Saturday, 28 May 2011

A German Holiday

Story from Janus 24.

A German Holiday
by R.T. Mason

It was really hot and somehow Julie hadn't thought of Germany as being hot, not like this. She should perhaps have studied that guidebook a bit more before coming here to stay with Margit but with her exams taking all her time she hadn't. Anyway on this sweltering July afternoon, her first day here, they were at least in the right sort of place: a sandy beach on a lake where Margit's father had driven Julie and Margit and Margit's friend Grete after lunch. Julie slipped off her dress under which, like the two German girls, she was already wearing under her bikini.

Margit looked, her eyes rounding, at the pretty English girl's figure. In her good but rather stilted English she said, 'Oh my! Quite a stunner, is that what you English say?'

Julie blushed. Then Grete, who had slipped round behind her, added, 'And look, Margit! Her bottom is especially charming!'

The two German girls laughed while Julie's blush deepened. Her bottom was shapely but she would have preferred it to be somewhat smaller – like Margit's or Grete's in fact, for they too had now slipped off their dresses.

Margit, putting her dress neatly on her beach bag, said, 'You will be very popular, Julie. You know that German men are very fond of girls with charming bottoms!'

The German girls laughed again. 'Especially Herr Friedrich!' said Grete.

'Oh yes,' agreed Margit, 'certainly Herr Friedrich!'

Something was said in German, which Julie didn't understand, causing more laughter from the other two. Then they all ran into the water, Julie wondering vaguely who this Herr Friedrich was.

Julie had arrived the day before, for a month's stay with Margit Kirchner. The visit had been arranged through a colleague of Julie's father who had got to hear of the Kirchners' wish for an English girl to improve their daughter's English. Julie herself spoke hardly any German but that was not seen by the Kirchners as a disadvantage, as it would force Margit to use the English language. So it had been agreed, Julie and Margit had exchanged letters, and directly after the finish of Julie's A Level exams she had flown to Munich, there to be met by Margit and her parents in the family Mercedes.

It was Julie's first visit to Germany and her first meeting with either Margit or her parents but from the beginning they had all seemed awfully nice, giving her an enthusiastic welcome into their rather lavish home. And Margit herself, 18 like Julie, blonde, blue-eyed and pretty, and with a self-assurance which the English girl at once envied – yes, Julie was sure they'd get on very well indeed.

The first morning had been spent in a quick tour of the town with Margit and her friend Grete, and it had already seemed very hot by mid-morning. Margit had smiled at Julie's query about the weather.

'Oh of course it is warmer than your English weather. But don't worry: this afternoon we go to a beautiful German lake.'

And here they were. They splashed about in the cool refreshing water, both German girls displaying powerful swimming styles which Julie couldn't compete with. Then they came out, dried themselves, and lay in the sun which, after the cool water, was no longer quite so unbearable.

The two German girls already had well-developed tans: Margit, the blonde, her skin golden-honey in her brief emerald-green bikini, now wet and taut; and Grete, slightly taller than Margit, with short curling dark hair, whose darker brown limbs were shown to advantage in a trim pink two-piece.

Julie in contrast, what with exams and a longish spell of typical English weather, had not yet seen much of the sun and her skin was still pale – as she was self-consciously aware. But pale or not it was very shapely in the brief sky-blue bikini, the bottom half of which in particular was slickly tight over her swelling haunches.

Indeed the spell of energetic activity in the water had caused the brief elasticated material to ride up off the swell of Julie's bottom cheeks to catch in the cleft of her backside. She reached behind her to adjust it, remarking as she did on her own pale skin tone.

'Don't worry,' said Margit, 'you will soon be brown.'

She turned over and sat up, then unfastened her bikini top and took it off. Her firm medium-sized bare breasts were honey-brown like the rest of her, their brown nipples semi-erect.

Julie blinked. Her rather shocked expression brought a smile to Margit's face. She stuck out her breasts. 'Do you like my – how do you say – my tits?'

Julie coloured. 'That is not really a very polite word.'

'No? Well, breasts, then. Anyway you must take off your top as well to get a tan.'

Grete had already followed Margit's example to bare her own brown breasts. Julie sat up and looked anxiously around. There was no one else near, the beach deserted except for a couple some way off. She didn't like the idea but she would seem silly if she refused to follow the others' lead.

'Come on!' encouraged Margit, her eyes on Julie's bikini top which clearly contained breasts larger than those of either of the other two.

Flushing slightly, Julie reached behind her. The top came off. Julie's breasts were indeed bigger than either Margit's or Grete's, round and full and jutting firmly out, their paleness accentuated by the quite large reddish-pink nipples.

Julie had never had her breasts bare in public before. And what made it worse, due either to embarrassment or having just had them in the cool water, was that her nipples were fully erect. Sticking out like fat pink thumbs.

Margit gave a low husky laugh. 'Look Grete! I think Julie has been thinking sexy thoughts!'

In some confusion Julie lay down, turning on her stomach again, the full breasts flattening under her. For something to say she said 'Who's this Herr Friedrich?'

The two German girls started giggling.

* * *

Herr Friedrich, it turned out, was a private tutor who saw both Margit and Grete in a number of subjects – including English – where it was felt extra work was needed. He visited their homes for this purpose and Julie saw him for herself the very next day.

Margit had made a face at breakfast, then said, 'Unfortunately, Julie, it is my bad luck to have to see Herr Friedrich this morning, at 10 am. Perhaps you would like to sit in the garden while he visits. Then you can get more suntan.'

As it happened Julie was still feeling a bit raw from the previous afternoon when she had spent rather too long in the sun. She had applied liberal quantities of oil to herself to ease it but her breasts especially were pink and sore and she had left her bra off under her dress. So more sun today did not sound like a good idea, but anyway there were plenty of nice shady spots in the Kirchners' quite extensive garden. 'Don't worry about me,' she said.

Herr Friedrich arrived promptly at 10 in his Opel and Julie had a glimpse of him before she slipped out into the garden: a middle-aged man with the sort of serious look behind his rimless spectacles that you might expect of a German schoolteacher.

She sat under a big spruce tree for half an hour reading her book, then decided she needed to go inside to the bathroom. The Kirchners had a downstairs room which they mostly used during the daytime but Julie, forgetting this, automatically went upstairs, as if at home, where in fact the Kirchners had a second bathroom. Then on the landing she rather lost her bearings so that she found herself going along the corridor which had Margit's room at the end of it.

The door to Margit's room was slightly ajar and she could hear Herr Friedrich's voice from the other side, speaking German. She couldn't resist looking through the door crack. Margit was standing in front of Herr Friedrich who seemed to be sternly lecturing her on something. Julie realised she was evesdropping and was about to move away when Margit looked up and said something to which her tutor said 'Ja!' And Margit then went to an upright chair placed in the centre of the room.

She stood close behind the chair, then bent herself forward from the waist, over the chair back, until her blonde head was down in the seat. Her two hands reached down and gripped the front chair legs near the floor. In this position of course Margit's bottom in her flowered white summer dress was thrust firmly, almost obscenely, up and out. Julie realised her heart had started beating rather rapidly and her mouth felt dry.

Herr Friedrich had watched this performance with a stern but impassive expression. He now took a step forward and with one movement grabbed the hem of Margit's full skirt and flipped it fully up, as far as it would go so that it now descended like a bell over Margit's lowered head. Julie could not prevent an audible gasp (fortunately not heard in the room) because it was just such a shock, like a blow in her stomach.

What was revealed seemed even more shocking. Under her dress Margit had on just a pair of brief, completely transparent, pink nylon knickers. Her bottom was effectively bare, startlingly white through the transparent knickers against her honey-brown thighs. It was evident at least that when sunbathing she did not remove her bikini bottom.

Behind the door Julie was sweating. She knew she shouldn't be watching like this but the fascination – the horrified fascination – was just intense. Feeling a little faint she saw Herr Friedrich now firmly insert his thumbs into the waistband of those skimpy knickers and draw them down, half way down Margit's thighs. He then said something in German, not so sternly as before, while at the same time his hand took hold of Margit's bare bottom, squeezing first one pale cheek and then the other.

Then he walked over to one of Margit's cupboards, reached his hand in and drew out – a cane! A long thin whippy cane, the sort they use in boys' schools on difficult pupils, or used to. It was something Julie had never seen before – and never dreamt could be used on a girl. But now...

Cane in hand, he walked briskly back and stood to one side of the immobile, obscenely bending Margit. He patted the cane lightly across the bare bottom as he got himself in just the right position. And then he simply swung it back and brought it whistling down squarely across the centre of Margit's bare white buttocks.

Margit didn't cry out but gave a choking gasp. It was matched by a simultaneous involuntary gasp from the watching Julie, for as the cane swished down, juddering into Margit's soft flesh, it was almost as if it had landed on Julie herself. She gave another gasp at the imagined pain where now a distinct red stripe was clearly visible across Margit's bottom.

Margit herself, still gripping onto the chair legs, squirmed her bottom while Herr Friedrich waited. When she was once more still he raised the cane again and brought it slashing down for a second time. A second crisp THWACK!... horrendously jolting into Margit's bare bottom.

