Wednesday, 20 June 2012

The summer break

Hello everyone!

Unfortunately, now I have absolutely no free time, and so I temporarily cease to post stories in my blog. How long break this time, I cannot say. At least a month, and maybe three...


Tuesday, 19 June 2012


Story from Fessee 08.

by Nick Fowler

The continuation of the story "Victim?"

IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS WIFE'S BEDROOM Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!

'Father,' he said, 'Sally has been smoking!'

'Er, ah, what's that?' exclaimed Commander Fenwick in surprise. 'Are you sure? I carried out a thorough search of this room only this morning, as you suggested.'

'Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?'

'Of course, my boy!' snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. 'I wasn't born yesterday.'

'Very well, Sally,' said Marcus, turning to the apprehensive, but very attractive young blonde who was standing between them. 'Where are they, and why was I disobeyed? You know that I will not be thwarted in my wishes, especially when they are in your best interests – and mine! If I send for you to come to my bed, I do not want you smelling like an overabused ashtray!'

Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.

'Well, if they are not in your room,' said Marcus logically, 'they must be on you. Take your dress off!'

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband's disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her 'warder', while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker. His students would have been astounded at "Don Marcus's" other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally's eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his "executioner". Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an 'old lag' who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!

Sally pulled the short black dress over her blonde curls, and stood, shivering and vulnerable, in her bra and nylon panties, stockings and suspender belt. She might just as well have been naked, as Marcus reached inside her bra and produced a packet of cigarettes from one cup, and a box of matches from the other, like a conjurer working 'magic'.

'It would seem, Dad, that you are becoming blasé to Sally's undoubted charms if you are failing to notice such changes in her delightful contours. I noticed immediately!'

'You would!' thought Sally resentfully. 'All you do is watch! What did I see in you, you cold fish? At least your father is human. He's stern, even brutal, but at least he fancies me!'

'Well,' said Marcus, turning to her. 'Now that you conveniently have your dress off you had better be punished. Will you fetch the hairbrush, Dad, and give Sally a thorough spanking for her deceit and disobedience! It is time that she learned that orders are made to be obeyed.'

The chastisement that followed, with Sally bare bottomed across the Commander's knee, and Marcus observing from the comfort of an armchair, was a particularly severe one, as Fenwick Senior felt that he had been let down by Sally, and had been made a fool of. He had begun to feel that there was a bond of trust and affection between them, and that although he needed to be strict for her own good, he was a father figure to her, as well as a relation by marriage.

So now his resentment showed in the severity of the punishment, as the ebony-backed hairbrush rose and fell stingingly on Sally's tender buttocks, and she yelled aloud her doleful remorse at being detected in transgression.

The Commander spanked hard and deliberately, letting each firm wristy impact sink in for its full effect. Sally howled from the very first stroke, not only because it stung dreadfully, but because she had learnt that to be vocal was better than stoic suffering. If you remained silent they just went on until you did yell, and only gave you more for being stubborn. She had learnt that lesson while still quite a small girl, and much painful spanking experience since had done nothing to change her views. Besides, there was an undoubted relief in being able to open your lungs and howl blue murder! It seemed to take some of the sting out of the proceedings! It was as if the burning smart of the hairbrush was soaking into your cheeks, up through your pussy, and into your guts, and needed to find an outlet through the larynx. Otherwise it built up intolerably.

After some six of these scalding collisions between tropical wood and soft flesh, Sally burst into tears. There was nothing feigned about this, and after about ten more she was crying so hard that she imagined that even the neighbours must hear – and the nearest house was two hundred yards away! She kicked her legs and squirmed furiously. She tried to plead, and promised to be good, to give up smoking, and never start again, but the face of Marcus remained coldly impassive, and the Commander took his cue from his son.

Sally began to wonder if he was ever going to stop. Long before he did, her bottom and thighs were beet red, and felt as if they were burning with incandescent heat. At one stage she tried to reach down to protect her ill-used posterior, but the Commander barked, 'Sally, do you want the cane too?' and hastily she jerked her hand away.

But at last it was over, and she sobbed her relief as Marcus nodded, and her mentor laid the wicked brush aside and replaced her panties over a hot, prickling bottom that felt twice the size of normal.

The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug. 'Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!'

Marcus said nothing but was pleased nevertheless. It was all highly satisfactory, this wife training. At the university functions he attended alone, he sometimes was tempted to tell others of the glowing success of his marriage. He did not, however, for that would have tarnished his image as a humane and kindly man, a liberal with a small 'l'.

* * *

During the weeks that followed, more 'good old fashioned spankings' came swishing home to roost in Sally's reorganised life with painful, and surprisingly satisfying regularity. The Commander scolded her often, while he forcefully reminded her of her many shortcomings. However she was quick to notice that when Marcus was not present to witness her bottom smackings, the hand that was then so firm with her could be amazingly gentle as it stroked and patted her outraged flesh. Then her crying soon subsided, and she discovered, with a sense of shock, that she no longer felt resentment towards him. In fact, at such times, she felt better than she had at any time during the life she had spent alone with Marcus.

May 20th, some three months later, was the Commander's sixty-first birthday, and Marcus was away, attending a seminar at Cambridge. Sally announced that she had a surprise for her father-in-law, he was to sit at the breakfast table and read his Telegraph, and not move until Sally returned. 'Right?'

'Right', agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son's absence, to indulge her. Ten minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.

'Enter!' barked the Commander.

The sight that entered took his breath away. There was Sally smartly dressed in WREN uniform, the blue serge immaculate, the seams of the black nylon stockings guardsman straight, the saucy little cap jauntily perched on her blonde curls. She saluted. 'WREN Sally reporting, sir. Er, the O.C WRENS said that I should come to you for corrective discipline, sir. She said that I needed a man's touch! Er, have you got a cane, sir, or should I get one?'

The look of delight on the old boy's face told Sally that her birthday present was an inspiration. She well knew the Commander's nostalgia for the distaff side of the Senior Service, and his joy in recounting his punishments of sundry naughty WRENS, who had fallen foul of him during his long and distinguished service, was quite tedious.

'Ah well,' Sally thought, 'It's all good fun. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' That it was to her advantage to win the Commander as an ally was obvious, and should be well worth the expense of the uniform, plus a caning or two!

'Humph!' grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. 'Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.'

He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy malacca. 'Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!'

Not without difficulty Sally hitched up the tight blue uniform skirt and bent herself over, presenting a pretty sight in seamed black stockings and suspenders, yet it appeared that the effect was not entirely to the Commander's satisfaction.

'And where,' he barked, 'are your regulation knickers?' It was a good question, because Sally's delightful bottom was attired in white frilly panties. Indeed, the Service outfitters, from whom she had purchased the uniform by phone and credit card, had said nothing about naval underwear.

'Er, sorry, sir! I forgot,' stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.

'Then two additional strokes to remind you!' said the Commander joyfully. 'Get up, while I find you some.'

He rummaged in a seachest and finally came up with a pair of navy blue Directoire knickers, perhaps the trophy from some long gone disciplinary encounter, and handed them to Sally. 'Put these on.'

Sally removed her own un-WREN-like frillies, and placed her high heels into the elasticated legs of the nylon bloomers, pulling them up snugly over her thighs and bottom. They felt constricting but quite comfortable, and would, she told herself, be some protection from the bite of the cane – if she was permitted to keep them in place over her rounded bottom.

'Now,' resumed the Commander, 'back down again for eight of the best. That's what delinquent ratings deserve!'

He had laid two well-placed strokes on Sally's knickered bottom, which stung despite its tight fitting and silky protection, when the phone rang. Signalling to Sally to stand up, the Commander picked up the receiver.

'Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick...'

It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone's mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties. 'I'll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick,' he told her absently.

'Permission to go outside, sir?' asked Sally impishly, an idea already hatching in her mischievous imagination. What fun it would be to go out in her uniform, and pretend to be a real WREN! Even to take the Commander's Cavalier for a spin. Of course, there would be a spanking when he found out, but he couldn't be too severe after the birthday present, and it would be worth it.

'Yes, carry on,' said the Commander, his mind on the phone conversation. Sally skipped out, picking up the car keys from the sideboard as she did so. Little did she know...

* * *

His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his 'unfinished business' in mind. Where was she? He recalled her asking permission to go outside – into the garden, he had assumed – but she wasn't there.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour. It was then that he discovered the absence of his car. She was gone! Scarpered, deserted! Well, absent without leave, at the very least. God, what would Marcus say when he returned? Thank goodness that he wasn't expected back until later. But where was she?

* * *

At that moment Sally was in a layby, being questioned by two burly Naval policemen. The sight of a pretty young WREN rating proceeding in a leisurely fashion in a smart new Vauxhall Cavalier GL, had aroused their suspicions, and they had become even more suspicious when their jeep had flagged down the car and they discovered that the WREN driver had no identification, no license or insurance, or even a handbag. They came to the conclusion that the young woman was A.W.O.L., and the car stolen. Nor would she give the name of her unit. What she did do was to become increasingly angry and abusive and call them names, finally kicking the Master-at-Arms, Taffy Evans, painfully on the shin. After that they put handcuffs on her for their own protection.

Finally she calmed down enough to tell them some cock and bull story about being on a 'secret mission' for Commander Fenwick of Queen's Cottage, Bramblehurst!

'Right ho,' said Taffy to his assistant, 'Barnacle' Bates, 'we'll take her there. I served under a Commander Fenwick once, finally swallowed the anchor about three years ago, but it can't be him, or can it? He's hardly the James Bond type. You take the jeep, I'll drive the Vauxhall with Mata Hari in it.' And bundling Sally, her wrists still locked behind her, into the back seat of the car, they set off in convoy for Bramblehurst. They entered the gates at lunchtime, which was the identical time as Marcus's M.G. His university seminar had finished unexpectedly early!

