The Tutor

Story from Roue 05.

The Tutor

The girl's buttocks huddle inside her navy knickers, the pants plumped out ripely across her bum-cheeks, stress lines in the blue fabric pulling up and out from where the knickers tuck between the tops of her thighs at the back, the elastic of the legs running round below the undersides of her cheeks for a little on either side of her bottom and then curving up and across her buttocks to her hips, leaving the soft lateral folds under each bum-cheek to deliniate the plumpness where it meets the smooth skin of her upper thighs.

The knickers are a little faded, the knap worn more or less smooth by much washing, and on each cheek, at the high point which might be called the crown, there is an area which is slightly more faded still than the remainder of the originally dark material, the lightness in tone at these two places serving to highlight them and seemingly add fullness to the rotundity of each firm cheek. Or, to the eye given to fond imaginings, these highlighted summits might appear to be the result of a slight thinning of the cloth, the thinness spreading tantalisingly across those twin high points and covering such an area as might well be the favorite aiming point of a cane or a strap, so that it might be imagined that the supposed thinness itself was due to the frequent application of some such punishment to those very places.

This idea might be given weight by another feature of the girl's bottom, because on each cheek, where her knickers part company with the undercrease of her buttocks and sweep up across the curves of her bum leaving a little of her cheeks bare on either side, a fresh-looking roseate hue glows warmly along the margins of her knickers. This blush spreads even to the very tops of her thighs where they border her bum-cheeks, and its cause has clearly been the application of a sharply smacking palm.


To a knowledgable eye, and not-withstanding the little-girl impression made by the slightly too-tight knickers, this is a girl of at least sixteen, indeed probably seventeen, whose hips have softened in their outline and whose bottom has filled out a little beyond the capacity of the faded navy blue knickers to adequately cover it, at least with any modesty. And it is just such a knowledgable eye which loiters with a certain proprietary interest upon this young lady's knickered bottom.

This interested eye, pale blue-grey, runs to and fro, up and down, lingering especially upon the newly-spanked cheeks where they nudge out of the confines of the knickers. Then, as if half-satisfied, the man with the blue-grey eyes turns his glance down to the exercise-book upon his desk, following the neat lines of handwriting and noting irregularities by underscoring in red. The man clears his throat as if to speak. The girl standing nervously facing the wall starts at the sound, and her bum-cheeks squeeze closer together, emphasising the line running up between her cheeks as she nips her bottom in.

'English grammar,' says the tutor, and the girl stiffens her legs and seems at once all attention, though she dares not turn her face away from the wall. She seems to be strung-out and nervy, as if the two simple words herald some fearful happening. They do. She is hopeless at English grammar.

'Infinitives.' says the tutor. 'What exactly is an infinitive Sarah?'

'Um — mm — I think they're verbs sir.'

'And I think you're half right Sarah, which probably means you've been half listening. However; in this homework of yours — tell me, do you have anything specific against infinitives?'

'S-sir?'

'Is there lurking within you such a loathing of infinitives that you feel compelled to ill-treat them?'

'Er — I — I'm not sure wh-what you mean sir.'

The tutor resists a smile and teases the girl a little more. The fat succulence of her snugly-knickered bottom tantalises him in his turn. But all in good time.

'Let me put it another way Sarah. Can you think of anything which you should not do to infinitives, and I have in mind our last English grammar lesson?'

The girl winces mentally. She too has in mind her last English grammar lesson.

'Sir — I — I think they shouldn't be — um — split?'

'Bravo! So will you kindly explain why, in this homework, you have split two perfectly inoffensive infinitives?'

'Sir?'

'For example: 'When I've been naughty in class I sometimes have to be punished. I have to usually take my knickers down for this.' And, 'When I've had my bottom smacked, I have to always stand in the corner.' Now then Sarah, how do you explain these lapses?'

Sarah fidgets awkwardly, quite at a loss. She is terribly conscious of her bottom's vulnerability, and is well aware that it is about to suffer retribution. Even if she knew what her tutor was talking about she doubts that it would save her. Her bum-cheeks tweak involuntarily at the prospect of further punishment, but even more dreadful is the utterly humiliating nature of the homework she is expected to do. It seems to her that it is all part and parcel of her uncle's promise to her that she '— would learn that big ideas don't make big girls, and she would be taught that she wasn't nearly so grown up as she liked to suppose.' She feels her face flush with embarrassment, hearing the humiliating things she is expected to write about read out in her tutor's mocking voice. And even worse, she doesn't know where she has gone wrong. She knows only that infinitives oughtn't to be split; what a split infinitive looks like she hasn't a clue.

The tutor lets her think about it. He watches her fidget again, and savours the resilient quiver of her plump cheeks as she moves.

'So you have no explanation?'

'N-no sir. I — I'm sorry —'

'Very well then.' His voice carries the promise of a fate sealed. He adds insult to the threat of injury. 'Subjects and objects,' he says.

Sarah cringes inwardly and clings pathetically to her raised skirt.

'In the sentence; 'I have not done my homework very well, and will have to take my knickers down for being a naughty girl,' what is the subject?'

'Er — I think it's kn-knickers sir.'

'And what is the object?'

'Um — 'me' sir? I mean 'I'?'

'No. The object is to teach a silly little girl a lesson, and also to encourage a more dilligent attitude towards homework.'

The girl realises that she has been 'taken down' another peg by the little joke. Her bottom trembles as she shifts her weight nervously again and her bare thighs press defensively together. She feels the snugness of her pants cuddling close around her already tender bottom. She doesn't need to be told what's next on the agenda for 'taking down'.

'Do you agree, Sarah?'

'I — I — I don't know sir.'

The man gets up from his chair and clears some books from his desk.

'Come here.'

Sarah knows better than to argue. Still clutching her skirt at her waist she turns from the wall, her eyes avoiding her tutor's and cast demurely down to the floor. She follows his gesturing hand obediently and stands with the front of her thighs just touching the chill wood of the edge of the desk-top.

Standing behind her, unhurried and quietly confident of his authority, her tutor runs his hands around her waist, freeing the lower edge of her blouse which she has childishly tucked into the top of her knickers, slipping the snug-fitting pants down off her hips and over the plumpness of her cheeks, which bounce free of the under-size pants, hot-looking and delicately hued with an uneven crimson tint. The back of his hand brushing across her warm bum-cheeks makes her shiver very slightly, a tremor which does not go unnoticed.

'Bend over.' He says it calmly, matter-of-factly.

Nervously Sarah bends forward at the waist then sinks her tummy down onto the hard desk-top.


Her panicky eyes follow him as he goes to the hook beside the tall cupboard and takes down a slim crook-handled cane. He walks round behind her as she lies unhappily over the desk.

'Legs out straight now. This isn't your first time Sarah.'

Dutifully she straightens her legs, her bottom plumping up as she does so, and an experienced eye casting a glance over the girl's obediently offered bottom would be able to confirm that this is indeed not the first time that a cane will have caressed those round and pinkened nates. On each bared cheek, in a position corresponding approximately to that which the more faded areas of her knickers previously occupied, a faint and indistinct tracery of palest mauve blemishes the otherwise crimson skin, the discolourations arranged in short, roughly parallel lines, closely spaced athwart the tight cleft of her bottom.

This ephemeral evidence shadows the pink, spank-smarting glow of Sarah's bum and invites the touch of enquiring fingers, prompts the tutor's memory to recall the day before when the same cane which he now brushes coolly against her bare thigh bit stingingly across these same quivering cheeks. The inquisitive fingers trace over the fading weals and find only a suggestion of unevenness, and the shadows of Sarah's yesterday-caning are indeed hardly more than shadows.

His hand strokes intimately across the warm, toasted cheeks and Sarah's legs sag a little as she presses her soft thighs together and nips in her buttocks.

He pats the firm, smooth flesh almost fondly and then touches the cane once across the backs of her thighs. It quivers as it hovers for a second and then it flicks waspishly across the very tops of the girl's legs.

'Ooh!' She sags even more and her knees bump against the front of the desk.

'Legs straight now Sarah! I won't tell you again!'

Sarah shoves her legs out straight and her bottom fattens again. Her lowered knickers slip down a little further and the smarting cane-marks colour rapidly at the top of each thigh an inch or so below the under-crease of her buttocks.

'Now stay like that!'

The cane swinging nonchalently from his fingers, he walks round the desk to pick up the exercise book with the red ink corrections in it.

Her bottom lip clamped between her teeth as she winces still from the sting, Sarah sneaks a hand back and kneads tentatively at the top of one thigh, her indrawn breath hissing past her teeth as she screws her pretty eyes half-closed. Her tutor turns back towards her and she snatches her hand away out of sight.

The book in his hand, the man counts mistakes. The half-naked girl keeps her legs stretched straight out behind her, her bare bottom meekly positioned across the uncomfortable edge of the desk.

'Twelve mistakes Sarah. Twelve, in one piece of work. What have you to say for yourself?'

Sarah can't think of a thing. She tries, but there's no excuse. She's just useless at English Grammar, just as she's useless at almost everything academic.

'S-sir — I — did my best sir. I tried, honestly, but —'

The cane swooshes quietly as he swings it to and fro beside his leg. Sarah tails off, mesmerised by the oscillating cane.

The cane stops swooshing and stretches itself lightly across both reddened bum-cheeks, nuzzling up under the plump outward swell. An experienced eye would note that the cane has presented itself to that fleshy lower area of the girl's buttocks which are unblemished by the faint traces of her earlier caning. It would see that between the lateral creases at the tops of her legs and the downward extent of the almost faded weals there is just sufficient room for perhaps a dozen tightly grouped cane strokes. The cane titilates the smooth, blushing cheeks with little condescending taps. The girl twitches and squeezes her nates together in nervous anticipation.

Her tutor enjoys the moment, letting her wait, seeing the involuntary flinching of her bottom and savouring the silky-satin touch of the cane against her still-smarting skin. His voice is as calm and unhurried as ever.

'Now then Sarah, we have a little rhyme for occasions such as this, haven't we?'

Sarah nods with quiet desperation. It is a piece of doggrel she knows by heart, its stupid verses having been caned into her at least twice a week ever since she was first sent to her 'crammer' after failing dismally in her G.C.E. exams. She feels the cool touch of the cane trembling against her tender bottom and wishes fervently that she'd been more attentive at school. The cane flicks stingingly up under her defencelessly elevated bottom and she gasps through moistly parted lips.

'Haven't we, Sarah?'

'Oooh — y-yes sir. I — I'm sorry —' Her eyelids begin to prick and she feels the very first tear squeeze out between her eyelashes. The smart in her bottom, and above all the utter humiliation of having to let him take down her knickers and treat her like a naughty girl is too much for her to bear without crying. She struggles against the dragging weight of her misery and forces the first idiotic words out.

'B-bottoms up is the —'

The sprightly cane swooshes stingily across the fatly rounded underside of her bottom, reaching around both cheeks with its admonitory finger.

'Ooooh-ooogh!' Sarah shoves out convulsively with her legs and the desk scrapes a fraction of an inch forward. Her bottom snatches its blushing cheeks together and her hips wriggle tentatively from one side to the other.

'Bottoms up is the what, Sarah?'

'Nnngh — the — the golden rule!'

'That's right.'

Swhack!

'Ooow! Oh — n-no — !'

'Go on Sarah.'

'Oooo — f-f-for girls who will not l-learn —'

Swhitt!

'Oough! Owwooo — !'

'Will not learn — ?'

'A-a-at school! Ooh, s-sir, please —'

'That's right Sarah. And — ?'

'S-sir — And kn-knickers down — nmmgh — is what's re-required —'

Whack!!

'Oooooow-oooh-hooo — !'

The girl squirms helplessly against the desk, her thighs drifting apart unheeded and then slapping back together again as she tries in vain to wriggle the sting out of her smarting bottom, She weeps wretchedly, her tears splashing onto the polished desk-top. Her bottom is reddening furiously under the plumpest, out-swelling curves.

The cane is placed quite deliberately across the two quivering bum-cheeks and Sarah flinches even as it touches her burning skin.

'Go on please —'

The telephone on the desk rings startlingly.

Whack!!

'Go on please Sarah!'

Sarah worms her hips frantically and gasps out the next few words, the telephone's ringing drowning her panting voice.

'Ooh-oooo — of — of naughty girls who h-haven't tried — !'

Tucking the cane casually under his arm the tutor picks up the telephone and puts it to his ear. Sarah's crying sounds suddenly louder in the silence of the phone bell's cessation. To a casual observer it would seem inconceivable that the girl's sobs would not be heard by the caller.

'Good evening,' says the tutor.

Sarah's naked bottom still trembles as she lies weeping across the desk. Breaking the rules she reaches back with both hands and rubs gingerly at the tender, reddened places low down on each buttock, her knees sagging lower and lower as she attempts to alleviate the burning sensation.

