tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12655545210132390832024-03-10T20:22:32.264-07:00British Spanking MagsStories from old spanking mags, such as Blushes, Roue, Janus, Februs, Swish, Kane etc. In memory of Alex BirchDmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.comBlogger318125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-62121230915335414392012-06-20T08:14:00.001-07:002012-06-20T08:14:41.602-07:00The summer break<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello everyone!<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
Sorry.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-61542546441552036632012-06-19T08:17:00.000-07:002012-06-19T08:17:28.700-07:00A.W.O.L.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Fessee 08.</i><br />
<br />
<b>A.W.O.L.</b><br />
by Nick Fowler<br />
<br />
<i>The continuation of the story <a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2012/06/victim.html">"Victim?"</a></i><br />
<br />
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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!<br />
<br />
'Father,' he said, 'Sally has been smoking!'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?'<br />
<br />
'Of course, my boy!' snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. 'I wasn't born yesterday.'<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.<br />
<br />
'Well, if they are not in your room,' said Marcus logically, 'they must be on you. Take your dress off!'<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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'.<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!'<br />
<br />
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'.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?'<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
'Enter!' barked the Commander.<br />
<br />
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?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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!<br />
<br />
'Humph!' grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. 'Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.'<br />
<br />
He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy malacca. 'Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!'<br />
<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
'Er, sorry, sir! I forgot,' stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.<br />
<br />
'Then two additional strokes to remind you!' said the Commander joyfully. 'Get up, while I find you some.'<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Now,' resumed the Commander, 'back down again for eight of the best. That's what delinquent ratings deserve!'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick...'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
'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...<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
'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!<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...!<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
'Naturally, Bos'un, where else?' asked the Commander in surprise.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!'<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
'By the way,' asked Marcus, 'why the WREN uniform?'<br />
<br />
The Commander explained.<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
'Humph!' said the Commander. 'I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business...!'<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
'Oh no,' pleaded Sally, 'It's going to be bad enough as it is!'<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
'Last three!' said the Commander to Taffy. 'Excellent work so far!'<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Alright,' said Marcus unsympathetically, 'You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!'<br />
<br />
'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'!</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-33156814596166512842012-06-18T09:14:00.000-07:002012-06-18T14:48:31.512-07:00Once Upon A Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Janus 39.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Once Upon A Time</b><br />
by Gerald Sinclair<br />
<br />
<b><i>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.</i></b><br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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!'<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
'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 –'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'Just what I was thinking, my dear,' said the King. 'Someone go and tell Master Erasmus he's wanted immediately.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
<b><i>'What?'</i></b> It was a simultaneous shriek from the King's three lovely daughters.<br />
<br />
Queen Marguerite turned to look at the quaking, blushing princesses. 'Fortunately,' she said with a grim smile, 'that can easily be arranged.'<br />
<br />
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 –'<br />
<br />
'Oh, but Mother!' blurted out Crystal in dismay. 'I don't want – I'd rather not – isn't there some other way?'<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
'You can't be serious, Mother!' protested Crystal as they entered her bedroom. 'I – I haven't done anything to be punished for.'<br />
<br />
'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!'<br />
<br />
Taking up an all-too-familiar position over the end of the bed, Crystal grumbled, 'That's all very well – but it's <b><i>my</i></b> bum that's going to be sacrificed!'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
She stepped back, raised the tawse and brought it down hard.<br />
<br />
<b><i>'Ow!'</i></b> yelled Crystal, with a convulsive jerk, as she felt the agonising sting of tough leather across her sensitive buttocks.<br />
<br />
The tawse swung down again. <b><i>'Ooooh!'</i></b> And again. And again.<br />
<br />
'The handkerchief!' wailed Crystal, squirming wildly as her tender bottom burned. 'Let me wipe my eyes and then you can stop!'<br />
<br />
'Master Erasmus did say <b><i>soundly</i></b> whipped,' said her mother somewhat breathlessly. 'I think another six should do it.'<br />
<br />
'Oh no, Mother, <b><i>please!</i></b>'<br />
<br />
'Oh yes, Crystal!' said the Queen.<br />
<br />
<b>Whack!</b> <b><i>'Aaahoww!'</i></b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The messenger, breathless and wild-eyed, arrived the following evening. 'Sir Bevis –' he gasped.<br />
<br />
'Has slain the dragon?' beamed the King.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'I think,' said the Queen, 'that Master Erasmus has some explaining to do.'<br />
<br />
'A slight miscalculation,' said the magician, unruffled, when he made his appearance. 'An oversight which I sincerely regret.'<br />
<br />
'Not as sincerely as I do!' muttered Crystal, wriggling on her cushion.<br />
<br />
'Further research,' said Master Erasmus, 'shows that the spell only works if the tears are shed by a virgin.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'C-r-r-r-ystal!' said Queen Marguerite.<br />
<br />
'But Mother – I – I –'<br />
<br />
<b><i>'Upstairs!'</i></b><br />
<br />
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 <b><i>thwack! thwack! thwack!</i></b> of a leather tawse across a royal rump.<br />
<br />
'I suppose it's lucky,' said the King next day, 'that we have two more princesses.'<br />
<br />
Miranda and Lisette looked at each other in dismay. Lucky?<br />
<br />
'Miranda,' said the Queen, ominously. 'I hope there's no doubt about –'<br />
<br />
'Of course not!'<br />
<br />
'In that case,' said the Queen, 'we'd better go to your bedroom.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'And who,' asked the Queen a little later, 'is the gallant knight who will ride out with Miranda's handkerchief to face the dragon?'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The same weary messenger limped into court the following day.<br />
<br />
'Well?' demanded the King. 'Did Sir Godfrey give the dragon the <b><i>coup de grace</i></b>?<br />
<br />
'No,' said the man, glumly. 'But with any luck he may have given the dragon indigestion.'<br />
<br />
Queen Marguerite's baleful glare settled upon Miranda. Miranda gulped.<br />
<br />
'But Mother, there must be some mistake! I haven't –! I mean I am –! you mustn't think –!'<br />
<br />
<b><i>'Upstairs!'</i></b> thundered the Queen.<br />
<br />
Halfway through the exemplary spanking which followed, Master Erasmus appeared at the bedroom door.<br />
<br />
'Your Majesty, stop! There has been an unfortunate error. I'll never trust a Hong Kong crystal ball again!'<br />
<br />
<b><i>'Eh?'</i></b> said the Queen, hairbrush raised aloft.<br />
<br />
'I'm sure Princess Miranda <b><i>is</i></b> 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.'<br />
<br />
Queen Marguerite pondered for a moment, thoughtfully considering the blazing crimson bottom of the innocent young beauty sobbing bitterly across her lap.<br />
<br />
'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 <b><i>splat!</i></b> of hard wood landing of tender teenage buttocks.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'Very well,' said Queen Marguerite. 'Lisette – where's Lisette?'<br />
<br />
The plump, mischievous honey-blonde had certainly been in the Throne Room a few minutes earlier. Now, her chair was empty.<br />
<br />
'I wish I'd had the sense to disappear in time yesterday,' murmured Miranda to Crystal.<br />
<br />
'The Lord Chamberlain will organise a search party,' said the Queen. 'I take it everyone is volunteering to help?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'Sod the poor peasants!' said Lisette. 'I'd rather have their fields scorched than my arse!'<br />
<br />
'I've always said she spent too much time in the sergeant's mess of the Household Cavalry,' remarked Queen Marguerite.<br />
<br />
'My dear,' said King Fedor, 'you've dealt admirably with Crystal and Miranda. Now it's time for me to do my share.'<br />
<br />
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?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'I've had a birch-rod soaking overnight,' said Queen Marguerite, and produced it from behind the throne to hand to the King.<br />
<br />
'For the good of the country!' said King Fedor, solemnly, as he took careful aim at Lisette's beautifully-rounded rump.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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, <b><i>please!</i></b>'<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl5ghLA07hL84RH-fV-dOA8s2Fk5Vzqqi8cntDwtoTotRThiHMpx6K_3-IGJ_enoPhqhfaRetzch9SZC4WicK44o-7o96PDsaoDyoRFPgxr7h1Zn4JG6ZTxag7ElgLkLSZFKyKthxLJBo/s1600/dragon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl5ghLA07hL84RH-fV-dOA8s2Fk5Vzqqi8cntDwtoTotRThiHMpx6K_3-IGJ_enoPhqhfaRetzch9SZC4WicK44o-7o96PDsaoDyoRFPgxr7h1Zn4JG6ZTxag7ElgLkLSZFKyKthxLJBo/s640/dragon.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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!'<br />
<br />
'You're sure this will work?' said the King.<br />
<br />
'Convinced!' said the magician.<br />
<br />
'In that case,' said King Fedor, '<b><i>you</i></b> go!'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
'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, <b><i>someone</i></b> should be rewarded, and who better than my three lovely daughters who have suffered so nobly in the cause of sauricide.'<br />
<br />
'Eh?' said the Lord Chamberlain.<br />
<br />
'Dragon-killing, you fool!' snapped the Queen.<br />
<br />
'What would you like, girls?' asked King Fedor.<br />
<br />
'Your Majesty,' said Lisette, 'Crystal and Miranda and I have been hoping you'd ask, because we know <b><i>exactly</i></b> what we'd like.'<br />
<br />
'Yes?' said the King.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'What do you think, my dear?' The King turned to Queen Marguerite.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
'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!'</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-6235654355981557392012-06-17T11:54:00.000-07:002012-06-17T11:54:08.611-07:00Educating Sandra<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Blushes Supplement 01.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Educating Sandra</b><br />
<br />
Louise Bracknell, Headmistress of Southwood Comprehensive, smiled al the girl standing in front of her. 'It is a great honour, <b><i>of course</i></b>, 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 <b><i>will</i></b> be problems, but problems in life are there for us to overcome, aren't they?'<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>very</i></b> exciting.<br />
<br />
'I'm sure I can cope, Miss Bracknell.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Miss Bracknell smiled at her little joke and Sandra flushed slightly. The Headmistress handed Sandra a strip of paper.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Good. I rather like nylons. Takes me back to when I was a lad. Come here, m'dear, and let me have a look.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
Fortuitously at this point the door abruptly opened and Mr Newberry <b><i>did</i></b> take his hands away. It was Mrs Newberry with a tray of tea. She smiled sweetly as she put the tray down.<br />
<br />
'How d'you think your going to like it, Sandra?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
There was, perhaps inevitably, more to come.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>had</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
He leaned across to Sandra as she sat opposite him and put his hand on one nyloned knee.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Somehow Sandra heard herself agreeing.<br />
<br />
'Good!' said Mr Newberry in a hearty voice. 'That's settled then. As for myself, Sandra, I can say that I do <b><i>not</i></b> 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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Sandra gave him a bewildered look. At least the hand had now left her knee. The Headmaster spelled out what he meant.<br />
<br />
'Come here and get over my lap, Sandra. Let's have a look at that pretty bottom of yours.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Come on, my dear; <b><i>snap to it!</i></b>' urged Mr Newberry in sterner tones. 'At Southwood College we learn to respond <b><i>immediately</i></b>.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But transparent or not didn't really matter because Mr Newberry simply inserted his fingers in the waistband and <b><i>pulled them down</i></b>. Two firm tugs and <b><i>Sandra's bottom was bare!</i></b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
His voice said, 'Yes, I think we shall manage, Sandra. Don't you?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'No need to be embarrassed,' Mr Newberry assured her. 'I've seen girl's bottoms before, you know.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>cane</i></b>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Ever had the cane, young Miss?' he queried in precise tones.<br />
<br />
Sandra experienced a hot flush. Mr Wilmot wasn't even going to lead gradually up to it. She shook her head.<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
Sandra nodded dumbly.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Sandra sensed he was trying to scare her – and he was certainly succeeding. She felt sick in her stomach.<br />
<br />
'And at Southwood College, Miss, no one goes home crying to mother. You keep the matter to yourself. Has the Head told you that?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'So, Miss Clayton, shall we carry out a little lest? Shall we have those knickers down – or I should say <b><i>right off</i></b>.'<br />
<br />
Sandra could scarcely believe it. She stuttered, 'I... I haven't done anything.'<br />
<br />
Mr Wilmot gave a dry little laugh. 'A test, Miss Clayton, does not require you to have <b><i>done</i></b> 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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Do I actually see tears before the cane has even been raised, Miss Clayton? That indeed says very little for discipline!'<br />
<br />
His mocking voice became suddenly hard. <b><i>'Stand up, Miss, and take those knickers off, and be sharp about it!'</i></b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>especially</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>was</i></b> coming she was very much on trial and had to be tested <b><i>thoroughly</i></b>. If she couldn't take it then they would be rid of her. If she <b><i>could</i></b>, 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?<br />
<br />
Yes indeed! Mr Wilmot savoured that rare tightness in his trousers and gave the cane a couple of anticipatory cuts through the air.<br />
<br />
'Legs straight, Miss; and try and keep it nice and still.' He aimed the cane and without ceremony whipped it down.<br />
<br />
<b><i>THWACK!...</i></b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
James Wilmot waited, letting her feel the pain, then: <b><i>THWACK!</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
At the third <b><i>THWACK!</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
'No hands, Miss Clayton! That is not the way we do things at this school. I want your bare bottom quite unencumbered.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<b><i>THWACK!...</i></b> To leave a fourth double red line.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sandra struggled to her feet. The pretty face was rather a mess, red and blotchy and tear-stained, and she was still sobbing.<br />
<br />
'Sting a bit, did it?' enquired Mr Wilmot.<br />
<br />
Sandra tried to say something but all that came out was a 'Nnggghh' sound.<br />
<br />
Mr Wilmot moved close and took hold of Sandra's arm. 'Going home with a sad tale to mummy now, are we?'<br />
<br />
Eyes blinking to try to stop the tears, Sandra glanced up at him, then looked down. She hesitated. Then she shook her head.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Louise Bracknell bit her lip. She had been expecting something like this and had tried to give Sandra some general warning.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'What if he keeps on testing me?' asked Sandra miserably.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
Sandra wiped away some tears that had started to come. Miss Bracknell said some more encouraging things and also said, <b><i>of course</i></b>, that if Sandra didn't go through with it she would be letting everyone down.<br />
<br />
Then she asked if Sandra had made arrangements to see the other three masters yet.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Bare bottom?' She nodded again, flushing pinkly.<br />
<br />
'And were there tears?' Another unhappy nod of the head.<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
'Yes Sir.'<br />
<br />
'And you are aware of our code of conduct regarding tales outside? You followed that, I hope?'<br />
<br />
Sandra had told Miss Bracknell but that didn't really count. She said 'Yes Sir' again.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'So, Miss Clayton, if we <b><i>are</i></b> 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.'<br />
<br />
Sandra said nothing. What was there to say? She felt her knees trembling.<br />
<br />
'Yes Miss. Sandra, isn't it? Well, Sandra, please take off your blazer. And then your skirt. And then your knickers.'<br />
<br />
She stood, paralysed, as the words gradually sunk in.<br />
<br />
'Come on, Sandra dear. Get them off. That nice Miss Bracknell wouldn't like to hear we were having problems, would she?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Both hands at the sides, Sandra. We mustn't be shy with a master, must we?'<br />
<br />
Crimson-faced, Sandra dropped the hand.<br />
<br />
'Very nice, Miss. Very nice indeed. If we <b><i>have</i></b> 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?'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
When it was over Mr Cutler said, 'Not bad, Sandra. Yes, you did quite well. Passed the test with flying colours one might say.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Not a word to your dear mother, of course; or to anyone else. This has simply been a private test for our new girl.'<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
After all this, in some desperation, Sandra went to see Miss Bracknell again.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>not</i></b> used to the cane.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>was</i></b> a girl, and a sensitive one.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Happy to put the cane across her bottom, Louise Bracknell thought bleakly.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Louise said, 'Yes Mr Newberry, of course.'<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
With nice attractive caneable bottoms, thought Louise Bracknell. But what she <b><i>said</i></b> was, 'Yes, I'm sure we will find two suitable ones. And naturally it will be a big honour for them.'<br />
<br />
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.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-21482912885904392962012-06-16T13:20:00.001-07:002012-06-19T08:22:05.822-07:00Victim?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Fessee 04.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Victim?</b><br />
by Nick Fowler<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgETvORajQCqAzRHbMeghWvjc8MJwL37SSLn2gTlEiJJv4bWjjJej31P3tEYU7BS6Elyc-lS1S9n1Yun5MC54Ll2zsLYOQtpVmY_UZftDGQ__c6EhuE_ypCzPCznjS1gzaXLaSMj5xS-ao/s1600/victim_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgETvORajQCqAzRHbMeghWvjc8MJwL37SSLn2gTlEiJJv4bWjjJej31P3tEYU7BS6Elyc-lS1S9n1Yun5MC54Ll2zsLYOQtpVmY_UZftDGQ__c6EhuE_ypCzPCznjS1gzaXLaSMj5xS-ao/s640/victim_01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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.<br />
<br />
'Alright,' said Sally again, looking at the dented wing of their once immaculate M.G. '<b><i>Mea cupla</i></b>. 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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'What Daddy would have done...?' repeated Marcus in astonishment. 'Surely not what....'<br />
<br />
'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 <b><i>eighteen</i></b> 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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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?'<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>experience</i></b> of girls, he admitted that, but he had never thought for one moment of <b><i>spanking</i></b> her.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Marcus remained on the couch and pondered this new problem as something quite outside of his experience. Spanking <b><i>might</i></b> make a model wife out of a hoyden, but somehow he doubted it on this afternoon's evidence. He loved her, <b><i>but</i></b>...<br />
<br />
(He loved her butt, as the Americans would uncouthly say. My God, what was happening to him? That was almost a joke, and he <b><i>never</i></b> made jokes, or understood them.)<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
Marcus appreciated that spanking <b><i>could</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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...'<br />
<br />
But Marcus had learned enough to be going on with. 'How <b><i>would</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
His father looked at him in astonishment. 'But would <b><i>you</i></b> mind, me boy? Me chastising your Sally, I mean. It's not as if I'm her father.'<br />
<br />
'Father-in-law, and that's as good as,' replied Marcus enthusiastically.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
'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....<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
'I don't think <b><i>they</i></b> will,' said Marcus aggressively. 'But <b><i>you</i></b> 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.'<br />
<br />
'If only we had a daily woman,' Sally pouted. 'Perhaps we can afford one now that Ronald's here and contributing.'<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
Sally sighed, and looked at her father-in-law, and raised an eyebrow.<br />
<br />
'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....<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <b><i>She</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Fascinated, both men watched the crimson patch that spread swiftly beneath the flimsy, silken panties, which barely covered the squirmingly upraised bottom.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Commander!</i></b> 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 <b><i>obey!</i></b> she thought.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
'What isn't?' asked Marcus inquisitively, having heard only the end of the tearful little objection.<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
Marcus smiled in haught superiority. If he had had qualms about his wife's bottom being caned they were now forgotten. Now he actually <b><i>relished</i></b> 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.<br />
<br />
'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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'Oh, oh, <b><i>oh</i></b>,' 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.<br />
<br />
All will to resist her husband's demands vanished, and she submissively sobbed, 'Stop, oh please stop. I'll do <b><i>anything</i></b>.'<br />
<br />
'Three more,' said Marcus to the Commander implacably, triumph reflected in his voice. 'You might as well make it the round dozen.'<br />
<br />
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. <b><i>Most</i></b> satisfactorily woebegone and sorry for herself.<br />
<br />
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?'<br />
<br />
'Yes, Marcus.'<br />
<br />
'Good, now off you go, and straight to bed when you have carried out your instructions. Just this <b><i>once</i></b> the washing up may wait until the morning.'<br />
<br />
'Yes, Marcus.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <b><i>seek</i></b> 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.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2012/06/awol.html">Continuation of this story</a></i></div>
</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-75921313847123045902012-06-15T07:23:00.001-07:002012-06-15T07:28:16.660-07:00Making It Better<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Swish Vol.5 No.3.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Making It Better</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A girl with a maid, this might be called. Maids are usually subservient – or try to be. But this one wasn't. She was determined to train Judy to take what she knew she really wanted.</i></b><br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
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Caren always used to look at me with a strange smile. I say 'always', but actually she had only been with us for three months. Even so I noticed it. I thought her maid's skirt was outrageous really. I mean, showing the tops of her stockings when she sat down, and the whites of her thighs. He always looked at her when she sat like that.<br />
<br />
"Why d'you keep giving me sidelong looks and smiling like that?" I asked her once. She was the only maid we had, and maids were always like friends – living in – everything. When I said that Caren moved past me and closed the kitchen door. I thought that was strange. "You haven't had it yet, have you? I can tell, you know. Besides, I'd hear." I stared at her. I didn't know what she was talking about. I mean really I didn't. I told her so.<br />
<br />
She didn't answer me – not directly. "You're old enough. Certainly old enough. I wonder he hasn't put you to it," she said. I got a bit mad with her. "I don't know what the bloody hell you're on about," I told her. "Really, Judy?" she asked and raised her eyebrows. She looks quite lovely actually – always used nice perfumes. A bit expensive for her, I thought then. I was more naive then. "We're on our own for a while – I'll show you," she said, "wait."<br />
<br />
Well – it's something to be ordered about by a maid, I can tell you, but curiosity made me wait. Then she came down holding it. That cane. My jaw gaped. "Where.... where did you get THAT?" I blurted. She laughed at me. "Oh, come on, Judy, it's not mine. It was here already. You really haven't had it across that beautiful bottom of yours?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said, "don't be stupid, of course I haven't." Then she gave me THAT look. "Maybe it's me who's supposed to start you off," she murmured. I coloured right up to the roots of my hair. "You dare try," I said. It was crazy – a sort of panic seized me, because I somehow knew she wasn't joking. I made to push past her but she seized my hair. Being longer than hers, it's easy to. I squealed, trying to wrench away from her. "You stop it!" I yelped. I was like a kid again instead of twenty-one, but I couldn't get away.<br />
<br />
"Oh, so you're going to struggle, are you?" she laughed, "I thought you would. All right – let's have you in the living room." I won't go into it all how she got me – got me undressed right down to my knicks. It was all too unbelievable, and the bitch knew I wouldn't scream blue murder to the neighbours sitting in their garden. The fact that I'd been wearing only a T-shirt and hotpants helped. On the sofa she just smothered me for a long moment and I.... well, I began to weaken. I mean, she had her miniskirt right up and her furred pussy was rubbing against mine through the nylon veils. "That's better," she breathed when my arms went limp, "it's best to have you warmed up before you get into it, Judy. Better than taking you from cold. You've lovely tits, darling – beautiful legs. And your bottom is just a dream. Beside, this is only the beginning of your training."<br />
<br />
T...t....t....training? That started me off trying to shake myself out of that ridiculous situation. I'd allowed myself to get into it, after all. I didn't have to put up with it and I told her so when THWA-AAAACK! right across my bared botty came that cane, and did I YELP! "Now STOP it," Caren said severely as if she were talking to a schoolgirl. In fact I think she'd have got a big kick out of it if I had been, or more likely she was pretending that I was and she was the schoolmistress. When you really get into it you have all sorts of fantasies like that.<br />
<br />
"WOW-OW!" I squealed and got another. She was standing with one leg up on the seat of the sofa and me bent over her thigh. Well – so O.K. – I admit they weren't hard ones. That cane was too thick for the job. It wasn't meant to be a tamer but to act as a warning. It was never used really the way canes are used in stories. There were a couple of thinner ones upstairs. He kept them in his wardrobe and of course I'd never seen them before, not until she showed them to me first. Anyway, I'm skipping back and forth and I don't mean to. It surprised me how strong Caren was. She dropped the cane that first time and spanked me, you see. I strove to get up, but that wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do with a hand clamped firmly on the back of my neck and my bare tummy tight over her stockinged thigh. She was standing up still, as I've described. It was a good position, she explained afterwards. She could really get it into me.<br />
<br />
OH – I didn't know one's bottom could burn so much! "Stop it, stop it, STOP it!" I was howling. There were real tears in my eyes and I was squeezing my bottom cheeks so tight. My bottom was a real ball of fire. As it should be sometimes, Caren said coolly when, after about the twentieth, she let me slip down blubbering on to the floor. Then she came down upon me and drew my knicks right off. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" I went on sobbing as if she were still spanking me. My bottom was an orb of heat-rage on the carpet. She didn't take any notice. Holding my shoulders down, she began to tongue my nipples.<br />
<br />
All the funny noises I made when she was holding me! I was struggling, too, but she ignored that, simply brushing my waving arms aside, sidling one stockinged knee right up between my thighs until its roundness was pressed against my pussy where I was all moist. She rubbed her knee there subtly and my bottom bucked all the more.<br />
<br />
"Wet – you're wet, aren't you – oooh, nice!" she husked. Her silky thighs rubbed all over my own. Her mouth captured my own. I'd never been kissed by another girl on the mouth and certainly not lying on the floor with my bottom hot and my thighs held open. "Nice – it's nice," she crooned, "aren't you feeling better now?"<br />
<br />
"No, I'm not, I'm not," I sobbed all babyishly. The carpet in our living room is thick enough but it still scoured my hot cheeks a bit. I think she knew that and rolled me on to my hip, doing the same herself so that we were locked face to face and tits to tits together, one hand soothing my bottom and the other up under my hair at the back of my neck. Even then I went on blubbering against her moist mouth. That was a lovely feeling, too, she said – and said afterwards again, feeling my half open mouth all quivery. Then of a sudden she began to work me with her finger, first in between the tight cheeks of my bottom and then cupping her hand right under to my pussy.<br />
<br />
It was like a thousand sparklers were exploding in my tummy. I yammered and clung to her the way I told myself I never meant to. My legs shot down, straightened, and I kinda hung my head back while her kisses rained over my neck. "There, there – making it better.... making it better," I could hear her saying. I suppose I knew that she meant what was happening to me. It was like fire and ice together – in my bottom and in my pussy. I was coming.<br />
<br />
"Come, baby, come," she breathed and rolled me over on my back, opening my legs wider. I drew my knees up, feeling one slender finger urge in between my lovelips while her thumb rotated around my clitty. My mouth and my eyes were open. I could see and yet I couldn't. One orgasm after another rippled through me – my thighs were sleeked with wet. Her tongue was in my mouth. "Lovely, lovely, lovely," she was crooning. I lost count of all the times I came. Then I slumped – my eyes rolled right up into my head, Caren said, and then I was still, cuddled tenderly into her. She cupped my throbbing, pulsing pussy and just held me.<br />
<br />
"I knew you'd be good for it," she said afterwards and helped me dress. I felt shy with her – shy and yet not. It was impossible to describe. "If I want to spank you again tonight, will you let me?" she asked. I didn't know what to say. I didn't even know I was going to say anything, and then I heard my voice say, "Yes – if you want to." I felt trembly all for the rest of the day thinking about it, like a dream. I remembered what she'd said about training me, but it was only a word, I told myself. When it got to ten o'clock that night, I made an excuse and went to bed early. I wondered, though, if Caren would be bold enough to slip in. She did, though. She put her finger to her lips and I nodded, like we were conspirators. Then from behind her back as she silently closed the door she produced a thin slender cane.<br />
<br />
I was lying on the bed with my nightie on.<br />
<br />
"He wanted to cane me tonight – downstairs. I wouldn't let him." I sat up. She could see I didn't believe her. We had to whisper. "He.... he doesn't," I said wonderingly. Caren laughed and stroked my hair, drawing my face impulsively into her shoulder. "When you're not here, he does," she said softly. She could feel and hear my gasp against her neck. "Oh god, he does – he takes my knickers down for it," she said. I guess I knew it was true. I clung to her. "Yes he does, as he will you now. I told him I've spanked you."<br />
<br />
"Caren – no!" I threw myself back on the pillow, covering my face, like the world had come to an end, "you didn't!" I couldn't look at her. I had my eyes closed tight. "Yes, Judy," she said, and her voice was suddenly firmer, "it's me who has to put you to your trials first. Roll over now and put your bottom up. It'll only be a light one – a sparkler, as we call it. Just to start you off."<br />
<br />
I couldn't believe this! "No!" I squealed. I drew my knees up. My nightie only covered half my thighs. I never wear panties in bed. A sudden sharp slap on my legs made me yelp. Even as I did I tried to muffle the sound, praying it wouldn't be heard above the TV downstairs. "OVER, Judy." Caren said sharply. She took my shoulder and rolled me like a sack of coal so that my shoulder bumped the wall. "It won't make a noise if YOU don't. I'm only going to give you a light sixer, Judy. Now put it up, UP – come on – or there'll be more noise than you know about."<br />
<br />
It was blackmail really. I didn't want to, I DIDN'T. I threw my arm back – lying on my tummy as I now was – as Caren flicked the hem of my nightie up over my hips and displayed my bold cheeks. "If you get up...." she gritted warningly, "now, Judy, come on – present it. I have to and so must you now."<br />
<br />
"No-woh-woh-woh!" I protested plaintively. I was caught in my own trap of having trusted her, and I knew it. "Oh, you silly – I TOLD you it won't be a hard one, not like I get sometimes," she hissed, "move your knees apart now and steady yourself. Come on!"<br />
<br />
It's funny how some words work on you more than others. It was the way that she said, "Come ON!" that did it. I felt like a kid again – at my age! I grabbed the pillow under me, cuddling it like it was my old Teddy. SWEEEE-ISSSSH! "Ynnnnnnng!" I squealed. It was like a streak of lightning coursing across my bared cheeks, biting, snarling into me. Or at least I dramatised it so. My 'first course' as it was afterwards called really was a light one. I've given Caren worse since myself. Even so the breath hissed and sizzled out between my teeth as then I took the next. It was lower – not right across the centre of my halfmoons, but lower and under.<br />
<br />
'NOH-OOOH!" I gritted, just knowing I mustn't let the sound reach through the door and downstairs, so I had to swallow in the sound just as I had to draw in the stinging bite of it into my raised bottom. "YES, Judy!" I heard Caren say triumphantly. It WAS a triumph, she told me afterwards, giving me the cane that first time. Before I could recover I took the third, and it seemed so much more of a sizzler that I bit right into my soft pillow and dipped my back in reflex until I made a perfect S-shape, she said – an ardent, offering.<br />
<br />
Ardent and offering – yes, those were the words she used to me when she'd finished with me. I was twisting the lower half of my body about like a landed fish while she held me under my armpits making me take the sensuousness of her kisses and the long darting of her tongue into my mouth. "It's all right – it's all right," she kept saying, and I half settled down actually sooner than I thought I would, my face as blurred with heat as my bottom was. Somehow as I finally and tentatively sank down on my back – jerking my botty impetuously as it touched the sheet – she made me give her my tongue in return.<br />
<br />
"Judy, you're lovely," she breathed. She got up, slipped her skirt and top off, and I saw that she was wearing her nylons only beneath. She didn't have to tell me she'd left her panties down in the living room – I just knew. "Judy, I want you now," she said simply. "My b...b...bottom stings," I sobbed babyishly. "I know, I know – make it better?" she whispered, "with me, darling, it'll only be my tongue, I'm afraid."<br />
<br />
I didn't take in the import of her words then. I didn't have time to. Kneeling down by my bed, she raised one of my legs, pushed my knee back almost into my tummy and glued her mouth to my quim. Then her long pointed tongue darted in and swirled and I croaked "AAAAAAH!" and grappled with my fingers at the rucked sheet. "Oh, Judy, you're salty and wet and lovely, you bitch," I heard her croak, then the sweet firmness of her lips into my mushiness really began to work. Her fingers explored my bottom beneath. I gurgled, choked, cried out softly. I was spilling already – my love juices spurting, caught between the fire and the thrilling-spilling of it. On and on she went until I'd come four or five times. Then she did what I least expected and so was totally unprepared for. Leaving me gasping, as it were, she was up in a flash and I was rolled over on my tummy again.<br />
<br />
I knew then. "NO!" I yelled, "NO! Caren, DON'T!" Oh god, my voice must have carried. I'd forgotten. I couldn't have controlled that cry anyway. SWEEE-ISSSSH! CRA-AAAAACK! "YEEE-AAAARGH!" Oh... those were biters... biters.... deep into my hot sphere. I beat the pillow, then clenched it, twisting it in my clawing hands. Another came. A hot searing stroke. Another – another. I blubbered, howled and cried all at the same time, twisting my hips madly to try and avoid that hateful cane which seemed to curve right around my orb as it descended.<br />
<br />
Then, as quickly as it had started again, she stopped and leapt upon me, straddling me, her moist cleft rubbing upon my seared halfmoons. "There!" she said triumphantly, "there! That's helped to put you through the mill. Lie still – STILL!"<br />
<br />
"I c..c...can't!" I sobbed. In bucking about I all but threw her off, but her legs were well stretched and she kept steady somehow, easing the oiled lips of her quim all around my throbbing bottom until somehow I knew – just knew – she was coming, too. "HOOOOOO!" I could hear her choking softly. I felt her stickiness, felt her go limp. Then she sank down upon me, holding me totally prisoner with her tits globing into my shoulders and both of us making coarse, breath-rushing noises.<br />
<br />
"I h...h...hate you, I HATE you," I blubbered when at last she rolled off me, almost falling to the floor as she did, but clutching me into her. "No – no, you don't, Judy," she said firmly. Smeared with tears, my cheeks were sticky against her own hot ones. "You were just ready for that – I knew you were," she said quietly. "I w...w...wasn't," I choked. Her hair stroked my hair, drawing it back from my moist forehead. "Yes, you were," she said with total conviction, "and you half know it already. They're the hardest you'll get, you know. It never gets any worse than that. Nothing is going to work unless we're truthful with one another now."<br />
<br />
"I... I don't know what you mean," I mumbled, still screwing up my eyes against the endless tongues of fire in my bottom. Still she cuddled my head and shoulders into her. "Yes, you do, Judy – it brings you on. I knew it would. Hating it and loving it – equally maybe to start with – is part of it. Isn't that right?" I nodded blindly. It was true. She'd sort of made me take it, but hadn't really. I mean, god, I'm old enough. I could have stopped her – I could have stopped her that afternoon. I hadn't. I'd just let myself go, despite all my talk about struggling.<br />
<br />
Caren went on murmuring and whispering to me, sometimes making me gasp, sometimes drawing a half-reluctant giggle from me. Sometimes, I told myself, I didn't even realise what she was saying. "I will be both tender and stern when I cane you, Judy. So will he," she said. I made to sit up at that, but her hands held me down. "NO!" I jerked. I meant it. She laid me flat on my back and held me. "You don't want him to make you better afterwards – is that it?" she asked. "Don't be... don't be... don't be s...s...silly," I stammered. The biting and stinging had eased away now. My bottom felt hot, heavy – sort of luxurious.<br />
<br />
"It's going to happen, Judy," she said. "You.... you stop it!" I choked. My eyes were as wild as my mouth was loose, she told me long afterwards. Quite daintily she bent, picked up her shirt and top. She was going to walk out of the bedroom just as she was, I could see that. "Not if I let you watch him cane ME?" she asked and was gone, swaying her jiggling bottom cheeks. I loved her. I wanted to call after her.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
The next day it was all quiet, like it hadn't happened. Then about five o'clock (I wasn't in a job at that time), Caren suddenly said to me, "I get randy for a caning sometimes. Not a hard one – like the one I gave you. He puts me over the arm of the sofa, you know. I have to keep my legs straight. He peels my panties down..."<br />
<br />
"No!" I shouted, "I don't want to hear!" I rushed out of the room and slammed my door upstairs. It wasn't true. I didn't want to know about it. Was it true? I hated myself for getting up and going back down again. I couldn't help myself. "Caren, please – is it true?" I asked. "Oh, you ARE a baby – of course it's true," she laughed and cuddled me. "He wants to cane your bottom, you know. Won't you let him?" "NO!" I blurted. Caren stepped away from me. Her eyes were harder than I wanted them to be.<br />
<br />
"You stop this, Judy," she said, "you're not going back on it."<br />
<br />
"I won't," I said. My lips trembled, my legs trembled. Caren shrugged. "O.K." she said bleakly, "then I won't spank you or cane you again – not ever. I won't ever kiss you or caress you or be able to make you feel better afterwards. Sorry, I can't stop talking now, I have work to do," she added in a cold, distant voice. She moved away. I went after her, feeling as if my feet were taking me rather than that I was directing them. "C...C...Caren..." I said. She turned and looked straight at me. "Well?" she asked. I lost my nerve. "N...n...nothing," I said. Suddenly she stepped towards me and lifted my chin. "After dinner tonight," she said. I made to say "No!" but no sound came. It was like I couldn't move. Then I turned and ran upstairs into the bathroom and turned on the taps, ripping my skirt and knickers off and fancying I could hear her laughing softly downstairs.<br />
<br />
I don't think I could see properly or hear properly or anything at dinner. At least, that's how it felt. Caren kept hovering over me. When the wine was finished she poured liqueurs, moving quietly and efficiently. "I'll bring the coffee in," she said after that – saying it in a sort of possessive way. The TV was on in the living room. It was all a coloured blur to my eyes. When I was drinking the coffee my cup was chattering all the time against the saucer.<br />
<br />
Moving back and forth as she always did, Caren was so cool that I began to relax. I even kidded myself I was watching 'Dynasty' on the TV. I could hear her washing up. It seemed all right. He hadn't said a word. I'd actually almost really relaxed when I heard the door of the living room open and close and Caren was standing there. She had the cane in her hand. It would have been easy to hide. I realised that then. I was stricken. My hand went to my mouth the way you never think it will in real life.<br />
<br />
"Come on," she said very, very quietly and walked over to me like a panther. "Caren, no!" I said. It came out like a squeak. I mean in FRONT of him! Then she laughed and said to him, "You see – she didn't believe me." I suppose even then – even then – I believed it was a joke. I wanted to jump up. I couldn't. My legs were jelly. She moved forward more and stood over me. "Darling, get up – please," she murmured. I knew it was true then. I saw him get up and take his tie off.<br />
<br />
"No," I said, "oh no! No, Caren – Caren, don't!" – "YES, Judy," Caren said. Her eyes weren't bleak – they were kind – almost laughing. Then it was him – coming over. They pulled me up between them. I could feel myself flopping, crying, twisting, pulling. "Judy, don't cry – it won't be hard, I promise you it won't be hard," Caren was saying. I screamed, and my skirt was up. They were so bloody efficient between them – making me ready for it. He was... he was.... he was t...taking my knickers down! I kicked, I cried more. Over the arm of the sofa where they put me, Caren sat and held my shoulders.<br />
<br />
"No-woh-woh-woh!" was all I could hear myself sobbing. My bottom was naked, my skirt right up. She had to hold me tighter then, pressing my face down into the cushions. "It's all right, it's all right," she kept saying, "Judy, you want it." – " YA-AH-AAAAAH!" came my screech then. He'd stepped back and sort of nipped me with it, just gently at first. "You... you... you cah-ah-an't!" I screamed and then SWEEE-ISSSSH! WHOOOOO! Caren was laughing, laughing! "Judy, wriggle it – come on!" she was saying. SWEEEE-ISSSSSH! "NO-OW!" came my shrieks, on and on and on. It bit me, bit me, bit me, stung me. I writhed and wriggled, held by her. My stockinged legs twisted this way and that. I didn't care any longer what he could see.<br />
<br />
Oh god, it was an eternity – yet it was only eight, Caren told me afterwards. When they let me up I was like a rag doll, squeezing my blasted cheeks, tears rolling down my cheeks, flopping down on the sofa, on my hip, on my tummy – every which way. Caren was on her knees by the side of me, an arm around my shoulders, murmuring, comforting, whispering, like she'd done the night before in my room. She began to finger me. Down there. In front of him! I tried to stop her. "No, no," I sobbed. I was trying to push her hand away. I rolled over on my tummy again, hiding my hot face in a cushion. She laughed and gave me a little smack, wouldn't let me pull my skirt down.<br />
<br />
"OH-WOH-WOH!" I kept sobbing. "She's ready for it," I heard her say softly, "I know she is. Go on." Then came my final cry – my long piercing one, my hips lifted, and the big swollen plum of his prick oozing up under me, into me, parting the lips, sinking up until my squirming bottom was rammed into his belly.<br />
<br />
"Just hold her like that," Caren said. The words came like a quiet command. She had got up. Even through my choking, disbelieving moans I somehow knew she was stripping off. The bitch. Another few throbs of his big cock in me and she knew I was going to want it – 'making it better'...</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-45031749698717150222012-06-14T09:37:00.000-07:002012-06-14T09:37:31.663-07:00Half Moon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Janus 41.</em><br /><br /><strong>Half Moon</strong><br />by Nicholas Holland<br />
<br />
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<em><strong>Editor's note:</strong><br /><br />This story is the second in 3 long-range trilogy examining the faults, fortunes and fated fustigations of that really naughty nymph, Victoria Moon, who at her age surely should know better. Readers may turn to Janus 25 for <a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2012/06/victoria-moon.html">the preceding story</a>. The author is an astronomer who writes fiction very occasionally in between gazing at the stars.<br /><br />The final instalment, Full Moon, will be published eventually.</em><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><strong>IT WAS</strong> three years later...<br /><br />The sun lanced through the tiny porthole with blinding intensity. Victoria Moon pushed the light-sensitive sun glasses firmly against the bridge of her perfect nose and turned back into the spacious cabin. Apart from four inch stiletto-heeled shoes, the sun glasses were all that Victoria wore. As usual the freedom of nudity served to excite and stimulate her and she felt a sensuous warmth that wasn't entirely due to the Mediterranean sun. Her bikini lay in a pool of expensive silk at the foot of a double bed and in a moment of impatient petulance she kicked it across the cabin. Where the hell was he? She wasn't accustomed to waiting for <strong><em>any</em></strong> man and under normal circumstances she would have left ten minutes ago. These weren't normal circumstances of course and Victoria chose to wait. She would wait as long as she had to. Perhaps her destiny and the future direction of her life depended on it.<br /><br />With a sigh of reluctant acceptance Victoria lay back against the soft pillows of the huge double bed. The deep mattress and cool cotton of the sheets embraced her nakedness, inviting her to stretch luxuriously and relax. Reflected in the tall mirrors of the fitted mahogany wardrobe, Victoria's body curved with feline grace, its golden hue relieved only by the templates of bikini white and the rich tufts of gold at the base of her belly. She pushed the sun glasses up into soft blonde curls and closed her eyes. Sleep was not something she had time to indulge in. She would not... could not... <strong><em>must not</em></strong> allow herself the luxury of sleep to accelerate the passage of time. To think was more important. Essential.<br /><br />To some people three years is a long time. Boredom and the role of ordinariness expand and prolong the tedium of dissatisfaction. Victoria Moon had no such problem. The three years since Adam Krane had persuaded her to walk into the inviting web of his peculiar practices and philosophies had passed quickly. Naturally she still hated him.<br /><br />Victoria's thoughts rolled gently across her mind, unfolding and splashing against her senses, creating images that in turn excited and tormented her. She remembered that bright evening three years and one month ago that had since become the 'first day of the rest of her life'. The small office where she had received the kiss of destiny that flawed the virginal perfection of her pink flesh had seemed a heaven in the hell of her boredom. In reality and with the change of time, Adam Krane's office now seemed a tatty preface to the space and luxury that enveloped her and which she would soon find impossible to live without. The charisma and magnetic power of the man was not there to overpower her and colour her thoughts. She despised him and yet she knew that he had provided her with an excuse and a new escape route to be herself. She had no feelings of guilt for the way she regarded him. Guilt though would always provide her with the excuse to seek out what he had so necessarily provided. She would never admit to herself the real reason behind the inexplicable series of events that had since shaped her life. There had always been the guilt and then the cleansing. The cleansing was important because without it the guilt would gradually torment her and she would be impossible to understand. Indiscretion would compound indiscretion and the strong hand of a mentor or Svengali was necessary to return her to the status quo. Victoria Moon needed the hand of discipline. The realisation flashed across her mind like the lash of a cane.<br /><br />After Adam Krane, Victoria's life had changed dramatically. A succession of boyfriends walked into and out of her life like so many migrating swallows. Purity of body evaporated with the simmering of hot sexuality, and the prize of sweet virginity was sacrificed at the altar of insensitive youth. He had been a soccer star and Victoria basked in the glow of his reflected glory. He caned her and beat her and took sex from her with all the subtlety of a charging bull. Victoria knew that love was something that he probably couldn't even spell, let alone understand. She stayed with him for six months, not because she loved him, but because of the lifestyle that he enjoyed. She left him at a time of her own convenience. As was her way in those days of selfishness and insecurity, Victoria received a better offer and simply took advantage of it. Circumstances – though Victoria preferred the word fate – caused her to meet Henry Pountain at the country club which her husband had grudgingly allowed her to join. The age difference had not bothered her because Victoria felt that she had no one to answer to but herself. Her relationship with her husband had been one of sex and continuous beatings. As long as she was around for him to 'show-off' at the many social events his highly successful football club staged, that was all he seemed to care. Victoria half expected to be placed in the massive trophy cabinet after each usage.<br /><br />The divorce had been quick and a lot less painful than her marriage. She was granted a small alimony although she hardly needed it – Henry's millions were more than sufficient recompense. They were married a few days after her decree nisi.<br /><br />Life with Henry was idyllic. He was the complete antithesis of her first husband and for a while she delighted in his gentleness and generosity. He demanded nothing from her and in return he gave her everything that she had ever wanted. Increasingly though, Henry spent more and more time involved in the everyday affairs of his massive corporation. Boredom set in and Victoria's old restlessness returned. The infrequent love-making with her aging husband wasn't improved by the mild heart attack that Henry suffered because of overwork. Victoria's restlessness soon became frustration and once more she returned to the country club for diversions. There were many of them – perhaps too many. Mostly they were older than her and often in their forties. Virile young men were also welcome, attracted to her like bears to some exotic honey. But she used them and then discarded them, fluttering from one infatuation to the next.<br /><br />Victoria remembered with little satisfaction. The guilt would not let her escape so easily. It haunted her like a nemesis, returning persistently and remorselessly. She turned languidly on the cool sheets to look in the mirror. Perhaps it showed? But all she saw was the golden perfection of glorious womanhood. The guilt was inside her – a malignant growth that had begun to eat into her soul and torture her mind. Henry was so kind to her and she really wasn't worthy of him. How could she cheat him the way she had? If he ever found out it would hurt him irreparably and the ruthlessness he showed in business would be turned on Victoria. He would delegate the responsibility of course, because that was his way. Perhaps she would be summoned to the office of his solicitor, but whatever course he chose Victoria knew that it would be final. Henry's decisions always were. No matter how deep the hurt, Henry would conclude the matter instantly and Victoria would be out on the streets... without so much as a penny of her own.<br /><br />But Henry did know. Victoria's fears <strong><em>were</em></strong> justified.<br /><br />For two weeks Victoria had flirted outrageously with the Captain of the 'Belle Grande' (apart from Victoria, Henry's only obsession). The fact that Captain Hugh Scullion was one of her husband's most loyal friends had not seemed to make any difference to Victoria, though he perplexed her and no man had done <strong><em>that</em></strong> since Adam Krane. Mostly they were predictable in their response, often fawning, but inevitably losing her respect. Captain Scullion did not respond like other men. His greater experience had taught him the errors of succumbing to the intimidation of feminine beauty. Victoria did not over-awe him.<br /><br />During lunch she had finally evoked a response from the ice-cool Captain. 'Victoria,' he said softly, 'I'll see you in my cabin at six o'clock.' He had paused and with a smile finally added, 'and make sure you're suitably dressed!'<br /><br />Victoria's tension, like the guilt, did not show. Her pulse rate had increased and her heart beat was quicker. The excitement of the illicit meeting was as satisfying as her present nudity. But the risks were immense.<br /><br />As Victoria waited, a meeting was taking place in <strong><em>her</em></strong> cabin. Henry and Captain Scullion relaxed and drank arctic-cold Martinis. The subject would have surprised her. She was the earnest topic of their conversation and Henry was confiding to his loyal friend the problems of being married to Victoria. Captain Scullion, because of his own experience, had naturally suspected the nature of his friend's problems. In fact, before Henry had told him, the loyal Captain had already initiated steps to correct the distressing situation. At this very moment the errant wife was waiting in his cabin. Waiting on <strong><em>his</em></strong> pleasure – a pleasure which she had woefully misinterpreted.<br /><br />'So you see Hugh,' Henry Pountain was saying, 'the damn girl needs your strong hand of discipline. I'm sure I can leave the method to you, after all you have succeeded admirably in the past and I simply wouldn't have the heart to do it your way. Besides, it's the only alternative to divorce and you know how I feel about that.'<br /><br />Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of more drinks, served by the object of another of Victoria's flirtations, a young Portuguese with flashing good looks who was called Raoul. She had received little encouragement from the handsome cabin boy and started to make life as difficult as possible, by asking him to 'fetch and carry' for her to a ridiculous extent.<br /><br />Although the business at hand had been concluded, Henry insisted that the Captain finish his drink and let Victoria 'stew in her own juice', as he quaintly put it. Captain Scullion was happy to agree, it would have been part of his tactics anyway.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />When the Captain entered his cabin, Victoria – who had been waiting for well over an hour – was pacing impatiently to and fro, inwardly seething. She was still nude.<br /><br />
