The secret of success

Story from Whispers 02.

The secret of success

Not so long ago, the General Office of Makepeace and Co. would have been filled with the loud clatter of typewriters in use. Now, however, there was only the far less obtrusive clicking of electric machines as they did the same work far more efficiently. Soon, Jean Gleason said to herself, everything would be done with one of those computer 'things'. Even more efficient... but someone still would have the drudgery of operating it.

Jean hated the anonymity — not to mention the monotony — of the Typing Pool. It was soul-destroying. After a while one began to feel like part of a large, indifferent machine. It was not how she had envisaged office life when she had started at 17, almost a year previously. Then she had had the fantasy of her own cosy little office... with a benevolent, approving, but non-groping boss. Probably he would be in his thirties, still a bachelor, well-dressed and groomed, handsome with just a hint of grey at the sideburns.

Life, of course, was quite different. Jean Gleason had never even seen her Boss. His name was John Carver but he was generally referred to as the 'Major', though whether he was still entitled to use that rank some said was open to doubt. Jean imagined he was probably red-faced, balding, with a gingery-grey moustache. Not exactly her dream-boss, in fact.

As it was, all Jean's dealings were with the pale, gaunt featured Miss Staples, a dried up spinster in her mid-fifties. I'd rather die than get like her, Jean often used to tell herself. It just shows you what lack of a healthy sex-life can do to a woman, she reflected.

Yes... Jean hated office life. Particularly Makepeace office life. But she couldn't afford to leave since salaries were above average... and Jean had discovered living in London was considerably more expensive than she had bargained for. She was already behind with her rent.

What was unfair was that Jean Gleason reckoned she was just about the fastest and most accurate typist in the Pool. Yet that didn't win her promotion. How long was she going to have to wait before she got that office of her own? Before she could call herself a secretary and not just a typist? Already, of the twelve girls in that General Office, two had gone on to higher things. One, who had arrived only a few weeks before Jean, had become P.A. to a Director of one of the Company's subsidiaries: another, who had arrived after Jean, had actually become an assistant-secretary to Major Carver himself. That had really riled Jean Gleason since she knew that the girl, Stephanie, was not as good at her job as she was. She was certainly pretty, and she had a good figure, but Jean could scarcely believe that, in this day and age, promotion was gained on such grounds. Why, there were jokes about such things! With the Boss interviewing three girls to discover their efficiency and ending up by stating 'he'd have the one with the big tits'. Oh very funny!

In any event, Jean said to herself, I reckon I've got as good a figure as that Stephanie, even if I may not be quite so pretty. At the time, Jean had actually tackled Miss Staples about it, saying she thought she should have got the position. The old cow had got quite shirty about it, saying it was none of Jean's business and she would get promotion if and when she deserved it. Miss Staples had also said that Jean might just as easily get the sack — which was grossly unfair.

'Besides,' concluded Miss Staples, 'Stephanie has got special qualifications.' Jean Gleason refrained from asking what these were but, later, had a good cry about the injustice of life in general. What, she asked herself over and over again, was the secret of success in office life? It didn't appear to be simply competence and efficiency. Nor hard work. Could it be personality? It might, of course, be influence. Had those two had any influence? It seemed improbable.

Poor Jean found it both baffling and frustrating.

* * * *

The intercom on Jean's desk buzzed softly. She picked up the receiver. 'Extension 493,' she enunciated in her best answering manner.

'Would you step into my office, Miss Gleason. Right away.' It was Miss Staples, her voice as acid as her features.

'Yes, Miss Staples...' The phone clicked down. What had happened now? It was rare of her to be summoned... since one was usually summoned on account of errors. And Jean didn't make many. She stood up, smoothed creases from her neat, black skirt and jumper. It was very much an office 'uniform'. Fancy dressing was seriously discouraged at Makespeace and Co. Jean didn't mind that. One didn't have to make a decision every morning, nor compete with her colleagues. She walked down the carpeted corridor between the partitioned offices with their opaque windows. At the end was a polished brown door with a brass handle. Miss Staples' sanctum. One never went in there unless she called for you. Jean knocked deferentially and was told to 'Come'.

Inside it was like another world. There was no cheap steel partitions, no office noise. The carpet was thick, the curtains heavy, the furniture looked as if it had been bought at Maples. It was the office of a 'have', thought Jean, and I am a 'have-not'. Will I ever be a 'have'?

'Miss Gleason,' stated Miss Staples, without asking the girl to take a seat, 'you are to be considered for promotion...'

'Oh!' Jean clasped her hands together.

'Is something the matter, Miss Gleason?' enquired the harridan sourly.

'No... no, Miss Staples. It... it's just that... I'm very pleased.'

A grey head nodded perfunctorily. 'You are only being considered, Miss Gleason, that does not necessarily mean you will get the job. Major Carver is very particular about those who work closest to him.' Jean's heart gave a bound. So virtue was to be rewarded at last, was it? She was being considered for a job by the Boss himself! 'I have known many girls rejected by Major Carver,' Miss Staples was droning on, 'so take nothing for granted.'

'No, Miss Staples,' answered Jean politely. Inwardly, she was confident she would get the position. After all, she had all the right credentials, surely?

'You will report here at five o'clock then I shall take you to Major Carver's office.'

'Thank you, Miss Staples,' said Jean, even more politely. With a nod, she was dismissed. Jean felt as if she were almost floating as she left that opulent office.

It could well be that, at last, she was on the way to being a 'have.'

* * * *

Major Carver's office was very similar in appearance to that of his Office Manager, Miss Staples. Except that it was larger. There, all similarity between the two ended for, whereas Miss Staples was pale, thin and dry, the Major was ruddy, fat and overripe. Jean Gleason had been right about his colouring but wrong about the baldness and the moustache, since his upper lip was bare. In fact, it glistened very faintly with perspiration.

'This is Miss Gleason' announced the Office Manager.

'Thank you, Miss Staples,' he nodded; this time it was her turn to be dismissed, reflected Jean with considerable relish. She stood there, hearing a door close softly, almost feeling as if she ought to curtsey. A pair of pale, rather bulbous blue eyes roved over her and she strove to look calm and unruffled. An important test lay ahead of her. It could affect her life for years to come. How important it was to keep calm and make the right impression. Flustered secretaries were simply not required. 'Would you like to sit down, my dear?' The voice was soft and well-modulated, remarkably unmilitary. Jean was flattered that the Major actually stood as he indicated a chair set someway in front of his desk.

'Thank you, Sir,' she said with a faint smile. Seated, she crossed her legs so that she showed a fair bit of their shape, but not too much. Jean was aware that she had good legs. She was also aware that she had good firm breasts as well but she strove to fight down any idea that her promotion would depend on her shape rather than her ability. Surely Makepeace and Co. were too big for such things!

'What is your name?' The voice had a gentle, but hypnotic quality to it.

'Miss Gleason, Sir...'

'No... no, your Christian name, my dear. I address all my personal staff by their Christian names.'

'Jean, Sir.' It sounded almost as if she were already on that personal staff!

'Well, Jean, I've heard good reports of your work and of your background. That is why you are here. I hope you will wish to further your career by joining my personal staff.'

'Thank you, sir. I am very glad of the opportunity.'

The Major smiled. He looked relaxed and happy. 'Good... good...' he said, almost to himself. 'However, it is not quite as simple as it at first might appear. You see, my dear, my standards are far more exacting than those of the General Office.'

My God, thought Jean, they must be exacting! 'I'll do my very best, Sir. I... I'm sure I won't let you down.'

'I'm sure you won't, Jean,' said the Major in avuncular fashion. 'However, you must understand that, being a military man, there is a strong element of discipline in the way I run my private office. I am sure you appreciate that that is understandable!'

'Oh yes, sir...' Am I supposed to salute and stand to attention, she wondered?

'As in Army life,' the Major continued, 'there are rewards for good work. Perks, promotion and so on.' He paused. 'And for bad work, there are punishments.' The Major stressed that final word. It seemed to hang for quite a while in the heavy air. Jean felt a faint pricking of her scalp. Punishments? What on earth did he mean? Pay docked, holidays stopped? It seemed a funny way to run a modern office. But there you are... he's the boss.

'I see, Sir,' she said a little lamely.

'Do you, Jane? Do you? Oh I wonder if you do?' The Major smiled again and pressed pudgy fingers to his lips. 'If you agree to join my personal staff, Jean — and I do hope you will — you must also agree to accept my punishments. That must be fully understood.'

'Very well, sir.' Jean was prepared to agree to almost anything at that moment in order to get the job.

'Can you guess what those punishments are, Jean? For careless work, that sort of thing?' The voice was less mellow now.

Jean shook her head. 'No... no... I can't really, sir.'

'No, I don't suppose you can. Not at the moment.' Now the Major smiled again. 'So I must tell you. Show you, in fact.' Jean felt a vague unease. What was this man driving at? 'You know Stephanie, I believe?'

'Yes, sir, we used to work together.'

A nod. 'Well,' went on the Major, 'Stephanie made several errors in an important Report I gave her this afternoon. And Stephanie is now going to be punished.'

The prickling all over Jean's scalp intensified as the Major pressed a switch on his intercom panel. 'Come in, young lady,' he ordered crisply. Then he looked at Jean. 'This is a very private office,' he said, 'and what happens here never goes any further. Please understand that from the very beginning, Jean.'

