Friday, 26 August 2011

Back to the Institute

Story from Februs 31.

Back to the Institute
Colin Weaver's Sequel to 'The Institute Girl'

The stretch of pavement in front of the Birley Institute is about fifty yards long. Lucinda Horton had walked along it twice, and was in the middle of her third preoccupied perambulation when she became aware that someone had fallen into step beside her.

She turned her head and looked into the pale, plump, bespectacled face of a fiftyish man with the general appearance of an undertaker's chief clerk.

'I was wondering',' said the man, with a grimace meant for a smile, 'if you were – er – looking for business, love?'

After a moment's stunned surprise, understanding came to her, and the expression on her face was obviously an adequate answer. The man backed away hastily 'Sorry!' he said. 'My mistake! No offence meant!' He was almost running as he turned away and crossed the road.

Staring after him, Lucinda uttered two explicit words which would have horrified her fellow teachers at St. Jude's. Then she marched up the steps of the Institute and rapped sharply on the door. It was long after closing time but the door opened almost at once.

'Come in, lass,' said Jim Mytton, placidly. 'I thought you were going to wear a groove in that pavement. And you gave Sam Earnshaw a bit of excitement, didn't you? He won't have decided yet whether he's disappointed or relieved.'

Lucinda remembered, blushing, that the window office overlooked the street. I said I'd come,' she retorted defensively, 'and here I am.'

'I knew you'd keep your word,' he said quietly. 'You're an honest girl, and a brave one.'

Lucinda felt a comforting glow at the approval in his voice. This sardonic, middle-aged man had been the closest approach to a friend she had made in the month since she had moved to Birley. A tall, attractive woman of twenty-seven, something in her speech and her dress and her manner had seemed just a little exotic for that rugged Northern town, and people had been a trifle wary of her, taking their time to offer acceptance. She had become a regular visitor to the Institute, and it was there, thanks to sophisticated surveillance equipment, that Mytton had watched her acting out an absurd charade, lying across the marble thighs of a statue in Gallery Three and pretending to take a spanking.

Mytton had not been shocked, he had not reacted with derision or unwelcome lust, and he had made it clear, thank God! that he would not gossip. What he had done was to order her across his knee, take her knickers down and give her an exemplary, uncompromising spanking which surpassed any she had experienced in the eight years she had been submitting her shapely bare bottom to various disciplinary hands.

Afterwards he had taken her to the Reserve Room, which housed the equipment of the old Birley Reformatory. It was there that he had told her about SPOC, the Society for the Purpose of Correction, a group of local CP enthusiasts with room for another member.

She had used his mobile phone to speak to Helen the secretary of SPOC, and when she was accepted as a member she had endured the initiation of six scorching cane strokes fig across her tender rump from Jim Mytton. And now, she about to attend her first meeting.

'Jim,' she said as they walked towards the Reserve Room, 'Do I look all right? I wasn't sure what to wear.'

He looked at her thoughtfully. She was wearing a sleeveless, dark blue dress, snug at the waist, with a modest scoop neckline and a full, knee-length skirt. Her legs were bare and she wore cream peep-toe shoes with a medium heel.

'Just right,' he said. 'We don't go in for black leather or St. Trinians stuff. You look fine, Lucinda.'

They reached the door with the sign: RESERVE ROOM. STRICTLY PRIVATE.

'You can still turn round and walk away,' he said. 'We'll be disappointed, but we'll understand.'

Lucinda took a deep breath. 'I made my decision outside,' she said. 'Let's go in.'

* * *

The room was as she remembered it; in effect, a workshop equipped for every variety of corporal punishment. There was the sturdy wooden trestle with the padded leather top at waist level, bolted to the floor. An equally sturdy oak table with a long, faded cushion along one side. Several chairs. On one wall, about six feet up, were two substantial steel rings, bolted into the brickwork. And in racks on the walls, lying on the table, hanging on hooks and pegs, were canes, straps, whips, paddles, every kind of punishment implement.

Three days ago she and Jim Mytton had had the room to themselves. Now it seemed full of people, all looking towards her as she entered. A woman came forward, smiling. Slim, blonde, elegant, fortyish. 'Lucinda!' she said. 'Welcome to SPOC. I'm Helen Withington.'

'Hello, Helen,' said Lucinda, blushing a little as she remembered the last time Helen had heard her voice, when she was yelping under the cane.

'This is my husband, Robert.' A burly man with a broad grin beneath a bristling, sandy moustache.

'And this is my daughter, Kelly.' A line from a song came into Lucinda's head. "Tall and tanned and young and lovely," Kelly, at twenty, was all of that; her shining fair hair was plaited into a thick pigtail and tied with a red ribbon. She wore a tight white top and a red miniskirt.