'I see. Very well, I'll tell her you'll be picking her up.'

The tutor covers an ear with his hand and listens with difficulty.

'Yes, yes, that's Sarah — pardon?'

Hearing her name Sarah tries to stifle her sobs enough to hear what's being said, but her gasps continue in irregular spasms nevertheless.

'Yes, very naughty I'm afraid — eh? No — no, the cane — fine, about thirty minutes then — 'bye.'

The phone clatters back onto its cradle.

Sarah snatches her hands away from her bum and pushes her legs straight in a panic. She isn't allowed to rub her bottom, and the punishment might be an extra couple of strokes across her legs. She clamps her hands together under her chin and prays that she hasn't been observed.

'Your uncle —' says the tutor, 'to say that he'll be collecting you from here, so you needn't meet him as arranged.'

Sarah gurgles an unintelligible reply. She stretches her legs out as straight as she can, her firm and already well-punished bottom pushing up pertly, the cane marks a blaze of stripey crimson across the lower curves of her bum.

The cane descends unannounced around the tops of her thighs, and then again as she pulls her knees up and they bang against the desk. She can't help herself. She clutches desperately at her legs with both hands and squeals wretchedly. 'Naughty little Sarah — we mustn't rub our bottom, must we eh?' mocks the tutor. 'Now then —'

The cane taps insistently on her bright pink buttocks.

'Legs straight Sarah!'

It takes another sharp little flick across the lower part of her thighs before Sarah will do as she's told.

'Now carry on —'

Sarah heaves in a deep breath, trying to steady her voice.

'An-and bottoms b-bare —'

Swhipp!!

'Oooow-oooh — no, please!'

Whack!!

'Ooooogh! Mmnnngh!'

'And bottoms bare —' coaxes the tutor.

'Oooo — b-bottoms bare are just the th-thing —'

Thwack!!

Sarah dissolves into a fit of sobbing, her whipped bottom writhing frantically. He waits, knowing that she is near the end of her tether. Several minutes pass before she can force herself to push her bottom back up into position. She weeps dismally, the sting in her poor bum vying with the utter humiliation of being caned at all. The dreadful, belittling words of the stupid poem by far the worst, making her seem a complete fool even in her own eyes.

The cane touching against her sore buttocks makes her shiver, even though it merely rests there for a moment. It taps impatiently, exciting the sting in her buttocks again.

'Now where were we — ? Ah yes — bottoms bare are just the thing —'

Unprompted, Sarah gabbles out the rest of the line.

'For swishy canes to smack and sting —'

Thwappp!!

'Oooo-ooow! S-sir — please sir — p-please — !'

'So naughty girls —'

'Unngh — so n-naughty girls like —'

Whack!!

'OOW! OOOGH!'

Sarah's knickers finally complete their descent to her kicking ankles. Her thighs slide apart and she rears up then thumps back heavily onto the desk. Her secret little places lie revealed and abandoned to view as she blubbers, and then, desperate to complete the stupid lines, she blabbers on.

'So naughty g-girls — oooh-ooo — like m-me must try, or g-get —'

Thwack!!!

'Oooooo-ooh — plee-please!'

'Or get what, eh? Or get what?'

'Unn — nngh — g-get the c-cane that m-makes them —'

Whack!!

'— CRY!! OOOOGH! OOW-OOO!'

The last stroke cracks hard across her tossing bum-cheeks. She gasps and pants and her bottom bounces in anguish, the vivid cane-marks brilliant crimson and quite covering the lower half of her bum. He leaves her to it, her weeping going on unabated for three or four minutes. The cane goes back on the hook and he calmly seats himself at his desk again.

Sarah gets her sobs under control at last. Exhausted with her crying she lies slumped across the desk, her tear-streaked face hardly more than a foot or so from where her tutor thumbs idly through another exercise-book, sparing her barely a glance.

He ignores her for several minutes, then his matter-of-fact voice mocks her patronisingly.

'So — you'll make a better job of your homework next time Sarah. Won't you my dear?'

'Mmmngh — y-y —'

'Yes, of course you will. Now then kindly stop watering my desk and go back to your corner.'

Sarah levers herself up from the chill desk, catching at her skirt as it slips down and pulling it back up to her waist as she knows she's supposed to, her glossy pubic hair nestling sweetly at the bottom of her faintly rounded tummy. A tear still rolls down her pink cheeks as she looks wretchedly at her tutor, seeing his eyes on her but too miserable to care. She turns away and shuffles to the corner, her faded navy knickers dragging around her ankles.

An experienced eye, watching Sarah as she stands in her corner, staring through misted eyes at the blank wall, would see that without having to be told she has retained her hold on her hitched-up skirt, though the under-slip cascades in lacy folds down over her hip on one side, spilling its creamy frivolity across the upper part of one buttock, the contrast with the cool linen making her bottom seem all the more aglow with inner heat.

An experienced eye would also note that the fresh cane-marks are grouped precisely up under the plumpest part of the girl's bottom, the spacing so arranged that hardly any of the lateral lines overlaps any other. The experienced eye would know that, caned as she has been, and in those particular places, sitting is going to be one luxury which the girl will not be indulging in for the rest of the evening at least.

The tutor raises his eyes from the books upon his desk every now and then, less to check that Sarah is still properly installed in her corner than to gloat over the extremely rewarding view of a grown-up girl with her faded navy knickers at her ankles who has been well punished, and with all the humiliation attendant upon such a childish chastisement. Therein, more than anything, lies the satisfaction. Soon, indeed a few minutes earlier than anticipated, footsteps sound on the stairs outside the door.

Sarah's uncle taps tentatively on the door panels. In her corner the girl shivers dejectedly, and risks a glance over her shoulder. Her tutor gets up to open the door and takes the short detour necessary to slap her several times across the backs of her bare thighs.

'Face the corner — and do as you're told!' he says brusquely. Sarah wriggles helplessly as the smacking hand stings her legs. She clings on to her raised skirt with both hands and gasps involuntarily at the smart of the three casual spanks.

She hears the door open, and her uncle's quiet voice. She trembles at the indignity of having to let herself be seen as she is — a naughty little girl, knickerless and with the evidence of her so-recent punishment shamelessly on display.

Her uncle's eyes wander lasciviously over the hot glow of her bum and note particularly the stripey crimson of her lower cheeks.

'Been a bad girl again, Sarah?' he mocks.

Sarah stammers her reply.

'Y-yes uncle George.'

'I see. Well then, its early to bed for you tonight my girl!'

The two men discuss the tutor's fee for the week. A cheque is signed. Sarah can think only of her poor, punished bottom, and the punishment still to come. Early to bed is a euphemism which holds no mystery for her. She tries to remember where she last saw the hairbrush — she's bound to be sent for it just before bed-time at nine o'clock. She tries to think what on earth she could have done with the nasty, stingy thing after Uncle George had finished with it last night. If she can't find it, she'll probably get the strap instead — and on the bare!

'Pull your knickers up, Sarah,' says her tutor off-handedly.

Obediently Sarah stoops and retrieves her worn school knickers, the kind she is made to wear all the time, and she drags them gingerly up and over her bottom.

'Oh, and the weekend's homework is trigonometry. Book three, page ten.'

'Y-yes, sir.' She lets her short skirt fall down to cover her tender bottom and turns to face her uncle and her tutor, her pretty face clouded by a look of hopelessness. If there's one subject she's worse at than English Grammar it's trigonometry.

'And we'll see you here again on Monday at two o'clock sharp.'

Sarah nods despairingly, and knows that she'll be a very lucky girl indeed if by half-past two her knicks haven't already parted company with her bottom.

Her uncle ushers her to the door, one hand patting intimately up under one pert and well-punished buttock. Almost in a panic she strives to remember what she could have done with that hairbrush —.

Cheeks Aflame

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.3.

Cheeks Aflame

His wife's mother had a diary – it was about to set the house on fire!

* * *

Charles Ebury frowned to himself – not because some of the pages of the old diary he was reading were stuck together, but because he knew he shouldn't be reading it. Yet like most people he couldn't stop.

It was utterly incredible to him that the diary should belong to his mother-in-law, Pamela, but there was no doubt about it. Not only was it in her handwriting, but so were her maiden name and address – just over twenty-three years ago. And pasted in the front was a picture of her taken in the garden then. She wore a bathing costume and was sitting on the grass, leaning back on her arms with her outstretched legs crossed.

Definitely she had been a doll, he could see. Two firm breasts showed clearly beneath the swimsuit and so – when he peered closely – did the slight bulge between her thighs where they were crossed. Her head was tilted and she was smiling at the camera.

Nothing would ever normally have induced Charles to look in the drawers of Pamela's bedroom – but she had asked him to. Half an hour before he had come back to her house, at her request, to find some theatre tickets she wanted. They were in the top drawer of the small cabinet by her bed, she had said. And so had the diary been. Right on top. She must have been reading it lately herself, he decided – and yet he still could not believe what he was reading:

Sunday, 8 June: Awful dull day. I knew I was in for it. Kept snapping and sulking, don't know why. I know he made it an excuse. Arm behind my back and pulled up my dress. "Pink silk today?" he laughed and gave me a smack – then another. I tell him I hate it. He doesn't stop. Kept saying oh, oh and crying. After eight big smacks he stopped. He said, I'll get them down one day. No you won't, I said. I ran upstairs. It stings me, then afterwards it burns and I can feel it warm for ages.

Saturday, 10 September: The elastic in my knickers gave! I'm sure he did it! He's so rough, though he pretends it's a game. I squealed and tried to reach back to pull them up, but he was already spanking me. "Got you at last," he said. Oh my poor bottom – it was naked! I kicked and he spanked me harder till my cheeks were pink. I fell over with my knickers round my ankles trying to run upstairs. He caught me on the stairs. He said, take them off, you can't go around like that. He took them off! I almost slid down the stairs but he held me and kissed me and said he was sorry for spanking me. I know he isn't. It makes me feel funny. I couldn't pull my dress down in front and he saw me. Oh my bottom burned!

Sunday, 2 October: Showed me a strap, said it was better than spanking. I said no, I wouldn't, not ever. He always persuades me. It doesn't really hurt, he says. I kept saying I wouldn't. It burned and slapped. Oh, it was funny. Cuddled me. I shouldn't.

Sunday, 16 October: In my nightie! Twelve stingers. I didn't think I could. I didn't expect him to do it then, that late. Wriggled like mad. He saw all of me, I was past caring. Kissed and held. He stroked me and said does it hurt still. I said it burned and it was funny. He put the light out and said cuddle more till it was better. I said no, but he did. Kissed.

Sunday, 23 October: After my bath. He said I must. Didn't know whether to or not. Terrible fascination for the feeling and shouldn't. Don't know where I am after twelve strokes. On my bed he said, let the first flames die down. Always holds my bottom now with my nightie up. Kisses and then X.

"Kisses and then X?" Charles frowned – but again he was frowning at himself and now for another reason. The excitement he felt. Images of that far-off bedroom crowded his mind. Kerrist – he shouldn't read any more, and in any case the next three pages were stuck together. Deliberately. He could find no way of prising them apart – and then suddenly to his heart-thudding dismay, the edge of one tore.

"Legs up," he read at the end of one line, then "in my..." at the end of another. Oh God! would Pamela notice it was torn? His hands shook as he scrambled the leather bound diary back into the drawer. The whole thing could just have been a girl's fantasy, he decided. No girl could write about spankings like that. No girl could possiblity give her bottom up to a strap!

Almost forgetting the tickets he had come to fetch, Charles gazed down at the closed drawer and felt all the accusations of an invasion of privacy. In those earlier days of Pamela's – he thought with a wry smile – he would have been called a cad for looking in a woman's diary. No – it had to be fantasies. They would peel away from his mind as soon as he saw her again.

But they didn't. In her forth-fifth year now, Pamela was a superb example of mature womanhood not run to fat. Her five feet six figure had all the firmness of her daughter, Diana, to whom Charles had become married recently. For both it was their second marriage and both – as it had seemed to him during all their intimacies in the past year, had led spotlessly respectable lives. But had they? Had Diana ever shared such fantasies? Had Pamela lived them? Outwardly she was so calm and sweet, and yet now for the first time Charles found himself looking upon her with new eyes.

With half-guilty fascination he fastened his glances again and again on the plump sphere of her bottom, envisaging the large pale cheeks netted in tiny nylon panties – the very bottom which years before... No, it wasn't possible! There was not a hint in her manner or speech of such outrageous things – legs kicking, knickers down, nightie hauled up... nightie off even and 'X'. Some girlish code. He dare not even think about 'X', though it haunted him for all the days his mother-in-law stayed with them.

