British Spanking Mags

The Heiress

2012-01-29T01:05:00.000-08:00

Story from Roue 14.

The Heiress

The garden is large, sunlit, drowsily abuzz with the busyness of insects. Some way from the house, itself large and splendid in a slightly neglected way, seated on a settee suspended beneath a striped canopy, a grey-haired man swings himself idly to and fro, pushing with one foot in time with the movement of the settee.

Further down the garden, at some distance from the house, a swimming pool glitters in the sun. A series of splashes make their way along the length of this pool, and after a moment while the surface of the water settles back into a rippled spangle of reflections, a slim, youthful shape plops onto the poolside in a little shower of spray. This nymph pushes her bright hair away from her face and rests back onto her elbows, legs dabbling in the water. The grey-haired man waves casually. The girl waves back, tossing her hair in the sunlight, and plays at kicking splashes across the surface of the pool.

From the direction of the house a man, dressed formally despite the summeryness of the day, walks along a gravel path which runs round the lawn. He walks with an upright posture, head erect. He approaches the man in the swing and stands to one side, his posture one of deference. This man then goes from the swing in the direction of the pool. The girt seems less relaxed as it becomes clear that she is the object of the man's intention. She eases forward and slips back into the bright water, submerging her shoulders while keeping a hold on the pool's edge with one hand.

The man walks to the poolside. He stands above the girl in the water and looks down at the underwater nakedness of her breasts. The girl covers herself with her free hand as best she can.

"Your uncle would like to have a word with you, Miss. I believe a certain document arrived in the post this morning."

"Thank you. I'll – I'll be there in a moment." She remains for the most part submerged, apparently unwilling to come out of the water. The man stoops and picks up the towel lying beside the pool.

"May I help you, Miss?" He holds out a hand.

"No – no thank you." The girl hoists herself up onto the side, tummy wet against the cool stone. She stands up, breasts concealed hardly at all by her hand as she reaches for the towel.

"That's alright Miss – I'll carry it for you."

She is about to speak, but doesn't. With a little shrug of resignation she drops both her hands to her sides. She walks beside the man, across the grass.

"How's the swimming going Miss? Can you manage a length?"

"No." It is all she can do to bring herself to answer him.

"Oh well, never mind. You'll get better I dare say."

The two of them walk together towards the swing, the man lagging a pace behind, eyes on the white wetness of the girl's tie-sided bikini pants. The damp pertness of her buttocks bobs tightly as her hips sway with an under-emphasised seductiveness. She does her best to ignore her companion.

The man seated on the swing smiles up at her.

"Nice in the pool?" he asks enthusiastically.

"Lovely. Thank you." She stands straight, nipples solidly erect from the chilling of the breeze. Her tits hold themselves proudly, firm and yet without weight enough to fold a crease under their out-thrust sauciness. The elderly man looks up at the youthful vitality of his niece's body – particularly at the damp-satin uplift of her breasts. He speaks quietly, as though party to a conspiracy.

"You find it – pleasant, to be free of restrictions, here in the garden?"

"Yes – it's very nice."

"I mean – without your top. You didn't mind my suggesting it –?"

The girl blushes slightly but smiles a little, obliging her uncle as she has learned to do.

"No – not at all, Uncle Timothy."

The man smiles back at her.

"Well now, sit down. We have some news."

From the table he takes a long brown envelope. He removes the contents and unfolds the heavy sheets of paper.

"From the solicitor. My new will." He reads her the relevant passages. "I'll phone your mother – I expect she'll want to know."

"Oh yes – I should think she'd like to know." She wonders how it will feel, to be rich. She and her mother, that is. She has no idea. It occurs to her that Uncle Timothy may not be as unwell as her mother seems to think he is. He may live for years yet.

"You understand the reason for the – er – conditions which I have placed upon this inheritance?"

"Yes – I understand. Mummy has explained the – the reasonableness of your request." She felt almost resigned to it all now. "Yes – I think I understand, Uncle Tim."

Her uncle smiles and begins to chat about the plans he's been working on for the renovation of the house. She nods in the right places and smiles enthusiastically now and then, and finds herself looking over Uncle Timothy's shoulder at the little shed which leans against the wall at the far end of the long garden. She remembers how her mother hushed her up when she'd told her about Uncle Timothy. "Well, naughty little girls do get spanked, Victoria." And the next time. "Well, I suppose it's not unreasonable. Naughty girls do have to take their knickers down you know." Until at last she had begun to accept it. The summer holidays, every year. The shopping expeditions with her uncle. The clothes which he bought for her, always too close-fitting, or too brief, or both; to be worn in the garden on sunny days. To be relinquished, if not with a good grace then at least without too much of a struggle, in the little shed at the end of the garden. The tea-times, sitting up straight until Auntie Clary gave her permission to start and trying not to wriggle on her chair too obviously all the while. Tugging the brief legs of her shorts down as she got up from the table so that her aunt shouldn't catch sight of the spank-reddened soreness of her smarting bottom underneath. Even then she'd understood that Aunt Clary wasn't to know, though it had never been put to her not to tell. Last summer she hadn't told even her mother. It seemed almost unnecessary that she should be told. She knew, and turned a blind eye every time, content that her daughter should be her brother's favourite niece. Aunt Clary had died last year. It had prompted Uncle Timothy to meditate upon his own mortality, and to think about his will. And his favourite niece, coming on for seventeen. It had seemed reasonable, somehow, that she should continue to spend her summers with Uncle Timothy, especially if she was to be his chief beneficiary. The conditions – well, what was wrong with a girl learning a bit about running a house. Especially if it was going to be her house one day. Uncle Timothy had said that she would have to start at the bottom, learning all there was to know and working her way up bit by bit. And she has no doubt that Uncle Timothy will be starting at the bottom too.

She drags herself back to the conversation. She agrees with her uncle. There's no reason why she shouldn't start tonight.

"Fine. I'll get Roberts to lend you a hand. Well now – what will you do for the rest of the afternoon? Back to the pool, eh?"

"Yes. I'm getting on quite well."

She stands up, breasts bobbing.

"Good – that's splendid." Uncle Timothy brushes a hand against her thigh. "You're beginning to get a nice tan." He chuckles. "Almost all over." Victoria smiles dutifully. "Almost –" he says again. "– but not quite, eh?" He pats her half-bared bottom. "It's very private here, you know – I don't suppose Roberts would object, pretty girl like you –."

She can't help flushing again. He helps her untie the lace at her hip. The bikini pants slip down her thighs and plop damply around her ankles. She walks self-consciously back to the pool, the hot sun feeling strange as it kisses her naked bottom.

-o-O-o-

Her new room is up under the eaves. Tiny, with a single dormer window. It is a maid's room, and in the wardrobe, the door of which now stands open, is a collection of clothes which only Uncle Timothy could have bought. There are at least a dozen pairs of knickers, mostly in cellophane bags, none of them exactly school issue. There are aprons, little ones, with frills, and several caps. There is even, praise be, a little black dress – which Roberts has said she is to wear only on special occasions. 'Special occasions' being, presumably, 'special' only because of their infrequency, the implication is obvious. Most of the time she won't be wearing too much! Like now.

The little knickers are brief, to say the least! A triangle of nylon pulled intimately up under her crutch and stretched over her pubic swell. Stray wisps of hair refuse to be tucked in. There is hardly more to the knickers at the back – three-quarters of her bum is left bare, so high-cut are the pants. She is wearing stockings, and suspenders, which Roberts says are supposed to go under her knickers, not over. "So you can take your knickers right down, Miss, without interfering with your stockings.'

Roberts has put the top loop of an apron over her head and tied the waist cord in a little bow in the small of her back. The upper part of the apron, which is white nylon with little scalloped frills around it, covers rather less than half her chest. The side-swell of her tits pushes inevitably out on either side of the apron. If she breathes too deeply one or other of her nipples peeks out. There is another cord to the apron.

"But I don't see what it's for," says Victoria, bewildered.

"For? Well, I don't know exactly what it's for – but that's where it goes."

"Like this?" It seems stupid.

"Yes – but inside the knickers, Miss."

"Inside?"

"Yes Miss."

"It's ridiculous!" says Victoria.

Roberts makes that professional face of his. Hit not to reason why –.

Sulkily Victoria eases the waistband of her little knickers and tucks the cord down into the warm curls. She can't look at the butler as she pushes it through the moist tunnel underneath. She finds the end at the back and pulls it up over the back of her pants and stands there with eighteen inches of cord dangling from one hand.

"Shall I do it for you Miss Victoria?"

She shrugs resignedly. Roberts stands behind her and takes the cord.

"It's supposed to be in the middle, Miss."

"It is in the middle – where else could it be?"

"Are you sure Miss?"

"Of course I'm – oooh!"

Roberts' hand slips down the front of her pants. His fingers adjust matters.

"That middle, Miss." He pulls on the cord from behind. The tension makes Victoria's knees press themselves instinctively together. A nipple pops out of the apron. She splutters in confused embarrassment. The cord slips up between her buttocks and Robert ties it to the waist cord at the back.

"Nearly ready now Miss."

He inspects her from every angle. Gently nudges the insolent nipple back into the apron. He pats her bottom on the bare bits. Victoria protests meekly, unsure of the situation with the butler.

"Oh, shouldn't worry about a bit of slap and tickle, Miss. Butler's perks." Roberts, at least, seems to be acquainted with the protocol around here. He straightens her cap. "We'll be – I mean, you'll be serving dinner in a few minutes Miss." He slaps her pert bottom cheerfully. Victoria teeters to the door on her unaccustomed high heels. She can't help feeling that it's she who's being served up.

-o-O-o-

Victoria is standing on the upstairs landing. The case-clock is tocking in a well-bred way. After a while a hidden mechanism whirrs and ten trim chimes reverberate around the hallway.

One of Victoria's nipples is peeping out from under the apron again. It pokes cheekily upward, firmly erect. It seems hardly worth tucking it in, since the other one will probably pop out instead. She stands with her feet close together, head inclined slightly downward, hair tumbling loose about her face. There is a run in one of her stockings where it snagged on something. Uncle Timothy's watch strap, most likely. Her knickers are a little lop-sided, and at the back one side of them is still tucked into the crease of her bum. The pants look as if they might have been tugged up and down a few times in the last two hours. The bare bits of Victoria's bum are suffused all over with a hot, glowing crimson which extends nearly halfway down both thighs. The cord which runs up between her buttocks looks as if it might have been tightened an inch or two since before dinner.

From downstairs comes the slamming of a door. Victoria lifts her head, listening. A quick, precise step sounds on the stairs. The girl smooths her little apron with her hands and holds herself straight. Roberts appears at the top of the stairs, puffing slightly. She looks at him apprehensively.

"Oh no!" Her whispered exclamation sounds loud on the landing. Roberts is carrying – a cane!

He comes and stands in front of her, eyes up and down. Victoria's lips part moistly – she is trying to find the right words, trying to plead with him.

"Upstairs, if you please Miss."

"But – Mr. Roberts –."

"Upstairs, Miss."

She goes in front of him, bottom waggling bare inches from his face as she mounts the stairs. He makes her stand at the foot of her bed while he arranges the pillows to go under her tummy. Victoria squeezes her buttocks together as she sees the cane quivering in his hand. Even when he stops arranging the pillows and stands expectantly beside the bed the tip of the cane vibrates so that she can't quite get her eyes to focus on it.

"Over here Miss –."

"Please –."

"Over here. Bottom nice and high."

She spreads herself across the pillows, bum elevated and rosy and feeling dreadfully vulnerable. She feels her silly little knickers slipping down her legs.

"Lift up Miss."

She holds up one foot at a time and Roberts removes her knickers. Victoria's face is pressed against the bed, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Please, Mr. Roberts – please! I've been smacked so much – oh, please –!"

The cane slides up between her slightly parted thighs, cool and menacing.

"Open your legs Miss."

"Oooh –!" She spreads her feet, closes her eyes. "Please, Mr. Roberts – I'll do anything you want – please!"

The cane taps her firmly poised buttocks, sending tiny tremors through the plumpness of her cheeks. It goes away, swishes through the air. Victoria twitches. Robert swishes the cane again – again it doesn't land. The spanked redness of the girl's bottom quivers in dread anticipation.

"Oooo – ooooo –"

"Come along now Miss – big girl like you! A little bit of the stick won't do you any harm!'

"Oh Lord – please don't Mr. Roberts –! You can – can do –"

"Can I, Miss?" says Roberts wheedlingly.

"Yes – oh, yes –!"

She feels the tape which runs up between her buttocks loosen. It slips tinglingly down between her legs as Roberts delves a finger for it under her belly. The roughness of trousers pushes up between her thighs, spreading her legs. His hands slip under her hips and lift her a fraction higher, tilting her to the necessary angle. Victoria grips the bedclothes in frantic fingers. Her mind races, round in circles. In a panic she wonders if she ought to enjoy it. Pretend to come. Even whether she will, in fact, do just that!

She wonders what her mother would say.

"The butler? Come now, Victoria. You have to remember your position dear."

She thinks she'll remember that, alright, by the end of the summer. Bottom up, mummy. Bottom up!

Approved School Report

2012-01-28T03:15:00.000-08:00

Story from Blushes 01.

Approved School Report

The following letter, addressed to the department of the Home Office responsible for Approved and Industrial Schools, formed part of a report submitted by the then Chief inspector of Approved Schools in Warwickshire, which as an insight into the conditions obtaining in such establishments is illuminating; as an exposition of the kind of double-think with which the administrators of approved schools – or one of them at least – approached the matter of corporal punishment, it is, to say the least, revealing. For anyone interested in verifying the authenticity of the document, it may be found under the reference: HO 45/14545 at the Public Record Office.

Kenilworth Training School

Model Rules
Chief Inspector of Reformatories
(C.P. in girls under 16)

Minutes

In May last there was a serious revolt on the part of the girls at this Reformatory – Dr. Norris went there and found the girls entirely out of control, and as the situation looked ugly, he – ordered an obstreperous girl of 15 to be whipped on the posterior (under the skirt).

That action had good effect, and things have since quietened down.

Corporal punishment in the past was not forbidden by the rules in force at the school, though the Managers strangely enough did not appear to know that it was in the power of the Superintendent to inflict it. I think Dr. Norris was perfectly right to adopt the course he decided to take.

(Other correspondence in the file reveals that "there were a number of other whippings on the day in question.")

The question now arises whether C.P. on the posterior is to be allowed in this school in the future. In the Model Rules it was decided that the only C.P. in schools should be on the hands – not exceeding three strokes on each hand with a light cane or tawse.

Dr. Norris agreed to this rule at the time, though he says he always felt doubtful whether it would be possible to maintain it in dealing with certain classes of girls. The managers are unanimous in asking permission to keep their existing rule, which leaves the Superintendant the discretion as to the infliction of light and moderate C.P. (whether on the hands or on the posterior).

The two lady inspectors (Dr. Whitlock and Miss Wallis) hold that all C.P. of girls on the posterior is objectionable and ought to be unnecessary – and I believe this is the view which would be commonly held, except possibly by some of those who have had the actual management of unruly girls.

There is no doubt that the task of controlling difficult girls such as one finds in our reformatory schools – especially when they become hysterical – is a very difficult one and baffles even the wisest of women. It is possible that women of exceptional type might be able to tackle the problem without resorting to C.P. at all, but women with such qualities are rare and are not often found in our schools. We must do the best we can with the staff we are able to command, and give them such support as they need. The Departmental Committee gave special attention to this question, and came to the conclusion that the discretion to inflict C.P. must be given to the Superintendant, though they are silent whether it should be inflicted on the hands or the posterior. I presume that they intended to leave it to the Superintendant's discretion also as to method. It must also be remembered that girls over sixteen can be sent to Borstal, and that it is in the case of the younger girls that the difficulty arises.

If this policy is accepted (the appeal of the Managers for retention of the old rule), having regard to recent happenings, I think it would be unwise to refuse the application of the Managers, and if it is made clear that no C.P. on the posterior may be inflicted without the sanction of the Chief Inspector, frequent or improper recourse to this method will be prevented.

It seems to me better to alter the rule rather than, when serious trouble occurs, to contemplate the possibility of the staff or the Inspector authorising punishment contrary to the rule.

I should prefer, however to keep the framework of the new rule rather than to adopt the present rule and I would suggest the following draft. This has the advantage of not mentioning specifically whipping on the posterior, which might give rise to adverse comment by those who are not familiar with the circumstances and leaves the chief Inspector the responsibility of prescribing the conditions under which it may be administered.

Rule 21

(3) C.P. should be used only as the last resort when all other methods of maintaining discipline have failed and its administration shall be subject to the following conditions.

C.P. shall be only of light and moderate character and shall be inflicted on the hands with a light cane or tawse as prescribed by the Secretary of State – not exceeding three strokes on each hand. If in cases of grave breaches of discipline the managers think it necessary to adopt any other form of punishment the previous sanction of two chief inspectors must be obtained.

S.W.H. 24.7.23
(Various signatures are appended.)

Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it! The background to the events described above will no doubt be interesting, and may add to the reader's delectation as he conjours up a vision of the way things were, when a girl consigned to such an institution was considered eligible for 'Whippings' – and on the 'posterior' too – and not much fear of recriminations after the event, if the attitude of the Inspectorate is anything to go by.

The school at Kenilworth was known as the 'Warwickshire Girls' Reformatory School'. It's inmates numbered between fifty and sixty, all of them in the charge of a Principal and various mistresses and 'mistresses in training'. That the Inspector thought little of the quality of these ladies may simply have been the result of his 'male chauvinism' in the days when there was no such thing as a 'liberated' woman – certainly he had superiors with accounts of other punishments meted out at the same time – if the one caning thus mentioned is then deemed to have been a reasonable response to the unusual situation in the school, then plainly no exception could be taken to other canings administered for the same reasons. Clearly the Chief Inspector is no fool!

Reading between the lines, therefore, and picking up hints from other documents having a bearing on the incident, what we have is a report from the worthy Chief Inspector putting a respectable face on the wholesale bare-bottomed caning of an unspecified number of teenage girls, the whole affair prompted and overseen by Dr. Norris, in the performance of his enviable duty.

The girls who were to be caned would presumably have been locked into a suitable room – if they were 'rioting' they would have needed to be kept under control – and on the 'divide and conquer' principle would have been dealt with one by one. A picture can be imagined of the school's Principal, accompanied by her mistresses, mounting 'snatch squad' raids into the locked room whilst the door is guarded by other mistresses, emerging with their first choice of 'victim' – the women had been threatened with physical violence by some of their charges, so they would have been in an unsympathetic frame of mind, – and then marching a probably protesting, struggling girl to the separate room where the canings were to take place in the presence of the inspector.

If the girl's bottom was to be the chosen location for the application of the cane, she would surely have been bent bottom-up over some suitable piece of furniture. Her dress would have to have been hoisted up while the Doctor, no doubt maintaining a severe and professional countenance, looked down upon a pair of knickers covering the wriggling, protesting buttocks that he had ordered to be thrashed.

The girl's pants would have been yanked down in a trice, galvanising her into more violent protestations, and then the cane would have been produced.

The girls slept in dormitories, a dozen or so to a room. They were provided with a uniform; two dresses, two sets of underclothing, stockings, shoes; and according to their behaviour at the school were allowed to wear belts of varying colours, aspiration to which was controlled by a system of 'Merit Marks'. A silver belt meant a girl was a proper 'Goody Two Shoes'; blue or red belts were for those whose conduct had been less exemplary. Marks earned could be taken away for, 'Disobedience, insolence, stealing, lying, bad language, quarelling, bad work, bad habits' – whatever they were – 'bad conduct generally and careless breaking of crockery'.

An architect's report, included in the file, describes certain areas of the building as 'lacking sufficient natural light' – it was a gloomy place in other words – and it isn't difficult to imagine the scene into which the visiting inspector walked – a late Victorian building, dimly lit, forbidding – and raucous with the voices of teenaged girls running riot!

Dr. Norris, who seems to have been a man to stand no nonsense 'ordered an obstreperous girl of fifteen to be whipped on the posterior'. This girl (according to other letters in the file, initiated by the same incident) was a 'well built girl' who seemed to be one of the ringleaders. She was to be whipped 'under the skirt'. Under? Well, without the benefit of its protection, presumably, so that it must have been turned up to afford access to the girl's 'posterior'. Other documents state that there were 'a number of other whippings'. There is no reason to suppose that these other punishments were any less severe or traumatic for the girls involved than was the whipping of the 'obstreperous' ringleader, nor indeed that they were not carried out at the same time and in precisely the same way. We may suppose the writer of the letter – the Chief Inspector – to be citing one particular punishment as something of a test case. From the tone of his letter it is plain that the good doctor's action met with his approval, so he would not have thought it necessary to overburden the consciences of his no hesitation in recommending that the girls there should be kept in their places, and with the utmost firmness.

The building was made up of a central block, with two wings appended on either side, within which the girls and staff were accommodated, the whole surrounded by a high enclosing fence, with access and egruess controlled by the porter, who resided in the Porter's Lodge at the gate.

There is no record of what number of strokes were given, but since three strokes on each hand, making six in all, was the prescribed 'dose', in the interests of efficacy, the Doctor would probably have ordered the maximum number to be administered to the bottom presenting itself unwillingly before him. (If he was quelling a riot, he certainly wouldn't have wanted to seem less than determined.)

Six strokes it is then, applied by the Principal. Embarrassment caused by the girls' behaviour, which must have diminished her self-importance as well as her standing with her employers, would have prompted the Principal to have laid the cane across those eminently deserving buttocks with all the strength that a vengeful woman could muster. How the girl must have howled and pleaded, how she must have jerked and swerved her hips as the cane bit viciously into her 'well built' bum! How the inspector must have watched the wretched miscreant's squirmings with all the satisfaction of knowing that he was quite within his rights to have the girl caned, this girl and all the others yet to be brought in, and how he must have enjoyed the whole ennervating experience. One after another the girl's would have lain on their bellies across the bench and wriggled and blubbered – six strokes each, and what with comings and goings, fetching and sending away, the inspector might have stood for a whole hour while the procession of young bottoms was caned under his auspices, and under his very nose!

So much then, for the incident itself, but what are we to make of the Chief Inspector's enthusiasm, in his report, for the exercise of authority that had consequences so painful for the girls? His readiness to support Doctor Norris might, it is true, have been prompted to some extent by loyalty for his staff – 'In his position, I should have acted in exactly the same way, and felt that I had done no more than discharge my duty in doing so!' With regard to the opinions of the two women inspectors. Dr. Whitlock and Miss Wallis, he is scathing in his suggestion that people who haven't actually had to deal with 'unruly girls' – he is clearly addressing himself to the two ladies – oughtn't to express their opinions on matters they don't know anything about. So far as the staff of the school are concerned, he has no regard whatsoever for their ability to manage girls; indeed his opinion of women in general seems to be a very low one.

A clue to his 'enthusiasm' is to be found in his suggestion – a suggestion that was, in fact, adopted subsequently – that the Chief Inspector – he himself, in other words – should be left to decide whether or not girls should be caned on their 'posteriors' in future. Given that he would want to be seen as being at least as concerned for the smooth running of the schools in his charge as the good Doctor, it seems likely that he would want to take the opportunity, should it present itself, of seeing at first hand the effect which a well-applied cane would have on the bared buttocks of an unruly girl, particularly since the authority to get her knickers down would have come from him, and him alone.

The Chief Inspector's wily assessment of the likely reaction of the public, were it to become common knowledge that girls were being caned on their bottoms, is interesting, not least because it demonstrates his awareness of the sexual implications of such punishment methods. After all, on what other grounds would the public be expected to object, if not on those of morality? Equally interesting is the complete omission, in his report, of any explanation as to why caning on the buttocks should have been considered in any way a more severe punishment than caning on the hands. Certainly it is seen to be so, both by him and Dr. Norris, yet a cane can be applied with as much force to a hand as to a girl's bottom. Could it be that in the minds of the two inspectors, and implicitly in the minds of their superiors, the caning of girls on their bottoms rather than their hands is indeed a more severe punishment precisely because of the sexual implications? What other explanation could there be? No medical or physiological reasons are advanced, such as the greater resilience of female buttocks to canings as against the capacity of a girl's hand to withstand punishment, yet the noting that whipping a girl on her bottom is a greater punishment is clearly in the Chief Inspector's mind, despite the objections of two lady inspectors and the expected opposition of the public to such methods of punishment!

Seen in this light, it would seem that only two explanations of the Chief Inspector's enthusiasm for bottom caning are logically possible, and bearing in mind the subsequent endorsement of that gentleman's views by his superiors, one or both of these explanations must hold true also for those who later proved to be in agreement with him, though whether they themselves would have realised the implications so far as their own motives were concerned is doubtful.

The first explanation, being in mind that the people concerned would not for one moment have thought of it in such clear cut terms, is that caning on the bottom was seen as a more severe punishment because it required a girl to submit sexually – sexually because of the part of her anatomy involved, and it's necessary nakedness – to punishment, the additional severity being in the girl's own intuitive realisation that she is being forced to be sexually submissive, particularly in the presence of a man. If so, and taking that logic a stage further, a yet more severe punishment would be administered if the girl were made to strip stark naked, irrespective of how hard the cane were applied. Can it be that it was the intention of the Chief Inspector and his superiors to punish girls by forcing them to be sexually submissive? Presumably not, at least on a conscious level. Yet that it must have played some part on an unconscious level seems inescapable when the only other logical alternative is put.

That, whether consciously or not, the Inspectors and their superiors themselves saw bare-bottom caning as being more severe than hand caning because of their own appreciation of its sexual connotations. That, in other words, the Inspectorate thought of it as more severe simply because the idea of taking a girl's knickers down and whipping her naked buttocks was sexually arousing to them.

Remembering that the people involved in making the decision – and apparently including the two women, who, I would suggest, intuitively recognised the sexuality implicit in bottom caning of girls and therefore saw it as being either too severe a punishment or simply an indulgence of the sexual tastes of the men, who were in favour – all regarded caning on the bottom as the more severe punishment. In the absence of any physiological excuse for bottom caning – and none was presented – one, or both, of the foregoing reasons must be the decisive factor. If anyone can offer a logical opposition to that argument I should like to hear from him – meanwhile we are left with the conclusion that Dr. Norris, the Chief Inspector, and their superiors were all in favour of caning their girls' bottoms chiefly because it was an exciting idea, so long as they could get away with it! And as for the Chief Inspector, he, it would seem, provided himself with ample opportunity to consider the question of his own motivations in the field, as he first sentenced girls to caning, then, presumably, witnessed their tearful, squirmy-bottomed receipt of the same, and all with the blessings of the Home Office, Parliament, and the unknowing populace of the country.

Taken In Hand

2012-01-27T07:55:00.000-08:00

Story from Swish Vol.7 No.1.

Taken In Hand

When the Colonel comes to stay!

* * *

"He's been a friend of your father's for years", Wendy's mother told her as they waited the arrival of a visitor whom Wendy told herself she couldn't care less about. She knew only that he was Colonel Carrington and had just arrived back from India. He would be as dull as ditchwater, she told herself, but even so she had made herself up nicely, just as her mother had. A trim, grey skirt sheathed Wendy's round bottom, matched by a pearl-grey jumper that left her unbrassiered breasts bobbing beneath the wool. Charcoal-shade nylons and grey high-heeled shoes gave her a very fetching air, as her father had remarked before he went off to meet his friend at the station.

It must be said that Wendy's mother, Adrienne, matched her daughter's attractiveness. At forty-one, her bust was as firm as a much younger woman's and showed prominently beneath a pale pink blouse which barely concealed the jutting pallor of her tits. Her skirt, secured around a commendably narrow waist by a broad belt, was of matching shade, and – like her daughter – she affected dark stockings. Her husband liked them. Adrienne had no illusions about the sexiness of bared thighs above darkly-banding stocking tops. Neither she nor Wendy every wore skirts below the knees, and Adrienne's legs – though plumper – were as finely-turned as the slimmer delights of Wendy's.

"Is he married?", Wendy asked, rather for the sake of saying something than out of curiosity. – "Yes – he married for the second time a couple of years ago, dear. He has two stepdaughters of about your age. No – I tell a lie – one is twenty-two, three years older than yourself. I hear he is very strict with them".

Wendy said "Oh?" in a disinterested sort of way, though the phrase stuck in her mind. – "More than Daddy?", she wanted to ask, but didn't. Wendy's secret – if it could be called that – was that she knew her mother submitted sometimes to the cane. Once, just once, she had seen it lying on the bed over a pair of her mother's black panties, and wondered if she had been meant to see it – if it were a symbol, a message. Many times, through her bedroom door at night, she had heard the steady swishing of the cane and a whimpering, moaning sound, but her mother always seemed bright and alive in the mornings and never complained.

Several times her father had said to her, "You need the cane, my girl", though never confessing that he actually had one. Even though he said it sternly, Wendy would simply sit back, cross her legs and poke her tongue out at him cheekily. Three times only, had she been spanked, gritted her teeth and trying not to howl as her bottom grew hotter under the descending palm. Just as her mother didn't complain, though, neither did Wendy. She had carried her stinging proudly until it had died away into a refulgent glow all over her nether cheeks, making her panties seem tighter around the firm halfmoons so that her bottom felt more prominent.

The visit was all rather strange, anyway, Wendy thought, for the Colonel's arrival had been announced at short notice and her father was due to go away on a business trip the next day and would be away for a week. – "Oh well, he'll be all right in the guest room", Adrienne had said comfortably, and when her husband had said, "You will see to everything he needs, my love", she had replied – all too comfortably, Wendy thought – "You know I will, dear – everything".

As so often with visitors, one moment one is waiting for them, and in the next several hours seem to pass quickly. The Colonel was straight out of the book, Wendy thought – tall, a trim moustache, sunburned, and with a clipped voice. About the same age as her father. He showed them photos of his wife and her daughters. Lillian, he said, was eighteen and Felicity twenty-two. They were all shapely and attractive.

