Friday, 9 April 2010

The Exhibitionist - photo story

Photo story from Janus 58.

The Exhibitionist


ROBERT is a good husband, and I like to feel I look after him and respond to his needs. But, like all too many busy men, he doesn't always have time to consider too closely the needs of his wife – and although I don't think I'd ever be unfaithful, a girl can dream can't she?

My dream is that a man I do not know is watching me undress. He doesn't touch me, but his growing excitement is answered by mine as I slowly push down my panties to exhibit my gingery pubes and naked behind, then peel off my bra and feel that extraordinary rush of pleasure as my breasts shiver into view – knowing all the while that his eyes are fixed on my exposed flesh. Well, recently my dream came true.

It was a few weeks ago that I first became aware of him. Undressing in the bedroom early one night during one of Robert's absences on business, I hadn't intentionally left the curtains open, but suddenly realised with a shock that someone was down there in the street looking up at me. He was a pathetic little man with owlish spectacles, wearing the original dirty raincoat, a hat pulled down ridiculously low on his head and trainers on his feet. The watcher of my fantasy! When he saw that I was staring back at him, he fled. All next day my imagination ran riot. I wanted him to come back when it got dark, and I sought out my most erotic underthings, exasperated by my own absurd behaviour yet breathless with a weird excitement.

Next night he was there again! It was too early to go to bed but as I undressed I smiled encouragingly down at his furtive, lurking face – and although he scampered off again like a startled rabbit, he returned the following night. This time he stayed, peering up from the shadows as I, trembling with deliciously wicked sensations, stripped enticingly to near-nakedness for my audience of one. And so our secret silent rapport continued, week after week.


SINCE I lost my job at the packing factory life has been fairly dull. Most days I walk round to the corner cafe for lunch and down my Mum's for tea. I'll admit of course that not having to go to work, I've had lots of time to get the gardening up to date, whilst still going to the church social club in the evenings for bingo and ping-pong. My route to the club takes me through a housing estate, and yesterday that was the scene of a most amazing experience.

Some weeks back, whilst on my way through the estate, I saw a partly-dressed lady at a window. I didn't want to stare in case she saw me and pulled away, so as I walked past I continued to glance from the corner of my eye. I reckoned she was in her early twenties, smashing-looking with ginger hair and wearing sexy undies. It was dark outside, the light was on in the upstairs room and I wondered if she knew she could be seen from the street. The lady had an incredible effect on me, and I arrived at the club quite unable to focus my attention on the job for that evening, namely sorting through piles of clothing for the forthcoming bazaar and jumble sale. Later at home, I couldn't get her out of my mind and fantasised in my dreams all night.

I resolved to walk past at the same time the following day. Lo and behold, she was there again. The pace of my steps slowed dramatically, so taken was I by the sight before my eyes. I was shaken out of my dreamlike state when I suddenly realised I had been standing still, looking up at the window for quite some time and that she was looking straight at me and smiling. I broke free from her captivating smile and ran till I was quite out of breath.

I'd never been so embarrassed in my life. A combination of the sight I'd just witnessed and the exertion of running had perspiration pouring down my face. I was dry-mouthed and shaking. I had been hypnotised by what I'd seen and yet was petrified in case she called the police to complain about the 'peeping Tom' that I had become. I thought at once of changing my route to the club.

By the following day my resolve had been weakened by the thought of the sights I'd seen. I stood outside her house, looked up, and there she was again. In the days and weeks that followed, I spent my hours watching her perform, mesmerised. She knew I was there, yet appeared oblivious to my presence, going through sexy routines of stripping and dancing. She gave me the hottest shows I've ever seen, and suddenly my life seemed to have meaning.


Until last Wednesday evening, when Robert came home unexpectedly early from a cancelled board-meeting! I blush as I write this, but I was exposing myself fully to this gaper of the night when, before I knew what was happening, Robert rushed into the bedroom and dragged me from the window. Having just seductively removed my bra, I was wearing nothing except my sexiest white lace stockings, suspenders and high heels. His fury terrified me. I have never known him in such a rage as he shook me till my teeth rattled. Then he dragged me painfully downstairs, flung me into the living-room and roared, 'Stand there, slut, I haven't finished with you yet!' He ripped the curtains shut then stormed from the room.

Moments later I was alarmed to hear shouts and grunts from outside, the front door flying open – and Robert reappeared dragging my little man by the scruff of the neck, who whimpered in terror, obviously afraid that my husband was about to attack him. But Robert, although he yelled abuse at him, merely shoved him against the wall where he stumped, shivering. Then my husband turned on me. 'If you enjoy showing yourself off to this pathetic Peeping Tom, Sylvia,' he bawled, 'he can have the best view in the house while you, my lady, get the hiding of your life!'

While my raincoated voyeur did his best to crawl into the wall, Robert now dragged me to the sofa and sat heavily down. I couldn't believe he was serious – I am, after all, a grown woman and not some naughty child. 'Get across my knee!' he snapped. 'As you've saved me the trouble of baring your pretty posterior, I'll have all the more energy to give it the walloping it deserves!' Then, to my horror, I was floundering forward over his lap in an unspeakably humiliating position, my naked bum jutting upwards and feeling dreadfully vulnerable. Yet even then little thrills surged through me as I glimpsed my Peeping Tom huddled nearby in fright, peering at the scene with drooling fascination.


Yesterday I was there as usual. She was dressed in scanty undies, suspenders and stockings and was going through her usual routine, when she abruptly disappeared from view. This had never happened before and when she didn't come back I started to feel very frustrated. Quite beside myself, I ran forward to the downstairs window and peered in, trying to see where she had gone. I was still in this position some moments later when a hand grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and spun me round. I was confronted by a man whose face was so contorted with anger and rage that I thought my end had come. He obviously wasn't a policeman and he half-beckoned, half-dragged me into the house. Inside was the lady, and the man was screaming and shouting alternately at her and me.

