Friday, 17 December 2010

Teddy's Narrative

Story from Phoenix 44.

Teddy's Narrative

A girl's Teddy Bear normally keeps a strict code of silence. But Miss Jennifer was so naughty the story has to be told.

It is pitch-dark in the bedroom and the hands of the Micky Mouse clock point to five-past-midnight. Miss Jennifer lies in the big bed; she wears no pyjamas and she is crying. She lies on her tummy because her bottom is throbbing with bruised heat. She has been bitterly caned and big silver tears roll down her soft cheeks and soak into my fur. I'm a very wet Teddy Bear.

All the toys in the nursery saw the caning. The tin soldier stood very stiff all the time it was happening. The abacus counted the strokes, and the musical-box thought of Handel's Water Music. Most of the toys felt sorry for Miss Jennifer who screamed and wept as Father caned. But I know what caused it all, and I think she deserved it.

About three moths ago Miss Jennifer took me to bed. "Oh Teddy," she said, nuzzling up to me, "Today I met the man that Mummy and Daddy want me to marry. And Teddy (a tiny tear came into her eye and she pouted her lips) I'm afraid I don't like him. She said a lot more which I won't bore you with, but I didn't like the sound of it. I said to myself: it doesn't matter if you like this boy or not Miss Jennifer. If the old Duke wants you to marry him... you'll marry him.

A few weeks later Miss Jennifer came home at five o'clock in the morning. She'd been to a big, society Ball. "Oh Teddy," she said. "That horrid man took me to the Ball tonight and afterwards kissed and kissed me. He wanted to go further but I didn't let him because I still don't like him."

That sounds like trouble I thought. The Duke and Duchess favour this young whipper-snapper, but Miss Jennifer still says 'No'.

And so matters went on for about a couple of months. Then one night the Duchess came into the bedroom for a serious, heart-to-heart with Miss Jennifer. The Duchess said the young man came from a very good family. It appears he has a title. He was also good looking, rich and sensible; a most suitable groom-to-be. Miss Jennifer must learn to like him. The Duchess didn't mince matters and finally Miss Jennifer dissolved in tears. Later, in bed, she asked me what to do.

I kept my mouth shut. It's more than a Bruin's job is worth to say anything. But I thought to myself: you'd better change your mind Miss Jennifer, or that cane behind the bedroom door will be in action. The Duke and Duchess are not to be disobeyed. Although Miss Jennifer is over the age of consent she would still be subject to the Duke's strict discipline.

To cut a long story short, about eight o'clock tonight Miss Jennifer came into the bedroom looking very shocked. "Oh Teddy," she said weepily, "Daddy had sent me upstairs; and you know what that means." Of course I knew what it meant and so did all the other toys. One of the younger dolls started sucking her thumb, the twin book-ends looked at each other and slowly shook their heads.

Miss Jennifer perched on the side of the bed and kicked her shoes off petulantly. She has dainty ankles and pretty feet. She raised one side of her skirt, unclipped a suspender and rolled one silky stocking down her shapely leg.

Mary-Anne, the big china doll noticed Miss Jennifer was gnawing her lip anxiously; obviously she was thinking of what was to come. She unclipped the other suspender and, with a heavy sigh, her other stocking came off. Miss Jennifer then sat with her skirt high over her thighs and her small hands gripped her knees which had begun to tremble slightly. Because the Duke was very angry and she felt very frightened.

If Mary-Anne the china-doll had had the least sip of water at this point she would have disgraced herself terribly, because Miss Jennifer looked so soft and loveable, so diminutive and helpless that the doll longed to tell her how sorry she was about Miss Jennifer's plight.

Miss Jennifer gave another sad sigh, and swallowed with some difficulty and her hands went to the waist-belt of her skirt. Then she stood up and unclipped the buckle. The dark material fell gently to the ground and Miss Jennifer stepped free of it. Now all the toys could see her lovely long legs, dimpled knees and smooth, slender thighs. Jack-in-the-Box looked straight at Miss Jennifer's soft, white, skimpy knickers which hardly covered a quarter of her precious bottom, and Jack-in-the-Box was no longer in the box.

Then Miss Jennifer stretched behind her to undo her bra, and as the hooks loosened she eased a delectable breast out of each bra-cup, then hung the lacy garment over the back of a chair. Gollywog's hair stood high on end because the bra seemed to have confined Miss Jennifer's breasts very slightly and as it came off they fell back into their natural shape, which is oval and not very big, but very soft and creamy.

I'm a lucky Teddy Bear because of all the toys, I'm the one who is hugged to Miss Jennifer's breasts as she whispers secrets to me in the dark. Sometimes – like right this minute – her breasts heave and tremble as she squeezes me against them because of the nasty, burning, pulsing pain in her punished bottom. At times like this my head gets very wet because Miss Jennifer uses my big fluffy ears to wipe her streaming eyes. As she dabs me to her, she moans softly and gives little whimpers through parted lips.

"Oh Teddy. Oh Teddy – darling – if only you knew how my bottom hurts just now. So do my thighs; I daren't move my legs because of the cane. Did you see how hard Daddy caned me? I just know the pain is going to go on all night. Even if I do manage to fall asleep, I'll wake up again, because I ache so much, and that part of me twitches and I can't do anything about it. I try to stop it but it's the result of Daddy hitting really badly."

"Oh Teddy... do you think the pain will ever go away?"

Now I know the pain will go away – eventually – because it always does. Miss Jennifer's bottom will get back to normal and those deep red marks will disappear. But it's no good saying anything because the old Duke has laid-in some master-strokes – inwards and upwards, undercutting the buttocks where they swell out. I had to admire his style. But it's no good telling Miss Jennifer not to cry, so I say nothing.

Anyway, let me get back to describing what happened earlier. You'll remember I was saying how Miss Jennifer was undressing.

Miss Jennifer stood by the bed in nothing but those wispy knickers and if Humpty Dumpty hadn't been just a poster on the wall, he would have fallen and smashed into a hundred pieces.

The fact is, I've know Miss Jennifer since she was born. I was put in the nursery even before she arrived. I've seen her grow up. She was a pretty child and she developed into one of the most desirable girls, certainly in our district, and maybe even in the County. I've loved her for 21 years: I even celebrated her 21st Birthday in bed with her – I'm not saying how!

Anyway, I knew what was going on in Miss Jennifer's mind. She was thinking she wouldn't take her knickers off. She simply wouldn't. She positively refused to because at 21 she was far-too-old to be caned; she had her rights and Daddy shouldn't bend her over when she was totally naked. It wasn't fair; she hated it; it made her feel so small. Worst of all it brought back memories of her teenage years when Daddy was dreadfully strict. In those days she never seemed to be away from the cane.

But then the big stuffed-owl on the mantle-piece caught her eye, who is always so knowing and wise. Then she thought about how furious Daddy was and if she didn't do exactly as she was told, when he came upstairs he'd probably double the number of strokes he was going to give her. So Miss Jennifer decided discretion was the better part; slowly, painfully and miserably she began to take her knickers off.

Her thighs parted just a little bit because the knicker-fabric had slipped tightly into somewhere. It does that quite often and I don't think Miss Jennifer really minds. She sucked-in her tummy, gave her hips a fabulous little wiggle (it's so sexy when she does that) and down came the knickers. I could see Miss Jennifer resented her nakedness and defencelessness and placed a delicate hand in front of her. I can't speak for Jack-in-the-Box, but none of the other toys looked at that place because we all felt sorry for her.

Miss Jennifer didn't have a stitch on. The only sound in the Nursery was the tick of the Micky Mouse clock and that seemed to be as loud as Big Ben. The toys held their breath: Miss Jennifer looked so lovely, slender, demure and afraid and they wished they knew how to help her.

I've watched the scene a thousand times, especially when Miss Jennifer was a teenager and I know there's absolutely nothing any of us can do. Miss Jennifer is going to be caned. She's going to yell and screech and wiggle about hopelessly. I can see the cane behind the nursery door. It hangs on a hook so easy for Daddy to reach when he comes – red-faced and angry – into the room. Nobody in the whole world would dare to move that cane; Daddy has said it must never be touched except by him. But he makes sure it hangs where Miss Jennifer can see it as she lies in bed.

Then there was a long wait during which Miss Jennifer became more tense and afraid because she couldn't help imagining what was going to happen.

Pained and miserable you might feel Miss Jennifer, this old Bruin said to himself, but not half so pained and miserable as you'll feel when the old Duke has done with you. His Grace made Miss Jennifer wait for about three-quarters-of-an-hour contemplating her nakedness and wondering if any girl alive could feel more wretched.

Then there were the inevitable footsteps on the stairs. Miss Jennifer went all tense and whimpered softly. The door opened, a hand reached out and that terrible, thin venomous cane came down from the peg and zipped and whistled through the bedroom air. The old Duke certainly had a head-of-steam on; I'd not seen him swing that arm so broadly for years. He swung round on Miss Jennifer, who crouched back down onto the bed in a hopeless attempt to getaway, and instead of pulling her up (as I thought he would) he pushed her downwards flat on her back.

Then he grabbed both her ankles in one huge hand, and hoisted them upwards, and pushed her legs right back over her head until one dainty little foot rested beside each ear. She was bent over double and her back was pressing into the mattress; needless to say her bottom-cheeks were totally exposed. Not a nice position to be caned in – but then what position is?

I could only guess the Old Duke was tired of arguing with Miss Jennifer over whether or not she was willing to accept that boy. And sure enough, that was the trouble, because – as he lifted the cane in the air – the old Duke said: "If you won't accept my choice of husband for you the easy way, then – by God – you'll marry him the hard way."

With those words, it began: Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! Down came the cane on that bare, white-skinned, adorable bottom and Miss Jennifer screamed as if she'd been touched with a red-hot iron and shouted: "No Daddy! No Daddy! Pleeeeese... noooooh!"

