A School-Leaving Present

Story from Janus 37.

A School-Leaving Present
by Simon Banks

The beautiful grounds of St Millicent's School for Girls were basking in the lovely cloudless June morning, but for James Mackie, Deputy Head, the splendid grounds, the beautiful morning, meant nothing. The dour Scot, fiftyish, tall and thin, bore a typically grim expression on his angular rimless-spectacled face. It was now halfway through the last week of Summer Term. So in just a couple of days another batch of what Mr Mackie regarded as his natural prey – the Sixth Form girls – would be leaving and would be forever beyond his gasp. Or more specifically beyond the reach of his cane. The thought made Mr Mackie grind his teeth.

Mr James Mackie could rightly be regarded as a man with a chip on his shoulder. He had never been able to forget his own background – a poor Tayside family and meagre State education – and bitterly contrasted this with that of the St Millicent's girls, almost all of them coming from well-off middle-class homes. He blamed his own hard upbringing on what he saw as the rich and grasping English. And in consequence derived his greatest satisfaction from caning their daughters' bare bottoms, at times with a cold fury.

Today he had made a tour of the grounds but typically not to admire them. Rather he had been on the lookout for any girls who might be caught breaking some School rule (trespassing into areas forbidden to them, absent without excuse from class, leaving litter, etc, etc) and whom in consequence he could take to the Correction Room for a salutary caning.

But James Mackie had unfortunately found no girls in any of these categories and he was therefore in a worse mood than usual as he re-entered the main School building. The warm day might reasonably have been expected to yield transgressors of some sort but it had not, or if there were any he had failed to detect them. Tight-lipped, angry in particular at the latter possibility, he made for his room.

And as he turned the corner from the Entrance Hall he walked straight into three Sixth Formers, chattering away and quite oblivious of where they were going. All three were in non-uniform summer dresses which the Head permitted School-leavers to wear in their last week of Term. Three School-leavers! Well, after drawing a complete blank in a wearying trek around the grounds this was a sudden and startling change of fortune. He was quite taken aback for a moment – but quickly recovered his poise.

'You girls... what is the meaning of this? Slouching along in that slovenly manner and knocking into members of staff – like common shop girls or worse. You will all, of course, be punished.'

Oh yes: all three would definitely feel the touch of his cane on bare succulent hindquarters. But one of the three, by an amazing stroke of luck, just happened to be the girl Mr Mackie most fancied in the whole School. Most fancied caning, that is. Julie Gilbert: she would definitely be his first treat. The opportunity couldn't wait; he felt so urgent about it.

'You two girls, I shall deal with you later. You may go now and I shall send for you when ready.' The two girls he indicated went off, silent, cowed. At least their punishment was not immediate.

'Miss Gilbert, you will come with me. Now!'

Julie Gilbert, eighteen-and-a-half, was indeed a choice victim for Mr Mackie: pretty, of course, with long blonde hair, and tall and slender but at the same time shapely with firm high breasts and rounded hips. The pretty face now with a look of utter dismay. With only days to go to the end of her school career, out of the blue this had to happen! The worst fate possible at St Millicent's – falling foul of Mr Mackie, the dreaded Deputy Head.

Like the other two girls Julie had the next period free and they had been going to sit outside in the sun until lunch-time. Now instead of that pleasant prospect she was being hurried along the corridor by the most feared man in the School to a destination she knew only too well – the Correction Room.

The Correction Room, as its name implied, was where girls were routinely taken for correction, ie where they were caned or strapped. There were exceptions: the Head mostly caned in his study and other masters did occasionally simply keep a girl behind after class to take her knickers down and administer a spanking or caning on the spot. But generally speaking the Correction Room was where such treatments took place.

It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light and containing only a chair, a desk, and a cupboard. Quite small, but big enough for its purpose: that is, allowing sufficient room for a cane or strap to be swung over a girl's bottom as she either bent over the back of the chair, hands on the seat, or lay over the seat with hands on the floor on the other side.

On the desk was a register of punishments meted out, and in the cupboard together with miscellaneous bits and pieces were two leather straps and a number of rattan canes of various lengths and thicknesses. It was a room with tearful memories for many St Millicent's girls past and present, especially the prettiest ones. And not least among those with unhappy memories was the slim Sixth Former now being ushered in by the Deputy Head. At one time or another she had been brought here by almost all the masters during her school career.

The most recent occasion had been Mr Martin (History) three weeks before. Then, naturally, Julie had been wearing normal St Millicent's uniform: white blouse and red-and-blue striped tie and short pleated grey skirt. It had been unpleasant of course: over the chair and skirt up and knickers down and four with the strap on her bare bottom. It had stung all right but had not really been absolutely unbearable. Because a beating from Mr Martin – or any other master except Mr Mackie – was never quite unbearable. But Mr Mackie: well, he could make any girl in the school beg for mercy. He was notorious.

Inevitably Julie had been here before with the Deputy Head. She shuddered at the recollections, but the last time had been a good two months ago and she had had every hope of leaving School without a further taste of it. Julie didn't have any classes from him and was normally careful to keep out of his way. Now, she felt close to tears already, her bottom flinching in anticipation. She thought of the sunny lawn outside. Other girls happily laughing...

Julie was wearing her new dress – she'd put it on when she saw it was going to be such a nice day – mauve-flowered cotton lawn, calf-length and full-skirted, with dark nylons and a pair of matching-coloured patent shoes with medium heels. A super outfit – at sad odds with the stark Correction Room and its hated function. It was all like a bad dream.

Mr Mackie locked the door and, pulling the chair to the desk, sat down. 'Right, Miss! Come here please.'

With wide and frightened eyes, Julie complied, to stand nervously at his side. He opened the register, placing it – part of his ritual – fussily in the centre of the desk top. He would follow his usual routine, not caning immediately but taking his time, allowing a build-up of the pretty girl's nervous tension, while he savoured her fear.

'Well, Miss, what have you to say for yourself?'

'P...Please, Sir... I... I didn't know. I mean... I... we... were just talking and...' 18 or not, she was close to tears. And her voice was abnormally squeaky.

'Well, young lady, I am sure you will know shortly when you feel the cane on your bare bottom. I find that has a most salutary effect even on girls of your age. Really I should have thought at this stage of your school career – when you are shortly due to leave – that you would know better. It's quite appalling, in a girl of 18.'

Julie, flushing and with her head hung, was silent.

'And as for that dress you're wearing: well, it certainly would not be allowed if I were Headmaster. You would all be in uniform. I suppose underneath you have some equally unsuitable garments?'

As Mr Mackie spoke his hand went behind Julie and up under the hem of her skirt, inside her slip. Up the backs of her long legs... nylons... bare upper thighs... to her bottom. She certainly was not wearing regulation School attire, for what James Mackie's hand encountered were loose-legged French knickers, of lace-edged silk.