Taking her back home in the car was stranger still. He was conscious totally of her now as a woman. Again and again while he drove his eyes flirted down to her still shapely legs and there began in his mind to be something incredibly erotic in the faint outline of her suspenders beneath her flowered dress and the rolling of her hips as she preceded him into her house.

"You'll stay for a drink, Charles?" she asked and he nodded. There were, after all, only a few years between then. "I'll change first – you don't mind? I should have taken more dresses," he heard her saying, and then he was gone and he was left for a short while to contemplate his Scotch.

He had just finished his glass when something made him turn towards the door. It was not just the sound of Pamela's approaching footsteps but something else. Something that seemed to have been transmitted into her expression.

And in her hand she held the diary.

"Charles," she said brokenly, "you read it. You READ it! Oh, my God!"

There followed ten minutes of weeping in a chair and ten minutes of Charles stroking her hair and trying to say something. Not only was she sobbing but talking in a quiet, choking voice, endlessly on, as if something had been released in her. "I needed... needed it... Charles, don't you understand? Please, if ever you tell..."

Pulling himself together at last, Charles stopped her in full flow. "I understand and I will never tell – never Pamela," he told her firmly, and as if to underline his words, slipped down on his knees in front of her, placing his hands on her thighs. Pamela blinked back tears. "The sh...shame of you knowing... how could you ever understand," she choked and would have held her small lace hanky to her eyes but he drew her hand down.

"Your mascara is spoiled and your lipstick is smudged, Pamela. Come – freshen up and we'll talk. I'll come up with you." Unsteadily getting up, Pamela sagged against him, giving Charles a tingling thrill at the bumping of her firmly-jellied breasts. Then, placing his arm comfortingly about her waist, he led her up, feeling the surging roll of her hips and – despite an effort not to do so – glanced down sideways at the majestic globe of her bottom.

Guiding her to her dressing table he sat on her bed and watched the repairing of her make-up through her mirror. When at last she turned on her stool her lips were lustrous again, her eyelashes dark-shaded and the eye-shadow renewed. Her hand reached out to his shyly. "Charles..." she said.

Neither remembered the exact second when he rose and kissed her – nor could he comprehend the sudden passion of the moment as her tongue first hesitantly touched his. Like a scented doll she allowed herself to be drawn up blindly and then their footsteps dragged together for a long moment until they fell on the bed, enclasped. For a brief, flurrying moment her beringed fingers fought his as he drew up her skirt until the pale flesh of her thighs was exposed.

"Ch...Charles... think of Diana," she gasped against his mouth, but the flame was too high in them already. "Your bottom – I am thinking of your bottom, Pamela," he breathed, finding at last with his seeking hand the glorious, half-naked cheeks. Pamela wriggled madly for a long moment as his fingers sought her groove. "Ah – you want me for that only..." she husked and received his answering laugh. "Didn't he?" he riposted and her face hid itself in his shoulder. "He... he str...strapped me first, Charles."

Charles rose up on one elbow. He could scarcely believe even now that he had her uncovered to the waist. Her legs were glorious and her large, fleshy bottom was moving to the seeking of his hand. "And afterwards?" he asked and watched her arm fling itself over her eyes. "Strap me first," she breathed, "Oh God, strap me hard, Charles – I'm so wicked!"

A quick, breathless "AH!" jolted from her throat as he rolled her over on to her tummy and tucked the hem of her dress upwards around her waist. Her feet dangled over the edge of the bed and he drew them back until her high heels rested on the carpet. Trembling with excitement he hooked thumbs and fingers into the waistband of her mauve nylon panties and slowly uncovered the big, gleaming orb of her bottom whose richly-fleshed cheeks inrolled into a deep cleft where a faintly gingery tone showed. Broad suspenders of the same shade as her panties spanned the sides and fronts of her swelling thighs.

Charles drew the wispy panties off of her ankles. They were perfumed, the crotch slightly damp. He leaned over her, hearing the catch of her breath as he eased her dress higher until it looped under her armpits and unclipped her bra. The big melons of her breasts hung free, the nipples thick and pointed. "God, you're beautiful, Pamela – did he caress you first, sometimes?" Pamela hid her face, biting on her wrist. "No – yes – sometimes – oh, don't ask me – the strap – the strap, Charles, it's in the wardrobe."

"Yes," he replied simply. His palms sweated slightly as he passed them for a moment over the silky-warm surfaces of the hemispheres. The desire to pass his fingers upwards between her thighs and feel her quim was tremendous, but something told him to wait. Unsteadily he went to the wardrobe and drew down from the shelf the thick strap that lay coiled there.

"Your husband – he straps you?" Charles asked and watched the slight waiting movement of her hips. "No – he doesn't know," Pamela's muffled voice came. Even now she couldn't believe herself that it was going to happen, after so many years. Perhaps it would feel different now and she would hate it and... "WAAAH!" she hollered as a sudden, unexpected sleeking of the strap burned a path across her offered globe, leaving a brief trail of fire in its wake. The big cheeks squeezed as to ward off the invader, but before she could recover, the snaking leather hissed in again from the other side, making her hips jerk violently.

"Oh God, Charles, wait! I c...can't..." she began – but he had expected that and his hand smacked her bottom heftily with a loud-sounding SPLAT! at the first movement of her hands to pull down her dress.

"Pamela! don't be naughty!" he growled, improvising from her diary, "bottom up now, as you promised – come on!"

"No, I don't... I don't want to!" Pamela howled as if she herself were being driven back through the years. "Yes, Pamela, give it!" she heard his voice snap even as the next sizzling CRA-AAACK! seared full across her magnificent bottom, drawing a teeth-gritting cry from her lips.

"Oh, Charles, no!"

But he ignored her, as he knew she wanted him to, and the voluptuous spectacle she presented with her tits swinging free and the pink-striped, fleshy splendour of her bottom swaying and jiggling above her sturdy, well-curved legs was now a totally-irresistible invitation.

"You bad girl – you want to be MADE to, don't you? Don't you always?" he husked. CRA-AAACK! SPER-LATTT!

"YEEE-OOOH!" Pamela whined, twisting her hips lasciviously as the fire spread deeper into her, leaving a throbbing beneath the stinging surface of her bottom. She had never answered – she never would – he had to make her. "D...d...d..." she blathered wildly, jerking her bottom in to every cracking slap and then thrusting it out lewdly again. Oh God, yes, it was the same – the urging, impelling leaping of the flames through her bottom, the sweet hurting of it. And being made to take it – MADE to even while she was sobbing, trying to screw her bottom cheeks away from that wicked, awful strap and biting her fingers.

As for Charles, the thrill of having her almost naked and under his control with the leather snaking across her bottom at his will, had brought his cock up to such a full stand that he had released it from his flies.

"Answer – ANSWER, Pamela!" he gritted.

"Yes, all right – yes, yes, you make me – oh, you do make me – NO! – stop IT!" Pamela howled as his hands roiled her over on to her back and she saw the swollen crest of his penis glowing. Frenetically she made to scrabble her dress down, but it was twisted up too high under her arms and with a breathless gasp he was already coming down upon her.

"It's w...wicked... NO! you can't! not with m...me! OH!" Her stockinged legs twisted wildly, her burning bottom squirming on the bedcover under his weight as the velvety-smooth crest of his prick found the rolled lips of her quim. "Please, no please no, you mustn't!" Pamela mewed even as the long, thick shaft of flesh urged up between the spongy walls of her slit, his arms curled around her thighs, lifting them high and apart until with a shuddering groan he embedded the whole of his cock in her.

"OOOOH!" Pamela's voice juddered. She squeezed on his cock and felt him mouthing and sucking upon her nipples. "D...d...don't do it to me!" she whimpered, but the words were part of the game she had played long ago and her nyloned calves, released from his mastering grip, coiled themselves tightly about Charles' buttocks.

Jolting her hips, she allowed him to suck in her tongue as the crisp hairs of his pubis ground into her own thicker, darker ones. Senses swimming, Charles began slewing his cock back and forth in her gripping cavern. It was the last thing on earth he had ever expected to happen, but she was a magnificent fuck and the big globe of her bottom was hot on his palms now, her tongue working eagerly in his mouth as they swam down into their blind moment of passion, each thinking with hot guilt of Diana, Diana, Diana...

* * *

Just as Diana right then was thinking of Charles. He would be a couple of hours at least, she had thought, and immediately after his departure with her mother she had slipped out to her car, guilt and excitement flooding her. But just this once more, she told herself. Half an hour later when a front door opened to her, the thought came into words and tumbled from her mouth. Or almost did.

"I only came for a moment," she said breathlessly.

Tony regarded her fondly. "Take your coat off," he said and took it from her as it slipped from her shoulders, kissing her cheeks while she gave a nervous laugh and turned her face away. "You want coffee," he asked. Diana could feel her heart beating so quickly that she could scarcely speak. "I'll make it. D'you want me to?" He laughed. "Yes, I want you to," he said with deliberate double meaning and watched the tight jiggling of her bottom cheeks as she turned towards the kitchen.

He felt nervous himself, his palms sweating, the way they had done long ago when he had made up his mind to spank her. She had never resisted – not fully – but they had never spoken about it. The first time it had happened, it had been like a laughing game with Diana desperately trying to pull her skirt down and choking, "No! no, I won't... you mustn't!"

Resistance was the salt of it. They both knew that by now. The times she had made his prick stir and thicken, he thought, as he followed her into the kitchen. Did she know? Hadn't she ever realised? The thought quickened the movement of his hands as he reached the doorway to the kitchen behind her and drew her back against him. Wow, what a real globe it had become through the long years since she had left college.

"Don't... you mustn't," Diana choked. The bulb of her bottom pressed back into his loins. Didn't he realise that she could actually feel his prick sometimes? Did he know? Her thighs quivered as the intimate warmth between them grew and she tried to move forward. "You can't... you know you can't," she husked, but she always said that. When he turned her, she slumped against him, feeling his fingers soothe down around and under her matured bottom, finding the ridges of her panties and her stockings tops with his fingertips.

"Please no..." Diana quavered, feeling his hands slip lingeringly down the backs of her thighs to draw up the hem of her dress. "A little one – just a little smack," he coaxed, "come on." She squirmed, but his free arm now gathered about her waist held her. "I don't w...want you to see my b...bottom – oh please, please no." But he was moving, taking her with him, walking stiffly backwards into the dining room, towards the table where he had so often spanked her.

But it was different now. He was kissing her. Kissing her cheeks and her eyes and her nose and her sultry mouth. And his hand was groping far up her skirt now, fondling the ripe flesh of her bottom where the cheeks bared themselves on either side of the backstrap of her panties.

For the first time, Diana began to struggle more than she had ever done, but his grip was like steel. Howling and squirming she felt herself being turned and bent over the table, his fingers clamped on the back of her neck. "No! you're not going to!" she shrieked, desperately trying to reach back before he could rip her knickers down. The elastic gave and they fluttered to her ankles, her skirt up. Clawing wildly at the table top, she shrieked once as the fierce splatting of his palm bounced with a loud SMACK! off of her brazen cheeks.

"NOW, Diana!" he growled, "now be STILL! I've warned you."

"No! AH! No! AAAAH!" her sobs came, racking deep in her throat as his palm began to descend rhythmically. Oh God, it had never been like this – he had never ripped her panties down before, not ever, and he was holding her down so tightly that she couldn't, couldn't get up, and he was burning her, burning her, burning her. Her bottom gyrated, trying to escape the repeated smacks, but there was no way. Her bottom flared and flamed.

Oh God – what was THAT – It wasn't his hand any more! He was holding her hips and bending right over her and – OOOH! Both hands reaching back, Diana tried to strain away, but her bare tummy was pressing down on the table and the wet lips of her quim had already parted treacherously to his knob. "You can't, you can't!" she sobbed, but they were doing it, and somehow she always knew they would.

Perennial Detention

Story from Janus 12.

Perennial Detention
by William R. Scholes

CAROL WAS CROSS; she hated being kept in after school. She was scribbling away furiously — pages upon pages of poetry to be copied out — and if it was not finished within the hour she would just have to stay until it was done.

Until recently, for her particular misdemeanour she would have got the strap. Two hard cuts across each hand, very painful but it was soon over.

The movement in favour of the abolition of corporal punishment had not been popular with most of the girls. Bending over for a caning had not been enforced at school for some time.

The strap had never been treated lightly, but it had not been regarded with great gravity either by those who had wielded it or by those who received it. Previously, 'detention' — being kept in for an hour after school — had been given only for serious offences, now it was the penalty for almost every form of misbehaviour. The Headmistress and the Governors had given in to pressure from the abolitionists and had done away with all forms of corporal punishment.

Carol was still feeling aggrieved when she reached home.