"They are coming on well, James?", Wendy's father asked, making her wonder slightly at what he meant. – "Very well, dear boy; discipline where it counts, y'know. Tawse-training, I call it. Had to have one made out there", the Colonel had replied. It was a word Wendy had never heard before and when she went out in the garden with her mother to gather some flowers, she asked her, "Whatever is a tawse?"

"Shush, darling", Adrienne replied, throwing a glance over her shoulder towards the house. – "I only asked!", Wendy said crossly. – "Well, it's a sort of strap, a broad one and...." But she was interrupted by the appearance of the Colonel, and her voice trailed off. Wendy, however, had her back to him and did not realise his presence, coming as quietly as he did across the lawn. – "Eh? You don't mean that he....", she began when her mother gave her a warning look and Wendy turned to see him. Bending over as she was at that moment, her pale thighs showed distinctly above her dark stocking tops, and – to his distinct pleasure – the Colonel even caught a flash of her black nylon panties where her halfmoons bulged cheekily.

"I brought one with me. Forgive me for overhearing. I will show it to you later", he remarked and politely took the flowers that Adrienne had cut, his glance wandering to the bulbous splendour of her tits and the womanly curving of her hips. It had been fifteen years since he had had the pleasure of sweeping a fine cane across her naked bottom while Adrienne's husband attended in turn to James' own first wife. Quite a night that had been. He wondered if Adrienne remembered.

Adrienne did, and blushed. It was the one and only time she had ever been caned in the presence of another woman. She hoped that James wasn't going to be too indiscreet about it.

Wendy didn't answer, but felt a strange quiver run through her. The Colonel had a dominating personality – that was for sure. She felt even smaller than her five feet six in his presence and wondered for the first time what it was going to be like with her father away. Even her mother seemed a little overawed by him and – in an irritating way – almost skittish in his presence. It wasn't until her father had departed that Wendy knew why.

The three of them had dinner quietly and then settled in the lounge for coffee. As soon as they had finished, the Colonel excused himself, went upstairs and returned gravely to lay on an occasional table a thick and supple tawse. Then, much to Wendy's wonderment and faint annoyance, he turned down the volume on the TV. "This, my dear Wendy, is a tawse", he said quietly, "Some refer to it as a tamer, some as a trainer, and others as an admonitory instrument for wayward females".

Wendy gulped and stared at him. Her mother seemed about to start up from her armchair and then sank back, saying rather weakly, "James – I don't think...." – "Why? Is there a misunderstanding here? Are you not both disciplined?", he asked. – "Well, no, James – look, I think we had better....", Adrienne began nervously.

"Discuss it privately? Of course – if you prefer. Wendy, you will excuse us? I shall not be long", he answered gravely and bent and took Adrienne's arm so that to Wendy's total astonishment her mother allowed herself to be drawn up. – "J...J...James...", uttered Adrienne feebly. – "Upstairs", he said firmly, and Wendy gazed at both of them open-mouthed as her mother – not even casting a glance over her shoulder – allowed herself to be almost sheepishly led out of the room.

"Mummy?", Wendy wanted to utter. Her mouth opened but no sound came. The door to the hallway closed. It was crazy – ridiculous! She got up and stared down at the heavily coiled tawse, reached to touch it, and retracted her hand. What on earth was going on?

"James, please – not now", Adrienne was saying in an urgent whisper as they turned to mount the stairs. His arm looped her waist as she spoke, and then his left hand descended very slowly to pass around the plump globe of her bottom, feeling the ridging of her panties through her skirt. – "You were always a little hesitant at first, Adrienne – that was one of your many charms", he murmured. Feeling blatantly right under the weighty orb of her bottom, he urged her leg up to take the first step.

"James, she will hear!", pleaded Adrienne weakly, but the firm cupping of a male hand there always weakened her. The rich plumpness of her half-moons pressed down on to his palm as they ascended slowly. – "Has she not been caned, then?'', the Colonel asked in mild surprise. – "No, James, of course not – well, not yet and.... oh, please, no!" Adrienne murmured piteously as she found herself being propelled into the main bedroom. Powerless to resist, she felt the hem of her black skirt being drawn up slowly as she was pressed towards the bed, his fingertips tasting the tight spanning of her suspender straps and the plump glory of her thighs.

"NO!", came Adrienne's little whimper, but her obedience through all the years held, as James knew it would. Limp as a doll she allowed herself to be bent over the side of the bed as he scooped her skirt up to her hips, "OH!", uttered Adrienne weakly. Her head and shoulders sank as his hands toyed masterfully with her nylon-sheathed bottom and then, with no further hesitation, peeled her panties down to her knees. Adrienne, if anything, looked more beautiful than ever to his view, the bared hemispheres that inrolled so deeply were much plumper now. Adrienne quivered and bit her lip as he sensuously massaged her globe and delicately parted the big, springy cheeks for a moment before taking the cane down from the top of the wardrobe where Adrienne realised her husband had left it in wicked readiness.

"She... she... she'll hear!", Adrienne whimpered softly into her cupping hands. – "Be QUIET, woman!", barked James who took a long moment of contemplative admiration for her offered orb before raising the cane....

Dry-mouthed downstairs and with her ear pressed to the door into the hallway, Wendy heard her mother's first gritting squeal just seconds later. – "Mummy?", she wanted to call out, but again no sound came. – "THOOO-AH!", she heard next as a second strike of the cane seared across Adrienne's naked, bulbous glory, making her fingers claw into the bed cover.

"No! Oh, NO!", Wendy whispered to herself frantically and stepped back from the door. What was he doing? Why was her mother not screaming or rushing downstairs? How could this possibly happen in their own house? It couldn't! – "NEE-AAARGH!", she heard next, though the swishing of the cane itself did not come to her ears. Adrienne's now already-scorched bottom rotated madly. James was giving it to her much harder than her husband often did. Perhaps Adrienne knew why – perhaps for that very reason a glinting of tears rolled down her cheeks.

"NOO-HOOO! Oh, James, please!", she sobbed as he allowed the last searing bite of the cane to sink in, feeling his penis throbbing stiff at the sensuous display of her rolling, reddened bottom cheeks.

"Very well, Adrienne, but your bottom needs further treatment. I shall attend on you later. Get on to the bed, lie on your tummy and lie still. It is patently obvious to me that discipline has not been as fully extended in this house as one would have wished. I shall return later. Get your knickers right off and wait for me!"

"J...J...James – please!", whined Adrienne as she slithered forward on to the bed, spreading her ample legs as she did so and displaying the rolled lips of her quim blatantly to his view. James, however, had a more immediately appointment. Striding to the door and nimbly taking the key from inside the door, he closed and locked it to a despairing whimper from Adrienne who hid her face in one of the two pillows and had a bleary, tummy-squirming memory of what had happened on that night long ago when James and her husband had caned two of them until – as James had triumphantly announced – their madly-rotating bottoms were 'cock-ready'.

Wendy heard her mother's faint, beseeching cry and retreated further back into the lounge as James descended. As the door opened and she saw the cane, he was still holding, her jaw fell. – "Look.... Mummy.... she....", Wendy began and then swallowed as he closed the door and loomed over her. – "I have seen to your mother, Wendy, and I gather from her – much to my surprise – that discipline has been lacking in your respect", he uttered.

"WHA-AAAART?", Wendy choked. A panicky feeling seized her and she made to run past him, to evade him and reach the door, but even as she did his arm swung out and took her own in her passing so that with a shriek – and quite caught off balance – Wendy found herself slung almost willy-nilly over the soft-rolled arm of the chair that her mother had vacated.

"NO-WOH!", Wendy shrieked. She made to lever herself up, but all in a flash the Colonel's strong hand that held the cane bunched down into the nape of her neck and held her over, kicking, as with the other he swept up the back of her miniskirt and bared as delicious a bottom as he had ever seen. – "Don't you DARE! Mummy! Mummy!", shrieked Wendy as the same hand ripped at the fragile waistband of her panties and ripped them down to below her stocking tops.

"Young LADY!", barked the Colonel, "You will be quiet! If this is truly going to be your first taste of the cane, then I can only declare my utter astonishment that such a delectable orb as yours has not been bared for it before this. If I am to put you into training, then so be it. First, though, let us have you still!", he growled and with that brought a "YAH!" of outrage from Wendy as his free hand cupped her bared cheeks as boldly and as inquisitively as he had her mother's.

"You.... you.... you... you! Mummy! MUMMY!", howled Wendy who was so neatly and strongly held over at both ends, with the upper half of her body slumped over on to the seat of the armchair. The Colonel ignored her struggles. He had experienced it all before at home, though things were much-changed now, and would be soon enough with Wendy, when she learned. Pressing the ball of this thumb gently between her springy, tight nether cheeks, he held his fingers under her where he could feel the gentle rasping of her pubic curls and the succulent moisture of her cunnylips.

"Mum...Mum...MUMMY!", Wendy squealed desperately again. – "No, my dear your mother will NOT come down until I have dealt with you. That is for certain – just as certain as your adorable bottom is going to burn its way into such future delights as you will experience. It is for me, seemingly, to initiate you into the world of obedience, submission and pleasure", uttered James who so quickly brought his hand out from under her bottom to glide the cane from his neck-gripping one, that Wendy had but a second to buck her naked hips rebelliously before he brought it cuttingly into her tight, creamy halfmoons, bringing a shrill howl from her....

And Wendy's 'training' continues in our next...

The Newcomer

2012-01-26T07:46:00.000-08:00

Story from Janus 64.

The Newcomer
by Andrew Grantham

'THANK YOU, Mr Johnstone.'

Anne-Marie smiled at the landlord of the old, converted house where the 20-year-old student had taken up a tenancy.

'Call me Paul,' he invited the blonde, putting her portable TV down on the rather battered sideboard. 'We've something in common, you see. I went to the same university myself ten or so years ago.'

'Really?' Anne-Marie's big green eyes widened as she looked at the large-framed young man with the clear blue gaze and the trusting face. All alone in a big city for the first time, she suddenly felt that she had a tenuous link with something. A link with what, she didn't exactly know, but at least it was a start.

'Can I make you a cup of tea?' she asked, grateful for his friendliness.

That's very nice of you.' Paul Johnstone sat down in a large, overstuffed easy-chair. Anne-Marie was aware of his intensive gaze sweeping over her body and lingering on the stretched denim curves of her bottom as she bent over a large box to unpack the kettle and teacups.

The girl was rather small-made, but very nicely put together. Her breasts, shapely and firm, caused the tight tee-shirt to stretch and outline her sharp nipples. She would never have got away with wearing it at home. Likewise, the tight faded jeans clearly showed the outline of her skimpy panties beneath.

Anne-Marie had led rather a sheltered life in the country, but now she was 20 and free, determined to break out of that shelter, even if she was a little unsure as to how to do it.

As she straightened up, her mouth gaped open and she gave an involuntary gasp. She had not noticed the vase before, standing on the floor by the hearth. There were no flowers in it though it was full of canes of varying lengths and thicknesses.

'The previous tenant,' exclaimed Paul, jumping to his feet and rushing towards the hearth. 'He and his young lady were into corporal punishment in a big way.'

Anne-Marie nodded dumbly, mesmerised by the sight, as her landlord took a long, whippy, crook-handled wand from the cluster. It sounded like a rattle of applause as it was withdrawn. Memories of something which had recently happened to her came instantly flooding back.

Paul glanced quickly at his new tenant. Her blonde hair framed elfin features in loose curls. Her eyes were wide and she moved pretty, ringless hands to clutch at slender, shapely arms.

'I don't suppose you've ever been caned,' he remarked casually, whirring the instrument through the air.

'Er... yes... I have actually,' confessed the girl, much to Paul's surprise. 'At college last term.' She hesitated and bit her lip, not quite sure whether to continue. 'One of the lecturers...' She started shuffling her feet, one ankle crossing the other, making her hip bone jut forward. 'He shouldn't have, of course — but I... didn't report him or anything.'

'That was very decent of you,' said Paul, but Anne-Marie did not see the gleam in his eye. She still could not take her own eyes away from the rattan collection. Punishment for enjoyment! It was just like one of the stories in that magazine which had been passed around college.

She coloured as her landlord continued. It would have been bad manners to interrupt. Anne-Marie listened, her tongue flicking nervously over her lips as Paul told her, 'It was quite popular amongst the students — as a 'fun thing' of course. Very grown-up and all that. Apparently you felt lovely after it.'

The blonde experienced an electric thrill in the pit of her stomach. Being caned at college by that nice lecturer had been quite an experience and had not been at all bad really. It had been over a bit quickly — perhaps too quickly, if she was honest. Of course it had been a private matter between them, nothing to do with the college, but it had taken care of an internal report that might justifiably have caused problems for her.

Paul detected the slight agitation in her manner and guessed that he had touched a nerve. Immediately he suggested that he take the opportunity to 'initiate' her into CP for pleasure, so to speak. He wouldn't hurt her of course, it would be just enough for her to experience it. Make up her own mind, as it were. See what the fascination was all about.

'I don't know that I ought to,' she said demurely, staring down at the badly worn carpet and swaying slightly from the waist. She had been in a number of the college plays and had developed a range of expressions which she drew on from time to time. She knew very well what she was doing.

Anne-Marie had taken a fancy to the intelligent, sophisticated male and she wanted to appear very adult and worldly. It would not do to appear too eager, but she had to accept his offer before it was withdrawn.

'I'm not taking my knickers off,' she told Paul suddenly. There! She'd agreed.

Paul told her that would be quite all right. He understood.

Her young heart thumping, the blonde nervously slipped the jeans down her slim legs and then sat down to remove them completely — just as she had at the college last term when everyone else had gone home. She had been frightened then, but it was a much different feeling now.

She let Paul position her so that she was kneeling on the easy-chair with her tummy over the padded arm and the palms of her hands on the floor. Her heart was now pounding. At college, it had all been over so soon. She didn't want it to be like that again, but she had to conceal this from him. 'I'll probably ask you to stop, I expect,' she said softly.

Paul cleared his throat and nodded. 'Of course,' he said. 'I understand.'

The handsome house-owner admired her cute, rounded bottom. The snow-white panties clung tightly to the contours of her cheeks, which thrust invitingly up towards him.

The first few strokes were gentle, playful almost. Then, Paul began gradually to lay it on a little harder.

Wrupp! Anne-Marie tasted a stinging blaze across her bottom. She yelped and looked at Paul almost disbelievingly as he pulled her panties up with his left hand, so that most of the material disappeared into the cleft between her buttocks. That left him a lot of sensitive, bare flesh to work on.

Another swishy flick. A cry of pain. The girl's eyes screwed up and watered with the penetrating hurt. Her hands flew off the floor and gripped the back of the chair tightly.

The thin wood attacked her scorched posterior yet again. 'Stop it, please!' blubbered Anne-Marie, but Paul pretended not to have heard. He was sure she wanted more.

The next slashing stroke to her stinging-hot bottom caused the girl to try to shoot upright. Paul however pushed her down with one hand, whereupon she stayed down. He raised the other to deliver a near-vertical stripe to her left buttock.

Anne-Marie squealed and kicked her legs wildly as the muscular young man continued to cane her, one cheek at a time. With each whistle and crack of the descending cane, she squirmed more and more. It was beginning to hurt like hell. Then, just as she thought she could stand no more, Paul stopped. It was over — she had done it!

The thought crossed her mind that she just might have been taken for a ride in the first place by her charming landlord. Still, despite the flaming hurt in her seat, she did feel very grown-up, as if she had crossed a bridge or joined a select group... and she was starting to tingle all over.

* * *

Leaving Anne-Marie rubbing her burning bottom, Paul returned to his own flat carrying the vase of canes. There was a big beam on his handsome features.

As he walked into the lounge, a young red-haired woman busy at the ironing-table looked up. 'Judging by your face, she obviously fell for the bait,' she remarked with a laugh.

Paul nodded. 'She was a push-over,' he told his live-in girlfriend.

She carried on with her chore. 'I just can't understand why these young students fall for that softening-up story about the canes being left by a previous tenant,' she chuckled. 'You're going to get a knee in the groin one term, you know!'

Paul linked his fingers through hers. 'Ten years ago, my darling, you fell for the selfsame opening gambit — remember?'

Grandma's Rocking Chair

2012-01-25T07:19:00.000-08:00

Story from Fessee 5.

Grandma's Rocking Chair
By Paul Blakeney

Susan and Roger stood outside the pretty country cottage which for so long had been home to her grandparents. It was a lovely English summer day and the quaint cottage garden, which grandfather had spent so many years tending with loving care, was looking at its best.

The air was thick with the rich smell of the blooms and the whole garden, dominated by grandfather's pride and joy, his prize winning roses, was ablaze with colour in the bright sunshine.

For Susan, standing there for the first time in ten years, the memories it brought back to her were overwhelming. She had spent so many childhood summers staying at the cottage and she had so many happy memories of harvest-time and blackberry picking and picnics in the meadows with fully laden hampers.

But her most vivid memory was of the last time she stayed at the cottage ten years ago when she was 21 and those few fateful weeks she had spent with grandma and grandpa in the summer holidays.

She was at University then, her parents had gone to America and rented out their London home. She could have stayed with friends but she needed money and grandma and grandpa had said Mrs Jenkins needed an assistant in the village grocery store for the summer weeks. She could stay with them and earn enough money for a holiday in Greece before returning to University.

How perfect it all seemed! She so loved to spend long summer days in the country she had no hesitation in accepting.

But times change, children grow up and the 21 year old girl who went to live with her grandparents that summer was quite different from the little girl who had visited them before. Her grandparents found their favourite grand-daughter, who they loved to the bottom of their hearts, had grown into a self-centred selfish wilful young woman who they found extremely hard to handle. Until, that is, grandpa had started to take matters in hand with some old fashioned timeless and well tried remedies....

And it was chiefly the memories of grandfather's remedies which he had practised so vigorously on her bottom during that long hot summer ten years ago which were flooding back to Susan now and making her tremble as she stood on the doorstep of the white cottage with her husband Roger and watched him insert the key in the little front door.

She had never really forgotten the extraordinary events of that summer of course. How could she? In many ways it had changed her life. If it had never happened it would have been unlikely, for instance, that she would have married Roger, or indeed Roger would have married her. She might have remained the same selfish, vain, self-centred person for the rest of her life. But in the passage of the years she had perhaps pushed the memory of the events to the back of her mind. Now, returning to the cottage for the first time, the details of grandpa's punishments were becoming as vivid as if they were happening now.

She had been thinking of little else for the last few days, ever since her mother had broken the news of grandma's will to her on the telephone.

'She's left you a half share in the cottage. 'To our favourite and only grand-daughter because she spent so many happy times here' the will says. Isn't that nice? And oh yes at the end she's also left you her rocking chair, apparently it was the express wish of grandpa that you should have it. I think they mean the one on the kitchen parlour. There's no other explanation of why they want you to have it although it's the only piece of furniture she has specifically left to anyone. I don't think it's worth anything you know, as far as I remember they bought it second hand themselves. Rather extraordinary. Did you say something darling?'

Susan could not say anything in reply at first. The news of the gift of the rocking chair had so jolted her she was speechless.

'Er, I don't think so. I may have done, perhaps I did,' she stammered in confusion.

But clearly in her mind she saw a vision of herself kneeling on the rocking chair, her bottom stripped bare and lifted high in the air awaiting her punishment from grandfather's cane.

After putting the phone down she went upstairs to her bedroom and lay on her bed recalling the events of that summer in detail and the more she thought, the more she remembered of how the punishments came about, of the boys in the pub, the row with grandma and grandpa and the sessions on the rocking chair.

She remembered she kept a diary and dug it out of a box in the loft and, yes, there in black and white were the dates and times and details of her canings:

'JULY 4: Grandfather caned me again today on the rocking chair. As I write this my bum is still stinging but I am still going to see the boys down the pub on Saturday and go to the disco with them no matter what grandpa says. A girl's got to have fun while she's young, grandpa is just behind the times.'

SUNDAY JULY 8: Twice in a week and real stingers tonight. I don't think I've ever seen grandpa so angry when he lectured me. I must admit I howled like a baby when he caned me but I couldn't help it. Grandma has just bought me a cup of milky chocolate to help me sleep but I don't think there's much chance of that. My bum feels like I've sat on a hornet's nest.'

The same night after the telephone call from her mother she told Roger about the will. He was delighted at the unexpected bequest and suggested they look over their new property at the weekend. She tried to put him off – another weekend perhaps – but nothing would dissuade him and she could think of no valid reasons for not going, so it was agreed.

For two days Susan was in turmoil, strangely withdrawn. Every spare moment when Roger was out she got out the diaries and re-read them recalling fresh memories. How many times had she knelt on that rocking chair? It had seemed only a few but perhaps it was obviously more. Some of the punishments she had simply forgotten.

Saturday came and they packed their bags to stay the weekend at the cottage. As Roger drove his powerful Granada, which came with his executive job, through the country lanes Susan remembered more and more, recognising the countryside, villages and meadows where they had enjoyed picnics. The sun was shining just as it had always seemed to be shining when she was young.

She hadn't visited since grandfather had been taken ill. He was sent to hospital and never returned. Grandma had stayed on in the cottage for a while but later went to live in a home. Susan regretted now she had not visited them more often after that fateful summer. Perhaps she had taken the canings too much to heart. Grandpa probably had every justification to cane her the way she had behaved. Looking back now and reading those diaries she was a tart little madam. Roger would certainly never have been interested in such an immature little girl and it was only a year or so later she had first met him.

'Why exactly have you been left the rocking chair?' Roger's question broke her reverie. She had never told Roger before about the chair and its purpose. She remembered grandpa saying 'This is between you and us. I won't tell anyone not even your mother, if you don't.' And she certainly hadn't told anyone. It wasn't the sort of thing you rushed back to University to tell your friends about.

And it was one of her only secrets from Roger.

There had been no need to tell him up to now of course but she loved and respected him more than anything in the world. Perhaps he ought to know as her husband and in any case she hated lying to him. She took a deep breath and began telling him the story of that summer as he drove the powerful car through the country lanes towards the cottage.

Now standing outside the cottage Roger noticed her fingers were trembling as he inserted the key in the lock. He had to admit he was rather surprised that the memory of the events which took place ten years ago was still having such an obvious emotional effect on Susan. He had listened to her story with an amused detachment at least at first although he could not deny that as she told her story the image of his beautiful wife kneeling up on the rocking chair pushing out her gorgeous bared buttocks to be punished was arousingly erotic.

Susan was the most fanciable woman he had ever met. Blonde, with stunning looks and clear light blue eyes, she radiated class and style. Roger was proud to boast that having such a beautiful woman on his arm gave a powerful boost to his ego. She not only looked gorgeous with an almost perfect body, she radiated taste and style. She was, as the Americans he dealt with in business would say 'One classy dame'. And her devotion to him was absolute. She was in no doubt that Roger was the best thing that had ever happened in her life and their love, driven by intense and passionate sex, seemed to grow stronger every day.

Roger pushed open the green front door of the cottage and as Susan stepped inside it was as if she was stepping through a time zone. Inside, the cottage was almost exactly as it had been ten years ago. The staircase, with the red floral patterned carpet, rose abruptly in front of her.

The familiar black wooden beams of the ceiling ran across the open lounge to the right. By the side of the front door, ticking loudly in the quiet air, was the old grandfather clock. Susan was surprised to hear it still going, then she remembered Mrs Greenaway had been coming in and cleaning once a week to keep the cottage tidy in case grandma returned.

The rooms were tiny, slightly smaller than she remembered, but it was the smell which really brought the cottage back to life for her. It was an odd mixture of mothballs, floor wax, garden vegetables, must, pastry, leather and blossom drifting in from the garden outside. She had forgotten the smell but tasting it again now it was as if grandma and grandpa were in the room with her.

She walked past the stairs and down the step to the kitchen parlour, closed off by a wooden door. She pushed it open and walked inside, her heart thumping, just as it had been when she had been summoned from her bedroom ten years ago for an appointment with grandfather's cane.

And there, resting on the stone floor, by the fireplace where it had always been, was the rocking chair. It looked so innocuous, so ordinary unless you knew the purpose to which it had been put, but Susan was staring at it as if every moment she had spent kneeling on its' cushions was running through her mind. For three days she had read and re-read her diaries imagining this room and recalling as much as she could of every detail of those canings. But now, with the rocking chair in front of her, she had no need to close her eyes and dig into her memory. She could remember as if it was happening to her all over again. And for the first time she really felt the anxious fluttering in her belly and the tingling anticipation in her buttocks as her body recalled the nerve wracking moments before the canings began and the stinging smart as the cane left its fiery red imprint across her cheeks.

'Is that the chair?' asked Roger from behind her.

'Yes,' she said walking forward and tentatively touching its soft cushions. One cushion was tied by four ribbons to the seat of the chair and another, with the same silky yellowy green colouring was attached to the upright bars at the back. Over the top of the chair there was an extra rectangular cushion which acted as a head – or as Susan remembered – hip rest.

As she fingered the material lightly she remembered how she had climbed onto the chair under the stern gaze of grandpa. She hadn't told Roger everything in the car, only how she had been caned on the chair and what for – staying out late and throwing herself at the rough boys down the pub.

Within days of arriving in the village she began gaining a reputation for being fast and was seen disappearing into the woods with first one boy and then another. Of course she hadn't gone all the way, it was a game to her, she loved to tease the boys, they were so thick compared to her clever University friends. But to the sex-starved boys in the village pub, who had little to look forward to except a life of labouring and drudgery, just putting a hand up the skirt of such a gorgeous creature or fondling her naked breasts was a pleasure they could boast about for weeks.

It was all a bit of a shock to her grandparents when they heard the stories circulating the village about her, but they kept their peace and tried to be tolerant until the vicar came round and told them things had really gone too far and the girl needed taking in hand. She had laughed at grandfather at first when he confronted her and told her she needed a good spanking but when she was caught stealing sandwiches from the village shop for her current favourite boy grandfather decided it was time to act.

He went to see Mr Joyce, the local village schoolmaster, and came back with one of his spare crook-handled canes and that night an astonished Susan, instead of drinking down the pub, found herself bent over the rocking chair bare arsed with panties round her knees while her apopleptic grandfather, red faced with anger, delivered six smart stinging strokes to her timorously presented backside.

Perhaps he hadn't caned her hard enough that first time because she was soon out with the boys again but eventually she began to learn her lesson and came to respect grandpa. It was as if she grew up in those two months.

Grandpa was a real man, you could look up to and depend on. She could never after that have married a wimp. Roger was strong, he protected her, supported her, guided her. She needed a man like that, a man she could truly love, honour and obey, that was the real lesson grandpa had taught her with his cane.

As Susan rocked the chair back and forward she wondered how many other grown women, as she had been physically at least ten years ago, had been bent over and had their bare arses spanked to teach them a lesson. Perhaps more should... and suddenly a half-formed idea came to her which sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach and she heard a voice outside of her say to Roger: 'Shall I show you how grandpa caned me?'

A beam of sunlight was shining through the window lighting up the flecks of dust floating in the air which was now thick with erotic tension as husband and wife looked at one another. After a pause he said, clearing his throat: 'Go on then.'

She dragged the chair out into the centre of the room. Grandpa always did it rather ceremoniously as if to indicate to her the punishment was about to begin.

Standing in front of the chair Susan then began slowly to strip.

She had deliberately worn one of her best suits with neat jacket and tight fitting skirt because she wanted to show the vicar and Mrs Jenkins and any of the boys from the pub she might meet just how far she had come in the last ten years. They knew her as a wild and immature girl. Now she was an attractive and rich woman with an executive husband and £250,000 house. She wanted them to know how well she had done.

She slowly undid the buttons of her jacket and slipped it from her shoulders placing it neatly on the table. Then she moved her hands to the side of her hips and loosened the zip pushing her skirt and then her slip down her legs and stepping out of them. Next her fingers, with slow deliberation, reached to the tiny pearl buttons of her cream blouse one by one in descending order and with a shrug slid the silky material from her, placing it with the rest of her clothes.

For Roger the sight of his wife performing her striptease in broad daylight before him was unbelievably erotic. Anybody could have walked past the window at any moment but the daring nature of her strip only made it more arousing. She stood now in her underwear – white bra and pants, suspender belt and stockings – and paused slightly as if deciding how far to go. In the next moment she had made up her mind and pulled out a kitchen chair placing one stockinged foot on it, unclipping the suspender clips and rolling the stocking down her thigh in almost classic striptease fashion.

Then the other leg and the superfluous suspender belt was also slipped off.

She paused again, but once more carried on, her fingers reaching behind her back to unfasten the bra clips and her milky white breasts, their red-pink tips hard and erect, fell forward. She stood before him, her gorgeous body almost naked except for her white panties stretched across her hips, her long blonde hair resting lightly on her bare shoulders.

She turned to Roger and said: 'At this point grandpa would say something like: 'Right Susan, up on the chair,' and I would climb on.'

She gingerly put one knee on the chair seat holding onto the back to keep herself steady and then lifted the other leg from the floor. As his wife knelt before him Roger could imagine the scene 10 years ago. She would have been thinner then but looking at the magnificent sight of his wife's curvacious form now he thought he would prefer the present. Over the years her hips had swelled slightly, even though she had not borne children, yet her buttocks were still firm and trim and she exercised to keep herself in shape.

'As I knelt here grandpa would lecture me all about how I had let him down, how my mother would be disappointed, all that. He would go on for about five minutes. I remember I used to hate him for it. I just wanted to get the caning over with. Then eventually he would say 'right Susan over you go' and I think you will see now why he chose the rocking chair.'

She pushed her weight forward dropping her hands down the back of the bars of the chair. As she did so the chair slowly rocked backwards and the special quality of the chair for punishment became apparent. For as she went over so her head was taken down towards the floor and at the same time her buttocks were lifted into the air so that the soft underside of her buttock cheeks where they each joined her thigh were now raised up.

Now the real beauty of the chair became recognisable. For Susan's buttocks were not only raised high but they were still soft and relaxed because of her kneeling position. Ordinarily to raise her rear so high would have meant bending tightly over stretching and tightning her cheeks. By letting the chair do the work her body was simply tipped up and her buttocks kept their softly moulded shape.

