Saturday, 25 June 2011


Story from London Life Vol.1 No.2.


Duncan watched the girl sway from his office and sighed heavily. Elaine was becoming somewhat of a problem, and he was beginning to wish he had never said he would employ her. Of course the girl had to work somewhere, and in some ways she was an efficient secretary, but he didn't care for the way she tried to dominate his entire life, public as well as private. His wife was getting suspicious, even though there were no grounds for her to do so. But it was odd, every time his wife rang the office, or came to see him, Elaine was always present, standing closer than she needed to, flirting with him in a way. Duncan smiled ruefully, it wouldn't be so bad if she flirted with him when they were alone, she was an attractive girl, but when his wife was around, well, that was courting disaster. He wondered if London girls were all alike!

When the Woking office had closed down, Elaine had been only too pleased to travel to Scotland, she had an aunt in Prestwick, so she stayed with her, and the money had pleased her. Oh yes, the girl was efficient, but it was her manner that disturbed him. The other day, he made an error on a customer's account, Eileen had spotted it, but instead of returning the document to his office for him to correct, she had done it herself, making sure that the Head Office at Bristol had known who had done the correction. It had been a very nasty ten minutes on the telephone with the M.D. All Elaine had done was smile her apologies.

'I am sorry Mr. McGregor,' she murmured, 'I had no idea you would get into trouble, the M.D. is such a nice man.'

'I wonder how Bill Jason got on with her,' he muttered to himself.

Jason had been her former employer in Woking, he was now at Leeds. He dialled the outside line himself, not wanting Elaine to know what he was doing.

'Bill,' he said, almost in a whisper in case the girl was listening outside the door. 'I want to ask you about Elaine. She's a good secretary, but she has one or two traits that I don't like. For example, she flirts with me in front of the wife, making out that we are a lot closer than we are, and there was that business the other day when she landed me in it with the M.D. I have no real reason to fire her, yet, if this goes on I will be out of a job... and a wife as well. Mary is sure that there is something going on between my secretary and myself. What was she like with you?'

There was a slight pause. 'Take her in hand old man, and I mean in hand. She used to try it on with me, I reckon she is over-sexed! One of the guys in the Export Office was screwing her brains out, and the things he used to tell me! I didn't rise to her bait, and as she couldn't seduce me, she did the next best thing, spread a few lies around the office that I was a dirty old man who kept stroking her thighs when she stood near me. The guy in the Export Office threatened me with grievous bodily harm! Know what I did old man? I called her into my office, put her across my knee and spanked her bottom! That cured her as far as I was concerned.'

'That was a bit drastic!' exclaimed Duncan. 'She could have had you for assault or something.'

'Not her,' laughed Jason, 'I reckon she enjoyed it. Then I had her moved to the Export Office where she could torment her lover. Take her in hand Duncan, it's the only thing she understands.'

McGregor replaced the receiver thoughtfully. He knew all about corporal punishment, he had two sons! But thrashing a person who was not a member of the family was quite different. Something had to be done though, and done swiftly before things got out of hand. He had the feeling that Elaine was either after a higher position in the office... such as his job, or moving to Bristol to work for the M.D., or she was deliberately seducing him. He thought about her trim body and wondered what she would be like in bed. He shook his head, dismissing the lustful thought and picked up the papers Elaine had left for him to sign.

Hidden among the papers he found a letter, on pink scented notepaper. It was typed, but he recognised the typewriter, it was a special one, very expensive, and it belonged to Elaine.

'Dear Mrs. McGregor,' he read, 'I feel that I ought to warn you about your husband. Most of the girls who work with him are afraid of him. It isn't that he is a stern or strict man, but he cannot keep his hands to himself. One of the juniors caught him the other day misbehaving himself and looking at a disgusting magazine.

Yours truly,
A well-wisher.'

'Good God,' muttered Duncan. 'The little bitch!' He got up from his desk and strode around the office, muttering to himself. If his wife had received that letter there would have been eruptions. Of course there wasn't a grain of truth in the letter, never once had he allowed his band to stray anywhere near the staff. He wondered how to deal with the situation. Then he remembered, in the bottom drawer of his desk was a strap, it had been there some time. His wife had brought it, along with his eldest son, he had punished the boy in the office for some misdeed, he forgot what it was. Yes, the strap was still there. It was what Elaine needed, a good sound strapping. He leaned against the desk thoughtfully. He could ask Mrs. Dunn from Filing to administer the punishment, years ago she had been a school-mistress, the task would be commonplace for her. He rang Filing, but Mrs. Dunn had gone home pleading a headache. He made up his mind, he would do it himself, if Bill Jason could spank the girl, so could he! He switched on the intercom.

'Elaine, will you come in here please.'

When she came in, smiling as usual, he asked her to close the door, lock it and pass him the key. Her eyes opened in wonderment at his request, then her smile became more seductive as she perched on the edge of a chair, her skirt pulled well back revealing plenty of shapely thigh. Duncan picked up the scented letter from his desk and tossed it onto her lap.

'Did you write that?' he asked.

He didn't need a reply, he could tell by her face that she was as guilty as hell! She blushed and stammered out some reply.

'I hope you realise that I could have you dismissed for this? I have a mind to pin this on the office notice board with my comments.'

'Oh, don't do that Mr. McGregor,' stammered the girl, 'My aunt... she would be heartbroken.'

He turned his back to her and gazed out of the window, his heart thudding in his chest. 'Stand up Elaine, put your hands on the back of the chair.'

'What... what are you going to do... sir?'

That was the first time she had called him sir! He turned to face her.

'I am going to spank you Elaine... not the first time you have been spanked I understand. You will lift up your skirt... now.'

She stared at him for a few moments, a pretty blush coming over her face, then she slowly and seductively lifted her skirt until her knickers were visible. Once he saw her bottom he wouldn't be interested in beating her, he would be more interested in what lay between her slender legs! She knew men, she knew what the sight of her underwear did to them.

He walked round and looked at her, noting her plump derriere, her white knickers stretched tautly across, the crease between the cheeks outlined sharply. She had her legs slightly apart, making her look more inviting than ever. For a moment he hesitated, then he thought of the havoc the letter could have caused if the stupid girl hadn't left it among the papers. He raised his hand, and Elaine, caught her breath. He spanked her sharply across the cheeks, hard enough for him to feel the sting in his hand. She cried out, her bottom muscles tensing, the nylon knickers crinkling slightly. He spanked her again, and she straightened her back as the pain shot through her.

He put one hand on her back so that she couldn't escape, and began to spank her soundly, ignoring her cries of anguish and embarrassment. Her knickers slowly worked down until he could see the base of her spine. Suddenly, on impulse he pulled her knickers over her hips, baring her smarting pink bottom.

'No Mr. McGregor,' she cried.

'Yes Elaine,' he murmured, and struck her hard across the quivering cheeks. The sound of his slap echoed around the office, and he spanked her steadily until the pink went crimson, and his arm ached, and only then did he stop. She eased her knickers back up painfully.

'You hurt me sir,' she muttered, tears in her eyes.

'I meant to Elaine. Now go back to your desk, and nothing more will be said about this.'

A few minutes later he had a thought, he didn't know why, but he opened his office door and looked across at his secretary. She had the phone in her hand.

'Mrs. McGregor, I think you ought to know...'

He bounded across the office and put his fingers on the phone, cutting the connection.

He grabbed her and almost dragged the girl back into his office. She stood by the desk, trembling from head to foot, staring wildly as Duncan opened the desk drawer and took out a vicious looking leather strap.

'I usually use this strap on my sons,' he said, grimly, 'when they have misbehaved, but never, in their lives, have they done or tried to do anything as nasty as you!' He sat down on his office chair. 'Come here young woman, and drape yourself across my lap, I am going to teach you a lesson. It seems Bill Jason didn't punish you severely enough at Woking, you have not learned your lesson.'

She moved around the desk very slowly, her eyes wide with fear. 'I... I will tell my aunt,' she croaked.

'No doubt your aunt will agree with me. She is a Scotswoman and believes in corporal punishment, and she will agree with my choice of punishment.'

The girl stood near to him and lifted her skirt up, still hoping that a sight of her shapely thighs and tight white knickers would be enough to make him think of other things. At that moment she would gladly have pulled her knickers down and offered her body to him, anything to avoid the beating. But from the look in Duncan's eyes she knew she was wasting her time. She hitched her skirt up around her waist and lay across Duncan's lap so that her knicker-covered bottom faced up at him. For some moments he stared at it, the roundness, the deep cleft between the cheeks, the way her thighs flattened against his. Could he bring himself to thrash such a lovely backside? He hooked his fingers into the waist elastic, paused a moment longer, then brought the strap down with a resounding thwack on her bottom.

'Oo... ooow! ' cried Elaine, wriggling in pain on his lap. 'You're hurting me sir.'

'Good,' he gritted. Now that he had struck the first blow he relaxed. He thrashed her ceaselessly six times, and it seemed to the sobbing girl on his lap that each stroke was harder, and cut into her plump flesh.

'Oooh!' she whimpered, 'you are cruel Mr. McGregor, you have scarred me.'

He pulled her knickers down over her sore backside, making her wince as the nylon rasped on her. Her bottom was a dull red, marks an inch or so wide across the cheeks.

'Mmm!' she murmured, and it seemed to Duncan that her exclamation wasn't one of pain. He touched the rosy skin, it felt very hot, and as his hand trailed lower she opened her thighs so that he could see wisps of pubic hair. 'Touch me,' she whimpered, 'please Duncan, touch me.'

He held his fingers an inch away from the vee of her thighs, the muscles in his arms taut, then he slowly lowered his hand until he was brushing against the inside of her thigh. The girl moaned again and pressed herself closer to him.

'I've got him!' she thought to herself. 'I can feel him getting stiff, he wants me, and I will let him make love to me, here, in his office, and then, oh, and then, he will do anything I say. I will know everything about him, the way he is, things that only a lover would know. Mmm, come on Duncan, touch me more intimately!'

Her legs widened and his fingers trembled as they went nearer to her most secret part. He could feel the warm moisture.

'No!' he shouted, suddenly, and he brought the strap down hard against her sensuous, squirming backside.

Elaine shrieked out, her body stiffened as the strap cut into her flesh. Her hands curled into fists as he rained blow after blow on her exposed flesh. The severity of the thrashing drove all sexual thoughts from her mind, no longer did she feel desire, only a cutting thud as the strap wrought justice. Tears streamed from her eyes as the throbbing in her bottom spread through her, and, when at last he called it a day, she rose to her feet, staggered, then leaned against the desk, resting her hands on the top. Her skirt was still bunched around her waist, and she looked a delightful and erotic sight. Her knickers trapped by her knees, her buttocks glowing red, the skin tight. Elaine tried once more to appease the man. She turned to face him and showed her hairy vee.

'You won't beat me again Mr. McGregor, will you?' she whispered. He turned his head away, his mind was spinning. Thrashing the wilful girl had had a strange effect on him. His anger during the beating had turned to something else, something very much akin to passion!

'Please go Elaine, and remember, if you ever misbehave again, you will be strapped. There is a lot of work for you to do, now get out.'

That evening, when he went home from work he took the strap with him.