'You are late,' Mother greeted her. 'Detention?'

Carol nodded. 'Well, you know the consequences,' Mother informed her.

'But it's different now — ', Carol started.

'Be quiet,' snapped Mother. 'You know the rules: detention at school — further punishment at home. No excuses, no explanations.' Carol gulped.

'Your father will be late home this evening so he will not be able to deal with you immediately after tea, but we can still go ahead with the other parts of the penalties. You will be confined to your room this evening, and of course, you will not get any supper.'

'But I was going to the disco,' Carol protested.

'Not this evening, you're not,' Mother declared.

'What about television? My favourite programme's on early tonight,' Carol asked hopefully.

'Don't talk ridiculous,' snapped Mother. 'You know the rules — confined to your room, except when Father calls you to his study.'

They ate their teas in silence. After Carol had washed up, Mother gestured: 'Upstairs — get into your pyjamas for when Father is ready for you.'

Carol slowly mounted the stairs. She undressed and put on her pyjamas. They were nylon and almost transparent. She only wore them for these particular interviews with Father; she always slept 'in the raw'.

Carol could not relax; she sat on the floor, she tried lying on the bed, she walked up and down; this waiting was murder! She missed not having any supper. She felt lonely and was afraid of what was coming. She cried a little, no sound, just tears. It was very late and Carol was just about to go to bed when Mother stomped up the stairs.

'Father has just returned, he will see you downstairs in two minutes — do not upset him by keeping him waiting, it will made things worse.'

Father regarded her sternly: 'I am very angry with you.'

Carol started to explain. 'But — '

Father raised his hand admonishingly. 'I do not want to hear. No excuses, no explanations. It's too late tonight — I will deal with you tomorrow.'

Carol was worried, another day of anticipation. She did not know what was going to happen to her exactly, but it was bound to be painful.

She was still in bed the following morning when Mother came up.

'Father has decided not to wait until this evening. He will deal with you before breakfast. Get your pyjamas on: you have five minutes to be in the study or the punishment will be doubled.'

Carol hurried into the study. There was a heavy chair standing in the centre of the room. Father was flexing a cane back and forth between his hands. Carol gazed at it with horror — not that one!

'We will use the No. 3 cane in future,' declared Father. 'You are older now and have outgrown canes No. 1 and 2. This one is much more effective.'

Carol was apprehensive, 'More effective' meant 'hurts three times as much'. No. 3 cane was over three feet long, and when applied with force and speed, flexible enough to follow the contours of the body yet with plenty of weight. A few weeks back he had given her three strokes with it. She had been wearing slacks and knickers but it had hurt attrociously.

Father gestured with his head. 'Bend over the back of that chair. I have decided to give you six strokes.'

Carol gasped, 'Six!'

Father plucked at her pyjama trousers. 'And you can drop those too.'

In a daze she allowed her trousers to drop round her ankles. She shuffled up to the chair and draped herself over the back of it, grasping the front legs halfway down, thrusting her naked bottom well up in the air.

Exposing her nudity to her father was the lesser of her worries. It was the heating she was dreading.

Mother bent over her grasping her arms and the upper part of her body in a firm grip.

The cane touched her lightly. There was a brief pause, a backwards flick then a loud swish. For a tiny fraction of a second there was nothing then a band of fire exploded across the centre of both cheeks and round her flank.

Carol jerked violently. Her cry was muffled; she almost choked. 'Not five more like that!'

Father took his time, perhaps ten or twelve seconds, and then the second stroke came slashing down about two inches higher. The third stroke was another two inches above that; not that Carol appreciated how nicely spaced they were; she only knew there was a perfectly intolerable band of hurt spread right across the upper part of her bottom. She was sobbing and struggling and striving without avail to remove her poor bum from the range of the implement that was tormenting her.

After the first three there was a slightly longer intermission while Father changed his stance. The fourth stroke came whipping down across the lower part of the target — just above the top of her thighs. Carol uttered a muffled shriek. The fifth stroke was just a little higher, and then the last one practically in the same groove. She was released. The whole area of both cheeks from top to bottom was one mass of blazing fire.

Carol crawled away to the bathroom. Eventually, somehow, she managed to dress and snatched some breakfast. She hurried to school but she was late. The form mistress who had already completed calling the roll snapped at her.

Carol flung herself on to her seat but rose hurriedly again with a parched cry, for her bottom was still intensely sore and tender. She had thought it might be less uncomfortable if she left her knickers off but now she was not sure that had been wise. The teacher glared at her again.

That was only the start of her troubles. The wooden chairs were not particularly comfortable at the best of times and now she found it impossible to sit still, neither could she concentrate on what she was being taught.

Eventually the teacher called her out. 'You have been a constant source of disruption today. You began by being late and ever since you have been fidgeting and also failing to pay attention. You will spend an hour in detention before you go home this afternoon.'

By that time the tenderness had abated to a certain extent; the sensations in her bottom had diminished from a savage pain to a constant tingling glow. Nevertheless Carol fretted considerably all through her detention.

When she reached home Father and Mother were there both looking grim.

'Detention?' Mother asked. Carol nodded glumly. She took her tea in silence.

After tea Mother said: 'You will get no supper tonight, and you will be confined to your room, of course — after Father has dealt with you.'

'Yes, upstairs and change — I'll see you in ten minutes,' said Father.

Despairingly Carol started to explain. 'But it was this morning's — ' she began.

'Silence,' snapped Father. 'I do not listen to excuses or explanations!'

Within ten minutes Carol timorously entered the study. The chair was already in position in the centre of the room. Father and Mother were facing her. Father was forcibly swishing No. 3 cane through the air.

'I find it difficult to know what to do with you,' said Father. 'Detentions on successive days... It would appear that the six strokes I gave you this morning had no effect.'

'You are too soft with her,' declared Mother. 'You ought to give her at least twelve.' Adding after a pause: 'Or perhaps twenty!'

Father appeared to consider. 'I value your judgement, my dear. We must ensure that she receives adequate correction, for her own good.'

'She must learn — the hard way, if necessary,' Mother stated.

Carol quivered. It was almost with relief that she heard him say: 'I hope I am not making a mistake but I will be lenient this time. I will only give you nine strokes on this occasion.'

Carol's relief soon vanished. Having experienced six strokes she realised what nine were going to mean.

'How many more times have I got to tell you about those?' asked Father touching her pyjama trousers with the point of the cane.

Carol dropped her trousers and, at a gesture, shuffled over to the chair and draped herself over the back. No sooner had she bent over than, without any warning, the first searing cut came slashing down across Carol's bare backside. She shrieked and tore herself sideways away from the chair, but the pyjama trousers entwined round her ankles impeded her. Mother had not been in position to maintain a firm grip, but Carol's pyjama jacket was torn right off. Father and Mother both grabbed her.

'Struggling!' declared Father.

'Attempting to escape,' added Mother. 'The penalty has to be doubled — at least.'

Father considered. 'Yes, defiance of this nature must be stamped on. We are only doing this for her own good, she should accept it willingly.'

Carol, naked and feeling very vulnerable, kept her lips tightly shut.

'But I will be lenient again,' she heard him say. 'We will just ignore that one and start again.'

Carol was soon in position again and Mother was firmly clasping her bare body. The cut that had just been inflicted had left a double red mark across the centre of both cheeks. The worst discomfort of the morning's beating has disappeared, but her bottom was very sensitive and the earlier marks were still prominent.

'You certainly laced into her this morning,' Mother said approvingly.

'That was nothing to what I am going to do now,' Father replied.

'Make sure the next nine strokes are all good ones,' Mother enjoined.

Father smiled grimly. 'I always do. Each stroke is given very deliberately and designed to achieve the maximum effect.'

This time Father worked from top to bottom. The first stroke landed a few inches below her hips. It was excruciating.

'One,' intoned Father.

'Good grief!' Carol gasped. 'Oh please! Not eight more like that — it's not possible.'

But it was; remorselessly, intolerably, unbearably, the number of strokes mounted. Two, three, four, five... The sixth landed just across the top of her thighs.

There was a pause. Father was changing his position again.

'No more, no more!' Carol pleaded in a whimper, but she knew there was going to be more. The full quota. 'Go on, get it over with,' she thought.

It could not hurt any more, she said to herself. But she was wrong.

The last three cuts, deliberately spaced, came whipping down diagonally across the previous six. It was murder! But at last she was free.

A short time later she was kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, gently bathing her tormented bottom with cold water, and reviewing what had happened to her.

Before the anti-CP movement had succeeded she would have had two hard cuts with a strap across each hand; painful but soon over.

Now she had endured two irksome hours' detention, had been confined to her room for two entire evenings and deprived of her supper twice.

On top of which she had suffered sixteen full-blooded, searing strokes of No. 3 cane across her naked backside. Why couldn't the abolitionists have minded their own business.

Carol thought ruefully that it was almost impossible to keep clear of all trouble at school, and Father had said he would 'not be so lenient in future.' The prospect was grim.

Crisis

Story from Roue 05.

Crisis

The bedroom was dark, the only light coming through the gap in the door where Debbie had left it ajar on her way downstairs. Jenny lay in her bed, the blankets up over her face so that only her eyes and the top of her head showed, and listened to the distant and repetitive sound of a palm smacking rythmically against what was undoubtedly Debbie's bottom. The regular smacks ceased, and Jenny caught the sound of her sister's voice raised in tearful protest. There were some bumping sounds, and then the smacking started again, the noise somehow different. Sharper. More painful sounding. Debbie's muffled sobs confirmed the analysis.

The bumping would have been Debbie having to kneel up on the chair, having first dragged it to the middle of the room. The crisper sound of the smacks would be the strap, whacking across Debbie's helpless bum. The sobbing was self-explanatory. It really was a dismal thing to have to listen to.

The more so because Jenny was only too well aware that for her it was only an overture. Debbie was getting it now, and by the sound of it she was getting a really good whacking, but Jenny's sympathy for her sister was tempered by the inescapable fact that when the sounds of Debbie's spanking eventually stopped, then it would be her turn.

Jenny snuggled miserably down under the bedclothes. She listened intently, her hands tucking involuntarily between her legs, feeling at the same time the warmth of her body and the pathetically insubstantial material of which her pyjamas were made, a thin mixture of cotton and some man-made stuff. She couldn't help stroking a hand experimentaly around the curve of her bottom as she lay half on her side. She could almost feel the texture of her skin. It reminded her unavoidably of how much she'd feel the strap when it cracked across her bottom. She shivered, and not from cold, and strained her ears to catch any clue which might filter up from the lounge below.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realised that the monotonous rythm of the strap across Debbie's bum had ceased. She heard the lounge door, and the sound of Debbie's crying drifted mournfully up the stairs.

'Jenny?'

That was Aunt Harriet calling from the foot of the staircase. Aunt Harriet called again impatiently. With the utmost reluctance, and forgetting her slippers, Jenny slid out from under the bedclothes and padded apprehensively down the stairs.

Aunt Harriet was standing in front of the crackling fire, her face turned towards the television set which squatted atop a cabinet in one corner of the room. Aunt Mary was clicking away at her knitting and Uncle Tom was pretending to be interested in the television news. Something about a crisis in Suez. Debbie's bare bum looked hot and tender, the same bare and punished bum which Uncle Tom was pretending not to be interested in while the wretched girl gasped strangled sobs and wobbled uncomfortably as she knelt on her hard wooden chair. Her pyjama trousers were bunched around her knees and her bare thighs glowed here and there with a warm crimson hue. The strap was lying across the arm of Aunt Harriet's favorite armchair. Jenny felt herself atremble with panicky anticipation.

Aunt Harriet's cool eyes flicked towards Jenny, who was still hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

'Well shut the door then girl!' she said brusquely, and then she turned her attention back to the television. Apparently as an afterthought she added, 'And get your pyjama pants down!'

Aunt Mary seemed not to have heard, while Uncle Tom made a quiet sighing sound which was a little difficult to interpret. Only Jenny heard it, standing as she was a mere twelve inches from her adopted uncle's elbow. Her tummy twisting into knots, Jenny pushed the door closed and then darted an apprehensive look at her aunt, who didn't seem to be taking notice any more. And then, as she knew she'd have to, she risked a glance at Uncle Tom.

A tiny, friendly smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Her loins seemed to have become liquid and she found that she couldn't look away. The smile made her more certain than ever that he knew about her secret excitement every time she was punished in front of him.

'It's the Prime Minister,' piped up Aunt Mary.

Uncle Tom allowed his attention to be drawn to the flickering grey image on the screen. Her insides a confusion of emotions, panic and the odd thrill that Uncle Tom was there to see her get her bottom tanned again, Jenny hooked her thumb under the elastic waistband of her pyjamas and inched them down. The air on her belly and her bottom felt slightly chill as the pants slipped lower to a point midway down her thighs. She dared not look, but she knew Uncle Tom's eyes were on her.

