Nightmare

Story from Janus 45.

Nightmare
by Andrew Grantham

EARLY MORNING sunlight forced its way into the teenage girl's bedroom. Diane lay on her back, her head surrounded by a tangled mass of natural blonde curls. Although she was asleep, she was not enjoying a restful slumber. Anyone watching the contortions of her body beneath the duvet and hearing the occasional cry from her full, fleshy lips would know she was having a nightmare.

In her dream, she had paraded her nubile young body nude in front of a man. The menacing male was only a shadowy figure to her, his features unrecognisable. The fact that he was menacing was borne out by the very long, thin punishment cane he had hold of.

Slowly, the man circled her and Diane was aware of his eyes devouring every inch of her fine flesh. Her well-rounded breasts were firm enough to be full and ripe, yet just big and heavy enough to sway maddeningly with her slightest movement.

Her crossed hands guarded her blonde-curled 'vee' at the junction of her long, graceful legs.

It was her rear, however, that the menacing figment of her dream world was interested in. A delicious rear it was, too. Diane possessed a perfect apple-round bottom, firm-fleshed and deep-clefted.

Obviously satisfied with her virginal nakedness, the man reappeared in front of her. His voice, somehow detached, told her that she was to receive six strokes of his long, swishy cane.

Diane folded her tender athletic body over a wooden-backed chair, absolutely terrified of what was going to happen to her. She wanted to run away in spite of her total nudity, but her feet seemed to be weighted down with lead.

She heard a rushing hiss. Diane knew what it was and it seemed as if she were lewdly pushing out her bottom to meet the cane. Then the thin wood sliced into her derriere and she jumped up like a released spring.

A hand pressed her body down again and she was looking at the cold wooden seat of the chair once more. A flame was burning across her bottom.

Again there was a hiss preceding the cracking impact. Her tormentor had aimed at the lower curve of her nates, just where they joined her thighs. Diane cried out.

If the collection of teddybears adorning the shelves of the pretty teenager's bedroom had possessed eyes which could see, they would have observed their owner wriggling in her bed, her head thrashing to and fro in the depths of the pillow. They would have heard a low cry from her throat.

Had the stuffed toys the teenager loved so much been able to peer into her dream world, they would have been horrified by the two thin red weals across both sides of the divide between her gorgeous bum cheeks.

The cane whipped in again. The girl's cries grew louder and louder, her contortions even more frantic. Diane took a hand away from the chair and ran it over her bottom, the tips of her fingers tracing their way along the wealed trails blazed by the wickedly-wielded cane. But her hand was forced away.

The light in her bedroom grew stronger. It was a neat, tidy bedroom and despite the pop star posters, utterly feminine. The blonde-haired girl twisted her body this way and that. Cries still came from her throat, each cry more agonised than the one which had preceded it.

Diane's family, all heavy sleepers, slept on through her dreamy distress.

The rushing hiss seemed louder this time. The cut of the cane was the worst so far. Diane's torso twisted, her daintily-nippled breasts swinging from side to side. Two male hands came from behind her to take hold and still them. Diane couldn't raise her own hands from the chair seat to do anything about it. The touch was nice though, rather like the touch of the boy she had met on holiday last year.

Suddenly, the molesting hands disappeared and, perspiring, she waited for the next attack on her bottom. It came without any warning this time and her body shuddered. Again, she cried out.

But wasn't she supposed to have had six strokes only? Frantically she looked behind her. The mirror hadn't been there before. Wide-eyed and trembling, she counted the angry red stripes emblazoned across the rear she was so proud of – seven, eight, nine! Diane wanted to protest but no sound would come from her throat.

The mirror was taken away but not before the girl had realised that the man must have seen everything she had. Oh no! How awful! The as yet inviolate sex delights between her legs had always been so jealously guarded. Despite the many temptations, she had never displayed that lightly dusted, pouting recess to any male.

Tense, she waited for the return of the cane. But it wasn't a cane which hit her – it was a hand landing squarely across her buttocks. And it had hurt...

Her older brother Colin had entered her room, carrying a cup of tea. He set it down on the unit alongside the girl's head. The continental quilt had fallen completely to the floor. Diane lay, curled up, her fine form filling out the flimsy pink nylon of her sleep suit. He brought his hand down on the splendid, tightly-encased bottom.

'Owww!' she cried out.

'Wake up Di,' Colin shouted. 'Time for college.'

The eyes of the 17-year-old girl jerked open and she looked all round the familiar room. That hand on her bottom had been her brother's! 'Gosh,' she sighed sleepily. 'I've had the most awful dream.'

She began to move as Colin sat on the bed. 'Tell me about it,' he asked her.

Suddenly, Diane went rigid. Her eyes were wide and despairing. Groaning, she buried her face in the pillow.

The college student had remembered that she had to report to the Principal that very morning to receive six of the best for serious misbehaviour.

She would have to relive her nightmare all over again, but this time she would really feel the pain coursing through her body.

Three colours red

Story from Februs 13.

Three colours red
by Sara Veitch

'So how long will you be away?' Debbie asked. She held her breath, aware that she wanted an encouragingly short answer.

'Oh, only two days,' Miles Johnstone murmured, setting his diary down on the pristine table top.

'That's not long,' Debbie said. She wanted to add I'll miss you, but she'd only been dating Miles for three weeks and he was still an unknown quantity.

He made her feel excited, though – even if he hadn't yet made love to her! Oh, they'd kissed a few times, but at the end of each long lip contact he'd gently pushed her away.

'Problem is, I'm back for one night then away for a three-day sales pitch in Paris,' Miles continued, stretching his legs out in the ample confines of the wine bar, 'The dry cleaners is closed by now, so I'll have to do my laundry tonight by hand if its to be ready for the second trip.'