'As you see,' said Helen, affectionately, 'Kelly is rather too big to go across Mummy's knee now. In fact, she sometimes threatens to put me across hers! Do you think I should let her, Lucinda? I read a letter in a magazine once, from a woman whose daughter gives her a good smack-bottom when she misbehaves. It made me wonder.' Kelly smiled at Lucinda. 'I don't really think I'd spank Mum,' she said. 'But I've taken an awful lot of punishment since I joined SPOC – it's about time I had a chance to spank someone!'

'Perhaps that can be arranged,' said Mytton, enigmatically.

A handsome, athletic-looking woman wearing a burgundy coloured shirt and white jeans stepped forward. 'I'm Marjorie Taverner,' she said. 'I gather Helen's described me in rather unflattering terms, a real she-devil with the tawse, in fact.'

Lucinda recalled her phone conversation with Helen. 'Something like that,' she admitted.

Marjorie shook her black curls. 'I shall discuss that with Helen later. Yes, I can be severe, but I object such an ogress of me!'

'Rubbish!' said Helen, unrepentantly. 'You know you enjoy using that strap, Marjorie.'

'I shall certainly enjoy using it on you later, Helen!'

There was obviously no malice in the exchange, and the friendly bickering made Lucinda feel more at ease. 'Do you take punishment as well as giving it, Marjorie?' she asked.

'Oh yes. The others would never let me play the stern dominatrix all the time, even if I wanted to.'

'Let me introduce you to the others,' said Helen, 'and then we can make a start.'

So Lucinda exchanged greetings with Frank Kay and Jane Morris and the elderly Miss Foster, who smiled grimly when Helen described her as, 'Our expert with the birch'.

'And now,' said Helen, briskly, 'let's start with someone giving my darling daughter the thrashing she deserves! Kelly has not been a good girl since we last met here.'

'I'm always first!' pouted Kelly. 'And anyway, Jim said I'd have a chance to spank someone else.'

'Did I?' said Mytton.

'Well, you sort of hinted.'

'In that case,' said Mytton, 'you'd better put Lucinda across your knee and spank her.'

Overcoming the sensation of a sudden drop in a fast lift, Lucinda said, 'Rather Kelly than you, Jim! But have I done anything to deserve a spanking?'

'Of course you have!' said Mytton. He turned to the others. 'You should have seen Lucinda a little earlier, trying to kid Sam Earnshaw that she was on the game!'

'I did not!' protested Lucinda, red-faced.

'I can't blame Sam,' said Mytton, solemnly. 'There she was, strolling along, wiggling her hips, oozing sex appeal!'

'Jim, please!'

'I think he expected her to produce a price list,' went on Mytton. 'You know, so much for straight sex, a bit more for the kinky stuff.'

'Please!' begged Lucinda, squirming, 'can I have my spanking and get it over with?'

'Oh, how I am going to enjoy this!' said Kelly, gleefully. 'Lucinda, come here!' She sat down and beckoned imperiously. 'You have been a very naughty girl and I am going to take your knickers down and smack your bare bum in front of everyone.'

'Yes, miss,' said Lucinda, meekly.

If Lucinda had been embarrassed by Mytton's teasing, that was nothing compared to her feelings as she lay bare-bottomed across Kelly's lap. She had only once before been spanked in front of an audience, and that had been at a party when she had been pulled across someone's knee and given a dozen quick smacks on the seat of her skirt. The same thing had happened to some of the other girls and it was all in fun anyway, so it hadn't been too shaming, but this was very different.

Kelly began to spank. Although she smacked with vigour and enthusiasm it was by no means as painful as the spanking Lucinda had taken from Mytton three days earlier, and her first reaction was to lie quietly, showing little response. Then she realised that she must be disappointing Kelly and the spectators by her impassivity, and when Kelly paused, as though wondering whether to continue, Lucinda quickly began to squirm and moan. 'Please, Kelly!' she gasped, 'That really hurts! I didn't think you'd spank so hard!'

'A half-hearted spanking is no use at all,' said Kelly. 'You have to learn your lesson, Lucinda.' It sounded like something Kelly had heard many times when her own bottom was suffering. She started to spank again and Lucinda wriggled and yelped and kicked to everybody's great satisfaction. It wasn't all acting. Kelly's spanking technique might have been inexperienced but her slaps still stung, and by the time she said breathlessly, 'That's it, you can get up now,' Lucinda's shapely rump was very sore.

'I thought you took that very well,' said a quiet voice beside her. It was the man who had been named to her as Frank Kay. During the introductions he had just been a hand to shake, a face to glance at before passing on to the next. Now she saw him as an individual, a stocky man a few years older than herself with a square, pleasant face and an air of good-humoured self confidence. His smile did not seem to be mocking her, but rather inviting her to share his amusement at the unlikely, bizarre, often downright ludicrous antics of the human race in search of pleasure.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Of course I've had plenty of experience – and I expect you'd be delighted to give me more!'