She let her pants go and straightened up. Her pyjamas slithered to the floor and she hid her flourishing little muff of curly hair behind her hands. Mr. Eden, on the television, seemed not to have noticed, possibly because what he was saying about the business in Suez was rather important. Certainly it held the attention of Aunt Mary and Aunt Harriet. Uncle Tom seemed less absorbed. His hand nudged against Jenny's bare thigh, and then his fingers stroked gently and teasingly up the back of her leg.

'They're sending the troops in then,' said Aunt Harriet to no one in particular, and Uncle Tom's hand disappeared as if by magic.

'Oo-oer,' said Aunt Mary, and clicked her needles vigorously.

A moment or two later Uncle Tom's hand brushed Jenny's thigh again, then tapped insistently. Jenny tried to read the shapes of the words his lips were silently forming, darting quick, fearful glances at Aunt Harriet every few seconds. She couldn't understand what he wanted to say, but his bright eyes on her modestly covering hands and his furtive sideways nods helped her to guess. The thrill of her vulnerability flickered tantalisingly in her tummy as she hesitantly, almost submissively, unfolded her shielding hands and put them behind her back.

Mr. Eden faded from the screen. Aunt Harriet brought her attention back to the matter in hand and Debbie's weeping subsided to a few sniffles every now and then.

'Right! You –' Debbie's tender bottom bounced to the 'Smack!' of a smarting spank, '– get yourself out to the kitchen and put the kettle on.'

Debbie squealed in a rather muted way and scrambled down off her chair. She scurried out of the door, dragging her pants up as she went.

'And you –' Aunt Harriet's finger beckoned, '– across the back of this chair!'

Jenny stooped to retrieve her pyjama pants and she hoisted them up enough to allow her to walk. She shuffled to the chair and stood behind it, about to bend over its high back.

'Kneel up on it stupid!'

'Ooh – s-sorry.'

Her knees felt uncomfortable on the hard wooden seat, and her bum felt very naked and defenceless as she leaned forward over the chair-back and grasped the legs. She seemed to be very precariously balanced, as though any sudden move would have her toppling over. She looked sideways out of the corner of her eye and found Uncle Tom's gaze resting eagerly on her bare, elevated bottom.

The strap dangled impatiently in her aunt's hand while the girl arranged herself, then –

'Now then, keep still –'

Thwack!!

The leather snapped stingingly around the curve of Jenny's young bottom and then snaked sinuously back ready for the next stroke. Jenny bit her lip and screwed up her eyes as the sting spread across her bum.

Whack!!

'Oooh – oow – !!'

Crack!!

'Oooooow –'

She couldn't help it. The stifled cries sneaked between her lips and her bum-cheeks trembled as she tried ever so hard not to wriggle her hips. 'Keep still' meant just that – or else!

Thwack!!

Jenny felt the sobs come bubbling up in her throat.

'Ooooh – ooh – hoo – !'

Whack!

'Oooooo – ooogh!'

'D'you think this will fit, dear?'

'Pardon?' said Uncle Tom, attention elsewhere.

'Debbie. Do you think this jumper will fit her?' repeated Aunt Mary.

Whack!!

'OOOW – OOO!'

'I should think, so,' said Aunt Harriet.

Smack!

'OOH – OOO – HOOOO!'

It was quite ridiculous, and so off-hand that it was utterly humiliating for the wriggling girl up on the chair.

The next stroke hissed smartly across the backs of her bare thighs.

'AHHH – AAA –'

Aunt Mary held up the half-knitted jumper and Aunt Harriet took it, considered it, and pulled a wry face.

'Could be wrong though,' she said, and held it up a little higher.

'I suppose we ought to try it up against her and see.' said Aunt Mary.

'I suppose so,' said Aunt Harriet, and promptly took herself and Aunt Mary out to the kitchen to accost Debbie with the unfinished birthday present.

Jenny was left to weep her tears, still poised over the chair-back, and the tears rolling heavily down her flushed cheeks blinded her to the fact that her uncle had left his chair. Warm, soothing fingers comforting her stinging bottom took Jenny completely unawares.

'There, there –'

The smarting sensation in her bum fused suddenly with that same, yearning feeling which she'd had in her tummy before. The hands grew bolder, more intimate, brushing gently between her legs teasingly. Jenny gasped great gulps of air between her sobs and found herself squirming back onto the insulting fingers. The thrill in her loins bubbled closer and closer to that magic sensation which she had hitherto only known snugly tucked up alone in her warm bed – the thing that happened when she thought of Uncle Tom's eyes on her the last time she'd been punished in front of him – while her own guilty fingers had tormented her to that beautiful, heavenly release.

'Never mind Jenny,' coaxed a faraway voice, 'When you come to stay with us, I'll never smack your bottom without making it really nice afterwards – alright?'

'P-pardon? S-stay with – ?'

'Us. Me and Aunt Mary. Next week, and until Aunt Harriet gets back from Canada next year.'

'I-I didn't know she was going –'

The touch lingered, teased, and suddenly it happened. She almost collapsed with the frantic pleasure of her coming. And then Uncle Tom was back in his chair, Aunt Harriet was saying, 'Keep your behind up child!' and the strap was flicking waspishly across her well-strapped bottom again and again.

Jenny wriggled and blubbered obligingly – not that she could help it anyway – and yet all at once it actually seemed bearable. When at last the two tender-bottomed girls were sent scampering upstairs to bed, to Jenny the future, like their two punished bums, seemed rosy indeed.

Sam Ramsey serial, Ep.1. "When Adam met Sarah"

Story from Februs 24.

When Adam met Sarah
by Sam Ramsey

The room is spacious – once two smaller rooms, but now neatly converted. The alcoves are filled with books regimented in tidy rows; seven or eight modern prints hang on the walls, signed artists' proofs in modest good taste. Heavy curtains are drawn closed. Low tables, piled with more books, carry lamps, only two of which are dimly lit. At one end of the room an open fire is glowing brightly. The man perches near the fire on one arm of a sofa; stocky, of medium height, forty-ish, his neat hair thinning, dark eyes humorous. He is dressed soberly, though his suit jacket is thrown onto the back of a chair.

There appears nothing here out of the ordinary – except for the woman: but she indeed is worthy of a second glance. She looks rather younger than the man: glossy hair, very dark, neatly bobbed, fine features discreetly made up emphasizing her startling grey eyes, a trim figure with legs long for her height. She would be striking enough even if she were not quite naked – naked, that is, apart from the erotic cliché of black stiletto shoes (which though not absurdly high, are surely not meant for walking).

She rests, not quite still, on hands and knees on the fine carpet, her breasts swaying slightly as they hang. Small gold clips are attached to each nipple, and between them falls down a fine gold chain, also swaying gently and glinting in the firelight. Her smooth bottom is now marked by two weals, sharp against white flesh: she sensuously raises her bottom further towards the man, and after regarding her tenderly for a moment, he puts down his glass of wine and reaches down to caress her thighs. His fingers move up to play lightly across the stripes, and then slowly, tantalizingly slowly, towards the crack between her buttocks. She sighs, shifts her knees to part her legs a little, and the man's fingers move to stroke her softly. She sighs again, but he then withdraws his hand: she looks back over her shoulder, and slowly resumes her original position, closes her legs and raises her bottom.

From the floor by the sofa, the man retrieves the thin cane that has fallen there, stands and raises his arm. A pause, a moment's stillness – then the swish of the cane through the air, the crack of cane on soft flesh, and the sound of the woman's cries.

* * *

When Adam met Sarah, they were both at university. She was a second year student, he six years older, had just finished a postgraduate degree and was now a junior researcher. They were introduced at a party, and that (or so they later told the story) was that. They started going out together: but, both feeling that the relationship was destined to be special in their lives, it was three months before they finally slept together.

Sex with Sarah was different from anything Adam had experienced before. She made love with a kind of passionate passivity: once aroused, she would willingly abandon herself to him in every way, but very rarely did she initiate anything or express sexual desires of her own. Adam found this passivity unexpectedly erotic. But they were both young, and in some ways very innocent – so it was only slowly that he came to explore the boundaries of Sarah's submissiveness.

One hot summer evening, a year or so after they had become lovers, Sarah met Adam from a late seminar and they went out for an Indian meal at their favourite restaurant. Happy and flirtatious, they strolled back to Adam's flat; they kissed passionately and Adam started undressing Sarah, stealing kisses on her body as more and more became available. He laid her naked on his bed; she stretched back and he kissed her breasts again.

'Don't go away! I must have a shower.'

'Mmm... Hurry back. I'm not sure I can wait,' she laughed, fingers of one hand lightly brushing the nipples that he had just made hard. Adam watched Sarah teasingly play with herself for a moment, then collected a towel and went to shower, not hurrying but luxuriating for many long minutes in the powerful cool spray washing away his sweat and tiredness. Feeling vastly refreshed, he returned to Sarah who was still lying stretched on her back, with her eyes closed. He leant down to kiss her breast again – but this time, she brushed him away:

'You're too late,' she murmured drowsily.

'What do you mean, too late?'

'You just are...'

Adam realized with a mixture of arousal and annoyance that Sarah's playful toying with herself must have continued in earnest while he was in the shower – and once Sarah had come, she usually lost interest in further sex.

'So who's been a wicked girl?' he asked, in a mock-solemn voice. She pouted at him and turned away on her side: Adam tipped her onto her front, and on an impulse slapped first one side then the other of Sarah's shapely bottom.

'Ouch, that hurt.'

'Perhaps it was meant to.'

Adam put a hand on her shoulder, and Sarah turned her face to nuzzle it. She looked up at him quizzically with her large grey eyes; Adam held her gaze coolly, and with slow deliberation spanked her twice again. Sarah drew in her breath and bit her lip. She said nothing more but turned her face into the pillow. Adam paused, then lifted his hand again and spanked her another dozen times, very slowly, quite hard and full on her bottom. Sarah moaned slightly but still said nothing. He bent down and kissed the nape of her neck, and then ran his tongue down her spine; he scattered more kisses over her now blotched and reddened bottom, and Sarah moaned in a different way, parting her legs.

'Kneel up,' he whispered. And he entered her – and Sarah responded with passion, and surprised them both by quickly climaxing.

* * *

Afterwards, mild spanking became an occasional part of their love play, and they would ritually re-enact that first time. Sarah would undress in front of Adam, and then submit to his gaze and play with herself in front of him. When she had come, she would lie across his lap and be punished for her wantonness. And then he would caress her reddened bottom, kiss her most intimate places and make love to her. Once he used a plastic ruler on her bottom: but this was still all light and playful.

Adam later began sometimes buying magazines; Sarah was initially shocked. But she found herself drawn to the pictures of girls being caned or tawsed. And soon they were enticed to take the first dark step beyond playful spankings.

It was again summer, now four years after they had first met. A transparent, hot midday. Adam and Sarah had driven out into the country, up into the hills, then left the car and walked across two fields to the small ravine they had discovered the previous summer. The sides of the ravine were thickly covered with scrub oak, and it was quite safe to scramble to the stream at the bottom. Here and there, small patches of grass grew beside the stream; and they clambered down to one of these. From his large shoulder bag, Adam retrieved their picnic and a bottle of wine.

Later, half-drunk, Adam reached over to Sarah, pulled her to her feet, hungrily kissed her and then in one movement pulled down the long back zip of her light summer dress. The dress fell away and she stepped out, naked but for skimpy lace panties.

'Those too,' he said. And then, 'On your hands and knees.'

Adam took the gauzy Indian scarf which Sarah had used to tie back her long hair, and made a blindfold. Then he paused to look at her, the dappled shadow on her nakedness.

'Sarah – you know I love you.'

'I know,' she whispered.

Adam then reached into his bag, and brought out – dark, supple, well-made – a light two-pronged tawse. He took it in his hand, and very gently rested it on Sarah's white bottom and stroked her with it.

'Can you feel the smooth leather? I bought this when I was in London last week.' Sarah did not reply, but sighed slightly: she knew immediately what it was. A couple of weeks before, when Adam for the first time made as if to use one of his leather belts on her, Sarah had stopped him: 'No: it mustn't be something ordinary, it has to be something... special'. And Adam had understood, and heard the unspoken consent.

'This first time,' Adam continued quietly, running the tawse over her, 'I'll give you six strokes, unless you stop me now.' Still silence in the little grassy-hollow, with the oaks rustling above in the softest summer breeze.

Adam lifted his arm, and brought the tawse down firmly across both buttocks. Sarah cried out as the pain shot through her bottom, burning, burning. Then again the sharp slap of leather, the pain jolting through her, another cry. A third time, Adam brought down the tawse on her pale flesh, her buttocks shook under the impact, the dragon tongues of the tawse bit into her with fierce heat, drawing another moan into the summer air.


