Saturday, 25 December 2010

The Club – the story in two parts

The Club - part one
Story from Blushes 07.

Across a golf course, half-hidden by tall trees and flanked by neat lawns, one of those houses that an estate agent might describe as 'substantial' was hosting the seventy third meeting of the 'selection committee' of one of the most exclusive organisations in the country, Masonic Societies not excepted.

The lady of the house was away visiting her sister in Bournemouth; The Committee had no need to fear interruptions - they were free to concentrate completely upon the 'Candidate' which kindly providence had provided for their delectation that afternoon.

Through the terrace windows of the sitting room at the back of the house, golfers could be seen wheeling their trolleys across fairways and taking detours through small copses and around bunkers. Distant though these perambulating figures were, the young subject of the committee's appraisal felt for all the world as though she were on public exhibition, even though commonsense told her that it was unlikely that anyone on the golf course would be able to see into the house. Yet, although the outside world was actually unaware of her presence in that most private room, the inescapable fact was that the pretty, chestnut haired girl was on show and with ample reason to be feeling acutely embarrassed about it too!

Four chairs, on which were seated the members of the committee, had been placed at the corners of a small rug, each chair and its occupant facing into the hollow square. In the middle of the rug, and at the focal point of everyone's attention, the girl could hardly have been dressed more provocatively, considering that each pair of eyes, as they wandered and loitered and lingered here and there about her saucily endowed young figure, were windows onto the souls of some very lasciviously-minded gentlemen indeed!

None of those attentively-watching rou├ęs could have failed to guess that their visitor had at some time been a member of the Girl Guides, and it would not have taken much imagination to have worked out from the close fitting skimpiness of what was left of the Guide uniform, due allowance being made for those girl-shape enhancing alterations that had been made to it, that it's wearer must first have been fitted out in that particular outfit at least two years, and a couple of smaller sizes ago! No Girl Guide one would ordinarily see, no matter how lustily embosomed, could have countenanced appearing in public with her breasts so lewdly uplifted and blue cuddled; with her nipples made prominent even without erection, simply by the closeness of the fit of her uniform blouse; as were the deliciously handful-sized young tits which this 'Girl Guide' thrust unwillingly yet unavoidably out in front of her. Badges on the breast pockets pulled at their stitching - as did the pockets themselves - and enhanced the out thrusting burgeoning of the girl's firm and up tilted titties. Buttons tugged at buttonholes and threatened to disengage on the instant, at the onset of a passage of heavy breathing. Lanyards, tags, tapes, and name panels, all were arranged in such a way as to highlight the uniform and to catch the eye, yet all conspired to lead the onlooker's attention to those succulently out-pressing young breasts.

Pulled in snugly at the waist, the blouse led the eye down to navy blue shorts with white piping at the side seams, not entirely authentic Girl Guide rig, but once seen, enough to persuade anyone with a passing interest in teenaged female anatomy that such a change in Guides uniforms could only make for greater appreciation of the movement's underlying qualities and substantially inflate 'Bob A Job Week' into 'Fiver A Peek Week' if only you could have one of the little darlings come and dig up your garden!

The shorts were a delight in themselves. Tight around the out swells and incurves of the 'Guides' impudently cheeked bum, the legs were somehow still loose where their edges gave way to bare girl-flesh at hip and thigh top and under-buttock, so that in the imagination a finger slipped up between shorts and skin might traverse the high-cut hip and slide down the cross-bum cheek diagonal and still have just enough freedom to interlope between close pressed inner thighs and seek out warmth and inviting moisture in shadowed nooks. And yet again, this finger-tempting looseness of fit around much of the edges of the shorts somehow snugged up around the girl's plump pubic swell, the indiscreet centre seam being perfectly placed and sufficiently taut-stretched in a vertical direction as to coax a visible labial division precisely in the middle at the very apex of bare and soft-skinned thighs.

Upon this tantalisingly displayed involution, two pairs of eyes rested in between excursions up and down, while the girl's bottom too, and the palm-tingling slap-ability of the backs of her thighs, caught the eye of those two of the committee immediately presented with the half-bared aspect of the girl's decidedly asking-for-it bum. Ankle socks, clean and crisp against lightly tanned claves, and shined-up black patent shoes with flat, school-girl heels, neatened the whole presentation; those shoes, turning slightly inward at the toes as would those of a child as her confidence slipped away from her moment by moment, were what the girl's eyes focussed upon, for want of anywhere else to look not rife with the risk of encountering an ironically smiling face, as she fought back her feeling of helplessness and framed the desperately supplicant word on her soft pink lips.

"Please -"

"Please, sir," prompted Alec, with a patient smile.

The girl stammered a "Sorry -" then licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. She tried again.

"Please sir -" The note of humiliated pleading in her soft voice did not go unappreciated; around the room tweedy twitches and worsted stirrings in seated laps recognised the promise that the girl was beginning to show.

"Please, what, Charlotte?" enquired the "Chairman" of these proceedings, with a benign and sympathetic smile.

"Please -" Charlotte hesitated, confused.

Asked directly, "what?" she found that she couldn't exactly say what.

"P-please sir - I'm - I'm," her protest stumbled and lapsed into silence.

"Think she's tryin' to say she's shy, Mr Chairman?"

"I think that's what it is, old boy," murmured Algernon; he raised his voice so that the girl turned nervously towards him "Don't want to show us your little titties, my dear? Eh? That what it is?" Charlotte's pink cheeks warmed instantly - she cast her eyes down to the floor again in consternation.

"Not so little titties," said Max, unhelpfully.

Charlotte's freshening blushes scorched her cheeks.

"Rather nice titties, actually," chimed in George.

"Perhaps it's because she's not wearing a bra," said Algernon.

"Tut-tut," cooed Max. "Naughty little Charlotte - eh? Naughty little girl, aren't you, hmm?" Charlotte's hot cheeks positively glowed with shame!

"Vote," said the Chairman, keeping order, "As to whether or not the committee wishes to have a peep at this young lady's tits, her protests notwithstanding."

"Hear, hear," said George enthusiastically.

"All those in favour?"



"Most certainly!" declared Max.

"Motion carried," said the Chairman unsurprisedly.

"And a stroke of the strap, for being awkward," suggested someone.

"Stroke of the cane, old boy," insisted Algernon. "Lovely cheeky young bottom like that? Needs the cane, that's what I say!"

"Ooogh!" That's what Charlotte said, though under her breath.

"Vote," said George. "I vote for the cane too!"

"Haven't seen her bottom yet!" complained Max. "I say we decide once we've got her pants down, that's what I say."

"Let's have 'em down, then!" said George.

"Order!" said the Chairman, and everyone shut up, whilst Charlotte's chubby young bottom twitched involuntarily, not entirely unfamiliar with the sting of both those perfectly-designed castigatory instruments.

It was at this emotionally charged juncture that the telephone rang in the hall outside the sitting room.

"Brief adjournment," declared Alec, and went to answer the 'phone.

It was Charlotte's 'sponsor' wondering "how are thing's goin', old chap?"

"We're - ah - still considering the matter," said Alec guardedly. "Let you know just as soon as we've completed our - er - deliberations."

The caller, anxious that nothing should go wrong, insisted on bending Alec's ear for several minutes more. Back in the sitting room, with the embarrassed girl now hiding her crimson- cheeked face in her hands, the "selection committee" congratulated themselves on having hit upon so delicious a prospect as young Charlotte seemed likely to prove. Blushes! How delightful!

"How old did Alec say she was?" asked Algernon of Max in a half guarded whisper.

"Sixteen and a half - I think", said Max, his eyes loitering around the invitingly out curved bit at the tops of the insides of the girl's thighs where the soft-pouting peach-cleft bridged the little opening at the very top of her legs.

"And - said to be still quite intact," said George not bothering to modify his voice for the sake of the girl's blushes.

"'Quite' as in 'almost', or 'quite' as in 'absolutely'?" asked Algernon, pedantic as ever.

"Quite, as in 'intacta'," said George peevishly. "She'd hardly be 'intacta' if I'd meant 'almost', would she!"

Algernon and the others stared wonderingly at the bewildered Charlotte, who had never realised she was in - in - whatever they had said she was. All three speculated that if it was actually true, then Charlotte was a novelty such as none of them had ever supposed they would come across in a lifetime of interviewing girls sponsored by would be members. The reasons for this shared wonderment, verging on frank disbelief, were as convincing as they are shameful to relate.

The 'organisation', the 'society', the 'club' if one wished to think of it as such, had at one time been called the "Guardians' Club". To outsiders overhearing those intrinsically innocuous words in a pub, they might have meant nothing very exactly but would have given an impression of a responsible and respectable organisation engaged, in all probability, on 'good works'. To those select few made privy to the real portent of the title, an entirely different picture of the club's activities would have manifested itself!

Potential 'recruits', discreetly yet eagerly sought out by established members, would all have two things in common; each would be in a position of responsibility in respect of a ward or step-daughter or at least a teenaged girl having not yet attained her majority, and all, this last to be ascertained by cunning, discreet enquiry or, if all else failed, by setting a temptation and closely watching the "bait", all would have a taste for girls of exactly the same tender and vulnerable kind that they had in their care or charge. It would be put to them that the subject of their guardianship was an invaluable asset; a chap willing to share his good fortune with others - to put "his" girl into a common "pool" in the sense that he would be prepared to let her go off to another member's home for the odd weekend and not ask awkward questions when she came home slightly cross-eyed and short of a pair of knickers or two in her suitcase - such a fellow, provided he was discreet, would be entitled to stake a claim on another chap's "contribution" and have her to his house for a day or two.

Because the "vetting" team did their work carefully, refusals were unknown; girls who were packed off on trains on Friday nights with only the vaguest idea of where they were going or why, and equipped only with the instructions that they were to be "good girls" when they got there, came home on Sunday evenings somewhat more broadly educated than when they had left.

With regard then to the three committee members whose eyes still wandered speculatively around the briefly covered little bits of Charlotte which most took their fancy - Charlotte who was still blushing profusely and worrying what it meant when they'd said she was in - something or other, only if she'd but known it she needn't have bothered, because whatever it was, she wasn't going to be it for very much longer - and with regard to those members doubts as to the likelihood that young Charlotte was what she was said to be, even if for not much longer - well, their caution in accepting the truth of that statement was not entirely without foundation.

Because, if one worked it out, there was a glaring inconsistency in the notion that a chap who was so anxious to get inside the knickers of another chap's girl, that he would let his own girl, in the hands of a complete, indeed unknown stranger, to be used or abused in just the same way as he meant to take advantage of that other girl, that he would nevertheless have declined all the opportunities that having a girl of his own and all to himself must inevitably have presented him with all along. In short, it was asking them to believe that the delightful, nubile Charlotte had long been in the clutches of a self-confessed lecher, yet that same lecherous gentleman had apparently entirely overlooked the fact that she was unquestionably available and unarguably fanciable!

Well, if it was true, then Charlotte's sponsor was a man in thousands - certainly there wasn't one of them, nor was there any other member they could think of, who hadn't failed miserably in the art of self-control where he alone had succeeded!

When Alec returned from his evasive one-sided conversation with Charlotte's sponsor, he wasted no time in getting the meeting under way again - he had other things to attend to back at the school and time was getting on.