Debbie grimaced inwardly. Every hour the manager of the Masculine Mode menswear label spent laundering his suits was an hour that they couldn't be together. And she wanted them to be together soon in his bed!

She cleared her throat and tried to make the offer sound casual: 'There's not much happening at College at the moment. Why don't I do your laundry while you're away?'

Miles quirked one eyebrow: 'Sweetheart, I couldn't presume. I'm quite capable.'

He looked more than capable. He looked dominantly divine! 'I have the time. You don't. It makes sense,' Debbie continued. 'As a reward you can treat me to a candle-lit dinner on your first free evening back.'

'I will indeed!' Miles said. He produced a set of keys from his briefcase, 'Here's my spare set. I'll be away by 8am. Let yourself in any time thereafter. My shirts are in the Aladdin basket in the laundry room. I like to wash and rinse each garment separately by hand.'

'I'll do the same, then,' Debbie murmured, hoping to get into his good books.

'It never occurred to me that you might do otherwise,' Miles replied. He covered her small hand with his larger one, 'I know some people think that an interest in clothes makes a man effete, but I have to look immaculate so that I inspire the retail outlets to buy.'

'I understand,' Debbie said, smoothing down her newly-purchased black velour dress. She suspected that if Miles saw some of her jeans and baggy jumpers he'd have an unfashionable fit.

* * *

Two days later he did indeed have a fit – but with regard to his clothes rather than hers.

Miles had driven to meet her straight from the airport, and taken her for the promised thank-you dinner. Then he invited her to see the "Masculine Mode's" latest retail catalogues. 'You can give me a woman's opinion on what suits today's man in his thirties,' he said casually.

Anything that you wear looks ace, Debbie thought, undressing him with her eyes for the five-hundredth time. Climbing the single flight of stairs to his deluxe apartment, she wondered if he'd take her own clothes off and make love to her tonight.

'I like the way you've laundered my clothes and hung them all up,' he said, pouring them each a brandy. 'My French clients will love them.' He joined her on the long chintz sofa, 'Just one thing, Debbie – I couldn't find the cream raw silk grandad shirt.'

Debbie felt the first tremors of guilt spread through her breasts. 'Ah, I'd forgotten about that one,' she said.

'You forgot to launder it? Damn! I'd better do it now. I need that shirt for my first meeting in Paris tomorrow. It's a special version of the new line we're hoping to sell there, and cost over three hundred quid.'

'Three hundred...?' Debbie felt her mouth drop open of its own volition. Miles Johnstone was going to hate her now, might even end the relationship. 'I meant I'd forgotten to tell you that it... got spoilt,' she continued hesitantly.

'What happened?' Miles asked. His features had gone sort of guarded, extra watchful.

The student felt her heart begin to speed faster. 'I... some dye came out of your scarlet gym shorts,' she said.

Miles stared at her, 'You've obviously washed the garments together when I told you to launder them separately.'

Debbie cleared her throat: 'I thought it would save time, so I just...'

'Then you failed to admit to your crime when we met for dinner,' Miles Johnstone continued.

Knowing that everything he said was true, she stared at the floor.

'Such carelessness has cost me three hundred pounds, and will weaken my sales position tomorrow at the buyers' meeting,' Miles finished, staring at her intently, 'You can give me the rest of the details lying over my knee.'

Debbie stilled with surprise. She felt the blush start somewhere in the centre of her cheeks. It spread warmly up and down her face then intensified further.

'You can't mean...?' She couldn't bear to say the words "that you're going to spank me", out loud.

'I mean that you've been negligent. That you have to be punished,' Miles Johnstone confirmed. As it to underline her fate, he took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. 'There! Now I'm ready to teach a disobedient bum some very sore lessons,' he said.

'But ruining your shirt was a mistake!' Debbie muttered. She wondered what a spanking would feel like, but she couldn't just throw herself across his knees like a sacrificial virgin. It would be so embarrassing!

'It would be a mistake if I didn't modify your bad behaviour by pulling down your pants and warming your arse,' the manager continued. Debbie stared at him with mixed curiosity and apprehension. Was he really going to do this or was he just trying to psych her out, give her a scare?

'I'm stronger than I look. Bet you can't haul me across your knee!' she said challengingly. There seemed less shame in being bent across his knee if he put her there himself.

'I've spanked much bigger girls than you,' Miles said with a lazy grin. He reached for her arms and pulled her over in a single movement. Then he clasped both her wrists in one of his hands and placed the other in the small of her back. 'How many spanks should you get for not confessing you'd ruined my shirt in the first place?' he asked, stroking her wriggling bum.

'Eight?' Debbie muttered, beginning to feel vulnerably small. She'd half wanted this – but now she wasn't sure if she could bear it. What if he just pushed her away afterwards like he'd done when he'd kissed her?

'Eight spanks for a three hundred pound shirt?' the manager murmured, continuing to trace her small buttocks through her tight dress. 'That hardly seems appropriate. I think thirty sounds fair – for starters, that is.'

'That's only the beginning?' Debbie muttered, then waited for confirmation. She was hugely aware of her pantied and skirted little bum.

'Here's what I have in mind,' Miles Johnstone said. 'First I give you thirty spanks over your dress as a punishment for disobeying my laundering instructions. Then I lift up your dress and give you another thirty for not telling me about the ruined shirt right away. Finally I bare your bottom and give you a final thrashing, the number of spanks depending on how good or bad you've been during the previous slaps.'

By then her buttocks would be the deepest vermilion shade, Debbie thought, and she shivered with shame and excitement.

'I plan,' Miles Johnstone continued, as if reading her thoughts, 'To turn your bum three colours red.'