He dragged and pushed me into a corner of the room and I fully expected him to rain blows around my head and neck at any second. I was petrified. Instead he left me in the corner and vented his anger fully on the girl. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to run but he was between me and the door. At the same time, I had never been this close to a lady without clothes on and I wanted to stare, although I didn't for fear of retribution from this brute of a man, who was almost insane with rage. But soon he seemed to be gaining control, his voice changed from furious ranting and took on a more steely, authoritarian tone. He sat down on the settee and ordered the girl to get over his knees. THEN HE BEGAN SLAPPING HER BARE BOTTOM!


'Hold still!' yelled Robert, clamping a powerful hand on my struggling back. There was a breathless, awful pause – and his right hand fell. 'Ouww! Ahhh!' It felt like fireworks night in my tender rear as eruptions of spitting sparks seared through my rearward cheeks. Then it came down again with even greater force, sending shockwaves of boiling ice into the marrow of my seat-bones. From then on details of the punishment became blurred as I bucked and writhed under the terrific smacks, screeching as my backside burned. Yet through it all I could smell the dank smell of streets and loneliness, and knew the wretched creature lurked close by. It gave me strange comfort.

Robert was dragging me and my buttocks prickled with a million red-hot needles. 'All right, Sylvia...' Robert's voice was calmer now, but his breathing was fast and heavy like it gets when we make love. 'Kneel up on the sofa!' Too scared to resist, I did so. 'Push your bum well out,' he sneered, 'so your lecherous friend here can take a really good look. It's nice and pink now...' Then he added ominously, 'Soon it'll be red as sunset.'

Kneeling up on the cushions, I confess I now arched my back to jut out my bare bottom in a deliberately provocative way towards the cringing watcher as Robert strode across the room and grabbed something from the cupboard. Then, with a disturbing quietness, he removed his jacket. And as I waited in dread for my punishment to resume I sensed the furtive, bespectacled gaze boring holes in my out-thrust bum-cheeks in a way that sent naughty thrills rippling through me.


I had my head turned away in fear and yet my eyes were swivelled around watching the bizarre goings-on. He now appeared to be totally unaware of my presence, and absorbed in punishing this woman, who I supposed was his wife. Time and again his hand fell on to her pure white behind, and the flesh wobbled and began to redden up. He was spanking her really hard, like some overgrown child, and his hand was landing loud and fast. He was unaware, or at least took no notice, of the screams and whimpers issuing from the woman's mouth, as her pretty face twisted in pain. I was just beginning to turn my head in order to get a better view, when he stopped slapping her and ordered her to stand. He stood up and walked towards me, outstretching his hand as he came. I thought that now it would be my turn for a beating. But he reached past me into a side cabinet and pulled out a pair of ping-pong bats.


Robert stepped up behind me, raised his arm, and my bum-cheeks were flattened by a blistering wallop with something cold, flat and hard that drove the breath from me in a shriek. Glancing round in shock I glimpsed the ping-pong bat in Robert's hand as it rose up over his shoulder again. I shut my eyes. The stinging concussion blasted in again, meaty and solid; then again and again, first on my left buttock then my right, till the blows were raining down and I was wrenching my poor tortured behind from side to side. Yet all of a sudden I was glowing all over my skin. I deserved this thrashing, was actually welcoming it! And for a while, as my backside jumped and flattened, flared and throbbed to my husband's violent attentions and almost sexual grunts, we forgot about the raincoated voyeur.

But several thunderous whacks later, as my buttocks began to push eagerly back to meet the blows and I experienced a lovely weepy feeling I am too embarrassed to describe here, I became aware of my little man again. He had grown bolder and was staring intently at every wallop as the bat slammed down on my lividly-blotched bottom. By the final scalding smack I noted through the whirling daze my senses were in that he had come right away from the wall and was actually smiling as he wiped his glasses on his raincoat, leaning forward to see even better.


I again turned away in case he thought I was watching, but not before he ordered this lovely young woman to kneel on the sofa. I didn't need to look to imagine what was happening next, the sounds told me all I needed to know. The swish, the splatt! and the stifled groan accompanied by grunts from him and sobs from her, told me he was spanking her with one of the ping-pong bats. Helpless to stop myself, I found my head turning to gaze on this fantastic sight.

I could no longer hide my excitement and gawped openly on the events happening in front of me. Now I had no thoughts of being harmed by this man, no feeling of being embarrassed at being caught watching. All I could do was stare as he spanked her bare bottom mercilessly. It was impossible to tear my eyes away, I'd never seen anything like it and I never will again. I watched, totally captivated. The full swing of his arm. The resounding thwack!! as rubber met soft flesh. The ripples that followed each impact of the bat – just like the one I use. The hundreds of pimple-mark impressions, momentarily white then turning red on her behind, obviously burning her to the core. Making her yelp and shout out. Making her beautiful hot bottom jerk about in pain...


My chastisement over, Robert pulled me to my feet. But I was smiling now, too, frying deliciously all over, my bottom aflame like a genial bonfire. Robert was smiling as well. In our own separate ways, all three of us were happy. In fact my husband displayed a tenderness I'd rarely known as he pampered my poor reddened bottom-cheeks with soothing fingers, murmuring little love-words. We were both so preoccupied by our mutual comfortings that we hardly heard or saw the little man go, tip-toeing over Robert's brief-case and melting back again into the night.


My fear had gone and other emotions were now charging within the room. The anger was leaving the man, as if draining through the bat. The girl's whimpers were replaced with deep and groaning sighs. I've never heard anything so exciting. As suddenly as it had started, everything came to an end. Without a word, the main straightened up, the woman stood up, my path to the door was clear, and I bolted. In a state of total bewilderment, I walked on down to the club. I played ping-pong as usual. What was weird though, was that I won.

And they all lived happily ever after...

Rosalie's Ordeal

Story from Phoenix 50.

Rosalie's Ordeal

Of course it is instinct. This meaningful, sometimes uneasy feeling, telling you what you should do and, most likely, what you should not do at all! That's what is called instinct.

Rosalie knew that, and although, or maybe because, she knew it very well, that was not precisely the thing her thoughts were about. At least not at this moment. For if you are to deal with a member of 'The Society', i.e. 'get in touch', you'd better leave your instinct aside.

That she, a smart girl in her nineteenth year, knew for sure, because that is the truth, and she had already learned to accept it.