'Good Gracious! What is this?' he slid his hand up inside one leg of the knickers onto Julie's bare bottom. 'This is quite disgraceful! I should not imagine that even the Head would countenance such garments: you are virtually bare!'

And to illustrate this statement, and without fully realising what he was doing, Mr Mackie's hand came round into the loose crotch of Julie's knickers. Suddenly the hand was between her legs... touching bare flesh.

Julie squirmed violently and gasped, 'Sir! Please..!' Automatically she closed her legs... but only succeeded for the moment in trapping the hand where she least wanted it.

'Oooh!' Her own hand shot down protectively. 'Oooohh!'

Mr Mackie, red-faced, extricated his hand from that warm and intimate region. It had been a quite involuntary action on his part, after discovering the French knickers. Bottoms were one thing but the puritanical Mackie basically disapproved of what girls had between their legs and it had been a shock to find he suddenly had his hand on it. It was all the wretched girl's fault of course.

He started blustering, 'Don't you realise, Miss, that this sort of garment is an open invitation to any Tom, Dick or Harry to put his hand there? Or do worse? An open invitation to any common rowdy?'

Julie, embarrassed and shaken, nervously straightened her dress. It was really awful! What he said was typically mean and vindictive. They were simply pretty knickers, that was all, but you might expect Mr Mackie to think up some awful interpretation. She bit her lip. She was anyway rather sensitive at present down there where his hand had gone. Not that she engaged in full sex as yet, although her boyfriend, David, was always trying to persuade her to start. But they did indulge in frequent heavy petting sessions, with considerable manual stimulation.

And in addition to this she had in the last two weeks been getting something rather similar from the School Doctor, in the Sex Course which the Head encouraged School-leavers to take. They were private sessions, one girl at a time, in which Dr Robson made you strip down to bra and knickers and lie on his couch, where certain things would be pointed out to you. Julie did not enjoy these sessions.

Anyway what with the Sex Course plus David, Julie was sensitive to the slightest touch, and the Deputy Head's rough blundering hand had just sent shivers through her, and a feeling of shame. And still to come was the frightening caning. She felt tears welling in her eyes again.

Meanwhile Mr Mackie was concentrating on the register: leafing back counting the number of entries with Julie's name. He looked up, his eyes beady behind the spectacles.

'Really, Miss, the number of times different masters have found it necessary to bring you here... Well, I find it quite unacceptable. You seem to have spent the whole of your school career contravening some rule or other.'

The tears appeared now. It was just not fair what he said. The only reason she was in the book so often was that masters liked to take her knickers down. Almost always they were trumped-up reasons of some sort or another.

Mr Mackie closed the book. 'And on top of that you have the audacity to go about the School wearing items of clothing more suitable to a woman of the streets!'

He looked hard into Julie's tear-filled blue eyes. 'Well, Miss, all this is not nearly good enough. It is quite obvious that the canings you have had in the past have done nothing whatsoever for you. But I can tell you, young lady, I intend – today – to try to remedy that. I intend to give you a caning which you will remember for a long, long time to come. And really I think it's the best possible School-leaving present you could have.'

Julie, fighting the tears, could say nothing. Mr Mackie went on, 'And please, I quite fail to see why you are crying yet. I should at least wait until you feel the cane on your bottom. You may well feel like crying then, of course. Indeed you may!' His Scottish accent gave his final exclamation a special intonation.

He went to the cupboard and after perusing its contents drew out a medium weight whippy jointed cane. 'Ah, now then!'

In front of Julie he flexed it, almost into a complete circle. 'Yes, Miss. I think this will be suitable for that bottom of yours. Now: we will delay no further.'

Mr Mackie moved the chair away from the desk into the centre of the room. 'If you will just prepare yourself. The usual position, and please do stop that crying until you have something to cry about. You are supposed to be 18, I believe?'

Haltingly Julie went to the chair... and got herself down over it so that her bottom was over the seat, head down the other side and hands on the floor. It was a position she was only too familiar with. Mr Mackie showed no delay now. Hands went eagerly to the hem of her full skirt, lifting it and a pink slip underneath, both up to her waist. Revealed were the lovely long nylon-clad legs, leading to bare white thighs above. Straps of a pink satin suspender belt held the nylons taut and disappeared into open-legged pink knickers. Pink silk French knickers edged with cream lace – the garment which had caused such offence to the Deputy Head.

With his face bearing a prim look James Mackie's greedy fingers slipped into the waistband of the knickers and drew them down... to the tops of the nylons. Mmm... Oh Yes! His eyes glistened. The surprisingly full bottom for a slim girl, its pale cheeks an invitation. And below, where the cleft of the bottom met the thighs, inevitably revealed by the unfortunate girl's posture, a bush of brown hair – with, if you wished to look, no doubt further details to be seen.

James Mackie did not wish to look. He did not wish to think about that portion of her. In her last term now, he guessed she would be taking that Sex Course which the Head was so keen on. It was, thank Heavens, not James Mackie's province and he had no wish to have anything to do with it. He did not know details and had no wish to, but he did know that the purpose was in effect to teach girls to enjoy sex – and that unquestionably met with his strongest disapproval.

What a girl wanted was not someone teaching her to enjoy sex but the cane. A good hard caning of her bare buttocks. And that was something which Miss Julie Gilbert was about to experience. Yes indeed! Her full white bottom was just waiting for it. His hand reached out. Ah yes...

Julie, hair falling about her lowered face, waited. For, inevitably, the next stage: the hand on her bared bottom, fondling, feeling. And his voice, prim and controlled now:

'First I will give you my usual instructions, Miss, although by now you really should know without being told.' The hand got on with its busy task. 'Keep the legs straight so that the bottom is kept elevated. Keep your head well down. And do try to keep the bottom quite still so that the cane can be properly applied.'

The hand squeezed and stroked the silken-smooth globes. 'Departures from these simple rules may well result in extra strokes. And I will just repeat that I do intend – today – to give you something special. To remember when you have left St Millicent's. A special leaving present, as I have said.'

A final squeeze of the bottom and the hand left. Not long now to wait. A few seconds of awful anticipation. No more than the time it took to reach for the cane. And then raise it...

CRACK! A breathtaking jolting cut right across the full meat of the under-curve of Julie's bum.

'Ooohh! Ah! Ooooohh!' She squirmed and shuddered with the fearsome stinging pain. Mr Mackie was as good as his word. She had never had it like that before. Never... anything... like that!.. Julie was already crying unashamedly.

'Keep the bottom still, girl!'

She couldn't, of course, and he would have been disappointed if she could. As long as it was back in position for the next...

CRACK! A second, fully as hard, parallel and an inch below the first. Another anguished cry as the bottom's desperate writhings redoubled.

