Saturday, 26 March 2011

Comrade Verushka - the first part of the story

The story in two parts from Blushes Supplement 22.

Comrade Verushka - the first part of the story

Verushka can remember the very first time ever, that she met Comrade Myanski: she had been finishing her training at the Physical Culture Institute, three weeks short of gaining her Instructor's Certificate. It had been early November, and the first real snow had fallen. Comrade Myanski and the principal of the Institute had made her report to the small gymnasium at dead of night —

Yes, she can remember; how she had sweated at the work-out they had put her through, and how the cane that each of them had, had stung her bottom again and again, and how she had wept the bitter tears that those who suffer injustice weep.

And now, she has to come face to face with Comrade Myanski again —

* * *

The slanting morning sun, segmented into bright rectangles by the window, falls across the bare table top and what lies on it. The shimmering light, like a spotlight, draws the eye but the girl standing to the side of the table is not looking at what is thus thrown into such stark relief; instead she is gazing out of the window, yearningly perhaps. There are trees out there. Green, early summer trees, in the grounds of the compound and then extending probably for hundreds of miles. Birch and oak and evergreen pine. North east Russia is a land of many trees. To be out there walking free in the woods... with this same sun dappling through the greenery.

The shimmering sunlight is of course mocking these thoughts as it enters the locked window to fall on the table. What is outside might as well not exist, a figment of her imagination. For the present she cannot even walk within the confines of the high boundary fence. Comrade Myanski...

A quick, darting glance at what is on the table. The open ledger. And the cane. Long and thin, slightly curved. A cane capable almost of cutting...

'If you cannot agree, Comrade Verushka, so be it. I could of course over-rule you, go ahead without your recommendation, but I prefer not to do that. If only because acceptance of higher authority is an over-riding requirement at every level of State organisation. Clearly you require a little instruction in that.'

Verushka Granchova looks out again at the green trees. High at the rear of her right thigh is a blue-black mark where Comrade Mysanki's fingers had viciously pinched at the end of this statement. His hand up her short skirt at the sensitive bare flesh above her stocking top. She shivers. The vicious pinch will be nothing to what is to come. Comrade Myanski will not accept her refusal and he will keep at her until she breaks, and then probably continue because of her non-co-operation. Because although Oleg Myanski says he can proceed without her agreement Verushka knows that this is not really true. He needs a recommendation.

'Student Comrade Olga Ivanova Smylmov has not been working to the extent other ability. I wish the Comrade inspector to provide corrective treatment. I recommend....'

Student Comrade Olga and Student Comrade Sylvie and Student Comrade Natalia. Those three in particular but probably a couple of other pretty ones as well. That is all the Comrade Inspector wishes. It is only a little thing. A signature on a piece of paper. But if he cannot have this there is of course Comrade Instructor Verushka herself. Comrade Myanski wants the pretty students but if he cannot he can certainly have the pretty Comrade Instructor who is, at 22, barely four years older. He needs no recommendation for this, he has direct authority. And when he has broken Comrade Verushka and she has signed the forms anyway...

Verushka Nicolevna Granchova shifts her weight from one high heeled shoe to the other. She is 1.73 metres — 5' 8" — in the white high heels, tall for a gymnast, which is partly why she has not reached the very top as a performer. But there is teaching and she is now a fully qualified instructor here at Gregianov Dance Academy far away from the distractions of city life where girls can concentrate single-mindedly on their chosen discipline. Where there are no visitors to likewise cause distraction — except of course for an occasional party official. A Comrade Inspector for instance.

A group of young women comrades can naturally have attractions for a party official. The training and education of the nation's youth, its young women, an interest in this is nothing for an official to feel he need hide. Male officials mostly, though there is occasionally a female one too with a similar pressing interest. The Comrade Director of the Academy, Comrade Ulanova, a lady who values her post, will always accommodate an official visitor. Comrade Verushka glances at the door. The Comrade Inspector will not be long now.

The room is at the end of the corridor. Next to it is the store room where gymnastic equipment not in use is kept. So there is no occupied room nearby. No one to hear. Not that anyone would query what is to take place. A girl, or a Comrade Instructor, being disciplined is not a matter of great moment, as long as any necessary forms have been properly signed. And for a Comrade Instructor a form is not needed.

'The end room, Comrade Verushka. Comrade Myanski will see you there.' The Comrade Director's voice was even, neutral, although she must have known what Comrade Myanski had in mind. But Alexandra Ulanova is a sensible woman, without foolish scruples. The Comrade Inspector is free to do as he wishes with Comrade Verushka, if she has fallen foul of him that is her own fault. Director Ulanova's eyes had shown no emotion. 'You know what to wear.'

Yes. A Comrade Student or a pretty young Comrade Instructor who has an interview with an influential party official wears an outfit that is smart but feminine and appealing. A short skirt to show off the legs. A tight tee-shirt to show off the upper body's development. Further to this end there is nothing under the tight tee-shirt, no brassiere, only the nubile flesh itself. The breasts of a young gymnast need no artificial support or constraint and do not need to be hidden. For the trim, athletic legs beneath the short skirt there are sheer, seamed nylons, fastened with a slim suspender belt, and smart high heels.

Yes, Verushka Granchova knew what to wear. It is the same as she wore at the earlier interview, yesterday, when Comrade Myanski presented her with his forms for signature. Which foolishly she had refused to sign.

Somehow she couldn't. Knowing what would happen to her, or having a very good idea, but nonetheless not able to make herself do it. Moral scruples — which a young woman in the party system could not afford to have. And anyway wasn't it true that a senior official necessarily knew best and what he wanted should necessarily be cooperated with, even if it was...? It wasn't only the moral scruples of course. There was Olga on his list. Sweet-faced Olga whom Comrade Verushka has that special feeling for. The thought of Comrade Myanski with her Olga...

Comrade Myanski's hand up the back of Verushka's short skirt as he sought to persuade her. Fingering the bare flesh, toying with the stocking top. And then the fingers digging viciously in, causing her to squeal — but not of course to twist away. The fingers had closed even more excruciatingly in on the section of flesh. The pain making her feel sick.

Somehow she had still shaken her head. 'I... please... they haven't...'

If it hadn't been for Olga's name on one of the forms the scruples would probably have been forgotten in the pain and the thought of more of the same to come. She would have signed. But she couldn't offer him the other two and not Olga, which would have made clear her interest. That would let him go directly to Olga on that account. But there is no real way to prevent it. She will not be able to resist. Verushka knows what a cane can do. She has had the cane before. She has also seen other girls. A girl can be reduced to a gasping, blubbering wreck whose only thought is to prevent the next searing stroke...

Her mouth opens, as if she is already gasping for breath. At the same instant the door...

Abruptly, without warning. The Comrade Inspector's rubber-soled shoes have made no sound in the corridor outside. He is all at once here. Closing the door carefully behind him. His large bulk seeming even larger in this small room. His sharp, animal-like eyes behind the glasses. His hands... which can go where they wish on her. To pinch. To do other nameless things. To wield that cane.

The glinting eyes crawling over her. 'Sit down, Comrade.'

Sit on the plain wooden chair. Shoulders back, as you have been taught. Posture. Stick them out. Verushka is shivering though the room is hot. Say it now a frantic voice in her head tells her: I am sorry. It was a mistake, Comrade Inspector. I admit my mistake. I will sign.

But the words do not come out. Comrade Myanski is close behind her. She can sense him, her skin crawling. His hands... his hand is suddenly on her head. The soft blonde curls. Stroking. As he murmurs something. And then the hand gripping. A handful of hair. Abruptly tugging it viciously up. With a frantic yelp Verushka stumbles to her feet, to avoid her hair being yanked out by the roots. Comrade Myanski pulling her to him. Her slim back in the thin tee-shirt against the front of his jacket. His hand has left her head. Two hands come round, to take hold of Verushka's unbrassiered tits.

'So, Comrade.' His mouth close to her ear. 'We must have our lesson, eh? Insubordination. A taste of the cane, Comrade.'

Say it, the desperate voice tells her. But it is Comrade Myanski's voice, not Verushka's, which continues. Soft and gentle, as his hands massage her soft tits.

'Have you ever had the cane between your legs, Comrade? Mmmm? Have you ever had that? I believe it is very painful.'

The words slowly rolling round her head. Expanding, unfolding, like an opening flower. Becoming a concept that her brain can take hold of. An unimaginable concept that Verushka can nonetheless picture.

'I think that will be a lesson for you to remember, Comrade. Yes? Something to make you think twice in future.' He has let go of her tits. Moving away, round the table. Leaving Verushka with that unthinkable thought. Her mouth opening but no words come out, only a whimpering sound. She seems to be struck dumb. Comrade Myanski has taken up the cane.

'Drop your knickers, Comrade Verushka. Lift your skirt above your waist and drop your knickers.'

Her hands numbly responding. Her mind is numb too but somehow at the same time sharp, active. Comrade Myanski has said 'down'. Not 'off'. To do that unthinkable thing... they would surely need... to be off. He hasn't said 'off'.

The brief red skirt is pulled right up. Underneath are tight white knickers, and the white satin suspender belt holding her nylons. The suspender belt and nylons are of Western origin, the belt bearing the label of a Paris company. Local manufacturers are not likely to produce anything as appealing to a discerning party official's taste. Verushka's thumbs are in the waistband of the knickers. Sliding them off her hips. Is he going to say...?

She stops at the stocking tops. Her heart thudding. Comrade Myanski... The sharp eyes behind the glasses are on her pussy. She makes herself stand straight and still. He is going to say....

'Get across the table, Comrade. Lie on it. On your front.'

There is almost a gasp of relief. Comrade Myanski is going to cane her bottom. Lying across the table with her knickers round her thighs it is her bottom that will be the target. Her bare bottom, the bare backs of her thighs. But not that unthinkable thing that he said.

At least for the moment.

Verushka has to grip the table's edge. Her body is lying along the length of the table, from her head to her ripe haunches. Comrade Myanski's hand squeezes one bare cheek. Slaps it.

'We will start like this, Comrade Verushka. To get you warmed up. Mmmm?'