The erotic image Roger had imagined in the car as Susan had confessed about the canings was nothing compared to the reality before him now as his beautiful wife with her gorgeous body lay bent over before him, her proffered behind simply begging for a hand to spank and redden the pale bum flesh. Apart from a few playful smacks to her bottom cheeks during lovemaking he had never spanked Susan but as he gazed at his 31 year old wife so submissively presenting her behind to him now he could not help thinking it was a sorely missed omission.

As for Susan, she had intended simply to show Roger the caning position she was made to adopt on the chair but as she tipped forward and the chair pitched her into this most vulnerable and submissive position it was as if she was really back in time ten years ago and she was about to be punished. The only difference was that instead of her grandfather, her husband stood behind her. Ever since she had read and re-read her diaries she had been in an emotional turmoil. She had no need of course to tell Roger about the rocking chair in the car. She certainly need not have offered to recreate the punishment or to have stripped. She did not have to kneel upon the chair or to allow herself to be pitched forward.

But now as she lay upturned and vulnerable in the chair she felt the same flutterings of apprehension in her tummy, the same tightening anticipation in her bum flesh. She had not planned this scene before her husband, it was as if something outside her was leading her on, a force which she was unable to resist. And this feeling was reinforced by another characteristic of the rocking chair which she had forgotten. As her weight was pitched forward with her head low down by the floor she was virtually unable to move her weight backwards. Nothing tied her to the chair and yet she was pinioned in position by her own forward tilting weight. Grandpa had known that once the chair tipped back it was virtually impossible for her to get up until the punishment was over.

And now kneeling in the chair in the same way she felt just as vulnerable and helpless and submissive before her husband. And that voice, which seemed to be dictating events beyond her control, returned again and she heard it say: 'Grandpa used to keep the cane in the cupboard by the fireplace.'

It probably wouldn't be there after all these years, Grandpa would surely have got rid of it, but as Roger put his hand inside the cupboard and felt the hooks round the side he pulled out the three foot long yellow cane which grandpa had 'borrowed' from the schoolmaster ten years ago.

There was no turning back now. Roger took the cane out and bent it between his hands, testing its flexibility. Then he whipped it a couple of times through the air, making the dust in the sunlight whirl upwards and he saw in the comer of his eye his wife's buttock cheeks involuntarily clench as he smacked the cane into the palm of his hand.

He took up position to the left of the chair in the exact spot where grandpa had stood. She remembered how she had always stared at grandpa's boots. But she looked up at her husband now and said: 'Grandpa always caned me bare arsed.'

He was shocked by her language which was quite unlike her. Putting the cane on the table by her clothes he reached forward and grasped each side of her white pants stretched across her cheeks and pulled them off.

Now she was totally naked before him. The beam of sunlight shining through the window warmed her back and illuminated the tiny blonde hairs on her fair skin. He placed the cane against her bum flesh, the two smooth pale mounds presenting a perfect target.

At that moment he would be the first to admit he did not know what had been going through Susan's mind in the last few days yet perhaps now he was beginning to understand. For three days she had been imagining herself bent over this chair before her grandfather. When he had punished her ten years ago she had been to all intents and purposes a woman and the discipline she had received had changed her life.

Buried inside her she knew that it was having the immaturity caned out of her which had made the difference and now she wanted to show Roger, her husband, that he too had the right to discipline her.

She was not attempting to simply re-live grandpa's canings but to show Roger he could take grandpa's place. It was BECAUSE she had been caned by grandpa that she felt Roger, her husband had an equal right to discipline her. And Susan, now feeling the light tap of the cane against her bared buttock was experiencing exactly the same mixture of dread and vulnerability as ten years ago when grandfather had stood behind her about to deliver another caning to her.

Roger took his time as she told him her grandfather had done. He glanced at the window. If any of the villagers walked past now, as they were quite likely to do if they saw his Granada parked in the drive, what would they make of the Saturday morning scene in the parlour? Susan, a mature young wife, stripped naked, kneeling on the rocking chair with Roger, her husband, standing behind her, cane in hand obviously about to give her an old-fashioned thrashing just like she used to get off her grandpa.

But Roger was not Grandpa and he felt a strong need to impose his own authority as a disciplinarian over her. He was being granted the same privilege – and it was a privilege – to punish her as her grandpa but he also wanted her to know his love-caning was not simply a re-enactment of her grandfather's punishments ten years ago but a second, separate caning happening now. He wanted her to realise it was him, Roger, caning her and he decided to make the first two strokes as hard as he could so that she would know from the start that he was in charge of disciplining her now.

Taking careful aim at the pale moons of his wife's behind he drew back the cane in the silence of the parlour and whipped it down through the dusty air across her white submissive cheeks.

WHURRP. SMACK!

The yellow wand cracked across the centre of her proffered rear. Susan let out a yelp and tossed her head back, at the same time wriggling her arse to try to absorb the smarting pain. As she did so she leant back in the chair pulling it on its rockers so that it plunged back towards Roger. But almost immediately the balance of the rockers threw it forward again taking Susan with it. Back and forward she pitched in a crazy motion with first her head raised and then her buttocks which now had a single red stripe glowing across the centre of her twin orbs.

Gradually the chair stopped rocking as she steadied herself once more, hardly able to believe she could have taken six such strokes so regularly from her grandfather. Just because she had volunteered for this punishment obviously did not mean her husband was about to treat her more lightly. He waited for her to stop clenching and unclenching her buttock cheeks and to be absolutely still on the chair again before raising the yellow wand high once more.

SMACK. YOW!

And once again her buttocks began their crazy backward and forward motion as once again the chair plunged and rocked on the stone floor. For three days she had been imagining being caned on the rocking chair. Now she had no need of her imagination. The two smarting stripes glowing and tingling across her bum were real enough.

There were differences, of course to ten years ago. Then she would not have dared to defy her grandfather's authority. Once he had decided to punish her she had to submit to the caning. Now she could get up and call a halt anytime. Or could she? Although she had the choice and the stinging smart of the cane was more painful than ever she imagined it to be, she had no desire for the punishment to be over. She wanted it to go on. She felt a kind of relief that the emotional turmoil she had suffered over the last few days was being resolved. Far from thinking of getting up she was calmly counting off the strokes and thinking: 'Roger is caning me far harder than grandpa', whilst preparing herself for the next stroke.

For eight years she had kept the canings she had received from grandpa secret from Roger. Perhaps that was reason enough for her to deserve this punishment from him now.

He stood behind her, cane in hand, confident now in his authority.

'Arch your back Susan, push that lovely arse out.'

Instantly, she obeyed.

Sam Ramsey serial, Ep.3. "Confessions"

2012-01-24T07:01:00.000-08:00

Story from Februs 30.

Confessions

The tale of Adam & Sarah continues
Episode three of the serial by Sam Ramsey

Episode 1 * * * Episode 2

'Do you want more coffee?' Adam and Sarah were eating a companionable breakfast, she still in her bed, he (already dressed) sitting at the end of it; sections of the newspaper were strewn between them. He glanced across; she was looking dishevelled but very decidedly attractive. The top buttons of her night-shirt were open and he could see the curves of her breasts as she reached across to take the cup of coffee. He felt a strong flicker of desire, and a stab of regret. At other times, Sarah might have enthusiastically consented to a quick 'good-bye' tumble – but not today, Adam was sure, for of late she had shown an unusual sexual reserve.

Sarah caught his appreciative look and felt a pang of guilt. She knew that she had been rather distant with Adam recently, and part of her wished that things between them were back to normal. But her feelings were in too much turmoil for that. She realised only too well that it was absurd and self-indulgent and dangerous to be overwhelmed with a sudden obsession for someone little more than half her age. But these things are beyond reason.

Adam got up to leave, gave Sarah a quiet hug, which she returned warmly, grateful that he didn't press her for more. 'I'll be back about six on Thursday,' he smiled. 'Enjoy yourself when your friend comes to stay... be good!'.

Why did he say that, Sarah, wondered; did he suspect something? No, surely not. It was just one of those idle remarks...

'I will. Bye, love. Take care. Do drive carefully...'

'Bye. I'll miss you.'

* * *

Late in the afternoon, two days later, Sarah drove to the station to pick up Anna. It was a couple of months since that business trip, since the mad day when Sarah had gone to the beach with the young girl working as a waitress at her hotel, and they had made love by the sea – and then later, the older woman had introduced the young girl to the strange pleasure, the delightful pain, of submitting to a leather strap on her beautiful behind.

A wonderful diversion, Sarah had thought afterwards. Maybe she would tell Adam sometime, and he would surely be as turned on as he had been years ago when she had first confessed to having slept with a couple of girls when she was a student. But then she found she just couldn't get Anna out of her mind. It wasn't the sex, though that was a delight. And it wasn't the novel and unexpectedly thrilling experience of giving for the first time what she had so often received from Adam, and making the girl squirm and moan. There was something about the girl's beauty and vulnerability that had captured Sarah's heart. She was falling in love.

So, without saying anything to Adam, Sarah had visited Anna a few weeks later at the university where she was a student. They had gone out for a long lunch at a cafe bar, and talked for hours, easily and without reserve, as if they had known each other for years, finally parting late in the afternoon with a single chaste kiss. Then, ten days later, when Sarah was in a nearby city, they met up for dinner, and this time, unbidden and quietly insistent, Anna returned to Sarah's hotel and they made love again – very gently and tenderly.

Now, knowing Adam would be away for the better part of a week, Sarah had invited Anna to stay, and here she was, running down the steps from the far platform and flinging her arms round the older woman's neck, smiling into her eyes and suddenly kissing her full on the month.

'Hi! It's wonderful to see you...'

* * *

'It's going to be a cold night. Shall I light a fire in the living room?'

'That would be great... we could make love in front of it.' Anna grinned at Sarah, who reached out and squeezed her hand.

'You read my mind!'

They took what remained of their bottle of Chianti from the kitchen where they had eaten Sarah's pasta and homemade sorbet, then sat over the cheese for a long time. They went, hand-in-hand, into the sitting room. A large room, formed by knocking together two smaller ones; a comfortable, lived-in, room with slightly battered, well-used furniture, the alcoves lined with books, and some rather good modern artists' prints on the walls. An original Victorian fireplace was still in place at one end, and a log fire was laid. Sarah set about lighting it.

Sarah remembered that Anna had told her that she played the oboe in the university orchestra, and that music meant a great deal to her.

'Choose something, and put it on the hi-fi.'

The older woman watched as the girl walked across the room. Anna had changed after her journey, and was now wearing a dark patterned skirt that fell well below her knees, with an equally dark plain shirt in some soft material that clung and showed the shape of her breasts. Her long straw-coloured hair was tied back in a pony-tail. The effect was very simple, very beautiful. She was barefoot, which Sarah found strangely touching.

The girl examined Adam's large collection of CDs for a long time, suddenly serious. Eventually, the strains of a Haydn string quartet quietly filled the room – civilised, very human, intimate music. Anna danced solemnly back to where Sarah was sitting, and curled up at her feet.

* * *

A later scene. The music has changed, murmuring in the background very quietly. The fire now gives the only light in the room. And the room is quite hot, for the fire is more than the autumn night really needs. The girl is naked, lying on her back, her hands cupping her breasts, her legs spread. The woman is not yet fully undressed, her bottom still partly covered by very pretty, very expensive, lingerie. The woman's head is between the girl's thighs, tongue lapping at the girl's centre. The girl's head is beginning to toss from side to side. Her orgasm is mounting.

* * *

The two women are lying together, limbs tangled happily. Sarah reaches for the wine bottle. Empty.

'Time for some whisky, I think!'

She unwraps herself from the girl and fetches more drinks, and then hugs Anna to her again.

'That was wickedly nice!' Anna smiles, stretching her slim, pale body like a cat.

'Nice, but not wicked,' Sarah replies. Then, teasingly, 'Are you ever wicked?'

Anna giggles. And then her tone changes. 'I was wicked once, and in front of a fire like this one; I did something I really shouldn't have done...'

'Tell me about it?'

Anna sits up, hugs her knees, looks into the flames. Sarah sits beside her close, an arm round the girl's shoulder.

It was at Easter last year. I went off for a few days with my best friend Lizzie to a little cottage her family own in Wales. It was lovely; just the two of us, mostly working, revising for our summer exams. She'd arranged for her boyfriend, Giles, to come down at the end of the week with his friend Simon who I knew just a bit. So they turned up on the Friday, and we had a really good time the next day – a long walk across the hills to a pub for lunch and then the long walk back again; and later, when we'd recovered, we made a meal together, and sat in front of the fire, getting more and more drunk. Then it was inevitable, I guess...

Well, Giles and Lizzie started fooling around; and not to be left out I began snogging Simon who had turned out to be really nice. Giles half-undressed Lizzie and massaged her back; and Simon did the same for me and it was pretty blissful. And eventually... things just went on from there, like a competition between the boys to see how far we'd go in public. So if ends up with Lizzie and me more or less undressed, and with Simon shagging me while I'm watching Lizzie ride her Giles, and she kisses me as she comes. Wow! I'd never done anything remotely like that before and it was incredible.

If we'd stopped there it would have all been all right. But after we'd rested and drifted off in front of the fire for a while, I was still feeling randier than I think I'd ever felt before. Lizzie was very quiet and seemed out for the count, so there I was, between the two boys. And I couldn't resist. I knew Lizzie would hate it, but I started snogging her Giles all the same. And then Simon joined in again, and they both really got into it, and I lay there with two sets of hands and lips all over me, and I mean all over, which was heavenly. So after a while, I've come again, about the best ever, and then I am on my hands and knees with Giles taking me from behind while I suck off his friend. And that's when Lizzie woke and saw us.

She tried to be cool about it, but she never really forgave me or Giles... and so her two closest friendships soon came to an end, all for the sake of a drunken shag. Which was pretty bad of me, I guess. And what's really wicked is that there's a large part of me that doesn't really regret it...

* * *

'Well, you have been a bad girl,' Sarah teases, aroused. A pause. 'Perhaps you should be punished...'

There is another pregnant pause. They have hardly spoken again of that first night, when Sarah stung Anna's behind. That episode was initiated by Anna: but will she consent again, now she has experienced it once?

'Perhaps I should be punished...'

Another pause. They hold each other's gaze. Then Anna smiles and ceremoniously kneels before Sarah.

'Reach behind the books on the top shelf in the far alcove and bring me what you find there.'

Naked in the firelight, the girl rises and crosses the room. She stands on a stool, reaches up and her hand lights on something behind the books; she retrieves it.

'There are two more...'

Anna reaches again. Then she brings back what she's found and lays them on the low coffee table – a short two-pronged tawse; a whip with a dozen fine leather strands; and a light, springy cane.

'Now from that shelf over there... you see those two large dice? Bring one here.'

Anna does so.

'When I say, you roll the die. If it turns up one or two, I will use the whip. If you roll three or four, you'll be tawsed. And...?'

'If it's a five or six, I'll be caned,' the girl whispers.

'You understand perfectly,' Sarah laughs. Then, very quietly, 'Come here.'

For a moment, the two embrace, breast to breast, their arms tight around each other, kissing passionately. Sarah's hands press the girl's bottom; then, her voice taut with emotion,

'Roll the die.'

The dark red object skitters across the coffee table, bounces off the tawse, and comes to rest. A five.

* * *

Anna is standing, leaning slightly forward over the back of the chesterfield pulled in front of the fire. Her straw hair now hangs loose down her narrow back. Her bottom curves outward, thrust slightly towards the older woman. There are already a few very faint marks across her buttocks, for Sarah has flicked the cane a few times, lightly and playfully: the slight tingling stings and the erotic tension of the situation have excited the girl again, so when Sarah asks 'Are you ready to be striped?' Anna silently nods.

Sarah, her body flecked with beads of perspiration from the fire and the love-making, stands behind the girl, holding the cane in her hand. Since the day she spent with Anna by the sea, she has fantasized about the possibility of this moment, frigging herself as she imagined the girl first moaning again in submission and then being comforted and petted and made love to. The dark delight wraps itself round Sarah's soul, and she raises her arm...

Anna catches her breath as the first real lash bites into her buttocks. A moment of shock and then burning hurt runs through her. She steadies herself. When she is still, the cane descends again, harder, fiercer, and the girl cries out.

Sarah stands quietly for a moment, looking at the girl's beautiful back, curving down through her narrow waist, down to the swell of her buttocks, now marked by two hot lines. The cruel marks only accentuate the perfect shape. She feels a rush of excitement. Her nipples tauten.

The cane descends again, biting agonizingly. The girl presses her body into the upholstered back of the sofa, her eyes smarting, her lashes damp. But she recovers and slowly offers her bottom again to the waiting woman. A fourth hiss of the cane, a fourth fiery kiss.

'Aaah! Sarah! Aaaaargghh!'

The woman drops the cane and stands pressed up behind Anna and hugging her close. A long moment passes. Then she holds the girl away from her a little and starts kissing her shoulders. A tongue traces slowly downwards, downwards; hands stroke the girl's back and reach forward to caress her breasts. Downward further; lips, mouth, cheeks, press against the girl's stripes, feeling the heat.

Sarah kneels, licking the hot flesh. Then her hands on either buttock gently stretch apart the cheeks, revealing the girl's pale rosebud. A tongue explores, teases, licks, penetrates. Anna sighs in a different way. A hand touches her wet centre.

Suddenly, as if recollecting unfinished business, the woman jumps to her feet.

'There must be two more...'

'I know,' the girl whispers.

The cane is retrieved.

'Down, sweetheart; on your hands and knees.'

The girl obeys, in the firelight, an image of submission, the line of her body perfect.

Another tormenting fiery stripe and the girl yelps. A final long pause. The woman prowls behind her, the tension palpable. The last moment must come, but not before every line and curve of the girl is fixed in her memory. Suddenly, fiercely again, a final cut – and whether by accident or design, it agonizingly cutting across the other stripes.

Anna bursts into tears, and kneels up, pressing her face against the standing woman's flat stomach, wetting it with her tears, as she holds her ravaged buttocks. Sarah strokes her head, murmuring endearments. The sobs slowly subside; and then Anna kisses away the streaks of wetness on the woman's skin and nuzzles down into the hair below. Sarah leans back on the sofa and parts her legs. She sighs deeply. The girl's tongue sets to work.

* * *

Anna stays another day. A day full of lightness. They talk and are silent together, joke and discuss serious issues, and walk into the city, where Sarah insists of buying things for the girl – a dress, perfume, music. They eat out early at Sarah's favourite restaurant. And then back to the house. They are in Sarah's bedroom, where Anna is trying on the new dress again.

'You need higher heels and a different bra,' Sarah says, opening a cupboard and pulling out drawers. 'Look through these, while I have a quick shower...'

When she returns, the girl is transformed. She is standing in front of the long mirror, balanced on Sarah's highest heels (black patent shoes that Sarah has only ever worn at home, for Adam's delight). Anna is wearing a black platform bra with cups that hardly cover her nipples, a g-string, and black hold-up stockings with lacy tops.

'I found these... I hope you don't mind.'

'No, you look incredible. An icon of sexiness. Adam would have a heart attack!'

'I found this in a drawer too,' the girl adds, more tentatively, and takes from the bed Sarah's vibrator. 'I've never used one. Are you surprised? Will you show me?'

Sarah is embarrassed for a moment and then laughs, sits on the bed, and grabs the girl and pulls her off-balance onto the bed and into her arms.

* * *

They are now downstairs again, in front of a fire. There is music, louder this time; old seventies numbers. The girl, still in her sexy lingerie, is kneeling between Sarah's thighs, but the vibrator has just been cast aside as the older woman recovers.

'Now that's what I call wickedly nice!' Sarah grins and rubs her hands down her body languorously.

'Good,' says Anna. 'I thought you just might be enjoying that... I sure enjoyed my turn!' Then a sudden thought. 'But what about you? What have you done that is really wicked? Fair's fair, since I told you my story last night...'

Sarah is suddenly subdued. 'I've never told this to anyone...'

'You know I'll keep your secrets.'

It's a few years ago now. Adam had been away at a conference, and afterwards I found he'd accidentally left under the seat of his car a local paper from the city he'd been in. And it was folded open at the page with all the adverts for massage parlours and so on. I just knew that he'd been to one. He'd done it before and I'd found him out and been really angry – though, if I tell the truth, there's part of me that found the idea rather exciting, when I pictured him lying there being sucked off by a girl he'd only just met. But this time I didn't say anything; I just seethed inside, and I used it as an excuse to misbehave much more badly myself.

About a week later, I was away on a business trip, and I knew that I'd be meeting up again with this youngish guy David who manages one of our small branches, and who'd made it pretty plain in the past that he fancied me. So this time, when he was entertaining me to dinner, I flirted back outrageously, and one thing led to another, and we ended up in bed back at my hotel.

Sarah is quiet for a moment.

'That doesn't sound so very bad to me.'

'Let me finish.'

Well, we fooled around for a long time; he was really slow and considerate, and great at oral sex, and I came wonderfully. And then, because I was still so cross with Adam and wanted to punish him somehow, when David wanted finally to come inside me, I turned over and... I asked him to... I asked him to take me that way. I mean anally.

And that was wrong because I hadn't let Adam make love to me like that for a long time even though he adores it – it's one of those things that doesn't get easier as you get older, and the last times had hurt too much in the wrong sort of way. Well, I don't know whether David was really experienced or whether it was beginner's luck, but he seemed to know exactly what to do, and he opened me so gently and filled me so slowly, and then moved in just the right way, and for the first time ever I came from anal sex. It was unbelievable. And it wasn't a one-off. We did it the same way again, even better, the next night.

Afterwards, I was able to teach Adam how to do it so as not hurt me, and we still sometimes make love that way, though, he never makes me come like David did. And I still feel bad that someone else has had what really should have been Adam's.

Anna kisses Sarah. The room is suddenly quiet. The girl quietly gets up, her heels clicking across the floor, and changes the CD. Then she reaches for the large red dice, and hands one to the older woman.

'Roll it, Sarah.' There is a note of question in the girl's voice. The two look at each other, Sarah's luminous grey eyes bright. There is a moment's stillness, and then she throws the die. A two.

The woman, naked, slowly fetches the many-thonged whip, kneels and hands it to the girl. Anna takes it and weighs it in her hand, and then seems to hesitate.

Sarah whispers, 'You can use it anywhere – on my back, on my thighs, even on my tummy and breasts... Where do you want me?'

Silence. Then 'Stand where I did...'

And Sarah leans against the sofa. After a moment, tentatively at first, and then with fire and excitement, the whip begins to fall.

Sarah squirms and moans. This is so different from being whipped by Adam, yet no different. She lets herself float into the sensation as the tips of the whip sting more and more of her body. She gives the last part of herself to Anna. And Anna too is wrapped up in feelings that grow in intensity as Sarah's discomfort grows. She does not understand; but her body melts. She wants to frig herself, she wants Sarah's knowing tongue in her arse again, she wants to whip Sarah.

Sarah cries out.

* * *

So, when Adam left his conference over a day early, and returned unannounced, that was the sight that greeted his eyes, as he quietly let himself into the house, sounds of arrival masked by the music.

A pretty young girl, straw-coloured hair down her back, stood in the very high heels, her breasts barely held by a tiny bra, her buttocks parted by the tiny thong of her knickers. Across her behind, faint but unmistakable, were the marks of a recent caning. She was agitated, breathing hard, aroused. In one hand, she held a whip, which was curling across his wife's thighs. A fine tracery of marks covered Sarah's back, extending oven to her breasts. She was grimacing, in pain, in pleasure, for the girl's other hand played between her thighs, frigging her fast. He recognised the signs; the woman was near her release. The whip swung again. Lighter, stimulating her breasts.

'Oh yes, ... just there.'

And again.

Adam coughed. 'I see that when the cat is away...'

(To be continued)

An Evening At Mr Holroyd's

2012-01-23T07:42:00.000-08:00

Story from Janus 34.

An Evening At Mr Holroyd's
by R.T. Mason

ANGELA looked up at the clock. Half past six. 'I'd better get ready. He doesn't like me to be late.'

Bryan grunted but went on eating his dinner and reading the newspaper at the same time. His pretty 23-year-old wife got up and went upstairs, where there was shortly the sound of the shower running. Bryan, also 23, went on eating and reading as if oblivious to what Angela was doing, but he wasn't. He was well aware that it was Wednesday evening again and he knew what that meant. Of course there was no point getting excited, he had after all agreed to it. All the same it was not something you could easily ignore.

Just to prove to himself that he really didn't mind he shortly got up and followed Angela upstairs. In the bedroom she had just started dressing.

She gave a groan. 'Oh god, Bryan, you're not going to watch me, are you?'

Angela's shapely form was nude apart from a white satin suspender belt and a pair of black nylon stockings. She was holding a pair of brief white nylon knickers and, bending to step into them, her full breasts were pendant, the pink nipples slightly erect from the shower. Bryan felt a twinge of lust – mingled with the sharp pang that for two hours this evening his wife would be someone else's plaything.

Angela slid the knickers up the shapely stocking-clad legs and fitted them tautly over her quite full hips and bottom. She quickly took a matching bra and harnessed the bobbing breasts. As she did so Bryan reached for her.

'Ange: why not tell him you're ill or something. I... well I feel like... you know, bed.'

Irritatedly Angela pushed her husband away. 'Oh god Bryan! You know I can't. Look I wish you'd let me alone to get ready. Do we need the money or don't we? And if you're feeling horny save it up till I get back: you know it always turns you on to see me with some fresh red stripes on my bum.'

Bryan gave her a sullen look but did not stop his wife as she proceeded to put on a white schoolgirl blouse and a short navy blue pleated skirt, and then a red-and-mauve striped tie. She sat down at her dressing table and tied her shoulder-length hair into two bunches with red ribbons.

Bryan looked a bit sick. 'Whatever do you look like!'

She made a face in the mirror. 'Like a schoolgirl I suppose. And if you don't like to see it why watch?'

She had a final look in the mirror, slipped on a pair of black high-heeled shoes, and stood up. With her fresh complexion and soft full mouth Angela did look like a schoolgirl – a rather mouth-watering Sixth Former which was what she was supposed to be.

She turned to Bryan and put her arms round him. In a more conciliatory tone she said, 'Don't worry about it, darling. I mean it's not as if I was on the game, is it? It's not as if he was doing me. And we agreed we could really use the money.'

She kissed him. 'Look, I've got to go or I'll be late. I'll see you later, OK?'

Bryan said nothing as Angela slipped on a light raincoat and picked up her handbag, car keys and a straw boater with red-and-mauve ribbon matching her tie.

He watched her go out. There was shortly the sound of the car starting. He wondered whether to go out to the pub but decided he really didn't want to. He went downstairs and started to do the washing up.

These Wednesday evenings had been going on for six weeks now. It had been a real shock when Angela had first mentioned it, that her friend Jane Walters knew this man, etc, etc. And then Angela had said she wouldn't mind trying it, and after some discussion Bryan had agreed, as long as the bloke wouldn't be screwing her. After all it was Angela who would be getting that cane oh her bum.

The deciding factor had naturally been the 20 quid a time that Angela would get. But although he had agreed to it you couldn't be expected to enjoy it. Especially during the actual two hours each Wednesday evening. When she got back, though, with those red stripes on her tail, well that was funny, he hated it but at the same time it turned him on.

* * *

It didn't take Angela long to drive to Mr Holroyd's, a quarter of an hour. As usual she felt the excitement welling up as she got closer. She had never been caned before, not before Mr Holroyd, had never really thought about it until that day her friend Jane told her what she did one afternoon a week. And had then asked if Angela would like to try it: Mr Holroyd was looking for another girl and Angela was his type. It had seemed just an impossible thing at first but then after thinking about it it hadn't seemed quite so bad. If that was all he wanted.

So she had plucked up courage and finally broached the subject to Bryan. She had persuaded him to let her try, and it had started. She had been really scared at first, and as she had thought, it hurt like hell. But at the same time she found it stimulated and excited her – although she hadn't told Bryan that.

At Mr Holroyd's she parked the car and then wearing the light coat and carrying the hat walked up the driveway. At the back door, hidden from the street, she put the straw hat squarely on her head and then, heart beginning to thump, rang the bell.

It opened almost immediately. 'Ah, Miss Simmonds. Yes, I was expecting you of course.'

Simmonds was her unmarried name, and it seemed to take her further than ever away from her married status, even in a way that was rather liberating. Mr Holroyd said using that real name added potency to it. He was sixtyish and a bit like schoolmaster although Jane said he was a retired civil servant. The eyes behind the spectacles were bright as inside the back porch his rather bony hands unbuttoned her coat. The hands pulled the coat apart and Angela gave a little gasp as he took hold of both breasts through the tight white school blouse.

'Yes Miss. Reliable reports tell me you have been seen out with boys. Young louts, I've no doubt, who've been allowed to maul your body and get you all hot and excited, is that it?'

'No Sir!' gasped Angela, flush-faced. It was almost as if she were 17 again, and all this was for real. He sounded as if he really meant it. Not that it had ever happened, not like this.

'My sources, Miss Simmonds, are most reliable.' One of the hands left her breasts and slid down and up the front of her short school skirt. Fingers lightly touched the bulge of her pubis through the tight nylon knickers. They moved spider-like.

'This, Miss. Boys getting this all excited. Is that correct?'

'N...no, Sir,' She felt herself trembling.

'Turn round, Miss.'

She was breathing really fast now.

With her back facing him Mr Holroyd lifted the bottom of the coat and Angela's skirt. His hand took a firm hold of one nylon-clad bottom cheek.

'So what we will do, Miss Simmonds, is give this part of your anatomy a warming up. In fact I intend to warm it up so much that you will not want to sit on it for some time to come. That is the best antidote I know for randiness in a Sixth Former.'

The hand gave her bottom a sharp pinch and then a slap. 'So get into the sitting room, Miss: and get yourself ready. Look sharp!'