* * *

In retrospect, Sally considered that the sight of Marcus's face, on seeing her marched in, in WREN uniform, between two matlows, her wrists locked behind her in bright, steel fetters, was almost worth what was to follow. She only wished that the neighbours had been on the look-out, but, disappointingly, they weren't. However, that was the rosy view of nostalgia, after the stripes had faded. At the time it was all quite horrendous.

There were redeeming features, but hardly from Sally's point of view. Bos'un Taffy Evans was an old shipmate of the Commander's, and that made things easier, especially when his old C.O. produced a bottle of Lamb's Navy Rum. As for A.B 'Barnacle' Bates, the other member of the patrol, he was happy to go along with anything, it was all better than touring the sodding Motorway, and so long as Petty Officer Evans was happy to carry the can...!

'It's my birthday today, lads,' said the Commander expansively. 'Would you like to come back here for a meal and a yarn tonight? If you are both off duty, of course.'

'That we are, sir,' said Taffy, always happy for wining, dining, and a pipe of shag. 'Er, what about the young lady, sir? Hadn't we better take the cuffs off her?'

'I suppose you'd better!' said the Commander offhandedly, glaring at Sally, 'Not that it would hurt her to be kept in irons for a few hours. She's due for a Court Martial after you leave, and without pre-empting the verdict of the Court, I'd guess that she was in for a flogging and a spot of jankers!'

'Tell you what,' broke in Marcus, who had said little until now, preferring to leave it all to the Senior Service, 'she owes you something for that kick on the shin, Bos'un Painful, is it?'

'Oh, very, sir!' grinned the Master-at-Arms, rubbing the offended spot, and trying to recall which leg had received the impact of Sally's small shoe.

'Well,' said Marcus, 'if you'd like to carry out the sentence of the Court, we'll hold over punishment for you to administer. I believe that traditionally it was the duty of the Master-at-Arms to give floggings!'

'Quite right, sir,' said Taffy. 'Er, will the sentence be carried out on the er – bare er posterior of the young lady, sir, like they used to do with Midshipmen?'

'Naturally, Bos'un, where else?' asked the Commander in surprise.

* * *

The Naval Police patrol having departed about its lawful business, taking the handcuffs with them, it took little time to decide Sally's fate. After all, she was guilty, and with no mitigating circumstances.

'Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!'

She was told that she would be given a dozen strokes of the riding crop, at dinner that night, to be administered by the Master-at-Arms, and, what was more, Sally would wait upon them at table – both before and after her punishment, which would take place sandwiched between the sweet and coffee courses. Naturally, all her pleas for clemency were rejected. The Senior Service is a tough taskmaster!

'By the way,' asked Marcus, 'why the WREN uniform?'

The Commander explained.

'Well, since Sally so obviously enjoys dressing up, she can dress in a maid's costume to serve us dinner tonight. One of my girl students has just the outfit – won it as a bet in the last university Rag Week, I understand. I'll give her a ring, and go over and collect it. In the meantime, you, Sally, can get out of that ridiculous uniform and start preparing the dinner. Er, sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that the uniform was ridiculous, only on Sally!'

'Humph!' said the Commander. 'I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business...!'

* * *

The maid's costume which Marcus borrowed from his student may have been ideal for Rag Week's Fancy Dress Ball, but would have given any self-respecting 'nippy' in Lyons' a blue fit.

It consisted of a sexy little dress in black satin, cut so low at the bust as to be positively indecent, and so high at the skirt hem that it scarcely covered Sally's bottom – and didn't when she bent forward. It was worn with a frilly petticoat, which pushed out the short skirt even more, and black seamed nylon stockings held up by a black suspender belt. The miniscule panties were decorated with lace ruffles across the seat, and there was also a dainty frill of lace where they fitted snugly to the thighs. This travesty of traditional servitude was worn with a small white apron and a starched little cap which perched cheekily upon Sally's golden curls. She looked delicious! The Commander said so, secretly Sally thought so, and Marcus – well, Marcus kept his own counsel! Sally would have enjoyed the charade if she had not been so apprehensive about her coming whipping. However often it happened to her, she told herself glumly, it didn't get any better, or hurt any the less! She hoped that Taffy Evans was a kind man. He was far too powerfully built if he wasn't!

Furthermore it was the first time that she had had her bottom bared and whacked before anyone other than family! She tried to tell herself that it was all utterly shameful – but had to admit that the idea sent little thrills of secret pleasure through her pussy-parts. She hoped that she wouldn't be too much of a baby when the riding crop began smoking down on her tender situpon!

* * *

The Commander's birthday dinner was a great success – mainly because Sally hadn't cooked much of it! It had been delivered by a restaurant. Taffy and 'Barnacle' Bates could scarcely keep their eyes off Sally, as she moved around the table, serving from a hostess trolley, and it must be admitted that Taffy's preoccupation with the disciplinary task ahead of him quite blunted a usually excellent appetite. He hoped that no one could sense his 'hard on' under the table.

After the sherry trifle had been appreciated, demolished, and cleared away, the Commander excused himself and returned dragging a large, pony sized, Victorian rocking horse which had long been in the attics of the old cottage. It was a beautiful beast, grey and mottled, benign and handsome, still polished in its varnished paint. How it must have delighted some long dead child. What a price it would bring in the sale rooms! But now Marcus and the Commander had another use for it.

The Commander led Sally across it. He held the horse's reigns to keep it still, and indicated that Sally should mount. The stirrups were short, suitable for a child, but not a grown girl, and Sally had to bend her knees. Her bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches, the skirt of the ridiculous maid's costume riding up. Sally's plump cheeks were like full moons upon which the ruched knickers strained alarmingly. Marcus moved forward and with some difficulty peeled them down over the out thrust, pouting globes. 'Barnacle' Bates, whose erection was as rampant as Taffy's, hoped that he was not about to disgrace himself beneath the linen table cloth!

Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.

'I think,' said Marcus, 'that the chastisement will be more salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!'

'Oh no,' pleaded Sally, 'It's going to be bad enough as it is!'

The reply to this presumptuous comment was a warm up spanking from the Commander that lasted almost ten minutes, and brought a hot stinging glow in its wake. It was almost a relief when Marcus returned with the olive oil and quite impersonally coated the hot, scarlet flesh with it. He could almost be dressing a salad, Sally thought indignantly. How could she have ever thought that she loved such an unfeeling block of marble!

In the meantime, to complete his victim's utter subjection to the prescribed punishment, the Commander slapped the deep, wide cleft of her buttocks, while Sally howled in protest, but to no avail.

The preliminaries over, the Commander produced a leather-bound riding switch and handed it to Taffy Evans, saying in judicial tones, 'Right, Master-at-Arms, a dozen strokes, and lay on well!' Then he jerked on the reins of the rocking horse, causing it to rear up and present Sally's rump as target for the first biting stroke. Grimly she hung to the animal's wooden neck, grasping its real horse-hair mane for scant comfort, and yelped as the plaited leather cut into her plump flesh.

Taffy took his time. Between strokes Sally looked over her shoulder, taking in the stern expression of the Commander, the gloating elation on Marcus's face, and the pop-eyed disbelief of 'Barnacle' Bates. There could be no mercy expected there! Fortunately she sensed that Taffy Evans was not using his full strength, which was as well, or he would have cut her bottom into ribbons! As it was each stroke burned and stung abominably!

What a team the Bos'un and the Commander made! As each stroke fell the Commander would let the horse, and Sally's whipped buttocks, down, only to rise again into the trajectory of the next downward stroke of the riding switch.

At the eighth stroke, Sally, who had tried to keep a count of the punishment, gave up, and just hung on waiting for it to end. If only, she thought between wails and gasps of pain, and pleas to be a better girl in future, if only she had never told Marcus that she had been brought up on smack bottoms! If only, just for once, she could be a distributor of punishment, instead of a victim! She owned to being a silly, reckless, little fool, but...

Taffy brought down the switch on an already tender spot and Sally howled, just howled. It was a combination of pain, misery, and a realisation of her ignominious position, dressed in a ludicrously sexy costume, and bent, half naked, over a rocking horse, having her bare buttocks soundly whipped for the gratification of four men, two of whom had been strangers until a few hours earlier.

Marcus watched the whipping with cold interest. That afternoon he had toyed with the notion of summoning her to his bed for an hour, as he had hardly seen her for several days, but he had decided that it might not be prudent. It might give his wife the wrong idea. Comforting her wasn't in his interests. In his opinion any punishment to Sally's deserving bottom should be painful, both during and after its application, and for as long as possible. His marriage was benefitting beautifully from these attentions to the defects in his irresponsible wife's demeanour. What a good idea of his father's to bring in an expert!

'Last three!' said the Commander to Taffy. 'Excellent work so far!'

"Crack! Crack! CRACK!" As the horse rocked and reared in its final disciplinary canter, and Sally bawled to the full extent of her lungs, all others present enjoyed this finale, the salute to her welted behind of a skilled disciplinarian.

It was the most expertly delivered beating that Sally had ever endured, and was certainly far more than she had bargained for when she had set out, so full of mischief, in the Commander's car that morning. Somehow she slithered off the rocking horse and stood swaying on her feet, moaning and sobbing as she clutched her palpitating, cringing hemispheres, the tears streaming down her face.

'Alright,' said Marcus unsympathetically, 'You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!'

'That,' he thought smugly, as he saw his wife painfully pull up her panties and head for the kitchen, 'is how married life should be!' He was 'Don Marcus', university lecturer, master of his own life and family, in the most scorching and primitive way. And the lessons would go painfully on, for as long as he chose, and until he was satisfied. It certainly beat being a liberal with a small 'l'!

Monday, 18 June 2012

Once Upon A Time

Story from Janus 39.

Once Upon A Time
by Gerald Sinclair

Long ago, in the days of legend and magic, there was a King who had three beautiful daughters. Crystal was the eldest at 21, then came Miranda who was 18, and finally 16-year-old Lisette.