Being of right instinct can be considered a bad habit. At least by THEM! Being a rebel can lead to serious trouble!

If you like to go out singing in the rain, leave your umbrella at home. But if you are into spanking a girl, don't forget to fetch the cane.

And that's it. No discussion at all, for the members of 'The Society' are at certain times not too keen on discussions. But they are truly into 'sports and games'. At least that it what they refer to, when they talk about their habits and interests.

It had all started last night. Rosalie was in bed already, when the telephone rang. Although they hadn't called her for almost two months, which had given her enough time to hope they had already forgotten about her, Rosalie suddenly knew it was them. Instinct – you remember?

There was a man on the 'phone, of course, and although he knew her name, she was quite sure from the start that she had never heard that voice before. Rosalie wasn't really surprised, she was just a bit dejected that they obviously had not forgotten her at all, but she did her best not to let it show.

They had one of those little talks, which Rosalie knew, no matter how they start, are bound to lead to one thing...

His voice sounded pleasant, and maybe he really is, Rosalie thought to herself, a friendly kind of man, being pleasant to his friends, his children, or even his wife. For ordering a girl of 'The Society' for adult entertainment does not necessarily mean having been establishing corporal punishment at home. However, that was what his call was all about.

"So I'll pick you up at 5 p.m. at your office. You know how to dress properly?"

Though his voice was calm, apparently offering a question, Rosalie knew that this was no question at all. It was a precise order, and Rosalie knew how to follow it.

She answered a docile, "Yes, Sir".

"Now, that's a good girl".

The voice on the line seemed even more friendly. "See you tomorrow. Good night, and have a nice sleep!"

Mocking words, even being spoken as calmly as they had been. How could Rosalie sleep well at the prospect of a forthcoming spanking, to suppose the least. The aspect of having to spend the following day at the office wearing some kind of the most revealing underwear didn't seem to be of any comfort either.

She wouldn't even have the opportunity to have a shower after work as she did usually. Rosalie shivered at the thought that tomorrow might be a very stressful day, having her being bathed in sweat by noon, which seems to be quite human but can easily lead to very humiliating scenes, as she knew from bitter experience.

Once Rosalie had been due for a punishment lesson after a very busy day at the office. Of course, the man, another member of 'The Society' she had been sent to, knew it very well, for he had spoken to her boss on the 'phone to assure her being striving hard, and therefore sweating, the whole day long.

After she had taken off all of her clothes in his apartment, with even more members of 'The Society' being present, he, to her increased shame, took his time inspecting every inch of her naked body. He even took the liberty of smelling her armpits, as Rosalie was forced to grip her hands behind her neck, presenting her youthful breasts to the delighted audience.

To her utmost degradation, he showed a disgusted look on his face, as he turned to the others, gravely announcing that she "stunk". She had then been ordered to take a bath and clean her body thoroughly, and, of course, she had to face an 'extra treatment' for the impertinence of showing up for a punishment session without being properly prepared. As if she had a choice!

So, it is no wonder that she almost could not get a wink of sleep all night. Although she really had a lot of work to do the following day, she had enough time to think of the punishment yet to come. At least the daring outfit beneath her outer garments reminded her of the forthcoming events, and maybe even some of her colleagues had their own thoughts about her revealing attire that day.

"Are you properly dressed?" he inquired, instead of a usual greeting, as she climbed into his Porsche.

Rosalie suddenly became aware of having a frog in her throat. She couldn't even look at the man addressing her. She kept her eyes straight ahead, staring through the windscreen at the traffic lights passing by, as he drove off down the street.

"So, what?"

He did not seem to be impatient at the moment, for his words sounded interested instead of bored, but Rosalie did not want to find out how long it would take for him to start showing his impatience. She nodded a "yes".

"Alright, that's a good girl! I am sure you don't mind showing me".

Of course she did. But what would be the use of refusing, or showing even the slightest sign of reserve? She was facing some smacks on her poor little bottom already. So, why waken the probably sleeping lion and turn the inevitable events of the evening into a real punishment session on purpose?

Rosalie knew better than that. With blushing cheeks she dutifully lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal the stretched tops of her seamed stockings – which she was told always to wear while being on duty for 'The Society' (at least, unless she had been instructed otherwise).


The man behind the wheel gave his order without even bothering to look at her. He knew from her previous behaviour that she would need some kind of encouragement from time to time.

Receiving a command is following following it. These are the rules Rosalie knows for sure. So, without further hesitation, but blushing even more, she raised the hem higher and higher, until she offered the pretty view of some naked skin above the stocking tops, and a few curls of fluffy hair, hardly covering what she would like to have hidden this moment. But, being on duty, she is not allowed the modesty of drawers at all.

The man took a short glance, and a smile appeared on his face.

"So, a natural blonde, aren't you?" he said to the nineteen year old girl sitting beside him, naked from the waist down.

She almost fainted at the thought that someone might see her that way, as he steered his Porsche through the heavy traffic during rush hour, heading for his house in the suburbs.

Once inside his house, Rosalie didn't have time to look at the exclusive furniture that proved him to be a man of taste. Rather, he showed himself as a man of action, as he took her straight into the bedroom. He sat down on the bed, and made Rosalie stand before him, hands on her head, well developed boobs thrust out at him. Ignoring her timid protest, he slid down the zipper of her tight skirt and peeled it off, so that only her seamed stockings and her high-heeled shoes remained below her waist.

He paused for a moment to savour the delectable view before his eyes. Rosalie didn't dare to utter a sound. She stood still, breathing heavily, and he reached out to her delicious young body.

"Are you ready for some nice kind of game?"

What a question to ask a nineteen year old girl, perfectly aware of what was in store for her! What could she do but nod a timid "yes". They both knew that she didn't want to get if at all, but since she had to, it made more sense to get over this task as quickly as possible – if only from her point of view.

"I would not have blamed you for your innocence, but your eagerness shows me that you're well acquainted with this game!"

Although his voice pretended, he wasn't suggesting any confidence at all. In fact, he would ignore any insolence on her behalf, so Rosalie remained silent, waiting for her punishment to come. And it commenced for sure!

