Saturday, 7 January 2012


Story from Blushes 07.


Sometimes after she had been caned, Lizbeth would lie wriggling while he held her stockinged legs apart. To let the air flow cool beneath her, so he said. Sometimes she would blubber and he would lightly kiss her open mouth, just pecking at the softness while she sobbed.

The room would grow hazy then, blue knickers lying on the floor, her pleated skirt wreathed up around her waist, the swellings of her tits revealed where his errant fingers loosened the buttons one by one.

'Lie still now', he would urge. – 'C...c...can't!' would come her broken cry. Then he would slip his palm beneath her seared young orb and let her bounce and squirm on it, curling his fingers up sometimes – which only made her jerk the more, she thought. And tickling, there was tickling, too: sensations swirling in her slender form.

Once when his lips touched hers, she choked 'GOOO-GOOO!' and felt a white explosion in her tummy, in between her thighs. Unguardedly she clung to him, cheek to his cheek and felt the rippling light, then quivered, moaned, and let her head hang back, the pillow soft receiving it. And he had left her then, full-bared as she still was and wriggling with impatience and the stinging in her nether cheeks. The door would close, and then her fingers – quite all by themselves – began to creep down where the lovely feeling was.

'Lizbeth!', he would call sharply through the door, making her start and roll upon her tum, her hand still underneath her, secretly. She was naughty, and she knew it. That was why she had the cane. But after it, then she was naughty all the more, and no sense came to her of why or how.

'Control!' he said to her one day. She knew he must have eyes that saw through doors. It made her blush and clip her thighs together quick. Then he would smile and speak more softly, edging up her skirt. Her skirts were always shorter than she wore outside. And, dutifully, she always put them on when she came in. Her blouses, though, were three years older. Too tight: the buttons often burst. Sometimes her nipples showed, and that was rude.

He never said that she was rude, though, never said. Swinging her over like a doll upon his lap, he would peel her tiny knickers down into the limp bends of her knees and smack her bare cheeks slowly first. The first smacks – no, she didn't mind them much. They teased her as they stung, and made her jerk. He would hold her in a 'special way' then, underneath her front, moving his hand there while his palm came down.

When it came harder, Lizbeth would begin to squeak, toes kicking on the carpet and her eyes screwed up. Often a button then would pop, and then another till her blouse split open and his hand explored within, his palm relentless on her burning cheeks, ignoring all her cries and squeals.

'You must not squeal so much, Elizabeth', he told her several times – used her full name, and so she knew that it was serious and, wriggling her bottom still, would blink and bite her lower lip, her buds extended fully on their snowy crests, peeping from out the sagging halves of her thin top.

'It b...b...burns me', she would say, and he would nod as if that were a solemn thing and true.

'Of course, Elizabeth, of course. How else are you to learn. Would you prefer the cane today? No? Well, tonight, perhaps. Before you go to bed – yes, just before'.

'B...but, I can't sleep then', she wished to say, yet knew herself for hypocrite. It was not always true she could not sleep. The awful, searing stings became a glow, and he would hold his hand beneath her till there was. She wondered how he knew; he never asked. Perhaps her pouting lips were open more, stroking her thighs as he wanted to do until she ceased to buck and jerk.

The cane was awful. She had had it six times now, sometimes just with her nightie on, the frothy nylon wreathed beneath her arms, and she on hands and knees upon her bed, biting her pillow as it stung her so and made her weave her naked hips about, showing her... OH! she didn't dare to think what he could see when he arced the cane beneath her bottom and made her lift it higher, higher still, and with her knees apart to help her keep her balance, so he always said.

Lizbeth wanted to ask her mother how she ought to be and if she was really naughty all the time, but her mother ran two shops of hers and had so little time. Once, confidentially, Lizbeth had asked her mother if she, too, had ever had the cane. Their conversation was so nice and cosy at the time, and her mother had listened to her question, then had laughed.

'You have to learn, Lizbeth. After all, you are a growing girl', she said, but did not answer Lizbeth 's question, not at all. – 'But, M...M...Mummy, almost every day I...' – 'Yes, I know, dear; you must learn – that's all I said', her mother answered her mysteriously, then opened her accounts book and picked up her pen, which made Lizbeth feel broody all the more. She wouldn't ever be spanked or caned again – she swore that to herself and brushed right past her uncle when she met him on the stairs, as if to say, 'I won't – and I don't care!'

At the call for dinner, Lizbeth felt hungry and went down. The nights were drawing in, her mother said. All mothers said the same thing, thought Lizbeth, save about spankings, canings, but she was not sure of that. Her friend, Cindy, was often spanked and had her knickers pulled right down. She knew that. Cindy had told it to her when they slept together once.

'It's awful – really is', said Cindy and chewed the pillow as she spoke.

Lizbeth thought of that at dinner as she ate. Her uncle had glanced down several times now at her legs, but that he often did.

'Lizbeth, you've got your long skirt on', he said and clucked his tongue. – 'I know I have – so what?', said Lizbeth crossly, then her mother stared at her and said she shouldn't answer back.

'Don't want to wear it', said Lizbeth and she left her sweet half eater and jumped up and ran upstairs, her face is red at her own daring. – 'I'll see at her,' she heard her uncle say. – 'Yes, dear,' her mother answered meekly in a tone of voice that Lizbeth had never heard in use before, and Lizbeth clenched her fists and said swear words beneath her breath. He wanted an excuse. He wouldn't get it though. Slipping her day skirt off and folding it away, she got her short skirt out and was just about to step within it when the door opened and her uncle stood there, jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled.

'Lizbeth!', he barked at her, and then she jumped. – 'Mum!', she tried to call but her lips felt glued. Especially when he entered, closed the door again and pointed to the bed.

'Please, no! Oh, not tonight! Please no!', she quavered, stockinged thighs together as she spoke, the skirt gathered round her ankles, slipping from her fingers.

'Lizbeth - come HERE', he growled and in that growl was all the menace of his waiting palm. Dragging her feet, head bowed, she stepped to him, her twisting thighs exposing in between the puffed vee of her panties.

'M...Mum!', she bleated, but her voice was low, as if she feared to call it out too loud. He knew that; she could see it in his eyes that fell to the small dark triangle underneath her knicks. And then his hand snaked out, and she was slammed against him timidly, her thighs a-quiver and her nylons rasping to his legs.

'How often have you had the cane?' he asked. His voice was softer then. He even stroked her hair and clasped her like a palpitating bird to him, face pressed against his shirt front. And Lizbeth was all weak, as she had never meant to be. 'S...s...s...six', she stammered, and was prayed she had got it right. – 'And it is not enough, Lizbeth. Your bottom need some extra treatment yet – right here,' he murmured. Then his hand slipped down into her panties at the back and felt the warm and silky globe and made her gasp the way he put his finger in between her cheeks, making her reach up on her toes, her fists clenched at his shoulders, trembling as she was.

'I want to go out... I want... I want', she stammered, felt her face go red. – 'What you want, Lizbeth, is something else – something you haven't quite realised as yet, and young girls have to learn. Didn't your mother tell you that as well?'

'She did, yes, but I – OH! Oh, please, no!' Gliding down beneath his hands, her panties wreathed her ankles in a tiny pool and left her shamefully exposed. Her bum cheeks quivered as he tasted them, the palpitating, silky hemispheres, and Lizbeth dared not move, thought of her mother bursting in. But then, the front door slammed and Lizbeth gallantly burst away, peered down through her window and saw her mother entering her car.

'MUM', she called, but all too late. Her uncle stood unmoving and his eyes somehow forced her then again to turn to him, hands fluttering around her pubic growth until he shook his head and – gulping then – she dropped both arms and hung her head.

'You are ready to be caned again – you know you are', he uttered. – 'NO! I'm not, I won't, you can't, I've... OUCH!' Quicker than she could move he had her by the waist, raised on foot on her single bed and slung her puppet-like over his uplifted thigh, her bottom orbed up to the ceiling and her fig like lovelips shown. Squealing, she tries to move, but he had ringed her waist in steel-like grip.

'A spanking first, I think', he said, then SMACK! and SMACK! and SMACK! his palm came down, bouncing from the resilient hemispheres while Lizbeth cried her outrage to the wall, her body jack-knifed full over his thigh.

'Don't, don't! Oh, please! Oh, uncle no!', she screeched and at her cry his rising hand was halted. It came down instead to soothe the tingling, burning orb while Lizbeth squeezed its cheeks and held her breath.

'It was to have been six, Lizbeth. Alas, I told you several days ago you squeal too much – alarming neighbours, people passing by. Take off your blouse and come downstairs in – say – five minutes. That will give you time to meditate. Five minutes only, Lizbeth!'

A dumbness seized her then. She sniffled and pretended that she was about to cry, but no tears came. It was all a mix-up in her pretty head. If it was to have been six why didn't he? Hands fumbled at her blouse and took it off. Her panties slid down and she stepped out of them. Self-consciously, she bent at the low mirror of her small white dressing table and brushed her hair. And then... and then he called again, 'Lizbeth!'

'Yes – yes, all right!', she quavered back, running her hands down her sleek thighs to make sure her stockings were both taut. Leaving her room, she tripped along the landing, turned the first corner of the stairs and then stopped as she saw him standing down below, cane in his hand.

"OH!', gasped Lizbeth. With every downward step she took she seemed to twinkle at him from between her thighs, and that unmoving upward look of his saw everything. He had taken his tie off, too. His shirt was all undone. Her firm young titties bounced in her descent. Unable as she was to close her legs at all, she blinked and knew not where to look. At the foot of the stairs she all but bumped against him. Then his hand came up and circled round her neck and gripped the nape of it between his thumb and fingers. Not so tightly, though as when he first had spanked her weeks ago, but just enough to guide her straight along into the living room.

It was there that Lizbeth saw the change. He had drawn the sofa from the wall and turned it so that it had its back to her and stood at an angle across the floor.

'Over now, Lizbeth', he said, the urging of his strong hand was implacable. Her lips felt dry. The back was awfully high. But then he ceased to hold her neck and lifted her about her hips and, with a sudden squeak from her, caused her to hang upon the rolled and puffy surface so that her toes hung just above the carpet and her head hung down into the cushions at the front.