*   *   *

King Fedor's realm was a happy place on the whole, but problems did arise from time to time. There came a day when a panting messenger fell to one knee before the King and gasped out, 'Sire, a ferocious dragon is ravaging the western provinces!'

'Damn it!' frowned the King, irritably thumping the arm of his throne. 'They'll probably want a reduction of taxes as they did after the Ogre Invasion three years ago. The dragon's going through the usual routine, I take it?'

'Yes, Sire,' said the messenger. 'Killing all the men it can catch, reducing the crops and cottages to ashes with its fiery breath, carrying off beautiful maidens to meet a fate so bizarre –'

'Yes, yes, you needn't go into that,' said the King, uneasily aware of Queen Marguerite's formidable presence at his side. 'What are the local people doing about it, though? There were supposed to be some good dragon-slaying teams in the west. Gramarye United were near the top of the first division last year.'

'Alas, great king,' said the messenger. 'Gramarye United went forth to do battle against the monster a week ago. All we could find of them afterwards was a couple of broken spears and a scorched jockstrap. This dragon is really something special.'

'It's the enchanted variety I suppose,' said Queen Marguerite, impatiently. 'Protected by magic spells, immune to ordinary weapons. You'll have to consult the Court Magician, Fedor. It's time he did something to earn his keep apart from performing dubious conjuring tricks at the men-at-arms' stag parties.'

'Just what I was thinking, my dear,' said the King. 'Someone go and tell Master Erasmus he's wanted immediately.'

Shortly afterwards Master Erasmus stood before them clad in his bright and gaudy official robes; a plump, curly-haired fellow with dimpled cheeks and shifty eyes. The problem was explained to him and he went through the motions of his craft. He consulted ancient cobwebbed volumes, peered into a crystal ball, read teacups and burned peculiar-smelling herbs.

'The answer is not altogether clear,' he said, 'but it seems that the dragon can only be overthrown by a brave knight who has a lady's handkerchief tied to his spear. The handkerchief must be stained with the tears of a royal princess who has been soundly whipped.'

'What?' It was a simultaneous shriek from the King's three lovely daughters.

Queen Marguerite turned to look at the quaking, blushing princesses. 'Fortunately,' she said with a grim smile, 'that can easily be arranged.'

She pointed to Crystal, a long-legged, delightfully curved young lady with big blue eyes and long, gleaming golden hair. 'As the eldest, Crystal, you always take precedence over your sisters. We will now go to your bedroom and –'

'Oh, but Mother!' blurted out Crystal in dismay. 'I don't want – I'd rather not – isn't there some other way?'

'Your bedroom, Crystal!' was the Queen's only response as she arose and took a firm grip on her reluctant daughter's wrist. She led Crystal through the astonished and amused courtiers, out of the Throne Room and up the stairs. By which time, Crystal's cheeks were crimson with embarrassment.

'You can't be serious, Mother!' protested Crystal as they entered her bedroom. 'I – I haven't done anything to be punished for.'

'That has nothing to do with it,' said the Queen, opening a drawer and producing a formidable three-tailed leather tawse. 'Being a member of a Royal family means one must sometimes make sacrifices for the good of the people. Bend over!'

Taking up an all-too-familiar position over the end of the bed, Crystal grumbled, 'That's all very well – but it's my bum that's going to be sacrificed!'

'Don't whine, Crystal,' said her mother, briskly turning up the princess' skirts waist-high to reveal very shapely legs clad in the sheerest silk, and charmingly dainty white lace-trimmed knickers. 'You haven't had a real leathering for nearly six months, so you're overdue for one anyway.'

She deftly drew the knickers down to the stocking tops, feeling a maternal satisfaction at the sight of Crystal's plump, bare, cream-skinned bottom. 'I'm afraid I've been neglecting you, Crystal,' she said, giving an affectionate pat to those tempting curves. 'I'll try to make up for that.'

She stepped back, raised the tawse and brought it down hard.

'Ow!' yelled Crystal, with a convulsive jerk, as she felt the agonising sting of tough leather across her sensitive buttocks.

The tawse swung down again. 'Ooooh!' And again. And again.

'The handkerchief!' wailed Crystal, squirming wildly as her tender bottom burned. 'Let me wipe my eyes and then you can stop!'

'Master Erasmus did say soundly whipped,' said her mother somewhat breathlessly. 'I think another six should do it.'

'Oh no, Mother, please!'

'Oh yes, Crystal!' said the Queen.

Whack! 'Aaahoww!'

Below, in the Throne Room, the courtiers waited in attentive silence. Although the bedroom was some distance away the sound of Crystal's tearful lamentations reached them quite distinctly. Cautious glances of satisfaction were exchanged between those who had often found the Princess over-haughty and inclined to insist on the dignity of her exalted rank. Much tingling excitement was felt all round at the sounds of the tawse striking her bottom.

Eventually the Queen reappeared, holding a handkerchief which was not merely stained but saturated with Crystal's heartfelt tears. She handed it to her husband.

'Give this to Sir Bevis,' she suggested. 'He's supposed to be rather good with dragons and I'm tired of having him hanging round the palace and seducing the serving wenches.'

After Sir Bevis had ridden off on his big white charger with the handkerchief tied to his lance the courtiers, with a slight sense of anti-climax, settled down to wait for news. Princess Crystal emerged from her bedroom, very red about the eyes and unusually subdued, and sent a smirking page to hunt out the plumpest, softest cushion in the palace.

The messenger, breathless and wild-eyed, arrived the following evening. 'Sir Bevis –' he gasped.

'Has slain the dragon?' beamed the King.

The messenger shook his head sadly and held out a helmet everyone recognised. It contained a few charred bones and a scorched fragment of a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

'I think,' said the Queen, 'that Master Erasmus has some explaining to do.'

'A slight miscalculation,' said the magician, unruffled, when he made his appearance. 'An oversight which I sincerely regret.'

'Not as sincerely as I do!' muttered Crystal, wriggling on her cushion.

'Further research,' said Master Erasmus, 'shows that the spell only works if the tears are shed by a virgin.'

There was a tense, awe-struck silence in the Throne Room. Crystal blushed vividly. So did a tall, handsome squire who could be seen furtively glancing round for the nearest exit.

'C-r-r-r-ystal!' said Queen Marguerite.

'But Mother – I – I –'


Five minutes later the tall squire was on his way to the dungeons with an armed guard, while the courtiers were once more listening in fascinated silence to the sound of Crystal's howls and entreaties mingled with the steady thwack! thwack! thwack! of a leather tawse across a royal rump.

'I suppose it's lucky,' said the King next day, 'that we have two more princesses.'

Miranda and Lisette looked at each other in dismay. Lucky?

'Miranda,' said the Queen, ominously. 'I hope there's no doubt about –'

'Of course not!'

'In that case,' said the Queen, 'we'd better go to your bedroom.'

The slim, tawny-haired, soft-spoken Miranda was regarded as the intellectual one among the princesses. Since she had received much of her education across her mother's knee she knew better than to argue when she was ordered into that ignominious position. In a matter of moments her skirts were around her waist and her blue silk briefs were halfway down her thighs.

'Now, Miranda,' said the Queen, with a large ebony-backed hairbrush poised above her daughter's shapely seat. 'Tears are what we need, so let's make sure there are plenty.'

And indeed, Miranda's tears were soon flowing abundantly as that lovely young lady blubbered and pleaded and wriggled through the soundest spanking she had received for years. The scorching impact of hard wood on tender curves was no novelty to Miranda, but on this occasion she had the added misery of knowing she hadn't even done anything to deserve the stinging anguish in her scarlet, quivering behind.

'And who,' asked the Queen a little later, 'is the gallant knight who will ride out with Miranda's handkerchief to face the dragon?'

'I thought of Sir Godfrey,' said King Fedor. 'His remarkable luck at cards has been quite expensive to me lately. Let's see how lucky he is with dragons.'

Shortly afterwards, a very disgruntled Sir Godfrey, swearing under his breath and shedding extra aces from every chink in his armour, went forth to do battle.

The same weary messenger limped into court the following day.

'Well?' demanded the King. 'Did Sir Godfrey give the dragon the coup de grace?

'No,' said the man, glumly. 'But with any luck he may have given the dragon indigestion.'

Queen Marguerite's baleful glare settled upon Miranda. Miranda gulped.

'But Mother, there must be some mistake! I haven't –! I mean I am –! you mustn't think –!'

'Upstairs!' thundered the Queen.

Halfway through the exemplary spanking which followed, Master Erasmus appeared at the bedroom door.

'Your Majesty, stop! There has been an unfortunate error. I'll never trust a Hong Kong crystal ball again!'

'Eh?' said the Queen, hairbrush raised aloft.

'I'm sure Princess Miranda is a virgin,' said the magician. 'Regrettably, that isn't enough. To make the spell truly effective, the chastisement should have been carried out in public.'

Queen Marguerite pondered for a moment, thoughtfully considering the blazing crimson bottom of the innocent young beauty sobbing bitterly across her lap.

'Pity,' said the Queen. 'Still, I've started, so I'll finish.' She brought the brush down sharply to resume the interrupted spanking. Master Erasmus retreated down the corridor, his ears filled with Miranda's tearful entreaties mingled with the juicy splat! of hard wood landing of tender teenage buttocks.

'Now, Master Erasmus,' said the King severely next day. 'Are you quite sure this time? We've plenty of knights left but we're running out of princesses.'

'I've checked and re-checked,' said the anxious magician. 'This time it's a hundred per cent certain. If a virgin princess is publicly whipped, her tears will mean death for the dragon.'

'Very well,' said Queen Marguerite. 'Lisette – where's Lisette?'

The plump, mischievous honey-blonde had certainly been in the Throne Room a few minutes earlier. Now, her chair was empty.

'I wish I'd had the sense to disappear in time yesterday,' murmured Miranda to Crystal.

'The Lord Chamberlain will organise a search party,' said the Queen. 'I take it everyone is volunteering to help?'

