The Bottom Drawer

Story from Privilege Plus 12.

The Bottom Drawer
by Sarah Veitch

Ryka smiled as she selected the nightgown she would wear on her impending honeymoon. It was three long days till she married Thomas. Three days until her traditional English wedding took place! Again the Russian girl looked at the book on marriage customs which she'd bought, and read of lucky horseshoes and rice and confetti. It was all very different to the Russian village where she'd been raised.

"What are you thinking, dear?" Thomas asked her now. He was a mature, intelligent man who, at thirty five, was fifteen years her senior. He'd been her boss at the translations publisher where she'd worked since coming to Britain two years before. Now she hoped he'd also be her boss in the master bedroom, for that was what she suspected she would most enjoy. Her mother had told her little of such intimate matters. So far Thomas had kissed and caressed her but he hadn't presumed...

"I'm wondering which of your English customs you'll want to adopt on Saturday, and thinking of Russian wedding customs," she said, loving the strict smart lines of his formal suit. She so wanted to please.

"I've heard of one old Russian custom," Thomas said slowly. His gaze seemed to become more assessing. "On her wedding night, the Russian bride would be told to choose from a pair of shoes which her bridegroom had left peeking out from under the marital bed. One of them was empty, the other contained a coiled whip." He smiled, then kissed the top of her head in an avuncular gesture. "If she chose the shoe with the whip, she got a taste of it right away."

"And have you bought the shoes?" Ryka murmured, aware of a slight blush colouring her usually pale strong features.

"I have," her fiancé murmured. "So now you must buy the whip." The next day Ryka shyly set off with a very special shopping list. Thomas had written down all the details. He walked determinedly by her side. "I will blush all the time that I'm doing this," she said.

"But it will also excite you," Thomas answered. He took her hand and pressed it lightly. "I'll consider it an act of pure love."

The first two words on the list read 'Riding Shop'. Thomas drove Ryka there and they entered the premises.

"My mare's being skittish. I need a whip to calm her down," he said.

The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow. "Obviously we're not in favour of excessive punishment."

"Nor am I, sir," Thomas replied.

The man brought a selection of whips and placed them in turn in Thomas's hands. He flicked each through the air, then handed them to Ryka. She fingered the knotted cords of nylon braid and new-cut leather. Finally she chose a fibre-glass dressage whip.

"Shall I wrap it?" the assistant asked softly.

Thomas ran the riding crop through his fingers. "No, I'll be using it very soon," he said with an anticipatory wink.

The next item on the list read 'Cook's Store'.

"At least they'll just think I'm going to be baking!" Ryka murmured. "Your bum will be baking if you're naughty," Thomas replied. Ryka blushed and dipped her head for a moment, then gave him a loving little kiss. She knew that men sometimes lovingly chastened their women as part of a consensual erotic arrangement. But hearing him talk like that – and imagining such discipline – still made her go red.

The Cook's Store held everything an amateur chef might need. It also contained the implements which Ryka had been ordered to buy for her own small bottom. Nervously she selected a long wooden spatula and a paddle-sized wooden spoon. Again, Thomas said that there was no need to wrap the thick smooth punishers. "This gives a whole new meaning," he said, "to a girl setting up her bottom drawer!"

Thirdly, Thomas drove her to the maths department of a large scholastic store. There Ryka examined wooden and plastic rulers. When no one was watching, Thomas swished first the plastic and then the wooden one against her skirt-clad cheeks.

"Which hurt the most, love?" he asked consideringly.

"The second one, I think!" Ryka stammered, thrown by the public nature of the lash. Her soft high bottom tingled and the curve between her legs gave an answering lurch. She put the plastic measurer back on the shelf then turned towards the counter.

"Remember," he added, "that when you next feel the ruler you won't be wearing a skirt or underslip or pants."

Finally they made their way to a very adult shop. The two men serving there obviously recognised Thomas.

"Not got Liz with you?" one of them asked.

"We broke up last year," Thomas said.

"So what can we do for you?" the man continued.

"Liz took all our equipment with her. Ryka's here to buy new stuff," Ryka's fiancé replied.

And buy new stuff she did! Ryka dipped her head prettily as the men brought out long whippy canes and Scottish tawses and razor strops and laid them out on the long glass counter. The assistants whisked the thin rattans through the air to show her how they'd sound before they made contact with her completely bare bum. "This one leaves a thin red line, whereas this type creates a wide pink band which glows for longer," the oldest man said with relish. No wonder they called discipline the English vice!

"I think we'd like this rattan," Ryka said nervously at last. She noticed Thomas looking longingly at the leather instruments. "And a four-tailed tawse," she added haltingly, glad to see lust and gratitude entering his eyes. Thomas put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.

"I'll be firm with you," he whispered, "but I'll also be scrupulously fair."

The wedding went well, and at last Ryka's honeymoon night began in earnest. She walked to the hotel's large bridal suite, wondering what awaited her therein. She'd never had full intimacy or even undressed before the opposite gender! And she'd no idea if she could bear the whip or ruler or the tawse.

Thomas was already in the room, putting his suit jacket on a hanger. He rolled up his sleeves then smiled at her expectantly. "Ryka, would you like to choose a shoe?" he asked, indicating his new bride's side of the bed. Ryka looked down. Two black glossy toes peeped out at her. There was no way of telling which was empty and which was full.

"I'll take the right one," she murmured, drawing it out.

She saw immediately that it contained a small coiled whip, a sort of lightweight riding crop. Taking it from its lair, she handed it to Thomas then stepped back.

"You can taste the whip or choose whichever implement you prefer," he offered. Remembering how he'd obviously liked the leather goods, Ryka opted for the four-tailed tawse.

"Fetch it from the suitcase now, and bring it to me," Thomas ordered. He smiled more gently. "When we get home we'll keep such implements in your bottom drawer."

"And will we use them often?" Ryka whispered, her trepidation increasing as the moment of her punishment drew nearer.

"We'll use them whenever the situation warrants it," Thomas said. Then he smiled. "For now you're to be disciplined to maintain the old Russian custom. That is, because you chose the shoe with the disciplinary implement in it you'll get a taste of the tawse." He looked thoughtful, as if remembering her transgressions. "And I'm also going to chasten you for hesitating when it came to buying these self-same punishment tools."

"I was shy about approaching the shopkeepers," Ryka murmured, with an apologetic wince. "I was uncertain."

"Perhaps you'll be more certain when you've a hot sore bottom to sit on," her new husband said.

Ryka looked nervously at him. Next, she looked down at the leather tawse she was still holding.

"Hand me the implement and then lie on your tummy on the bed," Thomas bade. The Russian bride did so, her movements jerky. She wondered how she'd feel about what came next.

"Lift your dress up above your waist," her spouse continued. Ryka reached her small ringed hands back and pulled at her hem until the ankle-length brocade skirt moved away from her haunches. She knew that her equally long petticoat still remained in place.

"Now raise your underskirt," Thomas said. Ryka did so, then felt her husband adjusting the material so that it would stay folded over her back. "Which garment do you think comes off now, Ryka?" he murmured exultantly.

"My panties, sir," Ryka said.

There was a pause. Ryka reminded herself that she was married now, that such acts were allowable. Still she felt very vulnerable and a little scared. "Oh dear, I requested a bare bum and I'm still looking at a fully clothed bum," Thomas said softly. "I'll have to redden it more fully for failing to obey."

"Please don't! It's not that I don't want to... It's just..." After a few more moments of internal struggle, Ryka slowly pulled down her lace-trimmed pants. She lay there on her tummy, knowing that her new husband was staring down at her newly-bared bottom. A bottom that had never before been tawsed or paddled or whipped.