What on earth is he on about? Jean was puzzled and a little frightened. She sensed something strange. Then she saw Stephanie come in through a door behind the Boss's desk. She could well be described as looking pale but confident and, seeing Jean, at once gave her a brief, flickering smile of what looked like sympathy.

'Ready for your punishment?' enquired the Major as Stephanie stood with an almost jaunty air of bravado before the huge desk.

'Yes, Sir...'

The major swivelled his chair to one side and patted his thighs. 'That was a really careless effort this afternoon, young lady.'

'Yes, Sir,' nodded Stephanie. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

'You will be.' Again those plump thighs were patted. 'Come round here.'

Stephanie gave Jean a wink and another faint smile. Then, to Jean's amazement and shock, she walked to the Major and draped herself over his limbs. The Major looked at Jean. 'In this office,' he stated, a naughty, careless girl gets her bottom smacked. Doesn't she, Stephanie?'

'Y-yes, sir,' came Stephanie's rather choked reply. Then her short grey skirt was pulled up to reveal a pretty pair of flower-patterned briefs. Also, most of a pair of plumply-rounded buttocks.

'Stephanie!' Jean had leapt to her feet aghast, one hand to her mouth. 'How... how can you let him do that?'

The girl turned her head as far as she could. 'Because I want to keep my job in this office, Jean,' she said. 'And if you want to stay here, you'll have to do the same.'

A pleasantly wicked smile came from the Major. Again he looked at Jean. 'That's perfectly correct, my dear. Now, perhaps, you are beginning to understand a little better. A girl requires some very special qualifications if she is going to work closely with me!' With that, he yanked down Stephanie's briefs.

Jean uttered a series of protesting cries. Stephanie's bottom was bare! How absolutely awful! She must fetch Miss Staples. This must be stopped. The Major was a pervert... a horrible pervert! Jean ran to the door... only to find it locked. She turned around, her brain whirling.

'What do you think you deserve, Stephanie?' the Major was saying coolly.

'A... a... d-dozen... I suppose, sir...' came a weak reply.

'At least a dozen, Miss,' rapped the Major. 'I will not have slackness in the office.' Jean watched with disbelief as a palm descended on her colleague's naked bottom. The slapping sound seemed to burst in her ears; she saw a bright red splodge appear. To her amazement, Stephanie did no more than gasp as she threw back her head. How could she tolerate such a thing? Such an indecency? Such shame?

'Stop it... oooh... stop it!' she heard herself crying out.

But the Major didn't stop and, almost worse, Stephanie seemed to make no resistance... no protest even... as the Major continued to smack her bottom. The slaps were slow and well placed on alternate buttock cheeks. Cheeks which grew steadily redder and redder.

Jean sank down on her chair. She wanted to cover her face but something compelled her to go on looking at this incredible scene. Here was a well brought up girl having her bare bum smacked by a horrible middle-aged man! Not seeming to mind all that much either! Incredible... quite incredible!

SSSLLAAAAPPPPP!

A final smack fell across the centre of both crimsoning cheeks and Stephanie yelled rather than gasped. She had just about had enough!

The Major gazed with satisfaction on a joggling pink blancmange of a bottom. It was a sight which gave him the most infinite satisfaction. His palm was tingling but he knew that young flesh right before him was tingling even more. What a delight it was to smack a teenager's bottom! To see it jump and judder, to see it twist and wriggle. Mmmm... yes... seventh heaven!

'You can get off now, Stephanie,' he said, his cheeks even ruddier.

The girl slid to her knees and quickly pulled up her briefs which were twisted around about her kneecaps. She was flushed but dry-eyed, Jean saw. How remarkable! Who could ever have imagined that someone like Stephanie would ever put up with such treatment!

'Right, Stephanie... that's the second time this week, isn't it?' said the Major with mock sternness.

'Yes sir...' Stephanie was very complaisant, head hanging in girlish fashion. She knew the Boss liked it that way... and, since he was footing the bills, that was the way he would have it. The spanking she had just received had not been all that bad. Hurt a bit at the time, made the flesh burn for half an hour or so. Nothing to write home about... and certainly worth the extra money. Stephanie wondered why the Boss hadn't spent quite a while massaging her bum after he'd smacked it. He usually did. Possibly that was because Jean Gleason was looking on and he didn't want to put her off more than he might have done already.

'Going to be good in future?'

'Yes, Sir. I'm sorry for my errors, sir.'

'Alright Stephanie, you can cut along now. Take Jean with you. Explain what it means to be on the personal staff.' The Major grinned. 'In case she hasn't learned already!'

Jean saw Stephanie tossing her head in the direction of the door behind Major Carver's desk. Well, it would be a relief to get out of that office. She stood up and, head averted, hurried out after her colleague.

* * * *

'How could you... how could you let him?' Jean was in a frightful tizz. Anyone would have imagined it was she who had been spanked and not Stephanie. 'Letting him pull your knickers down... letting him spank you on the bare! Oh Stephanie... have you lost your senses?'

'Not at all,' answered the girl calmly. She lit a cigarette and dragged on it deeply. 'Can you believe it's worth getting a few smack-bottoms like that when your weekly pay is doubled?'

'Doubled?' Jean was almost as incredulous as when she had watched the Boss's hand at work. 'Do you really mean that?'

'Of course,' replied Stephanie. 'I wouldn't put up with it if it weren't true. There's a month extra holiday on top as well. Not bad, eh? Just for a few slaps on the bum from a stupid old sod. He never tries anything else, I may say. Just a bit of a grope, maybe. Nothing more.'

Jean Gleason considered what she had just heard with a fevered mind. She was on seven and a half a year... so double would mean fifteen! That was pretty good money for a man, let alone a girl of her age. Then she thought what she would have to endure, it turned her stomach. At the same time, so much money was almost irresistible. It's not prostitution, she told herself, just playing games. No sex; simply the awful indignity of it. Jean suddenly realised she was already seriously considering joining this bizarre set-up!

'I... I... wonder if I could do it?' she mumbled.

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. 'So did I, at first. It's not exactly pleasant but, on the other hand, it's not all that bad. Look at me now. I'm not in a terrible state, am I? My bottom is rather warm, admittedly, but that's not altogether unpleasant, I can assure you.'

'Does... does everyone agree to this? I mean, is it the only way to get promoted?'

'The only way,' answered Stephanie. Jean had finally heard the answer to her often-repeated question. 'No, not everyone agrees. Most, but not all. If they don't agree they get the push, plus generous redundancy. Well, sweetie-pie, how are you going to play it? Think it over... take your time.'

Jean did just that. She had to admit that Stephanie by no means looked upset by what had just happened, so it could not be all that bad. Hideously shaming at the time but not permanently damaging. No one else but the personal staff would know either. That was important. And think of all that lovely money!

'I think I might give it a try,' she said, after a long, long brood.

Stephanie smiled brightly. 'There's a sensible girl,' she said. 'Believe me, you'll go far in the world of commerce. You're absolutely sure, are you?'

'Yes... yes... I suppose I am...'

'Because he doesn't like time-wasters. If you say 'yes', you've got to go through with it. Think hard, Jean. If there's any back-sliding, I'm as likely as not to get the blame.'

Jean's conscience smote her. She couldn't let Stephanie down, could she? What she was proposing to submit to wasn't all that bad, was it? No... of course it wasn't! This was the age of the liberated young woman. She could do more or less as she pleased. 'I'll join,' she conceded in a choked voice.

'Right,' said Stephanie, 'that's settled then. Thank goodness. And, if I may say so, I think you're being very sensible. Frankly, after you've been spanked a couple of times, it's money for old rope. You think nothing of it. Might as well be taking some nasty medicine.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Frankly, I think I'm going to find it awfully difficult at first.'

'Yes... it's not easy at first,' nodded Stephanie. She stood up and put her arm around Jean's shoulder. 'There's something else,' she said, 'when you agree, he always wants to spank you right away. Just to prove you're genuine, I suppose.'

Jean gaped and shuddered. She almost reversed her decision at that very instant. 'You m-mean... you mean...?' she began.

'Yes,' said Stephanie. 'When you go back, he'll want to spank you.'

'Oooohh... it's intolerable!'

'Not at all. Either you agree, or you don't. I thought you'd made up your mind?'

Jean Gleason realised the very proximity of a spanking had made her think again. Could she endure it? Could she? Then Jean thought of fifteen grand again and reckoned she could!

'Yes,' she replied. 'I've made up my mind. Let's go.'

Arm in arm, the pair walked back into Major John Carver's very private office.

* * * *

Stephanie had been allowed to go home; Jean was all on her own. Her heart felt as if it were shrinking and there was a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach.

'My secretary has explained everything to you then, Jean, eh?' smiled the Major in his oily-oozing way. 'And you would like to join us as her assistant. Is that correct?'

'Yes... yes... sir...' whispered Jean.

'Very sensible, young lady. The rewards are considerable.' The Major paused. 'She told you I would need a little proof that your decision is a genuine one?'

Jean found herself flushing as she watched the Major's chair swivel. 'Y-yer... ess... sir,' she managed to say.

'Very well then, my dear, perhaps you would be so good as to come round to this side of the desk.'

On rubbery limbs, Jean Gleason made a small circuit. She could still scarcely credit that this was all happening to her... yet it was... it was! Then she was standing right before the Major. The Boss. He was smiling once again, bulbous blue eyes bright. He patted his thighs.