She became embarrassingly aware that her knickers were a forlorn little tangle of fabric around her ankles. 'There doesn't really seem much point in putting these on again for a while,' she said, and stepped out of them.

Frank stooped and picked them up. 'I'll take care of them for you,' he said.

'Somehow,' said Lucinda, 'I don't think this is the first time you've pocketed a warm pair of panties from a girl with a well-smacked bottom!'

Frank grinned. 'It isn't. Although I'm usually the one who's been doing the smacking.'

'The girls you spank,' said Lucinda. 'Is there... are they...'

'If you mean, is there a deep, meaningful relationship,' said Frank, 'the answer is no. Brief, casual encounters, that's all, great fun but nothing serious. And anyway they usually come to an end after the first spanking.'

'You find the girls resent it?'

'Usually they're more startled than resentful,' said Frank. 'But even the ones who seem to enjoy it don't generally stay around for a repeat performance.'

Lucinda shook her head. 'You'll get into trouble one day, Frank. It only needs one girl to turn nasty.'

'You're right,' he said. 'What I need is a steady relationship with a nice girl who understands what it's all about and enjoys her part in it as much as I enjoy mine.'

'Anyone special in mind?' asked Lucinda, casually.

'Lucinda,' he said, 'when I saw you across Kelly's lap and your knickers came down, I thought, that's a bottom I would he happy to tan frequently and thoroughly.'

'Oh Frank,' she said teasingly, 'you say the most romantic things. Ow!' The concluding yelp came as a vigorous bottom-slap stung through the thin material of her dress.

She glared at him indignantly, but then his hand returned to her bottom, not punishing this time but stroking, caressing, gently squeezing. She became aware of the most delightful sensations, glowing, throbbing, spreading. 'Oh Frank!' she sighed. 'Oh, that's nice.'

'Can you two leave the lovey-dovey stuff till later?' enquired Jim Mytton, drily. 'There are more bottoms to be tanned at this meeting.'

Blushing vividly Lucinda moved away from Frank, trying not to catch anyone's eye.

'You enjoyed spanking Lucinda, did you, Kelly?' asked Marjorie. 'Well now it's your turn. Weren't you among that crowd of young rowdies who filled the car park of the Birley Arms with broken glass?'

Kelly looked crestfallen. 'I don't know how you found out about that,' she blurted. 'It was just a bit of fun that got out of hand.'

'Really? Well, tonight, Kelly, your elders and betters are going to take you firmly in hand. To begin with, you can take off your skirt.'

Kelly quickly obeyed, displaying diminutive black bikini pants beneath her white top. Marjorie picked up a leather paddle from the table. 'Touch your toes, Kelly.'

Again, Kelly obeyed immediately. Little muscles were jumping in her long, shapely bare legs. Her firm, apple-round buttocks were the focus of every eye.

Marjorie swung the paddle and tough leather cracked resoundingly upon bare feminine flesh. Kelly gasped but stayed in position. Crack! The paddle landed again. A louder gasp, and Kelly's outstretched fingers turned into clenched fists.

Marjorie missed nothing. 'I told you to touch your toes, Kelly!' The fingers uncurled again, touched Kelly's trainers. 'You are going to learn obedience before I've finished with you girl, indeed you are!' Crack!

A fourth impact of the paddle across Kelly's shapely seat and then Marjorie commanded, 'Stand up!'

Kelly did so, looking puzzled rather than relieved. Marjorie handed her the paddle. 'Now go to every person in the room in turn, Kelly, hand them the paddle and ask them to give you four stingers.'

Kelly looked around at the assembled, expectant members, hesitated for a moment and the approached Jim Mytton. 'Please, sir,' she said, 'will you whack my bottom four times with this?'

'Certainly Kelly.' Mytton took the paddle and waited for her to touch her toes again. 'Your cheeks are looking nice and rosy already. I'll warm them up a bit more for you.'

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Four thwacking impacts of the paddle upon Kelly's near-naked bottom, each bringing a shrill yelp from the unfortunate culprit.

'Stand up, Kelly. Now, what do you say?'

'Th-thank you, sir,' mumbled Kelly, head downcast.

'That's right. Here's the paddle. Who's going to be next?'

Kelly stood in front of Lucinda. Somehow she managed a wobbly smile. 'Here's where you get your own back, Lucinda. Please lay on really hard, or Marjorie will say they don't count.'

She bent over, hands downstretched. Lucinda looked at the leather-scorched curves, obviously very hot and sore already, and remembered the delight with which Kelly had welcomed the chance to spank her. 'You'll have to excuse my inexperience, Kelly,' she murmured, 'but I'll do my best for you.'