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For a long period of charged expectancy they looked at each other, Victoria suddenly aware of the massive aura of authority that the immaculately uniformed Captain exuded. Even the gold anchor on the impressive hat seemed to symbolise his immoveability. She felt his eyes boring into her like steel gimlets. The impatience and anger brought about by her waiting instantly evaporated under the probing eyes and Victoria felt more nude before him than she had ever felt in front of any of her lovers. But she gloried in it. He couldn't know of the narcissistic delight she experienced when completely nude. She wanted him to look at her. It was her tender trap.<br /><br />Victoria found it difficult to meet those intense eyes. 'I... I've been waiting over an hour...' she said weakly.<br /><br />He ignored her and strode purposefully across to confront her. Victoria momentarily caught her breath. Damn it why was it that men like him always made her feel so... so... inferior? Well, she would call the tune for once. He wouldn't dominate her – after all <strong><em>she</em></strong> wanted <strong><em>him</em></strong>. <strong><em>He</em></strong> was <strong><em>her</em></strong> choice.<br /><br />'Do you like the "suitable dress"?' she asked coquettishly, her confidence returning.<br /><br />He smiled. It was the first change of expression since he had entered the cabin.<br /><br />'Birds of paradise my dear always look better in their summer plumage.' He stepped back and openly carried out an obvious mock inspection with his eyes. 'And yours is prettier than most!'<br /><br />Briefly Victoria shivered, though not with cold. 'Oh dear,' she said 'ONLY better than most?' She had to play the one game that she was good at. It was the only way she could win, and winning was <strong><em>all</em></strong>.<br /><br />Slowly he reached out with his right hand. Victoria watched with helpless fascination as it swept lightly and sensuously over the golden perfection of her left breast. She made no move to stop him. Immobile and available she let him do as he wished. His forefinger and thumb closed softly around the rich nugget of her erect nipple and pinched it very gently.<br /><br />'Come with me, Victoria.'<br /><br />She had no choice but to follow him. He pulled her by the nipple across the cabin to a chair beside the double bed. In one movement he sat and pushed her across his lap. Victoria found herself in an all too familiar position and the expectancy returned. She dug her strawberry-red fingernails into the thick pile carpet to maintain her balance. Slowly she began to writhe her naked bottom, searching for his strong masculine response. Little mewing noises squeezed from her throat, but he stilled them with a firm hand on the flawless perfection and began to stroke the flowing curves. Beneath the gentle touch, Victoria held her breath.<br /><br />Suddenly and still without a word, or any indication of his emotions, he began to spank her. Victoria's breath expelled itself with a sweet hiss at the first impact. But he was gentle and she moaned beneath the stimulating hand, her bottom undulating slightly – rising and falling as if to meet it.<br /><br />Scores of gentle little slaps rained down on Victoria's acutely offered buttocks and still he did not speak. Every emotion except for an intensely erotic response within her loins was drained from her body. Her head was spinning from the heady excitement of the intimate situation. Deliberately she exaggerated the writhing of her hips, trying to detect the normal male reaction she desperately craved. The slaps continued unabated, bouncing incessantly off the golden hillocks and heating the very core of her womanhood. She gasped aloud, but the reaction was not provoked by pain. Sensations on the surface of her trembling flesh were insinuating into her total being and spreading like an addictive drug. Breathing heavier now Victoria cried out.<br /><br />'Harder... harder!' she gasped, 'please Hugh... please...'<br /><br />The soft pattering sounds that had filled the quiet cabin were abruptly stilled. Momentarily there was a lull and then... the palm of his toughened hand impacted on the offered, upturned cheeks of bare flesh like a rifle shot. She almost slid off his lap, so sudden and forceful was the striking hand.<br /><br />Victoria had barely had time to react when another, louder and even harder blow smacked her bottom with stinging force. Thousands of red-hot sparks seemed to scorch into her tender flesh and Victoria cried out. For a moment her buttocks glowed like burning embers and the heat was intense. Frantically Victoria twisted and turned to escape the searing agony, but the firebrand of his palm rekindled her burning flesh with even more intensity. For barely a second her senses and nerve ends were ignited. She cried out again – louder this time and almost plaintively.<br /><br />For what seemed like hours she lay across his lap gasping and then, still without a word, he helped her to her feet.<br /><br />'Stand by the bed and wait for me!' he commanded.<br /><br />Now it was Victoria's turn to be silent. My god he was strong! Her whole lower body throbbed and ached like hell, and her buttocks blazed infernally. She had never been so helpless to a man's strength in her life. If only she could chip the granite of his self-control. Wasn't she having <strong><em>any</em></strong> effect on him? He didn't seem to even <strong><em>care</em></strong> that she was completely naked. Surely he couldn't be immune to her soft, willing body? Most men couldn't keep their hands off her. Yes, he was special and Victoria realised that she needed him... URGENTLY... and NOW.<br /><br />She went after him and stopped him in the centre of the cabin. Her hands went to the lapels of his uniform. She had to start the thaw of this man's icy reserve. Firmly he took the hands away and very deliberately placed them by her sides.<br /><br />'You will do as I have told you,' he said. 'Now go back and <strong><em>wait by the bed</em></strong>.'<br /><br />The depth and purpose of his voice sent little fingers crawling up Victoria's spine. He excited her like no other man since Adam Krane. Immediately and blindly she obeyed him, returning to stand meekly by the bed. She would have to wait on his pleasure. She was <strong><em>his</em></strong> plaything and the understanding of that accelerated her pulse yet again. Perhaps this was the game that he always played. Perhaps if she went along with it the conclusion would be all the more satisfying.<br /><br />Victoria's eyes widened. From the wardrobe opposite the bed he extracted a long slim punishment cane and walked slowly towards her. His eyes were unsmiling.<br /><br />'Now the moment of reckoning, my dear,' he said. 'You came here to cheat on your husband, didn't you?'<br /><br />Victoria did not reply. She looked from the blue flint chips that were his eyes and stared sightlessly at the floor. The truth stung her, but she had thought he was a willing partner to the subterfuge. She felt very childish and very guilty.<br /><br />'When you cheat on someone Victoria, you succeed only in cheating yourself.'<br /><br />He stood impassively before her, the crook-ended cane resting on his shoulder like some kind of military sword. Victoria felt nervous and on edge. She knew what her fate would be and the dawning came like the light – gradually and inevitably. She shivered, though not with cold, and the prospect of tasting that bittersweet bite filled her with excited trepidation.<br /><br />He stepped forward one pace and Victoria was aware of his closeness. His sheer physical presence intimidated her and yet... she welcomed it.<br /><br />'You realise, of course, that you must now pay the price of your waywardness. Any further transgression on your part, Mrs Pountain, and you can rest assured that it will be your last.' He reached out and with one finger lifted Victoria's chin so that she had no option but to look into the chilling depth of his glacial blue eyes. She could not hold them with her own and looked away.<br /><br />'Unless I have your assurance that this whorish behaviour will stop, then I can guarantee with some certainty, that Henry will divorce you!' Once again he paused.<br /><br />'Well?'<br /><br />Victoria could not even begin to contemplate what life would be like if she were divorced. She had increasingly relied on Henry for everything. To once more become a secretary was unthinkable and Victoria inwardly shuddered. The answer to his question was simple... and no choice existed.<br /><br />'You have... you have my... assurance...' The voice was hesitant and the spirit unwilling. Victoria did not fully understand herself, but she did know that assurances were one thing that she wasn't good at keeping. She bit her lip.<br /><br />Captain Hugh Scullion considered her reply and then removed the cane from his shoulder.<br /><br />'For the moment let us say that I believe you. We must now consider your punishment.'<br /><br />Expectantly, Victoria looked up. For some reason the excitement had intensified and for a few seconds she wondered why. It was him, of course. To be punished by the Captain of the 'Belle Grande', Henry's most loyal friend, <strong><em>was</em></strong> exciting. It was almost as if she were about to be made love to. If only he would... She would let him. She would make it easy for him.<br /><br />'I think that one dozen strokes will go some way towards atoning for your indiscretions, don't you Mrs Pountain?' For the first time his voice had lightened. If was as if the decision had cleared the sombre atmosphere and the punishment soon to be applied to Victoria's perfect bottom would provide the necessary boost of adrenaline that he needed; as much as Victoria needed the chastising result.<br /><br />He took hold of her arm and turned her roughly towards the bed.<br /><br />'Place a pillow on the edge of the bed and lie face down on your tummy. Your knees will be straight and your feet on the floor. <strong><em>Now go!</em></strong>'<br /><br />Silently and meekly Victoria obeyed. When she was in position he placed her feet carefully together and stepped back.<br /><br />The first lash of the cane against Victoria's arched bottom was stunning, its shock effect intensified by the sharp whistling hiss as it cleaved the air.<br /><br />The breath was driven from between her clenched teeth and Victoria's fingers dug deeply into the cotton sheets. Her bottom quivered violently and fire raged through her loins. The sudden pain surged like an electric shock, charging her entire body. Tears welled into her eyes.<br /><br />The second stroke was even harder and the third worse.<br /><br />Now the pain seemed to have taken over her whole existence. There was nothing else. No Henry. No infidelity. No 'Belle Grande'. No lovers. Nothing. Nothing but flaming pain.<br /><br />But there was Captain Hugh Scullion and <strong><em>there was the cane!</em></strong><br /><br />For the fourth time the teeth of agony severed her contact with all other reality. Her mind became a core of searing heat and her bottom an untouchable cinder. Victoria started to cry.<br /><br />Coldly and clinically Hugh Scullion applied the fifth stroke. Immediately after the bamboo ripped the air a red stripe of retribution blazed across the centre of her golden buttocks, marring their perfection and matching the four others.<br /><br />She was sobbing softly now, her fingers opening and closing on the sheets. Hugh Scullion paused to allow her a momentary respite and for the pain to take greater effect. He was amazed that so far she had not yelled out. She had simply accepted his punishment and then absorbed it. He could hear only her soft girlish whimpering.<br /><br />For Victoria the waiting was terrible. She burned and ached. Please get on with it. Please.<br /><br />Just as she started to look around the sixth stroke lashed into her relaxed bottom. For the first time she cried aloud. Caught unawares Victoria grabbed frantically at her raging bottom, her legs scissoring in agony.<br /><br />'Be still, you little whore,' he said menacingly.<br /><br />Victoria threw her head down and lay still. The excitement returned, triggered by one little word. A word that one of her lovers had always used. A word that she loved to hear and a word that was always used before they had sex. She loved to be a sexual <strong><em>whore</em></strong>. She would be his sexual <strong><em>whore</em></strong>. Why didn't he take her now? She was open and ready for him. She wouldn't resist. She needed him. <strong><em>How</em></strong> she needed him.<br /><br />But Hugh Scullion <strong><em>did</em></strong> not need Victoria. Her body meant no more to him than the canvas means to a great artist. He was simply using her body to paint the cane strokes of a masterpiece.<br /><br />He adjusted his stance and the cane bounced from the yielding bottom with blurring velocity. He felt the shock waves ripple along the muscles of his arm and saw the seventh scarlet stripe materialise in less than one second. Again she cried out, her brightly scored bottom writhing and arching. He watched with great satisfaction. She would never forget <strong><em>this</em></strong> thrashing.<br /><br />'Lie still!' he commanded.<br /><br />EIGHT!<br /><br />NINE!<br /><br />TEN!<br /><br />The eleventh stroke was as perfectly placed as the others. Each incandescent weal was less than one inch apart and perfectly parallel. Captain Scullion <strong><em>had</em></strong> produced a masterpiece, inspired by the vision of exquisite beauty that confronted him. A beauty that was about to receive its <strong><em>coup de grace</em></strong>.<br /><br />For the second time in what had become a Mediterranean time-warp, Victoria sensed that he was making her wait. Through tear-streaked eyes and with mascara running down her flushed and delicate cheeks, she risked an apprehensive look behind her. For a moment she did not see him, only his image in the wardrobe mirror. Then it was gone as he moved towards her. For a few more seconds her eyes remained looking into the mirror, transfixed in horror and fascination on her own bottom.<br /><br />Once again he caught her unawares and Victoria saw and felt the final stroke simultaneously.<br /><br />The sound of the impact filled the cabin for a brief moment of piercing intensity. Victoria shrieked as the thin cane sliced diagonally across the eleven red fingers of pain that held her bottom in its agonising grip. The two interwoven sounds tore through the senses, numbing even Hugh Scullion. But the feeling was merely fleeting and the Captain stepped back to allow Henry's beautiful, young and chastised wife to reflect on her appalling misbehaviour. She had been suitably and efficiently admonished. He had succeeded as he always did. The girl would think twice in future when she met an attractive man. And to think that she had tried to make HIM a party to the deception of his best friend! No, he was certain that she <strong><em>now</em></strong> knew her place.<br /><br />Victoria lay sobbing for fully ten minutes, the pain stabbing into her tenderised buttocks like a dozen innoculations. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they were innoculations against further adulterous affairs. Victoria could not say; she could not think of such things. All she could think of was the pain and the man who had inflicted it. Her thoughts added to the self-pity that she felt. She wanted this man. <strong><em>This</em></strong> man – no other. She truly needed him and the control that he had over her. She wouldn't rest until she made him part of her life. Henry's money didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Captain Hugh Scullion.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Wearing the silk bikini Victoria scurried painfully down the narrow passageway to the cabin she shared with Henry. She passed Raoul, the handsome young cabin boy without a word, remaining with her back to the wall in mortification lest should he see the red weals which the bikini failed to cover. She watched him knock on the Captain's door and eventually enter. With relief Victoria returned to her cabin, Captain Hugh Scullion obsessing her thoughts.<br /><br />Raoul entered the Captain's cabin with a smile. He was aware of the reason behind Victoria's hasty retreat and it afforded him some amusement.<br /><br />'Come in, my dear boy,' said Captain Scullion. He was wearing only shorts.<br /><br />Raoul removed the immaculately starched jacket and threw it into the open wardrobe. He flopped onto the double bed and mopped his handsome brow.<br /><br />'Christ Hugh, I'm exhausted!'<br /><br />Captain Scullion studied him for a moment.<br /><br />'Dear Raoul,' he said, 'you're very tense. Just relax. We have all night. There will be no interruptions, I promise.'</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-55879041309906485002012-06-13T07:49:00.000-07:002012-06-13T07:49:42.997-07:00Strange Vibrations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i> Story from Roue 20.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Strange Vibrations</b><br />
by Barry Roberts<br />
<br />
He glanced over at her feeling certain that she was about to say 'I told you so.' She didn't – but the look she gave him rendered words unnecessary.<br />
<br />
Ever since the first time Doug's second wife, Roberta, had met his daughter she had left him in no doubt as to her feelings regarding the girl's behaviour and the treatment she felt would remedy the situation. 'She's a wilful, spoilt brat,' she had told him once, 'and it's all your fault. You're far too easy with her. You give her an inch and she duly takes a yard. And what do you do? Nothing. If <b><i>I</i></b> had behaved like that when I was her age I'd have got a damn good hiding.'<br />
<br />
The thought of chastising his daughter had crossed his mind on numerous occasions but the nearest he had come to punishing her in such a manner was by threatening it. 'If I catch you doing that again,' he had warned her often, 'I'll tan your backside.' The threats were always ignored and, when disobeyed, simply weren't carried out. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. Pocket money was stopped, curfews set, treats denied. Every form of punishment was employed except one – chastisement.<br />
<br />
'Things'll change when we get married,' Roberta announced a week before the day of the wedding, '<b><i>I</i></b> won't stand for any nonsense I can tell you. The moment she steps out of line she'll get a good hiding. If you won't do it then <b><i>I will!</i></b>'<br />
<br />
Doug had decided not to get into an argument about it – thinking that they would cross that bridge if and when they came to it, although he felt certain that there was no 'if' about it – Linda misbehaving was a bridge that they would come to in no time.<br />
<br />
On their honeymoon Doug agreed to his bride's suggestion that they confront Linda with the matter as soon as they returned home. He was far from happy about the situation but felt that, as it was something of such importance to his new wife, then so be it. 'Just don't expect me to hand out any of the hidings,' he told her. 'It's simply not me. I agree there are times when Linda deserves to have her bottom smacked – as long as you understand that if there's any walloping to be done you can do it.'<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
'...And so,' Roberta concluded her lecture of the girl as the three of them sat around the kitchen table on the day of their return, 'any further misbehaviour will be punished. Not in the way that your father has seen fit to 'punish' you but in the way that your mother used to punish you before she passed away; the way that <b><i>all</i></b> naughty children should be punished.'<br />
<br />
Linda opened her mouth but was denied the opportunity to speak.<br />
<br />
'I know that was a long time ago and that you probably consider you're too grown-up to be treated in such a manner at your age but let me tell you, <b><i>I</i></b> was thrashed by my mother until I was well past my twentieth birthday so, as you see, seventeen <b><i>isn't</i></b> too old to have your backside tanned.'<br />
<br />
Linda took it very well, her father thought. There were no protestations, no tantrums. When her step-mother had finished the girl simply shrugged her shoulders, rose from the table and left the room. Perhaps, Doug mused, there would be no need for his new wife to carry out her threats after all. It was a thought, though, that he didn't have much confidence in. Sooner or later, he felt, Linda would do something that would warrant a spanking. He just hoped that it would be later rather than sooner.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
'Okay, officer – we'll deal with it,' Doug told the constable.<br />
<br />
'Very well, sir. You can count yourself lucky that the shop owner decided against pressing charges. If you ask me – what that girl needs is....'<br />
<br />
'Thank you, officer – we'll take care of it,' Doug interrupted.<br />
<br />
Roberta showed the constable to the door. 'Have no fear, officer,' she assured him, 'She's going to get exactly what you were going to suggest. Believe me – she'll be sleeping face-down tonight.'<br />
<br />
The constable smiled. 'Very pleased to hear it, madam.'<br />
<br />
'Well?'<br />
<br />
'Well – what?'<br />
<br />
'Go on then – say it. Say "I told you so". You said that my letting her get out of hand would result in her getting into trouble with the police before long. So come on – out with it.'<br />
<br />
'I'm not one to gloat, Doug, but you have to admit I was right.'<br />
<br />
Doug knew that she was. He was also fully aware of the fact that he'd failed as a father. If he had punished his daughter's disobedience with more severity in the past she'd probably have never strayed so far from the straight and narrow as stealing from the corner shop. He was angry with himself but far more incensed with Linda and when his wife announced that she was going up to Linda's room 'to make her pay for her crime' he put up no protests. She deserved it – it was high time she paid for her waywardness.<br />
<br />
'I'll leave it to you, then,' he said.<br />
<br />
'You not coming up?'<br />
<br />
Doug thought awhile. 'I'm not going to do the, er....'<br />
<br />
'I know, Doug – you've already said that you'll leave it to me.'<br />
<br />
'Then – why....?'<br />
<br />
'It's just that I think you ought to be there – witness it. You <strong><em>are</em></strong> her father when all's said and done – even if you don't act like it at times.'<br />
<br />
The two of them climbed the stairs to Linda's room. They entered and shut the door behind them. The girl was sprawled out on her bed reading a magazine.<br />
<br />
'You know why we're here?'<br />
<br />
'S'pose so, step-mother,' Linda replied.<br />
<br />
'I've told you not to address me like that. "Mother" will do. Now, come on – stand up – show a bit of respect.'<br />
<br />
Linda threw the magazine to the floor and, giving a long deep sigh, got to her feet. Her stepmother sat down on the edge of the bed while her father took up a position by the wardrobe. Linda's arm was grabbed hold of and she was pulled over Roberta's lap. The woman gave the seat of the girl's tight jeans a couple of slaps and then said: 'No – this won't do at all. Stand up.'<br />
<br />
She got to her feet and was given the order to take her jeans off.<br />
<br />
'But....'<br />
<br />
'Get on with it, girl. You wouldn't feel a thing through those. Come on – get them off!'<br />
<br />
With all the alacrity of a snail on valium the girl obeyed and stood before her step-mother in blouse, tights and knickers – to be given the further command to remove her tights.<br />
<br />
'Right, Linda,' Roberta said, shifting her position on the bed slightly and taking hold of Linda's wrist, 'come on – over you go.'<br />
<br />
With more than a little deliberation the girl followed orders and lay across her step-mother's knee awaiting the chastisement. Her blouse was pushed out of the way to reveal a pair of skin-tight pink cotton knickers. Roberta looked over at her husband and back down at the seat of Linda's pants. She put her right hand inside the waistband of the garment and began to pull them down.<br />
<br />
'Er... no, Roberta... I don't think that's necessary,' her husband commented.<br />
<br />
'Look,' Roberta said, holding the knickers at half-mast, 'who's doing this – you or me?'<br />
<br />
'You are, love – but it's just that I don't think there's any need for the girl's pants to come down, that's all.'<br />
<br />
'Can we get on with it, please?' Linda's voice came from floor level.<br />
<br />
'What harm can there be in taking her knickers down? You're being ridiculous, Doug. She's got to feel it.'<br />
<br />
'You've had her remove her jeans and tights – that's enough. She'll feel it alright.'<br />
<br />
'Look,' Linda said impatiently, 'take the bloody things down if you like – only get on with it, will you?'<br />
<br />
'No, maybe your father's right – you should feel it. It's just that whenever <strong><em>I</em></strong> was spanked as a child it was always on the bare bottom. No, you can keep them up,' she announced, putting them back into place and pulling them up tightly around her teenage bottom. 'I'll just have to hit harder to make <strong><em>sure</em></strong> you get the message.'<br />
<br />
Doug didn't know where she had got the practice in – but the spanking that she gave his errant daughter was certainly a thorough one. The smacks fell at a rate of practically one per second and the entire area of Linda's shapely behind was attended to. The girl winced as her bottom was warmed and let out a couple of yelps when the stinging hand of her stepmother landed with more severity. Not to be out-done by her husband's request for Linda's bottom to remain covered, Roberta concentrated more and more on the lower part of the girl's cheeks and the tops of her thighs where there was no protection. It was when Doug saw the redness forming on his daughter's lower buttocks – after about a minute and a half – that he intervened.<br />
<br />
'Um... I think that's enough, dear.'<br />
<br />
Roberta looked up at him. 'Very well – six more, okay?'<br />
<br />
He nodded. Roberta yanked the knickers up as far as they would go and the material disappeared into Linda's bottom-crack leaving the cheeks almost entirely bare. She laid those last six whacks on with all her might and the girl was screaming for mercy at each one. Her bottom wobbled and contorted and finally, when it was all over, heaved gently.<br />
<br />
Linda stood and adjusted her knickers before laying face-down on her bed.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
'Don't you think that was a bit harsh?' Doug asked his wife as they made their way downstairs.<br />
<br />
'Rubbish – did <strong><em>you</em></strong> see any tears? No. Next time she gets a good hiding it won't be with my <strong><em>hand</em></strong> – I can tell you.'<br />
<br />
Doug sincerely hoped there wouldn't be a 'next time' or, at least, that if there was, it wouldn't be for quite a while. He knew that Linda had deserved her punishment but the whole thing had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He still wasn't entirely convinced that physical punishment was a good idea and the thought of his own flesh and blood, Linda – naughty though she was – receiving a tanning with the back of a long hairbrush (Roberta's suggestion) didn't appeal to him at all.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
'Tell your father what you've been up to today!' Roberta yelled at a crestfallen step-daughter. 'Come on – out with it!'<br />
<br />
Oh God, thought Doug, she's been up to her tricks again. Bet this ends up with Linda getting another hiding.<br />
<br />
'What have you done then, Linda?' he asked the girl.<br />
<br />
'Well....'<br />
<br />
'Come on – I <strong><em>said</em></strong> I'd make you tell him, now get on with it, girl!'<br />
<br />
Linda looked up at her father. 'I... I'm sorry, dad...'<br />
<br />
'What have you done <strong><em>this</em></strong> time, Linda?'<br />
<br />
'I... er... I was doing something in my bedroom....'<br />
<br />
Roberta bullied the girl into telling exactly <strong><em>what</em></strong> it was that she was "doing" that had caused so much fuss – how she had been lying on her bed in only her bra using her fingers to some effect between her legs. Her father was disgusted with her. He had never thought he would ever actually want to see his daughter get a severe thrashing, but such was his anger that he said: 'Right, young lady – if that's an appropriate term for someone who indulges in such acts – get up to your room! Your mother and I will be up shortly.'<br />
<br />
Linda left the room and plodded up the stairs. Roberta looked over at her husband, happy in the knowledge that perhaps, at last, she had won him over to her belief in the use of corporal punishment.<br />
<br />
'I think this calls for your hairbrush, love,' he suggested.<br />
<br />
They ascended the stairs and Roberta went into their room to pick up the hairbrush and, as her husband discovered when she entered Linda's room, something else.<br />
<br />
'Where the hell did you get that from?' he asked, astonished.<br />
<br />
'Bought it the other day,' she replied, giving the slender cane a noisy swish through the air. 'Just the job – don't you think?'<br />
<br />
Doug didn't agree. A row broke out over whether Linda was to receive her just deserts by way of hairbrush or cane. Roberta's suggestion that a dozen-or-so smacks followed by six of the best with the cane wasn't met with her husband's approval and it was finally agreed that the cane would not be used on this occasion, but <strong><em>would</em></strong> be employed should Linda get into big trouble again.<br />
<br />
Roberta laid the cane down on Linda's dressing table. 'It can stay here,' she told the girl, 'as a reminder of what you'll get if I catch you doing what you did any more.'<br />
<br />
'Come on now, Linda,' her father said. 'Get yourself ready – I haven't got all night – I've got a darts match this evening.'<br />
<br />
Roberta was clearly delighted with her husband's newly-found enthusiasm – a delight that was not shared by his daughter, he thought as he looked at the girl's miserable countenance.<br />
<br />
Linda stripped down to her petticoat and her step-mother stepped forward to take the straps of the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Linda obeyed the order to lie face downwards on her bed and waited motionless in her matching white nylon bra and pants.<br />
<br />
'I think we'll have them down – don't you?' Roberta said to her husband, feeling confident that he would agree.<br />
<br />
'Er... yes, okay... take them down, love,' he replied.<br />
<br />
Roberta walked around to the left side of the bed and, taking hold of the waistband of the tight knickers, dragged them down to Linda's knees. The girl buried her face in the pillow as her step-mother took aim with the wooden-backed hairbrush. It came down with a splat onto the bare skin of Linda's bottom. Down it came again and before long was beating a rhythm on the contorting cheeks. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'This'll teach you never to do anything so disgusting again,' Roberta growled as the hairbrush did its job. Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'Ow Owww!' Splat! Splat! 'That's it, my girl, yell all you like – I'm not stopping till you've paid for your badness.' Splat! Splat! Splat!<br />
<br />
Realising that his wife meant it and beginning to feel a little queasy at the sight of his daughter's bare bum turning a bright red, Doug said: 'I'll... er leave you to it, then, love.'<br />
<br />
'You going?' asked his wife holding the hairbrush threateningly over the chubby bottom of his daughter.<br />
<br />
'Yes... I'll be off down the pub – you know – get a few arrows in before the match,' he answered awkwardly and disappeared.<br />
<br />
Roberta stopped the spanking and went into her room to watch as her new husband got into his car and drove off. She returned to the girl who was still obediently lying on her tummy on the bed.<br />
<br />
'He gone?' Linda enquired of her step-mother.<br />
<br />
'Yes, he's gone.'<br />
<br />
'Right,' the girl said, standing up and taking off her bra then bending over in the centre of the room, 'you can get to work with the fucking cane now – can't you?'<br />
<br />
'You reckon you can take it on top of that whacking – it's very red, Linda – are you sure?'<br />
<br />
'You know me, Roberta – glutton for punishment.'<br />
<br />
Roberta laughed. She went over to the dressing table and picked up the cane, giving it a couple of strokes through the air. Linda bent right over as far as she could and gripped her ankles and Roberta stood to her left side with her left hand resting on the girl's back.<br />
<br />
'Six – okay?' the woman announced.<br />
<br />
'Yeah – come on, stop titting about – I'm dying for it – it's been so long.'<br />
<br />
The cane came down forcing a gasp from the lips of the girl. Thwack! 'Yeoww!' Five more strokes cracked explosively across the crimson bottom, five more lines appeared across the cheeks and five more squeals were emitted by the naked girl.<br />
<br />
She flopped face-down onto her bed and Roberta applied some cold cream to the well punished arse.<br />
<br />
'Strangest reason for getting married <strong><em>I've</em></strong> ever heard,' Linda commented, her words muffled to some degree by the pillow on which her head was resting.<br />
<br />
'But I love him, Linda.'<br />
<br />
'Perhaps you do – but I know of something that you love more.'<br />
<br />
Roberta gave her step-daughter a playful smack on her rear-end then returned to the creaming of the girl's buttocks. Her hand slid in between Linda's legs which parted automatically. With her left hand smoothing the lotion over Linda's bottom, her right was now sending electric sensations through the girl's body as it performed a very experienced massaging of the private regions.<br />
<br />
'You're a bad, bad girl,' she said as her left hand lightly spanked the stinging cheeks of Linda's bottom. 'Fancy playing with yourself – you <strong><em>know</em></strong> that's my job.'</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-34062664975123160062012-06-12T07:43:00.000-07:002012-06-12T07:43:26.393-07:00Michela's Awakening<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Februs 35.</em><br /><br /><strong>Michela's Awakening</strong><br />A Short Story by Jemmie Lynne<br /><br />
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'Is that all they wear?' Michela held up the thin, open backed surgical gown. 'Hardly decent. Won't even cover their bottoms.'<br /><br />'They show much more than that.' The Chief Warden's smile grew sweetly sadistic. A prim, fitted uniform and robust figure gave authoritative presence to a woman who clearly stood no nonsense. 'A criminal's naked backside must be visible for punishment to be given, and seen to be given. Besides, humiliation through exposure during chastisement is equally important as the chastisement itself. It's a great deterrent.'<br /><br />'I agree, though I wouldn't like to wear it myself.' Michela dropped the garment back over the punishment stool and examined the row of flex canes lining the wall. She was a tall, vivacious girl with slender figure and high rounded bust, the sort that made women envious and men lustful. Superior in manner and presence, she carried herself with an air of certainty which came from belief in belonging to an upper class. Born in the two hundredth and fifty-first century where the populace comprised seventy-five percent women, she confidently believed only the beautiful and domineering could succeed. 'Where's the girl? You may bring her now. I wish to start the interview immediately,' she said and selected a cane, swishing it in test, ready for the unfortunate girl's arrival. When the Warden shrugged in puzzlement Michela tapped the cane impatiently against her booted calf, light glistening over the moon spun silk of her long matching skirt and tunic, the cloth clinging to every curvaceous mound and crescent of her lovely body.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />She had chosen the outfit not for this occasion, but the interview she attended earlier that afternoon with Miss Juliet Hawthorn, owner and editor of Venus News, the leading all female newspaper in Euro Zone One. As a rising journalist, Michela was eager to be on Miss Juliet's staff, prepared to go any distance in achieving success.<br /><br />She had hoped the interview would be conducted in private, but was disappointed to find an assistant present, a girl barely from her teens, short, petite, with full breasts visible beneath a translucent blouse, her hips surrounded in a cling wrap micro skirt.<br /><br />Miss Juliet and the girl sat side by side behind a crystal table. A single, high backed chair stood in front. Beyond the glass walls, hover pods scurried along the airways carrying their passengers between the ten colossal pyramids which formed the mid millennium city of London.<br /><br />'Please sit,' Miss Juliet indicated the chair. 'This is Tara, my assistant for the day. She has arranged all the details for your test assignment.'<br /><br />'Yes Miss Hawthorn,' Michela answered in a measured and respectful voice. She found Tara's look and smile more of cynical examination than welcome. She took an immediate dislike to her.<br /><br />'You come highly recommended,' Miss Juliet said, 'but in applying for a position on my staff you must, like all applicants to Venus News, undergo a test assignment. I wish to know your tenacity in finding the truth and facts of any given news item.'<br /><br />'I go all the way, Miss Juliet. No hold barred.' Michela breathed deeply so her breasts rose beneath the silk sheen of her jacket.<br /><br />'You are aware,' she continued, 'the Government has re-introduced corporal punishment for the caning of petty criminals, both men and women alike. How do you stand on this matter?'<br /><br />'I'm all for it,' Michela said, praying this was the woman's approved view.<br /><br />'And women. What do you think of them caning women? Sometimes in public. Does it not degrade?'<br /><br />Michela chose her words with political care. 'I believe it wrong to cane women of respectability, but for the habitual criminals who disgrace our community, I feel it's a pity they did not get thrashed when young.'<br /><br />'You wouldn't like it?' asked Tara.<br /><br />'Nobody would like it,' Michela said in dismissal. 'That's the whole point. The cane may sting but the humiliation involved during its administration is the real punishment.'<br /><br />'Tara would love it,' Miss Juliet stroked the girl's cheek making her blush at the suggestion. 'She loves to be spanked. A good caning would send her into ecstasy. Have you ever been spanked?' she asked Michela.<br /><br />It was Michela's turn to blush. 'I was slippered once by the head girl at school. I was sixteen, she was eighteen.'<br /><br />'And did she take your knickers down?' Tara mocked.<br /><br />'Certainly not. I was chastened as befitting a young lady.'<br /><br />'I bet she put her finger inside you. I bet she had you off.'<br /><br />'She did not!' Michela said indignantly, burning with the memory of the prefect's touch, of her fingers working slowly amidst the oils of her young vagina, her body held helpless over the senior's knee until drawn to unforgettable climax.<br /><br />'What a boring life you've had,' Tara quipped tartly.<br /><br />'That's enough,' Miss Juliet said. 'You will be punished for your rudeness and Michela shall watch.'<br /><br />'But Miss Juliet,' the girl protested.<br /><br />'Miss Juliet nothing. You're in for a good spanking my girl.'<br /><br />She rose from the desk and crossed to sit in regal splendour on a rolled back couch, her split skirt parting to reveal firm thighs and lace top stockings.<br /><br />'Come here Tara,' Miss Juliet ordered. Reluctantly the girl crossed to her boss's side and stood with head bowed.<br /><br />Michela turned her chair for a better view. A tingle of excitement flicker within the moist confines of her vagina.<br /><br />'Remove your knickers and bend over my knee,' Miss Juliet ordered. Tara glanced in wilful hostility towards Michela but did as requested.<br /><br />Michela sensed a bubble of excitement tingle at the back of her spine while she watched the girl comply in submissive obedience. She lay with her stomach flat across the other woman's lap, her head almost to the floor, her legs straight and angled behind, her bobbed hair falling slightly forward and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.<br /><br />Miss Juliet stroked the cherub roundness of Tara's rear with open pleasure, fondling the naked buttocks offered upwards in such vulnerable exposure. It became blatantly clear to Michela she had spanked Tara, and possibly other girls, many times before and she realised that in accepting a post she would almost certainly be spanked herself.<br /><br />Miss Juliet confirmed her fears. This is how I keep order over the staff of Venus News. Any misdemeanour, infringement of policy or laziness on the job is punishable by a good spanking. Are you willing to accept this rule?'<br /><br />'Yes Miss Juliet,' Michela said, her sex felt on fire.<br /><br />'Corporal punishment comes in many forms but for a young girl it is usually the cane, the strap and most enjoyable, the open palm of the hand. The physical contact between administrator and receiver could not be more intimate. Their vulvas pressed one above the other. So close yet distanced by domination and control. Take this as your first lesson. If you're a boss, you'll need to spank your juniors.'<br /><br />'Please don't,' Tara pleaded with a touch of the theatrical. 'Not in front of her.'<br /><br />'Stay quiet girl or I'll have Michela spank you also.'<br /><br />'I would enjoy that,' Michela said, eager to participate.<br /><br />Miss Juliet raised her hand and brought it down with a resounding slap. Tara squealed. 'Any noise and you will get double,' Miss Juliet told her. Six more times she repeated the hard and measured chastisement then waited and watched the red blush of pain start to colour Tara's taut little buttocks. Michela unconsciously pushed one hand down between her legs, conscious of a growing wetness that bubbled with excitement.<br /><br />
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'You will observe the first flush of pinkness across the girl's skin and notice I have spanked each cheek over the full roundness of her buttocks. I find this part the firmest and most sensuous area of contact, a delight beneath the hand and where I shall concentrate my efforts. The more the same place is spanked, the greater her backside will sting, and the more it stings, the more she will have excuse to wriggle against me.' Again she raised her hand, bringing the palm down with full force. Forbidden to cry out, Tara, as predicted, began to wriggle. Miss Juliet continued her chastisement. By the end of the twelfth slap the girl's skin had turned from pink to red and her hips were squirming over Miss Juliet's lap in apparent effort to ease the pain. But it soon became apparent her movements were not involuntary.<br /><br />'Do you realise what she's doing?' Michela pointed.<br /><br />'Of course, she's masturbating herself against my leg, trying to climax before I cease her punishment. I shall find it most pleasant to disappoint her. At this moment she would not change places with anyone but my enjoyment comes from forbidding her gratification. To delve into the exquisite power of blending pain and sensuality. It is an achievement few ever realise. Enough,' she ordered and pushed Tara away. Both watched the girl pull on her knickers, wincing as the white lace stretched over her skin.<br /><br />'You may go now Tara,' Miss Juliet dismissed. 'Check all the arrangements are in place for Michela's assignment and let us know immediately the prisoner is available for interview.'<br /><br />When Tara had left, Miss Juliet crossed to a drinks cabinet where she poured smooth, amber liquid into two cut glasses. She passed one to Michela. 'Here's to control,' she toasted.<br /><br />Michela sipped. She found the drink sweet but with a pleasant after taste that for reasons she did not understand heightened her smouldering libido. 'My,' she pressed herself. 'This does strange things.'<br /><br />'A little aphrodisiac developed in space. One of those exquisite discoveries only available to the seriously wealthy. It causes acute sensitivity of the skin and erogenous zones. Even the breath of one's lover can recreate a climax. I take a glass each day. One of life's little pleasures for a rich and lonely woman.'<br /><br />'There is no need for loneliness,' Michela gently moved her pelvis forward allowing her Venus mound to press against the other woman's upper thigh.<br /><br />Miss Juliet's hand slid behind and fondled the taut firmness of Michela's buttocks. 'So beautiful,' she murmured. 'How I look forward to having you in my stable.'<br /><br />'Sorry to interrupt,' Tara called from the doorway in a bitchy voice. 'The woman is to be caned in less than thirty minutes. We must go immediately.'<br /><br />Miss Juliet drew back. 'I want your article on my desk by nine this evening, bring it personally.'<br /><br />'I shall not fail you Miss Juliet, I promise.'<br /><br />'Good,' Miss Juliet dismissed. 'I think you're going to be a star, don't you Tara?'<br /><br />'She certainly is,' Tara said with an evil smile.<br /><br />Michela followed her from the room almost in a dream, her sexual drive at full burn, her mind wild with ambition. Every wish had come true, one simple article and she would have both career and Miss Juliet's bed.<br /><br />Tara stayed silent as they travelled in a private lift from the three hundred and twentieth floor of the city pyramid to where the Law Courts were situated on the two hundred and fifth. Michela felt a sense of satisfaction that Tara did not sit.<br /><br />Once beyond the lift gates they walked towards the Law Courts on the opposite side of the public square. Near the glass walls a raised platform held cross bars and whipping posts, their shadows cast in long lines by the setting sun that orbed in the sky beyond. Surrounding the stage, giant television screens hung from wires so allowing a circular view for every spectator.<br /><br />In the Court House Tara spoke briefly to a receptionist who summoned the Chief Warden. The woman beckoned Michela to follow down a long soulless corridor. Tara remained in Reception, both hands holding the glow beneath her skirt.<br /><br />Michela's keen senses became invaded by the building's institutional smell and authoritarian atmosphere. She did not care for the place. Its effect was sobering but not enough to stop the bubbling sensuality which flowed within her body.<br /><br />'This way,' the Warden ushered her into a room. A dozen chairs stood in semi-circle around a high, padded bench. 'The caning stool,' she indicated and picked up a short open backed surgical gown lying across the leather. 'We often get reporters in here but few who would break the law for a story. But remember, we are now committed, there is no turning back.'<br /><br />'The truth must be evaluated. It is a journalistic duty,' Michela said pedantically and held up the gown. 'Is that all they wear, it's hardly decent, won't even cover their bottoms.'<br /><br />'They show more than that. Humiliation by exposure is as much a part of the criminal's punishment as caning.'<br /><br />'I agree. Though I wouldn't like to wear it myself. Where's the girl?'<br /><br />'We let her go. Too dangerous for her to stay. A lot of people have taken a big chance for your boss, even my own. But then power and money speak.'<br /><br />'But how am I to interview her?'<br /><br />'Interview?' The Warden shook her head. 'That girl Tara did not arrange for an interview. She arranged for you to take the offender's place.'<br /><br />Michela stood in silent shock, her mouth open, unable to believe the Warden's words. 'But,' she stuttered. 'I cannot. I will not.'<br /><br />'You volunteered. You put yourself on the line as a reporter to learn the effects on a woman chastised. People have risked their jobs to set this up. Mine included. I'm afraid you're in for a well caned backside, young lady. Now take off your clothes, including your knickers and put the punishment gown on.'<br /><br />Michela stayed still, dazed and uncertain. 'But,' she repeated.<br /><br />'But nothing. Now hurry They'll by here soon.' She checked her watch.<br /><br />'This is impossible, a mistake. It's that little bitch Tara, she's turned everything around. You can't cane me. I'm from society.' Michela began to tremble.<br /><br />'You've no choice. If you back out now you'll be charged with perverting the course of justice and considering the nature of what you are doing, you'll almost certainly be sentenced to a caning. Either way, this is going to happen, so go willingly or do it the hard way.'<br /><br />Michela felt the dread of realisation, of being trapped without choice. 'How many are coming?' she asked, trying to reconcile herself with the inescapable outcome of her situation.<br /><br />'Two assistant Wardens and a lady doctor.'<br /><br />'Only three,' she said as if to convince herself over the inevitability of her predicament. She clutched the neck of her blouse in modesty and thought of the promised career on offer from Miss Juliet along with the sweet revenge to be inflicted on Tara when the time came. 'Okay,' she accepted. 'If there really is no choice, then I must. It can't be that bad. So long as nobody finds out, or realises my true identity.' She began to undress, turning her back on the Chief Warden while she slipped on the hospital gown, tugging at the indelicacy of its length and the open back. Such exposure brought an overwhelming body blush and to her shame, a heightening of sexual excitement.<br /><br />The Warden knelt to clip metal rings around each ankle and a further set to her wrists. 'Electronic magnets,' she informed. 'They won't bind you, but will hold you firmly in position. It is better you do not move. The Punishment Administrator needs careful aim.'<br /><br />While she spoke, two Wardens entered pulling a four wheeled trolley which held a stout metal pole rising vertically from the platform. They were followed by the female doctor who shone a vision scan into Michela's eyes then parted the rear of her gown, testing the taut, muscular buttocks beneath. 'Fine healthy specimen,' she declared. 'No problems.'<br /><br />'I am a lady and don't you forget it!' Michela stated loudly, trying to retain some dignity. 'Now, what am I to do, bend over the bench?'<br /><br />'No you stand up here.' The Warden led her to the trolley, stepping her up and raising her arms so wrists and ankles became attached to the pole by powerful magnetic force.<br /><br />'Come on then,' Michela said, bracing her posterior. 'Get it over with.'<br /><br />'Not here. This sentence is for multi, repetitive crime. You're going out onto the main square. You're going to be caned in public. You'll be on television, a star in every home.'<br /><br />'No!' Michela squealed in panic, her last vestige of bravado crumbling. 'You can't,' she struggled, desperate to escape while the trolley was turned and wheeled out into the corridor. The amber liquid so pleasantly taken in Miss Juliet's room increased her sense of vulnerability as she remained helplessly fastened. She was aware of every touch and movement, her whole body vibrant with sensitivity. 'I can't go like this,' she protested. 'I'm not dressed. People can see me. Please, they'll laugh.'<br /><br />'Don't fight it young lady' the Warden advised. 'Simply do as instructed and it will be over before you realise.'<br /><br />Michela wriggled and squirmed in horror as the trolley was wheeled into the Reception. She could feel the air on her back and humiliation on her face. 'How dare you expose me. I'm from society, people know me. You can't take me into public, please.' She twisted on the pole, eyes pleading to their indifference. A moment later the little group emerged onto the marble square and entered into the glare of TV cameras.<br /><br />People milled in their hundreds. They sauntered from dinner to clubs, from theatres to parties, wandered in groups or couples, interrupting their early evening entertainment to see the spectacle of corporal punishment.<br /><br />Michela looked towards the sloping glass wall of the pyramid where the platform she had passed with Tara stood in sinister silhouette against the blaze of lights. Before and behind, giant monitor screens gave opposing views for the benefit of spectators. She moaned her despair on realising the spectacle they intended to make of her, but gave no resistance when the Wardens unlocked her from the trolley and led her up onto the platform.<br /><br />Above the level of the crowd she felt the horror of her isolation, realising she had became one entity and the spectators another. For the first time she heard her name called. She wanted to dissolve into air and squirmed with embarrassment as they removed the hospital gown. She was given no time to protest. Her wrists were immediately lifted and attached to the bar by magnetic force. At the same time they parted her legs and secured her ankles. Spread-eagled and naked she was held on display for all to see. She cringed at her enforced exposure and was devoured by shame on seeing her image mirrored four times life size on every screen, her stretched figure viewed from every angle. She saw her naked back and the taut front of her body, the dark heart of curls which crowned her pubic mound, hair so carefully shaved and plucked in the privacy of her bathroom was now revealed for public amusement. People who had dithered in half interest pressed closer, drawn by a collective voyeurism that overcame any moral reluctance to witness the degrading of some unfortunate. Men smirked with the unexpected pleasure of being allowed open examination of a naked female, while women gave no sympathy. To them, Michela was a betrayer of feminine modesty and they indulged their secret fantasies in self-righteousness. Tara pushed to the front, arms folded, a sadistic smile curved on her pretty face.<br /><br />Michela began to shake, unable to contain her sense of utter degradation. On screen she watched a prim young woman in a dark business suit mount the platform behind. She carried a document in one hand and a thin pliable cane in the other. Without waiting for attention she began to read from the charge sheet.<br /><br />'Prisoner six three one, has been charged and found guilty of the following crimes. Prostitution, common assault, theft and forgery and will receive four strokes for each offence. Any objections may be sent in writing to the Criminal Justice Network. This law enforcement is sponsored by Soft Hands Domestic Soaps and carried out by the Civil and Social Control Department. Live coverage is provided by in-house TV. Sentence will now commence.'<br /><br />Michela looked to the screen and saw the young woman fold and place the paper in her pocket before conferring with a man in headphones. She moved to stand a pace behind, tapping the cane on her leg, waiting the Studio Director's instruction.<br /><br />'So, you'd like to give me a spanking would you?' Tara called out. 'Well, see how you enjoy a real whipping, because I'm going to enjoy watching you get it.'<br /><br />Michela closed her eyes as she felt the cane rest on the prominent curve of her rear. The sound of the crowd gradually hushed. Michela waited. She had no idea what to expect. The vulnerability of her position left her without any degree of physical or mental protection, coupled with the aphrodisiac she had drunk, such public exposure caused her to feel an acute sensitivity which she found impossible to suppress. She was aware of the young woman's perfume, the quiver of her own breath. She felt the air touch her skin, was conscious of every root of hair, of the soles of her feet, of her toenails, of the stretch of muscle pulling the arch of her back taut and narrow.<br /><br />
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The swing of the cane sounded with a whispering hiss before laying its burning sting over the fullness of her backside. Michela gasped more in surprise than pain. On the screen she watched with the crowd as a single red welt rose across the round swell of her white buttocks. She saw the intensity of the faces around her, saw Tara hug herself with pleasure. The second stroke landed almost on the first bringing an involuntary squeal of protest and Michela lost the last element of pride. Again the cane laid its smarting strip over the fullness of her rear. She began to wriggle, hoping the movement might lessen the slow measured strokes that repeatedly flamed across her. The gyrations gave no relief but coupled with her ultra sensitivity the movements started an inner and unbridled arousal. In mind and body masochistic passion began to possess every fibre of her being. This was the moment she had inwardly feared and dreaded, the awakening of uncontrollable urges that transformed her humiliation into her own sexual exploitation. She was behaving as Tara. Girl lovers had indulged her in private, but now was the realisation of secret fantasies in inescapable reality. Losing any will or desire to control herself she surrendered to her own gratification. She began offering herself to each stroke. Thrusting backwards and accepting the cane's impetus to drive her forwards, metaphorically accepting the penetration of all present. She wallowed in her defencelessness, in her total humiliation and the secretion of juices which rose in her body and wet the lips of her shaven vulva. The scathing flame that flushed across the round of her buttocks now mingled its fire with the pulsing muscles of her pelvis, clutched and released in wanton stimulation. She demeaned her own body, debasing herself before all who watched, knowing she made them as helpless to her own gratification as she was to theirs. Convulsing the inner core of her pelvis she spiralled to the release of climatic ecstasy. She abandoned herself to lust and self degradation, feeling the fire of her libido born with an intensity far greater than the cane inflicted on her skin. The repeated sting of pain coupled with the flush of her scarlet buttocks shown in close-up on the screen, drove her to new, unparalleled heights. She shivered and squirmed, clutching and releasing the muscles of her sex. She saw the young woman standing behind fixed with concentrated effort, executing each stroke with precision, unwittingly participating in her victim's self indulgence. The sadism of those who watched triggered the start of a new and drawn orgasm and Michela shuddered in open climax, relishing the disgust of those who witnessed while mentally straddling their outrage like an offered phallus.<br /><br />The final stroke left her buttocks scorched with molten fire. Sixteen blistering welts joined in a flame of smarting skin which gave an inner fulfilment never before realised.<br /><br />'You wanton whore!' Tara shouted in anger and stamped her foot. 'You're not meant to enjoy it!'<br /><br />Michela simmered and licked her tongue over moist lips. When they took her down and stood her on the trolley she relinquished all modesty and control. Rubbing herself against the pole, wetting its surface with the moisture of lust, staring into the cameras, pouting for all who had taken her.<br /><br />'Don't keep her too long,' Miss Juliet told the warden. 'She has an article to complete.'</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-79596792560787396552012-06-11T09:59:00.001-07:002012-06-14T09:41:20.203-07:00Victoria Moon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Janus 25.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Victoria Moon</b><br />
by Nicholas Holland<br />
<br />
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IF YOU had been walking down the High Street that bright sunshining day last June, the vision of the delectable Victoria Moon in her short summer frock would probably have triggered a fantasy straight out of your dreams. What you couldn't have dreamed was the reality of the fantasy world that Victoria was about to step lightly and uncomprehendingly into. You see, in many ways, the girl was an innocent and despite her flowering 18 years she had barely scratched the surface of life. Of course she pretended to her friends that <b><i>their</i></b> imagined worldliness was no more than her own. There were even times when she believed it herself. If you had seen her that day perhaps you would have believed it too. I suppose it would have been something in the way she dressed, or moved, that gave the wrong impression. She would have forgiven you, because Victoria was like that. In her sweet innocence Victoria trusted everyone, but like most Geminis, with Leo rising, there was another side to her character. This 'other side' had pitched her headlong into situations that threatened to take control of her innocence and burn it with the fire of promiscuity. So far, Victoria had extinguished the flame at the eleventh hour, though the smouldering embers remained, glowing dangerously. Her innocence and even her virginity were still intact adding to the warm aura of latent sexuality that would have battered you if you had been lucky enough to have passed her that fateful summers day.<br />
<br />
Three hundred yards away at the end of the High Street, Adam Krane waited impatiently. From the third floor window of his small office he had no trouble spotting the delightful shape as it flounced briskly towards him. So she WAS about to keep the appointment. He was mildly surprised and despite his vast experience of teenage girls and their inconsistencies, he was more than a little excited. It hadn't really bothered him whether she would turn up, or not. Now that she was about to fill him with a controlled excitement. This was something he hadn't experienced in a long time and he found it difficult to rationalise. He satisfied his own logical mind by agreeing with himself that this one was different.<br />
<br />
For her part the excitement that Victoria Moon felt was <b><i>entirely</i></b> different. It was the kind of excitement she had experienced a number of times. It was the thrill of anticipation. The kind of thrill she felt dressing for one of her boyfriends when she had slipped into her flimsiest bra and pants knowing that at some stage during the evening the delicate material would be pulled aside to reveal her delicious charms to rough inexperienced male hands. Hands that would fumble and paw at her until her excitement mounted and the initiative she invariably held, started to ebb away. It was then and only then that Victoria would exercise her iron restraint. Her soft femininity would once again dominate a sexually frustrated young man leaving him in a state of high tension and feeling totally inadequate. Her withdrawal would simply submerge him with the potence of her sexuality and heighten his obsessive need for her. Never again would he gain the initiative. It was a situation that provided Victoria with the reassurance which she subconsciously craved for. And the thrill that her conventional existence demanded.<br />
<br />
Adam Krane was aware that he was holding his breath. Intently he watched her prancing proudly towards him, the harsh summer sun lancing lazer-like through the thin cotton dress. One moment he saw a shadowy nubile outline and the next moment it was gone. She was close enough now for him to hear the sharp staccato rap of her stiletto heels above the drone of the evening traffic. Slowly he expelled his breath and drew back from the window. He was experiencing the state of mind of a teenage boy and it almost unnerved him. Recognising a familiar danger Adam began a series of deep breathing exercises to regain his composure. Control was something he <b><i>always</i></b> managed.<br />
<br />
Victoria entered the anonymous building with apprehension and eagerness. Apprehension, because she felt that for once she did not hold the initiative and would have little influence over what was about to occur. Eagerness counterbalanced the reticence because Victoria Moon was adventurous. A very important piece was about to slot into the jig-saw of her lovely young life.<br />
<br />
It was a long climb to Adam's office on the third floor and Victoria wasn't slow to appreciate the significance. The climb had started some few weeks ago when she had contrived an introduction to the respected Thespian. She had been to see him appearing at the local Drama Club's production of <i>The Taming of the Shrew</i>, and had been riveted by his performance. Of course, he was a star, but he had put so much into that performance Victoria found herself feeling tremendous sympathy for the pretty young female lead. The girl had been overshadowed both dramatically and physically. Naturally Adam brought great presence and strength to a part that Shakespeare could have written especially for him. His domination of the poor 'Shrew' was total. It seemed to Victoria, who had watched from the third row of the stalls, that very few men could have carried out the 'taming' with as much conviction and authority as Adam. He had skilfully built a tension which Victoria felt, but his handling of the climax was something that she had found electric. He had eventually turned the 'Shrew' across his knee and walloped the pretty girl's backside, over the heavy costume, with such ferocity that her portrayal had finally seemed authentic!<br />
<br />
Adam Krane busied himself at his desk. The girl would be with him in a few minutes and he didn't want to give the impression that he was waiting for her. She was too damned pretty for her own good and Adam knew only too well the power that pretty young girls inherently possess. This one knew, more than most, that those gifts could be exploited and used to clear a path through the sexual minefield of her life. Why else would she have flirted so outrageously with him when they met for the first time? She was damn lucky that their conversation had taken place in the hallway of the theatre and not in his dressing room.<br />
<br />
Only one flight to go. Victoria's pulse became the motor of her strong young heart, accelerating and driving her on. It was as if she couldn't find neutral and despite the stairs she was climbing quicker at the top than she had at the beginning. Apprehension had blurred into nervous anticipation. She reached the door at the end of the corridor. The sign read <i>Adam Krane – Theatrical Agent</i>. Victoria knocked, twice.<br />
<br />