Miss Jennifer began to struggle, she tried to kick her legs free of the old Duke's grip but he pushed down on her hard, bending her back again into position so her bottom was fully and rudely presented. It was a good job it was only her Father who could see her like that.

I've seen Miss Jennifer caned at almost every age since the old Duke began to discipline her, but I can't think when I've seen her bottom jive so desperately as it did then. It swung to the right, the left, and back to the right again. It bounced upwards, boobed downwards, writhed, wriggled and jiggled in a dozen different angles, in a wild struggle to get away from the cane. The more it jiggled about the harder the old Duke pressed down; the force of the pushing made Miss Jennifer's cleft part slightly but the slash of the cane made her cheeks squeeze as tight as the spring in the wind-up song-bird, against the searing pain.

The toys were horrified. They thought it was the harshest whipping, the cruelest show, the most pitiful bouncing back-and-forth fight to escape they could remember. Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! That trusty old stick – which I've seen in action so often – continued its work, but never so fiercely as the Duke used it then. Even Lion, bravest of all the toys, drew his tongue over his lips.

Six terrible strokes Miss Jennifer got and the old Duke hurled the cane onto the duvet and stormed out of the room. Miss Jennifer rolled onto her tummy and curled into a tight ball. She squeezed and clenched and unclenched her cheeks, gasping, gulping, struggling hopelessly against the agonising pain.

Then – like she always does – she grabbed hold of me and I knew I was in for a soaking because she was howling and weeping and her tears would soon be all over me. Which is just how it turned out.

Right now Miss Jennifer is in a state half-way between sleeping and wakefulness. She's still flat on her tummy but instead of not daring to move, her body is slowly beginning to press itself into the mattress. She's putting most of the pressure on her lower parts which are starting to move in a gentle, rhythmic, sensuous way.

She snuggles her soft lips into my face and the last thing she whispers is: "Teddy Darling... will you please come on honeymoon with me." Then there are heavier breaths and bouncier movements and little squeaks of satisfaction before Miss Jennifer at last falls into fitful sleep.

Thursday, 16 December 2010

What cheeks!

Story from old Swish.

What cheeks!

"Mark, did you hear what that man said as he walked past us?", June asked. Together with her husband she was leaning over the rail of the top promenade on Brighton's seafront, her short grey skirt swaying gently above her knees.

"Said what?" Mark asked, drawn out of his contemplation of a luscious, peachy young bottom on the beach where a girl in her late teens lay face down on a towel, legs apart. – "He said.... he said, "She's got an arse I'd like to smack." Fancy saying a rude thing like that – about me!"

Mark almost grinned at that but managed not to. One of the first visual points that had attracted him to June had been the polished apple of her bottom when he had first encountered her at the age of eighteen sunning herself in her garden. Mark had been accompanying a friend there on a quick look-in visit, but his entire interest had centred on the lovely, leggy girl who seemed to have no inhibitions about the fact that her bikini was so skimpy that over half of her tits showed above, while below the backstrap of the sea-blue bikini bottom had almost worked its way entirely between her bulbing cheeks. It had occurred to Mark even then how often June must have got spanked for displaying herself around the house like that.

"Mark, you should tell him off!" June was protesting, and though Mark was the last person to want to seek a barney in public, he sensed that his bride of eight months would think him a weakling if he didn't do something.

Striding after the man and wondering what on earth he was going to say anyway, Mark reached him and his girl companion – who was at least half the man's age – and tapped him on the shoulder, saying rather selfconsciously, "Here – I say!" – "Pardon? Yes?", the man responded and then turned, making Mark adopt an entirely different expression.

"Good Lord, it's you, Roger!" he exclaimed while Lucy, who Mark also knew from a couple of years back, turned and smiled, her tits jiggling under her loose top. Lucy was the same age as June, though those two didn't know one another. Roger was the eldest of the four, in his forties, and kept a sort of antique shop, one of the curiosities of which was that he often had a bundle of old canes and birches somewhere in the back for 'interested enquirers'.

Explanations quickly followed between the two men. – "I wasn't being offensive, I was praising you, June", Roger was saying all of ten minutes later when the four stood in the bar at a nearby, seafront hotel. June shrugged and looked coy while she and Lucy continued casually eyeing one another up. – "Yes, he's always saying things like that when he sees a pretty girl, June," Lucy said, which brought a bit of a more pleased look to June's well-made-up face, bringing her to say, "Well, I s'pose it's all right; we didn't know who you were, of course".

"Let me make up for it by buying you lunch", Roger suggested, adding "Or we could have a sandwich in my room, or Lucy's, upstairs. It's a bit more relaxing. I love room service, don't you?" – "Room service? Oh yes, it's nice to be waited on", June replied vaguely while Lucy giggled and sidled up to her saying, "I get it all the time -room service, I mean, do you?"

"Eh?", asked June. The four were already drifting towards the lift. – "Oh, she's kidding you, June; she only gets spanked occasionally, that's all – the way Mark spanks you, I expect", Roger said frankly as the lift whirred up. – "Oh no, he's never...", June began but stopped at a nudge from her husband and a quick look that said silently, "Don't make me look stupid, June".

"Really never?" Lucy asked. The passage up to the second floor was quick and an empty corridor received them. In no time at all they were in Roger's room and June's quick eyes picked up the communicating door between the bedrooms. Following her look, Lucy laughed and said, "Oh, just in case". – "She means in case she needs attention of some sort", Roger put in and made a phone call for sandwiches and coffee, plus a follow-up drink.

"On holidays you can do anything – that's the nice thing", Lucy said and threw herself down on her back on the double bed, ceiling-gazing and showing her stocking tops, which made June flush and try to look away. "Romances, you mean? That sort of thing?", June asked, hoping that the subject of spanking wasn't going to be brought up.

"Not really. Something more out of the way, she means. Don't you, Lucy?" Roger asked provocatively. – "Yes? Tell us then", Mark said. He had an idea where they were leading and with a sudden kick he realised that with the four of them in one room there were distinct possibilities. He had always resented June's apparent prudishness in some things after the way she had always paraded her 'perfect peach' around. She had looked even more provocative than Lucy in those days – if that were possible.

"Well, I mean....", Lucy began, but then came the waitress and conversation died away until she had gone. – "I mean, in a hotel room it's just really private; you can let yourself go, better than you can when you're at home sometimes", Lucy offered. She had sat up but hadn't pulled her skirt down. Her black suspenders showed. Mark thought of the canes in Roger's shop – the old canes that must have seared so many bottoms – and felt a quick tingle in his loins. He wondered if Lucy had been Rogered as well as spanked.

"I dunno", June said and had a funny feeling that she wanted to escape or at least get the subject changed, but they weren't going to let her. Lucy started to talk about her first canings at school and Mark and Roger were listening like it was the gospel, June thought resentfully. Only when Roger asked, "And how about you, June?", did she start and blush. – "Oh no, not me", she answered quickly, making him raise his eyebrows and ask, "Never? Really never?"

"But you were spanked, June, weren't you?", Mark broke in. Dammit, he had been wanting to ask her that for some eighteen months, even before they were married. A luscious tight bum like hers couldn't have gone untended, surely. But Roger meanwhile saw June's hesitation and read through it, even as Lucy did. She gave her uncle a quick wink as if to say, "Go on!" A tight feeling of excitement was in her. She got up and put the two trays of empty plates and cups and glasses aside – that small gesture giving June a strange feeling that something odd was going to happen. Besides, Roger had a funny look on his face. And then with the completion of Lucy's bit of 'tidying', he got up from his chair and said quietly, "Come on, June; shall we find out?"

"WHAT?" blurted June in amazement. He had got hold of her wrist and was pulling her up. She didn't want to have anything to do with this near-stranger, she thought, but Roger knew that feeling, too. Girls always felt like it when they had their bottoms unpeeled for the first time and perhaps had to bend over in a college study under the interested, searching eye of a Head.

"Mark! Stop this! What's happening? Ah, NO! You can't do this! I want to go out, I want to.... NAAAAR!" came June's screech as Roger literally hauled her to the side of the bed and jerked, "Quick, Lucy, get the cane! Mark – you deal with Lucy. Isn't this what hotel rooms are for?"

"You DARE! Mark, I'll never speak to you again if you.... Oh, my god, no – stop it!" June cried in an anguish of apparent embarrassment as her brief, flimsy skirt was flipped up to the admiration of all three. Her nylons were sheer and tanned, taut at the tops where suspender drew on them, bringing the darker rings to small peaks. Her panties were powder blue, translucent, the pert cheeks gleaming half visibly beneath, the firm twin half-peaches bulbing out naked on either side of the thin, stretched material.

"June, it's just a bit of fun", Mark said with excited desperation. Lucy had scuttled through the party door so quickly to fetch the cane that she was back in a trice, handing it to Roger who said in a clipped voice, "You hold her down, Mark, you have to", and this producing another good screech from June of "Oh my god, no! Not in front of.... oh, you SOD!" as Mark clipped her shoulders down, pressing her mouth and nose into the bedcover while Roger swiftly peeled her tiny panties down and got them off her struggling legs.

"I'm going to tell my mother and every.... YEEE-AAAARCH!" came June's piercing cry as the cane took her full across her cleft orb, and therewith a barking interruption from Roger of "Be QUIET, June, and put it up now, put it up! You may have escaped a spanking in the past, young lady, but your time is due now". – "It isn't, it isn't! When I get out of here I'm going to.... GEEE-OUCH!"

"You're going to WHAT, June – what?" Roger growled. The second one he had given her had been too quick for his liking, but it was the way he had had to deal with Lucy once until he had tamed and trained her. June's fists were beating on the bed, her back squirming as she tried to resist the pressure of Mark's hands, and to no avail. Already, as Lucy could see in I profile, Mark had a hard stand-on that was poking up into his trousers. In fact both men had. It was exciting and would be even more so if June would only control herself.

"June, listen.....", Lucy began, kneeling up on the bed on the opposite side of the struggling young woman so that she faced Mark. – "NO, Lucy – she has to learn. I believe she did once, and she's forgotten it. Isn't that so, June?" Roger asked.