'Listen to me carefully, Lizbeth. The next time that I call you down, you will find the sofa placed as it now is. I will not lift you. You will raise yourself upon it as you are, and wait. You understand?'

'But uncle, please!'

'A plea unheard, Lizbeth. Let your legs dangle and beware, young lady, that you do not kick. I want you to imagine henceforth that your mother is upstairs, perhaps asleep, and will not wish to be disturbed by silly howls and protests. Do you hear?'

'Yeh-ess!', she whimpered. All that she could see were the flowered cushions underneath her nose, the rim of the sofa, and a bit of floor. Her bottom orbed upon the sofa's top. She tried to keep her legs together, but they seemed to hang apart, her nest and cleft both offered to his eyes. Her titties tingled and her fingers clenched.

SWOOO-ISSSSH!.... She heard the sound like an oncoming breeze, and then the sting – deep sting of it – burned through her nether cheeks and brought a muffled shriek. Oh, the harsh bite of it, the burning... No!.... It wasn't f...f...fair...

'Do you know why I am caning you, Lizbeth?'

'NO-WOH, I don't, I d...d...don't!', she sobbed, and then let out a sharper squeal as a white flame seared beneath her bulbing bum, and was immediately followed by another. – 'AAH! YEEEEEE-EEK!', she screeched, but gallantly bit back the cry by bringing her palm close underneath her mouth.

'Excellent, Lizbeth! You need approval just as much as you need discipline, and will henceforth receive them in almost equal measure, given your obedience. NO, girl – you DONT slide back!', her uncle growled as Lizbeth vainly tried to toe the floor. The cane swished underneath her pink-striped orb and forced her up again, bringing a doleful squeal from her.

'Compliance to the wishes of your elders, Lizbeth, will reward you. Do you understand?'

Reward? She did not understand at all, wanted to cry out that she did not, but even as the words buzzed in her head, the whistling of the dreaded cane once more made her perfect bottom cheeks roll like a ball on an uncertain edge.

'Oh, woh-woh, yes!' she screeched despite herself. And then he waited, waited while she squirmed, legs clipping, parting, ankles turning in, toes swinging into the sofa's padded back. Until she stopped and then hung limp again, breath hissing from her nostrils as she waited for the next.... the next.... the next, unconscious that he was listening to a subtle changing in her muffled cries, her sobs, her pleadings. Even those, despite herself, began to die away. She was swirling, falling, falling, in the flickering flames that seeped into her and made her nipples sparky to the soothing of the cushions underneath her wobbling breasts.

He stopped at last. But had he stopped? Encased in sheening heat, Lizbeth became aware of darkness as he stepped away and clicked the light off, and the living room was dark save for the moonlight's milky spread of paleness in the gloom. A faint zizzing came to her that sounded like a zip or something – then he padded back to her and she thought that he was going to draw her down, but instead he took firm purchase of her hips and stilled them while she held her breath and wondered at the hot, smooth, plummy something she could feel that nubbed demandingly along the silky tunnel between the tops of her thighs....

The house was quiet when Lizbeth's mother returned. 'The sofa's out of place', she said, with that quick eye a woman has.

'I guess I must have moved it, yes'. He got up, yawned, and said, 'She's fast asleep. She's feeling better now, I think'. He didn't say precisely how that condition had been achieved, though.

Friday, 6 January 2012

Tomorrow's Army

Story from Privilege Plus 09.

Tomorrow's Army
by Derek Cross

"That blonde girl's got a randy body on her," remarked one of the naked young men to his neighbour in the communal showers.

"The dark-haired one's nicely shaped as well," was the acknowledgement.

The first soldier glanced repeatedly at the blonde-haired girl through the water and the steam. She was rotating her face in the spray with her eyes clamped shut and seemingly uncaring that she was being ogled at. The girl was turned sideways to the two male soldiers on the other side of the large, white-tiled room, and therefore showed off the jut of her abdomen with its profusion of light-coloured hair. Admired also were her self-supporting breasts with their shrunken pink nipples pointing upwards.

Suddenly the block of soap slipped out of her hand and skidded around the wet floor before coming to a stop. The girl half-turned and bent down to retrieve it. The effect was to push her buttocks up into the air. The two observing soldiers on the other side of the shower-room stared wide-eyed at the rich, round orbs of their female colleague's bottom. They were perfection itself, divided by a neat, deep crease.

The sight lasted for only a second or two before the girl stood up and began to lather her breasts. She did not seem to have noticed the physical reaction her bending movement had caused to one of the young squaddies on the other side of the passageway. His pal, however, did notice, and reached out a hand to change the cascading water from hot to cold.

"Aagghhh! What did you do that for?" was the shivered complaint.

His mate pointed a finger at his crotch. The soldier nodded, grinned, and turned his back on the girl.

Jody had, however, noticed what had happened. Such a thing was only to be expected, of course, but she did wonder whether the new practice of both male and female soldiers living together, as well as training together, was a good idea.

Jody had surprised everyone when she had let it be known she wanted to join the Army. Her own father had 'joined up' when was eighteen, but things had been different then, and Jody was a young woman with the world at her feet. Her friends could not understand why she wanted to conceal her perfect curves and elegant legs in a khaki uniform.

The Army of the new millennium was, however, a far cry from the fighting force of earlier years. It was now much depleted and heavily commercialised. The only 'overseas posting' was the Isle of Wight!

Both sexes did the same jobs, slept in the same quarters and even showered in the same showers. Any sexual activity was, however, completely banned – despite the liberal ideas and advances of the previous two decades.

Kirsty, the dark-haired girl under the adjacent shower to Jody, had joined up for different reasons. She had needed a job! She turned off the shower and started to dry herself. Using both her hands, she rubbed the towel up and down her back, causing her full-moulded breasts to bounce freely with her movement. Down below, at the junction of her thighs, her now dry pubic hair spread upwards from her intimate entrance like a black fern.

Turning round, she raised one foot to a tiled ledge to dry between her toes. Her action displayed her bold buttocks, and the squaddie in the shower opposite was again grateful for another deluge of cold water.

"Hurry along, you lot!"

Jody was not the only one to groan. Corporal Wilkinson, the new recruits' Lord and Master for the next eight weeks, had arrived. He strode through the showers shouting at the top of his voice, exhorting everyone to hurry along for the next period of training. The blonde girl had got the impression that the bristle-haired, moustached non-commissioned officer was not in agreement with the modern idea of dual-sex training.

"Last one outside on parade is on Fatigues!" bawled the Corporal, his stentorian tones echoing around the tiled room. He clearly revelled in the power accorded to him by the two chevrons on his sleeves.

The shower-room at once became a flurry of activity as water was turned off and towels hurriedly rubbed over wet bodies. No one wanted to spend the evening cleaning and scraping baking tins in the mess or the like.

In her haste to get back in her uniform, Jody again let slip the bar of soap from her wet hands. It fell to the tiled floor just as Corporal Wilkinson was about to put down his right boot. The result was inevitable.

"Yeeowww!" he screeched as he skidded on the ceramic surface, falling backwards and sliding on his behind to end up beneath a still-running shower.

No one dared laugh, although the bedraggled figure of the angry Corporal spluttering under the spray of hot water was a truly comical sight. Jody was horrified. Whilst she wanted to rush to the aid of the stricken Corporal, something made her hold back. She was, she realised, going to be in very hot water – hotter even than the irate Corporal Wilkinson was under at that very moment – but only if she let it be known that the soap was hers.

At last the glowering NCO got to his feet and turned off the cascading water. His formerly well-creased, impeccable uniform hung from his broad frame like soggy blotting paper. Jody had never seen an angrier-looking man in her whole life. Her stomach gave a lurch, as indeed did everyone's in that shower area.

"Wh... wh... who did that?"

Wilkinson was in such a state of near apoplexy that he could not shriek as he normally did. His question came out as a pitiful squeak.

Jody looked around her. There were no accusing gazes. She made a quick decision. If she were to own up, no one, least of all the drenched drill Corporal, would believe it had been an accident.

The pretty blonde girl soldier was not the last one out on parade, but the one who was turned out not to be the only person given gruelling extra duties that day. Indeed, as Wilkinson furiously informed them, the whole squad would continue to do so until such time as the culprit owned up.

It was actually twenty-four hours before Jody finally decided to admit culpability. The atmosphere in the accommodation block was becoming unbearable; so, too, were the extra tasks. This time she took one smart pace forward when Corporal Wilkinson asked for the umpteenth time who had been responsible for his embarrassment.

At her admission of guilt, Jody heard a torrent of words such as she had never heard before. She had to stand stiffly to attention in the barrack room whilst the NCO read the Riot Act to her. The crestfallen blonde knew that all her colleagues were on the side of the Corporal for a change.

"Are you prepared to have this matter dealt with here and now?" hissed Wilkinson severely. "Or do you want it to go before the Colonel and have him punish you?"

"Now, please," gulped Jody.

The man stepped back. The glint in his eyes was the most evil she had ever seen. Wilkinson smiled. It was not a nice smile. Quite the worst smile Jody had ever seen, in fact.

"If I give you twelve strokes of a cane to forget the incident, will you make a promise NOT to report the punishment to anyone?"

The question came as a bombshell. Despite the fact that caning had in recent years been reintroduced in schools and in penal institutions, Jody well knew that it was not allowed in the Army under King's Regulations. There were many gasps of surprise.

Despite the fact that she was standing at attention, Jody's shoulders slumped. A myriad of thoughts flashed through her mind. She could get kicked out of the Army. She knew well enough that the Colonel was not in favour of the 'mixed soldiery', and might well seize on the excuse to have her pack her bags.

She heard herself croak, "I'll accept the caning."

There were excited murmurs from behind her, coupled with remarks such as, "I should think so," and "It's no more than she deserves."

Wilkinson exercised his authority. Orders were given to lock all doors and draw all blinds. Jody felt sick as she saw the Corporal striding to his room. She knew what he had gone for.

He returned, marching as though on the parade ground. Under his arm was a long thin cane with a rounded handle. The NCO threw the cane down on to the long table in the centre of the room. It landed with a clatter on the highly polished top. Jody stared at the menacing stick, a quaking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Remove ALL your clothing!" came Wilkinson's next barked command.