When she had entered the austere little room Victoria immediately felt at ease. His office had a certain ambience that made her feel welcome but she sensed a strength and power that came mostly from the man. At first it was only slight, reaching across the desk merely to touch her and intrigue her, causing her to let him carry the conversation so that she spoke only to answer his questions. After a while he stood up and walked casually about, talking easily to her in that rich, soft voice. She felt even more strongly the magnetism that she had experienced that night in the theatre, and she hung on every word that he spoke. She wasn't sure why she found herself reacting to him the way she did and in truth it didn't matter. She simply responded by talking and talking. Suddenly she couldn't bear there to be any gaps in the conversation.<br />
<br />
Adam recognised the signs. The girl was nervous, but at the same time she was comfortable and at ease. Most definitely she was trying to impress him and she was filling in the gaps of the conversation so that he wouldn't think she was out of her depth. It was almost time to take the lead again and direct her to the very purpose of her visit. For the moment he would let her talk until she became enmeshed in the web of her own words, then he would lead her verbally and she would follow.<br />
<br />
He walked around her as she told him about her latest boyfriend, drinking in the sun-kissed vision of healthy, girlish youth. She was certainly stunning and Adam remembered only too well that there had been a time when a girl like Victoria Moon would have overawed him. There was still a danger of course, but he would guard against it. For the moment it was sufficient to listen to a voice that filled his office with melody and feast his eyes on a figure that was positively sinful.<br />
<br />
'But he is such a wimp,' Victoria was saying. 'He doesn't seem to realise that I am teasing him. He even stops when I tell him to!'<br />
<br />
So we are getting to the point, Adam thought. He looked down on her from his position of masculine dominance, straight into the clearest spearmint blue eyes. For an instant he held his breath, realising that this moment of eye contact was vital, if he was to maintain the initiative. But she looked hurriedly down, blushing and talking even faster in a naive attempt at covering her confusion.<br />
<br />
'They are all like that,' Victoria breathed. 'They all want the same thing but have no idea how to get it. I suppose it's a lack of confidence in themselves, isn't it?'<br />
<br />
Adam laughed. She really was a most delicious little poppet.<br />
<br />
'Perhaps,' he said, 'but you are a wicked little bitch, Victoria Moon. One day you will bite off more than you can chew. Girls don't tease boys these days, they either say yes or no.'<br />
<br />
She shifted uncomfortably. What he said had struck home and she didn't quite know how to respond. For a moment she thought, unable to fill in the silence he had deliberately created. Suddenly she was nervous and a little unsure of herself. She looked at her fingernails because she knew she dare not risk another moment of eye contact whilst she felt like this.<br />
<br />
'But I am still a virgin!' she protested weakly.<br />
<br />
'You're a whore.'<br />
<br />
It was a simple statement with no more emphasis than if he had just told her she was a secretary, but it hit her like a bolt of lightening.<br />
<br />
'That's not true. I <b><i>am</i></b> a virgin. I really am!' Her eyes flashed blue fire, and indignation burnt like glowing coals on her blushing cheeks. Her attraction to him vanished for an instant, almost like a puff of smoke in the wind. But it was only an instant and then it returned, more magnetic than ever. Why was he trying to belittle her – why couldn't he be nice? She wanted him to like her and to be attracted by her, but he was unrelenting.<br />
<br />
'That's only packaging!' he retorted. 'What's inside is a whore trying to break free. You need to be aware of this Victoria and you need to change your whole attitude to sex and relationships. Your mind requires a reappraisal of its values, attitudes and principles. This can only be achieved with humility and humiliation.'<br />
<br />
She really wasn't quite sure what he meant and for a moment she thought deeply. She wasn't used to criticism from men, mostly they fawned over her and tried to please her. She felt that she was making little or no impression on him and for once she had completely lost the initiative. Totally perplexed, Victoria Moon crossed her perfectly wonderful legs.<br />
<br />
'But what can I do?' Her voice was tremulous and she had become the helpless little waif who had to be protected and loved. The long lashes had drooped onto her cheek and the studied act was complete.<br />
<br />
Adam Krane was not impressed; he had seen it all before. Her delicious femininity would have melted him under normal circumstances, but his resolve was like iron. He knew that it had to be.<br />
<br />
'You can allow me to change your wanton thinking,' he said evenly. 'Chastisement of the body will cleanse the mind and free the conscience. You will once again become a whole person Victoria Moon.' He pronounced her whole name, as if trying to encapsulate her entire identity.<br />
<br />
Her lashes lifted from the soft cheeks, almost retracting, opening the cool eyes and attracting him into the whirlpool trap of her innocence. He struggled free with great difficulty but maintained his ascendancy by drawing himself up to his full height and dominating her, spectre-like.<br />
<br />
'Yes,' she agreed, 'I need help. I know I am wicked, but I can't stop myself from leading them on. It's very exciting... I know it's wrong and I suppose I should be more honest with them, but they are such wimps!'<br />
<br />
Victoria paused and although the flutter of her soft lips had ceased Adam noticed that the clear blue eyes were resuming the conversation, imploring him and pleading. She struggled inwardly, trying to find the right thing to say and Adam realised that she had backed herself into a verbal corner. He smiled to himself; this was a bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop...<br />
<br />
Finally and with some difficulty she spoke. 'What... what will you do, what <b><i>can</i></b> you do?'<br />
<br />
The time had come. He walked around her once more and did not speak. He made her wait for his answer and because of the silence he had created she felt the electricity crackling around her. She shifted in the deep chair, not so much because she was uncomfortable, but more to relieve the tension which she had suddenly felt. Desperately she wished he would speak.<br />
<br />
'Stand up,' he said at last. His voice was soft but firm and Victoria obeyed him without thought. She was surprised at herself and the way she was responding to him. She felt almost helpless, it was as if her mind was not her own. She did not know if she wanted to be like this, or even if she had any control over it. Her curiosity had taken over from her sensibility and she felt vulnerable. She realised that it was a feeling that she liked; something that she wasn't used to, because no other man had made her feel this way. Perhaps, Victoria thought, the others were only boys really.<br />
<br />
Once again Adam didn't speak, he simply looked at the angelic face and the golden aura of the hair that framed it. So utterly poignant. She was almost too good to be true. No single girl had the right to be that pretty. No wonder she led her boyfriends such a frustrating dance.<br />
<br />
'You must be punished, Victoria. Only in this way can your conscience be free of the guilt that compounds further guilt. You must pay your debt to yourself because it is your being that is bankrupt of emotional sympathy. It is your <b><i>mind</i></b> that must return to virginal purity.'<br />
<br />
He paused to allow her time to understand what he meant and then he spoke sharply and clearly.<br />
<br />
<b><i>'I am going to cane you!'</i></b><br />
<br />
Victoria Moon started and her head jerked up to look at him. His words had lanced into her brain like a rapier. Her eyes were wide and pleading.<br />
<br />
'But I... I don't... I mean I can't,' she pleaded softly, imploring him.<br />
<br />
He ignored her. What she had said was unimportant, irrelevant and he affored it no consideration.<br />
<br />
'Lift up your dress!' he ordered.<br />
<br />
Blindly, and completely caught in the web of his dominance, Victoria grasped the hem of her thin dress and lifted it above her thighs. His eyes burned into the soft vee at their juncture so that she felt flustered and exposed. He was walking around her again looking at her bare legs and tiny pants. She wanted to cover herself but something inside her had taken charge of her mind. She still felt terribly exposed but now she was feeling excited. She <b><i>liked</i></b> him looking at her and admiring her. She was beginning to enjoy the display she was giving him.<br />
<br />
<b><i>'Bend over that desk... now!'</i></b> Suddenly there was a cane in his hand and Victoria obeyed without question. She hadn't seen him pick up the punishment instrument and was fascinated by the thin rod, watching intently as he tapped it softly and rhythmically into the palm of his hand.<br />
<br />
'You are a very naughty girl Victoria Moon and as part of your reformation you will show respect and gratitude for what is about to happen. You will call me Sir from this point on. Do you understand?'<br />
<br />
'Yes Sir,' Victoria breathed.<br />
<br />
'Good,' he said. 'Now put your feet together and keep your legs perfectly straight. Push your bottom out!'<br />
<br />
Victoria did as she was told, wriggling her delicious bottom and playing the familiar game that she knew so well. She had to tease and provoke because it was part of the excitement that she enjoyed so much. Like every other man in her life he would also find her irresistible. He had to. It was important.<br />
<br />
Adam knew that he now had total control over her but he was worried that he might find some difficulty in remaining detached. The distractions were unique. He had never seen such enticement wrapped up in such a small package before. The girl's legs were extraordinary. Long and glowing with golden health, they were twin paths to the soft mounds of proud youth that was her bottom. Adam thought that it was the kind of bottom that could crumble castles and kings and turn lesser mortals into stone.<br />
<br />
Victoria waited. She couldn't see him now because he was behind her. Was he admiring her or was he simply making her wait? She tried to look behind to see what he was doing but he shouted at her to face the front. She shuddered and quickly did as he ordered. She felt his hands tucking her dress into the thin belt around her tiny waist and she held her breath expectantly. She sensed him stepping back as if to look at her, but almost immediately the hands were back, this time gripping the waistband of her filmy pants. Slowly but firmly they were lowered. Nobody, but nobody had ever taken Victoria Moon's panties down and she felt powerless to resist. <b><i>She didn't want to resist!</i></b><br />
<br />
Adam could hardly believe the perfection of what he was seeing. If her bottom had looked enticing when she had been wearing knickers it now looked almost etherial in its nudity. The more he looked, the more the soft mounds seemed to thrust out and torment him, challenging his masculinity and threatening his dominance.<br />
<br />
With some difficulty Adam raised the cane.<br />
<br />
Victoria Moon held her breath. This was all rather exciting, displaying herself to him like this. It gave her a kick just to know that he could see her bared bottom and even a little bit between her thighs. She felt sexy and very warm.<br />
<br />
'How many boyfriends have you teased, Victoria Moon?' The voice behind her was stern and reproachful.<br />
<br />
'Only seven, Sir.' Victoria's answer was almost inaudible.<br />
<br />
'Only SEVEN!' he shouted. 'ONLY SEVEN! Don't you think that's more than enough? Are you simply a virgin whore or are you completely wicked? How many strokes am I to give you for this selfish indulgence?'<br />
<br />
His questions came down on her like stinging rain. She could not answer him and would not. She was so conscious of her exposed body. She did not want to bare her soul in the same way that she had bared her body. She knew that she would be far more vulnerable and far more exposed.<br />
<br />
'Answer me girl!' he commanded her and still the cane did not fall.<br />
<br />
Victoria's reply was soft and tremulous. 'Just one Sir!'<br />
<br />
Victoria waited but he did not answer. She found that she was holding her breath and seconds seemed to last for minutes. Time just would not pass. A time-lock seemed to have opened up and swallowed her very being. She felt divorced from reality.<br />
<br />
<b><i>CRACK!</i></b><br />
<br />
Reality returned with shattering impact. The whisper of the cane as it sliced still air barely warned her and she could not prepare herself for its sudden impact. Her whole system leapt with the unexpected shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through her bottom, taking her breath away so that her scream was soundless. Her body writhed to escape the inescapable, but the searing pain followed her every movement.<br />
<br />
'You will receive one stroke for each of your seven boyfriends!'<br />
<br />
His voice reached through to her numbed brain, penetrating the void that existed somewhere behind her scorched bottom. Her soft lips answered him soundlessly as she tried to plead with him. But she did not move. Her bottom, stinging and hot, still thrust out towards him. Suddenly it had become the very core of her existence.<br />
<br />
All but mesmerised, Adam raised the cane for a second time. Apart from a violent recoil, her delicious buttocks had scarcely moved. Still they thrust out towards him, taunting him and at the same time inviting him. He drank in the vision of almost flawless perfection. Almost flawless but not quite. A thin scarlet line, double-edged and glowing, bisected the soft cushions of golden flesh, emphasizing the girlish contours.<br />
<br />
<b><i>CRACK!</i></b><br />
<br />
The cane bit into her softness again. Once more she jerked and this time he heard the cry. Almost in exact synchronisation with the biting impact a second scarlet line blazed across the golden flesh like a red-hot needle. Victoria moaned softly. Her slim shoulders were shivering gently and her hands clenched and unclenched on the desk. She had knocked some of the papers onto the floor with the suddenness of her reaction.<br />
<br />
Victoria was expecting the third stroke and had bit her lip in anticipation, but this time the pain was different. The cane whipped into the gentle underswell of her buttocks and needles of fire lanced through her entire being. She gasped and all the breath was expelled from her body, causing her to gulp for air, exaggerating and prolonging the sharp pain and hurting her beyond belief.<br />
<br />
As if in a trance Victoria waited. She was dizzy with the alternate sensations of pain and heat, which stabbed through her exposed bottom in surging waves. But now there was no respite and he administered the last four strokes in quick succession. She twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, aware that she had a choice, but unwilling to sacrifice her conscience to the eternal agony of guilt. There was little time for her mind to react to anything except the compelling pulse in her throbbing bottom. All her senses were localised on this one aching area. She mewed quietly and helplessly into the softness of her arm, relief flooding her body as her tears spilled, her guilt ebbing like a summer tide.<br />
<br />
Victoria stood up and turned to face him. She was conscious that her frock had not fallen back into place.<br />
<br />
Watching his eyes sweep down to take in the gentle swell of her vulva she suddenly felt exposed and excited. The latent urges of healthy youth were beginning to pervade her body again and the guilt returned. Barely audibly she said 'thank you' and began to adjust her frock.<br />
<br />
'Wait,' he said evenly, 'I have not finished with you yet, Victoria Moon. You will stand in that corner with your bottom exposed and your hands on your head.' He pointed with his arm stretched, his eyes locking on to hers. 'You will contemplate your punishment and the reasons for it. Now go!'<br />
<br />
Adam Krane picked up the papers that had been scattered to the floor, put them into some semblance of order and organised his desk. He felt a benign satisfaction. Without any doubt he had handled the intimidating beauty of the girl well. The punishment, of course, had been administered with his usual calm efficiency.<br />
<br />
Adam let her stand silently and motionless for a full twenty minutes. Whether she did contemplate her punishment, he could not be sure. What he <b><i>did</i></b> know was the inescapable fact that this precocious beauty would not be cured until she had received further therapeutic doses of the cane.<br />
<br />
Reluctantly he looked at his watch. The 20 minutes was nearly over. He used the remaining few minutes to feast his eyes on the perfection of her girlish bottom. The practically perfect globes of her buttocks were marred only by seven scarlet fingers that caressed and hugged their soft contours. Adam wanted to cross the room and soothe the livid redness, but he knew better. He had learned to control such base urges long ago and contemptuously he dismissed his own inclination.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later as she stood before his desk, Victoria still felt confused. Her frock was primly back in place and her panties neatly folded inside her handbag. The cotton of the simple dress brushing against the tenderness of her sensitive bottom with each gentle breath. It made her acutely aware of the reasons for her punishment and although she felt relief that the weight of guilt had been lifted, there was still the excitement that kept returning when she thought about the way she had exposed her nakedness to him.<br />
<br />
He was speaking now – as if telepathically in tune with her thoughts.<br />
<br />
'Of course, your treatment has not finished yet Victoria,' he said, staring sternly at the flushed young girl standing uncomfortably before him. 'You have yet to learn humility, through humiliation. This is an admirable quality which is sadly missing in girls of your generation. We will cure this deficiency in the course of the next few weeks.'<br />
<br />
'Yes Sir.'<br />
<br />
He looked at her steadily for a few moments and then said with finality, 'You may go now, but you will return in three days' time at 6pm. Do you understand?'<br />
<br />
Victoria bowed her head, the long lashes sweeping her cheek like tiny brushes.<br />
<br />
'Yes Sir,' she said more softly than ever.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Once outside Victoria was aware that her whole body seemed to be blushing. It was as if everyone she passed was looking at her. They were, of course, because Victoria was a vision of flushed prettiness. She was a magnet to every appreciative and lustful male eye and a target for the glare of every jealous and envious female. She felt very exposed and vulnerable.<br />
<br />
She hated Adam Krane for making her feel like that. He had been a bastard to her and the stinging smart of her bottom was testimony to that. She had never been caned before in her life and why she had allowed him to do so she just could not comprehend. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction next time, because she would do nothing that she had to confess. It gave her a certain consolation to think like this, but she realised that the thrill she had experienced by tormenting him with her nakedness would also be missing. Next time... next time: good heavens, she was already thinking about 'next time' and she wasn't even sure that she wanted there to be a 'next time'!<br />
<br />
From his window Adam Krane watched the delicious shape prancing proudly away from him. The encounter had been all too brief and it would be three days before he could glory in the presence of her youth and beauty again. She <b><i>would</i></b> return of course, because they always did. There was no doubt.<br />
<br />
Adam looked at his watch and turned reluctantly from the window. It was 7.30pm and in fifteen minutes the next one would arrive. If he was to turn a pretty young actress into a star she would have to improve her performance in <i>The Taming of the Shrew</i>.<br />
<br />
He began his preparations.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2012/06/half-moon.html">Continuation of this story</a></div>
</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-32125914407378483022012-06-10T04:25:00.000-07:002012-06-10T04:25:54.671-07:00Gentlemen At Pleasure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Blushes 21.</em><br /><br /><strong>Gentlemen At Pleasure</strong><br /><br />
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'It was on the train down to Truro, a lovely run as you know on a nice day and this was a real beauty, blue skies all the way. Anyway as it happened I was travelling second class, don't know why, I rarely do, but if I <strong><em>hadn't</em></strong>...'<br /><br />'George!' said Max sharply. George stopped, eyes querying.<br /><br />'You're going on a bit, George. Could you come to the point?'<br /><br />'Sorry,' said George who knew he did go on a bit at times. 'Well, it was the girl of course.'<br /><br />At the word 'girl' the others immediately gave their full attention, because girls were a major interest of this little group assembled. An all-consuming, all-embracing interest it would not be too much to say. Young and softly nubile ones. Budding. George notwithstanding his rambling conversational manner was very much a member of the group with the same interests. So if he mentioned a girl...<br /><br />The committee of the Guardians' Club, although this was not a proper committee meeting, just an informal gathering, at Max's place in a leafy and salubrious part of Sussex. No, not a committee meeting and not a girl in sight. There were a couple on the premises somewhere though. A Jane and was it a Samantha? Brought along by Alec and Algernon, but for general, er, consumption.<br /><br />'Let's hear about the girl, George. Forget the incidentals,' said Algy.<br /><br />'Oh really scrumptious. Absolutely mouth-watering. Blonde curls and a really divine sort of pouting mouth. Lips like ripe strawberries.' George could be lyrical as well as long winded. 'Just a little on the plump side I would say but that's how I like 'em. Oh yes, a real stunner.'<br /><br />'On the train?' asked Max. 'By herself?' Oh yes indeed, George had their attention now.<br /><br />'With this chap. Quite a pleasant fellow, very keen on stamps. He was telling me about his...' George stopped, aware of glaring eyes. 'Sorry. Yes, well, this chap. He had charge of her but the thing was he didn't seem at all keen on this. Quite remarkable when you consider what she was like. It seemed she belonged to a cousin or something and they had gone off to Australia or somewhere and so this chap had been left with her. Annabel her name was. And he wasn't keen. Having trouble with discipline, keeping control, that sort of thing. When as I gathered what he really wanted to do was get on with his stamps.'<br /><br />George stopped for a breather. It <strong><em>was</em></strong> a remarkable tale and there was no doubt of their rapt attention. 'You should have got his name, George. We could have helped that chap.'<br /><br />George smiled; the smug smile of a man who has a bombshell to deliver. A bombshell but a very pleasant one.<br /><br />'I've got more than that,' he announced with a smirk of triumph. 'I've got the girl. Annabel. We can have her.'<br /><br />A bombshell indeed. A moment's shocked silence, moments more of silent wonderment.<br /><br />'George old boy,' breathed Algy finally. 'You really are quite a fellow you know.'<br /><br />A little giggle from Alec. '<strong><em>Have</em></strong> her? In the biblical sense maybe? Or is it old English?' Alec had not actually read the Holy Book recently.<br /><br />'Why not!' enthused the hero of the hour. 'I mean that's all part of a girl's growing-up process, isn't it? And she's that age all right. Sixteen, just turned.'<br /><br />'Do you know that, George?'<br /><br />'Yes he told me. "Now she's 16 she's worse than ever. Thinks she's grown up." The young madam sitting next to him gave me a really delicious pout. It was all I could do to stop myself grabbing her and grabbing her knickers down there and then.'<br /><br />'To smack her bottom,' said Max.<br /><br />'Well yes. Or... well <strong><em>anything</em></strong>.'<br /><br />'Is she, I wonder...?' mused Max. 'I mean this chap, could he have... er... sampled? Or anyone else? Do you suppose?'<br /><br />'George doesn't know that,' said Algy firmly. 'I mean there's a limit to what you can find out on a train to Truro. Not unless you can take her into the loo or something and you can't do that when she's with this chap. We'll find that out soon enough. But George: when? And where? Because I for one can hardly wait.'<br /><br />George said, 'He wouldn't have, not this chap. It's only stamps with him from what I could see.' And then he told them what he'd arranged with the chap on the Truro train. At some length and with George's usual asides and interpolations. But in the context the others were prepared to let him have more latitude than usual.<br /><br />George's sister's place, not too far from Truro. For one thing this chap who had Annabel, lived in that general area, over the border in Devon, and there was also George's sister. Miss Emily Maidment. Who until not too long ago had been Deputy Mistress at quite a good girls' public school and although you might not necessarily think it to look at her Emily Maidment could be awfully hard on a teenage girl. Harder indeed than many men might wish to be.<br /><br />It had been Alec's idea. 'If we let George's sister loose on her and tell Emily she's got a completely free rein, she can cane this Annabel just as hard as she likes... well, a day or two of that and the young person will be desperate to agree to anything.'<br /><br />It certainly seemed an excellent scheme – although George himself had reservations about telling Emily she could cane 'just as hard as she likes', thinking as he was of Annabel's prettily pouting mouth and knowing what his sister was capable of. Max wanted to know exactly what Alec meant by 'agree to anything.' Alec of course had earlier that summer spent a fortnight in France, a small and select establishment in Normandy, and had subsequently spoken in awed terms of the amazingly knowing and willing 16 year old daughter of that household. Alec grinned at Max without answering.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />George had the honour of fetching the young lady. The other three were naturally on tenterhooks. George's sister had professed unhappiness at her role and had tried to appear indignant: being used to break in an innocent young girl for four unscrupulous rogues who really should know better – and having her house used for this purpose into the bargain. But she had agreed to it without too much need of persuasion and they had not much doubt that in reality the idea appealed to her. For would not Emily herself be getting very much into the act?<br /><br />Yes Max and Alec and Algy were on tenterhooks all right. George was quite a long time although he had warned them that he might be, it was after all a longish drive and this chap might keep him a while chatting or might even force George to admire his stamps. And if the chap was giving you his girl, or loaning her to you, clearly you had to show a bit of courtesy. Yes. But there was inevitably the thought that George might take advantage of the situation and go in for a spot of dalliance, of stopping by the wayside, in some leafy woods of similar pleasant venue and indulge in a spot of unscheduled preliminary handling, viewing. George had stoutly denied any such intentions but one could see that nonetheless George would be subject to very great temptation. That was why they had suggested that someone might go with George but he had vigorously refused the offer.<br /><br />There were unfortunately no other girls in residence at George's sister's. Partly out of respect for Emily they had thought it proper not to bring any others along and also of course to be able to concentrate their whole attentions on this new Annabel. So there was quite a bit of sitting down and standing up again and walking to and fro and muttering about old George.<br /><br />But eventually mid afternoon, here it was, George's Rover crunching up the driveway. A bit of a stampede for the front door. Yes here was George and here also this Annabel. A rush to open the car door – and not the one on George's side. Oh yes indeed. George had not exaggerated. She was exactly as he had painted, a truly delicious specimen of budding girlhood, attired in a smart school uniform. White shirt, red tie, plum-coloured jersey, a grey pleated skirt. The plum jersey showing the most darling bumps at the front and she <strong><em>did</em></strong> have the most gorgeous pouting crushed-strawberry lips.<br /><br />Helped out of the car, with a no doubt innocent show of thigh, Annabel looked from one to the other. Had she been informed she would be staying with <strong><em>four</em></strong> gentlemen? Three in addition to this one, Uncle George as he was to be called, who had met them a week ago on the train and who had now driven her here. Who had also...<br /><br />George seemed a bit pink in the face. 'A lot of traffic,' he observed. 'And of course one can't rush away from a fellow. I mean not just a quick in-and-out.'<br /><br />They looked at George and then at Annabel. Could it possibly be what was known as a Freudian slip? George saw the ambiguity of his remark. 'I mean a fellow's <strong><em>house</em></strong>, you can't just go in and then come out again.'<br /><br />'Oh quite,' said Max. Anyway there was no point worrying about Freudian slips, George was here and more to the point so was Annabel. The cynosure of all eyes, all thoughts.<br /><br />She gave a shy smile and nodded that yes she had had a nice trip. The big blue eyes quite made your knees tremble. They showed no flicker at the fact that Uncle George hadn't quite told the truth. They <strong><em>had</em></strong> stopped, but Uncle George had said it would be their little secret, his and hers, and they would not tell the others. Uncle George <strong><em>hadn't</em></strong> stayed very long at all at her other uncle's, like he had said, and he <strong><em>had</em></strong> stopped on the way. In those woods.<br /><br />He simply hadn't been able to resist if George had really <strong><em>meant</em></strong> to come straight back but... it was rather like a boy left alone in a sweet shop and promising not to touch anything. Sooner or later there is nothing for it, he has to stick his finger in. The sweet jar. And so... 'Better have a rest,' George had said. 'Very tiring, business driving.'<br /><br />A nice peaceful spot in some woods, a nice sunny clearing and with that sun shining down George had thought it the most natural, sensible thing to suggest that Annabel do a bit of sunbathing. The big blue eyes had looked, questioning... and then she had obediently taken things off. Jersey and skirt. Shoes and socks. Tie and shirt. Quite devastating, almost impossibly so. George had felt quite faint for a moment. A thin tight white sleeveless vest with clearly nothing underneath except Annabel herself, and down below equally thin and tight white knickers. Oh yes, George had been quite overcome as he made her lie back on the car rug. The way the skin-tight knickers enclosed the young lady's person, especially that part of her person at the confluence of her thighs... George had not been able to take his eyes off it. You could see just about everything, at least in outline and then being so... well why not? Take them off,' he had said. 'Let the sun get properly at you. And the vest...'<br /><br />Oh no George had certainly not told the whole and absolute truth to his fellow Clubmates. But then as they say all's fair in love and war and matters regarding delicious young girls.<br /><br />'Where's Emily?' Max now inquired, eyeing the delicious morsel somewhat hungrily. George was getting her bag out of the boot, relieved that Annabel had not blurted anything out. You could never really tell with young persons, they were not always completely reliable. 'She's got to meet Emily,' added Max, looking around.<br /><br />She had indeed. It was Emily who was going to cane the daylights out of Annabel, so that she would come pleading for help and sanctuary. Which, at a price, they would provide. 'Emily!' called George. 'We've arrived you know.'<br /><br />Shortly that good lady appeared, smiling and welcoming. Not at all a frightening prospect, for Emily Maidment could be most charming when she felt so inclined. But on the other hand... She took Annabel's arm and led her in. Upstairs to show her her cosy room and then down again. 'We'll have some tea now, I expect you're feeling thirsty. Some nice home-made cake? And then of course we've got to get down to business.'<br /><br /><strong><em>Business</em></strong>. Had the young lady been appraised of that aspect of her visit? It rather seemed not. Her uncle had been preoccupied, as usual, with his stamps and Uncle George, well, Uncle George had been preoccupied with other things. Both en route and on the car rug in the woods. So it did come as something of a shock when after tea Emily – Miss Maidment to Annabel – appeared in her academic gown and in her hand a long and lissom cane. A sight that had struck terror into many a one such as Annabel at that well-known school whose name is perhaps best not repeated here.<br /><br />Annabel, fortified with cake and lemonade, looked with alarmed eyes. What was going on here? Emily Maidment's voice when she spoke was scarcely recognisable as that of the friendly hostess at the tea table.<br /><br />'Right, young lady, let's have some action, shall we? A little dose of what you've apparently been needing for some time.'<br /><br />No, Annabel could <strong><em>not</em></strong> believe her eyes – or her ears. 'What... what?'<br /><br />'My name is Miss Maidment, Annabel. Kindly use it when you address me.'<br /><br />To stress this point the cane whipped in and sliced across Annabel's calf. Sock-encased but nonetheless a telling stroke. A shocked and outraged yelp. Annabel did a little hopping dance.<br /><br />'Get your knickers off, Annabel. Pull your skirt up and then get up on that stool. And do it <strong><em>immediately</em></strong> or I shall get one of the gentlemen to take your knickers off for you.'<br /><br />They were none of them far away as this drama began to unfold in the old panelled hall. Keeping a distance, letting Emily take control but certainly not far away. Watching, listening, <strong><em>intently</em></strong>.<br /><br />'Ple...please,' protested the exquisite young thing. 'I haven't <strong><em>done</em></strong> anything.'<br /><br />'You have done a <strong><em>considerable amount</em></strong>, you defiant, unruly creature. Your uncle has listed a whole catalogue of offences and is at his wits end with you. Well I, young lady, am certainly not at <strong><em>my</em></strong> wits. Oh dear me no. <strong><em>Now get those knickers off!</em></strong>'<br /><br />Annabel looked desperately round, for Uncle George chiefly who when he had wanted something earlier had been so nice and friendly. George, though, had slunk away and was not now immediately in evidence. He was not far away, he certainly wanted to see Emily cane Annabel's bare bottom but he did not want to be the object of her pleading – when she might get the idea of threatening disclosure. Annabel could see Max though. '<strong><em>Please!</em></strong>' she cried in that direction. For to be ordered to take her knickers off. To get <strong><em>the cane</em></strong>.... was just about the most sick-making thing.<br /><br />'I'm sorry but Miss Maidment is in charge here, my dear. She had great experience in girls schools so I think we can safely leave matters in her hands.'<br /><br /><strong><em>'Off!'</em></strong> barked Emily once more.<br /><br />Awfully reluctant hands went up under the skirt. <strong><em>'Right off!!'</em></strong> commanded that authoritarian voice.<br /><br />'And now lift your skirt <strong><em>right up</em></strong>. I have some pins here.'<br /><br />Oh dear, could this be possible? Annabel's knickers were off and her skirt was being pinned high up above her waist.<br /><br /><strong><em>Oh my, oh my!</em></strong> Four pairs of hot male eyes absolutely feasting. Hands had come across in front to protect her privacy but undue modesty was surely not called for at this juncture.<br /><br />
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'Take those hands away; place them on your head,' ordered Emily who in spite of what she had said was not a spoil sport.<br /><br />
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<strong><em>Oh dear, oh dear!</em></strong> Just <strong><em>look</em></strong>. At <strong><em>that</em></strong>. Face red and hands on blonde head now but it was not the prettily blushing face they were all gazing at. George of course not for the first time but that had been more than an hour ago and he was as eager as the rest.<br /><br />
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<strong><em>Just look!</em></strong> You could actually see... well, in girls that age of course you not infrequently could. The central fisure peeping in its bushy grove. They looked... and looked.<br /><br />'Turn round,' commanded Emily when she felt they'd spent enough time looking at <strong><em>that</em></strong>. Turn and get up on the stool.'<br /><br />Was this any better Annabel's front view not now on show but of course her bottom was. Her bare bottom and all those men... Not to mention the fact that the stool hurt her legs.<br /><br />'Just stay there like that and don't move. Think of the error of your ways, my girl. I shall be back in 10 minutes and if I find you have moved <strong><em>an</em></strong> inch <strong><em>I shall cane you</em></strong> three time as hard.'<br /><br />
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Emily strode up the broad staircase. Max quickly signalled the others over, out of earshot of the kneeling girl. 'Right, let's get this organised. George, you go and tell Emily to make that 20 minutes. That'll give us five minutes each. Five minutes of, er, friendly private chat with the girl, get her settled down etc before Emily starts on her. Ok? The rest of us go into the drawing room. I'll keep time. OK? Who's first then?'<br /><br />Alec went first. What a supreme delight! A consoling, reassuring chat with the young person who is kneeling bare-bottomed on the stool with her hands on her head and who knows she's about to be caned – in this case for the very first time. Naturally when a fellow is having this chat his hand will be doing its bit to reassure that part of her that is about to be dealt with. And what a part this Annabel has! She is a little plump perhaps as George has observed, just a little. Especially this darling bottom. Firmly resilient. Trembling slightly as you handle it. As you give each cheek a little jiggle.<br /><br />
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'Is she going to hurt me?' whispered Annabel, that thought pressing even more heavily on her mind than what Alec's hand was doing. 'I'm rather afraid she is.' Alec experienced a sharp thrill of pleasure – and dug two fingers in between the tops of Annabel's thighs.<br /><br />She gave a high-pitched squeak. At the prospect, of the fingers.<br /><br />Twenty minutes of this and Annabel was already in something of a state. Because in fact rather than reassuring her they had made matters worse. The consoling hands at her bottom – not to mention elsewhere – had got her all hot and bothered. She was feeling almost sick with fright when once again there was the sound of Emily's firm tread on the oak stairs.<br /><br />
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'Right, young lady. Had a good think about your behaviour, have you?'<br /><br />
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It was all too much. Annabel began weeping.<br /><br />
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'Get down off there now. Stand facing the wall with your legs astride the stool. Keep your hands on your head.'<br /><br />'No!' the desperate young thing blurted. 'I can't... you.... can't... <strong><em>Aaaoooouuhh!</em></strong>'<br /><br />The cane without warning had sizzled in across that darling bum. Oh God! She stumbled down, almost falling, her legs stiff and clumsy. Struggling astride the stool. A really awful position to be in when you had no knickers on and your skirt was all pinned up. The four men, the four Guardians, all out in the hall now. Hovering, eager-eyed, just out of range of Emily's cane arc. Almost unable to contain themselves.<br /><br />
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Emily gave them a quick look. A schoolmistressy look which possibly spoke of overgrown schoolboys. And then was turning her attention to the quivering Annabel.<br /><br /><em><strong>Crack!...<br /><br />'Aaaaaiieeeeee!'</strong></em><br /><br />
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Sharp intakes of breath from the watchers. Emily <strong><em>could really</em></strong> lay it on. It fairly made one wince. Poor Annabel clearly in a frantic state, her mind, her stricken bum, seemingly unable to comprehend what had happened. The bum dancing and clenching, with a nice red stripe coming up.<br /><br />
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'Keep <strong><em>still</em></strong>, Annabel!' Emily's voice sharply cutting through the tense still air.<br /><br />
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<em><strong>Crackk!...<br /><br />'Aaaaaaaeeeeeoooowwww!'</strong></em><br /><br />* * * <br /><br />'Oh dear me. It quite made a chap shudder. That Emily!' Max's voice contained both awe and admiration; also the clear feeling that he himself would not have wanted to be in young Annabel's position. He took a sip of his g-and-t.<br /><br />There were the three of them in the drawing room: Max and Alec and Algernon. Emily was busy in the kitchen or somewhere. George? George was with Annabel. Up in her room, that is. As regards anything else one would have to be a fly on the wall or something. George had insisted that it was his right to be first and in spite of being a long-winded blatherer George <strong><em>could</em></strong> be insistent. The others had wanted to draw lots.<br /><br />'That George,' said Alec with a shake of his head. 'And he <strong><em>was</em></strong> an awful long time getting her here. When I go up I'm going to have a jolly good talk to her about that.'<br /><br />'Doesn't make much odds now, old boy,' said Max. 'Although of course I <strong><em>should</em></strong> like to know.' He raised his gaze to the ceiling. 'I wonder exactly what he's at right now? With the state she was in after old Emily had done with her you could imagine she'd be pretty, uh, complaisant. Hmmm. And there's old George getting first bite at the cherry. So to speak.'<br /><br />Max looked at his watch. The other three of them <strong><em>had</em></strong> drawn lots and Max had won so he was next. They had agreed on an hour each this first day. George had had 35 minutes now.<br /><br />Alec grinned. 'He might be telling her a nice bedtime story.'<br /><br />They all laughed. Somewhat frustrated laughs though. It <strong><em>was</em></strong> frustrating sitting there waiting. But still, you know it would be worth it.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-53691141593578386772012-06-09T10:42:00.000-07:002012-06-09T11:29:50.037-07:00The Bottom Drawer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Privilege Plus 12.</i><br />
<br />
<b>The Bottom Drawer</b><br />
by Sarah Veitch<br />
<br />
Ryka smiled as she selected the nightgown she would wear on her impending honeymoon. It was three long days till she married Thomas. Three days until her traditional English wedding took place! Again the Russian girl looked at the book on marriage customs which she'd bought, and read of lucky horseshoes and rice and confetti. It was all very different to the Russian village where she'd been raised.<br />
<br />
"What are you thinking, dear?" Thomas asked her now. He was a mature, intelligent man who, at thirty five, was fifteen years her senior. He'd been her boss at the translations publisher where she'd worked since coming to Britain two years before. Now she hoped he'd also be her boss in the master bedroom, for that was what she suspected she would most enjoy. Her mother had told her little of such intimate matters. So far Thomas had kissed and caressed her but he hadn't presumed...<br />
<br />
"I'm wondering which of your English customs you'll want to adopt on Saturday, and thinking of Russian wedding customs," she said, loving the strict smart lines of his formal suit. She so wanted to please.<br />
<br />
"I've heard of one old Russian custom," Thomas said slowly. His gaze seemed to become more assessing. "On her wedding night, the Russian bride would be told to choose from a pair of shoes which her bridegroom had left peeking out from under the marital bed. One of them was empty, the other contained a coiled whip." He smiled, then kissed the top of her head in an avuncular gesture. "If she chose the shoe with the whip, she got a taste of it right away."<br />
<br />
"And have you bought the shoes?" Ryka murmured, aware of a slight blush colouring her usually pale strong features.<br />
<br />
"I have," her fiancé murmured. "So now you must buy the whip." The next day Ryka shyly set off with a very special shopping list. Thomas had written down all the details. He walked determinedly by her side. "I will blush all the time that I'm doing this," she said.<br />
<br />
"But it will also excite you," Thomas answered. He took her hand and pressed it lightly. "I'll consider it an act of pure love."<br />
<br />
The first two words on the list read 'Riding Shop'. Thomas drove Ryka there and they entered the premises.<br />
<br />
"My mare's being skittish. I need a whip to calm her down," he said.<br />
<br />
The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow. "Obviously we're not in favour of excessive punishment."<br />
<br />
"Nor am I, sir," Thomas replied.<br />
<br />
The man brought a selection of whips and placed them in turn in Thomas's hands. He flicked each through the air, then handed them to Ryka. She fingered the knotted cords of nylon braid and new-cut leather. Finally she chose a fibre-glass dressage whip.<br />
<br />
"Shall I wrap it?" the assistant asked softly.<br />
<br />
Thomas ran the riding crop through his fingers. "No, I'll be using it very soon," he said with an anticipatory wink.<br />
<br />
The next item on the list read 'Cook's Store'.<br />
<br />
"At least they'll just think I'm going to be baking!" Ryka murmured. "Your bum will be baking if you're naughty," Thomas replied. Ryka blushed and dipped her head for a moment, then gave him a loving little kiss. She knew that men sometimes lovingly chastened their women as part of a consensual erotic arrangement. But hearing him talk like that – and imagining such discipline – still made her go red.<br />
<br />
The Cook's Store held everything an amateur chef might need. It also contained the implements which Ryka had been ordered to buy for her own small bottom. Nervously she selected a long wooden spatula and a paddle-sized wooden spoon. Again, Thomas said that there was no need to wrap the thick smooth punishers. "This gives a whole new meaning," he said, "to a girl setting up her bottom drawer!"<br />
<br />
Thirdly, Thomas drove her to the maths department of a large scholastic store. There Ryka examined wooden and plastic rulers. When no one was watching, Thomas swished first the plastic and then the wooden one against her skirt-clad cheeks.<br />
<br />
"Which hurt the most, love?" he asked consideringly.<br />
<br />
"The second one, I think!" Ryka stammered, thrown by the public nature of the lash. Her soft high bottom tingled and the curve between her legs gave an answering lurch. She put the plastic measurer back on the shelf then turned towards the counter.<br />
<br />
"Remember," he added, "that when you next feel the ruler you won't be wearing a skirt or underslip or pants."<br />
<br />
Finally they made their way to a very adult shop. The two men serving there obviously recognised Thomas.<br />
<br />
"Not got Liz with you?" one of them asked.<br />
<br />
"We broke up last year," Thomas said.<br />
<br />
"So what can we do for you?" the man continued.<br />
<br />
"Liz took all our equipment with her. Ryka's here to buy new stuff," Ryka's fiancé replied.<br />
<br />
And buy new stuff she did! Ryka dipped her head prettily as the men brought out long whippy canes and Scottish tawses and razor strops and laid them out on the long glass counter. The assistants whisked the thin rattans through the air to show her how they'd sound before they made contact with her completely bare bum. "This one leaves a thin red line, whereas this type creates a wide pink band which glows for longer," the oldest man said with relish. No wonder they called discipline the English vice!<br />
<br />
"I think we'd like this rattan," Ryka said nervously at last. She noticed Thomas looking longingly at the leather instruments. "And a four-tailed tawse," she added haltingly, glad to see lust and gratitude entering his eyes. Thomas put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.<br />
<br />
"I'll be firm with you," he whispered, "but I'll also be scrupulously fair."<br />
<br />
The wedding went well, and at last Ryka's honeymoon night began in earnest. She walked to the hotel's large bridal suite, wondering what awaited her therein. She'd never had full intimacy or even undressed before the opposite gender! And she'd no idea if she could bear the whip or ruler or the tawse.<br />
<br />
Thomas was already in the room, putting his suit jacket on a hanger. He rolled up his sleeves then smiled at her expectantly. "Ryka, would you like to choose a shoe?" he asked, indicating his new bride's side of the bed. Ryka looked down. Two black glossy toes peeped out at her. There was no way of telling which was empty and which was full.<br />
<br />
"I'll take the right one," she murmured, drawing it out.<br />
<br />
She saw immediately that it contained a small coiled whip, a sort of lightweight riding crop. Taking it from its lair, she handed it to Thomas then stepped back.<br />
<br />
"You can taste the whip or choose whichever implement you prefer," he offered. Remembering how he'd obviously liked the leather goods, Ryka opted for the four-tailed tawse.<br />
<br />
"Fetch it from the suitcase now, and bring it to me," Thomas ordered. He smiled more gently. "When we get home we'll keep such implements in your bottom drawer."<br />
<br />
"And will we use them often?" Ryka whispered, her trepidation increasing as the moment of her punishment drew nearer.<br />
<br />
"We'll use them whenever the situation warrants it," Thomas said. Then he smiled. "For now you're to be disciplined to maintain the old Russian custom. That is, because you chose the shoe with the disciplinary implement in it you'll get a taste of the tawse." He looked thoughtful, as if remembering her transgressions. "And I'm also going to chasten you for hesitating when it came to buying these self-same punishment tools."<br />
<br />
"I was shy about approaching the shopkeepers," Ryka murmured, with an apologetic wince. "I was uncertain."<br />
<br />
"Perhaps you'll be more certain when you've a hot sore bottom to sit on," her new husband said.<br />
<br />
Ryka looked nervously at him. Next, she looked down at the leather tawse she was still holding.<br />
<br />
"Hand me the implement and then lie on your tummy on the bed," Thomas bade. The Russian bride did so, her movements jerky. She wondered how she'd feel about what came next.<br />
<br />
"Lift your dress up above your waist," her spouse continued. Ryka reached her small ringed hands back and pulled at her hem until the ankle-length brocade skirt moved away from her haunches. She knew that her equally long petticoat still remained in place.<br />
<br />
"Now raise your underskirt," Thomas said. Ryka did so, then felt her husband adjusting the material so that it would stay folded over her back. "Which garment do you think comes off now, Ryka?" he murmured exultantly.<br />
<br />
"My panties, sir," Ryka said.<br />
<br />
There was a pause. Ryka reminded herself that she was married now, that such acts were allowable. Still she felt very vulnerable and a little scared. "Oh dear, I requested a bare bum and I'm still looking at a fully clothed bum," Thomas said softly. "I'll have to redden it more fully for failing to obey."<br />
<br />
"Please don't! It's not that I don't want to... It's just..." After a few more moments of internal struggle, Ryka slowly pulled down her lace-trimmed pants. She lay there on her tummy, knowing that her new husband was staring down at her newly-bared bottom. A bottom that had never before been tawsed or paddled or whipped.<br />
<br />
"Good girl," Thomas murmured. She felt the mattress give as he knelt on one side of the bed and pulled back one arm. Ryka knew without looking that that arm contained the tawse. "Would you like to count each stroke out loud and thank me for it?" he asked softly. Ryka nodded into the pillow, but didn't speak. "I'll have a verbal answer, if you please," her new spouse continued. "Good communication is vital between husband and wife."<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir," Ryka answered, her feelings of desire and degradation increasing. She pushed her legs more tightly together and waited for the lash to fall. Suddenly heat sizzled across both twitching buttocks. This was a veritable brand! This was lightning in the form of leather! Ryka gasped loudly and started to scramble up from the bed.<br />
<br />
"Going someplace?" Thomas asked.<br />
<br />
She looked at his face. It showed both sadness and disappointment. "N...no, sir," she gasped out.<br />
<br />
Slowly the girl flattened herself to the mattress again. Her hands fluttered by her waist, half wanting to cover her bare bottom.<br />
<br />
"Perhaps it would be easier if you gripped the lower rung of the headrest," her thoughtful spouse said. The Russian bride did. The tactile certainty of the wood somehow helped her to control herself. Still, she sucked in her breath as she waited for the second searing stroke.<br />
<br />
When it fell, it went lower than lash one. It licked the tender crease at the top of her thighs, and seemed to reverberate through to her belly. Ryka groaned and shook her hips from side to side.<br />
<br />
"Only four more to go," Thomas said, "then we'll move on to the second stage of your punishment."<br />
<br />
Registering his words, Ryka groaned again. She tried to avoid her next sore taste of the tawse.<br />
<br />
"I've accepted the tawse to please you, sir. Can't we go on to the Russian whipping custom?" She hoped that the whip would sting much less.<br />
<br />
"We probably could have," Thomas replied. "If you hadn't failed to obey me when I told you to take down your panties. That's why you're due six hard strokes of the tawse."<br />
<br />
Ryka nodded into the pillows. She knew that this thrashing would ultimately make her less coy, would help bring her womanly urges to the surface. Her fantasies had always been of dominant older men. That said, it still took lots of willpower for her to ask her spouse nicely for the third tawse lash. When it came, it scorched across the centre of her naked globes. All four leather tongues seemed to flicker out their smarting impact.<br />
<br />
"Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!" the Russian girl whimpered. She rolled wildly on to her back, both palms cupping her reddened bum.<br />
<br />
After rubbing her tender flesh for a few moments, she recovered herself and peeked curiously over at her man. He was still holding the tawse and was looking down at her impassively.<br />
<br />
"It hurts," Ryka said in a plaintive little voice.<br />
<br />
"Of course it hurts. It's punishment," her beloved answered.<br />
<br />
"But it's our wedding night. We should have... we should have pleasure," Ryka cut in.<br />
<br />
"And the pleasure will be all the more strong due to this bum-based stimulus," Thomas replied knowingly. He touched her in her most intimate place till she almost swooned with yearning. Desperate once more to please him she rolled back on to her tummy, presenting him with her hot red arse.<br />
<br />
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Her husband fondled that same arse for a moan-making moment whilst she forced herself to grip on to the bed's wooden headboard. Then he picked up the tawse and brought it down across her tendensed underswell. Before Ryka could cry out, he'd raised the punisher again and whacked it further up her jerking bottom. Then he placed the final stroke nearer the top of her heated bum.<br />
<br />
"Aaah!" Ryka gasped out. Her hands flew back to massage her rump cheeks, but her husband caught her wrists and held them away.<br />
<br />
"No, no, my dear. I want you to contemplate how vulnerable your bum is after it's felt the lash. You mustn't protect it."<br />
<br />
"Couldn't I just hold it for a second, sir?" Ryka whispered throatily.<br />
<br />
"No, but you can come and look at it in the mirror before it receives its whipping," Thomas said.<br />
<br />
Curious, Ryka started to rise up from the bed, obediently keeping her hands away from her bare buttocks. As she moved, her skirt and petticoats started to fall down. Helpfully, Thomas took hold of the hems and put them between her nervous fingers. "Keep them up above your waist, sweetheart. We want to be able to see the bottom that we're still chastising," he said.<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir," Ryka murmured hesitantly. Part of her wanted to see how crimson her virgin haunches were, to admire her own courage. The other part felt flustered and ashamed.<br />
<br />
With Thomas's hand on her upper arm, she marched towards the full-length mirror. There she turned so that her bare bottom faced the glass. Then Ryka took a deep breath and peeked over her shoulder at the chastened orbs.<br />
<br />
"They're really red, aren't they?" she whispered, feeling a sense of pride and self-discovery as she surveyed both scarlet hemispheres.<br />
<br />
"These little cheeks are about to get even redder," Thomas said.<br />
<br />
He walked over to where the whip lay coiled on the floor. Its clean dark lines looked sleek and almost pretty. "Would you like to kiss it, my dear?"<br />
<br />
Ryka nodded and pressed her lips slackly against the slender braid. "Shall I hold on to the bedrail again?" she muttered huskily.<br />
<br />
"I think so. But we'll put a pillow under your tummy first to make your bottom a more obvious target," her husband said.<br />
<br />
Ryka held her breath as he pushed a pillow in place. It tilted her body slightly so that her bum felt even more vulnerable. "Let's see how this works out," Thomas said. The Russian girl felt the bed move and the air currents change and knew that the first whip-stroke was imminent. She wondered how it would feel on already sensitised buttock-flesh.<br />
<br />
A moment later she knew that it felt incisively sore! She yelled and rubbed at her cheeks and shoved her belly into the bolster.<br />
<br />
"Oh dear. You touched your sore bum without permission; now I'll have to use another pillow," Thomas told her, voice holding a frown. Again the mattress moved, then the girl felt a second pillow being added to the first, raising her globes still further. A moment later she felt the whip connect with her tenderised rump again.<br />
<br />
"Aah! How many more?" she gasped out plaintively.<br />
<br />
"You mean, 'How many more, <b><i>sir</i></b>?'," Thomas corrected. "Respect goes so quickly from a marriage nowadays!"<br />
<br />
As if in answer, he applied the riding crop for the third sore time. Ryka howled and drummed her feet against the bed and puckered up the main muscles in her bottom. "Untense that bare arse! I like to whip a nice smooth canvas," her husband said.<br />
<br />
Pleasing him would ultimately mean more pleasure for herself so, with difficulty, Ryka obeyed him. She forced her bum to lie still, if not exactly relaxed. God, it was hot! She wanted to smooth cool body lotion into her twin rotundities. She wanted her man to kiss the pain away.<br />
<br />
But the kisses would come after the olde worlde Russian whipping. Ryka reminded herself that she'd agreed to this chastisement for their marriage's greater good.<br />
<br />
"Please use the whip on my haunches again, sir," she said raggedly.<br />
<br />
"Haunches is too coy a word for a married woman," Thomas said.<br />
<br />
Ryka twisted her head back to look at him. "I don't understand. What words do you... which words are proper?"<br />
<br />
"Say 'I've been a disobedient young wench, sir, and I deserve to get a red hot arse for causing trouble'," Thomas bade.<br />
<br />
Eyes downcast, Ryka repeated the words. They set up a fluttering in the secret core below her belly. She so wanted the initiation into womanhood to begin!<br />
<br />
"Yes, you're a naughty girl who won't escape whipping," Thomas continued, raising the riding crop. He flicked it against the crease where bum meets thigh. "Where do you think you should get the next lash?" he continued in a conversational voice.<br />
<br />
"Anywhere but there, sir!" Ryka replied fervently, still feeling the newest line of erotic anguish. Obligingly, Thomas applied the lash further up. At last he set down the whip and fondled her glowing small buttocks.<br />
<br />
"What should I use on you," he whispered, "the next time that you fail to please?"<br />
<br />
Ryka thought of the implements they'd bought so far and imagined their effect on her bare bottom. "The wooden spoon which doubles as a paddle, sir," she said excitedly.<br />
<br />
"And how will you be displayed for your punishment?" Thomas continued.<br />
<br />
"With a..." Ryka writhed about on her tummy, still loath to say the words. "With a completely bare arse."<br />
<br />
She felt Thomas's lips brush her hair. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant will you lie on the bed or bend over the dressing table or...?"<br />
<br />
Ryka envisaged various punitive options which all involved pulling down her pants. "Over the kitchen stool, sir," she said a little breathlessly, remembering the whipping-stools they'd seen in the adult shop.<br />
<br />
"And will you count each swish of the paddle out loud after you've received it?" her man continued.<br />
<br />
"Yes, sir. And I'll ask nicely for the next!" Ryka said.<br />
<br />
"Good girl," Thomas murmured. He turned her over and took her into his arms, his fingers caressing. And Ryka knew that she wouldn't have to ask for anything else.<br />