He paused. Sarah was still again, her head bowed, her breasts hanging down with darkly erect nipples; her buttocks now aflame, the marks of the tawse clear. A fourth time, the leather struck her – another loud slap, another sudden flush of pain across her bottom, a sobbing moan that seemed to come from her very core. Another pause, then a lighter fifth stroke on the top of her buttocks. Then a last pause, and Adam flicked the tawse sharply a final time, lower, near the sensitive top of her thighs and Sarah cried out again in surprise and renewed pain.

For a long moment Adam looked down at Sarah, at her beautiful back, slim waist and her perfect bottom now reddened and fiercely marked. Then he threw down the tawse, and lay beside her, drawing her down into his arms: he pulled the blindfold off her glistening eyes, and she rested her head on his chest, as with one hand she rubbed her ravaged arse. They lay together like this for a long time, Sarah naked, her long dark hair wild, not speaking. At last, Adam with great tenderness washed Sarah's face with water from the stream, then he dressed her, and took her hand and led her back across the fields.

Just before they reached the car, Sarah suddenly stopped, flung her arms around Adam's neck, kissed him passionately – and then broke free and ran laughing on to the car.

* * *

Sarah instinctively knew that some things are best left unexamined, unanalysed. Why should rituals of punishment and submission bind her so tightly to Adam? Why should he, in other ways so gentle, be so aroused by her willing participation in the rituals? She preferred to leave the mystery intact, and when Adam at first occasionally tried to talk about these things, she silenced him.

But over time, they slowly explored further: sometimes the tawse, as that first time, fiercely licked her bottom with tongues of fire. Sometimes, a many-thonged fine whip stung her whole body with biting kisses as she was spreadeagled; sometimes, a riding crop slashed her soft thighs. And then, eventually, there was the cane: the pain, each new time, so startling, taking Sarah to the limit, the submission so total, the love-making afterwards so wonderful.

* * *

When Adam phoned from the conference, Sarah was already in bed.

'I'll be home about eight tomorrow.'

'I've missed you.'

For once, as rarely these days, they would have the house to themselves.

'I've been thinking for days about that last time, at Easter...'

'Yes, oh master...' Sarah teased.

'Be ready!' said Adam with mock sternness.

Their playful banter continued, masking a mutual seriousness. For Sarah, the waiting times, as she prepared herself – apprehension and arousal finely balanced – were themselves a delicious thrill that she craved.

Sarah lay in bed dreaming. The image of the girl in the changing room suddenly flashed before her eyes. It had been just after Easter. Sarah had gone to buy a summer dress; it was a quiet time, and she was at first the only occupant of the small communal changing room. Then a young girl had walked in. They exchanged smiles, and Sarah realized the girl was extremely pretty. The girl noticed Sarah looking at her as she changed, paused, and then – rather unnecessarily – removed her bra, as if flaunting her perfect figure to the older woman.

Sarah smiled at the girl again, and as they both tried on their dresses, it seemed like a silent flirtation. Sarah removed the dress she had been trying on, and on a sudden impulse turned her back to the girl, and bent over slowly over from the waist to pick up her own clothes. She knew that as she did so, her tiny lace knickers would ride up, showing the cane-marks, still quite clear from the night before. She heard the girl gasp slightly with surprise and felt her stare. Eventually Sarah straightened, turned and smiled again, looking the girl straight in the eyes. Sarah quickly slipped on her own dress, gathered up the two she had been trying on, and as she left, she said softly to the still half-naked girl 'One day, you must try it'.

Now, lying in bed, Sarah found herself wishing that the encounter hadn't ended there. Aroused by the memory, she started stroking herself. And as her hands wandered she let the images come one after the other – the pretty girl lying naked as Sarah carressed her. Then the scene changed to one like in a video the Adam had recently brought home from abroad: the girl lay on Sarah, breast to breast, as Adam applied the cane, so that Sarah could feel the strokes through the girl's body as she held her. Finally, as her climax came near, Sarah imagined that the strumming fingers were now the girl's...

* * *

When Adam's key turned in the lock, Sarah was waiting in the living room, naked under her silky wrap but for the tiniest, laciest thong. She threw her arms round his neck when he arrived, and his hands strayed all over her.

'It's so good to see you.'

'You too: it seems weeks not days.'

They embraced and caressed: after a time, her wrap fell more and more open.

'Mmm, that reminds me...' said Adam, as he kissed her breasts. 'I've brought you a present from the sinful metropolis.'

Sarah open the box; a file gold chain, and at each end little clips.

'Is this what I think it is?'

'Try it!'

Sarah knelt in front of Adam, shrugged off the wrap and put her hands behind her head, lifting her small breasts to him. She sighed as he placed the clips on each nipple.

'You look wonderful!'

Sarah got up to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace: unbidden, the thought of the girl in changing room rushed back into her mind – part of her wished that she was placing clips on that girl's breasts, hearing her gasp again.

Adam sat on the sofa, still formally dressed: Sarah knelt at his feet. They drank wine for a while, desultorily chatting, the sexual tension mounting between them. Then Sarah said:

'I have a confession.'

And she told Adam in vivid detail about the girl, about her fantasies, about the previous night's indulgence. Adam was aroused.

'I go away for five days and you turn into a lesbian sadist!' he said quietly. 'I think punishment is due, don't you? Sarah... fetch the cane now.'

Sarah walked across the room, her legs and bottom so taut from the height of her stiletto heels, and retrieved the cane from behind a long row of books. She slowly returned, handed it silently to Adam, and went to stand in front of the fire, her hands outstretched to hold the mantle shelf, her head bowed, her beautiful behind framed by the lace of the black thong and now thrust out towards her master.

Adam removed his jacket, and weighed the cane in his hand. At last, weeks of waiting were over; the moment – the darkly wonderful moment – had come. The room is silent but for the crackling of the fire. And then the first fierce stroke suddenly bites into Sarah's bottom. She moans but holds still. Then another crack of cane on her soft flesh, another blaze of pain.


Every time this ritual is performed, Sarah is shocked again by the hurt of it. Her bottom has become the centre of all sensation; the fire, the pain seems beyond measure. She rests her head on one of her outstretched hands. Adam pauses, and watches the stripes he has drawn develop – he the painter, her arse the canvas. Then he moves very close behind her, and she presses back, feeling his hardness. After a moment, he reaches down and slips off her thong:

'Kneel down,' he murmurs gruffly.

Sarah slowly sinks to her hands and knees in front of the fire. The cane drops to the floor by the sofa, as Adam pours himself another drink.

* * *

The man canes the woman six more times, hard whippy cuts, with long pauses between. At each new stripe, she cries out as the pain courses through her. She makes no attempt to muffle her moans: for she knows that such sounds of submission are a gift that he cherishes. Her arms and legs are trembling slightly, and the man pauses again to caress her shoulders and waist and swell of her breasts until she is still again. Then two final strokes of the cane where her bottom meets her thighs – she calls out his name and then lies prone on the carpet.

The man regards the woman for a moment, then he sets down the cane and gathers her into his arms and holds her: as once long ago by a remote stream, time stands still in a moment of perfect harmony. After a while, he carefully places some soft feather cushions on the carpet and gently lies the woman down. He takes the clips from her nipples, and places her own hands there. She begins to move her hands, first on her breasts, and then she spreads her legs, the man watching as he undresses. When she starts to moan more and more, he turns the woman onto her front: she raises her bottom for a final act of submission. There is a last moment of pain, then the woman relaxes and what is still so hurting also becomes the centre of all delight.

Could it be that one day the magic, the dark mystery, will go out of their rituals of punishment and submission? All things must pass. But today the old magic is as powerful as ever, and in the end, as so often before, the woman fills the room with wild cries of abandoned pleasure.

Episode 2

Sisters Under Their Skins

Story from Janus 64.

Sisters Under Their Skins
by Christopher James

For the Colonel's Lady an' Judie O'Grady
Are sisters under their skins!

Rudyard Kipling

* * *

LADY ANGELA was bored. Very bored. All of the customary occupations available to a Lady had become tedious. At 30, slim with long, red-brown hair and green-blue eyes, she was considered very handsome. Her husband having been killed while hunting, early Victorian society decreed that she should not do much entertaining whilst in semi-mourning. But she had to face the fact that she needed a man; indeed — and this was an appalling thought, which she was compelled to admit — that what she really needed could be spelt in three unutterable letters: s-e-x... To this end her late husband had sometimes indulged them both by laying his riding-crop across the seat of her riding-breeches... or a stout, lithe and supple rattan cane without those breeches.

Her boredom was about to be broken. There was a knock upon the parlour door and her butler entered, followed by a young maidservant. 'What is it, Heathley?' she asked, smothering a yawn.

'I am extremely sorry to trouble your ladyship,' said the portly gentleman who ruled her establishment below stairs, 'but really something should be done about this — er, this young person.'

'Should it, Heathley? Cannot you do whatever should be done?'

'With respect, I am wondering whether this young person is fit to remain in your ladyship's service. Not for the first time she has badly upset Cook — indeed, Cook went into hysterics, because Emma, here, ruined dinner by dropping a dish containing smoked trout —'

'Not part of the Royal Doulton dinner-service?'

'I am afraid so, my lady.'

'Really, that is too bad! Who... what... is this, so difficult girl?'

'She is Emma, the kitchen-maid, my lady. You engaged her six months ago. I am sorry to say that as a kitchen-maid her services have not been very satisfactory.'

Her ladyship had a feeling of anger. She was fond of that Doulton service. 'Come here, girl,' she said.

The girl gave a little bob of a curtsey, approached Lady Angela, gave another little bob, and awaited the awful pronouncement of her fate. Indeed, tears were already trickling over her grubby cheeks. My lady saw before her a girl at the end of her teens, a dirty-faced girl wearing a sadly soiled apron over a cheap, greasy, black alpaca frock. Emma hung her head, flushing beneath her employer's critical gaze.

'Come, girl, what are you crying for? Nothing has happened to you, yet.'

'Oh, me lady! You're goin' to turn me orf.'

'Certainly there is no place in my kitchens for a girl who drops valuable china and ruins dinner. And I will not have Cook upset.'

'I'm that sorry, me lady. If you turns me orf I mightn't get no other place, an' if I got nowhere to go I'll get sent back to the 'ouse.'

'The house? Do you mean your home?'

'N-no, me lady, ain't go no 'ome. I means the wuck'ouse.'

'The workhouse. I see.' Her ladyship pondered. She was not an unkind woman and she realised that for Emma to be sent back to the workhouse would be cruel. But if she upgraded the girl to the post of under parlour-maid she would probably break one of the valuable Wedgwood pieces. Lady Angela also realised that beneath the kitchen grime was an elfin, rather pretty, little face. Likewise, it occurred to her perceptive mind that the girl's blue-grey eyes were sharp and her features not unintelligent.

'You may go, Heathley,' Angela said. 'I wish to speak with this girl.'

'Very good, my lady.' With the slightest bow the butler withdrew, closing the door silently behind him.

'I collect that you are not happy, working in the kitchen, Emma?'

With another little bob, Emma replied, 'Well, me lady, I knows I'm lucky to be 'ere. But I knows I'm that clumsy, an' Cook's always shoutin' at me that I'm under 'er feet. She's always on at me. "Do this, Emma, do that, Emma, you ain't black-leaded the range proper, Emma!" It was Cook makin' me nervous as made me drop that dish, me lady. I does me best, but... Please, me lady, I will try, please don't send me away.'

'I suppose you could get another place, if I gave you a character... of some sort?'

Emma, a workhouse orphan, knowledgeable about the heartless competition of the hard, cruel world with no job, mumbled — with another little curtsey — that she might, but that she would prefer to stay in her present position, even in the kitchen. Meanwhile, her ladyship was thinking. Cook, whatever her moods, was the second most important person in her establishment. 'How old are you, Emma?'

'Nineteen, me lady.'

'There is no necessity to curtsey every time you speak, child.'

'No, me lady, thank you.'

'And, if you can, it is "my lady". Can you manage that?'

Emma set her mouth and replied, 'Yes, moi lady.'

'Try saying "kind".'

'Koind.'

'No! You must open your mouth wider. Now. Kind.'

'Koi — kind, me — moi — my lady.'

'Come, now, that is very good.' Angela's eyes, sparkling with a hint of salacity, were roving over the girl's form. The large, blue-grey eyes were very attractive, the hair, properly washed, would be flaxen; and the figure quite shapely, a little buxom; a distinct curve of bust and no corset.

'Turn around, Emma. Let me see your back view.'