Could she do it? Could she? Then, suddenly, Jean found she had no option. She had been hauled across those plump limbs, her waist gripped. She shrieked in sudden terror as her skirt was yanked up. Jean heard it split. She shrieked again. Then she felt her simple white panties ripped off. Not pulled down. Ripped almost savagely.

'Stop... stooo... oooppp!' she begged half-hysterically.


But Major John Carver was not going to stop. Before him was a superbly curvaceous, virgin bottom... a bottom which he was sure had never been spanked before. Now it was his to deal with. He swallowed and then licked his lips as if some exceptionally succulent dish had just been set before him. 'Welcome to my personal staff, Jean,' he said thickly.

Then he began to smack the soft-lush, white flesh presented to him.

He began to smack it hard...

Nightmare

Story from Janus 45.

Nightmare
by Andrew Grantham

EARLY MORNING sunlight forced its way into the teenage girl's bedroom. Diane lay on her back, her head surrounded by a tangled mass of natural blonde curls. Although she was asleep, she was not enjoying a restful slumber. Anyone watching the contortions of her body beneath the duvet and hearing the occasional cry from her full, fleshy lips would know she was having a nightmare.

In her dream, she had paraded her nubile young body nude in front of a man. The menacing male was only a shadowy figure to her, his features unrecognisable. The fact that he was menacing was borne out by the very long, thin punishment cane he had hold of.

Slowly, the man circled her and Diane was aware of his eyes devouring every inch of her fine flesh. Her well-rounded breasts were firm enough to be full and ripe, yet just big and heavy enough to sway maddeningly with her slightest movement.

Her crossed hands guarded her blonde-curled 'vee' at the junction of her long, graceful legs.

It was her rear, however, that the menacing figment of her dream world was interested in. A delicious rear it was, too. Diane possessed a perfect apple-round bottom, firm-fleshed and deep-clefted.

Obviously satisfied with her virginal nakedness, the man reappeared in front of her. His voice, somehow detached, told her that she was to receive six strokes of his long, swishy cane.

Diane folded her tender athletic body over a wooden-backed chair, absolutely terrified of what was going to happen to her. She wanted to run away in spite of her total nudity, but her feet seemed to be weighted down with lead.

She heard a rushing hiss. Diane knew what it was and it seemed as if she were lewdly pushing out her bottom to meet the cane. Then the thin wood sliced into her derriere and she jumped up like a released spring.

A hand pressed her body down again and she was looking at the cold wooden seat of the chair once more. A flame was burning across her bottom.

Again there was a hiss preceding the cracking impact. Her tormentor had aimed at the lower curve of her nates, just where they joined her thighs. Diane cried out.

If the collection of teddybears adorning the shelves of the pretty teenager's bedroom had possessed eyes which could see, they would have observed their owner wriggling in her bed, her head thrashing to and fro in the depths of the pillow. They would have heard a low cry from her throat.

Had the stuffed toys the teenager loved so much been able to peer into her dream world, they would have been horrified by the two thin red weals across both sides of the divide between her gorgeous bum cheeks.

The cane whipped in again. The girl's cries grew louder and louder, her contortions even more frantic. Diane took a hand away from the chair and ran it over her bottom, the tips of her fingers tracing their way along the wealed trails blazed by the wickedly-wielded cane. But her hand was forced away.

The light in her bedroom grew stronger. It was a neat, tidy bedroom and despite the pop star posters, utterly feminine. The blonde-haired girl twisted her body this way and that. Cries still came from her throat, each cry more agonised than the one which had preceded it.

Diane's family, all heavy sleepers, slept on through her dreamy distress.

The rushing hiss seemed louder this time. The cut of the cane was the worst so far. Diane's torso twisted, her daintily-nippled breasts swinging from side to side. Two male hands came from behind her to take hold and still them. Diane couldn't raise her own hands from the chair seat to do anything about it. The touch was nice though, rather like the touch of the boy she had met on holiday last year.

Suddenly, the molesting hands disappeared and, perspiring, she waited for the next attack on her bottom. It came without any warning this time and her body shuddered. Again, she cried out.

But wasn't she supposed to have had six strokes only? Frantically she looked behind her. The mirror hadn't been there before. Wide-eyed and trembling, she counted the angry red stripes emblazoned across the rear she was so proud of – seven, eight, nine! Diane wanted to protest but no sound would come from her throat.

The mirror was taken away but not before the girl had realised that the man must have seen everything she had. Oh no! How awful! The as yet inviolate sex delights between her legs had always been so jealously guarded. Despite the many temptations, she had never displayed that lightly dusted, pouting recess to any male.

Tense, she waited for the return of the cane. But it wasn't a cane which hit her – it was a hand landing squarely across her buttocks. And it had hurt...

Her older brother Colin had entered her room, carrying a cup of tea. He set it down on the unit alongside the girl's head. The continental quilt had fallen completely to the floor. Diane lay, curled up, her fine form filling out the flimsy pink nylon of her sleep suit. He brought his hand down on the splendid, tightly-encased bottom.

'Owww!' she cried out.

'Wake up Di,' Colin shouted. 'Time for college.'

The eyes of the 17-year-old girl jerked open and she looked all round the familiar room. That hand on her bottom had been her brother's! 'Gosh,' she sighed sleepily. 'I've had the most awful dream.'

She began to move as Colin sat on the bed. 'Tell me about it,' he asked her.

Suddenly, Diane went rigid. Her eyes were wide and despairing. Groaning, she buried her face in the pillow.

The college student had remembered that she had to report to the Principal that very morning to receive six of the best for serious misbehaviour.

She would have to relive her nightmare all over again, but this time she would really feel the pain coursing through her body.

The Cellar

Story from old Blushes.

The Cellar


When the telephone in the study upstairs had rung, it could hardly have done so at a worse moment — that is, from young Bab's admittedly self-centred point of view. Those particular bits of 'self' around which her perception of sensation had been obliged to revolve for the best part of the last twenty minutes were those that she would have much preferred to have kept tucked demurely away inside her knickers, except that the said knickers had been demoted — by 'Uncle' Basil — from their duty as preservers of a girl's modesty, and when the phone rang were serving instead as a half-mast token of surrender a little above the level of Bab's knees.

Basil had excused himself from the proceedings down in the cellar with no more ceremony than a patronising pat to the girl's hot and bothered bottom, and she had been abandoned, panting frantically on the very brink of one of those embarrassing happenings that Basil called 'being a good girl', which could hardly be sillier really, because they only happened when she was brought down here for being a bad girl.

Now, several minutes after Uncle Basil disappeared up the rickety stairs, Babs snuffles miserably and brushes a tear from her cheek. Her shoes and socks apart, and discounting her knickers which are contributing nothing to the maintenance of her modesty in their forlorn station just above her knees, Babs is quite naked. Her vest lies rumpled on a spindly-legged chair together with her blouse. Her tie is draped over the chair back and her skirt is upstairs somewhere, probably on the study floor. Her cheeks are flushed and her lip pouts unhappily, as though the renewed onset of weeping is but a smart slap or two away.

The certain knowledge that the requisite slaps will most certainly be forthcoming just as soon as Uncle Basil returns makes her bottom tremble faintly at irregular intervals, and the equally unavoidable certainty that he will insist on beginning again, coaxing, teasing and spanking her by turns until she humiliates herself by doing what she was on the very verge of doing when the phone rang despite the smart in her bum; or perhaps even partly because of it — she really doesn't know — makes her knees go to jelly and her pouty bottom lip pushes out yet more disconsolately.

Upstairs, Basil is writing a name into his diary — "Ann — oh, Anne with an 'e'? Fine, at eight o'clock? OK. Thanks Reggie. And I'll come along to you afterwards — for a drink — alright? Good." He chuckles conspiratorially "And I'll give Babs your regards. I dare say she'll remember you." His chuckle becomes a smile as he listens briefly. "Yes — you interrupted me, as a matter of fact." He laughs again, "Such are the perks of guardianship." An eyebrow raises whimsically. "Hmm? Well, what about next weekend? I'll be gone all day Sunday — Babs will be here, of course. OK, Sunday it is. Speak to you about it later. 'Bye."

Downstairs, Babs hears a 'clump-thud-bump' as Basil leaves the study which has her thighs pressing uneasily against each other, squeezing and relaxing by turns for several moments in unintentional imitation of the little semi-static dance she was performing a few minutes earlier to Uncle Basil's expert coaxing. Bab's bum-cheeks tweak together as her uncle's footsteps approach the door to the cellar, and then they soften reluctantly as the sound passes like summer thunder into the distance. Each firm, full buttock is warmly crimsoned around the sitting down bits, and finger-shaped blotches extend round her flanks and down the upper parts of her legs almost to the level of her pulled-down pants. Overlaying this tender-looking redness are perhaps eight or nine roughly parallel marks which clearly do not result from the same application of palm to bottom that produced the generally well-punished look of the girl's unfortunate bum. A cane has visited these youthful cheeks, and very recently.

Renewed clumping from above prompts a sudden straightening of the girl's posture, bottom pushing out saucily behind and impudent breasts bouncing just the once as she pulls herself up to her full height.