"Right then - a vote, wasn't it?" he looked around and then treated the flush-cheeked girl to another of his sympathetic grins. "Some doubt as to whether Charlotte ought to be made to show us her titties, wasn't there?"

The aforementioned tits self-evident in the most unconcealable way, Charlotte stood with close pressed thighs and childishly in-turned toes as the vote as to whether she should be made to render the committee visible evidence was taken and found to be in the affirmative, a tear or two slipping heavily down her cheek as she was made to unbutton her blouse, whilst the vote in respect of the punishment she was to receive for having dared to protest at being treated so humiliatingly was called for and passed. Six, after all - six strokes of the strap, on her bared bottom, and the few tears became a frightened outburst of sobbing as the instrument itself was produced from a hook behind a chair.

Charlotte's buttons almost popped open once the first was undone, and together the girl's firm young breasts bobbed free of the over-washed and stitch-straining blue blouse, nipples unaccountably stiffening even as they made their appearance.

"Shorts off!" she was told, and her blouse was taken from her, then aflame with blushes, she groped for the waistband of her skimpy little shorts and pushed and wangled and wiggled them down over her hips until her plump bottom-cheeks spilled out and thrust themselves saucily towards Alec and one of the others whilst her close little haze of blonde pubic hair attracted its own share of attention at the front. Charlotte's shorts dropped to the floor at her ankles and all at once, there were no more secrets. Just helpless, humiliating nudity and teardrops, which fell uncontrollably onto her uplifted breasts.

"Turn round," said Alec, and again, "Turn round."

Shuffling steps took Charlotte through three hundred and sixty degrees, with peeps through her fingers at all four faces in turn, the men's eyes wandering unashamedly up and down her naked body. She stumbled, her breasts bobbing, and she looked down to find that she had tangled her feet in her shorts. She stooped to untwist them but was told to take them right off; she wasn't going to need them! She picked the shorts up and they were taken from her, so that she had only her ankle socks and her shoes to show that she had ever been a Girl Guide.

"Pretty little thing, isn't she!" said Max condescendingly. No-one dissented; Charlotte's bottom trembled as she was made to turn round yet again.

"Hands on your head," said Alec coaxingly, and Charlotte had to do as she was told; red-faced she folded her hands together on her head and her tits lifted and pushed out even more. From the corner of her eye, she could see the firm erectness of her nipples and she began to wilt at the knees as she saw eyes taking in that unwitting demonstration of feminine arousal - certainly she wasn't aroused! She was panic-stricken! Several comments were made which she was too confused to catch, but the words "strap" and "bottom" permeated her bewilderment.

"Over here -" said Alec. Charlotte turned to find him indicating a table standing to one side of the circle of chairs; the strap was on the table.

"Please -" she pleaded, but she was nudged towards the table and in a moment she was bent across it, hands led to fingertip holds on the far edge and her bottom elevated by something cushiony placed under her hips.

"Oh, n-no -!"

They strapped her deliberately, no one bothering to remark that only six strokes had been decided upon, the strap visiting her jiggling, wiggling bottom perhaps two dozen times whilst she squealed and struggled but got her bum well strapped for all her frantic demonstrations. She wasn't allowed up even then; slowly her tears cleared from her eyes and she found herself looking out of the long window across the golf course while murmurings and shufflings went on behind her. Max's voice raised itself a little above the others claiming priority on the grounds of seniority, while Charlotte strained her will power and kept her legs wide apart in accordance with the last instruction she'd been given, her bottom singing still with the lingering tingle of the strap's harsh kisses.

Behind her, it seemed that some measure of agreement had been reached; her hands were taken one by one and folded together in the hollow of her back, where they were held in a grip that was firm but not painful. The insides of her spread-eagled thighs flinched suddenly from a scratchy contact with rough tweed trousers.

When Alec called Carlotte's guardian some thirty minutes later the phone seemed to be answered almost before it rang.

"Mr Romsey? This is Alec -" A startled squeal from the back of the house prompted him to cover the instrument with his hand; "I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible - the committee has decided to accept your application for membership -" He waited for the enthusiastic gentleman on the other end to subside; "Perhaps we could have a chat about that when I bring Charlotte home later?"

Another squeal, distant but quite loud enough to be heard on the telephone, rather undermined Alec's attempt to keep the conversation formal.

"Er - yes, it is, actually," he had to say. He felt awkward for a moment, and then an imp of devilment nudged him into saying "I think she's complaining that someone's pinched her knickers."

He remembered that she hadn't been wearing knickers. Oh well - that wasn't what she was yelling about anyway! He left it to the man on the other end of the line to make of it what he would and returned to his pretence of formality.

"Ah - perhaps you'd let me reconfirm a detail or two whilst we're speaking. Guardianship - she is your legally appointed ward, I think you said?" He made a note on a pad.

"Yes - yes, I see. Until she's eighteen, I presume. Yes - which will be when?" His pen hovered over the paper, then it's top fell off with a plop. Alec's eyes wandered guiltily around as he listened. At last, he made the note on the pad.

"Oh, I see - I must have misunderstood -" Alec ran a finger round his collar.

"So she's actually -" he wrote it very small, subconsciously.

"And a half - yes, yes - oh, no - no, I don't suppose it'll make any difference." Not now, it wouldn't anyway.

Alec put the phone down quietly and tucked his pen back into his pocket. Another muted cry from the committee room made him start, but he kept his pace even as he went back to the others, a man with a secret now.


The Club - part two
Story from Blushes 08.

Dennis Romsey regarded his young ward Charlotte with affection. Now that Alec, Chairman of the Club had departed, he somehow felt he could talk more freely. Silly that, really, because Alec had always been open and honest with him.

"So you had to go before the Committee, did you my dear?" "Y-Yes, Uncle..." replied the girl... and blushed furiously. She always called Dennis 'Uncle' though there was no blood relationship between them. He was simply Charlotte's legal guardian until she was eighteen.

"And... er... how did you get on?" He smiled encouragingly and his eyes roved lustfully over his ward. That ripe young figure was literally bursting out of that Girl Guide's uniform he had made her wear. The Members of the Committee would have appreciated that, he reflected with satisfaction. Perhaps it was the deciding factor in his being accepted in the club. Clever of him to trick her out in this fashion. "I... I was frightened and... and... so a-ashamed..."

"Well, well, Charlotte, I suppose that's understandable. After all, you are still very young and those gentlemen are rather getting on in years. Like me. Still, that's over now. And, as you heard the Chairman of the Club say, I have been elected as a Member."

Somewhat to Dennis's surprise, Charlotte covered her face with his hands and burst into tears. "Oh... ohhh... how could you, Uncle?" she wailed.

"I do not think it is any business of yours, young lady, as to how or why I want to join any organisation," said Dennis sternly. "Frankly, Charlotte, I am fast coming to the conclusion I have been far too lenient with you in the past. That is going to change."

"Ohh...oohh... Uncle..."

"I have already had some discussion on the subject with the Committee. Now that I am a Member, I shall have more. Doubtless I shall get some good advice. Dry your tears and stop snivelling." Dennis pulled out a handkerchief and threw it across. Charlotte dabbed at her reddened eyes.

"You ...mmmfff.... don't know what ...mmmmfff.... what they made me do," she sobbed.

Dennis Romsey seated himself in an armchair and lit a small cigar. "Perhaps you had better tell me," he said.

"I.... I... mmmfff.. don't w-want to," replied the girl.

"What you want is neither here nor there," snapped Dennis. "You will tell me." He was most intrigued to know what his 'Candidacy Contribution' had gone through. One day he might be a Member of that Committee!

Charlotte bit her lips furiously before answering. "They... they made me take my clothes off..."

"Really?" Dennis was faintly surprised that the Committee had gone so far at such an early stage. "All of them?"

"Y-Yes," nodded Charlotte. "But that's not all..."


"They p-put me over a t-table and... and... oohh... they st-strapped me..."

Dennis was even more surprised. And excited. The Committee certainly didn't do things by halves! "I expect you deserved it," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"I didn't... I didn't... it was horrid!" cried Charlotte. She felt she couldn't bring herself to recount what had happened after that.

"I think you'd better show me," said Dennis, drawing heavily on his cigar.

"Show you? Show you what?"

"Your bottom, of course, young lady." Dennis felt his pulses throbbing.

"After all, if they've harmed you, I shall take it up with the Committee. Even further maybe."

Charlotte hesitated, blushing furiously again. How awful it was! First those horrid men... and now her Uncle. Still, it might be worth it; he might take some action. She turned and, for the second time that day, removed those tight-fitting shorts. No knickers beneath. Down her tapering thighs, they went... to reveal two delightful gibous-moons of flesh covered in a mass of pink-red swathes.

Dennis Romsey's eyes feasted; his pulses pounded more furiously. They had indeed given the girl quite a good hiding, but nothing too serious. All traces would have gone in a few days. Stubbing out his cigar, he stood up, walked across to his ward, and lightly ran his hand over both buttock cheeks. They felt deliciously soft and warm.

"Oh don't... don't!" gasped Charlotte, flinching and twisting away.

At once, Dennis delivered two stinging slaps on the tender flesh, making the girl yelp loudly. "Don't tell me what and what not to do, Miss!" he shouted. "You're far too cheeky and it is obvious to me that you should have had this sort of treatment long ago."

Charlotte's hands were clasped to her bottom, her head hung and she continued to sob. "Are you... g-going to... speak to... t-them?"

"I certainly am," replied Dennis jovially. "I am going to send them my approval."

Charlotte turned, eyes flashing. Dennis saw the downy, blonde triangle. "Ohh you couldn't... oohh... you b-beast... you beast!"

"That is quite enough of that," said Dennis firmly. He gripped the girl by one arm and pulled her towards the armchair. "Such language from a girl to her Guardian!" In moments Dennis was reseated on the chair but now with Charlotte - kicking and shrieking - pinned across his lap. He felt the voluptuous softness of her... saw the quivering-pink blancmanges that made up her bottom. "They were obviously too lenient. As I have been. A matter that will be remedied."

"Stooopppp! Ohhh stoooppppp! I'm so tender already..."

"Good!" Dennis was grinning lustfully. In swift succession, he slapped left and right cheeks. Then he laid an even harder slap across the centre of both. Charlotte yelled loudly and kicked and wriggled even more frantically. Much to Dennis's pleasure. Taking a firmer grip on his victim, he began to smack the luscious young bottom, helpless before him, just as hard as he could. Left, right and centre!

Left, right and centre!

Moreover, he went on doing so until the palm of his hand was burning hot.

* * *

"Dennis Romsey?" Dennis recognised Eric's voice at once.

"Yes. Nice to hear from you, Eric. Thanks for accepting me as a Member."

"Think nothing of it, old boy. You could scarcely fail with your 'Contribution', you know!"

"I see you gave her a good strapping."

"Ah, so you took a look, did you?"

"I did indeed." Dennis was finding it increasingly easy to talk about such matters without any embarrassment. "What can I do for you?"

"A Member has been enquiring if Charlotte would be free next week-end. We'd have her picked up on Friday night about six. Back on Sunday afternoon."

Dennis felt a slight tingle of his nerves. It was beginning. "Oh yes, I'm sure she will be free," he replied. "In fact, I'll make sure she is!" He paused and was about to ask a question when Eric answered it for him.