But the girl's cries and writhings served only to spur Mr Mackie on. With icy concentration he continued – taking his time and applying deliberately measured slashes to the jerking, twisting bottom. CRACK!.. CRACK!.. The cane rose and fell...

After five all semblance of Julie's control had gone and she couldn't help snatching her hands from the floor to desperately protect her bottom. She caught the sixth stroke partially across her open palms before Mr Mackie angrily jerked the hands away.

'Miss Gilbert, whatever do you think you are doing! Get those hands back on the floor immediately!' He sounded outraged.

Julie, almost incoherent: 'I... I'm s...sorry, Sir. Qooh! I c...can't... Ooh... no m...more, Sir. P...Please no m...m...more.' The tears were flowing. She sounded utterly piteous.

'What are you talking about, Miss! I have certainly no intention of terminating a caning halfway through. Did I not promise you something special? Now get back into position immediately. And if you can't control yourself I shall keep you here through the whole of lunch-time.'

He paused only to mop a perspiring brow: the result of his exertions or perhaps some other cause.

'Yes, Miss, I shall be quite happy to do so. Really it is unheard-of that a member of the Upper Sixth cannot take a caning properly. Now get back and control yourself!'

Sobbing, Julie resumed her proper position.

'Get the bottom up, now!' The tone very tart.

Trembling and crying she complied. Her bottom was decorated with five fiery stripes – three precisely placed, parallel and within an inch of each other, as Mr Mackie liked, but the other two, due to an excessively squirming backside, were further apart and at slight angles. Not perfect, her tormentor told himself, stung by this aesthetic imbalance, but on the other hand good evidence that she was undoubtedly feeling it.

'Keep still, Miss, and I shall give you three more. Plus of course the one which you so disgracefully cheated on.'

It was Mr Mackie's intention to give Julie these – as hard as the preceding ones – and then to tell her she was to have six more, for improper behaviour. But when he had delivered four more stingers on the twisting squirming rump it was obvious, even to James Mackie, that she'd had enough. Well, one didn't want repercussions.

So he contented himself with two extra biting slashes across the backs of her thighs above the nylon tops, as hard as he could make them. A little something for that infantile squirming around which really a Sixth Former should be able to control.

Like a nightmare it was finally over. Mr Mackie surveyed his work: the sobbing trembling girl, the scarlet-striped bottom... Yes, she would remember it all right.

Julie stumbled to her feet when told to, and still shaking and crying, fumbled the pink knickers back up under her skirt. The stinging pain was made worse by the seat of the knickers tight across her bottom. Mr Mackie's hated unctuous voice:

'Now, Miss: I do hope that is something you will remember.'

'Y...Yes... S...Sir.'

She could hardly gasp!

'Because I am very saddened to find these shortcomings in your behaviour just on the point of your leaving St Millicent's. I had sincerely hoped that you would have been proof against them by now. You will be expected to carry the School's standards with you, you know, after you have left here, as a living example to the word at large.'

Julie's mouth opened but nothing came out save for a panting gasp. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

'Very good. Well, I hope it has been a good lesson for you. You may go now.'

Mr Mackie unlocked the door. As she went out past him, none too steadily, he repeated, 'Remember now!'

And lifting her full skirt he gave her throbbing bottom a final sharp slap.

* * *

It was almost lunch-time when Julie got out of the Correction Room. Mr Mackie went off to enjoy his lunch – and savour the prospect of those two other charming bottoms to be enjoyed in the afternoon. Julie, on the other hand, didn't go to lunch. She couldn't face her friends and couldn't face the thought of eating either. She wandered aimlessly, conscious only of pain and the shock of what had happened.

Her day wasn't over though. There was another event to come which would significantly relate to Mr Mackie's 'School-leaving present'.

The first was an appointment she had with the School Doctor an hour later. He would make it clear how easy it was for you to become aroused, with great emphasis on the risks of an unprincipled man or youth doing this to you and then getting you pregnant. So of course his efforts had a highly moral purpose.

Dr Robson made Julie take off her dress and petticoat and lie on his couch in just her underwear. He spoke to her for a few minutes and then he was ready to start on the next stage. She slipped down her knickers – and not surprisingly there, still very obvious, were the marks of Mr Mackie's caning.

'I think I can guess who's done this,' said Dr Robson with a shake of his head as he ran his hand over the red-striped bottom. Mr Mackie's little pleasures were well-known to his colleagues.

He remarked that it must have stung. That was the understatement of the year, thought Julie, struggling not to start crying again. And then Dr Robson said something which, at the time, seemed to the pretty 18-year-old quite ridiculous.

'Of course, on the other hand caning can heighten sexual pleasure, you know, Julie. Because at the subconscious level pleasure and pain are closely related. In fact it is not unknown for a couple to use caning as an added stimulus in their sexual enjoyment.'

Well, she did find it quite ridiculous. She didn't tell Dr Robson that she thought he must be off his head, but that was just about what she thought. She was of course a quite inexperienced 18-year-old and it was not surprising that the School Doctor's remarks were difficult to believe.

Dr Robson asked, 'Don't you feel more sensitive, Julie? More easily arousable?'

Julie bit her lip. She felt more sensitive all right: she felt like crying. Dr Robson's hand was now actually caressing her. She felt she could hardly think straight. Then he told her to turn over and lie on her back... and relax...

But naturally nothing improper took place. He only spoke to her, soothingly and caressingly. Helping her to come to terms with the cruel experience she had undergone that morning in the Correction Room. She needed Dr Robson's reassuring words. Words which went round and round her head as she lay there with her clothes off, feeling the heat throbbing out from her bottom beneath her where it pressed into the slightly prickly surface of the School Doctor's couch. Sending tingling sparks shooting through her body, all of them bearing the same glowing message.

Julie Gilbert relaxed totally, finding peace and a sensuous feeling of well-being in the Doctor's hypnotic speech. He was talking about caning, among other things. All sense of the physical shock she had earlier experienced had left her body, her eyes were closed and her mind was in a dream, with her boyfriend David and Dr Robson and Mr Mackie and his cane all tumbling across the screen of her consciousness. She did not even remotely suspect that there would be a lifelong effect: of bringing her into the fold.

Two Daughters Dealt With

Story from Janus 36.

Two Daughters Dealt With
by Simon Banks

Well, what do you do with a 17-year-old daughter who has got to the stage of telling you, her father, that she's old enough to do what she wants? And what she wants includes staying out at night to all hours with God-knows-who. And not just one such girl but two. Two close friends both still at school: Elaine Baxter and Tracy Watson.

What do you do if you are their fathers?

At least you can put your heads together, which is what Steven Baxter and Michael Watson, both in their early forties, were doing in the Pig's Head over a pint. Something had to be done, but what? It had been building up for a while but last night was the end; when both men had waited up till after 1am before their daughters finally came in. And where had the girls been? 'Just out, Dad,' had been Elaine Baxter's answer. While Tracy had advised her father, 'Don't worry, Dad. I can look after myself.'