She gave Kelly four hard, deliberate strokes of the paddle, pausing after each to let the fiery sting reach its peak before whacking the next one across Kelly's squirming bottom. When Kelly stood up there were big tears rolling down her face and it was an obvious effort for her to whimper, 'Thank you, Lucinda.'

Lucinda watched as the girl went from one to another, offering the paddle, dutifully bending over to present her delightful posterior for punishment, howling, weeping and pleading as the paddle did its disciplinary work but always, somehow, managing to miserably stammer out her thanks for the punishment. When she finally returned the paddle to Marjorie she looked extremely sorry for herself.

'So far so good, Kelly,' said Marjorie, approvingly. 'Now I shall just put you across my knee and take those absurd little panties down.'

'Oh no!' wailed Kelly. 'Oh please, Marjorie, don't smack my bum, not yet! Let me cool off for a few minutes, please, just a few minutes, that's all!'

'Come here, you silly girl!' said Marjorie, impatiently, and sitting down she pulled the weeping girl across her broad thighs and peeled her briefs down. 'Making such a fuss about a sore bottom at your age! I've half a mind to take the back of a hairbrush to you – and I will, later! For now, five minutes under my hand will teach you to respect other people's property.'

'I'm sorry, Miss!' blubbered Kelly, squirming under Marjorie's firm grasp. 'I won't do it again, I promise I won't! Waaaah!'

Five noisy minutes later, Kelly was sobbing her heart out in a corner, hands on head. 'Now,' said Marjorie, cheerfully, 'who's next?'

'I want to smack Helen!' announced Jane Morris. 'It's about time – I haven't punished her for two meetings.'

Lucinda looked at Mrs Morris in some surprise. She was a plump, bespectacled, amiable little woman who looked like the winner of the home-made jam contest at the village fete. Anyone less like a strict disciplinarian was hard to imagine.

'How do you want me, Jane?' asked Helen.

'Stand on that low stool,' replied Mrs Morris. 'Now lift your skirts. Right up, dear, let's all see your knickers!'

Blushing and reluctant, Helen displayed very shapely legs in tautly suspendered stockings, topped by bare white thighs and pale green French knickers. Mrs Morris calmly unclipped the suspenders and rolled the stockings to Helen's ankles. 'And now, Helen,' she said, 'I am going to smack your legs.'

It did not, at first, sound a formidable threat, but as Lucinda watched the tender flesh of thighs and calves redden under Mrs Morris's methodical slapping, saw Helen wince and heard her gasp, she realised that it was more of an ordeal than she had supposed. Soon Helen was squirming and hopping on the stool, performing an odd little dance of shame and pain, while the smacking went inexorably on. When Mrs Morris stopped smacking, it was only to pick up a martinet, and soon Helen was weeping bitterly as the biting thongs lashed her crimson thighs and calves.

When the whipping was over, Mrs Morris noticed Lucinda's fascinated stare and nodded pleasantly to her. 'People do seem to concentrate on the bottom when they're punishing,' she said calmly. 'That's all very well, but other parts of the anatomy should not be neglected. Remember that when you come to correct someone.'

'Usually,' said Lucinda, ruefully, 'I'm the one who's corrected!'

'Speaking of which,' said Frank, 'has your bottom cooled down after Kelly's spanking?'

'A little,' said Lucinda, warily.

'Have you ever been walloped with one of these?' said Frank. He held out an eighteen-inch plastic ruler.

'As it happens,' said Lucinda, as calmly as possible, 'I haven't.'

'Then this is a good time to try it,' said Frank. He took her by the wrist and led her to the padded trestle.

'Over you go, Lucinda,' he said. Very aware of the watching, amused faces, she obeyed.

'You'll find a bar low down on the other side,' he said. 'Keep hold of it. It will help you to stay in position. Jumping up without permission automatically means six strokes of the Lochgelly tawse across your bottom, and the original punishment starts again from the beginning.'

'Thanks for telling me!' said Lucinda. Her face burned as she felt her dress turned up to expose her naked bottom and legs. She had already suffered the indignity of a spanking before people she had only just met. This would be worse; she would be making a squirming, pleading, weeping exhibition of herself without even having deserved punishment.

'I won't decide on a specific number of strokes,' said Frank's voice behind her. 'I'll just whack that lovely rear end of yours until it's hot enough to make toast on. Your thighs too, remembering Jane's advice. I've a feeling we're going to have a long and interesting relationship, Lucinda, and I'd like to have some idea of what you can take.'

'And when you've got her nicely roasting, Frank,' said Helen's voice, 'I will take over. Jim says her bottom wriggles very nicely under the cane and I want to see for myself.'