There was another grunting gasp from Margit, another desperate writhing of the buttocks. Julie felt dizzy. It was like an awful nightmare, yet riveting to watch.

But feeling sick or not she couldn't leave, just had to watch as Herr Friedrich's cane continued to whistle down onto Margit's unprotected bottom. He gave her eight in all. Through it all the German girl didn't cry out once or relax her grip on the chair legs. Just a grunting gasp each time the cane bit in, followed by a silent writhing of her buttocks.

When he had finished Herr Friedrich put the cane down, then reached his hand out to stroke the red-striped bottom, speaking softly to Margit in German as he did so. Then he took his hand away and Margit stood up, red-faced, her hair in some disorder. She pulled up the skimpy knickers, then pushed her skirt back down into position.

Julie at last crept silently away and out into the garden, to sit down again by the spruce tree. Her heart was pounding and she also had the feeling of being rather moist between her legs; because the startling scene, awful though it had been, had also been sexually arousing. She couldn't help imagining what it would be like to be bent over that chair, like Margit. It would be sheer torture, and dreadfully humiliating. But also the thought had an undeniable element of sexual excitement.

A little while later Margit appeared in the garden – with Herr Friedrich! Julie scrambled to her feet, feeling a hot flush.

'I want you to meet Herr Friedrich, my tutor,' said Margit, her voice sounding quite normal.

In fact they both looked and sounded normal. It was almost impossible to believe that only half an hour earlier Margit had been bent over that chair with her bottom bare and Herr Friedrich had been vigorously caning it.

Herr Friedrich was charming, saying the usual things you say to a foreign visitor and suggesting that Julie might help him with his English – although this in fact was very good. As he talked, though, Julie was aware of his eyes going appraisingly over her – and more than once lingering at her breasts. It was only afterwards she remembered, with embarrassment, that she had left her bra off and he pretty certainly would have been able to see her nipples through the thin summer dress.

But as regards what had happened in Margit's room half an hour earlier – well, could it really have happened? Or could she possibly have dreamt the whole thing?

It wasn't a dream, though, or if it was she dreamt the same one the next day. After lunch this time, Margit saying, 'I must have an hour of work with Herr Friedrich, Julie. Please be patient.'

Julie knew she shouldn't but she couldn't help it. Going back into the house after Margit and Herr Friedrich had been together for a quarter of an hour and silently up the stairs and along the corridor towards Margit's room. There was no reason to suppose the door would be ajar again but in fact it was – possibly to allow some air movement in the heat.

Margit and Herr Friedrich were seated on the settee apparently going through an English text and today they were speaking mostly English. After a while Margit said something in German to which the tutor replied, 'English please, Margit.'

And then Margit said, 'I have as you know my visitor staying. Please I cannot stay too long. So if you wish to cane me it must be soon.'

Herr Friedrich answered, 'But of course I wish to cane you, my dear Margit. Yes, we will do it right away.'

And then what had happened the day before was repeated. Margit going to the chair and bending over it; Herr Friedrich flipping up her dress, then pulling down a pair of (today) transparent blue knickers. And then vigorously laying into the upthrust bottom with the cane.

Julie watched the cane descend five or six times and then crept away. She again had that feeling of utter shock tinged with excitement, which together produced a rather queasy sensation.

She didn't know what to think, it was just so unbelievable: an 18-year-old girl being caned like that – and apparently agreeing to it. Shortly Margit joined her in the garden, this time alone but again in seemingly good spirits which belied the fact that she had just received an undoubtedly painful bare-bottom caning.

That evening, after they'd visited Grete's house and were alone again, Julie couldn't help asking about Herr Friedrich.

'Yes, I have to see Herr Friedrich quite a lot. He is a very good tutor in many subjects. Grete also sees him and also other girls. He is now my tutor for two years. You ask many questions about Herr Friedrich, Julie.'

Julie had blushed. But really, she told herself, it was none of her business what Margit did – or any other German girl for that matter. But when the next day Margit had another lesson Julie couldn't resist again going back inside...

* * *

And this time... Whether Margit saw the door move, or glimpsed something through the door crack... In any event she suddenly stared directly across in the direction of the watching English girl. Then stood up and made for the door. Julie shot off – but not before Margit had opened the door and seen her disappearing along the corridor.

Julie didn't know what to do. She wandered about in the garden, just feeling sick. And shortly when Margit found her, the German girl's eyes blazing with anger, she felt sicker still.

Margit spat out, 'So, you English girls are spies I see?'

Julie tried to prevaricate but against the German girl's anger and her more dominant personality she had no real answer. She finally admitted that yesterday she had, accidentally, seen Margit being caned. (She couldn't bring herself to admit that she had watched it twice.)

'Oh, so you spy and see something awful is that so?'

Julie, squirming, again prevaricated. Margit insisted: 'That is so, isn't it?'

Julie had to admit that, yes, she did think being caned was awful.

'Oh you are so... so stupid, you English. You think the caning is awful but I know that in your English schools girls are permitting men teachers to, how do you say, fuck.'

Julie blushed. 'I... we certainly do not! And that... is not at all a nice word to use.'

'I know this word because Herr Friedrich tells me and I know this fact because Herr Friedrich tells me also. He has been teacher in an English school where he sees other men teachers are fucking the big girls.'

Julie decided to let that pass. Hesitantly she asked, 'But why... does he cane you?'

Margit pushed back her blonde hair. 'In Germany men like to cane girls.' She glared at Julie. 'Not as in England where they only want the fucking.'

Julie once more denied this ridiculous charge. But even if German men did like to cane girls why did Margit have to let him do it?

She finally got the answer, after Margit had calmed down a bit and Julie had repeatedly apologised for what she still insisted was not spying but simply an accident. The reason was that Herr Friedrich could apparently get a preview of the exam papers. If you were nice to him and let him do what he wanted – what German men liked, so she said – your exams could be made considerably easier.

Apart from anything else wasn't this cheating? Julie was unwise enough to mention this fact – which didn't do anything to further a reconciliation.

So things were inevitably a bit cool between Julie and Margit: but Julie at least felt a sense of relief that it was now out in the open and no longer a secret lurking between them. Margit told her she was to say nothing to Margit's parents – they apparently would not approve of Herr Friedrich's activities in that direction. This was presumably why he only came round when the elder Kirchners were out.

After lunch the two girls plus Grete went to the beach again; a prearranged trip with Grete's father taking them. They swam and sunbathed, Julie now having got over the slight sunburn, and as the beach was once more deserted they again all took their bikini tops off. It was all very like that first day except that now there was a certain amount of talking in lowered tones between the two German girls – in their own language.

Julie naturally wondered if Grete was being told about her 'spying'; but she decided the best thing was to try and forget it.

Grete's father called for them later (bikini tops having now been replaced) and in the car Margit said that probably they would go round to another girl's house that evening for a little party. Grete was going to confirm this and phone later.

The confirmatory phone call duly came and Margit and Julie went off after dinner on bikes. The friend Lisa was a classmate of the other two, a blonde, very German-looking girl. Grete had already arrived and there were to be just the four girls: and as Lisa's parents would be out they would have the house to themselves.

'Just four good friends,' said Margit. 'But of course we want no one else for such a special... er... ceremony.'

'What is the ceremony?' asked Julie. They were in the lounge and as Julie spoke Lisa switched on all the lights, then closed the curtains although it was still light outside.

'An important ceremony!' said Margit mysteriously. 'Do we have wine, Lisa?'

'Oh but yes!' Lisa went out and returned with a bottle of Rhine wine and four glasses.

'What is it?' repeated Julie, baffled.

The three German girls exchanged conspiratorial smiles as the wine was poured out. Margit held up a glass. 'Julie, to your... er... what is Aufnahme, Lisa?'

'Initiation,' translated Lisa.

'What?' exclaimed Julie, taking an offered glass.

Margit's face, as she looked un-blinkingly at Julie, had a flush of excitement. 'Yes, the initiation for Julie. We are going to let you see how the cane feels. On that so charming bottom.'

Julie almost dropped her glass. The three German girls were standing round her, smiling, like cats with cream. 'What..!' she gasped.

'You have shown yourself to be so curious about our German habits and so we will show you. Like good hosts. So will you please take down your knickers.'

Lisa suddenly had a cane in her hand – exactly like the one Herr Friedrich used. Red-faced, Julie gasped, 'You... you must be mad!'

'Oh please, Julie. There is no need to say that. We will remain friends of course. But you must please cooperate.'

'No!' gasped the now alarmed-looking English girl.

But Grete and Lisa grabbed her arms. Julie's glass fell to the carpet making a mess but not breaking, as she yelled, 'Let me go!'

She struggled to free herself but was impotent in their grip. 'Don't be silly, Julie,' said Grete, laughing. 'It won't hurt too bad: and we all get it from Herr Friedrich.'

They dragged her to the table and pulled her face-down across it, holding her arms stretched out. Margit pulled up the full skirt of Julie's knee-length red dress and the other two held it bunched around her waist. Underneath there were tight pink nylon knickers. The English girl let out a desperate yell as she felt someone's – it was Margit's – hands go in the waistband of the knickers and yank them down.

She kicked her feet but made no contact. Then she felt her knickers down round her knees.