She looks up and over her shoulder and catches sight of a pair of brown brogue shoes on the upper stair, hears the click of the latch and the well-oiled side of a bolt. She stoops and picks up two weighty books, which she has to do with both hands together. Balancing the one on top of the other, she lifts them in front of her face and places them on top of her head. Trembling, she slides the books forward and back until she finds the point at which they will sit in equilibrium. Basil's footsteps approach and stop directly at her back.

"Well now, we'll just have to start again, won't we, eh?"

His hand pat-pats up under her buttocks. They jiggle a little, each cheek in its turn, and the books try to slip sideways. Babs reaches up with both hands — the books are too thick to be held together by the span of one of her small hands; she has to hold each separately lest they should slide apart and fall. Uncle Basil seats himself on a stool at her side, his knees either side of her legs, her bottom convenient to his right hand and the warm, smooth downward sweep of her belly convenient to his left. Upon her head, Pilgrim's Progress, topped by an unabridged edition of Crime and Punishment, occupy both her hands still, which is, after all, the books' sole purpose. Hands which are kept busy above head-height cannot interfere with other hands as they spank and stroke and smack and coax and slap and slip between nervous thighs.

"Uncle Reggie sends his regards by the way," observes Basil, nudging the girl forward a fraction to get her in exactly the right position.

"Oooh — oh dear," says Babs warily as she shuffles the required half inch.

"Yes. He was wondering whether you might be in need of another lesson."

"Oooh. Urn — I-I don't really th-think —"

A loud, echoing report as Basil's hand cracks across Bab's nervous bum-cheeks cuts short whatever it is the girl is trying to say. She squirms her bottom desperately, feeling the heat of her earlier punishment returning instantly.

"I told him you were. Euclid has never been your strong point, and Reggie knows an awful lot about that sort of thing, you know."

"Oooo —" Babs remembers her last geometry lesson only too well, although she might have been forgiven for thinking it was actually more to do with anatomy.

"He's coming on Sunday."

"Oh — but — but —"

Basil smacks the impudent cheeks casually but firmly.

"Come along, Babs. Stick it out. That's it my pet."

A solid spank makes Babs start so that Pilgrim's Progress slithers dangerously backwards and Babs squeals as the tenderness in her bottom is re-kindled in earnest.

A second meaty slap sees tears starting from under her eye-lashes. She wriggles her hips and swerves a little aside and Crime and Punishment tilts perilously as Babs reaches down to give her bum, a frantic, illicit rub, and suddenly the book topples from her head and thuds to the floor.

Her startled gasp and wide-eyed look make this minor piece of clumsiness seem a desperate misfortune. Pilgrim's Progress is caught only just in time, but already the damage has been done.

"Oh no — no, please —"

But Uncle Basil is not listening. Leaning forward from his stool he can reach the slender, crook-handled cane on a hook screwed to a timber upright. The tip of the cane shivers in anticipation as it is drawn back and held bottom-high, threateing the girl's flinching cheeks. Babs looks behind and knows that there is no way out of the mandatory three stinging strokes for dropping a book, but she blabs out her gasping, tearful pleas any way. Basil listens until she subsides into hopeless silence, then the cane swishes round. Babs jerk her hips forward, pubic swell thrusting onto Basil's waiting hand. Two more strokes arrive with hardly two seconds between them, and suddenly Babs is blubbering in earnest, snatching and clutching with her one free hand at the fresh weals already swelling around the undercurves of her buttocks.


Basil lets her calm herself, which takes several minutes, then he picks up the dropped book and offers it to her. Babs takes it tearfully and balances it again on top of her head. She holds the volumes with both hands, shuffles unwillingly back to her place between Basil's knees, and eases the contact of thigh against thigh so that Basil's eager digits can take up where they left off: she wants only to get it over with now, and with the slow, rhythmic application of Basil's right hand to her quivering bottom to help her along Babs eventually begins to shudder a little every now and then as she pushes forward onto Basil's busy fingers. Quickly now that she is on the way, her reluctance becomes co-operation, her to and fro-ing seems to be less a response to the continuing spanks than to the insistance of Basil's expert coaxing. Whimperingly she obliges at last, eyes tightly shut, knees bending, fingers loosing their grip on the books wobbling dangerously on her head. Pilgrim's Progress hits the chair and bounces to the floor.

Allowed to slip off the hook now that she has been a 'good girl' as required, Babs slowly collects her wits and keeps her face averted from Basil's smug expression, hands wandering automatically back to their place upon the crown of her head despite the absence of Pilgrim. She edges sideways as Basil gets to his feet but keeps her bottom pushing out obediently behind her, keeps her legs together and her back hollowed, and hears the faint, tinny sound of silver foil being torn apart. Warm hands pilot her to a position directly in front of the stool, and nudge her forward until her thighs are touching the cool wood. A gentle shove in the small of her back is the signal to lay her tummy across the seat. She holds onto the stool's legs with both hands and spreads her feet apart.

Basil's fingertips, slipped under her loins and lifting slightly, hint that she should be paying attention. Babs elevates her hips a little and for the umpteenth time begins to count the weeks 'till her eighteenth birthday. It seems a long way off.

A Letter For Nicola

Story from Uniform Girls 01.

A Letter For Nicola

Half term, and most of the boarders gone home to ride ponies and go to discos and generally to forget all about school for a whole week. Almost all of the girls, only three or four still in their dormitory rooms of an evening, those whose parents didn't want their daughter's home to complicate their social arrangements. Like, Nicola's —

Nicola waits miserably in the headmaster's private sitting room — the headmaster too is away, and the deputy head, Mr Russell, sees no reason why he shouldn't make use of it's comfortable seclusion on these occasions, 'these occasions' being those when a girl needs to be 'disciplined'. Nicola is supposed to be 'ready' when Mr Russell comes back from the village — gone to buy more smelly tobacco for his pipe, most probably — but she knows she'll hear his car pull up and there'll still be plenty of time to kneel up and-and-and get her knickers down. The thought of having to do so makes her tummy feel funny; she sits and stares at her hands and thinks about how she got trapped into her first bare-bummed spanking, a term and a half ago, before he'd persuaded her mother — who hadn't needed much persuasion, as it turned out — to send her to school as a boarder even though her home was only three and a half miles away...

* * * *

The envelope with Nicola's name on it was lying on the hall carpet where her younger sister found it at breakfast time. An innocent-looking bombshell as it turned out for when Nicola glanced at its contents her stomach gave a lurch and she felt her throat go dry. She hastily folded the note and shoved it back in the envelope, fearful that her mother or Julie might see. A gulped mouthful of cornflakes almost choked her.

'Anything interesting, dear?' asked her mother across the breakfast table.

'No... nothing.' With difficulty Nicola kept her voice more or less on an even keel. Picturing again the words which had leapt at her from the paper she broke out into a cold sweat.

Up in the privacy of her room she forced herself to have another look, this time reading it properly.

Dear Nicola,

It is my unhappy duty to take you to task on a disciplinary matter. On the evening of Tuesday last you were observed in the town in school uniform accompanied by a youth and behaving in a highly undignified and unsatisfactory manner. You were, for one thing, eating chips out of a newspaper in a public street. Your conduct on this occasion broke several disciplinary rules, as you will know. It is my duty therefore to see that you are given a suitable punishment.

Accordingly you will report to the Deputy Head tomorrow after school, taking this note with you. You will wear gym attire and you will wear no knickers under your gym shorts. I am instructing Mr Russell, that you are to be given a sound spanking. To ensure that you do not take this matter lightly I am further instructing Mr Russell that you are to have your shorts lowered and take the spanking on the bare bottom.

The note bore the school crest and was signed by the Head. It was dated 31st of March which was yesterday.

Re-reading it Nicola felt sick. It was impossible. She was 17 and a very grown-up looking 17 at that. Surely a 17-year old girl couldn't be spanked nowadays. Especially on her bare bottom! She had never heard of it happening to anyone, not ever. Although of course it did say in the school prospectus something about corporal punishment could be used in extreme circumstances. Could it possibly be that it did happen but the girls it happened to simply kept quiet about it? Obviously you wouldn't want to broadcast the fact. Shuddering, Nicola was quite sure she herself wouldn't.

She looked at the note again — to convince herself that she hadn't dreamt it. No, it was real all right. She shivered, imagining the unthinkable. Mr Russell's hand smacking down on her bare bottom.

With a sort of empty sensation in her stomach Nicola went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and do her hair. She was 5' 6" and well-built, a pretty blue-eyed blonde, but the pretty face in the mirror did not have its usual cheerful appearance. It was 8.30. In just over 7 hours she would be in Mr Russell's room. I feel sick, she thought, but fortunately the feeling passed. It was time to leave.

'Home at the usual time, dear?' It was her mother's routine query and routinely Nicola said yes. Today she said, 'I... I'm not sure, Mum. There... there may be something on.'

She slipped on the green school blazer. Green blazer, blue calf-length pleated skirt, green-and-blue tie. It was what she had on on Tuesday evening because she'd been working late in the library. And then someone had seen her with Brian Parker and those bloody fish and chips. Nicola thought for a moment. Her gym things? Then she remembered they were at school. She felt sick again.

* * * *

3.40 standing outside Mr Russell's door Nicola was naturally feeling even sicker. The dreadful moment of truth had arrived. She had gone through the day in a dream with just that one sick-making thought obliterating everything else. Being over Mr Russell's lap (presumably) with her gym shorts down and her, as she thought, rather big bottom on display. Nicola had naturally said nothing to anyone about her coming humiliating ordeal, and had tried to act as if everything was normal. It had not been easy. She had actually had Mr Russell for one lesson and had not been able to look him in the eye. But the Deputy Head had acted quite normally and had himself given no sign...