Words start to babble from Verushka's mouth. Or what are meant to be words. 'I will sign. Please. I will sign.' But what comes out is an unintelligible babble and Comrade Myanski anyway does not wish to hear any recanting right at this moment. When he has got this far he certainly intends to proceed. Verushka Granchova is a lovely young specimen spread out over the table with her skirt up and her knickers down. He may prefer the 18 year old students but this young Comrade Instructor is not that far removed from 18 herself. Caning her will be a very real pleasure. And this caning will only be the beginning...

To be continued...

Thursday, 24 March 2011


Story from Janus 90.

by Andrew Grantham

Would there be a future with Jeremy? Would he still want her after her lapse?

Titian-haired Rachel threw herself on the bed once Jeremy had gone down the stairs. She was naked apart from her black French knickers which were somewhat ignominiously around her ankles.

The exuberantly curved 25-year-old lay with her pear-shaped breasts squashed into the duvet. Her bottom was in a right state. The lovely mounds were an angry scarlet all over their full and rounded circumference.

The nubile, green-eyed trainee accountant had expected some kind of reaction when stockbroker Jeremy found out that she had been 'having it off' with the plumber who had repaired the central heating. His reaction had, however, taken the redhead completely by surprise.

Rachel had, naturally, expressed her sorrow over the incident. Jeremy had stood over her, tall, authoritative and angry as she had cowered in a chair. He had sarcastically suggested that the emotion she felt was merely regret over her tactical error of being caught out, rather than bitter sadness at having violated the trust he had placed in her.

Rachel's pain-racked body shook as she sobbed her heart out. In her torment, she still wondered if Jeremy's reaction would have been quite the same had her 'one-off' lover been a professional person like themselves and not a tradesman. Very class-conscious was polo-playing Jeremy.

One manicured, sculptured hand slowly made its way to her glowing bottom. Rachel could hardly bear to touch the scorching flesh. She had never realised that the back of a hairbrush could hurt so much.

During her 'inquisition', Jeremy had asked her if she had enjoyed 'shagging the plumber', as he so crudely termed her indiscretion. Rachel had lied and said 'No.' He had asked her again during the punishment and she had repeated the lie. Then the speed and the force of the hairbrush smacks on her bare bottom had increased to a frenzied tattoo. She now reflected that Jeremy couldn't possibly have been expected to believe her answer. The faster and fiercer the stiff back of the brush had fallen, the more that point had been driven home to her.

'He wasn't as good as you – honestly!' Rachel had screeched, her long, elegant legs kicking about but restrained to a degree by the French knickers which had been roughly dragged down when Jeremy had got her over his knees.

That urgent remark had been a fib, too. The young plumber had been every bit as good in bed as Jeremy was – no better, but certainly just as good. And excitingly different. Not as tenderly sensual, but more vigorous, more urgent...

Jeremy could only match that rhythm with the hairbrush!

Would the dreadful sting ever go away? Her bottom throbbed incessantly. Jeremy had certainly given her something to remember. Whenever she happened to recall the illicit lovemaking with the curly-haired, tattooed plumber who was barely out of his apprenticeship – as she was bound to do in idle moments – then any pleasurable recollections of the intimacy would be completely obliterated by the memory of this burning punishment. She would have to remember exactly what Jeremy had done to her superbly-rounded, eye-catching bottom. Upon which the randy youngster had especially complimented her!

That same bottom was now a hot globe. If she ever did dare to sleep with someone other than Jeremy in the future, she would make sure that he could not possibly find out about it. Rachel could not go through this fiery stinging torture ever again.

Would there be a future with Jeremy, though? Would he still want her after her 'lapse'? Hell, she hoped so. Apart from thinking that she did actually love him, his high income kept her in the luxury she enjoyed. Actually, there was no need for her to go out to work herself, but she wanted to qualify as an accountant. Jeremy wished her to have letters after her name as well.

Her 'handsome hunk' as she affectionately called him had really hurt her, so he must have been terribly upset over what she had done.

Should he have been, though? It wasn't as if they were actually married. She didn't have his ring on her finger. Furthermore, Rachel knew that Jeremy had 'had it off' the previous year in Barbados with that sun-kissed blonde from California. She hadn't said anything about that!

She hadn't said anything because, at that same time, she had been clasped in the arms of a very well-endowed Mexican waiter! Up to then she had only fantasised about 'a bit of rough', but now...

The pretty face, distorted with crying, was raised up from the damp patch on the duvet. The agony in her emblazoned rear was starting to ebb slightly, but she knew it would be some time before she would be able to sit down.

Tentatively, Rachel moved her shapely limbs. She winced at the pull of taut muscles upon the well-spanked flesh of her tenderised behind. It was a behind which Jeremy had always admired. All her past boyfriends had liked it too, but only he had ever made her feel that her bottom was her sexiest part of all. And how!

The experience of being punished for her unfaithfulness had been absolutely awful. Gulping for breath, Rachel had struggled with the pain. It had become so acute, however, coursing through every nerve and fibre of her body, that she had begun to cry out. Surely her yelps and squeals had been heard by the people in the flat below, for their lights were on. Still, they hadn't come up to ring the bell and see if she was all right, thank God.

Rachel made to move some more. The twinges shooting through her made her shake her head from side to side, wincing and gasping, and her curls tumbled over her wet, flushed face in a red silken stream.

That hairbrush was going to have to go. Whenever she saw it on the dressing-table in future, Rachel knew she would flinch away from it as if it were a pair of thumbscrews or something just as horrible. But what if she had to go? Maybe the ordeal with the brush was only a part of her punishment for allowing that bloke the temporary freedom of her body. What if Jeremy actually chucked her out? It didn't bear thinking about. Rachel loved the lifestyle that her friend Jennifer enviously said she had 'lucked into'.

She would have to make herself get up and go downstairs and beg forgiveness from her 'real' lover. Ooch! Not just yet, though!

How many times had she cried out, 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' as that hard smooth oval had smacked into her buttocks? Had Jeremy believed her?

Now that he had inflicted agony upon her bottom which he so often called 'delicious', had he acquired the taste for it? And between them, would she ever live it down?

Suddenly, Rachel felt a hand running caressively over her still smarting, throbbing derriere. She propped herself up on her elbow and turned her head. Rachel hadn't heard Jeremy coming up the stairs and re-entering their bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed and his stroking hand began to apply soothing cold cream to her twin hummocks. It reduced the pain immediately.

Rachel showed her live-in lover a flushed, tearful and repentant face. He gave her a half-smile and one eye closed in a wink.

She turned her head back again and buried her face in the damp duvet once more, her prone body relaxing on the crumpled cover. Jeremy could not see the sly smile on her face as she parted her thighs in case he wanted his fingers to do anything else.

Rachel, sighing now, knew that all was forgiven.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Jane's Revenge On Roberta

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.4

Jane's Revenge On Roberta

"Come along Jane" said my mother, "take your punishment without all this fuss and get it over. Dick's been brave about his and I hope Charlie will be the same." Dick's tear-streaked face didn't suggest much bravery, and Charlie showed no more relish at what was coming than I did!

In addition to my mum and dad, there are four of us in the family — our elder sister Roberta who is twenty now and is soon to marry; then I and Charlie who are twins; and Dick the youngest at fourteen. As long as we could remember, Roberta had always annoyed the rest of us with her nauseatingly priggish good behaviour. She boasted that she had never been whipped by our parents because she respected and honoured them, whereas I and my brothers were always in trouble and often at the receiving end of the cane, and — in Roberta's opinion — deserving stern punishment for our bad behaviour.

The day before yesterday, a Saturday, mum, dad and Roberta had gone up to London by train to attend a flower show and after that to have a meal with Roberta's fiance Trevor Taylor and his parents before returning home by an evening train. I didn't take much to Trevor, but his parents were well off, so Roberta and mum and dad were naturally very keen for the marriage to go through.

Well, when they got back from London it did not need more than a glance in the garage from dad's eagle eye to see that his precious new car was not exactly in the position in which he had left it, and that the front offside wing was scratched and dented. There followed a nasty cross-questioning of us three by mum and dad, with Roberta smirking in the background, and it all came out. After they had left for London we had managed to find the ignition key. We had started the car and had driven it in reverse down the drive, and then backwards and backwards a few times before the inevitable happened, and Dick, when his turn came round, clipped the wing smartly against the garage door post, doing the damage that dad had been so quick to detect.

At least we hadn't taken the car on the road and we were given credit for that degree of restraint; but mum and dad were naturally hopping mad that they couldn't leave us three for more than a few hours without our getting into a scrape. As we had feared and expected, we were sentenced to a caning — Charlie and me to ten strokes each because, as the elders, we ought to have known better, and Dick to six as a reminder not to become involved in our pranks in the future. The punishments were to be inflicted the following evening, Sunday, at bedtime which would give us twenty four hours to reflect on our sins and think about what was coming to us. On such occasions the usual routine was for us to be given an early supper by ourselves, then to have our baths and change into pyjamas or nightgown, and then troop down to the sitting room where mum and dad would be waiting, as they were on the evening I'm writing about.

Dad had unlocked his bureau and had taken out one of his canes — a nasty three-foot rattan with a curved handle. Mum moved an armchair into the middle of the room. Dick was ordered to undo his girdle and let his pyjama trousers drop to the floor. (Nakedness was no surprise in our family as we all often went to a nearby sunbathing and nudist club in the summer, and we often went about the house without clothes as our parents have progressive ideas in this respect.) Dick, knowing the form, then bent over the back of the chair, while mum knelt on the scat of the chair and held out her hands so that Dick could grasp her wrists to steady himself. Charlie and I looked on, waiting our turn. Apprehensive as I was, I could not help but be interested to see the effect produced by such occasions on my brothers: they are both well developed physically, and so too am I, but the excitement of a caning showed itself in Dick and Charlie as boys in a way that was deeply interesting to me as a girl. Well, Charlie bent over the chair back, and his physical state was temporarily concealed. Dad beckoned to me and Charlie to stand in such a position that we could see every stroke as clearly as possible, for he wanted all stages of the punishment to make a lasting impression on us.