For a moment only June's wild sobs could be heard as she strove to contain the fierce burning of those two strokes across her hitherto uncaned bottom. Yes, it had been spanked several times in the past, and especially when she flaunted herself in her bikini, but she wasn't going to tell them that. She remembered how her wild sobbings had filled the house then and how she had been spanked the harder until she had subsided mewing and had felt her bikini bottom then being stripped carefully down to reveal the hot, reddened state of her quivering bum-cheeks while her squirmings had caused the hump of her unveiled pussy to rub shamelessly on her duvet until she felt sicky and funny, and then the curtains had been pulled together, and.....

"NO!" June gritted rebelliously now. In struggling, her pink-streaked bum came unguardedly higher up for a moment, giving Roger his sought-for chance to whip one up under her orb – under the ledge of it where she would really feel it. And June did. – "YEEE-EEEK!" she squealed. "Mark, if you d... d... don't stop this, stop him, I'll.... NEEE-AAAARGH!"

"I don't often cane a girl like this, June", Roger cut in across her rising wail, "I like to take my time, June, and that is what I'm going to do eventually with you – when you've quietened a bit, that is. You ARE going to quieten down, June, aren't you – ARENT you, eh?" and with that another brief flick of the cane brought yet another squeal and the wild, surprising cry from June of, "Yes, yes, yes – all right!" Scorched as her hot apple felt, June felt desperate in that moment and no longer had the energy to press up against her husband's restraining hands. Even her legs had slopped kicking and hung limp, thighs tremoring, a reddened hue spreading fully over her once pale but apple-firm cheeks.

For a moment then a near silence fell on the room – a silence as ripe with expectancy as June's flaring bum was. – "I want....", Lucy said suddenly and slipped off the bed, looking coy, and Roger said simply, "Yes. Mark – take her into her room. There's another cane in there".

"HAAAR, Mark, no! If you do..... NEEE-OW!" – but this was June's weak cry, of course, and with it came such a searing, searching passage of the whippy cane again across her quivering hot bumchceks that she actually reared for a moment and then slumped again, her fingers scrabbling wildly at the bedcover. As Mark released his pressure on her shoulder, so he expected her to spring up, but June didn't. Her face turned away from him, her eyes half closed, lips trembling.

"Quickly", Roger said and nodded towards the door to which Lucy was already coyly retreating. Lucy was still very good at looking coy, Roger thought approvingly, if not also admiringly. She only needed three or four strokes nowadays to bring her on, but Mark wouldn't know that. Not at first, anyway....

It had been eleven forty when the married couple had first encountered the other pair. It was two forty when they finally left. – "We'll have dinner first – say eight o'clock this evening", Roger's last words to them were. As for June, she held her head strangely high, her tears long dried and her make-up restored. For a long time she didn't speak and refused to let Mark hold her hand, but in a matter of twenty minutes they were in their own room at a hotel just a few hundred yards along the front.

"I'm not.....", June said suddenly and sat in a chair by the bed, clenching her fingers together. Mark looked at her sadly. Everything depended now on what both said and did, and he knew it. – "They're only staying here over the weekend", he said, and drew the curtains aside to look down at the promenade. – "When you were in the other room with that girl....", June said and stopped again. – "It's only for dinner tonight", Mark responded, but he didn't turn to look at her. Right now June didn't want to be looked at too much, he thought. – "Oh that's what he SAID!" she sneered. "If you want to go – go with that girl as I'm sure you did, you can, but I'm not. I'm..."

"June! Shut UP!" Mark uttered decisively, bringing a gasp from her, but – to his relief – no shouted reply. – "B... but, you don't understand what he.... I mean, what he.....", June said and began blubbering while Mark watched dispassionately and then moved towards her and bent slightly over her, stroking her hair. If she had really meant to leave, she wouldn't have begun immediately packing her things, he told himself and – better – June knew that HE knew that. Her blubbering was a cover. He didn't need to be told what she had succumbed to on the bed afterwards while at the same time Lucy's hot bottom was bumping passionately into him. He knew and June knew. It was a part of it. He felt pretty sure by now that it hadn't exactly been her first lesson, either.

"Come on, we'll go down to the beach, June", Mark said suddenly. "But Mark, you don't understand – I'm not going to.... Oh, Mark, please. I don't want to!" wailed June, albeit softly as he led her out of the room again. It was his turn not to speak now. She would appreciate that. Her wail had been phoney, and they both knew it. It was too late to turn back now, and she knew that, too. Too late. They were both suddenly in another compartment of life. True, they could shift in and out of it at will, but not right now. There was something that June had to re-learn. Obedience was the only word for it, corny as it might be – and she had been obedient under Roger on the bed afterwards. Mark knew that, even though she had got her knickers back on by the time he and Lucy (a well-pumped Lucy) had reappeared in the neighbouring bedroom.

There hadn't been time for June to smooth the centre of the ruffled bed, and she had been conscious of that, too. They had only used the side of the bed when she was being caned. There had to be a real lesson for June tonight – and that too was the half-excited, half-scared thought that was in her own mind as well. – "I wish – I wish we had done it together", Lucy had blurted afterwards, but Roger had silenced her with a look as if to say, "Yes, but don't say it, Lucy".

It was Roger who directed everything – or maybe she had always wanted to be directed, June thought dully when her dragging footsteps led her at last into the bedroom with them again. It was Mark who pleaded with her then, "Don't make too much noise tonight, June", but it was Roger who said crisply. "Don't ask her, Mark; she has to learn. Isn't that the way it used to be, June?"

And as smoothly as if he owned her, Roger swept one arm up beneath her skirt and held her plump, knickered pussy firmly cupped then while June stared at him and Mark and Lucy and dared not move. Distantly she realised that Lucy was quickly slipping her own dress and knickers off and that one silent cane waited on the bed. Mark wasn't going to take Lucy into the other room this time. June realised that too as Roger turned her about and led her towards the bed.

"You're going to be a good girl tonight, aren't you, June?" Roger was murmuring as he bent her over, stripped her knicks down and picked up the cane. And June remembered those selfsame words long ago, and her bikini bottom lying on the floor, and the curtains being drawn, but this time there were two waiting, urging cocks – not just one.....

Wednesday, 15 December 2010

St. Eva's Naughty Girls

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.4

St. Eva's Naughty Girls

St. Eva's Boarding School for Girls is a posh and very expensive establishment. My name's Helen Rodwell and I'm the new games mistress at St. Eva's. My predecessor as games mistress at the school had been a Miss Lesley Brandon who had, I gathered, resigned her appointment somewhat abruptly at the end of the previous term for what were described to me as "personal reasons". My own previous job had been with a girl's day school in the midlands, and I moved to St. Eva's because the pay was much better. I knew that St. Eva's, under its headmistress Miss Pincombe, was reputed to be progressive in its educational methods. Despite this reputation I was surprised to find, when I arrived at St. Eva's, that not only was good old-fashioned whipping still retained at the school, but also that the duty of carrying out most of the corporal punishment of the girls fell upon the games mistress! The use of the cane at the school was well known to all the pupil's parents, and in many cases parents had intentionally sent their spoilt and unruly daughters to St. Eva's for the sake of the extra discipline that they might not feel able to administer in the home. I was told that the games mistress, rather than other members of the staff, was required to carry out most of the canings because it was to be expected that she would be stronger and in better training than the others for the wielding of the rod to best effect.

I myself had had no previous experience of caning pupils as corporal punishment had been abolished some years ago at the midlands day school. During my own school days, however, I had tasted the cane and the strap on my own bare upturned bottom on a number of occasions so I knew what it was like at the receiving end. I felt confident that I would soon pick up the technique of administering punishment to others and be able to satisfy the head mistress and other members of the staff about my abilities in that direction. I must admit that I rather looked forward to this aspect of my duties. I'm a strong believer in the desirability of retaining corporal punishment in schools — not only for boys but also for girls who these days are just as badly behaved as boys and in some cases much worse. I'm just twenty three years of age now so I still have a fresh recollection of what it was like to be caned, and I know that it had a good moral effect on me. At first I hated it because of the humiliation of exposing my bare buttocks to mistresses or prefects and the pain of the caning; but after a few experiences I began to feel a sense of excitement when waiting to be caned, and I recall how the initial pain began to be mixed with a stimulating glow of warmth which was in no way disagreeable. I'm not a sadist by nature, but I now looked forward to applying the cane upon others not only for its disciplinary effect but also to see whether the sensuous stimulation I had experienced was also felt by those whom it might fall to my lot to whip.

On my arrival I quickly made friends with Susie Bastin who was one of the house mistresses and was about the same age as me. Over an evening cup of coffee in her school flat I asked her if she could give me a few tips about caning methods at St Eva's. "Gladly," she said. "By good luck there will be an opportunity to do so almost at once. I've just been told by Diana, the head prefect, that she's discovered Lisa, who is in my house, in a compromising position in the games pavilion with Lisa's boy friend. He had climbed over the wall at the far end of the assignation which he and Lisa must have made by telephone. They were drinking gin, Diana tells me, and they were apparently doing quite a lot more than that, judging by the disarray of their clothes when they were discovered. In the ordinary way Diana would herself have dealt with minor breaches of discipline and administered a whipping or other suitable punishment there and then. But in this case she felt that Lisa's offence was so serious that it ought to be reported to the head mistress, and I agree with Diana. So the first thing tomorrow morning I and Diana will be taking Lisa before Miss Pincombe for her to decide what should be done. She might of course expel Lisa, but her parents are influential people, so my guess is that Miss Pincombe will instead sentence Lisa to a good whipping by you and let her stay on at the school." "If that happens, when would Lisa be punished?" I asked. "Probably tomorrow after school lunch. I expect Miss Pincombe will make an announcement when the meal is over."