"Good girl," Thomas murmured. She felt the mattress give as he knelt on one side of the bed and pulled back one arm. Ryka knew without looking that that arm contained the tawse. "Would you like to count each stroke out loud and thank me for it?" he asked softly. Ryka nodded into the pillow, but didn't speak. "I'll have a verbal answer, if you please," her new spouse continued. "Good communication is vital between husband and wife."

"Yes, sir," Ryka answered, her feelings of desire and degradation increasing. She pushed her legs more tightly together and waited for the lash to fall. Suddenly heat sizzled across both twitching buttocks. This was a veritable brand! This was lightning in the form of leather! Ryka gasped loudly and started to scramble up from the bed.

"Going someplace?" Thomas asked.

She looked at his face. It showed both sadness and disappointment. "N...no, sir," she gasped out.

Slowly the girl flattened herself to the mattress again. Her hands fluttered by her waist, half wanting to cover her bare bottom.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you gripped the lower rung of the headrest," her thoughtful spouse said. The Russian bride did. The tactile certainty of the wood somehow helped her to control herself. Still, she sucked in her breath as she waited for the second searing stroke.

When it fell, it went lower than lash one. It licked the tender crease at the top of her thighs, and seemed to reverberate through to her belly. Ryka groaned and shook her hips from side to side.

"Only four more to go," Thomas said, "then we'll move on to the second stage of your punishment."

Registering his words, Ryka groaned again. She tried to avoid her next sore taste of the tawse.

"I've accepted the tawse to please you, sir. Can't we go on to the Russian whipping custom?" She hoped that the whip would sting much less.

"We probably could have," Thomas replied. "If you hadn't failed to obey me when I told you to take down your panties. That's why you're due six hard strokes of the tawse."

Ryka nodded into the pillows. She knew that this thrashing would ultimately make her less coy, would help bring her womanly urges to the surface. Her fantasies had always been of dominant older men. That said, it still took lots of willpower for her to ask her spouse nicely for the third tawse lash. When it came, it scorched across the centre of her naked globes. All four leather tongues seemed to flicker out their smarting impact.

"Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!" the Russian girl whimpered. She rolled wildly on to her back, both palms cupping her reddened bum.

After rubbing her tender flesh for a few moments, she recovered herself and peeked curiously over at her man. He was still holding the tawse and was looking down at her impassively.

"It hurts," Ryka said in a plaintive little voice.

"Of course it hurts. It's punishment," her beloved answered.

"But it's our wedding night. We should have... we should have pleasure," Ryka cut in.

"And the pleasure will be all the more strong due to this bum-based stimulus," Thomas replied knowingly. He touched her in her most intimate place till she almost swooned with yearning. Desperate once more to please him she rolled back on to her tummy, presenting him with her hot red arse.

Her husband fondled that same arse for a moan-making moment whilst she forced herself to grip on to the bed's wooden headboard. Then he picked up the tawse and brought it down across her tendensed underswell. Before Ryka could cry out, he'd raised the punisher again and whacked it further up her jerking bottom. Then he placed the final stroke nearer the top of her heated bum.

"Aaah!" Ryka gasped out. Her hands flew back to massage her rump cheeks, but her husband caught her wrists and held them away.

"No, no, my dear. I want you to contemplate how vulnerable your bum is after it's felt the lash. You mustn't protect it."

"Couldn't I just hold it for a second, sir?" Ryka whispered throatily.

"No, but you can come and look at it in the mirror before it receives its whipping," Thomas said.

Curious, Ryka started to rise up from the bed, obediently keeping her hands away from her bare buttocks. As she moved, her skirt and petticoats started to fall down. Helpfully, Thomas took hold of the hems and put them between her nervous fingers. "Keep them up above your waist, sweetheart. We want to be able to see the bottom that we're still chastising," he said.

"Yes, sir," Ryka murmured hesitantly. Part of her wanted to see how crimson her virgin haunches were, to admire her own courage. The other part felt flustered and ashamed.

With Thomas's hand on her upper arm, she marched towards the full-length mirror. There she turned so that her bare bottom faced the glass. Then Ryka took a deep breath and peeked over her shoulder at the chastened orbs.

"They're really red, aren't they?" she whispered, feeling a sense of pride and self-discovery as she surveyed both scarlet hemispheres.

"These little cheeks are about to get even redder," Thomas said.

He walked over to where the whip lay coiled on the floor. Its clean dark lines looked sleek and almost pretty. "Would you like to kiss it, my dear?"

Ryka nodded and pressed her lips slackly against the slender braid. "Shall I hold on to the bedrail again?" she muttered huskily.

"I think so. But we'll put a pillow under your tummy first to make your bottom a more obvious target," her husband said.

Ryka held her breath as he pushed a pillow in place. It tilted her body slightly so that her bum felt even more vulnerable. "Let's see how this works out," Thomas said. The Russian girl felt the bed move and the air currents change and knew that the first whip-stroke was imminent. She wondered how it would feel on already sensitised buttock-flesh.

A moment later she knew that it felt incisively sore! She yelled and rubbed at her cheeks and shoved her belly into the bolster.

"Oh dear. You touched your sore bum without permission; now I'll have to use another pillow," Thomas told her, voice holding a frown. Again the mattress moved, then the girl felt a second pillow being added to the first, raising her globes still further. A moment later she felt the whip connect with her tenderised rump again.

"Aah! How many more?" she gasped out plaintively.

"You mean, 'How many more, sir?'," Thomas corrected. "Respect goes so quickly from a marriage nowadays!"

As if in answer, he applied the riding crop for the third sore time. Ryka howled and drummed her feet against the bed and puckered up the main muscles in her bottom. "Untense that bare arse! I like to whip a nice smooth canvas," her husband said.

Pleasing him would ultimately mean more pleasure for herself so, with difficulty, Ryka obeyed him. She forced her bum to lie still, if not exactly relaxed. God, it was hot! She wanted to smooth cool body lotion into her twin rotundities. She wanted her man to kiss the pain away.

But the kisses would come after the olde worlde Russian whipping. Ryka reminded herself that she'd agreed to this chastisement for their marriage's greater good.

"Please use the whip on my haunches again, sir," she said raggedly.

"Haunches is too coy a word for a married woman," Thomas said.

Ryka twisted her head back to look at him. "I don't understand. What words do you... which words are proper?"

"Say 'I've been a disobedient young wench, sir, and I deserve to get a red hot arse for causing trouble'," Thomas bade.

Eyes downcast, Ryka repeated the words. They set up a fluttering in the secret core below her belly. She so wanted the initiation into womanhood to begin!

"Yes, you're a naughty girl who won't escape whipping," Thomas continued, raising the riding crop. He flicked it against the crease where bum meets thigh. "Where do you think you should get the next lash?" he continued in a conversational voice.

"Anywhere but there, sir!" Ryka replied fervently, still feeling the newest line of erotic anguish. Obligingly, Thomas applied the lash further up. At last he set down the whip and fondled her glowing small buttocks.

"What should I use on you," he whispered, "the next time that you fail to please?"

Ryka thought of the implements they'd bought so far and imagined their effect on her bare bottom. "The wooden spoon which doubles as a paddle, sir," she said excitedly.

"And how will you be displayed for your punishment?" Thomas continued.

"With a..." Ryka writhed about on her tummy, still loath to say the words. "With a completely bare arse."

She felt Thomas's lips brush her hair. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant will you lie on the bed or bend over the dressing table or...?"