'Oh my!' said Lisa.

Julie's bare bottom, full, ripe, writhing with her frenzied movements, was a magnet for three pairs of eyes. 'Hold her firmly!' rasped Margit, now with the cane in her hand.

And suddenly Julie felt the most awful mind-boggling pain as the cane came down, squarely across those full ripe buttocks.

'Aaiigghh!' her head reared up and she let out an ear-piercing gasping yell.

The buttocks, now with a red stripe across the centre, had gone into a wild writhing, but the upper part of Julie's body was held fast by Grete and Lisa. Margit, eyes gleaming with excitement, brought the cane whistling down again.

'Aaeegghh!' Another awful yell, another desperate squirming of the injured bottom.

'Oh Julie,' observed Margit, 'You make a noise like a baby. You must learn to be brave, like German girls.'

She brought the cane cracking down again. There was the same frenzied cry. 'Aaeeooogghh!'

Julie did not learn to be brave. Margit gave her six more and there was a similar desperate yell after each one. Towards the end the yells were mixed with a more continual sobbing.

Afterwards, when Julie had tearfully pulled up her knickers, Margit said, somewhat breathlessly, 'Now we're all the same. How do you say – all in the same ship. You have been caned like a German girl. But we are still all good friends of course.'

She held out her hand to Julie but the English girl angrily ignored it and turned away. The whole thing had been just diabolical – and quite unbelievable.

Margit put her arm round her. 'Oh please Julie. Your first time I think is perhaps a shock, but you will soon think it is really nothing. But Julie, you must learn to take it bravely, like a German girl, and not cry like a little baby.'

* * *

Later that night, about an hour after Julie had gone early to bed, there was a discreet knock at the bedroom door. It was Margit, in her dressing gown. She quietly closed the door and came over to sit on Julie's bed, smiling down at her.

Perhaps not surprisingly there had been a rather strained atmosphere between them since Julie's caning. The 'party' had broken up soon after the caning – which had obviously been its only point – and Julie and Margit had cycled back, Margit attempting conversation but Julie refusing any more than monosyllabic responses. Cycling in any case was a bit painful after what had been done to her bum. She went to bed early, telling Margit's parents she had a headache.

The ache in fact was somewhere else. Not so much in her bottom any longer but still very much to her pride. The very thought of what had happened, of the girls holding her down while Margit caned her bare bottom, was psychologically excruciating.

She was lying awake, her mind unable to think of anything else, when Margit came in. The German girl settled herself on the side of the bed. In a husky voice she said, 'We are still good friends of course, dear Julie.'

It was something she had said more than once since the caning, without getting what she evidently considered an acceptable answer. Previously there had been mere grunts; now Julie said, 'I'm not used to being caned by my friends.'

Margit gave a low laugh. 'Oh Julie, it was just a caning between friends. You may cane me if you wish. But now as you are unhappy I come to comfort you.'

She stood up and unbelted her dressing gown. Underneath she was nude – that firm honey-brown body with the white section at the hips. In the half light Margit's eyes had an excited gleam and also, Julie saw, as the German girl pulled back the covers and slipped in beside her, her nipples were firmly erect.

The next moment Margit was all over her, her wet mouth on Julie's mouth, her hot tongue pushing in. It was such a shock – yet another that day – that Julie's breath was taken away. By the time she had recovered the German girl had opened the front of Julie's nightgown and her hand was pawing at those full breasts.

'Margit!' gasped Julie, when she at last was able to pull her mouth away.

'Oh, we must be best friends now, we two!' breathed Margit, her fingers greedily at one of Julie's nipples. As Julie tried, unsuccessfully, to push her away she added:

'Really it was quite fortunate that you spy on me and see Herr Friedrich with the cane.'


'Yes. You see it is Herr Friedrich. Since he first sees you he finds you very beautiful. And so... he is therefore most eager to cane you.'

She added, with a low laugh, 'With Herr Friedrich it is always the same. With any new girl he will not be happy until he canes her!'

Of all the shocks that day this was perhaps the one to cap them all: sufficient indeed to cause Julie to momentarily stop struggling with the amorous and aroused Margit – aroused without doubt by her earlier caning of the English girl. Margit took immediate advantage of the pause. Her hand went down and then up inside Julie's nightgown.

There was a sudden gurgling gasp from Julie as the hand purposefully caressed her.

It had all been really too much for her and this on top of everything else was the end. She tried to stop Margit but by now everything seemed to be like a dream, and her struggles were at best weak and ineffective. Margit duly accomplished what she wanted. In a very short time Julie, her head in a whirl – out in space – was gasping and rhythmically jerking her body...

Afterwards she lay still – drained, stunned. Margit looked down at her, smiling. 'Ah, so you English girls at least have passion!'

Julie made no reply. Margit lay down with her, her mouth close to Julie's ear and her hand playing with one of the English girl's still aroused nipples. In a husky voice she murmured, 'I think perhaps you see Herr Friedrich in the morning.'

* * *

'Aren't you hungry?' Margit wanted to know at breakfast time. Margit herself was tucking into salami and ryebread and coffee as if she'd been starved for a day or two.

She whispered confidentially to Julie, 'It is the passion that gives me the good appetite!'

But Julie, passion or not, did not feel hungry at all. Well, how could she when there was the thought of that meeting at 10 o'clock – with Herr Friedrich.

At first the suggestion from Margit had just seemed ridiculous – and it had seemed even more ridiculous for Margit to think Julie would agree. But Margit's voice had got that hard edge again as she said, 'Herr Friedrich says he must have you; and we really must do what Herr Friedrich wants, Julie. He has a certain authority, you know.'

And when Julie insisted that it was out of the question Margit, while still caressing Julie, simply put the screws on.

'You do not want the bad report home, Julie, I am sure. For instance your parents would be most unhappy if they are told you are behaving very badly and all the time are fucking many boys.'

Julie had gasped, 'You couldn't do that!' – but she wouldn't have wanted to bet on it.

'Of course I will not need to,' said Margit. 'Because you are going to be sensible. It will be no worse than what we did at Lisa's house. And think what pleasure there will be for Herr Friedrich!'

And so it looked as if Herr Friedrich was going to get his pleasure. But that didn't mean Julie felt like eating breakfast.

He arrived, in his punctilious German manner, exactly on time. Margit's parents were again out.

'Good morning, Herr Friedrich!' said Margit. 'It is another lovely day! And here is your lovely English student to meet you.'

The lovely English student came forward, cringing.

'Ah yes, Miss Julie Smith!' His eyes glinted behind the spectacles. 'We meet again and I am to teach you a little of the German language, I believe. That will give me great pleasure.'

'You may use my room of course, Herr Friedrich,' said Margit. 'And I shall go and sit in the garden.'

'Very good!' said the tutor. 'Shall we then go up without delay?'

Julie was wearing her red dress and underneath just bra and knickers. (Margit had said, 'It is hot so you do not need a petticoat. Also Herr Friedrich is not liking the petticoats...') Trying not to tremble she went up the stairs – acutely conscious of Herr Friedrich close behind her swaying buttocks. Then along the passage – where she had crept to watch Margit – but now with the German tutor literally breathing down her neck. Into Margit's room.

He stood close in front of her. 'So my dear young English lady, I am to teach you something of our German language. And also perhaps, a little of our German customs? One of these I think which you no longer have in England is discipline. Discipline for the young people – for young ladies such as yourself. Am I correct?'

Blushing slightly, Julie said, 'I think we still have discipline.'

'We shall see then,' said Herr Friedrich. 'Fraulein Kirchner informs me she has persuaded you that I enjoy some authority here. Is that so?'

Julie bit her lip. Then, 'She has told me I... I should do what you say.'

'Oh excellent! Well that is discipline, is it not? To do what the person in authority says. Let us see then if you can comply. A small test. Will you please take your clothes off. All of them. Except, shall we say, your shoes.'

Julie turned crimson. Speechless at first, she then managed to gasp, 'I... you can't! You just can't ask me to do that!'

'It is nothing: a simple test. Fraulein Kirchner and the other girls would think nothing of it. Also Fraulein Kirchner tells me that if you are not co-operative a most unfavourable report will be sent to your parents. So let us have no more of this foolish and undisciplined behaviour. Please remove your dress. And then the undergarments.'

It was outrageous... and unbelievable. But there was the thought of her parents getting some awful statement about her. It would be blatantly untrue of course and they couldn't possibly believe it. Nonetheless for them even to get it would be an awful shock. And there was her father. Last year he had had a heart attack. They had said it wasn't serious, but even so...

She looked pleadingly at Herr Friedrich. 'Please! Please don't ask me that!'

The eyes shone behind the rimless spectacles. 'It is only a test. And I do ask it. It is a simple test of discipline.'

And so there was nothing for it. The full-skirted red dress had buttons down the back to the hips. She reached behind her to the buttons. Fumblingly, one by one, she unfastened them. Looking away from the intently staring German she pulled the top of the dress off her shoulders and arms, then down. And stepped out of it. Underneath she had just the matching pink nylon bra and knickers, the bra light and the knickers semi-transparent except for an opaque insert at the rounded bulge of her pubis.

Herr Friedrich's gloating voice. 'Most charming, Miss! And now also the scanties, please.'

