Wednesday, 2 June 2010

Holiday Trials

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4

Holiday Trials

Down on the farm, Fiona's getting it hot!

As I said in my last, when Carole's Aunt Sheila and Uncle Roger had really given my bare bottom a going-over and then taken me up to my bedroom, my thoughts about what was going to happen next are easy enough to guess. But having plonked me on the bed in the room I had been given in the farmhouse, he just went out and left me alone with her.

On my back as I was with my skirt around my hips still and my knicks lying downstairs, I made instinctively to cover my pussy with my hand, bottom-bouncing on the quilt and with the stingers he had given me flaring and smarting in my bottom.

"No, Fiona!", Aunt Sheila said. I was getting used to calling her that, as Carole did. – "Wh...what?", I blubbered. – "Just be still – as still as you can", she said and, sitting on the edge of the bed, held my wrists gently down at my sides while my stockinged legs twisted all about as I rolled my hot cheeks on the quilt. – "I c...c...can't!", I sobbed, "oh, why d...d...did you do it?" – "Fiona, don't roll your bottom cheeks all about, dear, press them down into the quilt – PRESS them – try now – come on, come on". "I... w...w....w....", I began to stammer, but then she bent right down over me, still holding my wrists, and splurged her warm moist mouth around mine. – "You're all right", she breathed and though I tried to avoid her lips I couldn't and answered her back with my lips trembling to hers.

"I'm n...n...not", I protested weakly, though with all the repeated, whispered coaxing she was giving me, I tried to do as she said and stopped wriggling and pressed my scorched botty down. I didn't want to confess it, but it did feel better. Then her mouth began to move slowly back and forth over mine and an electric tingle went right through me as the tip of her tongue oozed into my mouth. – "I'm going to let go of your hands now, darling, but I want you to remain exactly as you are. You promise?"

"Oh-woh-woh!", I whimpered, but the soft allure of her brushing lips and the quicksilver darting of her tongue around mine was getting to me. Not only that but the stinging was receding little by little, leaving my bottom in a hot glow. "Obedience comes first, Fiona. Pleasure follows", I heard her voice say cloudily. Drawing my unresisting arms up slowly, she put my hands behind my head and gave them a little tap to show they were to stay there. – "There! You see?", she murmured and sat up slowly, and me lying like that with my legs apart and all my springy dark bush showing, and the way she was smiling. – "You SEE – you want to be obedient, Fiona. It's always the right way to start a girl off. I was made to be when I was your age – well, eighteen, actually, so I was a little bit younger than you. Phew! I did get caned, though! – "Oh!" – the little wobbly cry came from me and I made incautiously to sit up, moving my arms down of course, but got a sharp smack on my thigh for it and quickly sank down again. – "I TOLD you", she said and laughed, but not in an unkindly way, then stroked my flushed cheek and kissed me again. "You'll come to the cane, you know", she said. – "I won't!", I said mutinously and she ran the tip of her little finger around the corner of my lips, making my face jerk petulantly.

"I won't hold you, as I did downstairs, just now – remember that", she said, and I knew she meant it. Not only that: I knew it was going to happen. She got up and went out then – saying, "See you downstairs in a minute, huh?". I didn't answer. I curled myself up tight in a ball and kept saying over and over again in my head, "I won't, I won't, I won't. I'm going home, I'm going home". It was too early to go to bed, though, and I wanted a drink. Ten minutes later I sidled down cautiously and slipped into the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I did so Carole's uncle came in and said to me quietly, "All right?". – "Yeah," I said with my back to him. I knew I had to settle myself, though, especially for when Carole and Anne returned, so when he said, "Come on, have a proper drink. We're having vodka and lemonade", I did.

I thought – well, I dreaded – that one or other of them would make some personal remark about me, I mean about the spanking I'd just had, but it wasn't like that. "When you come down next time we'll teach you riding, Fiona. Would you like that?". I couldn't appear surly. I didn't know how to be. – "Yes, it would be nice", I said and tried to keep a quiver out of my voice. It was quite crazy, I thought – talking naturally and in ordinary voices after what had happened. If they had bullied me, it would have been different. I was accepted. That was the funny feeling I got out of it.

Or was it funny? If I was accepted, I had to accept also. Anne was caned the next morning. Carole and I were sitting on the lawn – just like the way it all started – and there was Anne's bedroom window half open at the top of the back of the farmhouse. SWEEEE-ISSSSH! came suddenly to our ears and then a thin, whimpering cry that died away suddenly. I tensed myself and didn't look at Carole who sat tugging at bits of grass. I counted about four seconds then – maybe five. Then it came again – that particular hissing sound that a really flexible cane makes and the slightly quieter sound – from that distance down from bedroom to garden – of it searing across Anne's bottom. Again her thin-pitched cry, and again it was bitten off. "Training", I thought cynically, and couldn't help myself. The next interval was a bit longer. I reckon a good six seconds. I knew with a quivery feeling inside me that she was being given time to absorb it. I wondered if it really hurt her hard and I pictured her bent over her bed, hands flat down on the cover and head hanging, naked bottom poised like a split peach above her slender suntanned legs. PHEW! Then it came again – SWEEEE-ISSSSH! and it sounded longer this time and Anne made a noise something like "GEEE-GEEE-GEEEE!"

I was looking sideways at Carole – I suppose a bit furtively. She bit her lip and kept staring down into the grass but I knew she was listening as tightly and closely as I was. – "HOO-HOOO-HOOO-OOOOH!" from Anne then, and each time the interval between the strokes of the cane was a couple of seconds longer. I thought, too, how she was very obviously taking it, screwing her eyes up and wriggling her hips like mad, the heels of her shoes swivelling all about on the carpet.... and oh, WHY.... why, why, why, why was she being caned and letting herself be?

I reached out and suddenly grasped my hand over the back of Carole's and she jerked her face round to me and asked, "What?". – "Why is she.....?", I began and stopped. Carole jumped up and walked away from the house which was easy enough to do because it was a big garden and led into a paddock at the end. – "Come on", she said to me over her shoulder, "we shouldn't be listening – it's not fair". I jumped up and caught up with her. I didn't say anything for a moment. A long sobbing squeal from Anne that grew fainter and then a sharp, abrupt and stronger cry of "AH-HOOOO!" that was the last I heard.

"I think I'll go back tomorrow – if that's all right", I said. – "No, don't be silly. You said you'd stay the week. Besides, they'll wonder why", Carole said, meaning, I suppose, everyone. I felt trapped. – "You don't really want to, anyway. You're just panicking, Fiona", she said and gave a forgiving laugh. – "I'm not", I mumbled. She obviously didn't know anything about my spanking the night before, which was a comfort.

"Poor Anne", I said, and Carole laughed again. – "You really don't know anything about it, do you, Fiona? If you really wanted to go, you would. You wouldn't just talk about it". That went through me a bit because it was true. I was in a muddle. "Look – I'M not going to be caned", I said fiercely and she took my hand and stopped. – "You won't believe it if I tell you that you'll feel different by the end of the week, will you?" – "NO – I won't", I said stubbornly, but I felt a cold thrill run through me as I said it, for in that instant I remembered her Aunt Sheila's words: "I won't hold you". Then Carole's voice came to me as from a distance, saying, "Fiona, look, you'll only get three first time". I heard my breath hiss up into my nostrils then and I set my teeth. Quite crazily I wanted to scream, "Oh, all right then – do it NOW!" I felt so tense that I really did want to scream. I couldn't get rid of the feeling even through lunch where we all sat as sedately as any five people round the table and Anne didn't even wriggle.

Aunt Sheila kept looking at me covertly. I drank a glass more wine than I meant to. Then, when we'd finished, she pushed her chair back and said abruptly, "Fiona, go upstairs with Uncle Roger, please". I wanted to blurt, "WHAT?", but I didn't. I wanted to say he wasn't my uncle, but I didn't. Aunt Sheila stood up. Carole and Anne just sat and went on talking quietly together. – "Fiona – go ON", I was told more sharply. He got up and went out. I heard him going upstairs. I hated it because Anne and Carole were there. I sort of shrugged as if I couldn't care less and went out after him, legs shaking like jelly. The dining room door closed decisively behind me. I'm going to leave after this, I told myself stupidly.

He was waiting in the bedroom for me. "Close the door", he said. I did. I had a short, flowered dress on, blue and white, stockings, panties and – well – that was it. "Fiona – come here", he said, standing as he was by the bed. I could hear myself breathing. I was so uptight I couldn't speak. I got within a foot of him. I knew what I felt like. Like girls who were called to the Head's study about three years back. – "Fiona, I'm only going to ask you once. Take your knickers off".

I spoke then. I jumped. "Look – please no", I said in a silly, whining voice. He just looked at me. – "I'll only give you three", he said gently, "I promise. They won't be hard, Fiona. You were very good – VERY good – when you had your spanking, weren't you?"

The way he was looking at me I knew I had no chance. Like in a dream I turned shyly away from him, whipped my dress up, pushed my panties down, and so quickly that I swore he only got a flash of my bare bottom. It didn't do though. I stood with my shoulders hunched, panties looped at my ankles, and heard him say behind me, "RIGHT off, Fiona. You ARE wasting time, you know. It'll all be over in seconds". Oh God! I got them off, lifting my feet awkwardly in turn, but not pulling my dress up. He did it for me. Suddenly. I squealed and tried to hit back at him but in the one instant I was spun round and my face jammed down into the bedcover, unveiled to my hips. Well... I'd been made to show him my bottom the night before, but it felt different now.

"STAY!", he blasted at me. I mean, his voice really blasted. As it did, he hooked one leg between mine and forced my ankles apart. "Like that", he said, and his grip on the nape of my neck was like a steel band, "You HEAR me, Fiona".

"You, you, you.... you're going to h...h...hurt me", I whimpered. – "Not if you're good, darling", he replied much more softly, and added, "I'm going to let go of you now – O.K?" – "Yes", I gulped – then he did and stepped back. I heard him take the cane from the top of the wardrobe. Like I told you last time, there was one in each of the bedrooms, ready and waiting. I wanted to get up like I never wanted to get up in my life, bottom up and poised, stockinged legs apart and my pussy peeping at him. It couldn't be me, I thought!

He came back to me and stood to one side. "Now.... just nice 'n easy, darling", he said quietly and then – oh God – HU-ITTTTTTT! – "NEEE-AAAAARGH!", I screeched. It seared across my bottom like a long thin tongue of fire. That was the first feeling, anyway. – "OH-HO-HO-NO!", I sobbed. He didn't answer. What was to answer? He just waited. Now I knew about Anne not jumping up. It was burning me and stinging and raging fire in me like mad, but I didn't get up either.

And he waited. I was in no mood to count the seconds, but it must have been ten at least. – "The first is always the hardest, Fiona", he said – and would you believe there was sympathy in his voice? There was! I cupped my face in my hands. I didn't care what I was showing him any more, legs eighteen inches apart and me desperately squeezing my bottom cheeks and waiting. I even wondered madly for a moment what they were doing downstairs, but the door had been closed and they couldn't hear.

SWOOOO-ISSSH! It sounded louder the second time and then he brought it just an inch below the first, but lighter, skimming up and sideways across my globe so that I gritted my teeth and squealed. Oh, how I squealed! My hips rotated like they were on ball bearings, swivelling this way and that. – "D..d...d...d...!", I stuttered, but I didn't know what I was saying or meaning to say. Then – of all things – his big palm came right under my hot, seared bottom and held me! – "Fiona – press into it!", he barked and it was like his wife telling me to push my bottom down into the bedcover.

