The Harmony Man

Story from Janus 76.

The Harmony Man
by John Undermeyer

THE candles on the dinner-table burned bright and intimate, nicely reflecting the kind of gathering it was. The Governess dabbed her lips fastidiously on her napkin. 'The investigation and hearing are over,' she said. 'And I have asked that Princess Sonia Lavinia be taken downstairs.' Her eyes glistened in the wavering light, dark as coals in a perfect face framed by raven tresses. At 40, she was still a beauty.

The Ambassador growled into his wine. 'The cane has always been the traditional way we punish, here at the palace. If that were ever to change I should make it a resigning matter.' As he replenished first my glass, then his own, I observed how the once-handsome features had become fleshy and slack, with rosy cheeks, double chins and round bibulous nose that put me in mind of an old-time Music Hall comedian or a classical actor playing a clown — an illusion at once dispelled by the purposeful set of the mouth and shrewd no-nonsense gaze.

'Do let us finish our meal before we go about our duties,' said the Harmony Man. He sat across the table from me, spare and ascetic, lean and tall and very grave, his hollow cheeks almost skull-like in the candlelight, hair long as a wild-maned musician's and prematurely white as if from shock. Spearing a delicious piece of white meat with his fork, he went on, 'This lobster really is too good to be kept waiting. Whereas the Princess is rather bad — naughty — has forgotten herself...' His sentence tailed off into a humourless chuckle shared by all of us. There was very little humour about the Harmony Man. His hands were large, bony, capable and strong, and I felt a pang of pity for the condemned Princess, awaiting her fate in the bowels of the building.

The Governess nodded. 'When a girl is to be caned,' she said in a voice creamy with scarcely-repressed pleasure, 'it does not matter how long she is kept waiting. No doubt it will do her good to contemplate her sins, and imagine the effect of a whippy cane falling across her naked bottom.'

The Harmony Man turned to me as if to give me a chance to catch up with the conversation, no doubt moved by my increasingly amazed expression. As a travel-writer I had discovered in the far-off Kingdom of Custodia a beautiful country uncontaminated by the modern age and rich in fascinating surprises — not only in its landscape and architecture, but in its customs and social structuring. Now here was another surprise.

'It is true, Sir Arthur,' he went on to explain, 'that the cane is our traditional way to punish. Because it is vital that discipline be maintained. We have in our charge here at the castle no less than fifty young men, and probably a slightly higher number of starry-eyed girls. They are in the process of getting to know each other so they can choose a partner and get married.'

I blinked, and the speaker favoured me with a grave smile. 'We of the Custodia aristocracy have always managed our affairs this way,' the Harmony Man continued. 'Our top families all send their children to Castle Matrix when they reach marriageable age. They woo here. And they wed here. Eternal vigilance by the Governess and the Authorities is the only way to stop the palace from turning into a bordello.'

I shifted in my seat, feeling slightly warm. How was this going to sound on television back home when I, the media-dubbed 'latter-day Somerset Maugham' (I even look like him) gave one of my famous 'travel-chats' about my experiences here?

The Governess now took up the story. 'When transgressions take place,' she said eagerly, 'which they do with monotonous regularity because boys will be boys and girls will continue to let them, the Harmony Man must do his duty.'

I smiled, acknowledging the sense of her argument. 'Governess,' I said, 'kindly explain to me how Alex Michaelis here won his title of the Harmony Man. Since it would seem that his sole task at the castle, incredibly, is to cane girls who have been sentenced by the Tribunal, I cannot see how he possibly brings them anything but disharmony.'

My three companions at the table chuckled in unison. Plainly the question had been asked many times before by travellers like myself, innocent of their ways. The Ambassador took a deep draught of wine and cleared his throat. Obviously he thought himself the best person to unravel the mysteries of Custodia to me. He placed his knife and fork together on his plate, and began.

'It has not escaped our notice that in every other western country, Sir Arthur, moral standards are lower than here in Custodia. And the divorce rate is higher. We attribute this happy state to the ministrations of the Harmony Man.'

'Come now, Ambassador,' I replied. 'If what I hear is true, the Harmony Man may cane as many as three naughty girls each day — but he can hardly have an effect on the whole population.'

The Ambassador dabbed dews of sweat from his massive brow and leaned his heavy bulk forward. 'On the contrary, Sir Arthur,' he insisted. 'What happens at the top of our society governs all that goes on in the lower classes. So long as our people see the leaders disciplining their families strictly and promptly, so they will continue to do the same to their own kin. Laxity begins at the top. Spare the rod, spoil the child is an English maxim. You in England have forgotten it. In Custodia we practise what you used to preach, although here we are talking of young adults.'

The Governess squirmed forward in her chair and licked her lips — almost lasciviously, I thought. 'When girls arrive here at Matrix,' she explained, 'I have them each before me, and explain the rules of courtship. We believe in shared work, sport and leisure time, with good conversation. We do not believe a successful partnership is built on mere passing fancy, or the hot desire of one lusty body for another. This is why close physical contact is forbidden. I turn a blind eye to intermittent hand-holding, but allow no further intimacy. Indeed, we have a specific example of a marriage failing because our disciplines were not adhered to.'

The stately beauty turned to the Harmony Man, who gave a wry, bitter smile at her remark. 'It is true. Sir Arthur,' he said. 'I married a foreign girl in a foreign country. She did not have to pass through the Custodian system of courtship and betrothal. The marriage was an utter failure. I put it down to weakness on my part.

'When my wife began to be wilful I let it pass. When her eye began to roam I thought it mere playfulness. I know better now. Had I brought the stick to Antonia, our union might have been saved. But she cuckolded me. From wedding to divorce took three years.'

A speck of colour had appeared in the cadaverous cheeks, suggesting to me that within this grimly authoritative figure lurked great passions, a righteous wrath only barely kept in check by a fine sense of justice.

'I came back to Matrix Castle,' continued the crisp, clear tones, 'and asked to be of service to the State. I have been caning truculent, disobedient, misbehaving girls for twenty years now. The intent is not to bring harmony to their naked bottoms. Quite other. The final result, however, is that the discipline I impose, imposes harmony on the marriage.'

The candlelight glimmered on the Governess's hair. In the subtly flattering radiance she might have been a girl of 20 herself but for the firm, matronly set of her mouth. 'You see,' the lady went on, 'in Custodia we believe that the wife should defer to her husband. It is a point we bring home both during courtship here, and during the marriage ceremony. There is scarce a girl who enters the castle chapel to wed, who hasn't first danced very prettily under Alex's rod.'

She sipped at her wine, eyes glowing as she warmed to her theme. 'Most of the punishments are for sexual offences,' she told me, looking intently into my face till the blood in my veins seemed to glow in response. 'But even if there are no sexual transgressions before the wedding, the girls generally give us a reason to bend them over our whipping-block. At least once. Sometimes twice. Alex is sufficiently competent to ensure a third appearance is hardly ever called for.'

The Governess was clearly at some pains to emphasise to me the sincerity of the Custodians' beliefs. Her eyes shone even more avidly and her breathing became a little tremulous as she went on. 'Alex does his work with the utmost skill and precision. It is his craft, his profession. More than a job — a calling, rather. We are all delighted with the manner in which he carries out the sentences of our Tribunals.'

I gazed curiously at this tall, slender 40-year-old woman dressed all in black, her raven-coloured tresses offsetting the paleness of her long, slim neck. The Governess, it struck me, not only approved of the way her girls were punished; it undoubtedly aroused her sexually. It is also true to state, I confess, that the prospect of the Princess Sonia Lavinia being caned was by no means dismaying to me. Princess Sonia's picture adorned the popular papers of Custodia virtually every day. To see her naked figure under the cane would be utterly delightful.

The Ambassador refilled my glass. I could not help noticing how he constantly replenished his own, nor his evident keenness to continue my instruction in Custodia's ways. 'When a girl is accused, she is brought before the Governess,' he explained. 'The Governess is sole judge of the evidence, and it is she who passes sentence. With rare exceptions she demands a dozen strokes of the cane. As soon as the number of strokes is pronounced, the girl must strip naked and she is then taken downstairs.'

Downstairs was a very vague word, and I wondered what kind of place it would turn out to be as the Ambassador talked on. 'You cannot deny that a girl's body is shaped in a way which suggests the Creator knew the value of a caning,' he growled urbanely with that sage yet whimsical look. 'Female buttocks, with their round meaty softness, are perfectly designed to receive the rod. The Harmony Man works in a manner which ensures that absolutely no real damage is done. The girl receives a short sharp shock — there may be a little kicking and yelling, a few wriggles of protest, some tears perhaps. But we men and women understand that this is the correct order of things.'

He gave the Governess a shrewd glance which included her in his remarks. The look she returned him was heavy-lidded, and what I can only describe as sultry.

There was a knock on the door and a liveried servant entered. He approached the Governess diffidently. 'Excuse me Ma'am,' the young man began. 'I am instructed to convey a message to you from the Princess Sonia Lavinia.'

'Indeed,' said the Governess abruptly. 'And what can that young wanton have to say to us?'

The flunkey cleared his throat, somewhat overawed to be addressing such distinguished personages. 'Her lady-in-waiting,' he faltered, 'says the Princess insists you have no right to send her downstairs without the permission of her father or mother. And since their Majesties are abroad...'

The Ambassador and the Governess both responded. 'Why, the damned insolence...' exclaimed the man, spilling a little wine on the table.

'I'm afraid the Princess is misled,' said the woman, her handsome features hardening and her dark eyes glittering. 'At her age her parents no longer possess any legal responsibility for her; their authority is purely monarchic.'

The Ambassador deferred to the Governess's icy tones. 'I have absolutely no hesitation,' he declared, 'in assuming authority to punish Sonia. I'm quite sure that her father would insist on it. Indeed, my sentence was lenient compared to what he would have demanded, were he here to witness such behaviour! Sonia had better keep quiet. If punishment is deferred it will be the King who decides on the number of strokes. I doubt if it will be under twenty!'

The servant bowed himself out, all too aware that he could bear no hopeful message of postponement or reprieve to Sonia's lady-in-waiting. Then, without the least sign of our conversation having been disturbed, the Governess looked at me again.

'The parents of all the young people in the castle have been through this system of marriage preparation,' she said in her cool, crystal voice. This includes the King and Queen before their coronation. Parents know perfectly well that their offspring are being disciplined and taught to obey. Girls defer to their husbands. That is the way we do things here. No exceptions are permitted. The skills of the Harmony Man are known to the mothers and fathers of every young person. The very fact that a girl arrives here looking for a husband means her parents fully approve of our system. Some daughters even arrive with a sealed envelope, which usually contains an admonition to me to make certain the daughter takes the rod before tying the marriage knot. This is because she will then know for certain what a truly good thrashing with a cane is like.'

Here my instructress smiled thinly. 'In future life,' she continued with a purr, 'her husband then need only allude to the event in the most passing terms to bring an erring wife back into line. It is, in the most literal way, a case of "once bitten, never forgotten". And I do assure you,' — here the Governess drew her tongue very slowly over her lower lip as she spoke the words — 'Alex's cane truly bites!'