Everybody was. It took them an hour and three-quarters to track Lisette down to a remote garret in a disused wing of the palace. Before they got her back to the Throne Room she had bitten two ladies in waiting and kicked a Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod in an acutely sensitive area.

'I'm surprised at you, Lisette,' said King Fedor. 'After all, this is for the benefit of our beloved people. Just think of the poor peasants cowering in their scorched fields.'

'Sod the poor peasants!' said Lisette. 'I'd rather have their fields scorched than my arse!'

'I've always said she spent too much time in the sergeant's mess of the Household Cavalry,' remarked Queen Marguerite.

'My dear,' said King Fedor, 'you've dealt admirably with Crystal and Miranda. Now it's time for me to do my share.'

He paused, noting the rebellious eye of his tousled and defiant daughter, and glanced at the nearest courtiers. 'Perhaps some of you would like to help?'

Eager hands placed a sturdy, richly-upholstered stool in the centre of the floor. Others hauled Lisette willy-nilly across it to lie face downwards, kicking, cursing and helpless. It was the King himself who turned up her skirt and lowered her lacy black panties to reveal a plump, pearly, dimpled bottom so inviting that a sigh of anticipatory pleasure arose from the spectators.

'I've had a birch-rod soaking overnight,' said Queen Marguerite, and produced it from behind the throne to hand to the King.

'For the good of the country!' said King Fedor, solemnly, as he took careful aim at Lisette's beautifully-rounded rump.

The courtiers watched spellbound as the stinging twigs hissed down to scorch Lisette's squirming, smarting buttocks, rose and descended again, rose and... Some of the court ladies, flushed and bright-eyed, were visibly wriggling, either in sympathy with the frantic contortions of Lisette's suffering bottom or with some other emotion.

'Wa-a-a-a-h!' wailed Lisette, tears streaming down her pretty face. 'Don't, Daddy, please, not in front of everyone! Aaaaah! Oooooh! Please, I'll be a good girl, I'll take my bedtime spankings without any fuss. Yowch! Aaoww! Please, Daddy, you know how you love to have me across your knee with my pyjama pants down. You can slipper my bare bum every night for a month, but no more birch, please!'

Later, as he tied a tear-drenched handkerchief to a lance, Master Erasmus enquired, 'Who are you going to send against the dragon this time, your majesty!'

'You're sure this will work?' said the King.

'Convinced!' said the magician.

'In that case,' said King Fedor, 'you go!'

When Master Erasmus had recovered from his hysterics a couple of grinning men-at-arms hoisted him onto a horse, handed him the lance and pointed him in the direction of the western provinces.

The following evening, the weary messenger staggered into the palace, muttering bitterly that if some people thought he was going to spend his life running bloody marathons to bring news it was time that someone invented the bloody telephone. He handed the King a roll of parchment.

King Fedor unrolled it and read, 'Illustrious Majesty. The dragon is no more. It burst like a soap bubble at the first touch of the lance. However, I shall not be returning to claim any reward you see fit to offer, as I find the post of Court Magician too hard on the nerves. By the time you receive this I shall be over the border and on my way to a lucrative engagement at the London Palladium. Respectfully yours, Erasmus.'

'I'm sure we'll all be glad to be rid of the dragon,' beamed the King, 'and some of us will be almost as glad to be rid of Master Erasmus. All the same, someone should be rewarded, and who better than my three lovely daughters who have suffered so nobly in the cause of sauricide.'

'Eh?' said the Lord Chamberlain.

'Dragon-killing, you fool!' snapped the Queen.

'What would you like, girls?' asked King Fedor.

'Your Majesty,' said Lisette, 'Crystal and Miranda and I have been hoping you'd ask, because we know exactly what we'd like.'

'Yes?' said the King.

'We want a free hand with the court ladies,' said Lisette. 'Every cute little countess who sniggered at Crystal having her bum strapped. Every blue-blooded beauty who found Miranda's spanking so amusing. And especially, every demure, delicately-nurtured damsel who enjoyed the sight of my birched, burning bottom! Let them find out what it's like to be on the receiving end.'

'What do you think, my dear?' The King turned to Queen Marguerite.

'An excellent idea!' said the Queen. 'As I look around this Throne Room – guard the doors, men-at-arms! – I can see at least three dozen young ladies who would benefit from having their aristocratic bottoms soundly whipped. Start whenever you like, my dears.'

She rummaged behind the throne and produced the tawse, birch-rod and hairbrush. 'I thought it might be as well to have these handy in case they were needed.'

'Thank you, Mother!' said Crystal, seizing the tawse and beckoning to a wide-eyed, auburn-haired young beauty. 'You, Lady Penelope, can be first. Take your knickers down and bend over!'

Sunday, 17 June 2012

Educating Sandra

Story from Blushes Supplement 01.

Educating Sandra

Louise Bracknell, Headmistress of Southwood Comprehensive, smiled al the girl standing in front of her. 'It is a great honour, of course, Sandra. For you and also for this school; and I'm sure it's going to be a marvellous experience. But don't imagine it'll be a path strewn with roses all the way. There will be problems, but problems in life are there for us to overcome, aren't they?'

These suitably headmistress-like utterances were directed at Sandra Clayton who was 16 and about to become the first girl taken on at Southwood College, the local boys public school. She would join the Lower Sixth for the coming summer term. Naturally the prospect was very exciting.

'I'm sure I can cope, Miss Bracknell.'

Sandra was a very pretty girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and big blue eyes and a nice shapely figure of about average height. She was also very bright and level-headed and sensible. Louise Bracknell was sure Sandra would make a success of this, and then if all went well she would be joined by two other girls next year.

'Generally speaking you will find the staff there very nice,' she told Sandra. 'But as in any little community it does have its reactionary elements; those individuals who are reluctant to move with the times and who need convincing that a change is for the better.'

'Anyway it has been decided that the best way to deal with this is for you to visit these particular gentlemen individually during the vacation. Just an afternoon visit so they can get a look at you and see that there's nothing to be frightened about.'

Miss Bracknell smiled at her little joke and Sandra flushed slightly. The Headmistress handed Sandra a strip of paper.

'These are the gentlemen concerned. You can ring them up and make the arrangements yourself. I have also put the Headmaster on the list – not that he's one of the awkward ones. But see him first, Sandra.'

Miss Bracknell wished Sandra good luck and said that they would naturally keep in touch. Sandra turned to go. She had reached the door when Miss Bracknell remembered something else.

'One thing, Sandra. As I expect you know they do use corporal punishment at Southwood College. I don't actually know what Mr Newberry is planning for you in that regard but whatever is decided clearly the best thing is for you to simply accept it. Of course it may well not come up, if you don't get into any scrapes etc.'

* * *

Sandra saw Mr Newberry a week later when she cycled over to his house in the afternoon. By this time she had got her uniform and was wearing it: a girl's version of the regular Southwood College outfit. The blazer was the same – grey with the red Southwood crest – but under this was a white long-sleeved blouse and a full pleated knee-length grey skirt.

To complete all this Sandra had on light brown nylons fastened at mid-thigh with a white suspender belt, plus brown medium heel shoes. The nylons were Mr Newberry's idea. As he had said to his secretary, girls always used to wear them and wasn't it true that they were coming into fashion again?

Sandra found Mr Newberry's red brick house without any trouble; about two miles from her house and a similar distance from the College which was just outside the town boundary. The door at Mr Newberry's was opened by a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady who said she was Mrs Newberry, She ushered Sandra into her husband's study and said she would bring in some tea later, then went out.

Mr Newberry was tall and silver-haired, fiftyish like his wife, and seemed very friendly. He said Sandra would be very welcome at Southwood College and it would be a big thing for the school to start having girls. Mr Newberry also said the uniform looked very attractive, the school outfitter had done a good job, and in addition Sandra was a very attractive girl as well.

Yes he seemed very friendly. As he stood next to her by his desk Mr Newberry's hand came round and palled Sandra's bottom in a friendly way. And then gave it a squeeze.

Sandra flushed, but Mr Newberry's hand let go as he went to sit on his settee. He asked if she had the nylons on. Sandra said yes Sir.

'Good. I rather like nylons. Takes me back to when I was a lad. Come here, m'dear, and let me have a look.'

Sandra was made to stand in front of him and then lift up the front of the grey pleated skirt. Exposed to Mr Newberry's keen gaze were the sleek brown nylons with their darker welts, and the slim while suspender straps crossing softly rounded thighs. Sandra gave a start as Mr Newberry's hand reached out. His fingers stroked her thighs, and fiddled with the suspenders.

As he fiddled about he started telling her about Southwood College's code of conduct which they were very proud of. If anyone had a problem it was sorted out in the school, no one ever took their problems home or to anyone outside. You went to your form teacher or to Matron or to him, the Head. Everyone would naturally be watching to see that the first girl at the school was able to conform to this code of conduct.

Sandra, still holding her skirt up and sweating slightly, said yes she understood. While talking Mr Newberry had continued his fiddling about. He had unfastened one suspender clasp and then done it up again. Sandra wondered vaguely what you did if you had problems with the Headmaster.

He finally took his hands away and Sandra was told she could drop her skirt. Then she had to take off her blazer. Mr Newberry, standing now, looked Sandra up and down, in particular casting his gaze over those firm quite full breasts which were bulging out the front of Sandra's crisp while blouse. He told her to turn around, gave her bottom a slap, and then said turn again. Then Mr Newberry said that if Sandra had any problems with boys at school she was to come to him or Matron.

'You know what I mean,' he said. 'Boys with grabby hands and that sort of thing. Because naturally they won't be used to having a pretty girl in their midst.'

As if to illustrate what he meant Mr Newberry turned Sandra once more, so that she was facing away from him. And his two hands calmly slid under her arms to come round and lake hold of her two breasts, in that nice new thin blouse which had only a thin while bra underneath. Sandra gave a shocked gasp and her own hands automatically shot up to Mr Newberry's. He didn't take them away, though, just squeezed...