Ryka envisaged various punitive options which all involved pulling down her pants. "Over the kitchen stool, sir," she said a little breathlessly, remembering the whipping-stools they'd seen in the adult shop.

"And will you count each swish of the paddle out loud after you've received it?" her man continued.

"Yes, sir. And I'll ask nicely for the next!" Ryka said.

"Good girl," Thomas murmured. He turned her over and took her into his arms, his fingers caressing. And Ryka knew that she wouldn't have to ask for anything else.

A Madcap At Benningdean

Story from Privilege Plus 01.

A Madcap At Benningdean
by Glen Fairlight

'ARE you nervous?'

'Nervous?' The second girl in line, Rosamund Clarkson, giggled – but the laughter failed to reach her sparkling green eyes. 'Did you say ner-ner-ner...?'

A brief shriek, then a gulp, from Lisa Fenchurch, last of the three still waiting in the corridor outside the closed door. She too had large lustrous eyes, more blue than green, though like the two girls to her left she had long thick hair the colour of dark honey, held back from her forehead by a plain white braid.

'Shut up, you two,' she pleaded, 'or I'll wet my knickers.'

'What, your regulation navy-blues?' said the first girl, Gilly Sands, whose eyes were brown. 'Shame on you!'

'I'd commit murder for a fag,' moaned Rosamund. 'How many's been in so far?'

'Six. We're the last.'

Rosamund frowned a little worriedly. 'D'you think it'll hurt?'

'Of course it'll bloody hurt,' Gilly snorted. 'That's the whole bloody point of all this, isn't it? Believe me, if I didn't need the money...'

Rosamund put a hand behind herself, leaned forward and slapped her own bottom over the old-fashioned tartan school skirt. 'Hmm, hardly felt that.' She fumbled under the folds and slapped again. The muffled clap was surprisingly loud.

'Owp!' she owped. 'That hurt.' She grinned uneasily. 'At least I now know how a Scotsman feels inside his kilt.'

'Let me assure you,' said Gilly, 'that no way does a Scotsman feel anything like that inside his kilt.'

'Speaking from hard experience, are we?' Lisa smiled. 'If you think a little tap like that hurt, Rosie, they'll be scraping you off the ceiling before they've even got the punishment book out.'

In the preparation mirror on the wall opposite they saw again how similar each looked to the other. The school uniforms helped, of course – tartan pleated skirts of the 1920s hung to below their knees, a fawn sash tied around each slender waist, shapely calves respectably clad in grey hose. Gleaming black shoes completed the picture.

'Just look at us – we could be triplets,' said Gilly. 'Hate the tie, don't you?'

'I feel like a flippin' flapper!' This from Rosamund, trying to hide her nervousness and failing.

Only Lisa seemed relatively serene at the prospect ahead. 'You will be flapping in a minute,' she grinned. 'When I knew we were up for this I read the book.'

'A Madcap At Benningdean?' said Rosamund. 'Stupid title.'

'It's a right bodice-ripper. You should read it. Had me reaching into my knickers more than once. What we're up for today is what happens to the heroine after she's caught breaking into the headmistress's study to nick the exam results. Cor!'

'Sounds like a real yawn,' said Gilly.

'You won't be yawning soon. In the book they used a birch. Fifteen across the crown of her jacksie, knickers down.'

'What?' Rosamund stared, eyes saucering. 'I thought it was going to be a couple of quick ones with a cane over our skirts.'

'We'll find out for sure soon enough.'

They fell silent, lost in renewed contemplation. The mirror reflected three radiantly lovely young women, supposedly eighteen but each in their early twenties, bodies limber and gym-toned, each around the requisite five-foot-five and eight-stone-three, haltered breasts gently outswelling the starched cotton blouses under the grey school blazer, with the Benningdean School badge emblazoned on each top pocket, striped school ties neatly knotted at their throats.

The door beside them clicked open and a young woman in identical uniform to theirs tottered out, frantically clutching the seat of her skirt.

'Fuck me!' she gasped, turning a scarlet, tear-soaked face towards them. 'It's sodding murder! Audition? – this is for real!' She gave a choking wail and lurched off, fingers kneading her burning behind.

Rosamund gaped in horror after the sobbing figure as it disappeared towards the toilets. A thickset woman in her thirties peered round the door, greying hair trained down over her forehead to hide the lines.

'Gilly Sands?'

Gilly gulped. 'Er, suppose so.' The woman held the door wider and the girl walked past her into the room. A murmur of voices, an inner door opened and closed, then silence.

'And then there were two,' Lisa murmured.

'I'm surprised you can be so casual about it,' Rosamund said. 'I'm not worried about showing the goods – that's par for the course these days. But as for being actually whacked...' With a troubled frown she lifted her skirt again at the back and explored the springy flesh as if to test its resilience.

'Stop touching yourself up or you'll get me at it,' grinned Lisa.

'Just feeling out the territory, that's all! Virgin territory, as a matter of fact – so far as this sort of thing goes. How about yours?'

'My what?'

'What d'you think? Your arse! That thing you sit on!' Rosamund removed the hand from beneath her own skirt and slipped it boldly under Lisa's, feeling the other's knickered bottom with interested fingers. It seemed smaller and firmer than hers. 'Has this thing here ever known the kiss of anything other than a randy stud's tongue?'

Lisa slapped the hand away. 'Pack it in, you raving dyke!'

'Tell me, then!'

'If you must know, my boyfriend used to pull me over his knees a couple of times a week and spank me. Sometimes he'd use the back of a hairbrush. Other times he'd shove me over a chair and whack me with a cane. That really hurt. But we'd been doing it for ages before we packed it in.'

'Let's see!' Rosamund whipped up Lisa's school skirt, pulled back her knicker-elastic and stared at two silky-skinned buttocks of alabastrine paleness. 'Bollocks!' she said. 'There's not a mark on it.' She ran her fingers lightly over the soft mounds. They wobbled gently.

'That's 'cos we broke up a couple of weeks ago. I don't miss him much, but I do miss it. Now hands off the goods or I'll scream for a policeman.'

'But that's not fair!' blurted Rosamund, readjusting Lisa's knickers and skirt. 'Here's you with an arse that looks and feels like a nectarine peach, but has the resistance of rhinoceros hide...'

'You say such sweet things!'

Rosamund turned her back on Lisa, raised the skirt and pushed out her own bottom, tugging the knickers down. 'See that?' Lisa noted that it was larger than her own, voluptuous-looking and deeply cleft. 'Christ – don't fancy a swap, do you?' she said.

'Exactly! This is glam bum number one, right? Top of the botts. A real class ass. Men have been known to come in their pants simply looking at it. But it's never had so much as a slapping in all its life. Like I say, it just isn't fair!'

At that moment they heard something like a distant whisper and a ghostly splash – a sound already heard several times that afternoon – followed half a second later by a noise like the first wail of a bagpiper's lament. Moments later Gilly Sands exploded out into the corridor, glaring as if insane, the hem of her skirt pinned halfway up her back to expose two generous bottom-cheeks lividly marked with a network of red spindly lines.

'You poor bitches!' she managed to gasp, and then was off towards the changing rooms, hands wrenching at each wobbly mound as she dementedly danced from foot to foot.

The woman with the clipboard reappeared, shaking her head as she crossed another name off her list. 'Rosamund Clarkson,' she said, even more worriedly.

'Sorry,' Rosamund yelped. 'I just bottled out. Hang on, Gilly!' Then she was gone, sprinting off in the direction of the other's receding cries.

'Ok dear,' said the woman. 'I take it you're Lisa Fenchurch?'

