St. Angela's Stands FIRM!

Story from The Roue 03.

St. Angela's Stands FIRM!

The recent statement of the European Court regarding corporal punishment in schools must assuredly have come as a great shock to educational establishments throughout the land. One of the most hallowed of British traditions apparently declared unlawful?! Fantastic! And presumably at all our finest schools caning will now merely be a thing of the past? Quite unbelievable! Retired old gentlemen must have been having fits! And undoubtedly such an earth-shattering pronouncement must have caused heated debate and discussion up and down the country.

Yes, this is certainly true, but on one score at least those old gentlemen may relax. Because at one noted school, at any rate, debate on this topic was virtually non-existent. I refer of course to St. Angela's school for Girls. Where the girls all knew without asking, without being told, that such a ruling would mean absolutely nothing to Mr. Ingham and his staff. Life at St. Angela's would continue unchanged and as always knickers would continue to be taken down, on the spot if necessary, at any master's whim.

However to say that 'all girls knew' is to give a false impression of what actually happened. For while all, deep down, undoubtedly did know there was nonetheless a few, a meagre handful, who fondly imagined, or shall we say hoped, that things might change. Sally Andrews and Judy Macintosh initially. 'Look, what it needs is a petition to the Head pointing out that spanking and caning are not unlawful,' said Sally.

Her friend Judy very sensibly had serious doubts as to the wisdom of this but was finally persuaded to agree: 'Well, all right. I suppose he can only say No. But nothing too strong. Something like: We respectfully request that the Headmaster... er... consider the recent decree of the Court. And... and could he please see fit to... er... to now abolish corporal punishment at St. Angela's.'

The petition did not get many signatories, the great majority of girls having learnt that at St. Angela's the best way to get by (and keep your bottom out of trouble, trouble by definition meaning having it bared over the chair in Room 2D) was to keep your head down, to remain as far as possible anonymous. Five names were all that could be mustered and this included those of the two instigators. 'Let's call it off,' said Judy but Sally unfortunately was not prepared to let her brain-child sink without trace. She sealed the petition and the five names in an envelope and gave it to the secretary to hand to the Head.

Undoubtedly it was a bold, indeed reckless, move. Those who knew waited with baited breath. There was not long to wait. Morning Assembly one day later...

The routine business out of the way and then the Head cleared his throat and looked sharply out at the ranks of girls. He had, he said, received a note – a petition it called itself – signed by five girls. Five silly girls, not to say impertinent ones. Referring to something which girls had presumably read about and seen on the television recently. Impertinent statements from a foreign body calling itself the European Court or something which purported to be able to tell sovereign countries how they should conduct their affairs. Well, other countries could do as they wished but we all knew no one told us in Britain how to run our lives. We would of course carry on exactly as before.

Now the girls in question. First of all he was glad to see that the number involved was so few – just five girls. Five girls had been sufficiently disloyal as to take part in this unprecedented act. Well, so much for this co-called Court's decree, these five girls would now receive what it had the impertinence to think it could ban. Yes they would each be caned and they would be caned now, as this Assembly, in front of the whole school. These girls will now step forward: Sally Andrews... Cynthia Barker... Judy Macintosh... Barbara Renfrew... Nancy Verity....

A tense excitement grips the assembled girls as the five unfortunates step out from their places and with flushed faces climb the short flight of steps on to the stage to form an unhappy-looking line. Tense excitement because a public caning in front of the whole school is a rare event and, let's face it, if it's someone else and not you, well, it is undoubtedly exciting. A chair placed carefully by Mr. Ingham near the front centre of the stage facing sideways. The first name called out. Sally Andrews.

She steps forward, a tall pretty girl with shoulder-length blonde hair, whose original idea this whole thing was of course. Mr. Ingham bends her over the seat of the chair so that her bottom faces the assembled school and all will clearly see. In his practised way he flips her skirt up over her back. Then pulls the tight white knickers down past the tops of her nylons to just above her knees. Sally's full pale bottom, waiting. The cane in the Head's hand. Raised. 'I shall give you six strokes. Miss,' And lowered. Thwack!....

A yelp of anguish from Sally. A bright pink stripe across the pale flesh. Sharp intakes of breath from those watching – for they all know what it feel like, the vicious sting on that tenderest part of your body.

Thwack! A second stripe now joining the first across Sally's desperately squirming buttocks.

Thwack!... Thwack!... Mr. Ingham is really laying it into her. A steady unhurried cadence, the awful sound of cane on flesh punctuated each time by a wild yelp from Sally. Her bared buttocks squirming more and more frantically as the stripes multiply.

Six finally delivered. Sally now standing, openly crying, fumbling up her knickers, stumbling back down the steps. Cynthia Barker next: a pert brunette with a ponytail, not as tall as Sally, she is already close to tears from having had to watch. The same routine. Over the chair. Skirt up. Knickers down. The cane raised. Thwack!.... A loud anguished howl....

Methodically the Head continues as the five girls in turn take their place over the seat of the chair. In turn skirts are raised and knickers lowered. In turn each receives six on the full flesh of the bare bottom. In turn she tearfully pulls her knickers back up over the angry stinging stripes; then hot faced, and with little dabs at the tears which will not stop coming, she returns to her place.

The excitement is finally over and it is time to get to class. Girls shuffle expectantly. But what is this? What is the Head saying?

Everyone has now seen these girls dealt with in the time-honoured way. But is could just possibly be that their action was only the tip of the iceberg and that although other girls did not sign this ridiculous petition they may nonetheless believe that this self-appointed foreign Court does indeed have some jurisdiction in these matters, and that they can have some say in what happens at St. Angela's. Could this possibly be so? wonders the Head in icy tones as he looks around. He does not expect an answer and does not get one, only an uncomfortable shuffling of bottoms in chairs as girls uneasily wonder where this is leading.

They very quickly learn as Mr. Ingham continues: He has decided therefore to take an action which he hopes will remind everyone what the situation is. So that no girl may be in any possible doubt he is going to cane every girl in the school. Four strokes with knickers down.

Gasps of disbelief, a buzz of outraged muttering. Within this general hubbub one voice – its owner momentarily forgetful of the golden rule at St. Angela's of keeping out of sight – is heard to say with unfortunate clarity: 'That's just not fair!'

'Stand up that girl, please!'

Red-faced she rises: it is Alison Follet, Seven A.

'You, my girl, will be given a double dose – eight strokes. Now does anyone else think it's unfair?'

No answer – not surprisingly!

'Good. I shall begin now, directly following this Assembly. I shall deal with one class at a time. Let's see, we will start with Form Six A. Those girls will proceed to the corridor outside Room 2D where they will take down their knickers and remain quietly in line until I arrive. The Form Leader will then send girls into me one at a time and finally come in herself. Other Forms will go to their normal classes until they are called. The girls I have just caned will not, of course, be exempted from this caning of the whole school.

'That is all I have to say except this one last thing. I want every girl to remember this, when it comes to her turn to get over the chair in Room 2D and have her knickers slipped down. To remember that St. Angela's stands firm against any attempt at interference. That is all. School dismiss.'

The clatter of 130-odd girls getting to their feet and with it the hum of what sounds like 130 voices – shocked, indignant, and especially angry voices. There is no point directing the anger at Mr. Ingham – you can do nothing about him. But you can perhaps do something about those five who inevitably are seen as responsible for this caning. Outside the Hall they are angrily jostled; hands reach out to sharply pull hair, to viciously pinch already stinging bottoms. Hissed threats: 'Wait till we get you back in the dorm tonight!' Sally and Nancy are soon once more in tears.

Back on the stage the Head turns to his colleagues. 'Well, gentlemen, I hope this will nip any possible rebellion in the bud.'

Mr. Harris, as always ready to agree with the Head, but on this occasion he undoubtedly speaks for everyone: 'Excellent, Headmaster. Most excellent! An inspired move, if I may say so. And an awfully good phrase too: St.Angela's Stands Firm!'

'Yes, one does have to keep one step ahead of them. And I think, gentlemen, that for the next couple of weeks at least, it will pay us all to be on our toes. Because this matter is bound to excite continuing comment both in the press and on the television. Therefore at any excuse whatsoever ask no questions, simply take the girl's knickers down and apply the cane.'

There are sounds of general approval. Not that what he has said is really anything new: for at St. Angela's it is normal practice to take down knickers at the slightest excuse. What he means of course, as they all know, is to take them down without any excuse.

'A kind of blitz!' offers Mr. Walker, polishing his glasses. Since his first somewhat unsure days this young master has become a much more confident caner, due mainly to having overcome that early hesitancy with the older girls. Deciding he had to face his problems head on he finally steeled himself in his second term to tackling a couple of the most grown-up looking girls, making them take their knickers down and then caning those bare mature-looking rears until they were abjectly begging for mercy. After that it was plain sailing.

'Yes,' says the Head, 'A blitz on behinds. Well, I must go: I believe Six A are awaiting my attention.'

* * *

In the corridor leading to Room 2D, Six A are indeed unhappily waiting. Mr. Archer, caretaker, is with them. He has chanced to find them here and on being told what, and whom, they are waiting for has given himself the task of checking that each girl has her knickers down in readiness. He has been moving slowly along the line, his hands reaching under skirts producing varied squirms and yelps.

He has now reached Linda Worsley, one of his favourites, a quietly attractive 16-year-old who has already, in this her first year at St. Angela's, learnt that Mr. Archer can be a useful ally in avoiding too frequent caning. An ally naturally has to be kept sweet. She squirms in turn as the hard hand reaches under her skirt and takes hold of the furry mound; but does not flinch away. Instead she co-operatively parts her closed legs, giving a suppressed squeal as the fingers reach in. She has learnt to accept what Mr. Archer likes to do: indeed she quite likes it herself when she's in the mood. And when, as now, you're waiting to be caned, a caning which this time even Mr. Archer can't get you out of, well, it does rather take your mind off it.