Jody had somehow known all along that that the caning was to be on her BARE bottom! Not for the first time in front of her comrades, the young blonde girl began to remove her uniform. Only that first time in mixed company had been strange: the inevitable remarks had been passed, but Jody had retaliated by joking about the blokes' bits and pieces.

This time, however, the feeling was different again. She felt rather like a slave must have felt as she stood in nothing but her matching white bra and panties before the assembled company. There was an air of excitement in the big room. Everyone had already seen what she was made of, but no one had previously laid so much as a finger on her. Maybe that was the difference.

Jody took a deep breath, and her breasts were thrust out as she reached behind her back to unsnick her bra catch. Then she pulled the cups away from her finely-shaped breasts. Semi-naked, she stood at attention. Everyone, the dark-haired Kirsty included, scrutinised her near nudity.

"Will someone take her knickers off!" barked Wilkinson. "She doesn't seem to want to do so herself."

It was Kirsty who volunteered. As though it were a well-practised drill move, she stepped several paces forward, yanked down the hapless blonde's last item of clothing, and marched smartly back again.

The long-limbed, athletic girl soldier with the high cheekbones and wide-set blue eyes had everything in the right place. Her breasts, whilst not overly large, were a perfect shape and the nipples were pink and dainty. She wanted to move her hands in front of the spreading curls of her light pubic hair, but dare not. Her bush did little to hide the beginning of her pink gash.

"Stretch over the table!"

The abrupt instruction was accompanied by a grim smile. "Let's have that lovely bottom nice and high." The Corporal reached for a pillow and placed it over one end of the table so that her rear would be elevated.

It suddenly dawned on Jody that she wouldn't be the first female soldier to have felt the Corporal's cane. Why else would he have such an implement in his room? Not only that, but the way he'd put the pillow on the end of the table indicated that he was no novice at this. She then had a nagging thought that the Colonel himself probably DID know about the canings and turned a blind eye to them. He might even be encouraging them!

There were sickly grins on the faces of her male colleagues as the naked and nubile female soldier approached the wooden table. Taking a deep breath, she folded herself over it so that her mound was pressed into the pillow.

"Pull her up a bit more!" instructed the Corporal. "Her arse isn't high enough."

Eager hands pulled her further along the table-top until the tips of her toes were just touching the shiny floor and her breasts were squashed against the cold surface.

The ripe swellings of Jody's buttocks were exposed in all their naked glory. She kept her thighs pressed together and hoped she'd be able to keep them shut for the duration of the coming ordeal.

"Her arse looks better than ever," whispered the soldier who had admired her shape in the showers on that fateful day.

"We'll all need a cold shower after this," sniggered his pal.

Corporal Wilkinson stepped smartly forward, his cane held upwards like the sword of an officer on ceremonial duty.

This was the worst moment of young Jody's life. Her whole body twitched as she felt something cold and hard touch her waiting, trembling bum. In order to measure his stance, the NCO had pressed the cane across her buttocks, making a deep vale in the tender flesh.

The girl held her breath. For some reason, she glanced behind her and saw the awful cane poised in the air. Kirsty was grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Jody just hoped the dark-haired girl got a taste of the same medicine before training was over.

As Jody turned her head away, she heard the SWISSHHH of the thin wood as it sliced through the air waves.


Next second it had thudded its way into her bottom. The impact of the cane on the upstretched bum was like a pistol shot. Jody's pretty mouth stretched wide in a wail as her bottom was suddenly injected with hurt.

None of the observers had ever seen anyone caned before, and they watched in awe as a whitish, soon to redden, line appeared across both of Jody's luscious bottom-cheeks.

Before she had become used to the shocking pain, the cane descended to bounce once more off the offered buttocks.

"Aagghhh!" cried out Jody, pressing herself into the pillow in her groin. The peach cleft tightened to a vertical line, now bisected by two horizontal streaks, one inch apart. The tormented cheeks clenched and unclenched, accompanied by a wriggling of Jody's toes.

Again she heard the whistling rush behind her. It was a sound she knew she would never forget.


The rattan struck hard on to a slightly higher area than before. Jody's bum-cheeks jerked with the sharpness of the additional pain. How on earth could she possibly last out for another nine of these?

Again the cane rose, quivered, and flew to its rounded target.

"Aaaggghhh!" cried Jody, knowing all too well that the wand had bitten into her nates lower down that time.

She clenched her fists and pressed her mound into the minimal comfort of the pillow once more. Her right leg bent involuntarily backwards at the knee, and a gap opened up between her pearly thighs when it was straightened again.

The burning pain had barely subsided than she heard the terrifying whirr once more.


"OWWwwwwww!" she wailed in a shrill voice.

Jody's helpless behind, now flushed and striped, rotated wildly. Her long, elegant toes danced on the floor and her thighs abandoned the visual protection they had previously afforded, so that those parts of herself which Jody had thus far kept hidden were lewdly displayed for all to see.

The sight was, naturally, much appreciated, but many of the male recruits had grim faces and balled fists, just the same. Kirsty looked worried; it had dawned on her that the awful Corporal Wilkinson might find an excuse to do the same to her!

The steely blue eyes of the man in charge were alive with enthusiasm. He held the cane high in the air and put all his force into the sixth stroke across the girl's already well-whipped posteriors.

The CRACK rang out angrily. Jody's entire bottom leaped frantically with the impact and she let loose a screech that threatened to call out the guard.

Jody's frantic breath now began to come in uneven gasps. She was really struggling to cope with her suffering – a suffering that was only half over. It felt as though her brain was aflame. Her distressed sit-upon certainly was!

The previous lashing stroke had landed diagonally across the stripes caused by the five earlier horizontal ones, and ebbing pain had thus been reignited to cause an explosion of renewed hurt.

Wilkinson paused at the halfway stage. Jody, however, just wanted him to carry on, dreadful though it was. And continue he did, pausing maliciously between each remaining, agonising stroke. Jody's bare, latticed bottom gyrated lewdly with each forceful impact of the deftly applied cane. Every line was a vivid red and the skin around each was flushed a deep pink.

Each swipe of the thin stick across her normally so-lovely buttocks produced a jerking back of Jody's head, accompanied by a wail of distress from the back of her throat. Her fingertips scrabbled against the highly-polished table-top and her toes fluttered and skidded on the equally well-shone floor.

When the time had been reached for the final stroke to be delivered, Jody was sobbing uncontrollably. Her behind felt like a furnace. Tentacles of fire had engulfed her body and brain. She sucked her lower lip, awaiting the merciful end to her ordeal.

For the first time, the stern-faced NCO slightly changed his stance. Those watching knew he was up to something devilish. Jody realised just what he was going to do when she felt the cool wood kissing the join of her thighs and deeply-scored nates.

"Nooooooo!" she pleaded, imagining the further torment about to be inflicted. Her spread-cheeked behind waggled furiously, but it didn't put Wilkinson off his aim. Like the true marksman he was, he landed his pain-imparting rattan wand exactly where it had kissed the target on its recent reconnaissance.


This time the feel of the cane was far from cool. It was white hot! Jody screamed and thrashed her legs like a demented frog...

* * *

It was towards the end of training that Kirsty gave cause to receive a summary punishment as an alternative to appearing before the Colonel. She had been caught in a compromising position with a young squaddie. The Army of the new century frowned upon such things – on duty, at any rate!

As Jody watched the first red stripe appear on her colleague's satiny-silk flesh, she forgave her for grinning when she herself had been in that same position over the table.

The blonde-haired girl soldier was absolutely certain by now that the Commanding Officer was aware of such 'goings-on'. Her father was due to retire soon, and she had decided to wait until he was a former Colonel before she questioned him about it.

Jody knew she could have revealed her identity to Wilkinson, and he wouldn't have dared touch her. She was glad, however, that she had not given way under duress and revealed that she was the daughter of the Commanding Officer.

Jody thought she was going to make a very good soldier!

Thursday, 5 January 2012

Double Delight

Story from Janus 31.

Double Delight
by Andrew Grantham

THE HEADMASTER, a large broad man with a face that seemed to have been wiped clean of bluffness and geniality shook hands with Mr Blake, the youngest of the school's governors.

'I have two girls to be caned,' said Mr Hargreaves. 'I'm sorry you have been troubled.'

'Not at all,' smiled Mr Blake, his blue eyes twinkling at the prospect in store. 'One has to take the rough with the smooth.'

The young governor did not say whether he thought witnessing a caning came under the category of 'rough' or 'smooth'. Actually it was the best part of being a governor of Abbeyfield School.

Abbeyfield was a very expensive Girls' Boarding School with an excellent academic record. It was a very strict school but canings were the exception rather than the rule.

It was also a rule that a school governor attended such occasions. Firstly, he was an impartial witness and secondly, it showed the erring young ladies just how serious the situation was. An Abbeyfield girl might be caned once, but never twice.

'We'll get it over with right away,' sighed the Head. 'Then you can take tea with us.'

He went outside to give his secretary an instruction and then he produced a thin, crook-handled cane from the centre drawer of a large oak desk. The desk was a piece of furniture that would make an American antiques collector drool with envy.

Mr Blake ran a comb through his tidy, fair hair and brushed away some imaginary flecks from his neat grey suit. Then he moved his chair to the wall. This was an excellent position from which to view the caning.

There was a timid knock on the door.

'Come in!' called out Mr Hargreaves, drawing himself up to his full height and clutching at the lapels of his checked sports jacket.

The door opened to admit a tall blonde girl. Mr Blake's mouth dropped open at the sight of the gorgeous creature. She invoked a twinge in his scrotum right away.

The girl closed the door by leaning her back against it. She remained in that position for several long seconds before moving to the centre of the room.

Her legs were slim and superbly shaped and she teetered on narrow, high-heeled shoes as she approached the desk.

'Diana,' began Mr Hargreaves.

'No sir.' She shook her head, a mop of blonde bubble curls. 'Felicity.'

'Well Felicity,' said the Head slowly. 'Perhaps you would like to tell Mr Blake, the governor, exactly why you are being caned.'