'Oh Duncan, I wondered where it had got to,' said his wife, greeting her husband with a kiss. 'I had completely forgotten!'

He slumped in a chair. 'I used it today Mary, on Elaine.'

He told her what had happened at the office, and his reason for spanking and strapping the girl. It was the only thing for him to do, Elaine could decide to tell everyone what her boss had done! When he had finished Mary sat on his knee and put her arms around his neck.

'I am not surprised the child felt the way she did after you had strapped her, do you remember, years ago, when you actually strapped me for flirting with Bruce Kennedy... and what happened afterwards?'

He stared up at the ceiling, remembering. 'That was years ago Mary.'

She nuzzled into his ear and reached out for the strap.

'I saw Bruce this afternoon Duncan, he has asked me to meet him one evening, and we could have dinner... and something, together! Now doesn't that deserve a beating? I mean, Bruce, and I...'

They went upstairs arm in arm, the strap swinging freely between them. Oh yes, Duncan remembered alright, and there was a tingle in his loins as he opened the bedroom door and Mary lifted her dress up before laying face down on the bed. She smiled up at him.

'I do need a strapping Duncan,' she whispered. 'I am tempted to go out with Bruce.'

The strap whistled through the air, and... but perhaps we had better draw a curtain over the next half hour, what a couple do in the privacy of their bedroom has nothing to do with us!

Friday, 24 June 2011

Trials of a parlourmaid

Story from Uniform Girls 32.

Trials of a parlourmaid

It is dusk on a pleasant September evening. It has been one of those lovely Indian Summer days, hot and golden, which autumn sometimes brings to England's shires and it is still warm now as the mellow stone of Hartgrove Manor nestles in its rolling acres against a darkening sky. Light shows from various of its many windows, some with drapes drawn and others not, as the house and its occupants go about their business. The business of dinner mostly at this hour, preparing it or preparing for it; activity, some bustling and other more leisurely, above stairs and below. Not all is action, though. There is also waiting. Anticipation. There is waiting for dinner which is of course generally pleasant anticipation. But there can also be waiting for other things.

From the stable block at the rear of the house a young man glances up at a window on the first floor. The lights are on but the drapes are closed so that nothing can be seen of the inside. And in any case from his angle he wouldn't be able to see much beyond the immediate vicinity of the window itself even if the drapes were drawn back. But... he can nonetheless see something in his mind. A young woman standing there. Waiting. She will still be waiting at this moment. He glances at his watch. Yes. The master is a man of strict routine... Sir George Hartgrove.

The young man (he is 22) with the keenly watching eyes is called Arthur Tradwell. He is tall and pleasant-looking, clean-shaven, but his clothing — corduroys and a cheap cloth jacket — indicate that he is not a member of the family but one of the outside staff on the estate. He lives in the village with his parents and does not need to be here at this hour of the evening except... for that young woman he knows, or believes, to be at present in that room opposite on the first floor. She is close to being his fiancee; certainly they are walking out as the expression is. Her name is Jane Linnet. She is 19 and a parlourmaid at the Manor.

Arthur knows Jane is in that room because she has told him. Most days before dinner she has to go there. He has known this now for a week. Does anyone else know? Arthur has desperately asked himself this question ever since Jane told him. Not willingly but somehow, a week ago, when they were out for a walk... it had somehow come out, partly forced out of Jane once she had begun. The dark secret that came haltingly out... to leave him devastated. 'I didn't want to tell you,' she said, blinking tears afterwards. He had wanted to tell her she must leave, but of course he knew she couldn't do that. Sir George wouldn't let her.

Perhaps no one else did know? But he knew that wasn't likely. They would know the other inside servants. Cook (Mrs Hagley). Mr Jermyn, the butler. Also the other maids? Did the other girls have to go and see Sir George in that room? 'S...Sarah does,' Jane had whispered. Sarah was the other parlourmaid, a pretty girl but not in Arthur's eyes half as pretty as Jane. Sarah had to go at lunch time Jane muttered.

'Does he do it? To Sarah?' Arthur had asked. Jane wouldn't answer — but he knew the answer was yes. But Arthur wasn't concerned about Sarah. It was Jane. Every evening before dinner. Or almost every evening. Almost, so there was a chance it wasn't tonight. Arthur tried to tell himself that. Yesterday and tomorrow but maybe not right now. That would be something, that it wasn't happening, or about to happen now. Arthur's eyes are intent, straining... as if somehow they could pierce the drapes... and see that Jane wasn't there. He looks again at his watch. 7.45...

* * *

7.45. That is what the clock on the mantelpiece shows when Jane gives it a quick glance. Then a glance at the door. It will open without warning because the carpet outside will deaden the sound of footsteps. Unconsciously she smooths a nervous hand over her white pinafore. She should perhaps be used to it now, and not bother, not get agitated. But she isn't.

The room is mostly empty except for a brocaded chair and a full-length bevel mirror. Jane is standing away from the bay window with its closed drapes that looks out over the rear of the house. Standing in front of the mirror. Its reflection shows a very pretty girl, her russet-brown hair piled-high on her head with a little lace cap pinned on the top. She is tallish and evidently shapely in her long black high-heeled pumps. In front the dress is almost completely covered by a full-length white pinafore, the bodice of which shows the swell of full, firm breasts. Behind, the black material of the dress is not tight about her flanks but its folds nonetheless indicate full, womanly hindquarters.

Yes, a pretty and voluptuously-bodied young woman. One of Sir George's two parlourmaids. The one he likes to see in the evenings, before dinner. Sarah who is blonde but equally well-built is usually before lunch. Sir George Hartgrove is a man of habit. A man who likes routine in his pleasures as in other areas of his life. And now...

The door opens. Without warning, but then you do not need warning with Sir George, if you know his routine. It is 7.47. You could almost set a clock by Sir George Hartgrove. He is in his fifties, a biggish man with ruddy complexion and thick black moustache though his hair is greying. He is dressed for dinner because he will go straight down when he has finished here with Jane. When he has had his aperitif as it were...

He closes the door after him. Jane, heart all at once thudding as it always does, does a quick curtsy. Her hands grip the material of the pinafore at her sides. He is coming close, with those gleaming eyes. A word of greeting. Jane stands still, though shaking, as his two large hands take hold of her large, firm breasts through the layers of clothing.

'A lovely day, Jane.'

'Yes Sir.' The hands are squeezing, mounding.

'A hot day for September. Get's a girl hot, does it, weather like this?'

The remark is ambiguous, no doubt by intention. Jane colours slightly but tells herself to keep calm. 'It... it was a lovely day, Sir.'

'I know that, Jane, but I asked you something else. Does this weather get you hot? Hot down here I mean.' As Sir George speaks one hand has slid down. Through the pinafore and dress and what is underneath it takes hold of the mound of Jane's sex. 'This. Does it get this hot?'

A little whinnying sound pops from her soft mouth as the hand takes hold. Jane is trembling... but she must stand meekly still. 'No... No... Sir.'

'No? Not hot for that Arthur? Eh?'

'N...No Sir.' Sir George's other hand has left Jane's boobs now. It is yanking up the various layers: pinafore and skirt and petticoat. So that his right hand came dip in underneath. To her thighs in the flimsy white drawers... And not only her thighs. His hand sliding up to where it was before. Jane's pussy. She makes a little sobbing sound.

'I hope not, my girl. I don't want you giving it to him. Whatever the weather. And no one else either. Not Jermyn. Nor to anyone who comes to the house. Is that understood?'

Jane stutters a desperate 'Yes Sir.' The hand is there with just the single layer of her drawers now protecting her. Sir George's hand that has pushed her thighs apart and is right there. Holding Jane's pussy.

'You and Arthur Tradwell, Jane. Nothing planned yet?' Frantic-eyed Jane shakes her head.

'Good. Well, see that you discuss it with me before you make any plans. I won't necessarily object. Perhaps you're getting to the age when you need to be wed. Eh? A big, ripe girl. Maybe you need a young man in bed at night giving it to you. Tupping you. We'll see, eh? But until then... I want you still a virgin, my girl. Is that understood?'

Sir George is not always as bad as this. There is not infrequently the hand up her skirt; and of course what is shortly to follow, there is always that. But these things he is saying... Jane desperately nods her head.

Sir George grunts. He is finally taking his hand away. 'As long as that's clear. Now then. Let's have something that a girl certainly needs, eh? Get your skirts up.'

Sir George turns to sit clown on the chair. Jane's skirts have fallen back into position but she now has to lift them again. Right up this time, round her waist, and get down over Sir George's lap. For what she somehow found herself telling Arthur about a week ago. Telling him what Sir George did virtually every day before dinner here in this room overlooking the stables. Jane hadn't meant to tell him. She hadn't told him before although Sir George has been doing it ever since she came here as parlourmaid. In a way it was a relief to have told him, to no longer have that secret from him. But at the same time it is dreadful that he knows...

Jane hoists up her skirts. Naturally there is no thought of refusal, of argument. Jane is a parlourmaid. Sir George Hartgrove's parlourmaid. He is her master and as such can do virtually what he wants with her. And if he wants to spank her bare bottom every day before dinner...

Jane's skirts are up. There are white stockings and white cotton knee-length drawers which are tight over her bottom to reveal the voluptuous swell of the cheeks. She would not choose to wear drawers as tight as this but they are what Sir George insists on. Jane is now lowering herself over Sir George's lap. Right over so that the ripe curves of her bottom cheeks in the tight cotton are squarely across his thighs. Jane's head is down close to the carpet. She grimaces. Sir George's hand is playing with her bottom. Squeezing and patting, rolling the ripe flesh under his palm. And then the hands are tugging down the tight trousers...

Outside... the silent watcher waits. He has no means of knowing if anything is happening behind those closed curtains. But from what Jane has reluctantly told him the chances are very high. Most days, she said. And when pressed further that apparently meant whenever Sir George had no more urgent duties at this hour — and he usually doesn't. So... it probably is. It is ten to 8. The probability is very high that Jane at this moment is over Sir George's lap. With her skirt and petticoats up and her drawers down. And for the next 10 minutes — or maybe longer because Sir George, master in his own house, can delay the dinner hour if he so wishes — for the next 10, 15, 20 minutes or however long he wants. Sir George's large hand will be cracking down onto Jane's bared bottom.

Arthur turns away as a figure crosses the courtyard. It is Jack Slaper, head groom, a man of 50 or so. Arthur doesn't want to be seen gazing desperately up at the window. Does Jack Slaper know? Arthur has no way of knowing but it is quite possible. He tries to push that possibility out of his mind as Jack greets him.

'Not home yet then, young Arthur? Waiting for that Jane? I reckon you'll have to wait a bit yet. She won't be through till after dinner.'

Does Jack know? Is there perhaps a slight grin on his face? It is dark now apart from the light coming from the house, it is probably Arthur's imagination. But grin or not Jack Slaper may be picturing what Arthur Tradwell himself is unhappily picturing: Jane over Sir George's lap. Her ripe bottom red from the repeated impact of her master's hand.

* * *

'Stand up then.'

