her zip down, he relinquished his hold on her left hand and flipped her tie up, brushing his knuckles against the nearest of her breasts whose firm elasticity came very satisfactorily to his touch.

'And this, Jane. Such procedures as you will learn herein are part of dutifulness. Let us see how little or how much you will deserve in the area of discipline, shall we?', he asked, rising and noting with approval how tightly-clipped her suspenders were. The top of her grey pleated skirt had sagged. The wrinkled hem of her blouse just escaped its surrounding waistband.

Her lips still parted, Jane licked briefly at the corner of her lips as she drew hesitant fingers to the knot of her tie, but at that he smiled and shook his head, saying, 'No, Jane. Did I forget to tell you? You lie back, legs up. Then you undo your tie and unfasten the buttons of your blouse. Quickly if you will, please. There IS discipline, you know'.

'Y...yes, sir', she stammered. There was no cushion, nowhere to rest her head, and in obediently raising her legs and simultaneously falling back, she lay prone and utterly defenceless. He was gazing down at her as if he were a doctor, she thought. If she could only pretend he was one... Gulping, Jane undid and slipped off her tie and then unbuttoned herself to the waist until her cleavage showed.

'Draw the sides right back, Jane', he said steadily and thought, My god, what beautiful nipples you have. Exposed, the conical brown points extended themselves proudly upwards on their supporting hillocks that quivered gently while Jane bit her lip and blushed. – 'As you rise now, Jane, your skirt will fall. You step out of it neatly and walk slowly – I said SLOWLY – to my desk and lean forward on your forearms, your body well back from the desk itself. You understand, Jane?'

It is your riding posture, or one of them, Brian longed to add. He often wanted to say that to new girls, but never had. On their next-to-last or last day, perhaps, when their bottoms were urgently wriggling a silent, heat-blasting surrender, then it was different. Their responsiveness frequently surprised him, as did the sudden, uninhibited torrents of babbled words that sometimes came from their lips. Whether it was the urging of the cane or the persuasively shafting motion of that which by then was lodged within them, he was never quite sure.

Jane understood. After the previous evening she understood, just as she had begun to when she was spanked, though she hadn't done anything VERY much to deserve being unskirted then. Now that she had no knickers on, he could see all of her as she rose, wanting to stumble, wanting to cry, wanting to protest that her bottom was not for burning nor her pussy for tickling, though it did 'release' her – resentfully it did.

She had her stockings on still, and her black suspenders, and they made her feel almost more exposed than if she were totally naked. Her legs would look better – she thought ridiculously and self-accusingly – if she were wearing high heels and not silly flat shoes that had also been put in her suitcase, unknown to her until she had re-opened it. She had given up flat heels years ago... well, two, anyway. Flat shoes made the tops of her legs look plump, so she told herself, her tits jiggling as the desk seemed to come closer to her rather than, in her halting progress, she to it.

At least the Principal was behind her now. She wasn't sure whether that was better or worse. It had been awful being spanked and she howled the otherwise empty house down, but as Linda had told her last night it didn't matter – in one way – if you howled here because there weren't any nosey neighbours.

'It matters in another way, though, Jane. You are expected to learn to be quiet', Linda had also said.

As Jane leaned forward tentatively and twinned her forearms on the desk, so she heard a cupboard opening, but dared not look round. What she also then heard was the Principal's voice as he approached her, saying, 'There are two things wrong with your posture, Jane. Your legs. Apart more, please, and your bottom OUT more, OUT. Miss?'

'WOW-OH!', Jane jerked, not by any means in pain but because in that selfsame moment the slim malacca of a cane had slipped up between her calves, urging her uncertain feet apart and then continuing to glide until its ascent brought the tip briefly brushing beneath her pouting nest whose curls were of such delightful abundance that Brian could still see their enticing peeping when he stepped back.