She turned to look at the fair-haired young man. Her face flushed and she bit her lip. Felicity hesitated, but she was well aware of the fact that the independent witness had to know exactly what she had done that warranted the ultimate punishment that Abbeyfield School could give.

The governor was only just getting over the shock of seeing such a beautiful girl. He gazed, almost in awe, at her.

Felicity was a limpid-eyed blonde who looked as if more than butter had just melted in her mouth.

The electric tingling in his loins increased as Felicity guiltily and haltingly recounted her 'crime'. It was more than butter that had melted in her mouth. The gardener's boy had got the sack but Felicity was to get the cane!

She hung her head contritely after her confession. Mr Blake stared at her with the same intensity as a fan would stare at his film idol. Felicity was obviously a girl who created havoc in the hearts and loins of all who saw her.

'Don't you agree that such conduct is absolutely disgraceful?' Mr Hargreaves asked of the governor.

Mr Blake agreed – eventually. Somehow the words seemed to stick in his throat.

There was an aura of sensual innocence about the girl – a sort of wet-dream like quality. Her eyes, large and long-lashed, looked at the young governor. They were inviting, challenging almost. The gardener's boy couldn't have had a chance. The poor lad might have got the sack, but he probably wouldn't care if he never worked again.

He watched her closely as Mr Hargreaves delivered a lecture. Mr Blake wasn't listening to it and he doubted very much whether Felicity was either.

Her mouth was like a little rosebud and her front teeth, which were slightly prominent, served only to increase the girl's sensual appeal.

Mr Blake wisely decided to cross one leg over the other. He sat, spellbound. Felicity was wildly beautiful. Her eyes were so big and blue, he felt he could jump off a springboard and swim in them.

Mr Hargreaves carried on with his homily. He seemed to be completely unmoved by the girl's beauty. Perhaps his many years in the company of young beauties had dulled his senses.

The young governor wished that the event could be witnessed by a video camera so that he could relive it over and over again. He tried to memorise every detail of the girl's looks and appearance so that he could bring her to mind whenever he wished.

Her nose seemed just right for the mouth. The eyes were exactly the right size and shape and colour for her hair and everything.

'Remove your clothing, Felicity!'

Mr Blake's heart lurched as he heard the order barked by the Headmaster.

Felicity's tongue darted out and she flicked it across her lips. Her nostrils flared.

It was customary for Abbeyfield girls to be naked when they were being caned. Many years ago, when the rules had been laid down, Abbeyfield girls left the school long before they reached their eighteenth birthday. Although it now catered for girls taking their 'A' levels, no-one had thought fit the change to rules. Besides, schools like Abbeyfield did not like seeing their customs changed, even if it meant sixth formers baring their all.

So it was that Felicity lowered her head and started to remove her white blouse with long, trembling fingers. When it was open all the way, she shrugged her lovely body out of it and laid it on the Headmaster's desk.

Her flesh was firm and youthful. Her breasts filled out her brassiere. Was that the next piece of clothing she would discard? No. Her hands went to the fastener of her navy blue skirt.

Suddenly it slid down her legs and landed at her feet. They were the most graceful legs that Mr Blake had ever seen – bare, shapely and expertly moulded.

She twisted as she extricated her feet. Her skimpy pants clung to her bottom, leaving taut crescents of delectable flesh visible to Mr Blake.

Mr Hargreaves tapped the palm of one hand with the cane whilst he waited patiently for Felicity to complete her undressing.

Her bra was next. Suddenly it was off. A little embarrassed, Felicity tried to cover herself. All she did however was to display her white exciting breasts to even greater advantage. She seemed to be holding two captured doves in her hands.

Mr Blake's eyes moved on downwards. Her semi-transparent panties revealed the wad of hairs beneath. Even before they were removed it was obvious that Felicity was a natural blonde. Her 'collar and cuffs' matched perfectly.

To peel down her knicks she had to take her hands away from her upper half. Her two full white mounds were perfectly proportioned and her tiny, bright pink nipples were erect and very pretty.

Mr Blake naturally stared at the blonde pubic curls. If only he could entwine them around his fingers...

Her embarrassment gone, Felicity displayed her body to his hungry gaze before Mr Hargreaves moved around to the other side of his desk.

Her nudity had the startling quality of an alabaster statue. The sight was almost too much to take in. Almost!

'Over the desk please, Felicity,' ordered the Headmaster.

The girl took a deep breath with her beautiful breasts rising proudly. Then she teetered on the high-heeled shoes towards the desk.

Stretching out her arms, she lay over the highly polished top of one of Abbeyfield's precious heirlooms and poked her rear high into the air.

Her bottom looked like two smooth balls with golden wisps curling between them.

Mr Blake uncrossed his legs, made an adjustment for his personal comfort and then crossed them again.

Mr Hargreaves lined up the cane by placing it on the round target. Then he raised it high into the air before bringing it down with all his power.

The result sounded like a pistol shot. Felicity gave vent to a loud 'Owww!'

Her bottom looked like a hot cross bun with a thin red line at right angles to her deep dividing cleft.

Mr Blake hit her again. Her body trembled, then she went rigid emitting a little squeal as she did so.

Now there was a set of tramlines running straight across the delightful contours of her posterior.

The Head brought down the cane once more. It was the halfway mark. Another stripe, lower down this time, adorned Felicity's young and tender bum flesh.

The blonde howled and Mr Blake's nostrils flared as he watched her writhing haunches.

Her pretty bottom was just not pretty anymore – or maybe, in a way, it was more pretty than ever! Mr Hargreaves had really laid into her. The poor girl was going to experience discomfort for some time.

The Headmaster paused in his efforts. The sore bumcheeks clenched as they waited for the next cut.

'Yeeowww!' roared out Felicity as the cane hit the join between her thighs and buttocks.

There were still two to go. Mr Blake knew that the Head would not let up. Felicity knew it too. Sobbing openly now, her hands clenched and unclenched tremulously.


'Ow.. oh.. ooh.. agh!' yelled out the stricken girl as the cane dug into her rich moons.

Her legs flailed obscenely. Mr Blake had picked the perfect position. Now he had seen absolutely everything Felicity had to offer.

The governor sighed. There was only one more stroke to go. What a pity! He wanted it to go on and on.

Mr Hargreaves waited for the girl to stop squirming. He didn't like the way she had parted her thighs but it couldn't really be helped.

The cane began its whipping descent. There were five marks disfiguring the girl's bum. And there would still be only five when he had delivered the sixth and last stroke.

The last one cracked into one of the earlier weals and Felicity nearly went berserk. Then her back arched and she squealed softly for a long few seconds. Visibly she relaxed and moaned again very softly to herself.

She lay panting for a while. Mr Hargreaves moved slowly round to the other side of the desk. Mr Blake stared at the slashed buttocks and the valley between until Felicity stood painfully upright.

Crying openly, she put her clothes back on to cover up the lovely body that the Creator had given to her. She rubbed her eyes with her fists as Mr Hargreaves delivered a few final, well-chosen words.

'We'll have the other one in now,' he ended by saying.

Felicity hobbled out of the room. Mr Blake felt the loss of her presence immediately the door closed behind her. It was almost a traumatic shock.

There was another timid knock. Then the door opened to admit the second girl who was down for a caning. Mr Blake had been so absorbed in the delights of Felicity that he had forgotten there was to be a second caning.

His mouth dropped open. He couldn't believe his eyes. The gorgeous, bubble-curled creature teetered towards the Headmaster on her narrow, high-heeled shoes. Her legs were so long it seemed as though they were never going to stop.

'Well, Diana,' began Mr Hargreaves.

Mr Blake had still not recovered from his shock when Felicity's twin sister turned towards him to confess in a voice sweetly softened by shame what she, too, had done with the gardener's boy.

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

Two bottoms up

Story from Swish Vol.3 No.11.

Two bottoms up

That strange, long summer began when I took up lodgings on the outskirts of a town where I had just got a new job. One that would last, I hoped.

I remember the certain feeling I had when Mrs Angela Smith (yes, she really was a Smith) opened the door to me. She was smallish, plump and blonde. The type you often see enjoying herself in a pub on a Saturday night. The moment she let me into the hall we weighed each other up. It was like that. I remember thinking that even though she was in her early forties it was 'all there': the firm, large bum and the equally firm large tits. Women who have had only one child seem to keep their figures better. Her curves bulged, and when she moved I could see the outline of her suspender clips. I wondered what colour panties were sheathing those large pale bumcheeks of hers and what it would feel like to put a woman like her over for a good spanking.

As I say, it was like that from the first moment. We got on. She made me a cup of tea in the small kitchen of the terraced house and we talked about this and that. She had a daughter, Susan, who had married when she was eighteen, regretted it, and had returned home fourteen months later.

"She wasn't ever disciplined, that was the trouble", Mrs Smith said. Yes – I always calls her that and she always called me Mr Harrison. It was the same with the daughter. Considering what happened, I got a special kick out of that.

"Girls nowadays are not", I said and asked – as if the thought had just struck me – "were you?" There was a little toss of her head at that and she looked at me rather searchingly and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips as if trying to decide whether or how to answer that. – "Oh, I got put over, all right. I'll show you the bedroom, shall I?", she asked, and I wondered if running the two things together was a coincidence or an unconscious slip of the tongue.

We got up and I watched the wobbling of her bumcheeks under her suitably tight skirt. The stairs being narrow in such houses, I had an even better view under her big plum as we went up. She was conscious of that, I could tell. None of the rooms were large. They never are in those cottage-type houses, and her hips touched mine as we surveyed the bed, the wardrobe and the single unit. Her hip was warm and my prick was already getting a tingle.

She had always lived there, she said. It had been the family home once. She had returned to it (after letting it for years) when she got divorced. Now – what happened next was the result of one of those irresistible urges that come to one a couple of times in life. The bed was only a foot or so away from us, and maybe I only imagined a tension of waiting in her. The next thing I knew was that I had circled her waist and asked her, "Was it hard, when you got spanked?"

She didn't tug away. Instead she turned her face to me (small bedrooms DO have this effect on people!) and asked, "What do you mean?" I thought of how she must have looked when she was her daughter's age. Cute, bouncy and curvy, and everything getting early development, as it were. Tits that would tingle when a hand got to her bottom properly.