'We've got to do something,' said Steve Baxter. He wiped the beer froth from his moustache.

'Yes, but what?'

'Actually, what they both need is a good caning.'

That was probably right, Tracy's father agreed, but where were they going to get it? Certainly not at school, not the way schools were nowadays. 'And, well,' admitted Mr Watson, 'I don't exactly fancy caning my own daughter.'

Steven Baxter took a swallow of beer. He felt the same: he also couldn't really see himself caning his own now shapely and decidedly nubile Elaine. It wouldn't seem right somehow, though he'd be quite happy for someone else to do it and inject some sense into her.

He looked up as the thought suddenly came to him. 'There is an answer of course. We could swap. You cane Elaine and I could cane young Tracy.'

Michael Watson's eyes gradually widened as the sheer beauty of the idea sunk in. It was the obvious answer.

'Steven Baxter! I think you've hit on it! That's it!'

Steve Baxter grinned. 'Parental approval will not be a problem!'

'You're bloody right it won't!'

There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot, when the offence was still fresh in the offenders' minds. It was decided therefore that the next day, a Saturday, would be ideal. For one thing on Saturdays both wives would be out shopping, for the presence of wives could well weaken the hard resolve that this called for. And obtaining the necessary instruments of chastisement did not present a problem for after leaving the pub they went round to have a chat with old Jack Crabtree, a retired village schoolmaster.

That gentleman duly produced a pair of nice whippy rattans. It was about time, he said, that these two mementoes of his teaching days saw some action again. The three men laughed. To the two girls it was all going to come as a very nasty shock.

* * *

Elaine Baxter first became aware that something was up when after breakfast her father told her he was taking her over to the Watsons'. Elaine, a very pretty blonde young lady with a well filled-out figure which this morning was on show in a tight pink T-shirt and equally tight blue jeans, opened her blue eyes wide.

'I'm not seeing Tracy this morning.'

Her father simply said it was not Tracy she was to see but Mr Watson.

'Whatever for?' asked Elaine.

'You'll see,' said Mr Baxter. 'But whatever he does or tells you to do you can be sure he's got my authority.'

That made it even more mystifying but she could get no more out of her father. When they reached the Watsons' house in Holden Avenue there was an equally mystified-looking Tracy waiting.

'What's this all about?' she wanted to know.

She got the same 'You'll see' which she had also earlier got from her father. Very shortly Steven Baxter was driving back the way he had come; his passenger now not his daughter but the equally attractive Tracy Watson.

'What is this all about, Mr Baxter?' she asked yet again when the two of them were inside the Baxters' sitting room. 'Is it some kind of joke?'

Steven Baxter gave her a thoughtful look. She was an attractive young piece all right; a gaminely pretty face framed by chestnut hair cut short, while down below, her figure, fuller than his own daughter's, curved in all the right places in her pale blue sleeveless top and full black skirt.

'No, it's not a joke, Tracy. It's about Thursday night. Your and Elaine's gallivanting about.'

'Oh that!'

'Yes, that. And for that, young Miss, you are going to have the cane. On your bare bottom.'

She looked... and a pink flush gradually suffused her cheeks. 'You – you've got to be bloody joking!'

'Not joking, Tracy. And please don't use that language. It's going to be six strokes of the cane. Six with your knickers down on your bare bottom. That's the basic. I shall then want you to tell me what you were doing on Thursday night and who you were with. If you refuse then there'll be some more of the cane on that no doubt pretty bottom.'

Tracy's face was now crimson. 'No way! That... this is just ridiculous. Look, if you try anything I-I'll tell my Mum.'

Mr Baxter laughed. 'Your mother's got nothing to do with it, Tracy. This is being taken care of by me and your father. And for your information he is right now going to be dishing out the same medicine to Elaine. So, if you'll remove that skirt. And then slip your knickers down.'

'No!' she blurted. 'I simply refuse!'

'Take your skirt off!' he growled. 'Or I'll do it myself. Or would you on the other hand like to be sent to an Approved School for six months? Parents unable to cope with juvenile delinquent, etc. You could quite easily, you know. And at those places they can cane you twice a day.'

This was a bit of Steven Baxter's own imagination but it sounded good. Or correspondingly horribly bad if you were the naive and gullible Tracy Watson.

'Look...' she pleaded, 'isn't there... something else?'

'No. The cane. Your Dad and I are both quite adamant. You've got to be taught a lesson.'

Tracy looked at him... then up at the ceiling. Then down at the floor. And then at last, cowed by his truly adult supremacy, her hands went to the waist of the black calf-length cotton skirt. Pops were unpopped. The skirt came down and she stepped out of it. Underneath, her ripely rounded hips and bottom were in a skimpy pair of brief blue knickers under transparent tights.

'Now take the tights and knickers down.'

'Look... this is just awful!' Her voice was cracking.

'Take them down!'

Tracy hesitated again, then turned her back but was sharply told to stay facing Mr Baxter. Reluctantly the tights came down, to mid-thigh, and then even more reluctantly the brief knickers were slid down off the rounded hips. There was a well-developed bush of black hair which she covered with her hand.

'This is simply awful!' Tracy wailed again.

'I know,' he said. 'It's meant to be. Now let's see: let's have you over the arm of the armchair, shall we?'

Tracy hobbled over to the chair and Mr Baxter pushed her down so that her hips were up on the chair arm and the upper part of her body was down in the seat. The twin globes of Tracy's succulent rear were thrust sharply up to present a bewitching target.

Steven Baxter pushed one creamy flank. 'Open your legs.'

'No!' protested the half-muffled voice.

'Yes! This is a punishment, remember. And the more unpleasant it is the more you'll think twice about your behaviour in the future.'

He placed her feet as far apart as the lowered knickers and tights would allow. It was a revealing position of course and Tracy knew it. She gave a groaning wail of embarrassment.

Steven Baxter now had Mr Crabtree's cane in his hand. He gave it an experimental swish through the air, then tap-tapped it across the crests of the pouting bottom globes. There was an apprehensive hiss from Tracy. The cane was raised...

THWATT!

It struck with juddering impact, momentarily sinking into the soft resilient flesh before springing out again. 'Aaaeeeooohh!!' Tracy's anguished yelp resembled the cry of a cat in heat, her hands coming automatically back to clutch at her burning bum which now displayed a bright red double-edged stripe.

Mr Baxter whipped the cane lightly across the backs of the clutching hands. 'Hands away, or you'll get extra ones. Come on!'

The hands were reluctantly removed; the jerking bottom became somewhat less agitated. Again the cane was raised and whipped down.

THWATT!.. Once more it bit sharply in, an inch lower than the first contact line. Another banshee yell from Tracy and a renewed frenzied dance of her ripe round bum. From the depths of the chair seat there came desperate cries.