The man she hardly knew, all of a sudden, pulled her over his knee. He arranged her position so her rear would receive maximum impact, and then raised his hand over her bottom for the first time. Although he held her firmly with one arm, she could wriggle free with ease, if she wanted. However, even is she wanted to – and in fact she did – she wouldn't have cared at all.

So, she lay still over his knees, tensed and waiting, her eyes focusing on the carpet. Rosalie was ready, still fully dressed above her waist, but naked below, except for her stockings and shoes.

"Time to start our little session in earnest!" he announced to the nineteen year old girl lying over his knee, trembling in anticipation.

He brought his hand down, not too hard for the start, but letting her feel it. It smacked her bottom cheeks with a loud noise, but she made no sound at all. Rosalie was desperately trying to please him with her subservient behaviour during the forthcoming punishment, knowing rebellion wouldn't do her any good, and only endurance and self control would save her ass, if anything did.

He smiled knowingly. He was ready to play the game her way. If she really wanted this event to turn into a memorable competition, he was happy to oblige a beautiful young girl.

So, he got his right hand into motion, and delivered blow after blow, while Rosalie tried her best, only to wriggle a little, increasing his pleasure as well as the force of his blows.

He relished the contact of his hand with her bare reddening flesh. He could feel her glowing bottom cringe each time his hand hit it.

With his shower of spanks, she had slipped her legs slightly apart, so every now and then he could catch a delectable glimpse of the scanty tuft of blonde hair normally hidden between her thighs.

Hot to his touch, her curvy bottom was gleaming a deep pink now – so was his hand – and she now gasped with every blow. But he didn't care, just focusing on the feel of Rosalie's firm derriere against his spanking hand.

He couldn't help admiring her endurance. She did only struggle a little, mostly writhing back and forth over his lap, as her young, well-trained bottom cheeks reddened.

With each slapping spank she let out a gasp, but never a plea for mercy. So, he kept on spanking her bobbing bottom with considerable force. However, the next smack walloping the high round curve of her bottom made her squeal with its impact.

That did it!

Even the man from 'The Society' thought that Rosalie had suffered enough. Then, abruptly, she was gone. Away from his relentless hand, off his lap, and gasping on her knees. That was the time she was really due for pleasure. His pleasure, of course!

Thursday, 8 April 2010


Story from Whispers 07.


It seemed to Susan that she had been sitting on that chair for hours. Sitting there in a white singlet and a pair of blue serge, school knickers only. Apart from socks and shoes that is. But it was probably no more than thirty minutes.

'Many a girl has had to sit there before you, Susan,' Mr Rockworth had said. He had nodded several times, as if memorising a number of them. 'They all knew why they had to sit there. As you do.'

She had coloured horribly. Quivered inside. She did know. There was nothing to be said.

'I call it the Chair of Contemplation,' the Head had said. 'A girl contemplates her misdeeds before. Then she contemplates the consequences afterwards.'

Susan knew what was going to happen. Other girls had told her. Some of them seemed eager to tell her. Were they gloating cruelly now that she, too, had fallen into temptation? Irresistible temptation. Or were they just gloating because they were glad it wasn't them in her place?

The Chair was in one corner of a dark-panelled room. An oppressive, old-fashioned room. A little before her, on a pillar, stood a statue of Venus. Was there some purpose in that? A point being made. For, surely, Venus was symbolic of women's sexual desire. She had been made beautiful so that those desires might be fully satisfied. Susan's mind wandered away from the idea. Indeed, she was finding it most difficult to concentrate on anything while she sat there in that gloomy silence. Always, her mind kept coming back to what must soon happen.

At least, she supposed it would happen. Unless it was all some huge conspiracy within the school. A bluff to frighten girls into... well... what? Into being better girls. It could just possibly be a bluff. That faintest of hopes was like a flickering candle in Susan's heart.

Then she suddenly recalled the weals Marion had shown them one evening. Bright, pink-red, twin-tracked weals encircling her bottom. Marion had seemed rather proud of them. Susan shuddered... and hope died. It was no bluff. He would be coming soon. He would be coming; bringing the cane.

Nervously, Susan brushed back her long hair; it came almost halfway down her back. Usually, she had to wear it in plaits. Now that it was after school hours, she could do as she wished with it. Was that a footstep she heard? A footstep, on the stairs? She shivered, yet her nerves flared hotly. There was no more sound of footsteps. The flaring of her nerves subsided. Susan simply felt cold again.

Oh how long would she have to sit there? To contemplate?

Suddenly, she was aware that this wait was all part of the punishment. She was fully intended to think about what she had done... and designed to induce her not to do it again. The cane would do that even more dramatically. The cane. She tried not to think too much about it, but she couldn't help doing so. How much would it hurt? Awfully, she was sure. Susan had no way of judging pain, for, as yet, she had experienced so little of it.

Perhaps, she comforted herself, since I am only just sixteen, he will not be too hard on me. Yes... I am very young; my skin is at its softest and tenderest. Surely he would take that into account.

Then, suddenly and silently, the door was open... and he was standing there. Susan had heard no footsteps; those footsteps she had been waiting for for so long. Her heart began to thump fast, there was a dryness in her throat. It was all about to happen. What she had dreaded for so long.

'Stand up, Susan.' The voice was not hectoring, merely firmly insistent. Susan stood, hardly daring to look at him. Yet she couldn't help noticing that the Head wore his academic gown over a suit. Worse, she couldn't also help noticing he carried a cane in his hand. Her eyes flickered away and she felt a little sick.

It was all just as it had been in her imaginings, yet, strangely, now that it was actually happening, it seemed unreal.

'You have had plenty of time to think about your wickedness, Susan' he said. 'I hope you are suitably contrite.'

'Y-yes, sir...' It was no more than a whisper.

'You will be yet more contrite, Susan.' A shiver went through her. The cane was long and it had a hooked handle. Again she tore her eyes away. Oh how awful it looked! 'Kneel on the chair, Susan.'

It amazed her that her legs had strength to carry her there; she mounted the seat in a wobbly fashion. Then came the command that she had been dreading most of all. Marion had told them that was what he insisted upon. 'Take your knickers down, Susan.'