Debbie sensed that he'd raised his right hand. She puckered up her bottom nervously, and closed her eyes. Then she opened them in surprise as the first spank lashed down on her taut left buttock. It felt surprisingly strong, though warming rather than sore. Miles treated the other buttock to the same firm treatment and it too began to feel more alive, started to tingle. The twenty year old pressed her tummy more firmly against the manager's knees as he repeated the full force spanks on her dress-sheathed helpless bum.

'Been practising, have you?' Debbie muttered.

'I lift weights twice a week at the gym,' Miles said. He spanked hard at the tender underswell, 'Means I can really warm a naughty bottom.'

'Congratulations!' the student sneered, squirming ashamedly against his knee. The repeated spanks were beginning to make her cheeks glow and burn a little, so she tensed her derriere, trying to turn it into a smaller target for the hateful hand.

'How many more?' she quavered.

'A few more over your dress,' Miles answered, 'I forgot to count so I'll just have to guess at the number you've yet to receive!' He continued to whack her wriggling bottom through the tight-stretched velour, 'Then we'll really begin to have some spanking fun!'

Because he'll be pulling up my dress. Debbie thought back to the panties she'd put on. Damn, they were fuschia-coloured bikini style ones which matched the equally flimsy bra now moulding to her hardening nipples. Lingerie to inspire lust, not underwear to shield a punished bum. Miscreants in the past had put padding down their pants to protect their bottoms from the cane or the slipper. Her own poor buttocks would have no such protection! The student made little gasping sounds as Miles applied the final hard spanks to her clingy dress material. Then she awaited the next, more shameful, part of being taken to task.

For long moments the manager seemed content to just caress her tender curves through the black velour.

'It's getting nice and hot already, Debbie,' he whispered, 'Can you feel how tender it is?'

'Can't feel a thing!' Debbie muttered, wriggling on his lap like an eel out of water, and wincing at the outright lie. But she was dammed if she'd give this man the satisfaction of knowing that he was making an impact on her, even if he was making a very big impact. Being so close to him had obviously started off the familiar sexual signals, and now she was aware of a low insistent pulsing between her legs.

Miles squeezed her bum cheeks extra hard.

'Well, we'll have to change all that,' he murmured, 'After all, you are being punished.'

'You could just try sending me to Coventry!' Debbie said. She shivered as the man's large hands started to edge her dress up, and she realised that he was closer to baring her bottom.

'Rather than ordering you to keep silent,' he said with evident enjoyment, 'I'm hoping to make you squeal.'

'Sadist!' Debbie muttered. She whimpered with desire as Miles slid a finger inside the gussett of her panties and stroked her full, wet labia.

'In that case you're a masochist,' he said sweetly. 'You've got the hottest little quim.'

He was right! She'd been climbing towards a climax from the moment he first suggested she bend over his knee. The twenty year old stared down at the carpet as he moved her dress hem up her back by merciless inches. She'd had submissive fantasies in the past – but now this was reality. And she had a feeling that it was going to hurt like hell but she also knew that if someone had ruined three hundred pounds' worth of her clothes she'd have been itching to get her own back.

'Pink panties over an even pinker bum. How appropriate,' the Masculine Mode manager said. Debbie stiffened as she felt his fingers tracing the warmed flesh beneath her skimpy silken knickers. If only they weren't cut so high in the sides! 'I can see the top half of each cheek. It's got a lovely glow,' Miles Johnstone continued. 'Looks really sore.'

'Into colour co-ordination now, are we?' Debbie sneered.

'No, I'm into warming a wicked arse,' Miles replied, raising his knees in order to hoist her bottom higher. Debbie quivered at her increased vulnerability. Wished that she'd never ruined his designer shirt or tried to keep quiet about its demise.

'Maybe we could come to a deal about the spoilt clothes?' she muttered, trying to delay the next cruelly-sensitising slaps.

'The deal is that you get the hottest arse on the planet for being negligent and deceitful,' Miles replied.

Debbie felt the shameful lust slake through her. It was quickly followed by a new spread of nether orbs pain.

'Aah!' she gasped out as his palm slapped hard against one pantied cheek. 'Ow, that really hurt!' she added, as he toasted the other equally helpless rotundity. He was holding her down so firmly that she could only kick her ankles and writhe in place.

'Save the histrionics for when I'm spanking your bare bum,' Miles murmured, 'Then you'll really have something to squeal about.'

'I... don't know if I'll be able to take it,' Debbie said gutturally, gasping the words between smacks.

'The option,' said the manager, 'Is that I give you a bill for three hundred quid.' He stopped spanking her, and just stroked her bum. He seemed to be waiting. 'Well, what's it to be?' he said at last.

'I...' Debbie was already behind with her rent and gas bills, 'I'll... alright, just keep doing it!' she muttered.

'Doing what?' Miles Johnstone countered, squeezing her hot sore spheres, 'Come on, sweetheart, don't be shy. What is it that you want me to keep doing?' he prompted, pulling at her waistband to tighten her fuschia pants.

Debbie closed her eyes again. God, this was shameful!

'You know!' she got out.

'Articulate it,' Miles replied. 'My God, you're supposed to be majoring in English.'

'I... just continue the spanking,' Debbie said.

'That's what you want, is it, my dear?' the older man parried, 'A sore bottom for being a wicked, slovenly girl?'

Debbie clenched her teeth together. For a moment she wished that she was the one doling out the spanking!

'Yes, I... want you to keep spanking me,' she breathed.

'Tell me how your bottom feels now,' the manager went on.

More heat rushed to Debbie's groin. Her nipples hardened. But she couldn't say the kind of words he was insisting on! He was so new to her: she had to retain some dignity, had to put up the vestige of a fight.