With a mixture of dread and excitement Angela went smartly into the room. She knew what she had to do and she also knew what she was going to get. It would hurt like bloody hell but at the same time she knew she would in a way enjoy it as well as hate it.

Angela took off the coat and the straw hat. Unfastened the skirt and stepped out of it, and then slid down the knickers and stepped out of them. She was nude below the waist apart from the suspender belt and stockings. Mr Holroyd standing in front of her now had the cane in his hand.

'Yes Miss: girls who get hot between the legs need their bottoms hotting up, I'm afraid.'

A gasp from Angela as the cane whipped out and slashed into the side of her thigh, stinging like a wasp.

'Get over, Miss. The usual position.'

Obediently Angela stood at the back of an upright chair and bent forward and down so that her arms and head were down in the seat. And her own bare seat was sticking prominently out, ripe globes awaiting the sharp kiss of that stinging cane.

It was unceremoniously raised, and then brought swiftly down: THWATT! squarely across the ripe rump.

'Eeeooowwhh!!' Angela's yelp of agony was no way contrived. It really bloody stung! As it always did.

THWATT! A second awful stinger landed not far from the first line of impact. Another agonised yell and a frenzied writhing of bare buttocks.

THWATT! 'Aaaoowwch!!' The third was where Angela especially hated it: just below the lowest curve of her rump at the very top of her thighs. She wriggled and desperately clenched her buttocks in an attempt to dissipate the awful pain.

Mr Holroyd, eyes glinting and erection in full flower, waited for the girl to get still. He loved to get a girl's bottom really wriggling, like a fat pale fish on a line. THWATT! 'Aaaooowww!!' The fourth landed on the full fat undercurve and produced another bout of splendid bottom-writhing.

Another pause... and the cane again raised. THWATT!...

He gave her 12 in all. That was what he usually gave her – after the first couple of times of course when she was still learning to take it and he had restricted himself to six. In his experience 12 was what a girl was prepared to take once she'd got used to it. Twelve good hard ones. And if they were spread out that was the time it took for him to be ready to break off. To call the session to an abrupt halt as he exited to the bathroom to relieve his by now brimming arousal.

Angela, her bottom blazing from those 12 red stripes, was briskly told she could stand up and pull up her knickers. The first part of the ordeal was over. As Mr Holroyd went out she pulled the tight knickers up over her hot bottom, causing it to sting even more. She thought of Bryan... and bed. She would really feel like it when she got home, she always did, but she had never let on to Bryan. She was pretty sure he'd hate the thought of that, her getting turned on by Mr Holroyd's cane. Although Bryan himself did of course.

She looked around the room, its activities hidden behind the heavy closed curtains. Jane came here on Fridays and got the same treatment. Jane also went to another man, Mr Warren, who wanted to have a go at Angela as well. But Mr Warren wasn't content with just caning, he wanted something else afterwards. Angela couldn't bring herself to agree to that, although Jane didn't seem too bothered. She didn't tell her husband of course. Not the truth.

Mr Holroyd was suddenly back looking a bit less intense than when he'd gone out. 'Haven't you started making the coffee, Miss Simmonds?' he asked.

Angela should have known although he hadn't specifically told her this time. Standing there dreaming, she had forgotten. She said 'Sorry Sir' and went out to the kitchen. She was still Miss Simmonds because Mr Holroyd hadn't finished yet. If things followed the normal routine there was still Punishment PT to come after the coffee. When, if things ran true to his quirky pattern, he would be addressing her as simply 'Simmonds'.

Angela had never told Bryan about the Punishment PT. All he knew was that she got the cane and also the strap to a certain extent. Punishment PT in fact usually took up quite a lot of the two hours Angela was at Mr Holroyd's and to account for all that time Angela said they sat and talked a bit. Well, Mr Holroyd obviously wouldn't be caning her for two hours non-stop, or she wouldn't be able to stand up afterwards. But she did not enjoy Punishment PT, which was why she didn't tell Bryan about it.

And yes, it was to be the same routine tonight. As soon as Mr Holroyd had finished his coffee he said, 'Right then, Miss. Punishment PT now!'

Angela knew what she had to do. Finishing her own coffee, she slipped off the high-heel shoes and stood up. Standing in front of him she took off the skirt again and also the tight white knickers. Once more she was in just blouse, suspender belt and nylons.

Mr Holroyd told her to get into position. Obediently Angela stood facing him a couple of feet from his chair, with her feet wide apart and her hands on her head. Mr Holroyd proceeded to give her another lecture, more lengthy this time, on her supposedly unladylike behaviour. As he sternly addressed her one of his hands failed to leave her alone...

Angela couldn't imagine that schoolmasters ever really did this, although Jane said that at her school the games master had groped girls whenever he got the chance. But anyway in Mr Holroyd's prelude to Punishment PT he always touched her while he spoke. As usual she simply tried to pretend he wasn't doing it, looking straight ahead and doing her best to keep still. At last the lecture ended and the hand was taken away. It was time to start the actual Punishment PT.

He had a set routine of exercises and as usual she had to go through them all. On her back on the carpet cycling her legs in the air was always the first; while Mr Holroyd stood over you with that wicked two-tongued strap, whipping it out at bottom and thighs if you didn't perform exactly to his requirements. The cycling was always pretty awful, not just because she could never do it to his satisfaction, but also because, with no knickers on, it was such a really awful position to be made to get into.

The cycling finally finished and then there were the others: deep knee bends; toe touching; running on the spot; high kicking. A nonstop routine which had Angela gasping for breath, punctuated at frequent intervals by sharp squeals as that strap snaked out. It was a performance which, as usual, Angela did not like one little bit. And which she would try very hard to screen out of her mind afterwards.

Mr Holroyd on the other hand found it highly arousing and it went on until he was again close to that brimming-over stage. Then the Punishment PT stopped, to be followed by a second caning session – four strokes this time – after which Mr Holroyd made another prompt exit. This time at least the evening's activities were essentially over.

* * *

Back home Bryan was sitting on the settee watching the telly. In an artificially bright voice she said, 'Hello: I'm back!'

Bryan didn't answer. Angela went to sit next to him, forcing a kiss on him. 'Bryan darling: I'm back! Don't you love me?'

He pushed her away. 'I don't want you going to the bloody bloke anymore.'

Angela bit her lip. 'Oh come on, Bryan: don't be silly.' She opened her handbag and took out the four £5 notes Mr Holroyd had given her for the evening. She handed them to Bryan but he simply threw them on the floor.

'I've had enough of it! You're not going there anymore and that's final.'

Angela picked up the money and, red-faced, put it back in her purse. He was bad-tempered at times when she got back but never as bad as this. He seemed really mean tonight.

In bed a little later they had intercourse. Bryan couldn't resist that in spite of his anger. When he had finished he got off her and lay on his back. Still breathing heavily he said, 'Promise you won't go there anymore.'

There was a silence and then in a quiet voice she said, 'OK. If that's what you want.'

She would promise but she didn't mean it. She would just have to go in the afternoon when Bryan was at work. It wasn't only the £20, she had got to be really aroused by it: exposing her bottom for Mr Holroyd and then that feeling of dread and excitement as she waited for the cane to land. Even the Punishment PT, which she wouldn't think about – well, especially that, really... the fact that she hated it yet he made her do it, that was what did it for her, made her tummy turn over.

That wasn't all. Just before she'd left Mr Holroyd tonight he had again said that Mr Warren was very keen to see her. She had hesitated and then finally, this time, said OK, she would see him.

She had agreed to go round to his house tomorrow afternoon. Mr Warren was younger than Mr Holroyd, in his forties, Jane said. And he was very dominant. Lying there next to Bryan and looking up at the ceiling, Angela shivered.

'So no more visits,' repeated Bryan. 'We don't need that bloody money.'

'OK,' she said. And then her hand reached out and her lips closed in, needing him again. So urgently.

Dormitory Discipline

2012-01-22T01:24:00.000-08:00

Story from Roue 13.

Dormitory Discipline

It's Thursday bedtime at St.Angela's. Dormitory 2 is occupied by the girls of 7A. There are one or two troublesome ones, particularly Angela Boyle and Sandra Holmes, but on the whole they're a fairly quiet, demure bunch. Giggly and garrulous perhaps, but no more so than most sixteen-year-olds. By twenty-past nine they're busy divesting themselves of their school uniforms and preparing for Lights Out at nine-thirty sharp. Slowcoaches are not tolerated at St. Angela's so the removal of garments takes precedence over girlish conversation for the moment.

The white-walled, low-ceilinged dormitory has twenty beds – which leaves one spare, since there are nineteen girls in 7A. Beside each bed, a small cupboard and plain wooden chair. Nineteen navy-blue-knickered bottoms spring into view as, almost simultaneously, nineteen gymslips are raised above heads, removed, and placed neatly over the chairs. Blouses are unbuttoned and taken off, vests raised, pants lowered. Nineteen bare bottoms of various shapes and sizes, some bearing the unmistakeable marks of punishment incurred during the day. Paragons of virtue they may be, but that does not mean that they don't qualify for bare-bottom spankings over their teacher's knee, or even occasional stiff doses of the cane. No girl escapes without getting a sore bottom at St. Angelas. There's plenty of willing male hands to see to that!

Suddenly an altercation develops between Angela and Sandra. It revolves around a packet of chewing gum that Sandra insists belongs to her, despite Angela's indignant protests to the contrary. They're still arguing seven minutes later when Mr. Evans strides briskly in to call 'Lights Out'. The staff do dormitory duty on a weekly basis. Most find it irksome. They'd much rather be in the village pub down the road. But Mr. Evans enjoys his work and takes it very seriously. The girls, to their cost, have been made painfully aware of the fact, and are always extra punctilious when he's prowling about on duty. Yet he always seems to be able to unearth some fault, some crime, some heinous sin that incurs for the luckless offender a soundly smacked bottom – at the very least. Indeed. 7A have been on tenterhooks all week. They dread Evans's nightly arrival, knowing full well that he is only waiting for the slightest infringement in order to pounce.

And pounce he does! 7A are all, by now, neatly tucked up in their beds. All except Angela and Sandra. Sandra still has her pants on, Angela her vest. The argument is still raging:

"It's mine!"

"No, Sandra, you beast – I tell you it's mine! I remember buying it from the tuckshop on Tuesday!"

They're completely unaware of Evans's presence, as he marches swiftly down the central aisle between the two rows of beds, grabs the two miscreants by the ear, and pulls them over to a vacant chair. The two horror-struck girls are far too shaken and terrified by his unseen arrival to offer any excuses whatsoever. Evans is, anyway, notoriously deaf to pleas of mitigation and clemency.

"I'll teach the pair of you to flout Dorm Drill! Insolent baggages! You'll be sleeping face downwards tonight, that's for sure!"

Wails of alarm greet this announcement. The rest of the class, safe and sound in their beds, thank their lucky stars it's not them, and surreptitiously ease themselves into good vantage positions. They all want to watch. Very few girls in the school actually enjoy being spanked, yet the subject holds a kind of morbid fascination for them and universally popular as a spectator sport.

"Ooh PLEASE don't spank me, sir!" Sandra pleads, fluttering her eyelashes and pouting prettily. "I've already had six of the best today from Mr. Walker for getting my Maths homework all wrong. He really hurt me terribly, sir! Look, sir!"

And to prove her point Sandra slips her pants down at the back to reveal six neatly parallel red weals decorating her pert little bottom. Delighted titters from her classmates greet this disclosure. Evans inspects Walker's handiwork critically:

"Hum... quite severe! Definite 'tram-lines'! Good to see young Walker standing for no nonesense!" he muses with satisfaction. He runs his large, heavy hand up and down the quaking contours of poor Sandra's bum. He pinches each cheek in turn and traces the horizontal weal-marks with his fingers.

"Does it still hurt, Sandra? Is it still painful?" She nods and bites her lip, fighting back the twinges of discomfort, the shame of such a public ordeal and the fear of what is to follow. Evans's questing hand discovers a particularly tender part, low down on Sandra's right cheek, and she winces and starts to cry as he pulls her knickers further down her thighs. Angela watches aghast, her hand raised to her mouth. She knows her turn is going to come – the having to actually wait for it is an additional torment – like at the dentist's. If she had the chance, she'd feel more than tempted at this moment to change places with Sandra, and receive her medicine now. Looking at her wailing, protesting classmate already in the process of being upended over Evans's lap, Angela intuitively surmises that Sandra would raise no objection to the swop!

Besides, it was hardly fair! Sandra's modesty had, at least initially, been preserved by her knickers, whereas poor Angela is denied even that luxury. All she has on is her skimpy cotton vest and white knee-socks. The little vest finishes well above where her swelling bottom cheeks commence, and so the target area is, as it were, already well demarkated! She feels utterly indecent and her buttocks twitch nervously. Evans appears to be fully occupied with Sandra. He's taking his time positioning her correctly across his lap. He always seems to attach great importance to the preliminaries.

Taking full advantage of the situation, Angela feverishly whips off the vest and dons her dainty blue baby-doll nightie. It's made of the flimsiest nylon and almost completely transparent. The top barely covers her bottom, and the panties are equally abbreviated, with pretty scalloped edges. She is more developed than her partner in crime, and she knows it. The little pants tightly hug her bottom-crack and a lot of bare cheek protrudes either side. Still, she feels a little less exposed and vulnerable now, even though she knows she won't be allowed to keep her pants on.

Meanwhile, poor little Sandra's bottom is receiving Mr. Evans's full attention. She howls, wails and shrieks as Evans spanks her slowly, almost impersonally. For him it's all part of the nightly dorm duty routine. Hardly a night goes by without him having to spank one of the girls in one of the dormitories. Some nights it reaches epidemic proportions, and the entire occupants of a dorm end up getting their bottoms roasted. In fact tonight is turning out to be fairly uneventful. Still, there's always the consolation that there are four more dormitories to inspect! And he returns to the matter in hand – or rather to the girlish bottom that's under his hand.

The fact that she's already been caned that day makes it all the more painful and humiliating for Sandra. Her legs scissor and her fists frantically pummel the floor in response to the rain of smacks descending upon her rapidly-reddening sit-upon. Though small and petite, it nevertheless pouts and protrudes jauntily and appealingly above slender, coltish, tanned legs. Evans's schoolmasterly hand is already sore and stinging from the persistent impact it is making with Sandra's naughty bottom. Vainly she attempts to squeeze her cheeks together, but that only seems to make matters worse. Her bottom resembles two lush tomatoes, ripening more every minute as the spanking hots up in intensity. She wails, shrieks and sobs as smack after stinging smack descends. Then Evans finishes her off with six of his notorious 'humdingers' that echo sonorously around the low-vaulted room. The seventeen occupants of the beds are by now sitting bolt upright, glued to the spectacle taking place in the centre of the room. Angela sits nervously on the edge of her bed, biting her lip and stroking her bottom apprehensively as her own moment of reckoning approaches. When Evans finally lets the scarlet-bottomed Sandra off his lap she rushes, sobbing, to her bed, kicks her pants off into the corner, grabs her nightie and bundles into bed – uttering a painful "OUCH!" as her well-spanked, well-caned bottom makes contact with the hard, unyielding bed. Grimly she rolls over onto her tummy, wishing to blot out all the pain, shame and disgrace she's had to endure.

Now it's Angela's turn, and she's weeping even before it starts, because her classmate's ordeal is so freshly and graphically imprinted on her memory. Humbly she begs Mr. Evans's forgiveness, but such feminine guile and manipulative deviousness cuts no ice with him. Not for nothing have the girls unanimously dubbed him 'Spanker of the School'! He's spanked more girls than they've collectively, had hot dinners. No way is Angela going to wriggle out of it, although her penitent, pleading postures do seem to cause her well-endowed bottom to shimmy more sexily than ever.

Stonyfaced, Evans harangues her mercilessly as she stands between his legs. He makes her raise the front of her nightie, while he slowly lowers her dainty little blue panties to mid-thigh. He knows he's going to enjoy this. There is something almost poignantly delightful about spanking a girl in a baby-doll nightie – she looks so defenceless and vulnerable. Angela is all fresh and glowing pink from the bath. Evans can smell the fragrance of teenage-girl's talcum. She's very particular about cleanliness, and always religiously talcs her female, intimate parts.

So it's knickers down and a soundly-smacked bottom for Angela Boyle as she lowers herself timorously across his broad, tweedy lap. The strong, masculine aroma of his pipe hangs about his clothes. She's not as tall as Sandra, and her hands fail to reach the floor, though her legs do make contact and thus provide her with some sort of anchorage. She knows it's going to hurt. She's never been spanked before at St. Angelas – only caned, though never by Mr. Evans. But then her stepfather spanks her regularly, sometimes for no apparent reason. She's often wondered why. And why he always insists on her taking her pants down. Sometimes it even happens in the living room, in front of all his friends. It's not much fun for a teenage girl to have her bare bottom spanked to boiling point amidst a roomful of leering, jostling middle-aged men. And her mother never sticks up for in the slightest. She only sniffs and utters some sanctimonious platitude like: "I'm sure your father knows what's best for you!"

And then, why do they always head for the bedroom after she's been spanked? Poor Angela feels she's getting a little old for these painful indignities! Indeed, the older she gets, the harder and more frequently she seems to get it. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way round? No – St. Angelas is paradise compared to home!

But now her plump, nubile bottom is about to be warmed by the 'Spanker of the School'! She knows she's for it. Her one desperate resolve is to clench her legs together as tightly as possible to prevent Evans seeing more than he ought! Her last-minute reflections are rudely interrupted as she suddenly realises that the spanking has begun! Schoolgirlish wails greet her mentor's posterial assault. The meaty SMACKS that follow decisively prove that Angela is indeed the possessor of a well-fleshed pair of buttocks. They wobble engagingly, like blanc-mange. Her vocal utterances grow in urgency and intensity. Her flimsy little blue panties continue in their anklewards descent, until in exasperation she kicks them off, resenting the hobbling effect they are having on her leg movements. Thus liberated, she commences to fling her legs unashamedly in all directions – breaking her avowed resolution to keep them tightly together.

She grizzles and blubbers in total submission as her frantically writhing bottom begins to take on the same scarlet hue as Sandra's. Her pain and contrition impel her to urge Mr. Evans for forgiveness. She'll do anything if only he'll stop. She even offers to take a bare-bottom caning the next day if only he'll relent in his present fury! But the implacable Evans just carries on spanking that deliciously plump bottom of hers, like an enthusiastic chef tenderising steaks for a gourmet's delight!

In a desperate attempt to escape her punishment, Angela tries to wriggle forward off his lap until her legs leave the ground and her hands make contact with the floor. Now her legs are kicking and scissoring more energetically than an Olympic swimmer's, and Evans is treated to frequent glimpses of all her innermost, inner-moist, secrets. Her pubic hair, fragrant and dusted with talc, the delicate folds of her clit, and below it, her pretty little vulva growing wetter and stickier by the minute. Further up, deep between her cleft, her other opening. And the poor, upended girl blushes deeply for shame in the knowledge that her frantic wrigglings have caused her to display even that, too. She'll never be able to look Mr. Evans in the face again!

But Evans is an old hand, and has seen it all. Before they're spanked, girls are always full of the best intentions. Full of firm resolves not to display their all. Cheeks tightly clenched, they come across his knee all innocence and prudery. But by the time their twitching bottoms have acquired the requisite scarlet hue, all former resolutions of modesty and decorum have gone by the board, and there they are – brazenly and shamelessly exposing themselves to his stern, appraising eye. Angela is no exception to this rule. As she kicks her legs outwards and upwards, Evans judiciously centres his smacks so that they fall in the downy cleft that divides her cheeks. When Angela feels his fingers brush against her anus she cringes in utter degradation. Yet when his fingers skate across her vulva, she lubricates generously, and his finger tips retain traces of her stickiness.

Now that she's slumped forward and her bottom is dramatically arched he can concentrate on her more vulnerable areas – areas like the tops of her thighs. That always seems to produce the most spectacular results. In Angela's case it sends her into fresh floods of tears and pleas for mercy. She feels it's unfair – he seems to have been spanking her for hours. Much longer than he did Sandra. And it's all Sandra's fault, too. It wasn't her chewing gum!

Evans concludes the spanking with six real bottom scorchers, to ensure that Angela will not be sitting comfortably tomorrow. Or the next day! A spontaneous outburst of applause from the surrounding beds greets this finale. Evans mentally detaches himself from the wretched, snivelling girl draped across his knee, and looks up in shocked amazement, to see an excited audience aroused to fever pitch. Girlish pantings; heaving breasts; twitching, writing bodies..........!

"Damn it! The little devils are actually enjoying it!"

He pats Angela's crimson bottom lightly, not affectionately but impatiently – urging her up from his lap. She doesn't need much urging. She leaps to her feet and commences to busily rub her sore, afflicted bottom. Evans dries her eyes with his handkerchief and tells her to put her pants back on. Then he tells her to pop down to 2D and fetch the longest, swishiest cane she can find. While she's gone he addresses the owners of the seventeen bottoms, already shivering in justifiable dread:

"Right, girls. Eight strokes apiece! Bend over your beds, pillows under tummies!"

Jane Carter, the swot of 7A, does some rapid mental arithmetic, gasps, and whispers to her neighbour, Kerry Walters:

"Crikey! That's a hundred and thirty-six strokes! He'll be here all night!"

Mother And Daughter

2012-01-21T08:54:00.000-08:00

Story from Blushes 30.

Mother And Daughter

Tuesday, 19th of April. The clock in the Rover dashboard indicated 3.55. Elizabeth Mayfield reached to turn down the vanity mirror. Her face with the big violet eyes registered anxiety. She pursed full, red-lipsticked lips. Not looking at her husband she said, 'He's...so big.' Her voice low in wonderment — and fear. 'Enormous. Fiona...' Turning now to Derek. 'I can't bear to think. We should never have agreed.'

Derek Mayfield's eyes remained fixed on the road. The road leading away from Greentops Finishing School and its principal, Mr Philip Branton MA. Who was a very big man. Unemotionally he said, 'We didn't have a lot of choice, did we? Unless we wanted her kicked out. It'll probably do her good.'

'How can you be so callous.' Elizabeth squirmed her bottom on the car seat. Almost as if she could feel the cane across her own substantial but shapely hindquarters. 'He could kill her,' she breathed. 'He must be.... 20 stone at least.'

Derek's eyes remained to the front as he pictured Philip Branton. He blinked. 'Size is not a lot to do with it. A 10-stone weakling if he set his mind to it could certainly have a girl howling for mercy. And could no doubt also make quite a mess of her bottom. Branton won't be hitting with full force or anything like it. No one does.'

'It's all right for you. You won't be getting it. That poor girl.'

Derek gave her a quick look. A smile. 'Nor will you. I thought he was all right. I don't think he'll really hurt her. And it should make her stop and think. Would you want her coming home pregnant?'

Elizabeth said, 'Don't be disgusting.' The dashboard clock now said exactly 4.00. They were some 35 miles from Greentops Fishing School. Where the clock on Philip Branton's mantlepiece registered 4.04.

His clock was always slightly fast. Which frequently made a girl start when she glanced at it, imagining that she was late for her appointment. Mr Branton was a stickler for punctuality. It was in fact exactly 4 o'clock as his door opened to admit a nervous looking Fiona Mayfield. Exactly on time in spite of a last minute dash to the loo. A frenzied yanking down of her freshly clean white knickers and then perching her bottom on the seat. She felt desperate to pee but there was only a little trickle tinkling into the bowl. Nerves. Desperate, stomach-clenching nerves. She wiped herself and grabbed up her pants. Fresh clean ones taken 20 minutes ago from her drawer. A girl wanted clean knickers on if Mr Branton was going to.... Oh Christ! Closing his door quietly behind her. Oh Christ. She wanted to go back to the loo again, though of course nothing would come. But if she said 'Sir, I need to go to the loo' it would at least postpone matters for perhaps five minutes. But Mr Branton would not be pleased. And right now, of all times, was not the time to annoy Mr Branton. She came to an uncertain stop in front of his desk.

Philip Branton looked up from his papers. A very pretty girl, blonde, like her mother. A nice shape too, in the demure white blouse and grey skirt with white heels and stockings which comprised the more formal wear for girls at Greentops Finishing School. Slimmer than her mother of course who in her 39 years (worked out from data on Fiona's application form) had put on just a little weight. In the right places, though. Yes. But Fiona...

'As you will know, Fiona, I have had your parents here earlier this afternoon. That is always my practice, when I intend to cane a girl.'

A pause. To let that word sink in. Cane. Fiona opened her mouth. Clenched even white teeth. Closed her mouth again. A soft, vulnerable mouth that would shortly be opening in agony. A pink flush colouring her cheeks. Quite possibly, he thought, there might also be that sudden urge to visit the bathroom.

'Yes. Charming people. And your mother a very attractive woman.' Mr Branton leant forward slightly. 'I can tell you that they raised no objection. They agreed with me that a caning was very much in order. And certainly better than being expelled, as I am sure you will agree.'

Fiona didn't necessarily agree with that; being expelled might well be preferable. But she knew her parents wouldn't think that. Oh no. She had to take her medicine. Mr Branton was getting up. That heavy bulk that when you first saw him rather took your breath away. And you thought, wondered, hotly, fleetingly at least, what it would be like with such a bulk on top of you. If you were married or something. Not that Mr Branton was married. Though some girls said, whispered...

But Fiona wasn't thinking about that now. There was this other awful business. The reason why she had been summoned here at 4 o'clock. Mr Branton now round his desk and close, looming over her. His large hand taking hold of her arm.

'They agreed with me, Fiona, that a girl cannot be allowed to make liaisons with local youths. There is the moral aspect as well as the real possibility of extreme social embarrassment. Your dear mother would not be at all happy to find her daughter swelling up with an unwanted offspring. You can appreciate that I should have thought.'

'I... I didn't do anything,' Fiona stuttered. And she hadn't. She hadn't done much more than speak to him. And she was 18.

'That is a matter we can check of course. But what I am anyway concerned about is that the rule was broken. If one girl gets away with it all the others will think they can follow. That is why I am going to cane you. Now, have I caned you before?'

A rhetorical question. If he had Philip Branton would certainly have remembered. A gasped 'No!' from the shaking girl.

'Then the way I want you is kneeling up on the armchair. Facing the back. With your skirt raised to your waist. And of course your knickers down.'

His hand gripping Fiona's arm turned her towards the chair. The one incidentally in which her mother had been seated earlier that afternoon. A wailing groan from Fiona. It was happening. The reality of it now. She had tried not to think about it but couldn't help wondering. How it would be. Girls who had been caned didn't like to talk about it. Naturally. So you didn't know the details. Didn't really want to. Not until...

A brusque smack to her bottom. 'Get up, girl. Or you'll get it in a way you won't like. Upside down on the table.'

She climbed up, not daring to think what he meant. Kneeling on the seat. 'Open your knees,' from Mr Branton. And pulling her skirt up round her waist. A splendid sight. The virginal whiteness of knickers tight over youthful curves and roundnesses. The slim lines of white suspender straps gripping the tops of white stockings which themselves gripped the soft fullness of pale thighs at middle height. A young lady in her burgeoning prime. A delectable sight. A young lady also in some distress. Gaspy heavy breathing. Anticipation is a nerve-wracking thing. 'The knickers,' said Mr Branton's somewhat gravelly voice.

The knickers. Panicky hands fingering them down. Off of her bottom.

'Knees a bit wider,' advised the principal. 'And bend forward. Then place your hands in between your legs. Just below the knickers.'

Hmmm. Not a true blonde apparently. Not if what he could now see was anything to go by. For the position Fiona had reluctantly assumed was extremely revealing. The whole of a girl's business on display, and the bush of hair was dark brunette in contrast to the shining blonde of her head. Hmmm.

'Aaaaghhhhh!'

Mr Brantpn's hand. Suddenly there. His other hand in the small of her back anticipating perhaps that she might try to spring up. 'Keep still. I said we can check.'

'Nooo....' But the big fingers were opening her. He couldn't! But... 'Just relax. In a case like this we cannot... simply take a girl's word...' Those large, fat fingers... 'Aaahhhh...'

'Good. That's it. All right. Now then.'

He had let go of her. That shocking intrusion.... Fiona could still feel it although Mr Branton's hand was no longer there. Beads of sweat on her lip. How could he? It...

'Aaaarrrggghhh!'

The cane. Oh God, the cane. 'Nooo....!' A mind-bursting pain across the crests of Fiona's firm buttocks.

'Keep in position, Miss. Won't take long.'

'Aaaiieeehhh!'

No! She couldn't. Gasping for breath. Her poor bottom on fire. Hot tears starting from the big blue eyes that were not quite as violet as her mothers.

'Noooo!'

'Aaagghhhaaahhh!'

At the time of the third scream Mr Branton's mantlepiece clock showed 4.20, 4.16 correct time. Which was what the dashboard clock in the Rover displayed at that instant of the third scream filling Mr Branton's sitting room.

'Did he say she was going to get it this afternoon?' wondered a fraught Elizabeth Mayfield. As the scream rang out some 50 miles away.

'I can't remember. Stop worrying.' Derek Mayfield's hand came down onto his wife's nyloned knee. 'Didn't you ever get it? When you were at school?'

Behind the violet eyes Elizabeth's mind focussed on things. Both recent and more distant. She hesitated, then: 'Yes.'

The hand slid up, pushing her skirt in front of it. To Elizabeth's bare upper thighs. 'You never told me,' he said. 'When? Where? Who?'

Elizabeth grabbed at his hand. 'Stop it. At my school. My finishing school. Like Fiona. Why, does it excite you? He really beat me if you want to know.'

She could still remember it all right. A vivid, clear memory. That was why when Mr Branton had phoned about Fiona...

Thursday, 14th of April. Mr Branton's mantlepiece clock showing 3.15 when Elizabeth had breathlessly entered his sitting room. A visit she had kept to herself, saying nothing to Derek or indeed to Fiona. A visit to plead with Philip Branton. A woman of maturer years but still stunning. A beautiful blonde come to plead; to throw herself on his mercy for the sake of her daughter.