Supposing she refused? After all, she was quite grown up now. It was really most indecent. Yes... supposing she refused?

'Did you hear me, girl?'

'Y-yes... s-sir...' A croak.

'Then do as I order.' He paused and his voice became grave. 'Susan,' he went on, 'I intend to give you the customary twelve strokes for this offence. However, if you insist on being disobedient, I shall have to send for your Form Mistress. In which case, you would receive an extra six strokes.'

Susan shuddered. Twelve was bad enough. Worse than she had expected. Her hope had been for six only. But eighteen! That would be quite unendurable. Her hands went to the elastic of her blue serge knickers and she pushed them down. But little more than three quarters of the way down her bottom.

'Lower than that, Susan. Down your thighs, please.'

She pushed them further down, feeling the abysmal shame of exposing herself in this fashion. He was a man, even if he were also her Headmaster. She must try and think of him as if he were her doctor.

'Hold the back of the chair, Susan. Tight.' She did so, nervous tension mounting fast. Her naked bottom felt so helpless, so vulnerable. 'Now push your bottom out. Out, I said, not in.' Oh how awful! Susan pushed it as far as she dared and felt herself flinching.

'Twelve,' he said, 'and, Susan, you will count the strokes.'

There was a short, sharp whistling sound then a band of fire seared across her buttock cheeks. Though Susan was not aware of it, the Head had given her quite a moderate stroke but, to her, the pain was far worse than she had expected. Her head of long hair tossed back and she gave vent to a series of breathless gasps. One hand came off the back of the chair.

'I didn't hear you, Susan,' he said.

'One...' she whimpered. Oh so many more yet to come!

'And I want both hands on the back of the chair.' Susan put them there, her bottom twisting half away in anticipation. Now she knew just how much that cane hurt.

Again that deadly sound; again that awful burning pain, slicing across her. The hand came off again and, this time, clamped momentarily to the new weal. 'Ahh... hhhaaah...' she gasped. Then she remembered. 'T-two...'

A hand gripped her wrist and pulled her hand up her back. Then she got two strokes in quick succession. Harder strokes. Yelping cries were torn from her and the sudden, double pain almost made her squirm right off the chair seat. 'I told you to grip the back of the chair, girl. Do so! Remember what I said about your Form Mistress.' Desperately, Susan forced herself to grip the back of the chair again. Those weals were throbbing like hot wires. Would she be able to endure eight more? She must! She must! Otherwise it wouldn't be eight, it would be fourteen more!

'I'm waiting Susan...'

Waiting? Waiting for what? Then she remembered again. 'Three... mmfff... and... mmfff... four...' she sobbed out.

Number five caught her on the thigh tops and she squealed loudly, only just managing to maintain her grip. 'Oooh... aahh... ooh... sir please not... not so hard... please!' She simply couldn't help begging. The pain was so awful.

'I'm waiting again, Susan,' was all he said. 'You really are a most forgetful girl.'

'F-five... u-ughhh... five...' she choked out, feeling her buttocks clench convulsively in dread of number six.

It came. Whistling and biting. And, yet again, her hand flew back. It was quite impossible to stop it, no matter how much he threatened. Perhaps he understood this, for, now, he said nothing. 'S-six...' she said. Almost impossible to believe there were still six more like that to come!

'We will take a two minute break,' said the Head. 'Stay exactly as you are, Susan. Hands on the back of the chair, bottom well out. You keep shrinking back into the chair. I want your bottom out.'

Feeling the bitter humiliation of it, Susan thrust fully. 'That's a bit better,' he said. Susan knelt there, trembling, wishing the world would end. In the silence she could hear her heavy breathing.

'Are you regretting your wickedness now, Susan?' he enquired.

'O-oh... yes... yes, sir!' Perhaps, if she sounded truly regretful, he would let her off the other six. 'V-very much so...' she added.

'I am glad to hear it, Susan. Unnatural sex at your age is most reprehensible. As you are probably aware, it is the only offence in this school for which girls are caned. Quite rightly so, in my view.'

Silence fell again. Susan shivered. Was he going to let her off or not? 'P-please... sir...' she quavered, 'I'll never do it again!'

On Mr Rockworth's bland features there was a little smile of supercillious disbelief. He knew the intense desires forced upon young girls of this age. This one might say she'd never do it again but when, in the middle of the night, under the soft warm sheets, that burning desire came again, fingers were bound to stray. It was inevitable. But that did not mean such a sin should go unpunished. If he did not use the cane in such cases, these excesses would be far more rife than they were. The Head was sure of that. He contemplated the rounded bottom. He was dealing with it less harshly than he would done that of a 17 or 18 year old but the weals looked particularly vivid over the soft, white skin. She was obviously more sensitive than most.

'Well, Susan, prepare yourself,' he said, seeing the thrusting nates make another of those clenches of dread.

'Oh please... sir... w-won't you let me off? I promised I... I'd never do it again...' came the despairing plea.

'That's what you say, Susan,' he said. 'The cane is making more certain that you don't. For, never forget, you can find yourself kneeling where you are again. In which case, I shall be less lenient.'

Susan froze. Could that possibly be true? She began to sob loudly, realising now there was no escaping her full punishment. Oh it wasn't fair. It wasn't. She couldn't help it...

The caning was resumed and had her crying out breathlessly as she squirmed on the seat, behind twisting uncontrolably left and right.

'S-seven... aaagh... oh seven...' she gasped.

Sssweee... ccrrraaacckkkk! Now her hand came back again, clasping, as she cried out her torment. This time her hand was siezed and pulled up her back again, off her juddering bottom.

'I'm waiting!'

'Eight!' she almost shrieked. Then, once again, she got two harder cuts in quick succession. And she knew the reason why. She was almost down on the floor, kicking out, but she could not clasp as the searing lines of pain, since the hand still gripped her wrist and kept yanking it up.

'Up... up... back on the seat. Bottom square... and out, girl!' Oh how could she make herself? Oh how! But she must! She must! How many was that? How many to go now? Then she remembered.