He raised his arm, and the cane cracked down crisply across Dick's bare buttocks, instantly making a straight pink line on the white flesh. "One!" called mum. Down came the cane again, about half an inch below the previous stroke. "Two!" cried mum. Dick stirred uneasily but uttered no sound. Dad, enraged over the damage to his precious car, was determined to evoke some reaction from Dick, and so the third and fourth strokes, each of which mum carefully counted, had more steam in them, overlapping the previous two strokes and making Dick utter a groan. Mum comforted him and bade him hold tight. Dad's fifth stroke was delivered with full force and a fresh groan arose from Dick's lips, but I could not help noticing that the look on his face was not only one of pain but also of excitement which the sixth and final stroke seemed to bring to a climax. As Dick released his grip on mum's wrists and stood up, I could see that he no longer displayed the physical evidence of excitement that had been so noticeable before the caning started. I guessed that the experience had not been altogether unpleasant to Dick, and this was confirmed when he gave me a surreptitious wink as he pulled on his pyjama trousers and came over to stand with me and Charlie.

Now it was my turn. As I've already told you, I didn't relish the prospect and mum had to coax me to take the punishment and get it over. Usually dad caned the boys and mum caned me, which was some consolation as Mum's canings were naturally not as severe as dad's. I backed away when mum told me to lift my nightgown above my waist and bend over the chair. Mum threatened to call in Roberta to help her if I made any more fuss. That was something I could definitely do without, so I yielded to the inevitable and draped myself over the chairback, and gripped dad's outstretched wrists to help me to hold myself still. Mum made Dick and Charlie draw near to see the effect of the caning at close range. The little brutes were of course delighted to do so, as my exposed position bent double over the chair with my nightie round my waist and my pink and shapely buttocks pointed ceiling-wards revealed moist, curl-fringed details of my anatomy that they were always keen to scrutinise!

Mum, not being so methodical and systematic as dad, applied the first four strokes one after the other at high speed with no pause between each stroke. The shock of stinging pain made me writhe like a cut worm, but I kept a firm grasp on dad who murmured words of encouragement to me to be brave. The fifth and sixth strokes were much more effectively applied by mum, who paused to count twenty between each stroke, and each time brought the cane down on the lines of the previous strokes, making me yell out and begin to stand up.

"Jane, bend down again at once," Mum said, "you've still four strokes to come!" "No, I won't," I said rebelliously, "I'm too old to be caned like this!" "Oh, is that so, my fine lady," said mum sarcastically, "it seems to me from your immature prank with dad's car that you are still quite young enough to be whipped and that you have really got to be made to feel the kiss of the rod if this punishment is to be effective. Charlie, call Roberta in to help me!"

Roberta was delighted to be called in. She had always loved lording it over us younger ones, and for her to take a hand in a family caning was a great treat to her. I'm well developed for my age, but Roberta, more than three years my senior, was much more fully grown, tall, well built and with fine 36-24-36 statistics. From that you can guess that she is much stronger than mum.

"Now, Roberta," said mum, "Jane still has four strokes to come, and I want you to make her really feel them. Your dad and I are sure that Jane is the ringleader in the car business, and as Jane has been trying to avoid her punishment it is all the more important that she should be genuinely sorry for her misbehaviour."

I realised that if I made any more fuss there was a risk that dad himself might apply the final four strokes to my long-suffering bottom. I certainly didn't want that, so I meekly pulled up my nightie and bent over the chair again, while Roberta eagerly took the cane from mum.

Roberta's first stroke was not very accurate, landing below the folds of my buttocks on the top of my thighs, and stinging abominably. God may have designed buttocks specially for whipping, but he certainly didn't intend thighs for that purpose! "Careful, Roberta," said mum, "make sure you hit her bottom only. If you hit her thighs you may break the skin." Roberta's next stroke was right on the fullness of my rounded posterior, and by now, despite the pain a pleasing sense of warmth was pervading me. Spontaneous contractions pulsed rhythmically through my buttocks and I had the feeling that the deep cleft between them was opening and closing with each contraction. It was only with great effort of will that I stopped their pulsing beat for I had a suspicion that Roberta, being no stranger to physical contact with the other sex, would guess what voluptuous sensations I was experiencing and would re-double her efforts to hurt me out of spite.

Roberta's next move was a shrewd one. She had stepped back a pace on my left side so that the silk-bound tip of the cane landed accurately and very painfully in the middle of my right buttock. She then walked round to my right side and made the tip of the cane land with devestating effect on the middle of my left buttock. My voluptuous sensations came abruptly to an end! A self-satisfied smile spread over Roberta's face. The bitch, I'll get even with her, I vowed to myself. My nightie was pulled down over my reddened and stinging bottom and I was made to stand beside Dick while Charlie took up his position over the chairback, with his pyjama trousers down, and gripped mum's proffered wrists.

Dad had been much impressed with Roberta's potential expertise in the handling of the rod, and wished to give her a chance of more practice. Roberta had always been dad's favourite, and she could never do wrong in his eyes. So he decided that he and she would take it in turn to administer the ten cuts that had been awarded to Charlie. Dad went to his bureau and took out his second cane which was just like the first one in length and weight. (Dad was very proud of his canes and took great care of them: sometimes in the evening when we were all looking at TV, dad would sit amongst us, puffing his pipe, and oiling and polishing his canes and rubbing saddle soap into the soft leather cat o' nine tails that he sometimes used for minor punishments.)

To get Charlie into a better position he was made to stand up again while a second armchair was pushed up back to back against the first chair so that the combined widths of the two upholstered backs formed a broad base on which Charlie's bare bottom could be presented equally conveniently to both dad on his right side and Roberta on his left. By now Charlie had developed an embarrassing sign of physical excitement which he had to conceal as best he could with his hands until he was bending again over the chair backs.

This physical manifestation had not escaped the notice of mum, dad and Roberta, but no comment was made. Mum and dad were mainly keen to administer a just and well-deserved punishment and did not, unlike Roberta, mind if the person punished should at the same time derive a little harmless sensual pleasure from the experience. (Quite by chance I had discovered not long ago that mum and dad often indulged in private spanking games themselves and greatly enjoyed them, but they would have been greatly peeved if they knew that I had discovered their secret. How I discovered it is another story that I might tell you sometime. Their private spanking propensity all fitted in with the pleasure they obviously took in caning us three younger children. Roberta on the other hand, never herself having been caned, had no knowledge either of the disciplinary value of the cane nor of the pleasure one could obtain from it.)

Dad, standing on Charlie's right side, delivered his first stroke on the exposed posterior — a well judged blow which served temporarily to check the rhythmic contractions flickering across the firm hillocks of Charlie's flesh. Roberta smiled, gently tapped Charlie's buttocks with the tip of the cane to get her aim, and then raised it and slashed it down as hard as she could. A surprised and pained look spread over Charlie's face, for Roberta's stroke was as hard as dad's. Charlie's sensuous feelings abruptly faded!

Dick and I had to move our positions so that we could get a better view of proceedings as dad and Roberta swung away at their work. Charlie gritted his teeth and was given a little murmured comfort from mum as he gripped her wrists. Charlie shed a few tears but did not cry out. His compact, well-rounded buttocks became a dark shade of red as the succession of well-applied strokes from dad and Roberta filled up all the space on his bottom. Pain had wholly replaced pleasure on Charlie's face by the time the tenth stroke was reached, and when he clambered off the chair backs he had no need to use his hands to conceal anything!

Charlie pulled up his pyjama trousers and we three stood in a row while dad delivered his final lecture on our wickedness in tampering with his confounded car that had got us into such trouble. Mum cleared her throat as if to add something, and then relapsed into silence. Roberta gave a superior sneer and said that if we had modelled ourselves on her we would not have got ourselves into the scrape we were now in.

We trooped off up the stairs, rather stiffly as is always the case after a caning. As soon as we were out of earshot of mum, dad and Roberta, we crowded into Charlie's room and closed the door. Up came my nightie and off came their pyjama trousers so that we could examine and compare each other's weals and look at our own in the mirror. This was always a rather exciting ritual after each punishment session. Part of the ritual also was to anoint each other with witch hazel to allay the pain and reduce the swelling. Gently massaging in the lotion was always a lovely experience both for the massager and the massaged, and we all began to get quite worked up as you can imagine. Dick and Charlie spent a quite unnecessary length of time in examining the weals on my buttocks, and when they had finished with me I had had witch hazel rubbed into all sorts of places that the cane had never been near! But I did not stop them, as I must admit that I enjoyed it as much as they did. But we dared not go on too long in case mum and dad came up and found that we had not gone to our beds. But before we separated for the night I told Charlie and Dick that I was determined to get my own back on Roberta and that I had a scheme that I wanted to carry out the next evening, Monday, for which I would need the assistance of both Charlie and Dick. They promised to do whatever I wanted, as they were as keen as I to have revenge on Roberta. We went to our own rooms. I slept on my tummy, and I expect the others did too.

Monday dawned. Our bottoms had largely returned to their usual colour, apart from a few blue weals, and we could sit without discomfort, from which you can guess that mum and dad are not sadistic users of the cane. We went about our day's activities in the garden and house (it was school hols at the time), and all the while I savoured in my mind the revenge to be inflicted on Roberta. My scheme was based on the fact that mum and dad were to be out that evening having supper with friends, while Roberta was as usual sewing her trousseau for her marriage to Trevor Taylor later in the year. Roberta presided over supper and we three did our best to chat amiably with her to avoid her suspecting that something was afoot. After we had cleared the table and watched TV for a bit, Dick and Charlie, by previous arrangement with me, said goodnight to Roberta and went upstairs. I said casually to Roberta, when we were alone, that I had something special for her in my room and I asked if she would come up so that I could give it to her. She wanted to know what it was, but I said it was a surprise and that she must come up and get it as I couldn't easily give it to her downstairs. Roberta, suspecting nothing and no doubt imagining that it was something for her wedding, followed me up to my room. Everything went as planned. Roberta entered. The two boys, hidden behind the door, leapt out, slammed the door, locked it and pocketed the key. Roberta was our prisoner!

"What is going on, Jane?" said Roberta in a rage. "How dare you!" "You'll soon find out what is going on," I said, "and if you try and get away we three are quite enough to stop you. So just sit down and listen to what I've got to say." She allowed herself to be pushed into a chair while Dick and Charlie stood guard over her.

"Roberta," I said, "for years you have made life miserable for us with your priggishness, your overbearing attitude and your bullying. The way you took advantage of last night's punishment session was the last straw. If you had had any decency you would have refused to help in the caning of me and Charlie. You are always boasting that you have always been well-behaved and that you have never been whipped. If you had been soundly caned from time to time you would have been a much nicer person than you are now. But now we three are going to make up for it by giving you a spanking that you'll remember for a long time!"