Obediently Emma turned, displaying a distinctive, even tempting, outward swell below the waist. My lady was comparing the shape of this commonplace girl with that of her stepdaughter, Honoria, at present away at finishing school, who was the same age and there was a well-defined advantage. And, inevitably, Lady Angela thought of the punishment she had been compelled to mete out to her stepdaughter when that wilful young lady had been home during the holiday... and, with wishful thinking, she thought of a certain room upstairs, which over several generations had become known as the punishment room. Angela, it may be said, had a penchant for the use of a supple cane.

'Would you consent to be punished, instead of being discharged?'

'Oh yes, my lady, anything.'

'Have you ever been caned?'

Caned...! That was ominous. 'Yes, my lady. I been caned by the wuck'ouse Master. The ba —, I means the Master, enjoyed it.' Emma had learned to hate and fear the cane at the workhouse but she perceived that if she wished to remain in her ladyship's household she could not refuse chastisement now. It would certainly be better than being discharged.

Her ladyship was an impulsive person. 'Tell me, girl, would you like to be my personal maid?'

Emma gasped. She, a lady's-maid? She knew that Betty, her ladyship's abigail, had recently left to get married, but a lady's-maid was almost as far above a kitchen-maid as was the butler himself, and he was a very grand personage indeed. 'Oh, milady! Me — moi — my lady. I couldn't. Never!'

'Why not?'

Why not? The idea was fantastic. Abigail, a personal maid to Lady Angela! Although, as the widow of a mere baronet, Lady Angela knew herself to be upon the lowest stratum of the nobility, to Emma she rated somewhere between God and the Great queen.

'I — I... I dunno, me lady. My lady. I ain't trained. Nor I can't read and write. And talk proper.'

'You need not address me as "my lady" each time you speak to me, Emma. You may call me Ma'am when we are speaking together. I should train you in your duties. In addition I am willing to devote four hours each day to teaching you to speak properly, to read and write, and perhaps play upon the pianoforte. But it would mean hard work. And discipline.'

'Discipline, moi lady — Ma'am?'

'The cane or a leather strap across your bottom if you misbehave or do not work hard.'

'Oh, Ma'am, I'll work hard. Oh, gosh! I means moi lady — Ma'am, I can't hardly believe you means it.'

'This offer is not definite, you understand.' Emma's spirits dropped. 'I shall think about it while I punish you for breaking a valuable dish.'

'Ye-es, Ma'am.' As my lady had perceived, Emma was by no means an unintelligent girl — she realised that there could well be some connection between her willingness to accept punishment and her ladyship's 'thinking about' the glittering opportunity. To become a lady's personal maid, to be taught to speak well and to read and write, that was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Nevertheless, she was afraid. 'Please Ma'am, you goin' to give me the cane now?'

'That is my intention, Emma.'

'Will you do it on me 'ands or me bum?'

'One does not use that word. It is coarse. You say "bottom".'

'Sorry, Ma'am.'

'I shall administer punishment upon your bottom. Bare, naturally.'

That did shake Ernrna. 'B-bare, Ma'am?'

'Certainly.'

'You means... without me drawers on?'

'Come, now, do not be foolish. If you had your drawers on you would hardly be bare, would you?'

'No, only... Please, Ma'am, I never bin bare. You're never proper bare in the 'ouse. Even when you're caned.'

'Have you never taken a bath?'

'Please, Ma'am, I've bathed in the tin bath in the kitchen. But I've always kep' me drawers on. An' me camisole.'

Angela raised her eyebrows. But she did not enquire further. There was no accounting for the habits of the menials. But that would be changed.

'I cane my stepdaughter upon her bare bottom and there is certainly no reason why I should not do the same to you.'

'Your stepdaughter, Ma'am? Miss Honoria? But — but she's real grown-up.'

'She is the same age as yourself. If she is disobedient or if I am sent an unfavourable report, I give her a thrashing and I assure you that her buttocks are completely uncovered. When I was her age I was accustomed to being birched, uncovered, by my Papa and that hurts far more than the cane. So no more nonsense! Now, my girl, are you willing to submit to a thorough caning upon your bare bottom?'

'Yes, Ma'am.' What choice had she?

Lady Angela was elated. She had never anticipated having the opportunity of caning another girl as well as Honoria. She said, 'You know the punishment room upstairs, Emma?'

Emma had never been inside it.

'You will go there now. Take your drawers down. Take them right off. Also — I do not think you need be entirely naked, but take off everything except your chemise. You will find three punishment canes hanging upon hooks. You will select — take — the middle-sized one, then stand in the corner, holding the cane. Face the wall. And — understand this — you will not turn round until I give you permission. Now, do you understand what I have told you?'

'Ye-es, Ma'am,' Emma mumbled, with sinking heart.

The punishment room had been known, and feared, by generations of the baronet's family. Its remote location in this rambling old house had been chosen so that no sounds emanating from it would be heard in the servants' quarters. This room contained a couch, a high, padded stool, and a 'horse' of padded leather, adjustable in height. It also contained three rattan canes of varying thickness and length, a long, thick leather strap, and a split-tailed leather tawse. Time had been when half-a-dozen rueful boys and girls had awaited their turn for painful correction in that room.

Lady Angela was a strong, capable woman, and she was excited by what she was doing. She always keenly enjoyed whipping her stepdaughter and fully intended to continue these treatments until the girl was married. Honoria took it for granted, just as she assumed that in the fullness of time she (or her husband) would similarly discipline their own offspring.

Emma did as she had been instructed. Quivering with apprehension, she removed the ubiquitous apron, her alpaca frock, two petticoats, and her calico pantalets, which were buttoned and covered part of her thighs. Laying her clothing upon a chair, she took the middle-sized cane from its hook and faced a corner of the room, oppressed by the feeling of disgrace, dreading the punishment that awaited her. It was the first time she had actually handled a cane. The jointed length of thin rattan was at least half as pliant as rubber — that suppleness which provides the fierce, indescribable sting.

But she made a mistake. When, after about ten minutes, her mistress entered the room she turned involuntarily. Without a word my lady strode across the room, raised the girl's shift, and inflicted one heavy, resounding slap upon the top of each fat, wide thigh.

'Ow!' cried Emma.

'I told you not to turn round until I bid you. That is what discipline means.'

'Yes, me — my lady. Ma'am.'

'Now I'll have that cane.' She took the thin, yellow, quivering rod. 'Pull your shift up, right up above your waist, and bend forward.'

Emma obeyed, trembling with fear. Lady Angela grasped her, her arm around the back of the girl's waist, bending her over more. Another time, she was thinking, she would have the girl kneeling upon the couch, but she was enjoying the personal contact. Emma felt very forlorn as she waited, her uncovered hindquarters feeling very vulnerable, her thighs still smarting. Angela gazed down at that nude posterior with a feeling of glowing gratification and erotic desire. She realised that this girl, being more plump, and with more fleshy contours than her stepdaughter, possessed a much more spankable — or caneable! — bottom. Emma's skin was also more tender. My lady adored that close-up view of those very tempting, tender, voluptuously rounded globes with the bewitching cleft.

Honoria had been accustomed to take her hidings fairly stoically, for many similar punishments, not only from her fond stepmama, had toughened the skin of those rounded areas which were always the target of hand, cane or tawse. It took at least eight hefty whacks to make her protest too vehemently.


Not so Emma. The cane swished and cracked forcefully. Momentarily she felt nothing... then she uttered a shrill cry, and her body jerked in her mistress's firm grip, as a very peculiar feeling, accompanied by an exceedingly sharp, burning sting tore through her proffered bottom. She received a further four hard, wickedly stinging strokes, and she did not pretend to be a heroine. She yelled lustily at every resounding thwack as the cane whipped down, a yellow streak of compressed agony, across that so enticing derriere.

The room resounded with pitiable noise. 'I'Il' — THWACK! — 'Ooh!' ... 'teach you' — WHACK! — 'Oh-ow!' ... 'to drop' — CRACK! — 'Ooow-oh!' ... 'dishes' — WHACK! — 'Ooooh-aagh!' Emma continued to gasp loudly after her last cry. Upon each side of her squirming backside were five scarlet-hued, raised weals.

The servants were shattered by Emma's news when that young lady, with reddened eyes, clutching at her anguished rear — but with a broad grin upon her pretty face — hobbled into the servants' sitting-room. They were incredulous and outraged. The good-for-nothing kitchen-maid, a clumsy, uncouth, untaught workhouse brat, to become her ladyship's personal maid...! Even the imperturbable Heathley lowered his Morning Post to ponder upon the unpredictable peculiarities of the Quality...

Emma found her new duties infinitely more pleasant than the kitchen. First, she herself had to have new clothes — which meant, incidentally, that for the first time in her deprived young life, she saw her body reflected in a full-length mirror. What she saw was worth looking at: a voluptuous form, rather more curvaceous than her ladyship's slim figure, with delightful plump breasts with rosebud tips and large areolae; a femininely-rounded belly with a cupid's kiss of a navel; an alluring, delightful triangle of crisp hair. She could only partially see her back view, but Lady Angela saw a creamy-skinned, well-fleshed back, the hips swelling from trim waist, the indentation of the spine culminating in the most adorable, tantalising, dimpled cleavage, terminating in ripely luscious chubby buttocks; and beneath these posterior glories, shapely long legs with broad, rounded calves.

Across the rear cheeks were those ignominious cane marks, now faded into pink lines, but nobody would have been surprised at such evidence of correction upon a 19-year-old girl's rump; it was an age of severe corporal punishment.

She was overjoyed by her new clothes. Smooth cotton drawers with short legs and no button covered her from her waist down, which garment, for the first time, Emma heard called 'knickers', not drawers, knickerbockers, nor pantalets; a camisole, smooth cotton vest, two petticoats, the outer one, which at once became a treasure, of real cambric, and a very pretty floor-length cotton print dress. Angela did not begrudge money to give this girl — and herself — pleasure. She happily anticipated many occasions when she would have to uncover Emma's behind for disciplinary purposes.

There was no boredom now for Lady Angela. She was a natural teacher, and was pleased to find that her estimate of Emma's intelligence was not misplaced. She set herself to teach her new abigail elocution, to read and write, to learn her 'tables' and do elementary arithmetic, to embroider, and at least a grounding on the piano. It was inevitable that such tuition required a sound spanking, always upon the bare nates, or liberal use of a leather strap, hairbrush or cane. The girl picked up first reading from simple story books, then more advanced reading, and copperplate handwriting. But she was less clever and quick with arithmetic and elocution — which inevitably left her with a very sore rear.

Emma did not, at first, derive any pleasure from such discipline; yet, perhaps oddly, she did not mind it — at least, after it was over. She soon realised that beating her on the bottom, or even caning her on her hands, did give my lady pleasure; and such was her love for her employer, and her gratitude, that she was only too willing to suffer physical pain. But she did not suffer in stoic silence. She would find herself across her mistress's lap, her skirts above her waist, her knickers pulled down, howling as she was vigorously belaboured either with Lady Angela's hand or her hairbrush — that same oval-shaped brush with which Emma loved to brush my lady's glorious mass of long, shining, auburn hair. A spanking could mean up to thirty hard smacks, well distributed over all parts of bottom and thighs.

Occasionally, if her ladyship was really exasperated or if Emma had been particularly obtuse it would mean a caning. Caning was more formal than a summary spanking.

Apprehensively, with that faint sickly feeling of fear in the pit of her stomach, Emma slowly, reluctantly, climbed the stairs to the punishment room. She removed her apron, her highly-prized dress and cambric petticoat, and the smooth cotton knickers; fearfully selected the middle-sized cane (about 3/8-inch thick), and stood in her customary corner, feeling the thudding of her heart and the queasy anxiety in her belly. The Cane... the true symbol of her relationship with her mistress. Emma's cognition with the cane was, at first, sheer, utter fear; gradually that cognition changed to a sort of inevitable acceptance, and then again to another feeling which was a compound of her growing affection for her stern mistress and the so familiar sensation of lust. And then she began to derive a strange, ambivalent feeling of thrilling enjoyment, so that every intolerable sting was actually sensually blissful.

Waiting, in some dread, for Lady Angela, she wondered what she might expect. Four strokes if she were lucky, but it might be six. She had certainly been difficult and her mistress was angry with her. She stood in the corner, flexing the long, slender stick, which was so pliant she could bend it into a circle. The door opened, but she did not dare to turn until she was bid; that would earn her two or three painful smacks upon her thighs.

'You may turn, Emma.' Emma turned and proffered the cane; the handle was trembling perceptibly as the woman took it. She licked her dry lips. 'I-I know I'm a naughty girl, Ma'am.'

'Yes?'

'I was very stupid over my sums, Ma'am. And I was impudent and disobedient. I know I deserve a severe caning, but I-I'm frightened.'

'Eight strokes, Emma.'