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</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-46471591572196889272012-06-08T07:56:00.000-07:002012-06-08T07:56:10.298-07:00Pre-War Spanks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Swish Vol.5 No.3.</em><br /><br /><strong>Pre-War Spanks</strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Was it really so different in the 30's. We think it was. So does the author of this – because she was really there, and has her birth certificate to prove it – though not the marks!</em></strong><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />I don't remember crying ever when I got the strap across my bottom. I wasn't the only one anyway. Sometimes I think that all girls – and many women, too – got it in those days, in the thirties. It was all so different then. Skirts were longer then. I think they created more of a mystery. Everyone wore stockings, and knickers were (let's face it) caressably silky. They covered your whole bum and it was somehow very sensuous to be caressed like that with a roaming hand right up under your skirt.<br /><br />When I look back it seems that spankings were always on Sundays. Maybe they weren't, but it was truly a day when the devil found things for hands to do. Nothing on the wireless on Sundays in those days – only dull music. No TV, of course, unless you were very well off and then the screen was tiny and dull like the programmes.<br /><br />The gramophone was the main thing. All those Crosby records, and the dance bands playing. Houses seemed more closed-in, too. Sure – I know that millions of the same houses still exist – but they DID have the feeling. It was something to do with brown and green paintwork, I suppose. There weren't many other colours then – or if there were they didn't get used in our house. The washing smells (all soapy) and cabbage smells added to it all. Darker stairs, too. More secrecy.<br /><br />Yes, there was – I'm sure there was more secrecy. One afternoon I went out to see a friend on a Sunday. She was the same age as me and we were both in jobs. She wasn't in, so I came back. I didn't mean to let myself in quietly, but then I heard the sound – a sort of whoo-hoooing sound coming from upstairs, and in between the little cries the noise of well-worn leather meeting a naked bottom. Yes – I knew all right.<br /><br />I inched my way up, all ready to cough at any moment. I needn't have bothered. It was my Aunt Helen – in the front bedroom. The door was almost wide open. Thinking it all safe, you see. I saw her naked bottom projecting over the edge of the double bed where she was kneeling, brown silk knickers wreathed around her ankles. I saw the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the arm rising and falling. I'd had that strap myself – a thick broad one. It came down lazily and it took you SMACK-CRACK! right across your bottom, and sometimes just under it where the bulge dips right in to the thighs. "Oh-woh, woh!" she was sobbing, as if her heart were fit to break. I could see the backward and forward movements of her hips as the leather surged in, lazy and burning.<br /><br />"Come on, Helen," I heard him say or sort of croak, rather. "No-oh-OH!" her moans came, but she wasn't making any movement to get off the bed or really avoid the strap. Then his voice went into a bark that I'd heard often before. "Yes – come ON!" he growled. "Ow-er! Ow-er! Ow-er!" came her response. She was about thirty then, Aunt Helen. Nice and round. Attractive. SLAP-CRACK! SLAP-CRA-AAAACK! "I told you I was going to, Helen, didn't I?" – "YEHESSSSS! OW-OOOH! You're doing it too hard, you are, OH!"<br /><br />I could only see her bottom in profile, though sometimes when it swung I could glimpse the cleft. Really I couldn't imagine her doing this or having her knickers down. It seemed impossible. What had she done? And why was she kneeling up and letting him? I mean, I was that naive, and old enough not to be. Blimey, I'd left school four years ago. I'd been strapped. Not like that, though.<br /><br />Her quivers, her shudders, her cries went on as that heavy strap curled full across her bottom. Real peaches and cream she looked. "T....T....Tom, you shouldn't............... sh....sh.....shouldn't...... stop now............. stop!" "I told you, I told you, Helen, I'd make a woman of you, the way he never will. You need it burned into you like this – LIFT IT!" "WHA-HA-HA-HAAAA!" her voice sobbed out. Every SLAP-SPLAT! sounded louder, but it always did with that strap. I'd had it across my knickered bottom a few times. The SPLAT! was worse than the sting, but it did burn. I was always wriggly for half an hour afterwards. They used to grin. They always seemed to know when I'd had it. My skirts used to crease easily, too. He always lifted them right up over my bum, saying if my stocking seams were straight or not. Things like that.<br /><br />The way it was, you see, in the house, was that I was able to creep up the stairs and, before I got to the top, turn almost right round and looked along the floor of the landing into the bedroom. Like I was doing now.<br /><br />I never had it so hard as she was getting it, nor for so long. It seemed impossible to me then. I could hear the bedsprings sighing and singing under her knees, on and on, SPLAT! CRACK! SPER-LATT! "YOO-YOOO-YOOO-YOOOOOH!" she was sobbing. Real sobs from deep down in her. Her bottom was really red – not an angry red, but burnished and polished. All the things I was going to learn about I was listening and seeing. Including what I couldn't believe.<br /><br />"All right, Helen, all right," he said in a quick tone. I saw the strap slide to the carpet and his hand go to his fly-buttons. Well, no – I didn't believe that at first. I hadn't exactly looked for a bulge there. "No, Tom," I heard her moan, she made to look round, to slide back off the bed (beds seemed higher in those days) but he gave her bottom a rare smack with his hand and she yelped and sobbed all in one voice. Then he got it out.<br /><br />I almost hid my eyes. Well that's a fib. I'm sure I didn't really. It reared up, all nine thick inches of it with the bulbous knob looking like a big plum that was likely to burst with ripeness any time. I remember putting that thought into those words, and right I was. Then he grabbed her hips and his cock waggled stiffly. "All right, Helen," he said like one might talk to a nervous horse. She bucked like a horse, too, would have got up, I swear, but he held her, leaning his weight forward over her back and fumbling, fumbling until his knob found her slit.<br /><br />"AH! you're juicy!" he groaned. Then a real "WHOO-OOOO!" came from her, and a silly, feeble, "Don't Tom, don't!" even though he'd already got it in and the wrigglings of her hips only excited him the more, I could see. "I've got you – all right, I've got you, Helen," he said in a voice as quiet as you like, and then he gave one heave of his buttocks and it was a knife going into butter all right. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-!" she sobbed and then her head hung down again and I could see her seared bottom pressing back despite herself while the thick shaft lodged itself inch by inch between her rolled lips.<br /><br />There was a glistening there, I could see. They were only about twelve or fourteen feet away and, if he had turned to look, I could have ducked my head down all right, I felt sure. Her bottom sank slowly right back into his hands around the suspendered fronts of her thighs and – OOOH! – right in.<br /><br />It was all sort of like a daze seeing it. Well, I've seen a blue movie or two in my days since then, but they were nothing like. Nothing like when you know the ones who are doing it, and doing it the way they were. "Oh, Tom – oh, Tom – oh, Tom," she kept moaning. "Didn't I tell you – didn't I tell you?" he was croaking. Then he began to pump her. My mouth was dry, my eyes glazed – but I was moist down in between all right, I heard the slaps of bottom to belly coming so loud to me – his skin white, her deep pink, his balls swinging.<br /><br />I was holding my breath – almost letting it go in an explosion of sound. I don't think they'd have heard if I had. When you're like that – and didn't I know it soon enough – there's scarcely anything seen or heard except what you're doing and enjoying.<br /><br />"Ah, you bitch, didn't you want this, need this?" he croaked. "Yes..... oh Tom...... you're naughty..... yes.... oh! oh my bottom!"<br /><br />"It's lovely for it, you know it is. I told you, Helen, told you five years ago and you wouldn't. Remember what your Dad used to say – strapping and threshing come together." – "OOOh, Tom, ah! Don't come! Ah, you bad man, I never had it like this before, you know I didn't." – "Time you did then, eh? Oh gawd, I'll come in a minute – are you coming – wriggle it, Helen – ah, my lovely, you've got a lovely one."<br /><br />Despite all her protesting and sobbing and moaning, she was surging and heaving it to him all right. That's what amazed me then, after the strapping she'd had, though I suppose I did get a funny distant feeling about how I felt when it scorched my knickers. Afterwards, I mean. There was a quick feel-up sometimes that I used to pretend hadn't happened. I was always sticky-wicky in the crotch of my knickers after a strapping, and my nipples always came up, too.<br /><br />I didn't stop to see any more. By the sound of their mutual gasps and noises there wasn't going to be much more anyway. I tiptoed down, trembling really and truly in every limb. The world had changed – life had changed. This is what people did. And enjoyed it. I did crazy things in my head like comparing that obvious pleasure with things like eating or going on holiday. Daft comparison, I know – but I was new to it. It was such an intensity of pleasure. But then, being stupid, I played a mischievous trick, going down the hall, opening the door quietly and banging it.<br /><br />What a scuffle came from up there! You can believe it. I heard Aunt Helen say "Oh God," and then "It's all down my stocking tops." Already then I knew I shouldn't have done it, but it was too late. I heard his mumblings to her, but not the words, and then he appeared, looking over the banisters, saying in a tight sort of voice, "Oh, it's you!" I said "Yes" back, quite merrily, but I must have blushed or something. He gave me such a long look. "Just coming down," he tried to say casually.<br /><br />I went in, took my jacket off and sat down. I felt awful really – didn't know how I was going to behave now in front of them. Then he came down and I could see it bulging still. I think that was my big mistake – looking – or glancing, anyway. He must have noticed. I never did it before. "Your aunt didn't feel well – lying down," he said. In a way that was his mistake because naturally I had to say. "Oh dear, I'll go up." He made a gesture with his arm to sort of stop me. Too late. I was up the stairs – a bit of the devil in me, I suppose.<br /><br />I don't know why on earth she didn't move any quicker. Frozen with embarrassment, I imagine. I stepped into the bedroom (forgetting I wasn't supposed to know which one) and she gave a cry, pushed her skirt down and grabbed at her fallen knicks at the same time. "Oh, Mary!" she said – half-relief, half not. I just said "Oh," but the trouble was, she guessed. Woman's instinct. I said "Oh, sorry – I thought you weren't well." I didn't mean to say it like that – a bit cheeky, I mean. It just came out that way.<br /><br />Anyway, sly-like, she bided her time and waited until evening when the three of us were alone in the house again. I heard her whispering to him. It sent sort of shivers through me. They were in the dining room. Then she came in the living room. "I s'pose you thought we were mucking about this afternoon," he said, all blustery and defensive. Made me mad. "You do what you like – I won't tell," I spat at him. Then she came in. "You see – I told you she knew," she said. It was her conscience made her say it. I was scared-angry, if you know what I mean. "Oh, belt up," I said. That did it.<br /><br />"Tom – you see to her," she said. I think it was embarrassment rather than anything else made him grab me. And as to Aunt Helen, I think she suddenly wanted to see it – it would salve her conscience maybe. She held me over the table while he upped and got my knickers down. I wriggled, strove, I couldn't get up. My skirt was bundled up above my hips, I had my best stockings and suspenders on, and I knew he was just staring. I twisted my face up and they were looking at each other.<br /><br />"Go on, Tom do her as you did me," she said. She swore afterwards she didn't mean it the way it came out, but that was a lie. An eternity later – ten, fifteen, twenty strokes later of that strap with my bottom like a brazier – I heard her hiss to him, "Go on – have her – you might as well."<br /><br />She says I made that up, that she couldn't stop him. I didn't. My tummy was pressed into the edge of the table. The first THWA-AAACK! came into me like a licking, leaping tongue of fire. "YA-HA-HA-HAAAR!" I sobbed, just the way she had – only she hadn't had someone holding her shoulders. "Oh, go on – hasn't she got a lovely bottom," I heard her say. "N.....n....n....n....NO!" I was howling even as it came in again. I'll never forget that biting burning of it – that first real one.<br /><br />"Oh god," I heard him croak. That was when he had a hard-on already. "I can't," he said. "Oh Tom, you fool," Aunt Helen hissed. She let me go. I wriggled up, cheeks flaming above and below and rushed out, leaving my knickers on the floor. It was like a tomb downstairs after that, except for the hissing of their quarrelling. She went back the next day, but bloody hell did I tell her a few things before she did – on the quiet.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />"Look – I'm sorry about that," he said while she was being seen off at the station. " 'S'all right," I muttered. I felt embarrassed, funny. He put his arm round my waist. I went to move away but I didn't. "You could have done – she was holding me," I said. The words came straight out of my mind really. I didn't mean to say them. He gave me a squeeze and I giggled. "You going upstairs at all?" he asked all awkward. "Dunno – why?" I muttered. Another squeeze. "Go on," he said. I knew we had half an hour at least. It was funny how neither of us had to say anything. It was just THERE.<br /><br />I didn't let him take my knicks down at first. Not until after the first whippy, searing four – me bent over my bed. "Yes?" he asked. I felt his thumbs dive into the waistband. I hunched up more. I didn't say anything. He drew them down slowly, feeling the silksmooth skin of my bottom all the time, like he knew he could now. "You'll be alright now – I can really give it to you now, can't I," he said. It wasn't a question. He was sort of talking to himself. The jellied cheeks of my naked bottom quivered and clenched as he stroked fire into them. It was crazy. Between strokes he would feel me up under and around my pouting slit and say "Sorry" each time! I was moist. He could feel I was moist.<br /><br />"Oh, Mary," he said after he'd done it several times. I was hardly making a sound. I had my eyes shut tight. The burning stings were too much sometimes, but I knew I wanted to take them like she had. I began to puff, to moan. I couldn't stop my hips swivelling. I was wicked, I was offering – he knew I was – all pouting and peeping was my pussy. I mewed and whined, thinking, "Oh god, do it yes, do it if you want to."<br /><br />But that was the irony. We got interrupted in turn. They came back early. He rushed into the bathroom, I made noises like I was clearing out my cupboard. If anyone had seen me – knicks kicked under the bed, skirt creased everywhere, and my bottom wriggling like I had fleas, they wouldn't have believed it. The frustration was awful.<br /><br />It was a whole week after that before I was strapped, pumped and creamed the way I wanted to be.........</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-44312122241070067172012-06-07T02:04:00.004-07:002012-06-07T02:04:58.809-07:00Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Janus 06.</em><br /><br /><strong>Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker</strong><br /><br />
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SWISH!!<br /><br />The cane descended in a blurred arc on the soft white buttocks poised over the edge of the bed. There was a moment's pause, then a white line appeared in the centre of the flawless cheeks, immediately to be replaced by a vivid red weal, split only by the deep division of the bottom.<br /><br />At the same time, a gasp of astonishment at the intensity of the pain escaped the lips of the pretty sufferer, to be followed by a loud wail; for this was the very first time that this particular bottom had felt the firm smack of discipline. Relentlessly, the second stroke followed the first, an inch or so below and exactly parallel. The sweet rotundities clenched together, as if seeking comfort from each other, where none was to be found. This time Monica, (for such was her name) let out a loud and pleading yell.<br /><br />'OWWWW! Oh please Simon, PLEASE No more NO MORE. I can't stand it.' But evidently Simon was not to be swayed by such heartfelt pleas for, waiting only until the tortured cheeks had relaxed, he delivered another well directed stroke just below the first two. This time her stockinged leg kicked up, and she tried to rise from the shameful position of pain, but a firm hand in the centre of her back held her in the humiliating posture.<br /><br />'Oh no OH NO NO! PLEASE NO MORE! I can't bear it.'<br /><br />'You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party,' he replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long yellow cane.<br /><br />'But I love you Simon, how can you hurt me so much?' For answer, he laid a particularly firm stroke across the lower curves of her bare bottom, and she screeched in agony; the tears shot out of her eyes and wet the bedcover. He seemed unmoved by her misery and continued to apply the stinging correction.<br /><br />She twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting fiery rod and her naked buttocks opened and closed in a most engaging manner as they tried to find some relief from the fierce pain of the chastising cane, but without success. At the same time her feet beat a tatoo of anguish on the floor, even though her knickers, which were around her knees, hampered her movements.<br /><br />But then a strange change began to come over her; the screams gave way to groans softer, yet deeper, and her frantic boundings became more regular and rhythmic, and her bottom seemed to rise to meet the challenge of the cane. He recognised what was happening, and began to change the strokes to a more rapid rate, but much gentler now and directed low down at the centre of her soft bottom.<br /><br />"Oh darling,' she breathed huskily, 'don't stop now, it's such a wonderful feeling. What's happening to me?'<br /><br />"Oh Simon. I'm coming. OH I'M COMING. OH! OH! OH! OHHH!'<br /><br />* * * *<br /><br />Well, it's a pleasant fantasy which I often have, and I expect others do too, and why not. But I think it is fantasy none the less. The idea that severe pain applied to the soft bare bottom of a pretty, but unwilling girl, for the very first time, will result in instant climax, seems to me to be very unlikely. Nevertheless, in a life dedicated with single-minded purpose to getting pretty round bottoms across my knees, for the mutual delight of a good spanking, I have quite often seen girls brought to climax solely by the studied, application of the bottom discipline; but this happy outcome has only been achieved after quite lengthy preparation and initiation. In my rather extensive experience, this delightful dénouement can only be reached via careful and cunning stages, and certainly not by sudden and unexpected severity; indeed anyone who tried it is more likely to end up in the Sunday Papers.<br /><br />However, it is obvious that many of us desire nothing so much, as to get a lovely and willing bottom across our knees for a prolonged and thorough spanking; yet many find it difficult to locate and initiate a happy 'victim'. As I have spent the greater part of thirty years in this delightful sport, perhaps my experiences may be of some assistance to likeminded smackbottomists who have not been as fortunate as me.<br /><br />I first developed this taste in an unexpected fashion. When I was about fifteen, I was very keen on horse riding, and during the summer holidays, when I was free from my housemaster's all too ready strap (but that is another story) I used to go riding nearly every day. It was during the summer holidays, that I had as my regular riding companion, a girl who was the daughter of the local vicar. He was friendly with my parents, and this was probably why we were allowed to go off together unescorted. No doubt, we were thought too respectable to get up to any mischief. How wrong events were to prove that judgement to be.<br /><br />The girl, whose name was Alison, was a year older than I, and she was strikingly beautiful. She had long blonde hair, vivid blue eyes, and a wide sensual mouth. But it was her body which caused me to fall instantly and completely in love with her. The sweet swelling breasts, the narrow waist, enchanted me. But what occupied my attention and all my thoughts, was her adorable bottom. From the narrow waist, it flared to the surprisingly wide hips, and the round cheeks seemed to me like the two halves of an apple, laid side by side. As we rode together, I used to ride slightly behind her, so that I could watch this divine object. Encased in tight jodhpurs, which were growing too small for Alison's widening dimensions, the broad behind rose and fell, opened and shut, in time with the rhythm of the canter. As for me, this delightful sight produced certain changes, which were particularly inconvenient on horseback.<br /><br />It was our habit to stop in a deserted woodland glen, at the end of our outward journey, to rest and eat our picnic. It was here too, that I first learned of the unpredictability of women, for instead of laughing at me, as I feared, she threw her arms about me, and kissed me hotly on the lips. This was the start of her slow but steady seduction of me. Each day she allowed me to progress a little further. First to caress her over her clothes; then to fondle her soft bare breasts; at last (with something of a struggle) to unbutton and draw down her straining jodhpurs. Beneath, she wore pink satin knickers reaching to mid thigh, where the tight elastic pinched into her soft flesh. These she stubbornly refused to allow me to remove, but I was content to run my hands over the satiny surface, paying particular attention to the astonishing rear swellings. So things continued for the next couple of weeks, with me unable to make any further progress towards my dishonourable objective.<br /><br />One day, she did not turn up for our daily ride; however, she appeared the following day as usual, but without any explanation. I noticed, as we rode along that she seemed uncomfortable and stiff in the saddle, unlike her usual fluid and graceful movements, which so fascinated me. When we came to our usual secret stopping place, she flung her arms around me, with extraordinary passion, and to my astonishment, began to cry bitterly. Eventually, the reason emerged.<br /><br />'Daddy whipped me yesterday.'<br /><br />'Good gracious, whatever for?' I asked, with a curious feeling of excitement.<br /><br />'I told a lie, and he got very angry.'<br /><br />'What did he whip you with?'<br /><br />'Oh, a horrid old cane he has.'<br /><br />'On your hand?' I asked, hardly daring to breathe.<br /><br />'Oh no. In my...' she hesitated. 'On my bottom; it's always on my bottom.'<br /><br />'Tell me about it,' I encouraged gently. I knew her family were strict, but I had never thought of this.<br /><br />'He got terribly cross when I told this little fib, and of course I denied it and things just got worse, and then he sent me upstairs to "get ready", and I know what that means only too well. I said I was too old to be treated like a child, but it was no use, his mind was made up, and I went miserably off upstairs. The routine is always the same. I have to put two pillows on the end of the bed, and then take off my skirt and let my knickers right down to my knees. Then I have to go and stand in the corner and think over my crimes. I stayed like that for about ten minutes, and then I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and I began to cry with fear. He came into the room, tapping the beastly cane against his leg.<br /><br />'Well, my girl,' he said, 'perhaps this will teach you to tell the truth. Get yourself across the bed, and try to take your whipping as befits a great big girl like you.' I begged and pleaded with him to let me off, but that only made him more angry. 'Get down at once, girl, or it will be the worse for you. Do you want extra strokes?' So I lay over the pillows at the end of the bed. He pulled the hem of my slip right up over my back, as if I wasn't bare enough already. Then I felt him lay the rod right across the centre of my behind.<br /><br />'Are you not ashamed of yourself, a great big girl like you. Having to lie in this disgraceful position, in such a state of undress, with your knickers down, and your backside bare, just like a naughty little child? Well, we shall see what a good dose of the cane can do to teach you that liars of any age deserve to be well chastised.' All the time, he was tapping the cane against my bottom. Suddenly, I felt the cane lift, there was a hiss, and I felt this incredible pain across both sides of my bottom. I shrieked and kicked, and tried to kick, but he held me down, with his hand in the small of my back. Before I could regain my breath, the cane swept down again and again, and I was lost in a blurr of agony. It is impossible to describe the feeling; it is like someone drawing a red-hot wire across one's flesh; it is simply not possible to believe that it is feasible to endure so much pain; but it is, all six strokes of it. And you have to lie there, and submit to it, for there is nothing else you can do. It was so painful that I don't think I had the breath to start weeping until he had finished.<br /><br />'Perhaps you will learn that I will not tolerate any daughter of mine being a liar, and next time you feel the devil tempting you, remember how you look now.'<br /><br />'With this, he left me, to take Evensong.'<br /><br />I listened in astonishment to her story, which had come out in a breathless rush. I put my arm about her, and tried to comfort her, but at the same time, I felt extremely excited, at the thought of this beautiful girl actually having to take down her knickers and have her divine bare bottom properly caned.<br /><br />'Poor thing,' I said, with every appearance of solicitude, but feeling a hypocrite at the same time. 'How could he be so cruel to my lovely Alison.'<br /><br />She came into my arms; soon her jodhpurs were down, though she winced as I pulled them over her broad sore buttocks. Nor did she make any protest this time, when I gently drew down her silky pink knickers. The sight that met my eyes remains clear to me today, and indeed, virtually determined the pattern of my life in the future, though I didn't know it then.<br /><br />The skin of her bottom was like satin, perfectly white, and almost translucent. In extraordinary contrast, the six weals stood out like red gashes, their edges sharply raised. Three of the weals were placed in perfect parallel, across the centre of the orbs, one more just across the lower curve of the bottom, and the fifth at the junction of the cheeks and the plump upper thighs. But the last had been layed diagonally across the other strokes from the top of the left hip, to low down on the right thigh; where it transected the other cuts. I concluded that her father took considerable pride in his handicraft. (I was too young to know the real reason, of course).<br /><br />Muttering false words of sympathy, I kissed gently down each etched line of agony, feeling the heat with my lips. She began to utter little cries, which at first I took to be due to pain, but they soon turned to groans of pleasure, obvious even to some one as inexperienced as myself. Soon we found ourselves fondling those forbidden parts, and it was not long before we entered our mutual heaven. That was the start of it, and each day we galloped to our secret hiding place, for me to caress and adore the scarred cheeks. But as the marks faded I noticed that our ardour was not quite so great as on the first occasion. Moreover, I missed the rosy glow in her cheeks. I determined to see if it were possible to bring it back!<br /><br />I began to find fault with her laughingly, and to pretend that I was cross with her. One day, I taxed her with not loving me enough.<br /><br />'You are very fickle,' I said, 'I am beginning to think that your father is right, and perhaps you need a good spanking from time to time to keep you in order.'<br /><br />I had determined to retreat, if this produced what would now be called a negative response.<br /><br />'Of course I love you,' she said, pouting slightly, 'but if you doubt my love, I suppose I had better let you prove it.' I was again surprised by her response, but delighted to seize the opportunity.<br /><br />We were standing, clasped in each others' arms, both with our jodhpurs well down, and as I spoke, I was gently running my hands over the silky spheres, on which I had such dishonourable designs.<br /><br />'Come my dear,' I said, assuming a tone of mock severity. 'Come, and lie across my knees, I am going to spank your naughty bottom well.'<br /><br />She took up my bantering tone, like an unwilling schoolgirl, summoned for punishment. 'How could you be so cruel; you pretend to love me, and yet you want to hurt me.'<br /><br />'It is because you have been so horrid to me, that I must chastise you. Over my knees at once, or I shall have to increase your punishment.'<br /><br />With mock reluctance, she laid herself across my thighs, as I sat on the grass, pressing herself against my throbbing staff. I pushed back her blouse hem, to expose her wonderful bottom, in all its soft glory. As usual, I was amazed and enthralled by its width and sweetly rounded contours, with the long deep cleft between the close set cheeks. After I had admired this splendid sight for a few moments, I wrapped my left arm around her slender waist, and rather hesitantly began to smack the swelling posteriors quite lightly with my hand. At first she sighed slightly at each stroke, but then began to move her bottom in a sort of circular motion, but made no attempt to turn away from the chastising hand. I, for my part, gazed with fascination as her divine white cheeks began to turn, at first, a charming pink, and then a more vivid red. I was rather surprised to see how clearly the marks of my fingers showed on the delicate surfaces, immediately after each smack, before blending into the more general redness, which suffused her breech. Each time my hand landed, I exulted in the softness of the satin surface, and felt it becoming increasingly hot, under the continuing assault.<br /><br />For her part, Alison's movements began to change from circular gyrations, to a much more vigorous back and forwards motion in time with the strokes. This caused her bottom to open and shut in a most seductive fashion. At the same time, although she had started to weep, her little cries turned to deeper and more breathless groans. Soon, she clenched her bottom cheeks together tightly, and began to utter a long continuous keening sound, which even some one as inexperienced as I was, recognised, and I at once stopped the rear tattoo. She lay gasping for a few moments, and then turned to look at me over her scarlet bottom, and said with a little smile. 'Now I'm rather glad I was a naughty girl!'<br /><br />Afterwards; our lovemaking brought us rapidly to ecstasy and satisfied exhaustion.<br /><br />There remained only ten days of our summer holiday left, but each day we hurried to our secret meeting place, and most days the delightful spanking episode was repeated. I knew when Alison wanted this, because she would commit some small fault, quite deliberately, in order that I would have an excise to put her across my knees and bare her lovely bottom for correction. We both went through the charade of pretended naughty girl being whipped for her own good, although, of course, we well recognised its true meaning.<br /><br />At the end of the summer, we vowed to meet again as soon as possible in the Christmas Holidays; and I lived through the school term, with the picture of Alison's lovely round spanked bottom for ever in my thoughts. Alas for my hopes. When I got home, my mother mentioned that Alison had left with her family for Northumberland, where her father had taken a new living. I never saw her again. But more than twenty-five years later, I saw a picture of her in the paper attending a church conference; the caption stated that she was the wife of one of our more trendy bishops. I wondered if he adhered to the biblical injunction about sparing the rod!</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-6742371259926558822012-06-06T03:55:00.000-07:002012-06-06T03:55:16.290-07:00Head Girl<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Roue 18.</em><br /><br /><strong>Head Girl</strong><br /><br />AS THE singing died away she got up from her seat among the school prefects and walked, <strong><em>clip-clop</em></strong> on the medium high heels which the Head allowed for Sixth Formers, along the front of the hall and then up the short flight of steps onto the stage. All eyes — well, all boys' eyes at least — focussed on those flexing bare calves beneath the thin summer uniform dress, for Gillian Blair, Head Girl at Greenfields Comprehensive, undoubtedly had a very shapely pair of legs. She stood in the centre of the stage ready to read out the various day's announcements as was customary at the completion of morning assembly.<br /><br />For most people the business of standing up there in front of the whole school would be quite an ordeal: all the eyes upon you — the girls, many of them envious, and the boys, well, undoubtedly quite a few enlivening the boredom of assembly by indulging in varied lustful thoughts about Gillian, for her physical attractions did not stop at those shapely legs: she was shapely all over, not least those swelling breasts pushing out the front of that crisp blue-flowered dress. And she moreover had a pertly pretty face to go with all this. But lustful or envious looks did not perturb Gillian, for she was a notably self-possessed young lady: poised, confident, intelligent, a sure prospect for university. No, speaking at assembly was purely routine.<br /><br />Well, that is to say it normally was. But today for some reason things were inexplicably different. She started off in a most un-Gillian like halting manner; then was seen to glance at the Head, sitting in his customary position on the left of the stage, and then she dried up completely. She stood there desperately for about half a minute, her face getting pinker and pinker, and then blurted out: 'I... I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten...' She stumbled off into the wings of the stage. The Head quickly followed her. Those near enough to see said she was crying and the Head was heard saying:<br /><br />'Really Gillian, you're just going to have to try and forget about it.'<br /><br />What a drama! The whole school was naturally agog. What had happened? What was happening? Who knew? Nobody seemed to know anything. Somebody must, though. The Head? And then the word spread round that something odd had been going on the previous day: Gillian and the Head going off in the afternoon on some mysterious errand. This only deepened the mystery, unless you were prepared to listen to Robert 'Nose' Parker (Five B): 'It's obvious. The Head took her out for a fuck and now she thinks she's got one in the oven.' This theory followed naturally from the premise, commonly stated by Parker-type elements in the Fourth and Fifth, that all girl prefects were 'fucked' by member of staff and that was how they got to be prefects. But the Parker theory and its premise were not widely believed — not even by those boys who eagerly repeated them. No, it must be something else.<br /><br />The Head knew all right, though both he and Gillian fervently hoped that no one else ever would. To Mr Kendall, Headmaster of Greenfields Comprehensive, it had been a most unfortunate, deeply regrettable, happening. And that of all people it should be Gillian Blair, one of the best girls the school had ever produced. Unbelievable, though of course this kind of thing did happen. The papers had cases all the time — including the most prominent people — but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Roger Kendall, 40 and young to be Headmaster of a large comprehensive, shook his head. He had told Gillian to go and work in the library: he would have another talk with her in half an hour when he'd dealt with his morning's correspondence. But try as he might he was unable to concentrate, his thoughts persistently returning to the unfortunate events of the previous two days.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />It had been Wednesday lunchtime when it had all started and really it was still almost impossible to believe that Gillian of all people had done it. But there was no doubt that she had. In Carter's, the old family firm of office suppliers and stationers in the town centre. Where Gillian had been seen by one of the assistants to pick up an expensive Parker pen and after nervously looking around had slipped it into her blazer pocket. The assistant told Mr Carter and as Gillian walked out of the shop she had been apprehended.<br /><br />As Gillian had tearfully told the Head later, she had just no idea what impelled her to do it; she had never even thought of such a thing before, and if she really wanted the pen she could easily have bought it, for she had a not-ungenerous allowance from her parents. A fresh outburst of tears at the thought of her parents and what they would think if they heard about it. And not just her parents of course but the whole public humiliation.<br /><br />Because Mr Carter wanted, if not blood, then certainly full and proper retribution. According to him shoplifting was halving his profits and now he had caught someone red-handed he had every intention of making an example of the culprit, whether or not she happened to be Head Girl of Greenfields Comprehensive. 'It's just another example of the way this country's going to the dogs,' he ranted at the Head. 'And you in your position, Kendall, are personally responsible.'<br /><br />For sure, Wednesday afternoon had not been the easiest time of the Head's career. First the turbulent meeting in his study with Carter, then the phone calls, followed by both of them driving over to the home of Major Fortnum, Chairman of the local magistrates. A further harrowing meeting at which he pleaded desperately about Gillian's position: the coming A Levels, the possible effects on her whole University career. Not to mention the position of the school itself. And finally he won his way. The incident could be treated confidentially — hushed up, in other words. At a price of course.<br /><br />The price? Paid the next day, Thursday, yesterday afternoon in fact, at Major Fortnum's. Tight-lipped and not liking what had been decided or his role in it one little bit, the Head had driven Gillian over there for the 2 o'clock meeting. She was naturally in a bit of a state, wondering what would happen; for she had not yet been told, only that the Head thought they could probably keep it quiet. 'You will not find it pleasant, though.' She bit her lip, with difficulty holding back the tears. That morning, after assembly, she had broken down, weeping, when he had lectured her on what had happened. At assembly itself it had fortunately been the turn of the Head Boy to perform and not Gillian — for really she was in no state to do it.<br /><br />The drive over to Major Fortnum's house, neither of them speaking, and neither of them speaking as they stepped out of the car and were ushered in by the housekeeper, was all a bit like attending a funeral. The Head for some reason was carrying his overcoat, in a funny kind of way, almost as if it were concealing something. But Gillian was too preoccupied to reason it out.<br /><br />They were led into the Major's study where he and Mr Carter were already waiting. The door closed quietly behind them. 'Right, young lady,' said the Major. Then to the Head: 'You've brought it, I assume, Kendall?' And then the Head shamefacedly drew from his folded overcoat what had indeed been concealed there — a longish thin whippy cane.<br /><br />Gillian blanched. She knew that the Head had a cane; but it was used only rarely and then of course only on boys, never girls. Surely they couldn't possibly propose to use it now... on <strong><em>her</em></strong>...<br /><br />She looked to the Head for words of reassurance but he was rather pointedly gazing out of the window. Fearfully she turned to the other two men. Mr Carter, who of course she'd already encountered — middle-aged, balding, who had ranted angrily at her yesterday. Yes, he was quite capable... But Major Fortnum — 60 perhaps, tall and distinguished-looking with silver-grey hair? He was Chairman of the Magistrates and there were rules, and therefore <strong><em>surely</em></strong> he couldn't agree to such a thing.<br /><br />What had been proposed by Mr Carter, was indeed highly irregular as the Major knew only too well, and if it were ever to get into the papers (<em>Magistrate Canes Teenage Girl</em>) well, it didn't bear thinking about. But the whole object of the exercise was to avoid publicity. If she chose this rather than the due process of the law, well, so be it. He gazed impassively back at the frightened-looking girl in the thin summer dress and blazer. His eyes said nothing. His thoughts said that here was a very tasty young piece: his task was going to be... highly stimulating.<br /><br />'Your Headmaster has explained the situation to you, Miss Blair?'<br /><br />He hadn't, of course. He just hadn't felt able to tell her, it had been bad enough having to bring the cane. 'No, I... I thought it best if you explained the options, Major.'<br /><br />The Major glanced briefly over at the Head (a look which clearly said that he had shirked his responsibility), then placing the cane carefully on his desk and assuming a bland neutral expression he led off in his best Chairman-of-the-Magistrates voice.<br /><br />Shoplifting — or more simply theft — could not be condoned, he said. Those who indulged in it must accept the full consequences: due process of the law. The Magistrates Court. The inevitable attendant publicity. All this was unavoidable if Mr Carter pressed his charges as he was fully entitled to do. However Mr Carter and he, the Major, were aware of the very unfortunate effects which the publicity could have for Gillian at this present time. And in the light of this Mr Carter would be prepared to drop the charges if a suitable alternative punishment was meted out.<br /><br />All eyes at this point were directed automatically at the cane lying ominously on the desk. There was no doubt what form the proposed alternative punishment would take. 'Yes,' said Major Fortnum, a <strong><em>suitable</em></strong> alternative.' The three of them were agreed that then the matter need go no further.<br /><br />Gillian stood immobile, head bowed, only her hands fiddling nervously with her blazer betraying her emotion, as what he had said sunk in. She knew, though, that she had no option but to accept. Her head still bowed, she said faintly: 'I... I'm to be caned then?' She stopped toying with the edge of her blazer and unhappily rubbed her hands together.<br /><br />Gillian's unconscious gesture was not lost on Major Fortnum: 'Yes, you will be caned, Miss. But not on your hand: on your bottom.'<br /><br />He paused to let this statement sink in, and then added: 'With your knickers down.'<br /><br />There had been a deathly hush, Gillian unable to believe what she had heard and indeed the men, including the Major, just a little stunned at the prospect.<br /><br />The Major broke the silence: 'I should perhaps say that if you accept a caning and then subsequently feel inclined to divulge what had happened we would all of course deny it, and I think it unlikely that you would be believed. Also if you don't accept and feel like revealing that the option of a caning was made to you we would deny that too. Anyway, as I say, it has to be your own choice. And that is the option.'<br /><br />He repeated, with emphasis: 'The cane on your bottom with your knickers down.'<br /><br />Gillian started weeping silently. At this point Mr Carter decided to intervene, perhaps afraid that sympathy for the girl might make the others look for some other, lesser, punishment. 'Well come on! I haven't got all day. If she agrees to it let's get it over.'<br /><br />'Right then, Miss Blair,' the Major said. 'If you agree please take off your jacket and we will proceed.'<br /><br />And proceed they did, for Gillian obviously had no choice. Abjectly she removed her blazer, to reveal the clear shape of those firm rounded breasts, contained in only a thin bra under the summer dress, which at Greenfields Comprehensive were so much admired by the boys, and indeed by most of the male staff. A slight pause as the eyes of both Major Fortnum and Mr Carter likewise registered admiration, then the Major indicated that she was to bend over his desk. She stepped forward and his hands guided her down until her face (and those breasts) were flat against the top. She was made to stretch out and grip the other side with both hands.<br /><br />Then the skirt of that blue flowered dress was ceremoniously pulled up and with it the white lace-edged waist-slip underneath. Long slim bare legs; and as the skirt and slip were pulled further up, up over her back, the rounded thighs and then the white nylon knickers tightly enclosing the rondures of her bottom. The Major's hands at the waistband of the knickers, fingers inserted, easing them down, down over those bare thighs to just above the knees...<br /><br />A tense silence fell in the room as three pairs of male eyes focused intently on the full pale rounded cheeks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of brown curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. A tense, electric silence... finally broken by the sound of the Major, now redfaced, clearing his throat as he reached for the cane. 'Kindly keep still, Miss. You will receive six strokes.'<br /><br />He stepped to the side and laid the cane testingly across the fullest part of her buttocks, making them jiggle. Then smoothly he raised it and brought it down with, to the Head's ears at least, quite a sickening <strong><em>Thwack!</em></strong> The girl gave a strangled gasping cry and jerked up off the desk. A bright red stripe had appeared across the centre of her bottom.<br /><br />'Hold her down please,' the Major curtly barked. Mr Carter sprang forward to push Gillian back down and this time keep her there with his hands pressed onto her back.<br /><br />'Good!' Unruffled he continued: <strong><em>Thwack!...</em></strong> a second stroke and a second stripe appeared across the bottom of the now sobbing girl.<br /><br /><strong><em>Thwack!...</em></strong> a third stripe across those desperately squirming cheeks...<br /><br /><strong><em>Thwack!...</em></strong><br /><br />The Head looked on, feeling definitely sick. He had never caned a girl himself, and never even a boy on the bare bottom and what was now happening... Well, it was just sickening. But nonetheless he found he couldn't look away, couldn't take his fascinated eyes off that soft pale flesh and the angry red stripes which one by one were being systematically imprinted on it.<br /><br />At last there was the stated complement of six. Major Fortnum put down the cane; Mr Carter relinquished his grip (then moving round behind the still bent-over girl was seen by the Head to quite deliberately slide one hand over her bare glowing behind). It was over. Gillian, sobbing, averting her eyes, got up, fumbled her knickers back up under her dress.<br /><br />Yes, it was over. Mr Carter had had the satisfaction of seeing the Head Girl at Greenfields caned on her bare bottom, and Major Fortnum had had the further satisfaction of actually doing it. The account was paid. The Major's clipped tones: 'Well, I think that concludes matters.' He looked at Gillian: 'And I'll just repeat that nothing of what has taken place here this afternoon will ever go beyond these four walls.'<br /><br />It had been a quarter to four. Silently, not knowing what to say, the Head had taken Gillian out, then driven her to her home where fortunately no one was yet in. He made her a cup of tea and stayed until she seemed at least to have got over the worst of it; then he left, telling her to phone him if she felt it would help. She had not phoned so he had assumed she was all right. But this morning's performance in assembly clearly indicated that she was not.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />He finally finished his correspondence and sent for Gillian to come to his study. It was the first time he had really had a chance to talk to her since he'd left her at four o'clock yesterday, and it was clear that she was if anything in a worse state than she'd been then. He put his arm round her waist in an avuncular manner and tried to reassure her. The caning was over and best forgotten. No one was ever going to know about it. But this merely precipitated another outburst of tears through which he could just about make out her saying: 'It's not just that.'<br /><br />He persevered, his arm still round that delectably slim waist, telling her that the only way, if she was worrying about something, was to talk about it. Finally, wiping her eyes, she said haltingly: 'Well all right. Talking won't make it any better, though. But... but last night I... I did something... really awful.'<br /><br />Mr Kendall was naturally at a complete loss. What now? Had she gone on a round of house-breaking or something? Gradually he coaxed it out of her. It wasn't housebreaking, but it was something just as completely out of character...<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />After the Head left her following her caning, Gillian had just sat brooding, doing nothing, letting what had happened go round and round in her head: the actual awful shock of that cane on her bottom, and perhaps even more the sheer humiliation of at 18 being bent over a desk and having her knickers taken down in front of three men. She brooded, and of course said nothing to her parents when they came in; and later barely touched her meal.<br /><br />She had been due to go to the cinema with her boyfriend, Kevin Goodall, but she just couldn't face him and rang to call it off saying she had a migraine. (Kevin, also in the Upper Sixth at Greenfields had queried her absence from school that afternoon and she invoked a migraine for that as well, saying she had gone home.) She went back to her room to sit once more just staring at the wall.<br /><br />But after a while she just couldn't stand it any more and felt she had to go out, and happened to see in the local paper that there was a disco on that evening. Discos were something neither she nor Kevin normally ever went to, but perhaps because of the mood she was in it had an appeal. Yes perhaps she would go there for an hour...<br /><br />She changed from her school dress into a skirt and blouse, and put on the pair of nylons and suspender belt she had recently bought (they were now, after years of tights, to a certain extent being worn again as something 'different'). She brushed her hair, then some lipstick, her high heels, and a coat; and went out. Unfortunately, though she didn't realise it, she had no knickers on: she had taken off the ones she had been wearing but in her distracted state had forgotten to put on another pair.<br /><br />However, what happened was not simply the result of having no knickers on: for with Gillian's state of mind it would in all likelihood have happened anyway. A state of mind in which together with the sense of humiliation there was the feeling that she had let everyone down; and together these combined to produce a state in which she didn't much care what happened to her. And so, in a distracted sort of way, she had let it happen... the two men, sales reps on an overnight stay, who happened to have turned up at the disco... not actually encouraging them but not discouraging them either, just acquiescing, numbly saying 'All right' when really she must have known where things would lead. Undoubtedly, though, the absence of knickers had an effect; an added stimulus to them when they realised, in the course of dancing with her, that she had none on. Well, a pretty girl, going alone to a disco and not wearing any... the conclusion was obvious. They could scarcely believe their luck.<br /><br />It had actually happened on the Common, a local lovers' haunt just outside the town, where they had driven Gillian after leaving the dance. Saying they would drive her home but first, as it was a warm evening, why not go for a little drive? Where was a nice quiet spot? Gillian, in the back seat with one of them, her mind further numbed by several drinks and weakly protesting at what her companion was doing, gave directions: she had been to the Common more than once with Kevin, on their bikes. Though definitely not to do what she was now to do with these two men nor indeed to allow what a hand was already doing to her in the car. For she and Kevin, unlike many teenagers, did not mess around indulging in sexual experimentation.<br /><br />Yes, Gillian was a virgin all right and had planned to stay that way until marriage. But clearly that was not now to be as they got out of the car and she was persuaded to sit, then lie, on the blanket which her companion produced from the car boot. A minimal amount of foreplay (a continuation of what had been happening in the back seat) and then he was on top of her; a firm sharp painful thrust, and Gillian was a virgin no more.<br /><br />Afterwards, when they'd finished, they drove her home. She went numbly to bed and it was only when she woke in the morning, with the worst of the shock from the caning now over, that she fully realised what she had done, or what she had allowed to be done, the night before.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Haltingly, tearfully, Gillian reluctantly told all this to the Head (or almost all, for she omitted the fact that she'd had no knickers on). He listened in silence, and when she'd finished just did not know what to say. Well, what could he say? As she continued crying he put one arm, then both arms, round her. And then he did think of something to say: the crucial question. Did she think she could be pregnant? Gillian shook her head. She had carefully understood and remembered her Sex Instruction Class. She was pretty sure it was her safe period. Well at least there was not that to worry about, thought Mr Kendall, as he did his best to comfort the unhappy girl. But as he did so, feeling her body, her breasts, soft but firm against him, he realised to his alarm that he was beginning to get an erection.<br /><br />Hastily he turned away and went to sit at his desk — where his errant organ continued its unfortunate enlargement, but at least did it unobserved. It was a development which really was <strong><em>most</em></strong> unfortunate, as the Head would have been the first to admit. The trouble was that she was such an attractive girl and what she had just recounted, while it was truly regrettable, was also, well, definitely arousing. He had very clear visions of Gillian, her long legs parted, underneath first one and then the other of those unprincipled men. And he also had vivid memories of earlier yesterday: her full pale bottom being caned over Major Fortnum's desk. Yes, it was all too much: a most unfortunate reaction indeed.<br /><br />He did his best to ignore it, as he continued to make sympathetic sounds. There was no point worrying about what had happened and she mustn't blame herself. It was not the end of the world. She would soon forget it, as she would likewise soon forget the caning. No use crying over spilt milk etc., etc. But while he was saying all this his hidden organ was remaining obstinately erect. And that part of his brain which had caused this by savouring the recent happenings was also producing most unfortunate thoughts. Really unacceptable ones.<br /><br />To the effect that what had happened in the last two days had placed his delectable Head Girl completely in his power. To do with as he wished. And what he wished, these thoughts were saying, was to do exactly what those two opportunist men had done last night. To fuck her, in fact.<br /><br />The decent, headmasterly side of his brain fought back. Such thoughts were disgraceful: it was quite deplorable that he should even contemplate having intercourse with his Head Girl. But that other side of his brain immediately countered: Don't be foolish, Kendall, you know you want it and you know she'll have to let you. And remember that Angela (his wife) will be going off to her mother's this weekend. There's your golden opportunity. Strike while the iron is hot.<br /><br />The Head seemed to be sweating somewhat. Still seated at his desk, (still in fact in a state of full erection) he mopped his brow: 'Gillian. Look, what you need is a good... I mean what you need is a change of scene. Why don't you come round to my place tomorrow afternoon. We'll have a nice chat... and some tea... I'm sure it'll make you feel a lot better.'<br /><br />He had said it in spite of himself. He hadn't really meant to but it had just come out. Perhaps she would decline, though.<br /><br />But no. Gillian looked doubtful and then, pushing back her hair from an unhappy face said: 'Oh, all right Sir. Thank you.' For one thing there was no one except the Head she could talk to about any of this. Not Kevin, not her parents, not anyone. And the Head was, well, very sympathetic. 'When should I come round Sir?'<br /><br />It was a question Mr Kendall did not hear as he was busy listening to the thoughts whizzing around in his own head. Thoughts as to how he would best accomplish his goal. A drink first, of course. Two drinks. And then should it be the settee. Or, let's face it, it would certainly be more enjoyable to actually do it in bed...<br /><br />Whatever he decided, he must use the rational approach. Point out that what had happened was not really such a dreadful thing: girls not infrequently started doing it at her age, or indeed younger. But once she had started it was advisable to continue, at least at a certain level of frequency. For the sake of her health, otherwise she could get very tense. At the same time it was not a good idea to think of starting it with her boyfriend — Kevin Goodall, was it? It could very well distract him from his studies.<br /><br />No, what she needed was an understanding, older man. That was the line to take. And if she wasn't convinced, well, he would just have to use a little pressure. Remind her (if she needed reminding) of what had happened these last two days and how unpleasant it would be if Kevin or her parents got to know about it all. Yes, that would certainly do the trick. But she was a sensible girl and probably he wouldn't need to much of this...<br /><br />'Sir?'<br /><br />'Oh... er, sorry Gillian. I wasn't really listening.'<br /><br />'I said what time should I come round, Sir?'<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Gradually all the excitement died down and by lunchtime Greenfields Comprehensive was more or less back to normal. Gillian herself, after her talk with the Head, though definitely not back to normal was putting a brave face on things, trying not to think about it all. The word had gone round that she simply hadn't been feeling well. Not that characters like 'Nose' Parker were going to be so easily put off. 'Morning sickness, I suppose,' was his comment on hearing this. 'Just goes to prove what I said. Old Kendall has got one in her oven.'<br /><br />It goes without saying that Parker was not Kevin Goodall's favourite character, for Kevin was all too familiar with the kind of dirt that individual liked to spread around. 'Really, I don't know why we can't get rid of shits like him,' he said angrily on hearing Nose's latest quote.<br /><br />Of course the school was stuck with him: the only thing you could do with such people was to ignore them, but it naturally made Kevin's blood boil to hear his girlfriend spoken of in such a manner — especially when she was such a super, decent sort of girl. The last girl in fact to get involved in anything at all. She and Kevin had discussed all that sort of thing — sex, emotions, etc. — in a sensible way and had both decided that sex was something properly kept for marriage. They naturally smooched a bit but only within strict limits. Yes, Gillian was just a super, sensible girl and when Kevin heard that Parker had come up with another of his prize statements, well, he felt like going and punching his head. Except that as a senior prefect you had to set an example.<br /><br />He had to admit, though, that Gillian's illness was a bit of a mystery. Because when he saw her at break she was very vague about it, although he could see that either she was still not feeling well or something was bothering her. Also it was decidedly unusual, when she hadn't been feeling well yesterday, for the Head to take time to personally drive her home, as he had apparently done. And now this business about tomorrow. He and Gillian had planned to go together on the local archaeological dig, as they had each Saturday for some weeks past; but now Gillian said she wouldn't be going. Naturally he could understand if she thought she might not be feeling well; but when pressed about it it turned out she was going round to Mr Kendall's, who had offered to help her with her French.<br /><br />Well it was unexpected, that was all. And if that turd Parker heard about it the news would be all over school, with the immediate Parker interpretation. Kevin bit his lip, imagining all too easily that unpleasant character's words: 'Kendall had Gillian Blair round to his house again on Saturday. For another cosy fuck.'<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Saturday afternoon, warm and sunny, the sky a cloudless blue; the sort of day when you should not have a care in the world, thought Gillian, as she set off on her bicycle for Mr Kendall's. Naturally after the last three days she was hardly quite in that happy state herself but she was in reasonable spirits as she pedalled along, bare thighs flashing under a skirt which refused to stay down.<br /><br />She had been round to Kevin's house in the morning and it hadn't been too bad. Of course she had felt desperately guilty, especially when they were kissing on the settee, but she managed to control herself and stop the tears coming. Because she knew she was just going to have to live with what had happened. She would have liked to be going with Kevin now: it would be really nice out at the dig on an afternoon like this but on the other hand another talk with the Head would probably do her good. Mr Kendall was right of course, there was no point crying over what had happened. She had been foolish, dreadfully foolish — and twice over — and none of it could be undone. But at least it was over and done with. She gave a sudden grab at her skirt as she noticed the look on the face of a man she passed. The gentleman in question was left gazing after her, blinking, still seeing in his head a sharply defined picture of bare creamy thighs and brief pink knickers.<br /><br />Anyway, blinking gentleman or not, we must hope that Gillian was right in thinking that it was over and finished with. As we know, though, she could at this moment be cycling towards more that she expected at Mr Kendall's house: because if the less admirable side of his character has gained the upper hand, as yesterday it seemed quite likely to do, then Gillian will be getting more than just tea and good advice.<br /><br />And there are additionally a couple of other as yet unseen clouds on Gillian's horizon. Small insignificant things, but the trouble with clouds is that you never know how they will develop. One such is that phone call to her home just a few minutes ago asking for her. From a certain Major Fortnum. On hearing that Gillian is out he has told her mother not to worry, he will call again later. Well, it could be nothing at all. Or it could on the other hand be that the Major so enjoyed caning Gillian on Thursday that he has in mind a repeat performance. (On reflection, six is definitely not sufficient for an 18-year-old girl. Another six. Kendall and Carter need not be present of course.) Well, we just don't know.<br /><br />That is Cloud No. 2 (No. 1 of course is Mr Kendall.) And there is also a Cloud No. 3, this one involving no other than our friend Robert Parker. Robert, or 'Nose' as he does not particularly like to be known, is this afternoon going out with his girlfriend. Quite a new girlfriend as he only met her a week ago. She is Mandy Brown, aged 16. Mandy just happens to work in Carters, Stationers and Office Suppliers, and moreover just happens to be the assistant who started everything by noticing Gillian put that Parker pen in her pocket.<br /><br />Things are not as bad as they might be because Mandy does not know what happened to Gillian after being caught, only that the whole affair seems to have been hushed up and she herself has been instructed to say nothing to anyone. So our friend should remain in ignorance. But it is a fact that 16-year-old girls are not always noted for keeping secrets, and there is also the obvious connection of a Parker pen and Robert Parker which just might trigger something. If he did find out, well, he is unfortunately the sort of person quite capable of using the threat of disclosure to blackmail Gillian into something decidedly unpleasant.<br /><br />Looking on the bright side though, the Parker cloud, and the Major Fortnum one, could well develop into nothing. The first cloud — Mr Kendall? Well, it must be admitted that this one does look a bit more ominous and it is now decidedly close. Gillian, not yet at Mr Kendall's house, can still see nothing of it; but she is quite rapidly approaching, pedalling and tugging at intervals at her skirt. Overhead the sky is still a clear light blue.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-10707848049618210062012-06-05T08:34:00.000-07:002012-06-05T22:41:43.014-07:00Moments in C.P. History. Number XIII-XIV<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>Moments in C.P. History</b><br />