Sure enough, when Susie Bastin and Diana led Lisa to the head mistress's study next morning, Miss Pincombe was very angry at what she called Lisa's depravity, and, after threatening to expel her, said that this time she would let her off with eight strokes of the cane to be administered later in the day by me. Lisa, a fine big busty blonde of sixteen years, was no stranger to the feel of the cane on her handsome posteriors, and smiled and chattered cheerfully during lunch to shew her admiring friends that she did not fear what was coming to her. Indeed, many of her friends envied Lisa her experience with her boy friend in the pavilion, and would willingly have taken a caning as a small price for such fun. Miss Pincombe rang her table bell at the end of lunch rising to her feet, said in a clear voice "Lisa, stand up in front of the school. You have been guilty of a serious offence against school discipline. I need not recount the unsavoury details of her misbehaviour for I gather that it is now common gossip throughout the school. You have earned sharp punishment, Lisa, and you will now accompany Miss Bastin and our new games mistress Miss Rodwell to the gymnasium. Diana, as you reported the matter to me in your capacity of head prefect, you will also accompany them and give any assistance which may be necessary." So we trooped off down the centre aisle of the hall, Lisa smiling and waving pertly to her friends, and across the courtyard to the gym.

Lisa, knowing the routine, first went to the loo in the shower room attached to the gym, and was told by Diana to leave the cubicle door open in case she attempted to escape through the window or to pad herself with any protection. Lisa knew better than to try any of these tricks and after she had finished and replaced her clothes she returned to the gym where the rest of us stood round the vaulting horse. "Take off your knickers," said Susie Bastin, "and put them on that chair." As Lisa lifted her skirts and pulled down her knickers it became apparent that she was also wearing tights, a garment not allowed to be worn by the pupils of St Eva's. "Off with them too," cried Susie, "you've got a nerve to be wearing them when you know they are not allowed. Miss Rodwell will no doubt make the caning extra hard because of that." Lisa reluctantly rolled off her tights, revealing glimpses of charms that were remarkably mature for her age. She slipped on her shoes again over her now bare feet, put her tights with her knickers on the chair and, without having to be told, strutted defiantly to the vaulting horse and bent over it. Diana had lowered the legs of the horse to a suitable height for Lisa's buttocks to be presented at a convenient level and angle for the punishment. Diana pulled up Lisa's skirts to her shoulders and pinned them there with a safety pin, thus exposing the full and very attractive curves of Lisa's ample buttocks to our interested gaze. Diana, taking a key from her pocket, unlocked a narrow cupboard on a nearby wall and took out two long slender bamboo canes with curved walking-stick-type handles and handed them to Susie and me to select the weapon for the punishment. "You'll see, Helen," said Susie, "that they are both about thirty inches in length but that this one is heavier than the other and therefore more effective, as I am sure Diana will confirm. She has had a taste of both of them from Miss Brandon in the days before Diana mended her ways and became a prefect." Diana nodded agreement, and ruefully rubbed her bottom as if in recollection of things past. "It's up to you to decide, of course," said Susie to me, "but if I were you I'd start by giving Lisa four strokes with the lighter cane to warm her up, and then finish her off with four strokes with the heavier cane." This seemed sensible so I took the lighter cane in hand. Lisa had raised her head during this consultation and eyed with interest and apprehension the instrument that was about to make her tingle.

Being right handed, I took up my position on the left hand side of Lisa's gracefully curved body. I raised the cane and brought it down on her buttocks as hard as my inexperience would allow. I must admit that it was not a very good effort, as the cane slanted across Lisa's left buttock and the tip caught the upper part of her right thigh, producing a bright pink mark at once on the tender white skin. Lisa uttered a yelp of pain but gripped the other side of the horse tightly to check the temptation to move. With practically no pause after the first stroke, I began to raise my arm at once to deliver the second stroke, but Diana checked me in mid-air and suggested that it might be better to allow a longish pause between each stroke to make the punishment more effective and to give time for careful aiming. I counted to fifteen and then made the cane whistle through the air for the second stroke – a much better effort, I'm glad to say, and dead straight across the tops of both buttocks, landing with a crisply satisfying crack. Lisa's body lifted involuntarily and she gave a small cry but held firm. "Oh, good shot," said Susie, just as if she had been applauding a boundary stroke at cricket, but it was evident from the expression on Lisa's face that she did not share Susie's admiration of my effort.

Again I slowly counted aloud to fifteen and unleashed the third stroke which made a neat pink murk parallel to the second stroke, leaving a white strip in between them. Lisa gritted her teeth but uttered no cry. I had noticed that Lisa, thanks no doubt to frequent canings in the past, had developed a clever technique whereby she tightened the muscles of her behind just before the stroke landed, thus presenting a firm surface to the cane and no doubt reducing the pain. I resolved to outwit her by catching her unawares when the flesh was relaxed and the effect of the stroke would be greater. So when I resumed counting for the fourth stroke I delivered it unexpectedly on the count of twelve when Lisa was unprepared and had not tightened up her glutea maxima. The effect was remarkable. Lisa gave a snort of pain and stood up, clutching her hands to her striped behind. "That wasn't fair," she started to say, but Susie Bastin and Diana were by her side in a twinkling. "Bend over again, and keep your position without moving," said Susie, "or we'll have to increase the number of strokes. You've still got four to come and with the heavy cane too, so any extra strokes will also be with the heavy cane, and you wouldn't like that at all, would you, Lisa? Just keep still from now until the end of the shipping!"

Lisa saw there was no alternative, shrugged her shoulders and draped herself over the horse again, presenting to our view the shapely bottom with its four pink stripes. Diana took the light cane from me and handed me the heavy cane in its place. I swished it through the air over Lisa's head to get the feel of it. It was straight and true in its action and nicely balanced like a good fishing rod and I felt that I could perform creditably with it. Lisa didn't like the swishing of the rod over her head. Her muscles involuntarily contracted and her buttock cleft opened and closed at each air stroke and I could sense the growing tension. I then began my counting, but this time continued to twenty before bringing the heavy rod down on her posteriors with a noise like a rifle shot. The effect on Lisa was electric. She uttered a yelp of pain and indignation, and her buttocks and legs shook, but by a supreme effort she held her position and resisted the temptation to stand up again. The heavy cane produced a mark of deeper red which contrasted piquantly with the four pink lines etched on Lisa's bare behind by the lighter cane.

I felt that I had now mastered the basic principles, but I wasn't sure whether I had acquired a good style. "Susie," I said, "I'd like to see you give Lisa the next stroke, and then I think Diana should give the next after that, before I finish with the eighth and final visitation on this naughty lady's bum." "Gladys," said Susie, "Lisa's been making trouble for some time and, as her house mistress, I'd like her to feel a taste of the rod from me." Susie knew how to make a full use of the length of the cane to achieve maximum acceleration at the moment of impact. As a trained games player I could appreciate the graceful rhythm of Susie's swing, her skilful wrist action, and the way in which the cane kept on smoothly gathering momentum right through to its contact with Lisa's agreeably protruberant mounds of flesh that had no doubt given great pleasure only recently to her male companion in the games pavilion. Susie's stroke was distinctly better than mine and Lisa didn't like it at all. She squealed again and a tear formed in each eye, but she hung on grimly to the horse, knowing that the punishment would be extended if she moved.

Diana's stroke, the seventh in the tally for Lisa, was not quite in the same class as Susie's, either for style or effectiveness but it shewed much natural aptitude which I felt should be encouraged. "That's a good effort, Diana," I said when she handed me the cane. I took up my position again, this time adopting refinements of stance and angle that I had noted from seeing Susie in action. Counting slowly and steadily to twenty and drawing the cane right behind me as I did so, I unleashed it with all the strenght of my arm on Lisa's lovely posterior globes. She did not move nor cry out as I had expected she would. Perhaps she feared that any hasty abandonment of her bending position would incur fresh strokes of the cane. As she hung over the horse in her exposed and submissive attitude I thought I could see a softer and less defiant look steal across her pretty face. Perhaps she had learnt a lesson and would in the future be more amenable to school discipline than she had been in the past? Who knows – she might even be come a prefect herself and be authorised to inflict on others the sort of chastisement that she herself had received this afternoon.

I bade her stand up. As she did so she ruefully fingered the weals on her buttocks, but managed to give a wry smile which shewed she bore no ill will. Susie, as her house mistress, said "Well, Lisa, that's over and done with. At least you can think yourself lucky that Miss Pincombe did not order you to be punished in front of the whole school or else expelled. I'm sure one or other of those will happen if you are in serious trouble again. So watch your step and mend your ways. You could do well in school if you would only apply yourself more keenly to work and games and restrain your tendency to be insubordinate and rebellious. As for boys, you'd better have fun with them during the holidays but not during term time." "Miss Bastin," said Lisa contritely, 'I'm really sorry I've been naughty and I'll try my best to give you no cause for complaint again."

Diana unpinned the back of Lisa's skirt and picked up the two canes and put them away in the cupboard. Lisa made to put on her tights and knickers, but Susie restrained her. "You can wash your tights and hand them to me to keep for you until the end of term, and you needn't put on your knickers yet as Diana will go up to the dormitory with you and put some witch hazel on your weals." As Diana and Lisa were departing I called out to Lisa "I'll see you on the hockey pitch at three o'clock. Don't be late – it's the first round of the inter-house shield!"

Lisa duly turned up with the rest of her team. She walked a little stiffly but gave me a cheerful smile, and I was glad to see that she really put her heart into the game and scored one of the goals for her side. Near the end of the second half she tripped in a melee and fell heavily and appeared to be in pain. At first I thought it was because of her cane-striped bottom, but when I went over I found she had twisted her back. Two of her team helped her to the touch line where I told her to stay until the end of the game a few minutes later. Both teams then trooped over to the showers attached to the gym, Lisa hobbling along with her arms round the shoulders of two friends to support her. "Off with your clothes, girls," I called out. Twenty two naked chattering teen-age girls amid the steam of the showers made a pretty sight. Lisa was naturally the focus of much interest: girls gathered round her to look at her weals and finger them: and Lisa was equally keen to shew herself off to her admirers despite the pain her twisted back was clearly giving her. I walked up and down the line of girls to make sure that they all soaped themselves thoroughly, especially in the places that mattered, and rinsed the soap off afterwards. If there is one thing I dislike, it's the odour of stale sweat on bodies after games.