Eyes closed, Linda leans against him, biting her lip, hoping the girls on either side will not realise exactly what Mr. Archer and his fingers are doing. Surreptitiously she starts rhythmically moving her hips, wondering if there'll be time to actually....

Delight in store

Story from The Roue 02.

Delight in store

Claire Hepworth walked slowly down the aisle between the hair-care and make-up counters, closely scrutinizing each of the dozen or so female shoppers in turn who were examining the displayed items. None of the women, intent on their selections, paid Claire any undue attention, though they might have experienced some trepidation, had they known their innocent perusals were being analysed by a store detective.

Suddenly, Claire came to an abrupt halt, her pale-blue eyes fixed on a very attractive redhead standing close to the make-up counter. Claire appraised her from some twelve feet away. She placed the redhead somewhere in her early to mid-thirties and, judging by her simple, yet smart attire, probably a middle-class housewife. The weather outside was very warm and the redhead wore only a thin, white cotton dress, cinched at the waist by a tie belt. The thinness of the cotton dress clung in a very revealing fashion to the woman's buxom figure, and Claire noted the fullness of the large, heavy breasts, tapering to a passably trim waist, then flaring out into wide, very womanly hips. And her bottom, it was breathtakingly curvaceous, firm, yet with that bounciness that makes a large bottom appear so deliciously enticing when it wobbles. Claire could well imagine what it would look like when totally bared, like a huge split peach with a ripe, moist, sweet-tasting centre.

However, Claire was not only watching the ravishing redhead because she found her to be most attractive. No. Claire's instincts were roused, and she felt sure that before much longer the woman would take something from the display and secrete it inside her shoulder-bag, the flap of which just happened to be open. And, sure enough, after watching for a few more seconds, Claire's vigilance proved successful, for the redhead surreptitiously palmed two items from the display and dropped them inside her shoulder-bag.

Got you! Claire thought triumphantly, a wicked smile creeping onto her sensuous lips. Then, wasting no more time, she quickly approached the redhead and placed a restraining hand on her arm. The redhead turned, startled, fixing Claire with a surprised, perplexed look.

"It's not your lucky day, dear," Claire said, not even attempting to hide the pleasure this apprehension brought her. The redhead opened her mouth to protest, but Claire silenced her by continuing, "I'm a store detective and I saw you take two items from this display and place them inside your bag, obviously having had no intentions of paying for them."

For a moment the redhead looked as though she might panic and try to run off, but then she shrugged and sighed. "All right, I admit it. So what happens now?"

Claire pondered momentarily. "Well, I should take you upstairs to the manager's office and let him call the police, which is the usual procedure. However..."

The redhead glimpsed a thread of shiny hope and said quickly, "Yes? Look, I've never ever done anything like this before. I just don't know what came over me. If it's a question of... well... money..." She left the offer of an obvious bribe unspoken.

Claire made a show of considering the prospect of accepting a bribe, but then shook her head slowly. "No, I'm afraid not. You see, I'm a firm believer that crimes like this shouldn't go unpunished. Now, do you agree you do need to be punished? I mean, if not, you might just do the same thing again..."

The redhead was becoming obviously a little impatient, and she couldn't see where all this was leading. She gave a slight, yet distinctly exasperated sigh. "All right," she admitted, "so I deserve to be punished. So what do you suggest?"

Claire smiled. "Well, I was brought up to believe that naughty girls should be spanked..."

The redhead had to exercise great control over the pitch of her reply, not wanting to attract the attention of the other shoppers. "Spanked?" she said incredulously. "You must be joking, I've never heard anything so ridiculous..."

Claire raised her eyebrows.

"Isn't that better than going to court on a shop-lifting charge? You are married, I take it... what would your husband say? Have you thought of that?"

The redhead obviously hadn't from the expression she displayed.

"But... well... it's... so..."

Claire shrugged. "Well, of course, it is entirely up to you..."

The redhead thought quickly, her lovely features wrinkled by indecision. "Oh, all right... but when, where?"

Claire took a note-pad and a ballpen out from the breast pocket of her smartly-tailored jacket, scribbling her address quickly, then tearing the page off and presenting it to the redhead. "My address... let's say you're to be there no later than eight o'clock tonight, shall we?"

The redhead sighed resignedly. "Oh, very well... it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Luckily my husband is away on business, otherwise I don't know what excuse I could make to get away..."

Claire smiled. "Eight o'clock, then... oh, and what's your name, by the way?"

The redhead was now blushing slightly, the somewhat embarrassing facts of this bizarre situation suddenly dawning on her. "Wendy Palmer," she said rather too quickly, a further display of her sudden nervousness.

Claire enjoyed the other woman's obvious embarrassment. "Very well, then, Wendy... until later, then..."

Five minutes past eight found Wendy Palmer nervously seated on the settee in the living room of Claire's flat. Claire was fixing them both a drink at the drinks' cabinet, and she crossed to Wendy, handing her a gin-and-tonic, then sitting down beside her.

"Do you do this... often?" Wendy asked, taking a sip from her glass. She was very grateful for the drink, hoping it would steady her nerves.

Claire smiled. "Oh, yes, whenever I catch an... attractive woman shop-lifting, I always offer her the same alternative I offered you..."

"And do most accept?" Wendy inquired.

Claire nodded. "So far every single one of them has... accepted."

Wendy gave a puzzled frown. "But why do you do it?"

Claire laughed. "The answer to that is very simple, Wendy... I enjoy spanking beautiful women's bottoms."

Wendy blushed at this most forthright reply. "Oh... I see."

"Their bare bottoms..." Claire added.

"Oh!" Wendy's blush intensified by fiery degrees and she squirmed in her seat, suddenly very conscious of that part of her anatomy which now seemed very exposed, even though she was sitting on it. She took another quick sip of her drink to fortify herself. "Does your remedy for shop-lifters work?" she inquired tentatively.

"Work?" Claire said, raising her eyebrows curiously as she sipped her own drink.

"Yes, you know..." Wendy hesitated a moment. "...do these spankings prove effective in deterring women from attempting to steal things from the store again?"

Claire chuckled. "Oh, yes, I'll say. People think of a spanking as being a punishment solely for children, but it isn't. Oh, no, it's a very fitting punishment for a great many wrongs committed by women. For example, imagine the vast number of hypochondriac women who visit their doctors several times a week, wasting valuable time those doctors could be donating to patients who really are sick – not to mention the staggering cost of drugs prescribed, which these stupid women take needlessly! Now, if those same doctors were to put those women across their knees and give them a jolly good smacked bottom... don't you think that would really cure them?"

Wendy considered this hypothesis carefully. "Well... yes... I suppose you've got something there..." She giggled suddenly, the drink relaxing her to such an extent that she almost forgot her own particular predicament. "Sorry, but I couldn't help visualising all those weeping females coming out of doctors' surgeries throughout the country, ruefully rubbing their smarting situpons... with cheeks glowing remarkably healthily – all four of them!" She giggled again, finishing her gin-and-tonic.

Claire giggled with her. "Yes, it certainly would be a sight worth seeing!" She then noticed that Wendy had finished her drink. "Would you like another?"

Wendy pursed her sensuous lips. "Well, I shouldn't, but yes, please, I wouldn't mind."

Claire smiled at her, relieving her of the empty glass, standing up and crossing once more to the drinks' cabinet. Wendy watched her, for the first time, realised just how attractive the other woman was. She possessed a superb figure, not as ample as her own, but, then, Wendy had always considered herself to be too overly well-endowed in the breasts-and-bottom department.

Claire returned, handing Wendy her replenished glass and once more seating herself beside the shapely redhead. She suddenly placed a hand on the fullness of Wendy's thigh, feeling the button of a suspender-strap beneath her palm.

"I'm so glad you're beginning to relax, Wendy," Claire said.

Wendy didn't attempt to move her thigh, in fact she was enjoying this unexpected contact with the lovely store detective. She even shuffled a little closer in her seat. For the first time, when their eyes met, Wendy didn't shyly avoid the other's gaze, but held it, looking deeply into Claire's, suddenly glad she was sitting here, in the company of a beautiful woman who soon – oh, yes, please, soon – was going to spank her like she was a naughty child.

It was almost as if Claire read her mind because she then said, "You better finish that drink soon, young lady... because I hope you haven't forgotten the reason why you are here..."

Wendy gave a wanton pout. "Oh, how could I? Are you going to smack me... hard, Claire?"

Claire arched one carefully-plucked eyebrow, benefitting Wendy with one of her wickedest smiles. "Oh, yes, you naughty girl..." And, suddenly relieving Wendy of her drink, she added, "...I'm going to spank you very, very hard... so hard that you are going to blubber like a baby and plead with me to stop spanking you!"

With that, she stood up, took Wendy's hand, hoisted to her feet and, before the startled redhead knew what was happening, she was tipped over Claire's shoulder with surprising ease, the sexy store detective displaying astonishing strength for a woman! Wendy, her shapely legs wildly kicking, suddenly found herself almost upside-down, but it wasn't an untoward position in which to find one's self because it gave her a chance to smack Claire's bouncy buttocks – which she did with both hands!

"Hey!" Claire cried, the smacks raising the temperature in her shapely nether regions. "I'm supposed to be spanking began!" And, flicking up the hem of Wendy's tight dress, she began to belabour the giggling redhead's pantie-clad bottom with extremely hard smacks, causing the huge twin-mounds of wobbly flesh to jiggle deliciously in such close proximity with Claire's face. It didn't take long for the most experienced spanker to win out, and soon Wendy forgot all about smacking Claire's bottom – she was far too busy waving her hands frantically as her fat bottom began to feel as if someone had sat her down on a cooker's hot-plate! But this was only the beginning, because Claire then carried her from the room into another room – the like of which Wendy had never, ever seen before!