A Series by Paul Melrose<br />
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<b>Number 11-13. ***</b><br />
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<i>I should explain something.<br /><br />In Februs in the 90s were published on 14 issues of this series. Alex in his blog in 2008 posted the edited version only 13 stories from 14. I, in turn, have only 9 original texts from the magazine. So it happened that I don't know in what order in the magazine were published texts from 11th to 13th, and I do not have one of these texts at all.<br /><br />I can only assume that this picture belongs to the missing issue:</i><br />
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<i>but I'm not sure in this.<br /><br />If I ever find the missing issue of this series, I am sure I'll post it in my blog and tell the visitors...</i><br />
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<b>Number 14. Martha Douglas* </b><i>(Original text from Februs 45)
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The United States, throughout its history, has long had a tradition of corporal punishment and even today, when 'civilised' Europe has made the use of beating illegal in prisons and schools, the US continues to exercise 'state's rights' in the application of corporal punishment, particularly in its schools, to both males and females should the public be perceived to favour it, thus there is no common policy across the country.<br />
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Why then, you may ask, is 'Moments' going back to the schoolrooms of the United States of nearly 200 years ago, to 1823 in fact, when CP is so prevalent in the country's schools today? Well the reason is that the case in point created a flurry of attention for a number of reasons and eventually led to a change in the law of the state concerned.<br />
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In the United States today, most of the states which allow school beating, in the form of the paddle, are in the deep south and, sadly, a disproportionate number of the recipients are black.<br />
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The case of Martha Douglas back in 1823 was very different both in the nature of the state, the background of the girl concerned and the nature of the punishment. She was a white girl, a middle-class grocer's daughter, well educated and living in Massachusetts, a state which, despite its notoriety during the witchcraft hearings, was regarded as civilised and 'decent'... a far cry from its 'country hicks' down south. The ripples from the Douglas case changed American perceptions for a time, the resultant furore and highlighted legal anomalies keeping the lawyers busy for a long time.<br />
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Martha Anne Douglas was born into a well to do household in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1805, an attractive and intelligent girl whose parents had always taught her to respect her elders, to be polite but to stand up for herself, honestly and firmly. The young girl took the words of her parents to heart and grew up to be a daughter of whom they could be proud. At the time of the incident in question, Martha Douglas was one month short of her 18th birthday, a young woman rather than a child, and already 'walking out' with a young man with marriage a distinct possibility in the not too distant future. Until then Martha had to behave like any other obedient schoolgirl studying hard for her examinations.<br />
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She was a keen and enthusiastic attendee at the Leonard Rushmore Public School in Cambridge where she received glowing reports of her attitude and application. Like most public schools the classes were mixed ones with boys and girls equally divided.<br />
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The school employed an English teacher named Jessica Stowe and rumour had it that Mrs Stowe was not over enamoured of Martha Douglas, considering the girl to be too smart, too ready with a quick answer and, in effect, a show off. Such feelings were maybe a recipe for what was to occur on the fateful day in May during Jessica Stowe's English class.<br />
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During her lesson, Mrs Stowe heard what she later described to a packed courtroom as whispering and giggling from behind her as she wrote on the blackboard. She also swore that the voice, which was unmistakable, belonged to Martha Douglas. She turned round and ordered Martha to walk out to the front of the class and extend the palm of her hand for one stroke of a thin cane.<br />
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It was now that the girl's parental advice, to be honest and stand up for herself, were to prove her undoing. Red-faced with embarrassment, the girl rose to her feet and said politely 'Ma'am I have done nothing to be punished for'. Aghast at this show of insolence, Jessica Stowe demanded that the girl come out to the front where the punishment would be increased to three strokes for her insubordination. Close to tears, Martha remained defiantly in her place and muttered 'With respect, Ma'am, no I will not! I am guilty of no offence'. The class was now buzzing for no pupil had dared to behave in this way before.<br />
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Jessica Stowe, while-faced with rage, stormed out of the classroom and returned some ten minutes later accompanied by the male Principal and two other male teachers. Whatever story Mrs Stowe had told must have been convincing because at the behest of the Principal, the two teachers grabbed Martha and dragged her kicking and screaming to the front of the class where she was forcibly stretched across the teacher's desk by one of the male helpers.<br />
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As the girl shrieked in horror and shame, the other teacher pulled up her long skirt and petticoats while the Principal untied the strings of her drawers and pulled them down, baring her bottom to the entire mixed class. Producing a birch rod, he then told Martha she would receive a punishment she would remember all her life, then delivered twelve scorching strokes of the birch to the girl's naked buttocks as she wept and squealed. When the punishment was over she was made to stand in the corner, red bottom on display for the rest of the lesson.<br />
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When the lesson was over, risking further punishment, the humiliated Martha fled from school and went home, collapsing in hysterics into the arms of her mother. When the facts were known and the damage inspected, Mrs Douglas sent for the magistrate. As a result the three male participants in the affair were arrested and charged with indecent abuse of a minor.<br />
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The court case lasted three weeks and the legal wrangles went back and forth as the prosecution argued that the laws of Massachusetts had clearly been broken in that the whipping of females on the bare buttocks was forbidden by statute. Defence lawyers argued that a school is 'a state within a state' where decrees affecting the judicial treatment of females do not apply. They argued that the school had a written constitution and a clearly evident corporal punishment policy.<br />
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The prosecution then replied that this did not cover the bare bottom punishment of pupils AND in full public view of the opposite sex too, that the teachers had exceeded their authority and committed a punishable offence. The defence replied that the corporal punishment policy was deliberately non specific in order to allow situations such as that of this 'unruly girl' to be dealt with in the appropriate manner and that all parents who valued the preservation of in loco parentis authority would support the action of the Principal and his staff. They argued that the laws of the Slate had no place in this matter and that, unless wilful and malicious cruelty could be proved, the school was within its rights to punish the girl as it saw fit.<br />
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The defence argument won the day and the three teachers were acquitted without a stain on their characters. The arguments about the decision raised hackies in the US press with the Conservative newspapers supporting the decision and the Liberals calling it an outrage.<br />
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Martha Douglas' parents appealed against the verdict but to no avail. They then sued privately and lost that too, the girl now forced to leave school after so much notoriety meant she could no longer expect to receive fair and unbiased treatment.<br />
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Although she lost the battle, in the long term, Martha Douglas and her family won the war, although a little late to save Martha from humiliation and indignity. The Massachusetts Senate, embarrassed by the adverse publicity, brought forward at its next sitting a bill which encompassed the State's public schools and which expressly forbade the corporal punishment of pupils of either sex on the naked buttocks either in public or in private.<br />
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*<i>This is the last in the series.</i></div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-34384195817726544362012-06-04T07:39:00.000-07:002012-06-04T07:39:37.129-07:00The Schooling of Lady Caroline<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Janus 11.</em><br /><br /><strong>The Schooling of Lady Caroline</strong><br /><br /><strong>PART ONE</strong><br /><br /><strong><em>The Victorians took their spanking seriously. How seriously can be appreciated from this sequence of letters discovered recently, which recount the strange events that led to a proud heiress receiving a vigorous bare-bottom birching at the hands of an indomitable suitor who simply wouldn't take no for an answer...</em></strong><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Cheyne Walk,<br />Chelsea, London.<br />p.m. 24th January, 1894<br />
<br />My Dear Cousin Rodney,<br /><br />Knowing full well how desirous you are of pressing your suit with the beautiful heiress Lady Caroline D'Arblay (despite her having rejected your every advance) I hasten to avert you at the earliest opportunity that on Friday 2nd February Lady Caroline, together with her maid, will be taking the morning train from Paddington to Birmingham, arriving at the Snow Hill terminus of the Great Western Railway at twenty-five minutes past eleven. On arrival at Snow Hill she will procure a hansom cab to carry her to the village of Tanworth-in-Arden, lying at the western extremity of the city, where she will spend several days at the country seat of her husband-presumptive, the Hon. Eustace Bateman, that effete though wealthy tea-broker. Her father, too, will be making a special journey down from Carlisle to be present for the occasion. For this precious piece of information I am indebted to that notorious gossip, Baroness Heyhoe! I doubt not but that you will make the fullest use of it, if your celebrated resourcefulness, initiative and audacity are anything to go by!<br /><br />Your friend and cousin,<br />Edgar.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Oakfield Road,<br />Tunbridge Wells,<br />Kent.<br />a.m. 27th January, 1894<br /><br />My Dear Edgar,<br /><br />Your timely intelligence gratefully received! Accordingly, an elderly widow of my acquaintance has placed at my disposal a modest secluded villa residence in a northern suburb of Birmingham.<br /><br />In a hired conveyance, with my man Higgs capped, mufflered and greatcoated – looking every inch the part of a Brummagem hackney-carriage driver, and yours truly similarly attired, we shall make every endeavour to intercept Lady Caroline and her maid as they emerge from the Snow Hill terminus at the time and dale you specified.<br /><br />Believe me, Edgar, I am in no mood to be trifled with! This is to be a 'do-or-die' venture. Lady Caroline has spurned my devoted attentions and thwarted my desires too long now for her to gaily exit from my life scot-free! She must and <strong><em>shall</em></strong> be brought to heel! Her entire life thus far has been lived in spoilt, pampered luxury – hence her deplorable tendency to play fast-and-loose with the affections of half the eligible bachelors in the kingdom! I tell you, Edgar, she shall be taught a lesson, even if it means taking my belt off to that precious, aristocratic rump of hers! Stern words and a firm hand may succeed where sweet blandishments and terms of endearment have so far signally failed.<br /><br />I solemnly stake my life, my reputation, and above all, my honour as an officer, on the successful outcome of this desperate business. I mean to <strong><em>make</em></strong> her love me, Edgar, and to that end have procured birch-rod and cane – in fact all the accoutrements of school-room discipline to assist me in my Grand Design! I shall emerge from this affair, dear cousin, either a broken man facing ruin, gaol, or worse – or else the proud possessor of a loving, devoted fiancée.<br /><br />Yours ever,<br />Rodney<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Cheyne Walk,<br />Chelsea, London.<br />p.m. 30th January, 1894<br /><br />My Dear Cousin Rodney,<br /><br />Intrigued yet alarmed by your plans. They are indeed desperate. I fear for the outcome. I hasten to add, however, that you may rest assured of my every assistance, should it be required. I expect – nay demand – a full and detailed account.<br /><br />God be with you in your hour of hazard!<br /><br />E.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Grosvenor Road,<br />Edgbaston,<br />Birmingham.<br />1st February, 1894.<br /><br />My Dear Edgar,<br /><br />Here we are safely billeted in Birmingham – a vast, teeming metropolis wholly devoted, it seems, to the noisy bangings and clatterings of the manufacturing trades that have helped to make our country great. The populace are coarse-tongued, drunken and dirty: the streets gloomy and inhospitable. To make matters worse, a swirling 'pea-souper' of a fog envelopes the city and shows no sign of abating – although this very same fog may yet prove our greatest ally in tomorrow's business!<br /><br />A cab is at our disposal; the house is well suited to our purpose – small and at some remove from the main thoroughfare. There are no servants apart from the housekeeper, whom we have liberally paid to stay away. The ground floor consists of a drawing room, dining room, breakfast room and kitchen – all with lockable doors. Upstairs there are three capacious bedrooms, similarly securable.<br /><br />The birch rods are soaking in the kitchen pail. My man Higgs informs me that he has met Lady Caroline's personal maid, Eliza Bradstock and, though buxom and well-informed, she is every bit as audacious a minx as her mistress! Accordingly I have counselled Higgs to follow my excellent example, spare her not, and lash the impudent baggage into a state of true contritionl<br /><br />Tomorrow, Edgar, is the day when the proud, haughty Lady Caroline D'Arblay and her maid Eliza will disappear from the face of the earth. How soon they re-appear will depend on how long it takes to break their intractable spirits!<br /><br />I am, dear Edgar, ever sensible of your goodwill and anxious solicitude!<br /><br />Yours as always,<br />Rodney<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Grosvenor Road,<br />Edgbaston,<br />Birmingham.<br />midnight, 4th February<br /><br />My Dear Edgar,<br /><br />All has gone according to plan, fulfilling my wildest expectations! At the appointed hour Higgs and I, disguised as cabbies, sat anxiously outside the rail terminus, awaiting the arrival of the London train. By an amazing stroke of good fortune the fog was at its thickest and there were only a handful of other cabs plying their trade. As the time grew near I despatched Higgs to sally forth into the main concourse of the terminus to secure the ladies' custom before another cabby was able to lay prior claim to our precious burden.<br /><br />Those minutes waiting alone in the fog, tending our cab, were the longest in my life! What if they slipped through our nets? What if they had missed the train, or decided to come by the other railway – the London Midland and Scotland, and thus arrive at New Street Station instead?<br /><br />But my fears were allayed when three figures materialised out of the swirling mist. The two ladies looked pale and fatigued after their journey – so much the better. Higgs installed them in the cab, secured their baggage, climbed aboard next to me, winked conspiratorially and urged the horse into a trot. Twenty minutes later we reached our destination. We escorted the ladies from the carriage; they seemed surprised that we had arrived so soon, since they had been told that Tanworth was a good hour's drive away. Lady Caroline looked about in growing bewilderment as she realized, despite the blanketing mist, that we had not left the environs of the city.<br /><br />'But this cannot be Tanworth!' she declared in annoyance. At that moment the muffler slipped from around my face. She recognised me and cried out in alarm: 'Sir Rodney! What on earth...?' but I seized her and carried her bodily up the steps to the front door, impervious to her shrill protests. Higgs dealt likewise with the indignantly squawking Eliza. Before the whole neighbourhood was roused, we were safely indoors.<br /><br />While Higgs bundled the vociferous Eliza up the thickly-carpeted stairs to the servants' floor, I removed Lady Caroline's cloak and hat and led her into the drawing room where a log fire was burning merrily. Without a word I lit the gas lamps and drew the velvet curtains, while my lady, pale but defiant, eyed me with suspicion and distrust. I motioned her to be seated, which she did with ill grace.<br /><br />'Lady Caroline,' I began firmly, 'there is much we have to discuss. I make no apologies for the manner in which I have brought you here – necessity compels it.' She listened with a kind of sulky attentiveness, a constrained expression on her face and her hands clasped nervously together in her lap. I could not help but feast my eyes on the splendour of her proud beauty – the exquisitely curled blonde tresses, the clear, deep blue eyes, the aristocratic nose and the firmly resolute yet undeniably sensual mouth. From her neck down to her ankles she was a shimmering study in blue – a lavender organdie gown that rustled when she walked, betraying the presence of several layers of frilled, starched petticoats beneath.<br /><br />'You have led me a merry dance!' I continued. 'You have thrise cruelly rejected my proposals of matrimony – wrung from the heart of your truest, most besotted admirer. Worse, you have frivolously – nay maliciously – broadcast the humiliating details of my scorned offers throughout every salon and drawing room in Society! I am not the kind of man to suffer the mortification of defeat lightly! Therefore I have brought you here – albeit against your wishes – to tender my proposals once more: Lady Caroline, will you make me the happiest of my sex and consent to be mine?'<br /><br />She drew herself up to her fullest height and, eyeing me with the utmost disdain, replied indignantly:<br /><br />'Surely, Sir Rodney, you cannot but be aware of the fact that I am now betrothed to the Hon. Eustace Bateman, a better man, in every respect, than you will ever be: where you are proud and cruel he is modest and kind; where you are rash and impetuous he is far-sighted and cautious. But were I unfortunate enough not to be betrothed to him, my answer, Sir Rodney, would still be the same. A thousand times no! Whatever respect I may have once held you in has been forfeited forever by the criminal way in which you have abducted me! I demand you release me here and now, and set me on the road to my friends and father!<br /><br />'Very well, Miss Caroline,' I continued, my patience sorely taxed, 'since you do not consent of your own free will, then it is up to me to make you! You must know that you are entirely at my mercy. To all intents and purposes you have vanished from the face of the earth – not a soul knows where you are! It is my intention to detain you here until such a time as you change your mind and consent to be my wife!'<br /><br />Her beautiful blue eyes blazed in fury and she tossed her pretty head in brave defiance.<br /><br />'Sir Rodney, I care not a fig for you, nor for your wicked, wicked designs!' She stamped her dainty foot in angry petulance. 'You may keep me here for as long as you wish. I swear I shall go to my grave a grey-haired old maid before I submit to...' But she broke off in amazement and horror as she heard the unmistakable sounds, coming from upstairs, of a loud and painful whipping in progress! Fleshy 'THWACKS', closely followed by shrill female cries of distress. Higgs had begun work on Eliza – he could not have timed it better had he tried!<br /><br />'Oh my God!' Lady Caroline exclaimed, half rising from the ottoman, 'what in heaven's name is that?' I simply smiled and made artful reference to 'the maid doubtless proving as recalcitrant as the mistress!' The veiled threat in this remark was not lost on my lady, and she sank back into the cushions, pale and agitated – obliged to bear oral witness to the lusty birching that Higgs was enthusiastically inflicting on the nether regions of her maid.<br /><br />The swishing, thwacking sounds proceeded at a steady interval, as did the fervent cries of the victim. My man was certainly going to it with a will! Eliza's gabbled protests and pleadings for mercy assailed our ears: Lady Caroline bit her lip and a deep crimson blush suffused her checks.<br /><br />'First he stripped her, then he whipped her!' I rejoiced facetiously, and commenced humming a popular air, while birch-blows and accompanying cries attained a frenzied pitch. I glanced at my lady. She had placed her hands over her delicate ears in an effort to obliterate the unseemly noises emanating from above: the disciplining of Eliza was evidently unsettling her lady-like sensibilities.<br /><br />The whipping and the cries ceased. This seemed an opportune moment to re-open negotiations with my now somewhat cowed captive. I approached her, gently but firmly took her hands away from her aristocratic ears, and repeated my demands.<br /><br />'My dear Lady Caroline, before a similar fate overtakes you,' (here she shuddered palpably) 'will you, or will you not, consent to be mine?'<br /><br />Steadfastly she returned my gaze and, her spirits rallying, murmured: 'Never! Never in a million years! Do your worst – I defy you!'<br /><br />'Very well,' I sighed solicitously, 'but first let me enlighten you as to where your stubborn wilfulness is leading you.' I went over to the open door and called up:<br /><br />'Higgs! Bring down the girl!'<br /><br />A moment later, footfalls could be heard descending the stairs, together with girlish snivellings and whimpers. Lady Caroline looked up from the ottoman as Higgs led in a weeping Eliza, clad only in chemise and black stockings gartered above the knees.<br /><br />'Oh please, oh please don't let them see me like this!' Eliza burbled amid her tears, vainly trying to conceal with her hands the black, bushy outcrop between her thighs.<br /><br />'Well now, Eliza!' I greeted her cordially. 'It pains me to see that you've been a naughty, disobedient girl! Tell your mistress what you have had to suffer at the hands of my servant in order to curb you of your waywardness.'<br /><br />'Oh ma'am! It were awful, ma'am! He b-birched me on my... my posterior!' she wailed, rubbing the afflicted parts. I asked Higgs whether the girl had shown true contrition. A broad grin creased my burly manservant's weather-beaten face. He spun Eliza round by the shoulders so that her rear view was shamelessly displayed, her chemise tucked up at the back and the broad amplitude of her naked, well-birched posterior on full show. It was indeed a sorry sight!<br /><br />Lady Caroline gasped in horror at the thin tracery of weals criss-crossing practically every inch of her maid's saucily plump buttocks and upper thighs.<br /><br />'Oh you brutes! You brutes! What have you done to her?' my lady cried in outrage. Her outburst prompted fresh floods of tears and lamentations from her maid. Clutching her emblazoned seat in both hands, in a vain endeavour to ease the throbbing smart, Eliza sobbed out a warning through her tears: 'Oh m'lady have a care! Don't provoke them, else they will treat you likewise!' I studied Lady Caroline's face in order to gauge the effect of these salutary words on her... but I saw imprinted on her fair features only obduracy and smouldering rebellion. The birching of Eliza had undoubtedly at first shaken and alarmed her; but the end result had only been to stiffen her resolve. I could not help but applaud her courage! I warmed to the ensuing battle of wills; she was in every respect a worthy adversary.<br /><br />Higgs, still flushed and perspiring from his exertions, enquired of me whether that would be all. The conspicuous bulge in the front of his breeches signified that, having delivered his attack on the rear of the enemy, he was now more than eager to force an entry via another quarter. His rough, calloused hand explored the dark, shadowy cleft between Eliza's haunches. He licked his lips in anticipatory pleasure and delivered a hearty smack to her bruised, burning rump, as he would to a prize filly. Eliza winced and trembled at the fresh onslaught. His hand resumed its former exploratory operation, and the excellent lubricity he encountered down there convinced him that she was indeed now ready for a rod of a different nature.<br /><br />'The bitch is in heat, milord!' he observed with a ribald chuckle, 'and the stud is eager to service her!'<br /><br />'Very well, Higgs,' I relented. 'Take her and fall to't! They do say a woman well whipped is at her hottest!' Higgs propelled the weeping, red-bottomed maid from the room with sharp swipes of encouragement to her blushing derriere.<br /><br />Once more I confronted my lady alone.<br /><br />'Lady Caroline, the choice is yours, and yours alone! Accede to my wishes and we'll be the happiest couple in Christendom – I swear to it: or else prepare yourself to be schooled by me! I warn you in advance that I am a stern, exacting tutor. Whatever prowess with a birch possesses, he acquired from me, by emulation, in the flogging academies of Albion Street!' <em>(Albion Street was notorious in the late nineteenth century for its whipping brothels, possibly frequented by Swinburne – <strong>Ed.</strong>)</em><br /><br />'Do thy worst,' she whispered through clenched teeth, 'I defy you for the blackguard and scoundrel you are!'<br /><br />Deeds, not words, were the order of the day.... Dear Cousin, it is past four in the morning and I faint for want of sleep. Fatigue and an ever-increasing drowsiness decree that I conclude herewith this already over-long epistle. I shall despatch Higgs with it to ensure it catches the morning post, and resume my narrative at the earliest opportunity.<br /><br />Your ever-loving cousin and friend,<br />R.<br />
<br />
* * *
<br /><br /><strong>PART TWO</strong><br /><br />Grosvenor Road,<br />Edgbaston,<br />Birmingham.<br />p.m. 6th February, 1894<br /><br />My Dear Edgar,<br /><br />A night at the music hall has only served but to confirm my worst suspicions of this provincial capital! For utter coarseness and vulgarity it is unsurpassed! Footpads abound and it is more dangerous to walk the streets here than it is in London. 'But pass the port and proceed with your tale!' do I hear you impatiently cry? Now, where was I? Ah yes...<br /><br />Without further ado I ordered her to remove her gown. 'And if I refuse, Sir Rodney?' she rejoined icily. There is no creature in this world, dear Edgar, more beautiful than a disdainful, obdurate young woman – of that I am convinced. Her brave words fanned my already enflamed passions – I burned to take her there and then! As for her refusal to disrobe, I merely warned her that if her flounced and be-ribboned, exquisitely cut Paris gown was not off her back within the minute – I would summon Higgs and together we would strip her forcibly! The threat was enough. Reluctantly she rose to her feet and commenced loosening the catches and buttons. With a silken hiss the organdie gown cascaded to the floor and Lady Caroline, growing paler by the second, stepped out of it, retrieved it, laid it out neatly over the ottoman, and then turned back to face me, clad only in her white layered outer petticoat, black stockings and gold-buckled, calf-leather shoes.<br /><br />'Now your petticoat please, my lady,' I instructed her. 'No place for false school-room modesty here! I am resolved to birch your impudent, bare backside until you beg for mercy!' and to demonstrate my intent I moved over to a brass ewer from whence I withdrew a sturdy bundle of birch rods that had been left conveniently soaking in brine. I swished them about vigorously to clear the drops of water that still clung to the buds. There were six switches, neatly peeled, with a black cloth tied around the handle end. It was evident to me that Lady Caroline had never viewed such an implement before in her life, let alone felt its admonishing kiss across the magnificent swell of her seat of learning, for she drew in breath sharply and gazed at it in wide-eyed alarm. 'Surely, Sir Rodney, you can't be intending to beat me with that cruel device? And with me in such a shameful state of dishabillee too? Is there no limit to your villainy... to take advantage, in such an utterly caddish manner, of a helpless, defenceless lady?'<br /><br />Ah Edgar, should you ever be blessed with the opportunity of whipping such a woman as she, then you will savour the full import of those immortal words of that illustrious Scot, Robert Louis Stevenson: 'To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is labour', because even before I had as much as laid a finger on her, the haughty, imperious Lady Caroline was beginning to quail perceptively at the mere idea of being visited by the birch! She had now doffed both her under-petticoats and stood before me, shyly vulnerable in her silken chemise and very pretty white batiste drawers that tightly hugged her proud womanly curves and finished at her knees, where they were lovingly secured with blue ribbons. A tempting morsel indeed with which to delight the jaded palate of even such an inveterate roué as I! The winsome garment clung to the upper reaches of her sturdy thighs and intimately delineated the swelling proturberance of her mound of venus. No gourmet had ever been served such an appetising dish as this! Impatiently I swished the birch against my thigh. A rich, deep-hued blush suffused her cheeks. In desperation she bartered for the retention of her drawers. She swore she would gladly suffer the severest discipline I could administer, if only she might be allowed to keep that one vestigial veil of modesty.<br /><br />'But Lady Caroline!' I bantered, 'as any little school-age minx will gladly tell you, all remedial treatment in the classroom is delivered to the naked seat! Now, do I have to call Higgs? Doubtless he'll not take kindly to being interrupted in the midst of his labours!' and my hand strayed towards the bell.<br /><br />Having perceived the futility of barter, my lady changed her tune to begging and pleading:<br /><br />'But... but in front of a man – it's not decent! It's shameful and immodest, and unbecoming to a lady!' Now real tears were glistening in her eyes. 'No man before has ever seen me in this state of disarray' (alluding to her undergarments) 'let alone the even more indecorous condition which you are proposing. <strong><em>That</em></strong> was to be a sight reserved for my husband alone!'<br /><br />'All the more reason, Lady Caroline, for you to gratefully accept my proposal of matrimony! That way, <strong><em>your</em></strong> honour will be safeguarded and <strong><em>mine</em></strong> wholly satisfied. Just say the word and I'll spare the rod, <strong><em>and</em></strong> your drawers into the bargain!'<br /><br />So fully aroused was I by the sight of my lady reduced to her chemise and drawers, and so fully resolved to soundly birch her into abject submission that, even had she recanted at this eleventh hour, I doubt I would have granted her the reprieve she so earnestly sought! But none was called for. Instead, my beautiful hostage tearfully reminded me that as she was already pledged to another, her only honourable course lay in the direction of preserving that pledge. (Did I detect a discernible weakening in her fortitude? The haughty contempt had certainly evaporated. But then, dear cousin, what maiden facing for the first time in her life the rigours of a bare-bottom birching can afford the luxury of disdain?)<br /><br />'It strikes me, Lady Caroline,' I opined helpfully, 'that you are well and truly impaled on the horns of a dilemma: either you forsake your pledge but retain your drawers, or else you retain your pledge but forsake your drawers! The former course of action will pain you morally, the latter physically. Am I right?'<br /><br />She nodded tearfully – a very different, chastised, Lady Caroline to the one who had defiantly entered the room an hour ago.<br /><br />'Am I also right in supposing that you elect to suffer the stings of the birch, rather than endure the stings of your conscience?' Again she nodded lachrymosely.<br /><br />'Then, my lady, what in heaven's name are we waiting for? Take down your drawers immediately and prepare yourself for the whipping you so thoroughly deserve!'<br /><br />The once-proud heiress, who had poured scorn on my name in every London salon, burst into choking sobs and desperately fumbled with the offending drawers. But even then she halted in her tracks, crying out in despair: 'I cannot! I just cannot! It's too shameful!'<br /><br />'Very well then,' I retorted implacably, 'since you refuse, I'll prepare you myself. Of course, that will mean extra strokes!' and I approached her with the intention of yanking down her drawers to below her knees.<br /><br />But with a cry of alarm, Caroline D'Arblay performed the shameful duty herself, pulling them down to her ankles and stepping out of them – heedless of the highly indecent spectacle she was making of herself. I feasted my eyes on the sturdy growth of blonde pubic bush, and on the unravished, virginal slit coyly hiding beneath. I bade her turn around, for I was eager to inspect the target area. She guessed my purpose and bit her lower lip in anguish, but nevertheless did as she was told.<br /><br />Her chemise ended where her back ended: her black silk stockings were gartered just above the knee. My lustful gaze lingered on her naked behind. Broad-cheeked and womanly, it jutted out in the most enticing manner, wobbling slightly whenever she moved. I measured the birch experimentally across the full width of her naked seat. She flinched to feel the sharp prickle of the buds. I turned it on its end and rubbed it teasingly up and down between the broad division of her cheeks. She shuddered and squirmed to feel it probe her cherished maidenhood. Then I rubbed and kneaded her trembling buttocks with my other hand. They felt deliciously warm and birch-worthy! I laughed out loud to think of that nincompoop, Bateman, fondly feeding on air: fantasising about the joys that I was palpably tasting! Joys he would never now know – for she was mine, all mine! A might of blazing birchings and furious fuckings would see to that! No woman is proof against such drastic medicine.<br /><br />With one hand still clutching the birch, and the other firmly grasping her round the middle, I guided her to the door and up the stairs to the master bedroom. I had taken pains to procure a small step-ladder, over which I made her bend. Her long blonde tresses fell in delicious disarray almost to the floor, concealing her face and the deep blush thereon. Her bottom was raised up at an almost grotesquely indecent angle. It struck me as being a comic parody of a schoolroom chastisement. The twenty-four year-old heiress's bottom was a trifle too well-fleshed and generously proportioned for a stripling schoolgirl's!<br /><br />During the preparations Lady Caroline had been mute to the point of sullenness, but when I measured the birch judicially across the width of her plump seat, she broke into fresh lamentations and tightened the muscles of her bottom, tensing her cheeks in agonised anticipation of the pain to follow.<br /><br />I brandished the birch high above my head, took careful aim, and delivered a whistling cut to the base of her saucy big behind. Lady Caroline uttered a stifled gasp as if she had just been doused with scalding water, squeezed her bare buttocks together even tighter to try to conceal her virgin charms, and emitted a strangled sob as she struggled against her bonds and endeavoured frantically to glance up at me. Her bottom writhed and convulsed as the sharp needle-like little buds did their work of leaving a pattern of tiny weals which soon merged into an all-over sanguine stain, incarnadining the whole surface of her well-endowed posterior. Before she had time to recover what little composure she possessed, I swished her again, hard, aiming for the plump rotundity of her right buttock cheek – causing it to redden up more fiercely than its neighbour. She flinched at the hissing, sibilant impact and gave a loud groan of despair. While she was yet struggling to regain her self control, I landed another stroke on the same spot with such force that she cried out:<br /><br />'Oh PLEASE no more! I beg you! No more! No more!' And she contorted her roseate backside in a series of vulgarly suggestive – though I hasten to add, totally involuntary – muscular spasms.<br /><br />'Keep still, Lady Caroline!' I warned her, obliged to raise my voice above the swelling tide of her sobs and wails, 'or else I shall aim for your legs!'<br /><br />'Oh you brute! You brute!' she shrieked hysterically. 'How can you go to such lengths to degrade a lady so?'<br /><br />'Lady Caroline,' I retorted wryly, 'from where I am standing I see no lady – only a wanton, shameless, bare-arsed trollop!' And with that I delivered two whooshing cuts, one after the other, to the smooth coppery crown of her left buttock so that it too, crimsoned and broke out in a rash of goose-pimples.<br /><br />Its pretty owner was now mewing and blubbering in abject submission. Try as she might, she was unable to keep her bottom still – it seemed to have taken on a life of its own. The pain of the birching was as nothing compared to the bitter mortification she felt at being made to appear to deliberately flaunt her well-birched bottom at her oppressor.<br /><br />Towards the end Lady Caroline abandoned all efforts at hiding her private parts from view. Her crimson, welted derriere danced hither and thither in a desperate attempt to evade the stinging torment of the flailing birch rods, and I was rewarded with uninterrupted vistas of her blonde pubic hairs, and of her unmistakably damp, fully engorged little fortress of love that I was soon to lay siege to. The helpless rudery of her frantic bottom-rolling; her once-proud, disdainful features now wet with tears, nostrils flaring (a sign, Edgar, of <strong><em>true</em></strong> contrition! ); the agonised biting of her lower lip, and, above all, the heaving sobs that shook her entire body and filled the room – all eloquently testified that the schooling of Lady Caroline had indeed been accomplished.<br /><br />No rebellious schoolgirl had ever suffered such a birching! Although I had taken care not to break the skin, there were angry purple blood-blisters forming in several places, notably on the sauciest prominence of both out-thrust cheeks. The over-all hue of her behind was that of pillar-box red – as though she had sat down on a hornets' nest; the criss-cross streaks and striations caused by the birch buds resembled an intricate cartographical design – a map of India, or maybe one of our lesser colonies in Africa!<br /><br />I then led the weeping girl, over to the bed (she went like a lamb, without protest), freed my erect, swollen member from its bursting confines and, with one bold thrust, breached her <strong>precious</strong> maidenhead. It proved to be an easy task since she was swollen and abundantly lubricated – the birch had seen to that. Her tender, enflamed buttocks made her agonisingly sensitive to every thrust I delivered, but though she flinched and grimaced several times during the early stages, she made no complaint and even returned my embraces with reciprocal fervour, as we bucked and cavorted our way to mutual bliss. We entered the gates of paradise many times that night before our spent bodies dissolved into the arms of sleep.<br /><br />Next morning over breakfast, with our servants as witness, a sore, chastened, yet thoroughly contented Lady Caroline gave verbal expression to what her body had so eagerly demonstrated the night before: she gave her consent, freely and unforced, to be mine forever!<br /><br />'Could I do but otherwise, Rodney dear!' she laughed teasingly, 'with the marks of your ownership so plainly, so embarrassingly, imprinted upon my private person!'<br /><br />I turned to our grinning, nudging servants, who seemed every whit as jovial as their master and mistress.<br /><br />'And have Higgs's disciplinary measures effected a cure in you, too?' I demanded of Eliza. But she blushed and hid her head coyly in remembrance of her well-whipped bottom on full display the night before. Proudly my manservant announced that I was in fact looking at the future Mrs Higgs!<br /><br />'You've made a good catch there, Higgs!' I congratulated him heartily. 'She's a comely, buxom wench – broad in the beam and thus excellently built for bearing you a dozen or more little Higgs! Treat her well – but never fail to whip her when she's contrary!' Eliza blushed and giggled as she and he respectfully left us to our own devices – he slapping her bottom all the way to the scullery, she laughing and shrieking encouragement.<br /><br />In deep contentment I regarded my radiant bride-to-be across the breakfast table. Our hands met over the marmalade.<br /><br />'Promise me, dearest one,' she appealed coyly, 'that you'll whip me too, whenever I am wicked?' She held her breath, waiting for my answer.<br /><br />'On one point, dear lady, you may rest assured!' came my merry reply. 'Ours shall be a household where the man is <strong><em>truly</em></strong> master – above, as well as below stairs!'<br /><br />Dear cousin — my cup runneth over! My pen leaps for joy! We are to be married secretly here in vulgar old Brummagem within the month... My lady assures me that her father will, given time, bless and approve our union – for she is the apple of his eye, his spoilt darling, and can do no wrong...<br /><br />My heartfelt thanks to you, dear, dear Edgar! Without your timely intelligence all this might never have come to pass. Hasten to join us! Your services are required as Best Man!<br /><br />Your loving cousin,<br />Rodney</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-91524890646990708042012-06-03T05:27:00.000-07:002012-06-03T05:40:09.648-07:00Valerie – as promised<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Blushes 07.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Valerie – as promised</b><br />
<br />
<i>The continuation of <a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2012/05/henrys-new-girl.html">the story of Valerie's 're-education'</a> at the hands of a certain Mr Fultonby.</i><br />
<br />
<b>THE NEW GIRL MEETS MR MIGGINS</b><br />
<br />
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'<b><i>Hey!</i></b> No touching, Mr Miggins. Anyway your hands must be quite filthy messing about with those pots.'<br />
<br />
In the potting shed in the corner of Mr Henry Fultonby's extensive gardens Cynthia Harlow was still sitting on the bench with one foot raised high to display the full extent of two slim and shapely legs, but as she spoke she pushed her skirt firmly down between the tops of her thighs thus closing off from view what Mr Bert Miggins had been raptly gazing at and indeed what he had now, lurching forward, attempted to get his hands on. What to be frank, Cynthia had been deliberately displaying to Mr Miggins' aroused eyes, namely that very essence of her young girlhood, that split peach, adorned with soft brown curls and with its outer lips parted by her spread-legged posture to reveal delectable and quite irresistable coral pink inner parts. All this, quite bare due to the absence of knickers was now abruptly covered up by the skirt.<br />
<br />
But the chances were that this most delicious part of Cynthia would soon once more be revealed and indeed made available. For she calculated that Mr Miggins was now sufficiently on the boil to be prepared to open his wallet and pay for certain esoteric pleasures. Naturally, though, a girl did not want hands which had come straight from cleaning out old plant pots to be in contact with that most intimate of parts.<br />
<br />
Hot-faced, Mr Miggins went to his sink and made a big show with soap and water, and then with a reasonably clean towel. Breathing somewhat like a panting dog he came back to Cynthia who made a quick inspection of the scrubbed hands.<br />
<br />
'I don't know that I should let you,' she pronounced coyly. 'And also you shouldn't want to do such things.'<br />
<br />
'Come on, young Cynthia,' urged the aroused gardener. 'You know you love it.'<br />
<br />
Cynthia would not admit to 'loving' it, certainly not to Mr Miggins, or indeed to that new girl Valerie or to Mr Fultonby who in any case were not privy to the fact that she permitted such intimacies from the gardener. But it did give her a nice tingle of excitement letting a member of the lower classes get his work-gnarled hands on her. The thought of what Mummy would think was really quite a turn-on.<br />
<br />
'How much're you going to give me?' she inquired sweetly. It is an unfortunate fact that some girls can get to know the value of what they've got at a very early age.<br />
<br />
'A pound,' ventured Bert Miggins, though not too hopeful that this would get him very far.<br />
<br />
'You've got to be <b><i>joking</i></b>, Mr Miggins; you won't get much of a feel for that I can tell you, I am not one of your common village girls, you know.'<br />
<br />
'Two pounds for the whole works then. With me 'and, I means.'<br />
<br />
Mr Miggins had better mean only his hand, he certainly would not be allowed anything else. Anything else could only be permitted to a proper gentleman, e.g., Mr Henry Fultonby. But yes, for £2 Mr Miggins might be allowed quite extended manual manipulations.<br />
<br />
'Let's have it first,' Cynthia stipulated, aware that if she waited until after Mr Miggins had had his pleasure he can easily claim to have no money on him.<br />
<br />
Two one-pound notes were handed over. Clutching them, Cynthia lay back on the bench and drew both legs up with raised knees spread in an abandoned manner. Mr Miggins, bending over her, pushed Cynthia's skirt back to her waist and slid an eager hand between silky thighs. Cynthia emitted an urgent gasp. Fingers explored and entered and then commenced a very expert massage. In no time at all Cynthia was grunting rhythmically and rocking her crotch against the busy fingers.<br />
<br />
A visitor from Mars, say, might be excused for asking why it was that Mr Miggins was paying for something which would seem to be at least as much for Cynthia's enjoyment as for his own – but that, happily or otherwise, is the way it can be with desirable young ladies. Cynthia's orgasm was not long in coming, for she had a short fuse when expertly handled and though Mr Bert Miggins might be a common gardener, nevertheless in certain areas he knew exactly what he was doing. Perhaps that is they mean by having 'green fingers.'<br />
<br />
When she was finished Cynthia pushed Mir Miggins' hand away. But Mr Fultonby's sturdy retainer was not yet ready to call it a day, complaining that he had not had his full £2's worth. He would, he said, finish up by giving Cynthia a little spanking.<br />
<br />
She protested but not too desperately as he moved to his chair and pulled her over his lap. Having your bare bum spanked by a member of the proletariat was also a turn-on, even though it could hurt. Cynthia wriggled and yelped, feeling Mr Miggins' throbbing bulge pressing urgently against her soft belly. The hand kept coming crisply down; and then by way of variety slid firmly in between her hot thighs.<br />
<br />
She gave a strangled yell, and immediately started thrusting rhythmically against the hand in much the same way as she had five minutes earlier when on her back on the bench. Cynthia climaxed, for the second time, just before Bert Miggins reached his own satisfying conclusion.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, in the house, Henry Fultonby had also just finished his first disciplinary session with the new girl, Valerie. The cane vigorously applied to her pertly pretty 16-year old bottom and then what, if you weren't used to it, was an equally breath-stopping massage afterwards. With a dismissive smack to her bottom, Valerie was told she could go outside until lunch time; she would probably find Cynthia somewhere out there. Quite devastated by what had happened, Valerie was only too eager to go. At least she would be away from Mr Fultonby.<br />
<br />
They met on the lawn, Cynthia feeling nice and sprightly, thank-you very much, and Valerie decidedly the worse for wear. Cynthia asked brightly about the caning which she knew the new girl would have had. 'When you're not used to it it can really make you feel sick, I know.'<br />
<br />
Valerie <b><i>did</i></b> feel sick. They sat under a magnificent copper beech tree. In the distance Mr Miggins was now to be seen dutifully trundling his wheel-barrow. Everything looked quite idyllic and it was really difficult to believe that those horrendous happenings had just taken place in Mr Fultonby's study. Considerately Cynthia offered to rub Valerie's bum for her. It would ease the soreness, she said. But Valerie said no thanks.<br />
<br />
'I 'spect he'll give you another one, before tea or just after,' Cynthia said helpfully. 'The softening-up process, like I said.'<br />
<br />
'Softening up for <b><i>what</i></b>?' asked Valerie.<br />
<br />
'Oh <b><i>you</i></b> know: <b><i>it</i></b>! What every man wants from a girl. Beasts, aren't they? Not Mr Fultonby of course, he's not a beast. But most of them. Mr Miggins for instance. Mr Miggins has very beastly instincts.'<br />
<br />
For the moment Valerie wasn't too worried about Mr Miggins and his instincts. It was Mr Fultonby. 'What about Mr Fultonby; what does <b><i>he</i></b> want?'<br />
<br />
'<b><i>It</i></b>. I told you.'<br />
<br />
Valerie's eyes widened as understanding dawned.<br />
<br />
'Yes,' said Cynthia. 'But like I say I wouldn't call it beastliness with Mr Fultonby. He's really super. You'll like it. Why, haven't you done it before?'<br />
<br />
'<b><i>No!</i></b>' gasped Valerie, who truly hadn't done it before; she hadn't even <b><i>thought</i></b> very much about doing it. Like Mummy said, as she conveniently forgot her own little lapses with 'Mr Smith' and others, doing <b><i>it</i></b> was for marriage and should definitely be kept for your husband.<br />
<br />
'It's very good for you,' stated Cynthia. 'Stops you getting spots or anything else. Yes, a girl should really be doing it by 16 for her health. It's a natural function; Mr Fultonby will tell you that.'<br />
<br />
Valerie could well believe Mr Fultonby would tell her anything to get what he wanted. And anyway she didn't have spots, her fair skin was quite free of any blemish. Cynthia's was too but what did that prove? With any luck Mummy would respond in a day or two to her plea to come home. <b><i>But before then...?</i></b><br />
<br />
They went into lunch, a salad prepared by Mrs Douglas who asked brightly, 'Had a good morning, girls?' Henry Fultonby greeted both his young guests by squeezing their bottoms, then said something to Cynthia which Valerie didn't catch. Cynthia licked her lips in a sexy way. Over lunch Mr Fultonby said he wanted to see Cynthia afterwards. Valerie, recalling what had just been said outside and also that sexy look of Cynthia's, felt her face colouring. Was Mr Fultonby going to do <b><i>it</i></b> to Cynthia again?<br />
<br />
Whatever he was going to do at least it wouldn't be <b><i>her</i></b> and so she was spared a bit longer from another awful caning. Mr Fultonby said Valerie was to help Mr Miggins. When their host left the table for a moment Cynthia rolled her eyes in a most suggestive way. Afterwards, before going off with Mr Fultonby, she managed a whisper, 'Remember: Mr Miggins has got <b><i>very</i></b> beastly instincts!'<br />
<br />
Valerie gulped out that surely he couldn't be worse – or even as bad – as Mr Fultonby, gentleman or not.<br />
<br />
'You'll probably find Mr Miggins in the potting shed, I shouldn't wonder,' advised Mrs Douglas.<br />
<br />
It was over in a far corner of the grounds screened by some shrubs. In less than 24 hours at Mr Fultonby's establishment Valerie had noticed the potting shed but had had no reason to go there before. A nice secluded little hidey-hole for Mr Miggins where he could do more or less what he wanted. Like, as we have seen, get his hands on his employer's young ladies. Now, after his lunchtime sandwiches, Bert Miggins was seated comfortably in his chair puffing at his pipe and serenely contemplating life – including the morning's encounter with Cynthia – when Valerie knocked at the door.<br />
<br />
He got smartly to his feet. The tentative nature of the knock made it unlikely to be anyone other than the new girl – whose acquaintance Bert Miggins had not yet made though he was eager to do so. Yes indeed! 'Come in!' he welcomed, a large and rustic-looking spider confronting a delicious young fly. 'Come in, Missy. You must be our new young girlie.'<br />
<br />
Valerie explained that she had been told to help. She stood hesitantly just inside the door. Here she was alone with this man who according to Cynthia had 'very beastly instincts', while she for her part was free of knickers under her dress – a fact which Mr Miggins could be very well aware of.<br />
<br />
Bert Miggins was indeed aware of this, for Mr Fultonby always insisted on the 'no knickers' rule when girls were about the house. He licked his lips: she was another very tasty specimen. You had to hand it to Mr Fultonby, he certainly knew how to find girlies.<br />
<br />
There was only one chair in Mr Miggins' hideaway – perhaps designedly so. He told Valerie he would have to explain what had to be done. He sat heavily down again on that one chair. And then told Valerie to sit on his lap.<br />
<br />
Valerie went red. 'Thank-you,' she stammered, 'I... I can stand.'<br />
<br />
'<b><i>Come 'ere</i></b>,' growled Mr Miggins in his most aggressive tones. 'You does what I tells 'e and no 'oity-toity nonsense, or Mr Fultonby'll 'ave 'is stick to that pretty bum again.'<br />
<br />
Unwilling to contest such an argument Valerie moved unhappily forward. Bert Miggins pulled her onto his lap – at the same time holding up her dress at the back. It was therefore Valerie's bare bottom which made intimate contact with Mr Miggins' somewhat work-grimed flannel trousers. She gave a startled yelp. This was <b><i>dreadful</i></b>! Mr Miggins pushed and pulled, getting her just right – so that the considerable bulge which had rapidly appeared in the front of his trousers fitted nicely to the declivity between bottom cheeks and tops of thighs.<br />
<br />
'<b><i>Please!</i></b>' pleaded Valerie weakly. It was all a bit overwhelming. At close quarters like this Mr Miggins had a very strong odour of pipe tobacco which if not entirely unpleasant did rather take your breath away. In addition to this there was what was happening – whatever it was – beneath her bottom. And in addition to that was the fact that Mr Miggins had straight away cupped two large sinewy hands round Valerie's pert breasts, protected as they were, if protected was the word, only by the thin material of her summery frock.<br />
<br />
Mr Miggins was saying something about plant pots but Valerie's head just wouldn't take it in, what with everything else. His hands were really squeezing her breasts and Mr Miggins was sort of rocking about. Then he abruptly pushed her to her feet, getting up himself as well. Still clutching her tightly from behind he propelled Valerie the two steps to the work bench. His hands left her breasts for a moment to reach for a flower pot and put it in Valerie's hands. These pots had to be cleaned out, it seemed. Valerie's head was still spinning round and round and it seemed that Mr Miggins' voice had a breathy excited edge to it now.<br />
<br />
As Valerie took hold of the pot Bert Miggins' hand went behind her and did something to the zip of his trousers. And then some other fumbling action in the same area. Red in the face, he again came tight up against Valerie's back where her dress was still up round her waist. Leaning over her, describing the pot cleaning operations, Mr Miggins' hands seemed to be everywhere, almost it seemed in front and behind at the same time. He seemed to be rocking himself against her again but Valerie's mind was still not working properly, almost as if the powerful tobacco odour had narcotized her, and she just wasn't sure <b><i>what</i></b> was happening. Then it seemed Mr Miggins made a sort of groaning sound and after that he let go of her and went over to the corner of the room where a sink was.<br />
<br />
With her mind clearing now, Valerie realised her dress was all rucked up at the back. She pulled it down, conscious that her bottom was bare. As she did so she felt she was all wet and sticky. It <b><i>was</i></b> hot in the potting shed and she must have been perspiring, she thought. She carried on cleaning out the pots as Mr Miggins had showed her. Miraculously he seemed to have suddenly stopped all that groping and rubbing up against her.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
In Henry Fultonby's bedroom the heavy curtains were drawn against the bright early afternoon sunshine but a slight gap in the centre near the top allowed a narrow shaft of light to enter, splitting the soft gloom. The ribbon of light crossed above the broad bed, where figures could dimly be seen in measured rhythmic motion, to produce a bright pool of light on the far side. The patch of light moved slowly with the earth's rotation but at 2.30 or thereabouts, when Valerie was being instructed in horticultural duties in the potting shed, it was impinging directly onto Henry's bedside table. Thus by chance brightly illuminated on the polished rosewood surface were a small jar and a little foil packet, broken open. Next to the table on the floor, but out of the bright beam of light and therefore not to be clearly seen, were a girl's crumpled summer dress and a pair of white high-heeled sandals. Also some items of male apparel.<br />
<br />
A girlish giggle from the centre of the broad bed. Then a likewise girlish voice: 'When's Valerie going to get this treatment, Mr Fultonby?'<br />
<br />
Henry Fultonby did not stop what he was doing. 'Don't you worry about Valerie, if you please, young lady.'<br />
<br />
* * * * * * * *<br />
<br />
<b>THE NEW GIRL LEARNS WHAT LIFE IS ALL ABOUT</b><br />
<br />
Four o'clock and the sun was still high in a cloudless blue sky over Lower Grindleham in the county of Suffolk. The two girls were once more lying on the grass in the shade of Henry Fultonby's splendid beech tree but the rest of the garden, shimmering in the heat, seemed deserted.<br />
<br />
'Old Miggins should be watering those plants,' pronounced Cynthia. 'Look, they're all wilting.'<br />
<br />
'No, I don't think you're supposed to water them in the hot sun,' said Valerie. 'It's too much of a shock. You wait till the evening and then do it. That's what my father told me.'<br />
<br />
Cynthia considered this information for a moment. 'I bet old Miggins doesn't water them in the evening either. Lazy old sod. He's only interested in one thing. Did he do anything particularly beastly to you in the potting shed?'<br />
<br />
Valerie's memory of events in the shed was a bit hazy. He had certainly made her sit on his lap and had squeezed her breasts in a not very nice way. And then at the work bench...<br />
<br />
She broke off her thoughts to listen to what Cynthia was saying. Describing what Mr Miggins had tried to do to <b><i>her</i></b>. Got her up against the work bench and pulled her skirt up at the back. She didn't have any knickers on, of course. Valerie listened in increasing horror as Cynthia went on to describe in graphic detail exactly what Mr Miggins had then attempted. She now saw her own experience in a new light; as if someone had suddenly wiped away mist from a window. Mr Miggins' hands, which had seemed capable of being both in front and behind Valerie at the same time... And that stickiness... Valerie felt suddenly sick.<br />
<br />
'Of course I pretty soon made him cut <b><i>that</i></b> out,' stated Cynthia primly. 'But that's what a lot of these men like Mr Miggins are like. Wanting to do all kinds of things to nice middle-class girls. You have to be on your guard.'<br />
<br />
Valerie felt like weeping. 'Should soon be teatime,' said Cynthia. 'I'm starving.'<br />
<br />
'D...d'you think that I... could have a bath?' queried Valerie doing her best to keep her voice firm.<br />
<br />
'Why not? Anyway tea might be a bit late if Mr Fultonby's taking a nap.' Cynthia gave a coarse laugh. 'Resting after the enjoyment of his pleasures.'<br />
<br />
Valerie certainly did not feel like pursuing that line of discussion. She got up. 'I... I think I'll have a quick bath. I feel all... all sticky,' she finished weakly.<br />
<br />
'It <b><i>is</i></b> sticky with all this heat,' Cynthia agreed. She lifted her skirt, flapping it up to her waist. 'But I'm also <b><i>starving</i></b>. Doing a certain thing makes me really hungry.'<br />
<br />
After tea, when Cynthia certainly showed a very healthy appetite, Mr Fultonby said he wanted to see Valerie again. Cynthia gave another eye-rolling performance behind his back. In his study Henry said, 'Time for another little disciplinary session I think, young lady.'<br />
<br />