"Thanks, old man. Of course, you'll be sent a 'Replacement'. That's one of the Club's Rules."

"Ah... I see..." Dennis felt his throat tightening up a little. There were many questions he wanted to ask and again Eric answered before he could put them.

"Her name's Abigail, she's seventeen and a half and has been on our 'books' longer than most. So she's quite experienced. Still needs a firm hand though, if you follow me."

"I do, Eric, I do!"

"Have you got a cane, by the way?"

Again Dennis felt that tingle but more strongly. "Er... no... not actually... not yet..." Foolish of him not to have got himself properly organised.

"I should get one before the week-end," said Eric with a laugh. "If you have any difficulty, I'll get Abigail to bring one with her."

"That... that might be better," said Dennis quickly. He had just realised he did not quite know how to go about acquiring such a thing in this day and age.

"Right then," said Eric. "She'll be along early Friday evening. 'Bye for now, old boy."

"Goodbye," said Dennis. His hand was trembling slightly as he put down the receiver.

* * *

Dennis paced the room nervously. Night was falling fast and Mrs Dodds, his Housekeeper, had already been in and pulled the long velvet curtains. She would be gone any moment now, he thought. How kind of him to give her the weekend off! Hopefully, she would be having quite a few of those in future. Time for a good stiff Scotch, Dennis told himself. Since it was six o'clock on a Friday night, he deserved one. Needed one, too!

As he drank it at unusual speed, he distantly heard the front door close. Alone at last, he thought with an inner smile. For the moment, anyway. Dennis poured himself another Scotch and, seating himself on a couch, drank this one more slowly. His nervousness was fast ebbing away to be replaced by excited anticipation.

The front doorbell rang and the sound seemed to tingle through his nerves. He went along a thickly carpeted hallway and opened the heavy oak door, hearing a car driving off as he did so. There, in the light of a mock stagecoach lantern, stood a quite enchanting sight.

"I'm Abigail," said this vision with lustrous, doe-like brown eyes. She carried, Dennis noticed, a long canvas case which probably normally contained hockey sticks and the like. But now?

"Come in, Abigail," he said, inclining his head... and still not quite believing it was happening.

The girl, half-smiled, stepped in and at once removed her round school hat and a dark green raincoat. Dennis saw that she had deep brown hair plaited in a single pigtail. He also saw that Abigail had retained her school uniform. Perhaps that is de rigueur on these occasions, he thought. The uniform consisted of a white blouse, a skirt the same colour as her raincoat, calf-length white socks and black slip-on shoes with buckles. There seemed to be a lot of white limb-flesh beneath a remarkably short, pleated skirt and the tops of those white socks.

She turned to him, pale, unsmiling, yet not lacking in self-assurance, it seemed. "Which way, Sir?" she enquired decorously.

Dennis nodded towards the half open door of the sitting room. "Through there," he said. "Better bring your bag..."

"Ah yes." Abigail bent, with an elegant sideways movement of her knees, and picked it up. Then, hesitant yet determined, she moved towards the door.

Once in the sitting room, Dennis had a far better view of his 'replacement' ... and was well pleased. This Abigail looked rather older than her seventeen and a half years, with breasts high, firm and rounded thrusting through her blouse, dark nipples being clearly visible. Surely, she must be wearing a bra, Dennis told himself. Perhaps a half-cup one. He'd find out soon enough.

"Sit down," he invited, indicating a wooden, straight-backed chair. He himself took the sofa. Abigail's skirt rose high, one thigh crossed slowly over another, giving Dennis a quick flash of triangular pale green nylon.

"I understand I am to stay her until Sunday afternoon."

"That is correct. Normal procedure, I believe?"

"Yes," nodded Abigail. She bit her lower lip.

"In there?" He pointed at her canvas case.

"My night things, Sir. Toiletries. Things like that."

"Anything else?"

Abigail swallowed hard. "Er... yes, Sir. A strap... and a cane."

"Ahh.... yes... I think you ought to get those out." Dennis's anticipatory excitement was mounting. "Most gentlemen have their own," said Abigail, unzipping the canvas bag.

"I am a new Member of the Club," announced Dennis and immediately regretted giving any explanation. On the table beside her, Abigail placed a strap of pale brown leather, some eighteen inches long and an inch and a half wide. It was no thicker than an average wooden ruler. Alongside it, she put down a smooth, yellow, hook-handled cane, typical of the ones used in schools.

There was a silence. To be honest, Dennis did not quite know how to proceed. What excuse could he find for using those implements? The girl, newly arrived, had committed no fault. Perhaps he would have to bide his time.

"Would you like to go and tidy up, Abigail?" he asked.

"Thank you, Sir," replied the girl politely. She rose from her chair and left the room with demure obedience. Dennis felt prickles of sweat under his armpits.

Abigail was back within five minutes. Now she looked paler and more tense. She came and stood directly before Dennis's chair.

"I... I'm sorry, Sir," she said, "while I was in your bathroom, I broke a small vase carrying potpourri. It was most careless of me."

Dennis felt his pulses beginning to pound again. Had it been an accident or was this girl deliberately setting herself up? Since he was new to all this it was difficult to be certain. On the other hand, Eric had told him that Abigail had considerable experience. Surely he should be leading and she following; yet it seemed to be the other way round. Did it really matter though?

"Yes, that was very careless Abigail," said Dennis slowly. The tension was increasing within him. "That was a gift from my dear, late Mother. Much treasured."

"Oh I'm really sorry," said Abigail. She looked it, too.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be punished for such an error."

"Yes.... yes... I deserve to be," said Abigail. Incredible, said Dennis to himself. Why was she agreeing not protesting?

"I am going to have to cane you..."

A little gasp... a nervous twitch of the lips. "Y-yes, Sir... if you must."

"I am afraid I must," said Dennis. He got up from his chair and took hold of the hook-handled cane. How supple it was, how easily it swung! What a thrill it gave him simply to hold it in his hand. "You will kneel and bend over the sofa arm, Abigail," he heard himself saying.

"Yes, Sir... oh p-please, don't be too severe on me. It really was an accident."

"You will then pull up your skirt and take down your knickers."

"Yes, Sir... if you say so, Sir..."

"I do say so," intoned Dennis, blessing the day he had first been put in touch with the Club. He watched almost ecstatically as this shapely young creature knelt at one end of the couch and pulled up her skirt high. A most curvaceous bottom was revealed, the skin exceedingly white, most minimally covered by a pair of pale green nylon briefs. Oh God, what beauty, thought Dennis! Superb! Whilst Charlotte was plump with puppy-fat, this girl had womanly development, even at so young an age. How quite, quite charming!

"Take those knickers down..." Naturally, there was no need for Abigail to do so. Such a flimsy item offered no protection. Yet, they must come down. The girl must be fully exposed. Fully shamed. Was it not all part of her punishment? Abigail pushed down the briefs to her knees. Nakedly her bottom curved, thrust up and out by the end of the couch. A perfect posture for a caning!

"P-please, Sir... not too hard," came a whimper. Abigail's face was buried in a cushion, her clenched hands gripped the edges of it.

"I am giving you half a dozen, Abigail," announced Dennis.

"Oh Sir... no.... ooo.... please.... please..."

"You deserve nothing less for such carelessness," said Dennis firmly.

"Beyond that, I have been told you are experienced. If you were new to discipline, it might be different."

"Oh... oh... Sir..."

Dennis tapped the soft white flesh with the tip of the cane. It quivered, then it twitched with sudden dread. Oh what a joy to see! Suddenly he realised he did not know quite how hard he should lay on the cane. Very hard? Hard? Medium? Mildly? His knowledge of such degrees of severity was minimal.

Ultimately, he decided on something between hard and medium. To start with, anyway.

Carefully he measured Abigail's delicious bottom, sawing the cane to and fro. Then, suddenly, he raised it high and brought it whistling down. Sssswwwiii..... iiipppptttt.

There was a muffled half-gasp, half-cry from the velvet cushion and Abigail's bottom performed a series of quick, juddering gyrations. Yet she remained in her kneeling posture over the couch's end, hands gripping the cushion more tightly, knuckles white. Dennis contemplated the thin, pink-red, twin tracked weal he had just raised with infinite satisfaction. It ran across, virtually halfway down Abigail's bottom, encircling most of the left cheek and all of the right, leaping the cleft between that lush curvaceousness. Yes, he thought, this girl must be experienced. Most youngsters would have leapt up after a cut like that.

Unhurriedly, Dennis sawed the cane across Abigail's soft white buttocks... and was delighted to see them give a convulsive twitch of dread. He was sawing about an inch above where he had laid on the first stroke. Slowly Dennis withdrew the cane, raised it high... Ssswwwiii... iiippppptttt!

The cane zipped down and fell just about exactly where Dennis had aimed it. That was most gratifying. So were the even more urgent gyrations of Abigail's bottom, during which her long thighs splayed a little to reveal some delightful girlish secrets even more openly.

"Ooww.... aaaggghh.... oh p-please not so hard, Sir!"

Was he laying it on too hard, wondered Dennis? Being himself inexperienced in such matters, he had no means of knowing. It was very possible, however, that the girl was pleading in this fashion in an attempt to induce him to go easier on her.

"I think, Abigail," he said, finding his voice rather thick, "you had better take your knickers right off. Otherwise you'll very likely rip them."

He paused, flexing the supple cane with relish. "You deserve to be caned hard for such carelessness. And you're going to be." Dennis watched as Abigail first knelt erect, then stood to let her knickers slip down over her knees and down her calves. She stopped to remove them from around her ankles and, once more, Dennis was favoured with a delightful view of most personal possessions.

Were Club Members permitted? The thought flashed through his mind. He should have asked Eric; even though the man might have thought him a fool for being so naive. There was plenty of time. A whole weekend lay ahead. More than likely, he thought, the girl herself would give him some lead.

Once more Abigail knelt and draped herself over the sofa-end.

How provocatively her bottom seemed to thrust up at him! Heart pounding, Dennis measured it once more, now aiming an inch below the first weal. This time, he told himself, I'll give it to her just as hard as I can. Then she'll realise I take no notice of her pleas.

Ssssswwweee.... iiiiipppptttt. Making an extra effort, Dennis was not quite so accurate. The cane caught only less than half of Abigail's left buttock cheek, all of the right, with the tip zipping round and biting into her soft flank. "Yeeeooowwww!" This time Abigail's head jerked up off the cushion and her cry of pain was loud and genuine. Her bottom squirmed left and right, left and right, juddering violently. Dennis heard the blood singing in his ears. That really got to her, he thought. Still, I mustn't overdo it. 'P-please, Sir... p-plee... eeease not so h-hard..." came the muffled beseeching as Abigail's head went back into the cushion.

Dennis once more sawed to and fro. An inch lower, since it was now his intention to work down the buttocks to the overhang. That was where the last stroke was planned to fall.

"Do you think you'll be more careful in future, Abigail?"

"Yes, Sir... oh yes... Sir!"

"Good..." Up went the cane again... and down it whistled once more. Hard, but not quite so hard as the previous time.