"BLUB-BLUB-BLUB!", I sobbed. I rolled my bottom and could feel it against his palm. – "More now", he murmured, and I did it helplessly and shamelessly until he held me fully cupped like that with the tip of his forefinger just very lightly touching my quim. I didn't care. It felt better. Pressing in, I mean. I sobbed on and he held me like that for all of half a minute. Then his fingers slid very sensuously and slowly from under me and I felt so alone – and yes, quite crazily, unwanted – and then THOOO-HUITTTTT!

Right under the bulge of my bum it came, where he'd been holding me, but again it skimmed and I had that feeling again of lightning fire burning and blasting into me and I jerked up – right up – bumping my madly-wriggling bottom full into the front of his slacks. A real BUMP it was and the cane dropped and with one arm around my waist so that my dress was scooped up even higher to just under my tits, he clasped me tight against him while I jived and howled. Then his free hand came up and around and cupped my chin and held my head back so that it was against his shoulder.

"All right, all right, Fiona – all over", he soothed. I was wriggling like a fish and doing a real torso-shimmy, but he held me fast, keeping my head up. – "BOOO-HOOO-HOOOO!", I was sobbing, tears rolling down my cheeks and my bottom cheeks on fire. – "L...l...let me go-ho-ho!", I sobbed, but all I got was his quiet "No" and he waited and waited and waited until the fire burned quieter in me but somehow deeper. Then with a strength I couldn't resist, he turned my chin round and kissed me deep and long on the mouth.

I spluttered, I struggled still, but all the time his lips were demandingly clamped on mine until my breath gasped into his mouth and I just went limp and sagged. The kiss grew longer. My upper lip rolled up and back under his, then he turned me so swiftly about to face him that there was no time to resist. Caressing the red-hot globe of my bottom, he began to whisper praises to me! I don't remember much of them except things like, "Oh, my hot-bottomed baby, what a good soldier she is", and things like that, and kissed my cheeks with his hand deep under my quivering, clenching bottom so that the rolled, moist lips of my slit felt his touch.

It was like whole minutes passed – I don't know how long – then in the most gentlemanly way he eased the hem of my dress down and with that I felt myself actually clinging to him. I felt safer then. I couldn't explain it. Not safe from him or the cane – just safer. He kissed the top of my head. – "Next time will only be three, too –you hear me?", I heard him ask. I sort of moved my head. My thighs were trembling and my bottom was a hot orb. – "Did you hear what I said?", he asked, his voice above me. I gave a nod then. The sensations in my bum were something out of this world.

He was implacable, though – "Tell me what I said", came from him sternly. I had to answer. Obedience came before pleasure, Aunt Sheila had said. – "S..s...s....said you will only give me next time", I stammered and my face was blushing deeper than my bottom cheeks. It still wasn't good enough. – "No struggling? Knicks right off next time – of your own accord, like Carole does?". The mention of her name so openly jolted me. – "Yes", I said and my voice was a trembling whisper. – "Look at me, Fiona", he murmured. I bent my head deeper. – "C..c...can't", I stuttered. His hands lay on my shoulders lightly. – "Yes, you can", he said with certainty, "you passed your other tests – now pass this one".

"No!", I wanted to say. I wanted to be stubborn. My head felt like a crane lifting slowly. I gulped. Our eyes were locked. I was straining up on my toes, squeezing my bumcheeks still. It probably sounds daft, but I sort of knew why I'd been caned and yet I didn't. I should have been angry, bewildered, but I wasn't. Like I said, I felt safe – safer. – "After a caning, you always kiss and make up", he said. I said, "Mmmmm....". It sounded like that anyway. Our lips met and held. His hands caressed very gently all around my glowing bum, and I didn't mind.

"They'll know", I said as our mouths parted. – "You do your hair and make-up and you walk downstairs like nothing's happened. You hear me, Fiona?" – "Yes", I replied, and I did.

Anne smiled at me and said, "We're all going out – shopping – in the town – O.K?". I'd gathered myself somehow. – "Yeah, right", I said and loved her and Carole and Aunt Sheila for saying nothing about my caning. Perhaps that was the real beginning. I'd been put through it four times now in three days – first when Aunt Sheila paddled me in the summerhouse, then when Anne and Carole got me over, then the spanking the night before – and now.... Now I'd graduated!

I felt proud. I could feel my bottom cheeks like I never had before, netted tightly and comfortingly in my panties. I was asking myself all sorts of questions about it, though – not avoiding it or regretting it, but in a seeking, curious way. The whole thing floated in my mind while we bought stockings, undies and things. More and more I wanted to ask desperately. Aunt Carole must have realised it, for when we got back she drew me up to the main bedroom and closed the door.

"I love all my girls, you know", she said and kissed me. I made a silly sort of sound, but then I blurted out what I wanted to say, though I didn't know I was going to use the words I did. – "I don't know why I want to be caned", I said and almost began to snivel. – "Fiona, you're a pleasure-baby – or at least, that's what I call it. You're learning to take the sting, and you'll learn to take the pleasure. I've had to school you fairly quickly. I didn't want to, but we've only this week. When you come back again.... You will come back?", she asked almost urgently so that I couldn't help but respond. – "When... when I can", I said shyly. She smiled. – "Oh, I'll fix that, don't worry. Roger will bring you up here tonight again. Only three again. That's O.K?"

I think for a moment I came to. I mean, realising she was so openly talking about her husband like this. Before I could say anything, she added, "I get pleasure out of Roger's pleasure, as I do out of yours. You haven't tasted the tawse yet around your pretty bottom. It's not like the cane at all. You'll prefer it – well, eventually". A little panic rose in me. – "Well, I dunno, I think maybe I ought to....", I began.

"Go?", she interrupted me with a laugh. Like Carole's laugh it was. She waited for me to speak. – "I'll get six – I know I will", I said quickly and without at all meaning to say it. I sounded mournful. – "In a day or two you will, pet. And there's something else – something you haven't even thought of. You won't only receive the cane or the tawse, Fiona. You'll learn to give it. That's why I want you to come back – well, partly."

I really couldn't believe my ears then, and she saw that, taking my hand and sitting beside me on the edge of the bed. "You see, darling", she went on, "we're opening a riding school soon. There'll be many haughty young ladies who will need disciplining in several directions. You could learn to act as a teacher. I want you to". Her tone was quite sharp on that last sentence and her hand enclosed mine. – "I'd... I'd have to give up my job", I said. – "Yes, you will", she answered simply, "You see, Fiona, there's more to it than you think".

"But... but... if we cane them, they'll tell", I said. – "Really? Will you tell? You've not yet had the pleasure you will have tonight, my love. We will school them – more gradually than has been possible with you in the time available, but we will. It's a chore of love. Devotion almost. They'll go home hot-bottomed and come back for more. Their lives will be infinitely less dull than they have been. Oh no, they won't tell – any more than you will after tonight".

I stared at her as she ran a finger over the backs of mine. "You keep saying that", I said, "but he... he... caned me this afternoon and...." – "And you've learned to accept it, yes. You don't even know why, pet. I couldn't explain it to you, though I started out in the same way as you. I hate it and yet I love it. Afterwards, when I've surrendered completely, I know it's right and that it's the way I want it – need it. You've never seen ME when I've been caned. I cry and sob just like you – but then it's beautiful. The way it's going to be for you tonight – or maybe tomorrow. Who knows?"

She meant it deliberately to be a riddle. I couldn't believe that she meant what I thought she meant, but then she hadn't unfolded her philosophy to me, and when she did it was the biggest surprise of all. That didn't come until the end of my stay, however. By then I'd been initiated – in this particular way, I mean. No – it didn't happen that night, although I took my three strokes and had a kiss and cuddle afterwards! The following night, though.... PHEW! I'll tell you about it next month – so don't go away!

Tuesday, 1 June 2010

The Party

Story from Roue 02.

The Party

Jenny sat pensively in the back of the taxi while Carol chattered on about something or other. Jenny wasn't listening. She was thinking about what the hell she was doing there.

'Nearly there,' whispered Carol. 'Cheer up, it's alright y'know, I wouldn't get you into nothing dodgey, would I?'

Dodgey? Sounds dodgey enough anyway, getting your bum smacked by a load of geezers you don't know. All the same if you did know 'em. Still be dodgey, wouldn't it?

' 'Ere we are!'

Nice house. Worth a few bob, that!

'Come on Jenny. What's the matter? You got cold feet?'

'I'm coming, aren't I?'

They crunched together up the gravel drive.

'How many blokes came last time you were here?' asked Jenny.

'Three. I told you.'

'And there wasn't any – well, you know.'

'I told you. 'E's a real nice bloke. All that 'appens is 'e smacks your bum, that's all.'

'And they didn't make you do anything? I mean, nothing you didn't want to?'

Carol giggled but declined to answer. She reached up and pulled the iron bell-pull.

Jenny's heart seemed to skip a beat as she heard the footsteps in the hall. A man in his fifties opened the door. He smiled in a friendly way.

'This is me mate, Jenny,' said Carol.

God, I wish she wouldn't always act so bloody common!

'Hello,' said the man.

Jenny smiled. The man showed them into the house.

Smells old, this place. Wood preserver or something.

'The caterers have already been,' the man said to Carol.

'Right. An' what time you expecting the others?'

'My guests will be arriving fairly soon. We'll probably start dinner about eight. Er – we'll do it as we did the last time. If that's all right with you?'

'Carol's told you all about it, I dare say.'

'Yes, well, kind of.'

He looked enquiringly at Carol.

'I told 'er what 'appens. I said it ain't nothin' to be scared of.'

'I see.' He poured himself another drink. 'So – well, you understand that you might get your – um – knickers taken down, Jenny?' His teeth looked too good to be true as he smiled again.

Jenny could feel herself blushing. His eyes seemed to plumb the depths of her being.

'Yes,' she answered quietly.

'And you won't mind that?'

Course I bloody will. I'm only doing it for the money, she thought to herself.

'No. I – I won't mind.'

'Splendid. Well now – er – Carol. We'll have dinner at about eight, as I said. And then –' he indicated a projector and then a screen, '– well show a few films. And we'll play a few games, eh?' He chuckled, like an uncle with wandering hands.

'Games?' asked Jenny.

'Yeah, like I told you. You remember.'

Jenny looked warily at the man. He smiled benignly back at her. She nodded slightly, signifying reluctant approval.

'Well, I dare say you'd like to get changed.' The man led the way into the hall and upstairs. He stood to one side as he showed them into a bedroom.

'Your things are on the bed.'

'Ta!' said Carol.

The 'things' were all in white. A sleeveless jumper, stockings, suspenders, knickers, frilly cap, little apron, shoes.

'Where's the skirt?' asked Jenny.

'Er – there isn't a skirt, actually.'

Carol giggled. Jenny held up the knickers. There wasn't much to them.

Bloody marvellous. She didn't say anything about walking around in just your bloody knickers.

There were also two envelopes. Jenny picked hers up.

'Urm – the rest will be given to you later. Half now, half when you go.'

Great! Either you're a good girl, or you don't get your money.

The man stayed and watched as they changed. Jenny's apron was so small that it didn't even reach as far as her stocking tops.

'Fit you?' asked the man.

'Er – yes. I think so.' She felt behind her, seeing how the knickers fitted.

Less bloody knickers than bare bum! Could get your bottom smacked perfectly well without even taking them down.