I felt I couldn't breathe. – "I mean like this", I said and bent her over. As I say, the side of the bed was close to us and to prevent herself from toppling forward she put out her hands on top of it and said, "No you don't!", but not in what you'd call a panicky voice. – "I think so", I said and gave her rearing bum a first SMACK! through her skirt. The usual "OUCH!" came from her, but not a screech. – "Don't pull my skirt up!", she squealed. I said, "All right, not yet, but stay over. You've needed this, haven't you?"

"No", she gritted, but there was no struggle. I had ringed her waist and she was incredibly passive, not trying to force up. I smacked her plump checks again. It was a stinger. A louder yelp! I said, "Come on now, Mrs Smith". Well, yes, one always says the same things. Maybe they want you to; maybe it's a real part of it. I think it is. Her bum felt fantastic. I could feel her knickers through her skirt.

"YOW-WER!", she gasped at every smack that followed. Her hips jolted but her feet remained steady. Yes, she'd really had it before – but how long, long ago? The heat of her bottom came to me as I awarded her her sixth and then – as if she knew, as if she had counted – she sobbed, "Stop it now!' and wrenched away from me and fell on her back on the bed, legs hanging over the side. The receiving position, I thought. The 'afterwards' position, with the curtains drawn.

I fell down beside her and ran my hand straightaway up under her skirt, feeling those plump creamy thighs and the suitably high tops of the tan stockings she wore. I felt the suspender clips that I had seen through her skirt. – "NAH! DON'T!", she squealed and made to grab my hand as it found the well-filled crotch of her panties. And she was damp.

"NO, Mrs Smith!", I literally barked at her and at that I smacked her hand away and she threw that arm over her eyes and said "OH!", in a wobbly voice. In a way she was like a plump doll then. Oh, the feeling of those matronly legs and peeking down at what I'd uncovered! I cupped her quim through the nylon of her knicks and felt her hairy pulsing there. Again she made a fretful movement of her hand but again I said "NO!", sternly.

I wanted it to be as I like it to be. I kept my face close to hers and pushed her legs wide apart. "STAY!", I said. – "I want to get up", she mewed, but I replied, "I said, STAY!". A whimper from her, but she did. I gave her a minute to remain like that, then pulled her upon to her feet. – "You can tell me about the rent now", I said, "downstairs". I think she was surprised at that – surprised I hadn't mounted her after the short spanking, but that was going to happen in my own time.

"I believe in training, Mrs Smith. Maybe you need to be re-trained", I said as we descended. – "WHAT?", she asked, as if it were all a surprise to her. I didn't answer. I felt her bottom through her skirt as she preceded me into the kitchen. – "Now tell me about Susan", I said when we sat down again at the table. "She was only spanked once – no, I tell a lie, twice", she said. She knew what I was talking about.

"That won't do, will it?" I said. She ran her tongue out again at that and began, "Mr Harrison....." – "I'll take the room", I interrupted her, "Before I go and collect my things, though, show it to me". It was a long shot, but it worked. She argued, of course, that she didn't know what I was talking about. Finally she stared at me, got up and said defensively, "I don't know about you", and went out, upstairs, and was back again soon enough coyly holding an old tawse in her hand. I made her continue to hold it while I touched it.

She stood blinking, flushed, uncertain. "Now, Mrs Smith, go and fetch the other one", I said. – "What d'you mean?", she asked and was more flushed. – "Now!", I snapped, and she threw the tawse down on the table like the petulant girl she had once been and stomped out. Half a minute later I was looking at a nice, whippy cane. The bend in it told me how well it had been used.

I got up, holding it. She made to back away. They always know. – "Skirt up, knickers down, and over the table, Mrs Smith. You lied to me, did you not?" – "No, please! It's been...." – "It's been too long for you? You came to it once, when you were told to. You will do so now. Down with them and OVER!"

There WAS a bit of wrestling then, but in about three minutes she had finally put it up to me. And what a moon! You'll gather from this that I have a slight preference for mature ladies – and I have. She had a good, prominent 'fig' that showed nicely under the inviting cleft globe, and her furrow was nice and deep, and tight.

She clutched the sides of the table. I wondered again how many long years it had been since she had done that. – "NO-WER!" came her cry even as I raised the old bent cane slowly, for she sensed it. HOOO-WITTT! it sang, and oh how her knuckles whitened and what a thin, strangled screech she uttered as it bit into bumcheeks which were probably half as plump again as when she had last received it! Alongside that screech, as it were, came the thin pink streak which stained the pallor of those halfmoons.

"You bad girl", I said softly and she whimpering, "I'm not, I'm not!!". There was a comparative silence then as I let it 'sink in' – the cane-strike, I mean. You have to. A lot of little choking sounds came from her. Her stockings were nice and tight. I eased her legs apart. She didn't resist. – "There's a good girl", I said (the old routine!), and then after another waiting period.... SWOOO-ISSSSH!

"NOOO-OH!", came her cry. She did made to rise then, groping at the same time for her scorched bottom, but I pushed her hand away, growled at her, and pinned the nape of her neck. – "You stay over when you are TOLD!", I said, and I gave another but lighter stroke for that, bringing a very surprised "AH!" from her. – "You understand, Mrs Smith?", I demanded. Her legs, quivering as they were, had begun to inch together, but she had to show both nest and bottom, and she knew it. – "SHOW!", I barked, and she did, sobbing.

"That's better. Two more now and I'm finished with you for the moment", I said. – "Please no! I'll do anything, I'll.... YEEEK!" That was an interesting piece of information. – "Afterwards, yes, not during", I said and placed my palm flat against her throbbing bottom from which so much heat exuded. The pink streaks had spread, forming a jammy splurge over the bulging half-moons, but the streaks themselves – the old tramlines – showed beneath. Her bum wriggled, hips jerking. Ready for entry, I thought – the waiting head of a cock ready to slip up between those pouting lovelips.

But not yet: not from me. Training first, or retraining in her case, as I had said. Her cheek lay sideways on the table, tears visible. She was sobbing pitiably, or at least she hoped it sounded like that. – "Spread legs, please", I told her evenly. Uneasily she obeyed. How ripe she looked!

"What did you say just now?", I asked and poised the cane. – "I s...said I would NEEE-AAAARGH!"

It was the most biting one, but she needed it. Working on instinct I knew she needed it. For a moment longer as the thin howl left her throat and her superb arse screwed around so temptingly, her knuckles whitened more. That moment was like an eternity. And then her fingers released the sides of the table and her arms flopped. She was a doll again, big-bummed now, but still yielding, submitting, offering.

"Up now!", I said, maybe to her surprise. She had expected cock. I pulled her up and turned her and she flopped into me, sobbing, saying "Don't, don't!". – "Hold it", I said and took her hand down to my prick, unzipping myself quickly until she could grab my banana, which she certainly did. – "That's better, isn't it?", I murmured. Her clasp was warm, possessive. She sobbed and nodded into my shoulder. Then maybe I surprised her again by pulling away and standing with my very visible cockstand.

"Pull your knickers up", I said. She looked a bit lost at that and obeyed almost mutinously. It was a surprise for her, that. I wanted it to be. "I'll be back in an hour", I said and she called after me, plaintively, "I'll get something ready for you to eat". – "Yes", I said and was gone. She had a lot to think about now, and so did I.

I said nothing to her about the caning when I got back. She waited on me. I liked that. I asked her when Susan would be in. In an hour, she said, and looked surprised and asked why. Stupid question. – "Because I shall want to see her", I said and put a little emphasis on 'see' which made her flush. She watched me eat. That was good. She didn't eat herself. – "There are two of you, Mrs Smith", I said. I had that feeling of growing certainty about it.

"M....Mr Harrison!", she stammered. I wasn't going to say anything more right then. I finished and I stood up. She took my plate and turned to the sink. Very confused she was, I think, but I was going to change that. – "The first lesson was obedience, wasn't it? You remember that", I said and went out into the living room to let her mull that over.

Susan came home earlier than expected and showed surprise to meet me. She hadn't expected they'd get a lodger so soon, she said. She called me 'a gentleman' actually, not a lodger. Just as I had with her mother, I weighed her up quickly enough. Slightly weighty in the right regions. I like a full bum smacking hotly into me afterwards and a full pair of tits to grasp.

Mrs Smith whimpered in the dark of her own small bedroom that night. I had told her flatly, "I'm bringing the cane into you tonight, Mrs Smith. No noise, please, unless you want Susan to hear". I guess Susan did hear, even though her mother bit into her pillow as I made her get silently on to her knees, head and shoulders down, with her nightie rucked up under her armpits. – "Can't!" was her single whispered plea. I ignored that.

Susan must certainly have heard the first cry, for I brought the cane right up under her mother's lovely fat bum, making her hips lift until she was really on all fours. – "NA-HAAAR! Oh, please, not now – she'll hear!", she sobbed and got a real, hot-biting SWOOO-ISSSH! for that while I said flatly, "Yes, she may. Now lift it, Mrs Smith!" – "PLEEE-EASE! NEE-YOOOOH! HAAAAR!"

"MUM!", then came a wail from the adjoining bedroom and at that Mrs Smith slumped down on her belly, wailing softly. I hadn't meant to finish with her as yet, but that cry interrupted our little session. – "Now STAY!", I gritted at her while her naked bum-cheeks clenched and her face buried itself with seeming shame into a pillow, her pink bottom orbing beautifully in her prone posture.

I guess she didn't have any option in that moment, anyway, so I strode into Susan's room, she sitting up and clasping the front of her nightdress which was pretty sheer. I liked the look of her nipples through the nylon.

"What are you calling out for at this time of night, Susan?", I asked and closed the door. She looked bewildered. – "But.... but Mum....", she blathered. I was still holding the cane. Had she ever seen it before or had it been kept hidden? I moved the short distance across to her single bed and she said "No!" at that, quickly, and backed up against the wall, sitting on her pillow.