Sir George is red in the face now. Jane's face is red and tearful as well. Having your bare bottom spanked really hard for 10 or 12 minutes is a shaking experience. Even if it is something you routinely get most days. Jane's bottom of course is even redder than her face. She has struggled to her feet, to stand with her skirts still held high round her waist. The drawers remain lowered round her white-stockinged legs. The stockings are fastened by a white suspender belt and its taut straps frame the quivering flesh of haunches and thighs. Her red-hot bottom is away from Sir George's view now as she has to stand facing him. Making herself stand straight like this, showing everything, in particular the thick brown bush of her pussy...

It is that that Sir George's hot eyes are on. His eyes... and then his hand...

'You'll remember what I said, my girl? A bit earlier. About this. Eh?'

Jane makes a gasping sound of assent. The hand is cupping the hot, moist bush. The dreadful spanking... and now this. She feels sick.

'You're serious, eh. You and young Tradwell?'

'Y...Y...Yes sir...'

Two fingers between Jane's legs push apart the moist lips of her quim. 'We'll have a chat then, when you're thinking about something. I don't expect I'll have any objections, as I say. Alright?'

More gasping sounds from Jane. Her legs are like rubber. This is worse than usual, a lot worse than usual. The fierce spanking... and now this. One of the fingers has found her tight entrance. It pushes up inside her.

'But nothing until then, my girl. Not young Arthur Tradwell or anyone else. Jermyn: I have the idea he's sniffing after it. Is that right...?'

* * *

Arthur's lonely vigil is finally rewarded later in the evening when after dinner Jane is able to slip outside for a moment. 'You're still here,' she says softly, her hand taking his, her bright eyes shining in the dark. 'I thought you would have gone home.'

Arthur gives her a quick, fierce hug. He wants to ask but at the same time he doesn't. His mind demands details but at the same time it would be made sick by them. 'I can't be out long,' she tells him. 'Mr Jermyn wants me back.'

Ronald Jermyn, the butler. As such he has as much authority over Jane as Sir George. More in a way because Jermyn is in day-to-day charge of Jane's duties. He is the one she is answerable to throughout the day. 'I need you in the house,' he told her a few minutes ago. 'I can't have you mooning around outside with that Arthur Tradwell.'

Jane hasn't told Arthur about Jermyn. Arthur has asked about him, suspecting that the butler might fancy Jane, but she has denied there is anything. Sir George and Jermyn would be too much to tell him. But the truth is that Jermyn does fancy her. He is always trying to get her into little corners about the house, to press up against her, grabbing her body, while he makes his hot suggestions. Sir George knows this, or some of it at least. And others in the house know it as well. Jermyn also fancies Sarah, but Jane is the one he is really after. And as with Sir George there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is in charge of Jane. She has to obey. So when he says he wants her back in the house shortly she will have to comply.

In the dark Jane kisses Arthur, then breaks her mouth away. 'I've got to go in. Go home now. I can see you tomorrow.' Tomorrow, Saturday, is a half day for Jane and Arthur has Saturday afternoons off too. They can perhaps take a bus trip to the town. 'Are you sure?' Arthur asks. Because sometimes Mr Jermyn can be awkward. Telling Jane he needs her on Saturday afternoon, she can have another afternoon off. Mr Jermyn is not concerned that this may wreck all Jane's plans — in fact this may well be the reason if he suspects she has something arranged with Arthur. Jane is aware that this is sometimes the reason Mr Jermyn does it, though she hasn't said so specifically to Arthur. 'Yes. It'll he alright,' she tells him now. 'And now I've got to go.'

Neither of them has mentioned Jane's pre-dinner session with Sir George. It is of course in Arthur's mind: he would desperately like to ask and be told that this at least is one evening she hasn't had it — but on the other hand to have it confirmed that Jane has would make things much worse. It is very much in Jane's mind still too — it was worse this evening, one of the worst she has had. Arthur doesn't know that. He also doesn't know about Mr Jermyn — who will probably be waiting for her when she gets back inside...

Yes. The butler is there, hovering, as soon as Jane is in the house. 'I want to see you,' he tells her, and heads for his room. Jane has to follow. In his room with the door closed Jermyn pushes the pretty parlourmaid up against the wall. 'Been out canoodling then, young Jane? That Arthur been getting you all hot and excited?'

Mr Jermyn is grabbing her, grabbing at Jane's boobs. She makes little sounds of protest but there is not a lot she can do about it. Mr Jermyn is her boss, he can make life pretty dreadful for her if he wishes. He could arrange things so that she couldn't see Arthur at all. So Jane can't do anything other than accept these hands. Which are not only at her boobs but at her pussy, and reaching round at her bottom as well.

'What were you two at? Did you let him get your drawers down?'

Jane gaspingly denies that they did anything at all. 'I don't believe it, young woman. You're hot, I can tell. What about the master? Did he give you a good going over earlier?'

Mr Jermyn is still all over Jane. One hand has gone up the front of her skirts. 'Yes!' she hisses, while making some sort of effort to stop the hand.

'Ah. At least the master knows what you need then. A girl who's hot needs her bottom hotting up regularly. And as you've been out again now, getting all hot and steamy between these thighs... I reckon you could do with another dose. Come on. Get your drawers down.'

Mr Jermyn lets go of Jane. To stride over to the door and lock it. She gives a despairing look but there is nothing she can do. If Mr Jermyn wants to spank her bottom, like Sir George, there is nothing Jane can do about it. In theory there is something of course. If she let the butler have something else, something that he desires much more than spanking her bottom... doubtless then he wouldn't insist on a spanking. But as Jane is certainly not going to agree to that and it is something Mr Jermyn cannot insist on (indeed Sir George has specifically instructed Jane today and on earlier occasions not to allow it) then... there remains Mr Jermyn's next best pleasure. Which Jane cannot refuse. Sir George has no objection to his butler spanking his parlourmaid's bare bottom, as he does himself.

So Jane has no choice and she knows there is no point in pleading. If Mr Jermyn is in the mood for spanking her bottom then he is going to do it. Just like Sir George. What is happening is not a particularly rare occurrence. It doesn't happen every day as it virtually does with the master, but it is not infrequent. Sometimes she can keep out of Mr Jermyn's way, or he may have other things occupying him (including getting at Sarah). But... it is not infrequent. Arthur doesn't know...

Arthur Tradwell, walking home on this starlit September evening, is picturing Jane doing her final duties of the evening before retiring to the little room she shares with Sarah. The fact that they share a room is reassuring. With the two of them together Arthur doesn't have to imagine Sir George going in there at night and getting at Jane in bed. If a gentleman is randy and inclined that way then there is nothing a girl, a helpless parlourmaid, can do about it. But Sir George at least does not have the urge in that direction — otherwise he would have the two girls in separate rooms. In a way, perhaps, Arthur thinks he should be thankful he doesn't have that worse thing to worry, about: Sir George getting in Jane's bed, on top of her, when the fancy takes him. No, there is not that... but nonetheless he is not able to view the spanking she gets virtually every day without a sick feeling in his stomach. But at least it is now over, she will be in there with Sarah...

As Arthur strides along the road from the Manor, though, the steel of his heels ringing in the still night, Jane in fact is not yet in the little room with Sarah. She is in Jermyn's room. Over his lap. Her skirts up round her waist, her drawers down around her knees. Her magnificent bare bottom, the ripe flesh spanned by the taut white suspender straps, in the same position it was when earlier Arthur was gazing up at the window. The splendid cheeks bared across a man's thighs. And a man's hand splatting hard down. And then pausing to do a spot of fondling. Sliding in between the squirming thighs. ('You're hot there, aren't you, young woman?') And then splatting hard down again...

* * *

Today, Saturday, has been another of those glorious Indian Summer days; and today Jane and Arthur, it being their half day off, have been able to get out and enjoy it. A bus ride into the nearby town where they have done some shopping, had tea in the tea shop, etc: a very pleasant break. But Jane was able to get away only after the problems with Mr Jermyn.

Perhaps she shouldn't have told him, when he asked, that she planned to go out with Arthur; Jane could have lied, said she was seeing her mother or something like that. But there was always the chance of the lie being detected, because other people in the house would probably know. So Jane had told him, hoping against hope... Mr Jermyn of course had been awkward. He couldn't let her go, he said, he needed Jane for some extra work. Sir George's nephew was visiting. However... he could perhaps let her go as a favour... if Jane would stop being silly about a certain matter. She was a big girl and didn't need to continue being silly about that particular thing.

Jane was in no doubt what this thing was. Red-faced she said she couldn't. For one thing Sir George had expressly forbidden it. Mr Jermyn, hands groping, as they usually were when he had Jane in the privacy of his room, said hotly in her ear that Sir George didn't have to know. No one needed to know.

Hot and flustered from the hands, Jane shook her head. She wasn't going to let him. She would never be able to face Arthur again if she did — or even for that matter face Sir George. Jermyn wouldn't at first accept her refusal. He kept on, and his hands kept on. But eventually he did seem to accept that he wasn't going to get it — or not on this occasion at least.

'All right. If you insist on being a silly girl, Jane. But silly girls need their bottoms dealt with, don't they? I'll let you have the afternoon off — but if I do I'm going to give you something else first. I'm going to give you the cane, my girl. If you agree to that you can get your skirts up and your drawers down. And if you don't agree you'll stay here.'

So Jane on her afternoon off had four red stripes across that sumptuous bottom. It was the first time she has been caned. The pain... as the cane impacted onto her bare nates, bent over Mr Jermyn's chair... had been quite unbelievable. And there was the thought as well now, on this otherwise lovely afternoon out: that Mr Jermyn could be planning to do it again. Waiting for her with the cane when she got back. This thought certainly took away a little of the pleasure from her outing. Thinking back to that cane, Jane had the feeling that she wouldn't be able to take it again. It had been too awful, so much worse than a spanking. And perhaps that is why Mr Jermyn has got the cane: to give her something she wouldn't want to contemplate again. And therefore... that was a pretty sickening thought.

When Jane got back Jermyn was there — and so was someone else. Sir George's nephew, Mr Oliver Hartgrove. Mr Jermyn did not seem in a very good mood. It turned out that Sir George had gone off and would not be back until tomorrow. Jane, Mr Jermyn said and clearly not in a good mood, was to go and see Mr Oliver.

Perhaps Mr Jermyn had thought that with Sir George away it would be his big chance: to get to work on Jane. Suggest she have another dose of that cane... and if she didn't want the cane... but instead here was Mr Oliver asking to see Jane. Is this why Jermyn is in a bad mood? Has Mr Oliver been told that Jane is not to be left in the butler's care during Sir George's absence?

Arthur at least hears of the overnight absence of the master with relief and heart-felt thankfulness. Sir George away means that Jane will not be suffering her nightly penance and Arthur himself will not be suffering his nightly penance of knowing Jane is once again bare-bottomed over Sir George's lap. But in fact Arthur's feelings are not well founded...