'I'll see you downstairs then.'

'Right,' said Carol, sounding perfectly happy about the arrangement.

'He fancies you,' she said to Jenny.

'That's all I need. Anyway, what's his name?'

'Fred. Why?'

'Just wondered.'

They went down to the kitchen. All the food was ready to serve, kept warm on a heated trolley. Fred wandered in.

'Er – I'd like you to answer the door, Jenny,' he said. 'There will be five or six guests. Just take their coats and show them into the lounge, and make sure they have a drink. Carol will take care of this end, won't you sweetheart?'

Look at him, fiddling with her bum. He'd have your pants down soon as look at you, he would! And I bet it'd be more than a smacked bum you'd get, too.

Jenny hovered around, feeling distinctly nervous about everything. The doorbell chimed and she nearly wet herself. Fred appeared in the hall and hurried her along with a soft little smack on her knickers as she passed. With her tummy flipping over and over, she turned the catch on the door and peeped round it.

'Good evening.'

'Oh. Er – come in.' Jenny hid behind the door as she opened it. Eventually she had to close it. She felt almost naked. The newcomer's eyes took in every inch of her. She took his coat, and then realised that she couldn't put it away without turning her back on him. To her considerable relief he didn't touch her. He waited for her to show him the way. With her half-naked bottom feeling utterly exposed, Jenny led the way to the lounge and gave him a drink.

The door bell chimed again. She answered it. Only with considerable dexterity did she avoid the groping hand as she served his whisky.

The bell again. She shrivelled up inside as she realised that this one had a woman with him. The woman seemed about twenty-eightish, and as interested in Jenny as was the man.

'Very pretty, Freddie,' she said as Fred welcomed them.

Jenny scuttled off to the kitchen.

'There's a bloody woman in there too!' she gabbled to Carol.

'Blimey! She didn't come when I was here before.'

Fred appeared in the kitchen doorway. He gently clasped Jenny's ear between thumb and forefinger and led her back to the lounge.

'Drinks, darling,' he said mildly, and slapped her hard and stingingly across the naked part of one plump cheek.

'Ow! You –'

SMACK! Jenny gasped and tried to pull away. His finger gripped her ear firmly, then he slapped her again, making her yelp more with indignation than anything.

The people in the lounge looked on with interest, having ceased their chatter. One man smiled cheerfully at her. Acutely embarrassed, more so than pained, Jenny controlled the urge to run and sulkily served drinks to the woman and her friend. A hand stroked her freshly spanked cheek, more exploratory than sympathetic. Jenny peeped up into the man's eyes.

'She's got a lovely little bum, hasn't she?' he said to the woman, completely ignoring Jenny.

'Yes, indeed.'

Jenny made herself scarce, though not for long. The door bell rang again. She felt acutely conscious of the crimson splotch on her bottom as she led the way to the lounge, having caught sight of herself in the long mirror. She poured him a drink, and then another hand tweaked at her cheek and its owner wanted a drink too. At last she was able to leave the lounge. She made off to the kitchen, looking for sympathy. On the way she passed Fred, and avoided getting too close to him as discreetly as she could.

She burst into the kitchen and said: 'That bastard just smacked my bloody bum!'

'Oh?' said Carol. Her fingers plucked surreptitiously under her apron. 'Why'd he do that?'

' 'Cos I was s'posed to be serving drinks. But it bloody hurt Carol. You said –'

Jenny realised that Carol was trying to pull her knickers up.

'Stings a bit, but that's all,' said Carol. 'Shouldn't worry about it. 'E's only showin' off in front of 'is friends.'

Her bum's not red, not like mine. So what's she been doing with her knicks down then, eh?

'Yes, but we haven't started yet, we've got all night. And I'm telling you that hurt Carol!'

'Don't worry about it, you'll get used to it.'

'Jenny'?' It was Fred calling from the lounge.

'Oh God! I'm supposed to be –' Jenny scampered away.

About eight o'clock, as they were about to serve dinner, the doorbell rang again. Jenny opened it. It was another man, mid forties. With him was a girl of about nineteen. She had an incredibly high-pitched ultra sophisticated voice. Jenny felt awful. It was utterly humiliating. Wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been older, but –

Somehow, between them, they managed to serve the soup. Henry, the one with the naughty-uncle hands, was impossible to avoid. The main course was even more difficult. Jenny left Carol to deal with Henry. Carol didn't make a very good job of it. She looked rather silly hopping about on one leg with a tray in one hand and trying to drag her knickers back up with the other. Henry thought it highly amusing. The others laughed with him. Henry threatened to be the life and soul of the party.

How it happened Jenny couldn't be sure. Of course, it had to be Fred's sodding sweet she dropped on the floor.

The assembled guests, well mannered to a fault, slow-hand clapped in unison.

'Knickers down. Knickers down!' they chanted.

Jenny stood bewildered. She didn't even struggle as Fred coaxed her pointedly across his lap. He made magical passes over her up-turned bottom with one hand, holding her firmly down with the other.

'Knickers off, knickers off –'

With a flourish, and with a deft, one-handed movement which started at her right hip and swept and swooped down and across her tightly bending bottom as he trapped her legs between his, he bared her pert and cheekily blushing bum in an instant.

He spanked her soundly, though it was no more than twelve smacks. Her bare cheeks bounced and jiggled as he slapped her hard and rhythmically. With her legs clamped together, and her face aflame with humiliated embarrassment, Jenny struggled only feebly across his lap as the smart in her bottom grew rapidly and the amused, mocking chant continued. Then suddenly she was allowed up. She stumbled to her feet and stood tremblingly under the eyes of the diners, dragging childishly at her drooping knickers, quite neglecting to hide the sweet nestling of her pubic hair atop her thighs.

Somehow she couldn't find the spirit to be angry. The woman's eyes stroked, rather arrogantly, down the soft pout of her bare belly. Jenny fled; her knickers rucked awkwardly up under the frantic wobble of her two glowing bum cheeks, pursued out of the lounge by the woman's quietly ironic laugh.

She stood breathlessly in the kitchen, gasping back what might have been the threat of tears.

Christ! That bastard means it! My bum's all bloody hot –

Carol arrived, grinning.

'What're you bloody grinning at?'

'Cheer up kid. I told you, he likes you.'

Wouldn't bloody want him for an enemy then, would I?

'Does it get worse?'

'No, not really. I dunno what 'e meant about "games" though. But I don't s'pose it'll be any worse than last time.'


With careful timing, and a sinuous wriggle of her scantily clad hips, Jenny managed to avoid Uncle Henry's friendly hands, as she and Carol cleared away the dishes and served coffee. The woman with the ironic laugh followed Jenny's every movement. A cool long-fingered hand played teasingly with her glowing bum-cheeks where the little knickers failed to encompass the full, heavy rotundity of her buttocks, and once, shockingly, trespassed briefly into the damp, silky press between the very tops of her thighs. Jenny wriggled away from the fingers, and the woman slapped her sharply on the bottom. Several people laughed.

'Naughty, naughty,' said the woman, and laughed herself. She turned to her companion and said: 'We know what to do with naughty girls, don't we Max?'

Several people nodded their assent. Jenny made it back to the kitchen, and heard Carol squealing in the lounge. Too nervous to risk an unnecessary return, she stayed out of the way while Carol squealed, and the sound of someone's palm landing sharply on bare flesh made her feel helpless.

Then it was time for the films. The two girls brought drinks on a tray, while Fred and another man fiddled with the projector. At last Fred announced that it wasn't going to work.

'Good,' said someone. 'Let's play Sixes.'

'Yes, sod the films, bring on the dancing girls.'

'They'll be dancing alright.'

They all seemed to find this last remark rather amusing. Jenny thought it sounded bloody ominous.

'Which one shall we have?'

'Let's have them both,' said Fred.

'Yes, let's have 'em both!'

'You'll find some more clothes upstairs,' said Henry to Carol.

'Slip up and change into them, there's a good girl. And you, sweetheart.'

Carol and Sweetheart went upstairs. The clothes had been laid out ready for them.

Bloody school knickers! Bloody schoolgirl stuff! Bloody kinks, that lot!

'Which ones d'you want, Jenny?' asked Carol. She didn't seem at all put out by it.

'What are they going to do with us?' demanded Jenny.

'Told you. They're gonna smack our arses, that's what.'

Shit! And in bloody school knickers.

Both the skirts were grey with pleats. The knickers Jenny got were green, Carol's blue. Thick and childish looking, the proper thing.

'I feel a bloody freak in these,' said Jenny.

'Shouldn't worry about that girl. You won't 'ave 'em on long enough.'

'Oh, piss off Carol! I feel bad enough, without you keep making it worse.'

'You'd better wear the green tie. It'll go with your knicks.'

There were two blouses, two vests, two pairs of socks, and two pairs of shoes. There were even two cardigans, one green and one navy. The skirts seemed ridiculously short.

Downstairs the two girls were greeted with murmurs of appreciation. Everyone was seated on straight chairs, the chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the room.

'Your place is in the middle,' said Fred.

The girls stood in the middle, Jenny fiddling self-consciously with her skirt. She noticed that not quite everybody was seated round them. The young girl, the one with the high-pitched voice, was sitting in an armchair, outside the circle.

Jenny was given one of a pair of dice. It had three ones and three sixes. The other one, said Fred, was an ordinary one. He explained the rules. Jenny swallowed and automatically ran a finger round the leg of her knickers to snuggle them more comfortably round her bottom.

'She's got the wind up,' whispered Uncle Henry to Max.

The game started. Carol was first. Fred rolled his dice, and got three. The next man took a turn, and got four. The woman threw a six.

'Six!' they all clamoured enthusiastically.

'Now it's your turn,' said Fred. 'You have to throw a six.' He chuckled. 'Or else it's bottoms up for you my girl.'

Carol squatted on the carpet and threw a two. Everyone seemed very happy about that.

The woman put Carol across her knee. Jenny stood on the far side of the circle, watching with big eyes. Carol lay meekly as the woman tucked up the pleated skirt, letting them all see her navy knickers.

'Get on with it,' moaned Uncle Henry.

The navy knickers were pulled down, well below the lower curves of Carol's bottom. The woman spanked her once, and hard. Carol made a face and flexed her knees. Her bum quivered, and a bright red blotch slowly appeared on one round cheek. The woman spanked her again, then gave her the last four, one after the other, good and hard across each cheek alternately. Carol gasped, and teetered uncomfortably across her perch.

Then it was Jenny's turn. Someone threw a one.

'Knickers off,' chuckled Henry.

'Your throw,' said Fred.

Jenny threw a one.

'Lucky cow,' said someone.

And then it was Carol's turn again, and she wasn't so lucky. She puffed and panted across Edward's knees, and her bottom looked very pretty indeed when he'd finished with her. She stood back in the middle and rubbed her stinging bottom disconsolately.

And then Jenny wasn't so lucky either. Uncle Henry 'won' her. He plonked her unceremoniously across his lap and yanked her green knickers down. She lay there like an idiot while everyone waited to see her get her spanking. Poor Jenny kept her thighs pressed tightly together. She jerked and jolted as Henry's heavy hand punished her naked bum scorchingly. She struggled against the indignity, but her plump, helpless bottom got its first six of the game. Near to tears she hobbled back to the middle, dragging her pants back up and trying not to bend too much and let them see up her skirt.