'Stop, Mr Baxter! No more! You're killing me...'

Steve Baxter drank in the splendid sight of the now doubly-striped bottom, relishing his power over the nubile half-naked teenager. 'You're getting six, like I said.'

THWATT!.. 'Aaaoooowwch!!'

He had laid the third into the exact curve where bum cheeks became fat upper thighs, a splendidly tender region which produced a correspondingly desperate reaction from young Tracy. How that must have hurt her! He waited until her violent motion had subsided somewhat, and then went back up to the full crest of the bottom for the fourth.

THWATTT!...

She seemed to be sobbing how.

The final two Mr Baxter put on in a nice cross, top left to lower right and vice versa. A cross on top of three transverse shots, although he wasn't quite as accurate as he had wanted to be with the last of the six strokes. Then he let the cane fall to the floor. The girl's bottom, twitching and writhing, was an impressive sight and it was clear he'd done an excellent job. Gasping and sobbing, Tracy made no attempt to get up.

He reached out to pat the red-striped bum. 'Come on, it's over now. At least it is if you're sensible.'

He pulled Tracy to her feet, then put his arm round her. She was a nice kid, or had been until this recent bout of wildness. The sorrowful chestnut head reached his shoulders and her tear-stained face was pressed into his shirt-front, quickly wetting it. A bit further down a pair of firm full tits were pressed in as well. Very pleasant. Steve Baxter patted her back, then one hand slid down to likewise pat her bare bum. At which she flinched and gasped.

'Going to tell me about it now?' he asked.

She made a sound like 'Nnngghh...'

Mr Baxter backed towards the armchair, taking Tracy with him. He sat down in the now vacant seat, as he did so twisting her so that she finished up face down – and bottom up – over his lap. His left hand held her while his right slid softly and caressingly over the now heated bare bottom.

'You're going to have to tell, Tracy; otherwise I'll just have to continue your medicine.'

There was a silence and then, intermixed with sobs, it came jerkily out. They had gone to the disco where these two fellows had picked them up and taken them out in their car. Two young reps it seemed. According to Tracy's halting account nothing much had happened. So were they planning to see them again, Mr Baxter wanted to know?

'Y..yes...'

'No! Definitely not! You understand?'

She was silent. He gave the bare bottom which he had been stroking a sharp smack. 'Understand?'

'Y..yes,' she said, wincing.

The hand resumed its caressing. With a sniff Tracy said, 'You... you're awfully mean, Mr Baxter...'

* * *

A little later Michael Watson arrived with Elaine. The two men had a brief private word. It seemed that things had gone just as well at Holden Avenue as they had at the Baxters' house. Mr Watson went off with Tracy leaving Steven Baxter alone with his daughter.

'OK?' he asked. 'Had a nice little lesson then?'

Flushing red, Elaine made a face.

'Let's see,' he told her. 'Slip down your things.'

Elaine tried to refuse but her father insisted. Reluctantly she slipped down jeans and knickers, as she had earlier reluctantly slipped them down for Mr Watson. Her bottom bore six transverse red stripes, not the same pattern as Tracy's, but the effect would have been very similar.

'OK,' he said. 'That looks good! Pull them up.'

The two girls got together that afternoon, at Tracy's house. It was nice and private for her parents had gone out. Up in Tracy's room the girls commiserated with each other over their dreadful experiences of the morning. They told each other how really terrible their fathers were as they contemplated the prospect of no more late night discos and the fact that they wouldn't be seeing those two men again.

When they had said all this though, the fact remained that it had been a bit exciting, as well as painful. Awful but exciting at the same time. Because men were men and Mr Watson and Mr Baxter were both rather attractive in an older-man way. And having to submit to them in that very physical manner... well, the thought of it could undoubtedly make a 17-year-old female heart beat a bit faster. Not that they admitted this to each other.

'Do you think,' asked Elaine with a shiver, 'that they're going to want to do it again?'

'Gripes!' said Tracy.

* * *

In fact the two men decided, a couple of evening later in the Pig's Head, that a little reminder for the girls would be no bad thing. The short sharp shock had obviously been excellent and a second dose could only improve matters. Indeed they were both agreed that more doses could with advantage be handed out at regular intervals for although they didn't actually say so, each had found it a highly agreeable duty. For the second session, though, it was decided that the cane itself could be dispensed with. A sharp spanking would do.

It was not specified, the details were left open, but each of them privately decided such a spanking for the other's daughter would be more effective if it was delivered on her bare bottom with skirt raised and knickers suitably lowered

Tracy and Elaine were both this time given prior warning by their fathers of what was to take place on Saturday morning. There were looks and expressions of shock and indignation – while at the same time each felt a shiver of excitement. It was frightful but it was also an undeniably heady prospect, in a way as exciting as being asked out by those two men at the disco.

And indeed when the weekend arrived both girls prepared for the ordeal as if they were going on a date: washing their hair the night before and on the appointed morning having a bath and putting on some scent and blusher and eye-shadow and, in Tracy's case, some pink lipstick as well. And dressing in what they both considered to be their most glam outfits.

Furthermore both Tracy and Elaine decided that if they were going to be forced to reveal what was underneath their skirts, then boring old tights would not be good enough. So they arrayed themselves in eye-catching nylons and suspender belts, just like in those glamorous Sixties. Well, if you were going to be suffering the exciting indignity of having a man spank your bare bottom you had to be looking your best.

A Good Company Wife

Story from Janus 24.

A Good Company Wife
by Simon Banks

A good Company wife was expected to co-operate. If she didn't, her husband could expect to remain firmly at the very bottom of the ladder...

The room was plushly furnished, the pile of the carpet seemingly a foot thick and the modern paintings on the walls looking very much like originals. The view from the tinted picture window was of the shimmering river fifteen floors below with, beyond, a panoramic sweep of London. The man, smiling, led the young woman to an armchair which gently but firmly moulded itself to the shapely outline of her body. She crossed her legs a little nervously as he smiled again, looking down at her.

'A drink, Mrs Mitchell? No? Very well. Now, first of all, I must emphasise, I cannot emphasise too greatly, that anything I may discuss today is in the strictest confidence. It must be repeated to no one. Not even, I am afraid, your husband.'

He would be in his fifties, a somewhat bulky figure in an exquisitely-cut Savile Row suit, his sleek round face dominated eyes that were sharp and appraising. But then they were entitled to appraise because he was Mr Rollison, a very very important person in that very large and very powerful conglomerate, Hanbury International; and she was no more than the young (21) wife of an equally young (23) and very junior (and also very new) recruit in the same organization.

Yes, Angela Mitchell accepted that Mr Rollison's eyes were clearly entitled to appraise her just as much as they liked. In any case simply to be sitting there in that opulent office in the company of this most important person was, for Angela, more than a little overwhelming.