Because Jane, shortly before the hour of dinner, though she may not be over Sir George's lap, is, once again, over a man's lap. With her skirts up and her drawers down. Not Sir George and not Mr Jermyn either of course. It is Oliver Hartgrove, the moustachioed young relative of the master. For some reason, Arthur would see, if his eyes could penetrate the heavy drapes of that room opposite the stables — although tonight Arthur is not in fact keeping his usual melancholy vigil outside — but if Arthur could somehow look into that room it would be to see that Oliver Hartgrove was doing it and for some reason has put on his straw boater. With a feeling of jocularity perhaps? A feeling of great well-being, could it be, that he is here in his uncle's house and master for the evening and master as well of his uncle's delightful parlourmaid. Because Oliver Hartgrove with his boater on has summoned Jane to that little room where, he knows, Sir George is in the habit of nightly spanking her bare bottom.

What Mr Oliver wants to do — 'Take your drawers down, Jane,' — comes as a nasty shock to the pretty parlourmaid. But naturally Jane cannot refuse; it has to be, after a moment's hot-faced hesitation, a meek 'Yes Mr Oliver.' It is pretty awful being over Mr Oliver's lap like this. With Mr Oliver spanking her bare bottom... and doing other things to it as well. But awful as it is it is not nearly as awful as later, when Jane is getting ready for bed. When Mr Oliver comes quietly in. A little smirk to Sarah... and then tells Jane that she won't be sleeping in her own little bed tonight. No, Oliver Hartgrove, nephew of the master and with the master away, has other plans for this delicious young woman.

Thursday, 23 June 2011

Sweet Sabbath

Story from Janus 75.

Sweet Sabbath
by John Undermeyer

IT WAS AN ART they had taken years to perfect. Now they practised it one Sunday in each month, beginning around late afternoon. From then, deep into the night, they relished the joy of it. They called it Sweet Sabbath.

On the day, they locked up their home. It would stay that way until Monday's dawn. Gate-bolts slid to electronically, house-blinds were dropped, telephones set to tape-record, the bedroom flooded with light.

Early in the afternoon she slipped into a bikini: that was part of the game. Then — at an agreed signal — she unclipped the top and let it fall to the carpet. Pushing the bottom part downwards with both thumbs she stepped daintily free of it and left it lying. She released mother-of-pearl combs from her temples and a mountain of chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders, the sweet-scented ends lightly brushing the deeply-inclining small of her back.

She was naked woman in glory, the perfect example of how plenty of money, plus a life of fresh-air and exercise, can produce a lovely woman oozing with wholesome energy and sensual allure. Almost 30, she still looked in her early twenties, helped no doubt by the disciplines imposed by her yoga master.

She heard a cane slamming into the bolster of their bed. Soon she would be tucked into that bolster, hugging it, ramming her knees against it, digging it with her chin, working her nails into the ends. God, she would hurt, but then the sweetness would begin to course through her body, flowing in her blood, running to the extremities, igniting even her mind.

Afterwards he would want her, roused by the caning and hungry to have her in his arms. She would give herself to him through her hurting because that was the way she knew, the way he wanted, the way that brought total consummation to them both.

There had been an understanding between them even before they married, expressed not so much in words (although they had talked about it) but in feelings and behaviour. In everything else he humoured her but in this one thing she submitted willingly and completely. Because — she reasoned — everything had a price and this was how she paid for the way she lived, enjoying all that his money could buy.

Today she found no love in herself for him — at least, not yet. It would come, she knew from experience, but now she felt proud, disdainful, haughty. She came to the bedroom tossing her head, streaking open fingers (they were incredibly long and delicate and could express devastatingly inviting gestures) through her hair to sweep it back off her pale face. She had taken the staircase fast, and this, combined with what she knew lay ahead, made her breath deep and tremulous.

She refused to look at him but walked to the end of their bed and stood soldier-like, arms to her sides. Her breasts could have been Renaissance marble, they looked so firm and opalescent. Her tummy was adolescent-flat, her waist yoga-trim, her legs taken from a Degas ballet-girl.

She stood on tip-toe and raised her arms skyward, stretching to show him how her skin glowed, her eyes shone and the lights glinted in her hair. Then she lowered herself slowly and deliberately on to their mattress. He pointed the cane at the bolster. She reached out for it and raised her narrow hips to tuck the roll of kapok beneath them. That left her delicate, downy and unblemished bottom-cheeks higher than the rest of her body, which lay draped like white silk on either side.

There — she seemed to be saying to him — that's a performance for you. You want to cane me? See if I care. See how unmoved I can be by your stern manner, your broad, bronzed arms, even your honey-coloured stick brandished so like a conductor's baton.

He growled in his throat: there was a price for this insolence. She dared to flout her courage before him, challenge his role as master? No matter. Out of the strong came forth sweetness. She looked sweeter than honey, he felt stronger than a lion. 'You are in a state to be loved?' he asked her, hiding the tiny sense of pique, making sure she could not hear it. 'You have taken your pill when you should: there is no reason for me not to go ahead?'

'None whatsoever,' she replied in taunting tones, distant, chilly, with a hint of contempt just audible in her cultured voice. It was as though someone else, not herself lay prone on the bed, waiting to undergo this trial. Except that it was not to be a trial: to her it was a practice, a ritual, a command performance in which she was the translucent star.

This was theatre, and her movements, her performance, were all. He would not miss a single motion of her body, purse of her lips, spread and gesture of her hands, curl and grimace of her mouth, blink and glare in her eyes. He needed to see proof that she hurt, she must demonstrate how she suffered as his cane fell. The show was vital to him and he would cane for as long as she could sustain the act.

She wanted to arouse him, to show how — gradually, gracefully — he could melt her sugar and raise it to boiling-point in her body She responded vividly to his first stroke which he laid at the very high-point of her buttocks. It was a sharp and unexpected blow and she spread-eagled herself, her limbs expanding like a four-pointed star, toes turning inwards, legs snapping together again, hands electrified for a second then re-grasping the bolster. Look at me — she seemed to be telling him — see how my body adores you, drink in my softly-moulded rear-parts as they spasm and writhe, for they were made to be whipped.

He wanted her to be demonstrative, to try to dodge his blows, for then he had an excuse to cane her harder. Her hips bucked to one side, jibbing at his carefully aimed stroke. He had hit hard; her cheeks squeezed bitterly, her muscles drawing them both together and sucking them in tightly, pulling at her tummy muscles at the same time. This helped kill the ache, but it also helped her absorb the fire, drive it inwards deep inside her body and there convert it to hot, longing sweetness. She could do it; over the years she had learned how to make the syrup run.

Her head turned angrily and she caught his eyes with her own. Fury made them lasers but he stared her down. Again she challenged his ardour, tossing her hair, curling her lip, raising her upper body as he drove down his stick. Movements like these transformed his ire to a heavenly distillation, encouraging him to cane harder.

He flicked his wrist powerfully an instant before the stick struck her beautiful buttocks. When she felt the stronger strokes she cried out, but mingled a taunting, teasing sound into the cries of pain. Hidden in the protest was a signal of assent: you may do this to me; you may hurt; you may exhibit your mastery And she must convert the sting his wand imparted into honey-sweet desire, distil liquid silver from his strokes.

Imagination would aid the transmutation. She saw herself as a giant-sized snake, all coils and curls, trapped in a tree-fork at the mercy of a mongoose, its sworn enemy, as the furry creature barked and bit at the helpless reptile. The bite of the cane elicited the jerk of the body in instant reply.

The two perfectly symmetrical, white and dimpled segments of her bottom rose up from the bolster then fell flat again. They were created for punishment. What other part of her could envelop his springy wood, indent to its blows, judder as he struck, then clench and squeeze to absorb the fire-brand effect?

One of his special pleasures was to see her thighs open. The game at this point was a kind of hide-and-seek; she knew what part of her he wanted to see — what special area his eyes would seek. She rolled sideways as her legs opened to hide herself from him. Denying him her treasure made him all the keener to seek it and his cane reflected the need by falling harder.

She twisted, turned, bared her teeth, flashed her eyes, stretched out ten pencil-slim fingers each with a crimson-painted nail. Move, move, move, his mind silently instructed her: I have not yet seen that part of you which it is my right, as your husband, to see.

She became a small sun-lizard which, knowing itself in peril, whipped its body this way and that, darting from stone to stone, nervous and fearful, seeking succour under a rock. But she could not find succour: where could she hide but under the crisp white sheets, and she knew better than to attempt that.

Neon flashed in her mind. She clenched the bolster in both hands, tears making the cotton damp and clingy. Lancing pains shot from her buttocks down through her thighs and calves to the soles of her pretty feet, making them curl and her toes spread.

She wanted to go on until she could transmute the pain no longer and she could tell that that point was coming. She had given a consummate performance. Her legs had splayed and she had brought them tightly together again. Her thighs had gaped and she had squeezed them shut. Her bottom had seethed and she had felt the energy inside rise and bubble like boiling milk. Her small fists had drummed on the bedclothes, her ankles reflecting the action as shock tingled in her feet, and her head had twisted and turned from side to side, making deep folds in her thick chestnut hair, strands of which were stuck by tears to her alabaster cheeks.

Her azure eyes had flashed hate at him, her mouth curled in a pain which was mingled with contempt. She had sunk her teeth into the bolster to smother her cries and yelps which otherwise would have rent the air. And slowly, inexorably, the pain had, like a Canaan miracle, transformed itself into sugary sweetness and was seething through her fibres in an unquenchable stream of energy.

Suddenly she could act no longer. She flung herself off the bolster, wriggling frantically up the bedclothes towards the top of the bed, kicking her legs, grasping the sheet, facing him, eyes brimming and — at the same time — pleading: 'Enough dearest, let it be, no more, no more!' The honeycomb was full of vital syrups and running inside her.

His blood raced like wild waters as she turned over on to her back and lay open before him, offering herself totally. He dropped the cane; punishment was over. But her performance was not over — they both knew that. She must keep moving; it was part of the agreement, and it would have been impossible for her to be still: now was the time to move into her most persuasive role.

What a moment or two before had been helpless spasms must slow and become controlled again, changing without any perceivable interval into sensuous, even voluptuous beckonings. The turbulence inside her must be made evident in her rising and stretching to raise his ardour higher. Where before she tossed and turned to escape his whipping, now she must switch to willing, welcoming motions designed to draw him down into her embraces.

This was the hardest part of all: to wrestle against the hurt, to sense the sugar-sweet feeling and allow desire to take its course. She worked to forget the pain and know only the urgency of passion, and the effort gradually but inevitably suffused her body with champagne.

What in the beginning had been agonised twisting under his discipline became a delightful ferment under his strong, tanned and embracing body. Precious juices, freed by their exercises, cascaded through them both. His body effervesced in response to her caresses and encouragement, her glass was filled and cohesion between them became complete. Their bodies and minds would continue to brim over for hours. He dimmed the lights to complete blackness. They closed their eyes and together dissolved into the dark. Sweet Sabbath had begun.

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

A Friend In Need

Story from Cul D'Or 11.

A Friend In Need
by Anthony Berne

Shutting the door against the storm, Toni Gardner leant against it, shutting her eyes against the world. Normally, with the twins in playschool, this was her favourite time of day. These, however, were not what she knew as 'normal' times, nor had they been for months.

With a sigh she straightened and slipped off her damp coat and plugged in the kettle for coffee, while her stomach growled emptily. The coffee was awful, the cheapest blend from the cheapest shop but, awful as it was, there was no more after this. While she sipped Toni tried to ignore the little pile of envelopes that the post had brought. Bills, and like the mounting pile in the drawer, bills printed in red.