The game went on, and the boisterous, amiable banter grew in volume. Carol took her spankings reasonably well. Jenny wriggled rather a lot and squealed delightfully, which made her very popular. In about twenty-five minutes Carol was down to vest, knickers, blouse, skirt and her left sock. Jenny had caught on to the fact that a one meant you lost some article of clothing unless you could match it with another one. She already knew that a six meant they smacked your bum. She was feeling rather silly. It was difficult to feel anything else standing there in just a vest and a pair of green knickers, plus her bottom was feeling rather sore. Fred threw a six. Jenny knelt hopefully on the carpet and tried to throw another six.

Fred smacked her bright and trembling bottom with artistic and delicately placed slaps, especially around the really uncomfortable places that advertised their tenderness with a bright red glow. Jenny sniffled back her tears, but everybody knew.

'Aaaah!' they all said in mock sympathy.

'Isn't that sweet?' said Henry.

Jenny stood like a little girl in the middle while someone smacked Carol's bum again, then it was Jenny's turn, and they threw a one. She felt awful, but they made her take off her vest. Her tits stood out proudly, as if determined to win the acclaim of the audience.

Bloody marvellous, this! The way that Henry geezer's looking at me I'll be lucky if I don't end up getting screwed! Still, only got my knickers left to go. They said the game's over when you lose your knicks.

Jenny received two more smackings before she managed to lose her knickers. Naked, she stood self-consciously in the circle and wondered what happened next.

Carol was down to vest, blouse and knickers, although she wasn't exactly wearing the knickers because that woman had them down and was smacking Carol's bum deliberately and painfully.

Then, so they said, it was Jenny's turn again.

'Sod off!' she said. 'You said the game finished when all your clothes had gone!'

'Not exactly,' said Fred, and threw a six. 'It only finishes when you've both lost your knickers. If it's only you who's lost yours, then you're still in the game.'

Coaxingly, because she was obviously near to tears, Fred persuaded the naked Jenny across his lap. He stroked her punished bottom soothingly.

'The trouble is, from your point of view, since you haven't got any more clothes to lose you get smacked for one's as well as sixes.'

'Oh no!'

'Yes, 'fraid so my dear. And – he grinned impishly at the enraptured circle, '– to make it even more interesting, you also get smacked for every one of Carol's sixes and ones.'

'Oh no, please! No, that's not fair!'

'It's in the rules,' said Fred amiably, and smacked her bottom nice and hard, six loud and painful slaps.

Jenny stood back in the centre and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted desperately to run. But Carol was near to tears too, and Jenny knew she couldn't desert her. She stuck it out somehow, getting spanked again and again as she failed miserably to throw sixes and ones at the right time, and Carol lost her blouse and vest and finally her navy knickers with agonising slowness.

At last, with their schoolgirl clothes bundled in their arms, their lender bottoms waggling as they retreated, they were allowed to leave the circle. Jenny crying with quick, gasping sobs and Carol still trying to be brave.

Fred came upstairs and talked soothingly to them. Carol perked up quite quickly and let herself get talked into another game called 'Musical Parcels'. Jenny avoided Fred's comforting hands and said she'd probably be alright in a while, only she wasn't sure she wanted her bum smacked any more.

'Come downstairs and serve drinks then,' he said. 'Carol's going to play another game, aren't you darling?'

Carol simpered and let him pat her bum.

'But as a punishment, you're only to wear your kickers Jenny,' said Fred. 'Oh, and your stockings, and your cap.'

Carol followed Fred downstairs.

Bleedin' kink, that girl! Bloody all of 'em are kinks! I'll just have to keep well away from that Henry bloke, that's all!

In the kitchen she slid the supper dishes into the oven. She turned it on but it wouldn't light, simply hissing gas. She went into the lounge, though with some trepidation, to find a box of matches, and found another game in progress instead.

'Musical Parcels' looked superficially like 'sixes'. They all sat in the same circle, except that in front of each person was a paper plate on the floor. Carol and the young girl who'd come with the guests were standing in the middle, each dressed in only a bra and knickers. Carol looked nervous, the other girl looked unperturbed. As she turned away towards the far side of the circle Jenny noticed the posh girl's bum, barely covered by her brief red knickers. Across both cheeks were faint bluish lines. Jenny couldn't be sure what they were, but she had an idea.

Fred explained the rules, and produced a cassette tape which he said was pre-recorded with music and gaps without music, and which would apparently play for fifteen minutes.

The girls stood on a plate each, on opposite sides of the circle. The music started. The girl with the marks on her bum whisked her knickers down as far as her knees and then back up again as quickly as she could, and then darted for the next plate around the circle. She'd obviously played this game before. Carol caught on only slowly. Hesitantly, she pulled her knickers down to her knees. The music stopped. Everyone laughed. Carol was hoisted protesting across somebody's knees and got her bottom soundly walloped until the music started again, when she was allowed up. She looked indignant about it.

Fred stopped the music and explained it to her again.

'It's easy,' he said. 'The secret is not to get caught with your knickers down when the music stops. So you whip 'em down to your knees as quick as you can, and they have to go right down to your knees, and then you pull 'em up again before the music finishes. Then, once you've pulled 'em up again, you dash to the next person in the circle, stand on their plate, and do the same again.'

'Oh,' said Carol, rubbing her bum.

'The other thing is this. First, you must take your knickers right down to your knees at least. If you don't, the person on whose plate you're standing can declare a foul and smack you on the bottom and make you do it again.'

'Oh,' said Carol, and pulled her rucked knickers out of the crease of her bottom.

'And, if you don't move to the next plate as soon as you've got your knickers back up, the person whose plate you're on is entitled to spank you until you do.'

'Right,' said Carol, and frowned as she tried to remember it all. 'But I can stand on the next plate as long as I like?' she asked. 'I mean, before I take my pants down?'

'Yes,' said Fred. 'Only, if the girl behind you catches you up, you get walloped anyway for being so slow, and if you get caught between two plates when the music stops, you get smacked then as well.'

'So I can't win,' said Carol, her bottom lip pouting prettily.

'Of course you can darling,' said Fred. 'You just have to be quick, that's all.' His gleeful smile wasn't altogether reassuring.

The music started again. The girl in the red knickers with the funny marks on her bum had her pants going up and down like a yo-yo. Carol did her best, but got caught with her knickers down again.

'Oh no! This ain't bloody fair!'

'Get across here girl!' demanded the woman. Carol did, but reluctantly. She got well smacked for her tardiness. Even when the music started her bum was still bouncing up and down as her legs kicked convulsively.

And then it was the other girl who was caught. She seemed to take it very calmly, which was easier for her of course, because she hadn't been getting her bum smacked for the best part of the last hour. She lay obediently with her knickers down and her long slim legs straight, and didn't even gasp once as Max whacked her bum fiercely. The music didn't resume for almost half a minute. The girl's bottom was ablaze with crimson by the time Max let her up.

And so it went on, until Carol eventually burst into tears, from which point, though Carol continued with the game only half-heartedly, the girl with the red knickers started to get caught nearly every time. So often in fact that it was uncanny. Jenny served the occasional drink and watched the goings on, and at last she had sussed it.

From the cassette player a thin, unobtrusive wire led under the rug on the carpet in the direction of Fred's chair. With an almost unnoticeable pressure of his foot he was apparently able to stop and start the music at will.

The girl in, or mostly out of, the red knickers was at last beginning to show signs of distress. She was gasping now with every spank that landed on her tender and quivering bum cheeks, and once or twice she looked to be on the brink of tears herself.

Carol got spanked only twice more, and then the game seemed to be over. Carol was patted patronisingly on the bottom and praised for being a 'good girl'. The other girl was sent, without protest, to stand facing a corner, her knicks around her ankles and her startlingly red buttocks wobbling occasionally as she moved. Jenny thought it all very odd, and went upstairs to the loo.

Coming out she bumped into Uncle Henry, who was so large that he completely blocked her exit. She struggled desperately as he herded her into a bedroom. Something crinkled, and was tucked scratchily down inside the front of her knickers. She fished it out while fending off his hands and found it to be a twenty-pound note. The money made it easier to give in, though she clung on to her knickers as long as she could before he finally dragged them down, not wanting to appear lacking in principles. She was screwed briskly, pinned under his considerable weight so that there was little she could do about it anyway. He, at least, seemed to enjoy it.

Back downstairs she discovered that Carol was missing. So was the woman. Bent across a chair, her face flushed and streaked with tears, was the girl who was now without her red knickers, though her bottom substituted colourfully. Her bare breasts swung softly on the far side of the chair seat. Fred was pacing up and down waving a thin, swishy cane, as if it were a conductor's baton. The assembly were singing raucously, to the unusually slow and laboured tune of 'Old MacDonald's farm'.

'And in this dungeon there was a wench. Ee-aye-ee-aye-oh!'

'With a – Whack! Whack! here, and a – Whack! Whack! there –'

The girl over the chair twitched and squirmed her well-whipped buttocks with scant regard for the tempo of the song as Fred caned her with firm and sizzling strokes, timed to suit the cadence of the mournful dirge. She gulped and sobbed, her blubbering a tearful accompaniment to the somewhat inebriated choir.

Jenny retreated as quietly as she could lest she should be spotted, and bumped into Carol at the foot of the stairs. Carol was clutching at her bare bottom with desperate hands, the tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks as she sobbed helplessly.

Jenny took one look and nearly wet herself for the second time that night. Carol's bum was a blotchy and trembling chaos of bright scarlet weals, the strap marks plain even down the backs of her bare thighs.

At the top of the stairs the woman appeared, the strap dangling threateningly from one hand. Slowly she descended, brushing past the two girls who stared at her with wide and panic-stricken eyes. Stroking Jenny's bottom she whispered: 'Your turn later.'

As one, the two girls darted upstairs. Five minutes later they left via the back door. The singing was still going on in the lounge, the 'thwack' of the cane still interposing rhythmically, the girl's high-pitched voice a long, continual wail of complaint.

They found a telephone box and called a taxi, waiting inside the booth until it came. From under her coat Carol produced a clanking, glittering collection of things which were not, strictly speaking, hers.

'They bloody are now,' said Carol, as Jenny expressed her doubts. 'This'll pay for the rest of the money 'e didn't give us. Bastard!'

'It'll pay f' more than that,' said Jenny. 'There must be a thousand quid's worth there!'

'Right! So we'll go to Spain and bloody spend it. OK?'

'Right!' said Jenny, and rubbed pensively at her bottom under her skirt, soothing the lingering sting. The lights of the taxi picked out the phone box as it swung around the corner.

They got into the car, Carol clanking guiltily.

'Well, serves 'em bloody right,' she said defensively, ' 'E shouldn't 'ave let us in f' that lot without at least sayin', should 'e?'

'Wasn't it like that last time then?' asked Jenny.

'No, nothin' like that. What d'you think I am, a bleedin' masochasm or somethin'?'

'Masochist,' said Jenny, 'and I was beginning to wonder.'

A fire engine passed going in the opposite direction, back the way they'd come. Gradually Jenny began to giggle helplessly. Another fire-engine flashed by, its blue light revolving.

'What's the matter with you, you silly cow?' asked Carol.

Jenny found it difficult to explain, what with her fit of the giggles. 'Well, you remember while you were playing musical chairs or whatever? – well, I put that stuff with the cheese on, you know, that Italian stuff – well, I put it in the oven –' she struggled for breath before she could carry on. 'An' – and I forgot to light the bloody thing. The thing is – I'm almost sure I must've left the gas on!'

'Funny we didn't hear the bang then isn't it?' said Carol.