'And so you see,' said Alex Michaelis, 'how I won the name by which I am known throughout the Kingdom. The Harmony Man ensures harmony after marriage, harmony based on obedience to the man. The tradition has been strong in Custodia for many hundreds of years. Our duty is to keep it alive, and our leading families endorse the way with enthusiasm.'

'Indeed,' I answered heavily, greatly intrigued. 'And are the young men permitted to witness the objects of their desire receiving their punishments?'

'Certainly not,' supplied the Ambassador with vigour. 'But they are informed when it is to take place. Indeed, everyone knows when a miscreant has been "attended to". Her face is puffy, her cheeks pink, her eyes red with weeping. She walks with a gingerly step, and the long skirt she is made to wear after a thrashing hides the weals, but does not make it easy to hide their effect.'

Breath came sharply from the Governess, and I could not help noticing a heightened awareness at the mention of weals and weeping. She smiled at me intimately and confided, 'We even have questions whispered between the girls. They think I don't notice, but my ears and eyes are everywhere. "Has your turn come yet?" one will ask another. "Have you met the Harmony Man?" "Have you hung over that wretched block?" "Did the Governess award you twelve? — me too! God, wasn't it terrible?" '

We had finished dinner and the flunkey cleared the table. 'Do you mind if I smoke?' purred the Governess, whose silky voice was beginning to attract me. Two gold cigarette-lighters appeared and the dark-eyed, long-fingered woman-in-command favoured mine. The Ambassador poured port for three of us. The glasses were generous. I had noticed with some surprise that, although he clearly enjoyed his food, the Harmony Man had drunk only bottled spring-water.

I could not help my mind flitting to thoughts of Princess Sonia Lavinia. I knew she was an only child of royal parentage. Her mother had been a world famous tennis-player before she married the then prince, who was much older than her. Their daughter was the darling of the world's press photographers, and it was easy to understand why. She was strikingly beautiful — but, perhaps more to the point, she led a full sporting life. A favourite news-picture was of Princess Sonia on the tennis-courts stretching for the ball in a way which clearly showed her gleaming white knickers under a pleated mini-skirt, and a pair of long slender legs as beautifully shapely as they were athletically nimble.

I had already learned that the young people who came to Matrix Castle never saw 'downstairs' unless they were to be disciplined. What I did not know, however, was the traditional attitude to 'distinguished' foreign guests such as myself. I was a personal friend as well as diplomatic colleague of the Custodian Ambassador. Fortunately he admired my books (my trade was author and explorer), and listened regularly to my broadcast on the World Service — and I wondered whether I could induce him to invite me to witness the punishment of the delightful Sonia. The Ambassador liked his wines, but he was certainly no fool, and knew exactly what was in my mind without my having to broach the subject.

'My dear Governess,' he murmured suavely, turning on his most disarming Ambassadorial manner. 'I don't think there could possibly be any objection to Sir Arthur accompanying us downstairs, do you? He is totally discreet, completely trustworthy and I am certain he understands that such a rare favour will not be divulged in Custodian society. But since he is at our table, and has been such a truly interested party in our conversation...'

The corners of my hostess's attractively mobile mouth twitched. Her eyes gleamed — almost teasingly, I thought. 'So you wish to see the Princess Sonia Lavinia thrashed, Sir Arthur?' she purred. 'You are interested in seeing how the Harmony Man deals with a girl who forgets herself? Sonia was caught entwined with a man in the castle corridors. Well, scarcely just entwined — she was partly disrobed! His hands were all over her body, and I have little doubt that her own hands were no less idle than his!'

It was the Harmony Man who now took charge, seemingly spurred to action by the woman's words. He rose to his feet, tall and gaunt, his shock-white hair and cadaverous face looming above us in the candlelight. 'I do not think we should keep Sonia in suspense any longer, Governess,' he announced in deep, sonorous tones. 'So...' His gesture included all those at table, including myself. 'If we have finished our eating and drinking, please follow me.'

The Governess, the Ambassador and I rose in unison. We were in the Harmony Man's private quarters and had only to walk into his hallway, where there was an electric lift barely large enough to hold us all. He pushed the button and the doors slid open. A minute later we had descended five floors and were, I estimated, in the very lowest part of the castle. I could not remember whether there was just one level below ground, or two.

He led us into a brightly-lit room reminiscent of a wine cellar. The roof was curved, fairly low, covered in the most brilliant whitewash and lit with a strip of fluorescent light which killed every shadow in the place. This was a room in which there was truly no place to hide. Standing in a corner, utterly naked, with her hands on her head, was the Princess Sonia Lavinia. I caught my breath, for she truly was a most magnificent specimen of healthy, lusty young womanhood. Every inch of her flawless skin glowed in the hard light with a tan of purest honey, the muscles of this thoroughbred athlete rippling and twitching almost imperceptibly with the tension of her stance. Her hair was a miracle of glossy amber, strikingly rich and bright. She was clearly angry at being made to endure such humiliation, yet afraid to give vent to her wrath — for, despite her own high birth, she had little doubt of the power and influence wielded by my three companions.

At first the Princess Sonia Lavinia was tempted to try and look us in the eye, but strength of numbers, allied to the fact that she did not know who to single out, caused her to lower her gaze. Having seen this gorgeous young female so often in press photographs, fully clothed or in seductively brief sporting gear, I was naturally keen to view her entirely naked. Nevertheless I affected an air of insouciance, and let my eyes roam over her while taking the greatest care not to make my keen interest too obvious.

Girls like Sonia, I pondered to myself as I took mental notes for the journal I would later write, need the cane, for their lovely faces and (as I was now able to judge) equally lovely young bodies are no guarantee of an inner beauty. Indeed the longer I gazed, the more obvious it became that Sonia was a proud, disdainful hussy who abused her power as a royal princess, adopting a domineering and arrogant attitude to any she held in thrall on account of her fame, status and beauty.

Now she tossed her haughty head, with its perfectly coiffeured leonine hairstyle as amber-gold as a summer sunrise, and the swanlike neck threw her pointed chin into a dismissive tilt as if to say she was far too good to be disciplined by the likes of us. Sonia was old enough to be married (22 if I remembered the newspaper reports rightly), but equally old enough to be reminded of the importance of good manners, sweet speech, an amiable smile and solicitude for others.

To my mind the girl lacked all these qualities. That such a uniquely endowed, incandescently perfect creature in shape and form should house such a spoilt and odious character was the greatest irony — and, in my eyes, the Harmony Man suddenly became a majestic, even heroic figure: one who drove out devils from within the flesh, who righted wrongs and wrought harmony from discordance.

But, as I say, what the Princess lacked in inner gentleness she made up for abundantly in outer graces. Her skin was sumptuous; soft, unblemished and milky. Her breasts were less developed than I might have expected, shallow and saucer-like with honey-nipples which the coldness of the cellar had caused to recede. This sparseness was echoed in the rest of her body. Flat at the tummy, trim at the waist and narrow over the hips, she still had to complete the filling-out process which comes to all women.

She was facing the wall, so I could not see that magnet-to-all-men — but I could enjoy her bottom. It was an absolute delight, each soft cheek perfectly round and smooth, no unseemly marks, no flab, but all youthfully fresh and firm. Dividing the cheeks was a crease reminding me of the fold in a peach (indeed her nether-cheeks had a soft peach-down on them), and that cleft produced a slight shadow which grew deeper as it flowed downwards to disappear between her legs. And what legs! Long and graceful as a ballerina's, supple and sturdy as an athlete's, the thighs ripely plump and firm, calves and ankles limber and smooth. I could, I confess, have worshipped those glorious limbs alone. Combined with the rest of that ideal form, however, the overall effect was to make me dizzy with pleasure at such perfection.

The voice of the Harmony Man, abrupt and commanding, broke the silence and my rapt musings. 'To the block, please, Sonia. We are ready to begin.'

I drew back as the exquisite princess turned, and my eyes followed that delectable royal bottom as it undulated softly to her walk. Each step caused a gentle roll of the hips; I could not remember a time when I had seen a young female's rear-end that so invited the cane — let alone on a girl so wickedly wilful and deserving of chastisement. It was good to know how skilled the Harmony Man was at his work, and I relished the thought that one session under his tutelage was enough to give a girl an experience she would remember for the rest of her life.

The petulant young lady (shivering just a little if I was not mistaken) strode to the centre of the room, her head defiantly lifted and studiously ignoring we four watching adults, cold-eyed and unforgiving. She stopped at the whipping-block — which bore a faint similarity to the beheading blocks of old England, save that it was much higher, and the 'dip' was carved all the way through so as to fully accommodate the middle-part of the body. And what a body that insensate block was about to embrace! The Princess stood naked before it — trembling for certain now despite her show of aloof bravado — erotically lush, divinely sculptured. In what contrast, I again thought, to the tainted character beneath its flawless surface.

'Bend forward across the block.'

With a sound between a groan and a sigh, the lovely girl addressed herself to her fate. Alex Michaelis positioned Sonia on the block with all the precision of an over-fastidious window-dresser setting up a mannequin in a shop window. The block was high, and in order to have her hips at the apex she had to climb three low steps placed at the base. Her upper body was lowered slowly down the opposite side, hands and arms dangling, because her fingers were not quite able to touch the floor.

Then the steps were removed so that her feet hung free also. Thus the girl lay in the shape of an inverted 'U' with hands and toes an inch or so off the ground. Her sun-bright hair dropped in folds over her perfect face, so she could see very little. It occurred to me that the position rendered her both helpless and uncomfortable, as well as unutterably alluring with the twin domes of her luscious rump thrust sweet and high, full and round and ripe and ready. I confess I gazed in adoration on those moons of beauty, unblemished as yet by the hot streaks of pain so soon to ignite them. Indeed, the sight of that divine bottom, so pale and smooth, tense and waiting, is with me yet and will ever remain so.

Seemingly from nowhere the Harmony Man produced a long, devilishly thin cane, tapered towards one end. His tall, spare figure stepped up on to a platform next to the block, which lifted him so that the girl's haunches were on a level with his waist. It was the perfect whipping height, and he wasted no time starting work.

I have seen various punishments meted out during my travels, but I cannot think of one that equalled this for determination, thoroughness and professionalism. It was as well, I thought, that Princess Sonia could not see the instrument he wielded, for the sight would certainly have struck fear into her heart.

To begin with, however, the Harmony Man began to lure his beautiful young victim into a sense of false security. He did this by walking away from the block and standing with his back to the waiting girl. Since her hair hung completely over her eyes, she could only sense what was happening behind her in the cellar, and began to believe that her stern punisher was intent on an exercise that would take him several minutes.

In the meantime Sonia lay tight and defensive, tensed in every sinew, the muscles of that superb body clenched, holding her breath. It was that which gave her away. Believing herself safe for a second or so longer, she exhaled, relaxing and loosening her buttocks. It was in that precise unguarded instant, when she was quite unready for the stroke, that the cane fell.