Sswwwwiiiii..... iiiipppppttttt! Abigail not only squirmed and jerked as her head thumped up and down on its cushion, her long limbs kicked out, thighs splaying once more. Delightful! Quite delightful! Dennis looked at the four encircling weals, so bright against such white skin. Two more to be raised yet. To and fro... to and fro... sawed the cane. Twitch and quiver... twitch and quiver... went the flesh.

Sssswwwwwiiii..... iiiipppppttttt! Number five buried itself momentarily deep into the soft flesh, then the cane sprang away again. Oh how it made her yelp! Oh how it made her squirm! Round and round, back and forth, belly thumping on the curve of the couch arm.

One more to go. Lustfully Dennis sawed the cane across the very tops of Abigail's thighs, just where they joined the fulsomeness of her young bottom.

"No.... oooo.... please..." Abigail's head was up and twisted round. He saw tears shimmering in those doe-like eyes; observed the half-open mouth, lips wet and quivering. He had indeed lighted upon a most sensitive area, it seemed; even while Abigail's head was still turned he raised the cane swiftly and brought it whistling down precisely in the target area. Thus he was able to glimpse the shock and pain on those pretty features before, with a shriek, Abigail jumped erect and, hands clasping urgently to the lower part of her bottom, performed a pavane of pain around the couch. Dennis's hand shook slightly as he replaced the cane on a table nearby. His pulses were pounding and his throat was dry. That, he told himself emphatically, was just about the most exciting experience of my life!

"Go and wash those tears away, Abigail," said Dennis blandly. "And, this time, while you're in the bathroom, I should be rather more, careful."

"Y-yes ...mmmfff.. yes, Sir..."

Dennis watched the girl move from the room in that way of hers, hands still pressed to her bottom. I guess, he thought, smiling faintly, that cold flannel will not only be pressed to reddened eyes but to far warmer areas as well!

When she came back, Abigail looked brighter, though still pale. In her hand, she carried her knickers, fiddling with them with nervous fingers. He wondered if she was perhaps waiting for permission to put them back on, how charming, such consideration!

Wanting to think about this first encounter with one of Eric's girls - that was how he thought of Abigail, since he had not yet met any other Club members - Dennis said she could take her case upstairs and unpack.

"Yes sir", she said, and fiddled with her knickers and looked uncertainly at him until he had to ask her what was bothering her.

"Um - I was just wondering which room, sir. The little room at the back or the big one at the front."

The room at the front had a double bed; Dennis said she could put her things into the back room for the time being. Abigail nodded and went upstairs lugging her case and Dennis turned to the telephone trying to remember Eric's number.

This he would have to check up on - suddenly he realised that Charlotte would have arrived at her weekend destination by now, and might very well be in much the same situation as was his own visitor - yes, he'd better check with Eric right away –

Thursday, 23 December 2010

Fantasy house

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4

Fantasy house

A nice surprise for Mike when his wife says she likes it!

"What did you get this for?", Janet asked her husband. Crossing her elegant legs and leaning back in her easy chair, she turned the pages of a book he had brought home that evening. Glancing across at her, Mike smiled to himself. Whenever Janet was pleased or shy about something, she always dropped her head slightly as though to try and veil her eyes,

"Nothing special – but it looked interesting. It's the first proper book I've ever seen on – er – well, spanking", he replied. – "Proper?", Janet laughed and looked up at him and then down again, "These drawings and photos are a bit – well – saucy?" Smiling, Mike rose to sit on the arm of her chair, slipping one arm around her shoulders. At thirty-two Janet was in full bloom, neither pretty nor beautiful but, in his eyes, just plain gorgeous. – "It happens", he murmured, stroking the back of her long brown hair.

"Oh yes?", Janet replied pertly as her upturned face received a kiss. Returning her eyes to a page, she read slowly for a moment. Mike waited. She was absorbing the words, he knew. – "This Beatrice Bentwick – d'you think she's a real person?", Janet asked quietly while still scanning sentences. – "From the way she writes, yes. She's obviously had a great deal of experience. I'm sure no one could make that all up".

"Mmm.... 'That Art of Training Young Ladies'....", Janet read from a chapter heading, then reached her grey-green eyes up to his and said with a twinkle, "You never tried to train me". – Mike took the book slowly from her hands, closed it, and laid it on the floor. – "There's always time", he said and drew her up. Janet gave a little quiver of her curvy body and nestled into him, head on his shoulder. – "Why? D'you want to?", she asked throatily, and drew in her breath as his hand wandered down her back and shaped the bold bulge of her silky bottom. – "Yes", Mike said and could feel himself trembling. Little by little his cock thickened and stemmed up, making its throbbing length felt through his slacks against her thigh.

Janet's fingers tightened on his shoulders. "You wouldn't spank me hard, would you?", she breathed. – "Dunno. No. Not very", Mike said. It was almost like they hadn't been married for eight years – almost like he had never held her and palmed the glorious orb of her bum. He could hear her breathing softly through her nose, the gentle sound conveying the strange sense of excitement that was gathering between them. – "You want to? You want me to spank you – like a naughty girl", he asked while Janet still hid her face. It seemed an eternity before her quiet husky "Yes" came to his ears and then, in a voice he never normally used, Mike asked sternly, "You spoiled your homework last night, didn't you?".

A giggle from Janet. Her head shook. "No, silly, I'm a bit older than that", she whispered. – "How old, then, Janet?" – "Well – say eighteen and I've just thrown ink, in a temper, on the manuscript of your new novel.... and some of it went over your slacks", she added for good measure. – "Ah now, THAT does deserve a spanking. Up to your room, young lady, and prepare yourself. Go on. You know what you're going to get", Mike pretended to thunder. Janet almost blushed for real and tried to cling to him while Mike in turn strove to push her away towards the door. – "You... you... you'll take my n...n...n... knickers off, like you did last time, I know you will", Janet trembled, making Mike marvel at the realism she was putting into it. – "AND your skirt, young lady. Ink on my slacks indeed! You realise I shall have to take them off?" – "Oh!", gasped Janet and turned and fled out of the living room to run upstairs.

Mike gave her three minutes, all in a complete daze of wonderment that what he had wanted for so long was about to happen. Crazy that he had never asked to spank her before or even playfully attempted to, but somehow he had been inhibited about it. Now at last... – "Janet! Are you ready?", he called, striding into the hall and shouting up the stairs. – "Y..y..yes", came her muffled response and with heart thumping Mike mounted the stairs. She hadn't gone into their own bedroom, he realised, but more appropriately into one of the two single ones where her sister sometimes slept when she stayed. It was a pretty room with a single bed covered with a blue and white duvet, a white unit beside it, a white single wardrobe and a cane chair with a red cushion.

The door was open and Mike gulped as he saw his adorable curvy wife kneeling submissively up on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, with her skirt and panties neat beside her knees. Her pale full thighs looked dazzling against the dark of her stockings and the black frilled straps of her suspenders. It was almost as though he had never seen her before – never had let his eyes wander so slowly over the luscious pale moon of her bottom with its inrolling cheeks and the small dark tuft of curls beneath that shrouded her quim.

It was ridiculous that he was trembling slightly, but the way Janet had lowered her head and shoulders right down, hiding her face and dipping her back to make her orb even more prominent, she looked sexier than he had dreamed she could. – "First, young lady, I have to take my slacks off – the ones you've ruined. You hear me?" – "But you.... but you...", she stammered. – "And my pants – it's soaked through to them as well. Aren't you naughty? Weren't you naughty?", he asked, stripping off quickly. – "Yes, I know I was, but you shouldn't – I mean – oh!", Janet exclaimed as something fell beside her and with a quick peep she saw his discarded garments. Biting her lip and closing her eyes, she waited, though not for long.

SMACK! came Mike's hand against her bulging cheeks and a startled cry of "OH-WOH!" burst from her lips as his palm stung fire into her. "DOO-WOOO-WOOO! That's too hard!", she sobbed and waggled her hips so sexily that Mike almost put his thick upstanding prick to her there and then. – "Now Janet, move your knees apart more. Do it!", he said throatily and watched as with the spreading of a first pink tinge through her pale bottom, her knees moved hesitantly away from one another until they were straddled wide and her slit offered itself more openly to his eyes.

"I w...w...won't be naughty again. I.... NEEE-OUCH!", squealed Janet as the second caught her full under the bulge of her bottom, making her hips jerk up and leaving the imprint of Mike's palm and fingers clearly visible for a moment in white until slowly it faded into the splurging pink. Mike heard her really sob then and almost stopped, but he recalled what he had read in the book he had bought that day: 'Initial treatment should be gentle and steady – not being intended to over-alarm or to sting the miscreant too deeply. She will learn slowly to return to treatment without too many misgivings...."

The words came back to Mike as with sudden decision he moved sideways more and clamped one hand down on the nape of his wife's neck. – "NOO-WOOH-WOOH!", Janet gurgled immediately, but instead of then getting the further hard-stinging smack she expected, Mike began to spank her more lightly and rhythmically – 'according to the book' as he told himself with delighted grin and an ever-throbbing cock that tentpoled the front of his shirt. "NOO-WAH!", gurgled Janet to every SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! that made her firmly-jellied cheeks quiver and tighten. Her breath came faster, hips surging back and forth as though magically to meet his hand. The little broken sobs that came from her were so girlish and appealing, yet in some strange way they invited more... and more... and more, Mike thought.

Good God, he'd never laid a hand to her bottom before, but here she was behaving like a – yes – like a trouper. – "You naughty girl, you naughty girl", he heard himself repeating almost as mechanically as her bottom waggled, growing redder and redder until with a sudden little cry she fell forward, her legs widespread, the fronts of her stockinged toes on the carpet and her torso wriggling. Dear heavens, what a luscious, submissive sight she looked, all roses and cream, Mike thought as her broken cry came to him, "Oh yes – all right – yes!" and he flung himself upon her, feeling the hot butterball of her bottom wriggling madly to his long, thick corker, urging her back up into a kneeling position on the bed while the swollen crest of his tool nubbed against the oily pouting lips of her slit.

"DA-DOOO-DA-OOOOH!", Janet moaned, her head and shoulders falling as the thick, throbbing stem of ironhard flesh oozed slowly up into her until her burning bum screwed itself in tightly to his belly and glowed its fervent heat to his flesh. – "You... you... you...", Mike gritted in wonder. – "M...m...making me.... making me n...n..naughty... OO-OOH!", came from Janet as with seconds the pulsing rod of his root was buried full into her warm clinging nest and his balls came to rest beneath her fur. With a wild jerk, as if in tempestuous regret, she made as though to wrench forward to dislodge him, but with a growl Mike held her, ringing her slim waist with his arms and drawing her supple form back into him.

"I'll... I'll teach you, you bad girl you", he choked, "Isn't this what you really wanted, isn't it?" The fantasy was becoming so real now – the fantasy that she was not his wife but some other – that his head swam with it, and with her face buried and unseen he could well imagine her someone else. – "NO-WOH-WOH! OOOOH, t...t...take it out! AAAARGH!", Janet moaned.

"Come on, come on, you bad girl – take it", he growled, making her hot bum smack loudly into his belly, the front of his shirt draped over the back of her hips. – "HAH-OOOH! I mustn't! Oh, it's so b...b...big! OOOH-ER!". The bed squeaked faintly as they jolted, his cock slewing juicily in and out of her now until her sobs resolved into moans and petulant little whimpering sounds of pleasure came from her. – "Say it, say it! You want to – don't you? You want to?", came Mike's voice to her, bent full over her rippling back as he now was, and within seconds came her heartfelt cry, "Oh yes, oh yes, I... I do, I do! Oh, it's naughty... oooh!"