Which was the wrong thing to say in the circumstances. They were still helpless with mirth when at last the taxi driver got them home.

Monday, 31 May 2010

Are You Fit Miss Moxley?

Story from Blushes Supplement 16.

Are You Fit Miss Moxley?

'Are you fit, Miss Moxley?'

Paula blinked, taken momentarily aback. The position was to teach English and History, not Games Mistress. But she didn't have to reply as the Chairman of the Governors was continuing:

'Physical fitness is more and more being regarded as a highly desirable – even essential – attribute these days. No matter what the position. A person keeping his or her body fit and in good shape is always a step ahead of the sluggard. For one thing the brain is that much sharper – a good strong supply of oxygen – and of course, that person will set an example to others. The girls especially. You look in reasonable shape Miss Moxley. Do you play any sports? Do any jogging, or this – ah – aerobics?'

Flushing slightly Paula had to shake her head. She didn't do any sports although she wasn't fat or anything, and indeed, as Mr Brentwood had indicated, had a nice firm figure. She smiled nervously across the table. She wanted this job, needed it; and she had been told there were loads of applicants. Some of them were sure to be keen games players.

'I... I think I am quite fit, though, Sir.'

Mr Brentwood, who was about 30 and trim looking with a healthy light in his eye, frowned. 'Mmmm. You need to do something to keep fit, my girl. For instance I myself run 20 miles a week.'

Paula felt like saying 'Good for you!' but he was the Chairman and therefore no doubt had a mayor say in who got the job. And she did need it! She did her best to concentrate as the questioning was taken up by one of the other two members of the board. Questions about her degree. But if this bloody Mr Brentwood didn't want her what was the point?

At the end he told her to wait outside for a few minutes. Paula went out to the ante-room feeling rather depressed. There weren't a lot of jobs around in her subjects and this one was just what she wanted. Her mother lived in the next town and was in poor health and so Paula really needed to be close. Oh sod! Why hadn't she said she played something? Tennis, something like that. She had played when she was at school but somehow at the university hadn't found time for any of that. But she could have said she did. Paula looked morosely at the door of the interview room... which then opened. Mr Brentwood.

It was 4.30 and Paula guessed she was the last candidate for the day. Mr Brentwood confirmed this. She put on a brave face: she was going to hear her fate. With his eyes keenly on her, Mr Brentwood slowly shook his head.

'No sports, Miss Moxley. That's a pity because otherwise you are a very good candidate. My two colleagues were very impressed. As I was. Except...'

'I... I'm not really out of shape.' Her voice was eager. 'I can help with games. I... I did games at school.'

Mr Brentwood had dark eyes and they were sort of staring. 'I could check, I suppose? See what shape you're in.'

Paula looked blank. Mr Brentwood seemed to take Paula's bewilderment as unspoken assent, he waved airily towards the door.

'The gymnasium is this way, Miss Moxley.' He ushered her out of the door and then, with a hand in the small of her back – small of her back, tending lower towards the top of her buttocks, perhaps, though she pretended to herself that she was imagining that – he piloted her along several corridors to the gym. Her heels sounded loud on the wooden floor as she followed the Chairman across the gym to a door which he held open for her and then closed firmly behind them. She wasn't sure if she heard the click of a latch –

They were in a kind of ante-room to the gym, blank walls on three sides, with a limited view from the windows on the fourth of a corner of the playground bounded by a high wall. There was a broken-down vaulting horse and a few bits and pieces of gymnasium apparatus; Paula tried to meet Mr Brentwood's gaze calmly.

'Take off your suit. Let me see. Let me see your shape.'

Take off her suit? Had he said that?

'Strictly off the record of course, Miss Moxley. But there are only the two of us here, the others have left. Indeed there is no-one in the entire building. So no need to be bashful. But it could make the difference; I don't need to tell you that there are some other very promising candidates.'

Paula wet her lips; full pink lips, their natural colour enhanced this afternoon by not-too-obvious lipstick. You wanted to look smart but not of course tarty for an interview, especially for a teacher at a highly thought-of co-ed school where clearly they would be considering the effect of a young woman teacher on the boys. For that reason Paula had also worn her smart but not showy grey suit. Which this Mr Brentwood really was now asking her to take off. She could feel little pin-pricks of perspiration. Was he one of those? A Dirty Old Man?

The dark eyes met hers. 'Come on, Miss Moxley. It's not too unreasonable, is it?'

Yes it was. Who had ever heard of such a thing. If she reported it to the union, which she had just joined... but Mr Brentwood would simply deny it, and as he said there were no witnesses. The pink tongue wet the pink lips again. 'I... I don't think...' she stammered.

Mr Brentwood shook his head. 'It's up to you. I'm giving you a chance, off the record to – er – prove yourself. There are at least two other very strong candidates.'

Somehow Paula found she was standing on legs that she didn't seem to have complete control of. Her hands were going to the buttons of her smartly tailored jacket. Slipping it off. And then, hesitating... looking at him. Yes he did mean the skirt as well. Uncertain fingers at the zip and then sliding the skirt down over her hips. Stepping out of it. Placing it with the jacket on the little table. She had a blouse on under the jacket, but of course Mr Brentwood wanted yes... yes.

Making herself do it. Take the blouse of. Standing, looking straight ahead, not at Mr Brentwood, Paula's face pink like her pink lips.

She had on dark nylons and a suspender belt. Not something she normally wore but she had just thought: well why not? Never thinking, naturally... A sexy black suspender belt contrasting with the pale flesh of her thighs and the pure white of brief knickers and bra. She wasn't looking at Mr Brentwood but beyond him, making her eyes focus on a point head-high on the far wall. But she could imagine his face, his eyes.

'Very nice, Miss.' His voice breathy. 'Mmmm. Come – come a bit closer.'

There was no point arguing. She clattered forward the two paces on her high heels. Close in front of him. His hand on her leg, at the top of her stocking. Fingering the suspender clasp.

'You don't think... they'll get the boys too excited? The stockings? They can be devils, you know. Always trying to get a look up a woman's skirt.' The hand was fiddling with the clasp and then slid up, on Paula's warm thigh. She should push it away and grab her things and put them on and stamp out! Inform that union representative! But... she was just standing there. Shaking.

Mr Brentwood's weasily voice. 'Slip your knickers off, my dear.'

'NO!' she yelped.

'Yes. It's nothing. It's just that I want... to see you properly. See if you're in shape. And I want to see you exercise. But I need the knickers off for it.'

Paula violently shaking her head. No, he couldn't make her do that. But then Mr Brentwood said she was going to get the job, it was hers. But first of all he had to see her do some exercises; and she had to do them with her knickers off.

The room seemed to have got smaller – and hotter. She was sweating. He was just a Dirty Old Man and all his talk of fitness and exercise was just a sham, an excuse, to see her body. She should tell him what to do, to sod off, she was going straightaway to her union representative and report him! But once again Paula wasn't doing that. She was standing there. Hesitating. And then her hands were slowly going to the top of her knickers. Peeling them down.

'Right off,' said Mr Brentwood's hot voice. 'That's a good girl.'

They were somehow right off. She couldn't...

'Now stand up straight. Come on. And take your hands away from there. Don't be silly.'

She couldn't. But she had to. His beastly eyes of course on her pussy. That full bush of hair a couple of shades darker than her blonde head. Mr Brentwood saying nothing, just looking. Then standing close... and his hand suddenly, shockingly on her bare bottom. Jiggling the cheeks.

'Mmm. Not bad, young woman. Not fat at all, is it? A nice shape.' Paula gave a squeal as the hand smacked. 'But is it fit, Miss?'

He sat down again and told her she had to do some running on the spot. Take off her high-heeled shoes and start running in her stockinged feet. 'A nice high knee action.'

It was unreal, impossible. She couldn't really be standing here in from of the Chairman of the Governors in just her bra and suspender belt. In a minute she would wake up, out of this nightmare. But for the moment... Paula began the on-the-spot running.

'Come on, young woman. Put some effort into it. Speed it up. And lift those knees.'

No, it couldn't be happening. Nothing so ghastly was possible. But at the same time Paula knew it was. She was awake. And sweating. Pounding her stockinged feet desperately on the wooden floor.

'Keep going, Miss. If you want this position you have to prove yourself.'

He just kept her at it. Until she could have wept. She was collapsing. At last...

'All right, Miss Moxley. Stop now...' Paula did collapse, against the vaulting horse.

'I am not greatly impressed, my dear. You are clearly quite out of condition.' Mr Brentwood was close all at once, behind the horse and leaning across it as Paula stood gasping for breath. His hands came round... and cupped her breasts.

'Let me feel your heart.'

Paula's heart was going like a runaway horse but it was her tits that Mr Brentwood had hold of. She was too far gone to do anything except let him grasp them. Mr Brentwood, making concerned noises, was in no hurry to let go, but finally he was straightening up.

'Recovered now? Now we have a second little test. Nothing too difficult. But I want you on this horse. On your back and cycling your legs in the air.'

Weakly shaking her head. He couldn't. Not that. There was a limit. But Mr Brentwood was saying, 'I want you to have this job, Miss Moxley. Believe me. But I need...'

He needed to have her lying on the vaulting horse with her legs in the air. Her nyloned legs with the suspender belt and of course no knickers. And Paula, having let herself get this far and in any case with her head in such a state... able only to think that she had to have this job...

Getting onto the horse. Mr Brentwood helping... Paula getting up on it and Mr Brentwood showing her just how he wanted her. Her hands gripping the edge. Lifting her bottom. 'Reach your legs high and then cycle...'

She was doing it. Somehow. In that hot little room and conscious of Mr Brentwood first on one side and then the other. Getting different angles as her up-side-down legs and thighs did the cycling action. And getting different angles on something else of course which in her up-side-down position was fully revealed.

And then, with little pats on her bare bottom which were soon more like slaps and then stingy, Oooh!-making spanks. For a long time.

Paula feeling tears falling sideways from the corners of her eyes, her breath coming in gasps, her leg-action becoming jerky and spasmodic, her hands trying to protect her bottom and being slapped away, then more firm spanks on her naked, upside-down bottom...

* * * *

'How did it go, dear?' Paula's mother bright-eyed and eager for news. Paula could scarcely bring herself to answer, not with the memory of what had happened. And in any case...

'I... I don't really know. They didn't really say.'

Because in spite of complying with Mr Brentwood's dreadful requests Paula didn't know for sure that she had the job. Not yet, not definitely. Mr Brentwood was almost sure but... He wanted to do some more fitness tests. Tomorrow. And what could you say? If you had to have the job.

Sunday, 30 May 2010

A Very Painful Lesson

Story from Janus 20.

A Very Painful Lesson
by R.T. Mason

THE NOTEPAPER bore the School Crest (St Stephens School, Eastminster. Headmaster: R.A. Harrison, M.A.). The note was short and very much to the point:

'This afternoon (Friday, 15th May) at 4.30pm there will be a Formal Headmaster's Caning in my office. As is customary on such occasions you are expected, in the interests of school discipline, to be present. If there is any pressing reason why you cannot, will you please let me know immediately.

The pupil involved is Miss Susan Roberts, Lower Sixth.