Nicola forced herself to knock and his voice said 'Come in'. He looked up from his desk, queryingly. Mr Russell was not old, perhaps 45, quite tall. He had blue eyes, some girls thought he was very dishy. Some girls might even welcome the situation Nicola was in. Her knees felt as if they were made of rubber.

'Yes, Nicola?'

She closed the door and shuffled forward, face bright red. Nicola had her raincoat on but underneath was dressed as the note had directed. Her white sleeveless gym top and tight blue gym shorts plus white ankle socks and gym shoes. She was wearing a bra but her knickers were back in the changing room with her other clothes.

The shorts anyway were very snug fitting. Nicola had had them since the Fifth form and now really needed a size bigger for she had filled out a bit since then. Her big bottom as she thought of it. Her mother told her not to be silly, it wasn't big just nice and anyway she would find that most men liked a good-sized bottom on a girl. At 17 Nicola wasn't really interested in that yet, although she realised that the male sex was interested, in her bottom and in her firm full breasts. Right now, though, there was only one male she had to be concerned about.

Mr Russell repeated his querying 'Yes, Nicola?' as if he didn't know why she had come. Numbly she thrust out the letter. He took a long time reading it through, almost as if it was all news to him. Finally he looked up. His face was perhaps slightly pink, though nothing compared to the rosy flush on Nicola's cheeks.

'Yes Nicola. Of course. Must behave properly in public, mustn't we? Take your coat off then.'

It was happening. Somehow Nicola had had a vague idea that he might say the letter was to teach her a lesson, scare her so that she wouldn't do it again, and then give some more acceptable punishment. Detention or something. Her fingers were all thumbs as she fumbled with the raincoat's buttons.

'Put it on the chair.' Mr Russell had got up and went over to the door. Nicola heard the lock click. He came back and sat down on a chair at the side, not behind his desk. 'Come here then.'

She stood trembling in front of him, somehow feeling naked in her gym clothes. Mr Russell simply said, 'OK, drop your shorts.'

Nicola gulped. For a moment the room went round and round. 'PI...please Sir,' said a small whisper.

'You read the note, Nicola.' Mr Russell's voice was crisp and authoritative. 'You saw the Head's instructions. So please take down your shorts.'

Somehow her hands did it. Struggled the tight shorts down off her full flanks. 'Right down,' Mr Russell ordered. They came right down. Automatically one of Nicola's hands came across to cover her light brown bush. Mr Russell took hold of her arm and the next thing Nicola knew she was over his lap.

'Uuuggghhh!' A moaning gasp at the first electric touch of his hand on her bare bottom. Nicola thought she was going to faint. He wasn't spanking, not yet, just getting her in position on his lap. One hand now holding her firmly in the small of her back, where her tank-top ended. There was a pause. And then the spanking did start.

All those stomach-churning fears of what it would be like proved amply justified. It was quite as bad as Nicola had imagined, if not worse. It hurt for one thing, that hard splat!... splat!... splat!... rhythmically cracking down onto her bottom; but worse was the truly mortifying embarrassment. To be lying there like that with her bare rear on display and Mr Russell's male hand in repeated contact with it. Her soft bottom cheeks flattening and wobbling with each repeated impact. No, that had to be experienced for the full horror to be believed.

Mr Russell kept it up for some considerable time, until Nicola could feel her bum absolutely glowing all over. At last he did stop and she was being helped to her feet. 'Pull them up,' he said. Nicola couldn't see properly. She wasn't actually crying but her bottom lip was trembling and there was an awful lot of moisture in her eyes.

'Blow your nose if you need to,' Mr Russell said.

Nicola had now got her shorts back up and was at least over the worst of the shock. Sire couldn't bear to look him in the eye, though.

'Well that's that,' Mr Russell observed. 'I'm sure it'll teach you a useful lesson because we certainly don't like our girls wandering about the streets eating fish and chips. By the way, are you familiar with the Head's signature?'

Blinking, Nicola looked at him and then away. 'Yes... yes sir. I think so.'

'Oh. Because the signature in your letter is quite a good copy but not what I would call a first-class one.'

Mr Russell's words took some time to sink it. Nicola was after all still in something of a state of shock.

'Wha...what, sir?'

'The signature, Nicola. A forgery. And you know today's date of course. The first of April.'

The penny finally dropped. Nicola's mouth opened and closed again without any words coming out. There was really nothing to say and if there had been Nicola was in no state to say it. She weakly dabbed at her face as two tears rolled down her cheeks.

'Don't take it too hard,' smiled Mr Russell. 'Someone's had their little joke. One of your schoolmates I suppose.'

She felt utterly utterly sick. At being so stupidly taken in and also at the fact that Mr Russell had gone ahead and spanked her even though he knew it was an April Fool's joke.

'I'm sorry but I couldn't resist it,' Mr Russell said in answer to Nicola's unspoken question. 'It was just too good an opportunity to miss. And after all you were in breach of the rules, weren't you! I think the best thing now is to forget all about it. I shan't tell and I don't suppose you will. Your unknown prankster will assume that nothing happened. By the way, any idea who it was?'

Nicola shook her head mournfully, doing her her best to stem the tears. Mr Russell put his arm round her.

'Cheer up. Just a little April Fool's fun. We'll forget about it and no one will be any the wiser. Off you go then.'

He gave Nicola a playful smack on her bottom — an unwelcome reminder of what had to be the worst 15 minutes of Nicola's life.

* * * *

When she got over the worst of the shock and humiliation Nicola's first thought was to think who could have played such a trick. For several days she went about surreptitiously watching for any word or sign that might give a clue but really there wasn't any. Once or twice she thought she had detected some suspicious action but on reflection Nicola had to admit it didn't amount to anything. She knew the best thing would be to forget all about it, as Mr Russell had advised, but she couldn't. And the main reason she couldn't forget was to be Mr Russell himself.

Two weeks after April Fool's Day he called Nicola into his office again after school with some complaint about an essay. He felt she hadn't been trying very hard, he said. He gave a funny little smile.

'But we know what we can do to smarten you up, don't we, young lady?'

Nicola flushed knowing full well what he meant. It wasn't a very good joke as far as she was concerned. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, recalling all too vividly that horrendous afternoon. As she stood uncertainly at his desk Mr Russell got up and went over to the door. Nicola heard a distinct click of the lock. Like that sick-making afternoon two weeks before.

'Come on then,' he said, his voice a bit tense.

Nicola just looked at him as Mr Russell went to sit in that self-same chair at the side.

'Come on,' he repeated. 'Drop your knickers, Nicola dear.'

'No!' she gasped.

'Yes, Nicola. I'm going to spank your bottom again. And I don't think you're going to complain to anyone because I'm sure you wouldn't want that 'April Fool's joke' that you fell for spread about the school. Now would you?'

'That's blackmail,' Nicola whispered.

Mr Russell smiled. 'I wouldn't call it that. Let's simply say a Deputy Head using whatever disciplinary means are at his disposal. Now are you going to slip your knickers down yourself or shall I do it for you? I should quite enjoy doing it.' He smiled again, a cat with the cream. 'You can take your blazer off first.'

Nicola couldn't believe it. It was blackmail but what could she do? She slipped off her blazer and put it on his desk. She was in school uniform of course, not the gym outfit. Blouse and tie and skirt. Not looking at him her hands went up under the pleated skirt and fumbled underneath.

'Are they down?'

She nodded, tight-lipped.

'Good'. Mr Russell took her arm and pulled Nicola forward, then down. She was over his lap again, and again with that awful feeling of wanting to be sick. She felt her skirt being pulled up, over her back. Her knickers were brief pink nylon. Mr Russell was pulling them further down, to Nicola's knees. His hand on her bottom again. Openly fondling a bit this time. And then spanking. Hard juddering spanks, each one making a sharp pistol-like crack. It seemed to go on and on while Nicola just lay there, not struggling, simply soaking up the sharp pain and the humiliation.

Afterwards, as she struggled her knickers back up, Mr Russell was friendly, perhaps even slightly anxious. Perhaps he was just a little bit afraid Nicola might tell and then he could be in trouble. Because although the school prospectus did mention corporal punishment in general terms it certainly said nothing about spanking girls on their bare bottoms. But Nicola wasn't going to tell — not if it meant the whole humiliating story coming out.

'It doesn't hurt, does it?' he queried sympathetically. 'And I'm sure we're still friends, aren't we, Nicola?'

Nicola didn't answer. It seemed stupid to say either yes or not. But she could guess that as soon as Mr Russell got another excuse she would be back in here taking her knickers down again.

He gave her a charming smile. 'By the way, any ideas yet on who sent that letter?'

Nicola shook her head.

Mr Russell shook his too. 'Someone out there,' he mused. 'But at least if you say nothing their joke's fallen rather flat, hasn't it?'

Say nothing and let him keep smacking my bum, Nicola thought unhappily. But she was caught in the predicament of not having any choice.

* * * *

Graham Russell, after Nicola had left, sat at his desk pleasantly reliving the heady episode. She certainly had a marvellous bottom. And big girls really should be given more of that treatment. It was very good for them and it was most unfortunate that society nowadays had rather gone off that sort of thing. Next time, he thought, he might even take the strap to her. That would be really something. Spanking, though, did afford the wonderful intimacy of hand on bare bottom.