She could feel beads of perspiration pricking her skin. It was hot in the room though there was a slight draught from the window and the slightly open door. But the perspiration was due to something else: being here like this and having to submit to this man's whim whatever it might be. She felt a bit faint. His funny dated expression 'scanties' stuck in her mind, going round and round. Scanties... flimsies... frillies... It would be laughable except...

She put her hand to her face. In spite of the heat it felt cold, and damp. And then with a feeling that it wasn't herself doing it but someone else, both hands went behind her. To the strap of her bra. She unfastened it. The bra came off and, unseeing, she dropped it to the floor. What was next? Oh yes, her knickers. Her hands went down.

The knickers seemed to stick, the tight nylon clinging to her moist skin. But they came down all right. Down to her ankles and she stepped out of them, almost falling over as she did so.

The room seemed to be going round and round a lot. But Herr Friedrich was there, close now. She was vaguely aware that she was nude. His hand on her arm. And then both hands on her bare breasts. She didn't try to stop him – again there was the feeling that it was happening to someone else. His fingers manipulating her nipples caused them to respond though, as they became fully erect.

His voice, silky, caressing: 'Good! Very good, Miss Smith! Now you learn to accept; to submit. That is very good...'

His hand slid behind her to her bare backside, taking hold of one full cheek, fingers reaching deep into the moist cleft. 'And now I think a little of our German discipline. A little taste of the cane on this splendid backside.'

And then she was bending over that chair, the one she had watched Margit bend over. But she, Julie, unlike Margit, was nude except for her shoes. She bent right over, under Herr Friedrich's forceful hand, her head down in the seat and her hands down to grip the front legs of the chair.

And then there was a sudden sharp, searing, breath-stopping pain. In her bare up-thrust buttocks. And then instants later, as breath came back, she heard a gasping shrieking cry. A cry of that English girl, Julie Smith, bending made over a chair in a bedroom in a little German town. And very far from home.

And then a second sickening, breath-stopping pain. A third... a fourth... Each followed by the desperate cry of that English girl who had no choice but to submit. A fifth... a sixth... but by then you had lost count and they were merging together and the English girl was sobbing more than crying out...

At last the caning had stopped. She was still over the chair-back, still sobbing. Not the cane now but the German tutor's hand on her bare backside: stroking and caressing the tortured red-striped cheeks. And also slipping, as if by accident, in between her legs. It was a further indignation which she had no choice but to endure, like the humiliation of the vicious caning, the hand coolly, appraisingly, going wherever it wanted. Because she had no option but to submit to this man.

The hand at last was removed and his voice said, 'Right: stand please! Stand upright!'

She stood, holding the chair-back to control her trembling. The room and Herr Friedrich were all blurred because her eyes were full of tears.

'Good, Miss. That was a nice little lesson to begin with. But with someone such as yourself who has clearly had no discipline at all – your silly crying out makes that plain – we obviously have much work to do. What I think we will do therefore is have a regular session at my apartment – each day of the week, to begin tomorrow. You can reach it with ease on your bicycle as Fraulein Kirchner will tell you. We shall say, I think, 9.30 am; that is a time when I shall be free to deal with you. Is that understood?'

The only answer was a fresh outburst of tears. She could not believe this was happening to her; that she had no power to resist him whatsoever...

He moved from facing her to stand close behind, and his hands came round under her arms and cupped her breasts. He squeezed them.

'You have a good figure, Miss Smith, but one which certainly needs more discipline. It is for instance certainly not as firm as the bodies of Fraulein Margit and Fraulein Grete. What it is needing is the discipline of exercise to firm it more. And therefore I propose to place you in the hands of an Athletics Instructor. We have a very good man here, Herr Lehmann, who before was an instructor in the Army and is now an excellent trainer of girls.'

'Herr Lehmann is most commendably strict: he is not using the cane on his girls but, rather, a horse-riding whip. Wait: excuse me, in more correct English, a riding crop. Yes, the riding crop is most effective in keeping a girl, as you say, up to her mark.'

'So I shall take you to Herr Lehmann tomorrow after I have had my own session with you. He will start a programme of hard exercises plus running, etc. I think as you are on holiday you have much free time which can most profitably be used in this manner. Yes, Miss Smith, I think together Herr Lehmann and I myself can use your time most effectively. It is three weeks more you have with us, I think. With that time we can, I assure you, do very good work.'

The hands which had been squeezing her breasts all this time, gave a final squeeze and were removed.

'So that will all commence tomorrow. For today you have had now a little rest and we will now resume your discipline with the cane. Please do get back down in position over the chair as before.'

As in a dream she complied, gripping the legs of the chair again and presenting the full globes of her already red-striped rear. She heard Herr Friedrich say, 'I shall give, I think, another ten.'

And then once more the sickening, searing pain, the feeling that her buttocks were on fire.

Friday, 27 May 2011

Guide Lines

Story from Uniform Girls 11.

Guide Lines

The apple store was redolent with the scent of summer. Too sweet and heavy to be pleasant. Yet it was now late Autumn and the apples stood in serried rows upon the benches around the narrow, brick-walled room. In fact, more like a large cupboard than a room. Whitewashed brick; a bare floor.

'It is the only place I can think of to lock you into, for the moment,' he had said. 'Until I decide what to do.'

Janet had never been so frightened before in all her life. What a terrible thing to have happened! If only she could turn the clock back and be the untroubled girl she had been earlier that afternoon.

A moment of temptation. A moment of weakness.

Whatever would Miss Baxter say? She was her Captain; the head of her Troop. She could almost hear it already. 'You are a disgrace to the Guides, Janet. An absolute disgrace. And you are dismissed!' Janet smoothed the navy blue skirt of her uniform. She had wanted to do so well; be a really good Guide. And now this!

But it might be even worse. Janet trembled. Supposing he went to the Police? There was no reason why he shouldn't. The disgrace! Her parents! Oh, she thought, I'd do anything to get out of this! Perhaps he was phoning the Police at that very moment. Even if he hadn't locked the door, there was no point in running away. They would always catch up with her.

Oh, why didn't he come and put her out of her misery? At least, she would know the worst.

She had come to the Barn House with the best of intentions. All part of the 'Help the Elderly Week' the Guides had organised. But, she soon discovered, old Mr and Mrs Fletcher had gone off to seek some sun for a week or three... and it was their son who was in residence.

'I'm not exactly elderly,' he had said, smiling, 'but I could do with some help. Housekeeper's sick. How about cleaning up all the downstairs? Say for a fiver?'

'Oh yes... Mr Fletcher... that's most generous...' Janet had been delighted. Whilst most of the others in the Troop would be picking up 20 or 50p, she would have made £5!

'I like your uniform, Janet,' young Mr Fletcher had said, looking at her intently. 'Very smart.'

'Thank you, Sir.' She had coloured faintly at this unexpected compliment. It made her feel far more grown-up than 16. Then she had set eagerly off to work. Hoovering, sweeping, dusting, polishing. Not all that hard work, really. Then, quite accidentally, she had come upon the ring. She had lifted the corner of a carpet, and there it was. A lovely big emerald. Obviously genuine. Even she could see that. Almost without realising what she was doing, Janet picked it up and slipped it inside her jacket. No one will ever miss it, she said to herself guiltily. That must have been lying there for years. It had felt cold against her skin.

She had never done anything so dreadful in her life before. What had made her? After all, she was a good girl at heart. But she had succumbed to temptation. No point in denying it.

Mr Fletcher had given her the fiver, standing close, smiling again. Then he was suddenly looking at her intently. Concentrating upon her breasts, it seemed. She had backed away guiltily, colouring. Could that ring be showing through? Her uniform blouse was very thin. What stupid place to put it. Her shoe would have been better.

'What are you hiding in your blouse, Janet?' he had asked, quietly but firmly.

Janet had burst into tears. It was all over in a moment. She had put her hand in, taken out the ring, and handed it back. 'I didn't mean to,' she said weakly. 'I'm so sorry.'

He had nodded understandingly but, all the same, he had locked her in the apple-store. 'This is a family heirloom,' he had said, 'worth thousands. A most serious matter, I'm afraid.' The door had closed, the lock had turned, Janet had been left alone.

'I've made up my mind,' he said, immediately he came back into the store. Janet must have been left alone for at least an hour, nerves jangling constantly. She felt like a jelly as she stood there before him.

'It... it was s-so silly of me... I didn't m-mean...'

'Very silly,' he interrupted. 'Not an act I would expect from a Girl Guide.'

'I've never done anything like this before!' she cried out in protest. 'I... I must have been mad!'

'But you did it, Janet.' He paused. 'I have decided not to tell the Police.' Janet swayed, almost collapsing with relief. Oh what a kind man he was! But surely, he would tell Mrs Baxter. That was bad enough. 'However, you must be punished.'

'Yes...' Janet found herself genuinely agreeing. It was only right. She had been most wicked.

'I have decided to cane you,' he said in a quiet voice.

Janet recoiled in dismay. In disbelief. Cane her? But she was grown up now. And... and... girls weren't caned any more! 'You don't mean it...' she whispered.