Fortuitously at this point the door abruptly opened and Mr Newberry did take his hands away. It was Mrs Newberry with a tray of tea. She smiled sweetly as she put the tray down.

'How d'you think your going to like it, Sandra?'

Sandra, hot-faced, said something but she wasn't quite sure what. Mrs Newberry went out and Mr Newberry and Sandra had tea. She didn't really feel like eating though, because this really was turning into something of an ordeal.

There was, perhaps inevitably, more to come.

'The subject of punishment,' said Mr Newberry portentously, draining his cup and putting it down. 'That is something that we have to be clear on. It is in that area that some senior members of my staff have expressed misgivings.'

These would be the masters Miss Bracknell had referred to, the others on Sandra's list. According to the Headmaster they were concerned that, if they had to have girls at Southwood, there might be a slackening of disciplinary standards. Mr Newberry said he could see their point on this. The school's reputation had to be maintained.

He leaned across to Sandra as she sat opposite him and put his hand on one nyloned knee.

'So, Sandra, I have agreed that they can use the cane on you, if and when necessary. I want you to agree that you'll accept this and I also want you to agree that no mention of this will be made outside the school. Remember the school's code of conduct.'

The hand on Sandra's knee squeezed. 'Caning a girl is of course quite legal but it is something which in certain quarters would cause raised eyebrows, and worse. Is that understood and accepted?'

Sandra was sweating again. The hand on her knee made her feel uncomfortable but what Mr Newberry was saying made her feel a lot worse. Miss Bracknell hadn't actually mentioned the cane.

'Of course we may well not get into a caning situation,' Mr Newberry went on. 'But I want a solemn undertaking that if necessary you will accept it, without argument, and you will then maintain silence as to what has happened.'

Somehow Sandra heard herself agreeing.

'Good!' said Mr Newberry in a hearty voice. 'That's settled then. As for myself, Sandra, I can say that I do not intend to use the cane on you – although of course I do use it on boys if necessary. My own feeling is that caning a girl's bare bottom is not the best way of dealing with her – while nonetheless accepting that others have their own views on this. No, Sandra, what I intend, if we get into a situation where some form of corporal punishment seems desirable, is to give you a spanking. A good spanked bottom.'

As he said this the hand which was still on Sandra's knee gave a firm squeeze. Eyes shining, Mr Newberry asked if she had had her bottom spanked recently. Sandra unhappily shook her head.

'Well I must admit that I don't get to spank many girls myself at present. There was my niece a few years ago but she's now married and moved away. Very unfortunate! So perhaps it might be an idea to try things out – just to see there're no snags.'

Sandra gave him a bewildered look. At least the hand had now left her knee. The Headmaster spelled out what he meant.

'Come here and get over my lap, Sandra. Let's have a look at that pretty bottom of yours.'

Sandra's look was now one of disbelief but he clearly meant it all right. Desperately she glanced over at the door in the hope that it could open and admit Mrs Newberry. But the door remained closed.

'Come on, my dear; snap to it!' urged Mr Newberry in sterner tones. 'At Southwood College we learn to respond immediately.'

Sandra got up. Not looking at him she moved to Mr Newberry's side. He pulled her down across his lap. Immediately she felt her skirt being lifted and then the Headmaster's hand was stroking the backs of Sandra's thighs above the stocking tops, and her tightly knickered bottom. Her knickers were quite skimpy, blushing pink, and they were also, she thought hotly, partially transparent.

But transparent or not didn't really matter because Mr Newberry simply inserted his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down. Two firm tugs and Sandra's bottom was bare!

He proceeded to give that ripe 16 year old rear a number of firm but not hard smacks – and then Mr Newberry's hand was running caressingly over the silky smooth flesh.

His voice said, 'Yes, I think we shall manage, Sandra. Don't you?'

Sandra couldn't think of answering; it was so desperately awful. There was some more fondling and a few more smacks and then she was told she could get up. Her face was crimson as she scrabbled her knickers back up under her skirt.

'No need to be embarrassed,' Mr Newberry assured her. 'I've seen girl's bottoms before, you know.'

The interview went on for a while longer but Sandra didn't really take anything in, her mind was still centred on the enormity of being over Mr Newberry's lap with her knickers down. He checked the list Miss Bracknell had given her and agreed that those were the masters to see. And that was it.

Mr Newberry helped Sandra on with her blazer. As he did so his hands quite deliberately felt her breasts again. If he wasn't Headmaster of Southwood College you could be excused for thinking he was just a Dirty Old Man, Sandra thought. Cycling back home she had plenty to think about. And she hadn't met the 'problem' masters yet!

* * *

The first of these was Mr Wilmot, Senior History Master, who was a bachelor and had a flat in the College itself. Sandra arranged to see him three days later. Mr Wilmot certainly sounded somewhat curt on the phone and after that traumatic visit to the Head she was feeling decidedly apprehensive as she cycled the four miles to the College.

It was very impressive, old grey stone buildings, ivy-covered in parts. At the moment naturally it was deserted and it was kind of eerie with all those blank windows seemingly watching you. Yes, it was impressive but scary – especially when you thought of that now central mind-boggling fact: the cane. Sandra found herself half hoping that perhaps Mr Wilmot might have forgotten her appointment and not be in. And then somehow she could forget the whole thing and go back to Southwood Comprehensive next term.

But that was not to be as a caretaker-looking man came up and enquired if she was Miss Clayton, and then told her where to go.

Mr Wilmot was a tall man, like the Head, and also about his age, but with gold-rimmed glasses and a thin dour face. He said, 'Hello; so you are the famous Miss Clayton, eh?'

He didn't sound very welcoming but he led her into his room which had leather armchairs and a settee and books covering a good part of the walls. He indicated an armchair that Sandra was to sit on and he himself stood opposite, leaning against his desk. Sandra perched tensely on the edge of the leather seat as Mr Wilmot fixed an unblinking stare on her.

'Ever had the cane, young Miss?' he queried in precise tones.

Sandra experienced a hot flush. Mr Wilmot wasn't even going to lead gradually up to it. She shook her head.

'Every pupil at Southwood is liable to the cane, Miss Clayton, and I have the Headmaster's word that you are not to be excluded from this. You are aware of that, I presume?'

Sandra nodded dumbly.

'First caning with knickers retained but all subsequent ones with your knickers off. The cane on your bare bottom, Miss Clayton, that is what we are talking about.'

Sandra sensed he was trying to scare her – and he was certainly succeeding. She felt sick in her stomach.

'And at Southwood College, Miss, no one goes home crying to mother. You keep the matter to yourself. Has the Head told you that?'

Once more Sandra nodded. She could now feel tears in her eyes. Mr Wilmot suddenly left his desk to go over to a cupboard. He came back with a wicked-looking cane in his hand. In front of Sandra's eyes he bent it almost into a circle, then let it spring back. She shuddered.

'So, Miss Clayton, shall we carry out a little lest? Shall we have those knickers down – or I should say right off.'

Sandra could scarcely believe it. She stuttered, 'I... I haven't done anything.'

Mr Wilmot gave a dry little laugh. 'A test, Miss Clayton, does not require you to have done anything. I merely want to be assured that you can take a caning like a sensible disciplined 16-year-old, that's all. I understood the Head had explained this to you.'

Mr Newberry hadn't, there had been no mention of being caned for nothing. It was quite impossible. Two fat tears rolled down the pretty cheeks.

'Do I actually see tears before the cane has even been raised, Miss Clayton? That indeed says very little for discipline!'

His mocking voice became suddenly hard. 'Stand up, Miss, and take those knickers off, and be sharp about it!'

Silently weeping, Sandra obeyed. Standing, she reached up under the grey skirt. A pair of white nylon knickers eventually appeared and were slid on down shapely nylon-clad legs. She stepped out of the knickers and, as directed by a pointing finger, put them on Mr Wilmot's desk.

'That's better,' he told her, whipping the cane sharply through the air. 'And now please bend over the arm of that chair. Head right down on its seat and bottom up.'

Still weeping, Sandra got over the arm of the chair. Mr Wilmot pushed back her blazer, then flipped the grey pleated skirt up over Sandra's back. He gazed – and licked thin dry lips. The girl's ripely rounded bottom seemed to gleam in its sudden nakedness. A decidedly stirring sight, even for a confirmed bachelor. Perhaps especially for a confirmed bachelor. The cane twitched in James Wilmot's hand and he felt something else, the front of his tweed trousers, twitching as well.

Boys were not caned bare-bottomed at Southwood College, they were allowed the considerable protection of underpants and trousers; but James Wilmot and the three other masters who had objected to the presence of a girl in the College's hallowed halls had forced the Head to agree that with a girl it could be different. If she was coming she was very much on trial and had to be tested thoroughly. If she couldn't take it then they would be rid of her. If she could, her acceptance of the school's code would ensure it was kept quiet. And wasn't caning a girl's bare bottom much more stimulating then with her knickers on?

Yes indeed! Mr Wilmot savoured that rare tightness in his trousers and gave the cane a couple of anticipatory cuts through the air.

'Legs straight, Miss; and try and keep it nice and still.' He aimed the cane and without ceremony whipped it down.


Squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. There was a gurgling gasping yelp from the seat of the chair. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance.

James Wilmot waited, letting her feel the pain, then: THWACK! The cane landed once more, two centimetres above its first line. This time the yelp from the depths of the chair was louder, more urgent, and the bottom's writhings more frenzied.

At the third THWACK! Sandra's hand came desperately back to clutch at her red-hot rear. Only to have the clutching hand immediately feel the sting of Mr Wilmot's precisely aimed cane.

'No hands, Miss Clayton! That is not the way we do things at this school. I want your bare bottom quite unencumbered.'

The smarting hand retreated to the chair seat. And after a suitable period Mr Wilmot's cane whipped down once more across Sandra's clenching bottom.

THWACK!... To leave a fourth double red line.