The whippy wood struck resoundingly against the hapless globes of flesh. The Princess Sonia Lavinia's fingers, long and delicately slender, sprang open like a Chinese fan, then squeezed themselves into tight balls hard as knotted rope. Then they scrabbled at the sides of the block, holding tightly lest the cavorting of her hind-parts should topple her from that high place as her hips squirmed and thrust in a mocking travesty of ecstasy.

'A hit, a hit!' I said to myself, unconsciously quoting from Hamlet. 'A very palpable hit!' And indeed it was, the cane cracking mercilessly across the very high-point of her deliciously round and upthrust bottom-cheeks. And the Princess had been so unready. How cunning, how unfair, I thought — but how absolutely necessary if she were to learn, in one lesson, all that the Harmony Man had to teach her. A snow-white cane-track glared across those peachy domes, turning in an instant to rose. Her sumptuously-formed body juddered as if a galvanic rod had touched it, and a cry shrilled through the room.

From that first stroke the Princess's austere chastiser caned with a speed my eye could hardly follow. That ideal female form, draped in total submission across the Custodian whipping-block, received on its uplifted buttocks the undiluted concentration of the Harmony Man's skills. In his hand the cane became a living entity: he stood tall, erect and stern above the forlorn object of his ministrations, his white mane flicking from side to side and his eye distantly glaring — for all the world like a symphony conductor beating with his dancing baton a tempestuous rhapsody of pain.

Again and again that long, pliant rod thudded, swished and cracked across the lushly-swelling curves of the Princess's gorgeous bottom, streaking both proud buttocks with livid lines. Again and again it sped and impacted, swung back, hissed forward, until that unique royal tennis-girl body, darling of the world's media and naked as when born, ground and strained in helpless anguish against the block which held it.

He thrashed earnestly, seeing no point in spinning out the punishment. Some men might have let the Princess compose herself between strokes. Regain breath, calm her writhing posterior, soften her cries. But none of that for him, for composure simply lengthens the time it takes to turn an angry harridan into a much more appropriate (and appealing) example of weeping maid, head hung in shame and submission, all resistance dissolved out of her.

I was able to detect only three sounds during the whole scene. There was the whirr of the cane as it cleaved the air. There was the smack of the wood on naked girl-flesh. And there were the cries of the Princess. These were never less than vociferous. I do not condemn the girl for her lamentations. No one could have stayed silent under the Harmony Man's ferociously stinging rod. I did notice, however, that as Sonia Lavinia's desperate cries rang round the cellar-like vault — which dramatically enhanced them and added an echo-effect — the Governess sucked in deep breaths of elation, and a contented smile came over her face.

Immediately on the twelfth stroke the Harmony Man dropped his cane and reached with both hands to the shoulders of the bent girl. Grasping them firmly, he lifted her fully upright and off the block. As the Princess landed on the floor, her tormented body, raging with fires in its nether-region, could not help springing upright. In that instant her rigorous disciplinarian sent her scampering across the room with a resounding wallop — this time from his open palm — directly across her soundly caned and sorely-welted arse.

Sonia Lavinia danced a jig of pain and fury. Her head flung about, she drummed her dainty feet; wails of misery resounded against the stark walls. This cavorting did not come from the propelling drive of his smack, but from a desperate effort to assuage the burning which suffused her delectable hindquarters. I found myself fixing my attention on the deep central cleavage of those plumply alluring nether-cheeks, now so rosy and streaked. The large muscles on the outside of her buttocks worked frantically, clenching and unclenching as if in an orgasmic spasm. The lovely girl, hitherto so snootily aloof, shoved her pubis forward, then drew it back and sucked in her stomach, then stretched up on tip-toes as if there were some way she could slip out of her body, leaving it to suffer while she looked on. Once she took her hands to where the cane had stamped its seals of authority, only to pluck them away again as her fingers ruffled the white-ridged flesh of the plushly-upholstered bottom-cheeks.

After some short time at these desperate antics the spoiled, gorgeous darling of the world's press and international tennis circuits became stationary and put all her efforts into her tears, wailing wide-mouthed at us as if howls of accusation could in some way compensate for the tremendous punishment she had just received on her naked backside. But the Harmony Man merely walked to a small wooden cupboard and stowed away his cane, showing not one sign of either sympathy or satisfaction.

The Governess, however, was clearly greatly satisfied and not a little aroused. She had witnessed the kind of salutary punishment she was convinced Princess Sonia Lavinia's sexual misbehaviour had merited — and I confess that I, too, was more than impressed by the style and dexterity of the caning (and this was reflected in a distinct stirring within my own self). The Ambassador was simply nodding to himself, highly pleased to have seen justice done yet again in that underground chamber of searing sorrow and repentance.

The three of us walked slowly to the lift, each deep in our own thoughts, leaving the Princess to her lamentations. The Governess explained to me in a husky, slightly unsteady voice that the wretched girl would eventually be able to make her way back to her rooms, where she would lie — tummy downwards no doubt — and try to bring sleep to her pulsing body. A few minutes later our threesome broke up. We bade each other goodnight with the usual courtesies, recognising that the scene we had just witnessed had been a fitting finale to a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

Back in my chamber I reclined on the giant feather bed. The punishment I had witnessed had left me feeling strangely elated: I can only compare the feeling to the bubbles in a champagne glass which continue to rise to the surface long after the drink is poured. The events of the last few hours had been truly memorable, yet something was still lacking, I felt. Was I simply experiencing the dying glow of delectable wine and good conversation, I wondered. How else could my cup of contentment be filled, this time to the brim, until it overflowed?

My dreams were interrupted by a tap on the door. It opened part-way before I could reach it, and a tall slender figure dressed in black eased in, lynx-like, and gently pushed it closed again. It had happened in a second, and I rose from the bed with a delighted smile. Her beautiful face was pale, her midnight hair tumbled in black cascades to her shoulders. Her eyes, dark and unfathomable, fixed me with a look of strange intensity. There was not merely allure in that gaze, but a naked hunger, a plea from the soul.

'My dear Governess,' I blurted. 'What an unexpected honour! I hope you have come for a nightcap. I happen to have...'

The Governess stopped my welcoming babble with a chalk-white finger pressed against my lips. She had walked towards me with one hand behind her back. Now she brought it forward to show that it held a long whippy cane, which she pushed into my open palm. Then, with a few deft movements, her full-length dress plunged from her shoulders and slid to the floor.

Now, as I gazed at her, entranced, she stepped towards me in only the skimpiest bra and panties and, placing a hand on each of my shoulders, began to knead them sensuously, all the time looking me directly in the eyes.

'Have you the courage, Sir Arthur,' she murmured, 'to finish this evening for me? To bring it to the ecstatic conclusion which I know is possible? Don't you feel that what we have both enjoyed tonight is still incomplete? Can you not sense there are a few more steps to ascend, a new height to reach?'

Without waiting for a reply the Governess walked away from me to my bed and, taking the duck-down pillows, pulled them into the centre of the mattress and carefully positioned her body across them so that her posterior cheeks, as trimly pert as a girl's, were lifted and inviting in their tight sheath of silken panties.

'The cane, Sir Arthur — the cane,' she breathed. 'Finish the evening. You know how. You know why. Please hasten and take my knickers off. I am anxious for you to begin...'

A Pleasure

Story from Justice Vol.3 No.8

A Pleasure

The linesman called "OUT" the umpire agreed, and the only dissension came from the attractive player who thought she had served an Ace. She fumed and stormed towards the raised dias of the umpire's position.

'Can't you stay awake long enough to keep your eye on the ball and your attention on the game?' she raved.

'The ball was out,' he said firmly and with a finality that helped the fury that she was showing.

She glared up at him then snorted angrily to return to the line to serve her next ball.

The spectators were obviously feeling the discomfort of the situation. The umpire was a well known ex professional and he was a respected official in Diane's club. Furthermore, it was no secret that she had somehow managed to curry his favour and he spent many hours coaching her on the courts to bring her to the epitome of good tennis. That she should have reacted so shamefully and thereby putting him in a very embarrassing position was something that the crowd would rather not have witnessed.

Ever since she had been to Wimbledon to see the championships, and something incidentally that Steve, the older man had arranged, so she had seen how the professionals argued and stormed at the umpires and linesmen that she thought it was quite the thing to do! This business or raving and getting the whole scene in a state of tension was to Diane's mind something very marvellous and added to the drama of the game. Inwardly she felt a strange sensation of pleasure at being able to speak up to the umpire, and it did not matter that he had been such a good friend to her. She would soon weadle round him and the matter would be forgotten by the morrow.

Her mother was horrified when the incident was reported to her by one of the fans.

'What on earth were you thinking about?' she asked her erring daughter.

'Oh Mother,' she responded with an exaggerated sigh. 'It happens all the time,' she explained airily.

'Not with my family it doesn't,' the mother responded firmly.

'If he is umpiring, he expects tempers to flair. It's all part of the game,' Diane tried to explain.

'You show me the rule book and that part of the rules that mentions that arguing with the umpire is all part of the game,' her mother countered.

'Mother, you do not understand,' Diane was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable by this stage.

'I have spoken to Steven,' her mother told her. 'This morning whilst you were asleep. He is recommending to the Committee that you are removed from the list of members. Your dismissal from the club,' Diane felt her throat constrict. Her eyes just stared wide at her maternal parent.

'You.... you can't be serious,' she gasped.

'And that's another phrase that you have picked up from the professionals, except they can afford to be like that. What a disgrace. My daughter, dismissed from the Tennis Club. Never has such a thing happened before,' and Diane could see her mother's eyes brimming with tears.

'We have enough enemies who are jealous of your abilities to play. And it is no small thanks to Steven,' she said angrily.

'I'll go and speak to him,' Diane said.

'I'm sure he is waiting with open arms,' the bitter sarcasm was ripe in her mother's tone.

'I must speak to him,' Diane was adamant.

Tennis was her life and she knew that whatever Steve suggested would be accepted. They would not even vote on it! Steve suggests she goes, then she must. Nobody, but nobody argues with the old pro. Diane dressed in her court dress. She packed her bag with day clothes to come home in. She was going to the club as though ready to play on the courts. At nineteen years of age, Diane had developed into a very shapely and attractive young blonde. The constant practice she put in on the courts helped her thighs and the curvy lines of her body to keep a truly shapely torso. Many men fancied her, and a few women too for that matter, but she had never seen anything in Steve's make up that suggested he would like to get his hands on her. The opposite was true! Steve had two great loves. One was Tennis and the other was Diane. Often he had fantasised with the idea of having her nubile body at his mercy. The number of times he had watched her play and the matter in which the white skirt would ride high whenever she was making a particular stroke or a service, and the way her rounded bottom, just the lower rounded moons peeping from the legs of her tennis knickers would have his blood racing and his mind dwelling on the very happy thought of being able to strip those panties down so that he could feel, fondle and even punish her saucy bottom. Never once did he think the fantasy would come to fruition. Such things are dreams made of, impossible thoughts!