Then Miles slid a thick knowing finger inside her rapturous recess, and all conscious thought fled.

'Please let me come,' she whispered, 'Sir – please!'

'Ask nicely for the rest of your spanking first,' her tormentor ordered, stirring the teasing finger deep inside her, 'You have to endure the main course before you can have dessert.'

He encircled her hungry clitoris. Then he stopped.

'Ask nicely,' he ordered again.

Debbie knew she'd say anything if her climax was the outcome.

'Please spank me hard, sir,' she said gutturally, blushing further, and dipping her head closer to the ground.

'Let's be more specific,' the manager continued, 'Say something like please spank me over my panties then pull them down and really give me what for, Sir.'

In a shaky voice, Debbie began to repeat his instructions. Humiliation made her stumble over the phrase.

'No, I want it in your own words,' Miles Johnstone said when she'd finished. She sensed a smile enter his voice as he put a fingertip on her peaking-out clit and kept it there, 'I'll just touch this bud ever so lightly to remind you how kind I can be to you, sweetheart. If I feel that you're not being sufficiently humble I'll take my nice friendly finger away.'

'No! I beg! Keep touching me,' Debbie pleaded, closing her eyes in near-ecstasy and pushing her mons against the friction, 'I promise that I'll say...'

Each self-belittling word deserted her as Miles played with her pussy. Then he stopped the movement, and just held his finger teasingly in place. Debbie's clit made her do the talking.

'I want... I want you to finish spanking me over my pants,' she muttered shamefacedly, 'I want it really hard.' She searched for further shameful images, 'I... em... deserve to be made to squeal a lot and wriggle and beg.'

'Yes, you do, don't you?' the Masculine Mode manager said. He stroked each swollen sexual lip. 'And what else do you deserve to happen to you, my naughty Miss?'

'To... have you take my pants down,' Debbie forced out.

The man was almost purring now as he cupped her pubis: 'You mean you know you deserve to be spanked very hard on the bare?'

'Yes, I... cause I've been a wicked girl. Cause I've been wilful.' Debbie squirmed with additional shame as she debased herself further. The urge to climax was colouring everything.

'And when your arse is the third shade of red, the hottest and sorest shade, what will you do to please me?' the spanker enquired softly.

'I'll take you in my mouth. I'll lick you from balls to shaft tip,' Debbie said. It was the most submissive image she could think of. To her surprise, Miles thought of an even more blatant one.

'I think I'd rather have you kneeling on the bed, with your head resting on your arms and your red rump sticking right up in the air,' he said thoughtfully, 'That way I could look at your hot bum as I fucked you, and could even spank it further if I felt like it.'

'Yes, Sir – I'd push my arse right up for you. I'd beg for your cock, each thrust from it,' Debbie whispered, rubbing her engorged clit against his leg.

'I'm sure you will – but for now I'm not interested in your hungry little hole, only in you disobedient bum,' Miles said. He squeezed each pantied cheek, 'How many of the spanks with pants on are you still due?'

'Ten, sir,' Debbie replied, recalling each focused and fiery whacking she'd already endured.

'Lucky for you that you remembered,' Miles said, 'else I'd have had to start that particular chastisement all over again.'

'You wouldn't, would you?' Debbie whispered, appaled at the prospect.

'Let's hope for your poor bottom's sake that you never have to find out,' Miles said.

He pushed her dress further up her back, then once again pulled at the waistband to tighten her panties. 'Ten more over your knickers,' he repeated. Then he raised his right hand and doled out the entire number in an aching tattoo of spanks. Debbie tensed each buttock, jerked and shoved her belly forward in the hope of making her bum a smaller target, but she hardly had time to make a sound.

'Ah!' she said belatedly when he'd finished, 'Those hurt like hell!'

'I'm sure Hell is hot, but I plan to make your bad bum even hotter,' the manager responded lightly. Debbie heard the smile enter his voice, 'especially now that you're about to have your panties pulled down to your ankles so that you can be thoroughly thrashed for an achingly long time on the bare.' She felt his fingers moving against the waistband of her knickers as he continued, 'I do so love to strip a naughty girl's bottom.' Debbie winced as she felt the material being dragged over her glowing bum, 'It's just so nice, knowing how shamed she feels, watching her small bum cheeks tremble. Knowing that I'm about to make a reddened arse even hotter still.'

'Oh, just get it over with!' Debbie muttered, pushing her pubis against his lap in a craving-for-a-climax gesture.

'Is that bottom so keen to take its thrashing?' Miles asked sweetly, 'I plan to make its naked punishment last as long as possible. After all, we've got all night.'

'Don't you want to save some of your energy for your second trip?' the twenty year old shot back, determined not to be totally cowed by her would-be lover.

'The trip is already at a disadvantage given that you've ruined its showpiece,' the Masculine Mode manager said.

The student quivered as he edged her panties over her thighs, calves and feet. With her dress folded way up her back, she was hugely aware of her newly-stripped buttocks, of her legs in the ten denier hold-ups. It was a bottom which already stung all over from the heat of the manager's large palm.

'How many did we say that this bare bottom would get?' Miles murmured.

'Thirty,' Debbie said quickly.

She heard Miles snort with amusement.

'So you want the full thirty, do you, my sweet?' He teased his fingers over her newly-bared bum, 'We originally said that the third part of your punishment was to be decided. But if you think that your buttocks deserve another full thirty, then thirty it shall be.' Slowly he cupped his palm around her quim, making her moan with desire and bear down against his fingers, 'I hope you don't orgasm whilst I'm spanking you. I'd like you to wait until it's time to plead for my cock,' he said.