Lucinda grasped the bar firmly and took a deep breath. By coming here she had invited punishment, offered herself as a willing victim. Now it only remained to endure and, in that incredible, inexplicable way, to enjoy her ordeal.

First the plastic ruler, smacking and stinging her wincing buttocks and her quivering thighs, again and again and again to the very borders of endurance, while she yelled and implored and wept. Then a brief pause, sobbing, gasping, half convinced that she must, after all, have done something wrong and desperately trying to remember what it might be, 'I'm sorry!' she moaned. 'I'm truly, truly sorry!'

'That's what I like to hear,' said Helen's voice. 'The genuine sound of true repentance which only a well-tanned bottom can inspire. And now, Lucinda, I am holding a brand new rattan cane, which I am going to apply to those rosy checks of yours with considerable severity. Jim gave you six of the best, didn't he? Well I'm going to cane your legs as well, so I think we'll say ten this time.'

'Please, Helen,' moaned Lucinda. 'I'm not a very naughty girl, really I'm not!'

And then the cane slashed across her naked, ruler-roasted buttocks. Helen took her time and the torment seemed never ending, but despite the anguish of her exquisitely hot and sore bottom and the incredible pain of a wickedly wielded cane biting into the tender flesh of plump, bare thighs, Lucinda managed to hold onto the bar until she was told she could get up.

They made her stand facing the wall afterwards with her hands on her head and her dress pinned up to expose her punished bottom and legs, they warned her that she would go back across the trestle if she spoke or moved without permission, but even in that position of disgrace Lucinda felt a secret pride. She had endured to the end, she had proved a worthy member of SPOC. She thought that Frank would be pleased with her. That seemed very important.

Behind her she heard Kelly taking the second stage of her punishment, howling across Marjorie's lap, naked from the waist down, receiving the hairbrush spanking she had been promised. She heard Frank say, 'Hold your hands out, Kelly,' and then the crack and the yelp as Kelly took the first of six scorching strap strokes upon her palms and fingers. And finally Kelly pleading, 'Not the birch! Please, please, don't birch me!'

'You shall be birched, Kelly,' said Miss Foster's voice.

'Most soundly birched! And Helen shall go across the table at your side for an equal dose. A dozen apiece to begin with, I think, and then I shall decide how many more you need.'

The heartfelt soprano duet of birch-inspired eloquence seemed to go on for a long time, but when it was over Lucinda was allowed to turn around, in time to hear Jim Mytton say 'Marjorie, you've been getting away scot free so far. I reckon you're overdue for a damn good hiding!'

Marjorie smiled. 'What have you in mind, Jim? Knickers down and a good smack-bottom? I'm rather in the mood for that.'

'That's not a punishment for you!' said Mytton, good-humouredly. 'It's just fun and games. No, I think we'll try something different. Strip, Marjorie. Everything off.'

She hesitated for only a moment before starting to unbutton her shirt. 'This is something new,' she said. 'I don't think we've had anyone punished completely naked before.'

She took off the shirt, kicked off her shoes, unzipped her jeans and removed them.

'You can keep your socks on,' said Mytton.

'That would seem more indecent somehow,' she said. She took them off, reached back and unhooked her bra. At least my tits are in reasonable shape,' she said, as her full breasts swung free.

'Fancy your blush going that far down,' said Mytton. 'Get your drawers off, Marjorie.'

'You bastard!' she said, and threw her knickers at him.

He caught them, grinning, and handed them to Frank. 'Add those to your collection, lad.' He picked up two narrow leather straps. 'Hold your wrists out, Marjorie.'

'You want me on the rings?' she said. 'All right – but I won't be fastened. Put the straps away, Jim.'

Mytton stepped to a wall rack and looked round at the watching group. 'You've heard of women being whipped at the cart's tail back in Tudor times?' he said. 'Most people think it was done with a kind of cat o' nine tails. Usually it was with one of these.' He showed them a wooden handle with a long, heavy leather strap attached. 'It didn't cut the back to pieces like a cat would,' he said. 'Though it sometimes drew blood because they did the entire whipping on the back. I'm going to spread it out a bit. That's why I didn't just have Marjorie strip to the waist.'

'And bloody chilly it is standing here without a stitch on!' she said. 'If I'd known this was coming I'd have asked you to turn the heating up.'

'You'll soon be a damn sight warmer,' he said. 'On the rings, Marjorie.'

She walked to the wall and stood facing it, one hand grasping each steel ring. They all looked at the white, unblemished flesh of arms and back and buttocks and legs.

'Ready, Marjorie?' said Mytton. 'Here we go, then.'