"Ask me, you naughty girl – ask me!", came Mike's insistent cry until Janet, rotating her hips savagely in all the wanton pleasure of the moment, sobbed, "Do it to me, yes, it to me! Oh, but you mustn't come, you mustn't!" – "Jeezus, I must! Oh, baby!", croaked Mike. Through all their years this was the lustiest and most exciting fuck they had ever had, and he knew that Janet knew it. PHEW! after this he would spank her and spank her and..... "PMFFF!", he gritted, loosing his first hosing jet of sperm into her and hearing her gurgling cries as it was followed by another and another while Janet sprinkled his balls with her own bubbling libation....

Then it was quiet... And in the quietness Janet coiled herself, wriggled from his slimed tool and cuddled herself full length into him as they lay together, panting. Mike stroked her hair. – "You were spanked before, weren't you," he said quietly. – "What?". Her reply came so softly that he scarce heard it. – "You were. I know you were", he said and turned her on to her back, gazing fondly down into her flushed face. – "I knew you'd know", Janet murmured, "I always.... I always wanted you to... well, to spank me and....". Her voice broke. "I s'pose you hate me now", she added with apparent mournfulness.

"Probably", Mike said with a grin, "but not if you tell me all about it". – "All?", she quavered as he kissed her. – "ALL", he answered firmly "and then we'll have to decide, young lady, on your future treatment. If you were really VERY naughty, then I might have to bring a strap to you". Janet blushed and worked her lips, not knowing whether to giggle or not. – "I was... well, a bit", she confessed. – "Go on, young lady. I want to hear everything. And if I don't", Mike said warningly, feeling with a certain wonder his prick stirring again already against her smooth warm stocking top.

"Well, you see, one day...." Janet began. "Knickers off....", Mike heard as a cloud of words came from her, a cloud that seemed at one and the same time both to fuzz his brain and yet excite his mind.... "bent me over.... smacked me... oh, he smacked, and I cried, Mike, I did, and I thought he would stop but he went on and on until I blubbered and blubbered and my bottom grew hotter and hotter and...." – "And it was like just now, wasn't it?", Mike concluded from her. Janet compressed her lips and nodded, looking half fearfully up into his eyes. – "He... he took it out... he.... I mean he didn't come.... oh!", and her face buried itself in her shoulder.

Mike said nothing for a moment, his prick now strumming up full length against the silky lush flesh of her thigh. – "There'll be.... there'll be a penalty to pay, y'know", he said. – "P...penalty?", came a muffled voice. – "A penalty, yes, Janet, and a severe one. Not only must you be strapped tonight, but your sister also when she comes at the weekend". – "Huh? Angela? But Mike... oh, Mike, you wouldn't.... would you?"

"You said it wouldn't be her first either – didn't you? That slipped out just now, though maybe you didn't realise it, Janet". His voice was stern. Her fingers tightened on his arm. – "You mean it, don't you?" she asked and received his nod. – "And you said something, in all your excited babbling just now, about YOU wanting to spank a girl, Janet. Now you did!", he accused, and biting her lip with a pleasure she could not conceal, his wife pushed him gently and sat up, mischievously reaching out to coil her fingers lovingly around his long, hard tool.

"I did, yes, Mike. I mean, I do. Is it awful of me? But not Angela – not my sister", she said quickly. – "Some other girl, then – not young, not too old. Someone like you were. You could be the headmistress, Janet, and I – well, the gym master, or something", he said. Janet could no longer suppress a laugh then. – "You MEAN it", she said wonderingly, "oh, you do, don't you? Really mean it?". Excitement had never been so intense in her, nor in Mike, as she could see from the glow in his eyes, let alone feel from the eager pulsing of his prick.

"Come on", she breathed, lying back again, "it does make one want it, doesn't it?" – "Yes", Mike said simply, "but not now. Restraint, darling, as per Miss Bentwick's book, right?" – "Oh no!", Janet pleaded and tried to grasp his prick again, but he drew his hips back. – "Oh yes, my love. It'll keep you on tiptoe – like it did quite a few years back, remember?", he asked with a tinge of sarcasm. – "But... but we don't know anyone", Janet pleaded, hooding her eyes sensuously, "except....". She stopped and bit her lip. – "Except? Who?", Mike asked eagerly, smacking her hand playfully away as it tried to stray close. She had to have discipline now, he realised with an intense thrill – and she had to know it.

"Huh!", Janet responded mockingly, but then seeing the look on his face, said "Well.... a girl who works in a shop near here. She's nice. A little bit shy but only a little bit. I WAS going to ask her round for coffee some time". – "You mean you are", Mike grinned and stood up, blatantly displaying his waggling weapon, "I know she's attractive, or you wouldn't have bothered, darling. Make it Saturday evening, huh?"

"But... but Angela's coming!", Janet responded, sitting up. – "That's right", Mike said solemnly and began drawing on his pants. – "But...", Janet began again and then was silenced as he raised his hand. – "You will now, young lady, receive eighteen strokes of the leather tonight for that objection. You'll see this girl in the morning and invite her – right". Janet gulped. – "Yes, all right", she said meekly and then giggled, "but I'll spank her, too".

"We'll see, darling", Mike said and left it at that. Angela was three years younger than his wife – married but separated, and had a luscious, fleshy-firm peach of a bottom. She'd take it – he knew she would, but like Janet she would have to be schooled. Going downstairs, he waited until Janet appeared, poured drinks, and said, "Now you read a chapter to me each night from the book – and you'll REMEMBER everything – right". – "Yes", Janet said dutifully. She had always wanted him to be masterful, and now he was being. She hadn't told him yet that she had been strapped – to spur her on, but he'd get it out of her.....

* * *

"Talk to Angela when she arrives", Mike told her just prior to the Saturday. – "Yes, I will", Janet said simply and, when her sister did arrive, took her up to the bedroom and closed the door. When they came back down, after what seemed an interminable half an hour, Angela looked apprehensive and questioning, but Mike studiously ignored her. She had to bend over first, before his wife's young friend, Sally, did. When Angela sat down in the living room, he watched her tidy her skirt and bring her knees together. Nice, round knees – thighs that swelled. He envisaged the gripping of her stocking tops, the warm bulb of her bottom nestling in her panties. Janet came and sat beside her on the sofa and smiled tentatively.

"You've told her?", Mike asked brusquely. Janet nodded. Angela gave a little start and clutched the hem of her skirt again. – "Mike, I can't... I don't want you to", she pleaded, her eyes widening as he stood up and towered over them. – "Your schooling – and you know the type to which I refer, Angela, was never completed in my view. I intend that it should be. You are under discipline here, as your sister now is". – "No!", Angela's voice blurted out and she made to try and jump up, but her knees hit Mike's and she sank down again. Janet gripped her wrist and said, "Angela, please!"

"NO! WOO-WOO-WOOH!", came Angela's throbbing cry as the tawse seared her, drawing fire in its wake into her quivering halfmoons that visibly tightened where a pink band spread. – "Ha, yes, go on!", Janet blurted, only to be silenced by a warning waggle of Mike's finger, whereat an almost prim look came over her face. – CRA-AAAAACK! Scarce had Angela tried to recover from the first stroke than the second laid itself stingingly into her rich moon. – "YEEEEEECH!", came her screech while Janet, bending slightly forward with her knees bent on either side of her sister's waist, pressed down with both hands on Angela's hips and so helped to hold her still.

"I shall ask you one time, Angela, how many you first received and how old you were", Mike said. – "No! Shan't tell you! I didn't! Janet's a fibber, she..... NEEEE-YNNNNG!", her voice broke off as a third stroke blasted waves of heat into her enticing, naked derriere. "BOO-HOO-HOOO! tell him, Janet – tell him I didn't! Tell him to stop!" – "Go on, Mike, until she talks", Janet said levelly, her own hips and bottom working up and down as Angela endeavoured still to thrust her off. – SCRA-AAAAACK! – "THOO-OOOH-OOOOH! Please no! It b...b...burns! HOOOOO!"

"Again", came Janet's voice implacably. She knew as well as her sister that the tawse did not actually hurt – not when it was wielded properly as Mike was doing. It burned and it stung, sure, but after a while..... "No, no, don't! I did!", came Angela's sudden wail. Mike let the tawse hang down by his side. – "Go on, Angela", he said tonelessly. – "I was... was.... was n...n...nineteen and I six". – "The first time, yes. And the second?", Mike asked. Maybe Angela could somehow sense him raising the tawse again for her hands clawed more fiercely into the duvet. – "A d...d...dozen....", she stammered and began to cry in such a baby fashion that Janet wasn't at all impressed, but Mike – to her surprise – stepped back and coiled the strap slowly around his hand as if ruminating.

"All right – let her up. But she's to stay up here, Janet, until teatime. I'll cane her tonight before she goes to bed. It'll be a light one only", he added helpfully and strode out, marvelling at his self-control, but knowing it needful. Closing the door, he heard scufflings and then the long, accusing sobs and muffled words of Angela mingling with the sometimes sharper, sometimes comforting ones of Janet. "I'm going home", he heard Angela wail and then Janet's cool, smooth reply, "No, darling, you're NOT", and he went downstairs. It was the same house now and yet not. In a way it was a house where fantasies were coming true. And he had Sally to deal with yet. She might need just a warm-up baby-spank first. Maybe he'd make a concession and let Janet and Angela do it playfully. That would warm Sally up for the real thing later.....

Stick around – It's all going to happen!

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

What's in a name?

Story from Janus 55.

What's in a name?
by Andrew Grantham

CAROL started her first day at her new college with some misgivings. She was new to the town and had had no time to make any new friends. The pretty, bubble-curled blonde girl felt very much out of things as she tried to find her way around before the 9am bell sounded. The other girls had commenced term the day previously and they had all mated up, leaving the new arrival very much on her own.

Carol eventually found her room and took up the only available seat. She realised right away that her new educational establishment was much stricter than the one she had left.

She fell foul of two teachers before midday. Things were clearly going to be very different for her here. Several times, she inwardly cursed her father for taking his new job and making the family pull up their roots.

After the lunch break, she was stunned to hear her name called out. She was told to report to the Headmaster.

'Me?' she asked the lady teacher. 'Are you sure?'

'Your name is Carol Barker, isn't it?' was the reply.

'Yes, Miss,' she admitted.

The middle-aged woman squared her shoulders and stood menacingly in front of her. 'At this college,' she thundered, 'students do as they are told – first time!'

Half a minute later, Carol knocked timidly on the door of the Head's study.

'Enter!' commanded the authoritative voice.

The blonde took a deep breath and entered the holy of holies. Sitting at his huge desk was the Headmaster, a good-looking man in his early fifties. He had finely-chiselled features, a faintly sensual mouth and a strong, clefted chin.

He looked up from his writing, motioned with a finger for the girl to stand in front of him, and then put down his silver pen.

'You... you sent for me, Sir?' said the blonde haltingly.

The Headmaster – the girl didn't even know his name – folded his arms and looked at her icily. 'You are new here, aren't you?'