Taking up his pen he started idly doodling. The Headmaster's signature. He had told Nicola it wasn't perfect but really it was a very good copy. It had all gone quite marvellously; no problems and quite foolproof. He'd have to try it on another one next year, another little April Fool's trick. Perhaps June Billington, with the big boobs. He rather fancied her as well.

But until then there was Nicola Wilson. Pretty Nicola who had quite big boobs anyway plus a really lovely bottom. Nicola who was clearly going to be nice and cooperative. Next week, he thought. There's bound to be something wrong with her work again next week.

The New Riding Whip

Story from Janus 68.

The New Riding Whip
by Michael Burntwood

HER upper body was pressed against the steering-wheel, and her dazzlingly pretty face gaped aghast through the windscreen. She had hit something! After several stunned seconds she straightened up in the driver's seat, suddenly pale beneath the suntan which still lingered from those fragrant weeks in the Greek islands. Strands of golden hair obscured her wide, vividly blue eyes, for her head had jerked forward at the collision. Shakily, feeling faint, she pushed the hair back from her flawless forehead and opened the door of the brand-new Jaguar. Stepping out on long, lissome legs she stretched her lithe young body and smoothed the rucked-up skirt over her slender hips. Then, with tingling nerves and a sick feeling of dread, Alicia Thornfield walked to the front of the gleaming vehicle to inspect the damage.

The wheelbarrow she had driven into lay crushed and splintered on the broad gravel driveway, but this was not what the girl was staring at. The offside wing of the Jaguar was shockingly defaced by dents and scratches, and the headlamp and the blinker were smashed! The awful sight made her inhale deeply, pushing her tip-tilted breasts against the sheer silk fabric of her blouse.

Desperately she turned and looked around for someone to blame for this disaster, for the fool who had put the wheelbarrow there, right where it shouldn't be, in the middle of the drive into which she had just turned the car. In the distance she observed Rogerson, the gardener, hurrying towards her shaking his grey-haired head; and even then the mettlesome young woman's full red lips curled with distaste to see how his startled gaze roamed over her bare legs beneath the tight skirt.

'You damn well ought to know better than to leave your stupid barrow here!' Alicia shouted, stamping her foot in fury and fright. Even to the unimaginative gardener she looked petite and doll-like, almost unreal in her perfection of feminine shapeliness. It could have been that French actress, Bardot – re-formed and scarcely 21 again – raging at him beside his employer's distressingly damaged vehicle. The agile figure was daintily trim, little-waisted, with breasts like apples quivering under translucent silk, the trim thighs succulent – her legs smooth, sun-browned stems more lovely than the loveliest bloom in the orchid-house from where he had hurried on hearing the distant crump. To the gardener, she looked rather like a flower herself.

But the aloofly alluring nymphet face, achingly pretty, was red and twisted now as she screeched at him, scattering the soft, honey-gold hair about that perfect head.

'You silly old bastard, I've a sodding good mind to... to...'

'Ooh, dear,' said Rogerson, dragging to a stop. 'Ooh, my, Miss Alicia. Your stepdad won't be too happy when he sees what you've done to his new car!'

'What I've done, I've done?' the girl wailed. 'How was I supposed to know that bloody wheelbarrow was here? It was your fault. I was looking at the rose-bushes when I drove in.'

'With respect, Miss,' ventured Rogerson, 'Sir Robert told me to leave it here when he called me to the orchid-house. And anyway, there's plenty of room on either side. If you'd been lookin' where you should've been...'

'Shut up!' she shrilled. 'Fix it, do something useful! Before he sees it, too!'

The gardener shook his head, well used – as were the other servants – to the stormy temper of this spoiled, succulent slip of a girl; a temper remarkably similar to that of Sir Robert, her stepfather, with whom he had just been discussing orchids. Uncomfortably similar, the man thought, and almost smiled.

'Ain't nothing I can fix, Miss,' said Rogerson. 'That'll need a crash repair job down the garage.'

'Oh, you're absolutely hopeless!' Abruptly the girl swung round on her heels, and the man caught his breath at the sudden sight of her tightly-compacted little rump wiggling roundly beneath the clinging skirt as she hurried up the broad stone stairs to the entrance-door of the stately, ivy-smothered house.

As Alicia hastened to the temporary sanctuary of her room, cold spurts of dread pulsed through her, which quickly heated to panic that made her heart bump. She had borrowed her stepfather's car on one of those reckless impulses of hers, believing him to be away. Certainly he would never have allowed her. After all, she had a car of her own – but it was a lot more fun to drive a brand-new Jaguar than a three-year-old VW Golf. And, damn it, he'd obviously come back while she was out on the road and, assuming his car to be in the garage, was pottering about with his wretched orchids! Now Rogerson would blurt it all out. It was only a question of time. She decided to escape on her horse, Athos, for a few hours until her stepfather's anticipated wrath had cooled. Just in case, dreadfully, he took it into his head (and hand!) to do to her again what he'd done last week or so when she'd broken one of his ugly antique vases in an outburst of pique! The very thought of that made the girl squirm.

In her bedroom Alicia hastily stripped off her day-clothes and scrabbled in the cupboard for her riding-gear. As she leaned forward to work her ankles into the narrow jodhpurs she paused, catching sight of her bent-over bottom in the cheval-glass mirror. The plumply-curved mounds, scarcely covered by the flimsy lace panties, were still marked with two pale pink stripes on the silky skin where the buttocks swelled out from the tops of her pretty thighs. Marks from that excruciating caning he had dared to give her last week! Faintly swollen, slightly raised, they tingled as her fingers touched them. This ghostly tingling returned the girl to her urgent need for haste, and she quickly straightened, hauling up the skin-tight breeches...

'How could that wretched girl run straight into a barrow when there's room for at least ten cars?' Sir Robert was exclaiming, dangerously red in the face as he surveyed the crushed wing of his coveted Jaguar. At six-feet-three and shaking with rage, he made a daunting sight. Some thirty years ago he had boxed for the University and rowed stroke in their best 'eight'. Now in his fifties, a handsome-featured man who had not only retained the hair on his head but most of its sable colouring, he stood straight and powerful, protesting his ill-fortune in an operatic baritone. Ordering the gardener to arrange for the car to be mended at the garage in the village, he stalked off towards the house, determined to have a serious chat with his seemingly incorrigible stepdaughter.

He strode into the spacious hallway and paused, breathing harshly in an effort to control his fury as his hot glare settled on the umbrella-stand, which bristled with brollies and sticks. From it he selected a smart new lady's riding-whip, which he angrily swished through the air. Then he walked through to his private study at the back of the house, thwacking the thin crop against the palm of his hand with a thoughtful but determined expression. Picking up the internal telephone he rang the housekeeper, Mrs White, and asked her to tell his stepdaughter to come down immediately.

Mrs White smiled grimly as she walked up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the corner of the building. At her approach the door flew open and Miss Alicia dashed out, dressed for riding in those skin-tight breeches which hugged across her eye-catching buttocks and so tantalised the male staff. The young mistress was also wearing a white blouse, and calf-length boots on which she wobbled away towards the back stairs, clearly anxious not to be seen.

'Miss Alicia!' the housekeeper called. The girl froze in her tracks, and when she turned her face was flushed and her lovely blue eyes looked feverish. 'Sir Robert would like you down in his study, please.'

'I-I have to take Athos out for his daily exercise,' the girl replied as nonchalantly as she could. 'Tell him you haven't seen me, okay?'

'Your stepfather knows you're in, and was most insistent that you come down at once,' intoned the housekeeper with a somewhat malicious smile: like most of the domestic staff, she had more than once been on the receiving end of this beautiful, willowy girl's temper. 'By the way,' the woman added, 'I noticed that Sir Robert took your new riding-whip from the hall stand. It's in his study with him. I expect you'll need it later, when you go riding.' With that Mrs White swung round and clomped away, scarcely concealing her excitement and pleasure at what might well soon be happening to that spoiled, slender young beauty within a very short space of time.

As Alicia retraced her steps miserably towards the main stairs, unconsciously she let her hands smooth over her narrow hips and backwards across her pert, pouting seat. Through the drum-taut fabric of her breeches she felt again the still-swollen stripes across her compact bottom. This wasn't her lucky week at all. She had got the cane only a few days before, despite her age of almost 21. Now it looked horribly as if she might be in for a taste of her own riding-whip! In a helpless gesture of defiance she tilted her dainty chin and pulled back her shoulders, strangely satisfied at how the buttoned-up blouse tightened across her proudly high-nippled breasts.

Alicia was all too aware of her stepfather's rages. Since her mother had passed away almost three years ago, she had lived alone with him and three servants in this old mansion from which he controlled his companies. All through her teens, Alicia had been high-spirited, but it wasn't until after her mother died that her stepfather began to treat her more like an irresponsible girl than a young lady. She did concede, however, that the physical punishments he had begun to mete out were usually her own fault. Alicia appreciated the continuing luxury of living in this large house with servants, and hadn't made any serious efforts to get a job. After a year at university she had become tired of studies, and defiantly stayed at home. Her stepfather wanted her to accept work in one of his companies, but she had declined; and, after several vain attempts at persuasion, he had become angry and informed her that as long as she was living under his roof without contributing to her own upkeep, she was to obey him and accept his discipline. Meekly, yet sullenly, Alicia had agreed to his terms.