Roberta's astonishment and rage at these words were a delight to behold. "How dare you!" she spluttered, "let me go at once. When mum and dad hear about this they'll give all three of you the hidings of your young lives!" "Oh, no, they won't," I said, because they are not going to hear about it either from you or from us. For a start, please lie face down on the bed and pull your skirts above your waist."

"Jane, you must be out of your mind! I'll do no such thing," she stormed. "Oh, no?" I said, "Perhaps you'll change your mind when I tell you that one night last week I saw you and Bev Holroyd necking in the back of his car up that dark lane — it was more than just necking or deep petting, it was all the way, judging by the state of your clothing. If Trevor and his parents got to hear about it, they would break off your engagement at once. And I know that Bev would be ready to confirm that he had been necking with you as he rather fancies you and he doesn't like Trevor one little bit!"

"You bitch, Jane," said Roberta with a scared look on her face. "You wouldn't dare to tell mum and dad and Trevor about me and Bev having a fling, would you?" "Oh, yes, I would and I will too," I said, "unless you take your medicine now and change your attitude to me, Charlie and Dick. Which is it to be? Either we spill the beans about you and Bev, which will mean the end of your wedding prospects with the well-heeled Trevor, or you take a good spanking from us and that will be the end of the matter."

Roberta thought deeply and realised that she was in a cleft stick, with the prospect of a shiny and fashionable white wedding disappearing in a puff of smoke. "You must give me an hour to think about it," she said. "That won't wash," I said, "mum and dad may be back before then. It's now or never." She saw she had no escape and began to drape herself face down on my bed after pulling up her skirt round her waist. Under her skirt she wore very thin expensive-looking tights and a pair of black nylon panties as the tights alone would have been too revealing for Roberta's modesty.

"Now, Charlie," I said, "I think we'll make a slight adjustment. Arch your bottom in the air, Roberta; and Charlie, push a couple of pillows under her middle to make her target area stand up well. It's up to you, Roberta, to keep your position without moving, as we don't want to use force by having to hold your hands and feet."

You may well wonder what instrument I planned to use for the punishment. I knew I couldn't get at Dad's canes as they were locked in his bureau; and mum had only a silly little toy cane with a blue ribbon tied in a bow at the handle — just for decoration and not use — which hung on the wall above her bedhead. My scheme was to start on Roberta's bottom with my clothes brush and then to finish with my little pony riding switch which I kept in my wardrobe along with my cap and other riding clothes. You may not think that the clothes brush would be much use for effective spanking, but perhaps you've never been spanked with one — I have and I know how it can sting! Mine is of polished mahogany, about a foot long and two and a half inches wide across the flat back of the brush end, with a nicely shaped handle to give a good grip. My pony switch is not one of those cruel lashes of tempered steel wire covered with plaited binding: it is simply a thin swishy cane about eighteen inches long with a small leather-covered knob at the handle end and a double flap of soft leather bound to the tip of the business end to avoid the tip of the cane splitting and doing damage.

"Roberta," I said, "you are going to get nine whacks with my clothes brush, that is three whacks from each of us, and then we are each going to give you three strokes with my riding switch, making a total of eighteen strokes. If you try to avoid it or make any fuss we are going to increase the punishment, and if we have to do that I can assure you that you'll regret it, so be warned!" The look of rage and apprehension on Roberta's face was a sight to behold!

I started by standing on Roberta's left side and brought the back of the clothes brush down on her nylon-covered posterior as hard as I could, producing a crisp smacking noise as it landed fair and square. The length and width of the weapon was such that a large part of the whole area of her bottom was covered with the stroke. Roberta's face creased in pain and exasperation, but she uttered no sound. To increase the suspense I walked slowly round to her right side and repeated the medicine: Roberta started to open her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. I walked back to her left side and gave her my third blow, and she could not suppress a low moan.

Now it was Dick's turn. Being the youngest of us, he had been most bullied by Roberta and he relished the chance to get some of his own back. He started on Roberta's right side. Being inexperienced, his first blow was not very well aimed or effective and it had no visible effect on Roberta. This won't do, I thought, so I made Dick take a few practice whacks at the cushion on my dressing table stool and shewed him how to use wrist work to achieve maximum speed of the brush at the moment of impact. While this was going on, the changing expressions on Roberta's face revealed her growing alarm. Dick resumed on Roberta's left side and shewed by the crack with which he brought the brush down on her shapely mounds that my instruction in technique had been effective. Dick's third stroke from her right side was just as good, and by now I guessed that Roberta's bottom must be tingling very warmly, although her underclothing prevented us from seeing the precise effects.

Charlie's turn followed, and he licked his lips at the pleasant thought of getting even with Roberta for the pain she had caused him during the whipping session in the sitting room on Sunday evening. He held the brush to Roberta's nose so that she could get a foretaste of it and then, taking up his position carefully on her left side, and using a wrist action which I envied, he brought the brush down on her bottom with a crack like a pistol shot. That really brought Roberta to life, I can tell you! She rolled off the propping pillows in fury and pain, and stood up, her skirt dropping down. "I won't endure any more of this," she cried, "I'm a grown woman now and this game has gone quite far enough!" "Oh, you think it's a game, do you," I said, "but we three don't agree with you. We'll give you the choice again — either you take the rest of the punishment with no more fuss, or we spill the beans about you and Bev. You know what that will mean — no posh wedding and bridesmaids and confetti and reception and honeymoon, and no easy comfortable life with a well-off husband. Instead you'll have to take a job to earn your living, and try and find someone else silly enough to want to marry you."

This struck home. Roberta knew she was cornered, and she could not face up to the prospect of losing Trevor and all that it meant. With a sour and baffled look, she began to pull up her skirts. "That won't be enough now, after all the fuss you've been making. Take off your tights and panties. We'd like to see how effective we've been so far, and we intend to make sure that the remainder of the punishment is something that you won't forget in a hurry." "I'll do nothing of the sort," stormed Roberta, "I'm not going to have these great louts gaping at my exposure!" "That's just what we want to do" grinned Charlie, "and Jane's told you what'll happen if you refuse." She saw there was no escape and, kicking off her shoes, her hands went under her skirt to peel off her tights and black nylon panties. She then lay down again on the pillows, tucking her skirt between her legs in the vain hope that she might be allowed to keep it there for protection. I yanked her skirt tail from between her legs and pulled it up over her shoulders. We gathered round her very handsome bottom to see the effects of our efforts so far.

Looked at from any angle, Roberta's posterior is a delight to behold. From the side it sweeps up in a steep gradient from the small of her back through a perfect curve over the crest of her buttocks and then down to the delicious folds marking the beginning of her thighs. Viewed from above the shape is that of a perfectly symmetrical pack-of-cards heart. Seen from her feet as she lay on the bed, it looked like the twin domes of an oriental mosque. But the sight that really held our attention was the blush of rosy pink that suffused the whole of her buttocks wherever the mahogany of the clothes brush had kissed her sensuous flesh. Only the inner recesses of the charming cleft that divided her bottom had escaped. I put my cheek near her skin and could sense the glow of warmth that arose from it.

"Now, Charlie," I said, "finish off your spell with the brush to complete the first stage." Charlie this time stood on Roberta's right side, and his second stroke was as effective as his first had been. The brush back cracked crisply on her bare flesh, the pink changed to a darker hue of red, and Roberta writhed. She writhed even more after Charlie's third, delivered from her left side. She knew better than to try and struggle or escape, but gritted her teeth and clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened.

For the riding switch we decided to alter the batting order, Dick to go first, then Charlie, and last it would be me for the grand finale — a pleasure that I anticipated with no little pleasure. As Dick was inexperienced, I put the dressing stool cushion down beside Roberta's face so that she could see it while Dick made several practice shots with the switch until he could be sure of getting the target every time. Roberta's expression while this was going on was a study!

Dick's first stroke with the switch, although delivered with enthusiasm, wasn't very good either as regards accuracy or strength, for the cane slanted across the mound of her right buttock and then down across the upper part of her left thigh. But it was enough to draw a squeal from Roberta and to imprint a thin red stripe across the area already pinked by the brush and to make a pleasing pink mark on the white of her thigh. We could see the muscles of her posterior flicker under the flushed skin as she tensed herself for the next stroke which Dick gave her from the left side. This was a much better effort: the cane whistled through the air and with a crisp crack a neat line appeared across the top of each buttock. Dick was now warming to his congenial task, and his third and final stroke, delivered from Roberta's right side, landed exactly on the line of the second stroke. Roberta squealed again, her hips lifted from the pillows, and her hands instinctively began to move from above her head as if to protect the area we were assaulting so vigorously.

"Keep your hands away, Roberta," Charlie cried, "or we'll double the whipping!" This was enough to make her snatch her hands back and grip the rails of the bed head to steady herself for the rest of her ordeal.

Charlie could hardly wait to take the switch from Dick. He swished it menacingly over Roberta's head to give her a taste of what was coming. Then taking up his position on her left side he landed a sizzler dead straight and exactly parallel to the line left by Dick's second and third strokes. Roberta didn't like this at all, and her squeak of rage and pain was quite comical. I'm afraid that Charlie, Dick and I just giggled, for we were thoroughly enjoying Roberta's discomfiture. Charlie's next stroke with the switch made another neat red line half an inch from the first; and his final blow, delivered from her left side, was a masterpiece. Instead of bringing the switch vertically down on her, he sliced sideways so that the weapon landed on the lower part of the curves of her buttocks just above the folds where the buttocks join the tops of the thighs. This was virgin territory that had escaped the attention of the brush back.

She began to move as if to get off the bed. "I warn you, Roberta," I said, "if you don't take the rest of the punishment from us you'll lose your precious Trevor. So keep quite still for the last three strokes which I'm going to give you. And just to show that you accept them voluntarily and meekly you can jolly well kiss the switch before I finish roasting your pretty pink bottom with it." Roberta angrily raised her head and kissed the rod, and then submitted herself to the final stage. I fingered Roberta's bottom and planned where my three strokes were to be placed. My first, from her right side, landed exactly between Dick's second and third strokes and Charlie's first. I then walked round, and gave my second stroke as hard as I could to land between Charlie's first and second. It was a real sizzler and must have stung her like anything. I stayed on her left side for my final stroke for I intended to land it between Charlie's second and third strokes. His third stroke, you will remember, was on the lower curve of her buttocks just above the fold where the thigh begins so I had to be very careful and accurate. As in Charlie's case, it meant bringing the switch sideways rather than downwards, so I placed the switch against her flesh on the chosen line in order to get my aim. As the switch gently touched her skin she shuddered and looked round to see what I was doing. What she saw did not reassure her. In readiness for the final stroke she tensed her buttocks and I could see her cleft close into a thin line.