'Only a sixer, Jane. You have had a sixer before? No?', he uttered at a small, mournful shaking of her head. The cane flexed in both his hands as he spoke, and even though her eyes could not have caught the movement, her inrolling cheeks tightened visibly. The cane moved forward, petting Jane's out-thrust peach and making her hips jiggle petulantly. A little, quick snapping of it then caught her across her cleft and she squealed.

'Quietly, Jane, quietly. Let's see if we can, eh? Just this first time?', Brian's voice came to her. There was a swishing then, and Jane closed her eyes. It was almost as if she could count the thousandth of a second that it took before the cane swirled bitingly across her pert derriere, bringing from her throat a half-strangled 'YEEE-EEEEK!' and the accolade – although she did not recognise it as such – of a lack of remonstrance from Brian.

HOO-WITTT! the cane sang, and this time Jane's unguarded cry was shriller. Her hips jerked in protectively, bringing her soft tummy to squeeze against the forward edge of the desk where for a long moment she continued to press it while Brian waited patiently. Ten seconds... twenty even, he would sometimes allow – especially with 'learners'. The first long tongues of fire would lick into her crevices now. Let her feel them – let her feel.

'OH-WOH!' her plaintive sobs floated on the air. – 'Out now, Jane – bottom out again, please', came the impassive reply. Admirably enough, her slim shapely legs – superbly formed for her age – had stayed relatively stiff. Her ankles had twisted but had not sought to close, as they often enough did. Very promising, Brian decided. It was quite wonderful what different surroundings and an authoritative stranger could do for a girl.

There were two streaks now, once half an inch below the first. Brian prided himself on his positioning of cane strokes just as he vaguely hoped that departing pupils would thereafter pride themselves on the dutifulness of their own future postures.

'This, Jane, is your first riding posture – I want you to remember that', Brian next himself saying. Dammit, he had said it to a new girl at last! 'You understand?', he asked sharply, accompanying his words (so unexpectedly for Jane) with such a hissing SWOO-ISSHH! of the cane that her bleating, eager, 'YEH-ESS, sir, yes!' rent the air immediately.

Brian – who had expected a howling 'No!' – stayed himself then and drank in the sight of her quivering, tightly-clenched bottom cheeks where tendrils of pink were spreading out over the flawless half-peaches.

'You do, yes, I believe you do, Jane. Get up and come over to me now', he uttered, partly to his own surprise. Taking several steps back, he took up his original posture on the couch with his knees spread. Flush-faced, hips jerking tremulously, Jane pressed up and turned about, bringing her arms up with ludicrous coyness across her bulbing tits, albeit that her bush showed clearly to him as she totteringly advanced.

'Jane, I believe you needed to be spanked, did you not?', he asked. Uncertainly, breathing quickly, she spread her hot bottom cheeks down into his lap, drawn there by his insistent hand. Her head drooped. Her nipples seemed to be tingling with fire and her bottom burned. – 'I asked you a question, Jane. Put your arms behind your back please', she heard and gulpingly obeyed, feeling her chin lifted and her eyes brought unwillingly into his.

'I s'pose', she mumbled, wondering how he knew she had been. 'B...but I didn't want', she made to continue, and then her voice came to an abrupt halt. His hand was cupping her nearest tit, weighing it, fondling. The ball of his thumb moved like a metronome across one eager tip, producing an even more thornlike prominence before it passed to the next. A sicky sensation seized, like it did when she was being spanked, and afterwards, too. Her tongue moistened her dry lips briefly and withdrew.

'This is your moment of meditation, Jane, before you assume your riding position again. I have a sense of awareness that you understand what it is for, but your bottom must be dealt with, nevertheless. My role in your disciplinary sessions here, which in your case will take place once or twice a day, is to encourage your dutifulness. You understand?'

'GOOO!', Jane choked. His hand had slipped much lower down as he spoke, and if, if, if he didn't st...stop she was going to do something awfully naughty over his finger even before he caned her again...