As the girl moved with increasing trepidation towards the combined library and study where Sir Robert worked when at home, the breeches seemed to cling extra tightly to her hips and thighs. Alicia liked them like that, enjoying clothes which presented her figure to advantage. At the door she paused, breathed deeply, yet again, and raised her knuckles to knock. Then she lowered them, and realised she was trembling.

On the other side of the stout mahogany door the incensed step-parent paced impatiently about as he waited for his errant young charge to appear. His gaze wandered around the room with its well-stocked bookcases and fine old oak panelling, finally coming to rest on the supple riding-whip he had placed prominently on the large, leather-topped desk. For a moment he mentally pictured Alicia's girlishly sleek-skinned flanks, and experienced a somewhat guilty, steadily-rising excitement. The whip had been a gift to the girl when he had bought Athos for her; and he had always thought how exhilarating it would be to use it on Alicia's truly attractive bottom. Her bare bottom as naked as that of her horse! Sir Robert squared his heavy shoulder and couldn't suppress a sigh, very much aware of the particular quality of pleasure such thoughts gave him. It was a heady feeling akin to the intoxication afforded by champagne, only more so!

Last time, some ten days ago, he had made her bend over this same writing-desk. Alicia had been wearing a ridiculously brief skirt, which he considered frankly indecent. Furious as Sir Robert had already been on account of the girl's clumsiness, the riveting sight of those round, packed-to-bursting rumps and silky thigh-backs had flooded the man's senses with a great glow of well-being; of supreme anticipation! He had turned up her skirt and uncovered a pair of deliciously-shaped buttocks encased in pink nylon knickers with a pattern of small flowers and a lace edging. He had been in something of a daze as he picked up the cane and delivered ten crisp whacks across that gorgeous rear, remembering only that the girl had complained with sharp aaaooauuuches and oowwws, though probably more loudly than she had reason to, for in his rapt condition he had not hit hard.

After the caning Alicia hadn't wept much, but had snifflingly promised him to behave better in future. In the intervening days, however, Sir Robert had found himself secretly hoping that his beautiful 20-year-old stepdaughter would revert to her true nature. And now, sure enough, with this inexcusable 'borrowing' and damaging of his Jaguar, the wilful girl had played straight into his more-than-willing hands.

Now he began to positively savour the imminent encounter. As Alicia had protested at how, during her caning, the desk-edge had bit into her hips at the front, he now decided to have the girl lying across the arm support of the leather-clad sofa. Thus she would have her hips raised higher, which would prevent her from attempting to stand up between the strokes to rub her bottom as she had tried to do before.

At the uncharacteristically timid rap on the door the big man stiffened more tensely in his brown gardening tweeds, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.

'Come!' he barked.

The door crept open and Alicia stepped into the study. In her riding-habit, with well-polished riding-boots, her slender figure was indeed a fetching sight to behold. He always enjoyed seeing her in that costume, with white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck, and tight khaki breeches snugly contouring her buttocks, thighs and hips. On horseback, with helmet and jacket on too, she always caught the eyes of the spectators. On this occasion, though, he was to be the sole spectator; and he intended it to be a spectacle very much worth the watching. Sir Robert's heavily handsome features hardened, and his eyes were like flints. The only gestures which betrayed the excitement he felt were the way his fingers pushed through his white-flecked hair and his firm, grave mouth twitched at the corners.

'Shut the door, Alicia,' he said quietly. Blushing, and in increasing dread, the girl obeyed. She took a few steps forward and then her eyes grew round on seeing her own flexible plaited riding-whip on the desk over which she had sprawled that last dreadful time.

'I-I'm sorry about the car, honestly I am,' she said. Her voice trembled. Demurely she held her eyes downcast, then dared a glance at him from beneath long eyelashes.

'Being "sorry" simply isn't enough, Alicia,' her stepfather rapped. 'You blithely take my new car without permission – that, in itself, would have been offence enough to justify how I now intend to deal with you.' His voice grew in force and pitch, so that each word made the girl flinch as if from a slap. 'But you then, through sheer wanton recklessness, drive it into a barrow and have the gall to try and put the blame on the gardener!'

Feeling increasingly apprehensive, panting with growing agitation, Alicia was shifting her weight and fidgeting as she tried to find a way out of this appalling scrape. She had a genuinely guilty look on her face now, and did her best to avoid his angry glare. But her flinching gaze only settled again on the riding-whip.

'Look at me, young lady,' he rasped. 'Raise your head and look me in my eyes when I'm talking to you!'

Alicia's neat white teeth showed as she bit at her lower lip and glanced up at him from under wet, trembling lashes. Tears had appeared in her large blue eyes. 'Please, father, I've said I'm sorry,' the girl implored. 'It will hurt so much!' Desperately, Alicia tried another tack. 'Look, I'm almost 21 now! I-I'll pay for the damage somehow, but please don't use that on me. I'm a grown woman now, I'm...'

Sir Robert towered above her as she wheedled and wept. The very sight of that graceful young woman with the honey-gold hair, enchanting face and wringing hands might have melted the heart of a less imaginative man. But Alicia's stepfather's imagination was too strong to deny his heated mental images the fulfilment of reality. He swelled his great chest, lifted his strong-jawed head higher, and picked up the girl's own riding-whip.

'Alicia,' he intoned gravely, tapping his broad palm with the springy shaft, 'I have already told you that you have no one to blame but yourself for the predicament you are in – and you will pay in the manner I have chosen.' She gasped as he moved around the desk towards her. 'Get over there to the sofa,' he instructed, almost softly now. 'I want you across the arm support with your feet to the floor.'

Instinctively, Alicia turned to obey. With hands clasped to the seat of her smartly-tailored breeches she moved most unwillingly to the sofa, daring to hope that he would at least let her keep her breeches on. She had used that new leather switch quite often enough lately when riding Athos. It stung even him, so she was well aware of its whipping quality. The trim young woman stopped close to the arm support and cast a pleading glance back at her stepfather, searching for words that might stop this happening. None came.

'Take your breeches down,' came the command.

'No, please!" Alicia's voice grew shrill as her hands flew to the waistband of her pants – not to release it but to hold them in position.

'Take them down, or I shall do it for you!' His voice was implacable, and she could hear him breathing harshly.

'Oh. No. No-o. Please, stepfather, let me keep them on!'

'Do as I tell you, Alicia,' he ordered, and the young lady knew there was nothing else for her but to obey. Wretchedly she fumbled with the buttons, five on each side of the drum-tight breeches. She undid them slowly, clumsily, fingers trembling, till the side-splits fell open. Yet still she held her breeches up. When Alicia glanced imploringly at him, she saw him taking the leather whip from the table, and quickly averted her eyes. Glowering, yet inwardly elated, Sir Robert stepped up behind his quavering stepdaughter, thwacking his palm with unmistakable intention.

'Let them down to your knees,' he ordered, noting with further quiet pleasure the hem of her blouse and a nylon garment in green and white through the slit-opening. Defiantly, desperately, Alicia continued to hold her breeches up.

'Please, father,' she begged, 'i-it will hurt too much. You know I'm still sore...' The girl increased her sobbing, frantic to be spared this punishment which she had dreaded from the moment the car had hit the wheelbarrow. Her face was red and swollen from the tears, and she felt utterly ashamed. Yet, in an act of obstinacy which marked her character, she continued to tug up the breeches as high as she could. And, because she was at the same time bending slightly forward, the fabric stretched very tightly around her protruding, deliciously apple-shaped behind. It was an enticement impossible to resist. Sir Robert raised the switch and let it swish through the air to land with a dull swat right across where the cloth was the most taut.

Alicia let out a shrill yelp. The smart was perfectly atrocious. She felt it penetrate in stinging waves even through her breeches, and at once she jumped to the side, half-turning her back away from him.

'Are you ready to obey me now?' asked Sir Robert harshly, raising the whip again. The lovely girl whimpered, hesitating only a moment more before she pushed the breeches down, unveiling a pair of the flimsiest green-and-white chequered knickers with a narrow lace edging around the thighs. Then she turned with a deep sigh, face glittering with tears as she looked beseechingly at her stepfather, the khaki riding-breeches wrinkled around her knees in a most humiliating manner. 'And the knickers, please.'

This time the proud girl gaped. 'No!' she exclaimed. 'You can't mean...?'

'But I do mean, Alicia,' the big man retorted, feeling the glowing within him enhance to a quiet radiance. 'You will pull your knickers down so that your buttocks are entirely bare.' As if to underline his instruction, he lightly tapped the bare skin of her thighs below the knicker-legs. 'Now!'

Slowly, as if resigned at last to her fate, Alicia put her thumbs inside the elastic round her waist and sobbingly stooped to pull the scant protection down. With the globes of her buttocks thus starkly bared, and desperately shy in case he might see her exposed front, she quickly bent over the leather chair-arm and stretched herself out on her tummy, legs slightly apart and dangling down, hiding her face in her open hands.

Seeing his stepdaughter bent submissively across the sofa with her bare bottom uppermost, Sir Robert yielded to an irresistible temptation to examine more closely Alicia's enticingly attractive buttocks. So gorgeously curved they were, with flinching muscles in the springy flesh. It was a perfect bottom, like some succulent peach, pushed high by the arching of its owner's supple spine to receive its well-deserved chastisement.