He sat down closely opposite and gave her another frank appraisal, this time primarily aimed at her knees. She coloured slightly. With her best grey linen suit she had on nylons and suspender belt – they had recently become rather fashionable again. She felt a moment's panic that she might be showing nylon tops – plus bare thigh and black suspender straps. And such a display would hardly go with the image of a proper young executive's wife.

But at the same time to tug at her skirt might make her appear prudish, and silly: a silly and inexperienced young woman. She felt even more out of her depth, and decidedly vulnerable.

The phone call had come as a shock. His secretary inquiring if she was likely to be in town at any time and if so could she visit Mr Rollison for a little chat. Angela knew it was not unknown for the wife of a new recruit to get such an invitation from one of the top men. To make the ladies feel part of the Company. But even so... She had met him before, at the reception which she and Gerry attended. But there had been so many new faces and names that neither the face nor the name really registered.

She smiled rather nervously. 'Oh, I am very discreet, Mr Rollison. I appreciate... well, in business...' Her sentence tailed off into nothing: she thought, I certainly sound silly.

He smiled: the smile of a man who, unlike his visitor, was sure, confident. She was very pretty, curling auburn hair cut short, a soft full-lipped mouth. And the figure too, softly rounded: he had especially noticed at the reception the full firm backside in her tight short dress. Yes, a very attractive package: young, soft, ripe, probably inexperienced. She would be much appreciated. Would she prove receptive, though? Co-operative?

He said smoothly, 'A wife can be a most important asset for a young man at the beginning of his career, Mrs Mitchell. She can help his career immeasurably. On the other hand...'

Angela nervously recrossed her legs. Mr Rollison did this time glimpse nylons and black suspenders. He continued, 'Because there is a certain area where she can be of great assistance to the Company. On the social side, I am talking about. And if she can be helpful in that way, I can assure you it is not lost sight of in terms of her husband's advancement.'

Angela said seriously, 'Of course I am extremely keen to help my husband in any way I can... and naturally the Company as well.'

'I am thinking specifically of foreign visitors,' said Mr Rollison. 'The Company has major international dealings as I expect you know, and we constantly get foreign clients... German, French, Swiss, American. The Company entertains them of course but, well, some clients do like a more personal touch.'

He looked frankly into the pretty face, the green-hazel eyes. 'You can understand, Mrs Mitchell, I am sure, that a visitor may wish for a lady's company, that is perfectly natural. We do our best and we can certainly provide a professional companion, but a professional person, however charming, can never have the fresh natural appeal of a young married lady.'

Angela felt herself colouring. What exactly were these young married ladies supposed to do?

Mr Rollison obviously guessed her thoughts. He leaned forward confidentially. 'Mrs Mitchell, I will be frank. We do get visitors who require a lady for the very basic reasons. Quite simply they require, among other things, sexual intercourse, and we do have clients who are only happy if they can have a young married lady for this purpose.'

He smiled. 'The appeal is obvious, of course. With a young wife, such as yourself, they are clearly getting something very choice: a fresh and lovely young woman whose body has not been sampled by every Tom, Dick or Harry. And I can tell you, again in the strictest confidence, that we do have young wives who are prepared to perform this service for the Company. I hope I'm not being too frank for you.'

Angela Mitchell's face had turned a delicate shade of pink. She nervously shifted her position. This was really awful!

Mr Rollison smiled again. 'But I am not asking you to do that, Mrs Mitchell. I can sense that you would not find it at all easy to offer that service to the Company; and therefore you can rest assured that it will not be requested.'

He sat back in his chair. 'However there are other pleasures to be had from a pretty young woman besides penetrating her sexually. Tell me, my dear lady, when you were a girl did you, at school or elsewhere, ever receive what is known as Corporal Punishment? Did you ever get your undoubtedly pretty bottom spanked, or perhaps slippered?'

Angela flushed. 'No... certainly not!'

Another smile. 'It is not at all unknown, you know. Let me say this then: you must surely be aware that a gentleman, well, a lady also but perhaps mostly a gentleman – that he may obtain considerable pleasure from such an act? From spanking a girl's or young woman's bottom? Indeed from applying the cane to it as well. You must be aware of that?'

Angela, now in considerable confusion, shock her head. Feeling distinctly unhappy she heard Mr Rollison say:

'You are evidently a very innocent young woman, Mrs Mitchell. That of course is no problem. Not at all. Freshness and innocence are always highly prized. As long as you are agreeable, naturally. The fact is we have a certain client. A very important client. A gentleman from Zurich...'

* * *

She came out in a daze, hardly able to believe it. Mr Rollison's suggestion... it just took her breath away. On the train home it seemed that all the other passengers – the commuters, the wives back from their shopping trips – were looking at her as if they knew. Knew that she had just had that really awful proposition put to her.

The proposition: that this man, Mr Vollmann his name was, Hanbury's very important Swiss client, would be visiting next week and would like a companion one afternoon. He would like a pretty young married woman and in Mr Rollison's opinion Angela Mitchell would fill the bill admirably.

'Just a friendly visit,' Mr Rollison had said, 'Nothing at all to get excited about.'

With a rising sense of panic Angela had asked for it to be spelled out.

'Oh, just the usual. I suppose he'll want to spank your bottom and quite probably cane you as well. But don't worry, he won't cause any damage. It won't leave any permanent marks, we would have his agreement on that score.'

She had just looked at him, open-mouthed.

She didn't have to go, Mr Rollison had stressed that. Oh no, the Company would certainly not force an employee's wife into something she didn't want. She had the choice. But what a choice, because Mr Rollison made it clear that a good Company wife was expected to co-operate: and if she didn't her husband could expect to remain firmly at the very bottom of the ladder.

Or, thought Angela, suddenly experiencing a tremor of panic, they might even find an excuse to sack him. Gerry had been very fortunate to get the job with Hanburys and his salary, even the starting one, was very good. Without it, well, it would be goodbye to that super ranch-type house that they'd both set their hearts on. For which they had already gone to the Building Society to inquire about a mortgage.

Sitting there on the homeward-bound train she suddenly realised she was sweating. That prospect was just too terrible to contemplate.

So the choice was stark. She couldn't tell Gerry. Apart from Mr Rollison's instructions not to, she could see this was something she had to work out for herself. It was Friday, there would be the whole weekend to think about it. Agonize about it. Mr Rollison had to have an answer by Monday, because he might have to arrange someone else. Someone else, clearly, whose husband would then be a favoured man.

She could see in fact that there was no real choice. She would have to agree. Grit her teeth and however mortifying it was, let it happen.

The weekend was awful, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Gerry knew of her visit to Mr Rollison but assumed it was just a courtesy call. He wanted to hear all about it, all about that very important man. She was rather vague, said it had been a very short visit. He had a very plush office, though. That at least she could safely say. On Sunday they drove out once more to look at that dreamy house.