"You know it's naughty to call out in the night when you are supposed to be asleep, Susan, don't you? And what do naughty girls get for that?", I asked, and she staring up at me, open-mouthed. – "I believe you need to be spanked again, Susan", I said and took her wrist and literally yanked her out. Oh glory, as I did so her nightie – which must have been pretty high about her waist, anyway – rucked up, and that lustrous cleft peach of hers came almost immediately under my palm as I got her over my lap.

Oh yes, they ALWAYS say the same things – always make the same pleas in the same words. I wasn't listening, though. I grabbed her left arm and brought it behind her back, and SMACK! my palm went down into those firmly-bellied cheeks of hers, making her yelp and making her mother call out (pretty feebly), "Susan?"

That was a good cue from Mrs Smith. I liked it. "Be quiet in there – immediately!", I called back and, with a cry of "MUM-MEEE!" Susan received another bum-blaster that brought a loud – VERY loud – "OH!" from her. Her bottom went a rich, deep pink immediately. She tried to slide forward off my lap. I liked that, too. It gave me a better view under her bottom. She was nice and furry, her pinky-purple quim offered to my fingers as well, if I wanted it. I did. But later. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!, and a cry from her with each and much fierce squirming of her hips, but I had her waist tightly.

Then maybe I surprised HER. After the next, when her bottom was really cherry-red, I said sternly, "Now go and stand in the corner, Susan, showing your bottom or you'll get another six. NOW, girl!"

She scrambled up, sobbing, wriggling – believing that she would get another dose – and obeyed me, hanging her head. Nice legs. All the way up to her hot bum. Her shoulders were bowed. – "Take your nightie off and let it fall, Susan, I want to talk to you", I said, still sitting on her bed. There was a momentary hesitation then, but with a sobbing sigh she did that, too. Oh richness of young curves, her knees coyly together!

"When I deal with you, Susan, I want quiet, please, not lots of silly screeching, or you will get it again. It's not your first, so don't try kidding me. Turn round now and face me!"

Slowly, coyly, she did, putting one hand down over her Venus mount, but I shook my head and she uncovered it doubtfully. – "That's better, Susan", I said, "And now come here, please, and stand in front of me".

It was only about six steps for her. Her full young tits wobbled nicely. The brown points were perky. Expectantly so, perhaps. As she stood quivering and sucking in her lower lip I ran my hands gently up the sides of her creamy thighs, moulded her nice hips and then ran one finger speculatively down the slight curve of her belly until it was able to forage in her brown curls. There was a little jerk from her at that, but I said softly, "NO, Susan", and she stilled herself.

You work carefully at such times, and I did. Little by little my finger found its way under her curls, under the nice plumpness of her cunny and touched the moist lips. Honey, I thought, and passed my other hand comfortingly around her stung bottom, saying quietly, "Now, that's better – that's better – ISN'T it?", I asked a little menacingly. Lower lip still being bitten, she nodded dumbly and hissed out a little as I worked her legs apart.

I stroked her and murmured to her, and I guessed that her mother had her ear pressed to the wall. There was a dewy moisture where I wanted it to be. Susan's mouth relaxed. She licked her lips, her breathing quickened.

"I have to cane you after this", I began and she started and jerked her hips back off of my insinuating (and sticky) finger. – "NO!", I snapped and, swallowing, she came back on to it, letting me feel the rolled lips again. – "In the morning – not now", I said, "Do you understand? Do you?"

There was nothing left for her but to nod. Tomorrow was long hours away. Tomorrow was also Saturday, and that was useful. A little pleading, blubbering sound came from her. – "And after I have caned you, we shall see, won't we?", I repeated. At last a hesitant yes came from her and I let her get into bed, wriggling quickly and self-protectively under the sheet.

"I want you to be a good girl in the morning just as you used to be", I said as I opened the door. A quick nod came from under the sheet. We had settled something at least, I thought. Mrs Smith lay huddled on her bed when I re-entered. She hadn't pulled her nightdress down. I rolled her over on her back and cupped her plump quim. She stared at me, not endeavouring to push my hand away. – "I heard", she said, as if in wonder.

"There are two of you – I told you that. Lie still now. Obedience, remember?" – "B...but Susan...", she moaned and then gasped out an "AH!" very sharply. I had her button under my finger and was exciting it. That and her hot bottom did the rest. She groped at air, arched her back, floundered, grabbed at me and came – came in endless torrents so it seemed until my fingers were coated with her spraying emissions and she slumped down at last, her bottom still gently working.

I pulled away from her. She lay as if in a faint, but I knew she was listening – "I will deal with Susan while you are making breakfast, Mrs Smith. Then I will bring her down. Later I will bring you up, or it may be the kitchen table for you again if there is any truculence". – "Oh, Mr Harrison, oh no!", she gasped and turned her back on me, showing her fat bum deliberately, I knew.

"There is no argument then", I replied and made my exit.

Maybe I surprised myself by going back into Susan's room. Maybe she surprised me by not making a noise or seeming surprised when I slid down beside her and groped the bedclothes down. – "You need seeing to after a spanking, Susan, don't you?", I whispered. Maybe it was the thought of the cane in the morning that made her cuddle into me.

"Show me what a good girl you can be, Susan", I murmured. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom. She lay on her back, staring at me as though it were all a surprise. Then her legs began to open very slowly and I knew I was home and dry.

Or home and very moist, maybe.....

Tuesday, 3 January 2012

Mr. Morgan's Homecoming

Story from Februs 08.

Mr. Morgan's Homecoming
by Cyrian Amberlake

Marilyn met me at the airport with a passionate embrace. She shed a tear, and I suspect I did too. In the twelve long months since we had seen each other I had been travelling far from postal routes, let alone anything resembling a phone.

As soon as we could separate enough to speak, I asked: 'How are the girls?'

A glum look interrupted Marilyn's glow of pleasure. 'It's not been easy, Howard,' Marilyn confessed. 'They can be so thoughtless sometimes. Vicky seems to need so much. And Vanessa doesn't always co-operate.'

Vicky and Vanessa were the au pairs I had engaged to live with Marilyn during my absence. At least, Vicky was; but even before my departure her elder sister had arrived unexpectedly, in floods of tears. Her husband of a few months had deserted her, and she had been unable to face their parents. Vicky had begged for her to be allowed to stay, and Marilyn had a soft heart.

Both sisters had proved to be inadequately disciplined. Vicky was the messy one, self-indulgent, used to servants to clear up after her. Vanessa's selfishness took a different form. She became a ghost in the house: moody, withdrawn, contributing nothing, preoccupying her little sister's already scattered brain. I had had to take a firm line with them, and instructed Marilyn to maintain it while I was away.

'Vicky's got a boyfriend,' said Marilyn, almost apologetically, as if she thought the sexual imperatives of twenty-year-olds was something she ought to have been able to contain. She put her hand on my thigh.

'Don't worry, darling,' I said, while we drove home. 'Im back. I'll take care of them. I'll take care of all three of you,' I promised.

Marilyn gave a delicate laugh. 'Oh dear.'

'We've got a lot of lost time to make up for,' I said.

She kissed me fondly on the cheek. 'I knew you'd say that,' she said, with unbecoming smugness.

The girls appeared as soon as we drew up at the house. Vicky ran to open the car door for me. As I got out, I caught Marilyn's eye and we smiled. Clearly twelve months' interruption and the advent of a new male interest had done nothing to dampen the crush Victoria had visibly developed for me. She plainly wanted to hug me, and I let her.

Her sister Vanessa, more restrained, stood smiling at the door, shading her eyes from the sun.

'Mr Morgan, Mr Morgan!' cried Vicky. 'Welcome home!'

Freeing myself with some difficulty from her hug, I said, 'It's very nice to see you, Vicky.'

She was casually dressed, in a jumper, skirt and knee socks. I took her by the elbow. 'Turn around,' I said.

Readily she did, with a swing of her hair, and an almost provocative look over her shoulder.

I patted her affectionately on the bottom. 'You've put on some weight,' I observed.

'Mr Morgan!' she protested.

'In all the right places,' I added, with a gallantry that was perfectly sincere.

Vanessa had approached at a calmer pace. 'Hello, Mr Morgan,' she said, her voice quiet and deep. 'Welcome home.' She touched my elbow gently in greeting, and accepted a kiss on the cheek.

Her sophistication was complete. Her perfume was cool and floral, her make-up perfect and discreet. Her hair was short, freshly cut in a style that would have turned heads on any street of any city in the world. She was wearing a suit: French navy, striped shiny and matt, with a high-waisted jacket. I suddenly realised Vanessa had dressed up for the special occasion of my return. I was touched.

'I had forgotten how elegant you are, Vanessa,' I told her. 'Quite ravishing.'

Marilyn seemed almost embarrassed. 'Howard, you mustn't tease them!' she exclaimed.

'I assure you I mean every word I say,' I replied, absolutely serious. 'Turn around, Vanessa. Let me have a look at you too.'

Was there a trace of reluctance as Vanessa turned in her high-heeled shoes and permitted me to run a judicious hand across her bottom? 'Trim as ever,' I pronounced. 'I can see you've been exercising.'

* * *

Over a splendid homecoming dinner Vanessa spoke little, while the questions poured from Vicky. She wanted to know everything that had happened to me since she had seen me last, now, all at once. Marilyn had to suffer herself to be interrupted several times.

Afterwards, before anyone rose, I pushed back my chair, saying: 'Now then, Vicky, Vanessa –'

The sisters looked at me apprehensively. I could believe they knew what was coming.

I put out my hands and patted theirs across at the table. 'I want to see each of you now, in the drawing room.'

Vicky coloured. Vanessa, with a small self-conscious smile, touched a hand to her hair and looked down.

'Who's going to be first?' I said.

It was Vicky, to be sure, who said: 'I am, Mr Morgan!' She got out of her seat and came round the table to stand ready for me.

'Good,' I said. 'Vanessa: perhaps you'd like to come in twenty minutes' time.'

Vanessa seemed even less animated than she had, I thought, and wouldn't meet my eyes; but she nodded and said obediently enough, 'Yes, Mr Morgan.'

I took Vicky into the drawing room and sat myself down on the sofa. Vicky hovered. I was sure if I had permitted it she would have sat on my lap.

'Stand there, Vicky,' I said, pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of me. Obediently, she stood there, facing me, her hands at her sides.