'N-nine... and... aahhh... ten!' she jerked out. Oh praise be... only two more! Only two! Oh let them come now! Let it all be over and done with!

The Head was an experienced hand when it came to the correction of young girl students. He knew the value of keeping them waiting. Not only before the punishment but, on occasions, during it. There was, for example, the halfway interval. Quite a tension-builder that. Sometimes, with older girls, he dragged it out for five minutes or more, during which time he delivered his little homilies. Also, it was a custom, when a girl knew that the end of her punishment was drawing near, he would delay.

As now...

'How many more, Susan?'

'T-two... sir...' One could hear the relief. Yet still that young, well-rounded bottom kept flinching and quivering. Very understandable. It was her first caning. Possibly her last. The memory could remain very vivid for a long time.

'That's correct, Susan,' he said. 'At least your arithmetic is not at fault.'

One must have one's little jokes... even if they weren't appreciated! The bottom twisted away with sudden violence, obviously anticipating a stroke, but still he kept her waiting. 'Yes... just two,' he said. 'But they will be harder!'

'Oh no... sir... pleee... ease!'

He gave her the penultimate stroke with considerable vigour, cutting just above the thigh tops and produced the loudest and longest series of gasping-cries so far. And oh how it made that young bottom squirm! Yes... she would remember that cut for many a day!

She was sobbing deeply now, shoulders heaving. Terrified of the final stroke still to come... yet desperately wanting it to be all over and done with. Again, deliberately, he kept her waiting.

'Just one more, Susan,' he said.

'Ohh... yes... yes... sir!' It was almost as if she were begging him to give it to her! Finally, the Head relented... and did so. It was another real stinger like number eleven had been and down to the floor she went, writhing and squealing out in pain. He nodded with some satisfaction. The girl had been well punished. As she deserved to be. There was little doubt that 'naughtiness' had been quelled. For quite some time anyway.

'Stand up!' he ordered. The girl stood up, wincing. She stood before him, tears streaming down her cheeks, hand clasped to her bottom, knickers still halfway down her thighs. 'Understand, Susan, that what has just been done to you, is for your benefit. Designed to make a better young woman of you. A more moral and upstanding young woman. I hope you realise that?'

'Y-yes... mmfff... y-yes yes sir...' she nodded pathetically, mouth almost out of control.

'Very well, Susan, you will resume your seat, keeping your knickers down. And you will remain in this room to contemplate what has been done to you. Above all why it has been done to you. At the end of that time, Matron will come and fetch you. Maybe she will give you some attention.'

Gasping out, Susan sat down on the chair, head drooping. The pain was still atrocious. Twelve bands of throbbing fire. She sobbed bitterly. For the time being, she was quite defeated. Quite.

The Head strode happily back to his study. There the Head Girl waited. It was one of her evenings for 'Special Tuition'. He'd had to cane her a couple of times for naughtiness. Now there was no longer any need for that. At 18, she had another outlet for her natural desires.

Like... guess who?

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?

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

Mortification of the flesh

Story from Uniform Girls 38.

Mortification of the flesh

A black-vestured and hooded figure glides across the polished wood floor. Glides but not silently for below the all-enveloping black robes there are white court shoes, with quite high heels. These shoes strike an inconsistent, somewhat jarring note, both visually and in their inevitable clatter on the wooden floor. The shoes of course make evident that the figure is female, though the robe disguises any detail as to shape or form. The hooded head is bowed but the face that can possibly be glimpsed is young. Young and good-looking: a pretty young woman.

On the clattering high heels she crosses the floor to the heavy oak door. Knocks and enters. To go and stand submissively before the desk behind which sits a similarly black-robed and hooded figure. A stern-eyed man. He says something to her and she nods. Her eyes downcast, not meeting the gaze of the man at the desk. Her hands which have been crossed in front of her within the folds of the enveloping garment now go to her sides. Taking hold of the skirt to her robe she begins to pull it up. To show shapely bare legs above the white high heels. Pretty knees. The curvingly feminine thighs that are equally bare. The robe is raised further. Up to her waist.

* * *

'It's a retreat,' Anne Harling tells her husband. 'A spiritual retreat. You go to get a, you know, spiritual recharge.'

Graham and Anne Harling are in their sitting room having a pre-dinner drink. He gives her a disbelieving look.

Anne flushes. 'Don't be cynical. Everyone needs that now and then. Or you can pray – for world peace or something. Anything. Anyway I told Charlotte...'

This afternoon Anne has told her friend Charlotte that yes, she definitely does want to.

Anne Harling is 21, three years younger than Graham, a nice-looking blonde and of course she doesn't have a job. Anne wanted to get one when they were married a year ago but Graham said she didn't need to work and he would rather she was just a housewife, looking after him and their house. The other reason although he didn't like to spell it out was that Graham didn't like the thought of Anne being too independent. At work, with male colleagues: well you heard things, didn't you? Frisky young married women. Graham didn't really think Anne would – but he could have these rather nasty visions of her being persuaded by some persuasive male colleague. To be friendly. To fuck him in other words. Graham didn't really imagine she would but he just felt happier with Anne at home. And she didn't need to work.

But now this business. This bee that Anne had got in her bonnet, this retreat. It was a ridiculous idea and naturally Graham didn't want her to get involved in such a ridiculous thing. Of course the reason Anne was interested was that she had too much free time on her hands. Graham could see that. May be he should have let her get a job.

'What do you do on this retreat?' he asks.

Anne doesn't have too clear an idea. Charlotte wasn't all that specific. 'Oh you know. Contemplation. Eating pure and simple food, or fasting. And discipline. Bodily discipline and spiritual discipline.'

'Bodily discipline?' Graham's voice is scornful. 'What does that mean?'

Anne is not too sure. Charlotte used those terms. 'Well I'll be able to tell you all the details when I come back.'

Graham eyes her. He doesn't want Anne going on a spiritual retreat alone. 'Maybe I'll come too then. You said there were men there.'

Anne shakes her head. She did know that. Charlotte had been quite clear about that. 'But not husbands and wives. That would defeat the object. I mean, being spiritual.' She moves over to sit next to him. Smiling coyly. 'It's spiritual, darling.'