He gave her eight in all. By the end of this time Sandra was clearly in some distress and Mr Wilmot had no wish to overdo it. He placed his cane on the desk and observed his handiwork. The red-striped bottom was twitching and trembling and there was the sound of uncontrolled sobbing. As for James Wilmot himself, his whole body was glowing, with the exercise and also with a quite intense excitement. In particular he had a very stiff erection.

Sandra struggled to her feet. The pretty face was rather a mess, red and blotchy and tear-stained, and she was still sobbing.

'Sting a bit, did it?' enquired Mr Wilmot.

Sandra tried to say something but all that came out was a 'Nnggghh' sound.

Mr Wilmot moved close and took hold of Sandra's arm. 'Going home with a sad tale to mummy now, are we?'

Eyes blinking to try to stop the tears, Sandra glanced up at him, then looked down. She hesitated. Then she shook her head.

James Wilmot experienced a tingle of relief. An awkward parent could cause trouble and in spite of his obtuseness at times he would rather avoid that. He put a reassuring arm round the unhappy girl.

'Good! That's what I like to hear. No one will be more pleased than I if you do prove able to accept our rather strict regime. But you can see that you must be properly tested. Now then, perhaps I can find some biscuits, and a cup of tea. You may put your knickers back on.'

As at Mr Newberry's Sandra didn't feel like eating anything, all she could think of was her dreadfully sore bottom on the hard leather chair. Mr Wilmot, now he'd caned her, was more amenable, talking about the school and asking if Sandra liked history.

Eyes glinting behind those gold-rimmed glasses, he said that perhaps they were going to get on all right after all. Then, after he'd had his tea, he said he thought he had better take a look at her bottom before she went. So once more Sandra was made to bend over the arm of the chair. Mr Wilmot pulled her knickers down himself this time, to the tops of her stockings. His hand went over her still glowing rear like a giant-sized creeping spider.

At home her mother enquired brightly how she had got on. Sandra managed a normal-sounding 'OK' and went quickly up to her room. She took off her knickers and looked at her bottom in the mirror. For the first time Sandra saw the bright red stripes and it was all she could do not to burst into tears again.

What she wanted to do was go to her mother and to Miss Bracknell and tell them she had decided to call the whole thing off. She didn't want to go to dreadful Southwood College with its horrid caning and horrid masters like Mr Wilmot. But if she backed out Sandra knew she would be letting everyone down and would simply be seen as inadequate. She didn't know what to do. Changing into T-shirt and jeans she decided that maybe the best thing was to go and see Miss Bracknell.

Sandra didn't mention the Headmaster and the fact that he had taken her knickers down, but she did say that Mr Wilmot had caned her on her bare bottom and for no reason at all.

Louise Bracknell bit her lip. She had been expecting something like this and had tried to give Sandra some general warning.

'Well, it wasn't exactly for no reason, was it, Sandra? He was testing you, as he told you. We may consider it was a very unfair and unpleasant test, but that is what it was. And if you can't take the test then he will be quite happy because he's silly enough not to want girls there.'

'What if he keeps on testing me?' asked Sandra miserably.

Miss Bracknell put her arm round Sandra. 'Let's look on the bright side, dear. I can't believe Mr Wilmot is a complete sadist; and by being brave you show these few obstinate characters just how wrong-headed they are.'

Sandra wiped away some tears that had started to come. Miss Bracknell said some more encouraging things and also said, of course, that if Sandra didn't go through with it she would be letting everyone down.

Then she asked if Sandra had made arrangements to see the other three masters yet.

Sandra saw Mr Cutler, Head of Geography, a week later. He lived in the town and he had a wife but she conveniently went out to do some shopping when Sandra arrived. Mr Cutler didn't look like Mr Wilmot, he was shorter with a black moustache, younger probably, but he sounded very much the same. Brusque and curt and not very welcoming.

'So you've seen Mr Wilmot?' he queried. 'And did he put the cane across your backside? I understand he was planning that to see how a girl could cope with it.'

They were in Mr Cutler's sitting room, standing by the fireplace. As with Mr Wilmot, Mr Cutler was starting right out on the subject of caning. Sandra nodded, feeling that sinking sensation in her stomach.

'Bare bottom?' She nodded again, flushing pinkly.

'And were there tears?' Another unhappy nod of the head.

'You look a bit as if you're about to cry now, Miss. An unhappy memory no doubt. But at least you took the caning?'

'Yes Sir.'

'And you are aware of our code of conduct regarding tales outside? You followed that, I hope?'

Sandra had told Miss Bracknell but that didn't really count. She said 'Yes Sir' again.

Mr Cutler left Sandra to go to the cupboard. He came back with a sardonic look on his face – and a three-foot-long, whippy cane in his hand. He raised it and brought it thwacking down across the arm of a chair.

'So, Miss Clayton, if we are to have you at Southwood I don't see why Mr Wilmot should have all the fun, do you? I'm sure you would agree that I should carry out a little testing of my own.'

Sandra said nothing. What was there to say? She felt her knees trembling.

'Yes Miss. Sandra, isn't it? Well, Sandra, please take off your blazer. And then your skirt. And then your knickers.'

She stood, paralysed, as the words gradually sunk in.

'Come on, Sandra dear. Get them off. That nice Miss Bracknell wouldn't like to hear we were having problems, would she?'

Tight-lipped, Sandra took her clothes off. It got increasingly difficult and after removing her skirt it needed a superhuman effort to take off the white nylon knickers in front of Mr Cutler. But she made herself. She stood in front of him in blouse and tie, suspender belt and nylons, and her brown shoes. With one hand covering her blonde bush.

'Both hands at the sides, Sandra. We mustn't be shy with a master, must we?'

Crimson-faced, Sandra dropped the hand.

'Very nice, Miss. Very nice indeed. If we have to have a girl then clearly it is best to have a pretty one, is it not? And one who is indeed pretty all over. Just turn round, would you, dear; so I can see your bottom. That's it. Yes, very nice indeed. And now what we have to do is give that pretty bottom a little touch of the stick, isn't that right?'

The 'little touch of the slick' proved to be six breath-stopping cuts as Sandra bent herself over the back of an upright chair with her head down in its seat. Mr Cutler's thin whippy cane made transverse cuts across the full meat of Sandra's bottom, landing in very much the same area as Mr Wilmot's cane had a week earlier. The pain was absolutely sickening but somehow Sandra managed to hang onto the chair legs and keep in position.

When it was over Mr Cutler said, 'Not bad, Sandra. Yes, you did quite well. Passed the test with flying colours one might say.'

She stood up, sobbing and aching with the smarting pain. Mr Cutler came up behind her and cupped Sandra's red-hot bottom in both hands.

'Not a word to your dear mother, of course; or to anyone else. This has simply been a private test for our new girl.'

* * *

There were two more masters on Sandra's list, Mr Parkinson, Physics, and Mr Morris, English. Somehow she forced herself to visit them. Mr Parkinson caned her on the palms of her hands, two hard cuts to each – before making her take her knickers off and proceeding to give her six equally unpleasant ones on her bare bottom. Mr Morris caned Sandra's bare bottom and upper thighs – after making her lie spread-legged over a stool.

After all this, in some desperation, Sandra went to see Miss Bracknell again.

This time Louise Bracknell had considerable difficulty in persuading Sandra that she should go through with the proposed transfer. The Headmistress had to pull out all the stops, pointing out that Sandra really was in an historic position being the very first girl to be taken in by this noted boys public school. In years to come Sandra would look back on these days with a very proper sense of pride.

'I just can't take those canings,' Sandra wailed tearfully. 'And also h...having to take my knickers off for them. That's just as bad.'

But somehow she was persuaded to be brave and carry on. As Miss Bracknell pointed out they had been testing her and she had taken it, and once she actually started at the College things could well be a lot easier. And she would, she said, have another word with Mr Newberry.

Louise Bracknell did phone Mr Newberry to say that she hoped they weren't being too hard on the poor girl. She could not be too specific because their prized school code meant that Sandra was not supposed to have told her about the canings. But she did say that she hoped Mr Newberry would remember that Sandra was not used to the cane.

In his rather superior manner Mr Newberry merely observed that if Sandra was to have the privilege of becoming a member of a noted public school she must certainly accept the rules and regulations as she found them.

Louise felt like pointing out that Sandra had been caned by four masters on her bare bottom and as far as she knew no boy was caned in that manner; but to say that would certainly lay Sandra open to the charge of talking out of school. So she confined herself to saying that could he please remember that Sandra was a girl, and a sensitive one.

'Of course,' said Mr Newberry. 'But anyway I can now tell you that I have good news to report. By her excellent deportment Sandra has been able to win over those more reluctant members of my staff. They are now quite happy to accept her.'

Happy to put the cane across her bottom, Louise Bracknell thought bleakly.

'Yes, our policy of introducing her individually has been a great success, Miss Bracknell. And with this success we can now look forward to taking more of your girls next year. Two girls I should think.'

Louise said, 'Yes Mr Newberry, of course.'

'Two like Sandra would I think do very nicely. Good brains of course, and well-mannered girls. And also... well, attractive. Yes, attractive young ladies.'

With nice attractive caneable bottoms, thought Louise Bracknell. But what she said was, 'Yes, I'm sure we will find two suitable ones. And naturally it will be a big honour for them.'

So Sandra Clayton duly started at Southwood College. It certainly seemed an excellent school, thought her mother. During the first week Sandra was kept behind four afternoons out of the five, for half an hour or so, for extra tuition from one master or another.

Saturday, 16 June 2012


Story from Fessee 04.

by Nick Fowler

Marcus considered himself to be a civilised man, a small 'l' liberal, and yet here was Sally, his young wife of only a few months, offering a solution primitive in its primordial savagery. Suddenly he was shocked and excited, where, moments before, he had been furiously angry.

'Alright,' said Sally again, looking at the dented wing of their once immaculate M.G. 'Mea cupla. I did it. I was careless. I can't pay you, 'cos I don't have any money of my own, as you well know. So, take it out of my deserving hide. Put me across your knee and give me a jolly good spanking. It's what Daddy would have done.'