'Of course I mean it!' He was sharp, looking angry. 'You're damn lucky I'm not taking you down to the Station and laying charges. You could get six months for this!'

Janet quailed. What he said was perfectly true. But... a caning... oh that would hurt! It was something out of another age. Barbaric, almost. 'I... I...' she began.

'Do you agree or not? You know the alternative, girl.' Sharp again. Horrid. Janet was suddenly aware she had to agree, no matter how much it went against the grain. No matter how much it was going to hurt.

'Alright then,' she nodded nervously. Oh this was terrible, terrible! All happening on one quiet Autumn afternoon. Her simple world had turned quite upside-down. With dread she saw Mr Fletcher taking a cane down off the top shelf. How did it happen to be there, she suddenly wondered? They had other things to worry about, for Mr Fletcher was forcing her over the bench on which the lines of apples lay. 'You will keep bent over there while I cane you, Janet,' he was saying. 'And the better you behave, the fewer strokes you will get.' Apples pressed into her belly and breasts as he pushed her over roughly. I must endure it... I must, she told herself. Then, to her utter shame, she realised he was pulling down her uniform skirt.

'Stop it... stop... you mustn't!'

'You don't imagine you're to be caned over your skirt... and knickers... do you, girl?' said Mr Fletcher with a laugh. And with that, Janet found her small white briefs pulled down as well. The shock of such immodest exposure seemed to half paralyse her and she could only lie there, over the bench, sobbing.

Then a cane tapped her bottom. 'Oh... no... no... no...'

'As you're so young, I shall not be too severe,' announced Mr Fletcher. He recalled some of the quite severe canings he had handed out in the past — usually to maids employed by his Mother. He always employed the same old 'Ring Trick', as with this youngster. It had worked surprisingly well.

A wristy cut. Not too hard to start with. A gasping-squeal and the girl's head jerked back. It amused him to note that she still wore that charming little Guide's uniform hat. No knickers, but a hat. How sweet!

Another cut. Another squealing gasp. She wriggled nicely. Young Fletcher paused. 'You admit you're a very naughty girl, don't you?' he demanded, seeing the young pale flesh twitching apprehensively.

'Y-yes... ohh... yes... I'm so sorry...'

Two wristy cuts in quick succession had the girl squirming even more. Crying out despairingly. Throwing back an arm and hand. 'Oooowwww... oh please stop...'

'Take your hand away, Janet... you wicked thief!'

Janet took her hand away. Oh how long was this going on. The shame... and the pain? It was too, too awful!

The next cut harder. Janet shrieked, almost twisted off the bench. Another, similar cut. 'Aaaiiieee... no... no... stop!' The apples were rolling about beneath her she twisted and bounced. They, in their own way, hurt too.

How many should he give her? Perhaps just a couple more would do. He didn't want her running off to show her mother what a savage he'd been. 'Stick your bottom out, girl... you deserve this, you know!'

Amazingly, that bottom was thrust out. Her conscience must certainly be troubling her! A swishing cut. The hardest yet... and the most violent writhing over the bench. 'Yaaaaghhh... yyyaaaaagh... no more!'

'One more,' said young Fletcher firmly. Then gave it to the girl even harder still.

* * * *

It took quite some time for the sobbing and weeping to subside.

'You may stand up now, Janet,' he said. The girl got up stiffly, wincing.

'Oh... oh it hurts...' she moaned.

'What else would you expect, you stupid girl? A cane is meant to hurt! No... don't pull your knickers up. Just stand there, as you are.' She had a trim little bush, he noted. Pity she wasn't a bit older; like some of those maids had been. Still, he could have a little fun, all the same.

'C-can't... mmmf... can't I go now, Mr Fletcher... mmmf... mmmfff...?' Janet sobbed.

Obviously the fact that she was standing in front of him with her panties around her thighs... showing him all, as they say... was concerning her no end. Well, she was almost certainly still a virgin.

'Not yet, Janet,' he answered. 'I'm afraid I shall have to find out whether or not you have any more valuables on you.'

'I... haven't... I haven't!'

'So you say!' Brusquely young Martin unbuttoned the uniform jacket... and a pair of apple round titties was revealed. Soft, warm girl-flesh. That delightful golden hue. He fondled it. Loving the feel of it. She shuddering away. 'Keep still, girl... I've got to make sure there's nothing else concealed here!' He squeezed and fondled, parting the young fruit. In that room, there was fruit everywhere. On the shelves; now in his hands.

'Don't... p-please... don't...' she begged pathetically. But he went on taking his enjoyment. Oh what lovely young tits!

'Doesn't seem to be anything here,' he said at last. 'Nothing concealed inside you, I suppose.' She went scarlet. Of course, he knew there wasn't, in this case. But on previous occasions, he'd had to make sure. With Mabel. With Lizzie. With Doreen. And many more. He patted the girl's bottom. 'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, Janet,' he said.

The relief on that young face was a sight to behold!

'Can I go now... please... please!'

'Not just yet, Janet.' He smiled at her. 'I want you to stay here for a while... and think of your wickedness and where it has led you. No... don't argue about it. Also, I want you to recover something of your composure. Can't face your Troop Leader, or your mother, with a face looking like that. They'd want to know what had happened, wouldn't they.'

Janet nodded.

'...and you wouldn't want to tell them, would you? Not what you did? Nor what I did?'

Janet nodded again.

'Because then the whole story would have to come out, wouldn't it? And neither of us want that, do we?'

This time, Janet shook her head vehemently.

'Right then... another hour. To think things over properly. And, perhaps, pray that you do not let yourself do anything so stupid again. No... don't pull your knickers up. I want them down there for the whole hour. As a reminder. Also, put your hands on top of your head.'

Obediently, Janet did so. She simply wished he would go away. Leave her alone. Oh what a terrible afternoon it had turned out to be!

He finally left. Janet stood silent but tearful. A disgrace to my uniform — or what she had left of it on her body — she thought miserably. After a while, she felt hungry and reached out for an apple. No! That would be stealing! And Janet had already resolved she would never steal again. Not as long as she lived.

Sunday, 22 May 2011

Riding Habit

Story from Janus 51.

Riding Habit
by Andrew Grantham

MARK had his head under the bonnet of his car, tinkering with the engine. He checked over his old Fiat religiously – every Sunday. Pausing in his labours, he glanced at his wristwatch. Any moment now. He poked his head around the side of the bonnet and looked up the road. Sure enough there she was, pedalling lazily along, knowing that male heads were turning and obviously enjoying every second of the adulation her face and form merited.

He knew her name was Karen; he had noticed the name on a gold necklet she had worn once before when she had cycled past him. Mark stood alongside his old vehicle, waiting for the vision to approach and then to disappear into the distance. He folded his arms and licked his lips slowly. The girl with the blonde tresses tucked neatly under her riding hat was almost upon him.

It was a warm day and her hacking jacket was folded over the handlebars of her bicycle. A crisp white blouse showed that she had high, well-shaped breasts and a narrow waist.

'Hi,' smiled Mark.

'Hello,' she replied cheerfully, flashing her large white teeth in a gleaming smile. She always returned his greeting, but if he ever tried to engage her in conversation her head would turn away, her pouting lips adding to an air of superiority. Karen was certainly a very classy bird.

The magic moment when she was alongside him came and went. Mark turned on his heel. Automatically, his eyes went to her shapely-jodhpured bottom pressing tightly into the thin leather saddle. The taut-fitting material allowed the cut of her very skimpy knickers to show through.

'Phew!' said Mark to himself. 'What wouldn't I like to do to a bum like that!'

Many more heads turned to watch the magnetically attractive rounded bottom as the pretty teenager cycled to the riding stables, as she did every Sunday afternoon.

Mark exhaled sharply and returned to his car. A few hours later, he again looked at his watch. Nearly time for Karen to be coming back. Two minutes later she came into sight, not riding this time, but pushing her shiny bicycle. She always walked home, pushing her machine.

'Hi,' smiled Mark again.

'Hello,' she said sweetly, her face flushed from her exertions.

Then she was past him and he was watching the inviting sway of her hips as she walked. Her buttocks, thighs and calves filled out the stretched material of her jodhpurs. The central seam emphasised the fullness of each cheek. He could not turn away.

Slowly, still pushing her cycle, she passed from sight.

The following Sunday, Mark was again meddling with his car. This time, it was the turn of the cooling system. Karen came and went to her stables as usual.

Mark decided to give his car a road test when he had completed his job on it. Not far into the nearby countryside, the red warning light came on.

'Damn!' he exclaimed, after an inspection. 'It needs water.'

Grabbing a plastic container from the boot, he set off down the lane. There were no houses in sight but, rounding a corner, he came upon a riding stables – obviously the one graced by Karen's goddess-like presence every week.

There didn't seem to be anyone around. Mark was just on the point of finding a tap himself, when he heard a whistling hiss and a pistol-shot crack followed by what sounded like a yell. He stopped in his tracks and then peered through the cobwebbed window of an outbuilding from where the noise had come.

He wasn't prepared for the sight that met his eyes. His mouth fell open and the container dropped from his hand.

Mark right away knew it was the delectable Karen stretched over the bale of hay, although he had never seen her bare backside before.