It was bare except for a solitary upright chair, a contraption that resembled a vaulting-horse and, suspended from hooks on one wall, a variety of swishy, crook-handled canes; large, leather paddles; and two Scottish tawses, each possessing three, wicked-looking tails! To poor Wendy these all appeared like the accoutrements to a veritable torture chamber and, with mounting panic, she suddenly wondered just what she had got herself into! But she was not left in suspense for long, because Claire carried her across to the collection of smacky weapons, selected a large black paddle, and carried her across to the upright chair. She was then set down on her feet, but for only a moment, and the very next thing she knew she was being drawn effortlessly down and across Claire's accommodating lap! Wendy now began to struggle, reaching back to protect her very vulnerable bottom which, because her dress was now well up around her waist, was scantily protected by her thin nylon panties. But Claire was quick to grab her wrist, forcing her arm up her back so that further struggles would only prove extremely painful, and then, in one swift blur of motion, Wendy felt her panties being yanked down clear to the dark tops of her sheer seamed stockings!

"Oh, please, Claire!" she almost sobbed, now that her large wobbly bottom was completely bare. "Oh, please, just use your palm, I won't be able to sit down for a week if you use that thing on me! What will my husband say? How will I be able to hide the damage from him? Oh, please, Claire – pleeeeease doooooon't!"

Claire laughed, these pleas like music to her ears, her eyes widely fixed on the vast, creamy expanse of the delectably fat bottom wriggling over her knees. It was very fetchingly dimpled, and the delightful crevice, which separated those bouncy cheeks, was devinely deep, dark, and extremely inviting. She hoisted the now almost hysterical redhead even further across her knee, nearly swooning as she watched that delicious split widen, the cheeks spreading, so that Wendy's pink little anus and the juicy lips of her sex were plainly evident! This all served to whet Claire's appetite and she couldn't wait any longer, raising the wide-bladed paddle high above her, casting a shadow across Wendy's sumptuous backside, then bringing it down with all the force she could muster!

THWACK!

Even though Wendy's bum was extremely expansive, the paddle covered both huge mounds as it swiped down with almost unbelievable impact, splaying those great fleshy buttocks even more widely, causing them to bounce and wobble like two enormous jellies! And how the unfortunate Wendy shrieked! But all to no avail for, no matter how loudly she screamed, Claire continued to tan her relentlessly, and all Wendy's lewd bum gyrations were useless in the attempt to evade the flailing paddle as it spanked her fat, opulent backside mercilessly!

After five minutes over Claire's lap, nobody would have recognised Wendy as being formally a haughty, middle-class housewife in her mid-thirties... for she was now just a blubbering baby with a very sore bottom, her beautiful face all blotchy and tear-streaked, with her mass of red curls dangling before her.

Claire was highly delighted with her handiwork, but not so delighted to stop her from hoisting Wendy up once more, displaying that same, astonishing strength so unusual in a beautiful woman, carrying her over to the piece of equipment that so resembled a vaulting horse, and placing her face down across it. In a trice Wendy's wrists and ankles were tightly secured with leather straps, and her widely-spread, bright-scarlet backside was thrust up at the ceiling in the most provocative angle imaginable!

"There, my girl!" Claire laughed. "Now it's the cane for you, my fine lady!"

"Oh, please, Claire, no more! Please, I'll do anything – but don't give me any more! Oh, God, no – my poor arse won't stand it!"

Claire returned, brandishing the whippy length of rattan, taking a stance alongside Wendy and measuring the cane across that inviting spectacle of ripe, wobbly rump. She loved the way those fat cheeks twitched to the touch of the cane's tip, and the way they tightened as she brought the cane back, anticipating the fiery agony that would all too soon be streaked across them!

Swisssh – THWACK!

"Owwwwwwwwww!"

Wendy screamed and pleaded, wriggled and writhed, but her broad hindquarters could not elude the chastising rod as it smote her rump with amazing accuracy! But then it was all over and Wendy sagged almost lifelessly over the horse. Her welted bottom was now even more widely spread and, unable to hold herself back any longer, Claire buried her face deep into that moist, fleshy core her lips and tongue busily active.

Wendy was now moaning as spasms of ecstacy suddenly oozed through her and, beginning to grind her sex against the horse's cushion, she just managed to say, "Oh, Claire that was dreamy... like all your fantasies are... tomorrow let's do the one where I play the bossy traffic warden... pleeeeease, Claire... H'mmmmmm..."

The pyjama game

Story from The Roue 02.

The pyjama game

Alone in the darkened room, girl lay curled up in bed gazing apprehensively at the razor of light sneaking through the crack in the door from the landing beyond, where lay the stairs..... and down the stairs, the hall..... and leading off from the hall, the dining room, with the meal, cold and untouched, still on the table. And at the table, she was sure, he'd still be there, seated, arms folded, grim and unforgiving – just as he was half an hour before when, with the meal about to commence, she'd said or done something or other to displease him and he'd banished her instantly from the room.

So suddenly, so inexplicably had he yelled at her that, in dumb dismay, she'd fled the room and scampered like a frightened rabbit up the stairs, little bottom gyrating beneath the short blue games skirt. Hot, pearly tears of indignant disbelief gathered in her eyes as she smarted from the bitter blow of being so summarily and so arbitrarily rejected – excluded from the warmth of his affection. What had she done, she asked herself, in God's name what had she done?

She was cold, frightened and hungry. As if to underline the latter deprivation, her tummy gave a sympathetic rumble. Jugged hare! Her favourite meal of all! She'd been looking forward to it all day, and the memory of its appetising aroma mocked her in her misery.

Like a petulant child she'd slammed her bedroom door vindictively, not caring if he, still seated in judgement downstairs, heard the noise. She'd practically ripped off her skirt and, standing in just aertex shirt, little white cotton pants and ankle socks, had bent her firm young body taut as a bowstring to untie her shoes. Kicking them off her feet, noisily and rebelliously, she'd peeled off her knickers and socks, likewise her shirt, flung them in an untidy heap on the floor, leapt into bed, flicked off the bedside light and pulled the cold quilt up over her head, as though to blot out the harsh, cruel world.

"Why, oh why did he always have to set such impossibly high standards?" She tried so hard, so very hard, to match up to them; but she was, after all, only a girl. She'd never be a paragon of virtue, that she knew, and she resented him for still demanding that of her. Why couldn't he, for once, meet her half-way? But no, it was always this. Sent to bed instantly: utterly dejected, and hungry for more than just good food. Then the long, lonely wait in bed – cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine every time she heard a rustle or creak downstairs, imagining that her time was near and he was preparing to come up to see to her. And those ridiculous little pyjamas she always had to wear, that made her feel about ten.

"Oh Christ, the pyjamas!" She'd forgotten. She fumbled frantically for the light switch, scrambled out of bed and ran across to the dressing table. She was lithe and leggy, pert-bottomed, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She opened the drawer and there they were, in the left-hand corner, neatly folded: fleecy, cuddly, pink-flowered girl's pyjamas, child size thirty-two. They looked so tiny she was always amazed that they fitted her at all, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be said that they fitted her comfortably. The jacket was O.K., that went on easily, even if the arms were on the short side. But the trousers were always a bit of a problem. They clung to her legs, particularly the tops of her thighs, and stretched drum-tight across her dainty seat, like a second skin. They nestled in the crack between her cheeks and rubbed insinuatingly against her pubic mound. She studied her trousered bottom in the mirror behind her, and reflected bitterly on how blatantly erotic, yet patently punishable they made it appear. That, she supposed, was the idea. Not so much plump as cheekily prominent, her bottom seemed bigger than it really was only because the rest of her was so delicately small. She looked fragile yet she was by no means weak, and had often surprised him by the wildcat struggle she would put up, the energetic kicking and flailing before giving in and allowing herself to be thoroughly spanked into abject, tearful submission.

Painstakingly, she'd coaxed herself into the pink flowery pyjama trousers, stretching the elasticated waistband perilously close to snapping in order to accommodate the full firm flare of her girlish buttocks. They didn't quite reach her waist, and the trouser bottoms ended just a little way below her knees. She'd touched the well-worn, threadbare seat of them with a curious fondling motion. They were drawn tight across that part of her person that was going to be so shamefully, so relentlessly punished. She'd felt more exposed than if she were naked. She'd come to associate the wearing of these pyjamas with the prolonged, painful tannings she so dreaded. She only had to put them on to feel her stomach starting to churn and her bottom acquire that nervous twitch it always seemed to develop just before he spanked her. It unsettled and unnerved her, having to dress as a little girl again – she could practically feel herself regressing. She had a sudden, overwhelming desire to suck her thumb, and to go to the cupboard and fish out her ancient, dog-eared teddy........

She looked down at the untidy heap of clothes strewn on the floor, thought better of it, stooped to gather them up, and arranged them neatly over the chair. Then she remembered that was the chair he'd use, so she lay the garments carefully on the dressing table before climbing back into bed. The tightly clinging pyjama trousers accentuated every move she made: every swing of her hips, every wiggle of her bottom. Even when snuggled once more under the quilt, she was still acutely aware of the provocative dimensions of her cheeky little bottom, and the cruel fate that awaited it, because the taut cotton trousers were a constant reminder of its existence.

Would the spankings ever cease? They seemed to have been going on for years now. He insisted, even ordained, that her frequent lapses from grace warranted, positively demanded, them.

"Little girls must be treated like little girls!" he'd hiss venomously, and she'd shudder and wriggle anxiously in her seat.

Then there was the matter of the mirrors. He'd invariably position the chair so that he could watch himself spanking her in one of the wings of the dressing table mirror. She knew this because of the full-length mirror facing her as she lay across his knee. If she wanted to, she could actually watch him, watching himself spank her. She could even, if she craned her neck, see her own bottom – so that, as well as feeling the discomfort and pain of the spanking spreading across her cheeks, she could also watch them reddening into burgundy colour under his hot, punishing hand. But she preferred not to, choosing instead to close her eyes, grit her teeth, and try to imagine how blissful and serene it would be when it was all over and he took her into his arms. It was like having a tooth filled at the dentist's. You had to steel yourself, discipline yourself to cope with the nagging discomfort and sudden stabs of pain. Strange, she thought, how he liked to watch himself smacking her..... perhaps studying her outspread bum, her cleft, her secret places at leisure; gloating when, near the climax of the spanking, she abandoned herself involuntarily to a paroxysm of vulgarly suggestive bum-wigglings, with no thought to what she was displaying, because by then her trousers would always end up around her ankles, or else discarded completely, lying crumpled on the floor – just to add to her embarrassment.