'Yes, Sir,' mumbled Carol. She didn't like the tone of his voice, but surely she couldn't be in hot water already?

'You have certainly got off to a bad start, my girl!' he snapped.

Carol's blue eyes widened. She had given a tiny bit of cheek to the French teacher and sniggered during biology, but that was all.

The Headmaster stood up. He was a tall man. 'I'm going to teach you a lesson, young lady!' he rapped. 'I hope you will benefit from it. I'm sure my pupils always do.'

He strode towards the corner of the study. There, propped against the wall was a thin, springy, crook-handled cane. Picking it up, the Head swished it menacingly.

Carol's legs turned to jelly. This was going over the top. She couldn't believe it.

'Bend over the desk!' he ordered her sharply. 'Lift your skirt up to your waist.'

The blonde girl stared at him disbelievingly. 'You can't,' she croaked, switching her gaze to the cane, eyeing it in astonishment and awe of its evocative power.

'Can't I, miss?' he sniffed, taking hold of her upper arm and expertly folding her over the shiny desk top. Carol thought she must be dreaming and hoped she would wake up before the ordeal began.

She knew it was reality however, when she felt his hand at the hem of her navy blue pleated skirt and then pressing down on the small of her back. There was a draught on the backs of her thighs as the Head took a practice swish with the cane vertically downwards behind her.

Fighting an urge to cry she bit her lip, knowing that tears would be inevitable later.

Carol jumped involuntarily at the touch of his hand on her nether regions. Her white cotton knickers were swiftly yanked down to her knees, whence they fell to her ankles. She felt her face burning. Her white blouse had ridden halfway up her back so that she was naked from there to the tops of her white socks just below her knees.

The blonde's shapely breasts were squashed on the hard surface of the desk and her thighs were being uncomfortably indented by its sharp edge. She was aware of the cool air on her bum and it felt terribly vulnerable, raised high and naked behind her.

Carol's long and finely-wrought legs stiffened and pressed together as the Head placed the thin cane across the dead centre of her bottom, pushing it deep into her creamy flesh. He admired the pair of full, pale globes separated by a long, narrow valley. A pity he had to hurt them, but he had a job to do. After all, it was in the girl's best interests.

Carol clamped her eyes tight shut. She tensed as she heard the terrible high-pitched swishing. What would it feel like when it...?

The cane landed squarely across the undercurve of both buttocks. A stifled squeal left her lips. The first stroke was agonising. She had expected some pain, but not the sheer, excruciating hurt that engulfed her whole body.

Almost right away, another stroke bit into Carol's soft, pampered bottom just below the centre. She bit her lip as the heart-stopping pain surged through her. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

In her misery, she resolved to find another college in which to complete her education.

Before she had recovered, another swoosh heralded the arrival of a further cut which landed across the fleshy, round hemispheres. Carol's back arched up and a scream was heard. She did not realise at first that it was her own scream.

She stuffed a fist into her mouth, and her teeth clamped on it. Her face was awash with salty tears.

There was another whoosh and Carol felt the cane streak across her bottom. It took but an instant for the pain to reach her brain. The band of fire spread from her up-poked, branded bum to the top of her head and the tips of her toes.

The blonde wondered what her bottom looked like. She couldn't actually feel the individual red lines, but she knew they were there all right.

Another stroke produced another line of fire. Her buttocks twisted and she began to moan. Her body seemed drained of life and transfused instead with the most awful suffering. Flames consumed her bottom. And then one more stroke split the air and cracked loudly and agonisingly against Carol's juddering mounds.

Suddenly, there was a frenzied knocking at the study door. The Head paused, cane in the air, sighed petulantly and went to see who was disturbing him.

Carol, her shoulders heaving with sobs, her backside a burning cauldron of pain, was grateful for the respite. She wondered just when her torturous ordeal would end.

In her pulsating agony, she failed to hear the mistress who had sent her apologising profusely and explaining that the girl she ought to have sent along was Coral Parker and not Carol Barker. She hoped she wasn't too late.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Old Snotty

Story from Roue 12.

Old Snotty

Even though the high hedges on each side gave some protection it still seemed a long chilly walk down the narrow path in the evening, especially in the autumn when somehow the hedges seemed to act as a bit of a wind tunnel and it seemed even further away from the main school buildings. The fallen leaves always swirled round your flat school shoes and on those occasions it was best to wear your school mac over your uniform despite the fact that you knew very well you wouldn't be feeling the cold coming back later. You were expected to be there promptly ten minutes after prep finished, always in the free hour before you had to go to your dorm, and somehow the side door of the darkened pavilion was always ajar when you arrived.

It was errie finding yourself in a dark building, so empty, just feeling your way along the corridor towards the little gleam of light that glimmered out from under the storeroom door.

They always gave you ample time to think whilst you were waiting, sometimes as long as fifteen minutes by yourself in the dimly lit storeroom, plenty of time to meditate on what might happen to you, and after your first few times you soon learned what was expected.

It seemed quite natural that the contents of your changing room locker would be on the chair waiting for you all ready. You didn't have to look around either, the main object, the one that really mattered, would be etched on your mind for life. It was there over to one side with its rough leather top and splayed out thick wooden legs to remind you how soon your own legs would in their turn be splayed out and your bare tummy would be wriggling frenetically across the hard top. They would always set it fairly tall, high enough off the ground to keep you on tiptoe, or even to get your feet off the wooden floor, so that with your body well forward you could kick and twist without hindrance.

You always tried hard to avoid constantly thinking about 'all that' whilst you slipped quietly out of your school uniform and into your running vest and shorts – those ridiculously brief cotton shorts slit up the sides and so brief that the lower third of your bum was bared even when you were standing, and more to come when you bent over the horse.

Try to forget it, think about how that thin skimpy vest shows your pretty tits off – pity he's not susceptible to 'pretty tits'.

Quite why they made you put your socks and gym-shoes on you couldn't imagine. The store room was none too warm in this weather, but at least they'd been kind enough to light the old heater in the far corner. It was a bit smoky but you huddled your shivering figure over it for the little warmth it gave out, knowing it wasn't just the chill that was making you shiver.

'Old Snotty' wasn't one of her favourites, thought Julie, suddenly feeling the tightening of her buttocks. All of the masters took the opportunity of chastising the young girls at the school when they got the chance, but 'Old Snotty' needed only the flimsiest excuse to apply a gym shoe to a girls backside. Julie shuddered at the thought of what was in store for her as she eased her thick blue knickers down to her ankles before quickly stepping out of the unnecessary garment. She lost no time in slipping the thin tight vest over her fair hair tied back in its twin bunches, and almost as quickly she pulled the tight brief running shorts up over her pertly chubby buttocks. Might as well make the most of them before 'Old Snotty' peels them down again she thought ruefully.

She heard his cough in the corridor and the slight pause as he locked the outer door to the pavilion, and she knew she would barely have time to prepare herself for his arrival.

With a tiny sniffly sob she ran to the horse and bounced herself up across its high leather back. Her body wriggled forward across the worn leather top until her toes were just clear of the floor mat, her legs were spread apart exactly as he liked her and she bent her knees in towards the horse to throw her rounded cheeks back into full prominence. Like all of the staff he had his little whims, and two previous painful visits to the pavilion had taught Julie the value of cooperation. There would be no complaints this evening that 'She hadn't stuck her bum out.'

As she lay there tense and frightened she could hear the steady advance of his footsteps down the corridor and then the squeak as the door handle turned, followed by the faint cool rush of air as the door opened and shut.

As the light switch clicked, her end of the room was suddenly illuminated brightly. Two focussed spot-lights like they had in the 'classy' shop windows shining from above and behind lit up the only part of your anatomy they were really interested in, and she tried to imagine what sort of a picture Snotty was revelling in. She could tell from the sound of his puffy breaths that he was enjoying the display. She sensed his piggy little eyes gloating and his lips being moistened as he peered short-sightedly at the half-exposed buttocks, the thin shorts moulded to the chubby teenage cheeks. Her forward position over the horse would have pulled her shorts well up over the two pert mounds of her young bum so that the shorts would have risen up to make the legs cut high across her bare cheeks, with the gusset taut into the cleft that divided the two melons of her behind, the separation of her thighs, throwing the fat little sliced peach of her labia into 'bas-relief'.

Suddenly she felt his cold sweaty hands fondle her bum where it was bare, and her thighs began to squirm at the thought of what was about to begin. She began to weep silently.

Despite her attempt to conceal her weeping from him, Old Snotty must have heard her and suddenly a front light lit up her tear-streaked face, revealed by the mirror so carefully positioned in front of the horse. Snotty really enjoyed seeing a girl cry and she noticed how much bolder his hands became with his rising excitement. Nearly all of the masters seemed to derive a good deal of pleasure from chastising their pupils, and Old Snotty in particular could hardly conceal his excitement from any girl he had to punish, and as Julie could just make out his face dimly in the mirror even though the room was fairly dark behind her, she could see his visage lit up with anticipatory lust as he continued the searching exploration of her nubile buttocks. At last he stopped, and then Old Snotty watched her face avidly as he slapped the sole of the gym-shoe across his palm a few times, noting with a curled twist of his lips how Julia's face winced as each 'smack' of the shoe echoed round the room and as she felt him rest the cool sole of the gym pump across the trembling lower slopes of her chubby bum she began to cry. The first smarting crack of the shoe across her bottom was delivered so hard that she nearly leapt off the horse. Somehow you could never remember just how stingy a spanking was, and she heard herself crying out her protests as he continued to whack her bum, really hard firm sharp whacks of the pump full across both cheeks, delivered as usual with just enough pause between the strokes to let the pain reach up to her brain and sink into her mounting anguish. After ten strokes or so her buttocks were rising to each whack and her thighs were twisting around on the horse.

Snotty licked his dry lips with growing pleasure as his eyes flickered from the reflection of the sobbing girl's tear stained face in the mirror to the cherry-red tight buttocks leaping and squirming across the horse. Julie's bottom was much too sore and stingy for her to put up more than a feeble token protest as he stripped her shorts down to just above her knees, and she soon-widened her thighs as much as her lowered shorts would allow at his command, and then for the next minute or two all that could be heard from the room was the out of condition wheezing of the master interspersed with the gasps of the girl as she got a couple of dozen more before he dropped the slipper.

Julie's round, sore cheeks cringed as his hands felt for her buttocks, she was terrified he would spank her some more with his bare hand as he sometimes did, particularly if he was in the mood for a revival of his flagging excitement, but with a sigh of relief she realised he was only rubbing cooling cream over the crests of her pink behind.

It wasn't an unmixed blessing. Old Snotty rubbed hard and he liked to feel you wriggling your still sore bum and thighs in his hands, his palms were rough and the cream he used always made it hurt like hell before it soothed at all. Julie's tears and weeping increased once more as the cream began to tingle her tender buttocks fanning the fiery red stingy sensations, she kept telling herself it was better than having him give her a hand-spanking. Nevertheless she couldn't help crying out.

"Oooh – aahh – nnn – please – ooh – ple – nngg – not so – hard – Sir – please no more."