Her harried gaze drifted about the kitchen. It was almost impossible, somehow, to recall how it had been, before Terry got so ill; so difficult to remember the warm and prosperous days when Terry was earning an enormous salary and affluence was forever. The ultra modern kitchen, with all its trendy gadgets, mocked her now, in her desperation. It was all slipping away; their home, their future, their everything...

What small savings they had had long since vanished, and the reluctantly sought state aid merely postponed financial nemesis. The mortgage was months overdue and the initial courteous understanding from the building society was now fraying into impatience.

The rest did not bear thinking about. People had been kind, but there were after all limits, and she could no longer presume upon their generosity. Indeed, some of her friends, repelled perhaps by a sense of doom which clung about her, began to avoid her as if disaster might be contagious. There was nowhere, and no-one, to turn to, for, with Terry so ill, any worry put upon him could only delay his already distant recovery without in any way improving the situation.

Toni was at the end of her tether. No prospects, no hope and, when the few coins in her purse were gone, no money or food. At least the twins would have a good lunch at the nursery, after their skimpy breakfast, for of all her creditors Mrs Gant had been the most patient, never in all those months even hinting at the mounting bill. The situation was untenable. Something drastic had to be done and, fortunately, ...or unfortunately, for Toni... a drastic solution was all too easily available...

Toni hugged the coffee cup to her breast, seeking the meagre comfort of its warmth, when she remembered that there was still a drop of whisky left in the house. It was literally only a drop, and its fire burned in her empty belly as Toni contemplated that solution...

It had begun, fairly innocently, two or three years before, when the twins were babes and the world was golden and nothing, not even Mr Pinner, could threaten her family or her happiness.

She knew, in an amused and mildly flattered way, that she had made a conquest of Mr Pinner. She found it even rather diverting as he, direct and uninhibited, pleaded his case in the baldest terms. She would listen, smiling her remote smile as, face gleaming red with perspiration and lust, he raved.

"Your backside, Mrs Candar!" he would gasp. "Oh my God! The finest, absolutely the creme de la creme, of arses! What I wouldn't give, too, to have you naked, bent over for the cane, while I thrashed you...!"

On and on he would rant, detailing in the minutest way what he would do to her bottom with cane, strap or whip; and all the while Toni, smiling placidly to cover her unease, egged him on cruelly...

Every time they met, which was every day, almost, when she aired the twins, she would allow herself to be entertained by listening to his plans for her behind, ...which did not stop short of physical punishment. Toni, truth to tell, was rather shocked, although her pride as a modern young woman would not allow her to show surprise at any hint of perversity.

All that, however, was years ago, when she was safe. Now, she was vulnerable, and Pinner knew it. Instead of merely reciting his litany of lust he had gradually become more and more pressing until, some days before, he had made her a firm offer.

Mr Pinner dealt, among other things, in property. He was extremely rich. Some of his wealth he was prepared to lavish on Toni. All she had to do was to say the word and he would take steps to clear her debts as well as make her an allowance handsome enough to restore her to her previous standard of living. In return...

Well, Toni knew what he wanted in return.

Now, not many of his friends liked Mr Pinner; and even fewer trusted him. A very near man, it was said; one never yet bested in a deal. Toni, however, had an intuitive sense of him insofar as his intentions toward her were concerned.

He would stick to his agreement; but in doing so, would make her live up to the last letter of hers.

Unlike many, Toni found it difficult to totally dislike the man, although she was vividly aware, she thought, of the reality of what he offered. In his eyes, it was a straight business deal; as a dealer in property, he was making a bid for the desirable property that was Toni's body. She would, literally, be owned.

It was a fearful thought; but equally fearful was the prospect of the twins coming home to a foodless, comfortless house; or, very soon, to no house at all...

Now, while her courage was high, she must act. As if in a daze she rose and went to the phone. There was some difficulty in getting through to Pinner... a secretary uncertain of her importance. While the latter waffled Toni began to have second thoughts. There was that job offered her by the husband of a friend, at a salary too small to be of any great help, but at least an alternative. Almost, she hung up, but again the vision of the twins, homeless and hungry, stiffened her resolve.

"Mrs Candar?" His voice, friendly but puzzled, though with a touch of the excitement she always aroused in him.

"I'm sorry to trouble you at your office. Mr Pinner," ...was her voice just a trifle high pitched?...

..."I know you must be very busy..."

"Not too busy for you Mrs Candar. What's the problem?"

Drawing a deep breath she plunged.

"I was wondering if we could meet somewhere, Mr Pinner; somewhere where we could talk..."


"Yes, Mr Pinner."

A short silence, nerve-wracking. 'Get it over with', the buzzing line said.

"It's... it's about what we were talking about before, Mr Pinner..."

Another short silence while she lay on the rack, wondering if he had been playing with her, or if he had changed his mind. In reality, Pinner was savouring the moment, enjoying the sound of her voice, which had unconsciously moved from Toni's previously superior, teasing tone to the humble tone of the dependant.

"Yes? What about it?"

Make her put it baldly into words, so that there could be no claim, after, that she had been misunderstood...

"I've... I've decided to... accept, Mr Pinner..."

This time the silence crackled. Toni sagged, feeling light-headed, although whether with apprehension, shame or anticipation she could not tell.

Then his voice, warm with approval.

"Good; you see, Mrs Candar... Toni... it wasn't so very hard was it? And you won't regret it, I can assure you."

Another pause; then his voice, over the rustle of papers.

"I've something to see to. Half an hour; then I'll come and pick you up."

He was no longer the suitor; his voice had shifted in half a dozen sentences from courtier to absolute monarch.

* * *

When she had hung up Toni leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment. She was quivering and felt curiously weak, the combination of nerves and hunger. Presently, it occurred to her to tidy herself up. Dragging herself to the bathroom she almost surprised herself, on looking in the mirror, at how unchanged she was. She looked good; even the strain of the past few months had hardly dimmed her beauty. Indeed, she thought, having stripped for the shower, the weight loss from an inadequate diet was, if anything, more flattering than not.

Before climbing into the bath she stared at her body, at her breasts and the clustered curls that hid those nether lips; surely a sexual banquet for that perverse gourmet, Pinner. Too, she strained over her shoulder to stare at the full curves of alabaster buttocks, wondering fearfully how they would look... and feel... in another hour or so...

Time drifted, and she with it. She had ceased to think; in this way it seemed only a minute or so before the doorbell rang.

Mr Pinner was on the step, his face redder and more greedy than ever, eyes alight with anticipation; at the sight of her, however, he frowned.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes." Her voice lifeless.

"You don't seem very happy..."

"Yes..." Toni forced a smile. "Yes of course I am."

"Good." He bore her back with his weight, his heel kicking the door shut while his hands tore open the front of her dress, spilling and engulfing her breasts.

"Marvelous!" exclaimed Pinner, staring avidly down at the globes that filled both hands, and at the surprisingly erectile nipples. He bent to trace the outline of an aureole with his tongue, before becoming aware of the shaking of Toni's body.

"Are you sure that you are alright?"

Surprisingly, Toni managed a wry smile.

"It's just that I haven't had too much to eat, lately..."

The startled look on Mr Pinner's face told Toni that even he had not suspected just how bad things had become. The frown became a stare of disbelief, then a look of wonder. Abruptly he let go of Toni, striding toward the kitchen. Now she really was light headed, scarcely able to follow him, exposed breasts swaying and jiggling.

Pinner tore open all the cupboards, whistling in surprise at their emptiness. The fridge and freezer, too, were all but empty...

"You really did last out as long as you could," he said, staring at her with a trace of respect. Abruptly, he strode to the phone, and, as if in a dream, Toni watched as he dialled and spoke to his secretary, dictating an enormous list of groceries without pausing for either breath or consideration, stopping only to demand curtly which particular brands she preferred.

"Tell Steve to put it on my account, then the two of you bring it here at once," he said, and gave the address.

Toni glanced at the clock; less than an hour ago she had dropped off the twins. In that time her life had changed totally.

Mr Pinner turned to her as she leaned against the counter. The wind was rising even higher and the rain lashed against the windows as he touched her shoulder reassuringly.

"They'll be here soon" he assured her quietly, "and I'll fix you a meal then..."

His glance fell to her breasts, still open to view. Regretfully he tweaked her nipple between finger and thumb.

"I'd hoped to be indulging in pleasanter pursuits than cooking, by now, however" he murmured, lowering his mouth. "But you won't be up to it until you've had some food." An idea struck him.


Above the howling of the wind and rain the sound of a zipper in the quiet kitchen. His hands on her shoulders, pressing her gently to her knees. A hand on the back of her neck as she stared at the floor. Her head being pulled forward...

Incredibly hard and hot, invading and filling her mouth. Lost in a feeling not quite shame, nowhere near pleasure, Toni strained her jaws wide; she was not very good, dimly she thought she had better learn...

"Ah well" she thought at last, swallowing. "No going back, now."

Much sooner than she could have imagined the groceries arrived, the time between having been spent in drawing up a list of her most pressing obligations. Mr Pinner opened the door to let a thirtyish, elegant and beautiful woman and a loutish youth of about sixteen to enter.

"This is my secretary, Miss Johan" said Pinner, briefly. "...and this" with a look of pride at the young thug who carried an enormous box of food as if it were a feather, "this is my boy Steve; he is in the first year of Sixth Form College, but he is going to quit and work with me in the business..."

The boy greeted Toni with a leer. Miss Johan, on the other hand, flashed her a smile. Looking at her, Toni knew; knew that Miss Johan, in her time, had made the same sort of bargain with Mr Pinner. Knew too, that she was meant to know this, meant to be reassured that, even after his sexual interest in her had died to an occasional relationship she would still be looked after...

While Steve carried the in groceries Miss Johan swiftly and efficiently stowed them away without needing to consult Toni, seeming to know instinctively where everything went. Pinner had thought of everything, including wine, and treats for the children.

In remarkably short time it was stowed away while Mr Pinner nodded in satisfaction.

"Well done" he said. "Now, there's not much on at the office, so why don't you Steve, take Miss Johan home and entertain yourself for the rest of the day...?"

Steve grinned in anticipation, while the secretary glanced at Toni with a moue; however, wordlessly, obediently, she followed the youth out to the car.

Mr Pinner watched their departure with a fond smile.

"He's a lad, that boy of mine!" he said proudly. "He's a devil with my old razor strop too..."

"Now!" he continued abruptly, before Toni could ponder the implications of that remark. "Food! You sit quietly while I fix you something."

Toni watched him as he worked, his movements swift and deft, while her mouth watered agonisingly at the smell of coffee... decent coffee... scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Sensing her interest, he looked up smiling, his eyes sweeping hungrily over her body. "Right you are; come and get it..."

Extreme hunger has a peculiar effect on some people. Finally given food they find it hard to swallow more than a mouthful. So it was with Toni, who could not eat more than about half the food before she felt bloated; but she drained the pot of coffee and rejoiced to feel strength flowing back.

With a sigh she pushed plate and cup away. Mr Pinner, who had been studying the list of debts, looked up.