But Philip Branton, though quite clearly not unresponsive to Elizabeth Mayfield's charms, had remained adamant regarding the caning.

In his sitting room now (Tuesday the 19th), with 4.25 showing on his clock, the sixth and final scream had just pierced the air. The scream came on top of gasping sobs. Four, five and six had, if anything, been harder than the first three. It was essential that a girl be made to feel it. That was after all the whole purpose of a caning.

'You can get down now,' he said. 'Stand. And keep your skirt up.'

She stood, gasping and sobbing. On the pretty legs that didn't seem to want to support her. Mr Branton delivering his post-caning lecture. Observing as he did so that striking contrast between what was below and what was on top. Elizabeth Mayfield, of course, had been just the same in that regard.

In the Rover Elizabeth said, 'It was the caretaker. He found out I was seeing this boy. I wasn't doing a lot but it was strictly against the rules. So... I let him do what he wanted. Cane me. On the bare bottom. Does that excite you?'

'Yes.' Derek's hand pushed back in between her thighs. 'You never told me.'

Elizabeth pursed her lips. She was thinking of the principal of Greentops School again. 'He's so big,' she breathed in the awe-filled voice.

Was Elizabeth Mayfield referring to Mr Branton's general bulk and the thought of his cane whipping down across poor Fiona's bottom? Or something else? That she herself had experienced. On Thursday of last week. Face down in the seat of that armchair.

Wheeling and Dealing

2012-01-20T11:19:00.000-08:00

Story from Kane 95.

Wheeling and Dealing
by Derek Cross

I'd apologised for being a bit late but my host, Colonel Jenkinson, had told me not to worry as there was plenty of time before dinner. His lovely wife, Eve, had given me the same assurance and had offered me an aperitif.

Colonel Jenkinson was a far cry from the comic strip ex soldier of the same high rank. Richard Jenkinson was not, in fact, a 'full' colonel. The fact that he was merely a lieutenant colonel impressed me anyway. I, myself, had never even made lance corporal in the Boys' Brigade!

Richard's hair was still dark, with just a hint of grey at the temples. He certainly looked after his lean and athletic frame. Since leaving the army, he had set up a small chain of convenience stores and he was very successful in his new field.

I, myself, was employed by a wine importer and Richard was after buying stock from me at a good price – hence the dinner invitation.

'Where's Helen?' I asked, referring to the Jenkinsons' nubile, eighteen year old daughter.

'She's on an exchange visit to Germany,' Eve explained. 'We've got a German girl staying here with us.'

'Heidi should have been back by now,' frowned the colonel, glancing at his watch. He asked his wife where she had gone.

'I don't really know,' confessed Eve. 'Other than she went to see some friends she has made. They were to drop her off, here. Of course.' She suddenly remembered. 'They may have been held up. There's a big demo, taking place against the new runway for the airport.'

'That's how I came to be late,' I explained.

'Humph!' the military man scowled. 'Protests shouldn't be allowed. What's wrong with a new runway?'

I, naturally, refrained from saying there would be a lot wrong with a new runway if it passed through his property or if he was under the flight path for the new tarmac strip!

As Heidi would not be dining with us anyway, we began the meal which Eve had prepared. I had brought the wine with me as a gift. We would not begin to 'talk shop' until after the dessert. I was determined that I would not sell any of the wine I had to offer at less than £50 per case: and that was a darned good price.

Towards the end of the lovely meal, Eve began to express concern at the non-appearance of the girl from Hamburg.

'She's got her mobile phone with her,' growled Richard. 'At least, she should have the courtesy to give us a call...'

Just then, as if on cue, the landline telephone in the hallway began to ring.

'That will be Heidi now, I expect,' announced Richard confidently, as he got up from the table.

'If she is asking to stay out all night, the answer is 'No!' instructed Eve.

I was glad to hear that she had the girl's welfare at heart.

When Richard came back into the dining room, his face was like thunder.

Eve asked him if it had seen Heidi on the phone and was there anything wrong?

'Yes. It was Heidi,' he responded, clearly trying to control his temper, although the anger was clearly evident in his voice. 'Yes something IS wrong!'

'What is it!' demanded a worried sounding Eve.

'Heidi has been arrested!'

Unbeknown to her host and his wife, the German girl had joined the protest at the airport expansion site. Things had got out of hand and several people had been arrested – amongst them, Heidi.

Richard wisely ordered a taxi to take him to the police station as he had already drunk a fair amount of the wine I had brought. During his absence, I enjoyed Eve's company, although she was clearly concerned about the girl for whom she was responsible.

It wasn't long before my host returned. Trailing sheepishly behind him was the eighteen year old Heidi. The girl from Hamburg was, to my mind, the archetypal Teutonic fraulein. Big, blue eyes were set in a very pretty, nicely-moulded face. She was above average height and bigger in build than Helen Jenkinson, but she was a long way from being described as fat.

Her big, youthful breasts imposed a great strain upon her dark blue FCUK top and her legs filled out her embroidered, designer jeans. The girl's hair had been done in two bent-over plaits, each adorned with a red ribbon.

She was altogether very fanciable and I knew she would have plenty of admirers amongst the lusty lads of the local village.

'I am very sorry, Frau Jenkinson,' began the girl. She had clearly been crying on the way back. The colonel would have given her a right rollocking. She began wringing her hands. 'The polizei should never have arrested me. I was not doing anything!'

'That's what they all say!' sniffed my dinner host, drinking the remains of the glass of wine he had been forced to leave.

The colonel repeated what he had no doubt already said in the taxi. She had no right to even be on the protest. She didn't even live in the UK. Why should anyone stand in the way of progress? Protestors were just scum. She was very fortunate that the police had seen fit to let her off with a mere caution!

Eve then laid into her from the female viewpoint. Herself and Richard were both responsible for her safety and welfare. They had been let down by her.

'You remember our agreement when you first came?'

Eve's tone now changed. It was cold and authoratitive. Heidi nodded. There was a sudden change in the girl's features. She clearly knew she was about to be told something she was not going to like.

'Yes, Frau Jenkinson.' The girl continued wringing her hands.

'We agreed that you would be treated, in the event of a breach of discipline, exactly like our own daughter, Helen.'

'You have committed a most serious breach of discipline!' The colonel now took over the proceedings.

Heidi lowered her head and placed her hands contritely in her lap. Was she to be 'grounded' for the rest of her stay, I wondered? My host nodded in the direction of his wife.

'You will receive a thrashing for letting everyone down!' Eve announced.

The girl didn't seem at all shocked, but I certainly was! I then suddenly realised that Helen must get treated in this same way! I sighed. It was a pity I would not be able to see the punishment. How wrong I was!

I started to get up and said that, in the circumstances, it would be better if I left.

Richard, however, held up a hand. 'No. You mustn't go. If it was Helen who was being punished, you would be asked to stay. Besides, we still have business to discuss.'

'Of course.' I managed, after clearing my throat. I didn't take any persuading and I tried to give the impression that the business discussion was all important.

There was a further surprise in store for me and, surprisingly, it was Eve who provided it.

'Remove all your clothing!' instructed my friend's wife.

I expected some form of protest from the German girl, but there was none at all. Thrills were now racing around my insides at this unexpected development. Why couldn't all dinner parties be like this? I wondered if the Jenkinsons' lovely daughter would have so willingly agreed to shed her clothing in front of me. I quickly decided that she would indeed do so. Up till now, I had not realised just how strict the Jenkinsons' were.

'I'll go and fetch the belt,' announced Richard.

That was one of my unasked questions now answered. So Heidi was to get a lashing and not a caning!

'I suggest you sit there,' Eve spoke to me, pointing to an easy chair by a coffee table. 'I'm so sorry this has happened, but Richard and I both feel that things like this should be done at the time and got over with as quickly as possible.'

'Yes,' I nodded in agreement.

With a forlorn look on her face, the German girl began to tug up her tee shirt. The sight of her dimpled navel alone began to excite me. What would I be like when ALL her kit was off, I wondered?

There was certainly more than an inch to pinch about her waist, but the young, creamy-skinned flesh was very inviting and I would cheerfully have pinched it, if I'd been invited to!

Heidi then hoisted the garment up over her breasts; and what majestic breasts they were. The large-cupped bra certainly had to work overtime to contain her bazoomers. I, personally, am of the belief that tits can be too big. Heidi's up-top offerings, though certainly very generous in size, did not fall into that category.

The sights of the long slants of the flesh and the considerable cleavage in between further increased my pulse rate and sent blood rushing to my loins.

She got the tee shirt up over her head without too much trouble, although there was some very watchable swaying and bobbing of her bra-covered breasts as she did so.

Heidi folded and placed her now discarded top neatly over a chair back. I smiled to myself. Would a German have done anything other than neatly and tidily!

Still keeping her head down, the eighteen-year old next reached behind her back to unclip her bra catch. I watched, fascinated, as the cups slackened their hold on their sizeable contents. Then, she pulled the garment away from her. The straps fell down her arms and her breasts bounced to their new-found freedom.

Richard had missed that part of the show, but he now came back into the room, stretching a wide, thick belt between his strong hands.

Heidi looked up, saw what he was holding and licked pouting lips which must have suddenly gone dry.

The belt looked a fearsome implement. To think that it must have curved around the lovely Helen's hindquarters on a number of occasions! I just could not imagine the Jenkinsons' lovely daughter doing anything at all that would merit such treatment.

Heidi had to remove her trainers, so as to get her jeans off. She raised one foot to do so, but became overbalanced and staggered a few paces. Obviously, that set her tits in motion and it was a real treat to observe those great globes with their nipples like Mexican hats on the move.

She sat down on a chair arm and took off her trainers, accompanied by more bouncing and swaying of her bristols. Then she stood up, unzipped her jeans and pushed them down her legs, taking her mini briefs with them at the same time.

The now naked girl didn't seem in the least bit embarrassed, affording me an excellent view of her shaven pussy as she extricated her sturdy, but remarkably shapely legs, from the denim.

Heidi made no attempt to cover her crotch and stood to attention as she waited for an instruction.

Richard dragged over a low table to just in front of where Eve and I were sitting. 'Kneel on there! Bottom up the air!' he instructed her.

Heidi obeyed without demur. My poor, overworked heart really began to hammer in my chest. The German girl had positioned herself so that I would be given a close-up view of the proceedings. Had that been deliberate on her part on account of my being a guest?

Her lovely bottom loomed before my eyes. Perhaps 'loomed' is the wrong word, as her rear was certainly not fat and enormous as that word might imply. Being wide-hipped and sturdy of thigh, it was inevitable that her posterior would not be trim and oval-shaped.

Her bum cheeks were gloriously round and full. The big, peach-like globes were divided by a long, deep crease. Nestling high between the mounds was her succulent, young pussy which was blatantly exposed to my view.

Through her parted legs, I could see that her breasts were pressed against the table top. I had half a mind to put a couple of plates under them – dinner plates, of course!

Richard now moved into a position behind the girl and to her left. I would still have an uninterrupted view of the German girl's voluptuous teenage bottom receiving what I knew would be a very thorough thrashing.

My host coiled the buckled end of the belt around his right fist, leaving several feet of the leather trailing down by his side.

I noted that he did no measuring up of any kind. Previous thrashings of his daughter's no doubt gorgeous arse must have provided the experience! Ever so briefly, I thought I would give pretty well anything to see Helen crouched on the table top.

With the lashing now imminent, my insides were really churning with excitement. I turned to Eve and whispered, 'How many lashes will she get?'

'Richard will know when to stop,' she said softly, in reply.

The colonel was now about to begin. Heidi's pillowy bum mounds were trembling a little. It was the first sign of apprehension that she had so far given.

The former soldier's arm went up and the belt trailed over his shoulder. Sharply, his arm jerked downwards, sending the leather flying down to its un-missable target.

Whoosh! Slapp!

Heidi's breath exhaled in a rush as the thick, wide strip curled to the shape of her buttocks before falling away, it's painful job well done.

The girl waggled her bum about a bit and I watched, heart thumping, as a broad stripe appeared on the creamy curves. Her bottom looked a bit like a hot cross bun. I knew it would not be very long before it resembled the setting sun.

Again, the belt abruptly descended, obeying it's dispatcher's command. It struck high up on her jutting buttocks. A little squeal escaped from the back of Heidi's throat. Her nates waggled a little again.

I, myself, was feeling the effects of what was happening down below and I crossed one leg over the other as casually as possible, to hide any protuberance. Even if she did notice, Eve said nothing. Another band of red lit up the German girl's bum cheeks to show where the second swipe had landed.

Whoosh!

Slapp!

'Ooohh!'

The first vocal reaction came from Heidi. It certainly wasn't a high-pitched cry, but it did reveal the fact that her backside was certainly beginning to suffer.

Further evidence came from a jerky movement of her striped rear. It was a little bit embarrassing and, really, Heidi should have worn a thong to conceal her most intimate part – not that I was complaining, you understand!

The thick hide came scything down again. It landed with a resounding SLAP onto the lower undercurves of the delinquent's rounded-out posterior.

'Ohhhhnnh!'

The sound of protest was quite high-pitched this time and Heidi's knees pounded the table top. Her thighs parted even more revealingly.

I, myself, was now perspiring slightly. Eve, by my side, seemed to be taking it all in her stride.

With Heidi's buttocks still writhing in torment, Richard sent in the belt to do its duty once more. The flesh wobbled slightly as it was struck. Her cheeks were actually firmer fleshed than I had expected.

Poor Heidi gave out an unrestrained shriek of shock and pain. Her reddened buttocks contorted with the pain and she pivoted backwards and forwards urgently on her knees in a very sensual motion.

Once more, the belt described a graceful arc. Its result, however, was far from graceful. Heidi's already well-beaten bottom oscillated suggestively from side to side. Her wail of distress stayed long in her throat.

I recalled Eve telling me that Richard would know when to stop. A glance at him revealed that he was nowhere near bringing an end to Heidi's agonising punishment for her misdemeanour.

By now, there didn't seem to be anywhere upon the girl's broad, blushing bottom that had not tasted the well-wielded hide strip.

Swoosh!

Slappp!

'Yowwwwweeeeeee!'

The screech was animal-like and I knew why. Richard had struck whilst Heidi's anguished nates were still in a frenetic circular motion and the tip of the lash had, unfortunately, clipped the girl's pussy.

'Richard! Be careful!' shouted Eve.

'She should have kept her bottom still!' retorted the colonel unapologetically.

That was easier said than done, of course!

Richard did, however, wait for Heidi's beleaguered bottom to engage a low gear so there would be no danger of striking her private entrance before delivering another scything blow of the pain-imparting punishment implement.

The flesh rippled with the force of the blow.

Heidi again yelled out. Her back arched and she threw back her head. The girl's cauldron rear waved agitatedly from side to side.

I, personally, thought the girl had had enough. Clearly, Richard was nor of the same opinion and he maintained his ground.

Patiently, he waited for Heidi's writhing to subside before slashing the scarlet globes yet again.

'Yeeeeecccchhhh!'

Another piercing shriek came from the girl as more pain surged through her body. Her emblazoned hindquarters contorted in another wild reaction to the punishing strip.

I couldn't take my eyes away from the sight, despite the fact that I had begun to feel terribly sorry for Heidi. I was also somewhat surprised that she had not yet begged for mercy; not that I believed the colonel to be a merciful man, anyway.

The thought occurred to me that the blonde-haired student must have been similarly treated in her homeland, as she was coping reasonably well in the circumstances. Would Helen Jenkinson undergo such an ordeal in Hamburg, I wondered?

Richard was, clearly, not being merciful towards the girl in his charge. I watched him lift the belt as high as his arm could take it. Heidi's tortured bum muscles were clenching and unclenching in anticipation.

Swoosh!

Slapp!

'Ohhhhhhhhhh!' screeched the girl.

Her sore, scarlet bottom shook frenziedly and rose and fell with the impact. The girl could certainly take punishment.

Out of the corner of me eye, I watched to see if Eve looked at all uncomfortable at the plight of their exchange student. She didn't seem at all perturbed. Perhaps she knew better than to interfere in such matters.

Suddenly, I began to suspect that my charming hostess for the evening must, surely, receive similar treatment from her husband! The very thought was mind-boggling. What wouldn't I give to witness such an event!

'This will be the final one!' Richard suddenly announced.

'Thank you,' sobbed Heidi.

I found it quite remarkable that she should have said that. What wonderful manners!

The final slash still caused havoc. The screech of protest to the instant, flaming pain was instantly followed by a most immodest, wild rotation of her fire-laden nates.

When I finally left the Jenkinsons' household much later that evening, I reflected upon the deal I had just finalised. Despite my earlier intention not to sell below £50 per case, I had actually agreed to a figure of £45. You see, the colonel had promised to ring me to go over whenever he was about to punish either Eve or Helen – or even both of them together!

It had to be the bargain of all time!

Victorian Values

2012-01-19T07:29:00.000-08:00

Story from Janus 123.

Victorian Values
by John Undermeyer

Newly married Joshua Hardstone, aghast that his innocent young wife should have appetites of her own, uses the cane to teach her that 'Ladies don't move'.

* * *

I have been slow to marry, and my honeymoon is the more delightful because my wife is young – 20 compared to my own august 48. My age has brought respect, position and wealth, commodities a 20-year-old will come to value and I am sure, in time, Georgina will get to know and fall in with my ways. She is a good girl with (so far) only one fault – in bed she becomes fretful and discontented, I do not know why. I must take her in hand so she knows how life with me must be.

I wanted the first night of my marriage to be full of delight. I knew I had to respect my bride's innocence (she was an untutored virgin) and treat her with tenderness, remembering always that my own desires must be properly satisfied. She undressed in private and climbed into the honeymoon bed in night attire before I came into the room. I took off my clothes in the dressing room, making conversation to put her at ease. I do not deny my organ did the perfectly natural thing while I undressed – it rose stiffly, anxious for release, before I dropped my night-shirt over it. I extinguished the gaslight and the beams from a full moon shone through the net curtains, so I could see my way to bed across the rug-strewn floor.

Georgina met my first approaches with lowered eyes and shy smiles. But soon she gained confidence and when I kissed her, answered with closed lips. I opened mine, was surprised to find her do the same, and we kissed mouths agape. This continued for some time, then I had my first moment of shock – Georgina actually tried to put her tongue in my mouth. This was forwardness indeed! Could I be mistaken in thinking my bride was a virgin? No, for she had had few suitors and never been alone with any but me. I looked into her eyes. She seemed oblivious of her fault and renewed our mouthing – it showed a libertine's nature. Had I deceived myself? Was I, in fact, married to a wanton?

I am not an experienced man; my nature is reserved and I have never used a whore. I do not know how a girl should behave in bed with her husband but I am sure she should be meek, submissive and ladylike, and certainly not lead or be sexually too forward. My Lord Emanuel Curzon has written that during the sexual act 'ladies don't move' and in the brief exchanges I have had with married men they imply their wives generally lie prone during intercourse and are never hungry participants.

This, as you will gather and I came to find out, was not the case with Georgina. From early the first night she expected to do as much in the way of moving and inventing as I did. Open-mouthed kissing was only the start. She took off her night gown without asking. She offered her breasts, shaped like an Amazon's oval bosom with cherries in their centres which showed their enthusiasm for my attention by growing in size. And later, when I came to take her, she wanted me to spend more time at play with her entrance rather than conquer her.

I need not tell you a man can only hold himself in check for so long and that unless he is soon sheathed can spill his seed on the sheets instead of in that soft feminine place.

Were I to ejaculate before penetration then I should not be able to penetrate at all, for a member loses interest once he has delivered the milk. That is why I took Georgina quickly and at once.

I dismounted from my ride to reflect on the joys of marriage but I could tell Georgina was exasperated and unhappy. She waited a few moments then began to nuzzle and stroke her body against mine in an attempt to renew proceedings. There is a limit to what a man can do and I was forced to suggest she keep her hands to herself. She moaned in dismay, but when I am done I am done.

'Georgina,' I said. 'I have done all a man can do. Let me rest.' 'But Joshua,' she replied, 'I have not... take pity on me. Revive your ardour.'

I had no idea what she meant, yet she persisted. At one stage, it grieves me to write this of my bride of one day, her hands actually went to my organ and she began to fondle me. I removed her hands and turned away, the better to sleep. Georgina I could sense, lay beside me tense and unhappy.

'Georgina,' I said after suffering her sighs for some minutes. 'If we are to have a quiet life together you must learn to be still. I need my sleep. I am master of the house and many years your senior – tomorrow I will take you in hand.'

Halt an hour after we finished breakfast the next day I carried my bride back to the bedroom. She was naked and weeping. You should not be surprised, for she had crossed me in bed, but I had greater reason to punish her than that. Last night after coupling I fell asleep and woke soon after to find the bed in motion. Georgina was playing with herself: I mean my perfect partner as I thought, had her legs apart and was dabbling in the entrance where I had recently deposited my seed. I was furious and vowed that in the morning I should thrash her.

Georgina rose cheerful and inclined to be skittish but I could neither forget nor ignore the night's indulgence.

'Eat now. After breakfast you will go to the bedroom and remove your clothes.' 'And you will come with me? I am keen to make more love... perhaps we can make it last longer.'

'This is not to make love! It is for you to atone!'

'But I do not understand... what have I done?'

'It is too embarrassing for me to discuss. Yet it is a grievous fault and needs a husband to flog it out of you.'

'Flog it out of me? Am I to be whipped?'

'You are to be caned my dear, to put it precisely. I have been to the garden and cut a bamboo. You will go over the breakfast table for your chastisement.'

'Am I not to be told my fault?'

'You do not need to be told what you did last night after I slept.'

'But Joshua, dearest, you do not understand... I had to do that...'

'Had to? What nonsense. I gave you my love. I was tender, thoughtful and made sure you were not distressed.'

'Not distressed no, but nor was I...'

Georgina stopped and hung her head dejected, deciding not to say the words in her mind; I could not think what she wanted to hide.

'Nor would you what? Not upset... I know that. Not ready to sleep? Why not?' Georgina got up from the table, bent onto one knee, looked up and felt for my hand. 'I will do what you say. I know what I did was wrong – there were reasons but they are no matter. I deserve correction and will accept it. I will undress at once.'

My naked wife enthralled me with her beauty. She has a slim, delicate figure. Her breasts as I have said are like shallow bowls, her waist is trim, she is delightfully flat across her stomach and abdomen and she curves out gracefully at the hips. She is a tall girl and her long legs flow enchantingly to petite ankles and pretty feet. She had not put up her hair and it fell onto her bare shoulders and partly down her back, a cascade of chestnut glory. I am fortunate to have landed such a prize, but wantonness must be curbed: I would not have her grow lascivious or lewd.

'I will not cane until I have made your fault clear. You are a young girl and quite innocent I am sure, yet in matters of the bedroom you are forward, not to say eager, wanting to lead where women must follow. I cannot prolong intercourse with you, for a man is not made to withhold his juices for too long; you must provide the receptacle for them quickly and willingly. That is all there is to it. Most important of all, you should not play with yourself I am surprised you do not know so much!'

'But Joshua, can a wife not share the pleasures of the marriage bed?'

'A wife submits and expects nothing except perhaps that she may conceive. Now stick your bottom out, dip your back and make ready.'

I had cut a sturdy stick, long enough to allow a full swing, thick enough to hurt and pliant enough not to wreak excess havoc. Pain and marks there would be but my conscience would not later call me cruel. I cracked the wand down in front of Georgina and it landed before her eyes; she flinched with terror at the noise and closeness of the blow. I stopped her looking up by holding her head; she was not to use her eyes to plead for clemency.

But now I had my desire, an obedient wife before me, her bottom bared for punishment, I did not know how to begin. I had never done such a thing and thought back to the times I'd seen a cane used – when it was applied to my own buttocks by my schoolmaster. I would not want Georgina to suffer as badly as that, the man was ruthless, but right now I needed some of his experience and skill.

Questions confounded me – how far back should I draw my arm? How much force is needed to cause moderate pain? How can I make the cane land where I want it to? I had to trust my own judgement, think it through, decide where to stand, find through trial and error the best way to balance my body. If I were to get every bit of the act right I must be patient and take plenty of time.

My feet were flat on the stone floor, the stick pointed at the ceiling, I knew I was the right distance from the table. Now I had to find the right stance. My shoulders would twist, I knew that, but how far? I lowered the rod to a fraction of an inch away from the bottom and drew back an inch or two, repeating the action to mark the spot I would hit. I focused on that spot, drew breath several times and lifting my arm high, brought it down in a wide loose swing. My fingers tightened round the bamboo in the air for fear it might be knocked from my grasp by the impact. I cannot describe the noise it made when it landed, not loud nor quiet, not a hard sound nor a soft one; all I know is Georgina's cheeks indented at the blow.

Her head left the table top, her mouth gaped, her eyes screwed tightly. Her cry came after she caught her breath, six or seven short ah's in rapid succession, followed by a long wail. I thought back to my boyhood at the hands of my teacher. The pain would have reached its climax by now and Georgina would know how terrible it was to be under the cane. But I could not let weakness get the better of duty, I had a wanton to curb and the sooner lessons began, the sooner she would understand her proper role.

My first stroke seemed to have been at the right speed and from the right height. It had landed near the top of her cheeks; I must try to get the second cut lower, and then proceed down the posterior, leaving lines one below the other until she displayed a pretty wash-board of stripes. Thinking how I had got it right the first time, I repeated the stroke, but giving my wrist a flick as I had seen the schoolmaster do to boys under his sway. My careful measuring paid off with a stripe dead across the centre of the cheeks. I noticed as I compared the two that the top line was turning from a white indentation to a pleasingly long swathe of pink. I had not wasted any of my rod but made sure it cut along most of its length.

Once more Georgina's head lifted from the table and her hands, which had been flattened on the top, clasped tightly, spread wide and stretched as if to try and let the pain flow out of her body. Her feet began to move, until she was running on the spot, toes twisting, showing me a pretty dance. I settled my hand on her buttocks to stop the jiggling as she gave a second howl. It was a good thing we had no near neighbours or they might have thought a poor girl was being murdered. It took me a full 60 seconds to land three strokes but the deliberation played off – all three had cut across the shadowy divide so both ovals were afflicted.

I paused to assess my girl whose erstwhile faultless pillows now showed what a well aimed rod can do. Anyone who looked would have known the stripes were hard to bear and indeed Georgina suffered the whole world to hear that she found them excruciating. Her bottom twitched even though my cane was in abeyance, the tip resting on the floor and I asked myself whether three upbraidings were enough to bring her to full awareness of her defects and convince her that her sexual role was a passive one. Perhaps they were, but another part of me exulted at the power I now possessed and was determined to use it for some little time yet. I would continue the thrashing, it was too pleasant a duty to forego too soon, but I would do so by standing on Amanda's other side, the better to ensure her marks would equalise.

I was not wise to change sides for I had to cane with my left hand which, since I did not have the practice, was difficult to do. I noticed at once I did not have the same power in my left wrist that I had in my right. Never-the-less I made a stroke and it landed well on untrammeled flesh. But I know from the mild way Georgina reacted that it did not carry half the power, not impart half the discomfort I would have liked. Georgina grunted and it was plain to me she was pleased and relieved I was using my left hand; the effect was easily bearable.

I thought carefully, wondering whether to cross Georgina and finish the last two with my right hand. Then I realised I could use my right hand to make a back-swing. I took care to aim meticulously, to stand feet well apart to allow my body to sway, and drove in hard. The back-swing made an uppercut into the lower part of the cheeks and Georgina was immediately up on her toes. I liked the feel of the delivery, impacting on softness and making it quiver. One successful back-swing encouraged me to try another. It would need to be another uppercut and I ordered Georgina to move her hips slightly away from the table. That made them protrude more than usual and I had a better target to aim for. Since it was the sixth – and last – swing and I did not feel I had by any means overdone the severity of my deliveries, I put all my strength into it. By pure chance, and to my considerable satisfaction, it landed immediately over one of the previous five, creating a doubling up effect, and it hurt so much Georgina nearly jumped out of her skin. She leapt up from the table and began to dance around the room crying oh, oh, oh, oh, and howling at the top of her voice. I did not know whether to be sorry for her pain or furious at her getting up but decided the best thing to do would be to let her dance herself to a standstill then remonstrate with her.

I put my cane on the table and waited. My wife of two days soon realised she had gone far beyond what was permitted behaviour and took control of herself. I thought it best to make her bend again.

'I will not cut you again, but get back over the table and ask me for permission to rise.'

'Oh please... please... I cannot take any more.'

'As I say, I have finished. But you must ask for permission to rise.'

Georgina bent and grasped the other side of the table, her buttocks stretched before me. I let my palm move tentatively over the trembling orbs, not rubbing in any way, but searching softly with my finger-tips for the welts. They were rising nicely, twin edges of uplifted skin, white in places but turning even as I looked to a more angry red. My earlier stripes were ruby-tinted already and I knew the others would soon attain that hue. I might have expected my wife to move her hands behind her in protest but she lay flat on the table, breasts and face crushed in a pool of tears which all the time grew deeper. Had my chastisement been so painful? Was she now so sore that she could not stir, but must remain the helpless recipient of my exploring fingers? Drawing their tips over the tramlines with a gossamer touch I felt the flames of desire flicker at first, then begin to burn more urgently, and it was not long before the first pulsing of hot blood found where it had to go and I began to be roused.

I had whipped Georgina to teach her to be more reserved, to play the female role and accept that during union she should have no will of her own. When the lion, king of the beasts, takes his queen, he does not ask for guidance or advice but mounts when ready and roars his way to culmination. I want to love a sweet, tender creature, compliant and passive – that is woman's true nature. Georgina must understand that and what better time to test if she has learned the lesson than now when I have a goat's need on me?

I slipped my hands beneath my wife's hips and round her shoulders, lifting and rolling her until she was off the table and had fallen against me, supported by my arms. I kissed her salty face, stroked the damp hair off her forehead and as I walked to the bedroom began to explain what was to happen.