'Now then, Vicky. How have you been getting on?'

'Very well,' she said, a bit breathlessly. 'Very, very well.'

'Mrs Morgan tells me there's a boyfriend now,' I said.

Vicky went pink, and said there was. He was a medical student, he was from her country. His name was George.

'She tells me sometimes you misbehave with him,' I said.

She blushed deeper and looked down at the carpet.

'Vicky? Is it true?'

She nodded.

'Do you let him touch your breasts?' I asked.

'Sometimes, Mr Morgan,' she said.

'And put his hand up your skirt?

'Sometimes, Mr Morgan.'

'Have you made love with him?'

She shot me a wounded glance. 'No, Mr Morgan!'

I believed it was the truth.

'Lift your skirt, please, Vicky.' She began. 'That's far enough. Hold it there.'

She stood before me, still decent, only her thighs exposed. I sat forward, and laid an experimental hand on her bare thigh. She seemed as resilient there as I remembered.

I told her to drop her skirt hem and sat back. We talked about other things. I found out from Vicky what had been happening with Vanessa. Her sister's husband had communicated formally with her parents, and she had received a coldly worded letter of displeasure. Vanessa was determined never to go home, but to establish her independence and apply for resident status.

I said: 'May we have you over now, please?'

The au pair came to me and lay face down across my lap.

I set my hand on her, re-establishing my authority, measuring her bottom with my palm. It seemed ample.

Vicky lay very still. It was the first time I had seen her completely at rest since she had come bounding out of the front door to greet me.

'When did Mrs Morgan last see to you?' I asked her.

She did give a twitch then. 'She smacked our legs this morning.'

'Both of you?'


'What for?'

'To remind us to behave ourselves this evening.'

'And did you?

'Oh, yes!' she cried, injured.

'You didn't,' I said. 'At dinner you constantly interrupted Mrs Morgan.'

To do the girl justice, she didn't attempt to deny it.

'When did you last have a proper spanking?'

'Monday,' said Vicky.

'What was that for?'

She hesitated. 'Oh... um... well...'

I lifted my hand and brought it down hard on the seat of her skirt.


'What was it for, Victoria?'

'I let George touch me on Sunday,' she said, in a small voice.

'Where?' I asked.

'In Kentucky Fried Chicken,' she said.

I smacked her again, harder. 'Vicky! You know perfectly well what I mean. Where did George touch you?'

'Where you're touching me now,' she said, impertinently.

I lifted my hand, remembering my own courting days. Marilyn's parents had been very strict. They had not hesitated to punish her in the old-fashioned way for the slightest suspicion of misconduct. I didn't think it had done us any harm, being made to wait for the pleasures of intimacy.

'What happens when you forget what a punishment was for?' I asked.

'A second helping,' said Vicky sadly.

Of course, I had already decided to let her off. 'It's a good job you remembered, then, isn't it?'

'Yes, Mr Morgan,' she said, with a little noise that was almost, but luckily for her not quite, a giggle. I gave her two smacks for it anyway.

'Tell me more about Monday,' I said.

'It was a hand-spanking,' she said, trying to rub her bottom.

I pushed her hand away. 'Across the knee?'


'Skirt up?' I asked.

Vicky misunderstood my words as an instruction. Reaching behind her, she pulled her skirt up at the back.

This time she pulled it all the way up to her waist.

Her knickers were new, midnight blue sateen, as if in unconscious imitation of her sister's suit. I lay my hand on her scat again.

'Did these come down,' I asked, 'on Monday?'

'Yes,' said Vicky. 'Nearly always, knickers down.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' I said.

She made a small, rueful sound.

'How many did Mrs Morgan give you?' I asked her.

'She didn't make me count,' she said quickly. 'Many, many. Really.'

'And are you ready for some more now?' I asked quietly.

'Yes, Mr Morgan,' said Vicky, with a sigh of resignation.

She wriggled briefly on my lap, getting comfortable.

I peeled the knickers from her bottom.

Sadly I regarded the defenceless white curves; the sweetly shaped cleavage between. What a shame I must punish them. I raised my hand and smacked her twelve times, with some force: one for each month of my absence. The twelfth made her lift her head and cry out.

I paused, rubbing her gently. My own hand stung. How unfamiliar, yet familiar that sensation seemed.

'Very good, Vicky,' I said.

She took a deep, gulping breath. 'Mr Morgan?'

'Yes, Vicky?'

I started spanking her again, with care, reacquainting myself with her bottom. I tested it, exploring its surfaces with the impact of my palm. Vicky bucked and gave a groan. Convulsively she grabbed one of the cushions, burying her face, just as she always used to.

'I hear Mrs Morgan has had to take a hairbrush to you,' I remarked, spanking her continuously.

'Sometimes,' she said, her voice muffled by the cushion.

I started to spank harder. 'In this country it's not thought very polite,' I said, 'to speak to your host with a cushion over your face.'

'No, Mr Morgan!' she said, squirming out from under the cushion, tossing her long brown hair. 'Sorry, Mr Morgan! Ow!'

I continued my offensive. Her bottom was starting to glow merrily with a profusion of prints of my palm. 'Why do you need the hairbrush, Vicky?' I asked her.

'Because Mrs Morgan's – hand gets – tired,' she panted.

I started to spank her harder still. 'I'm sure that's not the main reason, Vicky,' I said sternly.

'No, Mr Morgan!' she cried. 'Sorry, Mr Morgan!'

'I'm sure you have the hairbrush because you deserve it, Vicky!'

'Yes, Mr Morgan! Ow –!'

'I wonder if you ought to fetch that hairbrush now, Vicky.'

She flung her head up. 'No, Mr Morgan! Please, Mr Morgan – it's twenty minutes!'

Surprised, I looked at the drawing room clock. Vicky was right. Her time was officially up. It scarcely seemed possible.

'Vanessa's turn now,' she said.

Was there the slightest trace of complacency in her voice? That would not do.

'Vanessa will just have to wait a little longer,' I said. 'I want to get you done properly.'

'The hairbrush?' exclaimed Vicky in dread.

'No, not today,' I said.

'Thank you, Mr Morgan!'

'Tomorrow,' I said.

'Yes, Mr Morgan...'

'For now I'll just ask you to open your legs, please, Vicky.'

'Oh, Mr Morgan!'

I found ample room to extend her punishment into areas where I thought it would remain with her for a little while.

When her cries began to sound truly penitent, I stopped and let her up. She put her arms around me, her head on my shoulder while I rubbed her flaming flesh for her. Nothing had changed.

'Sometimes I think this is the only part of the proceedings you take any notice of,' I remarked.

'No, Mr Morgan,' she breathed, very near my ear.

I sent her to stand in the corner, where I could look at her now and then. She wiggled her hips as she went. I took no notice.

I stretched, easing my shoulders, and examined the palm of my hand. It was red; almost as red as Vicky's bottom. It had been a long time since I had exercised it so much.

I tidied the cushions on the sofa and sat back.

There was a moment of silence; a restful pause.

Then came the knock at the door.

'Come in, Vanessa,' I said.

In she came, and closed the door. She couldn't help giving a quick glance at her sister in the corner with her hands on her head. I knew she had been listening outside, if only for the last couple of minutes. All well and good. I hoped what she had heard of Vicky's punishment had put her in a properly receptive frame of mind.

I stood to welcome her, embraced her and helped her off with her jacket.

She was tense.

'Your sister tells me you both had your legs smacked this morning,' I said.

'Yes, Mr Morgan.'

'I see,' I said. 'And what did you think about that?'

Vicky's elder sister stood up straight and tall in her white blouse and high heels. 'It wasn't really necessary,' she said sulkily.

'I think we'll let Mrs Morgan be the judge of that, shall we?' I said, not without sharpness. I eased the wristband of my watch. 'Come here, Vanessa, please,' I said. 'Sit here, beside me.'

She sat down gracefully, her knees together and angled slightly towards me. Her legs were beautiful in sheer black nylon. The effect of the handful of years between her and her sister were manifest.

'How are you getting on with the Home Office?' I asked.

Vanessa shrugged. 'Civil servants,' she said, dismissively.

I held her eye. 'You do understand that as long as you live here under my roof,' I said, 'you will continue to receive whatever discipline I think appropriate, Vanessa. When I'm away, you will receive it from Mrs Morgan.'

She made a small moue. Her eyes flicked towards her sister and back to me. They were inseparable. It was understood.

'When was your last thorough spanking?' I asked.

'The week before last week,' Vanessa said.

'And what was that for?'

'Arguing with Vicky,' she said. She glanced again at her sister, listening in the corner. I felt sure Marilyn had upheld my policy of making the girls witness each other's confessions and punishments occasionally.

'I suppose that meant a spanking for Vicky too,' I said.

Vanessa gave a brief shake of her head. 'Mrs Morgan said it was my fault.'

'And was it?'

'I suppose so.' She seemed dispirited, as though her own behaviour was a mystery to her, the source of many defeats.

'Did she use a hairbrush on you?'

'It was the slipper,' said Vanessa, colouring.

Mentally I complimented Marilyn on her decision. I could imagine how it must humiliate this lovely young woman to have to take such a childish punishment.

'Stand up, Vanessa, please.'

She rose. She radiated tension. My heart went out to her.

'Would you like to lift your skirt for me, please? All the way.'

Beneath her blouse Vanessa's bosom rose as she took a breath. She raised her skirt to show me white panties, with a matching suspender belt. Her legs were as I remembered, quite beautiful.

I got to my feet. 'Would you like to take the skirt off, Vanessa?' I suggested. 'I'm sure you don't want to get it creased.'

Her face impassive, she removed the skirt, and when I asked for it, gave it to me.

As I lay it carefully across the arm of a chair, I remarked: 'Mrs Morgan tells me you aren't always this co-operative.'

Her voice was low. 'Sometimes I am so angry.'

'With Mrs Morgan?' I asked.

'It's not her fault,' she said.

I felt she needed me to be stern, to brace her. 'Whose fault is it, Vanessa?'

Her composure almost broke. I thought for an instant she would burst into tears. 'Mine, Mr Morgan!'