Toni nodded "Yes thank you."

Pinner smiled, an oddly engaging smile, so that Toni responded unthinkingly. At that moment he looked so engaging that she found it hard to believe that a short while ago he had so employed her mouth; only a lingering, imagined taste assured her of the reality of the fact.

Mr Pinner hesitated, eyeing her anxiously.

"Not changed your mind?"

Toni shook her head 'no', her embarrassed gaze falling.

"We still have a bargain?'

Still unable to raise her eyes, Toni nodded 'yes'. In her memory's eye the picture lingered of herself kneeling before Mr Pinner; and her stomach rolled with a nervous ferment as she pondered the immediate future.

Toni could sense Mr Pinner's grin as he caught her barely perceptible nod. With a suddenness that made her jump, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a bulging envelope.

"Then this is to seal my part..."

Money, lots of it, more than she had ever seen in one lump.

The answer to her problems...


Toni looked up in surprise.

"Yes... yes, of course" licking her lips... "Thank you..."

"You'll earn it, my girl."

Abruptly he rose to his feet.

"Time to seal your part of it..."

Somehow they were in the bedroom. Mr Pinner sat on the edge of the bed... their bed, hers and Terry's, smiling grimly up into her downcast face.

"Well, now, my girl; this is it. Sure you want to go on? Haven't changed your mind?" Toni shook her head; and a moment later, found herself sprawled, face down, over Mr Pinner's bony knees...

His hand, fumbling at her wide skirt, tugging it clear of her hips; then, in an agony of abasement, Toni felt him pulling at her knickers.

"Raise up."

Shameful to lift her hips and assist in that degree the lowering of her knickers. Yet, as the cool air caressed the now naked flesh of her backside, Toni felt the tension flow from Mr Pinner's muscles, heard his indrawn hiss of delight.

"I knew it, Toni! Didn't I just say so? The creme de la creme of arses...!"

His hand, quivering with suppressed emotion, fondling and stroking. Indelicate fingers probing and searching, prying into secrets that even Terry had never investigated. Toni, bent shamefully over Mr Pinner's lap, endured the indignity with burning cheeks, while the virgin globes of her bottom burned in fearful expectancy.


Mr Pinner's large hand came down with a loud smack on her soft buttocks, shaking them into a momentary agitation. Toni gasped at the sudden sting; she bit her lips, forcing herself to remain still beneath the shock.

She could feel his left hand grasp the span of her waist, steadying her...

Now the spanking really got under way; his hand rose and fell busily, slapping bright pain into her wobbling, shapely bottom. In spite of herself, Toni... who had resolved to endure with dignity... felt the tears burn her eyelids, while her hips churned frantically and her legs kicked involuntarily.

Toni began to cry; which proved only to be sweet music in Mr Pinner's ear, for still he spanked on steadily, his left hand holding her firmly, and easily in place.

Toni's whole bottom was a mass of fiery pain; to Mr Pinner it must have looked very red, for he abruptly eased her even further over his knee and began to vary the spanking with alternate smacks to the backs of her thighs. Her soft flesh quivered under the stinging impact, and the added pain was so much that, with a more than usually vigorous heave, Toni escaped Mr Pinner's grasp and fell to the carpet.

"Oh, no you don't, young lady...!"

"Oh! Please!... Please! No more!"

"No more? Don't be silly; I've hardly even begun, yet. You'll know what a damned good spanking is when I've done with you, my girl..."

And he hauled her, limp and sobbingly unresisting, over his knee once again. The punishment continued, his hand returning to spank the already agonised bum cheeks. Under the pounding smacks Toni's breasts had yet once more escaped their hastily rearranged concealment, and now quivered in rhythm to Mr Pinner's spanks.

Tears ran in rivers down Toni's face, but, responsive to Mr Pinner's words and her bargain, she refused to beg, or to try to evade the cadence of his palm.

Half a dozen swiftly, fiercely delivered slaps cracked against her pain-wracked bottom, then, so swiftly that she hardly realised how it was done, Toni was turned onto her back on the duvet while Mr Pinner thrust between her parted thighs...

* * *

An hour later it was difficult for Toni to realise that it was still only lunchtime; and then she knew only because Mr Pinner had ordered her to prepare a meal. The weather was as bad outside. Staring through the window, Toni prepared vegetables at the sink, much as she would on a normal day.

...Except that, on a normal day, she would not be preparing the vegetables stark naked, with tear-swollen eyes and face, or with a stinging tenderness in the red blotched cheeks of her superb behind...

Nor would Mr Pinner, behind her, be opening wine for the meal while openly drinking in the vision of her nudity. Grimly, Toni stared down at the vegetables she was paring, lifting her eyes only occasionally, and then only to stare out over the garden. Behind her she could hear Mr Pinner opening and closing doors until, with a grunt of pleasure, she heard him clinking glasses.

The sound of liquid pouring behind her came to Toni; for her part she continued grimly with her work, ignoring everything as well as she could. She refused to acknowledge to herself that she was naked; refused to notice the jiggle of her breasts as she moved, tried, in fact, to cut out all sensation.

Yet one sensation she could not ignore; and that was the fading sting in her magnificent hindquarters.


Toni almost jumped out of her skin: a jump which, had she but known it, caused her superb breasts to rise and fall in short but delectable vibrations that delighted the eye. Turning, she saw Mr Pinner grinning down at her, his hand holding out a glass.

"Have a G&T while you work..."

"Oh, thank you!"

Never was a drink so timely. Toni sipped gratefully while she put the vegetables on to cook and slid the steaks under the grill.


"Yes, why not?" said Toni, who although usually only drank sparingly, was parched with thirst. As Mr Pinner handed her her replacement glass he stood close to her, looking down from his superior height, drawing the frosty glass idly around the curve of her breast.

"Thank you" said Toni, taking it, refusing to notice either his action or the lingering chill at her nipple. She could feel Mr Pinner smiling slightly.

"How do you feel?"

Toni muttered in reply.


"Alright." Grudgingly.

Mr Pinner chuckled. His free hand groped behind her, cupping one cheek of her backside.

"And this? How does this feel?"

Toni wanted to ignore this question, but the silence forced reply.

"Alright; hurts a bit," she added hastily, in case he should get any more ideas. Mr Pinner chuckled once again.

"It'll hurt a damn sight more, after lunch, when I've caned you..."

"No!... Please!..."

"Don't be silly, girl!" he snapped. "I shall do as I wish, and so will you. In any case, you don't really feel too bad about it do you?"

His hand left off the gentle cupping and fondling of her rear, slipping up to the small of her back, pulling her into him. Toni considered; it was true that the spanking had been very painful, true that she had felt ashamed, true that she viewed the prospect of the cane with considerable unease. Yet, at the same time her body felt light, as though an intolerable burden had been lifted from it; it was, she recognised, the lifting of all the weight of her cares. Momentarily she surrendered to that freedom, leaning her head against Mr Pinner's chest, while the strong grasp of his arm brought reassurance... Seated gingerly at the table, Toni was astonished to find herself ravenous. She tore into the food voraciously, and accounted for more than her fair share of the wine. Two glasses of white wine with the salad and the same of a full-bodied red with the steak helped her forget her nudity, and the prospect before her.

She was even unafraid when, while she cleared the table, Mr Pinner reappeared after a trip to his car, brandishing a cane; and cooperatively disposed herself face down across the same table at which they had lunched, the edge cutting slightly into the fold of her stomach, her slightly parted legs braced against the kitchen floor...

Toni lay over the table, drifting thoughtlessly on a current of wine and well-being, her breasts flattening on the table top and her bare bottom cocked obediently up to present the best possible target.

For all that she was calm in mind, Toni's body sensed what it was to endure, for she was trembling, shaking in long, continuous frissons that agitated her hips and thighs beguilingly.

When, at last, Toni was positioned to Mr Pinner's satisfaction she heard the rattle of the cane against the chair on which it rested. He was picking it up, grasping it, halfcircling her at the rear, studying the prospect of her rump like a workman sizing up his task before getting down to serious work.

Now, apprehension struck Toni in the pit of her stomach. Straining, she raised her head, trying to look back at Mr Pinner.

"Get down, Toni!"

Responsive to the edge in his voice, Toni relaxed, sinking back into position. Behind her, a cold, silken touch against the blotched flesh of her behind made her jump convulsively.

She heard Mr Pinner's malevolent chuckle, and wondered despairingly why it was that she had been reduced to this, laid out so helplessly and revealingly to this dissolute man.


At the words, spoken distantly from a point over her shoulder, Toni's loins melted in terror. Tears sprang to her eyes even before the cane had dealt a single stroke. Ashamed, Toni clenched her teeth.


A light white stripe of electric fire burned across the width of her bum, branding torment across the width of her buttocks. Toni's hips leapt, her belly smacking plumply against the tabletop while her bottom cheeks tightened and wobbled under the impact. "SSCCHHHOOO!" The breath hissed out between clenched teeth, while behind her the cane rose and swooped anew.


The pain was bright, spanning the twin worlds of her globes, printing another convulsing line neatly below the first.


Her teeth still hard clenched, preventing a cry, converting pleas into a breathy moan; the flames leaping and flaring in her arse. Swiftly the cane struck again.


Forcing open her mouth, driving the cry from the pit of her stomach out into the storm lashed kitchen.



"AH! AH! OOH!"

Now her hips were one continuous roll as her bottom sought relief from the stinging, biting rod, which danced teasingly against the scarlet-striped surfaces which flinched at the contact.

"Two more Toni. Two really good ones..."



Her belly slamming up and down on the table while the cheeks of her bottom clenched and unclenched spasmodically.



The fire, leaping and burning in her bum; the hot tears coursing down her face. Hands, gripping and stiffening her waist and a hot probing....

She lay, acquiescent, body racked by sobs, as he enforced the final servitude.

* * *

It was hard to comprehend, after Mr Pinner had left, that it was still early afternoon; time, in fact, after putting the dishwasher to work, to have a shower and take a nap, a nap in which sleep came easily, despite her ravaged rear and outraged body. A nap from which she awoke, an hour later refreshed and alert.

* * *

Visiting hours were from seven to eight; Toni entered the ward with a huge basket of fruit and flowers on her arm, and the sight of Terry's ravaged face as it lit up warmed her heart.

As she bent to kiss her husband, Toni strove to feel shame; but she could not. The sheer luxury of paying Mrs Grant, of being able to buy the twins the new shoes they so badly needed, and of giving them the best meal they had had for months, crushed all feelings of remorse for what she had allowed Mr Pinner to do...

Even being able to drive to the hospital, knowing that the road tax really was in the post, that the tank was full and need not be anxiously watched, had been sheer bliss.

True, she was very sore and her body felt well used; but it was not as bad as she would have thought, and she suspected that she must become accustomed to even greater severities...

Terry's eyes, abnormally large in his wasted features, widened as he saw the amount of stuff she had brought.

"How on earth could you afford all that, darling?"

Toni's smile became fixed as she fought to meet squarely the puzzled gaze of her husband.

"Extraordinary luck, darling, you'll never imagine; I was almost out of money and desperate, so I filled in a pools coupon, and guess what?..."