He swung the whip and the leather thong cracked across her back at shoulder level. She jerked and cried out sharply. The whip left another weal, just below the first. This time she choked the cry down to a gasp, but she writhed where she stood with her nipples pressed against the brickwork. He gave her four more strokes, working downwards, and by the time the last one landed she was moaning loudly and her forearm muscles stood out as she gripped the rings. Then he started again, from the top. As the whip landed on flesh already swollen and throbbing she shrieked. By the time the second set of six lashes was over Marjorie was howling out sobbing entreaties, but she still clung desperately to the rings.

Mytton stepped back. 'Now someone else can warm her backside,' he said. 'How about you, Lucinda? You've taken a lot more punishment than you've given so far. Anyway, it used to be the job of schoolteachers to make sure naughty girls couldn't sit down in comfort.'

'Before my time, I'm glad to say,' said Lucinda. 'The idea of beating children never appealed to me. Having a grown woman offering her arse for punishment is another matter. Twelve of the very best on the way, Marjorie.' She swung the whip hard to crack solidly across the meatiest part of Marjorie's generously curved buttocks.

* * *

'Frank,' said Lucinda, some time later, 'I hope my fidgeting doesn't annoy you, but to tell the truth I can hardly bear to sit down!'

Frank smiled at her as she sat, or rather wriggled beside him in the car. 'That's the usual effect of a girl's first visit to SPOC. I hope you haven't found it too – er – exciting.'

'It won't put me off coming to the next meeting, if that's what you mean. Three weeks between meetings will be just the right interval for the marks on my bum to fade and for me to anticipate the next time. Anyway, I couldn't abandon the friends I've made – and one in particular. Why are you stopping the car?'

'It's a road junction,' pointed out Frank. 'If we turn left it leads to your flat, where I escort you to your door, shake hands and drive away. If we turn right, it leads to my home, where other things may happen.'

'Do you usually invite girls home on the first meeting, Frank?'

'Only very special girls.'

Lucinda smiled. 'You mean pretty girls with good figures who've shown they don't mind having their bottoms tanned?'

'Such girls,' said Frank, sadly, 'are all too rare.'

'And when such a girl visits you, is there a good chance she'll be soundly spanked and sent to bed, no matter how sore she may be already?'

'Not sent to bed,' said Frank. 'Taken.'

'Frank,' said Lucinda, 'I already know you're a good man with a plastic ruler. It would be very interesting to discover what you can do with your open hand when you've got a girl comfortably settled down bare-bottomed across your lap, and plenty of time to make a good job of it.'

'Even if her bottom is very sore already?'

'Especially since her bottom is very sore already. Drive on, Frank. Turn right!'

Thursday, 25 August 2011

Uncle Arthur

Story from Whispers 06.

Uncle Arthur

Her mother said she was to call him Uncle Arthur, Mr Dibley sounded much too formal. Linda didn't see why: he was Mr Dibley and he wasn't her uncle, he was their lodger. Her mother said, 'Try not to be so awkward, Linda; Arthur is very much one of the family now.' Linda made a face, but didn't answer.

Mr Dibley, Uncle Arthur, was OK, pleasant enough, friendly. Maybe too friendly, maybe that was why deep down Linda didn't like him. He had a way of slapping her bottom in a 'friendly' manner. Linda didn't appreciate her bottom being slapped but it was difficult to say much without seeming silly. Her mother of course had got very keen on Uncle Arthur Dibley.

Linda's father had disappeared long past: Australia the last time they had heard anything but that was years ago. Mrs Chapman had been taking in a lodger for some time but had had unfortunate experiences. Mostly gentlemen who were hard up and couldn't pay, or making an awful mess in the house. Arthur Dibley was not like that at all. He seemed to have plenty of money for one thing, he was very neat and tidy, and also charming and attentive to Linda's mother. Ideal, Mrs Chapman thought and told all her friends that. Within a few weeks they were on first name terms: Arthur and Monica. Arthur Dibley of course was some years older than Linda's mother: he could be 60, Linda thought, whereas she knew her mother was 39. But still...

It was just about a week after they began using Arthur and Monica that Linda's mother came up with that Uncle Arthur business. Linda just couldn't bring herself to say it. That night when he said 'Goodnight Lin,' she said 'Goodnight' but followed it with a mumbled sound which if you were hard of hearing just might be taken for 'Uncle Arthur.'

He got to his feet and said, 'Come and give Uncle Arthur a goodnight kiss then.' Linda flushed. She had never kissed him before just as she had not called him Uncle Arthur, but she could hardly say No she didn't want to. She went reluctantly over. He put his arms round her, pulling her close, and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek.

Then he said, 'Let's hear you say it properly, Linda.' She had to say it. 'Goodnight Uncle Arthur.' 'That's better,' he smiled, and one of those big hands came down and squeezed a cheek of her bum through her thin skirt. Her mother must have seen if she wasn't too intent on the TV because Linda's back was facing her, but she didn't say anything. Uncle Arthur chuckled and gave her bum one of those slaps he was so fond of.