She parked her small two seater and was pleased to see that the only other car in the park was Steve's. It was as though the message had got around to stay clear of the club for a while. It was not all that unusual considering the time. It was well before lunch. She felt very strange and certainly odd, almost as though she was trespassing, which was ridiculous really; she had been coming here since forever, and now, because of the latest events, she felt as though she was no longer a part of the establishment or the club itself.

She knocked on the door very timidly. He was in his own room which housed all the equipment.

'Come in,' she heard him growl.

Oh Lord, he knows it's me, she thought and he is expressing his own anger.

'Steve... I'm sorry. I'm so very truly sorry,' she blurted out as soon as she was inside the door.

She tried to embrace him, but he gently, firmly eased her away from him so that she stood like a naughty girl in front of him. She realised that he was quite a big man. His silver hair beset a reasonably handsome face and his serious, blue eyes were now showing his offended mind.

Steve's mind had gone into over-drive! He was able to see how her shortie short skirt revealed the tight knickers and those knickers were pulled up tight so that quite a lot of her bottom was exposed.

'Steve, I'll do anything to make amends,' she assured him.

'What do you have in mind?' his own tone was full of cynicism. She realised that there was virtually nothing she could do? If he had been a younger man and able to do so, she would have offered him her body!!

'Once upon a time, young Diane,' he started wearily, hopelessly to tell her how things would have been treated years ago, 'many years ago, your attitude would have earned you a really good spanking where it would do the most good. And you would have discovered how a young girl was made to pay for any insolence. You would have eaten your next meal off the mantelpiece,' it was a forlorn hope but he enjoyed that sensation of response inside him as he was able to let her know that she could have been spanked on her bottom.

'Steve. Would that be the answer now,' she blushed crazily.

'I hardly think a big girl like you would sink to having a spanking.'

Steve was beginning to enjoy the course this conversation was proceeding. It had many and varied options!

'I don't think age has anything to do with it,' she thought she must be crazy to be speaking like this. It was as though she was begging him to smack her bum!!

'Listen, Diane. You humiliated me yesterday in front of all those people,' he reminded her.

'Steve I just could not be more sorry, honestly. I accept that I deserve to be humiliated now. Please give me the chance to show how contrite I am. Demand whatever you like of me. Humiliate me in return,' she was certainly stark raving mad, she thought. This was Diane. The attractive belle of the Tennis Club, virtually begging to be punished physically and also to be put to any humiliating posture that he could dream up!

He seemed to be giving her suggestion a lot of thought. She stood there anxiously waiting and silently willing him to accept her physical preparation to be punished.

Steve was in reality past the stage of wavering! He was now working out all the formulas that he could adopt to really enjoy the naked charms of Diane! To be able to have this girl anyway he liked, especially so that she would lay over his lap for a good spanking, and a bare bum spanking at that was only the beginning of his wildest thoughts. One did not rush into a situation like this. One used time, and in that time one relished the full and distinct pleasure of being able to use one's hands and eyes to their fullest range.

'I shall certainly spank you Diane,' he warned her.

'Yes, Steve. Whatever you say,' she blushed.

'I shall certainly hear you plead with me to take your knickers down.'

'I do Steve. Please... please take them down now... please,' she choked in the sheer disbelief of her own begging tones.

She shuddered as she felt his smooth hands stroke up the back of her thighs. All goose-pimples seemed to rise in the wake of his hands as they travelled up towards her short knickers. She ensured she kept her hands free of her sides as she pushed them away... the further shuddering, strange sensations were rippling through her body as his fingers slowly came round to the front of her body to grip the elastic waistband... she blinked as deep shame waves now throbbed like waves through her. The thought filled her....

'Steve is going to take my knickers down... he will be able to look at my body freely and unhindered and I cannot do a thing to stop him.'

As the material of her shortie knickers eased slowly down her thighs, Diane responded to the very real depths of shameful humiliation. The knicks formed a tight bridge of cloth between her slightly parted thighs and then she was sensing the further shame as his hands slipped round her lower torso to cup both cheeks of her bottom in the palms of his hands.

Steve enjoyed the freedom of the softly posed cheeks and he was enjoying the full realisation of what, up to now, had been a deep yearning fantasy. He posed her sideways and then, with the hem of her T-shirt blouse pulled up to reveal her rounded bum cheeks, he was able to stroke and caress the twin orbs so that Diane became more and more confused in her shame and degradation. No young lady should have to suffer this terrible torment of helpless obedience and not be able to plead her case.

Then he turned her so that she was facing him again, this now enabled him to ease the upper garment even further up her torso until her breasts too were fully thrusting towards him. His eyes were just level with her pubes and he studied the soft downy fur of her mounded hair so that even the twin lips of her sex was running a plough ravine before him. Diane only wanted to cover her semi nudity and also to cross her legs to hide the private intimate lips of her sex. She was virtually frozen into a state of staying just as he was, and even when she felt his finger tips start the exploration of her warm pussy flesh, she could only respond to further helpless shudders of strange sexual heat and the additional shame that flooded through her to crimson her attractive face.

Only one boy had touched her as intimately as this, but with him it was all fumble and prod, Steve was an experienced man and he knew exactly what to do with uncovered cunts and bottoms! As his right hand constantly caressed and explored the ravine between the labia, so his other hand went from one bared breast to the other and Diane was even more confused than ever. She felt the prickly tenseness of her nipples as Steven worked on the flint hard knobs of flesh and all thoughts of having her bottom spanked had fled from her. Unhappily for her, Steve was not suffering with the same amnesia!!

She whimpered like a small child when she felt herself being projected across his ample lap. It came as a surprise to her when she discovered her face inches from the floor as her shapely torso stretched across his knees. Then again she felt his right hand easily caressing over the delightfully and properly posed cheeks of her bum. Her thighs were slightly parted and this gave Steve yet a further view of her body, and nobody had even seen Diane's sex valley from this angle. The full length of her two lips were rudely exposed. Steve instructed her to push her behind into an even rounded and more helpless arch than ever. Eager to obey him, Diane, not realising the view she was now offering, thrust her arse into a very rounded position and she stayed like that as her nether orbs were given the constant stroking massage by Steve's strong palm.

She heard him warn her to stay still, and knew that she was about to be given the promised punishment. She had never been spanked before just could not even envisage the sight she was giving her mentor. She did not even think or imagine what the pain would be like. Then she felt a hash sensation of heated pain throbbed into the right cheek of her bum and before she could respond vocally the left cheeks also felt the angry heat of punishment.

'OW!' It was a response of surprise rather than of pain but then, as the spanking hand resolutely continued the transformation of the smooth creamy colour to a deep reddening, Diane seemed to realise that her bottom was suffering the damnation of hell! The heat was now exploding in sharp painful reactions each time his hand came down and then she was writhing her bottom to avoid the next spank and also to help relieve the angry pain heat which was filling her buttocks.

'Please.... ooooh please... I'm sorry... honestly... I won't be rude again.... I promise.... please.... oh please Steve... I really am sorry.... no... it hurts... my bottom... it hurts, no more please... I'll be good in future... I'll be very good..... very obedient... I promise...'

The stinging was a sensational boiling heat that was spreading all over the cheeks of her arse. Then he ceased and he was able to study the effect of the changing colour from the snowy creamy smooth white to the now very angry tomato red; and there was not one spot that he had missed. From the upper slopes of her backside right the way down to the crease of her thighs, the skin expressed a most definite state of heat. He placed his hands on the right cheeks and sensed that he could feel the hotness radiating from it.

'So you think you can be obedient do you?' he was half sneering. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

'Yes... yes, I swear I shall,' she half cried.

She had tried to put her hands round to prevent his hand contacting her fleshy cheeks but he had pushed her wrists up her back so that she just had to stay there letting the throbbing anger envelope her.

'Then stand up.'

Although she was reasonably dry eyed, she was still snivelling.

'Undress. Take everything off,' he ordered.

She blinked helplessly at the dominant manner of his tone and it was that sort of voice that dared her to argue.

She felt absolutely beaten as she eased her clothes from her shapely body and then she was standing before him, stark naked and showing herself off to him as she had shown her body off to no man.

But it was the punishment that had infused her bottom with such pain that encouraged her to perform so obediently and without question. Diane wanted no more of bending across his knee and projecting her buttocks so that at the most attractive posture she presented herself for the purposeful spanking from his hand.

Ruefully and hesitatingly, but only slightly so that it was not noticeable, she stood letting Steve's eyes wander freely over her curvy torso. Even when his palm slowly stroked up the inside of her right tapering thighs, she stood perfectly still, and the ankles, firmly placed apart permitted his hand to caress all the way up to the mossy bush of fair hair that formed the nest of her pubes. Steve enjoyed the feel of the fuzz as his finger tips brushed it enacting the part of a brush to stroke the mossy covering and then the middle finger teasing lightly the peach shaped mons and the slit at the base of her tummy.

As he ceaselessly continued to probe and stroke the slot itself, he felt the hardening of the clitoris as she became excited to an increase of the fruity sensations of randiness as her clit responded to the finger caresses that he was now exercising.

She gasped but not with displeasure when he felt him slowly stroke his digit into the hot and damp ravine formed by her labia. He felt her pelvis ease forward as she involuntarily responded to his caresses and then she softly moaned, but it was just a whimpering sound that emitted from her throat. She parted her thighs wider and he was able to stroke and feel the heated flesh of her sex lips as she started the emotional journey into a sexual state of delight and pleasure... now Diane was truly getting herself into a pinnacle mountain of passion heat.

Her randiness took control so that it was the only thing she was aware of... she wanted it to continue because now, but the second her balloon of lustful hotness was expanding into a crescendo of heightened passion explosion and this was an all time first for the young girl....

Steve pulled her down so that she was settled on his knees. Her legs were spread wide and she had her thighs opened to be placed one each side of his lap. He pushed her back so that she was virtually spread open before him, her back resting on a small table that had been placed before him. She threw her arms above her head and spread her legs ever wide so that he was able to look down at the proffered cunt as she opened her legs even wider. Her bottom firmly squatting on his closed knees.

Steve studied the hot fleshy lips and as he reached forward he continued the caressing between the lips themselves and then he stabbed his middle finger deep into the sucking tube of her vagina... he felt the tight tunnel grip his finger tight and all the time now, Diane was responding with small squealing sounds as sheer fiery delicious sensations erupted from her body.

When she erupted at long last, she wanted to close her thighs tightly together, but his lap prevented this so she was spread wide and the freedom of her orgasm was enhanced to an even higher state by the inability of her legs to close tight.

He watched her bathe and he was able to see how she was in a state of very high delight from her experience. He let her rest before dismissing her from his room. But first he had her standing facing the wall, her arms raised high and her hands actually placed again the wall itself. He had her thrusting her backside backwards in a very emphasised pose of roundness, and then he smacked her for another five minutes.