"Now, girls," I called out, "I've got to give Lisa some massage for her twisted back. Are there any other girls with injuries that need attention? If so, stand beside Lisa at the massage table and I'll deal with you." Charlotte, a pretty auburn-haired girl of sixteen joined her, complaining of a twisted knee. Then Angela, a dazzling blonde, came forward, saying that she had had cramp in her thigh during the game: I was a bit suspicious of this as I had seen no sign of Angela having cramp, but I took her at her word and motioned her into the massage queue.

I started with Lisa on the table while the other two girls looked on. Lisa, with her well-developed bosom and pelvis and slim waist, made a fine sight stretched out on her back on the table: it would not be long before she was a mature woman. Charlotte and Angela, being younger than Lisa, gazed at her with rapt attention. "Turn over face down, Lisa," I said "and let's see if we can cure your back." She did so, and once again I was able to study closely the eight weals on her upstanding buttocks. Thanks to the passage of time and to the witch hazel applied by Diana, the fiery red of the cane marks was beginning to disappear, the prominent ridged weals were already subsiding, and a hand placed on Lisa's bottom caused little discomfort. I began to work en her back, rubbing and manipulating the strained muscles until she said the pain was much less. To give massage is tiring work, but I have always found it pleasant and rewarding especially when working on a beautiful body such as Lisa had. "You can get down now, Lisa, and make way for Charlotte. I expect you've got prep to do before supper, so you can get your clothes on and dismiss."

Charlotte took her place. Charlotte is smaller altogether than the robust Lisa, but nevertheless very attractive physically, with fine slim bones covered with soft pink velvety flesh. She had given her knee a nasty twist and it took me some time until I was able to give her relief. When Angela followed her on the table, Charlotte asked if she might stay until I had finished with Angela as she said she wanted to see how I would deal with a case of cramp as she, Charlotte, had once suffered from it. Although I had doubts about the genuineness of Angela's cramp, I said Charlotte could stay. Looking back on the occasion I was glad that Charlotte did stay for reasons which will emerge later in this story.

I looked carefully at Angela lying stretched out on her back on the table as I felt I might be dealing with a "difficult" case and did not wish to miss any clues which might help me to understand what lay behind Angela's request. When I had seen Angela on the hockey field I had assumed that she was a typical blonde with long fair hair streaming behind her as she ran. But now I saw from the evidence displayed in front of me that she was in fact a natural brunette! "Why have you bleached your hair, Angela?" I asked, "it's not a very sensible thing to do at your age, and it will make your hair brittle." "Oh, Miss Brandon made me do it. She said it would make me more feminine and attractive. She did it for me in her room, using peroxide. She was always very nice to me and I liked her very much. I cried when she went away. I miss her."

I began to wonder whether there had been some special relationship between Miss Brandon and Angela, and whether perhaps this had some connection with Miss Brandon's rather sudden departure, but I was not yet in a position to question Angela further, particularly in the presence of Charlotte. "Really, Angela, how interesting to know the way in which you became a blonde! Well, turn over now and we'll see if we can deal with the cramp you say you had in the game, and Charlotte can see how cramp should be dealt with." Angela rolled over on her stomach and displayed her attractive back. Her slim waist and well formed hips were such as would give pleasure to anyone, and I idly speculated whether Lesley Brandon had also appreciated the aesthetic delights of Angela's young body. I worked over the back of Angela's left thigh where she said the cramp had attacked her but could find no trace of any hard knot of muscle. "There doesn't seem to be any trouble with cramp now, Angela. I think you must have invented it as an excuse to get on the massage table! If the cramp returns come and see me. Now run along you two and get on with your prep." I put my massage things away while Charlotte and Angela dressed and departed.

Before supper that evening I strolled along to see Susie Bastin in her flat. "Susie, tell me just why Lesley Brandon left so abruptly at the end of last term. Had it something to do with Angela?" Susie laughed and said "My word, you've been quick to discover the skeleton in St Eva's cupboard! Yes, Angela was indeed involved in Lesley's departure. Lesley was good-looking in a rather masculine way – butch, I think you might call it – and this undoubtedly appealed to some of the girls with inclinations subconsciously turned in that direction. Angela in particular fell for Lesley hook, line and sinker and had a real crush on her. It was distinctly unpleasant to see the way Angela fawned on Lesley and was always looking for opportunities to be in her company and to do things for her. It was still more unpleasant to see the self-satisfied way in which Lesley received these attentions from Angela. But there was nothing sufficiently positive about the matter for it to be possible to challenge it openly. And so the days passed until near the end of last term when the whole thing blew up unexpectedly. One evening after supper Miss Pincombe, wanting to see Lesley Brandon urgently about the cost of some extra gymnasium equipment that was to be discussed the following morning with the school governors, had gone round to Lesley's room and had tapped on the door. There was silence from within for a moment and then a sort of scuffling noise, followed by Lesley's voice asking who was there. When the head mistress identified herself, Lesley said "Just a moment, please, Miss Pincombe, and I'll open the door". This was followed by more scuffling noises, and then the door was unlocked and opened by Lesley to reveal Angela standing rather sheepishly on the other side of the room. Both Lesley and Angela were rather dishevelled, Lesley's lipstick was smeared, and the bed appeared to have been hastily re-made."

''And what happened, then?" I asked. Susie told me that Miss Pincombe had then asked in her iciest voice: "Exactly what is going on here?" Lesley had given a stammered and distinctly unconvincing explanation of how Angela had come round to see her in her rooms to consult her about the new off-side rule or some such games technicality – whatever it was, it can't have been a very convincing explanation. Miss Pincombe then packed off Angela to her dorm. The subsequent long conversation between Miss Pincombe and Lesley of course took place behind the closed door, but I know that it was a bitter and angry business and that Lesley had been forced to admit that the relationship between her and Angela was of a more personal nature than should exist between a member of the school staff and one of the pupils. Anyway, the upshot of it was that Lesley abruptly resigned her appointment. I gather that she had in fact been compelled to do so by Miss Pincombe as an alternative to being summarily sacked, which would have ruined Lesley's career, caused a scandal in St Eva's injured Angela, and horrified all the parents who had always regarded St Eva's as being an institution above moral reproach.

"How do you know all this, Susie?" I asked. "Oh, I managed to have a few hurried words with Lesley the next day before she loaded her car and departed. She did not deny that Angela had had a crush on her, and she more or less admitted that she had not rebuffed her. Later on I talked with Angela but couldn't get much out of her, except that she was very fond of Lesley – in love with her, she actually said – and that she was very upset when Lesley left the school."

All this surprising information left me speechless for a moment and then I began to understand why Angela had behaved as she had in the massage room after the game. Perhaps Angela now had a crush on me? Perhaps I had been chosen to replace Lesley as the object of Angela's worship and affections? How lucky that Charlotte had stayed on and acted unwittingly as chaperone for me! Susie agreed that it sounded very likely that I was now the object of Angela's affections. She warned me to be very wary in my dealings with Angela and to avoid getting trapped in the same situation which had led to Lesley's downfall. Any advances by Angela should, Susie suggested, be very firmly rejected. I thanked her for her advice and returned to the privacy of my room.

A little later that evening there was a tap on my door. "Come in," I called. The door opened and in walked Angela! "Well, Angela, and what are you doing here at this time of the evening when you ought to be in the dorm? What can I do for you?" Angela said that she had been given leave to stay up a bit late to finish off some prep, and that she had wanted to see me before she went to bed. She then approached me, grasped my hand and kissed it, and blurted out how much she loved me, even though she had known me for only a short time. She wanted me to be her special friend in the school now that she had lost Miss Bastin.

I withdrew my hand from Angela's and moved a pace or two away. "This won't do at all, Angela," I said gently. "I've heard all about you and Miss Bastin. You were very lucky not to have been expelled for your part in that affair. I'm not the same sort of person as Miss Bastin and I don't share her tastes. I have no intention of running the risk of losing my job through being compromised by you, is that clear, Angela?" Angela looked surprised and hurt. She must, in her inexperience of such things, have assumed that I would be automatically be ready to accept her in the way that the unfortunate Lesley had done. Angela, clearly not believing that I meant what I said, moved forward to try and embrace and kiss me. "Angela, how dare you? Keep your distance. Understand that the only relationship between you and me is that of pupil and school mistress. Your attitude is grossly insubordinate. You must be made to understand how disgracefully you have overstepped proper bounds."

"But Miss Rodwell, I love you and I can't live without you. If you won't have me I'll do something awful, I really will," she cried. "Angela, come to your senses and stop talking nonsense. It's high time you came down to earth, and I'm going to help you to do so by giving you a sound whipping this very evening to nip your ideas in the bud. Of course I can't compel you to take corporal punishment against your will. The alternative is for me to take you before Miss Pincombe to tell her of your attitude and of the highly improper advances you have made to me. In view of past history, there could be only one possible outcome – your immediate expulsion, with all the shame that would entail! Which is it to be, Angela – a whipping from me now or expulsion by Miss Pincombe?" Angela reddened to the roots of her peroxided hair and then grew pale as she pondered the distasteful choice. A long pause ensued. "Well, Angela, your answer please," I said. Falteringly Angela chose the whipping. "I'm going to ask Miss Bastin to be present," I said, "not only for my own protection but also to act as umpire so that you can't have an opportunity to accuse me of cruelty. While I am away calling her, you can go to the lavatory, and when you have finished there you can come back here and wait for us."

When I returned with Susie, to whom I had rapidly outlined developments since I had seen her earlier in the evening, Angela was standing in the middle of the room with an apprehensive look on her pretty face. I knew from the school whipping ledger that she had been corporally punished on previous occasions, but for fairly trivial offences. This evening was rather a special occasion and I hoped that it would imprint itself indelibly on her memory and discourage Angela's deviant propensities.