Lisa nodded. 'And then there were none.' The girl braced herself and walked into an ante-office with a desk and piles of scripts on shelves. The woman offered her a hand, which Lisa shook. 'I'm Marina Pagett, the producer. I'm afraid quite a few of the others didn't seem entirely clear what would he required of them today.'

'We're auditioning as body doubles for Annabel Spearman, aren't we?'

Annabel Spearman was an international success following her performance in a low budget home-grown movie partly funded by Channel Four. The film had been a sensation, sweeping the board at Cannes and taking America by storm. Still only 22, Spearman's slender sexy body, clear green eyes, dark-honey hair and sensuous pout had earned her the apt if unoriginal tag of the 'British Bardot'. In appearance she was strikingly similar to the nine aspiring actresses who had turned up today.

And of whom the last now stood before the troubled producer.

'It's only the one scene we need a double for,' Marina explained. 'But it's of vital importance to the development of the central character.'

'Is it the one where Fiona McAllister gets birched for nicking the exam results at Benningdean Private School for Young Ladies, summer 1925?'

'My word, you have done your homework.' The producer felt a flicker of hope. 'Annabel refuses to perform the scene herself – and who can blame her?' Marina allowed herself a wan smile. 'And our director, Bryan Boone, insists on total authenticity.'

'Bryan Boone! I didn't realise...'

'It's Bryan's directorial debut. You'll know if you've read the book that the heroine is birched on the, um, bare behind in the presence of the headmistress, by one of the younger male school governors – played by Bryan, of course...'

'Who later becomes her lover.' Or, more explicitly, takes the young girl into a wonderland of sexual ecstasy previously unimagined by her!

'Why, yes.' Marina Pagett looked even more impressed. 'A full fifteen strokes, but so far no one's been able to take more than three. Bryan refuses to take it – and he's no weakling.'

Bryan Boone! Mister rugged Aussie heart-throb, strong and sensitive, pale and interesting! Lisa experienced a cascade of thrillings in the pit of her stomach. The guy was no Adonis, yet the mere thought of him made her wet. And he was the one doing the whacking!

'I will of course understand if you'd rather not go through with it...' Marina went on unhappily.

'Lead on,' Lisa said.

She was ushered through an inner door into a soundproofed room got up like an old-style headmistress's study and lit by bright lamps. The handsome male movie star-cum-director Bryan Boone, in period duds with fake moustache, watched his eighth and final victim enter. She looked, of course, remarkably similar to the other seven beauties who had already bent and bared their butts for him today. Frankly, he very much doubted whether this one would be any more stoic than the rest – and that in the end he was going to have to fake the scene and screw up the movie, all because British girls had no guts. An Aussie chick would've done it on her head, but it was too late for that now.

'This is Lisa,' Marina announced.

Boone nodded brusquely where he stood beside the waist-high stool, around which was scattered a litter of broken birch-twigs from their brief but explosive succession of whacks across seven pairs of naked buttocks. Nearby stood a bucket in which more bundles of twigs were soaking. Camera and sound stood by, alert to start filming on a nod from him. So far today they'd done bugger all except admire the scenery. Unconventional, that was Bryan Boone.

With a frown he didn't have to fake, Boone rolled up his right sleeve for the eighth time. He didn't have to work hard at being in character – a grim-visaged, black-moustached disciplinarian of the 1920s intent on flogging the buttocks of a wickedly pretty thief with far too much courage than was good for her. His suit-jacket was already off, braces hidden beneath a dark waistcoat, the stiff collar and striped necktie feeling tighter than ever. He ran a finger around the starched rim to ease his neck.

'Stand over here, girl!' he growled. Deep-voiced, menacing.

Lisa Fenchurch, becoming a tremulous 18-year-old called Fiona McAllister, trod towards the stool, head meekly bowed. Boone blinked at her – this one had something. He blinked again, and knew. Hardly able to believe it had happened, he nodded sharply. Suddenly, magically, it was the month of June some seventy summers ago, in the book-lined study of the vinegary-faced headmistress who, with long black gown and short bobbed hair, was gliding forward to stand by the stool, unyieldingly stern, ready to position her trembling charge across it.

Fiona stopped in front of the punishment stool and Miss Staplehurst glared haughtily into her face through the pince-nez. 'You know why you are here, McAllister,' came the cultured cadences of yesteryear, 'so I will waste no time in reiterating your crime and further compounding your shame. You are to be soundly birched upon your unclothed rear. Our school governor and benefactor, Mister Frencham, has kindly consented to carry out the beating!'

'Yes, Ma'am,' said Fiona, tiny-voiced. She gazed down at the stool much as Lady Jane Grey might have stared at the executioner's block, weirdly noting the seasoned wood from which it was fashioned, the swirly pattern of the grain and how smooth was its top from the countless young bodies that had bent across it. In the charged silence there came through the open window the shouts of girls at play, borne on a breeze drenched with scents of flowers and new-mown grass.

Eleanor Staplehurst, MA (Oxon.), square of shoulder, gimlet-eyed, stepped up behind the errant girl. 'Unbutton your blazer, Fiona.' Her voice was not unkind.

Tremble-fingered, Fiona did so. Womanly hands, wide and warm, eased the garment from her. The whop of a racquet against a tennis ball sucked into the room like a gulp. 'Well played!' came a distant shout. The words, sheathed in sun-heat and the tang of open spaces, chased it.

The woman stooped to grip the hem of the miscreant's school skirt and slowly raised it. Fiona McAllister was far too beautiful for her own good: lithe and limber, perfectly proportioned, bright of eye and gay of smile. Miss Staplehurst could smell the heady aroma of girlness, of boundless energy and health. She wished – oh! how she wished – that she could dip her head and kiss the nape of that pretty neck, and enfold the child, in brief embrace to give her courage.

Instead, she raised the skirt up Fiona's back and pinned the hem to the fabric of the blouse between the girl's shoulder blades. Her fingers trembled a little more as they then gripped the waistband of the dark blue school knickers and peeled them down to the middle of the girl's thighs. For several treasured moments the woman's eyes dwelt on the bared, ripely rounded buttocks, compact as an athlete's, pale as cream-hued roses, the crevice between them deeping into secret places.

'You will bend forward over the stool, girl, and grip the lowest rung.'

Fiona McAllister did not understand the shiver in the stern voice as the injunction was intoned. With unconscious gracefulness the girl bent forward until the stool-top was thrusting up beneath her belly as her weight bore down upon it. She straightened her legs, and her toe-tips touched the floor while her dangling hands sought the rung referred to.

The whop-whop-whop of a fast rally from the tennis courts thumped into Fiona's mind. Girlish laughter shrilled like seagulls. The man who was to apply the birch had not been what she had expected: no grey-bearded corpulent with snuff-stained whiskers and blood-rimmed eyes this school governor! Rather he was tall and manly and hardly more than five-and-thirty. And handsome – Lord! This could surely be neither right nor decent, Fiona thought, squirming in acute embarrassment on the stool-top and not feeling the slightest bit of a madcap now!

'Be still!' His voice was deep. It thrilled into Fiona's skin-pores like an itch and set off a storm in her brain. His footfalls sounded quick and soft as he stepped up behind her. She had not heard him reach into the bucket and withdraw a bundle of birch-twigs; yet now there came a faint plipping as the drops ran off them, and a rattling swish as he shook the weapon in his fist.

Oh woe, sweet maiden, so unconsciously beloved! As your heart fluttered in your breast like a trapped sparrow, in terror of the torrents of pain soon to explode across your petal-soft haunches, you could not in your innocence guess how your back-stretched legs, parted a little for balance, afforded your mentor breathcatching glimpses of your maidenhair and the pinky succulence nestling within. You could not hear how his heart hammered, nor how his breath ached to gasp aloud at so forbidden a sight you presented to him on that torrid afternoon, with the full-moon mounds of your bottom presented as a feast to his senses.