Debbie knew that she'd plead. The increasing wetness at her crotch was a measure of her need. But as the first spank landed she momentarily forgot her everything except her tender buttocks. She cried out, the sound following on from the heavy slapping noise which filled the room. 'Not so hard! Don't! Aaah!' she pleaded, trying to reach her hands back in order to place them over her punished bottom. If she could just hold the burning flesh...

'Bad girls don't get to soothe their bums till the thrashing is completely finished,' Miles said.

'Have a history of girls ruining your shirts, do you?' Debbie muttered, flexing and re-flexing her sore buttock muscles.

'Let's just say that most of my girlfriends have digressed in some way at some time,' Miles replied.

'And you spanked each of their bums three colours red?' Debbie added sarcastically, trying to stall the remainder of her thrashing.

'No, sometimes I caned them mercilessly,' the irrepressible manager said.

The thought of the cane sent further seductive signals to Debbie's sex. Then Miles' hand sent a crueller sensation to her arse. It was funny, Debbie thought, how she'd gotten wet by being threatened with a spanking, yet the actual punishment took most lustful thoughts away.

'Not so hard!' she begged again, twisting her head round to stare at him pleadingly. But he just played with her clit till she agreed that he could spank her to his heart's and hand's content.

'Twenty!' said Miles after what seemed an agonizingly long time, 'Twenty one! Twenty two!' Debbie felt his spanks land on the centre of each bare cheek. She felt his fingers mark her buttock sides. Other spanks strayed down near the tops of her thighs above her hold-ups. The ones over the full crevice between her globes hurt the most.

'It's only a spanking,' Miles said as she cried out, and Debbie wondered if he'd ever been spanked himself on his raised bare bottom. Surely not, for then he would have shown some compassion during these last few stinging whacks. If he'd felt the heat of a frequently applied palm, he wouldn't be saying 'Twenty four! Twenty five!' with quite so much zeal. Only five more to go, she told her fiery bare buttocks. Only four, three...

'Twenty eight,' Miles continued, and Debbie winced as his large hand toasted the tender underswell. He added the twenty-ninth spank to the same susceptible region. Then he placed the thirtieth over the sensitive dividing crease. Not that it was really just thirty spanks, Debbie thought with bum-aching clarity – it was three sets of thirty, which made ninety in all.

'Permission to hold my bum, sir,' she whispered respectfully.

'Permission denied till I've examined it,' her punisher answered.

He let go of her wrists, and she felt him take one hot buttock in each hand. He squeezed and stroked the tender rotundities till Debbie trembled. She was terrified that he'd start spanking them again.

'I'm sorry that I ruined your shirt,' she whispered contritely.

'I can tell that your sore arse is genuinely sorry,' Miles said.

'It hurts so much,' Debbie added gutturally as he continued to mould and cup her scarlet posterior.

'You ruined hours of work done by tireless silkworms – its only right that you should be made to wriggle like they do,' Miles said.

She wanted to wriggle on his cock! She craved orgasmic satisfaction. Debbie waited for the man to order her to walk through to the bedroom. Instead he said 'Walk over to that mirror and look at your punished bum.'

'What mirror?' she muttered, looking slowly round the room which now seemed brighter than she'd remembered.

'Turn round and walk straight ahead,' Miles said. 'No, leave your dress up over your waist,' he added, 'I want to see your hot bum cheeks jiggling about.'

Debbie turned quickly so that he didn't see the new blush which spread over her face and neck at his disparaging words. Then she realised that he was now staring at her sore rear – and that was even more shameful. She moved quickly towards the mirror, wincing every step of the way. She still wanted to cup her tender cheeks and just hold them for a while till the fire subsided. But to do so might provoke further buttock-based wrath.

'Now turn and bend over and look at your sore arse,' Miles instructed.

More lust flooding through her loins at his authoritative tone, Debbie hastened to obey him. She stared back at the reflection of her thoroughly-chastened rump. Both small spherical cheeks were red from buttock top to thigh, especially in the centres. Each quivering globe seemed to radiate heat, to glow.

'You spanked me so hard,' she whispered, staring at her tormented derriere.

'And now I'm going to make you orgasm equally hard,' Miles promised. He carried her to his bed. She knelt then moved her head onto her bent elbows at his request. Moaned with relief as he slid deep inside her. Moaned louder when she climaxed, the waves of pleasure rushing through her pubis again and again.

'I was so desperate for it,' she whispered, after he'd enjoyed his own rapture, 'My sex felt so hollow. I needed to come so bad.'

'And you needed to be spanked,' Miles said, putting his arm around her shoulders as they lay on the bed together. Debbie hid her face in his armpit. She wasn't so sure about that bit! 'Your bottom is already fading to crimson rather than it's original ruby shade,' Miles continued, looking down at her small taut buttocks, 'Red is the least stable colour in the wash cycle. Did you know?'

Debbie took her face from his armpit. 'I did after I washed your red shorts with your white grandad shirt!' she said, 'Still, I've learnt my lesson! I plan never to touch your laundry again.'

'And you think that will save those tender young cheeks?' Miles asked, 'My previous girlfriend had to be disciplined for turning up late. For flirting with other men. For being grumpily pre-menstrual.'

'You mean you'd spank me for being bad tempered?' Debbie muttered. Already her breasts had started to gain weight, which signalled that her period was due soon. She usually snapped at boyfriends one minute and smiled at them the next.

'Oh, I might do more than spank you,' Miles parried, 'I might use this very effective long cane I keep in my wardrobe. Or I might just take off my belt.' He kissed her on the nose then pulled her bare bottom closer and started to examine its tender round smooth contours, 'There are tawses and riding crops and paddles I can use on your bad bum to turn it three colours red.'