As the regular canes were locked in the gym, I had borrowed from Susie the two-tailed leather punishment strap that she kept handy for boarding house discipline. I swished it through the air to get the feel of it and found that it had a nice action. "Now, Angela," I said, "the object of this exercise is to punish you for your improper advances to me and to remind you that you must never again behave in that way. I propose to deliver six strokes of this tawse as hard as I can on your backside to cause you the maximum amount of pain. I shall expect you to take the whipping without moving or trying to avoid the lash, and I promise you that there will be extra strokes if you move. Is that clearly understood?" "Yes, Miss Rodwell" stammered Angela in a very subdued voice.

"Stand in the middle of the room with your feet well apart," I said, "and then bend right over and rest your hands on the seat of this foot stool." She obeyed, and I walked over and lifted her skirt and let it hang down from the waistband: as a result her head and arms were completely enveloped as in a bell tent because of the voluminous cut of the skirt. I made her stand up again and remove the skirt completely. As she stood there in front of us with her skirt removed I was able to examine her close-fitting nylon panties: they were pale lemon in colour, very sheer and expensive looking and cut high on the sides, revealing almost more than they concealed. Her peroxided head hair really was absurdly out of keeping with her natural hair colour as now revealed again! "We'll have the panties off too, Angela, if you please, and then you can bend down again, feet well apart, hands on stool." When she had complied, Susie and I were able to survey the attractive field of bare flesh on which I was about to operate. In that position, her rounded pink buttocks were beautifully presented for the strap, being taut and firm and at just the right level for the delivery of each stroke to best advantage. With her feet apart, the lower part of the cleft between the globes of her bottom was charmingly opened, revealing glimpses of those curl-fringed anatomical details that are normally invisible, and which suggested that Angela was already a woman in everything save years. Between her legs we could see her face upside down, framed in her long bleached hair.

"There will be a pause between each stroke to give you time for reflection, Angela. Make sure that you don't move!" I raised my arm and brought the strap down as hard as I could across the top end of the buttock cleft. The strap, being about an inch and a half wide, made a broad mark across her flesh: immediately after the moment of impact the mark was white, but in a few seconds it began to turn a fine shade of rose pink. Angela gasped but held her position and said nothing. I counted to twenty and brought the strap down again, this time lower down the cleft, and half overlapping the first stroke. Where the two strokes overlapped a darker red suffused the tender skin. Angela's body jerked a little and she gasped, but she held her position. "That was a good stroke," said Susie admiringly. I again counted to twenty and brought my arm down for the third stroke – one shift along the cleft and half overlapping the second stroke. The rainbow effect on Angela's posterior was now becoming most decorative, though she herself would not have appreciated it. During this stroke the tips of the strap had curled downwards on Angela's right side, making two neat red patches on the slope from buttock to hip. Angela groaned, but she still remained unmoving.

Again I counted to twenty, and the fourth stroke, delivered with as much strength as the previous three, completed the traverse of her bum-cleft, making the whole of her twin globes a continuous field of stripes in various shades of pink, red and deep red. I had to admire Angela for her fortitude and resolution – she had remained unmoved despite the pain she must be experiencing. At the same time I began to have a suspicion that she was also obtaining a certain amount of unintended sensual pleasure – a suspicion that was confirmed by the appearance of a moist gleam in the recesses of her partly opened buttock cleft. I had no wish to prolong her punishment if it was not having the intended effect. At the same time I felt that I must ensure that Angela realised that the whipping was intended for the purpose of discipline and moral guidance and not to give her a gratuitous sensual thrill.

I rapidly formed a plan in my mind. As I was counting for the next stroke I moved to my left so that I stood facing Angela's back with my feet on either side of the footstool on which her hands rested, and the back of her head against my knees. A surprised look came into Susie's face, and I could hear a grunt of astonishment and alarm from Angela below me, but I continued the measured pace of my count. At sixteen I raised my arm and took careful aim, and held myself poised until the count of twenty when I unleashed the strap along the full length of Angela's buttock cleft. The twin tongues of the strap flicked cunningly into the recesses of the cleft and reached those very parts, I may say, that were the real seat of Angela's affections and which had led her into so much trouble. Any pleasure that Angela may have been obtaining from the whipping now came abruptly to an end. The back of her head jerked involuntarily against my legs, but to her credit she did not move her legs nor try to stand up.

I stepped back and put the strap down. "Stand up, Angela," I said, I admire you for your courage and fortitude, and I will let you off the sixth stroke as a reward for taking you punishment so well. But I hope that this whipping, and particularly the fifth and last stroke and the way in which it was applied to your naked bottom, will remind you for a long time that good behaviour is the prince of virtues, and that in the rather unnatural and confined society of a boarding school improper intimacy between staff and pupils cannot be tolerated. You can put on your skirt again, and if you like you can carry your panties in your pocket as I expect you would appreciate a little cool night air under your skirt to allay the tingling of your bottom." "Thank you, Miss Rodwell," said Angela, "I'm really sorry I misbehaved so badly and I will honestly be better in the future. I realise now how wrong it was of me to try and make advances to you. Please forgive me. I'm so sore between my legs now that I won't forget the lesson in a hurry!" and she gave me a brave little smile. Susie gave Angela a friendly pat on the shoulder, said goodnight to me, and led Angela off to her dorm.

I am glad to say that ever since that evening when Angela felt the kiss of the lash on her bare bottom she had been a model pupil, treating me with polite and amiable respect, and shewing no resentment at the firm way I had dealt with her, nor has she again made improper advances to me. I for my part have learnt much from my initial essays in the art of administering corporal punishment, and looked forward to exercising my new skills whenever my services are called for in the future.

Monday, 13 December 2010

The American Spread-eagle

Story from Janus 58.

The American Spread-eagle
by John Undermeyer

DAWSON KENDALL, senior executive of Supremacy Studios (Hollywood) spoke tersely into his car telephone. 'We shall be home in 20 minutes,' he told his butler. 'Please see that Amelia and Romy are prepared, and waiting for me in the Blue Room.'

Prepared was a euphemism. It meant undressed – stripped to the skin, showered, lightly dusted with powder, and with a touch of expensive perfume to the nape of the neck, the inside of each elbow, behind the knees and at the back of each ear. It was important to Dawson that girls smell nice. Clean, fresh, wholesome, even toothsome, he thought, and swallowed some saliva that had gathered in his mouth.

If Dawson's 28-year-old beautiful driver had overheard the telephone call she showed no sign of it. Dawson dressed her all in black, with calf-length boots, breeches and a wide, tight-fitting waist-belt. He did not permit her a cap, however, lest it partly hide her beautiful face. She kept her gaze strictly on the road ahead, handling the limousine with a smoothness that came from eight years of loyal (and almost silent) service.

This Saturday morning, he had been watching the rushes of the studio's latest film. It was a pot-boiler; put together by a minor director on a low budget. Low, that is, compared to the cost of most films Supremacy turned out. Three million dollars was enough, he thought, but then the film should recoup several times that much, bearing in mind the scenes he had just approved.

They showed the two juvenile leads in a bedroom, indulging in love-play which led to a passionate consummation of their desire. Since the two minor stars involved were genuinely attracted to each other, they played their parts with conviction. Dawson felt himself aroused at the climax of the scene. The two stars were with him, together with the director, lighting-cameraman and other senior studio officials and he knew none of them were totally unaffected. Yes, he mused, with a love-scene like that in the movie it would pull at the box-office. Critics might carp, but the public knew what it wanted.

Dawson turned to congratulate the nymph who played the female lead. 'A great job... most professional,' he beamed at her. She smiled her thank-you, but behind those perfect teeth and sapphire eyes he caught the flicker of dislike. In a few years that flicker could grow to outright insolence, he knew. Even now he was certain she despised him in private conversation with her film-star lover. Only his seniority in the studio made her defer.

Oh for 20 minutes with you in the Blue Room, thought Dawson. He had a few implements there, a short-handled six-thonged whip, for example, that would bring this proud filly into line. Good actress she may be, and valuable to the studio with her lithe, nubile body, pert little breasts (always carefully outlined by a silk-cupped bra) and her immaculate clothes. But she had no respect. Dawson insisted on respect; especially from pretty young women who, without the backing of his studios and publicity machine, would be nowhere.

The car was slowing now, outside a small but impressive high-fashion shop, the public face of a much larger company that supplied costumes to his film-makers. On display were clothes from the famous names in Paris, New York, Milan and London, but Dawson did not linger among the cat-suits, party dresses and lingerie. He made his way to the private office to collect a special order, placed several weeks ago with the woman who owned and ran the company, a long-time personal friend in her forties who rose to greet him as he tapped and walked through the door.

After the pleasantries she turned to her office desk and unlocked one of the drawers, taking from it a tube about three feet long, capped at both ends. 'I think you'll find this will answer your needs,' she said, her voice silkening. 'I had it specially made by one of our best people, skilled at his craft and a man of the utmost discretion.' Prising the cap from one end, she slid a long, thin, crop-like instrument into her hand and with a teasing grin whipped it downwards through the air. 'So light and easy to handle,' she said, 'with such a well-designed grip. I only wish I could be there when you put it to use. But tell me what you think.'

She handed the rod to Dawson, and as he inspected it, went into her professional sales-pitch. 'Basically it is whalebone, thin, strong and pliant. But it is wrapped tightly by the thinnest strip of superb quality leather, starting at a fine point and spiralling down to the handle. The handle, with indentations to guarantee a firm grip, is also leather, but much harder, and with a rondule at the holding-end so it fits snugly into the heel of the hand. Originally the maker put a tab at the point but on reflection I asked him to remove it and taper the end; the slap sound did not seem appropriate for one who, I know, prefers sibilancy in the drive downwards. Ah, incidentally,' she let one eye drop in a knowing wink, 'I'm told the designer tried it out on his au pair before despatching the order. She had misappropriated some money he had left lying around. And I am assured he believes it to be one of his best, most efficacious creations. Would you care for a few practice swings? I have a recalcitrant salesgirl in the front shop who... but perhaps not; there's the question of noise.'