The whole thing made her go hot and cold all over. Five minutes later up in her room Linda was still trembling. That wet kiss on her cheek but even more having her whole body, her tits, her tummy, pressed hard up against him like that; and his hand squeezing her bottom, jiggling it. She shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling that Mr Dibley — Uncle Arthur — had done something to her. It wasn't anything, she told herself, a kiss and a hand jokingly on her bum; forget it. But she couldn't.

The next night was the same. She had to kiss Uncle Arthur goodnight and he got those arms round her again, like an octopus. Hands feeling her trim shape and then one down onto the riper swell of her 17 year old bottom. When he had finished she was gasping. Uncle Arthur gave his low chuckle. 'Not shy, is she?' he said to Linda's mother. 'I bet she's not shy with that boy: Stanley, is it?'

Monica Chapman kept one eye on the TV screen. 'Oh take no notice, she has her funny moments.'

Uncle Arthur chuckled again and his hand came out — to smack that seemingly irresistable rear. Linda felt a flush of anger at his referenced to her boyfriend. What was that to do with Mr Dibley? Her mother must have said something to him and that was a bloody cheek; but when she mentioned it the next morning she was told not to be so sensitive. 'I really don't know what you've got against Uncle Arthur, Linda.'

The real bombshell came on Friday afternoon, two days later. It was right after school, just her mother home with Uncle Arthur still out. 'Wonderful news', Mrs Chapman said, her face flushed with excitement. 'Uncle Arthur is going to be your guardian. And he's going to put a substantial sum of money in the bank for you in trust. Aren't you a lucky girl!'

Linda was speechless — but after a bit did manage to find some words. What did being a guardian mean anyway? 'Being responsible for you,' her mother told her. 'Like a proper uncle, or a father.'

'I don't want him as an uncle or a father,' Linda said hotly. 'I don't!' Her mother told her not to be so stupid. Arthur Dibley was very well off and didn't she realise how lucky she was that he'd taken an interest in her? Other girls would jump at such a thing.

'Well I don't want it!' Linda flared, for some reason close to tears. Monica Chapman went red in the face. 'Linda, he's putting £1,000 in the bank for you,' she hissed.

When Arthur Dibley got back he had a bottle of champagne and was all smiles. 'How about a kiss for your new guardian!' She tried to squirm away but couldn't. There was that hand having a quick grope at her bottom again. She said she didn't want any champagne.

Uncle Arthur's eyes hardened. 'I think you and I should have a little chat, Linda; especially now I'm responsible for you. In some ways you've got a bit out of hand.' Her mother joined in. 'She has. She needs a firm hand but I just haven't had the time.'

After they'd had the champagne, Linda reluctantly taking a sip, Mr Dibley said he thought he and Linda should have that chat. 'Come on, my girl. Up to your room.'

It was the first time he'd been in there — unless he'd been nosing around when she was out. It was a real invasion of her privacy and she felt hot and angry. He sat heavily down on her bed. 'Now Miss, we're going to have some discipline from now on. One thing is that boy Stanley: you're seeing too much of him. A girl your age should be at her studies not gallivanting out.'

'You can't stop me!' she blurted out defiantly.

Perhaps Uncle Arthur had been hoping for that show of defiance. He got up and grabbed her, pulling her slim but firmly-breasted body close against him. His hand was immediately at her bottom through the school skirt. His voice was excited.

'If you can't obey, Linda, I shall have to warm this bottom up. Take your knickers down and give it a good tanning. That's what you've been missing.'

She struggled and squealed. It was obvious that that was what he had been wanting to do all along. She yelped out, perhaps ill-advisedly, 'You wouldn't dare!'

Uncle Arthur might be 60 or so and look fat but he was also stronger than she was. He got a grip round her waist holding her two arms in with one hand and the other... It was reaching up under her skirt. Groping up the backs of her thighs... And then on her bum in just the tight white knickers. 'No' she squealed but she was helpless to stop him. After groping about at her knickered seat his hand went further up, onto her hip. He was grabbing her knickers down, first one side and then the other.

She let out a high-pitched desperate squeal, loud enough to be heard downstairs. Monica Chapman's eyes widened, her lips pursed... and then she gave her concentration back to the TV screen. Linda had been getting out of her hand. Upstairs Linda's knickers, despite her struggles, were down round her thighs... Arthur Dibley's hand was hungrily roaming.

'Just you be warned, my girl. Or I'll make this bum so hot you won't want to sit on it for a week.'

He grabbed her skirt up round her waist at the back and then still holding her close against him delivered a few sharp smacks to the bared cheeks.