Valerie protested that she hadn't done anything. Henry smilingly agreed that this might be so but the discipline was required for general improvement and was not aimed at a specific fault. 'Over these next few days you're going to need it quite regularly, my dear. After that, well, we'll see. But don't worry, it's quite normal.'<br />
<br />
<b><i>Don't worry!</i></b> All Valerie had to hang on to was the desperate hope that Mummy's letter might arrive tomorrow saying that she could come home and all this awful business would just be a bad memory. She clutched at this thought whilst she did as Mr Fultonby told her. Not up on the desk on her back this time, but almost as bad if not <b><i>as</i></b> bad. Kneel on a leather-covered stool, about 14 inches high, and put her hands down on the floor and then lower her body until her head was down on the carpet as well. Valerie was upside down with her bottom high in the air. Mr Fultonby flipped her dress back so that it fluttered down about her head. Cringingly she knew that her high-arched buttocks were quite bare.<br />
<br />
Henry reached out his hand gently to stroke the pale moons which still bore marks from the morning's caning. A choice young lady with a delectably choice bottom and Henry really could hardly wait for the full enjoyment of her. Indeed it had been the excited arousal generated by his morning caning of her which had necessitated calling Cynthia to his bedroom for that extra afternoon session. According to that young Miss Valerie was somewhat shy at the moment and that did seem to Henry to be a reasonably accurate assessment of the situation. But shyness, as he knew from much experience, could be overcome and then the pleasure was that much the greater. The cane was an extremely effective agent in overcoming shyness. The cane followed by a nice show of affection for the distressed recipient.<br />
<br />
And so in the pleasantly cool confines of his study Henry proceeded to apply his long thin rattan; to those firm pale globes and to the upper rear surfaces of the slimly rounded thighs. Nice fresh red stripes to go with the darkening ones of the morning. The delectable bottom jerked and bucked, not at all happy with what was happening to it, while from the blonde head down on the carpet came unhappy sounds. Sharp shrill yells and cries, and sniffling sobs. Henry's study had naturally seen and heard all this, or something very like it, many times before.<br />
<br />
With the rattan's work completed Henry pulled Valerie to her feet. The flowered dress fell back into position to cover that smarting bare bottom and at the same time reveal the tearful face. Henry drew the exquisitely distressed girl to him. Arms went round the shaking slim shoulders. Firm young pointed breasts, confined under the single thin layer, squashed deliciously against Henry's shirt front. One hand slipping down to gently play with those quivering rear quarters, Henry uttered words of comfort and solace.<br />
<br />
Later that evening over a game of scrabble, Cynthia asked, 'How's it going?' Mr Fultonby was in his study doing some writing. Valerie knew what Cynthia meant, not the game but the caning. She made a face. Her bottom still hurt horribly and she knew that for two pins she could burst into tears again.<br />
<br />
Cynthia said, 'Let him know that you're ready for it, then he'll stop caning you all the time. When he comes in to say goodnight give him a nice big sexy kiss. Stick your tongue in his mouth. Then he'll get the idea.'<br />
<br />
No doubt Mr Fultonby <b><i>would</i></b> get the idea but Valerie could not possibly see herself doing that. She had never kissed anyone like that, not man or boy, and the thought gave her goose-pimples. And besides she <b><i>wasn't</i></b> ready to do <b><i>it</i></b>. Mr Fultonby was not unattractive, for an older man, but the thought of doing it, even if it <b><i>did</i></b> stop the canings, was quite outside Valerie's orbit. Her only hope was that Mummy's letter would arrive tomorrow. She couldn't tell Cynthia that, though; she might tell Mr Fultonby.<br />
<br />
'I couldn't possibly do that,' Valerie said, meaning put her tongue in Mr Fultonby's mouth. 'And I don't <b><i>want</i></b> him to think I'm ready to do it because I'm <b><i>not</i></b>.'<br />
<br />
Cynthia shook her head. 'When you've had a few more canings I bet you change your mind. Anyway, doing it is what life is all about, isn't it? And you are old enough!' Smiling, she reached over and squeezed Valerie's knee. 'Would you like me to rub some cold cream on your bum? I've got some in my room.' Flushing, Valerie said no thanks.<br />
<br />
Mr Fultonby <b><i>did</i></b> come in to see Valerie later, coming into her room with a cup of cocoa when she had just got her pyjamas on and was about to get into bed. He said he had looked in to see if she was all right; then he made Valerie take her pyjama bottoms off again. For a moment she thought she was going to get her third caning of the day but that didn't happen as Mr Fultonby said he wanted to inspect Valerie's bottom. He sat on her bed and made her get over his lap, face down, as he had after that caning in the morning. Mr Fultonby ran his hand gently over Valerie's bare bottom, stroking it. And then he did what he had also done in the morning after the caning – put his hand between her legs and took hold of her.<br />
<br />
Valerie started crying. Not that what Mr Fultonby was now doing hurt because it didn't, but it was just too awful having his hand there and on top of everything else it was simply too much and all she <b><i>could</i></b> do was cry. As she cried Mr Fultonby's voice, soft and understanding of young females, told her to be a good girl and open her legs nicely. It was quite devastating what he was doing but it was also a relaxation from all the tension and Valerie couldn't help herself; she started reacting to it, her hips automatically rocking against Mr Fultonby's hand. She couldn't stop herself and that made it even worse and made her cry even more. She was sobbing and gasping as Mr Fultonby brought her to a climax.<br />
<br />
After she'd finished he stood her on her feet and put his arms round her. 'There, that was what we needed, wasn't it?' Mr Fultonby said. Valerie just went on sobbing.<br />
<br />
Mr Fultonby made her drink the cocoa he had brought and somehow she managed to get it down without choking. After that he helped Valerie into bed, then bent down and kissed her on the mouth. She remembered what Cynthia had said. Stick your tongue in his mouth. Valerie didn't do it but instead Mr Fultonby did it to her. Pushed his tongue between the soft trembling lips and right into her mouth. Valerie didn't resist, but for a moment thought she was going to choke just like with the cocoa.<br />
<br />
Valerie intended to get up early and get the post but she slept soundly – perhaps her body feeling it needed rest after all the excitement – and she was only woken at 9 o'clock by Cynthia bursting in shouting, 'Hey! A letter for you, lazy dog!'<br />
<br />
It was from Mummy all right, Valerie could recognise the writing. She grabbed it with trembling hands and tore it open. The words were at first a blur, her eyes reluctant to focus after the abrupt awakening. Then it cleared. Her mind put the words together. Valerie's heart started thumping. She re-read it.<br />
<br />
<i>Dearest Valerie,</i><br />
<br />
<i>Just a note. I don't know if you have written by now but as you see from the address I am not at home but staying with Mrs Carrington. I really felt I needed a short break, to relax. Anyway I expect you are having a really super time with Mr Fultonby who I believe has another girl staying, is that right? If so I expect the two of you can have a really splendid time. As regards Mr Fultonby I am writing to him separately to see if he would mind having you for three weeks. I really do need a rest, darling, as I said, and I am hopeful that Mr Fultonby can oblige. I understand he is usually very accommodating in such matters. Quite a Godsend actually.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Mrs Carrington is not on the phone, dearest, but you can of course write and I shall look forward to that. Be a good girl for Mr Fultonby, won't you, and do just as he tells you. And I'll look forward to seeing you in three weeks.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Love and kisses,</i><br />
<i>Your very loving Mother.</i><br />
<br />
It was impossible; quite quite impossible! The words again became blurred, this time because Valerie's eyes had filled with tears. The tears brimmed over and started trickling down her cheeks.<br />
<br />
'What <b><i>is</i></b> it, Val?' asked Cynthia sitting down beside her on the bed. Blubbering, Valerie managed to convey the horrendous news. Cynthia pushed her back onto the pillows and came down on top of her. 'Don't cry' she commiserated, and a pretty pink tongue came out to delicately lick away the salty tears from Valerie's face.<br />
<br />
'But now you'll <b><i>have</i></b> to be nice to Mr Fultonby,' Cynthia told Valerie between licks. 'I mean you can't take that sort of caning for <b><i>three weeks</i></b>.'<br />
<br />
Valerie's distress, confronted with this bleak prospect, became decidedly worse.<br />
<br />
Henry received his own missive from Mrs Hartnall by the same post and perused its contents with considerable pleasure. He would, naturally, be delighted to oblige, as he always did in such circumstances. Shortly afterwards he had a word with his delightful Cynthia and from that young lady learnt of Valerie's distress. It seemed the unhappy girl had been hoping to be summoned home immediately rather than hear of this proposed extension to her stay. Henry assumed a thoughtful air – while his hand absent-mindedly fondled Cynthia's bare bottom. Some further thought was accompanied by continued bottom fondling, an excellent stimulus to the mental processes. Finally Henry made a 'hmm' sound which might indicate a decision had been made, and gave the bottom a conclusive slap.<br />
<br />
'Send Valerie to see me, would you, Cynthia dear?'<br />
<br />
The girl was evidently shocked and distressed and it seemed to Henry that the proper course of action was encompassed in the time-honoured saying: <i>Strike while the iron is hot</i>. 'Strike' in this instance could be taken very literally.<br />
<br />
A smiling Henry informed the pretty young girl of the contents of her mother's letter. He would <b><i>naturally</i></b> be only too happy to oblige. Valerie looked as if a fresh flood of tears would appear at any moment. 'Among other things,' said Henry, 'three weeks will provide a nice extended period for your training – if that proves necessary of course.'<br />
<br />
'Now then,' he went on in brisker tones, 'I rather think it's time for another little session, don't you? Get up on the desk, my dear; on your back. Then lift your legs up and grip your knees, as you did yesterday.'<br />
<br />
Henry fetched the cane and, following the old adage, duly struck. Six nice crisp cuts to the up-ended bottom. There was a stimulating show of quite extreme unhappiness from the youthful recipient. An hour and a half later, after his coffee, Henry delivered a second dose of the same medicine. Six more. Another very arousing display of distress. As Henry Fultonby saw it, that old saying would better have been: <i>Strike, strike and strike again</i> while the iron is hot.<br />
<br />
With the second dose well and truly delivered he sent Valerie out into the garden to sit and contemplate her unhappy lot. After ten minutes of such contemplation Cynthia was told to go out and have a quiet word,<br />
<br />
'You know what I mean, Cynthia. Tell her she doesn't <b><i>have</i></b> to suffer.'<br />
<br />
'I already have, Mr Fultonby,' said a bright-eyed Cynthia. 'But I think it will be different now she knows she's here for three weeks. I think it will sink in more.'<br />
<br />
Valerie was sitting morosely under the beech tree. She didn't answer but made some sniffing sounds when Cynthia flopped down and asked how she was.<br />
<br />
'Well, you don't <b><i>have</i></b> to have it, Val. He doesn't cane <b><i>me</i></b> all the time.'<br />
<br />
There were more sniffs and then a quiet, hesitant voice said, 'It's really awful, you letting Mr Fultonby do that.'<br />
<br />
'Who says so?' demanded Cynthia. 'I'm 16, you know, I can do it <b><i>legally</i></b> if I want.'<br />
<br />
'What about your mother,' asked Valerie. 'I bet she'd kill you if she knew.'<br />
<br />
'My mother can't talk,' Cynthia replied spiritedly. '<b><i>She</i></b> does it with whoever she wants. One time at a party at our house she did it in my bedroom on <b><i>my bed</i></b>! With this man. I opened the door and there they were and I had to shut it again pretty quick. While my father was downstairs pouring the drinks. That's what mothers do, Val. I bet your mother's just the same.'<br />
<br />
Valerie said her mother didn't do that but as she said it the whole thing crystallised in her mind. Those horrible thoughts she had had the first night here. <b><i>Three weeks</i></b> was how long Daddy was going to be away. All at once Valerie was quite certain that Mummy wasn't with Mrs Carrington, she was with that Mr Smith somewhere. Letting him do it to her. For three whole weeks presumably.<br />
<br />
Cynthia said, 'I bet your mother <b><i>does</i></b>, if you knew. They all do it, whenever they get the chance. When our fathers are out of the way, at work or something. And then they tell us we must be so good and pure and not even <b><i>think</i></b> about it. But why shouldn't we do the same as them?'<br />
<br />
Valerie had stopped sniffing, the pain in her bottom and indeed her whole general misery much less intense with the excitement of this new insight. And really, if Mummy could be beastly and abandon her just so she could do <b><i>it</i></b> with Mr Smith, perhaps Cynthia was right. Perhaps she should do <b><i>something</i></b> to pay Mummy out – and at the same time avoid Mr Fultonby's sickening cane. She gave Cynthia a wary look.<br />
<br />
Cynthia said encouragingly, 'It's not against the law, you know. You <b><i>should</i></b> be doing it. It's what life is all about when you're grown up.'<br />
<br />
Hesitantly Valerie asked, 'What... what is is like? Doing it, I mean.'<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
'I don't want to be caned any more,' Valerie stated, doing her best to control the emotion in her voice.<br />
<br />
Mr Fultonby smiled. 'I don't suppose anyone <b><i>wants</i></b> it, Valerie.' It was still morning, about 12.30, and Henry was intending to strike once more before lunch. And then continue striking through the afternoon and evening.<br />
<br />
Valerie said, 'What I mean is I want to be like Cynthia. Whatever you... you do to her. But I don't want those canings all the time. Please.'<br />
<br />
She couldn't actually bring herself to say any more than that but Mr Fultonby seemed to get the message. He put his arms round Valerie in an affectionate way. She knew what to do now and, knowing about Mummy, she was ready to do it. She kissed Mr Fultonby; a real grown-up kiss, pushing her tongue firmly into his mouth. It felt funny all right but also sexy. Valerie didn't know anything about such things and just trusted to instinct. She pushed her tongue in as far as it would go and then slid it in and out. This seemed to be the right thing for she could sense Mr Fultonby getting quite excited, his hands really gripping her and then one hand going down between her thighs. She opened her legs to allow free access because obviously there was no sense trying to hold back now as she had made her decision. Actually Valerie found she was getting excited herself – all wet between her legs for this thing.<br />
<br />
Valerie wondered for a moment if Mr Fultonby will do it to her right there in his study. On his settee perhaps. But after getting her all excited like that he stopped and said it would be better if they continued after lunch. For one dreadful moment Valerie thought that might mean another caning first as he hadn't actually done it yet. But Mr Fultonby, rather red in his face, said no. So that was all right.<br />
<br />
They went into Mr Fultonby's bedroom right after lunch. He had a big double bed, for everyone else it seemed. How funny, being in bed in the afternoon, and also not having the clothes on, not even pyjamas. Valerie was scared, quite naturally, it being her first time, but it turned out OK. It hurt a bit of course but you expect that in first time. It was a tight fit but Mr Fultonby managed. Mr Fultonby got very excited <b><i>indeed</i></b>, grunting and groaning. He didn't take long to finish which was just as well as it was very tight and also hurting. And as Cynthia said the first time was bound to be tight but after that you were opened up and ready for it.<br />
<br />
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While Valerie was in Mr Fultonby's bedroom getting her initiation into what life is all about Cynthia and Mr Miggins were in the potting shed again. In that cosy sanctuary Bert Miggins was angry opening his wallet as Cynthia, once more, told him firmly that you certainly couldn't to expect that sort of things for free from a nice girl. It was getting to be quite a drain for his resources and he thought that he might have to cut bargain something – perhaps pipe tobacco. And there was else that other girl. Valerie. Once the two of them got talking together Bert knew she'd want paying for it too. Still, this is the life and, like a child in a sweet shop, he found such delight impossible to resist.<br />
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We believe we predicted this would happen, didn't we, in Blushes number Six? Well, there's no telling some people – at least she has the grace to blush for letting herself get into this position – or was it <b><i>him</i></b> who <b><i>put</i></b> her into this position? One can never be quite sure in these cases, can one.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-41052659410976031162012-06-02T07:12:00.000-07:002012-06-02T07:12:27.992-07:00I'll Never Forget Auntie!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from London Life Vol.1 No.7</em><br /><br /><strong>I'll Never Forget Auntie!</strong><br /><br /><em>Reading the magazine "London Life'' prompted the following story sent in by one of our lady readers. She has asked us not to publish her name, and we respect her wish. In her covering letter she tells us the following:</em><br /><br /><strong><em>'When I first saw ''London Life" I thought it was just another sex magazine with emphasis on the female bottom! My dear husband is bottom mad, believing it to be the most attractive part of the female anatomy; every time I bend down he gives me a wolf whistle... and I am middle-aged! However, when I started to read "London Life" the memories came flooding back to me. My husband often spanks my bottom for fun... and sexual pleasure — I told you he was a bottom "fiend". But I remembered another occasion, when I was sixteen and boy mad. The story I have sent you is mainly fiction, though some of it is factual. I got great pleasure in writing it, and my husband enjoyed reading it, as I hope you do. It amazed me how certain events clicked into my mind once I got on my typewriter, forgotten incidents flooded back to me, the events that led up to my ultimate punishment, even how I felt at the time. I do hope you find it suitable for your magazine.'</em></strong><br />
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<em>We did find it suitable, Mrs K., and we have pleasure in publishing it, more or less as you wrote the story down.</em><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Auntie Gladys wasn't really my auntie, she was an old friend of my mothers who lived in Nottingham. I'd always called her auntie from being very small, as most children do to special friends of the family. I must have had a dozen aunties and uncles, just like other children. But Auntie Glad was someone special to me. She lived alone in quite a large house just on the outskirts of Nottingham, a place called Mapperley Park, and I used to visit her for a few weeks during the school summer holidays. She was kindness itself to me, playing with me in the garden when the weather was nice, or draughts with me in the large room when it was raining. I think I loved her almost as much as I loved my mother. As I grew up she would advise me, especially warning me about boys! This amused me more than anything. She had been married, but lost her husband early in the marriage. I only vaguely remember Uncle Sid, as a man who bounced me on his knee while singing: 'This is the way the ladies ride'.<br /><br />At sixteen it was to be my last long holiday with Auntie Glad, I was going to start work at an office in September. I could have started earlier, but I wanted a few weeks rest before joining the rat race of the outside world... there was also a boy in Nottingham I was sweet on! I'd met him the year before, when I was fifteen, and although we hadn't exactly made love, we had been very near to it. He could excite me, and work me up more than any other could, and I had already made up my mind that if he wanted to go the whole way with me, I would let him. Girls of sixteen are very impressionable, and I had been reading a lot of books loaned to me by other girls, and making love was depicted as the most beautiful experience in the world. The books are right of course, making love is beautiful, but what they ommitted to say was, to a girl of sixteen it can be a traumatic experience, and rather frightening. However, my seduction by Billy is not the main part of my story, although it does play a part!<br /><br />I arrived at Auntie Glad's on a glorious Saturday morning, the sun shining down from a cloudless sky. Auntie met me at the station as she always did, and we took a cab to her home.<br /><br />Nothing bad changed, it never did, the same furniture that had been there since I was quite small. I unpacked my suitcase, then telephoned Billy to tell him I was once again in Nottingham. He was older than me, at least eighteen or nineteen, I forget his exact age. Auntie heard me talking to him of course, and when I put the 'phone down she looked at me very seriously.<br /><br />'You're getting to be quite a young woman Maureen, I suppose you have a lot of boy friends?'<br /><br />I told her I had a few, but I liked Billy the best of the lot.<br /><br />'You want to be very careful of Billy,' she said. 'I see him quite a lot, and he always has a different girl with him. I don't want you to do anything that would upset your mother, I am responsible for you during the next few weeks. I realise of course that you will want to go out dancing and to the cinema, and you won't want me hanging around you all the time... not like you did when you were a child. Heavens Maureen, I still look on you as a child, and here you are, a young woman on the threshold of her life!'<br /><br />I told auntie I would be a good girl, but thought what a silly old frump she was getting to be!<br /><br />'I hope you will be', she murmured, 'I'd hate to have to spank you, like I did when you were small!'<br /><br />I laughed. 'I don't believe it auntie, I don't remember you ever spanking me.'<br /><br />'Oh yes I did, when you were small. I used to give you a slap when you were naughty. Why, once when you threw your dinner onto the floor in a rage I took your knickers down and smacked your bare bum.'<br /><br />'Well I'm too old for that sort of thing now,' I giggled.<br /><br />'You're never too old my dear,' said Auntie darkly. 'Now, what do you intend doing tonight?'<br /><br />I told her I had arranged to meet Billy, but I had no idea where we were going.<br /><br />'Don't go into any public houses my dear, you're not old enough.'<br /><br />I didn't tell her that was the intention... I looked older than my sixteen years, biggish bust etc. I didn't go drinking a lot at home, just the occasional glass of cider or shandy.<br /><br />I put on my fancy underwear, some that my mother had never seen, a friend of my sister's had given them to me. Black frilly panties, and a bra with two holes cut in the front for my nipples to peep through. I felt delightfully wicked and grown up wearing them. I smoothed my hands over my body, wondering what it would be like if Billy did that! I didn't put much make-up on, somehow I felt that Auntie would frown at me wearing make-up, that would wait until later.<br /><br />Billy had arranged to meet me at seven-thirty outside a public house on Mansfield Road, and he was late and I felt very embarrassed standing outside. All sorts of men tried to chat me up and invited me in for a drink. I was very grateful when I saw Billy. He had another boy with him and a girl, Mark and Sheila. Sheila was eighteen and ever so nice, she made me feel comfortable straight away. I told Billy I had promised auntie I would be home by eleven o'clock.<br /><br />'A right little Cinderella,' he laughed, 'home before the last stroke of midnight!'<br /><br />'Last stroke of eleven,' I corrected. 'She will worry if I am home late... anyway she has promised me a spanking if I am a naughty girl.'<br /><br />That made them all laugh!<br /><br />Later Mark and Sheila went off on their own, intending to go to the Palais. I would have loved to have gone, but it would make me very late, and I didn't want to upset auntie on my first day. I felt a little bit tipsy when we left the public house, I'd had a lot of cider, and I had to cling onto Billy's arm as he walked me home.<br /><br />We stood in the porch kissing and cuddling. He caressed my breasts over my jumper at first, then he slid his hand up while kissing me. When he felt my nipples through the holes he kissed me more passionately.<br /><br />'You're very sexy,' he panted, obviously very worked up. I could feel him throbbing against my leg. He then put his hand up my skirt and between my legs. I started to breathe heavily, the way he touched me was beautiful. He took my hand and placed it between his own legs, he had taken his penis out and it felt very hard. Oh but I wanted him to make love to me, but not there on auntie's front porch, it was too dangerous, I knew she was still up, the light was on in the lounge. I made him stop it, but he insisted I play with his penis while he caressed me. This I did, until with a groan he ejaculated.<br /><br />It was just turning eleven when he went.<br /><br />'Enjoyed yourself dear?' asked auntie when I got in. 'Where did you go tonight?'<br /><br />I told her that we had just walked around the town, seeing as it was a warm evening. I sat down on the sofa, and I noticed auntie staring at me thoughtfully. Then I remembered my skirt, there was a damp stain where Billy had ejaculated. I hurriedly covered it with my hand, muttering that we'd had a glass of lemonade and I'd spilt some. She just nodded, thin-lipped. When I went to the bathroom I sponged the stuff away!<br /><br />I had just taken my jumper and skirt off when auntie came in my bedroom with a cup of Horlicks for me. I'd forgotten, she always brought me a nightcap to bed. She took one look at me in my fancy underwear and nearly dropped the cup in her astonishment.<br /><br />'Does your mother know you have such underwear?' she wanted to know.<br /><br />'Oh yes auntie,' I lied, 'she was with me when I bought them.'<br /><br />She put the cup of Horlicks on the bedside table. 'Well I think they are positively disgusting, and please don't wear them again while you are staying with me. Girls who go on the streets wear such underclothes, not sixteen-year-old girls. Now drink up your Horlicks, you can have a lie-in tomorrow. I'll bring your breakfast to you in bed, then we'll go to church for the morning service.'<br /><br />Auntie Gladys was a devout church-goer, that was the only thing I hated about staying with her, going to church every Sunday morning... the Vicar had clammy hands! I lay in bed that night thinking about dear Billy, and what we had done. I had never touched a boy before, not down there anyway, and it had given me a great thrill. I felt all itchy thinking about it, so I opened my legs and played with myself until I had an orgasm. I don't think I did anything wrong by masturbating, most girls at sixteen do such things.<br /><br />We sat next to Mr and Mrs Underwood in church, and their son, Ken, the same age as me.<br /><br />'Now there is a nice boy,' whispered auntie. 'Well brought up and very polite.'<br /><br />Personally he made me sick, always had done. When small he would cry at the slightest thing, and he was a cheat and a tell-tale. Once when pinching some apples when I was fourteen he had told auntie and she had been cross with me. So I was very cool to him. To make it worse, auntie had invited Ken for Sunday tea.<br /><br />'I'm going out with Billy again tonight,' I whispered in alarm.<br /><br />'Well you'll have to ring him up and say you can't make it,' she said. That put me in a bad mood straight away.<br /><br />Sunday afternoon I went for a walk with auntie around the park. She spotted Billy before I did. 'Look, go and tell him you aren't coming out tonight.'<br /><br />At least I would be close to him, if only for a few seconds. Billy told me not to worry, he would see me tomorrow night, his parents were going out. I would be able to spend the evening alone with him. My heart beat wildly in my chest, alone with Billy in his home, we would be able to make love properly, no-one to disturb us.<br /><br />Ken was his usual obnoxious self, though auntie fawned over him like a long-lost son. I decided to have a bit of fun with him, see if he had any natural feelings in his body. I deliberately hitched my skirt up before crossing my legs, knowing he would be able to see the tops of my stockings. At first he ignored me, then his eyes kept flickering across. I pulled my skirt higher and parted my legs. Now he would be able to see the gusset of my white knickers. Suddenly he asked to be excused and went to the toilet. I smiled to myself. Now what had he gone to the toilet for... to play with himself? When he had left the room auntie glared at me.<br /><br />'Maureen!' she snapped. 'Please pull down your skirt, most immodest. You are making Ken feel embarrassed, showing all your legs.'<br /><br />'Sorry auntie,' I murmured, and pulled down my skirt to a more modest level. Of course, a few minutes after he came back, looking flushed I thought, it managed to ride high again. I was turning a boring evening into quite a pleasant one. When it was time for Ken to go, auntie suggested I walk part of the way with him. Heavens, he only lived around the corner, on Lucknow Drive.<br /><br />Just around the corner he gave me the surprise of my life. He pushed me against the wall, kissing me hotly and trying to run his hand up my skirt. I pushed him away, telling him to behave himself.<br /><br />'Let me touch you Maureen, just once, honest. I won't try anything else.'<br /><br />'Indeed I won't,' I stormed. 'I'm not that sort of girl!'<br /><br />'Please,' he panted, 'you've been teasing me all the night, making me want to touch you, showing me your... your legs.'<br /><br />He pushed his hand up my skirt again. This time I smacked him across the face. 'Stop it Ken, or I'll scream!'<br /><br />That frightened him to death, he kept away from me. 'I'll bet you let Billy play with you,' he muttered.<br /><br />'It's nothing to do with you what Billy and I do... anyway he's older than you are!' I left him then and went home. Auntie was surprised.<br /><br />'You're back quick,' she said.<br /><br />'I do not like Kenneth Underwood,' I said. 'He... he is sloppy and coarse, and anyway his hands are sticky!'<br /><br />That amused auntie for a few moments, then she said: 'You were teasing him tonight Maureen, something a girl of your age should never do. Ken is just growing up, and staring at your legs all night made him act the way he did.' She half smiled. 'I used to tease the boys when I was young, but not as young as you! Now run off to bed like a good girl, Ken will be feeling very ashamed of himself at this moment.'<br /><br />In a way I felt quite gratified that I had teased Ken into making a pass towards me. He wanted me, and Billy wanted me. Maybe after I had let Billy make love to me, I would let Ken touch me where he wanted.<br /><br />The following morning I stayed with auntie, helping her to clean her large house. Mrs Underwood came around and invited me to go for tea on the Wednesday, and stay for a few hours.<br /><br />'Ken has some lovely records he would like you to hear. You can sit in the lounge, we won't disturb you!'<br /><br />This was getting to be a conspiracy between auntie and Mrs Underwood, trying to pair us off.<br /><br />'She'll be glad to come,' said auntie, for me. 'I'll send her around about four.'<br /><br />I was getting my dates made for me!<br /><br />I put on my fancy underwear before going out to meet Billy; I was talcumed and perfumed, ready for anything. Auntie didn't like the idea of me meeting Billy again, and she gave me a bit of a lecture before I set off.<br /><br />'Just slap his hands and leave if he does anything you don't want him to.'<br /><br />I promised I would, but I couldn't see him doing anything I didn't want him to.<br /><br />We had a few ciders first, waiting for his mum and dad to get out of the way, then went to his home. He played a few Frank Sinatra records as we cuddled on the sofa. He got very excited of course, and so did I, and I made no objection when he pulled my knickers down. How can a girl describe the first time she makes love all the way? To me it was two things, painful yet exciting. I was so in love with the boy, I adored the closeness of his body, and after it was all over I told him I loved him very much. A little later he made love to me again, and it wasn't as painful, more like the beautiful experience I had read about.<br /><br />It was when I got back that it really got to me!<br /><br />I lay in bed shivering, worried to death. What if I had a baby? Would auntie know what had happened by looking at my face. I clambered from the bed and stared at myself in the long wardrobe mirror. My breasts looked a bit different, a bit swollen, and there was a mark on the right one where Billy had sucked me in his excitement. I examined between my thighs. I didn't look any different there, only felt a little sore, which was natural after what had happened. Then I had a good cry. I don't know to this day whether I cried because I was sorry to lose my virginity, or whether it was a cry of relief!<br /><br />I went with a heavy heart to Ken's house for tea. I was dreading it, I felt sure that he would try it on with me again, and I didn't want that. I was in love with Billy, and I couldn't bare the thought of Ken mauling me about. We had a nice tea, and afterwards we went into the lounge to listen to records. I didn't mean to tease the boy, but I must have done; he kept staring at my legs. Everytime I caught him, I would push my skirt down over my knees. Anyway, the inevitable happened, he started messing about. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't; kissing me, trying to slide his hand under my skirt, and pawing my breasts.<br /><br />In the end, this constant pawing aroused me, and I relaxed, returning his kisses and letting him feel me about. I was surprised that I could feel sexy with Ken, when so in love with Billy, but I was, and was ready for anything he wanted to do. He had my jumper pushed up around my neck, kissing my nipples, his hand between my legs, under the knicker elastic, his finger pushing in and out of my vagina. The lounge door opened and there stood Mrs Underwood with a tray in her hand. She gasped, and I hurriedly pushed down my skirt and straightened my jumper.<br /><br />'How <strong><em>disgusting</em></strong>!' she said. 'Maureen, I think you had better go back to your aunties at once. My husband will see you home.'<br /><br />Mr Underwood took me home in silence, and at the gate he took my hand.<br /><br />'I'm not angry,' he said, with a smile. 'I was once sixteen!'<br /><br />When I went in auntie was waiting for me, a stern expression on her face. 'Mrs Underwood had just phoned and told me why you are home early. She is most distressed that this has happened. Ken doesn't go out with many girls, he is shy and reserved, yet a few moments with you, and well... it was disgusting.'<br /><br />'It wasn't my fault,' I protested. 'He started it, I couldn't stop him!<br /><br />'I saw the way you behaved on Sunday, showing him your legs and knickers. No doubt you did the same thing this evening, leading him on, making him act the way he did. You wanted him to... to touch you. I am annoyed with you Maureen, Mrs Underwood is a good friend of mine, what is she going to think now? You gave that boy immoral thoughts.' I sat down and sulked. It was so unfair, he had started it; if he had behaved himself it would never have happened, anyway I was in love with Billy. I told auntie that. Her face darkened. 'I see. If you are in love with this Billy I dread to think what you get up to with him! I'm going to teach you a lesson Maureen. A long time ago I spanked you for being naughty. Now I am going to spank you again. I am sure that your mother would agree were she here.' She sat down on a hard-back chair. I stared at her.<br /><br />'You must be joking!' I exclaimed. 'You can't spank me, I'm sixteen.'<br /><br />'I don't care how old you are. You have misbehaved tonight, caused Mrs Underwood a great deal of distress. No doubt she will punish Ken in her own way, and it is only right that I should punish you. Now come over here and lay across my lap.'<br /><br />I hesitated, the colour flooding to my cheeks. At sixteen I was very conscious of my body, and showing my bottom, even to my auntie, would cause me embarrassment.<br /><br />'I told you to come here Maureen,' said auntie, in a tone of voice I had never heard her use before. 'If you insist on disobeying me I will have no alternative but to send you home with a letter explaining why. I am going to spank you, then I can tell Mrs Underwood that you have been punished for your disgusting behaviour.'<br /><br />'It wasn't disgusting,' I muttered. 'It was nice!'<br /><br />I shouldn't have said that, I knew it the moment the words came out. Auntie's face went grim, her lips set in a tight line. I looked down at the carpet, knowing I would have to be spanked, it was the lesser of two evils. It would upset my mother if I was sent home under such circumstances. Slowly I got up.<br /><br />'What do you want me to do?' I asked in a small voice.<br /><br />'Pull your skirt up and lay across my lap.'<br /><br />Thank goodness I hadn't my sexy underwear on, that would have made auntie even more angry. I lay across her lap, feeling very exposed, my skirt pulled up to my waist. It seemed ages before she started to spank me. She pulled at my knickers, making them stretch across my bottom, settled herself comfortably, then brought her hand down. Crack! It seemed to explode and I jerked as a dart of stinging pain went through me. Crack, down came her hand again, landing in exactly the same place. I wriggled and squirmed.<br /><br />'Keep still,' commanded auntie, 'or it will be the worse for you.'<br /><br />She gave me six hard spanks on my bottom, each one seemed more painful than the last, and when she released me there were tears in my eyes.<br /><br />'Don't think I <strong><em>enjoyed that</em></strong> Maureen,' she said, 'because I didn't. I do not like punishing anyone, least of all a mature young woman. Now get off to bed and we'll say no more about it.'<br /><br />I went to my bedroom and got undressed. My bottom felt to be on fire, but it was only slightly reddened when I examined it in the mirror. As I lay in bed I became aware of a warmth running through my loins. My bottom didn't feel as painful to the touch any more. I fell into a troubled sleep, my mind filling with strange thoughts. Billy was spanking me, on my bare backside while Ken watched, in a sort of gleeful fascination. Then it all changed. I was making love to Ken, not in the proper position, but with me on top of him, and all the time we loved, Billy was spanking my bare bottom. When I awoke I was covered in perspiration, my hand between my legs. My mind was in a turmoil, I couldn't get rid of the strange images in my brain. I lay in the darkness trembling with sexual excitement, my fingers caressing down below. Billy would never spank me, not like auntie did, so hard. His spanks would be caresses, loving caresses. Or would they? Would he get as excited as me when spanking me. Would I like to spank his bare bottom. I moaned to myself as an intense orgasm swept through me. Then I fell asleep again, and didn't dream anymore.<br /><br />For the next two weeks I did behave myself, I only went out with Billy once, and all we did was pet each other. I saw Ken a couple of times and studiously ignored him. As for Mrs Underwood, every time she saw me she swept by me like a darn duchess! On Thursday nights auntie went to the whist drive. I had been twice with her, but didn't enjoy it. A whist drive isn't the place for a sixteen-year-old, having old men playing 'kneesie' under the table. Horrid I thought. So I arranged to meet Billy, telling auntie I had a headache. She nodded knowingly.<br /><br />'I understand dear,' she said sympathetically, 'I had a lot of trouble when I was your age.' I didn't bother to tell her how wrong she was!<br /><br />Billy must have watched for her leaving, because he was in the house within a couple of minutes, jacket off, snogging and caressing me on the sofa! He had me half undressed before I knew, telling me how beautiful I was, and how much he wanted to take me to bed and love me properly. So we went to my bedroom and got on the bed. I didn't take all my clothes off, I kept my knickers on. This was even better than making love on the sofa, we could be more intimate with each other. Just as he was about to come over me, I asked him if I could come over him. He was very pleased, closing his legs so that I could sink down onto his erect penis. As soon as I felt his hands clasp my bottom I was filled with a strange urge.<br /><br />'Slap me,' I muttered. 'Not hard, but just taps.'<br /><br />And he did, not hard, but light stinging slaps that made me very passionate. I had an orgasm before he did, and managed to get away before he ejaculated. When we got up from the bed I just pulled my knickers on, then slipped my jumper and skirt over them. I wasn't going out anywhere, I didn't need my bra, and anyway, I wanted him to caress my bare breasts again before he left me.<br /><br />We sat on the sofa, cuddling and kissing, and quite forgot the time, until the front door opened and in walked auntie. I just managed to get my jumper down and my skirt straightened before she came into the lounge. Her eyes raked over us, and I glanced down at Billy. His flies were undone, and he hurriedly covered them with his hand.<br /><br />'I thought you had a headache Maureen?' asked auntie.<br /><br />'I had, but it's gone now.'<br /><br />'I can see that.' I didn't like the tone in her voice. 'I think you had better leave young man, it is getting very late.'<br /><br />Billy got up and put his jacket on.<br /><br />'Good night,' he murmured, red in the face.<br /><br />When he had gone auntie sat in the chair and gazed steadily at me. 'You must think I am an idiot Maureen. Tell me, why haven't you got a bra on?'<br /><br />Instinctively I looked down. My nipples were jutting the front of my jumper, making it obvious I was braless.<br /><br />'I am beginning to think you are becoming somewhat of a slut,' she said, evenly. 'My spanking the other night didn't do anything for you. Don't try and interrupt me. You lied tonight when you said you had a headache. You were expecting that young man to call. Why didn't you tell me?' I didn't answer, I stared down at the rug. 'I suppose you have been doing with him what you were doing with young Ken. I am not having it Maureen, even if I have to spank you black and blue. Go on like this and I'm going to have every boy in town hanging around my front gate looking for you. This time I am going to spank you very hard, last time was not hard enough, you haven't learned your lesson.'<br /><br />'Weren't you ever young auntie? Didn't you ever have any boy friends who... who wanted to... touch you?'<br /><br />She took a deep breath. 'The only boy I ever had was your Uncle Sid, and we waited until we were married before we did anything like that. Come across my knee young lady.' I sighed heavily and got up. If it would satisfy her she could spank me. I lifted up my skirt and lay dutifully across her knees, and thinking about what Billy and I had done in my bed earlier.<br /><br />She spanked me three times over my knickers and I didn't make a movement. I hardly felt anything, and anyway I was concentrating on Billy. Then, to my chagrin she put her hand in the waistband of my knickers and drew them down to the backs of my knees. My bottom was bare and vulnerable! I felt awful on her knee in that position, knowing what she could see of my body.<br /><br />The blow landed and I cried out. 'Ouch, auntie, that hurt!'<br /><br />'It is meant to hurt,' she said grimly, 'I'm not giving you love taps.'<br /><br />Her hand came down again with a slap that seemed to echo around the room. It was terrible, I could feel my buttocks quivering and burning. Her hand came down again and again, slap, thwack, slap, thwack, until I felt to be on fire. I started to sob, but give her more vigour.<br /><br />'I'll teach you young lady,' she growled, laying her hand into me fast and hard. 'Before I have finished with you, you will be sleeping on your tummy.'<br /><br />Tears were streaming down my cheeks, blinding me. All I could see was the blur of the carpet. When she stopped I tumbled from her lap and sank to the floor, crying bitterly. Her face streamed with perspiration, and I got a little satisfaction when she rubbed her hands, as though they hurt her. They ought to, the number of times she had spanked me.<br /><br />'Now get off to bed, Maureen. If you do anything like this again I will more than spank you, I will cane you!'<br /><br />That put the fear of God in me. I had once been caned at school, and the memory will live with me forever!<br /><br />I stumbled up the stairs and got ready for bed. I tried to bathe my sore bottom, but even luke-warm water was painful. She was right. I couldn't sleep on my bottom, I had to sleep on my tummy.<br /><br />It was three days before I felt any-think like. Needless to say I behaved myself for the rest of my stay, never being alone with Billy.<br /><br />Now to something that may surprise you. For a few years I didn't visit auntie, going on holiday with friends, until I was twenty-two and went to stay with her for a week. I met Ken again that week; we made love on our second date. We fell in love, and now he is my husband. He told me that his mother had spanked him the night she caught us petting. We spank for pleasure, not punishment, we are both stimulated by the act. I don't get a very sore bottom, not like when auntie spanked, more a pleasant tingling that sets my loins on fire. There is a huge difference between being spanked because you are naughty, than being spanked for fun.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-82407677454010168642012-06-01T07:57:00.000-07:002012-06-01T07:57:25.551-07:00Persuading Sarah<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Swish Vol.5 No.2</em><br /><br /><strong>Persuading Sarah</strong><br /><br /><em><strong>Even at twenty, Sarah had never had her panties off for a spanking. It was time she learned – the hard way, maybe, but she learned to love it.</strong></em><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />When the doorbell rang, Vivienne Masters went herself to open it. Blonde, stately and five feet ten tall, she carried herself like a model, as she had once been. Her firm, heavy breasts jiggled beneath a white nylon blouse. Beneath her short, tight black skirt her bottom cheeks rolled sensuously.<br /><br />"It's Sarah, isn't it?" she asked as she opened the door and stepped back, weighing up with a quick professional eye the slim and pretty girl who stood there hesitantly. Sarah nodded and would have remained frozen where she stood had not a large male hand impelled her gently in to the wide hall of the private house. "How old are you, Sarah?" Vivienne asked gently. "Tw...tw...twenty," the girl stammered. She wore a neat oatmeal costume, dark tan high heels and a fawn and frilled blouse.<br /><br />"You look younger," Vivienne murmured and, before Sarah could move, had taken her soft hand. "She always did," the middle-aged man with Sarah said and ran his hand lightly over her bouncy hair. Sarah said "Yes" and blushed. "Well – we'll go in," Vivienne said comfortably and led them through into a large drawing room where another tall and shapely girl sat, attired as Vivienne was save for black, gleaming boots which stretched up over her rounded knees.<br /><br />"Lana will get you a drink, Sarah," Vivienne announced, taking Sarah forward. Lana got up smiling and extended her hand in turn. Loosing her gentle hold on the girl, Vivienne turned to the man and said quietly, "We'd better talk." He nodded and, while Sarah turned her head and gazed at them wonderingly, they moved into a small side room where Vivienne closed the door. "Tell me about her," she whispered, "I know we spoke on the phone, but.... yes.... I see. For how long? Uh-huh. Yes, they can be difficult. Give me a few days. It may even be less. Call me tomorrow evening. She won't know. We're always VERY discreet. Best if you go now or she'll wonder."<br /><br />"O.K." he nodded and swept his eyes so obviously up and down Vivienne's glorious figure that she smiled. "No – that's extra. Costs lots more," she said teasingly and took his elbow, guiding him out. Sarah, seated with Lana on a sofa, made to jump up. "You're going?" she asked anxiously. "Not for long," he said. Vivienne stepped towards her. "Sarah – you're in good hands," she murmured and watched the girl's woebegone expression as the three of them were suddenly alone. "Sarah, you're not a child – take your jacket off," Vivienne said.<br /><br />"B...b...but I'm not staying. I thought he had a meeting with someone here. I don't understand!" Sarah wailed and ran to the window just in time to see the Rover departing. "Sarah – come here!" Vivienne said sharply, bringing a startled "What?" from the pretty girl's quavering mouth. Lana stepped towards her and she backed away, bumping her hip against the window sill. Wildly, Sarah fended her left arm back but it was taken. "I d...d...don't understand!" she blurted. "Vivienne wants you," Lana said, "don't be silly now, Sarah."<br /><br />"I w...w...want to go!" Sarah wailed. She made a sudden run for the door, found it locked and jerked despairingly at the handle, bringing a laugh from Vivienne. "I'll SCREAM!" Sarah threatened, bringing Vivienne and Lana both over to her. "Will you?" Vivienne asked quietly, "but HE'LL say you wanted to come – asked to come. Wouldn't that sound a bit silly now? You fight too much, Sarah – that's your problem. A girt has to know when to give it, and when not to. We'll teach you both."<br /><br />"I d...d...don't understand!" Sarah wailed. They had both taken an arm and were leading her towards the sofa again. Her feet dragged in vain, heels scouring the thick carpet. "Darling, you WILL – you soon will. It's only a little training session, nothing more. All right, Lana, get her over the arm, head down. I want her in her spanking outfit."<br /><br />"NO-OH!" Sarah screeched madly. In a flash the upper half of her body was bent over the high rolled arm, her legs at full stretch so that she was forced on to her toes. "YES, Sarah!" cut in Vivienne's voice, "skirt off usually, isn't it? But ONLY your skirt to date, apparently." Sarah's arms flailed wildly but caught only empty air. With Vivienne's hand clamped firmly over the nape of her neck she was powerless to rise and let out a high-pitched shriek as she felt Lana unzip her skirt and rip it off.<br /><br />"How DARE you, how dare you!" came her sobbing cry. Vivienne with her free hand stroked her hair. "Oh, we dare, Sarah, we dare. How many spanks d'you get normally?" – "I do-oh-on't! Are you mad? Stop it. YEEE-ARGH!" the cry forced out from Sarah's lips as a hearty SMACK! landed on her pert bottom whose ripe, tight cheeks gleamed through her white semi-transparent panties.<br /><br />"Yes, I can see the problem you are, Sarah," Vivienne murmured, giving a nod to Lana whose palm swept in right under the delicious globe, bringing an outraged shriek from the girl who tried frantically still to rise. "AND she makes such a noise. It must ring through the whole house," Lana laughed, running her palm lovingly over the wriggly orb whose cheeks showed faintly pink from the two big smacks.<br /><br />"She can't be allowed to fib as well, though," Vivienne said almost sadly, "so go on smacking her adorable botty, Lana, until she confesses that she IS spanked. How silly of her to deny it, anyway." – "No, no, I'm not, YEEE-EEEK! Oh, stop it! It stings, oh it st...st....stings!" Sarah howled, jiving her hips madly to try and throw off the blasting smacks that burned right through her nubile bottom. "OOOOH-HOOO-HOOOOO! No!" came her despairing cry as another caught her exactly as before, right under the sweet bulge of her cheeks, bringing her up on to the very tips of her toes.<br /><br />"Twenty years old and all this fuss, would you believe," Lana said chidingly and again ran a sensuously caressing hand over and around the heated hemispheres while Sarah sobbed on and jerked again. "Uh-huh, eighteen months of spankings and she's still like this. I think we'd best have her panties off," Vivienne said, controlling the would-be upward thrust of Sarah's quivering body. Blubbering as she was, Sarah managed just to cry out, "No! you can't!" before relapsing again into tears.<br /><br />"They never have come off yet for a spanking, have they, Sarah?" Vivienne asked quietly. Sarah's flushed face moved wildly from side to side. "N...n...no!" she bubbled. If she fibbed again she would get another big spank, she knew, and she hated it, she always had. "I see. Get up, then – at least you've confessed that much. Sarah, get UP!" Vivienne snapped. With even just her skirt off, the girl was delicious to look at. Good legs balanced a good waist. Her boobs were smaller than Vivienne's or Lana's but firm and round like juicy pomegranates. Her bottom jutted beautifully when she stood as she did now, reaching blindly for her skirt which, however, had vanished.<br /><br />"SIT! Lana, make her sit," Vivienne instructed, taking her seat on the sofa and calmly filling three glasses. Sarah jerked "OH!" as she was made to do so and immediately squirmed on her taunted bottom. "Drink this – you'll feel better and – Sarah – do NOT interrupt or the next spanking will be twice as hard and twice as long. DRINK it – it's only wine, silly. Don't you like wine?" Sarah sniffled and took the glass with shaky hand while Lana settled on the other side of her so that the thighs of both women nestled warmly against her own. Sarah opened her mouth to speak but then seeing the warning look in Vivienne's eyes wriggled again and relapsed into sulky silence.<br /><br />"That's better," Vivienne said and sipped her wine smoothly. "Want a ciggy? No, all right, later then. I won't beat about the bush, Sarah dear. You're one of a number of girls who are sent to me for training. Yes, training. You should be past it at your age, but still. NO, Sarah – I've warned you – don't speak, just listen. You have been spanked regularly – we know that. Even better we know how you are when you are getting it – noisy and silly. Still.... spanking IS a bit much for a young woman of your age. If you promise me just one thing, Sarah, I'll not be too stern with you. Well, girl, speak!" Hand shaking still so that her wine almost slopped over the rim of her glass, Sarah asked "Wh...what?" in a quavering voice, her eyes misted with tears. "That you will be QUIETER, dear. I mean ALWAYS, in future. It's really very indiscreet of you to make such a noise. WELL?"<br /><br />Sarah tilted her head back and drank quickly, more and more convinced that it was all a vivid dream. "Wh...what are you going to do to me?" she asked, making them laugh together. "Oh! so you CAN put the little girl voice on, Sarah, can you? Well, that's always an asset. Sarah, we're all women together. That's the first thing to remember," Vivienne said and slid of a sudden to her knees, running both hands up the girl's rounded silky thighs. Sarah quivered and bit her lip, aware that at any moment Lana might seize her hands. Lana took the empty glass from her nerveless fingers and laid it aside. "Sit still," she said softly. "It's true what Vi says – we're women together. We're going to teach you pleasure."<br /><br />A startled "WHA-AAAH!" broke from Sarah's lips as without warning she felt her knees lifted swiftly up and over Vivienne's shoulders while Lana clamped one arm full around her from the front, imprisoning her arms. "Pleasure, darling – we will give it to you first – HE will give it to you afterwards," Sarah heard Vivienne say from below her. "NEEE-OH!" she screeched and made ineffectually to struggle as delicate fingers drew aside the crotch of her panties, baring the moist lovelips between which Vivienne's long pointed tongue slid and curled.<br /><br />"B...b...b...b..." stammered Sarah. She tried to kick, but she couldn't. Vivienne held her legs as firmly clamped as were her arms. Seizing her chin, Lana's rich lips misted sensuously over her own. "Th...th...th...." Sarah stuttered quickly against Lana's mouth. No one had ever tongued her before – not down there. Vivienne's mouth was now deep into her fur and Sarah could feel herself swimming. Gliding her free arm down, Lana felt for Sarah's silky, stinging bottom which was just beneath Vivienne's chin and cupped it tightly.<br /><br />"AH-HAAAR!" Sarah moaned. They had her firm between them now. Vivienne's tongue snaked in and out, sweeping its tip up to curl around her clitty. Lana's worked its way within her mouth. The breath hissed in through Sarah's nostrils. Catherine wheels were spinning and exploding in her tummy. Her spiky heels beat a wild tattoo on Vivienne's back, but Vi knew the signs. Rising quickly while Sarah quivered and moaned her frustration, she drew the girl's legs together high up so that her knees all but touched her forehead and her bottom bulged over the edge of the sofa.<br /><br />"Wh..wh...wh...what?" babbled Sarah madly, doubled up as she was an unable to see what Lana – who had risen was doing. "YEEE-EEEH-EEEEH!" squealed Sarah as then without warning, and with her ankles held tight up together by Vivienne who sat at her side, a broad thick strap whistled in precisely at the bulge of her cheeks. "YA-AAAAAAH! NO!" Sarah screamed. "YES, Sarah!" she dimly heard Vivienne answer and then the strap come in again, on and on, burnishing and searing her half naked bottom that was so delicately poised until with a back-arching cry Sarah loosed a pelleting succession of orgasms such as she had never known before.<br /><br />"All right," Vivienne said quietly even as Lana raised the strap again. Lana's arm relaxed while Sarah's legs – suddenly released – fell to the floor and she flopped sideways, mouth open, eyes closed, the crotch of her panties clinging so stickily to her that her lovelips showed clearly through the nylon.<br /><br />Vivienne's arm snaked about Sarah's shoulders and drew her up again into a sitting position. "There, there – well put you to bed now," she coaxed, "Sarah have nice sleepy?" The journey upstairs to an ornate bedroom was not one that Sarah remembered except dimly. She was tired, drowsy, swimming – her bottom burned, but the glow now was different to that she had ever experienced from a spanking. Limp and sobbing quietly she let herself be stripped and slid under the sheet. "She'll sleep well," she vaguely heard Vivienne say, and then the closing darkness came upon her...<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />"Sarah, this is your regular evening uniform in future," Vivienne said to her two days later, adding with a smile: "By the way, your deportment has improved, too. You stride better instead of those silly hesitant steps. How d'you feel?" she asked softly, extending to Sarah a neat bundle. The girl took them, eyes wondering. It was like Vivienne's outfit except that the skirt was so short it would hardly cover her bottom. There were black self-supporting stockings and a white see-through blouse. "E...e...evening?" she stuttered.<br /><br />"At least you're quieter – much quieter. You didn't howl at all this morning when Lana strapped you," Vivienne said with a smile in her voice. "Yes, EVERY evening, Sarah. You may put them on when you get back. You may have to be brought back here, you know, if you misbehave. You know that?" Sarah shook her head dumbly. "I don't want...." she began. A tear trickled down her cheek. "Don't want what? Don't want to leave? Silly, you can return now whenever you want – if you're obedient, Sarah. Are you going to be?"<br /><br />"Yeth," Sarah lisped. They had pleasured her between them always before she was strapped, but it would be different now, when she went back, she knew that – and they had told her. She raised her face shyly to Vivienne's soft kiss. Their mouths brushed and lingered. "You'll be a good girl tonight, won't you? Promise? I don't want you back here tomorrow," Vivienne said, searching Sarah's eyes. Sarah nodded. "I 1...1...love you," she stammered quietly and began to cry. Vivienne stroked her hair. "I know. Come back tomorrow evening and tell me, huh?" "Yeth," Sarah mumbled, her eyes brighter with tears. She started as she heard a car stop outside. Vivienne laughed and gave her bottom a little pat. "Go on with you," she said, "and put your outfit on when you get there, right?"<br /><br />Sarah nodded blindly, going into the hall where Lana in turn waited and kissed her. There were no panties with her outfit, she realised suddenly and felt her legs go wobbly as she entered the car and sank down. "You all right?" he asked quietly and she nodded blindly. "Wh...wh...what t...time is it?" she asked as the car sleeked forward. "Eight," he replied, "I booked a table. Well eat out."<br /><br />"I'm not, I'm not hungry," she stammered. Cheeks bright red she stared away from him at the passing traffic. She wasn't going to be able to do it, she knew she wasn't. Stumbling indoors at last, she sat huddled on her bed, starting up as the door opened. "Put your things on, Sarah, and come down," he said. How she obeyed she never knew. Cheeks hot and flushed she descended at last, her thighs flashing white above the black stocking tops. Smiling he stood there, holding the strap.<br /><br />"Well, Sarah, are you going to obey now?" he asked quietly. She gulped, staring past him. Her long legs quivered. The moment she bent over the arm of the sofa where she had so often been spanked, her naked bottom would show, rich and white between the black hem of her ultra miniskirt and her stockings. Blindly she turned and sank the upper half of her body over the arm, hiding her face.<br /><br />"SARAH!" he barked. Biting her lip she eased her tightly-stockinged legs apart and turned her toes in, as Vivienne had taught her to. Behind her she heard the rustle of his clothing and closed her fingers tight. She could almost feel the heat of his huge cock as he neared her with the strap coiled ready. High-poised as she was, her bottom cheeks tightened and then relaxed. Tomorrow night she would see Vivienne again and it would be beautiful. "YEE-EEE-EEEE!" Sarah squealed as the first snaking caress of the leather hissed across her bottom. Her legs jerked, her torso twisted, and then she remained still again. HOOOOO! it burned!<br /><br />"YA-AAAAH!" It had snaked in again, sending tongues of fire through her pert cheeks. Cupping her hands over her face, Sarah began to moan. She WAS being quiet, she was. "Rear your bum up and let him take you – you know he's going to, Sarah," Vivienne had said, "once he's got it up you, you'll want to." "WA-HA-HAAAAAR!" Sarah sobbed, but the noise was in her mind – the slap-cracking of the leather making her bottom rotate like a ball-bearing was the only sound now in the room.<br /><br />"Now, Sarah, now – come on, give it!" she heard him growl after a seeming eternity. Her hips were uncontrollable now, her tummy bouncing and smacking on the rolled arm of the sofa, her legs spread wide, bottom glowing bright as a brazier. Sarah then heard her own voice at last ring throughout the room. "Yes, all right, yes – give it to me, put it up me – OOOOOH! Make me have it! AAAAAR!"<br /><br />And miraculously Vivienne and Lana were forgotten, forgotten, in the breathless hot desiring of the night....</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-80331201935742923082012-05-31T08:19:00.000-07:002012-05-31T08:19:50.757-07:00Jilly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Janus 35.</em><br /><br /><strong>Jilly</strong><br />by Andrew Grantham<br /><br />JILLY looked down at the flowers in the carpet. From her position, she had an excellent view of the closely-woven pattern. It wasn't the first time she had been in that position – with her blonde tresses brushing the floor and her fingertips touching the toes of her black, shiny, high-heeled shoes. It wouldn't be the last time either! Jilly's record at St Mary's High School was vastly different to that of her elder sister. Julie had made it all the way to the top and she had become Head Girl in her final year.<br /><br />By sharp, and painful, contrast Jilly became known as the Bottom Girl – for the obvious reason! Here she was, about to have her arse scorched yet again by Mr Rogerson!<br /><br />Her heart beat faster as she felt her skirt being raised and tucked in around her trim waist.<br /><br />She knew it was going to be a bare bum caning. Mr Rogerson allowed a girl to retain her knicks only on the occasion of her first beating. After that, knicks were dropped to the ankles.<br /><br />It wasn't that the thin material offered any protection. It was part of the deterrent – a bare bum caning being the ultimate punishment at St Mary's. Jilly felt his warm hands on her flesh as he took hold of the elasticated top of her skimpy briefs. Soon, they were fluttering down her legs to land around her ankles. Now she was all ready for another dose of the cane.<br /><br />Mr Rogerson however, wasn't quite ready. He had a habit of preparing a girl by uncovering her bottom and <strong><em>then</em></strong> going to fetch the crook-handled cane which hung from a hook behind the door. Whenever an errant girl closed the door of the study she was immediately confronted by the sight of the cane swinging, menacingly, from its perch. Jilly moved her head slightly. She watched Mr Rogerson's feet as they progressed across the carpet, paused at the door and then returned to position themselves to the left of her posterior.<br /><br />Even though she was about to receive the first stinging cut, she could not help thinking how clean and shiny Mr Rogerson's shoes were.<br /><br />The feet swayed slightly. Jilly knew that the cane was high in the air. Any moment now!<br /><br /><em><strong>Whoosh!<br /><br />Whapp!</strong></em><br /><br />Jilly grunted as the cane landed in the centre of the rich moons of her arse.<br /><br />That was a real stinger all right. Mr Rogerson could certainly lay it on when he wanted to. Jilly knew that he was really going to lay into her backside. Indeed, the Bottom Girl of St Mary's expected nothing less than a good hiding.<br /><br />The cane dug into her bottom again after Mr Rogerson had judged that the earlier hurt was ebbing away. Suddenly, the pain rose sharply to a new peak.<br /><br />Jilly's only response was a sharp exhalation of breath, although she could feel the hurt spreading through her. Before Mr Rogerson was finished with her, her young body would be totally engulfed by the searing hurt.<br /><br />She didn't know just how many strokes she was in for. Gone were the days when she could expect a mere six!<br /><br />'Oooh!'<br /><br />The third cut made her cry out and she rocked on the balls of her feet. Her bottom stung like mad. She knew that the three stripes emblazoned across her buttocks would be spaced exactly two centimetres apart. (Mr Rogerson liked to joke about the distance between each stripe, saying that he had gone 'metric'!) There was still plenty of room on Jilly's lovely bottom for lots more strokes!<br /><br /><strong><em>Crack!</em></strong><br /><br />'Youch!'<br /><br />This time, Jilly's vocal reaction was just a shade higher. She screwed up her eyes as the flaming pain coursed through her body. Her bottom wriggled but she maintained her position.<br /><br />She opened her eyes again and looked at Mr Rogerson's feet. Jilly was able to tell when the next blow was coming up. Whenever he raised the cane, Mr Rogerson dug his heels into the carpet.<br /><br />He did just that and she clenched her bum cheeks as she awaited the next stinger from the slender stick. It stung all right. Her arse felt like it had been attacked by an army of wasps!<br /><br />'Yowch!' she yelled out, her face now contorting with the pain from her rear. Still, she managed to maintain the required stance. However, two strokes later, her knees buckled and she let out a shrill scream. The pain was now acute.<br /><br />The next cut had her fighting back the tears. She wondered why she wasn't like her elder sister? Eventually, Mr Rogerson's shiny shoes disappeared from her sight. She knew then that he was returning the cane to its place on the back of the door. Still Jilly waited, her bottom ablaze with pain.<br /><br />Mr Rogerson always ended his sessions in the same way. Ordinarily, it would be just a pat on the bum. On Jilly's angry, corrugated rear however, it was quite a painful blow.<br /><br />'Ouch!' she cried, waggling her wounded derriere from side to side. The slap caused her almost as much distress as one of the finale strokes of the cane.<br /><br />'Up you get!' ordered Mr Rogerson brightly.<br /><br />Jilly pursed her lips as she straightened up, aware that he was gazing at her tuft of pubic hair. She didn't mind in the slightest. He'd seen it lots of times before. And, during the course of her many canings, he must have seen much, much more!<br /><br />Fully dressed again, Jilly smoothed out her skirt. 'Thank you,' she smiled graciously.<br /><br />'You're welcome,' replied the teacher as he picked up her bag of shopping and handed it to her. 'Is your husband still working on the rigs?' he enquired.<br /><br />Jilly nodded. 'He went away last night.'<br /><br />Mr Rogerson rubbed his hands. 'I'll be seeing to you again before he gets back, I presume?' he asked her with a big smile.<br /><br />'Yes please,' smiled back the former pupil of St Mary's. 'If you don't mind.'</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-42431595516308339022012-05-30T09:52:00.000-07:002012-05-30T09:52:48.113-07:00Pauline's First Week<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Roue 15.</em><br /><br /><strong>Pauline's First Week</strong><br />