In fact the mere thought of the excruciating ordeal ahead – of heaving to go, blushing and bare-bottomed over his knee – was enough to make her wet the pillow with a sudden onrush of hot little tears. For comfort she put her hands between her legs and tried to rock herself off to sleep, but every time she shifted slightly in the bed the trousers caught in her crack, nudging her back into anxious awareness of the impending spanking hanging over her like the sword of Damocles.

Then the sound she dreaded. The heavy, measured treat slowly ascending the stairs. This was it! Now she was for it!

"Oh God! Oh God!" she began to blubber helplessly, as the door swung open and the big light from outside flooded in and dazzled her.

"Big baby!" he scoffed contemptuously. "Fancy crying before I've even started!" He could be cruel with words as well as with his hand. He came over to the bed and stooped to regard the pathetic, huddled figure clutching the top of the quilt as if her life depended on it. Then he reached down and tore back the quilt from her grasp so that her curled-up, defensive attitude was fully revealed.

She was lying facing away from him. One tightly trousered bottom cheek presented itself coyly, tremblingly. He scrutinised it for a second, then slapped it hard and derisively. She let out a little whimper of alarm and reached behind to shield her bottom from any further attack.

"Come on. Over my knee," he said quietly, and she froze in sudden panic as he seated himself in the usual chair and waited for her. She had no alternative but to obey. If she refused or even hesitated he'd only drag her by the ear out of bed and fling her face down over her lap. So she pulled herself miserably up from the bed, wiping away the fresh tears from her eyes, and arranged herself blushingly across his knee – anxious only to get the distasteful business over with as soon as possible, even though she knew that afterwards she'd be too sore to sleep for hours.

The odour of his thick tweedy trousers, redolent of pipe tobacco, engulfed her, and their coarse texture itched and prickled her through the thin nylon of her pyjamas. She was ever so conscious that her bottom must be presenting a ludicrous spectacle, dramatically emphasised as it was by the tight nylon pyjama trousers, worn threadbare of their fleeciness by the many, many times he'd spanked her. Some day, no doubt, his heavy calloused hand would prove too much for the flimsy material and it would split beneath the impact, and he wouldn't need to make her take them down, but carry on resolutely smacking the raw, red bottom flesh – rather like peeling a tomato.

Now he was rubbing his hand up and down her bottom and between her thighs, and with an upward movement, tracing with his finger, the well-defined division of cheek from cheek: once again petting her used to the feel of his hand on her bottom, to remind her that its pert, prominent outcrop of female flesh was going to experience the force of male justice so thoroughly, so intimately that very soon she'd be yelling her head off, begging and pleading with him – her vocal protests jostling with the loud reports of the smacks. Small wonder that she got such funny looks from the neighbours. Even passers-by outside the window would be left in no doubt that here, at least, was one stroppily disobedient girl who was getting her just deserts.

Pulling her even further across his knee, like he always did, only made her feel even more helpless than before, because it left her dangling in mid-air, with no safe, reassuring anchorage of floor to brace herself against. Everything seemed to conspire to make her feel a helpless, vulnerable little girl again – right down to the childishly pink floral patterns on her pyjamas. The only conflicting factor was the hot stickiness she was starting to experience between her legs, and already she was dreading the moment when he'd make her lower her trousers, in case he noticed it too.

Then suddenly he was smacking her, hard and fast, and the unique stinging sensation that only a spanking engenders began to invade her loins. Remembering what he'd said about her being a baby, she resolved to make him eat his words, by enduring the awful, smarting indignity with stoical calm and fortitude. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't rid herself of the appalling sensation of degradation and shame that always seized her while being spanked, and it was that, as much as the unpleasantness of a hot stinging bottom, that caused her to break her resolution and give way to whimpers and pleas of:

"Not so hard! PLEASE not so hard!"

But that only served to arouse the fury in him, and he gave her half a dozen stingers right across the summit of both cheeks that had her wriggling frenetically and screeching like a cat that's been trodden on.

She opened her eyes and cast a beseeching look at him through the mirror, but his head was tilted the other way. He was obviously observing the whole thing through the dressing table mirror: the saucy spread of her bum and its frantic gyrations, his descending palm repeatedly punishing her melon-like pulchritude, walloping it into subservience, chastening it for the sexual provocativeness of its inviting recesses.

Now he wanted her bare-bottomed. He wanted her to display herself before him in the full flower of her red-cheeked disgrace. Awkwardly, painfully, the weeping girl slid off his lap and stood upright. She was always allowed a few moments' respite in which to massage the parts of her bottom and upper thighs that hurt her the most – and tonight she took full advantage of this. Then she tugged the little pyjama trousers down to her knees, hotly blushing at having to reveal herself so completely, so ignominiously, and fighting back fresh tears at the thought of the most painful part of the spanking still to come. He made her turn round so that he could study in close detail the full effects of his handiwork. The blush on her bum far outdid the blush on her face. Fierce strawberry blotches made curious patterns on what was once a virginally white bottom. The cheeks still twitched and trembled uncontrollably. Most men would have been content with that and said: "Enough's enough!" But not he.

Over his knee again she had to go, a forlornly trouserless, scarlet-bottomed girl, biting her lip in dread of the next stage in the proceedings. Having to put on those childish pyjamas was bad enough. But then to undergo the ordeal of offering a nakedly-ashamed, well-spanked bottom for further punishment.......... well, that was just too much, even for the bravest of brave girls! Her cries and sobs acted as a backcloth to the loudly reverberating impacts of his hand on her bare bottom. He knew she couldn't possibly take more on the ripe extremities of her cheeks, so he turned his attention to the darkly sensual cleft that divided them, and, by angling his hand sideways, was able to 'refresh the parts of the bottom that other spankings couldn't reach.'

This momentarily stunned her into silence, but she soon let him know, at the top of her lungs, how she felt about this rude intrusion into her maidenly privacy. She never dreamt he'd spank her there: Oh, it was awful, awful! How could she ever look him in the eye again?

Outside in the street, a man and woman, locked together against a wall, heard every smack, every girlish cry of distress that issued from that upstairs room. The woman felt embarrassed, even indignant, that such things in this day and age could still happen, and wanted to move away. But the man was fascinated, spellbound by the sounds of the girl being spanked, and it so galvanised his lust that he pushed her to the ground, hoisted up the front of her summer dress, pulled aside the gusset of her knickers and entered her, brusquely, almost savagely – although despite her show of indignation she was far from being unreceptive and unready.

Long after the lovers had departed, sated, yet puzzled by their own reaction to the incident, the well-spanked girl in the room upstairs tossed, sore and restless, in her bed – trying in vain to blot out the shameful memory of what had occurred.

"You never learn, do you!" had been his parting shot as he'd stalked from the room, leaving the rosy-bottomed girl face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out, pathetically calling out his name long after he'd gone. No, she'd never learn. But, then, did she really want to?

A cure for Susan

Story from The Roue 02.

A cure for Susan

Edward Gregson was tired, irritated and very vexed. It had been a thoroughly distressing day. Perhaps he had expected too much of Susan; just as he probably expected too much of Claire. But then Claire, dammit, had never let him down.

As a Harley Street specialist, with his impeccable quality of patients, and charging his scale of fees, he had a right – yes, a perfect right, begad – to demand the highest standards from his staff, whether it was his receptionist, nurse, cook or handyman. 'It's what they've been trained for,' he muttered as he tidied his desk, 'and it's what I pay 'em for.' Well, Ada was a fine cook, Bill was indispensable as gardener, plumber, electrician and philosopher, and Claire – Miss Claire Sylvester, SRN – was beyond reproach. A veritable jewel. Highly qualified, efficient yet engaging, an oasis of calm in storm or tempest. A benediction. Of course, she was twenty-six; and had been nurse in his elegant surgery for the past four years. She knew her job and had long since got to know his ways – Teddy Gregson was the first to admit he was not the easiest person to understand. But dear Claire always coped. She anticipated potential problems, dealt with difficult patients with the utmost tact – a reassuring word there, a hint of quiet authority with someone else. Such a pity she had to leave him for a while to nurse her mother through a painful illness.

Susan had seemed the ideal replacement; fresh out of nursing school, it was true, but the high flier of her class. Lively, intelligent, and extremely attractive. Alas, after just four days of her text-book sermons, her knowing air of superiority and flashes of temper, he felt sorely in need of a bottle of Scotch. Glenfiddich or Crawford's Five Star for preference. 'Physician, heal theyself,' he groaned, as he reached into the drinks cabinet and his temple ticked with the tale-tell throb of an impending migraine. 'What have I done to deserve the visitation of this young vixen?' Well, at least he could blame Claire for that; she it was who persuaded him Susan would make an ideal stand-in for her. 'You'll get along like a house on fire,' she had assured him.

House on fire! Within 24 hours they'd had a blazing row! Claire had suggested Susan would prove a ready learner; why, in less than a day she was trying to teach him. In four years he could not remember an occasion when Claire had called him anything but 'Mr. Gregson' in the presence of patients; in four days Susan had cheerfully called him both 'Edward' and even 'Teddy' – in front of a peer of the realm, an acclaimed actress and an embarrassed bishop. When he had privately reproached her for her familiarity Susan had flounced out of the room, saying 'In future I had better call you Dr Fuddy-Duddy.' Edward Gregson wasn't sure which part of that description infuriated him most – his demotion to doctor, or the assertion that he was stuffy.