She yelped and she writhed, but somehow she managed to keep herself properly postured as her bare arse was thoroughly spanked and reminded her of what happens when young women like Diane get uppity and out of hand.

She was allowed to dress and go home. After she had gone from the sports club house, Steve telephoned her mother.

'You're idea worked,' he assured her. 'I never thought she would agree, but she accepted the spanking like a young babe. Without a murmur of protest.'

He hung up. He was grateful to Diane's mother for suggesting this course of action, it had helped to realise a very favourite dream and fantasy of his.

And Diane was coming back next week for some of the same treatment except this time he had warned her that a cane would be in evidence. She need not complain to her mother, because her mother not only knew about it, but had suggested it herself!

Typecast

Story from Janus 61.

Typecast
by Andrew Grantham


'I THOUGHT the spanking I gave you last time might have taught you a lesson,' sniffed Colin Rodgers, the manager of the small insurance branch office.

Mandy, the 20-year-old on the receiving end of the lecture looked appropriately sheepish as she stood in front of the young boss's desk. The blonde was just under medium height with a body that was very well put together, being shapely where shape was called for and flat where flatness was required.

She cocked her head to one side as the lecture continued. Her blue eyes, as big as saucers, inspected the young man behind the desk. Her heart lurched. Colin was dishy by any standard and, when it came to the male of the species, Mandy had very high standards indeed.

'I know you don't like Mr White at Head Office,' grated the manager. 'But to replace the 'W' of his name with an 'S' on the circular we produced was downright derogatory.'

Mandy had to force herself not to smile. She thought that what she had done had been an act of sheer genius. Mr White at Head Office was an absolute pig. So, too, was his colleague Mr Walker.

There are plenty more secretaries at the Job Centre, you know,' Colin threatened.

The blonde wisely refrained from saying that all those girls at the Job Centre wouldn't let their bosses smack their bottoms.

'Perhaps another spanking might make you take more care in future,' he suggested. Through the mirror on the wall directly behind his pretty secretary, Colin could see the bulge her young bottom made beneath her tight, navy blue skirt.

'As long as you don't give me the sack, Mr Rodgers,' tweeted Mandy, knowing full well that the sack was the last thing she would get.

'Not this time,' he told her, getting up and locking the door of his office.

Behind his back, Mandy smiled smugly, feeling feverish shivers running up and down her body. She had been looking forward to this moment for days, ever since her deliberate 'mistake'.

With the door closed, Colin Rodgers took off his jacket and hung it on the knob. He also removed his tie. Then he sat down on an upholstered couch against the back wall of the office.

'Come here, Mandy!' he ordered.

The dark-haired, firm-jawed young man watched with accelerating heart as the submissive girl took a few steps towards him. She really was deliciously pretty with small, high breasts and sturdy, finely curved legs. Her lovely posterior which he looked forward to baring for the second time might almost have been constructed to a specification set down by a dedicated spanker.

The flush on Mandy's cheeks highlighted her basic sexuality as she stood in front of her boss and lowered her skirt to reveal a white, scallop-edged slip beneath. That came down and off came her wedge-heeled shoes.

'Over my lap!' he instructed, trying to sound as stern as possible. 'Put your head on this side!' He tapped the seat cushions to his left.

His secretary carried out his command, pretending not to be aware of the state of his arousal as she stretched herself across his lap. The tail of her blouse hid her bottom, but Colin soon pulled it above her trim waist to expose her black nylon covered sit-upon.

He used both hands to peel away the flimsy covering. The panties reached her knees and were turned inside out. Colin's breathing quickened at the sight of Mandy's perfectly rounded and neat little bottom.

The manager placed his left hand on the small of her back to hold her in position and he used the other to explore the silken surfaces of the magnolia globes completely at his disposal. They were meaty, deep-clefted and he knew from experience that they wobbled delightfully under impact.

Colin felt the girl go rigid and her bottom tensed up. Mandy pushed her face into the settee cushions. She wasn't as brave as she had been just a short while earlier when she had positively looked forward to the hiding. The blonde realised she now had cold feet over a hot bottom.

His hand left her rear. There was a pause and she felt her bum-flesh sting suddenly as the first slap landed. It took away her nagging fear and doubt and an unseen smile came to her lips.

Colin raised his hand and repeated the smack, the afterburn causing the 20-year-old to wince. Already he was hitting far harder than he had done the last time and he had only just got started.

Colin began to pepper the girl's derriere with hard, stinging slaps, first on one side of the crease and then on the other; but always overlapping slightly so as to maximise the existing hurt and to open up a new area at the same time.

Mandy jerked back her head and began to thrash it from side to side. Eventually she started to squeal and she flayed her legs about showing no regard at all for modesty. She humped her hot little bottom up and down as the blistering fire from her tormented nates engulfed her body.

Mandy knew she couldn't complain; she had asked for it all down the line.

Colin paid her thighs some attention by way of a change. It was a painful change and the blonde clawed the fabric of the settee with her nails.

'No more – please, Mr Rodgers,' she panted.

Colin didn't know whether she meant it or not, so he continued to rain blow after blow on the now-scarlet target which jiggled, contorted, rose and fell.

Mandy began to shriek and his left arm gripped her more tightly as she oscillated her hips and buttocks very fast indeed in reaction to the scalding hurt being inflicted upon her nether regions.

'Please! Please! No more!' she screamed, twisting her head to appeal to him with wide, wet eyes.

Colin stopped. He didn't want things to go beyond a darned good spanking, highly tempting though the prospect was. It wasn't what Mandy wanted at all.

* * *

'Mr Walker from Head Office on the line for you, Mr Rodgers,' trilled Mandy, putting the call through. 'He sounds rather annoyed.'

She licked her lips and sat back in her swivel chair. Her beautiful body began to heave with excitement at the prospect of having her bare bottom smacked again over her boss's lap. He might even go further this time. She would certainly encourage him, of course.

The blonde girl was smugly content. She thought that typing an 'n' instead of an 'l' in Mr Walker's name on the circular that had gone out had been a stroke of sheer genius on her part.

The new girl - story from Roue

Story from Roue 09.

The new girl

"She will be in trouble soon, poor thing!"

Mildred and Annie were whispering, as they stared at the wayward stance and untidy appearance of their new classmate. They experienced a natural sympathy for any girl at the convent school who did not completely subscribe to the strict rules laid down; they themselves did not so subscribe. Why, the regulations were virtually Victorian, despite it being the 1920s! They continued to gaze at the rather delightful Ella Lukyn; they could not help hoping that she might unwittingly create a diversion in their dreary lessons.

The girls were standing in line for the thrice daily inspection of their personal appearance. The inspection was conducted by Sister Diqna, a tight-faced nun approaching middle-age. She had been with the Order since girlhood, and stood no nonsense from her charges, even though they were of the age to be young ladies.

Sister Digna examined each girl from head to toe, her sharp piercing eyes missing nothing. In her hand, she carried a long rod with which she was wont to rap the knuckles of offenders who dared to permit their dress to fall below the high standards demanded by the convent. She looked critically along the row. All the girls were dressed alike in long black skirts, black woollen stockings with small boots, together with high-necked white blouses.

Was anyone spoiling this picture of uniform neatness?

"Dorothy!" Her voice cut through the air, her eyes trained on a tall girl. "You have a mark on your blouse!"

The girl automatically stretched out her hand; her knuckles were rapped sharply, causing her to wince with pain. Sister Digna requested the little book and pencil which each girl had to keep on her, and the inscribed a thick black mark. Dorothy's friends peered across, aware of the consequences. Three black marks in the week meant a birching. It was the untidy Dorothy's second for that week, and only two days had passed.

Sister Digna continued the inspection, dressed in her immaculate habit. Here and there, she employed the rod on the knuckles of a girl whose stockings were wrinkled, or whose skirt was not smoothed down in the manner befitting a truly modest young lady. Suddenly, she had stopped in front of Ella, the new girl. Hair pins stuck awry out of the girl's low fair bun; her uniform was obviously newly purchased, but it looked as if it had already suffered a whole term's use. The blouse was dirty and rumpled, and the skirt had creases, suggesting it had spent the night in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Sister Digna gazed at the sight with disgust. A grim expression crossed her face. She could see that the girl's black stockings were obviously almost half-way down her legs. Momentarily the Sister was at a loss for words, but the titter from Ella's classmates quickly brought her to a decision. Ella Lukyn might be a new girl, and hence deserving of a little leniency, but she must also be made aware of the discipline necessary for such girls as herself.

Sister Digna ordered the slim, rosy-cheeked seventeen year old into the centre of the room. Ella's hands were slouched behind her. The girl had been furious at her parents' decision to send her away to a finishing school; consequently, she determined to reap as little of the desired benefit from it as possible. She glared resentfully at Sister Digna. Only after a moment's rebellious silence did she hold out her hands as instructed. The rod swung down on them forcefully four times.

Ella was immediately ashamed of the tears which she felt springing to her eyes, knowing that the other girls were watching her being punished. Two black marks were entered in her little book, and she then returned to her place, a flush of humiliation covering her countenance.

At the end of the first week, Ella received as severe a birching as any other girl would have received, who had chalked up so many black marks. And the birch itself left its own set of marks. This was an almost unheard of event for a new girl, since Mother Superior possessed a slight weakness for any girl wrenched so recently from her family and friends. But then it was also unheard of for any new girl to behave quite so badly!

For the simple acquisition of black marks, Mother Superior did not in fact thrash the girls so severely and thoroughly as for individual and more positively evil misdemeanours. Even so, Ella found the experience an exceedingly painful one, for she was not accustomed to such treatment from her father.

When she had lined up with the other girls awaiting the punishment before the door of Mother Superior's room, the moons of her posterior were quivering against her drawers.

Indeed, what a picture this line of eight nervous wrong-doers presented! All were dressed exactly alike in their uniform black and white; and each girl had that uniform at it neatest. An attempted look of penitence was upon Ella's face, in the hope that it might soften the heart of Mother Superior. It was, alas, a heart which had been hardened long ago against such ruses.

Each girl entered the room in her turn. The sound of her cries from within produced a chastening effect upon the girls still waiting. The fear within Ella grew, and she shuddered at the sight of the girls as they re-emerged, observing with horror their dishevelled figures and the blotchy marks of tears upon their cheeks.

Being the new girl, Ella was last in the row. She saw her companions being shepherded away by a stony faced nun to make sure that they remedied the defects in their appearance. For, after the punishments had been meted out, it was Prayer Time. It was required that each girl be as perfectly garbed and clean-faced at though the morning were fresh and new.

At last, Ella found herself stumbling into the study. She stared with terror at the birch being swished so menacingly through the air. The crackling twigs caused her to tense her posterior, and a sinking feeling spread within her.

"I am sorry to have to see you here so soon like this," announced Mother Superior. The old nun's eyes glinted at the girl; yet she truly meant what she had said. It hurt her that she should have to punish a new girl so quickly. "At least, for once your uniform is in order!" she observed wryly; but then her voice became a bark. "Bend across that chair!"