I held the switch at full length with my arm straight and my eye firmly on the ribbon of pale skin sandwiched between the pink stripes on the lower curve. My arm swept out to my right, and when it reached its full extension I bent my wrist so that the switch was pointing backwards. Then I drove my arm forwards with all the power at my command (I play a lot of tennis and my forehand drive is pretty useful, though I say it myself) and as it approached the target area my wrist came into play and the switch landed with a crack like a rifle shot exactly on the chosen line. It was a good stroke, and one which mum and dad would have applauded if they had known anything about what was going on. A dark red line shewed itself at once and Roberta shot in the air with a howl and landed half on the bed and half on the floor, clutching her hands to her injured posterior, and with tears in her eyes.

"Let that be a lesson to you, Roberta," I said. "We've had our revenge. I'm sure that Charlie and Dick enjoyed it as much as I did." They nodded vigorous assent at this. "And remember that in future we expect your attitude to us to be very different from what it has been in the past. Do you promise to be nicer to us?" Roberta stammered a promise, but there was more than a trace of hostility in her look, which is perhaps hardly surprising in view of the cavalier treatment she had just had at our hands! "If you don't mend your ways," said Charlie, "we can still give you another whipping and you can't refuse to take it because we can still tell on you about you and Bev Holroyd, and you wouldn't like that, would you?" "Oh, very well, I'll do my best to be nicer to you," she said angrily, "though it's beyond me why I should be nice to you horrid creatures after what you've just done to me. What would Trevor say if he could see my bottom now?" "That's very interesting, Roberta," I said, "so you let Trevor see your naked bottom, do you — though perhaps it's hardly surprising as you let Bev enjoy the same privilege! I think it would be a very good thing if Trevor could see it now, and he would then know how to deal with you after you are married!" Roberta tossed her head angrily and said nothing.

Turning to Charlie and Dick I said "Be off, you two! You've had your fun, and I'm not going to have you playing the amateur masseur on your eldest sister's person. That's a job for me." The boys departed reluctantly and closed the door. I made Roberta lie again on her tummy on the bed with her skirt once more raised above her waist. The pink caused by the clothes brush was already beginning to fade, but the strokes of the riding switch shewed as a series of neat raised ridges, really quite decorative in their own way, although Roberta would not have appreciated it. I stroked her gently and kissed the weals. With my lips I could feel a glow of warmth radiating from her charming bottom. Then I administered some witch hazel which took away the string and after that slowly rubbed in cold cream. Already the pinkness and weals were disappearing. It was a sensuous experience which I was unashamedly enjoying, and I saw by the changing and softening expression on Roberta's side-turned face that she too gained pleasure from what I was doing. Her buttocks began to move in rhythm with my massaging fingers, and when I paused for a moment she made an impatient movement for me to resume my attentions. I made a mental note to try and find an opportunity to tell Trevor that he should have Roberta eating out of his hand if he gave her a good whipping whenever she needed it, but that he must follow up the chastisement with cold cream and hot love!

It was now getting late. Mum and dad would be back soon, and Roberta would have to be downstairs to greet them, so I helped her on with her panties and tights and kissed her good night as she left the room. As soon as the sound of her steps on the stairs had died away my door opened again and in came Charlie and Dick, grinning from ear to ear. "Jane," said Charlie, "why on earth did you pet and pamper Roberta like that after the punishment we had just given her?" I gaped in surprise. "How ever do you know what I was doing to Roberta after you two had gone?" I asked. "Oh, we did the usual thing," said Dick, "we stood on chairs in the corridor and looked through the fanlight above the door. We often watch you when you are undressing. It was great fun when you kissed her bottom and we saw how excited she got when you massaged her. I bet Trevor would have enjoyed watching!" Charlie said "Next time we get a beating from mum and dad, Dick and I will kiss your bottom for you and then we'll see if you start wriggling like Roberta when we rub in the witch hazel and cold cream and massage you. I bet you'll like that!"

"How dare you, you cheeky monkeys," I cried. "If I catch you at it, you'll be sorry — I'll get mum and dad to give you such a beating that you won't be able to sit down for a week."

Later, when I was tucked up snug in bed, I thought back with pleasure on the whipping we had given Roberta and wondered if there would ever be an opportunity to repeat it. I had certainly had my revenge on her, but in addition I had discovered new and very real pleasures in corporal punishment and so too, I think, had Roberta. My guess is that, soon after she and Trevor are married, she will begin to look for reasons for him to take a cane to her behind. After only one experience Roberta is well on the way to becoming an addict!

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

'Didn't Half Hurt'

Story from Februs 41.

'Didn't Half Hurt'
A Short Story by J. E. Roberts

It was sheer naughtiness that made Liz and me start husband-swapping. You see, the men can't tell us apart because we're identical twins.

We got the idea while shopping, so we went to the nearest loo and swapped clothes over and under the cubicles. It was a real hoot when we emerged as each other. Then we exchanged secrets about our mates and worked out every detail, giggling like Angela Brazil schoolgirls planning a dorm rag.

The whole thing worked like a dream – and something of a dream it was too, each being unfaithful without the men having a clue what was happening. I knew all about Ted's hobbies, about what food he liked best, about what he'd say when he walked in and about his work problems. I recall saying, 'Is Stanford (his boss) still giving you trouble, darling?' and the thrill of getting a response that showed he had no idea what trick we were pulling.

He was different from Tom In his love-making, much rougher at limes, though caring and considerate as well. Afterwards, he said, 'You were very lively tonight!' I was flattered, but I wondered if Tom was saying the same thing to Liz.

We continued this once a month for ages, before something went wrong. As soon as Liz rang and suggested that very evening for husband-swapping, I sensed it was a bad idea. It wasn't the best day for me because Tom and I had tickets for a pop concert, but Liz was unusually pushy, so I agreed. I went to her house, swapped clothes and reluctantly forfeited my ticket.

When Ted came in that night, I knew my hunch had been right. His face was grim. 'You know what you've got coming,' he said. 'Go upstairs and get ready.'

Ready for what? I thought, hut could find nothing to reply.

'Why are you waiting?' he thundered and I scuttled upstairs. It certainly didn't look as though we were about to make love. But what else could I be getting ready for? What could be wrong? Should I have been ready to go out? Liz had said nothing. My heart was beating wildly.

Obviously she'd tricked me somehow. What could it be that she hadn't told me about? What had I got myself into?

I didn't have long to wait, before I heard him turn the door handle. As he strode in, he stopped, astonished.

'Why aren't you ready?' he shouted. 'That's another six smacks on the bottom – the bare bottom, remember!'

My eyes seemed to glaze over. So that was it! I thought of Liz enjoying the pop concert with Tom, while I had to bend over to take her spanking! And I didn't even know what it was I was supposed to have done to deserve it!

It must have been something pretty heinous, because he didn't look at all in the mood to discuss the matter rationally.

I felt sick. 'What do you want me to do?' I stammered.

'We've been through all this before, Elizabeth!' he said, quietly. 'That's yet another six smacks for being unco-operative! Anyone would think you'd never been spanked before!'

I was astonished. All this time, he'd been spanking my sister and I knew nothing about it. Tom would never have laid a finger on me. I still didn't know exactly what to do, but I'd got the general idea, so I turned to face the end of the bed, put both hands under my skirt, put my thumbs in the waistbands of my knickers and tugged them down. Miserably, I bent over the bed and reached back to pull my skirt up.

It looked as though I'd done more or less the right thing, because he seemed mollified. 'That's better!' Ted muttered. 'But not quite right – as you know full well!

Are you just trying to make me more angry? If so, you're succeeding, woman!'

I sighed. 'Another six smacks?' I asked and he nodded.

I was desperate, as I'd no idea what he was expecting me to do and the extra spanks were mounting up. And because I didn't know what it was all about, I couldn't try to argue myself out of it. Then I thought, I'll play up to you.

I gave him my most meaningful look, as though I understood everything, and told him, 'I want you to say it. I want you to use the power of words. I want you to describe exactly what you want me to do, every little detail. That's my right, isn't it? Don't I have a right to a request before execution?'

It worked. 'You can put those knickers back up again for a start, woman!' he said. 'Haven't you learnt yet that I'm the one that takes the panties down round here? Now try to behave for once. Turn and face the dressing table, put your hands on it, arms straight, head up. Arch your back a little, legs straight, stand on tip-toes and stick your backside out. That's right.'

My skirt fell back, partly covering my behind. I caught my breath, as he lifted it up and gently placed his left hand on my back to hold the skirt in position. I turned my head to him. 'Not too hard, darling, please!' I said.

'Getting worried, eh?' he said, with a grin. 'That's because you know you've really got it coming this time! Face the mirror!'

I'd never seen him like this before. He'd always been so courteous, so quiet, so kind. As I looked round at him, he seemed more attractive than ever. Yes, I could certainly understand what Liz saw in him. There was something of the Heathcliff in this softly-spoken architect. I could imagine him out on the moors, calling for me. I'd always suspected that Cathy wanted Heathcliff to thrash her.

And now I wanted Ted to thrash me. I wriggled my behind in encouragement, as my heart beat faster, not hi fear this time, but in mounting excitement. It's funny how things turn out.

What was it about him? Was it his determined tone? Was it his angry frown, making him look all eyebrows? Or was it the masterful way he raised his hand over my almost defenceless rear?

In the mirror, I could see him bringing his hand down with a resounding crack across my right buttock. It was a great shock to me, for I'd no idea it would hurt so much. I leapt up, clasped my behind and shouted, 'Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!' in little staccato yelps.

'Not so stoical this time, Elizabeth!' he said, grinning triumphantly. 'You'd better get used to it. I've hardly begun and remember you've an extra 18 this time!'

'You've a stingy palm today,' I explained.