As if all that wasn't enough, Susan's attire was far from suitable. True, with great reluctance, she condescended to wear her crisp white nurse's housecoat, but underneath she wore a skirt which would have looked short on a netball player, and teamed it with an up-to-the-neck blouse that would have been entirely circumspect, but for the fact that it was almost transparent – a characteristic which made it all too noticeable that she was a very well developed young lady in the mammary region; twice she had come wearing the skimpiest of brassieres, and once hadn't worn one at all. Not that any of this would have been observed by patients if she had kept her housecoat buttoned up. But of course it was 'too hot' in the consulting rooms, and so she had fastened it by a single button – with the most adverse effects on some of his patients. Elderly Miss Dunwoodie was scandalised; the bishop had blushed; and Major-General Fawcett-Fyffe – whose blood pressure was high at the best of times – got himself into the most unmilitary lather, and seriously aggravated his angina.

Poor old Fawcett-Fyffe had nearly had a heart attack as Susan leaned across him as he lay on the examination couch; her pert young breasts almost falling out like a brace of pheasant brought down on the Glorious Fourth. And her wide-eyed ministering angel smile hadn't helped in the least – a mingling of innocence and wanton enticement that had the old boy militarily-erect; but, alas, all too briefly. Seeing the major-general's apoplectic condition, Edward Gregson had switched on his cassette machine, thinking a little Vivaldi might soothe his distinguished patient's aroused but ageing passions. Imagine the shock, then, to an already troubled constitution, when the sounds that ensued were not the elegant strains of Vivaldi but a cacophony by The Clash. Thanks, of course, to a tape change made by Susan – who had decided that her employer's taste in music was a 'fuddy-duddy' as the rest of his behaviour.

The noise of The Clash had certainly blunted the spearhead of Fawcett-Fyffe's advance, and he flopped back on the couch like a stranded walrus, sucking in acres of air and wheezily expelling them like an asthmatic wart-hog.

It really was more than a man could stand. Something had to be done. But what? Edward Gregson replenished his glass for the third time, and decided on a council of war. There wasn't a member of his staff that Susan hadn't infuriated; well, he'd get a couple of 'em together, and hear their suggestions for dealing with the problem. 'Yes, I'll drink to that,' he said, and rang the bell to summon his housekeeper.

'You rang, Mr. Gregson?'

'Yes, Ada, thank you. Please try to find Bill. I'd like to chat to you both... about Susan.'

-o-O-o-

Ada Langley and Bill Cornwell physically had as much in common as the Dolmens on Easter Island with the Laughing Cavalier. Ada was middle aged, tall, gaunt and with her grey hair tied severely in a bun. She kept house meticulously and cooked with a desperate devotion – a dedication that was sometimes wasted on an employer not infrequently too preoccupied to fully appreciate the subtleties of her cuisine, the only outlet for her stiffled affections. In contrast, Sill Cornwell was as broad as a barndoor, brown as a berry, as outgoing as a barrow-boy and full of homespun good sense.

'It seems,' said Edward Gregson, 'that I have made a dreadful mistake, taking on Susan. She'll decimate the practice – but what can I do?'

'Send her packing,' said Bill.

'I can't I really can't. Her mother would create the most unthinkable scene... she would insist it's my responsibility to instruct Susan and control her.'

'Then you had better do so,' snorted Ada, 'for all our sakes. She needs a firm hand.'

'Ah yes, but how? We're not talking about a child but a mature young woman – physically if not psychologically. You have experienced her high-handedness and temper....'

'If Miss Susan is rather too much for you to cope with unaided, Mr. Gregson, perhaps we should assist you,' Ada responded icily.

'I'm not sure I quite follow....'

'It's crystal clear and plain as the nose on Bill Cornwell's face that she needs a beating.'

'Oh, I say,' said Bill. 'Might take her down a peg or two, though.'

'Susan! A beating!' Teddy Gregson laughed incredulously. The prospect had its attractions; the practicality, however, was another matter.

'When she arrives in the morning, read the Riot Act,' Bill suggested. 'Tell her it's her last chance – and what you'll give her if you have any more of her nonsense.'

'She'll laugh in my face!'

'Then confront her directly after your last patient leaves tomorrow afternoon,' snapped Ada. 'Order her to bend over. If she refuses – ring your buzzer, and Bill and I will be pleased to help you to restrain the young lady.'

'It might be worth a try,' mused Gregson.

'It is – if you want to keep your practice,' Ada told him.

-o-O-o-

The imperious Susan's fifth day with Edward Gregson was, if anything, even more of an ordeal for him. She had cut nine inches off the bottom of her housecoat, taking it well above the knee, and underneath wore a brown pleated min-skirt, flesh-coloured tights, and pink polo-neck jumper, the pendulous movement of which made very evident the fact that she was not wearing a bra. Gregson could not deny that Susan's appearance was extremely attractive; the point, however, was that he had not engaged her to offer his patients sexual provocation.

Before he had time even to make such an observation the young lady left him speechless by briskly taking down a Sickert original, of which he was extremely proud, and affixing to the wall, in place of the painting, a lamentable poster featuring a moronic bunch called Siouxie and the Banshees. 'It's all right,' she said cheerfully, as her employer looked on in baleful disbelief, 'it won't harm your rotten wall – I've only used Blue Tack. Makes the place look a bit more interesting than that dreary painting, don't you think?'

'I most certainly do not – you can take it down this minute.' Gregson told her (keeping to himself the thought that he would be taking something of hers down later in the day, unless there was a remarkable change in her attitude.)

'Oh, please yourself,' she said. 'I forgot what an old fuddy-duddy you are.'

While she took down the poster and replaced the painting at a pace varying from funereal to dead slow Edward Gregson informed her of his deep dissatisfaction with her mode of dress, her general manner, and even the standard of her work – which, considering her intelligence, was inexcusably sloppy.

'So what do you expect me to do about it?' she demanded.

'I expect you to promise me that you will radically change your ways?'

'And if I don't?'

'Then I shall try methods which one might have thought to be more appropriate to a girl of ten than a well qualified young woman.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

'It means, young lady, that unless I have your absolute word – and I see clear evidence of your keeping it during the day – that you will amend your behaviour, I shall put you across this couch and thrash you.'

'Teddy! Are you out of your mind? Or are my ears deceiving me? You'll do what?'

'I shall thrash you. As if you were a naughty little girl – which, for all your physical development and your academic qualifications, is really just what you are. Shockingly spoilt, know-it-all and impossible – that's what you are, Susan. You need to be given a sharp lesson – an affront to your dignity – to remind you that others have their dignity, too; my patients, my staff – and even me!"

The vehemence of his outburst dampened down the flames of Susan's scorn. 'Just lay a finger on me,' she said quietly, sounding less sure of herself than at any time since coming to work for him, 'and you'll regret it. I'll just walk out. How could you stop me? I'll call the police... and Mummy. Yes, my mother will have something to say about this....'

'You are perfectly free, of course, to walk out – if you no longer wish to work here, and are not concerned about needing a reference to show a future employer. But if you hope to stay... then I assure you I shall carry out my promise. Help will be available if you have to be restrained. Now can we get on with the day's work? Just remember what I have said...'

'I've forgotten already,' Susan snapped, recovering some of her bravado.

'We shall see,' said Teddy Gregson. 'Yes, we shall see.'

-o-O-o-

It was six o'clock and the last patient had been guided from the surgery and into the waiting chauffeur-driven Bentley. Now the big house was quiet, save for the muted blare of homegoing traffic along the street. Yet the atmosphere inside was supercharged, as it had been all day – but even more so now in the deceptive silence. Susan had started the morning fretful yet restrained, and even polite. But as the day wore on she had become increasingly surly and aggressive, as if annoyed that she had allowed herself to be intimidated by Edward Gregson's threats. She had started to argue with him in front of patients, and to flaunt her figure, as though trying to provoke him into a reaction. But Gregson had affected not to notice, which served only to infuriate Susan – and increase the tension that must have been apparent even to patients.

'I'll be off then,' said Susan, as the Bentley drew away.

'I think not,' Gregson told her. 'You appear to have forgotten that I diagnosed a certain young lady's condition this morning, and indicated a course of treatment for this evening – if there was no miraculous cure during the day. I have seen no signs of any such cure...'

'Oh, cut it out, for heaven's sake. It's been a long day and I want to go home...'

Edward Gregson pressed the buzzer on his desk. And smiled.

He stood with his back to the door. 'Do we really need the staff's assistance?' he enquired gently, but with a steely undertone that Susan recognised as naked male chauvinism – and was impressed by it!

'Just don't try it,' she shouted, above the tumult of her mounting panic.

There was a brisk knock at the door.

'Mr. Gregson... you rang, I believe?'

Ada Langley's crisp enquiry was as piercing as a laser beam. Close behind her was Bill Cornwell, bluff face even redder than usual.

'Oh Christ!' Susan wailed, 'What are you going to do?'

Without saying a word Ada and Bill advanced on the astonished trainee nurse, gripped her by the arms, and pushed her face down over the surgery couch, on which Edward Gregson had placed several pillows. Ignoring her please for help, mixed with threats and more than a few obscenities, they fastened her wrists and ankles to the legs of the couch, by means of surgical straps that had been thoughtfully placed there for the purpose.

'Stop it, STOP it. Let me go, let me GO! Sod you! Sod, sod, SOD you!'

'She's got spirit,' said Bill, with rueful respect.

'And it needs quenching,' snorted Ada.

'Yes, thank you both,' murmured Teddy Gregson, 'but I can manage perfectly well, I think, from this stage.'

'Right, I'll be away then,' said Bill Cornwell, highly relieved.

'Very good,' responded Ada, not bothering to hide her disappointment. 'I am sure we were both happy to oblige you, Mr. Gregson.'

As the door clicked shut behind them, Edward Gregson, respected Harley Street consultant, art lover, and London clubman known for his gentle wit and constant good humour, suddenly recognised the enormity of his actions; the catastrophic potential of the consequences; the bizareness; the sheer unbelievableness of it all. Except that it was all happening; and to his amazement, he was relishing the prospect.