The exquisite offering to the gods of justice tensed, gripping the lowest stool-rung, and Eleanor Staplehurst gazed upon her own vision of perfection. Angus Frencham sighted on his enchanting target, drew back his arm and, with a groan more akin to ecstasy than effort, swept the birch-rod down. The twigs splatted against the rumpy curves of pallid flesh, sending up a spray of droplets as they struck and inspiring a loud gasp from the prostrated maiden.

Far from the wet wands cooling Fiona's nether-cheeks, they had felt like the abrupt arrival of a firestorm there! Standing at the girl's head, Miss Staplehurst felt the shock of the stroke vibrate through her body, and neither she nor Fiona had time to draw full breath before another stroke blasted down.

Swossshhh!

A tremor ran up Angus Frencham's arm as the birch struck those divine rumps again. A screech tore from the girl's throat, her body juddered and her right foot kicked involuntarily upwards, yet she stayed in place. For a moment he paused, gazing in awe at pearly peaches pinkening as a tracery of spidery lines claimed those sweet summits. In some errant part of his mind he wanted to sink to his knees and bury his face against the ferociously smarting globes, quenching the fires with kisses.

Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand. Six more times he swung the birch with studied firmness, noting how greedily the twigs lapped and spread across the tautly stretched skin of that beauteous bottom as though to possess every inch of their silken surfaces! Almost he forgot that these perfectly proportioned female buttocks were not some separate entity ordered up in a dream for his delights, but an integral part of the anatomy of an eighteen-year-old woman who had committed a grievous wrong and must perforce be punished. Her cries and tormented gasps came grudgingly as she struggled to contain them. It was this, he later realised, that so warmed his blood and drew his soul towards her; for valour under fire during those dreadsome weeks in the trenches on the Somme was something Lieutenant Angus Frencham had signally lacked.

Hwosn - hwosh - hwosh. Fiona McAllister wrenched so hard at the strut she was gripping, the surprise was that it did not snap. The harsh hisses of hurtling birch-twigs, the succession of blazing pains as they struck her naked buttocks again and again, the animal gruntings of the man, the strange little signs emanating from Miss Staplehurst, all coalesced in the girl's whirling mind into a single mad sound. The entire surface of Fiona's bottom had become a sea of ice and fire through which pain seethed and lapped, while the punishing arm continued to rise and fall with unremitting regularity and appalling severity.

Hwosh - hwosh - hwosh. The conflagration in Fiona's bottom has reached its white-hot zenith. Strange scents gradually overwhelmed those of ink and wood and carpet and dusty books and new-mown grass: the tang of Miss Staplehurst's second-rate perfume mixed with traces of something the girl could by no means as yet define; something base and animal which made her want to heave her hinder parts brazenly upwards to greet the cruel chastiser! As the fists of the punished pupil wrenched and her body juddered and writhed and she cried out again and again, she saw the carpet and the feet and sensible stockings of her headmistress through a blur of salty wetness as her bottom, prickling and burning, jerked lewdly about...

Hwoooshhh!

A scream – her scream – echoed and re-echoed in her ears. The birching had ceased and a man's voice was roaring in magnificent baritone:

'Oh, my beauty! Oh God, you're terrific! I'll love you forever!'

'Fifteen!' screeched Eleanor Staplehurst, MA (Oxon.). 'My word, that was absolutely fantastic, Lisa! Well done, well done!'

Who on earth was Lisa, and why was the headmistress hugging her? The noises of girls at play outside had been replaced by the click of a clapper-board ending the shot, and excited masculine voices close at hand.

'We've got it, got the lot in one!' The camera operator looked up, grinning hugely.

Strong hands were helping her up from the stool, and Bryan Boone was smiling into her sweat-damp, flushed and tear-streaked face.

'Christ, you were marvellous! We were soaring, really soaring – didn't you feel it?' There was no feigning his admiration. 'What was your name again?'

'Fiona McAllister.'

A roar of mirth. 'I love it, I love it! You be Fiona and I'll be Angus, eh? That lovely brave backside of yours'll get an Oscar as "Best Supporting Artist" for sure!'

'I'll have to walk up backwards to get the award, then,' she winced. Her bottom seethed and burned. Make-up were applying cooling douches and smearing cream over its crimsoned cheeks, while Wardrobe stood by with a robe to cover her modesty.

'Fancy a drink and a bite to eat when we've cleared up here?' the famous voice was murmuring in her ear. 'Just the two of us – Fiona and Angus, eh? There's something he's busting his old-fashioned balls to discuss with this sweet little flower of blossoming womanhood.'

'If you don't mind a "sweet little flower" who has to eat standing up,' Lisa said. She tried to get her mind around all the amazing things that were due to happen between the two of them in the chapters which followed the birching. Shaky with excitement, she reached for a towel and surreptitiously wiped.

'I must warn you,' she added when her voice had calmed a little, 'that I take very big bites...'

Tomorrow's Army

Story from Privilege Plus 09.

Tomorrow's Army
by Derek Cross

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hurry along, you lot!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, please," gulped Jody.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stretch over the table!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CRACK!

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

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

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

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

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

THWACCKK!

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

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

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

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

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

THWACCKK!

"OWWwwwwww!" she wailed in a shrill voice.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THWACCCKKK!

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Zero Tolerance

Story from Privilege Plus 09.

Zero Tolerance
by John Undermeyer

In tomorrow's courts the guilty are caned immediately after the sentence. As Selina's Guardians listen to the punishment they lose patience too.

* * *

The judge pronounced sentence and Selina hung her head and wept. Her Guardian, sitting in court, squeezed Laura's hand – his wife had been beside him throughout the trial. He said in a deeply satisfied tone:

"She's to be caned... and not before time! If she'd been raised properly, had her parents been strict with her, it wouldn't have come to this."

"Don't speak ill of the dead," the woman squeezed back. "Think of your own girls, both as well-behaved as you could wish."

"Thanks to the rod. Which, in Selina's case, was not applied long enough. Or hard enough. Well, there is time enough to make amends."

"Let us go down. We may be allowed to attend the punishment. Then we'll take her home, where we can keep an eye on her."

"You'd better keep me away from her. You know what I'd do!"

"Why keep away, Geoffrey? I have no quarrel with discipline."

Laura smiled, showing even teeth. She was younger than her husband by sixteen years and patted his arm soothingly as they stood up.

* * *

Geoffrey and Laura arrived in the disrobing room and the doctor moved to them.

"I shall be watching carefully as Selina takes her punishment. I shall stop the caning if it is more than she can bear."

Geoffrey's face assumed a not-if-I-can-help-it scowl. Damned do-gooder! But a moment's thought convinced him this quack would stop nothing. If he did, he'd have to admit he'd misjudged how fit Selina was, and he couldn't see him admitting that. When the doctor left them Laura said,

"I'll inspect her when we get home. Make her show herself to me. If they haven't given her enough, you can do the court's work for them."

* * *

Selina was in the cubicle with two nurses who she knew would strip her if they had to. One nurse peered out at a tall, thin man, his black clothing making him easy to spot. He could have been a dancer, except he was too old. In evening dress he could have passed as an orchestral conductor, except he had no music in his soul. And he was humourless – a memo when he was being interviewed noted he never smiled.