Terry's head raised in astonishment.

"You don't mean you won?"

"Yes! Talk about beginners luck!..."

This would keep Terry happy for the while; later, when he became more curious with improving health, she would figure something out. That didn't worry her, knowing as she did that most women can easily deceive most men.

In the meantime a look of sheer joy flooded her husband's features.

"Oh marvelous darling! How much?"

"Twenty-five thousand" answered Toni, grabbing the first sizeable figure she could think of out of the air; then, knowing that such round sums are rare, she added hastily "And a hundred or so."

Questions were forming behind Terry's eyes and she hastened to cut them off.

"Isn't it wonderful darling? There will be plenty, now, to take care of us all until you can get back to work..."

Tears sprang to her eyes as she saw Terry relax. He looked better already, and only now did she realise how much his knowledge of their financial difficulties had held back his recovery. Well, that would all change now; everything would get better, including Terry's immediate surroundings. Terry had gone, with their declining finances, from a private room to the public ward, which for someone who valued privacy as much as Terry, was torture. Now, with their new affluence, she could have him moved back... she would see about it on the way out.

Suddenly Toni was overtaken by a rush of fierce gladness that she had called Mr Pinner that morning. It was worth it; worth the soreness as she sat on neat buttocks whose bruised and welted state was concealed by her prim, matronly clothes, worth the feeling of being stretched that was an unexpected minor irritation.

Toni had not thought of herself as a virgin for years; after the events of the day she knew that no-one in the world would consider her virgin in any sense. Incredibly, though, the world was the same; the same people, with the same thoughts moved along the same paths as yesterday. Nothing had altered, except a minor physical condition in herself.

That she refused to regret; indeed, she found herself more than prepared to accommodate herself to Mr Pinner in the future. Tomorrow...

Ah, but tomorrow he would be busy. It was almost the last thing he had said to her before leaving; while the very last thing had filled her with dismay.

"Steve can come round and spend an hour or so with you" he had said, and chuckled fondly. "What a boy! A real chip off the old block..."

The bell was sounding for the end of visiting hours. Toni bent forward to kiss her husband, who already seemed easier and perhaps even slightly better.

"Good night, darling; I'll call in and see you the day after tomorrow..."

She turned at the door to wave one last time, then headed purposefully for the ward sister's office. Terry should go into his private room tomorrow; and the thought occurred that, even while he was being moved, Toni would probably be amusing young Steve.

What was it Mr Pinner had said?

"...a devil with my old razor strop..."

Well, it was one way to earn a crust...

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

The Institute Girl

Story from Februs 25.

The Institute Girl
by Colin Weaver

When the Birley Institute was built in 1830, the wealthy businessmen on who were financing it out of civic pride and the hope of a mention in the Honours List could not agree about its purpose. Should it be a museum, an art gallery or a library? The local firm of architects and builders who had got the contract under The Old Pals Act tried to please everyone, and the result was a queer, undecided mongrel of a building, like an oversized Nonconformist chapel on the outside, and with an interior which was such a maze of galleries and stairways and rooms and passages that a stranger should not enter without a native guide.

At least, that is what Mr Mytton told Lucinda. After a month in Birley, the sardonic, middle-aged curator of the Institute was one of the few people she was on easy conversational terms with. The other teachers at St Jude's were civil enough, but they were obviously suspending judgement, waiting to see how this suspiciously good-looking young woman from "down South" was going to fit into their well-established ways. Her neighbours in the block of flats where she had found a home were evident mainly as noises through the walls and ceiling. In due course she would have some kind of social life; meanwhile she explored Birley and discovered the Institute.

'Why,' demanded Lucinda, 'has this weird old place not been turned into a bingo hall or torn down to make way for a supermarket? It happens everywhere else.'

Mr Mytton chuckled. He was a big, homely man who smoked an unfashionable pipe and reminded Lucinda of a favourite uncle. All the bright new development happened on the other side of town,' he said. 'Where the land just happened to be owned by Council members. And no-one is going to interfere with the Institute while the Mayor's son-in-law has the contract for repairs and renovations. It doesn't cost them much to run. They haven't bought any new exhibits for fifty years and the only staff are a couple of part-time cleaners, and me to discourage vandalism and keep out the tramps and druggies. It's a quiet life; I'm glad when someone shows an interest in the place. Though I should think there are better ways for a pretty girl to spend her time.'

Lucinda raised an elegant eyebrow. 'In Birley? Perhaps I'll find them eventually. Meanwhile I'll look round your Palace of Mystery again.'

Mr Mytton laughed. 'That's not a bad name for it. You never know what you might come across.'

Lucinda, though, had a good idea where her tour of the Institute was likely to finish, no matter what other explorations she made first. She had discovered the statue in a gallery on the second floor on a first visit, and had returned to it again and again. The label said simply, "Seated Man" and that was just what it was. A life-size marble figure, naked except for a brief kilt, sitting on a plain block. The thin lips were unsmiling, the eyes lowered as though in thought. The open right hand was raised to shoulder height, either in greeting or command.

It was to this gallery that Lucinda's wanderings through the Institute finally brought her again. She stood before the figure with her hands clasped behind her back, licking her lips, trembling with nervous excitement as she slipped once more into the fantasy she had devised.

'Lucinda Horton reporting for punishment, sir,' she said. She paused as though listening, then said, 'I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to be late.'

Another pause while the fantasy voice spoke in her mind. 'I know I shouldn't make excuses, sir,' she said. 'Please don't be angry.' Then, almost immediately, 'Yes, sir, of course.'

She moved to the right side of the figure and started to bend over. Then she straightened up and said, 'Oh sir, must I?' Another brief pause and then, 'I'm not arguing, sir, honestly I'm not!'

She lifted her short, pleated tartan skirt and pulled her black tights down to her knees. Then once more she bent forward and laid herself across the figure's thighs, reaching back to flick up her skirt. She was wearing plain white cotton knickers, brief enough to expose the plump lower curves of her delightfully rounded bottom. The marble beneath her body was polished, and to keep her balance she placed her impeccably manicured hands on the floor and stretched out her long shapely legs behind.

Her eyes were half closed and she was breathing heavily as she lay quite still for a few moments. Then her body jerked a little, as though in response to an unseen hand landing sharply upon that delightful derriere, so invitingly offered.

It happened again and again, and Lucinda grimaced and gasped as though she was actually feeling the phantom smacks. She started to squirm across the figure's lap, her gasps became louder, took the form of words. 'Please, sir, please don't smack me! I'll do better, I promise, I'll try so hard! Please, sir, I'm so ashamed, I'm too old to be spanked and it hurts so much! Yes, I know I'm in disgrace!'

More wriggling, each foot leaving the floor in turn, swinging back as though in a vain effort to protect her twitching buttocks, then again the gasping, almost tearful voice. 'I'm sorry, sir, I won't do it again, I won't! Ah! Ah! Ah! I – I know what I've got to say, sir.' A brief, squirming pause, and then, in tones of the most abject humiliation, Lucinda whimpered, 'I am a very bad girl and I deserve to have my bottom smacked really hard and – and the next time I'm naughty I will have to take my knickers down and have my bare bum strapped and caned in front of everyone!'

The wriggling and gasping stopped, and Lucinda lay limp and passive across the statue's thighs for perhaps three minutes. Then she said softly, 'Thank you, sir,' slid backwards and stood up. Automatically smoothing down her skirt she stared at the figure for a few moments. Her rapid breathing gradually returned to normal, though her face was still flushed as she ruefully shook her head. 'Anyone would think I'm crazy,' she said. 'But it is only a harmless fantasy, after all.'

Needing to regain her composure she resumed her tour of the Institute, inspecting the stuffed birds and the beetle collection and the watercolours contributed by the Young Ladies Christian Sisterhood in 1923. Finally she returned to the entrance and Mr Mytton's office.

'Had a nice look round?' he enquired.

Lucinda nodded. 'Yes, thanks.'

'And paid your usual visit to Gallery Three?'

His expression was benevolent, his tone inoffensive, but Lucinda felt a sickening premonition of disaster. Gallery Three was where the Seated Man was. She tried to speak but no words would come. Could he have followed her, spied on her? It didn't seem possible, and yet.

'I was rather hoping you'd take your knickers down this time,' he said placidly. 'A proper spanking should always be on the bare bottom. Of course, that marble must be a bit cold.'

'How did you know?' she whispered.

'We're not behind the times in Birley,' said Mr Mytton, proudly. 'The Borough Treasurer's grandson knows all about this electronic business, and last year he fixed up a really good security system, very reasonable.'

He opened what Lucinda had assumed to be a cupboard door.

Behind was a monitor screen and speaker with a row of switches beneath. 'Saves a lot of walking round, this does. I can see and hear what goes on in any part of the Institute.' He touched a switch and the Seated Man appeared on the screen. 'It's all recorded on video too,' he said.

'Just what I needed!' said Lucinda, bitterly. 'Oh Christ, I was just beginning to feel my feet here. Now I've got to move on again and hope to find some school too desperate for teachers to ask too many questions.'

'What for?' said Mr Mytton, sounding surprised. 'Don't you like it in Birley?'

'Well enough,' said Lucinda. 'But how can I stay once word of this gets out?' She pointed at the figure on the screen.

'What kind of bloody fool do you think I am?' demanded Mr Mytton. 'I get along very nicely by hearing a lot, seeing a lot, and saying nowt! Why should I go telling everyone you're – well, one of them that enjoys a smacked bottom?'

'Oh aye!' said Lucinda in a mocking imitation of the flat Northern accent. 'I'm one of them all reet!'

Mr Mytton grinned. 'You're a cheeky young madam. I think I should do something about that.'

He walked to the front door, locked it and put up a "Closed" sign. The he returned to the office.

'You've been a bad girl, haven't you Lucinda?' he said.

'Yes, sir,' said Lucinda, meekly.

'What do you deserve for being a bad girl?'

Lucinda took a deep breath, looked him in the eye and said, 'I think I deserve a really sound spanking, sir.'

'So do I,' he said.

Feeling blissfully familiar mixture of fear, shame and excitement, Lucinda watched as he took off his jacket and neatly rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. He put a chair in the centre of the floor and sat down. 'Come here, Lucinda,' he said.

She moved towards him and he reached for her, half pulling, half supporting her as she went unresistingly across his broad thighs. She stared at the worn grey carpet as he turned up her skirt and put his hand under the waistband of her tights. He pulled her tights down. He pulled her knickers down. She felt the blood burning in her face as his hard, rough hand stroked and patted her naked buttocks with a sort of affectionate approval.

'Very nice,' said Mr Mytton, and his voice was almost a sigh. 'Very nice indeed.'

Then his hand came down hard and she jerked a little, just as she had done during her fantasy-spanking in Gallery Three. She heard Mr Mytton laugh softly and she squirmed with humiliation as the hand came down again and again, punishing her tender bare cheeks with solid, stinging spanks. She gasped and squealed, and her suffering bottom was soon so sore that she could not resist a plea for mercy. 'Please, Mr Mytton, not so hard!'

'Oh, you're just getting nicely warmed up,' he said cheerfully. 'You can take a lot more yet, a healthy young woman like you!' The punishing hand was withheld for the moment.