For a few moments he stood a few paces from the couch on which Susan lay writhing and cursing, spread-eagled like some ancient ritual sacrifice. Her shortened white housecoat, which she had provocatively kept together by a single button, had opened out during her struggles with Ada and Bill, and spread like a crumpled white cape above the waist, while her ridiculously brief brown skirt had tugged up over protesting hips like furrows in a ploughed field. Below the snowy-white cape and its shadowy crevasses, below the encircling ridge of brown – peeping out like rich earth through retreating snow – was the splendid expanse of her nether regions; a proud pair of buttocks pushed up like burial mounds, and lissom outstretched legs, straining against their bonds. This most attractive 'southern exposure,' braced and bound, yet vibrantly straining for freedom, was denuded except for Susan's flesh-coloured tights and a tiny pair of white pants, the outline of which Edward Gregson could just discern through the girl's tights.

'Alright, you've had your fun,' said Susan, partially exhausted by her struggles. 'Now let me up. If you do so right away, I won't tell anyone – not even Mummy.'

'Ah yes, your mother. She has already been given some intimation of the situation. I telephoned her at lunchtime.'

'You phoned her – about this?'

'Yes, we had quite a chat about it, actually...'

'I don't believe it. You can't stand her...'

'Well, our little discussion helped to clear the air. It seems you behave just as abominably at home. Your mother said she hasn't been able to control you for years. "Lack of a father's influence," she described it as...'

'Ugh, I might have expected Mummy to say that! Trust her! But I just don't believe you told her what you had in mind... and I still can't believe you're stupid enough to go any farther with this farce...'

'Ah, then I have a surprise for you. When I mentioned to your mother that both Ada Langley and Bill Cornwell suggested you need a tanning, she said she agreed completely! In fact, she said it was the most sensible proposal she'd heard for a long time.'

'My god, the cow! You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

'Well my dear, to be quite truthful, yes, I am! When I agreed to engage you I must admit I had serious misgivings – not just because Claire Sylvester has been such an excellent nurse, or even because of your own inexperience. I was always a little afraid that you would play up, behave badly... but I had no idea just how badly. I took a chance, was prepared to hope for the best – and you have let me, and your mother, down completely. Not to mention yourself. I am at a loss to know what you have been trying to prove...'

Susan struggled to turn her head and look over her shoulder as Edward Gregson stepped up to the couch. 'Well, perhaps Mummy was right about one thing – about my not having had a father around all those years. But that wasn't my fault,' she said accusingly. 'That was your fault, Daddy!'

'Yes, my dear,' Edward Gregson sighed, 'in many ways it was. Your mother and I grew apart. She had her world. I had mine. We must both share the blame. We stopped loving each other – but we have never stopped loving you.'

Susan thought of all the resentment she had felt for her father, even more the hatred she had for Claire Sylvester, who had seemed to go completely supplant her mother and herself in his affections; and suddenly it seemed so stupid, so negative...

'Oh Daddy, I've led you such a dance...'

'Well, young lady, now I am going to call the tune.'

'Oh no, Daddy, not really...?'

Very methodically, very clinically, one might say, Edward Gregson rolled down his prodigal daughter's tights, and folded back her housecoat with a rasp of starched cotton; then, softly and silently, made similar adjustments to her fluffy pink jumper and dishevelled skirt. After a moment's hesitation he eased her wispy panties down over the fullness of her upthrust bottom, leaving them stretched in a thin white line at the base of buttermilk hillocks – braced and bare.

In his professional life Gregson had made innumerable examinations of female patients, from nubile, golden-limbed beauties to withered and ancient dowagers. On all these occasions the human form was a mere mechanical curiosity; a machine with some malfunction to be identified and corrected. His interest lay in the nature of the irregularity – determining the impediment and cure – rather than in any concern with shape, size or sex. It therefore struck him with some force that this examination was quite different. For one thing the subject was not compliant and co-operative, but resistant and, indeed, forcibly restrained; and, far from being incapacitated to some degree, she was in the rudest good health. In addition to which, the patient was not some impersonal expanse of bone and skin and sinew, but his daughter; the 'body in question,' as the Jonathan Miller TV programme would have termed it, was his very own palpitating flesh and blood.

Almost as if making a routine examination, he adjusted the direction of the beam from an angle-poise lamp, so that it played along the smooth escarpment of her thighs and buttocks before darting over the rumpled contours of her skirt and jumper – then danced on the dazzling white of her housecoat.

'You-you mean you do intend to hit me?' Susan yelped.

'I am afraid I do. Yes, young lady... in fact, I will let you share a confidence – it can be our little secret. I have, ahem, how shall I put it? I have – corrected Miss Sylvester on two or three occasions, and I propose to use the same implement on you. It is an American-style punishment paddle; you see – solid leather, very pliable, very effective – but not excessively severe.'

Edward Gregson did not feel a need to explain that his sessions with Claire Sylvester had been mutually enjoyed – as a prelude to the most blissful lovemaking. Nor was such an admission necessary – for Susan perceived the nature of her father's relationship, not so much with a flash as a blast of feminine intuition that tore through her like an Armalite rifle bullet. For an instant she felt revulsion; then, to her amazement, she experienced an entirely new 'oneness' with her father, a delicious sense of peace. It enveloped her whole being, almost as if she could feel it and touch it and taste it. In this, at least, she would be on terms with the woman in his life – the woman who was not only a perfect employee but enjoyed an intimate, physical relationship with him as well.

'He's seen Claire bare – and his Sue, too!' she mused.

Even as she found herself giggling the paddle arched down and cracked across her bottom, smacking the taut domes like a wet sheet slapping against windows in a high wind. The sensations were incredible. Her giggle changed to a gasp, then a gurgle of disbelief as the searing, burning band across the centre of her buttocks spread out in all directions like heat radiating from a furnace.

For the next two minutes Susan Gregson learned what her father meant when he said he was going to call the tune. It was a full symphony of sound – the whistling paddle, the smack of leather on juicy tender cheeks and the upper landscape of her legs, her plaintive, piping cries, the torrent of her tears; and her father's modulated breathing, punctuated by gradually louder exhalations of air as a consequence of his exertions.

The result, for Susan, was a thoroughly spanked bottom; cherry red from top to base – and beyond, to smarting thighs. As the first three strokes had descended on throbbing cheeks she had wriggled like a hooked fish, straining against the constricting straps, and hurting her wrists and ankles in the futile process. After that, sobbing into the sheet beneath her, face smothered by her damp brown hair, she subsided like a punctured beachball as the paddle cracked across her buttocks and the backs of her glowing legs.

Gregson put the paddle down and stood back to consider his handiwork, then ran a cool, soothing hand along the aspen-quivering landscape of his daughter's legs and bottom. A case of 'touch and glow,' he thought. Slowly her trembling flanks became less convulsed as her father inspected the hot and tender surface, then gently unfastened the straps. Even after she was released Susan remained face down, scarlet bottom elevated by the pillows beneath her, crying softly. This spectacle was so much more like that presented by Claire in a not totally dissimilar situation; for unlike Susan, she was by nature placid and undemonstrative. She received those occasional, moderate warmings of her bottom with an adoring, uncomplaining passivity that had come almost to irritate Edward Gregson; he half wished that she would react – rebel. But that was not her nature; she had been disciplined by both her parents as a child, and smilingly submitted to Gregson's 'correction' – because she loved him, and because it so enhanced the 'kissing and making up,' the passionate lovemaking that followed.

This spectacle of Susan reminded him of Claire – the muted sobbing and acquiescence. The difference, of course, was that Susan had been given a very real spanking – for its own sake, and most certainly not as a prelude to anything else. But it had brought about a transformation in her demeanour. Gone was all the rebelliousness and distain, the arrogance and quick temper. Gregson dabbed the scarlet mounds with a soothing lotion, then helped her gently to her feet. A little unsteadily she pulled up her panties, wincing at the discomfort, and adjusted her clothing.

'I'll ache for days,' she sniffed, 'it will help to jog my memory – just in case I forget. Gosh, I'll never call you a fuddy-duddy again. You're a very forceful Daddy!'

Edward Gregson smiled with relief.

'Y-you want me to carry on as your nurse?'

'Most certainly – I think you can be every bit as efficient in your work as Claire Sylvester.'

'Monday morning then – eight-thirty sharp.'

'Eight-thirty sharp,' Edward Gregson repeated, and squeezed his daughter's hand. He didn't think he needed to enter this particular case in his casebook -treatment to a certain gluteus maximus and surrounding area. But the diagnosis had appeared to be 'spot on' – and the effectiveness of the cure quite unmistakeable!

Return to school

Story from The Roue 02

Return to school

It seemed distinctly errie going through the school gates again - a strange disquieting feeling. Mainly it was the silence of course, no other girls running about and shouting and this was hardly surprising because it was out of term time - the end of July and a week after school had broken up. A hot and sunny afternoon and as she looked across the deserted quadrangle the memories came flooding back: some of them pleasant ones naturally - of her classmates and friends - but mostly the unpleasant ones - the spankings, and more especially the canings. The cane and St. Monica's: the two were inseparable, for St. M's was a school dedicated to the belief that middle-class girls developed into proper young ladies only as a result of strict discipline. And at St. Monica's that meant first and foremost the cane.... energetically applied to youthful rear-quarters.

And thinking of the cane she couldn't help feeling a tingle of apprehension. She tried to dismiss it for really it was silly: she was now 19 and it had been a full year since she had been a pupil here and at the mercy of Mr. James and his staff. Sally Middleton, she told herself, calm down: and behave like an adult and not a schoolgirl. She unconsciously pulled back her high firm breasts out against the thin material of her blouse. Keith, at the wheel of the car and wondering where it was best to park, happened to look across at that moment and mopped his brow. He was hot enough without her doing that.