Standing there before her in the drive, clothed in righteous indignation, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, Marcus looked so adorably pompous that Sally could scarcely suppress her giggles. She did love him, but he was a wimp at times.

'What Daddy would have done...?' repeated Marcus in astonishment. 'Surely not what....'

'Not what his Beatitude, the Rev. Canon Horace Willoughby-Yeates, would have done?' interrupted Sally irreverently. 'You bet. Either him, or Mummy. His view of atonement was positively Judaic. He once gave me eighteen of the best with a springy cane for nicking 50p out of the offertory plate. After all, my need was greater than St. Jude's. I'd just laddered my last pair of decent tights.'

Really. Marcus looked at this remarkable girl as if he was meeting her for the first time. She was the same petite, impish, blonde that he had married, a mere two months after meeting her at a Special Interest Holiday on English Drama that he had been running, but yet somehow she was not the same. There was a devil-may-care, do your worst, hang the consequences, look in her cornflower blue eyes that he found both challenging and disturbing.

'So,' said Sally provocatively, arms akimbo, 'are you going to beat me, and forget it, or do you propose to nag me to death slowly, over the next six months, whenever I take the car out on my own?'

The vision of Sally, knickerless, and with her dimpled bottom up, across his knee suddenly appealed to him enormously. There had been undeniable hiccoughs in the smooth running of their marriage or late. As there must be, he appreciated, when a stuffy academic falls for a lively, lovely girl, twelve years his junior. He hadn't had much experience of girls, he admitted that, but he had never thought for one moment of spanking her.

He was a lecturer in English at the University of Petworth, staid, respected, but somewhat humourless. He sometimes wondered what Sally saw in him. He would have been surprised to learn that not only did she admire his academic brilliance, but also considered that he had 'hidden potential'. Sally liked playing her hunches regardless, and Marcus, she told herself, was going to develop as a human being, in ways that he little suspected. Ways which he would have dismissed as ludicrous.

Now suddenly it seemed to Marcus his own inspiration that the chastisement of Sally was not only something desirable, but long overdue. She was far too frivolous, and at one or two college functions had been positively embarrassing in her disrespectful attitude towards important influential senior colleagues upon whom Marcus's advancement depended. Perhaps spanking was the curb she needed. Yes, thought Marcus, the salutory sting on his hand upon her soft, young buttocks might well be the answer.

'Alright,' he blustered, trying to sound authorative, as if the punishment of naughty young women was something that he indulged in all the time, 'you asked for it, and you're going to get it, and I hope it will be a lesson to you. Come into the house.'

Demurely Sally preceded him to the lounge. Marcus might have been startled to see the small triumphant smile which played around his young wife's lips. This was not how a sinner should look. Surely she should be apprehensive at the prospect of smarting flesh and humiliation of the spirit... However, Marcus was so flustered by the breakneck speed of events since Sally had pranged the car into the garage door that he hardly noticed the roguish spring in Sally's step which spoke of mischief rather than fear.

Marcus seated himself on the wide leather couch, which had been a wedding present from Canon Willoughby-Yeates, and Sally knelt, and then wriggled herself companionably across his thighs, squirming into a position that would present her shapely but not overlarge bottom to best advantage, while leaving it softly resilient to the hand of justice.

Her skirt was tight and black. Would it be better, Marcus debated, to work it up past her slim hips, or to unzip it and pull it down. He chose the latter means of denudement, experiencing an unexpected thrill as he masterfully undid the button that held the waistband, and firmly slid down the metal fastener to breach the bastion between him and retribution. Sally appeared undismayed, and raised herself a little to faciliate the skirt's descent to her ankles. Beneath it she was wearing stockings and suspenders and white nylon panties, and through the translucence of the silky fabric the flesh of her bottom could be glimpsed by Marcus as pale, creamy pink. After due consideration he decided to keep them on her. To begin with, anyway.

The first ten minutes or so Marcus devoted to soundly slapping the lower thighs and lush undulations of the foothills of her buttocks. Yes, it was a fascinating experience to watch the creamy flesh colour to a coral pink, and then red, under the semi-transparency of the little nylon knickers! Then, tiring of that ploy he carefully lowered them and gave twenty more minutes of his time to bringing the whole of her nude bottom to a satisfying and angry crimson. Sally's cheeks quivered and shook violently, and she gasped, though did not cry out, as Marcus vigorously applied condign discipline to the soft cushions of her posterior. Having started, it must be admitted that he was now loath to stop, quite carried away on this wave of dominance. He was, he decided, evidently cut out to be an assertive husband, and if Sally was accustomed to this kind of punishment then there was little point in pussy-footing!

His right hand was stinging quite painfully from the unaccustomed exercise when he finally stopped and stood Sally on her feet. He looked into her flushed face, quite expecting to see... What? Revulsion, subjection, anger? But the radiant expression that it carried showed that although she was now busily engaged in gingerly feeling a most horrendous smart in her scarlet bottom, she was very far from subdued. Also if she was suffering remorse at a couple of hundred pounds' worth of car damage she was hiding it well. It seemed that he had given her carte blanche to behave badly, to crunch the car whenever she wanted to. Marcus had the nasty feeling that she had out-manoeuvred him into giving her a 'punishment' that she wanted, and now he would have to forget about its cause, as in honour bound.

Sally looked meaningfully towards the stairs that led to their bedroom, but as Marcus showed no sign of responding to the unspoken invitation, she signed, pulled up her knickers, and kissed him affectionately before resignedly beginning preparations for the evening meal. A girl couldn't have everything, and she already knew that Marcus had to be ill to go to bed during daylight hours.

Marcus remained on the couch and pondered this new problem as something quite outside of his experience. Spanking might make a model wife out of a hoyden, but somehow he doubted it on this afternoon's evidence. He loved her, but...

(He loved her butt, as the Americans would uncouthly say. My God, what was happening to him? That was almost a joke, and he never made jokes, or understood them.)

'Pull yourself together, Marcus Fenwick M.A., B.Litt.' he told himself severely, 'and ask yourself what you are going to do about your wife. She is extravagant, has no sense of what it costs us to live in this style on a junior lecturer's salary. She is slapdash, untidy, and only a passable cook. She is hopeless in the garden, and so unreliable as to be useless as a joint wage-earner.'

Marcus appreciated that spanking could give him a control over Sally that he had lacked so far, but it was a two-edged sword, and one that he wanted to cut with, without slicing his own fingers. It was obvious that Sally liked corporal punishment far too much. His problem was how to turn a 'turn on' into a deterent.

* * *

COMMANDER RONALD FENWICK R.N. (Rtd.), Marcus's father, who has paying his usual Sunday visit, straightened up from pruning the roses. He liked to tackle the overgrown 'jungle' of a garden, and fortunately was gifted with green fingers.

'Have you thought any more about my selling up my place, and making my home with you and Sally?' he asked Marcus, gesturing toward the delightful, but far too large for two, Queen Anne cottage which was their home. 'Roseacre's' far too large for me,' he continued, 'and it would make sense if I sold it, bought into your place, and came to you. I know that money's a bit tight for you. As you know, I get a bit lonely on my own, since your Mother died, and not only could I contribute towards expenses, but would be company for Sally, while you are away at the university.'

It was not the first time that the Commander had made the suggestion, and Marcus and Sally had given it serious thought, and decided, 'yes'. But now, delaying the news, Marcus carefully steered the conversation into talk of juvenile delinquency. Before retiring from the Navy, Fenwick senior had had a reputation for being a strict disciplinarian, and now Marcus was anxious to learn his father's views on a gang of teenagers, boys and girls, who were terrorising a local housing estate.

'Only one cure for those young louts,' the Commander snorted, 'Take down their unisex jeans and give 'em a damned good thrashing on their bare behinds.'

Marcus had suspected that that would have been his father's opinion, but it was useful to have it confirmed. Surprisingly he did not know too much about his father, and it was only since the old boy's retirement that they had become close. When his father was home on leave from the Navy, Marcus had usually been at boarding school, and then had come university, and his career. But the death of Marcus's mother had formed a bond between them.

Encouraged by his father's 'hang 'em and flog 'em' attitude, and with his own plans for Sally firmly in mind, Marcus now expanded this punative discussion to include the family environment, discussing, severity, implements of correction and techniques. Ronald was uninhibitedly forthcoming, and it was an incredible piece of good fortune when he disclosed to Marcus that he had actually used to spank his mother during the early days of their marriage.

'Needed to, my boy. Lovely gal, but one of the flightiest young women I have ever met, and with me being away so much...'. He looked at his son searchingly as if suddenly doubtful of his parentage.

Marcus, slightly shaken, returned this confidence by telling his father about his recent discovery that Sally was spanked by her parents, almost up to the day of her marriage to him, and went on to describe in detail the accident to the car and its consequences.

'I hope that you warmed her bottom good and proper,' said Ronald, with a chuckle. 'Reminds me of a WREN I had serving under me in Portsmouth. Gave her an extra three strokes for not wearing regulation knickers, if I recall. It happened like this...'

But Marcus had learned enough to be going on with. 'How would you like to move in with us, and chastise Sally for me when the need arises?' He interupted. 'She'd be delighted – for you to live with us, I'm not sure about the other,' he added with unaccustomed honesty.

His father looked at him in astonishment. 'But would you mind, me boy? Me chastising your Sally, I mean. It's not as if I'm her father.'

'Father-in-law, and that's as good as,' replied Marcus enthusiastically.

'Besides, I know that she likes you. From my point of view I should quite enjoy seeing her getting her just deserts, and it would be a salutory experience for her to be punished by a third party – and it's not something I'd like any Tom, Dick or Harry to do. It certainly needs to be kept within the family.'