'Oh, thanks!' said Lucinda, wriggling. Then she yelped shrilly as a dozen resounding slaps punished the tender flesh of her upper thighs.

'You're forgetting to call me sir,' said Mr Mytton, reprovingly.

'Ah! Oooh! I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to be impertinent!'

'Don't like it on your legs, do you, Lucinda?'

'No, sir,' whimpered Lucinda.

'But naughty girls have to take what they don't like, eh, Lucinda? That's the whole point of punishment.'

He gave her four hard slaps on her right thigh, paused for a few moments and gave her four more on the left.

'Am I being cruel, Lucinda?'

She struggled to find the right words to placate him. 'You – you're being very strict, sir.'

'But you want me to be strict, don't you, Lucinda? What shall I smack next, your legs or your bottom?'

'My bottom, sir!'

'Only if you ask me nicely.'

Oh God, his hand was patting her stinging thighs again!

'Please, sir, please smack my bare bottom! It's such a naughty bottom, it deserves to be spanked really hard!'

'So it shall be!' said Mr Mytton with obvious amusement.

Once more her wincing buttocks quivered under the impact of a heavy male hand. The spanking continued remorselessly with occasional pauses for question and answer.

'When did you get your first spanking, Lucinda?'

'When I was nineteen, sir. From a boy I met at university. We couldn't afford to go out anywhere much, so we usually went to his flat and he smacked my bottom.'

'And how old are you now, Lucinda?'

'Oooh! Oww! Twenty-seven, sir.'

'So you've had eight years of hot bottoms. With the cane and strap too?'

'Yes, sir, but not all the time. Only when I found someone I could trust.'

'And you trust me? That's a good girl.'

'If I'm a good girl,' wept Lucinda, 'why am I crying across your lap with my knickers around my knees and my bottom on fire?'

'I suppose it's just your lucky day,' said Mr Mytton. 'Cheer up, you're nearly half-way through your spanking.'

'Half-way? Oh but sir – Ow! Oooh! Aaaah!'

By the time she had spent half an hour facing the wall hands on head, the fire in her smacked bum had cooled a little but she still gasped and screwed up her face as she pulled her knickers up.

'And now,' said Mr Mytton, 'since you've shown such an interest in the Institute you shall have the privilege of visiting the Reserve Room.'

'The what?'

'Many museums,' explained Mr Mytton, 'have private areas not available to the general public, reserved for an elite few. You, Lucinda, are about to join the elite.'

'Why do I have a feeling I am going to regret this?' said Lucinda.

* * *

They went up stairs and through doors and along passages Lucinda had never noticed before. Finally Mr Mytton opened one more door. 'The Reserve Room!' he said.

Lucinda stared. 'I'm not surprised you keep the public out of here,' she said. 'It's hardly politically correct, is it?'

Mr Mytton snorted with amusement. 'There's not much of that in Birley,' he said. 'Still, you're right, it wouldn't do to let everyone see this.'

What Lucinda saw was a room devoted to all kinds of equipment for corporal punishment. There was a sturdy wooden trestle bolted to the floor; it had a padded leather top at waist height.

An equally sturdy oak table with a long, faded cushion along one side. Several chairs. On one wall, about six feet up, were two substantial metal rings bolted into the brickwork. And, in racks on the wall, lying on the table, hanging on hooks and pegs were canes, straps, whips, paddles, a rich variety of punishment implements.

'The furniture and some of the other things came from the old Birley Reformatory which closed in nineteen-thirty,' said Mr Mytton. 'Someone must have thought it would he a waste to have them scrapped.'

'Not all this goes back to nineteen-thirty,' said Lucinda, inspecting the table. 'I'm sure they didn't have plastic rulers then.'

'The equipment has been kept up to date,' said Mr Mytton, 'by SPOC.'

'You don't mean...?'

'No, not him! The Society for the Purpose of Correction.

A group of local people with interest similar to yours. Some like to give punishment, others to take it, some are happy either way. And – I happen to know they have a vacancy for another member.'

'Well,' reflected Lucinda, 'it would be better than playing silly games with a statue. Have you any influence with them?'

'The Secretary,' said Mr Mytton, 'is an old friend of mine. Would you like me to ask her?'

'Please!' said Lucinda.

Mr Mytton produced a mobile phone. 'Helen? Jim Mytton here. How are you? Yes, fine thanks. Are you still looking for someone to take Molly's place in SPOC now she's gone to Canada? Yes, I think so. Her name is Lucinda. She's not been in Birley long. She's twenty-seven and she's a teacher at St Jude's. She's very attractive and she dresses nicely, and she can take a good spanking What? Yes, of course I've spanked her. I wouldn't recommend her if I hadn't tried her out. She's with me now, in the Reserve Room. All right, I will.'

He handed the phone to Lucinda. 'Helen wants to talk to you.'

'Hello?' said Lucinda, uncertainly.

'Hello, Lucinda,' said a warm contralto voice. 'I'm Helen Withington. Jim sounds very pleased with himself. He always is when he's had some poor girl across his knee. Are you very sore?'

'I am!' said Lucinda.

There was a sympathetic chuckle over the phone. 'Jim has a hard, heavy hand. I should know, it's smacked my bottom often enough.'

'I shouldn't have cried, though, at my age,' said Lucinda. 'I felt really ashamed of myself.'

'My dear, it's only natural!' said Helen. 'I'm forty-five and when my husband takes me across his knee and bares my bottom I'm soon bawling and blubbering disgracefully! Mind you, Robert uses the back of a hairbrush and he does go on and on!'

'Is your husband a member of SPOC?' asked Lucinda.

'Oh yes. So is my daughter Kelly. She's our youngest member at twenty.'

'Then she knows about your punishments?'

'She does,' said Helen, calmly. 'She teases me awfully too. She's not allowed to watch Robert punishing me at home but she claims she can tell whether my bottom is receiving the cane or the tawse or the martinet by the sound of my yells from the bedroom.'

'Is Kelly punished at home?'

'Robert says it wouldn't be right for him to do it, and she says she's too old now for Mummy to spank. Which is rather disappointing really – I used to feel so happily maternal when I had her wriggling over my lap while I smacked her bare pink bottom! But when we go to SPOC meetings I tell my friend Marjorie if Kelly has behaved badly. Marjorie's favourite instrument is the extra-long Glasgow tawse and she makes Kelly go across the table with her knickers down in front of everyone for a really first-class leathering. Later in the meeting she can be sure of one of Jim's special spankings, and one or two of the other members will probably chastise her too. At the last meeting, as well as the strapping and the spanking, Kelly had her legs well smacked by Mrs Morris. She always seems to find that especially shaming and of course it's intensely painful. Kelly's thighs and calves were crimson by the time Jane Morris had finished. Then she took three strokes of the cane on each hand from Frank Kay, and finally her bottom was well and truly birched by Miss Foster. Not surprisingly, poor Kelly was sobbing her heart out all the way home in the car, and for the next few days my dear, delinquent daughter was unnaturally well-behaved.'

'Oooh!' said Lucinda. 'I've never been birched – yet. Is it horribly painful?'

'Miss Foster will be happy to demonstrate,' said Helen. 'Personally, I think I shall see how your sit-upon responds to a nice, whippy rattan. Do you wriggle nicely when you're caned, Lucinda?'

'I don't know!' said Lucinda. 'All my attention is on what it feels like!'

'We shall see,' said Helen. 'But Marjorie shall deal with you first. I'll suggest that we shall have you and Kelly across the table side by side for a double strapping. I'm sure we'll hear a very heartfelt soprano duet from the pair of you. Marjorie's enthusiastic and experienced and she really puts her heart and soul into it! I speak from experience – she's my dearest friend but when she has a tawse in her hand and my bottom at her mercy, oh my God!'

'I'm accepted as a member of SPOC, then?' asked Lucinda.

'Certainly,' said Helen. 'Of course, there is a little initiation ceremony.'

Lucinda gulped. 'I thought there might be.'

'You shall choose,' said the cool voice. 'Select any implement you see in that room.'

Lucinda looked around, then reached for the wall rack. 'I'm holding a cane,' she said.

'Give it to Jim, please. Now, how many strokes are you to receive, and where?'

Lucinda glanced at Mr Mytton. He grinned and flexed the cane in his hands. 'I'll take six strokes on my bottom, Helen.'

'Very well. Bend over please, Lucinda.' Again the friendly chuckle. 'Remember, I shall be listening!'

Lucinda put the phone down and bent over the table, gripping the far edge. Her skirt was turned up and she lifted her hips so that Mr Mytton could take down her tights and knickers. She felt the smooth, thin cane stroking the cheeks of her buttocks, still tender from the spanking.

'Ready, Lucinda?' said Mr Mytton.

'Yes, sir.'

Whap! The cane struck where it had just been stroking.

'Aaaaah!' it was something between a gasp and a yelp as Lucinda screwed up her face and briefly lifted her feet from the floor in automatic reaction to the shock. It way six months since she had last been caned; she had almost forgotten how painfully a swishy rattan could punish a plump bare bottom.

Whap! The second weal rose an inch below the first.

'Ooooooh!' Lucinda blushed furiously as she thought of Helen listening over the phone, perhaps laughing at her shrill wail of dismay.

Whap! Oh God, it hurt so much! She mustn't cry. She'd disgraced herself already when she was spanked. Surely she could be brave enough to take her punishment without tears.

Whap! A real scorcher across the tender lower curves.

'Oh! Oh sir! Oh, please sir!' She hadn't meant to call out but her bottom was blazing so furiously that she could not help it.


'Aaaah! Please sir, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!' She had done nothing to deserve the caning, but the words came so naturally. One more stroke to come.

Instead of giving it Mr Mytton put down the cane and picked up the phone. 'Helen,' he said. 'I thought you'd like to know – she does wriggle very prettily! Yes, I'm sure you will... all right, I'll tell her.'

He put down the phone. 'You attend your first meeting three days from now,' he said. 'You'll have a nice set of marks to show when Marjorie takes your knickers down for the tawse. Meanwhile, we haven't quite finished, have we?'

The delay had played havoc with Lucinda's resolution. She could no longer hold back the big warm tears which rolled down her flushed cheeks. She felt bitterly ashamed, and yet there was a strange kind of satisfaction in the shame. She had tried so hard to be a brave girl, and if she had failed, if she had surrendered to her own weakness, then her failure and her surrender would be more than adequately punished when she next came to this room. Her bottom would be bared in front of Helen and her friends and she would endure the searing discipline of tawse and cane and birch. She would hold out her hands to be strapped, she would feel the biting lash of the martinet and the riding switch across her thighs and calves. She would suffer the ignominy of squirming and weeping and imploring across a man's lap as her bare bottom was soundly spanked with hand and hairbrush before an amused and applauding audience.

Lucinda knew beyond doubt that in three days' time she would receive the soundest thrashing she had ever had in her life. As she sobbed and squirmed in delicious terror at the prospect she heard Mr Mytton's laughing voice behind her.

'Yes, Lucinda, you wriggle very nicely indeed!'

And the cane descended for the final stroke upon the burning bare flesh of her exquisitely sore and sensitive bottom.