Dr Gifford's research project

Story from Blushes Supplement 16.

Dr Gifford's research project

He got their names from his colleague Dr Bawland in the University Health Service. There was a medical check-up at the beginning of the first term for all students – male as well as female but of course we are only talking about female students. Dr Gifford was only interested in female students (as indeed was Dr Bawland himself) and it was only female students, these first-year girls conveniently in for their medicals, whose names would be supplied by the latter. Not all female students by any means but ones here and there whom Dr Bawland thought Dr Gifford would find suitable for his purpose. Dr Bawland knew what type his colleagues wanted although he did not enquire too closely into his interest and activities. He knew enough, though, to guess that it would not stand up too well to a lot of public scrutiny. The papers especially, hysterical sensation-seekers that they were, would no doubt have a field day. For this reason one did have to be careful in suggesting a name.

The papers would also no doubt have had a field day with Dr Bawland if they had known all the details about him; although he was the medical adviser and thus could claim to be on legitimate grounds both in his intimate questioning of a girl student and his equally (or more?) intimate examination of her person. Stripped down and then up on his examination couch, on her back, knees raised and apart; and subsequently required to turn over and raise herself on hands and knees. None of this, naturally, was necessary for male students.

But it was all necessary and routine for young women, as Dr Bawland would tell them, and a fresh and inexperienced girl of 18 or 19 was not going to argue or refuse. And equally she was not going to make any subsequent fuss, preferring to keep quiet and forget all about it. Not that Dr Bawland's examination was easy to forget about, not right away at least.

The phone call from Dr Gifford would come quite soon after her check-up, for any girl whose name had been passed on. Dr Gifford wanted to meet them as early as possible, before they had settled in and got their bearings. He wanted an initial friendly chat in which to size up his colleague's offering. Not all would, in his estimation, be suitable but in any case he didn't wish for large numbers. He was selective and indeed needed to be. Selective and circumspect. Angela Farley got her phone call two days after her appointment with Dr Bawland. Introducing himself Dr Gifford said he was also in the University Medical Department and had a short questionnaire he would like her to answer. Perhaps they could meet for coffee? Dr Gifford on the phone sounded very pleasant and Angela agreed, although only two days after her visit to Dr Bawland the words 'Medical Department' still made her shiver. Mid-morning the next day was agreed, when Angela had an hour free from lectures. A little coffee-shop not far from the main university building.

Dr Gifford at once liked, very much, what he saw. A pretty, shy-looking girl, smartly dressed, under her undergraduate gown in blouse and full skirt with stockings and high-heeled courts. (In the late 1950's of course girls did dress smartly, unlike more recent years when girl students can look like something the cat has dragged in.) Not only pretty but shapely too, filling out the blouse and skirt to appetising effect. And nice legs as well in the seamed stockings. Yes, very nice.

Not only all this, but she did seem very much the type. Not at all bold or self-confident, flushing prettily when he introduced himself. Flushing a bit more when he mentioned Dr Bawland – at the thought, no doubt, that Dr Gifford might know what she had had to submit to on that other doctor's couch. Those hands, and at the same time the questioning: 'Do you ever give yourself pleasure, Angela? Like this? No need to be shy; most girls do it, you know.' The thought that this Dr Gifford could possibly know about that was bound to make a girl flush. Not that Dr Gifford was simply in the business of getting hold of shy and pretty girls to work his way with. But his work, his research, was sensitive, so easy to be misunderstood by the common herd. So shy girls were the ones, unsure of themselves, who were not going to cause a stir. As for wanting her to be pretty, and shapely besides – well, he was only human after all.

Angela, for her part, saw a pleasant and friendly man in his forties. Dr Bawland had also been a pleasant and friendly man in his forties – at least pleasant and friendly until he had asked her to take all her clothes off 'except the suspender belt and stockings' – but Angela was trying to forget all that.

Fortunately the saying 'once bitten twice shy' doesn't always hold true; and Angela was still feeling rather lost, and in particular had not yet found what every nice girl of 19 wants although she does not always want to say so, which is a nice friend of the opposite sex. Dr Gifford was certainly not seen as a prospective boyfriend (he was old enough to be her father!) but he did seem very pleasant and understanding. The pleasant and personable Dr Gifford having observed that this pretty young lady was very much what he wanted, quickly moved on from his questionnaire (which in fact did not amount to anything much) to speak of this special research he was doing. Not any details, only really to say that he needed assistance, a helper, a subject if you like. And he would very much like Angela's help.

And as he was such a pleasant person, Angela thought, well, why not? Why not go along to his flat tomorrow evening as he wanted. The thought was indeed quite exciting. It would certainly be better than sitting in her room studying, which Angela had done every evening except Saturday when she had gone to the dance but hadn't enjoyed it. The boys she would have liked to dance with had all been too shy to ask and the ones who had asked had not been nice at all. Third-year students smelling of beer who had groped her on the dance floor (though nothing like Dr Bawland!). Yes, it would be a change to go to Dr Gifford's flat. It would be exciting. Having got her agreement, Dr Gifford went on to mention that as the work was incomplete and was in a way sensitive he did not want it mentioned to anyone...

Experimental Work

Dr Gifford's work was to do with pain. Pain perception and pain thresholds and also in a related way the sense of embarrassment.

He told Angela this quite soon after she arrived on Wednesday evening. As soon as they were seated in his lounge with a cup of coffee, Angela having said, 'no thanks', she didn't want sherry. Strike while the iron was hot, was Dr Gifford's motto once the subject was in the privacy of his flat.