He had often dreamed about how it would look – pale and goose-pimply. It wasn't like that at all. Her whole, apple-shaped bottom was suffused an angry sullen red against which darker lines stood out evilly.

Alongside her a young man, dressed in hunting garb, raised a riding crop up to shoulder height. Then, down it came. The lash slashed then cracked explosively, searingly, across the girl's rump.

'Oh! Oh! Oh!' she cried out, her blonde hair tumbling about her pretty features as her body soaked up the pain. Her buttocks bounced and danced frenziedly, riveting Mark's gaze.

Mark pressed his nose against the window. He felt an erotic excitement flaring within him as he watched the anguished writhings of the half-naked girl who had featured in so many of his fantasies. The tingling in his spine spread throughout his body in a shockwave.

Karen's jodhpurs and briefs were crumpled around her black boots. Her firm, milky-white thighs were in sharp contrast to the scarlet bottom with its burning red stripes.

The man with the crop waited just long enough for the blonde's pain spasm to subside. Then he struck her again, the whistling whip making a loud, splatting retort. He could not have hit her harder if he had tried.

'Yeeeoww!' howled Karen. Her hindquarters surged frantically, her legs flailing obscenely. The whole lower part of her body was now in frenzied motion.

Mark's eyes widened in delight, almost unable to believe what he was seeing. Then Karen pressed her thighs together and compressed her buttocks until her bottom was just a thin, tight line.

The unobserved onlooker peered at the young huntsman. He was a good-looking bloke, obviously just the type he expected Karen to go for. It must be his white Porsche parked outside. Mark wished he could change places with him.


The blonde squealed. Mark himself winced as the crop flashed into her battered bottom. He could imagine the sensation of it searing into her skin like a branding iron. Karen twisted her head. Her eyes were closed, her buttocks were bucking and writhing with a life of their own and her breath was coming in short, harsh pants.

Mark knew that although Karen's wealed bum was a quivering mass of hurt, she was obviously enjoying what the young huntsman was doing to her. Enthralled, he continued to watch as her bottom greedily rose up to greet each stroke.

He stayed until it was all over. Karen lay sprawled in a star-shape, lewdly exposing herself, whilst she recovered from what had indubitably been an intensely sexual experience for her.

Mark smiled. Now he knew why the lovely blonde always pushed her bicycle home from the stables!

Episode at St. Angela's

Story from Roue 08.

Episode at St. Angela's

Although now 17 1/2 and in her last year at St. Angela's, Julie Williamson had still no real idea of what she wanted to do when she left school. She would certainly be ready to leave – well, still getting your bare bottom caned at 17 was not a pleasant experience; even when the master was not as vicious with it as Mr. Evans (History) who was only content when he'd reduced you to a state of sobbing, squirming wretchedness. Of course when she was younger there were romantic ideas of such things as airline stewardess – but now, with leaving imminent, well, no real idea at all. So when she went to the Head at the beginning of her last term to discuss careers – it must be said that her mind was a bit of a blank.

She was also nervous, for the last time she was in his study (the last day of term before the Easter holidays) it had been to receive six with his cane on her bare bottom. (Although not nearly as bad as Mr. Evans, the Head had really striped her and going home for Easter the next day she'd been afraid the marks would still show for her mother to see. Mrs. Williamson, of course, like other mothers of St. Angela's girls, was quite unaware of the punishment meted out to her daughter's shapely bottom in the cause of school discipline: but Julie carefully made sure that Mother did not see her without knickers.) So Julie had been a bit apprehensive going in to see the Head but, it turned out, without reason. For he had learned of this position with Boutts Bank, the wellknown city bankers, which he thought Julie well-suited for: in fact it was Personal Assistant to Mr. Martin, the Head Office Manager, so really most impressive-sounding, and working in London too! It sounded really tremendous – if she could get it. But the Head seemed confident that she could.....

The Head was in fact sure she'd have no trouble: pretty girls from St. Angela's very rarely did. And Julie was of course a pretty girt, the big blue eyes and full soft mouth giving somewhat the impression of immaturity and innocence, but at 17 these were definitely offset by her figure which was that of a young woman: full-grown, firm and shapely. And, absentmindedly running his hand over her firm bottom as she stood at his desk, he mused that not only would she get the job but she would give every satisfaction to her employer. And to a responsible Head that was just as important, and anything less would be a definite blot on his copy-book.

Complaints were extremely rare, of course, with St. Angela's girls, although there had been that unfortunate case of Penelope Rogers two years ago. Placed with Carruthers Simpkins and Carruthers, a first-rate old established law firm – well, apparently the very first week there she'd refused to take down her knickers for a spanking. Worse still it had been the senior partner, old James Carruthers – in his sixtys and a bit doddery who's chief pleasures now came from his stamp collection and the bottoms of pretty girls. The old boy had been looking forward to Miss Rogers with keen anticipation, but then the little minx had simply refused to take down her knickers and get over his desk. She'd been sacked of course – dismissed at the end of the week – with some awkward explaining to do to her parents back home. Probably serving in Woolworths now, the Head thought with some satisfaction. But dear me – altogether a matter best forgotten....

But no, there would be no such problem with young Julie Williamson, who was such a good, docile girl. Normally cheerful too in spite of the fact that she did get what was certainly more than her fair share of caning: for he knew that quite a number of the staff were very keen on her in that regard. 'Mmmm.' His hand still on her bottom, the Head's mind went back to his own last time with her: that last day of term before Easter. It had been the first time for some weeks that he'd found an excuse to cane her (she'd been late for assembly) and while he wouldn't normally cane a girl when she was going home the next day (as the marks might show) he hadn't been able to resist; and had told himself she was a reliable girl who would be discreet.

He had brought her here to his study, of course – he did so prefer it to the Punishment Room: so much more pleasant and intimate. And she had obediently lowered herself over his chair – the hands on floor position, undoubtedly much the best posture for getting a girl's bottom really up and ready for it. Yes, a most appetising girl. He had taken her knickers down and, using his thin whippy cane, had really teed off on the pale, rounded cheeks, striping them with six angry red lines and bringing hot tears to those pretty eyes. Sniffling, she had tried to turn away as she pulled her knickers back up, but really a 17 year-old should not be shy with her Headmaster and he had made her face him; and in fact had held her skirt up round her waist as she struggled with her knicks. She was certainly a well-developed girl now, with quite a thick bush down there – a couple of shades darker than the medium blonde curls which framed her face – and he had looked with keen interest... But he was not a hard man and when she'd finally got them back up he had given her his handkerchief to dry her eyes.

The Head broke off his reverie... Yes, he was quite sure Julie would give full satisfaction to any employer: 'Don't you worry, my dear. I am quite sure Mr. Martin of Boutts will lose no time in deciding that you're just what he wants. Run along now, and I'll get on the phone about an interview straight away.'

'Yes Sir. And thank you very much Sir!'

An interview was arranged without delay, to take place at the school the next week. The intervening days were naturally awful, with Julie on tenterhooks: for the more she thought about the job the more exciting it seemed, and by the same token the more difficult to get. She was distracted in class and was probably fortunate to get taken to the Punishment Room only once – for day-dreaming in French Class. But fat Mr. Pomeroy was not too bad anyway as he preferred taking you across his lap and using his hand rather than the cane. The nail-biting days somehow passed...

The Head obviously realised Julie's nervous state and the day before the interview he advised her to get an early night: he told her to get into her pyjamas and he would bring a mug of hot cocoa round to her room, which was certainly thoughtful of him. She also had a phone call from home after supper, both Mother and Dad wishing her well, and Mother even putting Julie's pet retriever on the phone to bark encouragement! The Head arrived, mug in hand, at 9 to find Julie in her pyjamas having just taken a bath and washed her hair. She looked a picture of schoolgirl health, flushed and fresh from the bath, her hair still damp, and her shapely figure clearly revealed in the thin pink pyjamas: in particular he noticed that her nipples were erect, sharply defined under the cotton top. Julie saw the Head's keen glance and, embarrassed, said she'd get her dressing gown but he said not to bother. She really was delightful and he stayed – well, it must have been for half an hour – while she drank the cocoa and talked about home and her family and her dog Bobsy, and did her best to relax.

Yes, a very pleasant girl, mused the Head as he walked back across the quad under a starry sky. Obviously tense of course with the coming interview and, he thought, being wise to the ways of young girls, probably now in bed with her pyjama bottoms down relieving her tension with her hand between her legs.....

Whether or not the Head's surmise was correct Julie was certainly a bundle of nerves the next morning, quite unable to face any breakfast and hardly able to concentrate on dressing. But finally she did and got herself, all smart and spruce, outside the Head's study just before the 10 o'clock deadline – then, horrors, she felt an overwhelming need to pee. There was nothing for it but to rush to the loo, desperately yank down her knicks and sit on the seat.... only to find she didn't want to after all! She tore back – but it was now 2 minutes after the hour. Gripes! She knocked nervously...

'Come in!'

Julie entered and there were the Head and a rather severe-looking man in his mid-fifty's (presumably Mr. Martin), both seated at the Head's desk. The Head glanced at the clock:

'Well close the door my girl, and come over here!'