Julie's tears slowly subsided and gradually her bum's tingle got less she felt her thighs and buttocks relax, but she began to feel uneasy at the way his hands were slipping up and down her smooth slippery thigh tops. She began to pant and gasp as his fingers parted the damp swollen lips of her labia, easing apart the peachy cleft and exploring forwards to find the cherry pink bud, insistent fingers rubbing it hard into full turgidity. She felt an overwhelming desire to 'pee' on his hand and knew she would be smacked hard and long if she allowed herself to indulge in any such naughtiness.

Old Snotty took her up to the climax of her inevitable orgasm and watched her bucking up and down on the horse, her lissom legs squirming with her shamed excitement. He left her alone in the gym with her thoughts.

Ten minutes later Julie put out the storeroom lights and crept tearfully down the darkened corridor rubbing gently at her still-smarting bottom, knowing full well that Mr. Harris would be seeing her tomorrow at eight sharp before morning assembly.

Monday, 20 December 2010

Questions and more questions

Story from Janus 57.

Questions and more questions
by Michael Burntwood

Gymshoes pattered over the varnished wooden floor of the gym hall. The netball match had started. It would settle the question, which team was to be appointed to play in the school championship final against the winning team from the fifth form heats.

Long-legged sixth form girls were running up and down from one side to the other following the ball, eager to do their best to win the game and on Parents' Day belong to the team which would show the younger girls that sixth form young ladies as always are the best.

One of the teams was dressed in dark blue leotards and the other wore white sleeveless vests tucked into brief running shorts of shiny red nylon. Today, however, it seemed as if there was something wrong. Miss Hampton, the gym teacher, had to blow her whistle to break the game from time to time.

Again the shrill tone from her whistle sounded within only the first minutes of the match. The game stopped and surprised girls stared at each other in bewilderment. An explanation came when Miss Hampton pointed her arm at one of the girls in a leotard.

Sighs of vexation were heard from several of the players in both teams. The player who had now once again caused Miss Hampton to stop the game was a slim-waisted blonde girl, the only one with a pageboy coiffure. She belonged to the blue team and was dressed in a leotard which seemed to have been outgrown at least a year ago. None of her chums was particularly amazed because they knew that Madelaine, for one reason or another, quite regularly became subject to their teachers' displeasure.

'That was the third time, Madelaine, that you deliberately aimed to hit Lorna with the ball. I can't understand why you are more interested in attacking Sonia and Lorna than doing the best you can to help your team win. It's unfair to them that some of you are fighting all the time. I suppose you and Lorna and Sonia for some reason are on unfriendly terms and can't concentrate on the game. So we will have you three sit down on the bench and keep quiet. Then the rest of the girls can play this game according to the rules. To make the teams even, Carolyn can play for the whites.'

Madelaine, Lorna and Sonia looked sullenly at the teacher and glanced tight-lipped at one another. Then they very sulkily sat down as they had been ordered to, and Miss Hampton signalled for the game to recommence. Slender-built, lissom girls started to run across the floor, following the ball from one side of the hall to the other, calling out with excited voices. But it hardly came as a surprise when, only a couple of minutes later, the whistle blew again and there was a new break.

Girls in both teams now became annoyed because the signal had nothing to do with the game. There was no reason to stop the attack the white team was making towards the basket on the blue side. Though they were now sitting on the bench, the three girls were also the cause of this latest interruption. They had caught the attention of Miss Hampton as they were trying to push each other off the bench. The teacher was obviously more angry this time. In a very harsh tone she ordered the girls to stand up. Exchanging angry glances, the girls obeyed.

The scolding that Miss Hampton bestowed upon the miscreants finished unexpectedly. She sent the three 17-year-old girls to stand in the corner, and to stop them scuffling she ordered them to clasp their hands on their heads. When the girls had obeyed, Miss Hampton turned back to the teams and, clearly irritated, blew her whistle to start the game again.

The players, occupied with the game, did not care at all for the three unruly girls in the corner, even though something quite out of the ordinary had occurred. On very rare occasions it had happened that a girl had been put in the corner during a gym lesson. In the sixth form it had perhaps never happened before. But the girls chasing the ball were totally engaged in the game and going all out to win. Their young bodies in tight-fitting gym outfits flew across the floor on long teenaged legs, firm breasts bouncing and round buttocks jouncing above lithely-tapering thighs.

At times, when the game was stopped, some of the panting girls glanced at the three lanky figures in the corner. Gazing at their backsides and noticing their well-rounded bottoms, they would have welcomed with ill-concealed spitefulness the sight of reddish tramlines marking the skin on the nether halves of the three girls' trim buttocks. Buttocks which Lorna, Sonia and Madelaine were displaying, as the leotard Madelaine had on, and the brief red shorts Sonia and Lorna wore, had ridden up because of their raised arms.

Most of the girls blamed Madelaine for what had happened. There were those, not only in Madeline's team, who had plans to show her what they really felt about her disturbing the game. They surely would know what to do when they returned to the changing room to shower and put on their school uniforms once more. Madelaine could expect to get slaps from hard hands or wet towels on her thighs and buttocks, till she had smarting blemishes on her bottom and the backs and fronts of her long, shapely legs.

The game had not proceeded for more than another five minutes before there was a further outbreak of disorder. Madelaine pinched Sonia's right thigh. Perhaps she did it harder than she had intended. Perhaps Sonia yelped louder than she had cause to. Miss Hampton's whistle stopped the play. Red-faced with anger and looking extremely stern, she turned to the girls in the corner in time to see Madelaine put her left hand back on top of her head. In the harshest tone she demanded an explanation, while the other girls on the floor stared, noticing that Sonia was rubbing her thigh with one hand. Very severely, Miss Hampton held her eyes fixed on the guilty-looking schoolgirl's down-tilted face.

'You are really the most incorrigible girl I've ever had, Madelaine,' she expostulated. 'Now go to my room and wait for me there. You can sit on the chair by the door – and don't you dare do anything else. I'll deal with you after the game. And you, Sonia and Lorna, sit down where you are. I'll have a talk with you when the others are changing.'

Even Madelaine was forced to blush as she trudged alone out of the gym hall with all the girls' eyes upon her. She sat down moodily on the chair in the gym mistress's small room. On the other side of the door, the game started again. She could hear the sounds from the girls. They were however unusually quiet and had good reason to be low-voiced. All were aware that they had better be on their best behaviour. Miss Hampton had already been provoked far enough and would hardly stand for any more nonsense today. None of them wanted to tempt their teacher to resort to still stricter methods in order to maintain her control.

Madelaine now felt far from happy as she sat fidgeting on the hard chair. If she could imagine anything that Miss Hampton had in store for her, she felt certain that it would not be something nice. Her lips were closed and her eyes downcast, as if she were studying her gym shoes. She held her long legs stretched out, her heels resting on the floor and her hands nervously moving up and down along her lithe, silk-skinned thighs.

It was not the first time Madelaine had been in Miss Hampton's room. She had been there before, but never in fear of being punished. It was awful to sit there and have to think about punishments. Shivering, she remembered what other girls had said about a girl who had been taken into this room for some mischief. She recalled what she had heard about where to look. She did not want to turn her eyes in that direction but could not withstand the temptation to check if what she had been told was true.

One look, a mere glance, was enough. It was true. It was there on the second shelf from the top. She could see part of it sticking out. It was the crook-handle end of it.

Madelaine bit her lip hard and rubbed her palms against the thin fabric of her leotard where it tightened across her narrow hips. She felt certain about what was going to happen. Miss Hampton would take that cane down. Then... in that very stern voice she sometimes used, she would tell her to stretch her left hand out, palm upwards... But... what if she wasn't going to cane her across her hand?...

Madelaine shuddered at the thought. Could there be any way for her to escape? All sorts of thoughts raced through her head.

Perhaps she could explain to Miss Hampton what had happened? Why she had been so angry with Lorna and Sonia. It would be embarrassing for her, but maybe just for once the truth would help. Seconds ticked away and became minutes.

Madelaine became more and more anxious, sitting on the chair, waiting for something she hated to think about, but which was inevitable. Unconsciously, she had put her hands in between her thighs, pressing them tight to her crotch. She trembled and felt cold, wearing only the thin, outgrown leotard. She would have liked to convince herself that she was the innocent, injured party, but she could not. It wasn't all the two other girls' fault.

Breathing rather fast, Madelaine straightened up. Through the door she clearly heard Miss Hampton's whistle sounding three times. Madelaine stiffened, sitting up properly on the chair. After a while everything became silent in the gym hall. One of the teams had won the match. Madelaine did not know which one. Then she heard the girls clattering away to the changing room. Cautiously she turned her head and looked across her shoulder at the door with its framed glass pane. She felt a cold shiver run up her spine – a shiver of fear that Miss Hampton was soon going to open that door and enter the small room. Her breath came in rapid gasps and her body rigidly quivered.

But all of a sudden there was a strange sound. A noise that set all her nerves on edge. She heard repeated dull slaps, which were followed by half-suppressed yelps from a girlish voice. Madelaine held her breath and listened intently, her cheeks growing paler. That sort of slapping noise was something she recognised. It had to come from a hand landing hard on tender flesh; the yelps were how a poor girl complained about a smarting pain which increased in her flesh every time the hand bounced up from the firm bottom, where it served the purpose of teaching the young lady how to behave.

Only after at least ten smacking reports did Madelaine become absolutely sure who it was. That was Lorna's voice she heard squealing and whining. The noise went on and on and that kind of sound did not make Madelaine feel more calm. She became acutely scared, for it was obvious that Lorna was not getting off lightly. Minutes seemed to pass before the spanking came to an end and the stomach-churning squealing turned into a blubbering wail.

Madelaine wrung her hands, feeling tears coming into her eyes and a heavy pressure inside her. In a way it was worse to have to listen than to be chastised herself. She strained her ears, hearing what must be Sonia's voice objecting plaintively.

'No... no-oo, Miss Hampton! I haven't done anything! It wasn't me! I don't know why Madelaine pinched me. Please. Pleeeease. Don't. Dooooon't. No-ooo. No-oo, Miss Hampton...'

Though Madelaine was scared, she could not stop herself. On trembling legs she stood up close to the door. Stealthily she raised a corner of the brown-and-white striped curtain and looked through the glass. She saw them in there near the wall to the left. Lorna was standing away from them, holding her hands to her tear-stained face.

Madelaine inhaled sharply and stared at Lorna. She could hardly believe her eyes. Lorna was 17 years old, as they all were. Yet she stood there so shamefully bared. She had her tight red nylon shorts right down and encircling her ankles, and was displaying her flat tummy and the dark triangle of her pubic hair. The lower half of her body was entirely exposed.

But Madeline's eyes almost at once turned away from Lorna, as she caught sight of Sonia, who was half-bent across Miss Hampton's lap. Miss Hampton was sitting on a low vaulting-box, clearly trying to make the eagerly-resisting teenaged girl lie down across her knee. She held Sonia's left wrist with one hand and the other was grasping the girl round her waist.

Madelaine flushed. Never could she have imagined that anything like this could happen to the girls in the sixth form. It was extraordinary. First, Miss Hampton had ordered them to stand in the corner. That was probably the first time ever that girls of their age had been sent to be shamed like that in front of the whole form. But now. This was much worse. Miss Hampton not only spanked girls who were 17 – she even pulled their shorts down and took them across her lap!