To my surprise, her arms came up beseechingly. Vanessa, too, needed me to hug her. This was not something that had ever happened before; and rather unexpected.

I let her hold me tight. She clung to me as if I had come home to save her from something. Perhaps I had.

I held her as long as I decently could before detaching her. 'Let's see if you can still touch your toes,' I said.

She could.

I put my hand on her bottom. How sad her life had become. I was sure she wished only for perfection, as in a romantic novel.

I made up my mind to ask her then what I had refrained from asking her the previous year.

'I don't want to bring back unhappy memories, Vanessa, but I think I must ask you now about your husband.'

'Yes.' Her head was down, her voice barely audible.

'What did he use on you?'

'He didn't use,' she said.

'I don't understand,' I said; though naturally I rather thought I was beginning to at last.

'He chose not,' she said stiffly.

'And you didn't remind him of his duty,' I said.

Vanessa did not reply.

Much was now clear, including what must happen next.

'It's over, Vanessa,' I said. 'You must learn to accept that.'

Her silence was obedience. The curve of her back was consent.

I stroked the young woman's taut bottom, and traced the line of a suspender with the tip of my finger. 'Remind me, Vanessa. How old are you?'

'Twenty-six, Mr Morgan.'

'You're young. You made a mistake. It's over.'

'Yes, Mr Morgan.'

I made a calculation. 'I assume you've become acquainted with the strap while I was away.'

Her reply was the merest, briefest whisper. 'No...'


'No,' she repeated.

'Not yet?' I said, ruminating.

'Not – yet,' echoed Vanessa. She was starting to sound frightened.

Worse and worse. Through the silky fabric of her panties I felt the warmth and suppleness of her young flesh.

I came to a decision. 'Vicky,' I said. 'Would you go and ask Mrs Morgan to come in, please!'

Vicky started out of her corner, pulling up her knickers and straightening her skirt.

'If she has nothing for you to do, you can go to bed,' I told her.

She had to pass me on her way to the door. She swayed, brushing me with her hips.

I caught her by the arm, detaining her. I paused a moment until she knew what to expect; then I lifted her skirt and gave her one more smack, a hard one.

'I meant to smack your legs,' I said.

'Goodnight, Mr Morgan!' said Vicky, and she left the room in untidy haste.

I left Vanessa where she was, bending, and went to the window. I lifted the curtain. Outside, the indifferent town consoled itself with streetlights and television.

* * *

'Howard?' Marilyn barely glanced at Vanessa as she came in. She was anxious. They all were. They needed reminding, and reassuring. 'What is it?' asked my wife. 'What's wrong?'

'I'm surprised to hear you haven't started Vanessa on the strap yet, my love,' I said.

'Recently we've been using the slipper, mostly,' she said.

'And the hairbrush, presumably?' I said.

'Dear me, let me think,' she said, and she put her hand to her throat.

'Not since you went away, I don't think, have you, Vanessa?'

'No, Mrs Morgan,' said Vanessa.

I raised my eyebrows, and had the satisfaction of seeing Marilyn flush slightly.

'So since I left this twenty-six year-old woman has been smacked and slippered, and that's all,' I said.

'Yes, Howard. I think that's right.'

I knew why, obviously. Marilyn had been feeling sorry for Vanessa, as any woman would.

'That does seem extraordinarily lenient,' I said. 'I presume she's told you her husband – what was his name again?'

'Pascal,' murmured Marilyn, in some unease. 'Their parents left it to him to decide – you know – well, whether he should.'

'And he failed to divine his responsibility,' I said coolly.

Vanessa started to tremble. Up till now she had been maintaining her position, legs straight, fingers on toes, with the perfect poise and balance of a gymnast. I stroked her bottom once more, calming her.

'I presume the cupboard's still locked, is it?'

It was, of course. To her credit, Marilyn had the key to hand.

There they all were, just I had left them: the disciplinary implements Marilyn's father had handed on to me at our wedding. I remembered how keen he had been to instruct me in their use; the weekly practice sessions he had selflessly supervised until he was convinced I was proficient with the whole set. I was sure Marilyn remembered those sessions too.

I lifted down the lightest of the straps, a supple length of leather two inches wide, and flexed it between my hands. A reassuring aroma of Neat's foot oil rose from it.

'I'm glad to see you have been looking after them, at least,' I said.

'Yes – well – I didn't like to use them, Howard,' my wife confessed in a low voice. 'They are yours.'

I was touched by the sentiment; by her loyalty. Nevertheless, I had to correct her. 'Ours, darling,' I said.

Rebuked, Marilyn clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head.

I ran the strap through my fingers, reacquainting myself with the capable heft of it.

'Panties down, please, Vanessa.'

Our guest reached behind her and lowered her white panties.

She had been trained well, to do exactly what she was told and no more. When she returned her fingertips to her toes, her panties remained at mid-thigh. Her legs were slightly parted. Her display was, frankly, breathtaking.

How could any man have withheld his hand? The fool had obviously been unworthy of her. Our nation would provide someone better than Pascal for her, I was sure.

It is not unusual for a young woman's first encounter with the strap to be immediately effective. As soon as Vanessa felt the leather smack down across her bare bottom, she began to call out. It was the sound of frustration, loneliness and guilt, held too long inside. 'Let it out, Vanessa,' I said, encouraging her with the strap.

Rhythmically, I raised her bottom to a cheering glow, her cries to a wail.

It continued as I stood back to listen. I tested her temperature with the back of my hand. I looked at Marilyn, who was watching keenly, her anxiety still evident. 'Not much more,' I said, for her sake as much as Vanessa's.

I delivered another stroke, and another. On the third Vanessa's hands flew back to protect herself. I was sure it was something she would never have done except in extremity. Tears were falling from her eyes; and I decided her punishment was over.

I raised her up and embraced her briefly, formally, before passing her to my wife, on whose shoulder she wept out the rest of her woes.

'Say thank you to Mr Morgan,' said Marilyn.

'Thank you... Mr Morgan,' said Vanessa, sniffling.

'Everything will be all right,' I told her, while Marilyn helped her gather up her clothes. 'We'll have a talk in a couple of days, about the Home Office.'

'I'm sure you can help her, can't you, Howard?' said Marilyn.

A handkerchief pressed to her face, Vanessa hurried gasping up to bed.

Marilyn came to me. I took her in my arms, but did not hold her long. There was more yet to be done. 'Will you go up and get ready now?' I asked her. She nodded, almost as tense as Vanessa had been before. 'I'll be up in a minute,' I said.

I sat alone in the drawing room and drank a glass of Glenmorangie. The smell of home surrounded me, as if the very furniture was congratulating and welcoming me. I thought, if I felt proud and pleased with my homecoming, I had every reason.

I rinsed out my glass and stood it to drain. I checked the doors were all locked and the lights turned off. Then I went up to say goodnight to the girls.

Vanessa was tucked up in bed. Her eyes were still red, but her face seemed calm now and relaxed. She looked up at me with something resembling gratitude.

'What do you think of the strap?' I asked.

She gave a pout. 'It hurts,' she said.

I put my hand on the duvet. 'May I see?' I asked.

Vanessa hesitated the merest instant, then pulled the quilt aside. I had not realised she would be naked beneath it. Her body was slender and pale. The shadowy triangle beneath her belly was a promise of bliss for some future fortunate man.

At my bidding she turned over and lifted her bottom for me to look. I adjusted the shade of the bedside lamp. The marks of the strap were red and angry.

'The pain is not all,' she said.

Vanessa gave me permission to soothe her with some lotion from her dressing table. She did not object when my hand lingered over the task, frankly enjoying the feel of her flesh. I covered her up and left her to dream of a happier future.

Vicky was already asleep. As I stood there looking down at her tousled hair I wondered which had needed the punishment more, she or her sister. No doubt the amount of discipline they earned or avoided might be another cause of rivalry between them. I felt sure we could give them both the best, before they went home.

Softly I touched Vicky's foot through the covers, smiling as I thought of her hero-worship. 'Hairbrush tomorrow,' I promised, quietly, then turned and left the room.

* * *

Marilyn was kneeling on our bed. She was naked. Her beautiful bottom was turned towards me. The bedroom was perfumed with desire.

I went to her and caressed her.

'I wish we had had someone to take care of you for me, my love,' I said, 'while I was gone.'

'I didn't mind waiting, Howard,' she said, not turning round. 'Howard?'

'Yes, my love?'

'Is it the cane?'

'I'm afraid it must be,' I said.

'I don't mind,' she said quickly. 'It's been very hard –'

Thoughtfully I went back downstairs and took the length of yellow wood from the cupboard. I would use it now, then not again on Marilyn for another year, perhaps. Our two young houseguests knew about it, though neither of them had tasted it yet. Marilyn's father had taught us it is always a good idea to keep something in reserve, for grievous offences and very special occasions.

Marilyn had not moved. I took my position, behind her and to the left, the fingertips of my left hand resting on her spine. She was not trembling, not even slightly.

'I love you, darling,' she said.

The cane sliced into her.

'Oh!' she cried.

Now she trembled.

I watched the tracks burn across the white hills of her cheeks. Perhaps I should have woken Vanessa and Vicky, to watch this and learn what the future might hold. I raised the cane again, and took a breath, and brought it down.

It was the swiftest of canings. She had been waiting too long already. I striped her bottom with a classic six, then flung the rod aside and pulled off my own clothes. Seizing Marilyn by the hips, I thrust. Gasping already, she reached back and guided me in. We rocked and swayed together for a timeless time. I climbed up on the bed, in front of her now. She swam backwards across the mattress, pushing, pushing back at me. Our tongues found one another.

Thus we moved, back and forth, this way and that, until Marilyn raised her legs to me and put them on my shoulders. She lifted her bottom as if in pride, showing me the stripes I had engraved there; and the next instant we extinguished in each other the loneliness and longing of a thousand days.

Afterwards Marilyn cuddled up to me, pressing against my chest. She could not bear to be so much as an inch away, it seemed. She kissed me consummately, and taking hold of my hands, pulled them onto her bottom, rubbing herself with them, as if only the hand that had marked her could soothe her.

She murmured in her most satisfied tone, and kissed my neck. 'I'm so very glad you're home, darling.'