Julie stood nervously before them, her young body firm and shapely under her school uniform; and her nervousness was not improved as she recognised the chair Mr. Martin was seated on as that which she'd had to bend over when the Head had taken her knickers down before Easter... But the Head was continuing:

'Now Mr. Martin is just going to ask you a few questions, Julie; nothing too difficult I am sure, so don't look so unhappy!'

The Head's little quip drew a rather forced smile from Julie but did nothing to relax her. She remained tense and nervous-looking, standing just in front of the desk with firm young breasts pointed at the two men, and did her best with Mr. Martin's questions. Well, it was not too bad to start with but when he got to office procedure, filing, etc. she was at a complete loss. She found herself sweating. It was made worse by Mr. Martin's way of staring intently at her as she struggled for an answer. He must think her a complete idiot.... Really she'd been quite foolish even to think of this position....

But in fact Julie's impressions were wrong, for Martin definitely liked what he saw: the pretty teenager, of above average height and slim-waisted but otherwise firmly filling out the uniform white blouse and short navy blue skirt; while below were long shapely legs in dark nylons and sensible strap-over shoes. Yes, a most attractive package. She was obviously a bit apprehensive, fiddling with her skirt and a couple of times nervously pushing back a blonde curl from her face, in doing so her raised arm thrusting into prominence firm high breasts under the crisp blouse. Yes indeed, definitely a promising candidate for his vacant position of Personal Assistant. A little nervousness was not a serious fault in an attractive girl – it frequently spoke of a submissive nature: and her ignorance in certain areas was likewise of no real consequence, in fact rather than listening too carefully to Julie's answer Mr. Martin was thinking that he'd like to see more of her, under that school uniform: to unfasten those blouse buttons one by one and check the twin bulges which she was innocently pointing at him; mmm..., he thought of firm thighs above the nylon tops...; and most of all, of course, he would like to slip down whatever knickers were under that skirt and check her bottom...

For the truth was that, like many clients for St. Angela's girls, Mr. Martin was especially keen on the young female bottom: that region of a young lady provided especially for her training and correction, as it were, the seat of discipline. He was indeed a devotee of correction in young ladies; and with a Personal Assistant he liked to get a young girl fresh from one of the more reputable schools where she would have had a taste of the cane and build on this early training himself. Yes, he thought this candidate most promising, although of course he'd want to see her alone before finally deciding. First, though, a word in private with the Head...

Julie was dismissed, to return when called. Flushed as she was by her ordeal, she nonetheless managed decorous 'Thank you, Sirs' to the Head and Mr. Martin and followed this by a demure exit. Martin's gaze followed the rhythmic movement of the teenager's skirt.... and he wondered about her knickers. White, probably, matching her bra. But some of these old schools favoured navy blue or green... Hmmm...

The Head's voice interrupted his train of thought:

'I am quite sure, Mr. Martin, Miss Williamson will give you every satisfaction. She was a little nervous just now but...'

'Yes, yes. Headmaster, she seems a most attractive and pleasant girl. I assume she has been... mmm... well-disciplined. I mean I assume you do practice a little... ah... corporal punishment at St. Angela's?'

'Indeed we do, Sir. We do not advertise such matters to the hoi-polloi of course; but yes we do – as do all the better schools.'

'Ah, quite, quite, Headmaster; and this would be on the girl's... mm... posterior?'

'On the bottom, yes: we find that most effective.'

'Excel lent, Headmaster. I thoroughly agree... One final point... would that be on the girl's... bare...?'

'We do find it satisfactory; not always, for it is a matter of judgement, but certainly at times, for the recipient's appropriate undergarment to be removed so that she can fully appreciate the correction. Yes, certainly we cane on the bare, as you say.'

'Good, good, Headmaster. It's just that I wish to make sure what Miss Williamson's background in this area has been.' (To make sure she was used to having them taken down in fact!)

The Head understood entirely. Mr. Martin obviously intended to continue the methods employed by the school and give the young lady's bare bottom a regular warming. Most admirable! 'I quite understand, Sir. Rest assured that Miss Williamson has had the full St. Angela's training, as have all our girls. She has been most receptive and I am sure if you wish to continue such training she will continue to respond.'

'Ah, excellent. That is what I wished to determine. As you can appreciate, when training young staff in their duties – well, a little correction is often necessary. For girls can sometimes get a little out of line once they've left school.'

'You will find Miss Williamson will accept such matters without argument.'

'And she is also... discreet?' (The Bank, of course, had its reputation to consider. It would never do if word got out, for such matters could so easily be taken out of context. Young female staff having their knickers taken down for the cane! Well the gutter Press would have a field day. And there could be wider ramifications as well. For the Bank had its extra special clients who were allowed to borrow a female assistant for, say, an afternoon. Girls frequently returned from these assignments without their knickers or with a reddened bottom or both... Such arrangements made for friendly relations with valued clients but if an indiscreet girl were involved, well, it didn't bear thinking about.)

'Obedient and discreet, Mr. Martin. Have no fears, I can assure you that you will be very happy with this young lady.'

'Excellent, Headmaster, excellent! Well, if I could just have a few final words with Miss Williamson. This need not detain you for I am sure you are a very busy man. But if you had a vacant classroom nearby...?'

'Mr. Martin, say no more! You may use this very study: as it happens I do have business in another part of the school. I will ring for her now and you can take as long as you like. I will instruct my secretary to see that you are not interrupted...'

The two men started to exchange cordial farewells as the Head rang the bell for Julie to return...

Meanwhile Julie had been required to wait with Figgins the school caretaker-cum-handyman, in his room further down the corridor. This was not something that many girls at St. Angela's would have relished, for George Figgins – fiftyish and shifty-looking – was an old lag with a decided taste for female anatomy (and in particular a certain part of the female anatomy) which he grabbed whenever the opportunity was presented. He was in fact the sort of person unfortunately all too often found in such employment in girls' schools. When the Head rang the bell Julie had been in Figgins' room for 15 minutes....

* * *

Julie had felt definitely sick when told to wait with Figgins. She still remembered hotly what he had done to her a year ago when she was 16. She had gone for a walk in the school wood one June Saturday afternoon, when the place was deserted – except for Figgins who had crept up on her in a secluded comer, and then grabbed her. He had pushed her to the ground and then holding her down with one hand had used the other to pull down her knickers. In spite of her frantic struggles he had taken hold of her between her legs and after fumbling around, his finger had found her entrance and slid in. She had squealed and yelped but he had continued to hold her down while sliding his thick finger in and out... He had finally let her go saying: 'Arr, that's what you young girls like!', and left her, hot and distressed, fumbling her knickers back up.

She hadn't liked it at all of course but there was nothing she could do about it. If you tried to complain about Figgins he would just deny it and instead report you on some trumped-up charge, and you'd get a caning for your trouble. So she'd just put it down to experience. She knew that Figgins was in the habit of doing that kind of thing and in fact some girls, if he could get them off a caning as he sometimes could, would let him... As for Julie she found him most unsavoury and kept out of his way if she possibly could.

The one saving grace now, having to wait in his room, was that someone might come in for him at any time and this inhibited him from really going to work on Julie. And apart from two quick gropes up her skirt she kept him at bay until the bell rang, when she lost no time in darting out ('Blimey, you're keen to get back in there!').

She walked quickly down the corridor, paused to straighten her hair – and her skirt (Figgins!) – and knocked discreetly. The Head appeared:

'Ah, Julie, there you are... Well you will be pleased to hear that you have favourably impressed Mr. Martin. He now wishes to have a little word with you in private.'

Julie, fresh from struggling with Figgins and not quite able to credit what the Head was saying, had difficulty in collecting her thoughts: 'Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' She re-entered the study, closing the door silently behind her on its well-oiled hinges.

'Ah my dear Miss Williamson. Yes, well let me say right away that I have been most favourably impressed with you, and I believe you can make a success of a career with Boutts. So, in short, I can offer you the post...'

Julie flushed: it was true then!

'Oh Sir. Thank you Sir. I... well I'll certainly do my very best.'

'I'm sure you will, my dear.' Mr. Martin moved in close and slipped his arm round a slim waist. 'I'm sure we will get on just fine.' His hand squeezed gently... the pliant flesh... 'Mmmm... Yes... As my assistant I shall of course be able to instruct you personally.' The hand slipped down onto Julie's flank... the rounded hip... She trembled slightly. 'So I'm sure you'll have no problems. Mmm...' The hand discovered the strap of her suspender-belt through the skirt. She stood still, slightly tense, as the fingers followed the strap down to the suspender clasp. 'Mmm...' It was obviously interesting and in fact Mr. Martin inquired... She told him that St. Angela's required dark nylons and suspender-belts for Sixth Formers. Hmmm... He digested this information while his fingers wandered onto the nylon top... Julie stood still, submissive. She knew he was just being friendly and reassuring: quite different from that dreadful Figgins, or indeed masters like Mr. Evans!

Mr. Martin was telling her about the Bank and what she would be doing, and it all sounded quite exciting. His hand was still behind her, playing with her nylon tops through the skirt and then, as they discussed travel and commuting, the hand came up and cupped her bottom. As it happened Julie had an aunt with whom she could stay in Wimbledon so there would be no problem. 'Most excellent!' said Mr. Martin, giving her bottom a firm squeeze.