He moved to a door at the far end, flipped a switch and went in. Neon strips filled the punishment room with eye-blinking light; it reverberated off the distempered walls leaving not a hint of shadow. On a board facing the door hung three canes, in full view to frighten prisoners, for they prompted the thought, could he possibly break one on me? The doctor told him Selina was in peak condition so there was no reason to do less than his best. He touched the padded table where she would lie and his hand moved to the wooden bar. With her feet under the bar, her buttocks protruding well out and her legs spread she would see him and he would see all of her.

The thin man took down a cane and, grasping it tightly, tapped it a few times into the palm of his hand, sucking his teeth with a feeling of grim satisfaction. Once he had grasped the lethal wood and flashed it through the air to loosen his wrist, his mind took on a set that meant he could not be lenient. Legs placed carefully apart, he would hold her gaze for a good ten seconds. She would tremble, see him draw a deep breath, raise his arm, tighten his lips, sway back on his feet, and swing in.

His duty was to extract the full penalty. He thought of the number of strokes he must administer. Eight, the judge said; it was more than enough, he could create a masterpiece with eight strokes, an array that would have the girl at the pitch of pain, mouth agape, eyes wild, salt tears cutting runnels down her ashen cheeks.

The nurses came into the punishment room, a naked Selina walking between them. The thin man looked up, directly into her eyes. She dropped them but he continued to stare, taking in her body. Small breasts for her age – the court documents told him she was nineteen – trim waist, flat around the abdomen, attractive legs, dainty feet, she was a dish to carve carefully. He looked back at her face, which was damp with weeping. She was better-looking than most girls he had to cane – women like her normally were given less fearsome sentences – but then he knew this judge and expected to be asked by him afterwards for details of the whipping.

The nurses walked Selina to the couch, turned her, took her shoulders and laid her back on the padded surface. It was too short to lie flat, her buttocks dropped off the edge, but they took her feet and bent her back on herself, knees over breasts. When her buttocks were at the high point they grasped her ankles and drew them under the bar, hooking it with her heels. Now her centre parts were spread before the thin man; bottom, anal sphincter, bush, and the almond cushions of her vagina. The nurses indicated a metal bar behind the girl's head and told her to grasp it.

The doctor came in and took her pulse. He set his hand briefly on her brow, then moved to where he could see what was going on but wouldn't be in the way. Geoffrey pushed in, and was eased back by the leaving nurses, who explained he wasn't allowed to witness the event, but could wait in the disrobing room. The thin man moved to face Selina, his black form framed between the creamy pillars of her legs. Lifting the cane, he flexed it with both hands before her face, and she howled out loud as he knew she would. Now, my weeping beauty, he thought, let me survey my canvas.

Her skin was firm, pale, and quite flawless. It was as if her flesh was upholstered in the most lovely creamy satin, without the slightest hair or mole to disfigure the scene. It would mark wonderfully. Eight strokes. Eight whippy cuts, all soundly placed. The picture would be different then, and no less attractive in the eyes of the judge, the doctor, Geoffrey and Laura, or the man in black. He paused for some twenty seconds, breathing steadily, and Selina's heart began to race as she saw him step back, eye her carefully and raise his hand for the first stripe. Only when she sensed the stick begin to descend did she look away, screwing up her face. A split second later it fell and she felt searing pain across her trembling flesh, pain which took only an instant to double, redouble and redouble again.

It was the noise that dismayed the doctor. Of course he knew the girl would cry; he'd yell himself if the cane cut across his bottom the way it had cut over hers. But the shriek rang round the bare walls and the room being small didn't help to disperse it. It had occurred to him, since he'd sat through canings before, to bring ear-plugs, but they might spoil his judgement. Though he was sure Selina could take eight strokes, he must listen to her properly and all the time, to know how much she was affected. At least her uncle would hear she was being brought to account. The man in black lowered his arm – he might have been an automaton for all the emotion he showed.

The breath had left Selina's body and she sucked it back in again to let forth a prolonged wail. She had known when the judge passed sentence that the punishment was serious, but nothing could have prepared her for the stroke she had just taken. Her haunches juddered and she felt the bar press on her ankles; then there was only blackness and she heard herself crying, a baleful protest that she could be stripped, laid out and forced to take the worst this fiend could deliver.

But she had to know what the beast was doing, and opened her eyes to see his arm sweep across the distance between them, gathering speed, fast enough to make the air sound, too fast for her to follow. A second streak of fire broke across her white pillows and began to eat deep down, gnawing its way to her centre. She was too distraught to know it but the blows had marked both cheeks. Every stroke was being used to best effect.

* * *

Geoffrey, outside the door, stood up as the second great cry burst from Selina's lips. He turned to his wife and what passed between them was akin to an electric shock. Hurriedly she rose, kicked off her shoes, took his hands and pulled them down by his sides, moistening her lips urgently as she whispered:

"Yes, dear. She feels it now! You would have shown her too, if her wretched boyfriend hadn't kept her out of the house."

There was a third shriek, and the young wife shivered, whispering, "Listen... she feels it! Her bottom has taken three and she's on fire."

Her breath tight, the woman lifted her face and crammed her mouth against his, at the same time moving their locked hands until they nestled in his crotch. He gasped, and she felt the thick, blind snake stir, knew that blood was flooding the stem and in moments would engorge the purple crown.

She had watched it happen when they lay naked in bed and she knew, too, both their heads were filling with memories of how they made love after the man had administered the cane. He was always rock hard, she was always wet; hungrily they tore at each other, shedding their clothes as they moved to couple. There was no foreplay; none was needed. He could not wait to erupt inside her and she could not wait to receive him, her succulent vagina gorging on his urgency.

The man moved to shut the disrobing room door. There was a key in the lock and he turned it. There was a bolt and he threw it across. A fourth cry reached them as Selina was caned again and the couple threw themselves on each other. She had his belt undone instantly, he hauled up her skirt, underpants were torn down to knees, her panties were kicked across the floor. She leapt, her arms round his neck, legs round his waist, clinging like a monkey to a stick. There was a bare table in the room and moving with a hobbled quickness he sat her on it. She spread her legs and chewed hungrily at his mouth. He munched back and while their heads writhed and twisted, and their tongues filled each other's mouths, he lowered one hand to his cock and placed the engorged purple mushroom against her love-lips. There was no pause in their kissing, no acknowledgement he was at the gate, she wrapped her hands round his head and gnawed. Sure he was rock hard, he clenched his buttocks and punched his way home. She was more than ready and the sluicing walls welcomed him. Upwards he thrust, hungry to have every part of his cock inside her, bucking and shoving lest some of his base might remain outside. She wriggled him in, right up to his hilt, locking her heels, spurring his arse, saying 'more, more', because she wanted all he could give and would have been willing to take his balls too if she hadn't been youthfully tight, or either of them had thought it possible.


When every part of him was encased, when she was as full of him as she could be, the battle began. He pummelled her, she tore at him. Harder and deeper he drove, faster and more cruelly she spurred his buttocks. They were locked, piston into cylinder, mutually ruthless in their search for a climax.

* * *

Back inside the ante-room Selina was lost to hope. A sixth vivid weal, slammed across both cheeks, made the doctor signal for the man in black to pause. Stepping forward he made a close examination of Selina's buttocks. He noticed an involuntary flinch. The nerves in the tightened skin were frayed and stretched. White ridges were rising at the sides of the first three strokes and he knew it would not be long before all eight weals pulsed in unison, tramline edges forming which would catch on even the most silky panties and hurt the tender flesh. He was tempted to touch, but it would only make the girl buck more. There was swelling which would turn to bruising, but he could still see unmarked flesh – she could safely be given the remaining two.