Ella obeyed, feeling herself quaking, wishing the birching was all over. The nun slowly gathered the girl's long black skirt up, hooking it about the waist, leaving exposed the pair of old-fashioned coarse drawers the school insisted its pupils must wear.

Ella flinched and blushed, for even Sister Digna did not usually submit her girls to the indignity of an inspection of their undergarments! As Ella felt her mentor's hands upon the laces of her drawers, she held her breath. A moment later, she felt the garment dropping down her legs, shamelessly exhibiting her most intimate regions. It was then that she vowed that never again would she bring such divine retribution upon herself. No longer would she be wicked. Never again would there be a wrinkle in those hated black woollen stockings; never...

The first stroke of the birch fell across the white cheeks of the girl's rump. Forgetting all else, Ella cried out in shock, feeling the twigs tearing at her naked flesh.

Mother Superior was indeed thorough in her chastisements, but she was not utterly lacking in mercy. Although whole-heartedly believing that every girl should receive her just desserts across her bottom, she only rarely prolonged the agony of the punishment for longer than was absolutely necessary.

Swish! Swish!

The birch swept through the air swiftly, each stroke following immediately upon the preceding one. Mother Superior chastised each buttock alternately, administering three strokes to the right, and three to the left in perfect fairness. Several times, Ella's hands also caught the impact from the twigs as she tried to shield her vulnerable regions. Her posterior felt as if it was being pierced by a thousand daggers.

"Qww! Ouch! Please stop!" She yelled out, and then burst into unrestrained tears. She did not, as both Mother Superior and Sister Digna informed her afterwards, conduct herself in a manner of which she could feel in any way proud.

For the next few days, Ella's dress and her conduct was that of the perfect young lady. Indeed, Mildred and Annie, with whom she had already become friendly, were quite distinctly disappointed. However, as the pain in her rear subsided, Ella's accustomed and irrepressible yearning for excitement – a yearning which had so concerned her parents – resurfaced. It was this which led to one of the greatest scandals concerning the sheltered and old-fashioned convent school of St. Gabriel's.

There were at the time several young men home from college, residing in the village. They had an eye for young ladies, and the nuns frequently warned the girls never to look in the direction of the men, for so great was the devil! The first time Ella spotted these gentlemen, who were not indeed uncomely specimens, her maidenly heart skipped a beat. Instantly she summoned Annie and Mildred to the dormitory window, and under her instigation, all three girls were waving their straw hats in the direction of the young men; hats in which they had just been so properly attired while walking in a neat crocodile line following Sister Clementine. Alas, that very woman was now standing right behind them, her eyes and body rigid with shock at the gross immodesty of her charges.

Her voice caused them to turn around, and their lips twitched at the black expression on her face. She instructed them immediately to follow her; she led them to the cells sometimes used by the nuns during retreat and penance. There the girls remained, each in solitary confinement, until a lay sister commanded them to follow her to Evening Prayer.

Sister Digna was carrying out her customary inspection of the girls' uniforms before Mother Superior entered. One girl's boots were not blacked, another girl had not tucked in her blouse properly, and her stockings were holed. Each merited the rod and a black mark; but the three culprits of the day were left standing separately at the back, as if they were unclean!

The girls knew not which way to turn in their fright. Ella felt her cheeks going bright red, for the other girls constantly glanced at them, intrigued to learn of their crimes. Annie and Mildred were trembling, causing Ella to be all the more frightened; and she could not prevent her hands from giving her rear a rub through the black skirt. How she loathed the suspense of waiting! Yet how she dreaded the punishment which was sure to come!

Mother Superior entered the hall. The girls gasped out in unison. She was bearing the vicious-looking birch. Their gasps were silenced immediately.

Mildred, Annie and Ella had to submit, knees shaking with trepidation, to the ordeal of prayers, before they were to learn of the exact nature of their fate. And never before had they prayed so fervently!

There followed a terrible pause. In a daze, the three girls heard that they were to receive ten strokes of the birch each in full view of the school. Such humiliation was unthinkable, unbearable. Ella looked at Mildred, then at Annie. They were biting their lips; Ella could see that they were as filled with anguish as she was. How would they bear ten strokes from that vile birch?

Ella's hands were all the more insistently rubbing at her posterior. She was praying that perhaps they would be birched over their skirts. Annie whispered the same idea to her; but none of the girls believed it possible.

The voice from a Sister cracked through their hazy states, ordering them to step forward on to the stage at the front of the hall. The girls were paralysed; they could not move. Ella could not face the thought of having to walk up in front of all the other girls, and then being chastised, whilst all those eyes stared at her.

Mother Superior was becoming impatient. She indicated to a couple of the Sisters to do what was necessary. The Sisters grabbed hold of the girls, pushing and pulling them to the front. Ella felt her cheeks burn, and she could see the quiver on her two companions' faces. Now, in front of the whole school, Mother Superior was lecturing them speaking of their dreadful misdeeds, and saying how she intended to exact the punishment due. The girls were stunned by her next words.

"You must truthfully admit that you deserve the punishment; the birching is no less than you deserve."

The girls hesitated. Then, eyes averted from their gazing companions, they each repeated, "I deserve the birching which I am to receive." Merely uttering the words caused them to wince: and they sensed the smirks on some of the faces of the other girls.

"Bend over!" Thus commanded Mother Superior. As the girls did so, they saw that some of the other nuns also had birches in their hands. They were swishing the cruel twigs through the air. The noise caused Ella almost to yelp out loud, but she gritted her teeth. The very worse in degradation was now taking place, for the nuns who had pushed then on to the stage were now lifting up the girls' skirts, letting the material flew over their backs. The whole of the rest the school could see three pairs of drawers in a neat line. Briskly, the nuns undid the laces, and the drawers fell to the feet of the offenders. The girls squirmed; they were aware that their very private parts, those private parts which they know they should always keep concealed, were on view.

Ella's bottom twitched. How she wished it would not! She was conscious of the fact that fifty girls or more were staring at her most intimate region, observing every movement. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. Annie and Mildred possessed similar feelings. Oh, why, why had they fallen for the sin of gazing at those men!

Mother Superior stared at the three naked posteriors sticking out, her eyes moving down to the tops of the thighs and then on to the black stockings. The sight did not please her; but the girls truly needed to be taught a lesson, if they were to avoid the path of the devil. Site instructed three of the Sisters to take up their birches and to commence the punishment, each stroke for each girl taking place at the same time.

The twigs seemed to be continually crackling through the air, as the birches swiped down against the unprotected skin, and Mother Superior counted in slow long tones.

At first, the girls tried to keep themselves under control, but by the fourth set of strokes, they were openly crying, their hands instinctively endeavouring to save parts of their most vulnerable rears from the cruel cutting twigs.

Mother Superior allowed a moment's rest, and then ordered some senior girls to hold Ella, Annie and Mildred down, whilst the next six birchings were delivered. The Sisters administering the punishment did it with a zeal and with great deliberation, catching the most tender spots. Ella felt as if her ramp was a furnace, and each twig seemed determined to do its utmost to sting her time and time again. The other two errant young ladies had similar feelings. When it was all over, they were too dazed from the stabbing and smarting to take it in. Their collapsing bodies were helped along to the cells. There they remained isolated from each other, for the night. It was a hellish night. None of them could sleep, and whichever way they turned, they found their rumps throbbing with pain. Sobs and tears kept bursting forth.

From that day, the behaviour of the new girl was so in keeping with the strict lines of her now impeccable uniform that no one could have faulted it. And Annie and Mildred maintained similar high standards. Their posteriors could not face the birch ever again.

A Stradled Miss

Story from Blushes 47.

A Stradled Miss

The fact that it was her own fault did not help one little hit. She had complained to Mr Summers that she thought it was the instrument itself that was wrong. That is why she was making such a hash of her lessons. The soft eyes, hazel haired young woman had often repeated that the violin itself did lend to her ability and natural talent to play the fiddle. Then he had made that awful, unbelieving threat. Right here in this brown study of a room. When he had told her that she lacked a natural discipline, she had not understood. Then he had painstakingly told her that his idea of discipline was something of a personal nature, and had even gone on at some lengths regarding the lack of discipline in young people today. She had not considered herself one of the 'young people' because she was more than twenty years of age.

She was slightly shy and this gave her an added piquance of her softly contoured face. Her eyes were trusting of anybody in authority and her whole being was geared up to being a violinist. Sadly, the fiddle on which she practised and took her lessons belied the ability that she thought she possessed.

Mr Summers was a past master with a violin and he had produced some beautiful music from their very instrument that she had complained about.

Although it seemed fair that he should expect something similar from her, she could not understand this new theme of his. He had shown her he was angry with her excuses and that was when he had told her that she was not too old to be disciplined. The remark had left her with burning cheeks. The very deep feeling of shame that he had invoked by making such a suggestion had caused her to writhe at the very thought. And he had increased the tension in her body when he had explained what he considered proper methods of discipline.

She tried not to visualise the scene which his lecture had summoned to her mind. Surely he was trying to frighten her into making greater efforts. He could not mean that he considered her a pupil to be actually disciplined. Some of his younger pupils, yes... but not her... not now she was twenty years of age. She had to purposefully surpress the very picture of her lovely young body being placed over his lap and her panties down so that he would be able to see her bare bottom stretching so that his hand could actually spank her.

All the time that he had been speaking to her, she had held the violin as though it was something with which she could protect herself with... and yet this was the very instrument that had been the cause of him making the astonishing statement that she needed discipline. Vicky had never been naughty in all of her life and so the question of discipline had not arisen. The thoughts now riding high through her system was that there was no way she was going to let him punish her on her bottom... covered or not. It was unthinkable. That afternoon he had patted her bottom when she had passed him to leave the room. That in itself had been awful. She did not like him, or anyone else for that matter to touch her like that. It was a very intimate part of her body, she felt, almost as intimate as the soft lips between her legs. She should have told him there and then, on the spot that he had no business patting her dress where it covered her rounded bottom. Yet, and here was the rub, one did not address oneself to Mr Summers in such a cursary manner. He was not the type who one could speak to like that.

But the following week when she had turned up he had patted her bottom again as she had walked through his front door. This was not to be habit forming, she felt and she would tell him so as soon as they were alone.

As she entered the study where she practised, she saw the instrument case... he invited her to open it... her eyes opened wide in amazement... it was a real Strad... the King or Queen of violins. Almost reverantly she picked it up and cradled it gently...

'You have been complaining about the age of the instrument you have been practising with... now let me hear you prove that you can do better with a master instrument.'

He had called her bluff... she made the same hopeless mess as she did when she was playing with the broken down instrument.

'Stop! Stop! For heaven's sake stop,' he put his hands over his ears as though to blot out the cacaphony of noise.

Vicky nearly burst into tears at the helplessness that filled her very soul.

'Now come here Vicky,' his serious tone instructed her to stand next to him.