Madelaine saw how Sonia struggled in vain to be free. It did not take Miss Hampton long, for the gym mistress was strong. Madelaine almost pressed her nose to the pane of glass. Sonia was perched across Miss Hampton's lap and lay there with her legs floundering. She tried fervently to hold on to her shorts with her right hand, but a few slaps on her thighs made her obedient and the tight-fitting shorts were tugged down. And then Sonia became still, lying with her bottom up quite bare, prepared to be spanked till it was red all over.

The sound from the hard slaps could be heard more clearly now that Madelaine had her face close to the glass, and she could see with her own eyes how the arm was raised and then brought down, the hand rising high in the air and descending with sheer force. The sight of the rippling flesh starting to develop red marks from Miss Hampton's fingers and palm became too much for Madelaine. She closed her eyes. Panting, she slumped down on the chair in great anxiety, convinced that her own punishment was going to be no less shameful. Miss Hampton would certainly perform what she considered to be her duty and it would be on Madeline's behind, not on her hands. It was not much of a consolation to her that Lorna and Sonia were also going to leave school today with red and tender bottoms.

Further away, Madelaine heard the school bell sounding the end of the school day. Soon her mates would pour through the school gates, giggling and chattering and having nothing at all to worry about. With a deep sigh Madelaine wondered whether her chums, or at least some of them, really believed that she was not afraid of punishments. She was. Her bravado was only an outward act. She was scared every time she had to endure some kind of chastisement, whether at school or at home. Madelaine herself did not think any girl could be particularly brave when it came to having to pay for her misdeeds. A girl's bottom was sensitive and a cane so awfully whippy.

Half-paralysed by shame and fear, she stood up when the door was opened and then shut again. She felt too afraid and too shy to look up. She knew it could be no one other than Miss Hampton who had come in.

All her fears came true. Miss Hampton went straight to the wall with the shelves and stretched up her arm and took down the cane, before she turned to her. Madelaine did not want to look up. She glanced to the left and looked out through the window There outside, she caught sight of other girls fully-dressed, crossing the school yard in pretty navy blue uniforms, swinging their satchels, happy and carefree on their way home from school. Looking at them, she felt so ashamed and naked, standing alone in front of the gym teacher, clad only in her very tight, too-old leotard.

She heard Miss Hampton's voice but did not distinguish the words properly. The gym mistress's voice held no compassion for her. She was talking like teachers always did, about how schoolgirls were expected to behave. Teachers and parents always talked like that, but such words rarely inspired much interest from girls in their upper teens. She could not listen and she did not look up at Miss Hampton. Madelaine felt terrified and appallingly embarrassed, and she could not bear to look at the threatening cane Miss Hampton was bending between her hands.

The gym mistress angrily became aware of the girl's disinterest and suddenly swished the supple cane through the air, striking the outside of Madeline's left thigh with smarting effect. The searing, unexpected pain made Madelaine jump out of the way and let out a shrill, protesting yelp.

'I told you to bend over the end of that couch, Madelaine,' Miss Hampton repeated, pointing at the massage-bench alongside the wall behind the girl. It was high, covered in rather worn-looking brown artificial leather. On it was a cushion in the same material, but that looked almost new.

Tears were emerging from Madeline's eyes, and a whimpering from her mouth. She looked down at her thigh, rubbing the sore red mark on her skin with her left hand. Then, with a deep intake of breath, she slowly and with very short steps went to stand at the foot-end of the couch.

'Please, Miss Hampton,' she sobbed. 'It hurts. Please, don't use the cane. I... I have marks already. Daddy caned me at home the day before yesterday. That was why I got so angry. Lorna and Sonia teased me when we were changing our clothes because I still had those marks.'

'Yes, I know. They told me when I asked them why you were making such a disturbance. They have already been punished. Now it is your turn. Bend over and don't let me have any more fuss.'

Madelaine was reluctant to obey, but hard, unrelenting hands helped her. The leather cushion was pushed beneath her tummy and when Madelaine lay forward on the bench-top, her feet did not quite reach the floor. Her long legs were dangling in the air and a strong hand held her down. Madelaine had no option but to resign herself to her fate. Miserable and unable to resist Miss Hampton's demands, she felt her teacher's hands at the legs of her leotard, tugging them up. Shuddering, she gripped hard on the sides of the couch.

It was awful. She knew that most of her bottom had been bared. The leotard had been pushed up so high the cloth was cutting into her crotch. Miss Hampton yanked it even further. Her bottom had now been made completely vulnerable, and all that Madelaine could do to suppress the sound of her sobs was to press her face flat against the cool leather top. Any time now she feared that the cane would fall ferociously across its target. Her bottom tensed and relaxed repeatedly, the soft flesh wincing in expectation of her first-ever caning from the gym mistress. Madelaine knew what it would be like. She was only too well acquainted with the ways in which a cane could hurt. Experience had taught her more than she ever wanted to know about such things. She hated and detested being caned.

The sensation therefore came as no surprise to her. She had waited in anguish for at least a minute for the cane to whip into her soft flesh, and sure enough it did. The pain was the same as she had felt only two days before, when Daddy had used the cane that was kept at home solely for that purpose. Miss Hampton had aimed carefully and struck straight across the bare centre parts of her buttocks. The searing pain made Madeline's lips form a scream, but it never left her mouth. She succeeded in repressing it, but almost all the breath left her lungs and her hips heaved and wriggled.

The resilience of her bottom and the suppleness of the cane co-operated, and the teacher's implement recoiled smoothly from the stung and quaking flesh. A stripe of white across the pale skin marked the place, well below the tugged-up legs of her leotard, where the cane had made its brief visit, and within seconds it turned pink. The first tears of pain fell from Madeline's eyes on to the covered bench-top, yet Madelaine felt proud that she had not cried out.

The next two strokes were slightly less hard, although their cumulative pain and shock caused her hips to hump up and down energetically. But number four surprised Madelaine, as it really did hurt dreadfully. The scorching pain it caused very low down across her buttocks forced her to emit a plaintive cry and involuntarily she kicked up with both legs.

'I see you really felt that one, Madelaine,' said the gym mistress in a tight little voice. 'Perhaps that was just as hard as you get from your father. The rest will hurt like that one did. You have six more to come.'

'Oh no! No more, Miss Hampton! Pleeease! It hurts so awfully. Aaaaooouuch!' Madelaine shrieked as the very flexible cane whipped into the apple-curved rounds of her bottom for the fifth time, indenting another set of tramlines right above the previous ones. This time the smart made Madelaine snatch her body up off the couch, her visibly inflamed bottom performing a mad dance in the air.

The gym teacher's response was to order her to move forward on the bench so that her whole body, from head to ankles, now lay flat on its leather-covered surface, her long legs parted slightly and stretched out horizontally. Now Madelaine could not hold back her blubbering cries any longer. But as Miss Hampton made her wait in suspense for the next stroke, Madelaine tried awkwardly to induce her to let her off the rest of her punishment.

'Please, Miss Hampton. No more now. It hurts. It really hurts. I've learnt my lesson – I really have. Daddy was so strict, I'm already so sore. Please, Miss Hampton, please don't cane me any more!' At the same time she started to struggle and attempted to turn on her side to protect her buttocks.

'Oh no, Madelaine,' the teacher warned her, suddenly sounding spiteful. 'If you make a fuss I'll give you two extra strokes.'

Madeline's squeal this time was shriller when Miss Hampton's cane, to emphasise her words, landed with a loud crack, etching a blazingly painful red stripe across both her thigh-backs at least an inch below the crevice where the swelling of her buttocks began. Crying from the savage smart, Madelaine clung tightly to the end of the padded bench, dutifully submitting herself to Miss Hampton's unbearable discipline.

Now at last Madelaine realised how stupidly she had behaved. Instead of getting revenge on the two girls, she had made Miss Hampton more angry than she had imagined she could ever be. Never before had Madelaine been caned twice in one week. Once was more than enough – far more than enough. Sonia and Lorna had been lucky. They had escaped with a mere spanking. Of course a spanking was humiliating to a girl of 17, and still worse when she had been taken across the knee and had her knickers pulled down. But Madelaine would have given anything to have exchanged her punishment for the chastisement they had received.

Snivelling and sobbing, Madelaine tried to brace herself for the remaining strokes that were still due to her. She did not know how many more it was to be. She had lost count because of the pain. Had she been able to see her own bottom, she could perhaps have counted the number of strokes Miss Hampton had given her, for these marks were stronger and more livid than those left by the recent caning from her father.

The pause was over and Madelaine just had to cry out again when the cane scorched her soft flesh, almost too high up this time.

Again there seemed to be a pause, and Madelaine had a few moments' grace. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she could not stop weeping. The lithe cane rested right across her nervously trembling bottom, aligning itself for another stroke. Madelaine did not know that Miss Hampton was studying the marks her cane had already made in her skin. She did not know anything any more, only that she had been a very naughty girl and was now paying the price for her misbehaviour. The teacher seemed to be quite satisfied with the tramlined marks her instrument had produced on Madelaine's trim, girlish bottom with intent to make the culprit feel sore and remorseful. The girl still had to take a few more strokes, however, and she noticed a couple of areas where there were inch-wide gaps between stripes. Slowly she raised the cane again.

'There are only three more now, Madelaine. Try to be a brave girl and your punishment will soon be over.'

The three cracking whacks fell only five to ten seconds apart and Madelaine cried out, wailing from the pain each of them caused her in that part about which parents and teachers seemed to agree that girls possessed not only to sit upon.

Whimpering and shivering, Madelaine climbed off the padded bench and stood up straight when Miss Hampton told her to. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and the red, swollen tramlines across her buttocks ached and burned like fire.

Weeping, Madelaine was allowed to leave the room and weeping, she showered when she had reached the changing room. The water helped to ease the pain, but when she towelled she felt the soreness of the long, raised stripes. As she dressed, her thoughts turned from what had happened to what she had to face when she came home. Mum had asked her to hurry, but instead she was already at least half-an-hour late. She could not leave until she felt reasonably sure that people would not notice from her face that she had been weeping.

At home Mum and Aunt Doris would be impatiently waiting for her. Aunt Doris was busy making a new dress for Madelaine, and that was why the girl was expected home straight after school. Mum had reminded her once again as she had left for school that Aunt Doris was coming to try the new dress on for size. Madelaine sighed as she thought how life for a schoolgirl sometimes seemed to be so complicated. At home she would have to undress and stand between Mum and her Aunt in nothing but her underwear. Protests would be useless. Aunt Doris could not come back another day and Madelaine could not try on the new dress when she was wearing other clothes.

No knickers in the world could conceal reddish stripes decorating a pouting girlish bottom after it had been given ten sharp whacks with a school cane and on the bare too. There was also the weal across the backs of her thighs, which was not possible to hide at all. Mum and Aunt Doris were bound to notice the marks which still were red and swollen across her buttocks. Mum would almost certainly pull her knickers down to see everything. Then, amidst all kinds of exclamations, she would probably count the stripes.

There were going to be questions and more questions. How would Madelaine be able to find answers to all of them? No, Madelaine knew there would be no end to all those questions a Mum and an Aunt could put to a poor unhappy teenaged schoolgirl, whose bottom was still fierily tender after having just been dealt with by the cane. And why, oh why, didn't she live more than five minutes' walk away from school?