The pretty face registered bewilderment at his words – a not common reaction. He noted with approval that she had put on more make-up this evening, nothing brash but the full lips were a nice pinky-red and there was eye-shadow. There was no gown this evening, naturally, just a light coat which he had now hung up, and he also noted with approval the twin bulges of her fullish tits pushing out the front of the quite-tight navy sweater. There was also a full blue and black wool skirt and the nylons and high-heeled courts again. Very nice. Dr Gifford thought for a moment of George Bawland, with her up on his couch in just her suspender belt and stockings, giving her the old 'Do you ever play with yourself?' routine.

And then he thought, of course... He smiled reassuringly at the bewildered look. 'Well let me give an example. I don't know if you were caned at school but if, say, you were caned on your hand you would feel pain but not a lot of embarrassment I imagine. But if you were, for example, Angela, caned on your bottom, with your skirt up and bending over, you would feel embarrassment as well as the pain. And if of course you were made to take your knickers down and got it on your bare bottom – well that would be more embarrassing still though the pain would be about the same.' The pretty face rapidly colouring as the shocking words with their shocking images were taken in. Shocking because although girls in theory could be caned at school, very few, certainly very few university entrants, actually had been. And even if you knew of a girl being caned it would have been on the hand. Never on the bottom. Never, ever on the bare bottom.

Dr Gifford smiling brightly, enjoying his pretty guest's evident discomfiture. 'You see what I mean,' he added, eyeing her, thinking of what was under that full skirt.

Angela made some mumbled reply, picking up her coffee cup to hide her confusion. Dr Gifford was continuing, talking about the psychology of pain and its relationship with the psychological state of embarrassment. Stressing what an important study it was and how it was so important to have first-hand experimental data if one was to get a proper understanding. He needed subjects, participants, to aid his work. Clearly one could not use just anyone, what one needed was a bright, intelligent co-worker. His eyes were shining. He was sure Angela would be prepared to help.

Angela not knowing what to say, not at all sure what he wanted. He couldn't mean... Dr Gifford pressing her. Somehow she heard herself saying that she would of course like to help...

Dr Gifford jumping smartly to his feet. A quick introduction before she fully realized... Striding over to a cupboard and coming back with a cane in his hand. Asking Angela to please stand.

In something like a trance – surely this couldn't really be happening? – Angela got to her feet, and automatically obeyed Dr Gifford's instruction to hold out her hand. Palm up, waist high. Dr Gifford's cane right away rising and sharply cutting down.

SWAAT!!!

The red-hot pain instantly dispelling that trance-like feeling. Angela jerking forward from the waist, desperately hugging the frantic hand to her. Blinking away sudden hot tears. Seconds later Dr Gifford, cane abandoned, had his arm round her. Soothing words in her ear, though Angela was in too shocked a state to really hear. How could he have done that!! Sitting on the sofa again and now blankly accepting the glass of sherry which Dr Gifford produced. Partly choking as it went down. Her clenched hand was still burning. Dr Gifford had his arm round her again, which fell nice if you could forget what a dreadful thing the arm had just done. Angela's head clearer now. Dr Gifford telling her it had only been a test, a demonstration. He wanted to know how it felt. And he wanted to see it, her burning hand. Shakily she let him take it. He sounded quite calm: the scientist objectively studying a phenomenon. Angela could not know, of course, of that thing, stiff and quivering with excitement, in the front of Dr Gifford's trousers. Unbelievably he did it again before she left. Told her he needed to do it a second time, on her other hand, and Angela didn't know how or why, but she was somehow standing holding out her left hand. For a second red-hot cut of that fiendish cane. The sharp cry of pain again afterwards. This time Dr Gifford put both arms round her. And then did something else as shocking in its way as the cane.

He let go of her and turned her round so that her back was towards him. And then his two hands slid round under Angela's arms to take hold of her tits. She gave another strangled gasp. Dr Bawland had handled them in his examination but that, in his examination room, was somehow quite different. This was Dr Gifford's flat where she had just had coffee and sherry. Where also Dr Gifford had caned both of her palms. Her still burning hands went automatically to the tightly clutching male hands, but he didn't let go.

'Tell me how this feels. Angela. Has the cane affected their sensitivity? Do your breasts feel aroused at all?' Dr Gifford was continuing to squeeze and mound her firm, full tits through her sweater.

* * * *

Confirmation of Results

Two days later, 10 o'clock, after her only lecture that morning, Angela was somehow walking back to Dr Gifford's flat again. She didn't want to – or at least 90 per cent of her didn't want to. There was perhaps a tiny part of her that said he was a nice understanding man who had wanted to know how she was getting on, how she was settling in. He was a person – and a man – whom she could talk to. But that was only the bits when he wasn't wanting her co-operation on this mind-numbing project he was doing. When he wasn't wanting to cane her hands. And then intimately fondle her boobs. Memories of that last visit still made her tremble. And now she was going again...

He had been so persuasive on the phone. Saying of course she wanted to come, don't be a silly girl. And she had agreed to help him, to take part. In fact she had never actually said that. But...

Dr Gifford, all friendly smiles, had the coffee ready. He had been almost sure she would turn up. He knew girls by now, knew their minds, knew when he'd got through to them. She wouldn't want to of course, she would be very scared but at the same time she would feel she was obliged to. And on the second visit one went boldly forward without allowing time for further doubts. Forward to just about the whole thing. Cane the hand on the first visit and if she took that, then on the second... There was just the slightest chance that she would be too scared and not show up: a possibility to add that extra piquancy to his wailing. But the bell had rung, on time, just as, deep down, he had been sure it would.

Coming from a lecture, Angela had her gown on over blouse and skirt. Nice. Dr Gifford liked the gown. When he had her fully trained he would make her wear just the gown... But not today of course. Today...