"Strike the white parts if you can. It might be too much if you cane over weals already placed. I know you sometimes like to give the last two over previous marks. Don't do that... instead cover the white. It will mean she recovers more quickly. And anyway, I like to watch how accurately you lay them on."

The man in black said nothing, but when he whipped-in for the seventh time it was to strike parts of Selina's bottom which bore no marks; it seemed he could easily find space between the weals. If the doctor thought he was being merciful, Selina had no inkling of it. Her pain was at a pitch where it could not be any greater, although logic said extra strokes must make it so.

* * *

Her final cry penetrated the door just as Geoffrey came to the hairspring of his crisis. His hips jived, his head flew back, his mouth opened in a silent howl and he erupted into his mate's soaking channel. He jived again, again, again and four times spunk ejaculated into the wetness his wife had prepared for him. He was ahead of her, as usual. She spurred him with her heels, avidly answering his pelvic thrusts. A whipping made him quite beyond control and in the early days of their lovemaking she had not been able to keep up with him, letting him empty into her and only afterwards asking to be brought off. But she had learned to be quicker, and now, heels spurring, thighs wrestling, pelvis pounding, she rode herself on his stationary, but still thick, weapon.

"Stay still. Let me ride you. You come so hard when the whip is used. You want girls to feel it, don't you? Feel it hard!" And as she kept him hard, she started to come, a deep warm flooding, which made her open wide and gasp with delight at the wonderful, repetitive pulsing that resounded in her anus and made her feel so good.

He stayed firm as she bucked for more, but there was no time. Selina's caning had stopped and they'd soon no longer be alone. At Laura's nod of consent, her husband pulled out, although she was half done and he still hard. Pulling at her skirt she scooped her panties into her handbag. He hauled up his pants and trousers, pushing at his shirt, fastening his belt. She unbolted and unlocked the door. The tidying up process was completed a fraction of a second before the man in black appeared, the cane still swinging on the wall. He did not look at or talk to them, but hurried past, taking the stairs two at a time.

They waited to see if the doctor would emerge, but only the sound of blubbering came from the room. Slowly, making themselves seem concerned, they edged in.

The doctor was helping Selina get to her feet, and Laura went forward to take the girl in her arms. Geoffrey turned to the doctor.

"You found no cause to stop the caning, then?"

"No. She was fit for eight."

"We're taking her home... she can travel by car?"

"No medical reason why not. Won't be comfortable, of course. I'll see if I have some cream you can use before she dresses."

Geoffrey moved so he could see Selina's bottom. She was draped weakly against Laura, face buried in her shoulder, arms clasped round her neck.

"Hush, darling," whispered the aunt. "You feel it, don't you?"

Geoffrey caught his wife's smile, then dropped his gaze to study the naked buttocks. Yes, it had been well done. Eight crimson stripes, French-blind parallel, tumbling from the hillocks, down over her curves, the last stripe ending just above the sulcus. Both cheeks were equally covered and he could see button-bruises, four on either side, where the tip of the cane had whipped in. Geoffrey was surprised the crease between buttocks and thighs had not been attended to – he might amend that when he got the girl home.

Chastisement had been carried out by a master. Not surprising, he thought, since zero tolerance meant many offenders were caned and it would be strange for the professionals to be less than skilled at the job. Geoffrey felt himself stir down there – the well-whipped bottom of a pretty girl was the greatest aphrodisiac he knew. He must get Laura to take plenty of Polaroid pictures before she put Selina to bed – they could study them while they got down to some unfinished business...

Lisa's Lesson

Story from Privilege Plus 14.

Lisa's Lesson
by Lia Anderssen

THE AIR WAS NOT COLD, but still Lisa shivered. It might have been a shiver of fear, or one of anticipation, she wasn't sure, but as she stood in the middle of the bare, white room, it was as if an icy shroud was enveloping her.

How long had she been here? An hour? Two hours? It was impossible to judge. Here, in this empty, anonymous place, there was no sense of time, simply of expectancy, the knowledge that something was going to happen. Something at once terrible and exciting. Something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she contemplated her situation.

The mirrors didn't help. There were two, one in front of her, one behind, so that she could see every inch of herself. She had tried to avoid looking into them, but standing as she was in the centre of the floor, she had little choice and, with nothing else to occupy her, she found herself eyeing her body critically.

There was no doubt that the twenty-year-old girl was a beautiful sight, with her plump, firm breasts and slim waist, her long, tapering legs made to look even more shapely by the tall high heels she wore.

Her clothing, or lack of it, simply served to underline her beauty. She had on only the briefest of underwear. Her bra was cut low, so that the two half-moons of her areolae showed above its lacy fringe, drawing attention to the swell of her breasts and the deep cleavage between. Her panties too were scarcely able to preserve her modesty, the transparent panel in the front quite inadequate to cover her dark pubic bush, the rear not much more than a cord that ran up the crack of her lovely, pert behind.

She found her eyes lingering on the image of her bottom reflected from the mirror behind her. It had an exquisite shape, the round globes firm, the skin pale and tight. As she stared at it, she recalled the way Doug had taken his leave of her, his strong hand stroking her there. What was it he had said?

"This will benefit from some stripes across it."

Could he possibly have meant what she thought he meant? No, surely not. It was true that he had threatened her with a thrashing often enough, especially when he caught her chatting up other men. He had even told her of a place of correction where recalcitrant wives could be taken to stem their wayward tendencies, but she had always assumed he was joking.

Now, though, she wasn't so sure.

She shifted restlessly. Her stance was, to say the least, uncomfortable. She was standing just as he had told her to, with her legs spread apart and her hands placed behind her head. Her arms and legs ached from their prolonged immobility. Dare she relax for a moment, maybe lean against the wall?

As if in reply, there came an almost inaudible whirr from above her, and she glanced up to see that the light on top of the small surveillance camera was on, indicating that someone was watching her. A tremor shook her lovely young body as she thought of a stranger's eyes upon her. If she were to relax her stance now, they would know at once. Best to stay where she was, she concluded. After all, Doug had warned her against disobedience with these people.

These people! She knew there were people here, yet she had seen nobody since her arrival. What was this place, and who worked here? More to the point, how was it that they could exercise such power over her? Once again a shiver ran through her as she contemplated her situation, abandoned here in this strange room by her husband, and ordered to obey.

She wished now that she'd paid more heed when he had remonstrated with her, and had curbed her flirtatious ways. Lisa had always had a propensity towards chatting up men, one which she had successfully suppressed during the first year of her marriage to Doug. But recently she had begun to slip back into her old ways, happily accepting the attentions of any male she found attractive. She would play little games with them, swapping double entendres and allowing them to place their arms about her, whispering in their ears and giggling. She knew that this behaviour annoyed her husband, but she simply laughed off his complaints, accusing him of being unnecessarily jealous.

The last straw had come at the party the night before. Doug had found her in a dark bedroom necking with a young man, half the buttons of her blouse undone. He had made no comment at the time, simply ordering her to get her coat, then driving her home. He had been silent in the car, and she had sensed she had gone too far. On arriving he had gone straight to the telephone and had made a call. Then he had come up to their bedroom.

"You're going away," he had said.

"Where? What do you mean?"

"Don't ask any questions. What you did tonight was just too much. I'm sending you somewhere where you'll be shown the error of your ways."

"I don't understand."

"You're going to a place where you will be taught to act as a wife should. You'll be there for a week."

"What if I don't want to go?"

"You don't get a choice. Be ready tomorrow night. Wear your silk underwear."

With that he had gone out of the room, leaving her to ponder his words.