Signed: Robert Harrison,

The note in its innocent brown envelope was in the pigeonhole of every male member of staff that Friday morning. (Women teachers of course would not be required to attend a Formal Caning, canings in general being regarded by the Head as strictly a male preserve.) The innocent brown envelopes had been opened one by one and one by one, like little bombshells, producing sounds of shocked amazement, ranging from sharply indrawn breath and low whistles to varied exclamations: 'Good Lord!'; 'Incredible!'; even 'Fucking Hell!' from Mr Dale (Maths). The sounds of shock were mixed, though, with here and there noises of undoubted excitement – as with Mr Fulton (History) who sharply stuck an elbow into the ribs of his crony Mr Stanley (Geography) while exclaiming, 'Something not to be missed, Ron. Susan Roberts! Mindblowing! Think of that bum...!'

What might be deduced from all this was that the announcement on that crested notepaper was something out of the ordinary, and this was certainly correct. A Formal Caning was far and away the most severe punishment meted out at St Stephens and was given only rarely. It was rare indeed for a boy to get it; but for a girl... For a girl to be bent over the Head's desk in front of the assembled male staff – well, you needed a very good memory to remember the last time that had occurred.

And more than all this of course was the name on the note. Susan Roberts. Because really she was one of the last girls you would expect to do anything remotely deserving of a Formal Caning. High spirited at times, yes, but for most masters she was a hard-working, well-motivated girl, as well as being friendly and charming. Not only that but she was also one of the most attractive girls in the school, her youthful pretty features – hazel-green eyes, pert full-lipped mouth – framed by curling trimly-shaped chestnut hair with just a touch of auburn.

And that wasn't all, for below there was, too, a trim shapely figure firmed up by her twin hobbies of gymnastics and athletics. A slender figure except for her backside which, again no doubt as a result of that athletic activity, was well-developed with a full taut flare to the cheeks. Indeed most masters who had seen those shapely hindquarters in buttock-moulding gym or athletics shorts – or indeed in a skin-tight swimsuit – would rate Susan's bum quite as highly as her pretty face. Which is really saying something.

Hence indeed Jack Fulton's excited, 'Think of that bum!' – for he and Ron Evans were in fact in the habit of paying special visits to the gym during Susan's practice sessions for the express purpose of gazing on that delectable part of her. Because when pretty Susan got working, in her energetic way, on the vaulting horse or bars, her firm limbs soon bathed in a light sheen of perspiration, those ultra-tight pale green shorts would inevitably, in spite of embarrassed tuggings, start sliding further and further up off the ripe bottom cheeks and up into the tight crack of her bum. It was a riveting sight for these two ardent admirers of young female athleticism, routinely producing flushed faces and a pleasant tightness in the front of the trousers.

So for Messrs Fulton and Stanley and all the other masters in the Staff Room that morning the note was indeed nothing less than a bombshell. Stanley, eyes shining, looked at his colleague and licked his lips. 'Could she get it... on the bare?'

Jack Fulton squeezed his arm. 'Could be, old son. Could be!'

Both men shared the same mouthwatering picture: Susan Roberts bent over the Head's desk with that choicest of rears completely bare... and the cane descending...

'Just depends what the young beauty's done. Anyone have any idea?'

One master there did, of course. Mr Pritchard, Senior English Master. He coughed, in his dry schoolmasterly way. 'I think you'll find... it could very well be on the bare...'

Those close to him who heard, turned with shocked eager looks. What had she done then?

The eyes glinted behind those gold-rimmed spectacles, Mr Pritchard's prim mouth pursed then said, 'Moral Turpitude, I think the term is...'

* * *

Somewhat earlier that same Friday morning the subject of all this excitement had herself received a brown enveloped letter, personally delivered to the Roberts' home, No. 17 Frobisher Avenue, by the school caretaker Mr Bert Davis at 7 am. Mrs Roberts found it 15 minutes later when she went in search of the milk, and placed it in front of her daughter as she sat at the breakfast table. 'Not a love-letter, Susan?' she laughed, and then, 'Ah, that sounds like the milk at last. He's late this morning.'

Susan, dry-lipped, tore open the letter as her mother went out again. After the events the last two days she had been expecting something. Not a love-letter, however; something unpleasant, though she didn't know quite what. She took out the folded note and after a moment's hesitation opened it... Yes, it was from school... the School Crest... Headmaster: R.A. Harrison, M.A.... She looked away... Please!... then forced herself to look, to focus her eyes on the black typed print. She gasped, refolded it... got up...

'Aren't you having any cornflakes, dear?' asked her mother, coming back in with the milk.

'N... no... I'm not very hungry.'

Susan went out... straight to the loo, locking the door behind her, and sat down on the flat seat top. She bit her lip, then opened the note again. This time she forced herself to read it properly.

'Dear Miss Roberts: I am writing further to our meeting earlier today. On reflection I am afraid I have no option but to treat this matter as one of the utmost seriousness. Accordingly you will present yourself at my office at 4.30pm on Friday when you will receive a Formal Headmaster's Caning. As is customary with such a punishment all male members of Staff will be present.

Please wear games kit: i.e. a sleeveless cotton top and gym shorts, plus knee-socks and plimsolls. You are permitted to wear a brassiere if you wish; however, there must be no knickers under the shorts which must be brief and snug-fitting.

Signed: R.A. Harrison, Headmaster.'

She re-read the words. She felt sick. She also felt an urgent need to scream. The note was already screwed-up and bedraggled in her damp hands when she stood up and adjusted the blue pleated school skirt and her white school blouse in the mirror. She was in a state of extreme nervousness – sheer fright in fact. She felt sick in her stomach.

Susan unlocked the door and went out, then automatically went through the rest of her routine for school – brush her teeth, brush her hair, put on her school tie, and then the blazer... all with her mind quite divorced from what she was doing, her thoughts fixed only on the horrendous contents of the Head's letter. A Formal Caning... It was so horrible and awful that really it was hardly credible. Had she perhaps imagined it? But she had only to open that fear-crumpled note again, now in her blazer pocket. She said goodbye to her mother. Then, still in that zombie-like state, Susan walked slowly to the bus stop.

Bob, her boyfriend, would be waiting there but really he was the last person she wanted to see. Not that, hopefully, he would know. Because a Formal Caning wasn't announced to the school, only of course... all the masters. Presumably they would all know by now and she would have to face them with that knowledge – in Assembly and then in each of her classes through the day until... at 4.30...

At least she had no lesson today with Mr Pritchard, her English master. Mr Pritchard of the gold-rimmed spectacles and the tight prim mouth which would utter bone-dry sardonic jokes when he was in the mood. Mr Pritchard who did not like being thwarted by a pupil. Mr Pritchard who had of course set her up for this.

* * *

It was easy to say that she could have agreed to what he wanted: what ever since she turned 16 he had first obliquely alluded to and then later quite openly stated. That he wanted to cane her. The problem for Mr Pritchard was that he wasn't allowed to – because caning girls at St Stephens was supposed to be reserved for the Head and Deputy Head. Girls were of course caned at times by other masters, everyone knew that, but only when the pupil had agreed to take this punishment rather than lines or a detention or something. If she agreed then everyone was prepared to turn a blind eye. But Susan hadn't agreed, and she had continued to refuse adamantly all Mr Pritchard's repeated suggestions. He wasn't the only master: others had also from time to time proposed she take a caning – Mr Fulton for instance several times – but none of them had been so persistent as Mr Pritchard. Or, as it turned out, been prepared to be so ruthless in pursuit of what he wanted.

Susan had been caned once at St Stephens – that was by the Head last winter, when she'd been involved in some larking about when they'd gone to another school to give a gymnastics display. Naturally for that sort of offence it hadn't been the desperate horror of a Formal Caning – just a routine caning, in private in the Head's study. It hadn't been pleasant of course – but as Mr Harrison said, it wasn't meant to be pleasant.

Canings were naturally not something girls liked to discuss, but from what she understood from other girls what had happened was his normal routine. She had had to stand in front of him as he sat sideways at his desk and then had to raise her skirt to her waist while he reached out and inserted his thumbs in the waistband of her knickers and drew them down to mid-thigh. And then he had made her stand with her skirt up around her waist and her knickers lowered while he delivered a stern lecture on proper behaviour. It had been awful – embarrassing and humiliating – but that was all part of the punishment. And when he'd finished lecturing her, she had had to walk – still with her knickers down and holding her skirt up – over to the upright chair he had placed out in front of his desk... and then lower herself over the chair seat, and stretch her arms down to place her palms on the carpet on the other side, quivering with fear.

And then those four bottom-juddering slashes with Mr Harrison's whippy rattan cane. It had stung dreadfully and in addition there had been the awful humiliation of having to expose herself like that. But quite obviously it was nothing compared to what a Formal Headmaster's Caning would be... with all those other masters looking on...

That caning, of course, being from the Headmaster, was official and she'd had no choice in the matter: there was no question of refusing. And another fact was that a caning from the Head or Deputy Head was pretty rare – unless you were up to some devilment all the time – whereas Susan had a pretty good idea that with Mr Pritchard, once you'd let him do it he'd be wanting to do it all the time and it would be difficult to say no then.

So she had steadfastly continued to refuse and perhaps it should have been evident to her that his patience had been running out. His last proposal had been made on Tuesday last week. He had kept her back after the lesson, then started going on about her homework not being up to scratch – though she knew it hadn't been that bad. Those eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses had stared at her in that unblinking way that always made her feel she was standing nude in front of him. And then, in that prim voice, he had said it again:

'You know what I think is needed, Miss. A touch of the cane on your backside. It would be over and done with in five minutes and I would then be much more favourably disposed towards you. Whereas now... I'm afraid I regard you as a very annoying young lady.'

She had blushed, but stubbornly said, 'No... Please Sir... I'd rather not...'

Mr Pritchard, red-faced in turn, from suppressed anger, had given her a detention and 200 lines. As she turned to go he added, 'Miss Roberts! I should warn you I am not a man who likes to be crossed. You may well come to regret this stubbornness. Do you understand me?'

She had stammered, 'Y... yes... Yes Sir.' – while of course not understanding at all.

* * *

Because who could imagine that a master could be so heartless and cynical, that he could stoop so low, as to do what Mr Pritchard had done? It had been just a few days later – the Wednesday of this week and the window-cleaners had been in the school. Susan had had Mr Pritchard for English just before morning break and at the end of the class he called her to his desk and asked if she would run a small errand. He wanted some books collected from the room behind the gym where for some reason he had left them. Would she be so kind? He had actually smiled and Susan, eager to make up at last for all those No's she usually had to give to what he wanted, smiled brightly, said, 'Of course, Sir!' and went briskly off.

The room in question was not somewhere you were allowed to go during break so it was going to be deserted; and it was except that one of the window-cleaners was there, cleaning the window on the inside. He was a youngish man, in his twenties, and when Susan arrived for the books he immediately started chatting her up. He wasn't doing it in an unpleasant way and she didn't rush off right away with the books but chatted a bit to him, because anyway it was break time.

But then his behaviour changed, coming on a lot more strongly. He put his arm round her waist and as she tried to disengage it he laughingly said he knew all 17-year-old girls (she had said she was 17) were ticklish. He started tickling her and running his hands over her. She tried to push him away but he was very persistent, and seemed to become suddenly very aroused. He was far stronger than her and he got his hands on her breasts and then as she struggled she felt the sudden shock of a hand up her skirt sleeting up her thighs to their apex. She was struggling wildly in reaction to this ardent mauling when suddenly Mr Pritchard was in the room.

The window-cleaner abruptly stopped – and disappeared. Susan, shocked and upset, was left alone with Mr Pritchard who instantly started upbraiding her in hard tight tones for unseemly and disgraceful conduct.