'Punishment is over. Remember when we couple, your role is to submit. Now I am in the mood to take you. We arc on our honeymoon and I have you naked in my arms, the business will be over quite quickly then I will leave you to rest.'

Georgina said nothing and lay in my arms, not moving when I set her on the bed. I hurried to disrobe, my organ hungry to be buried and did not whisper or coax tenderly for I was driven by a pulsing root which I panted soon enough in its rightful garden. Georgina remained still and virtually silent – a properly bred Victorian girl; what more evidence did I need that she would behave properly from now on? It is true that there were some signs of writhing as I rode to my climax, but that was because her welts were being rubbed against the sheets. And if, in future, she moves only when her bottom hurts, who can blame her for that?

1966 and all that!

2012-01-18T07:37:00.000-08:00

Story from Roue 23.

1966 and all that!

It was 1966 – that halcyon period when mini-skirts had come in, and stockings and suspenders had not yet gone out. Dedicated observers were treated to the sight of more white thighs and stocking tops than they were ever to see again.

Just such a dedicated observer was Mr George Jones, draper and pillar of the community in his small home town.

Mr Jones was sitting, as usual when the shop wasn't busy, in his office-cum-storeroom at the back. When not serving he always had plenty of accounting and bookwork to keep up, and was happy to leave his young assistant, Carol Summers, to look after the trickle of customers.

Carol had entered the storeroom to look for a type of cloth required by a woman who had just come in. She asked Mr Jones where the particular cloth was kept.

"It's up there, Carol. You'll need the steps," he told her, indicating the row of shelves immediately behind where he was sitting.

Mr Jones watched surreptitiously as Carol heaved the heavy mahogany steps just to the left of his chair and prepared to mount them. With her back to him and only a few inches from his side Carol was not aware of Mr Jones's interest in what she was doing. She was only 16, rather inexperienced in sexual matters, and besides she was concentrating on reaching the top of the rickety steps without coming to grief.

As the hem of Carol's mini-skirt passed the level of Mr Jones's eyes and continued upwards, his fascinated gaze was rewarded with the sight of two dark stocking tops out of which bulged the roundest, plumpest pair of teenage thighs a middle-aged member of the Chamber of Trade could ever wish to see.

As Carol reached the platform at the top of the steps her taut black suspenders hove into view, causing Mr Jones's eyes nearly to pop out of his head. But more was to come.

"I can't find it, Mr Jones," said Carol, as she searched the top shelf.

Carol's failure to find the cloth was no real surprise to Mr Jones. He knew it wasn't there. But past experience had taught him in the few months that Carol had been working for him that the best possible view of her nether regions was afforded when Carol was having to reach and stretch for an item which was proving elusive.

"Have a really good look, Carol," he instructed her. "It ought to be there."

Obligingly the plump young miss bent forward as far as she could, searching the shelf thoroughly, thus causing her brief brown mini-skirt to ride up at the back and reveal the sauciest pair of black nylon knickers Mr Jones had ever dreamed of, never mind seen. So small were they that most of the diaphanous material had slipped enchantingly into the crevice between Carol's ample buttocks. All pretence of working gone, Mr Jones stared transfixed at the sight before him, watching his pretty young assistant's cheeks wobble and jostle each other as she shifted the position of her feet.

It's absolutely disgraceful, thought Mr Jones disapprovingly. Why virtually the whole of her bottom is bare and she seems quite oblivious. This young lady needs taking in hand. Of course it doesn't matter, a respectable married man like myself seeing her like this – I am quite unaffected by it – but what if young men and boys caught sight of this display?

And so it was that a plot was born in the mind of Mr George Jones, to bring retribution to this shameless young teenager, and in particular to that part of her anatomy which she was most shameless about displaying. Mr Jones approached the task he had set himself in the disinterested light of a town councillor and churchwarden who felt it his moral duty to show this naughty teenage draper's assistant the error of her ways. The fact that the methods he proposed to adopt were somewhat devious was beside the point. One sometimes had to be a little underhand to achieve a desired result.

Every day Mr Jones went out promptly at 12.45 to have lunch at the Conservative Club, leaving Carol to mind the shop. She'd already had sandwiches in the storeroom before he left.

Over the next few weeks Mr Jones took to leaving the petty cash tin unlocked on his desk, and occasionally he left the lid open to reveal the cash contents within.

Gratifyingly, after a while he found that on his return the odd ten shilling or pound was missing. Carol was raiding the till.

I thought as much, he mused disapprovingly. Dishonest as well as shameless. And this conclusion confirmed him in the rightness of what he was doing. This young girl must be punished, and punished severely, for her own good.

On the day of the final baiting of the trap, Mr Jones made use of a small hatch at the back of the storeroom which gave onto a lean-to kitchen beyond. The hatch was never used and it was usually blocked by various packages and bolts of cloth. Carefully removing some of these and opening the hatch, Mr Jones placed on the ledge a camera with built-in flash. He then lowered the hatch to the level of the camera and built-up a camouflage of cloth around it so that only the lens and flash were not covered. Carol would never notice it, and even if she did she wouldn't suspect anything.

Next Mr Jones placed his wallet, ostentatiously bulging with banknotes, on a table near the hatch. A photograph of Carol at the petty cash box would not be nearly so incriminating because she no doubt would have cause to use it quite legitimately.

Then this eminently respectable citizen announced to his teenage assistant that he was off to lunch.

In fact he doubled round to the back of the shop, cautiously let himself in at the back door and took up a position at the hatch, finger on the button and right eye glued to the viewfinder.

It was so deliciously simple. Carol wandered into the storeroom, noticed the wallet, decided that with all that he'd never miss two, and was just in the act of extracting them when the flash-bulb popped and a certain naughty young teenager's misdemeanours were immortalised on celluloid.

Mr Jones's righteous indignation was a miracle to behold. But he showed his charitable side as well. He was convinced there was good in Carol, and he shrank from ruining her life by reporting her crime to the police. Before taking that irrevocable step he would like to give her a chance.

Carol's heart leapt at this escape from disaster. "Oh, thank you, Mr Jones, I'll never do it again, truly I won't," she cried.

"Don't misunderstand me, Carol. I'm not saying that you are not going to be punished. Merely that I will punish you myself, and that no one else will know about it. Of course," he added with silky menace, "if anyone else does get to know about it, this photograph will go straight to the police and you'll be up in court."

"Of course, Mr Jones, I'll do anything you say. I'll stay late, and clean the shop, and do the books for you," volunteered this contrite young teenager.

"That's not entirely what I have in mind," replied Mr Jones. "You have behaved like a naughty little girl and I intend to punish you like a naughty little girl. I'm going to chastise you on your bottom. Kindly bend over the table."

Nervously and reluctantly Carol leant over the low table and gripped its far end. Her own far end, meanwhile, came automatically into view as her short skirt followed the forward movement and parted company with that section of her it was intended to conceal.

Mr Jones pulled up a chair behind the bending miscreant and took stock. He recalled that he had once wanted to become a medical student, only his father couldn't afford the fees. He had always been fascinated by the subject of anatomy, he assured himself, and only poverty had prevented him from studying it in his youth. That and the fact that Mrs Jones was not given to displaying what charms she had, even when they were first married.

Now, thought Mr Jones, was a golden opportunity to make up for those deprivations and use Carol as a guinea pig for pursuing a purely scientific interest in the human body.

Carol's position had had the effect of plumping her already ample bottom into yet broader proportions. Quite amazing, thought Mr Jones. You'd never realise looking at her fully clothed how well-developed she was.

Carol was wearing the same tiny black knickers Mr Jones had seen several times before, though not, as now, at a range of about six inches. The material had inevitably in the stretching movement almost disappeared into the deep and fascinating cleft between the buttock cheeks. Mr Jones made a decision. In the interests of science they would have to come down.

With palpiting heart he inserted his fingers into the elastic at the top of the wispy garment, and slowly pulled it down, leaving it forlornly at mid-thigh.

This was a wholly new experience for Mr Jones. Having had a strict upbringing and an unaccommodating wife, he had never seen a bare female bottom in his life. Now a plump, white, wobbling pair of naked buttocks was literally staring him in the face.

With the removal of the knickers Carol felt the cool air playing around areas where the cool air normally doesn't play. She may not have been very experienced, but she knew that a 55-year-old man was looking at parts of her no man had ever seen.

Carol tried desperately to squeeze her cheeks together, to blot out this blatant display of her most intimate regions. But it was no good. The lowness of the table meant that her back was hollowed, and her plump, girlish buttocks were outthrust lewdly, obscenely, a few inches from Mr Jones's eager face.

That estimable draper approached his medical studies systematically, starting at the top. His eyes ran from the small of Carol's back, down to where her cleft began, then onwards and downwards to a tuft of dark hair, and then to a delightful pink object that was peeping bewitchingly from between Carol's thighs. She could feel his breath falling somewhat unevenly onto this specially sensitive area and blushed unseen at the shame of it. She would never be able to look Mr Jones in the eye again, knowing that he had gazed uninterrupted and at close range at every square centimetre of her – well, that bit of her.

Mr Jones suddenly became aware of certain striking physical manifestation which had unaccountably overtaken him while he had so laudably been filling in the gaps in his education.

He remembered his mission. "Now Carol, I am going to punish you with this," he said sternly, reaching into a drawer for a wicked-looking tawse he had thoughtfully placed there beforehand, having purchased it in a mood of now justified optimism.

Carol gasped as she looked round at the instrument of her impending chastisement. She was a dull-witted creature – witness her somewhat bovine compliance with Mr Jones's lengthy inspection of her bare bottom – but she knew she was in for a very painful experience indeed.

"Now Carol, I want you to stick your bottom right out as far as it will go, and I insist that you hold that position without fail. If you don't I shall simply add on more strokes." Having acquired a taste for observing the feminine physique at its most intimate, Mr Jones wished to keep up the good work while he applied the tawse to Carol's tender bottom. Her cheeks were so very full and plump that it was only when she pushed her bottom out to the limit, that she looked her 'very best'.

As before Mr Jones began at top, where Carol's bulging haunches expanded riotiously from her waist. Rhythmically, remorselessly, the tawse rose and fell in that draper's store-room, while a pretty young draper's assistant wailed and wriggled, pleaded and gasped, as her fat and wobbling bottom was subjected to the punishment of its life.

There was no one to hear – Mr Jones had shut up shop – and her employer and tormentor was free to express on behalf of society as a whole the indignation he felt at modern girlhood, at the deceit and the shameless exhibitionism of which it was guilty.

As he thrashed his way slowly down Carol's helpless bottom Mr Jones's attention was focused on those parts which had awakened in him feelings of which he had not believed himself capable.

His sense of outrage redoubled. How dare she, he thought. He'd teach her to flaunt herself like that in front of him, provoking innocent married men by her teasing ways. The tawse whipped time and again across the soft, sensitive undercurve of her wobbling cheeks.

"Stick it out, Carol," he commanded, as she tried to close her cheeks to protect her most sensitive parts. Carol was understandably slow to respond.

"Right, miss, we'll soon settle this. Take off your knickers, lie down face upwards on the table and raise your knees."

Compliantly Carol did as she was told. "Now Carol, I notice from close observation of your, er, bottom and thighs that you are rather too plump for your own good. Exercise is what you need, and I'm going to see that you get it."

The exercise Mr Jones had in mind for his naughty young teenage assistant was what you might call an upside down bicycle ride, minus the bicycle. Carol was made to place her elbows on the table, to raise her forearms vertically, and swinging her hips upwards into the air to support them on her outstretched hands. In her distressed condition she had some difficulty in achieving this posture and Mr Jones thoughtfully helped her by placing a hand on her bottom so that the exercise could begin.

"Now Carol, I want you to keep up a bicycling motion which I think you will find is excellent for slimming purposes. I shall stand here in front of your, er, er, bottom, and correct you if I feel that you are slacking."

By standing at the edge of the table Mr Jones was able to look down at Carol's upturned buttocks as they heaved and gyrated in front of him. Her undignified position, and the scissor motion of the legs which he was making her perform, caused an even more dramatic revelation of her girlish secrets than before. Worse still, as she peered disconsolately up between her raised knees, all she could see of her employer was his face staring intently downwards, enriching his knowledge of anatomy.

The ceaseless motion of those pumping teenage legs reminded Mr Jones by its very provocation of the course of duty on which he was embarked. Carol's plump bare thighs and bottom were spread out before him like a banquet, and their indecent wobblings and squirmings began to produce in him ambiguous emotions for which he decided she must suffer.

How dare she tempt and tease him like this. "Carol, you're slacking," he rapped out, bringing the tawse down vertically so that the end snaked painfully down the inside of her rounded thigh. Carol gasped and redoubled her efforts.

Her bottom was already crimson from the attentions of the tormenting tawse, and Mr Jones decided that her still-milky thighs merited some punishment of their own where they spilled ripely from her dark stocking tops. Accordingly he raised the tawse to shoulder height and brought it down wristily on the fullest and fattest part of her upper legs.

In vain Carol complained that "it hurt", in vain she whimpered and sobbed and begged him to stop. The continual pedalling motion of her slimming exercise was causing her buttock cheeks and upper thighs to move independently of each other, continually shifting their juxtaposition, drawing the eyes of her master towards the centre of her attractions, and thus intensifying his determination to punish her, and punish her and punish her. For Mr Jones this mischievious young teenager, wriggling so seductively under the sting of the tawse, embodied the temptations he frowned on, and the thought of the good he was doing to himself, to her, and to the world in general by covering every inch of her hind-quarters in a painful coating of crimson lent him strength in his resolve.

Sometimes he would take a breather, and Carol would look pitifully at him. "Please, Mr Jones, don't whip my bottom any more. It's so sore."

"I'm sorry, Carol, but I am to be the judge of when to terminate your punishment. Certainly your thighs and bottom are very red and sore," said Mr Jones, leaning over her spread-eagled rump and studying it closely. "But I don't think you have sufficiently learnt your lesson yet. I think we will try another position which will enable me to reach certain areas which have not had their full share of punishment."

Weepily Carol rolled off the table and stood in front of her employer. "I think you had better take your skirt off, Carol," he told her.

Carol unzipped her little mini and let it fall, while Mr Jones pulled up a chair and sat looking at her. In contrast to the bright red of her backside, Carol's rounded stomach and the front of her upper legs were still virgin white, except for the luxuriant dark bush of pubic hair which was affording Mr Jones a good deal of interest.

"Now Carol, your last job is to brush the stairs very thoroughly. I want you to start at the top and I shall be behind you as you work your way down to see that it's done properly."

Carol fetched the dustpan and brush from a cupboard, her big red bottom wobbling charmingly as she walked towards it. Then she climbed the stairs, with that conscientious task-master, Mr George Jones, two steps behind her all the way.

The alternate parting and closing of her heavy bottom cheeks as she raised one leg after another, the stretching and relaxing of the gluteal fold where bottom met thigh, the wobble of the punished female flesh, all combined to make Mr Jones wish the stairs went a lot higher. But he pulled himself together and set his half-naked teenage assistant to work.

Of course the position required for brushing the stairs forced Carol again to disclose to the world, or at any rate to Mr Jones, what were once her private parts. It also had the effect, as she bent to her task, of throwing her swollen buttocks outwards in just the kind of way Mr Jones found most provocative and worthy of chastisement.

Slowly they worked their way down the stairway. Every missed piece of fluff was rewarded with several smarting whacks with the tawse, and when there were no stray bits she received a few more for dawdling.

At last Mr Jones felt that Carol's lesson in good conduct and morality could be suspended, at any rate for the time being. Ever-solicitous in her interest he announced his intention of applying cold cream to the tender parts, which included the entire area from her stocking tops to her suspender belt. For this Carol was made to go back over the table and present herself, with legs apart, for treatment.

Yes, I should certainly have been a doctor, he thought, as his searching fingers, slippery with cream, massaged and probed, rubbed and insinuated.

The climax to all this laboratory research was that Carol suddenly came with an unexpected shudder, and Mr Jones decided that perhaps things had gone far enough for that day. There was always tomorrow, and the day after that........

And so Carol's salvation and mortification were over for the moment. She and Mr Jones found that she really was all the better for regular punishment, though the funny thing was that those lovely chubby thighs, and that wobbling girlish rump never seemed to get any slimmer, despite all the upside-down bicycling she had to do.

Sam Ramsey serial, Ep.2. "Sarah by the Sea"

2012-01-17T07:11:00.000-08:00

Story from Februs 27.

Sarah by the Sea
by Ramsey Stratton

Episode 1

Sarah was a few minutes late arriving in the dining room, and Mary was already seated at a small table in the window looking out onto the sea, an open bottle of white wine in the ice-bucket beside her.

'I'm sorry – I always seem to be late!'

Mary smiled and jumped up. 'No you don't: anyway, I was early.'

They hugged. 'It's great to see you.'

And it was. One of the few pleasures on these business trips was the chance occasionally to meet up with old friends, and Sarah had known Mary for a long time, since they had worked in the same branch for a year. They weren't particularly close, but Mary was very good company, and after a few drinks she could be wonderfully indiscreet about mutual acquaintances in the large enterprise for which they both worked.

'Well, Sarah, tell me everything!'

They smiled at each other again, and fell almost immediately into their usual bantering style of conversation. Within a few minutes, Mary's obvious pleasure in seeing her, the wine, the glorious light glinting on the sea outside, all began to lighten Sarah's mood. It had been a grimly stressful day; but the evening promised to be fun.

Sarah looked around the dining room. The summer was coming to an end, and the small hotel wasn't very busy. There was an elderly couple at one table; a small family group at another; the only other diner was a rather good-looking young man dining alone, on business too, perhaps. She saw with amusement his eyes rivetted to the back of the young waitress as she walked towards the kitchen slim, a blonde pony-tail, white blouse, a short, very tight, black skirt, beautiful legs, and rather sexy, strappy black sandals. From behind, she looked as if she should capture any man's eyes.

And then the waitress paused by the dessert trolley, and half turned. With a sudden start of recognition, Sarah realised that it was The Girl.

It had been about five months before, just after Easter, when she was last in this seaside town. There were a few hours free the afternoon she arrived, and Sarah had gone to the little lane of boutiques in the old town looking for a summer dress. There was a favourite shop where she had bought clothes before, and she had picked a handful of dresses to try on. At first, she was the only occupant of the communal changing room. Then an extremely pretty young girl had walked in. They exchanged smiles, and somehow (or so it seemed in retrospect) a sexual charge built up as they undressed and redressed in front of each other. At one point, the girl – rather unnecessarily – removed her bra to try a dress on, as if flaunting her pert breasts to the older woman, and Sarah found herself smiling appreciatively at the girl. And then – afterwards, she couldn't at all understand why – it happened. Sarah turned her back to the girl, and bent right over to pick up her own clothes, knowing that her small lace knickers would ride up. And as they did so, they would expose the unmistakable marks across her slim bottom still clear from the night before, when Adam had caned her so painfully, so excitingly...

The girl had obviously seen, for she had gasped slightly. When Sarah had straightened and turned, they looked straight into each others eyes. Nothing was said while Sarah quickly slipped on her own dress; but as she left, she had spoken quietly to the still half-naked girl, 'One day, you must try it'.

Sarah had often thought of that encounter since, and wished... Well, what did she wish? She didn't quite know. Though more than once, she had masturbated deliciously fantasizing about The Girl.

* * *

And now, here was the same girl again, unavoidable. A jumble of thoughts rushed through Sarah's mind. Would the girl recognise her? Was this going to be horribly embarrassing? Had Mary noticed her shock? Was she...

The waitress was coming over to the table now. She saw Sarah, and her eyes widened in surprised acknowledgement: and then the two women, older and younger, hesitantly smiled at each other.

'Are you ready to order?'

The meal passed in a daze. Sarah managed to join in with Mary's cheerful gossip; but all the time her mind was on the girl, intensely aware of her physical presence as she served the food, from the fair down on her arms to her pretty feet, from her straw blonde hair streaked by the sun to the shape of her breasts beneath her blouse. 'This is absurd,' Sarah thought, as she poured more wine, 'it's positively adolescent...'

After dessert, Mary excused herself. The girl approached the table with the coffee cups.

'Hello again,' said Sarah, and looked at the girl who held her gaze. 'Can you help?' she added quietly, 'I'm thinking of going to a beach tomorrow afternoon if the weather holds. Is there an especially nice one near here?'

The waitress looked at Sarah, smiled and paused. Then, 'I'm free after lunch tomorrow: I could show you if you like...'

'That would be lovely, really lovely; I'd like that a lot.'

'We could meet up opposite the bandstand; you know it?'

'Yes, I know where you mean.'

'It will be a quarter to three by the time I can get off.'

'That's just fine. I'll pick you up in the car then.'

Mary was a long time returning; when she did, she glanced at the girl now busying herself at the table with the family party, and said, 'Well, I hope I gave you two a chance to make a date. Yes? Oh, don't look all innocent, Sarah. You've been going gooey-eyed over her all evening; and when you've not been looking at her, she's been eyeing you up.'

'Oh no. I mean, yes. Oh God, I didn't realise I'd been that obvious. Mary, if you ever say a whisper about this.'

Mary grinned at her. 'Don't worry; there are some things I don't gossip about. I'm only jealous: she's gorgeous.'

'Mary?'

'Oh yes, she's just my type.' Sarah must have looked startled.

'Don't act so surprised! You mean you've never guessed after all this time?'

'No.'

'Hey ho! Well, if it's going to be true confession time, let's at least get another bottle of wine and sit in a corner of the lounge with it.'

So they did.

* * *

As Sarah drove up, the girl was waiting. She looked even prettier, simply dressed in shorts and T-shirt, her straw-coloured hair loose.

'Wow! Cool wheels!' There was a touch of mockery in her voice.

Sarah had a small white French convertible; the top was down in the hot late summer sun.

'I know, I know: it's a silly indulgence. But the company pays for most of it.'

'I'm teasing. It's great.'

'Where are we going?'

'Drive out of town on the coast road going south; then I'll show you.'

'I wasn't sure you'd turn up.' Sarah was flustered. 'You know I don't even know your name. I hope you don't think I do this sort of thing all the time. I...'

The girl smiled. 'It's OK. Don't worry. And I'm Anna.'

As Sarah drove, they began to talk. Anna was a student, back home for the holidays, working in the hotel as she had done the last two summers to earn money before going back to university. Sarah knew the university town well, and they talked about the place, about Anna's course, and the sorts of music and films she liked, about her friends and her particular boyfriend there. Meanwhile, they left the main road, and drove down a twisting lane, then along a rough track, and parked on a piece of scrub land near the top of the cliffs, next to the only other car.

'It's a bit of a scramble. Do you mind? It's worth it,' said Anna.

The path down the cliff was indeed very steep in places; but the cove at bottom was beautiful, and almost deserted. A young couple, presumably from the other car, were at one end of the small beach; Anna and Sarah waved to them, then wandered to the other end, and settled down, hidden away behind low rocks.

They sat without talking for a while. Apart from the splash of wavelets at the edge of the sea and the squawks of the gulls, it was completely silent. The sun was very hot.

Anna slipped off her things, revealing a small white bikini, spread out her towel and lay on her front. Sarah gazed at the girl for a while; her back was very slender, like a dancer's, tapering to a very narrow waist, accentuating the curve of her hips, which tapered again to perfect legs. Sarah felt a stab of mixed envy and desire, sighed, unbuttoned and shrugged off her dress, and spread out her own towel.

They lay next to each other talking quietly. Sarah reached out and touched the girl's arm.

'You are so pretty.'

The girl gazed steadily into Sarah's grey eyes, then lowered her head and gently touched the hand on her arm with her cheek.

* * *

Anna sat up. 'The sun's still really hot.' She put her hand on Sarah's back. 'You'll burn.' She felt in her bag, and got out a small bottle. 'Let me.'

Sarah felt a squirt or two of cold liquid on her shoulders, and then the girl's hands, massaging the lotion in gently but firmly. The hands were expert, soothing and relaxing her muscles. Minutes passed.

'Hmmm. Where do you learn to do that?'

'Shhh. Just enjoy.'

The hands worked their way very slowly downwards. As they worked, the shoulder-straps of Sarah's swimsuit were slipped down, until her back was exposed to the waist. The hands continued stroking and kneading. Sarah had always liked having her back caressed, but this was heavenly. After more long minutes, she suddenly found herself getting aroused and very wet.

'Turn over.'

Sarah hesitated.

'Come on. No-one will see us.' Anna grinned, 'When I last looked, those two down the beach were getting well into each other!'

The older woman lay on her back, and the girl bent over and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth, and their tongues explored each other. Then the gentle hands pulled down the front of Sarah's swimsuit, exposing her breasts, and the girl moved down to suckle the already hard dark nipples, and shocks of pure pleasure stabbed though Sarah's insides. While lips worked on breasts, a caressing hand wandered slowly, so slowly, down towards her stomach, insinuating itself under the swimsuit bunched around her waist. And then... and then the fingers were running through the hair at her groin, until they found her centre, now aflood with her own wetness, and began to circle her throbbing clit.

More kisses, more intense, passionate. Sarah groaned; the girl began to lick again at her nipples and the fingers began to strum more insistently, faster, until (the end came very quickly) she gasped and an intense orgasm washed over her. She wrapped her arms tightly around the girl and held the blonde head against her breasts as she came down. After a while, she felt the girl move away from her, but Sarah continued to lie with her eyes shut feeling little aftershocks of pleasure.

'That was... wonderful.'

Sarah opened her eyes to find Anna kneeling by her head, quite naked, the bikini now by her side. The girl's eyes seemed wide and a darker blue; her small pink nipples hard; she was breathing fast. 'Lick me,' she said, and she shifted one knee across Sarah so that she was kneeling above the woman's face, and then she lowered herself slowly. Sarah lifted her head a little and, tasting another woman for the first time since she too had been a student, she licked the girl's nether lips, and teased out her clit with her tongue. Sarah's hands reached up to caress the girl's firm breasts. And in a few minutes, Anna mewed and moaned and came hard on Sarah's lapping tongue.

* * *

The girl lay on her side, still naked, one knee drawn up slightly. Sarah sat up, hugging her knees, looking down at her. It wasn't at all how she had fantasised it would be, when she had frigged herself thinking of that encounter in the changing room. She had imagined taking charge, being in control, even dominating The Girl. But that girl had been an empty cipher. The real Anna was funny and clever and charming and delightful – and had been the bold and demanding one, taking the sexual lead. Which was surprising and thrilling. But now, as she drifted towards sleep, the girl looked so vulnerable. Sarah was awash with mixed feelings; she wanted to cuddle the girl gently – and to fuck her senseless. She smiled at her own turmoil: she hadn't felt like this for a very long time.

* * *

'Shall we go?'

The sun had lost its heat. They slipped on their clothes, and made their way back to the car, helping each other up the steep path and then holding hands the rest of the way.

'We can get something to eat on the way back, and go to my place. The family are away on holiday, lucky sods, while I'm slaving at the hotel.'

So they stopped at a supermarket and bought pizza, lots of salad, ice-cream, and a couple of bottles of white wine already chilled. Well supplied, they drove on to a neat modern detached house at the far edge of the town.

In the hallway, Sarah pulled Anna into her arms and kissed her hungrily, her hands running down her back and clasping her bottom. The girl responded passionately, and then broke away, laughing.

'OK, look, we can either eat first or fuck first; but quite honestly I'm starving.'

Sarah, amused, went to have a shower, while Anna put the pizza in the oven. The women lingered over the meal in the kitchen, sitting close on the corner bench, with Sarah occasionally stealing caresses; they got quietly drunk, and giggled as they fed each other ice-cream, and kissed sharing mouthfuls of wine.

'Come and see my room.'

They went upstairs to the girl's room, which Sarah was surprised to find very ordered and rather plain, decorated with a few art prints rather than the usual youthful array of pop posters. Anna chatted on for a moment, explaining the photographs of friends and family on the pin-board. Then she threw herself down on the bed and pulled Sarah beside her. Suddenly she asked,

'Do you remember what you said when we were in the changing room?'

It was the first time either woman had actually mentioned the moment again; but it was imprinted on the girl's consciousness too.

'I mean, you said that one day I should try... I should try...'

'Yes, of course I remember that.'

'Will you show me?'

Sarah looked at the girl quizzically.

'Please. You can't imagine how often I've thought about that day, and wondered what it would be like.'

'Oh, I think 1 can imagine; I think I can.'

* * *

Anna came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Sarah was already lying naked on the bed, slim, dark, long-legged. If the girl was extremely pretty, it was a prettiness that might soon fade; Sarah's fine features had a more lasting beauty.

'Come and lie down.'

Anna lay on her front and Sarah straddled her bottom, so that she could massage the girl's back. She shared with the girl a talent for it, and Anna was soon squirming sensuously. Then Sarah moved down and massaged the girl's legs and thighs, and occasionally as she moved from the top of one leg to the other, she teasingly drifted her hands across the girl's increasingly wet core. Then she teased more with little kisses down the girl's back, finishing by parting her buttocks and tonguing her tight rosebud. Anna moaned with pleasure.

'Let's put this under you.'

Sarah put a pillow under the girl's hips to raise her bottom. Then she bent to kiss the girl gently on the lips, and to pick up the belt she had found in Anna's wardrobe – an old, worn leather belt that would sting a lot, but not mark or really hurt the girl. They had agreed that twelve strokes, serious but not heavy, testing but not unbearable, would make a proper initiation.

The girl turned her face into the covers and screwed up her hands. Sarah admired again the shapely back, the soft unblemished curves below; then the belt whistled down and struck hard in the middle of the girl's beautiful buttocks. A moment passed, and again the leather stung her rear.

'Ooh... aaahhhh.'

Sarah raised her arm again, and then the impromptu tawse bit down. She watched the girl's buttocks momentarily flatten, and then blush. A fourth stroke made Anna's legs kick up as if to shake away the sting.

The girl cried out again. There was a long pause as Sarah let the girl absorb the sensations. The next stroke was softer, but struck the back of Anna's thighs, and she yelped with surprise.