Fiance Keith had been feeling more than a little frustrated ever since their stop for a picnic lunch on the drive down. He had been hoping Sally would agree to a bit of slap and tickle after lunch - well, they were getting married in six months time and had been doing it for several months now. Doing it when he could persuade her, that is, but on this occasion all his efforts at persuasion got him nowhere: she simply wasn't having any. The truth was, although she would not have admitted it even to herself, Sally was more than a bit nervous about the coming meeting. With Mr. Grant, the Deputy Head.

It had been the Head, Mr. James, whom she had been trying to contact when she had phoned. Well, when you needed a reference you naturally went to your Headmaster, but he had been unavailable. It was close to the end of term and she was told, to her surprise, that he in fact was due to leave the school and was very busy. And she had been put through to Mr. Grant. She would definitely much rather not have spoken to Mr. Grant and indeed she could recall telling herself when she left school that he was one master she quite definitely would be happy never to speak to or see again.

He had always been the worst - worst with the cane that is, always knickers down and then lashing it into your bare bottom so that even in the Sixth Form you were almost immediately reduced to tears and abject pleadings for him to stop. And that had been exactly what he had done on her very last morning at school, catching Sally and two or three other school-leavers rather prematurely laughing and joking in the corridor and singling her out to be taken to his room. To be bent over that horrid chair and have her knickers taken down for one final dose of the medicine which he so loved to meter out to a pretty teenager. It had been an all-too-fitting finish to her school career: the caning and then having to stand tearfully before him while his hand went up her skirt 'checking' that her knickers were correctly back in place, but actually of course fondling her through the knickers. As he did it she had the one consoling thought that at least it was for the very last time and she would never have to see him or speak to him again. Not ever.

But then a year later suddenly there was his voice on the phone and she was automatically saying 'Oh Please Sir, sorry to bother you Sir.' And when he had asked what it was she wanted she had said 'Pl..please Sir....' and then found herself asking him for the reference she had intended to get from Mr. James. Having said it she immediately hoped he would say no, but he didn't. What he said was that of course he couldn't just write a reference when he knew nothing about what she'd done during the past year. He would really need to see her again and have a talk first and then he was sure he could oblige. As it happened he was staying on at St. Monica's for a couple of weeks after the end of term and so it would be convenient if she came down there. And with an empty feeling in her stomach Sally found herself automatically agreeing, automatically also falling back into the role of the obedient pupil as she said 'Yes Sir. Thank-you Sir.'

The truth was that if it were not for the fact that she really needed a reference she would definitely have ducked out of meeting him again - sent a note: thank-you very much but I find now it's not really necessary. But she was desperately keen to get this really good job with the Company Keith worked for - a job that was so much better than the rather menial one she had had for more than six months now. And of course really there was nothing Mr. Grant could do to her now she was no longer a pupil. Well there wasn't was there?

Yes she really needed that reference, for the year since leaving St. Monica's had sadly failed to live up to the rosy prospects of 12 months ago. Because that marvellous-sounding job - Personal Secretary to Mr. Larkin, one of the senior partners in the Law Firm of Merridrew and Larkin - well, if you had said it sounded too good to be true you would have been exactly right. What it was in fact was simply a continuation of the worst aspects of school, with Mr. Larkin finding an excuse virtually every day to take her knickers down, either over his lap or over the arm of that big leather armchair in his office. And at times using that awful riding crop which if anything was worse than a cane. And if that wasn't enough there were also those favoured clients whom you had to take documents round to and who had to be allowed the same privilege - taking your knickers down, that is, and spanking your bottom. Yes it had really been no different from St. Monica's and culminating in that really dreadful Friday. The client she had gone round to who had taken her knickers down... and then quite simply raped her.

She had gone back to Mr. Larkin, crying, but he had just told her it was really nothing to get excited about. He had known that client for years and 'Anyway, be fair Sally, you girls nowadays do it all the time. One has only to read the newspapers to learn that.' The rape and his unfeeling reaction (to imply that she did it all the time was just so grossly unfair) - well, it had been the final breaking point and she had given in her notice. Mr. Larkin had been very angry and said he would speak to St. Monica's about being so badly let down; but she didn't suppose he actually did, and anyway she didn't care, she wouldn't have worked there any more if they paid her £1000 a week.

After that she had been unemployed for a bit and then the job she still had now - nothing more than glorified tea-girl really, with a firm of exporters. The pay was miserable and so were the prospects but at least she didn't get her knickers taken down all the time. And she didn't get raped. And of course early in this period she had met Keith and that had more than made up for the limitations of her job. Now, though, the chance of this other post had come up and if she could manage to get it, because she would need to keep working after they were married. And with a good reference there was no reason at all why she shouldn't....

'It all seems very deserted,' said Keith, having parked the car over in the corner of the quad in the only available patch of shade. 'Are you sure he's here?'

Oh, Sally was sure he would be here alright. 2.30 sharp he had said and it was now just 2.20. Timed just right, she thought, and then felt another surge of fear, remembering of course the very last time she was here - that final day of school when Mr. Grant had managed to seize one more opportunity to get her knickers down. She just wished she were somewhere - anywhere - else; but such thoughts were pointless and anyway it would soon be over. 'Right. I'd better go in then. Mustn't be late!' Mustn't give him any excuse to be awkward. 'Hey! Stop....!'

Keith had suddenly pushed her back in the seat and his hand had gone smoothly up under her skirt.... up the silky nylons to the warm bare thighs. 'Keith! No!'

She pushed him away. There was certainly no time for that now; and anyway it was the last thing she felt like. But seeing the way he looked: 'Perhaps afterwards - we could stop at the place again where we had lunch.' It might be nice when this ordeal was over - to relieve the tension. She kissed him briefly and then checked her lipstick in the car mirror. Not too much make-up on. Mr. Grant might not approve.... She realised she was thinking just like a frightened St. Monica's schoolgirl again. Well she couldn't help it, it was this place - being here again. Once again her thoughts went back to that last day at school. Mr. Grant taking her into his room and locking the door.

'Right Miss, over the chair please. Then we'll have those knickers down and see if we can't find a suitable antidote for unruly behaviour.'

She forced a smile at Keith as she tried to obliterate the memory from her mind. It was time to go in....

Keith watched her tall shapely figure walk away across the hot and empty quad, smart black heels going clip-clop on the tarmac. The short blonde hair, the crisp blouse, the demure calf-length skirt swaying rhythmically with the movement underneath of those thighs, that bottom, which he now knew so well. He watched until she disappeared into the building opposite. Hopefully she wouldn't be long.... then they could drive back to that place in the woods.... where earlier he hadn't been able to get what he wanted. His thoughts ran on.... They would get the blanket out again.... Sally on her, back under him, making those moaning sounds she made when she was really loving it....

To take his mind off such thoughts (and indeed to ease the tightness in his trousers which a growing erection had produced) he got out of the car for a look around. It seemed a fairly ordinary place - a typical school, nothing remarkable. Funny that Sally had never said hardly anything at all about it - not like some girls who were always going on about what they'd done at school. This Grant: he wondered what he was like.... The typical harmless old duffer, he supposed....

-o-O-o-

A harmless old duffer? Well yes he was, as long as you weren't a pretty girl who had to stand flinching in front of him - just as you'd had to all those times before: now with your pretty blonde head shining in the shaft of light streaming in through his window and your pretty knees trembling under your skirt. And your pretty tits trembling too and as you see the direction of his eyes, greedy behind the spectacles, you wish frantically that the tits were just a bit smaller and didn't stick out so much or at least you had not worn the rather tight thin blouse with just the light bra underneath which you knew showed the shape of your nipples. Because really you should have remembered that Mr. Grant had always liked girls' tits - in addition to their bottoms of course. But back at home you foolishly hadn't thought: as you foolishly hadn't realized that once in here, in his room, nothing would have changed and you would again be the defenceless rabbit mesmerised by the weasel's cold stare. For the clammy mesmeric fear had reached out and gripped you the moment you stepped inside that room which was hot and stuffy with the sun beating in through the closed window and altogether you felt a little faint.

The weasel moved. The spectacles glinted, reflecting, as he got up from behind his desk and walked round it to you. And spoke: 'A reference is it? Hmm... I should have thought that these two were reference enough.' And the bony hand reached out and felt the weight of each breast in turn. 'Mmm. Yes. They seem somewhat bigger than when you were last here. If I remember correctly.'

His fingers moved to fondle her nipples and she felt a little sick standing immobile in the stuffy room as his voice, that so-familiar voice from her schooldays, continued: 'Mmm... Perhaps we should have a better look. Don't you think? A proper check....' And the fingers went to the little buttons of her blouse.... and as if they had a perfect right began unbuttoning the top one.... and then the next.... methodically, unhurriedly. 'Yes, a little check.'

What he was doing was quite outrageous and she should slap his hand away and tell him thank-you she could do without the reference and walk smartly out. There must be someone else who could give one. But she knew she was powerless to do this. Being here in his room, with his frightening, dominating presence, as she had been all those times at school, it was as if she had never left and there was just no way she could do anything except meekly submit.... to whatever he wanted. She felt beads of perspiration above her lip and had a sudden consciousness of her knickers, tight and brief under her skirt. Really much too brief. And she knew as her blouse was unfastened that they - the brief knickers - would be coming down. Knew it just as much as if he had already told her, for wasn't that what happened last time - and what always happened? There would be some excuse and she would be bent over the seat of his chair: her bare bottom flinching in anticipation....

Yes she could see it all, just as it had been all those times before and there was really nothing to do about it except say 'Yes Sir.' and 'No Sir.' and... She felt a little light-headed and steadied herself with her hand on his desk as he finished unbuttoning the blouse and pulled it free from the waistband of her skirt. Perhaps he would just....? But no: his hands round her back to her bra strap, unfastening it, then pulling the bra up to release her breasts. The sudden shock of his hands on her bare tits.... squeezing.... the fingers playing, fondling... causing her nipples to harden and stick out.... like they did when Keith.... But this was Mr. Gram.... loathsome hands actually on her bare boobs. It was quite awful.... but there was nothing she could do to stop him. She could only stand still.... feeling sick....