And on Monday morning she phoned Mr Rollison with her inevitable reply.

* * *

Wednesday was the day. Wednesday afternoon when this man, Mr Vollmann, was presumably free from his important dealings with Hanburys. At least being the afternoon meant there should be no problem with Gerry knowing. She would simply be out shopping if he called.

Travelling up on the train she felt just numb. Grit your teeth and think of England, she told herself. Or that dreamy house. On this warm June day she had on a knee-length summer dress, tight at the bodice showing off her firm breasts, and with a full skirt. Also her nylons and a suspender belt again with medium high heels. That was what the older woman's voice on the phone had suggested – a short full skirt and the nylons.

'I understand Mr Rollison rather likes nylons on a lady.' The voice had been calm and confidential, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be discussing. But then if you were used to talking to Company wives who had agreed to go to bed with clients, perhaps it was no big thing.

The confidential voice had further advised against too much make-up. 'Just a nice fresh and rather innocent appearance. Oh and underwear: nothing too exotic in that area, please. Smart but simple. White or pastel shade would be excellent, but nothing garish.'

It was incredible – but obviously Hanburys went to some trouble to cater to their clients' wishes.

The hotel was an expensive one in the West End and she felt rather like some high-class prostitute going in there in the afternoon. That feeling, that her body was available for use, had already been heightened on the journey across London. She had taken the Underground rather than a taxi, which would get her there all too quickly. The tube was crowded and she had had to stand in a crush and for several stops there had been an insistent male hand, openly feeling her bottom through the thin summer dress. It had been awful but in the crush there was nothing she could do, and he had just kept on doing it to her.

So she was no longer numb but fully aware, biting her nails almost, as she rang the bell. He opened the door and smiled.

'Ah, Mrs Mitchell, I believe?'

He was what you might imagine as a German: a squarish rather stern face with gold-rimmed spectacles and grey-blonde hair smoothed down. About Mr Rollison's age: fiftyish.

Trying to control her trembling she went in. The plushness of the suite matched Mr Rollison's room. He offered her a drink but she refused. It wouldn't calm her, would just as likely make her feel sick.

They sat down, he started asking her about herself, about Gerry; told her she was very pretty, very charming. Then said he presumed she took part in CP with her husband. And his friends as well? He seemed most surprised at her statement that she had never done it before. Wasn't it a well-known fact that the English were very keen on CP?

'So, a real beginner, eh? That is very nice for me!'

She flushed, felt sick.

'Shall we begin then? I am as it happens very keen on the schoolgirl scene. I would like you as a schoolgirl, Mrs Mitchell. A big schoolgirl, a Sixth Former, is that it in England? You will make a most charming one.'

He got up and went to a box on the table. Opening it he took out a navy pleated skirt, a white blouse, then a red-and-white striped tie.

'You see, Mrs Mitchell: your school uniform. I believe it will fit. So if you will now take off your pretty dress and put these school items on.'

Angela gulped. She had never expected this – but did it make any difference? What was coming was going to be the same. She stood up. Reached for the zip of her red-flowered dress.

He watched, eyes alert, as she slipped out of it. She had a waist petticoat underneath and he told her to remove that as well. Underneath, her plain brief white nylon knickers matched her light bra and the white lace suspender belt which fastened her dark nylons. She grabbed quickly for the school uniform.

Mr Vollmann fastened the tie for her – then reflectively squeezed her breasts. 'Very good!' he said. 'Excellent!'

Then he lifted her skirt. 'I especially like your nylons and the suspender belt. Most erotic. In this school that you go to we will say they are especially required by the Headmaster for all the Sixth Form girls. A requirement simply for the Headmaster's own pleasure, I may say!'

The hand that wasn't holding up her skirt took hold of one suspender and snapped it against her thigh. Then he dropped the skirt and sat down on an upright chair.

'Now Mrs Mitchell, you have been sent to your Headmaster for some fault or other. Perhaps you have failed to do your homework, for instance. The Head is very strict with the bigger girls like yourself, an 18-year-old. You could easily be 18, Mrs Mitchell, you know. Because at 18 a girl should obviously know better.'

'He therefore intends to spank your bottom. It will of course be your bare bottom: it is always the bare bottom with the big girls. So stand close in front of me, please. Good. Now please lift your skirt. Up round your waist.'

Could this really be happening? Perhaps it was simply a bad dream... She pulled up the school skirt.

His voice in the almost flawless English. 'Good. A little higher. That is very good! Now your Headmaster always likes to take his pupils' knickers down himself. So now we do it.'

His hands came out, to the waistband of the virginal white nylon knickers. Fingers into the waistband, then smoothly sliding them down, to her nyloned knees. She cringed: she knew she wasn't dreaming. The eyes glinted behind the spectacles, she knew were real live eyes – staring fixedly at her red-brown bush.

He smiled. 'Most charming, Mrs Mitchell. Almost perhaps one could say the tail – the brush is it in English – of a red squirrel. Not quite so bushy perhaps but certainly a splendid object.'

She gasped as his hand reached out and briefly fondled it.

'Now turn round please. Let us see, as you might say, the seat of the action.'

She turned, still holding the pleated skirt high, and presented her full round buttocks. Another gasp as his hand, slightly cold, took hold of them, fondling, squeezing.

And then the next thing she knew she was over his lap, her head down near the carpet. And his hand was first fondling her bare bottom again and then was coming down: Smack!... Smack!... Smacking sharply down onto her soft bare flesh.

It stung, each smack a sharp smarting impact but worse than that was the feeling of humiliation, of subjugation. That she was having to lie there, bare-bottomed over a stranger's lap and allow it to happen. She thought afterwards that having actual sexual intercourse, though shaming, could not have been quite so humiliating.

He kept on spanking, his hand systematically landing on every square inch of her bottom. Then, presumably when he'd had enough, he told her to get up.

She stood, thankfully allowing her skirt to fall back down. Was it just possibly all over? Mr Vollmann's eyes were gleaming.

'Good, Mrs Mitchell. Very good! You have a most spankable bottom. Now we quickly move forward – shall we say three days. You are unfortunately back in your Headmasters study once more. Another fault, I am afraid. Perhaps late, or seen going out with boys, something like that. Anyway, your Head is most concerned. Obviously a spanking will not be sufficient this time.'

'No, unfortunately for this pretty schoolgirl it must now be the cane. So please now take your knickers down and take them right off. With your Headmaster it is always the knickers right off for a caning.'

Angela stood there, transfixed, as he walked across the room and came back with a cane.

'Come along! Quickly! Your Headmaster does not like delay. There will be six strokes on the bare bottom.'

The only thing she could think was that she had to go through with it and presumably the sooner she did the sooner it would be over. She reached her hands up under the skirt. The white nylon knickers came down; she stepped out of them, gave them to Mr Vollmann's waiting hand. Then numbly, as instructed, she bent herself over the arm of an armchair, her face down in its seat. She felt the skirt pulled up to her waist baring her upthrust buttocks. She bit her lip, clenched her hands.