'Worse than last night?'

'It certainly hurt me more than it did last night,' I agreed. At last I'd said something that pleased him, for he grunted and smiled.

I realised I was going to have to do a lot better, if I were not to give myself away. At first, I thought, if Liz can take it, so can I. But, as I put myself back in my so-vulnerable position, I had doubts about Liz: could she really take it? Had she called me that morning out of mischievousness? Or was it a panic measure to get out of a punishment she richly deserved?

I didn't have time to think about it any more, as I had to brace myself for a whole series of smacks, first on the right cheek, then on the left, then in the middle, then lower down. What a hard hand he had! I'd never thought of him before as the athletic type. He was a pen-pusher by trade, wasn't he? How was it he seemed to have the muscles of a coalminer? He knew how to wallop a girl's rump all right.

My only respite was half-way through, when he paused to take down my knickers – right down and off, making me raise each foot in turn. Now my last defences had gone; nothing was between his stingy palm and my tender skin. I made little soundless gasps and watched my own agonised expression in the mirror. Then I started yelping, then ouching, then howling, then begging him to stop.

Eventually I had no choice but to sing out loudly. He paid no attention and carried on as though I'd not moved.

I found out later that he and Liz have what they call a safe word and that if I'd only yelled out, 'Maureen O'Hara!', he'd have stopped at once. Well, silly old me, why didn't I think of that? I mean, 'Maureen O'Hara!' is the natural thing to yell when your backside's getting blistered, isn't it? When I asked her why she hadn't told me that beforehand, she said she thought I'd have used it too early. Gee, thanks, Sis.

Too right I would. I was starting to think I couldn't hold back the tears or stay in position, when abruptly he stopped. Relieved it was over, I got up to rub my sore backside, when he said, with what seemed to me a touch of gleefulness, 'Now the extra spanks! I think we'll do this differently, Elizabeth. First I'll want all your clothes off.'

Soon my shoes, skirt, blouse and bra were piled on top of my knickers. The bastard, he might have reacted, as my breasts fell into view. I twirled round to let him enjoy my nakedness, but all he said was, 'The slipper!'

He gave me a clue where the slipper was, by pointing to the door; otherwise I'd have assumed it was in the bedroom, which seemed to me the natural place to keep a slipper. I rushed downstairs to search in cupboards and drawers, desperate that our little ruse would be found out, with goodness knows what consequences. At first I crawled under the windows and hid behind curtains, but I got flustered after a while so I just let the neighbours have an eyeful.

I was taking so long that he yelled, 'What's keeping you?'

'I'm in the loo!' I lied. 'Can't a girl go to the bathroom when she needs to?'

A grunt, in reply. I flushed the loo, to cover my tracks and kept searching in likely and unlikely places.

Eventually, he said, 'Hurry up! That's another six spanks for keeping me waiting!'

I thought as hard as I could. Where would you keep a slipper, if not in the bedroom? I'd looked everywhere. Then I remembered the shed. It was a warm summer evening so I just draped myself in a sheet, dashed out there and pulled open a drawer, rather less carefully than I should have done. The drawer came out. Rulers, canes, tawses, straps and even a birch fell across the floor.

My covering slipped off. Mouth open, I stood naked and looked at the clutter; for once, I'd found a part of my sister's life that I knew nothing about. Then I noticed a diary among the debris. Day after day was filled with entries like, '25 hairbrush bare OTK', '5 mins hand knickers DTK + 6 cane bare bed' or '30 mins corner jeans bedroom + 40 large slipper (jeans 10 knickers 10 bare 20) stairs + 12 tawse bare touching toes.'

The longest entry said, '8 mins hand (1 min skirt 2 mins knickers 5 mins bare) OTK + 15 mins corner hallway hands on head skirt in view door + 24 spoon (12 knickers 12 bare) washing machine + 15 mins corner kitchen arms folded bare in view side window + 10 paddle bare step-ladder + 6 riding-crop naked desk + 20 mins corner library naked no view could rub' and added, in very large letters, 'DIDN'T HALF HURT!' I wondered, what did OTK mean?

Each page included a delicate drawing of herself in a different pose: using a handmirror to look at marks on her bottom; or lying on a bed, with her rear end raised by pillows and a look of indignation in her eyes; or bent over Ted's knee, waiting apprehensively for that first spank.

I noticed immediately how the sensitivity of her drawing offset the subject-matter. For example, one picture showed what I imagine was the two of us, though even I had to guess which was which. One of us stood in the corner, sticking out her behind and staring apprehensively at a cane on the wall. Was she meant to be me, as I'd never been caned?

Next to her, in another corner, was her twin, facing the other way, with one arm shading her eyes and the other hand holding her skirt round her waist. Her knickers were crumpled across her knees and the cane was in its place on the wall, but broken. You may guess what her backside looked like.

And, as for the riding-crop didn't-half-hurt entry, that included two silhouettes of identical nudes, leaping about, clutching their behinds. I suppose I should have been horrified; yet to me, those drawings put spanking in a new light. Her work spoke not of violence or cruelty, but of love, passion, and fulfilment. It reminded me of that unexpected feeling of Wuthering Heights in those moments before Ted started my spanking.

On the fly-leaf she'd written in large, flowing letters, 'Sex means spank and spank means sex' and underneath, there were two of us again, drawn from the rear view, one twin trying to look at her bottom over her left shoulder and the other ditto over her right shoulder. One bottom was marked 'SEX' and the other 'SPANK'.

I realised then why she'd been so insistent that we swapped that day: she didn't like keeping a secret from me. She wanted me to be a part of it all.

I was jolted out of my reverie, as Ted shouted from above, 'Elizabeth! Where's that bloody slipper?' It was his most irate tone of voice so far. More worried than ever, I slammed the book shut and put it back in the drawer.

But what could I do? There was no slipper there – nor in any of the other drawers. Time was running out. At last, I looked up and there it was, hanging on the wall, with a nail through its sole. Relieved, I grabbed it, covered myself and left the rest of the spanking paraphanalia all over the floor. (Liz got spanked for that later – serve her right, I say.)

When I got back to the bedroom, he was standing, arms folded. I gulped. Now I'd found the slipper, I'd got to find the courage to take it. I took as long as I could to fold the sheet neatly on the bed; then I bit my lip and tried to remember how encouraging I'd found my sister's drawings.

'Will you never learn to hurry up?' he said. 'Another six will bring the spanks up to 30 – a nice round number.' He decided to put me over his knees this time, which made me feel very awkward and humiliated, though I suppose I must have deserved it for whatever she'd done.

What was the sole of that slipper made of – concrete? Solid oak? I looked at it afterwards and it was just an ordinary leather sole, but it really hurt, as it thumped down again and again on a backside that was already sore enough, thank you. I kept wishing he'd use his hand instead. I hadn't realised a slipper would be so much more painful than a hand.

I found out later that the hole had been drilled in it to make it hurt more – I don't know why it has that effect, something about the law of physics, apparently. And I had to take 30 whacks with it! I'd had more than enough after the first six.

I gritted my teeth, gripped his left knee and told myself I was getting my just deserts for fooling two men at the same time. That's the funny thing about being spanked, you just have to lie there and take it, so you feel as though you're colluding against your own bottom with the man who's walloping it. That poor old bottom of mine, being punished for all my sins – and my sister's as well!

Those 30 spanks seemed to take forever because they went so slowly. Sometimes he'd make me wait for more than a minute before bringing the next one down, so I was thinking, 'Get on with it, man! Get it over with!'

And often, when I finally did get it, the smack took me by surprise, so that I was yelping and wailing and unable to stop my naked body from leaping about. He held onto me and kept up a running commentary – you know the kind of thing:

'This one is going to be harder than the last, but if it hurts, let it, Elizabeth, because you know you deserve it and you know I'm only doing it because I love you blah blah blah.'

As the thirtieth whack resounded round the bedroom at last, I suddenly realised what OTK meant. This was the first time I'd ever been put OTK – and my bottom had taken such a pounding that I wasn't likely to forget it. I've since heard Ted going on about how a man has a duty of caution when spanking a novice. He wasn't very cautious with me! Seldom can the phrase 'serve you right' have been more apt. Sore and sorry for myself, I stayed OTK for a little longer: there I was, a thoroughly spanked young woman, with no one to blame for it but myself and my twin.

Ted was very cheerful afterwards, as well he might be. I had a funny feeling I knew what was going to happen next, because I was pretty randy myself and I'd had ample opportunity while OTK to work out that he was well ready for me.

Gently he lifted me up and put me on my feet. Then I suddenly wondered if I'd have to stand in the corner instead. While he stared at me in the pause that followed, probably deciding what to do with me next, I resigned myself to 30 mins corner bedroom hands on head bare in view window or whatever he chose.

But then he started treating me like a princess. He leapt off the bed, knelt to kiss my hand and said, 'You took that beautifully, my dear. It was your best ever.' That made me feel quite smug.

He waited on me, made me coffee and vanished downstairs, to cook quite an elaborate supper. As I examined my marks in a hand-mirror, I could hear him singing away in the kitchen. Eventually he swept in, with trays of food, and we ate supper in bed.

Finally, we put the dishes on the floor and turned to each other for a memorable, long-drawn-out love-making. It's funny that, when he'd been walloping me, I'd have given anything to get him to stop, but afterwards, I was so glad he hadn't. I don't know what the pop concert was like, but I can't imagine it was better than that.

* * *

Next morning, before I left, I filled in Liz's diary for that day, '10 mins hand (5 knickers 5 bare) dressing table + 30 slipper with hole in it naked OTK + supper bed.' Then, because Liz and I both went to art college and have similar styles, I drew a picture of what I could see in the mirror while the slipper was at work: my mouth wide apart, my eyes wide open, my fists clenched and my bared bottom like two red hillocks in the distance, hit by an earthquake. Furthest away was an angry Ted, his arm in both an upward and a downward pose. Underneath I wrote, 'DIDN'T HALF HURT' and added four exclamation marks, to make sure Sister Dearest understood what I'd been through.

Now Liz and I regularly change partners. When I start to miss Tom, I return to him; and after awhile, when I deserve another bottom-warming or two, I visit Ted, sometimes for as long as a month. It all seems to work well enough.

Monday, 21 March 2011

In A Distant Country

Story from Janus 49.