That evening he had returned home early, much to her surprise. She had been feeling contrite, and had intended to cook him his favourite meal then take him to bed. She had managed to convince herself that the exchange the previous night had been simply to scare her, and that things would soon return to normal. It was a shock, therefore, when he ordered her straight up to the bedroom and stood over her whilst she donned the scanty underwear.

"Right," he said. "Get in the car."

"I can't go like this," she complained, shocked at the very suggestion.

"You can and will, now get a move on."

"But I..."

"Right now, Lisa."

Lisa stared at him. She had never seen him so forceful. Normally he was a placid, forgiving man, but tonight his commands brooked no disobedience. A sudden, unexpected thrill of excitement ran through her as she looked into his eyes.

At the front door she had paused, glancing at herself in the hall mirror. She couldn't believe he was making her go out so scantily dressed, and at any moment she expected him to call her back and admit that the whole thing was a joke. But he remained grim-faced as he pushed open the door and indicated she was to go out.

She had scuttled to the car, climbing in at once and shutting herself in. Doug had followed more slowly. As he sat down he had reached under the dashboard and pulled out a black, velvet cloth.

"Put this on. Over your eyes."

"What is it?"

"A blindfold. Put it on, now."

With shaking hands, Lisa had pulled the band of cloth over her head, and had been immediately plunged into darkness. Then she heard Doug slip the car into gear, and they were off.

All that had been some hours earlier. She had no idea where she had been taken, but the drive had seemed to go on for ages. Eventually, though, the car had drawn to a halt and Doug had climbed out. Then she had found herself being taken from her seat and led across a gravel driveway into a building. Only after the door had clanged shut behind her had he removed her blindfold. And now she was here, in this bare, anonymous room, waiting fearfully to discover her fate.

All at once she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She stiffened, holding her body erect and thrusting her breasts forward, just as Doug had told her to do. A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. A man stood there, tall and dark-haired, a grim expression on his face. He was in his late forties, his hair flecked with grey. He wore a sort of uniform, consisting of black trousers and a black sweatshirt. He took in Lisa's barely-clad form in a single glance, and the hapless young girl felt the blood rush to her face as she contemplated the sight she must make.

"They're ready for you," he said.

"Who are?"

"Be quiet. You are not permitted to speak unless spoken to. Follow me, and keep your hands where they are."

"But I..."

"Move!"

It seemed she had no choice. Her heart thumping, Lisa followed the man out of the room and down a long, featureless corridor, her high heels sounding unnaturally loud on the bare floor-boards. He unlocked another door and led her through. She found herself in a large entrance hall, on the far side of which was a desk. The man behind it wore the same black uniform as her guard. He looked up as they approached.

"One for registration," said the first man.

"Name?"

"L-Lisa."

"Age?"

"Twenty."

"Give me your clothes."

"But I've only got these..."

"Do as you're told!" barked her escort.

Lisa stared at the two men, barely able to believe what they were asking of her. No man but Doug had ever seen her naked, and the idea of stripping off here brought a tight knot to her stomach. Surely they couldn't be serious? But one look at their faces told her they were.

"Get your clothes off. Hurry up!"

Slowly, her hands shaking, she reached behind herself, fumbling with the catch on her bra. When she had unfastened it, she slid her arms out of the straps and stood, hugging the cups to her chest.

"Give it to me."

Slowly, reluctantly, Lisa let the bra fall away from her breasts, revealing their pink firmness to the two men. She blushed hotly as they took in her dark brown nipples, set high on the orbs of her breasts, the teats standing out deliriously.

"The panties."

Lisa let her hands drop to her waistband. She stared imploringly at the men.

"Couldn't I just keep them on?" she begged.

"Hurry up, or it'll be the worse for you."

Lisa gave a despairing sigh. Then she hooked her thumbs in the elastic and dragged her pants down in a single movement, stepping out of them and quickly hugging her hands to her private parts.

"Put them on the desk. Then spread your legs and put your hands behind your head."

Once again his tone was such that she dare not disobey. Lisa hesitated for a second before reaching out her trembling hand and placing the skimpy garment on the desk. Then, her cheeks glowing, she moved her legs apart and put her hands behind her head. On the wall behind the desk was another mirror, clearly placed there for her own benefit, and she stared at her reflection, taking in the firm swell of her bare breasts, the darkness of her nipples contrasting sharply with the creaminess of her young flesh. Her eyes drifted lower, to her flat belly with its neat little navel, and down to the dark triangle of her pubic curls, beneath which the cleft of her vagina was clearly visible.

The man at the desk sat back, his eyes taking in every inch of the embarrassed youngster standing before him, her charms on open display.

"She'll do," he said at last. "Take her through."

"Take me where? I can't go anywhere in this state. I'm completely nude!"

"Quiet!"

The first man crossed to another door, which he opened and gestured to Lisa to go through. The naked girl stepped past him hesitantly, and found herself in another corridor.

The sound of her heels seemed louder than ever as she made her way along behind her escort. The corridor was as white and impersonal as the rest of the building, with strip lighting in the ceiling. On either side were numbered doors, each one firmly shut.

They rounded a bend and Lisa saw ahead of her a group of men. They were plumbers, working on a radiator that stood against the wall. At once the young beauty's footsteps faltered as their eyes fell on her.

"Move on!" barked her escort.

"But there are..."

Whack! He brought a hand down hard across the cheeks of her buttocks, making her cry out with the sudden pain.

"Move on, I said."

Lisa's pretty young face glowed scarlet as she passed the men and saw them nudging one another and grinning at her. How could Doug possibly have sent her to such a place? It was incredible that he should allow her to be exhibited in such a shameless manner to total strangers. Yet he must be aware of what was happening to her.

Ahead of her was another door, outside which stood a man in the same kind of uniform as the one who accompanied her.

"Stop there."

Lisa came to a halt in front of him.

"New arrival, Mr Peters," said her escort.

"Cell twenty-seven," replied the other. "Want to take her now?"

"No. First her backside needs a little decoration."

The man grinned. "First time?"

"Yes."

"Better bring her in, then."

Lisa listened to the conversation in silence. A cell? This place was some kind of prison then. But what could he have meant by decorating her backside?

The man called Mr Peters opened the door and Lisa entered. It was a bare, high-ceilinged room, the only furnishing a series of wooden cabinets about the walls. In the centre was what looked like an athlete's hurdle, and it was to this that she was led whilst her escort went to one of the cabinets and opened it.

"Stand there," said the man.

Lisa stopped before the bar. Mr Peters undid two screws and adjusted the height of the cross-beam until it was level with her pubis.

"Bend over the bar, hands flat on the floor."

Lisa stared at him for a second, unsure whether she had heard him correctly.

"Bend over, I said."

Slowly she bent forward at the waist, leaning all the way over until her hands were on the floor.

"Open your legs."

Lisa obeyed, only too aware of how the stance must look, the skin on her backside pulled taut, her anus and sex blatantly displayed.

The man ran his hand over her backside and she shivered at the sensation of his fingers on her bare flesh. There was something undeniabiy erotic about the way he was touching her, something that kindled a quite unexpected excitement deep inside her.

Then she saw the cane.


Her escort must have taken it from one of the cabinets. It was long, no thicker than a pencil, and her stomach seemed to sink as he flexed it in his hands.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," replied Mr Peters, standing back.

"A dozen strokes to start with, I think."

He stood back and tapped Lisa's behind with the cane, making her flinch slightly as he did so. He drew back his arm.

As she heard the swish of the first stroke descending, Lisa realised, too late, what he had meant by decorating her behind.

Then the first blow struck, and the pain began.