<br />
<em>The continuation of the story <a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2011/01/governors-prerogative.html">"Governor's prerogative"</a></em><br /><br />It was Saturday morning, the end of Pauline Duncombe's first week at St. Angela's, and with some free time before lunch she was sitting on the garden seat near the tennis court. She was supposed to be reading her History textbook but found she was more interested in the impromptu game of tennis which three girls were playing in front of her. They had invited her to join them and she would have liked to, except that.... unfortunately she had no knickers on.<br /><br />It is easy to laugh. Not again! those readers already familiar with Pauline Duncombe (Roue 12) will think. Surely Pauline not again without her knickers! But needless to say it was no laughing matter for Pauline. And indeed the whole of her first week at St. Angela's could fairly be described as no laughing matter. Ever since that first lesson from Mr. Fowler, on Tuesday, only her second full day at school.<br /><br />Yes, Mr. Fowler who as we know had a thing about nylon knickers. And it may be recalled that Pauline's outfit, bought for her by the generous Mr. Grimsley, had unfortunately included nylon knickers and not the cotton ones which were the official St. Angela's wear. This had in fact been an honest error on his part: he was not deliberately trying to create problems for his new protegee. But he had forgotten that cotton was the correct type and possibly also was confused by the fact that one could in any case certainly come across nylon knickers in wear at the school.<br /><br />So Pauline had arrived with five pairs of white nylon knickers but no cotton ones and had started wearing them in blissful ignorance. With any kind of luck she would have learnt of her mistake from another girl, but unfortunately she did not get that luck.<br /><br />It had been her very first lesson from Mr. Fowler, on Tuesday, and he had asked her to stay behind at the end of the lesson intending simply to have a friendly word with the new pupil and certainly not suspecting anything about her knickers. Well, it was almost always the older girls who attempted to get away with it and Pauline, brand-new to the school and particularly innocent-looking, did not fit that bill. Not the type at all. But, as he liked to do when he had a girl standing at his desk and really it was quite an automatic response, he had, while they talked, slipped his hand up her skirt. To her bottom. And there quite unmistakeably was taut nylon where there should have been cotton.<br /><br />Mr. Fowler had reacted like some minor volcano going up, his anger especially aroused by the thought of this young and apparently innocent girl now openly flouting the rules. Poor Pauline's tearful protestations of innocence fell on very stony ground. 'Be at my room at beginning of Prep this evening, young lady, and see that you're not one second late!' And when he'd got her there he made no allowance whatever for the newness and inexperience of the young transgressor. Girls had to be taught a lesson if they were unable to follow rules. 'Knickers down and get over the seat of that chair, if you please.' Wide-eyed, fearful, Pauline fumbled her knickers down and got over the chair. 'Further over! Head down and bottom up. That's better.' Her skirt pushed up round her waist. 'Now, legs straight and keep the bottom still, Miss.....' And Pauline's firm ripe rearquarters were given their first taste of the cane: six real stingers on the bare bum which left her sobbing wretchedly.<br /><br />The nylon knickers were confiscated as was Mr. Fowler's custom. 'And you will go without knickers for a full week, my girl, that is 7 days from today, to complete your punishment. And just in case you cannot be trusted you will report to me here each morning before classes commence. So that I may check that you in fact have none on and are not cheating. Is that clear?'<br /><br />Well it was all a terrible shock, both the caning and the confiscation of her knickers, on just her second day at school: and that night she just cried herself to sleep. And in the morning waking up to remember that it wasn't over, that she had to report back to Mr. Fowler first thing. She washed and nervously dressed, remembering to leave her pants off. 'What, no knicks!' quipped a dorm-mate, noticing, and on being told the situation, 'Oh, a visit to the Foul Fondler!' Which didn't make Pauline feel any better.<br /><br />Yes, as any girl at St. Angela's could tell you, Mr. Fowler, sitting at his desk and beckoning Pauline to come and stand close at his side, would check on the absence of knickers in a very predictable manner, by sliding his hand up her skirt. And proceeding to fondle her bare bum while he unctuously spoke at some length of the need to abide by rules. Finally saying: 'Yes, that's how we become good citizens, Pauline,' he took his hand out of her skirt and stood up. Her ordeal was over, she thought thankfully. But then as she turned towards the door Mr. Fowler's hand suddenly, like a darting snake, came back up her skirt, this time at the front, running up the front of her bare thighs and just for a moment took hold of her between her legs, his hand on her bare private part, cupping it, for just an instant, and then darting out again. And Mr. Fowler, ignoring her involuntary gasp and looking as if nothing had happened, simply saying "Off to your classes then. Mustn't be late, must we?'<br /><br />Well, it had been such a shock and he had done it so quickly that she found herself wondering afterwards if it had actually happened, or if she had imagined it. But the next morning there was no doubt as it had all happened exactly as before. The fondling hand at her bottom for some minutes and then as she was about to leave, and Mr. Fowler saying 'I wonder if it will rain today', his hand darting back up her skirt to briefly but firmly grasp her hair-covered mound. And the next day just the same. It was really awful but what could she do? She told a girl she had got to know a bit, Wendy Thomas, who was sympathetic but said 'That's just the kind of thing you get here, worse luck. But if you go to Matron she'll just send you to the Head for telling tales. And you don't want to go to him if you can avoid it!' Pauline agreed that she didn't, although not having been to the Head yet she didn't really know what he was like. He couldn't be worse than awful Mr. Fowler, she thought.<br /><br />So what else? She would desperately like to write home asking to be taken away from this place: but her Mum would only say it was homesickness and she would settle down. And anyway you had to take your letters to your form-master, unsealed, so that he could check what you had written. So there was just nothing she could do about that awful thing Mr. Fowler did.<br /><br />And what Mr. Fowler did was not the end of it. For apart from his daily assault on her person, which at least at 9 o'clock each day was over with, there was the more general humiliation of having to go without knickers all the time – all part of her punishment of course. And during the week several other masters had become aware of her predicament and had been making her stay behind after class, ostensibly to discuss some point of work but in fact to slip a hand up her skirt and fondle her bare bottom, like Mr. Fowler. That was unpleasant enough, although at least they had not tried to feel anything else yet, but it also meant that she would be in trouble from the master of the next class for being late.<br /><br />Yes it was all an awful start to her new school, she thought dismally as she watched the other girls darting about on the tennis court. And none of it her own fault. And Mr. Fowler and the other masters with their nasty hands up her skirt had not been all: there had also been Miss Davies, the Gym Mistress....<br /><br />It had started in Pauline's first gym lesson – a lesson she had looked forward to, not least because for once she would be wearing the same as everyone else, just the gym top and tight shorts under which no-one was allowed to wear knickers. And the lesson had been quite enjoyable except that from the beginning Miss Davies did seem to take a special interest in her. Perhaps it was just that she was a new girl, she'd thought. But then when the class had finished changing after the lesson she called Pauline back into her little office and to Pauline's surprise said would she like to come round to her room for tea after lessons that afternoon. Taken a bit aback Pauline stammered that she would and Miss Davies said 'Oh Good!' and had put her arm round Pauline's waist, squeezing.<br /><br />Well it was nice to find someone being friendly – friendly, that is, without them wanting to put their hand up your skirt on your bare bum. Well, that was what she thought before she went to Miss Davies'....<br /><br />She had given Pauline quite a nice tea in her rather cozy room, at the same time asking all about her, her home etc., and it was all very nice and friendly except, well, she had looked at her in rather a strange way, kind of staring with those bright eyes. She was quite attractive, Miss Davies: older of course but not that old – Pauline thought maybe late 20's. And she had a very good figure; shapely and firm, like gym mistresses did have with all that exercise.<br /><br />But then when Miss Davies was showing her the pictures she had on the walls.... they were both standing looking at them, and she put her arm round Pauline's waist. And squeezing her she asked if she had a boyfriend. Pauline said No & well, she hadn't, and Miss Davies said, laughing 'I don't blame you. They're only after one thing anyway.'<br /><br />Pauline had rather foolishly said 'What?' – if she had thought for a moment she would have realised what the gym mistress was referring to. But Miss Davies pulled her round so that they were half-facing and said 'This of course, silly!' And her other hand, not the one she had round Pauline's waist, went down to Pauline's you-know-what.... between her legs.... taking hold of it and squeezing....<br /><br />The hand was outside her skirt, not on the bare like Mr. Fowler, but nonetheless Pauline had jumped like a scalded cat, it was so unexpected. The gym teacher hadn't kept her hand there, just the squeeze and then took her hand away: but she kept her arm round Pauline's waist and laughed a kind of forced laugh as she said 'Now don't be shy: its just between us girls.'<br /><br />And then, as it must have dawned on her from what she'd felt 'Hey! Haven't you got any knicks on?' And Pauline had blurted out the whole Mr. Fowler episode, and feeling sorry for herself had sniffed a bit, though not actually crying. Well, at this Miss Davies was all sympathy, pulled Pauline round to face her again and then pulling her close, putting both arms round her, stroking and fondling as she made sympathetic noises.<br /><br />She said 'Those awful men, they're always trying to pull something like that,' and before Pauline knew what was happening Miss Davies was kissing her on the mouth. She could feel the whole length of the gym teacher's strong body pushed hard against her – the firm breasts, and especially her pelvis which she started rubbing up against Pauline while holding the girl firmly against her with a hand cupping her bottom, squeezing. And the hand, really just as those awful masters did, then went down to the hem of her skirt and up again inside to now hold Pauline's nude bottom. Miss Davies was groaning and saying things like 'Oh, you're such a sweet kid' and then her mouth was back on Pauline's, this time pushing open the girl's lips. And Pauline felt Miss Davies' hot probing tongue invading her mouth....<br /><br />But all this had been abruptly interrupted by a providential knocking at the door, arresting the gym mistress' ardour in full flight. She jerked her head away from Pauline with a rather desperate look 'Oh God! Of course, its Thursday....!' Shouting 'Just a minute.' she started frantically straightening herself up, then doing the same to Pauline. 'It's... it's an appointment which I completely forgot about. Look Pauline, you'll have to come round again, of course. I.... I'll let you know when I'm free...'<br /><br />She went to the door where Tina Chidwick was found to be waiting: 6B and like Pauline a new girl, although naturally she'd arrived at the beginning of term rather than half-way through. And, well, she was rather similar to Pauline blonde, with a fresh innocent-seeming appearance. Miss Davies had greeted her with a rather guilty look and Pauline was sent on her way.<br /><br />She was not sorry to go though, her head in a complete whirl from what had happened. She was pretty much innocent in matters of sex but she knew enough to realise that the gym teacher obviously 'fancied' her: although what that might fully involve was something she didn't want to think about. What had happened already was enough to make her knees tremble. But on the other hand, with her other problems at St. Angela's the fact that Miss Davies obviously liked her.... well, in a way that was nice. And what she had done wasn't really unpleasant.... In fact Miss Davies kissing her.... like that... hadn't been unpleasant at all. It was the first time Pauline had been kissed in that way – french-kissed – and it had been a shock, sending tingles all through her. But definitely not unpleasant. Miss Davies' tongue.... oooh...!<br /><br />But for the gym mistress the path of true love (or desire at least) was not to run particularly smoothly. She had managed a fleeting meeting with Pauline yesterday, suggesting that today (Saturday) they could go for a drive in her car after lunch. But by then Pauline had been given another appointment so that fortunately she could not say Yes. Miss Davies' face, when she was told, had registered obvious disappointment. Still, perhaps she could take Tina Chidwick instead.<br /><br />Yes Pauline had another appointment this afternoon alright, and as she sat there by the tennis court it was difficult to keep her mind from continually returning to its dread possibilities. For on her visit to Mr. Fowler yesterday he had said right at the end and after his now customary grope at her private region: 'Oh Pauline, I suppose you're free tomorrow afternoon?' There were no classes Saturday afternoon and girls were normally free unless something extra had been arranged. 'Good! Well, in that case I'd like you to come round here after lunch. I want to have a talk with you...' With an awful sinking feeling Pauline had said 'Yes, Sir.'<br /><br />Yes, that was what was in store for her on this nice sunny day which otherwise after lunch she would have had to herself – or of course could have taken up Miss Davies' offer to go for a drive. Another visit to Mr. Fowler! And now she saw that the other girls were finishing their game: 'Time for din-dins, Amanda!' 'Ugh! Pigswill you mean!' And looking at her watch she saw that it was indeed almost lunch time. She would have to go although she was sure she could not manage to eat anything. Not the way she was feeling....<br /><br />Pauline did manage to drink her soup but that was about all. And then at 2 o'clock sharp was outside Mr. Fowler's door, knees trembling. She had no idea what she had been summoned for but she was sure it was going to be unpleasant. Hesitantly she knocked....<br /><br />'Ah Pauline. Yes.... come in, please.' She went in and the door was closed behind her. The sound, outside, of the key being turned in the lock....<br /><br />-o-O-o-<br /><br />Outside – outside Mr. Fowler's room with its locked door and, one would see if one walked by his window, its drawn curtains, for he was a master who liked his privacy – the afternoon progressed as a lovely sunny Saturday afternoon at St. Angela's might be expected to progress. Being Saturday the afternoon is 'free' – unless you have been unfortunate enough, like Pauline, to have its freedom curtailed for some reason or other by a member of staff – but other than that girls free to do what they wished. Some writing home or reading in a sunny or shady spot in the grounds. The tennis courts again in full use. A number of girls sunbathing, some in swimsuits, bikinis, others in uniform blouse and skirt but with these garments unbuttoned, pushed back, to expose youthful limbs to the hot sun. Some others, those with a Pass, have cycled into the nearby town to do some shopping or, over a Coke in the cafe, to complain, as schoolgirls will, of the iniquities of school life. And perhaps inevitably, it being St. Angela's, there is, about 3 o'clock, a caning in progress: in the Head's study Julia James bent over his desk with knickers lowered to mid-thigh, her bare bottom thrust reluctantly out to receive Mr. Payne's stinging cane. She has had four with a scheduled four more to come but the way her nicely rounded bottom is now wriggling and squirming, to Mr. Payne's annoyance ('Julia, will you keep that bottom <strong><em>still!</em></strong>'), this number could well be increased or at least be followed by a further spanking over his lap.<br /><br />Yes, all this varied activity, some enjoyable and some obviously less so; and in addition one other which normally must not be mentioned in polite conversation, although we all know that inevitably it takes place in a community, such as St. Angela's, which contained a large number of girls and especially during a period of 'free' time. Inevitably on this afternoon there are girls doing it and others having it done to them. It? Yes 'it' – 'the stimulation of the genital organs to achieve sexual pleasure' as the dictionary has it, or in other words masturbation.<br /><br />There is for instance Susan Rhodes in a quiet corner of the dorm, lying on her bed and thinking pleasurably of her boyfriend Kevin, her hand down the front of her knickers fondling herself.... There is Charlotte Lawson in a deserted changing-room half-lying on a bench with her knickers off, a rapt tense expression on her face as she uses that illicit instrument of pleasure, a vibrator. (It is quite definitely an illicit item at St. Angela's, possession of which, if found out, will bring immediate and particularly severe punishment. So you do your very best to ensure you will not be found out and Charlotte has placed a chair behind the closed changing-room door so that she will get sufficient warning if she is suddenly disturbed.)<br /><br />Of course not all of these acts are solitary. For instance there are Paula Fletched and Anita Gray who have wandered off into the woods just south of the school grounds. They are known to be close friends but fortunately no-one – certainly no member of staff – knows just how friendly.... They are standing up against a tree-trunk, embracing and each with her hand up the other's skirt. Paula: 'Let's take our knicks off.....' Anita: 'Are you sure it's alright? I mean if we get caught with them off....' Paula: 'No-one's going to come out here.' And she starts slipping Anita's knickers down. Yes this would certainly rate along with use of a vibrator in the ranking of heinous crimes at St. Angela's.<br /><br />And those familiar with St. Angela's will by now not be surprised to learn that there are also examples of this type of activity taking place involving members of staff. For instance there is Mr. Gray who just earlier has happened to come across Brenda Holmes sunbathing – in her uniform but with her skirt pulled up to reveal her knickers as she lies on her back in the sun. Brenda is inevitably getting aroused by what the master is doing although at the same time she does not like the fact that he is doing it: and there is also the possibility that someone could come along and see. Talking quietly, Mr. Gray is suggesting that they find a secluded corner where he could take Brenda's knickers off. Brenda does not want to, but she knows he could quite easily make up some excuse to take her knickers down for another reason – a caning. Of the two alternatives, well.... After a while they get to their feet and walk off.<br /><br />Miss Davies, of course, is already in a secluded spot, out in the country, having driven down a quiet lane and then walked with Tina Chidwick across a field to where they will have their picnic. The picnic things are not yet unpacked and are placed, together with two pairs of discarded knickers, to the side of the blanket on which Miss Davies and Tina Chidwick are now lying side by side in close embrace. The gym mistress has her tongue deep in Tina's mouth and her hand between the girl's parted legs. Tina is moaning and shaking convulsively and is obviously moving rapidly towards an orgasm.<br /><br />Yes, on this warm and sunny afternoon there was quite evidently a lot of it going on. So that what was happening in Mr. Fowler's room behind those drawn curtains was not particularly unusual; although to poor Pauline, sexually innocent, it was the culmination of an unbelievable week. For Mr. Fowler was doing 'it' to Pauline although, devious master that he was, this was under the guise, the pretence, of 'Sex Instruction'.<br /><br />-o-O-o-<br /><br />It had been a truly traumatic hour, ever since her hesitant knock at his door and his prompt 'Ah Pauline. Yes.... come in, please.' He had locked the door and then immediately gone to draw the curtains and turned on all the lights. And then....<br /><br />'Yes. Well Pauline, I suppose you'd rather be outside on a day like this but I did think I should see you. Because all the other new girls had Sex Instruction at the beginning of term and, of course, you missed it. And at 16 it is important that you do not remain ignorant in these matters I don't suppose you had anything of this sort at your other school?'<br /><br />Pauline shocked and stunned at what Mr. Fowler had said. Sex Instruction! 'N...No, Sir.'<br /><br />'Hmmm. Many schools are very remiss in this regard. 'And then he did what he did every morning: his hand went up the front of her skirt and took hold of that hair-covered bulge at the top of her legs. 'No-one has told you anything about this?'<br /><br />Pauline squirming, flushing: 'N...no, Sir.' This time it wasn't the quick in-and-out grab – his hand was staying there....<br /><br />'Keep still, girl, there's no need to be shy with me.' The hand took its time, squeezing, feeling, before finally letting go.<br /><br />'Yes, well then it is indeed high time you had some guidance. You seem to be a well-developed girl and certainly now quite capable of having a baby. And you will find that all kinds of unprincipled men, and boys too, are going to be after this now.' His hand back up to give 'this' another squeeze.<br /><br />And then another bombshell: 'So, Miss, if you'll just take your clothes off....'<br /><br />She just stood with a horrified look on her face as he repeated: 'Yes, your clothes please. Come along! Take them all off....'<br /><br />Miserably, with no option, she had done as instructed: her blazer, her shoes and socks; then, turning away trying to hide herself, her blouse, her skirt, her slip, finally her bra. Mr. Fowler had a short towelling dressing-gown for her which she frantically got into. It only came to the tops of her thighs but she desperately wrapped it round and tied the belt: only to have Mr. Fowler immediately undo the belt and open the dressing-gown, to expose that well-developed bush and those equally well-developed pink-nippled breasts. His hands grabbing, groping, at both these regions as he said musingly: 'Mmm, you're certainly getting to be a well-developed young lady. All the more reason, of course....'<br /><br />That had been the start, and then still in the opened dressing-gown having to sit with him on his settee and watch a short film on sexual intercourse. A short explicit film in which a young wife had intercourse with her husband, shy lying over the side of the bed with her legs spread and her feet on the floor – this position presumably adopted so that the action, and the actual penetration of the husband's large erect penis, could clearly be seen. To poor Pauline it seemed just enormous – how could it ever go in that young woman? And yet... it did, and quite evidently she enjoyed it.<br /><br />'There!' said Mr. Fowler when it was finished and he had turned the lights back on, 'I'm sure that was most instructive. And when you leave school and get married you will now know exactly how it's done.'<br /><br />And it was then, after the film, that Pauline had 'it' done to her. Mr. Fowler said that as a supplement to the film he was now going to do something which would give her some idea of what sexual intercourse was like and it was nothing to be nervous about; and then he made her lie across the settee with her thighs up over the arm.<br /><br />Pauline's hand had automatically shot down to cover herself but that naturally was not what Mr. Fowler wanted. He firmly removed her hand ('Now then, we mustn't be shy!') and replaced it with his own. 'Now I'm just going to stimulate you a little....'<br /><br />And that is what he did, in very much the same way that, about this time, Miss Davies was doing to Tina Chidwick and Mr. Gray was doing to Brenda Holm.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-20181969820951374632012-05-29T11:22:00.000-07:002012-05-29T11:22:45.936-07:00Moments in C.P. History. Numbers X-XII<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong>Moments in C.P. History</strong><br />A Series by Paul Melrose<br /><br /><strong>Number 10. Princess Batthyany</strong> <em>(Original text from Februs 41)</em><br /><br />The name of Princess Irene Batthyany is not one which is familiar to most people but, nevertheless, she had a brief flirtation with both fame and humiliation as the beautiful wife of Count Lajos Batthyany whose reign as President of Hungary was brief and tragic, ending in his execution. The widowed Princess, though spared such a fate, was nonetheless subject to a very public shame which forms the basis of this particular 'Moment'.<br /><br />In the mid 19th century, Europe was controlled by mighty empires, one of the biggest being the Austrian Empire which then included part of Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Croatia, Serbia and Hungary. The year of 1848 became known as the year of revolution because, almost simultaneously, many of these subordinate nations began to flex their muscles and demand varying degrees of self government. In the forefront of these nations was Hungary. The politics involved in the issue were complex and so the reader will be spared too much insomnia-inducing background. To understand how Irene Batthyany arrived at her humiliating fate however it is necessary to mention a few names and look at a brief summary of events.<br /><br />The first of these people was Louis Kossuth. He was the leader of the opposition to Austrian control and in 1848, amid a tide of revolt, he saw the opportunity to demand a certain degree of self government for the Hungarians. Austria at first reacted with anger and indignation, but when revolution actually broke out in Vienna itself, the Austrians, fearing Hungary might secede from the empire, capitulated.<br /><br />Amid scenes of joy, a fellow member of the Austrian opposition, Count Lajos Batthyany, was appointed provisional President of the new semi independent Hungary and the provisional government sought to form a type of government acceptable to the people, which turned out to be a pseudo monarchy with Batthyany at its head. So Batthyany adopted the courtesy title of Prince and his proud and lovely wife became Princess Batthyany. Irene Batthyany was a dark haired beauty in her early forties at the time of the revolt, the mother of five children including three adult sons who were serving in the Hungarian army.<br /><br />The joy was short lived for, though Hungary had its limited self government, it immediately inherited problems. Within Hungary's borders lay the state of Croatia whose people also sought self rule. Given the lesser of two evils, if the Croatians had disliked being 'slaves' of Austria, they positively detested falling under the writ of the 'Magyars' and immediately began to agitate against the situation with their overall rulers in Austria.<br /><br />So a new key name in the saga emerged when Austria appointed a new Commissar for Croatia, a Colonel Joseph Jellacic, who was fanatically anti Hungarian. Once in power he broke off relations between Croatia and Hungary on 19th April 1848, putting the new Hungarian regime immediately in trouble from that point on. On 10th May, a Slovak minority in Hungary asked for independent rights within Hungary and 5 days later the Romanians condemned the new union with Hungary.<br /><br />Prince Batthyany, realising that his newly self governing nation was facing trouble from all quarters, tried to do deals with his Austrian masters if they disavowed the Croatian leader Jellacic. Batthyany and his wife were contemptuous of Jellacic and his motives and made no secret of the fact in public utterances, which drove the Croatian leader to fury. Given subsequent events, this was to prove a terrible error of judgment by the Batthyany family, for the Austrians, while apparently sympathetic to Batthyany's problems, were secretly boosting Jellacic in undermining the Hungarian regime.<br /><br />Confident now that he had Austria's blessing, Joseph Jellacic's Croatian army, together with a Serbian force, attacked Hungary in June of 1848 and very quickly captured most of South Hungary.<br /><br />The hapless Prince Batthyany resigned and the Hungarian government attempted a compromise with their Austrian masters but to no avail, Batthany's resignation proving to be the catalyst for an open war between the young Hungarian government and the Austrian monarchy.<br /><br />Despite the Prince's resignation from government, the brave and determined Hungarians were at first remarkably successful on the battlefield, turning the early tide against them, and prompting the abdication of the Austrian emperor Ferdinand in favour of his nephew Francis Joseph. Soon, however, the weight of numbers was too much and the reconstituted Austrian army launched new assaults taking the Hungarian capital city of Pest within 2 weeks.<br /><br />The outcome of hostilities was finally decided when the Russians, under Czar Nicholas I, who had stood by and watched developments, finally decided that if Hungary proved successful, revolt might begin within the Russian empire, and so decided to crush the Hungarians in order to deter such thoughts.<br /><br />In June of 1849, two Russian armies entered Hungary, a total of nearly half a million men now opposing the Hungarian regime. It was too much. The Hungarian government fled into exile and, on 13th August 1849, the Russian Commander Marshal Paskievicz was able to report to his Czar. 'Hungary lies at your feet your Majesty.'<br /><br />Now the full weight of Russian retribution hit Hungary. The country was placed under a military administration and thirteen of Hungary's senior officers were publicly hanged. Prince Batthyany, unable to escape from the country with his family, had tried to commit suicide by cutting his throat but was forcibly prevented from doing so. He was arrested and on October 6th 1849 was shot by firing squad. The occupying forces then proceeded to run riot, tearing down Hungarian flags and wrecking Hungarian shops. About 100 more executions followed until an amnesty spared the remainder, including the widowed Princess Irene Batthyany who was allowed to remain in the her lavish home until it was decided what to do with her.<br /><br />The mood of the mob, which at first had been so supportive of Hungarian independence, turned sour in the aftermath of humiliating defeat, much of the anger turning on the exiled Government and the Batthyany family. Boosted by the public mood, a group of Russian officers decided one weekend in November of 1849 to teach the widowed Irene Batthyany a humiliating lesson. A dozen Russian soldiers gate crashed the Palace of the Batthyany family and found Princess Irene alone apart from her serving maid. Frightened, she demanded they leave only to be told that, for her arrogance and because her sons had fought with the rebel Hungarian forces, she should accept her share of responsibility and punishment for bringing her country to such a parlous low.<br /><br />Despite her shrieks of protest, Irene Batthyany was carried out of her palace by the officers and taken, kicking and screaming to the Pest market square where an enthusiastic mob soon gathered to witness Irene's humiliation. The terrified Irene was put up onto a platform and her head and hands secured in a pillory reserved usually for the vagrants and prostitutes who were regularly punished in public.<br /><br />If her shame at such treatment was not enough, Irene was further mortified to see the Croat leader Jellacic, who she had oft derided, seated on the platform with a group of Croat officers all thirsting to witness her degradation. Cheered on by the mob, the Russian officers lifted Irene's dress and petticoats, securing them to her shoulders, then pulled down her lace drawers exposing her naked bottom to the jeering mob. One of the Russians then removed his thick leather belt and proceeded to spank the bare bottom of the shrieking Princess before handing over to another soldier who continued the punishment. The punishment continued until all the officers had administered the belt to Irene's by now scarlet and roasting bottom for some considerable time.<br /><br />
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When Princess Irene Batthyany was shrieking in anguish, her bottom crimson and swollen with pain, the Russians relented and she was released. She was made to kiss the hand of Jellacic and offer apologies for past slights before being allowed to pull up her drawers and adjust her dress. The poor woman, having adjusted her clothing, was then compelled to drag herself home on foot, completely humiliated, through a howling mob who pelted her with rotten fruit and vegetables.<br /><br />Eventually the military dictatorship was replaced, in July 1850, by a civilian one which eased up on the brutality but made certain that any traces of Hungary's abortive attempts at independence were carefully removed. This included dispersing the Batthyany family into the countryside and rehousing them in more frugal accommodation, taking them and their brief acquaintance with fame out of the limelight for ever.<br /><br /><strong>Number 11-13. Jeanne Du Barry and Caroline de Rozen</strong> <em>(This is the text from Alex's blog, edited by Alex in 2008)</em><br /><br />The future Countess du Barry was born on August 19th 1743 in Vaucoleurs, France, as humble Jeanne Becu, a child born out of wedlock to a pastry cook named Annie Becu. It is suggested that Jeanne's father may well have been a friar who served as spiritual advisor to the local convent (the irony is not lost!) a man named Jean Baptiste Gormand of Vaubernier who was certainly Annie Becu's lover.<br /><br />Thanks to the friar's influence, Jeanne had a better education than she might have expected at the convent of Saint-Aure in Paris. At fifteen she left school and took on several positions as lady's maid to the wealthy and influential, thus she had access to the nobility of Paris. In 1763 she met a notorious rake named Jean du Barry, and eventually became his mistress. He was known in Paris as 'Jean the Vile' and was frequently interviewed by the police for his custom of prostituting his lovers, Jeanne Becu included. It appears from journals written to friends that Jeanne had begun to loathe the degradation into which she had sunk and was anxious to attain more respectability.<br /><br />In 1768, Jeanne Becu was introduced at court and came to the attention of Louis XV who was immediately attracted to her and wanted her as his mistress. Convention at the time decreed that, in order to deflect gossip, a mistress had to be a married woman who would thus arrive at court with her husband, the husband then presumably waiting patiently while the King dallied with his wife, and would then, dutifully, take her home. Decorum was thus preserved. So Jeanne Becu married Guillaume Barry, the brother of her procurer, Jean, in order to become one of Louis XV's many mistresses. Her future was thus secured and she became a woman of some influence.<br /><br />Jeanne du Barry became a patron of the arts and a known protector of artists and intellectuals. She was an attractive, excitable woman of strong passions and little patience. It is said that she made friends easily thanks to her outward-going nature and easy laughter, but frequently lost them again thanks to her jealousy and sensitivity to perceived slights.<br /><br />Among the many contacts the Countess du Barry made at court were the Countess of Provence and her teenage lady-in-waiting, Caroline, Marchioness de Rozen. While the relationship between the two Countesses was never more than cordial at best, Jeanne du Barry formed an immediate attachment to the pretty young lady-in-waiting who was eighteen or nineteen at the time of their first meeting. It appears to have been reciprocal for the young Marchioness appeared to revel in the company of the vivacious Jeanne du Barry. So much so that the two became firm friends, the young Caroline always being on Du Barry's guest list for every social function. There was no suggestion of any sexual liaison, they were like two sisters, happy in each others company, and the young Marchioness would boast to her friends that she was one of Jeanne du Barry's favourites, never far away when she was needed and always present at every glittering ball and social function.<br /><br />Given natural human jealousy and possessiveness, such an idyllic existence could not last for ever and the Countess of Provence, who had watched the developing friendship with growing anger, finally put her foot down. She told her young lady-in-waiting, in no uncertain terms, that this close friendship with Du Barry had to stop. It was, she told the girl, demeaning for herself to be excluded from so many functions to which the young Marchioness was invited and that the girl was not to continue the friendship any longer. Frightened of the wrath of her mentor, the Marchioness ignored future invitations to any of Du Barry's social occasions and, when compelled to go to the Palace with her own mistress, treated Jeanne du Barry with coldness and indifference.<br /><br />Jeanne was furious and very upset by this snub and complained to Louis XV about the slight she had received. The King, most probably in jest, replied that the Marchioness was little more than a child with all the temperamental vagaries of a child. He apparently suggested that 'a taste of the rod would do that little thing no harm' and chuckled that he wouldn't mind watching Caroline's young bottom get a taste of it either!<br /><br />Whether this was intended to be taken seriously or not, the angry Jeanne du Barry took him at his word. She sent a message to the young Marchioness asking if she could visit in secret the next morning as there were important matters that needed to be discussed relating to her future at court, suggesting it would be to her benefit if she could get away. Flattered by the hint, and undoubtedly curious, Caroline made some excuse to her mistress and took a carriage into Paris to Du Barry's sumptuous home.<br /><br />In the meantime, Jeanne du Barry had informed the King that, if he were to arrive in secret and hide behind a dressing screen in her boudoir, he might see something to his liking. Puzzled, but happy to play his lover's games the King duly arrived and took his place behind the screen.<br /><br />Downstairs, an apparent reconciliation had been effected with Jeanne and the young Marchioness breakfasting together amid great cordiality. Once the repast was over, Jeanne du Barry told her young guest that there were documents pertaining to her future role at court in Jeanne's boudoir and that they should go up there with all haste. Suspecting nothing, Caroline de Rozen followed the Countess into her bedroom whereupon the door was rapidly slammed shut and four very strong chamber-maids grabbed the young Marchioness and dragged her, screaming, over to the bed where she was thrown face down.<br /><br />As the girl shrieked in fear and shame, at a word from Jeanne du Barry, her long skirts and petticoats were hoisted up high on her back, completely baring her bottom. Jeanne then angrily told the girl this was the price for snubbing the Countess du Barry, and that, after today's experience, she would never do such a thing again.<br /><br />
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Before the delighted eyes of the King secreted behind the screen, while two of the maids held the struggling Caroline, the other two picked up stout birch rods and began to whip the young Marchioness across her bare buttocks very severely until the skin broke and little spots of blood began to run down her thighs. At this point Jeanne du Barry ordered that the whipping be stopped and the girl be allowed to rise. This she did with great difficulty, weeping hysterically before fleeing back to her carriage and home... presumably kneeling all the way!<br /><br />Unable to tell her mistress, the Countess of Provence, what had happened for she had broken a promise and would be in more trouble, Caroline de Rozen wrote directly to the King complaining about her treatment. She received a reply, apparently sympathetic, saying he would question Jeanne du Barry on the matter , but that of course he would be unable to do anything unless Caroline was prepared to come to court and display the evidence to him. Such a humiliating proposal made it obvious to the Marchioness that her complaint was falling on deaf ears, and she sought advice from her friends on what to do next.<br /><br />All, without exception, suggested that she make up with Jeanne du Barry with all haste for the Countess was too powerful an enemy to confront, and Caroline took the advice. She wrote to Jeanne asking if she could visit once more, apologising for past slights and confessing that her chastisement was no more than she deserved.<br /><br />Delighted by the success of her actions, Jeanne was pleased to welcome back her young friend and agreed that the friendship would continue in secret in order that the Countess of Provence would not be discomfited in any way, and so it was done.<br /><br />In 1774, Louis XV died and, for some time, Jeanne du Barry became a forgotten figure in France. Not one to let the grass grow under her feet for long, she courted the new power in the land, the Duke of Brissac and became his lover of many years. in 1789, the French Revolution began and Jeanne began to make many trips to London, ostensibly to secure her jewellery in safe banks. She made contact with a number of exiled aristocrats while in England, a very dangerous practice, which led eventually to her downfall and death. The Revolutionary Government considered her actions as treacherous and, in 1793, Jeanne du Barry was arrested and charged with working against the revolution.<br /><br />She was sentenced to death and on 8th December 1793, at the age of fifty, the Countess Jeanne du Barry went to the guillotine. She did not meet impending death with any great courage or dignity (and who could blame her!), collapsing several times in the tumbril en route to the guillotine and screaming to the crowd from the platform "Why do you want to hurt me? Why?" and eventually becoming so hysterical that she was difficult to restrain. The last words she ever spoke are probably her most famous, "Encore un moment, monsieur le bourreau, un petit moment," ("One moment more, executioner, one little moment") and then the blade did its work.<br /><br /><strong>Number 11-13. Catherine the Great</strong> <em>(This is the text from Alex's blog, edited by Alex in 2008)</em><br /><br />Catherine the Second of Russia, later to be known as Catherine the Great, was born Sophia Augusta Fredericka, Princess of Auhalt-Zerbst on 2nd May 1729 in Stettin, Prussia. Her father was Prince Christian August, a general in the Prussian army but the driving force in the young Sophia's eventual rise to fame was her mother, Princess Johanna Elizabeth, a woman of great ambition.<br /><br />The seeds of influence were sown early when Prince Karl August, one of Princess Johanna's brothers, became engaged to Elizabeth, the Empress of Russia, but the boy died unexpectedly in 1727 before any nuptials could be arranged. Johanna's cousin, Karl Frederick, had also married the daughter of Peter the Great, so the strength of relationship between the Prussian and Russian courts was firmly established by the early part of the 18th century.<br /><br />When Empress Elizabeth sought a wife for her son and successor, Peter III, much deep and earnest correspondence ensued between Elizabeth and the Prussian Princess Johanna with the result that, on January 1st 1744, the young Sophia and her mother were invited to St. Petersburg by Elizabeth and her son. Sophia was then just fourteen years old. The Empress was delighted by the young Sophia for she found a very attractive young girl, intelligent and perceptive beyond her years. Thus it was agreed that, subject to Sophia's conversion to the Russian Orthodox Church, the girl would marry Peter. As part of the conversion process, Sophia had to be given a new name ordained by the Empress and Elizabeth chose to call the girl 'Catherine' in honour of her own mother.<br /><br />Peter III proved to be a sickly young man and had several bouts of serious illness during Catherine's visit, and had survived a serious bout of measles in 1743 which left him sterile. This fact appears to have been withheld from Catherine until well after the two were married on 2nd August 1745.<br /><br />Marriage thus proved to be a horror for Catherine. Her role was to produce a male heir and it didn't happen. She began to feel guilty and fractious, leaning on only a few trusted advisors and friends. She saw little of her husband, spending her time riding horses and reading the works of Voltaire. A few months into the marriage, the Empress Elizabeth reorganised Catherine's court circle, dismissing many of the girl's close friends and replacing them with advisors of her own choosing. One of these was Sergei Saltykov, a long time friend of the Empress and. many dared only whisper, probably more than that. Saltykov had a reputation as a strong and virile ladies man who was encouraged by Empress Elizabeth to become close to the young Princess Catherine. It soon became clear to the young girl what her mother in law was doing and she acceded to the Empress's clear desire that she take Saltykov to her bed in order to produce a child, a task for which her husband was incapable.<br /><br />After two miscarriages Catherine finally gave birth to a son on 20th September 1754, the child being named Paul. The fact that the child was a boy took all the weight of expectation from Catherine's shoulders and allowed her greater freedom of movement and a chance to study English, at which she rapidly became fluent.<br /><br />In 1761 the now ailing Empress Elizabeth died on Christmas Day and Peter III became Emperor of Russia. If his health was not a big enough handicap, Peter lacked any political savvy and consequently, during his period of waiting to step into his mother's shoes, had made himself very unpopular. Catherine, his wife, on the other hand, had steadfastly cultivated her own friends, her own advisors and her own 'court' and, amazingly for someone who was a foreigner, was very popular throughout Russia.<br /><br />Catherine was advised, even before Elizabeth was laid to rest, to overthrow her husband and take the Russian throne but she sought various counsel and decided against it.<br /><br />The coup was not long in coming, however, and by June 1762, Catherine and her advisors realised that there could be no further prevarication for the situation in the country was becoming ever more hostile to Peter so, on 28th June 1762, Catherine led a march through St Petersburg which picked up support and momentum along the way. Peter and his mistress escaped from the city to a country retreat where, on July 6th, he was tracked down by Catherine's agents and murdered. It became clear that Count Alexei Orloff, one of Catherine's most trusted advisors, had conspired with her in this murder but she justified it on the grounds that Russian independence was threatened by the Prussian links of her late husband..... of which she, of course, was the first!<br /><br />Catherine was crowned on Sunday 22nd September 1762 in the Kremlin and proceeded to install all her trusted advisors in key positions, including the aforementioned Count Orloff who became Minister of Police and the Interior, a role in which he would exercise more than a slight taste for corporal punishment. Catherine ruled as a benign dictator who, in fact, scrapped the death penalty and brought in some enlightened social legislation.<br /><br />If Catherine was basically a benign and enlightened despot, there were two areas in which she would have no patience or sympathy. One was her lack of regard for anyone who, whether through foolishness or malice, might betray Russia, and the other was anyone who would spread malicious gossip about Catherine herself. Catherine had ample cause to worry on both counts for revolts and minor uprisings were rife in the early years of her reign and her propensity for affairs with countless men left her vulnerable to attack. In both areas her wrath was manifested through severe physical retribution.<br /><br />An example of such was an incident which followed a masked ball at the Palace of St Petersburg where a very well connected lady, the wife of a senior Russian general, had apparently drunk a little too much and was making very indiscreet remarks concerning Russia's alliances and her husband's opinion of them. The ball was attended by a number of foreign dignitaries who could clearly hear some of the lady's opinions and were not best pleased. The lady's indiscretions soon came to the ear of Catherine and she passed word to Orloff to get something done about it. The lady was told that her husband, who was away in the army, had left word for her and she was to return home. Unsuspecting, the General's wife left the ball in the company of Orloff's men, but instead of being taken home, she was taken to Orloff's Interior Ministry and down to a basement.<br /><br />To her horror, she saw that the room contained a vaulting horse and an array of rods and birches. Count Orloff himself came into the room and read her the riot act about loose tongues undermining the Empress and the State. To her shame and horror, the frightened lady was told to strip naked, at which she protested violently, citing her position in society and her husband's rank. Orloff told her, in no uncertain terms, that her husband would have no military rank if she did not do as she was told and, as far as her position in society was concerned, the punishment had been ordained by the Empress Catherine herself, and that her future at court was very much in the balance.<br /><br />The lady hesitated no longer and stripped naked, then was firmly strapped down over the vaulting horse. On Orloff's command, she was birched soundly until her shrieks rang round the room and her bottom was red raw. She was then released, allowed to dress, and sent home with a warning that any repeat of such injudicious behaviour would result in imprisonment.<br /><br />An example of what happened when Catherine's personal trust was betrayed can be illustrated by the experience of one of her most trusted Maids Of Honour. The girl was responsible for the Empress's intimate dressing and bathing, thus of course found herself privy to some very private secrets including the sight of certain of Catherine's lovers arriving and departing the boudoir. The girl was engaged to be married and could not resist passing some juicy tittle-tattle to her fiance who, in turn, repeated it at one of his dining clubs in St Petersburg. Inevitably the gossip got back to the Empress who was livid with rage. Instead of reacting immediately, Catherine bided her time until the girl's wedding. After the happy couple had retired to the bedroom to consummate their marriage, the bedroom was forced open by six men of Catherine's personal bodyguard. Without ceremony, the sheets were stripped from the naked couple and the girl dragged out of bed. She was 'horsed' on the back of one of the guards while another birched her bottom mercilessly. The helpless husband was ordered to kneel naked and watch the proceedings on his knees.<br /><br />