Not immediately. First some reassuring general chat over the coffee, to put her at ease. Or partially. She'd been having some slight problems with her landlady. Ask about that, let her talk, about those little problems. And then... Actually later when she had got used to it he would do it round at her place, her bed-sit. An extra dimension. The delicious girl in a dead fright that the landlady might somehow come in. As she was taking off the blouse and skirt. As she was bending over... Oh yes. But that was in the future. Today...

Smiling disarmingly, hiding his excitement. 'Well, Angela, it is extremely pleasant sitting here chatting with such a pretty girl, but we were going to do some more on my project, weren't we? Yes? Today... I want you to take your skirt off?'

She just sat there. Stunned by the though perhaps. Her pink tongue unconsciously appearing to moisten the full lips that this morning had little or no lipstick on. She began to shake her head.

Dr Gifford briskly on his feet. And pulling Angela to her feet. Action. Before the mind could build up its rejection patterns. 'Come on. I can do it if you want...'

'No!' Frantically shaking her head. 'I can't!' Trying to push him away.

'Of course you can, Angela. You had your skirt off for Dr Bawland. You had everything off except your stockings and suspender belt, I expect. Didn't you?' That shocking memory. And Dr Gifford did know. Gasping 'No' but weakly now as forceful Dr Gifford's hands were inside her gown at her waist. At the zipper of her skirt. Opening it, sliding the skirt down. She wasn't fighting it now. A white slip which happily proved to be a waist slip so that could be tugged down as well. White knickers, taut over rounded hips and the ripe swell of her pubis. Pale thighs crossed by the straps of a pure white satin suspender belt. The darker rims of her tan stockings...

She numbly stepped out of the skirt and slip. Somehow accepting now what was happening. Part of her must have guessed this would happen. That part of her mind was accepting it while the other part, the part that wanted to scream NO, was too stunned to do anything. She stood leaning on the sofa back for support. Trembling. The gown was now covering the white things, the whiter knickers.

Dr Gifford making a quick decision. Not the cane right now perhaps. Instead... Sitting back down on the sofa and taking the quivering girl's arm. Dragging her down. Over his lap.

'I'm not going to cane you. Not now. I'm going to spank your bottom. I'm going to take your knickers down and spank it bare. I shall want to know your reaction of course. There will no doubt be a large embarrassment component...'

A wailing, gasping sound but he had her down now, head low and bottom in position. Grabbing up the loose black gown, up over her shoulders. And then fingers in the waistband of the virginal white pants.

Tugging. Right off of the ripely swelling hemispheres. Angela's bottom suddenly bare. And Dr Gifford's right hand sliding intimately, shockingly, over the warm cheeks. Squeezing. Fondling. His voice:

'How does this feel? You have never had your bottom bared for a spanking before, I take it, Angela? Is it very embarrassing for you? Of course you had it bare for Dr Bawland but that was different. That was a clinical situation. When a girl is over a man's lap for a spanking there is a highly personal element. Mmm?'

Angela was not responding to any of this. It was just too awful. She wanted to faint, so that she wouldn't know what was happening, but she wasn't fainting, her mind was crystal clear.

'Now I'm going to start spanking...'

Crying out as the palm of his hand cracked down. Again and again, sharp exclamations of pain, as Dr Gifford's hand came down repeatedly in hard, crisp smacks. A man's hand does not have quite the same shock impact as a stroke of the cane but the cumulative effect can be almost as devastating as the sensitive flesh of a girl's bottom becomes more and more tender. There is, as well, the sense of helpless impotence as she is firmly held by that strong male arm in spite of her inevitable struggles against the stinging pain. Plus the shockingly personal nature of what is happening. Oh yes, it can be devastating all right, and well before Dr Gifford had finished the hot salt tears were flowing. Jerky sobs mixed in with the gasp and yelps.

At the end of it Dr Gifford could probably not have got any intelligible comment out of Angela if he had wanted to, but he did not in any case try. The first proper session with a girl, a spanking or caning of her bottom, was usually such that coherent answers to questions was not on. The main point was that he had done it and she had taken it.

He left her to pull her knickers back up and replace her slip and skirt while he went out to make some coffee. Understanding and reassurance in large measures were needed now, because this was very much the stage at which you could lose a girl. She could leave and refuse ever to come back: refuse all blandishments, and you couldn't force her. So now it was essential to be extra nice and understanding. Refer to what had happened briefly, thank her for her co-operation, which has been most valuable. But then go on to other matters.

Development Stage

Walking away from Dr Gifford's flat half an hour later, Angela told herself she would never, ever go there again. What had happened was scarcely believable but it had happened and she would not ever let it happen again. Dr Gifford had said he would like to see her at the weekend and she had mumbled something, not really yes or no; but she wouldn't go.

And she didn't. He called up and Angela said she had a lot of work to do. Dr Gifford didn't press it. He said he was awfully disappointed that he wouldn't be seeing her but he understood she had to work. He would call again in the week. I won't come, Angela mouthed silently into the phone. And she didn't either: said the same when he called. She had work to do. It would have been nice to say she had a date, was going out with a boy, but that would not have been true.

She went to the dance again on Saturday. Hopeful: but there was no nice interesting boy, only those loud-mouthed groping ones. When a girl has been three weeks at university and not clicked she is convinced she never will. Dr Gifford called her again on Sunday morning and initially got the same reply: she had to work. This time, though, sensing that the time was ripe he was more persistent. And successful. Angela at last agreeing to go out, a drive in the country.

Arguments and protestations in a secluded glade in some quiet woods. But Dr Gilford at last succeeded in getting another session for his work. Succeeding in taking Angela's knickers down and spanking her bottom again.

Two days later she was back al his flat, though again she had vowed she wouldn't go. This time Dr Gifford caned her bottom for the first time.