No. She was not going to let him carry out the threat he had made last week. Not that!! She did not want to do it and so she was not going to let him do it. There was something sinister and forbidding about his angry tone now.

'What do you have to say.'

There were many things that Vicky wanted to say, but Mr Summers had his hand up her dress!!

She would have to raise an objection... in a minute. The trouble was the fact that she was wearing ankle socks and therefore her legs were bared so his stroking and investigating hand came into contact with her smooth skin! In a minute, when he stopped speaking she would tell him that she was not prepared to take this sort of treatment... his hand inside her brief white knickers actually feeling the smooth skin of her tightly clenched bum cheeks.

She was shuddering the uncontrollable tremors of deep shame. This was the unthinkable happening. And all the time he was explaining to her that this was the part of her body that needed the discipline.

Her bottom had done nothing wrong!! Why should that be punished? Not a question to be asked out loud or course, but she desperately ached to move away from that investigating hand.

'Mr Summers,' she choked. 'I am not prepared to have my bottom spanked. I am too old to be smacked on my bottom and I do not think you should be doing this.'

It was very properly said and she had spoken resolutely. The trouble was that she had been standing next to him when she had started to make her formal protest but by the time she had finished, she was neatly stretched across his lap and her dress was already raised above her waist!

'Mr Summers,' her voice was more urgent now and exasperated with a sense of fear. 'Please... no... please... Mr Summers,' the tone of her voice was shaded with a rising sound of surprised shame.

Her brief white panties were being eased down her body and now they were stretched tight some half way down her thighs and the bottom that she had thought so precious and private was openly on view to his eyes and what was worse, she could feel his palm smoothing out imaginary creases from the perfect smoothness of her tightly clenched cheeks.

'Mr Summers... please... I must insist... owww... ahhh...'

This was too awful for words. Not only the shame of exposure but suddenly there was the introduction of stinging anguished pain. Vicky realised that all her thoughts that she was too big to be spanked had been a pure waste of time. Mr Summers was doing the impossible and unthinkable. He was bringing his hand down onto the bared cheeks of her shapely bottom and he was making it sting... what was more he was increasing the agony of her humiliation.

This was hateful. It was demeaning and stripping her of modesty and dignity. She had to keep her legs pressed tightly together too... it was getting worse by the second because the hot skin where his hand landed was raising in heated temperature and the sting was transforming into very real pain.

'No... ahh... please... it hurts too much... my bottom... please Mr Summers... I'll try harder... lots harder... please... no more... yeeooow...'

Vicky punctuated her protests and complaints with involuntary kicks of her feet and Mr Summers was treated to a view of his special pupil that no other person would ever hope to see.

Soft nates that had been so smooth and creamy white were now exhibited in stark contrasting red and that red was getting deeper and deeper each time his hand laid across her bottom to teach her the rudiments of what discipline was all about.

His left hand had to press down firmly on the small of her back and she struggled fitfully.

Vicky would never have believed that such pain was possible. She was not sure which was worse, the pain or the shame. But to have to be placed so squarely over his lap whilst he spanked her was something she could never have imagined. She had thought that it would be painful but nothing like this had entered her mind. It was a full explosion of various emotions. The shame was awful, the stinging hurt was impossibly expressive and never ending, and there was too the fact that she was actually over his lap, like a naughty girl revealing the full exposure of her naked bottom not only to his eyes but also the full treatment of his able spanking palm.

When he had reduced her to tears he released her. There seemed to be no protest left in her now. He directed her to her seat and insisted that she sit there, dress fully hoisted and with both nates fully exposed so that when she sat down she was showing off the cheeks that she once thought so private and precious.

All those silly thoughts were banished. Vicky was still responding to the shameful agony, the degradation and the reminder too that if she had to be disciplined, it would be by the medium of going over his lap. It would forever be a terrible reminder of the distress that her body could be subjected to if ever she thought herself too precious to have to bare her bottom for a real good old fashioned spanking.

Red Cheeks in Room 616

Story from Februs 23.

Red Cheeks in Room 616
by Michael O'Connor

It was on perfect July days like this that Jessica most resented her job as a chambermaid. While most of the world enjoyed itself in the sun, she was toiling in the most mundane job imaginable. At least it she were a waitress, she would get decent tips. Her only consolation was that, in less than two months, she would have enough money saved to kiss the Beachview hotel goodbye and join her sister in New York, in time to celebrate her twenty-first birthday in style. Only that could make her summer of drudgery seem worthwhile.

She was relieved to find that room 616 was not a mess. Having already cleaned fifteen others, since eleven a.m., it would be nice to finish with one that did not resemble a rubbish tip. This room would take her less than ten minutes. Then, she could enjoy a well deserved break. If only all guests could be so considerate.

She had almost finished in the bathroom, before she noticed the object on the shelf below the mirror. At first glance, it appeared to be a black leather belt, but closer inspection revealed it to be some kind of strap, with seven strips of thick leather on one end. Jessica picked it up and carefully examined it, smiling slightly. In her four months as a chambermaid, she had chanced upon many strange things in the rooms she cleaned. Pornographic magazines and sex toys were not uncommon. Compared to some of the bizarre belongings she had chanced upon, a strap was decidedly ordinary, but she found it nonetheless fascinating.

She could not help wondering about the guests in room 616. What kind of person would enjoy being flogged with a leather strap? She imagined a woman on the receiving end, willingly accepting punishment from her masterful lover. It could be a man being dominated by a woman, of course, but Jessica found the former scenario somehow more erotic. She raised the hem of her lime green uniform dress a few inches and whacked her left thigh with the strap, just hard enough to sting slightly. Then, remembering that either the occupants of the room or her supervisor could walk in at any second, she put the object back where she had found it and finished cleaning the bathroom.

While she was making the bed, she made another intriguing discovery. Lying on the floor underneath was a bulging packet of photographs. She knew she should leave them as she had found them and finish her work, but the strap in the bathroom had already stirred her curiosity. She glanced towards the door, then picked up the packet and took out the photographs. The very first picture caused her to gasp loudly. She was looking at the rear-view of a woman with shoulder length silvery blonde hair. Her upper body was laced into a black basque. From the waist down, she was completely naked. She was gripping the back of a chair and tilting forward on shiny black stiletto heels, legs wide apart. But it was not her pose that startled Jessica, but rather the half dozen livid red lines running across her ample buttocks.

There were several more photographs of the woman in this pose. In two of them, a cane was touching her backside. Most of the other shots showed her in an outdoor location, either bent over and touching her toes or hugging a tree, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the thick trunk. Her face was visible in none of the photographs. The emphasis was on her naked hind quarters, being variously reddened by cane, hand and what looked like the strap on the bathroom shelf. In the numerous close-ups in the collection, the results of the punishment were clearly discernible.

As she studied each photograph carefully, Jessica felt a strange tremor of excitement. She tried to imagine how the naked woman must feel as she embraced the tree, anticipating the next crack of the cane on her buttocks. Was being caned a kind of unusual foreplay, or did it take the place of the sex act itself? Such activities took place in a world far beyond the experience of the twenty year old. Though she was no stranger to sex and enjoyed it immensely, the kinkiest thing she had ever done was allow one of her boyfriends to grip his cock between her breasts and give her what he called a "pearl necklace".

Suddenly realising she had spent over ten minutes poring over the photographs, she stuffed them back into the envelope and replaced it under the bed. How she would explain herself, in the event of the guests walking in, was something she would rather not contemplate.

Jessica spent the remainder of the day tormented by what she had seen. She felt like a voyeur, who had stolen a peek into a deliciously dark and forbidden world. Had the photographs of the woman been more explicitly sexual, she was certain she would have found them far less fascinating.

She did not share her discovery with her colleagues, who would have just treated it as a cheap giggle. Instead, she clung to the hope that room 616 would still be occupied by the same guests, when she returned to it the following day.

* * *

She was doubly lucky. Not only had the CP fans not checked out, her supervisor had also failed to report for work, which meant Jessica was working on her own. But instead of seizing the opportunity to slacken her pace, as she would normally have done, she had cleaned her first fifteen rooms in double quick time, spurred on by the mouth-watering prospect of further exciting discoveries in 616.

To her delight, she did not even have to search for the photographs. A pair of bulging envelopes lay on the bedside table, like a welcoming gift. She forced herself to resist inspecting the contents until she had cleaned the bathroom.

The first envelope contained the pictures she had already seen, so she quickly laid it to one side. In the second, she made her most thrilling discovery, so far. The complete set of photographs had been taken in the very room in which she was now standing. That realisation alone was sufficient to stir her juices once more.

There were a number of bathroom shots, featuring the blonde woman naked under the shower and on all fours in the bath, ripe streaks of the cane printed on her dripping buttocks. The two frontal shots showed her only from the neck down. She was standing in the shower, lifting her heavy breasts in both hands and squashing them together. Florid markings of some form of strap or rod lay on her soaked, succulent globes. There were more photographs of her lying face down on the bed, kneeling on the chair before the dressing table and bent over the knee of the photographer. In the bedroom shots, her buttocks appeared more severely reddened than they had in the bathroom. A few taken after dark showed her pressed, face forward, against the window, her arms and legs spread wide, a cane creasing her already well punished rear cheeks. Had anybody looked up from the street below, they would have had a spectacular frontal view of her nakedness through the glass.

Jessica lost herself in her study of the exceptionally erotic photographs, forgetting that the door was half open and she was directly facing it. She struggled to attune herself to the feelings of the woman, who was obviously submitting to her punishments completely of her own free will. Her hands trembled as she leafed slowly through the photoset. Was the greatest thrill in the striking of the cane on her flesh, or the anticipation, just before the stroke fell?

She thought she heard a sound from the corridor outside, which panicked her back to reality. Hurriedly stuffing the photographs back into their packet, she replaced them on the bedside table and returned to her work. Seconds later, the door opened. Looking up, she found herself face to face with a woman with silvery blonde hair, who was unmistakably the model in the photographs.

She appeared to be in her early-forties, slightly plump, yet very attractive. She was wearing an ankle length black silk skirt and loose white blouse. Jessica realised she was blushing to the roots of her auburn hair.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' the woman said, in a soft Scottish accent. 'Are you almost finished here?'

'Uh... yes, almost,' the chambermaid stammered.

The woman studied her intently for a minute, as though reading her mind, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom. Jessica finished making the bed, started to leave, but then glanced in the direction of the bathroom and saw that the door had been left open. The woman had her back turned to her as she stepped out of her skirt. She was not wearing any underwear and the skidmarks of a recent caning were clearly visible, from the backs of her knees to the top of her buttocks. Jessica stared helplessly, once again experiencing that odd, warm tingling in her loins. The woman suddenly looked around, caught her looking and reached over to shut the door. Just then, a middle aged man in jeans and a white tee-shirt entered the room, startling Jessica from her reverie. She glanced at him, then the woman, and for a moment, the three occupants of room 616 were frozen in position.

'Doing a striptease for the chambermaid, Diane?' the man demanded.

'I forgot to shut the door,' she replied.