The suggestion of practice swings brought Dawson's mind back to the starlet who had displeased him at the viewing session earlier. He recalled the image of two writhing forms on golden satin sheets, actor and actress locked together in heaving pleasure. How he would like to make that disrespectful young madam writhe for a different reason! He brought his attention back to the chastising rod, off-white in colour, with a grey handle and perfectly smooth rondule. The air sang as he swathed down with the aerial-thin whalebone. Once, twice, and a third time for good measure. The eyes of the shop-owner widened and her lips pursed at the sight of Dawson's strong right arm plunging with full force against an imagined target. But she knew her role.

'I can see you like it, my friend,' she whispered. 'Allow me to return it to its case, which you may carry from the shop as openly and innocently as if you were taking a roll of special fabric to enhance one of your film sets.'

Back in the limousine Dawson checked his watch. Only five minutes to his home in the 'Hills'; acres of verdant garden, fishponds stocked with golden Koi Carp, a swimming pool which was admired even among the set he mixed with for its size, concealed lights and room-temperature water, all surrounded by a high brick wall turning his home into a fortress, so necessary for security these days. He knew his wife would be at the poolside, cooling off before lunch in one of her favourite white bikinis. He loved Alice to wear white bikinis which set off her tan so perfectly. Alice was his second wife, 26 years old, intelligent and graceful. His first wife had died in a car crash (mercifully he had not been driving) and he had loved Alice almost from the day he met her. But before lunch with Alice he had Amelia and Romy to attend to. In the Blue Room, with its padded table and dimmable lights, and with this brand new instrument which lay on the car seat beside him. It had felt so novel to his touch, to hold and swish through the air, and he could not wait to try it out.

His chauffeuse closed the limousine door and a pretty maid opened the front door without any need for him to press the bell. He strode through the house and out to the verandah and pool. Alice sat cross-legged at the pool-side, her arms resting on her thighs, eyes closed, her body drying in the sunshine. He bent to kiss the nape of her neck, letting his tongue flick out under the lobe of her ear. She opened her eyes, stretched her long, lithe legs and lifted her arms to pull him down.

'Not yet,' he said, 'let me get changed first. And remember, after the indiscipline of last night, I have an appointment to keep with two lying young misses in the Blue Room.'

Yes, Alice remembered. The butler had reported to her that Amelia and Romy had been proved to have lied to him. She had not asked for details, his word was enough, and she had assured her chief servant that the master of the house would administer punishment at the earliest possible opportunity. Alice put aside her thoughts of lunch; she knew that when Dawson had finished his task in the Blue Room he would want to make love to her. She debated with herself whether she would ask him for permission to be present to see the little liars suitably chastened, but decided she had better go quietly to her shower-room and rinse away the smell of the swimming pool before Dawson came to her. And check that the bed had been made with clean sheets and the air conditioning turned to Cool.

Dawson took the open staircase two steps at a time to change clothes. He never went to the Blue Room improperly dressed. Two minutes later he wore slacks, an open shirt and costly sailing pumps with non-slip soles.

While he removed his rings and then dusted his palms with powder, he mused on how he had come to meet the girls who were shortly to be disciplined. Amelia was born in Mexico, 18 years earlier, from a native woman and a white man. The melding of their two colours gave the lass a distinctiveness amongst her people, her delicately-hued skin and finer features setting her apart. A few months ago she had slipped across the Mexican border into Texas. Most of these immigrants were quickly caught and returned to their home country. But Amelia had been lucky; her guide had taken her by a safer route and once in the USA she had been passed into hands who promised to find her work. In fact this meant that messages had travelled through the grapevine about a very beautiful teenaged girl, with maidenhood intact (a doctor who worked for the escape committee had checked that) who might interest a tycoon with the means to look after her. After the appropriate negotiations Amelia had been delivered, under cover of darkness, to the Kendall mansion. Next morning the butler had presented her to Alice, with whose approval she was taken on to the Kendall staff.

The second miscreant, Romy, was a year younger. Her mother was Swedish and had come to Hollywood to act. But the pressure of film-making and the intense competition, combined with a liberal income, had led to drugs. Dawson had taken charge, and through his own doctor, and at his own cost, was paying for the mother to be cured of her addiction. In return for secrecy and the substantial medical bills, he had asked for the care of Romy, to provide her with a home and to ensure, he said, that she did not follow the same route. Both girls were now part of his household and his butler took care to remind them of what could happen if either showed signs of rebellion.

Comfortably dressed now in an all-white ensemble, Dawson Kendall took up the innocuous-looking three-foot tube he had collected at the fashion salon and made his way to the Blue Room. The padded door sucked gently at the air as he opened it. He turned the dimmer-switch up so that the room was filled with light, then faced the waiting girls, searching them with his eyes to ensure they had been prepared as he expected. What he saw pleased him.

The Mexican wore raven-black hair which fell to her shoulders and shone in the intense light of the room. Her breasts were well-formed and distinctly separated at the cleavage, but not over-full. She normally wore a bra, he knew, but the skin was sufficiently taut not to need one. And the skin-colour: that was what made her exceptional; a mix of olive and gold, unblemished and smooth. Her limber figure tapered from broadish shoulders towards the gentle incurve of the waist, then out again at the hips, over welcoming thighs, finely-toned calves and delicate feet. Another feature that attracted Dawson was the hands. Narrow palms, tapering fingers, well-suited to the sewing needle, perfectly manicured nails. This could have been an Inca Princess from another age, and he wondered how so lovely a creature had escaped the hungry young Mexican bloods who surely had pursued her from her early teens. Her decorous shyness was the only clue.

He turned to Romy, inches shorter, a year younger, with hair as fair as the other's was black, cropped into a boyish cut, fringed over the eyes and dove-tailed at the back of the neck. Her breasts were like fine, shallow champagne-glasses, round and with more growth still in them; no bra was needed here either, but Alice had insisted. Firm healthy support for a 17-year-old would make sure that beauty was not allowed to fade prematurely. Only here, in Dawson's sound-proof chamber, was her brassiere dispensed with. But where the Mexican could have been a Princess, this young minx was a pixie, quick of movement, with darting eyes and small hands, and a mouth that rarely stopped talking unless it was in the presence of Dawson and Alice, or, of course, in the Blue Room.

He knew by the perfume that drifted from their bodies they had been bathed and prepared. Moreover both were without clothes, save for one garment which Dawson always demanded. They each wore a brand new pair of white cotton briefs, elasticised at the waist and legs. Every time they presented themselves the knickers had to be completely new, taken freshly from the pack after their shower, and stepped into carefully, pulled tightly to fit, pristine clean and so snug that the groove that lay centrally between the thighs was visible to view. No wisp of hair showed itself at that point however; that was for later, when the uncovering took place and punishment was about to begin.

Careful thought had been given to designing the Blue Room. Dawson liked to flog his virgins as they lay face down in the spread-eagle position. To arrange this Dawson had caused a special bench to be built, in the shape of a stretched 'X', so that arms could be laid either side at one end, and open legs stretched out at the other. The top was padded in blue leather (as were the walls) and it had one exceptional feature. In the centre of the cross a deep indent had been made, so the spread-eagled girl would touch the leather everywhere save at the precious point where the legs joined. That delicate area touched nothing, and for a very good reason. When punishment began, and a writhing body pressed itself against the leather, there would be nothing down there to press against. Bare flesh would wrestle against blue leather along the whole length of the body save where (some might say) it was needed most. Dawson had colleagues who believed that girls should be allowed to press that special place against some firm surface, as compensation, however slight, for the pain. But why, Dawson replied; surely punishment was the infliction of pain, very severe pain that had to hurt, to burn, inflame, torment. Retribution for bad behaviour was the purpose, and there could be no relief from the bite of the rod.

Moreover, Dawson insisted that when flogging was over there must be no masturbation; this sly practice was utterly forbidden. The instruction was instilled into the girls, and would never be forgotten by the butler into whose care they were passed directly afterwards. Dawson did not trouble to see how the butler enforced the rule; he assumed his orders were obeyed automatically, as they were at the Hollywood studio. However Alice, who sometimes visited Amelia and Romy as they lay sore on their beds after whipping, assured him there was no way even the most urgent need could be satisfied by straying fingers. Why go to all the trouble of having the cross-bench specially designed if its effect were to be negated afterwards?

There was one further refinement that made the Blue Room perfect for Dawson's needs. Next to where a girl rested her chin on the leather, a mirror was inset, catching the light from the fully turned-up bulbs, so that the young and anxious face could be seen clearly by the chastiser. Dawson knew his canes and straps bit deep, but he could not be satisfied unless he saw the face contort, the eyes screw in pain, the mouth open to gasp out and shriek. And he knew his rod was doing its work well when tears dropped on to the mirror and formed salty streaks or even tiny pools of proof of her suffering.

Dawson now unsealed one end of the tube he had brought with him into the Blue Room. Both girls eyed the package curiously, anxiously wondering what it could contain, and eyes widened and mouths fell as they saw the very long and extremely slender ivory-bound instrument with its shaped grey handle slither on to the bench. Setting aside the tube, Dawson raised the superlative rod and presented it for inspection. Surely, the girls thought, he will not use this on us. But even before the thought could fully register, he held it out in both hands towards them.

'Naughty little liars who deceive their betters deserve to see what is in store for them. You will both kiss my new tormentor to acknowledge your fault before we begin.'

The raven-jet hair swung round Amelia's face as she fearfully bent forward to touch the terrible instrument with her tawny lips. Her head stayed hung in shame as she stepped back and Romy bowed down to press pale pursed lips against the leather.