'Don't tense up; try to relax into it.'

The leather rushed down, full on the girl's reddened buttocks again. Another pause. Sarah reached out and stroked the hot patches, and her hand strayed between the girl's thighs, stroking the lips near her clit. Anna tried to move so that the teasing fingers would touch her centre, but after a moment, Sarah withdrew her hand and picked up the belt again.

The seventh stroke forced out a deeper moan, and Anna's eyes began to moisten. She raised her head, and for a moment the two women gazed into each other's eyes then the girl submissively bent her head again. An eighth, slightly gentler, stripe followed quickly. Sarah reached down again, and this time didn't tease, but rubbed the gill's wetness. Then she walked round the bed and made a new angle; a ninth time, the belt thwacked down, now at a diagonal across the other strokes causing the girl to yelp with pain.

A tear ran down the girl's cheek, her fists were clasping bunches of the bed covers, her teeth biting down on a corner of a pillow. But she raised her bottom again. Sarah stood by the side of the bed, now intensely aroused; her nipples tingled, her groin throbbing. She struck again, the fiercest blow yet – in her agitation, harder than she intended.

'Aaaaarghhhh... oh, Sarah, no...'

The woman dropped the belt and caressed the girl again, soothing the hot flesh. And between her thighs the girl was wetter yet.

'Turn over.'

Anna looked surprised.

'No,' said Sarah, 'we've not quite finished. But turn over.'

The girl did so, and Sarah climbed onto the bed, and turning toward the girl's feet, lowered herself kneeling over Anna's face. She could feel the girl's wet cheeks pressed against her thighs as Anna began to tongue her clit, mirroring Sarah's love-making on the beach.

'Lift your legs.'

The girl obeyed, raising her legs from her hips and Sarah caught them and held them vertically with one arm. With the other, she took up the belt again and struck out at the exposed buttocks. A muffled groan and sigh; and then the girl continued to lick and suck.

'The last one.'

A long final pause as the girl's tongue shot waves of pleasure through the kneeling woman. Then the belt descended once more. Not hard, but stinging the burning flesh with a band of renewed fire.

Sarah lowered the girl's legs as she continued to be sucked. She then slowly leaned forwarded and caressed the girl's body down towards her groin, and dipped her fingers in the wetness below. Moans in a different tone escaped from the girl, who raised her hands to play with the woman's breasts. Sarah's fingers, soaking from the girl's own moisture, moved on downwards, seeking the rosebud, and rimming round and round it. And then, as she felt her own orgasm mount, she pressed down, her finger penetrated the tight circle, and Sarah came spectacularly.

Later, not yet able to sleep, still aroused, her buttocks hot and throbbing and all the sensations nearby still amplified a hundred times, Anna begged Sarah to make love to her again. And the older woman fulfilled another fantasy about The Girl, gently drawing on Anna to masturbate before her gaze in the candle light until, at the end, she helped the girl come to a release.

* * *

The morning sun streaked across the bed. Sarah had woken first, not used to sharing such a narrow bed, and watched the girl sleep peacefully on, hair a golden halo on the pillow. Then she slipped out, found a wrap hanging on the back of the door, and went to make tea. A newspaper had already been delivered, and she sat in the kitchen reading. She would have to get ready for a business meeting later (Mary would be there, Sarah remembered with mixed feelings, and would be bound to pump her for details of how things went with Anna...). But for now, she had an hour or so to relax.

Sarah poured more tea and took it upstairs. Anna stirred, and looked around sleepily. Slowly she held out her arms to the other woman, and Sarah's heart turned right over and she bent towards the young girl and they hugged each other tight.

'You're a sweetheart.'

'You too.'

Silence. Hands strayed. Sarah's wrap fell open. Breasts touched.

'But what next?'

To be continued…

Episode 3

The Man With The Golden Rod - the story in two parts

2012-01-16T07:02:00.000-08:00

Story from Janus 14.

The Man With The Golden Rod, part one
by Richard Manton

In January 1841, James Miles made headlines for the first time in the Morning Chronicle. When charged with excessive use of birch and cane upon the bare bottoms of girls in his care, the justices laughed the case out of court at Rochester sessions. Mr Miles went on from strength to strength, supported by disciplinarians, press, and the justices — traditionally allowed to come and watch girls under the birch. As late as 1897, his colleague, the Rev Marshall Vine, supported such disciplinary zeal. It was still customary to give 36-stroke birchings in reformatory institutions, Vine insisted. 'And I have done so,' he added proudly in his evidence to the Parliamentary Committee.

In our own time there is a groundswell of opinion, in the polls and in parliament, which favours the return of judicial chastisement. What would it be like? How would the system work? Is it quite as edifying as its supporters suggest? Perhaps before we give it our resolute support we should go back in time and recreate a day in the life of James Miles...

WOULD YOU change jobs with James Miles? Mr Miles was a real man with a real problem, a dedicated upholder of law and order in the England of our great-grand-fathers. Look on the bright side first of all. His job carried a reasonable salary of about £15,000 a year in modern terms. One of the perks was a fine house at Hoo near Rochester with servants and transport provided, not to mention a good kitchen and cellar.

Perhaps you might be put off by noticing that the pleasant house and grounds were surrounded by a high wall to keep snoopers out and to keep the delinquent young ladies inside. As the notice board by the porter's lodge would inform you, this was a very old-fashioned reformatory and James Miles was the master. All his care and trouble was expended on the 50 or 60 pretty miscreants in his charge. Nowadays some of them would have graced the upper forms of a comprehensive school but there were others whose ages ranged (in the case of Phyllis Blake) up to 29!

Before you refuse outright to have anything to do with such a post, rest assured that you will be supported by a willing staff of burly matrons, more than enough to deal with any rebellion among the girls. Look more carefully at the conditions of employment and at the girls. On any given day there will be several of them who will wince and draw breath sharply as they sit gingerly on those hard reformatory chairs. Do you wonder why? Perhaps you notice in the conditions of employment that there is a weekly retainer paid to you for inflicting chastisement. The going rate in the 19th century was ten shillings, which 150 years later would be over £20. Also, as Ronald Pearsall shows in Night's Black Angels, there was payment of half a crown — £6 or £7 in the 1980s — for many a whipping, birching, or caning given.

Are you worried at the cost of all the equipment needed in this new profession? Have no fear. As Mr Pearsall records, there were also 'out of pocket expenses' for such items as canes, birch-rods and whips which would get worn out by constant use.

Perhaps you might simply envy James Miles his prestige? His early achievements were reported in the Morning Chronicle and his powers of chastisement were the subject of an editorial in the Britannia newspaper. With lips pursed and birch raised over some recalcitrant reformatory beauty, he represented the might and majesty of the Law. His story found a place in fiction, as well as folklore, in Ron Rich's The First Victorian. Only the French — whom every decent Englishman of the day despised — suggested that the disciplinarians were having the time of their lives. Small wonder that books like Etudes sur la Flagellation, which blew the gaff on Miles and his kind, were rigorously banned in England. 'Le Vice Anglais' was how they described it in Paris.

The truth is that if James Miles fails to send you rushing out to join STOPP, then STOPP will probably have to manage without you.

Perhaps you would want to spend a day as James Miles before committing yourself either way. The morning's labours must begin after breakfast, for there are so many defaulters to be dealt with. You retire to your sunlit study overlooking the garden and await the first tap on the door.

Is it a coincidence that the first delinquent who comes in is also one of the most beautiful in your care? Why is it that the ugly ones never seem to incur so much retribution? In this case, Judith is quite a tall and graceful girl of 16. The light brown hair is worn in a sweep from her high crown to her shoulders framing the pale oval of her face with its clear fair-skinned features and hazel eyes.

You instruct her to lay her skirt on the chair and to present herself in stockings and tight cotton drawers. In this state you discover that she is not only quite tall but has long elegant legs which any glamour girl or beauty queen would envy. Pulling yourself together, you instruct her to lay her knickers on the same chair. Then Judith must face the chair and bend over it tightly with her hands on the seat.

Just before you attend to her there is some reformatory business to be done. You sit at your desk, quill pen in hand. Two or three feet in front of you is Judith's rear view. The long light brown hair has been braided into a pair of plaits to prevent it spilling forward as she stoops. From the rear you view the long graceful legs and seat. The black stocking-tops at mid-thigh, the elastic suspender arch at her waist and the suspender straps down each flank conveniently frame the area of interest. Perhaps you permit yourself a quiet smile of anticipation as you sit forward and familiarise yourself with the target.

Predictably, though you sit at your desk for half an hour, like the dedicated public servant that you are, you do not somehow get round to the paperwork.

'Bend over more tightly, Judith,' you say from time to time. 'Even more tightly still! No, don't keep looking round at the cane!'

Judith may be a demure and well-spoken young lady, the stuff of which pupil-teachers and governesses are made. But she has broken the rules and this time it is she who is on the receiving end. You rise and touch the bamboo across the pale oval cheeks of Judith's 16-year-old bottom. No smiles now, for your mouth is set firm and your eyes gleaming.

The sharp impacts of the cane ring out one after another across the nymph-cheeks of Judith's arse. Such a ladylike young backside undergoing so undignified a punishment! The silken whisper of stockings rises as her graceful legs squirm together. One knee jams frantically into the back of the other. The elegant ovals of Judith's bum-cheeks twist aside and there is a wild cry. Not surprising when you view the smarting willow-pattern of bamboo printed in fire on her behind. But you cannot permit such wriggling.

'Want me to take you back to the beginning and start again, Judith? No? Then bend properly. Up on tiptoe, forehead on the chair seat. No need to blush about it...'

So the caning continues. You no doubt pause from time to time to survey your handiwork. Then comes the dread utterance.

'Quite still, Judith! I'm not satisfied with your bottom yet!'

Naturally you are ready for your elevenses after such exertion. Fortified again, you turn to the problem of Sally or Sal. Here is a diminutive hooligan with a shock of henna-tinted hair, a high-boned impudent face with rouge on the cheeks, and dark defiant eyes. She and her two friends have been consigned to the reformatory for breaching the peace in no uncertain manner. Through the quiet middle-class street this pint-sized strumpet went bawling: 'I went out on Saturday night! I got into a fucking fight!' Sal was boasting, by the way, not complaining.

Do not imagine Sally in dress and petticoats. She was one for what Miles's contemporary Arthur Munby called 'working trousers' and what we should probably call jeans. Picture her in a black singlet, let us say, and a pair of tight faded blue jeans which show her sturdy thighs and bulging bottom rolling as she walks. The justices knew at a glance there was only one place for her.

As you escort her ahead of you to the study, you may well stare open-mouthed in anticipation at the swagger of Sally's fat young bottom in those tight jeans or 'working trousers.' In the study itself she has to undo the waist-belt and push her pants down below her knees.

'Lie bottom-upwards over the sofa-cushions, Sally!' you say humorously, exchanging a knowing look with her.

Clearly a fresh cane is called for, one with a vicious spring. And two more cushions under her belly to raise and swell the curve of Sal's seat. As you stand over her, you issue a warning.

'You'll be coming here every morning, Sally, until the matrons are satisfied with your improved conduct.' Then the bamboo whacks across the fat little cheeks of Sally's bottom with a report like a ringmaster's whip. You punish Sal with the cane across the crowns of her buttocks and curb her impudence by applying extremely hard strokes across her lower, softer rear-cheeks. Or so you think. When you dismiss her, she is hardly outside the door before you hear her mutter, 'Fucking old creep!'

It is the work of a moment to open the door and summon her back. The matrons will aid the removal of Sally's pants if required. Kneeling tightly forward over the chair-back this time. Now the banter is obviously on your side.

'Morning and evening, Sally! Until we're absolutely satisfied with you! We're very hard to satisfy here!'

If you have a moment to spare from your labours, you may just catch the shrill sounds of your matrons being very strict indeed with Sal's cronies — Tracey, Mandy and the rest of them — in the adjoining rooms.

What a busy morning it has been! Now there is a stern knock at the door. The chief constable! The magistrates! Ah, you thought it was too good to last! Your foul secret is revealed! You see visions of arrest, public disgrace, and a prison cell! Have no fear. These gentlemen are your very good friends and they have come to lunch.

Nowadays they might be eager to spend lunch discussing the latest right wing proposals for the restoration of birching in the grand manner. In default of this, why not entertain your guests, as James Miles, by showing them your scrap-book. First would come your conditions of appointment — all those extra perks for birching and bambooing recalcitrant young ladies — doing well by doing good.

Then you will want to show them the newspaper clippings of your trial. Your trial? Yes, alas, you were once tried before the justices of nearby Rochester. The courtroom was crowded by the national press. You were front-page news in the Morning Chronicle. A few sanctimonious busybodies decided that you were enjoying your public duties too much. They hauled you before the court for 'cruelty' and 'indecency' in your use of birch and bamboo. Can you imagine such absurdity?

To be quite honest, the case gave you a few nasty moments but you need not have worried. For example, Mr Elwes, the legal brain of the prosecution, condemned you for having teenage girls held down while you thrashed their bare bottoms. The judges dealt with this nonsense in no time at all. As one of the older women insisted, she had never known a girl 'that did not struggle' under the birch. 'Then, gentlemen, I must apologise for introducing the suggestion upon this court,' said Elwes the Legal Eagle in humbler tones. The Morning Chronicle of 7 January 1841 reported him without comment.

You see? You need not have worried after all. The court heard that you once caned the bare bottom of a young woman of 28 while she was lying on her bed. There were girls of more tender years whom you tanned in the Schoolroom. (Ironically the same word was used for the place where girls were whipped in brothels.) The court really did not care.

Rather nervously, the girls began to admit under cross-examination that you were a kindly master. Oh yes? Were they perhaps too scared of the retribution awaiting them if they sank out of tune? More probably they preferred regular meals and an occasional sore bottom to the prospect of starving in the streets. So it was that Sarah Barnes, Charlotte Burton and the rest sang your praises.

The prosecution struggled on gamely, doing its best. You had birched the bare bottoms of girls between the ages of 16 and 28! Yes, yes, thought the judges impatiently. Of course you had. That was what the government paid you to do. Some of the strokes, said the prosecutor solemnly, made the girl scream. Of course, they had, thought the justices. It wouldn't have been a very effective punishment otherwise, would it? But, shrilled the prosecutor, the girls had been held down for their bare bottom discipline! Naturally they had, said the court. If you don't hold them, they wriggle.

So the astonishing trial at Rochester continued with the entire country following the details eagerly over its toast and marmalade next day. How did it end? Well that was truly unforgettable — and you are going to have a lot of fun telling your cronies about it at lunch time. First there was an ill concealed snirt-snirt! chortle-chortle! from one of the well-fed Pickwickian justices. Then the others began to join in. Soon the entire bench of them was rolling about, hooting and roaring till the tears ran down their cheeks. Funny? You bet it was funny!

It really was priceless, you see, to prosecute you for skinning a score of schoolgirl bottoms every week. In modern terms, it was like a tax inspector sending out a final demand and being prosecuted for demanding money with menaces.

So the portly justices laughed the case out of court. Birch the young sluts soundly, Mr Miles! Have the skin off their arses, sir! Go to it, by gad! Not that they uttered these sentiments. Instead they began to shout jokes to one another. The entire case foundered in great farting peals of mirth.

You were acquitted. But what did the country at large think about you? Did they condemn you? Were they indignant that you were being paid to have the time of your life while they slaved away in factory or counting-house? For the benefit of your guests you show them what the Britannia newspaper said about you after your trial. 'Wholly up to him to decide what degree of punishment,' said the Britannia in its editorial upon you. Archibald Sinclair in his 1857 Reminiscences, put more power to your elbow. 'First rate disciplinarian,' wrote Sinclair approvingly, 'never gives less than three dozen.'

Three dozen? Small wonder that the witnesses at your trial and the other delinquent lasses. Charlotte Burton, Sarah Barnes, Elaine Cox, Lisa Screese, and the rest, have the reputation of being the best disciplined girls for miles around.

If any of your guests entertain lingering doubts as to the legality of such punishments — and supposing it is now 1904 and you are a spry 90-year-old — you pull down from the shelves the great legal authority of the day. It is the sixth edition of Sir James Stephen's Digest of the Criminal Law, published that year. There on page eight, under the heading 'Whipping', you will find the ruling that 'the number of strokes and the instrument used are at the discretion of the person by whom the whipping is inflicted.'

True, there are one or two subversive types around who make snide remarks about your conscientious performance of your duties. There is a young man called Havelock Ellit. The foul-minded little cad actually insinuates that you are getting secret sex fun by caning the bare bottoms of Jane, Sally, Susan, Maggie, Judith, Elaine, Jennifer, Helena, Ann, Noreen, Mandy, etc., etc. Have no fear, Ellis's books are being prosecuted by the authorities who denounce him as 'a thoroughly filthy fellow.'

Lunch has restored your energies and you decide on an inspection of the girls at work. How about a stroll down to the stables on this sunny afternoon? There you will find a girl of 19 polishing the display of harness and mopping over the tiles. Though she goes by the newly-fashionable name of Angela, she is known by the reformatory contraction of Ange.

For some time you have had doubts as to whether Ange is pulling her shapely weight. She is a girl with a plumpish figure, well shown off by her singlet and those pale faded blue working-trousers, best described as snug-fitting jeans. She has a soft face, though her nose is pert, blue eyes, and a short razor-trimmed crop of light brown hair.

As you arrive, she is on all fours, mopping over the tiled floor. Prudently she keeps her head lowered to her task, the brown fringe falling over her forehead. The soft outlines of her face, her ears and her smooth young neck are revealed by her short crop. In the warm afternoon the singlet clings to her pale back and breasts. From the waist down one must imagine her full thighs and plump hips sheathed by something like a pair of pale blue jeans. Nowadays, under the tightly strained jeans-seat you would see the elastic outline of Ange's knickers — a pair of stretch-briefs arching up high and tight over each of her bum-cheeks. In those far-off times, they were not worn.

Therefore, you will want to take a long and careful rear view of her as she works on all fours. A few years more and Miss Angela is going to be a decidedly plump-hipped young lady! Just now she suits Victorian taste. A slight weightiness in her thighs draws your attention to her seat. Under the drumskin-tight jeans, Ange's buttocks are robustly full and broad. You inspect the area closely as she toils away self-consciously under your feared gaze. The stout central seam of the jeans-set is drawn deep and taut between the lower fatness of Ange's bottom-cheeks.

Is she really working to your satisfaction? As you study Ange's broad young backside, you are not entirely convinced. Well out of earshot there is the 'apple shed' where windfalls are pressed for cider. The power is provided by a young woman bending over a barrel which stands on its side. She then runs like a sprinter on the spot, working the wooden treadle, under which lie the apples to be pulped. What better exercise for a 19-year-old idler like Ange?

She may not be easily persuaded, but you have your way. So you contemplate Ange, arse-upwards over the barrel. Her softly appealing face is lost from view over the wooden curve and you can scarcely see the razor-trimmed crop of her light brown hair. Yet Ange's plump bottom-cheeks are straining those jeans dangerously tight, and they obsess you. You must not risk them splitting as she runs. The only alternative is to undo the waist and ease them down until they slip off over her ankles. Yes, of course, you will want to pause and study the bare bottom so tantalisingly offered.

The girl obeys you, as of course she must. Her trousers are now off. Then, at your second command, she begins her run, her plump young thighs working energetically. The slight extra sheen of pale flesh on Ange's naked bum-cheeks quivers like smacked jelly as she runs on the spot.

Your own trousers feel uncomfortably tight as you remember the words of Sir James Stephen. Ange's fate is entirely at your discretion. You will not, of course, be barbaric. Yet there lies the birch (three yard-long switches bound at the handle) which came from the Reverend Mr Vine's prison-farm. As you watch Ange, those running thighs and fattened young bum-cheeks, you recall that she was due for a tanning anyway. How convenient! You are entitled to give Ange's young backside the severest birching that even a boys' prison-farm allows.

Ange, of course, twists her face round in blue-eyed alarm and her legs go like pistons.

'A full prison birching across your bare bottom, Angela!' you say, warning her to brace herself for it.

Her protests are gasped and breathless as you measure the birch across the rounding and writhing plumpness of Ange's pale mobile seat-cheeks. Thrash! goes the triple-switched rod across her quivering backside. Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... THRASH! ... THRASH! ... SWISHHH-THRASH!

What an afternoon this promises to be! Ange's shrillness is making the rafters ring. Bottom upwards over the barrel she is going like a champion, legs pumping up and down at twice the speed. Ange's soft pale buttocks are dancing cheek-to-cheek, and it is as well for her that she cannot twist over on her hip. Thrash! ... Thrash! ... 'Push your behind right out now, Ange! Run faster!' ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Lash! ... Thrash!

Perhaps you feel that all this is too much for 19-year-old Angela. And yet it seems you are wrong. You turn away for a moment to lay down your coat, for you are feeling immensely hot. While your back is turned, Ange's mouth delivers a loud and vulgar raspberry as she runs — surely a deliberate defiance of you? As you turn, she gives a cry as if suddenly terrified by her own brazenness.

'Very well, Angela! You know the rules! We shall commence the discipline again! From the beginning!'

Let us draw a curtain of decorum, as the Victorians themselves might say, over the remaining events of the afternoon in that apple-shed. It will be some while before you emerge and, as for Ange, she may prefer to remain there a time and even shed a tear or two of repentance before she emerges to face the world again.

But you are forgetting something, are you not? All that energy put into birching Ange, as well as caning Judith and Sally, is not merely a disciplinary exercise. It also earns you money. In addition to your £15,000 a year and your £40 a week as chastiser, today's three punishments have earned you some £21 at about £7 a time! It may not be as good as first prize on the premium bonds but it surely is more interesting.

Ah, you are wondering how the authorities know the amount due to you. After all, there are some dishonest fellows about who would claim to have birched half a dozen girls a day when they had done nothing of the sort. Naturally, you could be trusted to do your duty but there are some people, you know...

What could be easier than to tell whether the books are cooked or not? The justices' clerk arrives to pay you the day's dues. He does not need books at all. You call Ange, Sally and Judith.

'Slip your knickers off, Ange, and bend over the back of the chair... Judith, lie bottom-upwards on the sofa... Bend over the desk, Sally! Push your jeans right down!'

The justices' clerk, with eyes laughing and mouth rounded in admiration, can read the accounts exactly where you printed them with willow and bamboo. He cannot draw himself away. There is a favour he would ask. He has some apples for pressing. May be bring them? Is the shed free tomorrow afternoon? Might he borrow Ange? How can you refuse a man who is offering to do your job free?

A sceptical modern reader might begin to wonder about the motives of some Victorian upholders of law and order. The justices laughed prosecutions like that of Mr Miles out of court. But they did better than that. They actually supplied James Miles and his kind with the pretty girls whom he 'reformed' with such loving care. Indeed, the justices were eager to see chastisement enforced. They were even, it seems, prepared to bend the law so that a pretty girl with a shapely bottom might bare it regularly for the rod.

Impossible? Take a look at the tip of the iceberg in Richard Whitmire's Victorian and Edwardian Crime and Punishment. Among the records of Huntingdon gaol, for example, are details of girls sent to the reformatory by justices, sometimes with specified birchings. Julia Ogolthorpe is a pretty dark haired schoolgirl in the photograph on her record-sheet. For stealing a loaf at Grantham, they gave her five years in reformatory where, as they say, she might spend more time bending than sitting.

But surely these worthy gentlemen were only doing their job, weren't they? Take another look at her record. It is made out, announcing her summary conviction, on 5 January 1871. It also gives the date of her trial — which did not take place until 27 January, more than three weeks later. Whoops! The greedy justices wore thus able to choose girls for reformatory discipline for the next five years without waiting for such boring details as the trial, the evidence, and the possibility that Julia Ogolthorpe or Sarah Barnes or Sally Fenton might not be guilty. Of course, when the hearing took place, the justices were both judge and jury so there was no danger of getting the wrong verdict.

Before James Miles was born, Edward Ward in his periodical The London Spy had revealed the eagerness of justices and their cronies to see a good display of birching and whipping upon the bare rears of young women. Some of the girls were in their 20s, others in their early teens, according to Ward. The chairman of the justices sat in the 'judgment seat' with a hammer in his hand. 'A woman was under the lash in the next room, where folding doors were opened so that the whole court might see the punishment inflicted.' Ward watched for a while and then went about his business leaving his judicial friends 'to flog on till the accusers had satisfied their revenge and the spectators their curiosity.' In our own time there are many voices urging the return of such punishments. What did Ward think, after watching them? 'I only conceive it makes many whores,' he said, 'but that it can in no measure reclaim them.'

Next time that the advocates of flogging in our own century hold forth, we might do well to remember Ward's remarks. To strip a girl for whipping, he observed, was the first step in making her a whore. When it was over, she regarded herself as one.

As James Miles, of course, you will not wish to hear such arguments. Your day is too busy. As you may recall, you have already tanned Judith, Sal, and Ange, as well as entertaining the local magistracy to lunch. Now the justices' clerk leaves, making Ange wince by an injudicious slap on her light jeans-cheek. You might almost think your day's labours are at an end. Would it surprise you to know that, for a dedicated public servant like Mr Miles, they have hardly begun?

Story from Janus 15.

The Man With The Golden Rod, part two
by Richard Manton

Writer Richard Manton (the pseudonym of a well-known novellist) continues his recreation of just one day in the life of James Miles, the factual Master of the Hoo Union Workhouse at Rochester, Kent during the 19th century. This compelling, obsessive yet authentic account, closely based on records of the time, takes one deep into the world of workhouse discipline for girls and raises many topical questions relating to right-wing moves to get corporal punishment put back on the statute books. Part one of The Man With The Golden Rod appeared in Janus 14.

WHEN, AS James Miles, you were acquitted at your trial, the justices were clearly on your side. Off you go, they said. Birch those young reformatory trollops long, hard, and often. Did you suspect that the justices had a vested interest in the verdict? No? What a trusting sort of chap you are.

The French revealed the truth in such Edwardian hooks as Etudes sur la Flagellation. England's rulers endeavoured to ban such books by prosecution and persecution. Not surprisingly, since the truth revealed applied to those rulers themselves.

Mr Miles was acquitted, we learn, so that the justices might continue to enjoy the sight of girls birched or caned on the so-called 'justices' nights'. Under a veil of Victorian prudery it was possible to attend an evening of tannings which combined striptease, moral self-righteousness, and sex as a blood-sport.

Nowadays, if the polls are to be believed, a substantial majority in the country would support judicial thrashings. Press reports in the Sun and the Liverpool Daily Post on 13 February 1976 revealed Tory MPs proposal to have girl delinquents judicially whipped 'with a birch, cane or strap'. On 10 November 1977 the Daily Telegraph reported how girls in care in Nottinghamshire were to be dealt with until the age of 17. Misconduct was to be punished by bamboo. 'Canings should be on the bottom,' read the instructions, 'always in front of witnesses.'

Papers like the Telegraph are rightly quick to report such stories prominently, thus warning us of the severities which a return to old-fashioned 'discipline' might involve. Yet, for all their enlightened and humane attitude which this careful concern for the subject doubtless shows, they can scarcely conjure up the scenes which a return to 'the good old days' would involve.

As James Miles you would welcome your guests to an excellent dinner, food and wine on expenses. Afterwards you would all retire to the punishment room — the Red Room as they called it at Hoo — prudently out of earshot of the rest of the buildings.

Picture a long stone-flagged room, gaslight glaring harshly on white-washed walls. The windows are high up and barred. At the centre of the floor stands the fixed square block over which each culprit kneels. Several feet to the rear are leather chairs for the witnesses. They take their places, Mr Miles removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. He tests a slender three-foot bamboo. It has a rapier's spring. Like a golfer practising his swing, he cuts the air a few times with a trial swish.

The first delinquent is led in. She is just the rebellious tomboy to make a disciplinarian's fingers itch. Elaine is best described as a shouting, striding youngster. Lank fair hair combed from a central parting lies loose upon her shoulders. Narrow eyes and thin mouth give the broad oval of her face a look of snub-nosed insolence. This sturdy young rebel boasts robust young hips and thighs.

The witnesses catch her defiant gaze with quiet smiles of anticipation, their eyes taking in her strong young legs, grey pleated skirt and white blouse. In modern terms it would be the kind of grey pleated uniform skirt worn short enough to bare Elaine's sturdy young thighs.

Her crime, it seems, was breaking the finger of one of your matrons. Just the offence for which the Tory proposal of 1976 advocates birching or caning girls 'guilty of inflicting bodily harm'. Yet Elaine returns the gaze of the portly middle-aged justices with a look of contempt.

It seems she cares nothing for the impending punishment. Hardly waiting for the order, she sheds her skirt and kneels on all fours over the block. The tight white cotton web of Elaine's knickers show her to be 'quite a big-bottomed girl in this posture'.

Despite more lurid suggestions of Mr Miles's involvement, it will probably be a matron who stoops over the block. Elaine's knickers are pushed down, and then she is positioned with meticulous exactitude. The pro-flogging brigade of our own day — MPs and public — would surely approve of such exhaustive precautions. It is, of course, left to you as James Miles to tuck up the tail of her blouse, well clear of the full pale cheeks of Elaine's bottom. Are you startled as she tosses back her fair hair, cranes round, and treats you to a burst of snub-nosed defiance?

Such girls as this were a puzzle to men like the author of Etudes sur la Flagellation — Jean de Villot. Elaine was facing — or perhaps about-facing — a full judicial thrashing with all the trimmings. Yet by her continued defiance and insolence she seemed determined to do everything in her power to make it worse. Later on we shall have to consider why — but put out of your head any mischievous old-wives' tales about the youngster 'enjoying it'. Next day she would scarcely walk without some discomfort or sit without a wince and a sharp intake of breath. What is so enjoyable about that? A blister on the foot could be more fun.