This second shock on top of what had already happened – it was almost too much to take in. And then Mr Pritchard was saying, 'A caning is what you need, Miss!'

Recovering a little, Susan expostulated that she had simply been struggling to get away from the man but Mr Pritchard, in that tight precise voice, said it hadn't been at all like that. He had clearly seen her co-operating in what was taking place, egging the man on. And the only suitable treatment for such immoral conduct on school property was a sound caning.

Sue started crying at the desperate unfairness of what was obviously happening. Mr Pritchard couldn't possibly believe what he was saying, he had to be making it up – simply as an excuse to cane her. Through her tears she obstinately shook her head.

'No... I'm not going to let you...'

His eyes had glinted angrily. 'You'll be sorry, my girl!' he actually shouted. She wept, still severely shaken from the window-cleaner's assault. He took hold of her arms, rattling her. 'Do you understand me, Miss? This time you'll be sorry!' But she continued to shake her head, trembling all over.

And then the next day – Thursday – there had been that summons to the Head's study. She went in... Mr Pritchard seated with the Head, and both of them with very stern expressions. With a nasty feeling in her stomach Susan stood in front of the Head's desk.

'Sir... you... sent for me.'

In icy tones he said, 'Indeed I did, Miss Roberts. I was wondering if you had any explanation for your disgraceful conduct of yesterday morning?'

Hotly she asked, 'What? Sir... I don't understand...'

'Carrying on like a common guttersnipe, Miss Roberts, that's what I mean!' the Head snapped. 'Not only that but on school premises and during the school day.'

Susan stammered that it was all a mistake but the Head blared: 'No mistake, young lady! I have the word of a senior member of my staff who witnessed your shocking misbehaviour. I also have here,' he held up a sheet of paper, 'a signed statement by the person involved, one Kevin Billings, who came on the premises for the purpose of cleaning windows and who states that in Room G7 during morning break he was invited by you to... engage in sexual relations.'

Susan started crying, horrified, mortified and terrified of the consequences of having been set-up by Mr Pritchard. But her sobbing cut no ice with the Headmaster. He said to her coldly, 'You may go now. Meanwhile I shall consider what is to be done about this quite unbelievable behaviour. You will be informed as soon as I have reached a decision.'

And she had been. That brown envelope delivered before the milk the next day – Friday morning.

* * *

She only just caught the bus – either an unconscious reluctance to get there or simply the fact that her mind had been somewhere else entirely. Bob was there as usual... She sat with him and he started chatting... as usual... She felt sick again. Then he asked if she wanted to play tennis after school and automatically she said 'Yes' – then remembered... She stammered that she had to do something for the Head. She hated lying to anyone – especially Bob. But it wasn't really a lie, because Bob didn't pursue the matter and force her to say something definite.

Then the ordeal of Assembly... All the masters on the stage... all looking at her, or so it seemed. She forced herself to stand still, look straight ahead – through the various announcements... then the hymn, opening her mouth but not actually singing...

Her first lesson was French, with Mr Rawlings. He was one of her favourite teachers, a nice friendly man and she thought he especially liked her. But today he seemed to want to pretend she wasn't there. He must have been told that awful story... and she felt herself sweating at the thought. Then next it was Miss Gilbey, Art. Miss Gilbey wouldn't be there of course, only the men teachers would be there in the Head's study... to watch her get caned. But Miss Gilbey probably knew nonetheless...

Last lesson that morning was History – Mr Fulton. Susan didn't like Mr Fulton although he was quite friendly to her. Too friendly, in fact, with a sort of leering attitude. She also didn't really like the fact that he frequently came into the gym with his friend Mr Stanley to watch her practice. There was no real reason why he shouldn't watch of course and perhaps she should be flattered. But she had the feeling that it wasn't the gymnastics they were interested in, so much as looking at her body in the revealing gym outfit, the exercises being just a sexy bonus.

Unlike Mr Rawlings, Mr Fulton seemed to be looking at her almost all the whole time during the lesson and she found this as disconcerting as Mr Rawlings seeming to ignore her. At the end of the lesson he came swiftly over to her desk before she could get out. He started chatting about the lesson subject until the others had left... and then squeezed her arm and said confidentially, 'I understand you've got into a spot of hot water, Susan. Just remember if you've got any problems you can always come and talk to me about them.' She felt herself flushing. Mr Fulton was almost the last person she was likely to confide in. She said, 'OK' and started to move away... but not quickly enough as Mr Fulton's hand left her arm and, darting down, gave her bottom a quick feel. She had half expected that because he had done it once or twice before. She went hotly out... as he called after her, 'Just remember, Susan, any time...'

But Mr Fulton and his unpleasant ways were soon forgotten – at least temporarily – as the time moved inexorably on, and 4.30 loomed closer and closer. It was like one of those Greek Tragedies, an awful fate that could not be avoided – coming steadily nearer and nearer...

At lunch she could hardly eat a thing.

'Slimming, Susan?' laughed her friend Joanna.

Susan raised a wan smile. 'No, it's just... I'm not hungry.'

She excused herself as soon as she possibly could and went out. Usually when she felt tense she would do some gym practice but today she couldn't face even that. She wandered aimlessly... and then suddenly in the corridor outside the Music Room... she almost walked into Mr Pritchard.

He appeared as startled as she was but quickly recovered. His mocking voice: 'Ah, Miss Roberts. Preparing yourself for the ordeal, I expect.'

Her heart started pounding. In a trembling voice she said, 'I... I don't know... how you could do such a thing?'

He looked around, then opened the Music Room door and motioned her inside. It was empty, being lunchtime, and he shut the door behind them, then stood close to her. So close that his hot breath hit her face as he hissed: 'I should warn you, Miss, that it would be most unwise to make foolish accusations. You are in enough trouble already. Do you understand me?'

All Susan understood was that it was some kind of threat and she had ignored the last one with disastrous consequences. Eyes downcast, she mumbled, 'Yes Sir.'

Mockingly again, gormandizing the situation, he asked sharply, 'Are you looking forward to it?' and she felt another surge of panic. The thought of that terrible Formal Caning... She glanced up at him, then immediately averted her eyes. There was only one possible way out.

Susan took a deep breath. 'Please... Sir... If... I let you... do what you want... could you ... see the Head and get the caning cancelled. Please Sir...'

The prim voice said, 'I'm afraid that's just not possible. You have got yourself in this situation and there is no way to avoid it now.' Mr Pritchard hesitated, seemed to think for a moment and then went on, 'Actually... it is possible that the Formal Caning will not be the end of it. I know the Headmaster is taking a particularly serious view of what happened, and is thinking of seeing the Governors. It is quite possible that you could be asked to leave the school. However I could... possibly ... put in a word regarding that. So that the matter would be closed with the Headmaster's Caning. Do I make myself clear?'

Once more a miserable mumbled 'Yes Sir.'

Oh what a pretty girl to have in this position! the Senior English Master was thinking, his head spinning.

'Good!' He looked up at the wall clock. 'There are 25 minutes to the start of afternoon classes. I think we have time for a first little session.' He went to the door. 'Come to my room in five minutes. Miss. Be sharp, please.' He went out.

She felt tears starting. She looked blankly round the now empty Music Room. The Greek Tragedy was unfolding... and she had no option but to accept it...

Five minutes later, as if in a dream, she was knocking at his door. 'Come in!' 'Ah Susan: good.' He closed the door behind her. There was a cane ready on his desk.

'Good!' he said again. 'Yes, I think we've got just time to give you a little taste. Nothing too serious because we don't want to mark you up for later, do we? But just a little start. Right: take your kickers down please. Down to your knees.'

Still as in a dream, standing in front of him, her hands up under her skirt, fumbling... and then her knickers were coming down...

'That's good. Now I usually place a girl over the seat of my chair. However, in your case, as you have been so reluctant and uncooperative, I think perhaps we could have you in what one might term... a more submissive position, don't you think? Yes, I think instead we will use the stool.' He indicated a leather-padded stool almost the height of Susan's hips. 'Bend right over it please and grip the bar on the far side with both hands!'

She gulped, and just stood there. 'Please...' she whispered.

'Come on, Miss!' his voice sharp. 'We haven't all day. Get yourself over the stool!'

As in a dream, with her knickers down round her knees, she moved the few paces to the stool... and knelt on it.

'Now down, please!' The prim voice now with an excited edge. 'Head down, grip the bar at the base!'

Yes, an excited edge, for if it felt like a dream to Susan, to George Pritchard it was likewise something he had dreamt of doing for a considerable time. Dreamt obsessively, and at times, almost continuously. He flipped the kneeling girl's skirt up over her back... and there it was: Susan's bottom, her twin firm swelling buttocks, offered up, bare, beautiful, trembling slightly, with just a glimpse of auburn hair at their confluence with the smoothly rounded, sleekly tapering thighs. He was trembling... the moment had arrived... he had accomplished it. His bold, rather frightening move, bribing that window-cleaner... £20... He took up the cane... Control... not too much... She mustn't be marked up for 4.30. Because anyway there would now be plenty of more times to come...

He raised the cane and after a few seconds' gloating enjoyment of his power he brought it down with a stinging whipping CRACK! across the fullest curve of that upthrust rump. Springy buttock-flesh juddered. Susan gasped. A red line now across the pale smooth flesh.

He waited for a moment, letting the sting develop. Then he raised the cane again... The firm smooth globes beckoning... CRACK! 'Ooohh!' – a gasping yelp this time. And a second red stripe paralleling the first. The injured buttocks squirmed, trembled, burned...

Easy, though, he told himself. Not too much. It was only a couple of hours until 4.30 and it would not really do to have her in there with her backside covered with red stripes. He'd just give her a couple more... stingy but not so that the marks would stay on the flesh...

So Susan got four and then the cane lightly patted her smarting rump and Mr Pritchard was saying, 'I think that will do for now. Get up and pull up your knickers!' She complied, tears in her eyes. 'Good!' he said, 'Now we know where we stand, don't we? That was just a gentle little touching up. To get you tuned up for 4.30.'

He put the cane down and then turned to her again. 'Now, Miss, after you've had the Formal Caning... I should like you this evening to come round to my house. Do you know where it is? 36 Albany Terrace. At 8 o'clock. Then we can have a nice little talk. Right: off you go. You will doubtless want to prepare yourself... for 4.30.'

* * *

4.30. It had come in no time at all. Three lessons in which she'd sat like a zombie, mostly feeling sick – at what had happened at lunchtime, at what was to come – and then at the 4 o'clock end of school going tight-lipped to the gym. To change into her white sleeveless cotton top and the pale green elasticised cotton gym shorts which for twelve months now her mother had been telling her to discard and get a new pair ('They're really so tight it's not decent, Susan'). But she hadn't: she was sort of attached to them – partly because they were the ones she'd worn when she won the County Competition in the Fifth Form. They were tight though and that was what she was thinking when at 4.30 sharp, with the shorts on underneath her skirt, she forced herself to knock on the Head's door.

Inside, a sea of faces. Male faces. It looked like, well, 20 or 30 but could only in fact be the ten men members of staff. All standing around in little groups – twos and threes – where they had obviously been chatting, drinking sherry, discussing what was to come. But now with her entrance they suddenly fell silent. She flushed scarlet, all eyes inevitably on her. Behind her the Deputy Head, Mr Miller, quietly closed the door.

The Headmaster, standing at the other side of his desk where he'd been talking to Mr Rawlings, coughed and glanced at his watch.