In A Distant Country
by R.P. Forrester

The past is another country. L.P. Hartley? Yes. And certainly that idyllic spot, that little village set in the sparkling mountains that I wandered into as a young man is another country. A country which then had not known the ravages of war and postwar; a country now only of my mind.

It was just before the war, 1938 I think, but as yet in that remote mountain-ringed region of Central Europe there was no hint of what was shortly to come. I was walking, with a rucksack, occasionally taking a lift on one of the rare vehicles, studying the language (or telling myself I was) which was a dialect of German (I suppose now it is Russian they have to speak). At any rate English travellers, indeed any travellers, seemed to be very rare birds and perhaps that is why I was treated with such friendliness. And allowed such intimate insights in that household.

I simply wandered in along the dusty road one sunlit autumn afternoon. I stayed for four – or was it five? – days. And in those four or five days... The fact is that because of events I could not afterwards go back, I could never subsequently go back. So it remains only in my mind, like a shimmering impossible dream. But I know it was not a dream.

My introduction came that very first evening. There was no hotel in the little village, no inn offering accommodation, but when it became known that I wanted to stay for the night I was quickly offered hospitality at several humble private dwellings. I was, to say the least, fortunate in my choice because I had not then seen the two girls. The two daughters of the chosen house.

I was doubly, triply, fortunate, though I did not know it then, in that the younger girl was to have her sixteenth birthday in two days' time. That birthday... But I must keep things in chronological order, and on that first evening it was the elder girl, 18-year-old Liese, who took my notice, and with a vengeance. Not least because I had her ripe and shapely bottom bared in front of me for a whipping.

I haven't said that they were both delightful young creatures: blue-eyed, apple-cheeked, with thick honey-coloured braids down their backs. Yes, two quite stunning young ladies, eager to converse with this stranger who could just about make himself understood (naturally they had no English).

And perhaps it was basically the visitor's fault, I cannot clearly recall, but possibly in their excitement they were too forward in the eyes of their father, 'showing off', and he decided to give the older one a lesson. Although I was assured it was not my fault...

At any rate in that cosy little living room there was suddenly an 'atmosphere', with the stern-faced, moustached father barking something at Liese. Did she unwisely answer back? Whatever it was things got rapidly worse, the father's eyes flashing and quick, harsh words being spoken. I thought I could make out what he was saying. Liese was going to be beaten.

My pulse rate began to rise as I realised I had got the correct gist. Liese was a good-sized, statuesque creature in her tight-bodiced red dress and the thought of some form of corporal punishment being meted out on that firm-fleshed body was highly arousing. Naturally I assumed that whatever the punishment was it would be carried out in private – a bedroom say – as it would have been in England where, in those days, beating a daughter was not the rarity it is today. I was not expecting to see the punishment but the mere thought that it was to happen was arousing enough.

But then it became clear, from the father's words and actions, that it wasn't to take place elsewhere. It was to be there, in that snug room where this visitor was standing with the family. For Liese was being told to lift her skirt... and lie over the table.

Liese's face had become bright red, her sister's was pinkish and I imagine mine was bright red too. What was I supposed to do? Discreetly remove myself? Liese gave me a hot-faced look and defiantly grabbed up her knee-length skirt, taking with it an underlying white petticoat. Her sturdy, shapely legs were in white stockings, gartered at mid-thigh. Above were white, lace-edged knickers, not brief by today's standards I suppose but brief for those days and they left all of Liese's ripe upper thighs bare. This sudden revelation just about knocked me for six. Was I supposed to see this?

But no one acted as if I should leave. I suppose after all I was the honoured guest. Liese's mother in fact, a handsome woman of some 40 years, gave me a smiling, half-apologetic but friendly look which seemed to say: daughters can be trying, can't they? So I stayed; red-faced and round-eyed.

Holding her skirts aloft Liese stepped forward and obediently laid herself over the table. Her father at the same time went over to a cupboard. He returned holding a slim, whippy switch such as might be cut from a young hazel. My eyes were simply goggling, transfixed by this stick and even more by Liese's ripe, tightly-knickered bottom now thrust out over the edge of the table. I was soon goggling much more as Liese's father strode over and in one deft movement, no doubt well practised, had the tight white knickers down and off her bottom.

He fiddled a bit with her skirt, making sure it was well up round her waist. I must admit I was now in a state of some sexual excitement with this stunning girl before me, strong legs straight and together with the knickers round the tops of her thighs, and the upper part of her lying horizontal on the table. And right before my eyes that fantastic bare bottom. I was standing, as were Liese's mother and sister, but I very much wanted to sit down. Fortunately in those days men's trousers were somewhat large and baggy!

Right away, having assured himself that his daughter was properly positioned, the father raised the switch and brought it whipping down.

There was an awesome CRACK! as it sharply met the waiting flesh. A muffled grunt of pain from the stricken girl and I rather think that I gasped out myself in unison. Liese's bottom twitched and clenched but otherwise she stayed still. There was now an angry red stripe transversely across the centre of both ripe cheeks.

As I watched, scarcely able to contain myself, Liese's father gave her another six – seven in all. Seven fierce red stripes across that sumptuous pale bottom, a couple of them criss-crossing. The girl stayed in position throughout it all but halfway through she began to squeal – and I guessed she was crying. This proved to be the case when finally Liese was allowed up; she was blinking rapidly and wiped a hand quickly across a clearly tear-wet face before struggling her knickers back up under her skirt.

It was all suddenly over. My host put away his switch and they all acted more or less as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened – although the somewhat chastened-looking Liese did very soon disappear, perhaps to apply some soothing salve to what must have been a very painful backside. I was given some wine – my host's own brew – and could now sit down though my need for this was not quite so pressing as earlier.

The mother, sitting next to me, observed, 'Unmarried girls need to be disciplined by their father. I expect it is the same in England?'

I said that this was so but I thought a punishment would generally be in private. She smiled.

'Oh, but you are our honoured guest.' (Thus confirming what I had suspected earlier.) 'And also I expect Liese did not mind to be seen by a handsome young man.'

I probably blushed at that. At 25 (as I then was) I could not imagine that it could be so: now I am older and wiser.

I saw Liese again first thing the next morning when she brought coffee and hot water into my room. Her bright 'Good morning, Sir' and smiling blue eyes showed no sign of embarrassment at what had happened in my presence.

Trusting my luck I asked, jokingly, 'I hope you are not suffering any serious injury?'

She laughed. 'Oh I am now recovered, after a night's sleep on it. Or rather I think I sleep on my front. But that is how it is when you displease your father.'

I felt a little surge of excitement at the thought of this handsome girl lying in bed on her front, with that splendid bottom throbbing from the fierce cuts of the switch. What would her response be if I asked her to show me? But of course I did not dare ask that. Something else was said, I forget what exactly, but then with more laughter Liese said, 'Anyway if you stay till tomorrow you will see Margit's bottom. It is her sixteenth birthday.'

Not unnaturally, I think, I looked nonplussed at this. Liese repeated what she had said adding, 'Surely you have that in England?'

'Have what?' I asked but I could get no answer – only tinkling laughter.

A little while later, when I went down to breakfast, the two girls were whispering together. They glanced at me and Margit went very red in the face. I guessed they were talking about what had been said in my room but that didn't make me any the wiser. What could bare bottoms have to do with birthdays? It seemed ridiculous, quite inexplicable. But one thing was certain, I was going to stay around for the birthday if they were prepared to put me up.

They were most keen for me to stay, and the birthday was mentioned by the girls' mother as well.

'Please, you must also stay at least for Margit's birthday which is tomorrow.'

I said I would be happy to, wondering what I could read in those eyes which were as deep blue as the daughters': a look of amusement perhaps?

Apart from that sense of curiosity there was also the very certain fact that I was not at all keen to immediately leave these two beautiful girls; Liese especially. I had great good fortune in that regard because immediately after breakfast the mother said if I wished Liese would take me up into the mountain to see a local beauty spot – a waterfall. Margit, she remarked, had to help with preparations for her birthday. Needless to say I said I did wish, very much indeed.

We set out, with some provisions in my rucksack and in my head I must confess still most arousing thoughts of Liese's splendid bottom, which now where it was necessary to walk single file (I naturally let her go first!) I had surging and swaying in front of my eyes in that same red dress which had been so mind-bogglingly lifted yesterday evening. Hotly I pictured those smooth and shapely thighs, the tight laced-edged knickers, and the full firm globes underneath. My walking shorts, like my long trousers of the previous evening, were soon under some strain at the front.

I asked Liese again about what she had said but got no answer, only that same amused laughter. I also, with my thoughts in more sombre mood, probed what my fair companion knew of the international scene. I was well aware, as were most of us in England then, what was brewing up. I knew what could easily happen at any moment; what, as we all know now, did very soon happen. All of that meant nothing to Liese. She just shrugged those pretty shoulders; she could not possibly imagine war coming to that idyllic backwater, and events elsewhere didn't really mean anything to her.

That was also the attitude of them all: her father, others in the village. War? But who would be interested in them; they were poor and simple people with nothing except a few fields, a few cows. England, Germany, France... they shrugged their shoulders. They were shortly to find out, I fear.

But at 25 and with this beautiful companion on that remote mountain track, I did not let my mind dwell on such weighty matters. Not with Liese's ripe bottom in front of me straining the red cotton of her dress at every sturdy stride. Emboldened now that I was alone with her, I asked about her beating. Did she get such a punishment very often?

'Oh yes,' she said with a little laugh. 'Quite often.'

It seemed from what she said that corporal punishment for girls was much more common than in England at that time (where in turn it was much more frequently resorted to than nowadays). It seemed that a girl, in particular a 'grown-up girl' as Liese put it, could expect it for most shortcomings – from her father and also uncles etc. 'Grown-up', said Liese, was when a girl reached 16. She gave that little laugh.

'Margit will be 16 tomorrow.'

The thought did occur to me then, I must admit, that this might be some clue to the mysterious birthday business, but Liese was going on to further fascinating details. An unmarried girl was beaten regularly in her own family, that was how it was ensured that she was a 'good' girl and the family's honour was maintained. Once she was married the beating was taken over by the husband.

We had stopped for a moment on the track and Liese turned to me, smiling-eyed.