* * *

The girl in the black habit and white heels has the robe now completely up round her waist. To reveal a pair of brief lace-edged white knickers as her only undergarment. The brief knickers contain, or partially contain, quite ripe but nonetheless firm and shapely bottom-cheeks: and at the front the bulge of a thrusting mons veneris. The ripish bottom is being caressed by the hand of the black-garbed man. Who has got up from his desk to stand next to her. To get his hand on the girl's bottom evidently. He is talking to her in a low voice.

'You spoke to her yesterday, Carlotta? And she is definitely persuaded?'

'Yes Master.' Yes, Charlotte Greenway or Novice Carlotta as she is known here has spoken again to her friend Anna Harling who has confirmed that she will come for a stay at St Alwyn's retreat. To undergo Novitiate training.

'Good. Very good.' The hand of Master Nicholas grips the shapely bottom appreciatively.

As always he is very keen to recruit young female Novices. Both for his own pleasure and because they are necessary to keep St Alwyn's as a viable concern. There is of course no greater pleasure than training a young woman in the ways of penitence and fleshy rigours. In particular perhaps a young married woman who in the world outside is routinely knowing the lusts of the flesh; is regularly submitting her soft and tender body to sinful pleasure. But there is the other reason too: which is that beautiful young female Novitiates will attract men visitors. Who are prepared to pay substantially for a stay on retreat – if they are in the company of submissive and beautiful young female Novices.

'You have done well, my daughter. We will look forward to that with pleasure. Showing a young woman the way of righteousness is always a spiritual pleasure. But now we must see to yourself. Your own sins of the flesh, Novice Carlotta.'

Charlotte shivers. She knows what is coming and she shivers. With fear, excitement, anticipation. She hates the cane but at the same time it turns her on. It also turns her on to think that Anne Harling will be getting it. Anne doesn't know this of course. Not yet. Anne who is really so innocent and perhaps a bit prudish but at the same time is eager to know about things, about life. And of course that awful prig Graham who doesn't want her to do anything. What if he knew what was in store for his darling Anne?

Charlotte is told to bend herself over the Master's desk. Heart pounding, she does so. She has been visiting St Alwyn's for two months now, weekends mostly but once a whole week. Charlotte has been caned in all that time but the feeling is always the same: the feeling when you prepare yourself, when you lie over the desk. With knickers lowered. To submit yourself to the Master's will. To his whippy rattan cane. Or when alternatively you have to lie on top of the desk, on your back. Your knickers again lowered and your legs breath-takingly now up in the air. That feeling: your skin tingling; sweating with fear... and excitement.

The Master is pulling down her knickers. Simon doesn't know of course. About this. About any of it. Charlotte's Simon who is not a prig like Graham Harling but nonetheless Charlotte clearly couldn't tell him. About what actually happens at St Alwyn's. Spiritual exercises. Contemplation. That is that she says. Without going into a lot of detail. The same as she has told Anne. Simon seems to accept it. Because for one thing of course he can't guess that Charlotte cold be turned on by this sort of thing.



Sweet Jesus. Her bottom with that sizzling, burning feeling. Red Hot. And also that swimmy feeling between her thighs. She's getting red hot there too.



Writhing her hips, her stricken bottom. She'll have to tell Anne... to be careful Graham doesn't see her bottom. The marks...



How many is that? It's usually six. And as she's been good, getting him Anne, there shouldn't be more than that. Except of course that if she expects no more because of that... she could get an extra couple. To teach her a lesson.



Charlotte anyway doesn't know how many she's had. You can't keep count. They hurt so much but at the same time... they get you going. She must have had six though. Because her bottom is really killing her. And also... she's almost coming. She's on the very brink. So that when his hand... or something else... goes there... she'll go off like a Roman Candle.

* * *

'I'm going this weekend.' Anne says. 'Friday afternoon. I'll be back late on Sunday. You can also go for the week but I'm just going for the weekend. I'll be going for eight weekends in succession.'

Graham explodes. 'Eight weekends! You can't! That's ridiculous.'

They are getting ready for bed. It is Thursday now which means tomorrow Anne won't be here. Because of this mad idea – which she's got from that Charlotte Greenway whom Graham heartily detests.

'You can't get anywhere in just one weekend.' Anne's a really lovely girl.

Graham tries to argue with Anne. The whole weekend! And eight successive weekends! It's impossible. He would like to forbid her from going but doesn't feel he can do that. It's all down to dreadful Charlotte Greenway of course. But also his own fault, not letting Anne have a job.

In bed and reluctantly forced to accept that Anne is going for this weekend at last, Graham tries to get more details. Of what they actually do at this retreat. But Anne can't oblige apart from repeating the somewhat vague things Charlotte has told her. There is one item of hard fact she could give Graham but she doesn't. He would probably think it was silly. What they wear. Charlotte has told her that. They wear a kind of nun's outfit. Black robes and hood. The Master and Brothers wear that sort of thing too of course.

Graham though he is annoyed with Anne also wants to make love to her. Wants to fuck her. Well he won't be able to tomorrow night or Saturday, Anne will be away, in some little monastic cell a hundred miles off. There are men at this place. Men on retreat and also the resident monks or whatever they are. Graham doesn't feel too keen about that aspect, though of course they are bound to be wimpy types. Although even wimpy types can be interested in pretty women.

The whole thing is very annoying, upsetting, and perhaps because of that Graham has a very intense erection. With the thought of those men he feels like something he doesn't always want. Perhaps subconsciously to demonstrate to himself his masculinity, his ownership of Anne. He wants her to suck him. The desire for it is suddenly very powerful. Mixed in with the desire are disturbing images, glimpses, in his head of Anne sucking other men. They are very unpleasant but powerful also. All adding up to this sudden great need for it.

Once she realises what he wants Anne is willing enough. She can guess at Graham's special need. He is possessive and doesn't want her to go. So he wants this special thing to demonstrate that she is his. Anne can guess this and accepts it. She accepts therefore his jutting organ. Taking it in her mouth.