Emma gulped. 'Eight! Oh, oh, Ma'am...'

'I have often given Miss Honoria a dozen strokes. You are a bright girl, Emma. You know you can do arithmetic if you will exert yourself. And how many times have I told you not to answer me back? You are just recalcitrant! I will not have impudence, Miss. Now, I want you over the horse.'

'Ye-es, Ma'am.' Her voice was so soft it could hardly be heard. The girl, her knees shaky, hoisted her underslip and vest and, curving her body over the leather-upholstered top of the 'horse', she lay over it, naked from the small of her back, and her hands took a firm grip upon the horizontal struts. In a low, unsteady voice, she said, 'Please, Ma'am, I do love you.'

Her ladyship was touched, it was a cry from the heart of a girl who had never known love — but her punishment was to be none the less because of that. Deliberately, because she knew it was what her mistress liked, she parted her legs.

'What a darling you are,' Angela said, 'but I have to thrash you severely.'

Emma no longer felt shame or embarrassment. Only fear. Indeed, she was glad that her bottom, and her so private charms, were exposed to her beloved lady. It excited her, for there was no doubt that such bare-bottomed punishment was a powerful aphrodisiac... for both of them.

This was always a wonderful moment for Angela. She visualised herself lying across that leather horse awaiting the biting strokes of her poor husband's crop across her taut breeches. Now, with her whole body filled with concupiscent joy, she stared down at those superlative creamy-white spheres that awaited the cane as though in supplication, relishing the thrill aroused by their absolute nakedness and vulnerability. The skin was firm and satin-smooth as she ran her fingers over the silky surface... the girl's thighs writhed as she sensuously caressed her bottom's curves...

The cane fell with a clean, crisp snap, precisely as she had intended, across the soft flesh where the buttocks swelled outwards from the broad thighs. Emma took the first stroke of red-hot pain, an anguish that seemed almost to be a lustful pleasure, with nothing but contorted mouth and a little wince. But as the lithe stick continued to slash down, her stoicism broke.

THWACK! — 'Ow!' ... THWACK! — 'Ooh-owch!' ... CRACK! — 'Oooh-aagh!' Stretched as she was, on her toes, gripping the struts with whitened knuckles, the girl could scarcely move. Big tears oozed over her eyelids. 'Oh, Ma'am, it hurts!' she wailed.

'My pool girl. I am sorry to have to punish you like this.' Which, as they both knew, was something less than the truth. 'It is only through pain that you will learn to be a good girl, isn't it?'

'Y-y-yes, Ma'am. I will try harder.'

Lady Angela stared down libidinously at the reddened weals swelling across the so delicious globes. Was she being cruel? Those strong, sturdy hips and buttocks could take plenty of punishment.

'You have four strokes to come. Be a brave girl.'

'You know I want it, Ma'am. I was a naughty girl.'

'Yes, I know. I understand. It is good for you to have your bottom well caned.'

The slow, very deliberate thrashing continued. The culprit wept and sobbed, moaned and wailed. Her ladyship was breathing hard. The cane was raised high, back over my lady's shoulder and came swishing down, adding stinging agony to the fire that already blazed in the pert, voluptuously-rounded buttocks. The girl shrieked and tears streamed down her face, dropping to the floor. The entire area was inflamed but none of the weals crossed.

That was all. But Emma simply could not help herself. She felt as though she had been sitting on a fire — yet she wanted more. Her desire was irresistible; it was ambivalent... all she knew was that, although each blow was hellish, agonising, it was also blissful. The sensual tension between girl and woman was electric, transcending all social differences. She was crying, with short, staccato sobs.

'M-Miss Honoria t-t-takes a d-dozen strokes, Ma'am?'

'If I consider that she merits it she certainly does.'

'If — if she does, I c-can.' Emma was burning as much with erotic craving as with pain.

Again the cane swished down with ruthless force. Emma yelled as intolerable agony tore like raging flame. She cried pitiably and howled at each of the four severe strokes.

With a clean handkerchief Lady Angela wiped the streaming tears. 'Now,' she said softly, 'first a kiss.' Her ardent lips were pressed against each buttock in turn, slobbering saliva over the stinging, aching flesh. Then from a shelf she took a pot of fragrant cold cream and gently, tenderly, anointed the red and swollen welts.

* * *

As Emma made progress in her lessons, her mistress introduced one or two new subjects less conventional than the others. Emma learned a little of the art of massage. This took place in her ladyship's bedroom with the door locked. Lady Angela was taller and slimmer than her maid, with perky, rounded, but almost boyish buttocks. She lay naked, face-down upon her big bed, and explained to Emma how to knead and manipulate her shoulder muscles, and to massage her back with quick, chopping movements with the edges of her hands, which treatment she thoroughly enjoyed. Then, to Emma's amazement, she said, 'Now hit my lower parts. Below my waist. With your open hand.'

Emma stared down in some bewilderment at the intimacy of her mistress's inviting rear. 'With my open hand, Ma'am?'

'Yes, Emma.'

'But — but you mean, smack you, Ma'am?'

'Yes.'

'On your behind, Ma'am?'

'Yes, yes, of course. Do it hard, don't be afraid. Until it hurts too much, then I'll tell you to stop. It is a sort of massage.'

The girl was puzzled. But those seductive curves were inordinately tempting. She brought her open hand down with a loud slap upon the soft, fleshy side of one lovely cheek. 'Like that, Ma'am?' she asked diffidently, still scarcely believing.

'Yes, just like that. But hard.'


Emma understood at last. Her mistress wanted a smacked arse — and it was purely sexual. She obliged with hard, sharp slaps all over that enticing bum. The skin became first pink, then a deep rose colour, which turned into carmine and scarlet, and Angela was wincing and moaning, writhing and rubbing her thighs together, her whole body moving on the bed. She began to cry loudly. It was a noisy affair, the ringing cracks of flesh against flesh as Emma's large, work-hardened hand fell with unmerciful force upon the heaving aristocratic backside, mingling with my lady's cries, until the girl was breathless, her arm felt heavy and weary, her palm sore and smarting. It had been a severe spanking, the fiery-red patches were taking on a tinge of blue.

Now, Emma understood. She was intensely grateful to Lady Angela... and she was eager to please her in any way she could. They were both perfectly normal heterosexual females, and Emma hoped that one day she would have a husband; she understood that because of the temporary semi-mourning period, her mistress was precluded from seeking a new husband...

However, Emma had yet to discover what a glutton for punishment her strange mistress was. Lady Angela's ravenous body yearned for a flogging. A horsewhip across her back and buttocks... she could imagine it so well, but in reality that would be too extreme. It would have to be the cane. But it would have to be very severe, something she really feared, or it would be useless.

Angela never knew for certain whether it was a pure accident or an accident-on-purpose, but while rearranging some of her expensive collection of Wedgwood, she dropped and smashed one. 'Oh!' she exclaimed, in vexation. 'Oh, Emma. Just see what I have done.' She looked at her maid with a strange, questioning expression. 'I think we must go up to the punishment room.'

The girl was alarmed. She had done nothing wrong. With a little thrill of excitement she assumed that her mistress wanted another spanking for breaking that ornament. But to her surprise and some trepidation, she watched Lady Angela take the largest cane from its hook; this rather grim implement was nearly a half-inch thick and three feet in length. Emma knew it would be excruciating. Going to the couch, my lady raised the cane and brought it down with all her strength, indenting the firm upholstery with a loud Whap!

'Now, my dear, try if you can do it as hard as I did.'

Emma obeyed, rather bemused, making the pliant stick swish and bend itself across the couch.

'Now do you understand? I want you to give me a severe caning. Just as I do with you when you misbehave.'

'But... But, my lady, I can't cane you, your ladyship.'

'Please, Emma. After all, you gave me a pretty severe spanking.'

'Well, yes, Ma'am. But that was massage.'

'It was a form of massage, certainly, but it was still a beating.'

In a flash of sudden discernment, Emma realised that the relationship between mistress and servant had changed. The ambience in this room of pain, the phantasmic influence of the room was redolent of chastisement; of cracks and cries, as cane, strap or whip descended upon her aristocratic posteriors; it was voluptuous, punitive, electric with sensuality. She took a more purposeful grip on the limber cane, flexing it. Watching Lady Angela's eyes fixed upon it, more green than blue, Emma underwent a metamorphosis. Temporarily, while she held the rod of justice, she was mistress... She, Emma, was dominant.

The aristocratic lady was yearning to be dominated. This had been somehow, amorphously, in the back of her mind ever since this liaison; it was what she had missed since her husband had died. For just a few minutes, she was indeed the 'culprit', and she had to endure — wanted to endure — the sublime ecstacy of harsh anguish. Her body... her bottom... seemed to tingle with her longing.

Emma whipped the cane down across her hand with a pleasurable sting, and saw the eagerly watching woman lick her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. When she spoke she was amazed at her own words, at her sheer temerity.

'Your ladyship has been a very naughty girl, ain't — haven't — you?'

'Yes, Emma, I am afraid I have. My clumsiness was unforgivable.'

'What do you think you deserve for your naughtiness?'

Angela uttered a little moan of sheer, avid craving. She said, 'Not less than twelve strokes on my bare bottom. Perhaps more. And four across my thighs.' Seeing the startled surprise flicker in her maid's eyes at the harsh severity of her own sentence, she added, 'Don't worry, Emma. I am pretty hardened.'

'Very well, Ma'am. Perhaps the cane will help to make you more careful. You must go across the horse, naked, for your whipping. You understand?'

Emma helped her mistress undress, as she did each night. First the buttons down the back of the long, very full red satin dress had to be unfastened, and the woman stepped out of it. A taffeta underskirt followed, then two cambric petticoats; beneath those was a stiff, waist-length horsehair crinoline, and beneath that the tight corset, which pinched in her ladyship's already slender waist. Finally a long lawn chemise and the smooth lawn knickers that covered her body from waist to the upper parts of the thighs. And Angela stood, with eyes modestly cast down, blushing a little, in the proud glory of ravishing nudity. But Emma was now accustomed to seeing her mistress in the nude. She brought the long, thick cane hissing through the air — and had the pleasure of seeing her ladyship flinch.

Then, obediently, just like a naughty slip of a girl, the 30-year-old woman curved her tall form over the punishment horse, gripped the horizontal strut, and waited submissively, for the punishment for which she yearned... yet which she dreaded.

Emma gazed enraptured at the piquant, provocative hindquarters and her body was gripped by a passion of lascivious desire to administer chastisement. Positioning herself well to the side of the bending woman, she laid the cane gently across the apex of the erotically beautiful orbs... raised it... tapped it once, then lifted it high. She poised it above her shoulder before bringing it down with a swish and a resounding thwack, leaving two white marks perfectly across the middle of the buttocks, which turned immediately into pink. Her victim's body gave a little jerk, but that was all.


THWACK! There was another little jerk of Lady Angela's bending form, but nothing more. Emma put all of her powerful young body into the third smashing welt, but still with not a murmur from her mistress. She did not know how resilient Lady Angela's lovely derriere had become over the years: a stern, disciplined upbringing at the hands of a mother and governess who both believed strongly in the efficacy of strict physical punishment; a husband who had enjoyed using cane or riding-whip; and all her life she had ridden horses.

The caning was inflicted with slow deliberation and salacious pleasure on the part of the punisher — indeed, of the pair of them — but, inexperienced as Emma was, the bamboo did not always land precisely where intended. The fifth blow crossed two swelling weals and, for the first time, elicited a loud wince.

Walloped my bare bum for smashin' a bloody plate! thought Emma. I'll teach you! Yet she still loved this woman, and would never, as long as she lived, cease to be grateful to her. Yet she was indulging in the most thrilling excitation as she brought the cane biting mercilessly into the white skin of her mistress's jerking rear cheeks and thighs. She did not see how contorted the woman's face became at every stroke.

At the eighth stroke Lady Angela started weeping and groaning. Emma's arm was heavy and she was breathing loudly. For these few minutes maid was mistress — and with incredible boldness, she intended to demonstrate the fact. The whipping paused.

'Remember why you are being punished, you bad girl?'

'For — for being a very clumsy, naughty girl... ooh! My naughty bare bottom is burning! It needs this whipping, Emma. Thrash it hard.'

With the next hefty whack Angela uttered a loud cry. The impassioned Emma swished the rod down with her lusty young strength, imparting vicious slashes across those writhing nates. Angela shrieked as Emma counted 'Twelve'. Thereafter the recipient howled just as Emma had done upon similar occasions. The cane continued to bite venomously, ruthlessly into those delightful buttocks and thighs, producing exquisite reactions to each infliction.

The erstwhile kitchen-maid was learning more than her schoolroom subjects. Maid and mistress, after all, were sisters under their skins.