'At the wedding the bridegroom is given a special switch, tied with ribbon. When he enters his new house with his bride the first thing he does is to give her a whipping with it. That is to ensure she respects him, and also to bring them both good luck. It is an old custom.'

I found it a little difficult to believe. Thinking of yesterday, and Liese's bare bottom, I asked 'On the bare?'

'Oh yes,' she laughed. 'It is always like that.' She kicked at a stone. 'When I am married that is what will happen. For good luck and to see I behave myself. Until then it is my father who must see I behave.'

With all this talk of switching and with beautiful Liese close in front of me, her round breasts stretching the bodice of her dress, I could feel myself getting distinctly excited again.

'So you are a very good girl then, Liese,' I observed.

'Good' of course included behaving decorously, chastely, as regards the opposite sex. A daughter's virginity was no doubt highly prized. And yet Liese's family had been quite happy for her to go off up the mountain alone with me. Were they so sure of her behaviour, and trusting of me? Or could it be that I was such an honoured guest that...

I realised suddenly that I had become very excited. Shorts, like long trousers, were also in those days rather capacious and the effect was hopefully not immediately apparent. Eyes smiling, Liese agreed that she was a good girl. We began to walk again.

Somewhat later we stopped for some lunch, not far from the spectacular waterfall. I forget how it began again, but I must have found some way to once more raise the subject of CP, which as applied to Liese and her sister completely bewitched me. I went back to what she had said about her uncles as well as her father switching her.

'Anyone else?' I asked. And then (I had probably drunk too much of that red wine or I would never had been so bold), 'What about an English visitor?'

Had Liese perhaps been thinking along similar lines? The tip of a pink tongue came out to moisten the full red lips. 'I think so, if I did something.'

'What?' I asked, pulse racing.

We were sitting on the pine-needled ground, with the wine bottle and glasses and other bits and pieces. My glass, half full, was near Liese's foot and she deliberately kicked out with her shoe, knocking it over, spilling the wine.

The large blue eyes met mine. 'If I was clumsy and knocked your wine over.'

I got to my feet. What with the wine and everything else I almost fell down again but I got a grip of myself. 'Come on then,' I told her and walked, a little unsteadily, to a nearby fallen pine. It made a comfortable seat. There were no suitable switches around but I had something equally pleasurable in mind. I indicated that Liese was to get over my lap.

She did: a solid, heavenly weight that took my breath away. Head spinning, I grabbed up her skirt A moment's hesitation – but she was lying quite passively, and hadn't she said in respect of bare bottom 'always'? My trembling hand went to those tight knickers... and began sliding them down.

I can see it now – see it, feel it, smell it. The sunlit clearing, the aromatic scent of the pines – and the girl bare-bottomed over my lap. My hand, as in some paradisical dream, beginning to rise and fall on to the resilient silky flesh of the ripe globes of her bottom.

It was, let me say, the first time I had ever spanked a girl. It was a wonder I didn't faint with the excitement, but I didn't. I think I kept on for some time, until Liese gaspingly complained that she'd had enough. She struggled up and with a red-faced glance at me began pulling up her knickers. Perhaps she was expecting something else at that point. Whether she was or not I was in too much of a state, my mind in too much turmoil, to contemplate anything else.

I don't recall what was said; perhaps we were both somewhat embarrassed afterwards, at the sudden intimate contact, a contact that for me was like an electric shock. So I rather fancy not a lot was said as we collected up the things and began our descent.

My mind is hazy also about details of the rest of that day – all except one event, that is. Probably I was still walking about in a dream from what had happened up on the mountain; I was walking on air. The one event I am not hazy about occurred later that evening when I had gone up to my room. Suddenly, as I sat at the little table writing my diary (a diary which disastrously I was soon to lose), there was bright-eyed Liese. Again it is quite possible she might have had something else in mind but what she got was the same as before. A spanking, over my lap with her skirt up and her knickers down. My hand splatting heart-stoppingly down into those ripe womanly globes.

Doing it in her own house was if anything even more mind-boggling than before.

That was Liese and though she did not disappear from the scene – far from it – it was now, or more precisely the next day, that the younger sister Margit came more firmly into focus. She was very much a younger version of her sister, slimmer but with her figure already ripening into womanhood. She was that next day 16: a womanly age it seemed in those parts, a marriageable age. There was an aura of unconcealed excitement when I went down in the morning. I kissed Margit on the cheek, congratulating her, and I could feel her trembling. I gave her as a present a silk scarf I had brought with me from home.

I immediately found myself caught up in the heady atmosphere, the feeling that something extraordinary was to happen over and above what we in England might associate with a birthday. I could hardly wait... and I fancy even the heady delights of Liese for the moment took second place. What was to happen...?

It was after the meal, in the middle of the day. A splendid table-groaning feast with, it seemed, half the village crowded in the room – though I was told they were all relatives. The table was cleared by the womenfolk, but the wine bottles remained and toasts continued, primarily to the new 16-year-old who was looking ravishing in a lacy white dress. In the middle of all this one uncle stood up.

'Are we now ready for Mr Switch?'

There was a sudden silence and then it seemed everyone was talking at once. Talking and laughing. They were all getting to their feet and heading for the door, filing out. Then I saw that not everyone was going, it was the children and the women. Was I to go? But as I took a step Margit's mother squeezed my arm, her eyes bright and smiling with the wine.

'No, our honoured guest must stay!'

Very shortly just the men were left – uncles, the grandfathers, Margit's father of course, me – and Margit herself. A rosy-cheeked, golden-haired vision in white surrounded by these soberly-clad men. Did I have some inkling now? The room had quietened.

Margit's father walked purposefully to the cupboard as he had done on my first evening. He took out the switch which I saw now had a white ribbon tied near the thicker end.

The men were seated again, Margit standing in the centre near the table, and I sat down too, conscious of a sudden need, a sudden tightness in my trousers. Yes, I had a pretty good idea now what was going to happen, incredible though it might have struck my English sensibilities. Standing next to his daughter, my host addressed the assembled group.

'Margit is now sixteen. So according to custom she will demonstrate her acceptance of family discipline, which she will continue to accept so long as she remains an unmarried girl in this house.'

He turned to the red-faced Margit and she nodded. 'Good; please prepare yourself then.'

With my heart leaping like a mad thing, I watched Margit reach up under the full skirt of her dress and take down lacy white knickers. They came right down and she stepped out of them, and placed them on the table. Then she bent herself face down over the table.

With one smooth movement Margit's father swept her skirt up over her back, exposing the white, gartered stockings, bare upper thighs, plump bare buttocks. Then he handed the switch to one of the grandfathers who had risen to his feet. The old but still sturdy man stepped forward and gave the switch a preliminary wristy flick, to loosen his arm. And then he brought it slicing in across Margit's trembling thrust-out nates.

It was the second switching I had witnessed in the two days I had been there, and I had also myself spanked the older girl twice, but this, this ritual sixteenth birthday switching, was in a complete class of its own. And let me say it has remained in a class of its own, for I have never since come across anything which has remotely affected me in the same way. The first grandfather gave Margit four, and then the other delivered a like number, all of them hard, biting strokes that had the girl gasping and writhing. Then the switch was offered to me...

I had to refuse; such was the state I was in I was sure I would disgrace myself in some way. So the stick was offered to one of the uncles, who willingly took it and enthusiastically followed the two older men. Then another uncle, and another. Poor Margit's writhing bottom was criss-crossed with red stripes and though she had at first been merely gasping she was now crying out. I don't know exactly how many men there were but there seemed to be a considerable number and they all had to have their turn. That, it seemed, was the custom.

At last they had all had their turn except Margit's father – and me. He turned to me and at this point insisted that I perform – I was told later by the mother that every man in the room had to take part, that was the ancient tradition. So I had to give her four like all the others. I got to my feet and took the switch. The first was a mere tap but once I had done it something seemed to get hold of me and I had to bring it down hard. The last two I gave the wriggling girl were, I am sure, quite as stinging as anyone else's. My adrenalin was surging from the exhilaration of actually whipping her bare bottom myself – a sensation so exquisite I could never attempt to describe it, nor have I ever been able to forget it.

Finally it only remained for Margit's own father to complete the ritual with four of his own. And then it was over. Margit stood up; her skirts fell down to hide the angrily-striped buttocks. Her face was tear-stained but she managed a smile. She had merely undergone the customary rite and could now consider herself grown-up. It was the custom, the tradition, and that will make almost anything acceptable. For the initiation into adulthood it was a very small price to pay, and I am sure it had never occurred to her that attainment of this milestone could be celebrated in any other way.

The wine was being poured again and now the others were coming back into the room, joking and laughing, teasing Margit. She was now one of the women, as opposed to being a child, and more than once the older girls and women made her display her bottom – to much laughter and ribald comment, as they compared the stripes to what they themselves had suffered.

That was it, the drama was over. The party continued, I think there was some dancing afterwards but my memory is again hazy, as if subsequent events were thrown in the shade by the brilliant glare of what had gone before – which itself blazes as brightly in my mind as on that day more than 40 years ago. One other thing I do remember well, though, is the next morning. It was not now Liese who brought in my coffee and hot water but Margit.

She was now an adult and so presumably could go into the guest's room, and perhaps had persuaded her sister that the privilege was hers. She was not shy about what had happened.

'So now you have seen me as well as Liese.' It was said with a coquettish smile.

I agreed that I had and meeting her frank gaze I said that perhaps I should check that she had not been injured in that region. I rather think she wanted me to say something of that sort. For she had no hesitation in getting over my lap.

Did I stay another day or was it two? All I can clearly recall, in the absence of that lost diary, is that I had a rendezvous to keep soon afterwards, in Trieste, and so I could not linger as I would have wished. As I travelled on to Trieste I was determined to retrace my steps and return – to Margit and Liese. But I never did, I could not. The storm clouds that had been gathering now began to rumble in an unmistakable manner. And suddenly a lone Englishman could no longer wander as he wished.

So I never went back. Possibly now I could, at least to that geographical spot, but I would not wish to. Because I know that the world I glimpsed so memorably on that vacation certainly does not exist. Those simple people with their traditional ways and values, that sparkling little village, above all the two girls – all of that went when I walked out, with more than one backward glance, on that fine autumn morning so many years ago.

It has surely disappeared, like many other things. But at the same time I carried it with me, bright and clear. As I still do.