Finally he finished with them and she could do her bra and blouse up again; wondering vaguely as she did so whether he would now cane her right away or make her wait a while for it, as he sometimes used to. It seemed hotter than ever in the room and she thought of Keith outside, where it was hot but not stifling like this. Keith out there in another world....

But Mr. Grant, who didn't seem bothered by the heat, was now seated at his desk again and telling her to come and stand at his side. She had had to do that before of course and, yes, right away his hand came up her skirt to grip the back of the nearest nyloned knee. He wanted to knew about what she'd been doing in the last year and as she haltingly started to describe her jobs so the hand moved up.... to the tops of her nylons.... and the full warm thighs above. Where Keith's hand had just recently been but unlike Keith's you couldn't push this hand away and say 'Stop it.' Not Mr. Grant's. The hand explored her thighs.... and then her bottom in the decidedly skimpy nylon briefs....

His voice suddenly interrupting her as she tried to make what she did at Binney's sound more than just tea-girl: 'Have you had it very recently Miss?'

'Wh..What Sir?'

The hand pinched her bottom. 'What do you think I'm referring to? Sexual intercourse? Though I suppose you've had that alright. But what I am talking about is the cane. Have you had the cane recently?'

'N... No Sir. Not... not since I've been at Binney's Sir.'

'Really. You mean to say that Mr. Binney doesn't keep a cane in his office for girls whose work is not quite up to scratch?'

'No Sir.'

'And don't you think he should? For Miss Sally Middleton, at least?'

Sally swallowed nervously. The direction of his remarks was all too obvious.

'Sir I... I do my job properly Sir...'

'Do you indeed? Well in my experience a girl is never doing anything completely properly and always benefits from regular correction. And your employers are most misguided if they think otherwise. Yes Miss - faults and shortcomings, including serious ones, are not difficult to find in young women of your age. His hand pinched her bottom again through the brief panties. 'For instance at this moment these knickers you are wearing are most unsuitable. Much too brief. Do you know that Miss?'

'Well I... Yes Sir.'

'Yes, well do you know what I am going to do then? Before I write out your reference? I am going to take them down and give you a little reminder of what apparently you have been missing. You know what I am talking about of course? I am talking about the cane. On your bare bottom. And then perhaps when next you think of putting on such unsuitably scanty garments you will at least think twice.'

This was it. Sally, redfaced, head lowered, bit her lip. She had known that it would inevitably come to this. Mr. Grant's hand was withdrawn from her skirt. He got up and went to his cupboard.... the cupboard which she knew from long and painful experience contained his canes.

'Right Miss. Over the chair if you please. The usual position. And then we'll give that bottom a little taste of what it's been missing.'

Automatically she did as she was told - well, didn't you always with Mr. Grant do as you were told? - lowering herself over the seat of the chair, her head down and her bottom up. Up and in position for that hateful whippy cane now lying on his desk.

She felt her skirt abruptly pulled up, round her waist, to reveal of course the offending knickers - semi-transparent nylon and very brief, leaving a good deal of soft pale rump quite bare. Quite definitely they were not St. Monica's approved wear and Mr. Grant made sounds of disapproval ('Really these are quite unacceptable!') as he slipped them down, to her nylon tops at mid-thigh. Sally cringed - terribly conscious of her bottom now completely bare.... unconstrained... defenceless... The defencelessness sharply emphasised as Mr. Grant's hand came down hard in a gratuitous slap across both buttocks.... 'Keep it still Miss.'

Yes the moment of truth had arrived and there was nothing to do now except grit your teeth in anticipation of the first stinging cut. Her buttocks automatically clenched as for a moment she forgot that that was against the rules. 'Stop that!' His hand slapping her bottom again. 'Keep the cheeks relaxed.' His hand fondling.... 'And get it up a bit more.' Yes that seemed to be.... just about right....

Thwack! 'Oooooh!' The first one as always even worse than you imagined it would be. The sheer pain of it slashing into the bare flesh, abruptly dispelling any trace of that half dream-like feeling that had enveloped you ever since entering his room; for you just could not be anything but wide awake after that.

And barely time to grit your teeth again before.... Thwack! 'Ooooohh!' the cane searing down for a second stroke. Grit your teeth and try to keep your legs straight and your bottom still or he would simply add more to the six you'd been promised. Grit your teeth and grip the legs of the chair as tightly as you could....

Thwack! 'Oooohhh!' Oh please Jesus! You are dimly aware that you are crying.... Thwack! 'Oh! Please! Please no more...' Thwack!......... Thwack!

It was finally over, the six red stripes on her bottom the evidence. Her sobbing now the only sound in that brightly sunlit room.

Then Mr. Grant's voice telling her she could get up. Painfully she did so; and pulled her knickers back up again, up over a desperately stinging rear. At least it was over and she had paid Mr. Grant's price. He would now write her reference and she would be able to go. She turned a flushed and tear-stained face towards him as he started to speak again....

-o-O-o-

Outside Keith stood leaning on his car - with growing impatience. It seemed an age since she'd gone - this chap must be writing reams and reams. Once again he gazed around: at the empty quad, the building opposite with it's windows like blank vacant eyes. The place certainly appeared quite deserted, apart from a couple of pigeons wheeling around, though Sally and presumably this schoolmaster were in there somewhere....

Not being familiar with St. Monica's of course he didn't know the lay-out, didn't know that Mr. Grant's room was in fact in one of the wings at the rear. And then also it was on the first floor so that you couldn't anyway look in - unless you were one of those pigeons. Couldn't look in and see.... Sally.... over that chair.... her bare bottom.... and the cane. No there was no way of seeing this, or of observing anything else round that side of the building. The Sick Room was there of course, again on the first floor....

Keith heaved another big sigh: looked once more at his watch. Wherever had she got to? Perhaps the old duffer was giving her tea, that was why they were so long ....

Finally, at last, Sally appeared at the entrance where she had gone in and looking at his watch Keith saw it was 3.40 - over an hour! She stepped out into the sunlight and commenced to walk, somewhat stumblingly, across the tarmac.

Back in the car she seemed tense, distracted, and what with that rather uncertain way she had been walking Keith wondered if she was alright. Perhaps the heat? Or maybe this Grant had refused to write the reference? No, she was O.K. she said and she had the reference. What took so long then? Were they having tea or something?

'Yes,' she said, 'Yes we had some tea.' It was a lie of course: a little white lie but what else could she say? The truth? She winced at the thought, at the utter horror of Keith ever knowing....

The last thing she wanted to do now was to stop at that place - in the woods, but Keith insisted and of course he'd been planning on it: and so reluctantly she agreed. And agreed to what she knew he would want, on the blanket, although she had never felt less like doing it. But.... well, she couldn't really refuse him when just those few minutes earlier she had allowed, or rather had been forced to allow, Mr. Grant to do it.

Because the caning had not been the end of the interview - he hadn't been content with that. And with the ultimatum he had sprung on her right after the caning: well, she had no option. It was either let him do it or Keith and her parents would be told about that business at Merridrew and Larkin. Yes it seemed that Mr. Larkin had actually carried out his threat and had complained to the school when she had given notice. And Mr. Grant - horrid rat-like Mr. Grant - had ferretted out what had happened and now made it quite clear what he would do with this information if she didn't....

Well, she couldn't possibly allow them to know.... that she had been raped. Especially not Keith for he might just decide that he didn't want anything more to do with her. And so, although hating every second of it, she had gone with Mr. Grant.... to the Sick Room. Where there was a bed for girls to lie down on if they weren't feeling well. And there on that bed she had let him.... do it....

Now lying on the blanket on her back underneath Keith and looking up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves she tried to blot out the memory of what had happened, of that travesty of the act of love which Mr. Grant had forced on her. She tried to blot it out but of course she couldn't. She knew she would have to live with it - but hopefully with time it would not seem quite so awful. There was one thing at least to be thankful for: she had seen the last of Mr. Grant. He didn't know where she lived in Finchley and of course when she and Keith were married she would be moving anyway. So....

-o-O-o-

Back at school the place looked as deserted as ever and indeed now had only the one solitary occupant. He - Mr. Grant, Deputy Head - was looking out from his window at the lawn and noting how parched the grass was getting. He had better tell the gardener to do some watering when he came in the morning. He turned away, and happening to notice that his cane was still on his desk went to return it to the cupboard. He was always a most precise, tidy man.

He swished the cane through the air with some satisfaction. It had been a most rewarding afternoon. Well, it was not every day that an extremely attractive ex-pupil returned and you just happened to have something on her that would oblige her to co-operate.... fully - mmmm... Rewarding in the extreme. And having once sampled it he had every intention of trying it again.

It was true that he didn't have Miss Sally Middleton's address. But that was a minor problem for he could easily get it from her mother. Yes: in fact he might even.... try Mrs. Middleton's number right now. He went to his bookcase for last years list of parents' addresses and phone numbers. Yes, here it was....

It was all very pleasant and civilized. A cordial chat with a charming lady - who like most mothers of St. Monica's pupils had no inkling of certain aspects of the school's regime, and certainly no inkling of what Mr. Grant could be like when he had a defenceless girl alone in his office. Yes, a cordial chat at the end of which he was writing down an address on his memo pad. A London address: Finchley.

'She shares a flat with her friend Charlotte Greene,' said Mrs. Middleton, 'until she gets married at least.' And Mr. Grant was given some gratuitous details of the wedding plans, to which he listened with polite interest before thanking the lady.

'Shall I tell her you called?' she inquired.

'Oh I shouldn't do that,' said Mr. Grant. 'I might drop in to see her and I'd like it to be a surprise.'

'Oh how nice. Yes, alright: I won't say a word then.'