'It's your flagrant disobedience which has merited this thrashing,' Sir Robert now summarised in low, even tones. 'You must learn responsibility for your actions, Alicia.' He stood to one side of her prostrate body, noting with great satisfaction how her buttock-muscles tensed and jumped under the silken flesh. Flexing the riding-whip, he raised his arm. 'As you soon will be 21,' he told her, 'I have decided to be more strict with you than before. On the last occasion you received ten. Today it will have to be fifteen.'

'Please,' she gasped. 'Please, you can't. I-I still have marks from the cane; you know my skin is so sensitive... Aaaaowwwch!' Alicia had hardly finished her protest when a hissing in the air was followed by a crisp smack and her complaining shriek of pain from the ferocious sting the riding-whip caused as it smote smartly across her naked, flinching bottom. The thin, flexible leather at once recoiled and landed again below its first mark, though not quite so hard as the initial blow. Involuntarily the girl stretched her body rigidly and her arms shot forward as her feet lifted from the floor. For several seconds she lay stiffly horizontal, whimpering as she fought to absorb the pain.

'Put your feet down, Alicia,' he told her sharply. 'I want your bottom bent tightly over.'

In a mist of anguish and embarrassment Alicia did as bidden, thrusting her knuckles into her mouth as if biting them would prevent her from yelling out for the next stroke, and the next.

As Sir Robert swung back the riding-crop, warming to his enviable task, the oppressive weight of day-to-day business problems seemed to lift from him, to be replaced by a heady sensation of glorious release. The sound the crop made as it whipped through the air, the feel of its meaty impact on those so-sweet pillows of flesh, were like elixir to his soul.

Whiissh- SPLACK!

'Uuuhuuu,' the girl sobbed, wriggling her so very vulnerable bottom in a rage of pain and humiliation. Through the raspings her body made as it bucked and threshed against the leather chair-arm she remembered something her stepfather had said when he had beaten her before, that she ought to be grateful as long as she could atone for her transgressions in this way, because the alternative might one day be prison and public disgrace...

Sswiish-whack! Even as she cried out, she shuddered at the thought of being locked away in a shabby cell. Instead, it seemed, her own elegant, expensive riding-whip was scoring another burning mark diagonally across her left buttock, and the last inches of the switch etched a far more painful stripe across the back of her right thigh.

'Aaaghh, please – please NO!'

Ssswiiish! That smack came too soon after its predecessor. Alicia had scarcely time to release the shrill yelp which accompanied it, before the doubled smart in her bottom forced her to emit a shrieking, gasping, unintelligible croak.

For a few moments Sir Robert paused to allow his quailing stepdaughter to catch her breath. The man's eyes glowed with the pleasure of a connoisseur being richly satisfied as he surveyed those round, ripe rumps now striped and crimsoning. He was in heaven! Sucking in air he again poised his hand high above the seductive target and brought the riding-whip whistling down.

Ssssplaatt! A new stripe burned across the resilient girl-flesh just below the crown of her rippling cheeks, and again Alicia emitted a cry of anguish. And then, like before, while she was squeezing her thighs hard and clenching her buttocks, she received another screeching stroke immediately after, lower down in the tender bottom-skin near the tops of her shuddering legs. Alicia gave a gurgling cry and squirmed violently, wrenching her semi-nude body and removing her scorching buttocks from the target area.

Sir Robert paused as the following stroke was about to descend, then bent and grasped Alicia's left arm and forced her back into position over the padded leather support while the miserable girl pleaded and wept.

'P-p-please, stepfather – please, no more. I c-can't take it...' Alicia blubbered.

There are eight more to come, Alicia,' he told her harshly. 'You're old enough to be brave and take the punishment you've earned, without making so much fuss! If you turn your bottom again I will add more strokes!' For a few moments Sir Robert let his stepdaughter rest. She had never in her life been thrashed so severely, but the lesson would be salutary. In the brief break, as her sniffles subsided and her sweet young body settled, he savoured anew the uniquely intoxicating sights and sounds of the whipping, the girl's mews and groans, and the feel of the pliant riding-switch so light and lively in his grip.

Stretched across the arm of the sofa, Alicia welcomed the pause. She tried to relax and make her body go limp, pressing her knuckles to her lips as she waited for the thrashing to resume, very much aware of her stepfather standing close behind and breathing hard as he regarded her red-striped, twitching, wincing bottom. Then he again, slowly, raised the switch – aiming at the pinkened tenderness where Alicia's thighs swelled lusciously into the half-globes of her pertly provocative, temptingly-patterned behind.

Hwissh-thwack! The riding-whip sped down and struck accurately across the creases which marked the undercurves, forcing fresh shrillness from the girl's lips; and while her buttocks were still trembling from the impact the switch fell once more, a little higher up, flattening the flesh and making her whole bottom wobble.


Alicia gasped and cried, raising her hips as if to meet the next stroke on its journey down, but her stepfather deliberately waited until she was again lying prone with her belly pressed to the chair-arm before he swept the whip down. The stroke made its authoritative crisp report and a new red mark showed how the whip had hit across both her thighs immediately below the clenched buttocks.

Wailing and blubbering as she was, Alicia was by now doing her best to prepare herself for the pain each time the springy whip bit into her smarting flesh, and the sheer physical tension caused the muscles of her crimsoned bottom to move in flinching and twitching movements by themselves. She began to feel a sense of pride in not crying out when the riding-whip struck into her flesh.

The next followed almost at once and hit right across the tops of her bare half-moons; and this time only a stifled moan left her mouth, though she could not prevent her hips from jerking up and down. Alicia further began to find that the pang of the smacks was not unendurable – or so she was able to convince herself. There was of course no question about the fact that he was punishing her most severely, and she had to weep because the tears helped to alleviate the stinging pain and made it possible for her to submit. The repeated twinges which shot through her bottom when the riding-whip landed to decorate her skin with still another red-glowing stripe, caused her to blubber – though much more quietly now, and this blubbering helped her to keep the position in which her stepfather wanted her.

Sir Robert had been counting the strokes in his head, but now he started to grunt them out loud. When Alicia heard 'Twelve', she began to feel relieved. And then, at last, she heard him counting 'Fourteen' and 'Fifteen'. For at least a minute afterwards, as she continued to lie across the leather chair-arm feeling her bottom throbbing hot and sore, tears coursed down Alicia's pretty cheeks, and all that could be heard was the gradual slowing of his grunting breaths and her own soft snifflings.

At length Sir Robert put the riding-whip back on his desk, almost with reverence, and for a while he stood back and examined, with silent admiration and a profound satisfaction, Alicia's red-patterned, comely young bottom. The fawn jodhpurs had slipped down round her ankles and the green-and-white knickers were wrinkled below her knees. There were stripes all over her shapely posteriors, and also a few long red marks across the backs of her thighs.

'All right, Alicia,' he said, his voice a little tired now after the elation he had experienced. 'You can get up now. I hope that you will always remember this lesson. It wasn't really to use it like this that I bought this riding-whip for you.'

Alicia struggled to regain her feet and composure, pushing herself exhaustedly up from the sofa-arm. For a moment she held both hands to her face to wipe off her tears, before realising that she was displaying herself to him in front. She quickly stooped and pulled up her knickers, yet scarcely seemed to care that the breeches were still round her feet.

'Yes, stepfather,' the girl sniffled. 'I will try to behave, honestly I will.' She looked down meekly then added, almost saucily: 'I-I'm so sore now, I don't know if I'll be able to take Athos out for his exercise today.'

Sir Robert smiled, then frowned with some effort at the tearful girl who looked so vulnerable and charming in her white blouse and skimpy panties with the rest of her clothing down around her legs. A far cry from the normal, proud and bossy Alicia.

'But you had better,' he admonished her. 'That horse needs his run, and a sore bottom doesn't hurt a great deal more because you are sitting on it. Pull up your breeches now, then go and wash your face and get along to the stables. You know you like riding Athos.'

Alicia couldn't resist a furtive rub at her bottom-cheeks before bending and tugging the jodhpurs back up her legs, fingers fumbling as she re-fastened the five buttons at each side. The breeches felt even tighter now, perhaps because she was more sensitive where they fitted closest! At least, she sighed, her punishment was over.

Half an hour later the girl hurried away to the stables feeling very much better. Her stepfather had appeared to be in an excellent mood and had patted her – still somewhat painfully – on her behind when she had come back to fetch her riding-whip from his study. Indeed, so relaxed did he seem, Sir Robert hadn't even forbidden her to use her own car or to visit her friend after dinner.

In the cobbled yard that smelled of horses and hay the groom, Hubert, helped her to saddle Athos – who still was too young to stand still when the leather encumbrance was put on his back. After Alicia had checked the length of the stirrups, she led the fretful stallion out into the field and climbed somewhat stiffly into the saddle while Hubert held him.

'Be careful now, Miss Alicia,' cautioned Hubert, patting the horse's flank. 'Athos isn't too safe yet. Remember what your stepfather often says, that if you have to use the riding-whip, then do it gently and with very light taps.'

The old groom simply could not understand, and nor would Alicia have been able to explain to him, why she allowed her horse to race away in such an uncontrollable manner. Nor why as Athos surged into a gallop with almost slack reins and his shapely rider bumped up and down in the saddle, shrill little squeals could be heard from Alicia all the way into the distance.