'Formalities are now over,' declared Dawson and he signalled Amelia to the waiting cross-shaped bench. As she went, her elegant thumbs slipped themselves into the elastic waistband of the gleaming white knickers and began to push the cotton downwards, over the olive hips, stroking the thighs, rippling gently over the knees, sliding the remaining distance over golden calves, and finally lying forlorn on the floor as Amelia's powdered feet stepped out of them. There was almost a kind of dignity in the descending movements; a dignity and assurance that would very soon disappear, Dawson thought determinedly.

The sight of her delicious naked form lowering on to the trestle brought his pulse-rate up a notch. He had caught a whiff of that same insolent self-composure from the actress in his film this morning: the expensive whippy whalebone rod would dissolve that. His anger at the rebuff suddenly burst forth; he could wait no longer and even before the Mexican girl was fully in the spread-eagle position he lashed down.

Amelia's arms and legs, which milliseconds before were about to settle on the leather top, exploded outwards, fingers leaping forwards, toes doubled back, the perfectly-developed body stretched to capacity. The scream came next and Dawson's nostrils flared, breathing in the expensive perfume that seemed to puff from the girl's body. Loud though it was, it could not ring round the room for the walls were lined to absorb and soften shrieks. Her head was flung backwards as she howled, in an unavoidable reflex action.

Dawson's arm raised again and he drove a second blow into the immaculately-curved olive-skinned bottom. The crack! of the rod impacting into her rebellious flesh was most satisfying to him, but only whetted his appetite for more. His eyes on the mirror saw lips pull back in frenzy to reveal perfect teeth as a second sound shrilled from the contorted mouth. Tears, which had taken her eyes by storm at the first stroke, now ran down her cheeks. I want that mirror soaking, he thought, wet with salty tears.

With a whistling zing, the leather-bound whalebone took a third bite and now the mirror was shimmering. Not glistening enough for his liking, but there would be more salt water where that came from. Three lashes were the normal punishment for lying (albeit the fault happened very rarely) but Dawson reckoned he could safely administer a fourth. Dignity was all spent now, in the brilliant movements of her body, but he was still remorseless and as his stroke fell the howl that came from the cross made him draw in his breath. The pitifully bruised bottom was churning as the hips crushed into the leather and the arms and legs stretched against the tormenting blow. He noticed how that oh-so-sensitive centre point was clear of contact with anything, and was now pulverising space. The bench was well-planned indeed: no satisfaction was possible in that area. Punishment had been called for and now it had been administered. The mirror shimmered with moisture; gulps and sobs huffed from those erstwhile-pretty lips.

Gradually, the girl's body fell limp, jerking just a little as it fully absorbed the pain. Dawson spoke in his sternest tones. 'That will do, Amelia. Stand when you can. Pick up your knickers and go immediately to your room where you may conveniently be attended to.'

Paying no more attention to the 'Princess', Dawson turned to the smaller girl. This normally playful nymphet was already weeping, so awstricken was she by the effect his new-bought rod had wreaked on her olive-skinned companion. The water-magnified pale green eyes, pleading so pitifully, made not the faintest impression upon Dawson's resolve.

'Come forward, young woman,' he commanded her. 'Remove your protection as Amelia has done before you, and position yourself on the cross-bars, for you must pay for your untruthfulness and I impatient to begin.' But Romy was too afraid to take her new white cotton briefs down gracefully. She tried, but much too slowly for Dawson, who wrenched at the protesting elastic. Desperate to please she moved to help but Dawson slapped her hands away. He dropped his rod, and with both hands free he swiftly and mercilessly unpeeled his victim, tossing the white material aside to watch it slide across the polished floor. Pushing the girl forward, he reached greedily for his instrument of discipline.

Romy stumbled to the crossed-bench, and in her forgetfulness (or perhaps because she remembered) she tried, for a brief instant, to place her pubis in contact with the padded blue leather. Dawson caught the movement. 'For that you will have two more cuts. When I say position yourself carefully, you must be careful with every part – especially with that golden treasure-trove.' And it was true, for Romy's golden mop of hair was reflected perfectly above the join of her thighs. She was pure, natural blonde, and Dawson was momentarily tempted to touch that secret place with the tip of his malign switch. But decorum forbade it. He must be content to lash. And to be thorough, also: the excess chattering, the skittish laughter was fine enough when she was allowed to play on his tennis court, using racquets he paid for, sports gear charged to his account. But there was a price to pay for ingratitude and disrespect.

He placed his rubber-soled sailing pumps firmly on the floor, feet well apart. His arm stretched back until his elbow bent entirely over his shoulder. Fingers clenched round the shaped-leather handle, he swathed the air and made agonising contact with the pale, creamy, tightly-stretched skin of Romy's mounded buttocks. The girl's head flew back, her spine arched, her head jerked violently and the shriek of a tormented mink rent the air. She began to scrabble in an attempt to move off the cross, crying, 'No! Oh please no! I can't bear it!'

The move caught Dawson unawares. His new plaything with its ronduled handle must be even more effective than he had dreamed! Now we shall see a really wet looking-glass, he thought as with a firm hand he pushed her downwards, far too strongly to prevent any escape. Beyond pity, he felt his pulse grow even stronger and noticed with swiftly rising pleasure giant tear-drops splashing on the mirror beneath the tousled head.

That pool of tears would grow to a stream before he put his pliable persecutor to rest. He drew breath for the next stroke and the tang of perfume filled his nostrils; his senses always heightened so acutely in the Blue Room. With full force the whalebone thrashed again and the pale, sexy buttocks leapt painfully in the air, jerking atop spread-eagled thighs. This proof that the pain was taking effect was endorsed immediately by tearful pleading: 'Spare me, please. No more. No more!' No rippling laughter in that voice now, no sidelong flashes of the emerald eyes. Just slack lips and the threads of running water dampening flushed cheeks.

When you have paid enough, thought Dawson; and when I am ready for Alice.

He changed hands, holding the ivory-coloured crop in his left hand. His aim would not falter, he knew, and nor did it as the long, narrow wand shrilled downwards and cracked implacably across the twice-marked bottom. Mewls of helplessness rose from the blonde girl's throat; golden eyelashes, already awash, blinked to brush away the flowing tears. Her well-proportioned, rounded beauty had never appealed so strongly to him. Yet only in one way would he ever acknowledge her charms – with the power of his punitive ardour.

The fourth stroke of chastisement fell even as the girl was writhing from the earlier blows. Her head shook wildly from side to side, her keening broken only by deep wrenching sobs. Her bottom was the source of unquenchable pain and the mirror was wet with brine. So plentifully did the weeping come now that drops were falling from the over-full surface of the glass on to the floor.

Three for the lies and two for the cheating; the fifth should really be the last. Dawson's mouth fell dry as he studied the welted bottom carefully. Skin that had been washed, powdered and pale as alabaster a few minutes ago was now crossed with angry weals, bringing a crescendo of torment to this Swedish miss of seventeen. What a delightful canvas to work on. How receptive a surface. How firmly the strokes were applied. How right for the colours to be reds and purples, with white here and there. How the picture grew more interesting with each new touch. This work of art would be well remembered. What a shame only one person could enjoy the display. With these thoughts, he drove the fifth stroke down.

Yet Amelia had received one extra cut, just to please him. Now this deceiver deserved equal treatment. He returned his rod to his right hand, and paused to measure the final stripe. He flexed the whalebone to give himself time for breath, savouring the sixth lash even before it was administered.

When girls first lay on that blue bench there was resistance and resentment. Arms and legs were rigid; buttock muscles clenched to hide those central lips. But when five strokes had been laid on, trembling thighs fell open, spread-eagled legs splayed wider, and the whole body went into wild motion in a way that often suggested an activity that, by definition, would only be available to them after they had ceased to be virgins. Romy's reactions were no exception; on the contrary, she was proving memorably athletic on the cleverly designed crossed-bench.

With firm determination the sixth and final stroke was driven home. Dawson's rod rent the air and impacted noisily into the double moons. A howl of agony told him it was the coup de grace. The force brought her legs up at the knees. Arms dropped, this slender body lay in full submission.

The teenager's bottom was trembling and juddering with shock. How tempting it was; how easily he could have laid more stripes on the tender flesh, watched the muscles contract with pain, the hips rise against the downward force of the crop, the buttocks cavort madly from unassuagable agony. But Romy had paid, and the contours of her face and the tears on the mirror confirmed that to his full satisfaction. Those six marks would go from crimson to purple tinged with yellow, the bruises would come, the ridged weals take days to disappear. He turned away to lay his instrument on a side-table, it had done its first stint of duty well. He pressed a secret button which would summon his butler to attend on the girls in their bedroom. There were special oils and ungents, healing balms which would cool and soothe their seared bottoms. Gently applied they would speed recovery and these virgins would resume their household duties. One tiny tender tip would not be attended to, of course, however urgently it demanded attention. Touch me, touch me, that secret place would urge them; the plea must go unattended, that tingling must not be relieved.

Dawson pointed to the pair of white knickers which lay on the floor. 'Go to your room now, Romy – and take those briefs with you. After treatment you may rest, and only rest!' As the girl struggled off the bench, he emphasised the point once more. 'No touching! Or you will be back here for a further stretch'. The weeping maid acknowledged the instruction with a nod.

In another part of the house, beautiful Alice Kendall lay naked on the freshly-ironed sheets of a giant double bed, her body stretched langorously, hair flowing over the pillows, the breeze from the air conditioning sending her sweetly perfumed smell wafting towards the door. As her husband entered she twisted her limbs invitingly. She could also hear, in the far distance, the sobs and gulps of two well-flogged and penitent teenagers, now having their agonised bottoms more gently attended to. These noises, and the imagery they evoked, brought her to a state of wanton preparedness.

'I hoped you whipped them soundly, darling,' Alice smooched. 'Did you give them full marks for bad behaviour?' How marvellous to be made love to by a masterful male, so strict, so demanding, and who had just exercised his rod. 'Now, my husband, it is my turn to be spread-eagled. Do not spare me.'