As James Miles, however, you introduce one more refinement. Elaine must call out the number of each stroke before receiving it. Would our present-day advocates of the birch approve the idea? If the girl fails or refuses to do so, she will get the stroke anyway. But it will not count towards the total of her punishment. By defiance she will merely earn herself more lashes of the cane.

So, as James Miles, you must now take the bamboo in your hand. You announce her sentence formally to the girl and the justices, assuring her in the manner of a bawdy sergeant-major that it will be with the bamboo across bare bum-checks. Then you order her to call out the number of the first stroke.

Now comes the biggest shock of all. The rebellious youngster, in a burst of foul-mouthed, four-lettered defiance, refuses to call out the numbers of the strokes. In case you have not got the message, she yells to the world that you are a bastard, and an effing bastard at that.

Tossing back her fair hair, Elaine cranes round at the witnesses. The broad oval of her snub-nosed face is still suffused with defiance in her narrow eyes and thin mouth. How she curses the well-fed justices. In the privacy of the punishment-room they smile back at her knowingly, showing her their amusement and delight in her predicament. They let her see them sitting forward in their chairs for a close-up of the subject. Mouths pursed and eyes bright, they survey the sturdily broadened cheeks of Elaine's backside in its present posture. Whatever the explanation of her vulgar impudence, she must have known better than to hope for a reprieve later on. When the justices have such a bare-bottomed tomboy over the block, all leniency is forbidden.

So Mr Miles gently and almost teasingly measures the bamboo across the full pale checks of Elaine's young bottom. For all her defiance, the youngster is gnawing at her lower lip apprehensively. Her hands are clenched desperately and her fifth-former's buttocks are tensing and shifting under the menace of the bamboo touch.

With all the time in the world, Mr Miles takes aim. Then, raising the cane, he brings it down with 'an ear-splitting smack' across the full pale cheeks of Elaine's bottom. She gasps at the smart and her bum-cheeks begin to arch and squirm. Mr Miles knows from long experience that the initial smarting impact of the bamboo across Elaine's adolescent behind will swell in intensity to a savage climax several seconds later. Expert that he is, he aims each stroke to coincide with that climax of its predecessor.

Naturally there is an electric tension in the room as the smack! ... whip-smack! of two more uncounted strokes rings out across Elaine's rear cheeks. This is accompanied by a gasping, a wrestling, and the strained creaking of the punishment bench. Surely the rebellious youngster must know as well as the witnesses that she will yell at the top of her voice for the first counted stroke, sooner or later. Only then will the official discipline begin. Incredible though it seems, she is actually trying to add to her punishment while she can still bear to.

To be fair to those who now advocate the return of the birch, they do not suggest flagellations on the Victorian scale. The Tory proposal favours 12 strokes, though the figure 18 has also been mentioned. The danger, of course, is where the punishment routine provides for an increase in the number as a reprisal for misconduct while the tanning itself is actually being given. Elaine's five years in the reformatory, under the old-fashioned law, would probably extend from adolescence to 18. One can well imagine the sort of discipline which the present law-and-order brigade might well want to administer to the bare checks of Elaine's strapping young tomboy bottom during such a period of detention.

Back to Mr Miles in the reformatory punishment-room back to the details which the pro-birchers would prefer you not to know....

After a number of uncounted strokes, the inevitable happens. A sizzling lash of the bamboo causes Elaine's sturdy young buttocks to clench frantically. As the impact swells, she tosses back her fair hair, cranes round at the witnesses in consternation, and yells out, 'One!'

The well-fed justices smile knowingly at this triumph of their power over her adolescent rebellion. The eventual submission of the victim is inevitable, but they prefer it when they have to wait. Mr Miles's mouth is set tight. The bamboo thrashes down with a pistol-crack report across the red cane-prints already branching across Elaine's backside. The sequel is predictable and easily imagined.

'Two! ... Three! ... Fo-o-o-ur! .... FI-I-I-VE! .... SIX! .... Please, not across there again! No! N-O-O-O! .... O-O-O-W! .... My BOTTOM! Oh, please count that one! Ple-e-e-e-ase! .... O-O-W-HOO-HOO-HOOO! .... SEVEN! .... E-E-E-Y-OW! .... OH, NO! NOT THERE AGAIN! .... AHH! .... EIGHT! .... NINE! .... No-o! Not there again! It isn't fair! .... Y-O-O-W! .... TEN!'

Does this sound-track show the unacceptable face of law-and-order? Remember, if the present proposal becomes law, much worse than this will be heard many times a day throughout the land. One can well believe that by this stage of the discipline, the fiery spread of Elaine's bottom-cheeks 'resembled a girl made to sit all day on a cruel thorn-bush infested by angry wasps!' However, those in parliament and the courts who support such proposals have considered all this and have decided that the type of punishment inflicted on Elaine and her kind is OK by them.

The rest of us, however, may wonder about the so-called 'healthy' effect of such reformatory discipline. By this stage of the tanning, Mr Miles is finding the front of his trousers uncomfortably tight. Small wonder that the French suggested he was having 'punishment fun' with Elaine. One can well believe that the lads from the adjoining boys' department would have risked their necks to reach the high barred windows on the outside. The master and justices were perhaps too busy to notice. Yet Elaine, as she craned round with eyes brimming and mouth howling, may have glimpsed the faces at the windows — wide-eyed and open mouthed, the lads' legs squirming to hold themselves high up as they peeped in on the scene. Healthy? Well, it beats jogging on the hard-shoulder.

So before we all go out and vote for the return of the good old system, let us consider some of the things it actually involves. Those who advocate it — without ever having seen it — give the impression that a reformatory tanning would he a clean, decent, thoroughly British occupation. Rather like a game of cricket with birch and rump — six strokes to the over. Stiff upper lip? If anything was stiff in the punishment-room it is not an upper lip.

Victorian hooks and magazines thrived on whippings, sport and imperialism. For instance, Miles was quite entitled to cane a girl like Elaine or Ange after breakfast, and then call her back for a second bambooing across her bare bottom after lunch. Were our ancestors shocked by this? Not a bit, it seems. The Captain, 'A Magazine for Boys and Old Boys', assured its readers that a second tanning an hour or two after the first was merely 'a second innings on a sticky wicket'. How England's upper crust chortled over the joke. One imagines the humour may have been lost on Elaine or Ange or Sal.

To begin with, the language in such chastisements as Elaine's is not at all the sort approved by the Viewers and Listeners Association for family entertainment. A vulgar young tomboy like Elaine, when stung beyond endurance, is apt to use terms you would not find in Jane Austen. After more than a dozen counted swipes of the cane across her bare bottom, even a sturdy youngster like Elaine is frantic from the lingering smart. Then there comes a wickedly-aimed stroke across the tender willow-pattern of bamboo already striping her backside. In a fury of anguish, Elaine twists her face round again, yelling, 'My arse! Oh, you bastards! You bastards!'

We can look forward to a good deal of this, if the new proposals become law. The supporters of official corporal punishment, like those supporting the capital variety, are apt to assure us that their method is quick and clean. That's great, as long as you're not the one who has to clean up afterwards.

The last phases of such a punishment are likely to be extremely undignified. A sturdy impudent adolescent girl, kneeling so tightly forward over the block, is not particularly well-placed to exercise psychological self-control under the cane. After a stroke wicked enough to raise goose-pimples, Elaine's tomboy bottom thrashes in a paroxysm of wild agony, and her lips scream profanities. The snub-nosed rebel turns the broad oval of her face to the witnesses, her mouth forming an 'Ooo!' of dismay at what she has so pitiably shrieked. She knows that such impudence qualifies for extra chastisement. Worse still, as her expression indicates to the judicial amusement of the witnesses, Elaine knows that in her present state the next smarting stroke may very well cause a repetition of her 'insolence', for which vengeance will be duly executed.

Supporters of the rod, of course, are quick to suggest that it would be 'different' nowadays. It's hard to see how. Certainly as one correspondent in the Daily Telegraph ('Caning of girls', 26 January 1976) pointed out, the female bottom would continue to be the target zone. 'After all, decorum has nothing to do with it, since the punishment is to be dished out by mistresses.'

That sounds fine until you read another report in the same newspaper on 25 May 1978, 'Home Office turns blind eye to lesbian warders'. And not just lesbian, in this account, but ladies with a taste for sexual violence. In one of its best exposés ever, the paper revealed how Anita Sasin, aged 22, alleged that she had been the victim of lesbian rape at Styal prison in Cheshire. The Home Office dismissed the allegation with customary smug imperturbability as 'Bizarre and untrue'. Unfortunately for the Home Office, Mrs Wynne Egerton, a senior officer at Styal, had the courage to disclose the true state of affairs in some female prisons. The Prison Department, she announced, 'turns a blind eye and retains in the service, staff who are known to be active lesbians, and even corrupt married women.'

So much for the soothing assurance that reformatory canings would be 'all right now' because girls like Elaine would be tanned by female officers. Just imagine two or three ladies of this ilk standing over the culprit as James Miles did, eager to let off some disciplinary steam. It will all be behind closed doors — and no questions asked afterwards. Even if the questions are asked, the Home Office will be able to tell us that the allegations are bizarre and untrue. Picture the scene, the culprit over the block and a good selection of canes in the rack. Can you imagine what would happen to the strapping young cheeks of Elaine's fifth-form bottom in the next half hour?

For the moment, though, you are still James Miles back in the last century. To Elaine's shrill and frantic protests that she can bear no more, you need only reply that she will be made to bear it away. No need to concern herself over that.

During the rest of the evening you ply the cane with the virtuoso skill of a concert pianist before your guests. Every 20 minutes or so, the door of the Red Room opens. One pretty miscreant leaves, rubbing her behind cheeks tearfully, and another is summoned. Sarah Barnes and Charlotte Burton may have praised your virtues at your trial, but that only makes you the more keen to instill a little virtue into them now. Perhaps you progress all the way up the age-range in your disciplinary zeal, all the way to flighty young women of 27 and 28.

Your guests depart, leaving you weary of arm and damp of brow. Time for a nightcap in your study and a quick count-up of the day's earnings. But, devoted public servant that you are, you cannot rest while duty remains undone. Surely when your time comes there will be a statue to your memory: 'James Miles, erected by the girls of Hoo reformatory'.

You have just recalled a sluttishness of behaviour by an impudent young woman of 25. You summon Jacqueline to your study. Under the short bell of blonde hair and fringe, Jackie has a pale sullen face, blue eyed and heavy jawed. As ordered, she is in white singlet and working-trousers of tight smooth denim. Long legs with trim thighs. The softness of breasts and hips suggests one furtive pregnancy.

You employ her in various casual chores first of all, which involve her in a good deal of bending over with her seat towards you. You decide her fate while pondering, in their skintight denim, the fattish cheeks of blonde Jackie's arse. All her sly attempts to seduce you from your duty fail. You are proof against such things.

Trousers and pants off, Jackie. Kneel on the sofa! Now kneel tightly forward over the padded back. Put your palms on the floor to take your weight. Such a pale plump pair of bottom-cheeks, Jackie! Why, you have escaped discipline far too long. I promise you, miss, my trusty bamboo shall soon alter that sad state of affairs! I shall send the matron in charge of your work a message to inform her that you will not be returning there tonight. In a moment, Jackie, the reformatory cane! Did you not guess it would be that when you were sent for? I do not believe I have ever had the opportunity to acquaint myself so well with your bottom before, Jackie! What a sluttish arrogance you must have showed as a shopgirl. Still, I can well understand why the customers were always asking for trinkets which obliged you to turn your back to the counter and bend to rummage in the lowest shelves! Keep that fat young backside of yours quite still, Jackie! No, don't tighten your seat-cheeks as I measure the bamboo across them. Disobedience will prolong the caning!'

A devoted public servant, it seems, knows no rest. And yet, if the French account is to be believed, there is a curious sequel to your busy day.

One morning, not too long afterwards, a party of girls in singlets and trousers is tending the garden outside your study window. Your desk at which you are working stands in the bay of the window, giving you an excellent view. Elaine is there, tightly clad in white singlet and working-trousers of smooth lavender-blue material which are very, very tight-fitting. The cause of this is partly the broad leather waist-belt drawing them in so narrowly. Also the trousers are really too small for her sturdy hips and seat. Indeed, from the rear, the outline of Elaine's well-filled seat is an almost perfect circle — across the back of her waist, out round the flanks of her hips, and under her buttocks.

As you work at your papers, Elaine takes her place at the flower-bed a few feet beyond the glass. She turns her back to you to begin her allotted task of weeding. You are bound to glance up from your correspondence occasionally at her sturdy adolescent buttocks straining the tight smooth trouser-cloth. Once, at least, she stares back at you over her shoulder, the lank fair hair from its central parting framing the broad oval of her face, the snub nose, narrow eyes, and thin defiant mouth.

Then she bends over to weed. By now you are having real trouble with your correspondence. You look up and there, three feet away, you are confronted by the sturdy thighs, the broadened young cheeks of Elaine Cox's fifth-form bottom once more. No one can truly blame you for leaning forward on your elbows and staring with lips tightly pursed at the view beyond the glass! The impudent tomboy is bending right over and, it seems, deliberately thrusting the spread-cheeked seat of her lavender-blue tight trousers in your face!

Understandably, you do not get round to your correspondence. Your lips are rounded with a sharp intake of breath and your eyes gleam at the smooth seat-cloth drawn splittingly tight as the youngster bends. Vulgarly filled and fattened by this posture are the strapping young cheeks of Elaine's bottom. You hold the paperweight in one hand and polish it vigorously but absent-mindedly. From time to time, the insolent youngster tosses back her fair hair and cranes round at you. She shifts a little but deliberately stays bending to confront you with her broadened young bum-cheeks, all morning long. Under the straining trouser-seat, Elaine's arse-cheeks are wantonly and suggestively parted by her posture.

Yet Elaine is deliberately idling, showing you that she has not pulled up a weed all morning. There can only be one outcome to this. At the end of the session, you summon her for a study-tanning.

'You're really in trouble this time, Elaine,' you say smilingly as you escort her in. The other girls stare aghast at her boldness.

Elaine on the sofa this time, kneeling tightly forward over the scroll at the end. Once again those trousers are beautifully tight over the cheeks of her sturdy young backside. Down come the trousers to her knees with Elaine's pants inside them. The afternoon lies ahead of you, the doors are locked, and no tales will be told afterwards.

Why did Elaine invite such retribution? She certainly did not enjoy the strokes. Mr Miles was the only man in her life, of course, and perhaps this form of undressing was the nearest thing to sex she could get? Perhaps his mind would turn to other things? Alas, there is no evidence that he even thought of it! Perhaps Elaine was angry on another girl's behalf. That might account for one incident but not her general conduct.

The likely truth is so obvious one overlooks it. Elaine was bully of the reformatory — like a gangland boss among humble cons. Instead of constant fights which she would one day lose, she held her authority by taking public discipline which other girls quailed at. Hence the incurring of extra strokes while she could still bear them — in order to display a more battered bottom! Hence the deliberate defiance of the master during the garden detail where other girls could see. She was one of those who, as the Telegraph put it on 15 October 1979, 'bare their weals with pride.' Like another problem pupil described by the same paper on 15 January 1976, Elaine 'enjoyed being caned and went back for more.' Like Mr Miles's fifth-form tomboy, this pupil too 'attacked teachers... disrupted classes, defied all rules.' What seems like incredible behaviour by a reformatory girl was all too credible!

Last of all, let us concede that there may well be a case for the return of judicial caning and birching. But certain questions must first be answered which are carefully not discussed in the press advocating it. In a democracy punishments cannot be restricted to one group. Therefore in a modern Miles reformatory there will, basically, be two types of offender. One is the defiant adolescent tomboy of Elaine's sort. The other — for the law in this area always extends to sexual immorality in the end — will be the promiscuous older woman in her middle or late twenties. For such a female, well-established in her waywardness, no other remedy could be appropriate. My story Lesley: Behind Closed Doors in Janus 13, described the case of one such girl.

If reformatories like James Miles' flourish again, readers of Janus may well be among the applicants to become master! There will be many more girls than Elaine and Lesley. Yet the questions which will have to be answered apply very much to their types.

1. Should offenders be sent to the reformatory for a set period and a set number of birchings or strokes? Or should their stay and punishments be decided by the staff there? The old law would require Elaine's presence until the age of 18. Would 6 or 12 months be sufficient for a promiscuous young wife like Lesley?

2. Should tannings be with or without witnesses? Elaine's strapping young fifth-form bottom will naturally get private study canings as well as in front of staff or other girls. Lesley, a liberated young woman, will suffer some humiliation if caned bare-bottomed before witnesses. To avoid this she must bend her urchin-crop and present her firm pale buttocks to her chastiser alone. A real disciplinarian will want to deal very strictly indeed with a trendy young libber who has ditched her marital responsibilities in order to sleep around. Is the risk of extra chastisement justified by saving Lesley a more public shame?

3. Should buttocks be clothed during tanning? Translucent tights over Lesley's bottom-cheeks will be torn by birch or cane. Lesley's black stretch-briefs — like Elaine's white ones — may impede the thrashing and conceal its effects from the person who gives it, which could be dangerous.

4. What punishment posture? Traditionally, Elaine would kneel over a block or lie on the sofa. Lesley's firm pale bottom-moons would be shown while she bent over a tall stool. Should this change?

5. What instrument should be used? Traditionally a birch for a tomboy, a cane or even whipcord on the bottom for an adulterous young wife like Lesley. Few angry husbands have a birch in the house!

6. Should the strokes be set before punishment? What incidents during chastisement require one to reduce — or increase — the number? Should a more absolute obedience be expected from Lesley under correction than from a youngster like Elaine?

7. Should tannings also be awarded and given by subordinate staff? If so, would Lesley or Elaine bend for the master's inspection and the tanning take place later? This guards against unsupervised discipline and ensures fitness for the ordeal. Yet it also ensures 24 hours of 'butterflies in the tummy' and a sleepless night for the young lady in question.

8. With up to a dozen years between age-groups, should severity of punishment differ? Do we accept that Lesley's experience of lovers, marriage, childbearing, makes her more maturely able, physically and emotionally, to endure severe discipline than even a robust tomboy?

Should her greatest feeling of humiliation be taken into account?

9. Would you find work in a reformatory for Elaine and the tomboys or work in one for Lesley and the libbers more rewarding? Try a simple test. You are offered one of two jobs. The way to one lies through a room to the left, the other by a room to the right.

To the left, young Elaine kneels over the block, stretch-briefs down, blouse tail pulled up. Tossing back her lank fair hair she cranes round at you with that snub-nosed insolence which has put her where she is just now. The full pale cheeks of her tomboy bottom are broadly presented. Cane and triple-switched birch lie close by.

To the right, 28-year-old Lesley bends tightly forward over a tall stool, with an air of peevish resentment. The straight fair hair, urchin cropped, is shaped close to her head from the high crown to the jawline. Her blue eyes are dismissive, her fair-skinned features firmly disdainful, her mouth and chin sulky as a spoilt little girl. The short white singlet ends at her waist. Lesley's stretch-briefs and tights lie on the tiled floor. Her long legs, trim from cycling and other exercises, lead up to the proud firming out of the pale moons of Lesley's bottom.

Desertion of marital duties is no longer approved of as 'a woman's right'. Birch and cane lie waiting, together with a short woven pony-lash. Parliament has reinstated Sir James Stephens's ruling. The number of strokes, the instrument used, the frequency of whippings, the removal of panties, will be entirely at the discretion of Lesley's chastiser. A year or two will reform her ways.

Do you turn right or left? The questions are academic. What matters is the answers — and the answers must be yours, aided perhaps by the example of James Miles, the Man with the Golden Rod.

A Fireside Chat

2012-01-15T08:03:00.000-08:00

Story from Blushes 06.

A Fireside Chat

Three ducks in echelon angle their stiff-winged flight up a chimney breast; a silver framed photograph looks blankly and obliquely across a small suburban sitting room; a television newscaster delivers his uninspiring account of the days happenings – silently, because the sound knob on the television has been turned down – and he smiles a half-convincing goodnight into two million homes. Ignored by these silent witnesses, a frantically sobbing girl blubbers pathetic pleas for "n-n-no more, please – please, Uncle – ooogh!"

In a fender-guarded hearth, a knight in brazen armour watches po-faced and clutches his fire-tending implements, unmoved by the tearful girl's plight as she tosses her head back an instant after a solid-sounding slap rings loud in the curtained room. Blonde hair dashes across flaming cheeks which have been heated as much by breathlessness and humiliation as by proximity to the hearth and its glowing coals; "I don't think you've had quite enough yet!"

The final word coincides with another firm slap and the girl snatches forward across her guardian's lap – whom she calls "uncle" because he prefers her to – impelled by the sudden thrusting of her toes against the floor.

Halfway down the girl's scissoring thighs, a pair of navy school knickers cling to her legs. Rucking and then stretching as she kicks in near panic; "I'll decide" – Another stinging spank, "– when this naughty little bottom's –" another one, just as hard – "had what it needs!"

The girl's flinching, jerking bumcheeks shiver from the impact of what might be their eightieth or ninetieth smack; twenty or more bum-reddening spanks later those crimson blotched buttocks are squirming uncontrollably and her sobs and pleadings have become squeals of helpless anguish; "Get up!"

A knee thuds on the floor; black school shoes scuff their toes against the carpet and groping fingers clutch at the drooping navy knickers. The girl kneels between her uncle's knees with tears rolling down her cheeks; her buttocks still quiver as she drags her pants up, hoping against hope that a spanking is all the punishment she's to be given this evening. Her uncle still holds her green tartan skirt up to her waist; his words dash that forlorn hope;

"Leave them where they are, Rachel!"

"Oooo!" the knickers 'sloosh' down her legs again. Practised fingers slip the fastening on the skirt's waistband and it unfolds from around her hips. Pale maiden-hair catches the light; Rachel squeezes her plump, damask-skinned thighs together and licks unconsciously at her lips. "Come on then!"

"Please –" a sharp and unexpected slap stings the side of her leg. "Ooow!" The naked buttocks tweak together then bob apart; slender, fumbling fingers yank at a blouse button whilst other hands loosen the tie at her neck. The knot is pulled loose even as Rachel is tugging at the next button up. The narrow end of the tie flicks her cheek as the knot comes undone; the tie 'whisks' from under her collar and another slap whacks against the same thigh.

Rachel tugs at the third button while a small pot of enormous significance is taken down from the mantel-piece.

The third button comes undone and instantly the one next above it pulls out from its buttonhole too. With a robust bounce Rachel's tits spring into view as the "helping hands" wangle the last button free. "Knickers right down!"

The girl pushes her pants down to knee level and they rest their thick navy folds across her calves. The blouse is yanked up over her head, her hands having to go with it, trapped by the still-fastened cuff buttons. "Stupid!"

One button is unfastened but the other doesn't survive the impatience of Rachel's uncle's fiddling; it drops unheeded to the carpet and the girl's hands float up towards her head, which is where hands have to be when they are not to be allowed to interfere with further proceedings. "Turn around!"

"Please – please!" But she turns, stumping round on her knees, catching another bum-jiggling smack on her left cheek as she comes sideways on. "Over –".

"Please –!" with her knees close together, Rachel bends forward until her elbows are touching the floor; her hands are still on her head, her tender-looking bottom sticks up helplessly. But not enough – "Come on Rachel – do it properly!"

She hollows her back; her spanked bottom tautens into a tighter bent-over curve and juts up under his very nose. Rachel's tears dampened cheeks flame with the natural result of this last humiliation. Fingers press sideways at her inside thighs; she swallows a nervous gulp and inches her knees as far apart as they will go, her knickers stretching taut between her legs. The faintly heard sound of the top being unscrewed from the pot makes the girl gulp again: "Oh please – please don't –!"

Her eyes widen suddenly; she breaths in at the touch of the expected yet still startling chill; "Ooooh-no-no-no!" Then again; she screws up her eyes and gasps. When she opens them again her cheeks are blushing almost as vibrantly crimson as is her still-smarting bottom. "Turn around!"

She straightens up from the floor and bumps around on her knees, her hands still on her head, her breasts wobbling as she turns, their nipples stiffening all at once without apparent reason. He is crinkling a plastic-enveloped packet.

"Open". She puts out her tongue for the small, insignificant seeming pill; the taste of the jelly is still on his fingers. She crunches the pill between her teeth and pulls a wry face at the tang which it and the jelly leave in her mouth.

"You're supposed to swallow it, not bite it." The packet rustles again. "You'd better have another one". For once he is patient; she's still learning.

She opens her mouth again and gulps and swallows until he's sure it's gone down. "Right, you can get up."

Rachel gets to her feet, inelegantly; her knickers slip slowly down her calves. Every stitch of clothing she has on is now at ankle level or lower; knickers, socks, shoes. He holds out his hand for her knickers, not needing to tell her. She lifts one foot then the other; the pants catch for an instant on the buckle of her shoe before she can surrender them. "Upstairs, my girl! End of your bed, pillows under your tummy, face down. Shoo!"

Rachel "shoos", her bum wagging behind her, buttocks hot and bothered-looking. She looks back nervously from the doorway and then scampers upstairs.

By the time she is settling herself across the end of her high-standing bed, Rachel's cheeks are wet again with fresh tears. She stuffs the pillows tightly under her tummy and stretches her legs apart until she can feel either edge of the rug at the bottom of her bed under the toe of each shoe. Footsteps sound on the stairs. She spreads her feet wider until the muscles in her thighs and calves are taut. She hollows her back and tilts her bottom up so that she'll be as humiliatingly positioned as possible when he comes through the door ready to be given the rest of her "punishment" without further fuss. Against all the omens she hopes that he'll do no more than make her disgrace herself on the tips of his tantalising fingers; the facts are, though, that since her sixteenth birthday these "end of the bed" punishments have been somewhat stiffer. Rachel crosses her fingers when she'd much rather be allowed to cross her legs and holds her breath in case that was the sound of an unzipping fly –

The Tutor

2012-01-14T03:12:00.000-08:00

Story from Roue 05.

The Tutor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'S-sir?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sir?'

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

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

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

'So you have no explanation?'

'N-no sir. I — I'm sorry —'

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

Sarah cringes inwardly and clings pathetically to her raised skirt.

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

'Er — I think it's kn-knickers sir.'

'And what is the object?'

'Um — 'me' sir? I mean 'I'?'

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

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

'Do you agree, Sarah?'

'I — I — I don't know sir.'

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

'Come here.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Now stay like that!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Haven't we, Sarah?'

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

'B-bottoms up is the —'

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

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

'Bottoms up is the what, Sarah?'

'Nnngh — the — the golden rule!'

'That's right.'

Swhack!

'Ooow! Oh — n-no — !'

'Go on Sarah.'

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

Swhitt!

'Oough! Owwooo — !'

'Will not learn — ?'

'A-a-at school! Ooh, s-sir, please —'

'That's right Sarah. And — ?'

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

Whack!!

'Oooooow-oooh-hooo — !'

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

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

'Go on please —'

The telephone on the desk rings startlingly.

Whack!!

'Go on please Sarah!'

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

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

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

'Good evening,' says the tutor.

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

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

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

'Yes, yes, that's Sarah — pardon?'

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

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

The phone clatters back onto its cradle.

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

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

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

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

The cane taps insistently on her bright pink buttocks.

'Legs straight Sarah!'

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

'Now carry on —'

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

'An-and bottoms b-bare —'

Swhipp!!

'Oooow-oooh — no, please!'

Whack!!

'Ooooogh! Mmnnngh!'

'And bottoms bare —' coaxes the tutor.

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

Thwack!!

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

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

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

Unprompted, Sarah gabbles out the rest of the line.

'For swishy canes to smack and sting —'

Thwappp!!

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

'So naughty girls —'

'Unngh — so n-naughty girls like —'

Whack!!

'OOW! OOOGH!'

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

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

Thwack!!!

'Oooooo-ooh — plee-please!'

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

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

Whack!!

'— CRY!! OOOOGH! OOW-OOO!'

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

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

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

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

'Mmmngh — y-y —'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah stammers her reply.

'Y-yes uncle George.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheeks Aflame

2012-01-13T08:26:00.000-08:00

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.3.

Cheeks Aflame

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in her hand she held the diary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Charles, no!"

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

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

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

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

"Answer – ANSWER, Pamela!" he gritted.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perennial Detention

2012-01-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

Story from Janus 12.

Perennial Detention
by William R. Scholes

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

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

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

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

Carol was still feeling aggrieved when she reached home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carol started to explain. 'But — '

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carol gasped, 'Six!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Struggling!' declared Father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'One,' intoned Father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crisis

2012-01-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

Story from Roue 05.

Crisis

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

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

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

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

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

'Jenny?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Kneel up on it stupid!'

'Ooh – s-sorry.'

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

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

'Now then, keep still –'

Thwack!!

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

Whack!!

'Oooh – oow – !!'

Crack!!

'Oooooow –'

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

Thwack!!

Jenny felt the sobs come bubbling up in her throat.

'Ooooh – ooh – hoo – !'

Whack!

'Oooooo – ooogh!'

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

'Pardon?' said Uncle Tom, attention elsewhere.

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

Whack!!

'OOOW – OOO!'

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

Smack!

'OOH – OOO – HOOOO!'

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

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

'AHHH – AAA –'

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

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

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

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

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

'There, there –'

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

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

'P-pardon? S-stay with – ?'

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

'I-I didn't know she was going –'

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

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

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

2012-01-10T07:52:00.000-08:00

Story from Februs 24.

When Adam met Sarah
by Sam Ramsey

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What do you mean, too late?'

'You just are...'

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

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

'Ouch, that hurt.'

'Perhaps it was meant to.'

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Sarah – you know I love you.'

'I know,' she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

'I'll be home about eight tomorrow.'

'I've missed you.'

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

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

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

'Be ready!' said Adam with mock sternness.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

'It's so good to see you.'

'You too: it seems weeks not days.'

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

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

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

'Is this what I think it is?'

'Try it!'

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

'You look wonderful!'

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

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

'I have a confession.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Kneel down,' he murmurs gruffly.

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

* * *

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

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

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

Episode 2