'I'm finished here anyway,' said Jessica.

'No need to rush away on our account,' he told her. 'You've cleaned the bathroom, I presume?'

'Yes.'

He smiled. 'Then you can't fail to have noticed my toy. Careless of me to leave it lying around, I know. Bring me the strap, Diane.'

'Ken, I think the girl wants to leave,' she protested.

'Don't argue with me!' he snapped, startling Jessica. 'You needn't bother covering yourself up either. Our guest has already had a good look.'

'I really must go,' Jessica pleaded.

'Of course,' he replied, stepping aside. 'You must be very busy. Though I trust you found time to look through more of our photographs.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You left one lying on the floor yesterday,' he explained. 'I thought you might have found them exciting, which is why I left the second set out for you today.'

'Aren't you the nosy little cow!' Diane said, emerging from the bathroom, strap in hand.

'I didn't mean any harm,' Jessica protested, her face burning red. 'I just took a quick look. I couldn't help it.'

'Quite understandable,' the man reassured her.

'Understandable my arse!' his furious wife cried.

He snatched the strap from her. 'Your arse! Yes indeed, my dear.' He glanced at the name badge on the uniform blouse of the chambermaid. 'Jessica, would you kindly shut the door? You can leave if you want, though I suspect you would rather stay. Your appetite has been whetted, so to speak.'

Jessica knew she should go. If she was caught socialising with the guests, she would be in serious trouble. But curiosity got the better of discretion and she decided to remain. Her heart pounded as she shut the door.

Ken instructed his wife to remove her blouse. With a glance at Jessica, she meekly complied. Underneath, she was wearing a cream coloured lace bra that only half cupped the generous globes of her breasts. Without taking it off, she lay face down on the bed and spread her arms and legs wide. Though she hesitated before obeying each of her Master's commands, it was obvious that she was eagerly anticipating her punishment, perhaps even more so in the presence of the chambermaid.

Her husband looked at Jessica. 'What do you think, my dear? Should I spank her, strap her, or cane her?'

'Oh gosh, I don't know,' she replied. 'It's not really for me to say.'

'Diane is at our mercy,' he told her. 'She will accept her punishment by whatever means we choose. So tell me, Jessica, as my partner in dispensing justice, what's it to be? If you don't help me, you may have to take her place.'

She looked at the woman so helplessly laid out on the bed and realised the thought of trading places with her was far from appalling. But Ken was surely just making an idle threat, as part of the role he was playing. She did not think he would really contemplate punishing her.

'The cane!' she cried.

He smiled. 'I was hoping you'd say that. You'll find it at the bottom of the closet.'

Jessica found it and handed it to him, hoping he would not notice how she was trembling with excitement. As he flexed the cane with both hands, the woman on the bed looked around and bit her lower lip. Jessica could only imagine how she must be feeling.

'Jessica, pick a number between one and thirty,' Ken told her.

'Er, twenty,' she answered, her own age being the first thing that came to mind.

His wife clenched her buttocks.

'Twenty it is,' he said, raising the cane high above his right shoulder.

It whistled through the air and struck Diane's buttocks, with a snap like a firecracker. She responded with a small cry and Jessica winced. A straight line blossomed across both quivering cheeks. The man waited a few seconds, then delivered a second scorching stroke.

Diane gripped the sheet beneath her with both fists, crying out through gritted teeth as he administered a total of twenty resounding whacks, laying each one across her bottom with a well practised expertise. By the time he was finished, the streaks of the fresh caning lay cherry red over the paler hue of her previous punishment.

Ken studied his handiwork with obvious satisfaction, then looked at Jessica. 'Would you like to punish her now?'

'Me!' she exclaimed.

'There's nobody else in the room,' he replied patiently. 'She's had enough of the cane for now, but I'm sure she wouldn't object to a good spanking, for dessert. Would you, my dear?'

'Only on one condition,' Diane answered.

'And what would that be?'

'That she can take as good as she gives. It's not fair that I should be the only one on the receiving end.'

'Well?' her husband demanded, looking at Jessica.

The young chambermaid looked from one to the other as she battled with a dizzying conflict of emotions. The prudent part of her mind told her to use the door, but she felt a strange compulsion to participate fully in the game of which she was already part. She might well live to regret it, but might rue turning down the invitation even more.

'Would I have to be punished?' she asked, her voice trembling.

'It's only fair,' Ken replied. 'But you needn't worry. As you're obviously a novice, I'll be gentle with you.'

She considered it a moment longer, then agreed to the conditions. Diane raised herself into a kneeling position on the bed and leaned forward, gripping the headboard with both hands and thrusting out her bottom invitingly. Jessica knew what she was expected to do, but looked to Ken for permission. He directed her to kneel next to his wife, took her right hand and pressed it to the hot flesh of her left buttock.

'There's nothing to be afraid of,' he said. 'Diane is well used to receiving discipline and will let you know when she has had enough. Ready?'

Jessica nodded.

'Then let the spanking begin.' He drew back her hand and planted a tentative slap on the woman's bottom. 'That won't do at all,' Ken tutted. 'Let me show you.'

With his left palm, he struck his wife's buttocks a full blooded slap that made her cheeks shudder and evoked a small yelp. Jessica followed his example and was rewarded with a cry that was more for encouragement than from pain. After she had struck Diane's bottom a few more times, she felt her initial nervousness dissipating and her arm settled into a spanking rhythm.

'That's more like it!' Ken told her. 'Let's have those cheeks nicely reddened.'

Jessica's instincts took over and she threw herself wholeheartedly into punishing the woman. Her arm rose and fell in a near blur, stinging slaps raining down on both livid buns. The electric tingling of her palm only encouraged her to strike even harder. She thought Diane would scream at her to stop, after a dozen or so smacks, but it seemed as though she was a true glutton for punishment. By the time she finally called a halt, every inch of her bottom was a throbbing shade of sunburn and Jessica's arm was aching.

'Your turn now,' Ken told her.

Though spanking the other woman had turned her on more than she could ever have imagined, Jessica was suddenly very nervous again.

'I... I'm not sure I want to be punished, after all,' she stammered.

Ken frowned. 'That's very selfish of you, especially as you were allowed to freely redden poor Diane's bottom. Besides, you deserve it. Peeking at our private photographs, without permission, was not a very nice thing to do.'

He was right, of course. Jessica allowed him to persuade her, lying to herself that she had little choice. Hesitantly following his instructions, she unbuttoned her skirt and allowed it to fall at her feet. He then told her to bend over and touch her toes.

'She has earned a punishment she won't forget in a hurry,' Diane said, climbing off the bed. 'My arse feels like it's on fire.'

'A sound thrashing is most certainly in order,' her husband agreed, licking his lips. 'What do you suggest?'

Listening to them calmly discuss what form her chastisement should take, whilst studying her submissively upthrust hind quarters, Jessica felt utterly vulnerable and helpless. It was a surprisingly exciting feeling. She knew there was still time to change her mind, but she wanted to experience the excitement the other woman had felt when being spanked.

It was finally decided that she would be caned. As it was her first time, Ken thought she should be allowed to keep her tights and knickers on. Diane vehemently disagreed, but fortunately for Jessica, his word was law.

Peering back between her legs, she saw him take up position behind her and flex the cane. 'Ready?' he demanded.

'Yes,' she whimpered.

She heard the cane slice the air, then felt the blazing bite as it exploded across her bottom. She choked back a shriek that would surely have been heard throughout the entire floor of the hotel. Diane watched intently, savouring this moment of sweet retribution. Jessica's flesh toned tights and white cotton panties provided meagre protection from the vengeance of the cane and she almost cried out for mercy, after only the third stroke. But the pain was accompanied by an undeniable pleasure that strengthened her resolve to endure at least a few more whacks.

She withstood two dozen, before Ken decided she had had enough. By then, her bottom was throbbing violently and her eyes brimming with tears. But even more intense than the pain was the soft, warm tingling between her thighs. She was almost disappointed it was over, until Diane spoke.

'I ought to be allowed to punish her too.'

'We'll have to see how she feels about that,' her husband replied. 'Had enough, Jessica?'

'Yes... uh, no, I er.... don't know,' she stammered.

Diane did not permit her to dwell on the matter. Gripping the waistband of her tights with both hands, she rolled them down to her knees. Her panties followed. Bright pink cane brands criss-crossed Jessica's creamy cheeks. The woman caressed them softly. When Jessica did not object, she inched her right hand down between her legs. A fingertip touched the hot, damp slit of her sex and she responded with a soft moan. She had never before been touched in this way by another woman, but submitting to the caning had titillated her more than anything she had ever experienced.

'Oh my, she did enjoy her thrashing!' the woman purred, manipulating her fingertip between her slick labia. 'Perhaps she ought to leave now.'

'No, please!' Jessica gasped. 'Not now!'

Ken smiled. 'Don't be cruel, my dear. Our guest obviously agrees that she has not yet been sufficiently punished. Is that not correct, Jessica?'

'Yes!' she gasped as the woman's finger slipped deeper inside her, driving her wild. 'I must have more punishment!'

In response, Ken brought his right palm solidly down on her left buttock, causing her to whimper softly. He slapped her several more times on either cheek, as his wife continued to vigorously frig her. The half naked girl was flushed and breathing heavily, drunk on a potent brew of sensations. He then disappeared into the bathroom, returning with the martinet that had lain on the shelf. Just as Jessica was poised on the brink of orgasm, Diane's finger was cruelly withdrawn from her sex.

She took the leather strap from her husband and he dipped the long finger of his right hand where hers had just been, standing far enough back not to obstruct the twin targets of her buttocks. Had he chosen to use something more substantial than his finger to penetrate her, Jessica would not have objected. She had reached the point where she was ready to do just about anything to achieve the blissful release that was so near and yet so far.

Diane began energetically flogging her with the martinet, the seven strips of stiff leather laying tongues of fire on her already tender nether cheeks. Ken's finger danced within her, in time to the swish and crack of the strap on her flesh. The combination of pleasure and scorching pain was breathtaking. Jessica reacted to each stroke with an agonised hiss.

At least two dozen lashes later, the girl's entire body rocked violently and she cried out in the unmistakable throes of climax, pushing back against Ken's clenched fist arid gouging the dark pink carpet with her fingernails. The instant he withdrew his sex slicked finger, Jessica slumped breathlessly to her knees, her face crimson and sheened with perspiration. The cane creases on her buttocks were a similarly irate shade, blending into the ragged streaks scalded by the martinet.

Having allowed her a few moments to recover, Ken tapped her gently under the chin with the tip of his cane.

'You'd better be getting back to work, Jessica,' he said gently. 'We wouldn't like to see you get into trouble.'

'Uh, yes, of course!' she blurted, clambering to her feet.

'Wait!' Diane cried. 'Before you cover yourself up, would you mind us taking a souvenir to remember you by?'

'What do you mean?' asked Jessica.

'A few photos of your lovely red rear cheeks,' she smiled. 'They really are a picture.'