But you can't win. Anne is doing it, sucking Graham, giving marvellous sensual pleasure. But into Graham's mind comes the thought: Anne could do it. He pictures it: all those wimpy men coming one by one into her little cell.

* * *

A little cell at St Alwyn's. It is one of the cells provided for male Visitors so although it is small it is adequately furnished. A bed, an armchair and table, a selection of books in the bookcase. The Visitor occupant however is not at this moment interested in literature but rather in the black-clad Novice who has come in to him some 15 minutes earlier. It is Charlotte or Novice Carlotta as she is here.

She is across the lap of the brown-robed Visitor. Spread face-down over his lap and with her black habit pulled up round her waist. Charlotte again has only the skimpy pair of white briefs underneath and they are once more pulled down about her knees. The Visitor is spanking her bared bottom. And fondling it. The two activities going hand in hand. A series of sharp smacks... and then his hand caressing the hot cheeks, the backs of her pretty thighs. And in between the thighs. Charlotte is alternately yelping and groaning. This combined treatment is certainly getting to her. She is in a sexually aroused state. Because what is happening is a very powerful stimulant for Charlotte. Sharp corporal chastisement of her bottom plus the knowing fingers between her legs, at her pussy. This sort of thing... always makes her go off like a bomb.

The brown-garbed Visitor has heard of the new Novice. As have all the other regular Visitors. A lovely girl, new and untrained, starting next weekend, on Friday. They are of course all eager to see her. To have a hand in her early training. A new and untried young woman is such an exciting prospect. New girls are always awaited with the keenest excitement. So there is bound to be a full house of Visitors next weekend. Not that the other girls, the ones who are now more or less regular, are not also a major attractant. Girls like Charlotte.

'Is she a hot one?' the Visitor with three lingers inside Charlotte asks. 'Is she going to like it as much as our hot Carlotta?'

Charlotte replies only with a gurgling groan. She doesn't know. Charlotte has never discussed things with Anne. Though quite possibly Anne would be keen if led into it by an expert. Someone different from that Graham of course. Led into the full pleasures of chastisement and sexual arousal. There are experts at St Alwyn's of course. The Master. And the Brothers. Not to mention various of the regular Visitors. All very keen to put a new and pretty girl through the hoops.

Charlotte comes with a high-pitched screech. Jerking and rolling her hips like a cat in heat. Her companion pushes her off of his lap. 'My word Carlotta. What sinful writhings. We'll have to have something for that. Eh? A nice touch of the cane.'

Charlotte gives a sharp cry, the cane is dreadful when she's just come. Utterly devastating. But... Novices above all things must be obedient. Submissive to whatever is decreed for them. She goes to get over the arm of the chair. Hoisting up her robes again.

* * *

Novice Anne wide-eyed, dry-mouthed. Scared, but it's an exciting scaredness. She didn't know what to expect because Charlotte wouldn't tell her. Now... She is in the black outfit: gown and hood. Nothing else, nothing underneath except a brief pair of knickers. So she can feel the coarse stuff of the gown against her soft flesh, against her sensitive nipples. Her legs are bare too underneath. On her feet are the white high-heeled courts that Charlotte told her to bring.

Anne has put these things on, as instructed, in the scantly-furnished little cell and now here is the Master again. Master Nicholas who a short while ago welcomed her to St Alwyn's. He is seated on the simple wooden chair as she stands before him. He is questioning her. Right away he is questioning her on intimate matters. Sexual matters.

His eyes stare at her with an intense, almost hypnotic gaze. Anne looks away, his eyes are too disconcerting, but he tell her to look at him, look at his eyes and not turn her gaze away. He tell her Novices to come to learn humility and discipline and obedience. His eyes bore into her. The first lesson in obedience is to answer with complete truth. Does she understand that?

Anne mumbles a 'Yes Master.' He starts the questioning again. This time, with the threat of those eyes, she has to answer. Questions she doesn't want to answer. Her naked body perspiring slightly under the prickly black gown and the hood which reveals only her face. Her face that is flushed as she answers a reluctant 'Yes Master' to his question: is she ever unfaithful to her husband? Anne has to tell him, face scarlet. About Mr Ponbridge, the retired man who comes round to do jobs in the garden. Mr Ponbridge who has intercourse with Anne. Fucks her. On his twice weekly visits. Why does she let him? Anne doesn't really know except that one day, after she made him some coffee, he managed to persuade her. And after that...

'That will certainly require a Penance, Novice Anne. A series of Penances. And now tell me about your husband. Your relations with sour husband. I presume sexual relations are continuing. In spite of Mr Ponbridge. Tell me about them.'

The Master has pulled Anne closer. His hand is now on her bottom. Outside the black robe but stroking the cheeks of her bottom. Anne is shaking. The hand and also what she has just been forced to tell. Anne now... the Master wants to know everything about her and Graham. She hadn't anticipated that there would be any of this. This sort of confession. She is being forced to tell exactly what she and Graham do. Last night... She wouldn't tell but the feeling that she can't lie, even by omission, is too powerful. She forces the words out. He makes her tell it in detail. Sucking Graham.

It is another example of course of the lusts of the flesh. Indicative possibly of an overweening appetite. To curb this the cane will be necessary. Does Anne understand that? A severe caning to moderate this lustful craving. In fact a series of severe canings.

As Anne is told this the Master's hand has lifted her robe. At the back. Sliding his hand up the backs of her bare legs. Up the backs of her likewise bare thighs to the brief little knickers. His fingers groping. Does she understand? And in humility accept? The chastisement of her tender flesh.

'Y... Yes... Master.' The words popping out as the Master's hand gropes her.

'Good. We will do that... in a few moments. We will begin the chastisement. But first of all another Penance. In view of the particular lustful act that you have described...'

The Master is forcing her down. In front of him. Anne realises she is to kneel, on the bare wood floor. In front of the Master. He is pulling up his own robe. Under which, like her own, there is very little. In Master Nicholas's case just himself it seems... A little gasp as she sees it. As it comes clear of the yanked up robe. Then he is pulling her forward. Anne's head, face, forward. And she knows what she has to do. The lustful act. It is to be repeated.

'A Penance,' the Master murmurs.