Then THWACK! A horrendous stinging pain as the cane whipped into the full meat of her bottom. It was almost unbelievable, breath-stopping. She heard herself let out a desperate gasping howl, while her bottom made frantic writhing motions. Then Mr Vollmann's hand on the tortured rear, intimately gripping it as he pushed it back high on the chains arm again.

The sharp voice. 'Keep the bottom up, please!'

A short fearsome pause, then THWACK!... it juddered into her soft flesh again. She yelled out once more, bottom squirming.

The pause again, then the third agonizing THWACK! And after that they seemed to all merge into each other, and she could no longer tell what the number was. He had said it would be six but all she knew was the enormity of the pain. Continually rising as the horrendous sting from one stroke was added to by the next.

She had thought beforehand, wouldn't it be awful if I cry? Angela Mitchell, 21 and a married woman, being caned on her bare bottom and crying! But well before the end she was crying, hot desperate tears, but now tears seemed the least of her worries. All that mattered was the dreadful stinging agony in her rear. A stinging agony that seemed to go on and on while her backside twisted and squirmed and her thighs, at first so primly together, were now no longer so – but she had no thought for that either.

Finally, though, the cane was not coming down any more. Had she had six, or twenty-six? she didn't know, but Angela now heard his voice:

'That is the finish. You can get up now.'

The pain was still there, for the moment still as bad as ever but at least it was over. Unsteadily she got to her feet. Mr Vollmann, little beads of perspiration on his face, asked if she would like a drink now.

Still tearful, Angela stuttered 'Yes'. And managed to ask if she could wash her face.

Cold water splashed on her face in the bathroom, and then back to the gin-and-tonic Mr Vollmann had ready, made her feel a bit better. Gingerly, Angela sat on the settee, acutely conscious of the state of her bottom. It still stung awfully but at least the caning was over.

She suddenly remembered she was still wearing that schoolgirl outfit – and also she had no knickers on. Biting her lip Angela glanced across at Mr Vollmann who was sitting opposite.

'Ca-can I get my clothes on now?'

He smiled. 'Oh really Mrs Mitchell, you are in such a hurry! Are you now ready for the next stage then?'

Angela looked... Was she hearing correctly? Surely her awful ordeal was over; he had finished...

Her unasked question was at once answered. 'There is of course one more session for the pretty schoolgirl. You see she is a very silly girl and a few days later is back in the Headmaster's study once more. More ill-discipline of some description, I expect.

'And when a girl returns for a third time the Head always takes her to the gymnasium, for a session of strenuous exercise in which she is kept up to her mark with frequent application of the cane. For this session she wears only a little sleeveless vest, with nothing else.'

He stood up, went to that box again and took out a white cotton sleeveless vest.

This is the garment, Mrs Mitchell. A little vest which of course will allow complete freedom for the girl's exercises and also, at the same time, allow very good access for the cane. So now, as you are ready, will you please take off all your clothes and put on this garment.'

* * *

'Hello darling! Did you have a good day? Mine was great!'

Gerry, home from the office, had come bounding in and enthusiastically grabbed his wife. Angela smiled inwardly as she returned his kiss. She had some idea what his 'great day' might involve.

It was Friday, 48 hours after her afternoon with Mr Vollmann. So she had had 48 hours to get over it but it was still vivid, almost unbelievable, in her mind. Being spanked and then caned, and especially that last bit when she had had to take off all her clothes and put on just that miniscule vest which barely reached to her waist. And then, virtually nude, had had to do those exercises, running on the spot and stretching and bending and high-kicking, and lying on the table on her back cycling her legs in the air. While all the time at any sign of flagging Mr Vollmann's cane whipped out at her bottom and thighs. Mr Vollmann and his simple pleasures – it had just about driven her out of her mind.

Gerry continued exultantly, 'And I've got the most fantastic news! You'll never guess: not in a hundred years!'

She would guess of course. Because she knew what his great surprise was, but naturally it would never do to tell him that. She knew because that very afternoon Mr Rollison had told her. Had told her right there in their very own flat.

He had phoned that morning saying that he planned to come over in the afternoon: he had something to tell her. A bombshell! The last thing Angela could have expected, having Mr Rollison at the flat. She did some frenzied hoovering, dusting; not that he probably noticed. He said he had come to congratulate her on her visit with Mr Vollmann. That gentleman had apparently been extremely pleased with her. In fact...

The 'in fact' was obviously going to be Gerry's surprise. In fact, said Mr Rollison, Mr Vollmann was now ready to sign the very important contract they had been working on for some time. It would be signed in Mr Vollmann's Zurich office and he had suggested that if Mr Gerald Mitchell went as part of the Hanburys team Mrs Angela Mitchell could accompany him. And during the course of the negotiations, which might take several further days, there would be opportunity (more than once probably) for Mr Vollmann to entertain Mrs Mitchell. Or, depending how you looked at it, vice versa.

Angela had felt herself go all hot and cold.

'Next week,' said Mr Rollison. 'All the arrangements are in hand, and your husband will be informed today. So you'll be hearing about it from him when he gets home, I daresay.'

He had smiled a rather sardonic smile and then pulled her to him. 'Yes, Mrs Mitchell, you seem to have been quite a hit. But we really shouldn't keep it all for the clients, should we?'

That obviously was why he had come round to the flat rather than simply telling her on the phone. Because he then sat down on their settee and pulled her over his lap. And pulled up her skirt and pulled down her knickers. And there and then in her own living room gave her a spanking. Afterwards he had laughed and told her she would soon be getting an appetite for it.

'No, I can't guess,' she told Gerry.

She listened, making appropriate sounds of amazement, as he told her of the German trip. She pictured herself again in that little white vest and nothing else, doing those exercises – some of them revealing not just her 'squirrel's brush' but everything else as well. And that cane: it had hurt dreadfully but now... well, there was and element of excitement to it.

Gerry was saying, 'Let's celebrate!' And leading her upstairs.

Upstairs, on the bed, her knickers quickly off. Gerry on top of her, inside her...

She disengaged her mouth from his kiss. 'Gerry: have you ever... wanted to spank a girl? Or cane her?'

'Nope.' He continued to thrust into her. 'Why?'

'Oh nothing. It's just... This girl I know vaguely. She was talking about it. She said... quite a lot of people do it.'

Angela put her arms round her husband, squeezing him. She thought of the coming trip to Switzerland and Mr Vollmann. And there was also Mr Rollison – he was obviously going to want more. And then... other clients? She shivered. If she was going to be the good Company wife she would have to agree to whatever was wanted.

The good Company wife hugged Gerry tightly as she felt a powerful sexual response begin to well up inside her.