Then he told her about the Stack Room at the Bank. Part of her duties would be in there sorting documents and as it was rather dusty the Bank supplied girls with special overall-dresses, worn in place of a girl's normal dress: 'Light-blue nylon – actually they're rather smart,' said Mr. Martin. Anyway if he took her measurements now they could have this ready for when she started. It seemed a good idea, and as it happened he had a tape measure with him....

Well he did feel her breasts while taking her bust measurement, but not in a nasty way. He asked if she always wore a bra... some of the girls at the Bank didn't – only of course if they had the figure for it: and he then took hold of Julie's and squeezed them a bit, and told her they were certainly firm enough.

She was a bit embarrassed when she had to lift her skirt up round her waist for the hip measurement, but tried not to show it. For Julie's white nylon knickers were brief and unfortunately rather tight (well, she hadn't expected that Mr. Martin would see them), and when he had to kneel down in front of her to take the measurement, with his face really quite close to her... down there... well, she felt quite hot... And then she had to turn round and of course it was the same, the brief knickers only partially covering her full bottom with the tight nylon rucked into the cleft between the cheeks. Obviously he had to take the measurements but at the same time she was certainly glad when he finished.

Julie was allowed to drop her skirt. Mr. Martin then told her that the Stack Room was rather warm, 'Some would say kept unnecessarily hot,' and some girls wore nothing under their overall when working there. To emphasise the point Mr. Martin stressed: 'I mean no knickers.' Julie blushed. He put a friendly arm round her waist: 'Anyway, we'll be able to discuss such matters after you've started.' She wondered briefly what that meant....

Then – out of the blue – he remarked that they'd never had a St. Angela's girl at Boutts before! 'Tell me, what do they use here: the cane, or the strap, or both?' It was not a question she had been expecting. 'Both, Sir.' 'Hmm... on the bare bottom?' She flushed: 'Sometimes, Sir.' 'You have been caned, I assume?' Julie's gaze dropped to the floor: 'Yes, Sir.'

'Tell me about it.'

Julie fidgeted, embarrassed. 'It's alright: I know such matters do not normally go beyond school walls but I think I am in a somewhat privileged position...

'Y..yes well, normally get it in the Punishment Room... but sometimes the Head... does it in here. Sometimes other masters take you to their rooms for it as well but they're not supposed to... W-well... you have to bend over a... a chair... sometimes over the back of it... with your hands on the seat... and sometimes lie over the seat w..with your hands on the floor... Oh, and sometimes of course the master makes you get over his lap... Well... then the master... he... pulls up your skirt and if its... you know... knickers down... well it usually is... he... he takes them down and...'

'Yes, I see.' Mr. Martin's hand was now gripping one cheek of Julie's bottom. Have you recently...?'

'Pardon?... Oh... Yes, Sir. Last week, Mr. Pomeroy... that was a spanking... and also, the Head... the end of last term... the cane... in here, Sir.'

'Hmmm... Did Mr. Pomeroy take your knickers down?' 'Yes, Sir.'

'And the Head...?' 'Yes, Sir.'

'Mmm...' Mr. Martin's hand was still busy behind Julie. The knickers were certainly brief and on either side the fullest part of the cheeks were not contained... It was indeed a most caneable bum...

'Still, I'm sure It's all for your own good, even though you're quite a big girl now. I expect you realise that?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'Because at Boutts we do like to have a girl who's properly disciplined!'

Mr. Martin reluctantly took his hand from Julie's bottom and looked at his watch: 'Good Lord! I really must rush: due back in town this afternoon! Really, it's too bad. I should have liked to take you out to lunch.' It would certainly have been a chance to get to know her better... lunch (and one or two drinks) did wonders in relaxing an inexperienced girl... afterwards a drive in the country... and he thought of the tight brief knickers under her skirt... But duty unfortunately called.

'Anyway, young lady, I can see we're going to get along very well. You're obviously a very sensible young person – not at all like the typical modern teenager. Yes, quite a credit to your school!'

'Thank you very much, Sir.'

'You will be hearing formally from the Bank of course...'

'Thank you, Sir.' Julie gave him her best sweet smile as his hand went round behind her for a final feel....

She had just left the study, her head in a whirl, when the Head appeared in the corridor. He immediately ushered her back in...

'Well, young Miss, I do believe you have been successful. My congratulations!'

'Thank you, Sir. I... well I can't really believe it!'

'Well, it is true I can assure you. And I do think it calls for a little celebration.' The Head went to his cupboard from which he extracted a bottle of Croft 'El Fino' and two sherry glasses: 'Yes, my dear, a little toast to you and your future!'

Still somewhat bewildered by it all Julie took the glass, raising it to full soft lips. It was unbelievable: after all that worry and tension, here she was with a super job in London, drinking sherry with the Head. She shook her head and laughed: 'I just can't believe it!' Super, super! All her friends would be just green!... She'd have to phone Mother right away of course! Ooohh, she felt like... well, walking on air!

The Head looked over his glass at the pretty girl, her eyes shining. She looked most enticing... and he thought of that shapely bottom under her short skirt. Mmm... he was certainly in the mood for it... not a caning of course, but perhaps a good spanking over his lap. And then he remembered – of course, she had been two minutes late for her interview – a most adequate reason for slipping her knickers down. Well, he couldn't allow any relaxing of standards, just because of all this euphoria. No that would never do!

He took the two glasses; and Julie looked enquiringly, thinking this might be the cue to leave, but... 'Not quite yet, young lady... a little matter outstanding...' Being late for an important interview could not simply be ignored... no, it would be a few minutes yet, well perhaps more, before she could leave...

'Yes, over my lap please... that's it, head well down... mmmm... and I think... we'll have the knickers right off... then we can do the job properly, can't we...' Because with knickers completely off, rather than merely lowered, the subject's legs were free to part... and usually did...

Julie no longer felt like walking on air as her knickers were removed and she got into position over the Head's lap. She consciously kept her legs together in an endeavour, like any modest 17-year-old, not to show anything; although in her upended position this attempt could not be entirely successful and it was inevitably to be partially seen, peeping from the juncture of her thighs... But the Head liked more than a peep and as his spanking continued he was rewarded, for she became oblivious to everything except the sharp stinging smacks and modesty was forgotten: and without the restraining presence of lowered knickers the thighs relaxed, and parted... fully revealing to the Head what he liked to see. She was of course a very well-developed girl...

(The Head anyway was strongly of the opinion the excessive modesty in his girls was to be discouraged (at least where he was concerned), it being a pernicious hangover from Victorian times. Indeed in pursuing this philosophy did he not, when taking girls (small select groups) to his country place at weekends, insist on a complete ban on knickers throughout the duration of the visit. And on arrival there he would personally remove each girl's garment, to be retained in his charge, until the return to school on the Sunday evening. Indeed a man of firm beliefs.)

The spanking continued on the now freely-displaying Julie until the Head was satisfied that he had done justice to her splendid rear and rendered it and her upper thighs a uniformly rosy hue. Only then was she allowed to rise and, red-faced as well as red-bottomed, replace her knickers. Reflecting unhappily that even today there was no getting away from the St. Angela's routine, Julie said her 'Thank you' to the Head and exited.

Her mind a turmoil from the day's events, she walked unseeing along the corridor.... and straight into Mr. Evans coming the other way. She came back to earth extremely rapidly! Oh No!

Mr. Evans made an equally quick recovery: 'Miss Williamson!'... he pushed her up against the wall: 'Stand still, girl!' and his hands made a quick reconnaissance of her breasts... 'Mmmm..' He had not had an excuse for getting his hands on Julie for quite some time: 'And what do you think you are doing?'

'I... I'm very sorry, Sir.'

'And you will be, my girl, wandering along in a dream and knocking into members of staff... I think a visit to the Punishment Room is called for. Yes. A touch of the cane on your bare bottom is what you need, young lady. Come along: I intend to have your knickers down right away.'

Julie felt sick but she had no option but to go meekly, Mr. Evans a step behind ('Smartly now, girl.'), his hand almost immediately up her skirt at her tightly knickered bottom, still smarting of course from the Head's attentions. Down the stairs... along the corridor... the familiar route... and all too soon the sight which every girl at St. Angela's dreaded: the door of the Punishment Room with (how convenient for Mr. Evans!) the sign now reading 'Vacant'. He ushered Julie in, then closed and locked the door with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes: 'Now, Miss, we'll see about such unseemly behaviour....'

He took a medium weight whippy cane and bent it testingly. Mr. Evans was in no mood for delay: 'Come on, Miss, over the chair and we'll get your knickers down. Your bottom is obviously badly in need of a reminder of what we regard as proper St. Angela's behaviour...' He flipped up Julie's skirt as she got over the seat of the chair and reached his fingers into the waistband of her knickers: 'Well, I think I can give it what it needs....'

So Julie's day – tension, triumph, an unexpected spanking from the Head – was finishing in a way that perhaps typified St. Angela's: head down and knickers down over the chair in the Punishment Room. Her bottom, pink from the Head's work on it, was about to receive what all St. Angela's girls feared most: a caning from Mr. Evans. She started weeping in anticipation, fearfully wondering how many she would get........