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When the birching was over and the girl was crying in anguish, the couple was told to enjoy their married life and, as far as Catherine was concerned, the flogging was the end of the matter. The couple was told that should any further indiscretions occur, however, both would be sent to a labour camp in Siberia. Needless to say the 'hint' was taken seriously.<br /><br />Catherine's reign was a difficult one in many ways, yet she ruled Russia for over thirty years. Although she had her critics, she was greatly loved for her enlightened social policies and her military wisdom. Her final years were haunted by illness and depression, including a loss of faith in her son, Paul, who she attempted to have removed from the line of inheritance. The attempts failed and the now ailing Catherine died, following a stroke, on 5th November 1796. Her son did indeed inherit the throne of Russia, immediately tried to reverse many of his mother's reforms, and in fact, restored the memory of his 'father', Peter III, holding a new lying in ceremony so that Peter was buried next to his wife in the Peter and Paul Cathedral of St Petersburg.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-77535022891510632392012-05-28T10:22:00.000-07:002012-05-28T10:22:08.845-07:00Sir Rodney's New Maid<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<em>Story from Janus 17.</em><br /><br /><strong>Sir Rodney's New Maid</strong><br />by David Redshaw<br /><br />When our great-great-grandfathers were alive the caning and birching of schoolgirls was common practice throughout the land: no wonder they're referred to as the Good Old Days! Hansard (Commons, June 1863, col. 193) reports the birching of a 16-year-old girl by the lady superintendent of the Royal Patriotic Asylum, a girls' institute in Wandsworth. The birching was recommended by the chaplain, who doubtless was present at its execution.<br /><br />On February 14th, 1900, as chronicled in <em>The English Vice</em> by Ian Gibson, a report was read before a select committee of the London School Board which stated that the managers of a certain girls' Industrial School had just passed a resolution that in future its girls 'should only be birched across the shoulders', which leads us to the inescapable conclusion that previously girls of that age had been exposed to the painful indignity of being birched on their bottoms.<br /><br />On examination of the punishment records of 16 such schools for girls, we further find that two gave instances of birchings, ten of canings, two of tawsings and two of unspecified 'whipping'. Assuming there to have been at least 100 girls on the roll of each school, that adds up to a sum total of 1,600 trembling schoolgirl bottoms liable at any hour or minute in their academic careers to be either birched, caned, tawsed or 'whipped'!<br /><br />Such punishments were invariably public affairs, carried out before either the whole school (<em>pour encourager les autres</em>) or at the very least before the board of governors, composed of clergymen, magistrates and philanthropic industrialists, pillars of society to a man. Like all other decent Victorians they believed firmly in Justice and Discipline and they attended these caning and birching sessions purely and simply to witness the saucy little madams being whipped into a state of true contrition, signified by pleas for mercy, copious weeping and scarlet, wealed backsides.<br /><br />If any of the said worthy gentlemen evinced more than a passing interest in the little preliminary ritual of denuding 16-year-old Charlotte Hopkins of her tight cotton drawers, or in the sight of 18-year-old Grace Bicton, already a fully developed woman, clad-only in waist-length chemise and black silk stockings, bent bottom-upwards over the birching block, the unmentionable parts of her nether anatomy shamefully displayed... then it is certainly not recorded in Hansard, nor in any school board or governors' report. Such stirrings of gentlemenly loins were discreetly swept under the carpet.<br /><br />One other historical fact is worth a mention. The senior pupils of girls' Industrial Schools served as a convenient pool for 'servant fodder', and members of the aristocracy, as well as the nouveau riche, were known to visit such establishments in order to select a suitable girl to fill a vacancy below stairs, as the following now historical exchange of correspondence illustrates.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><strong>Oakfield Road,<br />Tunbridge Wells,<br />Kent.<br />October 12th, 1897</strong><br /><br /><em>Dear Miss Marchmain,</em><br /><br />Mossborough Industrial School for Girls, of which you are, I believe, the Principal, has been recommended to me in the warmest possible terms by a contributor to your charity fund, Colonel William Standish.<br /><br />I am currently afflicted, dear madam, with what I believe is generally known as 'a servant problem'. I urgently require a reliable, trustworthy girl to train as junior parlour-maid in my household. Might a suitable female be found in your establishment? I am prepared to offer appropriate remuneration, full uniform including underwear, laundering expenses, and one half-day holiday per fortnight.<br /><br />Colonel Standish advises me to inform you that I am inclined to prefer a girl who has been well disciplined. I trust that I make myself understood, and remain, madam, your servant.<br /><br /><em><strong>Sir Rodney Maltravers</strong></em><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><strong>Mossborough Industrial School<br />For Girls,<br />Institute Lane,<br />Mossborough,<br />--shire.<br />October 15th, 1897</strong><br /><br /><em>Dear Sir Rodney,</em><br /><br />I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter enquiring as to whether it would be possible for your esteemed self to select from among my senior pupils a girl suitable to fill the vacant position of junior parlour-maid in your household.<br /><br />I am more than sensible, Sir Rodney, of the honour that your choice of our humble establishment confers upon us.<br /><br />Might I take the liberty of suggesting that if you would be kind enough to call upon us next Thursday, October 21st, at a time convenient to yourself, I should consider it a further honour to put myself entirely at your disposal with a view to fulfilling your <strong><em>every</em></strong> requirement in this matter.<br /><br />Please believe me to remain, your obedient and humble servant.<br /><br /><strong><em>Harriet Marchmain, B.A.<br />(Principal)</em></strong><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Sir Rodney Maltravers' arrival the following week was a red letter day in the annals of the school. The girls were informed of his visit, and they were exhorted to look their very best and behave impeccably. Any who so much as put a foot wrong could expect a merciless flogging before the whole school the next day.<br /><br />As to what did transpire at Mossborough Industrial School on that fateful Thursday, we shall let Sir Rodney take up the narrative himself...<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />I regret to say (<em>he later wrote to his cousin Edgar</em>) that my first impressions of Mossborough Industrial School were hardly favourable. I glimpsed from the carriage a gaunt, squat, grey stone building huddling in a fold of windswept hills.<br /><br />A formidably high wall, crowned with spikes, surrounded it and to the left hand side of its massive iron gates there stood a rather dilapidated lodge. The keeper, a grim silent fellow, grudgingly allowed us admission through the gates, while his snarling cur snapped viciously at the wheels of our carriage.<br /><br />I was received at the school by an awe-struck, curtseying maid who conducted me down a long stone-flagged corridor towards the library, where I was ushered into the presence of the Principal, Miss Harriet Marchmain.<br /><br />The instant my eyes rested on her I was struck as much by the august beauty of her form as by the austere dignity of her attitude. Her figure was tall and bespoke power, her eyes piercing and resolute. Yet over all there hung an aura of female sensuality that more than hinted at a passionate nature.<br /><br />She greeted me warmly and we quickly got down to business. She recounted a brief history of the school. It was founded in 1859 for the purpose of educating daughters of the victims of the Crimean War. Since then it had opened its arms further to receive daughters of the deserving poor, orphans, and other worthy recipients of charitable education.<br /><br />I broached the subject of discipline, for I was all agog to see whether Miss Marchmain would authenticate the tales of birchings and canings galore with which old Standish had so frequently regaled me. I was not to be disappointed.<br /><br />'We have a strict code of conduct here at Mossborough, Sir Rodney,' she replied to my probing questioning, looking me straight in the eye without a trace of embarrassment. 'Any instance of moral turpitude, however slight, is punished with the utmost rigour. We never hesitate to use the cane.' Her eyes still fixed mine in a bright intense stare. 'The birch is, of course, reserved for more serious infringements and is administered only by me.'<br /><br />I noted the grim smile of self-satisfaction lingering on her lips...<br /><br />She led me over the school. We visited every classroom. The girls, spick and span in their neat pinafore dresses and black stockings, rose as one and honoured me with their prettiest curtsies. Together Miss Marchmain and I picked out the most eligible candidates for my vacancy below stairs.<br /><br />In the sewing room I was much taken with the appearance of a pretty little blonde girl.<br /><br />'That's Belinda Edwards,' whispered Miss Marchmain. 'An excellent choice, Sir Rodney! I congratulate you on your perspicacity.'<br /><br />On Miss Marchmain's recommendation I selected two other likely girls: Polly Turner, a slightly plump good-natured brunette, and Arabella Bennett, a pertly vivacious slender red-head. That done, the Principal – this strangely magnetic woman – led the way back to the library.<br /><br />Warming myself cheerily before the roaring log fire, I plotted my next move, like a general before battle or a surgeon before a tricky operation. The prognosis seemed good. Pulling out my cheque book I declared that I was prepared to donate generously to the school's charity fund.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain, acutely sensible to my requirements, understood my meaning perfectly, excellent lady!<br /><br />'By some amazing coincidence, Sir Rodney, all three girls you picked have recently been guilty of breaches of school regulations... trifling offences, I'll admit... untidy lockers and beds, shoes insufficiently polished, whispering in Chapel and so on. Nevertheless they have not gone unrecorded and what I now propose is that they be punished directly, by me, with you as an impartial observer. I take it, Sir Rodney,' (again that flicker of a cruel smile!) 'that you have no objections?'<br /><br />'None whatsoever, dear lady,' I assured her blandly. 'If the saucy minxes deserve a good lesson then by all means take down their drawers and cane them soundly, and I shall gladly act as witness to make sure that justice is well and truly done!' I settled back in a comfortable armchair and lit a cigar.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain disappeared, only to return several minutes later with the three blushing culprits: Polly, Arabella and Belinda. Clearly they already knew why they had been summoned. They stood in the middle of the room fidgeting nervously, eyeing Miss Marchmain dolefully while she lectured them sternly. Every now and then they cast sheepish glances in my direction as the awful realisation dawned on them that I, a male, was to be present at their shameful, degrading punishment.<br /><br />'I counsel you to bear your canings with fortitude and refrain from blubbering!' the Principal warned them. 'For whichever one of you Sir Rodney chooses for parlour-maid, she will <strong><em>definitely</em></strong> not be a cry-baby!'<br /><br />Miss Marchmain was deliberately putting the girls on their mettle, sadistically spelling out the fact that the painful fate awaiting them was not just punishment, but also a cruel process of elimination. Trial by ordeal!<br /><br />But Polly and Belinda seemed very near to tears already, although Arabella, the most rebellious natured of the trio, fixed me coolly with those insolent dark brown eyes of hers. She was too haughty by far for her adolescent years. I knew I was going to particularly relish seeing <strong><em>her</em></strong> being tanned.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain told all three girls to remove their dresses and petticoats, and lower their drawers to their knees. An outraged silence greeted this humiliating instruction. They exchanged horrified looks then, blushing to the roots, glanced sidelong at me, indicating their deep repugnance at being made to disrobe while I was in the room.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain went to a cupboard and returned bearing three canes of different lengths and thicknesses. Immobilised by shame and fear, the girls meanwhile had made no effort to commence undressing, so Miss Marchmain repeated her command in more peremptory tones.<br /><br />'But Miss, I <strong><em>can't</em></strong>! Not with a gentleman present – it's not decent!' Polly wailed, real tears now glistening in her eyes. Arabella sulked mutinously while poor little Belinda tried vainly to stifle her sobs of despair in her lace handkerchief.<br /><br />'Disobedient wretches!' Miss Marchmain snapped, stamping her elegant foot angrily. 'Do I have to disrobe you myself? False modesty does not become you. Do you fondly imagine Sir Rodney has never seen girls' bare bottoms before?' They cringed miserably at the mere thought of such an idea.<br /><br />How she berated them! But the threat of being forcibly stripped had its desired effect. Amid groanings and yet more violent blushes the three pretty little minxes began removing their gowns and petticoats. Outer clothing soon gave way to more private, intimate garments until at last they were standing there all forlorn, shivering in their cambric chemises, figure-hugging white cotton drawers and black silk stockings gartered at mid-thigh. They presented an enchanting tableau and I longed to dismiss Miss Marchmain and cane them myself!<br /><br />The plumply nubile Polly Turner was the first to be caned. Miss Marchmain seized the quaking semi-nude girl by the ear and marched her over to the librarian's ornately carved oak desk. Yanking Polly's drawers down to below her knees the Principal ordered her to bend right over the desk so that her bare behind was fully raised and vulgarly exposed. In spite of her 17 years, Polly whimpered and snivelled childishly, clenching her hind cheeks tightly together in an act of instinctive self-preservation.<br /><br />'I intend to administer eight strokes of the very best on that incorrigibly wicked bare bottom of yours,' Miss Marchmain announced briskly. 'Pray compose yourself in readiness.'<br /><br />From my excellent vantage point, ten feet or so away, I was able to scrutinise in great detail the girl's naked charms, right down to the endearing little mole near the base of her right buttock cheek. The bottom she presented was well-fleshed, succulently rounded with a deep narrow crease dividing its two melon-shaped halves. Wisps of dark pubic curls peeped out shyly from below the soft, delicate zone between her legs.<br /><br />Polly's bitter mortification doubtless stemmed from her awareness of the disgracefully indecent spectacle she was now presenting of herself. The other two girls gazed at the proceedings in horror. I caught Belinda's eye, and the dainty little creature went crimson with shame at the thought that soon she, too, would be made to take Polly's place, lower her drawers and display her bare bottom for my keen appraisal...<br /><br />Miss Marchmain chose the medium cane, and after one or two exploratory taps on Polly's bare seat, raised it aloft and then sent it swishing through the air towards its all-too-ample target.<br /><br />It exploded across the crowns of Polly's out-thrust buttocks. The shock of the impact caused Polly to suck in air loudly between clenched teeth. A vivid crimson weal sprang up almost immediately, marring the flawless pallor of her broad cheeks.<br /><br />Again the cane whistled down and splatted resoundingly against Polly's plump, yielding bottom flesh. She yelped in anguish and commenced to wriggle and cavort her nether regions in a most licentious, abandoned manner, vouchsafing me glimpses of those intimate sexual regions of her person that so far she had managed to conceal from view.<br /><br />The third and fourth strokes were delivered within seconds of each other, so that Polly hardly had time to draw breath in between them. When she did it was to let out a series of choking sobs. She began to plead pathetically with Miss Marchmain for clemency:<br /><br />'Oh Miss – I <strong><em>beg</em></strong> you! It stings so! It <strong><em>burns</em></strong> so!'<br /><br />What was once a smooth, snowy-white bottom was now cruelly striped with four blossoming weals. The next few strokes caught her lower down on the delicate underside of her cheeks and must have hurt excruciatingly, judging by the shrill urgency of her cries:<br /><br />'<strong><em>Please</em></strong>, Miss, not <strong><em>there</em></strong>, Miss! <strong><em>Anywhere</em></strong> but <strong><em>there</em></strong>, Miss! Oh God, it's <strong><em>so</em></strong> awful!' she shrieked, and there was a sensual hissing sound as her silk stocking-clad legs gyrated and rubbed madly together.<br /><br />Arabella and Belinda looked as though they might faint any minute, so aghast were they at the sight and sound of the cane whistling mercilessly down upon poor Polly's frantically cavorting behind.<br /><br />When the springy yellow cane wrapped itself spitefully around Polly's throbbing, enflamed flanks for the eighth and final time she was in fits of tears, blubbering unashamedly.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain raised the weeping girl up from the desk and led her over to the wall, where she was made to stand with her hands on her head, crimson weal-racked bottom on full display. Her drawers had long since slipped ignominiously down to her ankles.<br /><br />Now it was the turn of Arabella Bennett, the saucy impudent member of the trio.<br /><br />'You're never going to take <strong><em>my</em></strong> drawers down, Miss, not in front of <strong><em>him</em></strong> you're not!' she muttered stubbornly, making an insolent gesture in my direction.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain positively bristled with ire. Bosom heaving, eyes flashing, she drew herself up to her full height. She was powerfully built and well used to physically subduing rebellious schoolgirls like Arabella Bennett.<br /><br />'We shall see about that!' she hissed menacingly, advancing purposefully towards her disobedient pupil who shrank back in alarm, her hands clutching protectively at the waistband of her white cotton drawers.<br /><br />Seizing her around the waist, Miss Marchmain dragged her bodily over to the punishment desk.<br /><br />'Pray be so kind as to secure her hands, Sir Rodney,' she panted.<br /><br />I sprang to her aid, my heart beating excitedly. Grabbing the struggling, protesting girl by the wrists, I moved around to the far side of the desk, hauling her so far across its surface that her feet left the ground and she lay on her tummy, legs kicking furiously in the air like a stranded mermaid.<br /><br />Her coppery red hair fell in delicious disarray across her face, and those lovely dark brown eyes of hers blazed defiance at me. With such a quick, wildcat temper she was obviously unsuited for service; she would have been more of a liability than an asset below stairs. All the same, I had to admire her spirit.<br /><br />But Miss Marchmain was fully roused too, and her patience exhausted. She took hold of the top of the girl's drawers and, with a splitting, rending sound, literally tore them away from Arabella's surging posterior.<br /><br />'Oh my drawers, Miss! My drawers!' Arabella wailed frantically. 'You've ripped them – they're my best pair!'<br /><br />How typical of the female sex, I thought, to be more concerned about a pair of drawers than about a caning!<br /><br />But the furious manner in which Harriet Marchmain set about belabouring Arabella's bare bottom with the stoutest of the three canes very soon caused the unfortunate girl to entirely forget about her damaged drawers.<br /><br />This was a caning totally lacking in finesse. It was delivered in the white heat of anger, and stroke after stroke rained down in unbroken succession upon the general area that lay between Arabella's hips and the tops of her stockings.<br /><br />I completely lost count of the number of strokes, they fell so thick and fast. Arabella's tomboyishly compact little bottom cheeks quickly lost their pale coppery sheen as an untidy array of thick ridged weals sprang up to spoil their ivory beauty.<br /><br />
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Arabella's shrieks of distress, loud enough to awaken the dead, echoed all around the vaulted, oak-beamed library. She bucked and writhed like a wild pony being broken in. I had one devil of a job holding on to her.<br /><br />I later learned that Arabella Bennett had fallen foul of Miss Marchmain early on in the year, and this unusually severe punishment was in the way of a settlement of old scores...<br /><br />Indeed Miss Marchmain's fury knew no bounds. She wielded that cane like one possessed. Because Arabella was pinned horizontally across the desk the strokes fell directly downwards, hence all the more viciously.<br /><br />But until Arabella was howling and bawling lachrymosely like a well-spanked five-year-old did Miss Marchmain at last relent. She threw down the cane with a clatter and stood there, wild-eyed and panting from exertion and spent passion.<br /><br />I helped Arabella up to a standing position. She made a truly poignant spectacle. Her poor bottom was by now virtually corrugated with the marks of the cane's numerous visitations. I judged she'd not be sitting down with ease before the month was up.<br /><br />Touched with pity for her though I was, nevertheless when the trembling near-naked girl instinctively sought the reassuring haven of my shoulder to cry on, I confess I could not resist slipping my hands behind her to explore the ridges of her bruised maltreated bottom. She winced and caught her breath when I touched her there, and drew in closer to me for comfort – encountering, I have no doubt, the rampant bulge in the front of my trousers...<br /><br />I consoled her as best I could, after which I eased her rent, tattered drawers back up over her hot, palpitating, crimson bottom – judging that she had suffered enough already without subjecting her to the fresh degradation of having to stand and display her cruelly chastised behind to the world. Womaniser I may be: but sadist – never!<br /><br />Drawing Harriet Marchmain into a private corner, I expressed my displeasure. She had, in my opinion, grossly exceeded her authority and abused her position. No girl, however fractious and unruly, deserved the punishment that poor Arabella had received at Miss Marchmain's hands. And to implicate <strong><em>me</em></strong> in the unsavoury affair showed a marked lack of respect for a peer of the realm.<br /><br />Miss Marchmain grew flustered and grovellingly subservient, eager to please my every whim lest I report her sadistic treatment of Arabella to the Board of Governors.<br /><br />I must confess here that, far from behaving altruistically, I was in fact shamelessly exploiting this delicate situation for my own ends.<br /><br />What I desired above all else was simply to be left to my own wicked devices with the delectably demure Belinda – for she, and she alone, was my choice. I'd picked her out of all the other girls right from the start, exquisite creature that she was, and now I fumed and fretted with impatient longing to take a rod to her naked buttocks and flog her into abject, wailing submission... for if she was to be my maid, she needed to be initiated into her master's pleasure.<br /><br />Eager to escape further censure from me, Miss Marchmain was more than happy to leave Belinda to my sole care. She departed hastily from the library with Polly and a still weeping Arabella in tow, carrying their dresses and petticoats in their arms.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />The field was mine, the day was won! With mounting excitement I turned to address the little blonde charmer, trembling nervously in her chemise and pretty little lace-trimmed bloomers.<br /><br />'Rejoice, my dear Belinda!' I began blithely, 'For I am resolved that you shall be my new maid! You will be decked out in silks and satins – the finest black stockings, the frilliest chemises and under-petticoats, the most translucently frivolous drawers that money can purchase...'<br /><br />She blushed, yet brightened considerably at the thought of leaving Mossborough School behind, and with it all the humiliating, degrading punishments of girlhood.<br /><br />But I was cruelly baiting her, raising her hopes only to dash them upon the rocks of my implacable flagellant's appetite.<br /><br />'...and you will be <strong><em>whipped</em></strong>, my dear Belinda,' I continued crisply, my eyes devouring her affrighted innocence, '<strong><em>well whipped</em></strong>, morning, noon and night, by myself and by your mistress, my Lady Caroline, for she too likes nothing better than to see a brand new parlour-maid well and truly humbled, her drawers down around her ankles, weeping her heart out and clutching <strong><em>a well-whipped bottom</em></strong>... a well-whipped bottom! Do I make myself plain, Belinda?' I repeated slowly and deliberately.<br /><br />She gazed at me miserably, like a stricken fawn. Her delicate porcelain features were darkly clouded by gloom, despair and naked terror. The painful whippings that Polly and Arabella had suffered were preying on her mind. She could not banish from her memory the awful vision of Arabella's frantically writhing haunches, vainly endeavouring to dodge the lashing rod, her shrieks and howls filling the room.<br /><br />But Belinda now knew that a far worse fate awaited her. She was under no illusions. She knew she was about to be severely whipped on her exquisite, virginal little bottom – not by one of her own sex – <strong><em>but by a man</em></strong>!<br /><br />'Belinda,' I murmured cruelly, stroking the cheeks of her bottom through the thin cotton drawers, 'I intend now to give you the most atrociously smarting bottom you have ever endured in your life!'<br /><br />Then came the command she was dreading all along:<br /><br />'Loosen you drawers, Belinda. Let them fall to your ankles.'<br /><br />She began to whimper and cast me many a beseeching look. But Lust had me in its grip and made me immune to all her pleadings. I was fully resolved to whip the shamefully naked bottom of this sweet young innocent, until my right arm hung limp and exhausted at my side.<br /><br />Her immaculately laundered white drawers hugged her hips like a second skin, clearly delineating the well-defined cleft that separated her beautifully sculpted hind-cheeks. Out of modesty she kept her back turned while she unbuttoned and lowered her drawers, lest I glimpse her sacred, unravished mount of Venus.<br /><br />Her palely flawless bare bottom slowly came into view. Slight traces of puppy-fat accentuated the soft sensual curves of those rounded little buttocks of hers.<br /><br />My spirits rose to dizzy new heights, my blood roared in my temples. My manhood engorged and erected, like an accusing finger pointing at my pretty victim.<br /><br />I chose the slenderest of the three canes, the whippiest and hence the most viciously damaging. I essayed trial slashes with it through the air.<br /><br />Belinda began to cry softly, her hands shielding the base of her buttocks lest I glimpse between her legs the blonde curls guarding her most intimate shrine.<br /><br />With the cane I lightly tapped her hands away from her bottom. All modesty was denied her now that she was mine, and I longed to slake my thirst on all her charms.<br /><br />Accordingly, I instructed her to bend over and touch her toes like a schoolboy. She winced at the gross indignity of having to assume such a posture, but fear made her obey me.<br /><br />Weeping piteously now, she bent her back taut as a bowstring, and her bottom acquired a cheeky, pouting prominence. Hobbled as she was by her fallen drawers, nevertheless I enjoined her to stretch her feet wider apart, thus affording me a clear view of the precious dewy secrets between her thighs.<br /><br />Her slender arms hung down obediently before her, her hands an inch or two above her toes. I delivered a warning swish across the tops of her bare thighs. She groaned as she felt the cold kiss of the cane upon her tender, yielding flesh.<br /><br />'You are a saucy, disobedient little minx, Belinda!' I admonished her severely. 'Touch your toes properly, this instant!'<br /><br />She gasped with the effort involved in complying with my instructions. Her girlish body tautened and strained as she tried desperately to bend over still further. Her bottom swayed appealingly and her blonde ringlets fell in profusion across her deeply blushing face.<br /><br />Again I tapped her with the cane, but on the backs of her knees.<br /><br />'Bend your legs a little, Belinda.' This thrust her bottom outwards, into even greater prominence. Exactly as I desired it.<br /><br />The moment had arrived. Gripping it tightly just below the handle, I raised the cane. Belinda was breathing heavily in spasmodic, jerking sobs, her eyes closed as though to blot out the impending bottom-searing pain...<br /><br />
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I administered four swift whirring cuts, one after the other, across the saucy plumpness of her vulgarly presented derriere. She yelped urgently each time I struck her.<br /><br />The impact drove her forward and she all but tottered to the ground. Somehow she regained her balance and pluckily resumed the vulnerable, submissive posture required.<br /><br />I saw the sweet rain of her tears, falling drop by drop upon the toes of her shoes. Four livid weals now cruelly branded her once peerless bottom, mocking its ivory beauty. Goaded beyond endurance by her maidenly meekness I sent four more hearty strokes whistling down onto the base of Belinda's out-thrust posterior.<br /><br />She jumped in the air, as though stung by an electric eel. Now her bottom resembled the glowing bars of a prison cell at sunset. The air vibrated with her passionate lamentations.<br /><br />'Oh sir!' she sobbed wretchedly, clutching frantically at her blazing rear, 'I believe you are the very cruellest of masters, I –'<br /><br />'Remove your hands from your posterior, you immodest, brazen girl!' I stormed at her in anger, vowing to punish her unmercifully for that foolishly injudicious little outburst of hers.<br /><br />Grimly I waited until her hands were once more touching her toes, then I whipped her again more soundly than ever. Five strokes, diagonally applied, to form a crisscross pattern all over her madly squirming seat. Then, with one final resounding 'WHUP!', I savagely rechristened the crimson pouting summits of her nether cheeks before watching her sink to the floor, overcome by lachrymose convulsions of penitence, her bottom more fiercely colourful than if she'd been made to sit for an entire hour upon a hornets' nest!<br /><br />Belinda wailed and blubbered like one totally distraught, caring not a jot now <strong><em>what</em></strong> part of her precious person she displayed, for she was sprawled indecorously, her legs wide apart revealing all.<br /><br />I let her weep on until she had practically exhausted a year's supply of tears, then when she had grown more composed I touched her on the shoulder.<br /><br />'Be dressed and ready to depart within the half hour, Belinda,' I said, 'The road is treacherous and we must reach Tunbridge Wells before nightfall.'<br /><br />As we drove out of the gates, past the lodge and its morose old guardian, I took one last look at Mossborough Industrial School for Girls. It appeared as grey and forbidding as when I had arrived – more so now, since I had plucked a veritable pearl from its oyster shell. Belinda, tearful and fidgety, sat gingerly alongside me, every bump in the road causing her fresh posterial agony.<br /><br />Her long painful apprenticeship was only just beginning.</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1265554521013239083.post-84253704342699465712012-05-27T10:04:00.000-07:002012-06-03T05:32:44.743-07:00Henry's New Girl<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Story from Blushes 06.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Henry's New Girl</b><br />
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Henry Fultonby, in his fifties and a committed and contented bachelor, did not boast of doing good works, he was not that sort of person, but clearly he filled a social need. He was a good citizen who could be called on, even by strangers. Called on in those long school holidays, especially those interminably long summer ones, when Charlotte, Victoria, Jane or whoever can be just a little tiresome and loving but increasingly exasperated mother would so like to be rid of her offspring for just a little while. In that sort of situation if you happened to hear of Henry Fultonby your problems could well be solved.<br />
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Charlotte and Victoria and Jane were of course <b><i>teenage</i></b> girls. And they were always <b><i>girls</i></b>, for Henry was certainly not interested in having his charming house cluttered with young males. But for Charlotte etc., yes he could usually oblige there – for a week, two weeks or whatever. Henry was indeed found to be a most obliging man in such matters. He was kept pleasurably busy. Naturally he did not advertise his services, nothing so sordid as that, but word of mouth proved quite sufficient.<br />
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"Daphne says he's awfully <b><i>good</i></b> with girls. And of course there's discipline. Daphne says he's very good at <b><i>that</i></b>. Sort of the old school type. She said her Monica came back a changed girl."<br />
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"Hmmm."<br />
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In what specific ways Monica was a changed girl we need not for the moment inquire. Suffice it to say that Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnall heard this information with most eager ears. Which was why prettily blonde Valerie Hartnall subsequently found herself, a week after the end of summer term, on a train heading out into the remoter regions of Suffolk.<br />
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"I presume..?" he queried, on the platform at Little Grindleham. 'Valerie Hartnall' she said flushing slightly. She was wearing her blue school dress and dark blue blazer, her school straw hat set squarely on corn-coloured hair. Valerie would not have chosen to wear this outfit but Mr. Fultonby had said it would aid recognition. But in any case no one else had alighted at this sleepy little station now basking in the early afternoon sunshine.<br />
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Henry smiled a nice friendly smile. He was a reassuring figure in tweed jacket and flannels. "Welcome to Little Grindleham," he said. "My but you <b><i>are</i></b> a pretty girl." He picked up her case and took her arm in his hand. Outside the station was Henry's oldish Daimler. What happened next is perhaps best explained by the fact that there can always be a little confusion when one person is helping another into a car. It is all a matter of timing really and if the timing is not quite right things can go a bit amiss.<br />
<br />
Although by now Henry Fultonby should have been pretty well practised at helping girls into his car. At any event as Valerie bent forward to enter Henry's hand somehow came up under the back of that knee-length school skirt – not that it would be reaching knee length, nowhere near, when Valerie was bending forward in this manner. The hand came up the skirt and up the backs of her black school stockings to somehow finish up with a nice grip on the silky soft flesh at the rear of one bare upper thigh.<br />
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Valerie not unnaturally emitted a sharp squeak, Henry gave a reassuring little laugh while his hand fumbled about a bit – presumably trying to disentangle itself, but it took a little time. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Valerie's soft upper lip when finally she was seated in the Daimler. It had all been very embarrassing and she just hoped Mr. Fultonby wasn't embarrassed too, for she did want to get off to a good start.<br />
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Mr. Fultonby did not seem embarrassed though as, driving off, his hand came confidently down onto Valerie's right thigh. Apart from when Mr. Fultonby had to change gear and suchlike Mr. Fultonby kept his hand there. And somehow Valerie's skirt got pushed up so that his hand was on stocking top and bare thigh. She hoped this didn't embarrass him either, but there was certainly no sign that her new host was embarrassed in any way.<br />
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They drove for a little distance in the sunny afternoon and then Mr. Fultonby said that as it was <b><i>such</i></b> a nice sunny day they could stop and have a little picnic which he had thoughtfully brought with him. They found a really nice place, a secluded clearing in some woods that was just right. But then, Valerie thought, as Mr. Fultonby lived hereabouts he probably knew it before – he might even have brought girls here before. She hadn't yet asked him about other girls, still being a bit shy with him even though he was so nice and friendly. Her mother had been a bit vague but did say she thought he regularly had girls staying with him.<br />
<br />
They sat down and Valerie took her blazer off and her straw boater. Mr. Fultonby remarked again that Valerie was very pretty. Her hair was like ripening corn, he said. There was not much answer to that except a modest maidenly blush and Valerie duly produced one. Mr. Fultonby then also said she had a very nice figure. "A very nice bust," he said, his eyes having a <b><i>really</i></b> good look at it. "I always like to see a nice firm bust on a girl. Tell me, are you wearing a bra under that pretty uniform?"<br />
<br />
Valerie not unnaturally blushed a bit more at this. She <b><i>was</i></b> wearing a bra of course. Her mother told her always to wear one now that she had quite a full figure. Otherwise the shape of your nipples would show and that was not at all a good idea. Common men and youths in the street would make remarks.<br />
<br />
Mr. Fultonby wasn't a common man of course, he was a proper country gentleman, Valerie's mother had said. Nonetheless, to Valerie's further embarrassment, he was now telling her that a pretty girl shouldn't be afraid to show her figure. And if a young girl had a nice firm pair of breasts she was much better off not wearing a bra. More healthy. Suddenly, and shockingly, one of Mr. Fultonby's hands, as he sat beside her on the plaid blanket, was cupping Valerie's right breast.<br />
<br />
She gasped. "Yes, very nice and firm," Henry Fultonby said. "So I really should recommend leaving off this bra, young lady. Certainly for the duration of your stay with me."<br />
<br />
Poor Valerie didn't know what to do. She had never had a man's hand there before and it sent real shivers down her. She was sure she shouldn't <b><i>let</i></b> him put his hand there but on the other hand he <b><i>was</i></b> Mr. Fultonby and she didn't want to seem like a silly little schoolgirl. She was after all 16. At last after quite a bit of squeezing and groping, at that breast and also at the other one, presumably to check that they were both equally firm, he did take his hand away.<br />
<br />
"Yes, definitely no bra, I think, Valerie," Henry Fultonby said firmly as he reached for the hamper to take out cakes and things. Poor Valerie tried not to think about what he had said, or indeed what he had just done. She said Thankyou for a doughnut and tried instead to concentrate on that, trying to eat it in a lady-like manner and not have jam squirting out all over the place.<br />
<br />
She had two doughnuts and a jam tart, plus some lemonade, without having any sandwiches first, which her mother certainly would not have allowed. Mr. Fultonby didn't seem bothered about that sort of thing. He even tried to persuade her to have a third doughnut but Valerie sensibly said no to that. She said, "No thanks, I might get fat" and then was blushing again, remembering what a girl at school said. Cakes and things gave you a nice round bottom and big breasts and that was what men liked. Not that Valerie believed it, she knew that too many cakes would just make you fat all over.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately Valerie's innocent remark was a cue for Mr. Fultonby, who had already had a good feel at her breasts. "I'm quite sure you're <b><i>not</i></b> fat," he said. Then to prove this to himself he pulled back the skirt of Valerie's school dress as she sat with legs straight out in front of her. There, suddenly, was the full length of black school stockings, the welts held taut at mid thigh by the straps of a white suspender belt. The straps crossed the fronts of creamily smooth upper thighs at the very top of which could be glimpsed tight white knickers.<br />
<br />
With a little yelp Valerie's hands shot automatically out to pull down her skirt but Mr. Henry Fultonby firmly pushed her hands away. "Just having a little look" he assured her as his own hand took hold of one rounded upper thigh. He squeezed it in a very practised manner – but then Henry Fultonby <b><i>was</i></b> very practised when it came to girls' thighs. Poor Valerie didn't know what to do or where to look. His fingers were right down between her upper thighs, an area where a girl is very very sensitive. It was awful but also very exciting because she had never ever had a man's hand there before.<br />
<br />
The hand at last came away and Valerie gave a little sigh of relief. Nervously she edged her skirt back down, hoping he wouldn't notice and tell her to stop. It did look as though staying with Mr. Fultonby was going to be... well, different in some respects.<br />
<br />
Indeed it was, for Henry Fultonby, having satisfied himself that his new protegee's thighs were all they should be, was now talking about something else. Discipline. He was a firm believer in it and without it girls could grow up to be a real mess. Valerie nodded agreement, not too sure what he was talking about but certainly she thought that juvenile delinquents and suchlike should be properly dealt with.<br />
<br />
It seemed, though, that Mr. Fultonby was not talking about juvenile delinquents exactly. He was talking about her. Did she get properly disciplined at school? She said that they all did. Lines and things. But Mr. Fultonby was not talking about lines, he said. He was talking about getting their bottoms smacked or being caned.<br />
<br />
Valerie shook her pretty head in some bewilderment. No, nothing like that. It was a <b><i>girls</i></b> school of course. And, well, she <b><i>was</i></b> 16. Henry Fultonby smiled and shook his head. Sixteen was just the age to appreciate it and get the full benefit. He looked keenly at Valerie... who simply blushed a very deep red. Well it was such an awful thought, such a truly impossible one, to get your bottom smacked or caned, at 16. Perhaps though, she thought, he was joking?<br />
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No, Henry Fultonby was not joking. Pleasantly but firmly he told her that <b><i>he</i></b> certainly smacked a girl's bottom, and he also caned that same part of a girl's anatomy. He regarded it as his duty. Furthermore as Valerie had not had any experience of such chastisement before he thought it would be a good idea, a <b><i>very</i></b> good idea if he administered a preliminary spanking to his new guest this very afternoon. In this very spot, conveniently secluded as it was from strangers' eyes. Not that Valerie had misbehaved in any way but it would enable her to know what to expect.<br />
<br />
"No, <b><i>please</i></b>!" yelped Valerie. It was just <b><i>impossible</i></b>!<br />
<br />
But Henry Fultonby said "Yes please" in a very firm voice. And then added something else which if you were a 16-year-old girl who had never been spanked before was even more horrifying.<br />
<br />
"Yes Valerie. And I shall of course want your knickers down. Smacking a girl's bottom is always much more effective if her knickers are down and her bottom bare."<br />
<br />
Could he really be saying this? Unfortunately he could, as any of the various girls who had stayed with Henry before could bear witness. An early 'Knickers down' was always on the agenda. Henry stood up and taking Valerie's hand pulled her gently to her feet. Once a girl had been acquainted with the matter of 'Knickers down' there was no point in hanging about. Strike while the iron was hot.<br />
<br />
To one side of the clearing was a fallen tree trunk, whose moss-covered surface afforded a convenient and quite comfortable seat. Henry had used it before. He went to sit on it now and told Valerie to stand close in front of him. Then without further ado his two knowing hands slid up under her skirt. Fingers found the waistband of her knickers and before she knew it they were down round Valerie's knees.<br />
<br />
"Hold up your skirt, my dear," Henry said in that firm authoritarian voice. "High up round your waist."<br />
<br />
Valerie's hands complied, without her mind fully registering it on a conscious level. She stood, trembling slightly while Henry looked, and looked with satisfaction. He had seen plenty of girls before but each one was different, each one delightful. This one seemed especially delightful. The black stockings and lowered white knickers below, and the bunched-up blue skirt above, formed a charming frame, complemented by the vertical lines of the taut suspender straps. The rest was softly swelling nubile girlhood. At the very centre, on the lower surface of the firmly rounded mound, a pouting pink split peeped through a sparse covering of soft blonde curls.<br />
<br />
Valerie uttered a sort of gasping groan as her mind finally got a grip on what she was doing, what she was showing. A second groan was stifled as Henry Fultonby pulled her forward and over his lap, taking care to ensure that the raised skirt remained well up round her waist all round. A yelp, and ineffectual struggles, as Henry's right hand came down to clasp one slim and silkily bare buttock.<br />
<br />
The hand stroked and squeezed... and then started smacking down. Sharp crisp smacks to the delightfully firm and resilient rump. Valerie gasped and yelped and struggled but Henry's other arm was firmly round her upper person so the struggling could only amount to anything in her nether regions. There, long slim black-stockinged legs wriggled and kicked, and prettily bare buttocks twisted and clenched. Unmoved by all this Henry smacked on, covering and recovering the springy nude flesh until it was a uniform bright pink.<br />
<br />
At last he stopped – but only to have a rest and to pull Valerie's knickers on down. Down those long black-stockings and off over the sensible brown shoes. Henry resumed his efforts. No longer encumbered by the lowered knickers the slim legs were now able to flail freely. In the process they were also able to open innocently but immodestly wide. Henry Fultonby, concentrating now on smacking those creamy soft thighs, had a marvellous full view of what he had earlier glimpsed. Of all that a girl has to offer. Of what indeed at this stage Valerie Hartnall would certainly not dream of offering.<br />
<br />
But a few days with Henry Fultonby's tender care could take their toll of even the shyest and most reluctant girl.<br />
<br />
Valerie continued to wail and flail her pretty legs. Henry continued to spank energetically, and look keenly. The sun continued to shine serenely down on a scene which this pleasant glade, some two miles from Henry's residence, had seen quite a few times before.<br />
<br />
* * * * * * * *<br />
<br />
Crunching gravel, the Daimler rolled up a longish driveway through what looked like good-sized grounds – lawns and shrubs and some big cedars and things. The driveway terminated in a broad semicircular sweep in front of a pretty house, creepers climbing up its grey stone walls. It seemed like a nice place, not a prison exactly but Valerie, sitting next to Mr. Fultonby, thought once more of that awful spanking she had received 20 minutes earlier. There was also the fact that she did not now have any knickers on, these having been transferred to Mr. Fultonby's right hand jacket pocket.<br />
<br />
As the Daimler pulled up there emerged from the house a pretty girl in a short summery frock. She looked about Valerie's age, but was dark rather than blonde, with big brown eyes and shoulder-length chestnut hair. Henry Fultonby, alighting from his car, greeted her in a decidedly friendly manner, putting his arms round her and then, it seemed to Valerie, putting one hand up the front of her short skirt. The girl gave a sort of ecstatic groan... and wriggled her bottom in what looked like a very appreciative manner. When this greeting had broken off she was introduced as Cynthia.<br />
<br />
"Cynthia has been with me now for two weeks," said Mr. Fultonby, "so we have become quite good friends." Valerie, blinking, thought that she could certainly believe that.<br />
<br />
Cynthia at least seemed nice and friendly. Helping Valerie get her things out of the car and with Mr. Fultonby safely out of earshot she said laughingly, "I don't suppose <b><i>you've</i></b> got any knickers on!"<br />
<br />
Valerie did not answer but made a wry and rather unhappy face at this unwelcome reminder of recent events. Cynthia gave another bubbly laugh and evidently did not need confirmation from Valerie as to the state of play regarding knickers. "Don't worry. Mr. Fultonby <b><i>always</i></b> gets a girl's knickers off pretty quick. He says it's good for discipline. What he really means is its easier to get his hands on everything you've got. It can be a bit of a shock at first, of course."<br />
<br />
Valerie's thoughts slid back to that friendly greeting between Cynthia and Mr. Fultonby. It seemed clear that Cynthia did not have knickers on either. And had Mr. Fultonby had his hand on "everything a girl's got"? She gulped. With a little shiver she followed Cynthia into the house.<br />
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It was quite a big house but it seemed that Mr. Fultonby was the only permanent resident. "Apart from girls staying" laughed Cynthia. She was the only one at present, another girl, Mary, having left two days ago. And of course there was now Valerie. "I'm glad you've come," Cynthia said. "I mean Mr. Fultonby can get to be a bit much for only one girl to handle." Whatever did that mean? Cynthia rolled her eyes and said expressively, "Oh, <b><i>you</i></b> know!"<br />
<br />
Valerie didn't. Any guesses did not bear thinking about.<br />
<br />
Mr. Fultonby had a housekeeper, Mrs. Douglas, to cook for him and everything. And there was also a gardener, Mr. Miggins. They didn't live in but both came daily from the village, Lower Grindleham, which was just a mile away. "Watch out for old Miggins," said Cynthia. "He'll <b><i>do</i></b> things if he gets the chance. And he knows Mr. Fultonby needs him because he couldn't get another gardener so he knows he can take liberties."<br />
<br />
What sort of liberties? "Oh you know, fiddling about; and he'll smack your bum too although he's not s'posed to. I mean you don't want that from a common working-class man, do you Valerie?"<br />
<br />
Valerie agreed she didn't. She didn't want it from Mr. Fultonby either. She and Cynthia had been putting her things in her room which was nice and bright with a nice big double bed. Cynthia, she had seen, in the room next door, also had a double bed. At home Valerie had a single bed which naturally was quite sufficient for a girl by herself. Mummy and Daddy in the next room at home had a double bed and Valerie knew why that was. Mummy was still a very attractive woman and she knew Daddy still wanted to do <b><i>it</i></b> to her. You could sometimes hear Mummy's bed creaking in a very rhythmic way when that was happening.<br />
<br />
There had been one horrid occasion, earlier in the year, when there had been some bed creaking from the other side of the wall when Daddy had been <b><i>away</i></b>. When also there had been a certain visitor to the house. A man, younger than Mummy, who Mummy said was Mr. Smith. Anyway he had stayed the night, supposedly in the spare room but then later on Valerie heard that very distinct sound which had made her feel really sick. She couldn't really believe Mummy would let that Mr. Smith do <b><i>it</i></b> to her in her's and Daddy's bed. But Mummy <b><i>had</i></b> said not to bother to tell Daddy that Mr. Smith had stayed – he was a friend of her friend Mrs. Carrington and she was just obliging by putting him up. Mummy had given Valerie an extra £1 with her pocket money that week.<br />
<br />
Valerie certainly didn't want to think about any of that but was reminded by the fact that she was now to have a double bed of her own. She sat on it and it seemed nice: not too soft and not too hard. Like the Little Bear's bed. Then she thought again of Mr. Fultonby... and the apparently awful Mr. Miggins. She went to the dressing table and took out her writing paper and fountain pen.<br />
<br />
"Dear Mummy," she wrote, "It is very nice here and there is another nice girl but I think I should like to come home early. As soon as possible. I promise I'll be very good and make my bed and not get under your feet etc. I'd really like to come home <b><i>right away</i></b>."<br />
<br />
She sealed it up and addressed it to Mrs. Hartnall because Daddy was away on business for three weeks, then put it in her blazer pocket. She would phone except obviously you couldn't phone such a sensitive message from Mr. Fultonby's house. Cynthia said it would probably be all right for them to go to the post box but they'd better check with Mr. Fultonby first. He said yes but they must be quick as it would soon be supper time. "Oh we will, Mr. Fultonby," said Cynthia coyly rolling her eyes. Henry Fultonby squeezed her bottom, and then squeezed Valerie's. And then he said they'd better put some knickers on. Cynthia said "Of <b><i>course</i></b>."<br />
<br />
There were two bikes in the garage which they took. Cynthia said you were always supposed to wear knickers when you went out. Mr. Fultonby wouldn't want people to think he had a disreputable house with girls there not wearing knickers. "Especially if you're going on a bike," she said. "I mean men always look up a girl's skirt when she's on a bike, trying to see her knickers or of course even better if she hasn't got any on."<br />
<br />
Valerie didn't think that <b><i>all</i></b> men did that but she knew what Cynthia meant. The post box was about half a mile and when they'd posted the letter Cynthia said they could sit down for five minutes and have a chat. She said, "If you like I can tell you what to expect. From Mr. Henry Fultonby I mean."<br />
<br />
It did not seem too good. "You'll get a couple of pretty good canings in the first day or so. That's in the interests of discipline, of course. After that if you're a nice cooperative girl things will be a whole lot easier. On the other hand if you're not nice and cooperative you can go on getting quite nasty canings until you are."<br />
<br />
Cynthia gave a sweet smile. "Actually I would have been cooperative <b><i>without</i></b> the canings. I mean I <b><i>like</i></b> older men, especially if it's a proper gentleman like Mr. Fultonby. But I suppose he felt he had to make sure. So I got the canings anyway. <b><i>Gripes</i></b>, he can really sting your bum with that cane!"<br />
<br />
Valerie heard all this with a sort of numb feeling in her stomach. <b><i>The cane!</i></b> Getting your bottom smacked was awful but <b><i>the cane</i></b>! It didn't bear thinking about. And being cooperative: what did that mean? She didn't ask but thought again of Mr. Fultonby greeting Cynthia. Cynthia said they'd better gat back.<br />
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They had supper, a pie, quite good, prepared by the redoubtable Mrs. Douglas. Mr. Fultonby asked if the girls would like some wine. Cynthia did but Valerie said no thank-you. A smiling Mr. Fultonby said, "It's very relaxing, you know. And a girl's got to learn to relax, hasn't she?" Then after supper he said that as Valerie had had a tiring day he thought a bath and early to bed would be in order. "A nice relaxing bath," he said. Mr. Fultonby seemed very keen on a girl relaxing.<br />
<br />
Valerie was in the bath and <b><i>was</i></b> feeling quite relaxed in the nice warm soapy water with bath salts and all, when suddenly Mr. Fultonby came in. There was no lock on the bathroom door and he just opened it and came in. Valerie stopped being relaxed <b><i>immediately</i></b> and went very pink in the face while two hands shot up to cover those two pretty medium-sized breasts.<br />
<br />
Mr. Fultonby with a friendly look on his face sat on the side of the bath. "No need to be shy, now Valerie, is there?" And his hand firmly removed Valerie's hands from her bare front. The pert young breasts were revealed, slippery wet and with deep pink nipples sticking cheekily out as a result of their recent soaping. "Very lovely," observed Henry Fultonby. "You certainly don't want a bra for those, my girl."<br />
<br />
His hand reached out and tweaked a nipple between finger and thumb. Valerie emitted a squeak. "No, my dear. Such lovely things need to be free, not imprisoned."<br />
<br />
Valerie forced herself to keep still. His hand on her bare breasts and nipples was awful, simply awful. But also it was undoubtedly arousing.<br />
<br />
What was also awful but arousing occured shortly after when, at Mr. Fultonby's behest, Valerie stepped dripping out of the bath, to be enveloped by that gentleman in a large fluffy white towel. Mr. Fultonby proceeded to dry her, very thoroughly, the towel busily reaching into <b><i>every</i></b> nook and cranny. Sometimes it wasn't actually the towel but Mr. Fultonby's hand instead. Right up between her legs for instance. Very knowing probing fingers... One particular knowing finger went unashamedly in, like a burrowing ferret...<br />
<br />
When at last she was permitted to put on her pyjamas poor Valerie was really sweating – and all that relaxing effect of the bath had unfortunately been largely lost.<br />
<br />
On shaky legs Valerie went to her bedroom – with Mr. Fultonby's hand at her bottom giving her a friendly start on her way. She closed her bedroom door – and for the first time noticed that like the bathroom there was no lock. She got into bed. Gazing up at the shadowy ceiling Valerie thought of her letter hopefully speeding its way to her nice familiar home. With any luck she might not have to spend more than two days with Mr. Fultonby and his awful hands and fingers.<br />
<br />
Her mind drifted. She wasn't sure if she dozed off or not but at some time later she became aware that she <b><i>was</i></b> awake and there were noises. From Cynthia's room? The tinkling sound of Cynthia's laughter, then silence. And then a sound which she had heard before at home. The rhythmic creaking of bed springs! It <b><i>couldn't</i></b> be! But on the other hand what <b><i>else</i></b> would make that very recognisable sound?<br />
<br />
Valerie put her head under the clothes. She thought of home. Somehow her thoughts went to that other horrid bed-creaking, when Daddy had been away. Mr. Smith. Then she felt a sudden cold shiver. Daddy was away at the moment for three weeks. What if Mummy hadn't only sent her here because she didn't make her bed, etc. What if that awful Mr. Smith was visiting? At this very moment, perhaps, was doing <b><i>it</i></b> to Mummy? If that was the case Valerie would not be leaving in two days; she would be here for two weeks... or three...<br />
<br />
Valerie couldn't really believe any of this, it was too awful. She <b><i>didn't</i></b> believe it. But she nonetheless found she was crying; big salty tears which were making the pillow all wet.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
In the morning Valerie decided it had all been a bad dream. Mr. Smith was not at her home doing <b><i>it</i></b> to Mummy and she also hadn't heard sound of anyone doing <b><i>it</i></b> next door in Cynthia's room. Cynthia in fact looked very bright and perky at breakfast; she must have had a good night's sleep, Valerie decided. After breakfast Cynthia confided that she had to help Mr. Miggins in the garden. She made a face, then added, "Still I s'pose I'd rather not be you. I 'spect you'll be getting a rather sore bum."<br />
<br />
It was indeed Henry Fultonby's plan to give Valerie a rather sore bum first thing that morning. She was a truly delightful creature but very jumpy at the moment. She needed settling down, breaking in, in fact, so that she came to realise that the attentions of an older sophisticated male were one of life's pleasures for a young girl. The best thing to get her in the right frame of mind for this was a nice sharp shock. A good sharp caning, in fact, one that really stung that young and tender flesh. Once she'd had that – and maybe a couple more like it – the breaking-in process would be well underway.<br />
<br />
Henry took his young protegee into his study, telling Mrs. Douglas, who had just arrived, that he didn't want to be disturbed. "I quite understand, Sir," replied that lady, licking her lips at the prospect of what she knew this pretty young person was about to receive. "You just be a good girl now, young Valerie."<br />
<br />
Valerie was looking truly delightful this morning in a pink-flowered summery frock. Following what had been said she had with great trepidation left off her bra. Henry's hands had quickly ascertained this fact. It was a good sign, a sign of cooperation. She was, however, he also quickly discovered, wearing knickers when he had made it reasonably clear that in the confines of his house they were not necessary. He took them off; they were pink ones. Her long legs were delightfully bare today – although of course those black stockings and the suspender belt <b><i>were</i></b> very stimulating.<br />
<br />
Henry settled himself in his favourite armchair and sat Valerie firmly on his lap. With one arm round her and the other hand caressing a silky bare thigh he proceeded to deliver his little lecture. On discipline. More or less what she'd got yesterday afternoon only a bit more elaborated in parts. With the intoxicating scent of her corn-coloured hair in his nostrils and the softly yielding weight of her thinly-clad body pressed against him, Henry could have gone on and on. But action was called for – and besides his very erect organ was getting a little crushed beneath her soft but by no means weightless bottom.<br />
<br />
He pushed Valerie to her feet and got up himself. His desk was already cleared for action. When starting with a new girl Henry frequently liked to use his special position. It had an extra shock value for the recipient. "Up on the desk, my dear," he instructed. "Lie on your back and lift your legs up."<br />
<br />
Valerie couldn't believe this, it must be another of those bad dreams. But in the bad dream she allowed herself to be helped up onto Mr. Fultonby's nice polished desk, then lay down on her back with a little cushion under her shoulders. Her legs were being lifted up and she was being told to grip underneath her knees. And then to keep nice and still. She was vaguely aware that in this dream, in this position, she was blatantly revealing all she'd got!<br />
<br />
Then the cane came down, with a sickening CRA...ACK! And quite clearly it was not just a bad dream after all.<br />
<br />
When he had finished caning her – eight good crisp thwacks to her bottom and upper thighs – Henry helped the sobbing girl off the desk and took her over his lap again. This time in the reversed position, i.e. face-down with brightly striped bottom nicely raised. Gently he applied some soothing cold cream. This of course was a key part of the breaking-in process. The soothing sympathetic hand softly caressing... gradually relaxing... And when she was somewhat relaxed becoming gently but firmly intrusive.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9qgP78MFXY_-XCDAh-1EFGPikicjFb69iou-Oas3_mUhCXCVcRXyG5RCxAgOlnMevyQxFll1LeBUmipqYlGkU2kg7wz2VDRkx8nDs-jzcAtuFITxZpHx8dO1citn6gheTDM-UIp5W6E/s1600/Valerie_06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9qgP78MFXY_-XCDAh-1EFGPikicjFb69iou-Oas3_mUhCXCVcRXyG5RCxAgOlnMevyQxFll1LeBUmipqYlGkU2kg7wz2VDRkx8nDs-jzcAtuFITxZpHx8dO1citn6gheTDM-UIp5W6E/s640/Valerie_06.jpg" width="548" /></a></div>
Meanwhile outside Cynthia was quite enjoying herself teasing Mr. Miggins. They were in the potting shed supposedly cleaning out pots. In fact Cynthia was sitting on the potting bench, one leg dangling free and the other with her foot up on the bench. Her raised knee disclosed an absence of knickers and also disclosed what lay at the very apex of her parted thighs. Namely a fuzzy-haired split peach, a part of Cynthia's anatomy which had seen quite extensive and very pleasant action during the past night. Opposite Cynthia, sitting on his chair, was Mr. Miggins, two flower pots in his hands but ignored as he gazed open-mouthed at this stirring sight.<br />
<br />
Cynthia gave a tinkly laugh. "You know you really <b><i>are</i></b> a dirty old man, Mr. Miggins." She opened her legs a little wider to improve the view. "If I didn't have Mr. Fultonby to protect me I don't know <b><i>what</i></b> you'd do to me!"<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, also, such was the excellence of the British postal service that Valerie's letter, posted yesterday afternoon, had already been delivered to her home. It was, however, lying in the hallway, unopened, and the chances were that it would remain in this position and in this state for a little while yet. For Mummy, Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnall, was not at home. A letter was at this moment on its way to Valerie explaining that Mummy had gone to stay with her friend Mrs. Carrington for a few days. The Carringtons were not on the phone but Valerie could write. She hoped Valerie was having a lovely time.<br />
<br />
In fact at this moment Mrs. Elizabeth Hartnell was not at her friend Julia Carrington's but was in an hotel in Eastbourne. Still in bed, and protesting, but only mildly, at what her companion, male, was doing and was clearly about to do.<br />
<br />
"Charles! <b><i>Again</i></b>? You'll wear me out!"<br />
<br />
Charles, on top of Mummy at this moment, would have been recognisable to Valerie, if she could see his face, as 'Mr. Smith'.<br />
<br />
As Charles commenced, with long smooth strokes, to do what he <b><i>had</i></b> already done several times to Mummy during the previous night he inquired about Valerie. How long was she staying at that place?<br />
<br />
Elizabeth Hartnall gave a sensuous groan. "Oh... I don't know, Charles... Ooohh! She... she can stay all summer..."<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJWk9jEgNV4EbDHDj8jrkpVSH2oRXTVQrFcCUM4Au1uu4OvVDdX5fNAV4rMYvovNQN1L-IxM9rgcOVobqxQHnhHJMnoxfUlnRWVVwaHMuL1Cb0R9mDFBOzaLLQDzf5Xqico-k9vWOolk/s1600/Valerie_07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJWk9jEgNV4EbDHDj8jrkpVSH2oRXTVQrFcCUM4Au1uu4OvVDdX5fNAV4rMYvovNQN1L-IxM9rgcOVobqxQHnhHJMnoxfUlnRWVVwaHMuL1Cb0R9mDFBOzaLLQDzf5Xqico-k9vWOolk/s640/Valerie_07.jpg" width="441" /></a></div>
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<b>NEXT MONTH!<br /><br />Is he really going to do it?<br /><br />Will it hurt?<br /><br />Is it true, what she's heard; that it stops it 'taking' if you cross your fingers and blink very, very hard?<br /><br />These and other pressing questions will be answered, when Valerie is really given something to Blush for in the January issue of Blushes<br /><br />DON'T MISS IT!</b><b><br /></b></div>
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<a href="http://britishspankingmagazines.blogspot.com/2012/06/valerie-as-promised.html">Continuation of this story</a><b><br /></b></div>
</div>Dmitryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17419931381884979282noreply@blogger.com2