'Good. Right on time, Miss, I'm pleased to see,' he said. 'Well, I don't think there is need for any preamble. We all know what we're gathered here for and I expect you'd like to get it over with – as indeed I shall. I never enjoy giving any pupil a Formal Caning, and especially a girl pupil. But... it has been decided that in your case it really is the only option. I take it that you have your gym shorts on under the skirt?'

Susan nodded, feeling herself sweating.

'Good. In that case if you'll just remove your blazer and skirt.' He turned to go to a cupboard. Susan started unbuttoning her blazer. It came off. Then, trembling, her hands went to the waistband of her skirt. Fumblingly she pulled down the zip and then, trying not to look at any one of the faces which were all focussed intently on her, she slid the skirt down and stepped out of it. Gym top, shorts, white knee socks, white plimsolls; she stood cringing in the centre of the room.

'Stand up straight, please!' said the Head crisply. Biting her lip, Susan straightened her posture. Firm, lightly brassiered breasts stretched the tight cotton top – not overly large but each one a lovely little handful, thought Jack Fulton gloatingly. And, beneath, curvaceous contours lower, the brief shorts were skin-tight over swelling hams, and in front equally taut over the rounded bulge of her pubis.

Rather unnecessarily the Head queried, 'No knickers under the shorts, Susan?' It was evident to all that the skin-tight shorts contained nothing except the girl's nubile body.

Susan shook her head.

'Excellent, girl,' the Head said. He placed the cane which he had just taken from the cupboard on the desk.

'Now I'll just explain the rules for a Formal Caning. You will be bent over the top of my desk. In view of the seriousness of the offence your shorts will be taken down and you will be caned on your bare bottom. I shall give you four strokes to start with. Then the Deputy Headmaster will give you four, and then two other members of staff will each give you three. If you have difficulty in maintaining the position I shall call for a master to hold your arms.

'Is all that clear?'

Susan had flushed crimson. She had not known exactly what the Formal Caning involved and there had been the possibility – the desperate hope – that with the Head's note stressing the requirement for tight shorts without knickers, the shorts were going to be retained for the caning. But now the dreadful prospect of being bent bare-bottomed over the desk in front of all these men...

Mr Harrison said, 'Right: let's begin then.' He took her by the arm and led her across to the front of his desk.

Addressing the others he said, 'If you'd all get in a position where you have a clear view of the proceedings but at the same time leave me room to use the cane...'

To the accompaniment of a general shuffling for position his hands went to the girl's waist. Thumbs briskly inserted in the waistband of her shorts, one on either hip, and then without further ado the elasticated shorts unceremoniously skinned down... as far as her knees. For some members of staff there was a brief view of full auburn pubic bush before the girl was pushed firmly down over the desk. And there it was for all to see: the focus of the afternoon's activity. Her bared hindquarters: the two full swelling cheeks and their dividing cleft which started on the dimpled flatness of the small of her back and continued through to where the first slight fatness of the tops of her thighs started – where more of those auburn curls were to be seen.

As ten pairs of eyes stared intently Mr Harrison took the girl's arms and stretched them out across the desk top, making her grip the far edge. The stretched posture caused the short white shirt to pull higher, its hem now barely reaching her slim waist. He continued fussing with her position... precisely placing her feet, causing the full bottom cheeks to wobble slightly... and then one hand sliding lightly over the actual backside... Around the room a certain amount of heavy breathing now, some masters' faces now pink, one or two bright red. And some feet being shuffled where trouser fronts had become sharply though quite forgivably tight. Because even those masters, like Mr Rawlings, who found the whole performance distasteful could not help experiencing the tense excitement.

The Head finally seemed content with the girl's posture. 'Good. Now I want you to hold that position.' He took up the cane... swishing it through the air to loosen his arm... then positioned himself to one side of her. The final bland statement: 'I need not tell you, Miss, that none of us here enjoys this.' A statement of course quite blatantly untrue. But it was a signal that he was now ready.

Testingly the cane tapped across her buttocks, causing them to flinch. One... two... three... horizontal movements of the cane patting the full soft undercurves... the region of her bottom he evidently intended working on. And then suddenly it was happening: the cane drawn sharply out in a full horizontal arc... then back in, gathering pace... in the same plane... to CRACK!... across those soft undercurves, juddering them, momentarily sinking into the yielding sensitive flesh... producing an agonized gasp from the girl... a desperate squirming of her bottom... The first one had been delivered. As the cane was drawn away a bright red stripe remained in its wake.

Susan continued to gasp and wriggle. The Head waited... letting her feel the full effect. Then again he got set... swung the cane out again... and back, accelerating, so that once more it was at its maximum velocity when... CRACK!... it met those softly curving cheeks again. A gasping yelp of anguish this time... more violent writhings of bottom and legs... and one hand breaking away from the desk top to grab desperately at the smarting backside... Then returning when Mr Harrison brought the cane sharply back across the errant hand. Two bright red stripes now: parallel and about an inch apart.

Another pause... until the worst of the agonized writhing had abated... then another firm hard CRACK!... to the same ultra-sensitised area. A sharp scream... The girl's lower body once more into a series of frenzied squirmings... with this time both hands breaking away to clasp the red hot rear. A stern admonition – 'Back in position, Miss!' – reinforced by a sharp, extra cut of the cane across the hands... The position was resumed.

'One more from me then, Miss.' It landed... CRACK!... almost on top of the line of one of the previous three. She yelped again... and again the desperate writhing of the bum, as if to try and shake off the fearsome smart which the cane had left.

Mr Harrison put the cane down, thoughtfully inspected his work, then straightened up. 'Fine. Now if you'd like to take over, Miller.'

Mr Miller stepped forward, took the cane, and in turn, frowning slightly, inspected the girl's rear and the effect of Mr Harrison's caning. He took up position where the Head had stood... and proceeded at once to deliver his own required four strokes. Not to the lower region of her bottom which the Head had worked on, but higher up, across the approximate centre of the cheeks, the cane rising and falling now in an arc of roughly 45 degrees to the horizontal. Each one landed fully as hard as the Head's, with a resounding shot-like CRACK!... to finally produce a second tight bunch of four strokes. Susan was now obviously crying, but the punishment was not of course over.

With the Head and Deputy Head having carried out their part of the proceedings it was now necessary for the former to call for two masters representing the general staff to each give her three strokes. George Pritchard, who had viewed the proceedings thus far with an impassive self-satisfied air from behind those glinting glasses, did not volunteer. He had no wish to appear too desperately keen to get personally involved in something which he had initiated. A more magisterial, righteous air was appropriate... because of course he did not need to feel too desperate now: he at last had the girl where he wanted her.

Instead, not surprisingly, it was Messrs Fulton and Stanley who quickly, in turn, stepped forward to take up the cane. By the time it got to Mr Stanley, Susan was finding it very difficult to keep a grip on the table edge. The Head had a quick word with Mr Rawlings. He stepped forward, took hold of her hands and gently but firmly held her while Mr Stanley completed the ritual Formal Caning.

And finally it was over. Mr Rawlings released Susan's hands, but she just lay stretched over the desk, sobbing and churning. He reached out and gently patted the chestnut head. The Head's voice: 'Right you are, gentlemen. I think that concludes the proceedings. I thank you for your attendance.'

* * *

Afterwards? Well, there was 36 Albany Terrace at 8 o'clock that evening of course. Susan, feeling dreadful, nonetheless went because she had no real option – not after what Mr Pritchard had said at lunchtime. The Formal Caning had been just unspeakable – the actual dreadful caning itself and, perhaps even more, having it in front of all the men teachers. The pain in her poor bottom had slowly abated afterwards but the feeling of abject humiliation remained as strong as ever while she had her tea (in fact just sitting there, hardly eating anything) and then afterwards as she sat upstairs alone in her room. But... there was nothing for it but to go round to Mr Pritchard's at 8 o'clock...

The prim voice again, now smug and gloating. 'Well, my girl: now you see what happens to girls who try to go their own way and refuse to cooperate with a master's wishes.' He led her into his study. 'Right. Let's have a look at you. Take your knickers off and bend over the stool.' A tall stool very similar to the one in his school office was in the centre of the room. 'Head down, fingertips on the carpet... Go on, stretch.'

Susan complied, she simply had to. He flipped up her skirt. The marks of the caning were still discernable on the rounded buttocks: the twin tightly bunched groupings from the Head and the Deputy Head, together with the less precise pattern resulting from the other two masters' efforts. George Pritchard gazed, eyes gleaming... Then his hand came down in a sharp slap across the bare bottom.

'Right. Get up!'

She stood miserably before him, wondering fearfully what was next... but for the moment it was nothing. 'I think you've had enough for one day, Miss. We won't overdo it. But I shall require you to report to me here each Friday evening from now on. We will then discuss the previous week's work and behaviour and I shall mete out whatever punishment I think is necessary – over this stool.'

Then, as an afterthought, he added, 'Oh, there is one other thing, before you go.' His eyes were shiny, boring into her. His voice thickened when he spoke again.

'I think a little extra smartness – an element of formality – would be appropriate for these visits. Therefore you may wear your school uniform or a dress as you think fit. But in addition I should like nylons and a suspender belt. And a smart pair of heeled shoes. Yes. Otherwise... I think that's all...'

Yes, that was 8 o'clock at 36 Albany Terrace. But there was one further thing: another note, addressed to Miss Susan Roberts and delivered again by Mr Bert Davis to 17 Frobisher Avenue, this time on the following Monday morning at 7 am. Another innocent-looking brown envelope which, when opened in the privacy of Susan's room, was again seen to have the School Crest... Headmaster: R.A. Harrison, M.A.... etc. The date was yesterday, 17th May. Numbly she read it:

Dear Miss Roberts,

Further to recent events and the Formal Caning of Friday, I have now discussed this matter with the Chairman of Governors who, I must tell you, was shocked and deeply concerned to hear of your behaviour. He was of the opinion that a single Formal Headmaster's Caning was hardly sufficient punishment for such quite unacceptable behaviour, especially in view of the serious effect it could have on the good name of the School.

I must tell you that the possibility of expulsion was seriously considered but I was able to argue against this in the light of your excellent behaviour in the past and also in view of your coming GCE 'A' Level examinations next year. What was decided therefore was that for the remainder of your school career – i.e. the rest of this term and all of next year – a number of senior masters will be given permission to cane you as and when they see fit. These masters are: Mr Rawlings, Mr Dale, Mr Pritchard, Mr Fulton, Mr Stanley and Mr Peacock.

Accordingly, tomorrow (Monday) you will take this note round to each master in this list and ask him to sign it, and then bring the fully signed note to me at the end of school the same day. I may say however that this arrangement (as with the Formal Caning) does not need to be made public. Thus if you co-operate your parents need not be informed and there is also no need for other members of the School to know anything of this.

Signed: R.A. Harrison, Headmaster.

Susan read the note. Re-read it. Looked blankly, numbly, at the wall. Two tears welled in the corners of those hazel-green eyes... and slowly trickled down the pretty cheeks.

It was all so terribly unfair – when she had done nothing at all wrong, not broken any rules. But at the same time it was all part of growing up and the lessons that have to be learned. One lesson of course was that it is usually better to co-operate with those in positions of authority, even when it does seem unpleasant. And the other, wider, lesson? Well, that life can be unfair. That at times in fact it is very unfair indeed and one just has to accept it.

Yes it was for Susan all part of a very painful lesson. A lesson which for the next three terms and more her tender rear was going to be learning pretty thoroughly.