'How right you are,' said the Commander, his eyes gleaming with reawakened desire. He was no hypocrite, and only too well recognised the degree of sexuality is such as bizarre proposal, for himself and for his son. But the idea undoubtedly turned him on, as it would most red blooded men. It would be a cold fish indeed who could even contemplate the idea of spanking an attractive girl's bare bottom without feeling a distinct thrill. For the moment he wondered why Marcus was 'farming out' such a delectable responsibility. He shrugged. What the hell. Never look gift horses....

Nevertheless Ronald was canny enough to appreciate that he would need to keep a grip on his emotions, and realise that this was punishment and not sex. In the past, however much had he enjoyed spanking that delightfully curved portion which lay between his wife's suspender belt and stocking tops, and the occasional delinquent WREN, he had always kept the issue separate from lovemaking. When spanking had been a titillating foreplay before love then Helen, his wife, had known that it was intended as stimulation. Perhaps that was the mistake that Marcus was making. Secretly he felt that his son was a bit of an odd ball. Ah well, it takes all sorts, thought the Commander, who was given to thinking in cliches.

* * *

MARCUS lost no time in initiating the new, strict, regime. On the very first evening after his father moved in with them Sally stacked the dinner dishes after their meal and said cheerfully, 'Well, they can stay there until morning. Perhaps the fairies will do them.'

'I don't think they will,' said Marcus aggressively. 'But you will. I am sick and tired of coming down in the morning and seeing unwashed plates with food scraps and congealed gravy on the table.'

'If only we had a daily woman,' Sally pouted. 'Perhaps we can afford one now that Ronald's here and contributing.'

Marcus banged his fist down on the dining table, making the crockery rattle alarmingly. 'I consider it a grave discourtesy to my father to talk of his money, when it's only a matter of laziness on your part.'

Sally sighed, and looked at her father-in-law, and raised an eyebrow.

'Sorry, Ronald. Oh, dear, I've put my foot in it again. It seems as if I'm in for another spanking.' She spoke more archly than she intended, being rather embarrassed that Marcus's father should be witness to a family 'row' so soon after his arrival, but she was also glad that he was there, because this time any 'consequences' would surely be taking place in their bedroom. Her bottom cheeks twitched in anticipation, visualising Marcus perhaps unleashing a hitherto unknown passion. How could be resist, turned on, and already on the bed....

The supercharged eroticism of her thoughts almost made her miss the quietly menacing tones in which Marcus now informed her that she certainly did deserve a spanking, but that this time his father was going to administer it.

For a moment she was bewildered and disappointed, but then brightened. Perhaps voyeurism was his turn on, she thought. Before she could investigate her own feelings about this intriguing subject Marcus's father took control.

'Right, Sally,' he said sternly, 'I warn you in advance that this will be a sound spanking, and will make your bottom very red and hot. You may cry if you wish, but if you struggle, or try to resist, or attempt to get up before I have finished I shall fetch my cane from the bedroom and start all over again.'

The Commander's icy tone made it abundantly clear that this was no fun thing. He really meant it. Sally gasped. The deliciously erotic stratagem whereby she had planned to seduce her passionless husband through spanking had suddenly turned sour on her, and her father-in-law, who she had previously admired as a kindly, bluff, old seadog, was changing into a tyrant before her eyes. What was Marcus about to let happen?

'If you feel that strongly about the sodding washing up, Marcus,' she protested, 'I'll go and do it. There's no need for all this drama. You should have said how you felt about it. Getting your father to spank me is a terrible idea. So it is that you should, come to that. I'm much too old to be spanked. It's utterly humiliating. So we'll forget about me ever suggesting it.' And turning on her high, pretty heels, flared skirt swinging about her knees, she headed for the kitchen.

The older man moved quickly, blocking her path with his body, and drew her to him. Holding her close he raised her skirt above the waist with his left hand and with the flat of his right palm landed two vicious smacks to the softness of her knickered bottom.

Sally yelped her dismay, and her soft round eyes filled with despair as she saw her husband's cold, unfeeling response. There was no help to be expected from him. She now realised that there was no going back. She had introduced spanking into the domestic scene, and now, like Goethe's 'Sorcerer's Apprentice' it had turned upon her a hundred fold. Automatically she obeyed the Commander's instructions and positioned herself on her knees on the carpet, with all her weight on her palms.

Her chastiser threw one leg over the obeisantly kneeling body, clenching his trousered legs tightly about Sally's waist. She was now held securely, with her skirt pulled up to the small of her back to shamefully expose her panties, which in that strained position were pulled snugly into the dark furrow between the voluptuous globes of her buttocks. She gasped as a hand forced her down even further, so that her bottom reared, and the straps of her suspenders cut painfully across the flesh between stocking tops and panty-waist.

The Commander swung his palm in a blurred arch of movement, and brought it cracking down with a resounding smack on the tantalising spheres of Sally's nubile flesh. The speed and force of the ruthless assault, followed by the searing smart, made her try of wriggle free, but she knew herself to be firmly imprisoned.

Fascinated, both men watched the crimson patch that spread swiftly beneath the flimsy, silken panties, which barely covered the squirmingly upraised bottom.

'I warned you,' snapped the Commander, 'what would happen if you tried to free yourself. Marcus, perhaps you will kindly fetch the cane that you will find hanging in the wardrobe in my bedroom.'

While he was put of the room the Commander continued his hand spanking with seemingly renewed force. Small yelps became shrill cries. This really was punishment, the kind of thing that she had left home to escape.

Marcus returned, carrying a supple malacca cane, and his father paused for a moment as if to assess his helper's reaction. That Marcus had no sympathy for his wife's wriggling and painful gyrations was evident as he said, 'Dad, I think that to impress Sally with your role of supervisor of all of her future activities you should give her quite a sound caning. Better that she knows now the kind of correction that she can expect to receive in my name, and in my interest.'

Sally could hardly believe her ears, and her burning buttocks and throbbing loins robbed her of any further will be resist. Quietly she did what was asked of her, and in only a few moments she was positioned, as commanded, over the square oak chest in the middle of the room, which Marcus considerately covered with a rug.

'The quicker you learn, Sally,' said the Commander, 'that things around here are going to go the way that Marcus wants them, then the more comfortable it will be for your bottom.'

The Commander! That was how Sally was beginning to think of him. Nor Ronald, or Pops-in-law, or any of the old affectionate, jokey names. The new realisation of the meaning of his rank seared home like a stroke of the cane. One who commands. He who is going to command me, and I am going to obey! she thought.

Her insides jellified, and she foolishly attempted to protest that it wasn't fair. The protest was cut short by a searing stroke of the slim, wicked cane, scoring across her bottom. She gasped, and sobbed, 'It isn't, it isn't.'

'What isn't?' asked Marcus inquisitively, having heard only the end of the tearful little objection.

'Fair, that you should be the master in your own home,' replied his father, his stinging strokes of the cane continuing upon Sally' bottom, although not yet at full force.

Marcus smiled in haught superiority. If he had had qualms about his wife's bottom being caned they were now forgotten. Now he actually relished her agony. He would show her the natural superiority of men, and Fenwick men in particular. He would be the master of his house, every minute of each hour of the day.

'I think six of the best to begin with,' the Commander said, 'On the bare, naturally.' And suiting action to words he inserted his fingers in the waist band of Sally's little knickers and pulled them down to below her stocking tops, the bottom so exposed was already hot and angry looking with one or two strips where the harder cane strokes had made an impact.

Satisfied that there was no impediment to the painful progress of the cane, he laid it tentatively across poor Sally's scarlet bottom, as if to measure the swing accurately, and raised the wicked wand preparatory to the first promised stroke. Soon she was writhing again under its dreadful dominance.

'Oh, oh, oh,' she yelled, as both men gloried in the rod's contact with the jiggling flesh, and as the cane travelled hotly downwards over her bottom, six strokes somehow became nine.

All will to resist her husband's demands vanished, and she submissively sobbed, 'Stop, oh please stop. I'll do anything.'

'Three more,' said Marcus to the Commander implacably, triumph reflected in his voice. 'You might as well make it the round dozen.'

Sally was now about ready to establish a new and satisfactory routine, he reflected. Meals on time, a house kept clean, and television programmes only of his own choice. Sally's 'proper yelling', as the Commander's flexible cane bit home for the final time interrupted his contented reverie, but no matter. Sally stood up, her hands clutching her scalded bottom cheeks, her face streaming with tears, her clothes dishevelled. Most satisfactorily woebegone and sorry for herself.

His thoughts turned to the voicing aloud of more important matters. 'Go upstairs, Sally', he said, 'and make the bed up in the second guest room. It will be for me. From now on we are sleeping in separate rooms, because I have no wish to be disturbed when you rise every morning at seven and begin the housework under father's supervision. When I command you to my bed it will be for a visit of one hour's duration, maximum, probably less. Father will let you know when. Is that understood?'

'Yes, Marcus.'

'Good, now off you go, and straight to bed when you have carried out your instructions. Just this once the washing up may wait until the morning.'

'Yes, Marcus.'

Sally fled. She was longing to soothe the 'scarlet torment' that was her ill used bottom, but didn't dare. Not until her husband's bed was made and turned down ready for the Master to slip autocratically between the chaste white sheets.

In her own room, as she now supposed it to be, she viewed her welted buttocks in the mirror. Her own father had said often enough that she benefitted from a thorough, knickers down, thrashing, and now here it was, back again. What ever had possessed her to actually seek a spanking from her husband. She pressed her burning, naked flesh into the cold of the mirror glass, and signed with the blessed relief of it. Her thoughts relived the half hour. She had not taken much notice of Marcus's father before this, dismissing him as an amiable nonentity, retired, and therefore 'past it'. But now, thinking of him, the likeness to her own father's dominant attitude held a strange excitement. She got into bed, the tingling in her bottom chasing sleep away, and reflected ruefully how brief had been the interlude of 'normal' marriage. Her hand slipped down between her thighs. She was back, enfolded in an all too familiar prison of authority, and the perplexing thing was that though it should have been hateful, it was somehow strangely comforting.