Then he let go of her. Linda thought she was going to collapse in a heap on the floor she was so devastated. Somehow her legs continued to support her. With tears blinding her eyes she grabbed at her lowered knickers.

Uncle Arthur went out. She flung herself down on her bed and began sobbing. It was impossible to believe what had happened. That man had had his hand on her bare bottom. Groping it. Spanking.

The next day as it happened was the school dance and naturally she was going with Stanley. That certainly had always been her plan and Uncle Arthur couldn't stop her. That was what she said to her mother in the morning, when he was out. 'He can't stop me.' Mrs Chapman shrugged her shoulders. 'He's your guardian now, Linda, and so you would be sensible to listen to him. Anyway you have been seeing too much of Stanley.'

'I am going,' Linda insisted, half afraid the tears would start again at any moment. She hadn't mentioned what had happened last night up in her room, it was almost too dreadful even to think about. Perhaps it had been a nightmare...

Uncle Arthur in fact was out when it was time to get ready and maybe she could sneak back in without him knowing. He might still be out if she didn't stay late because Uncle Arthur had a club he went to on Saturday evenings. But she was going, Linda told herself. For one thing there was her super white silk dress that she had only worn once before.

She put on white stockings and the new suspender belt she had got. Also her best, rather sexy, white French knickers. The dress had very narrow straps at the shoulders and that other time she had worn it she had a bra on but the straps had shown. She decided not to wear a bra. She slipped on her white high-heeled courts. In her full-length bedroom mirror the outfit looked really super. For the moment she could forget the horrors of Uncle Arthur. She put on some of her scent and a little pink lipstick. She went to get her coat. Then there was the sound of someone coming in downstairs.

Like a brick hitting her Linda realised it was Uncle Arthur. Through the half open door she could hear he was talking with her mother... And then he was coming heavily up the stairs. In a blind panic she looked round but there was nowhere to go. Suddenly he was there, in her room, seeming about eight foot tall and three foot wide. A gleam in his eye, his large face pink, with excitement. He closed the door behind him.

'Well, well, young lady. We are' all done up and looking tasty. Like a proper little trollop in fact.' He came close. 'And what's this?' His eyes had caught the fact that she had no bra on. 'What is this?'

His hands came up and grabbed the slim straps and pulled them down over her shoulders. Linda's pert tits were suddenly nude, but only for two seconds as Uncle Arthur's hands took hold of them.

'Got them all ready for that young Stanley to play with, have we?'

The room began to go round and round as his hands squeezed her bare tits. The nightmare was back, worse than ever.

He let go of her. Shaking, beginning to cry, she pulled the straps back up. Uncle Arthur had gone to fetch a chair which he placed close in front of her and sat down on. His face now red rather than pink, he said quietly, 'Take your knickers down, my girl. If you've got any on that is. I imagine you were planning to take them down for that boy.'

She stood immobile, stunned by what he had just done. 'Take them down, Lin. Or I shall do it for you.'

Her hands went up under the brief silk dress. Her brain wasn't really functioning but somehow her hands knew what they had to do. The sexy knickers came down. 'Now lift your skirt. Let's see you.'

Again her hands knew they had to obey the hard, firm voice and her brain too, though it desperately wanted to go away and hide somewhere, it too knew there was no choice. He was her guardian. Forms had been signed which said he was in charge of her. He could discipline her if he wished. He could do it how he wished.

'Higher. Get it right up.'

Blinking away the tears she held it high. Uncle Arthur's eyes greedily on her brown bush framed by the white satin suspender belt. She stared straight ahead, trying to blot out what he was seeing. There was a creak as he moved the chair forward slightly. When he spoke his voice was thick, intense.

'Girls your age, Linda, need protecting from themselves. Otherwise they get into all sorts of trouble. That's why I'm going to give you a good spanking now, to bring you to your senses. Turn round and get over the bed. Part your legs.'

She was bent over with her forearms on the bed and her bottom up over the end and her legs wide apart. Uncle Arthur still sitting on the chair but close up, virtually between her legs. He said afterwards when he pulled her up and held her close, as she shook and sobbed with the shock and shame, not to mention the stinging pain in her spanked bottom, he said he had done it in that way, in that position, so that it would shock her. Get some sense into her head. And he would use that same position in any further spankings he had to give her.

'She does need a firm hand,' Monica Chapman said in a low voice. It was 11 o'clock that same night and Arthur Dibley as had become his custom in the last week or so had crept silently into Monica Chapman's room and then into her bed. He grunted assent as he got on top of her. He might be 60ish but he was still an active, vigorous man. Tonight he was even more vigorous than usual. Monica Chapman could guess why, but still, Linda did need a firm hand.

Home from Home

Story from Roue 03.

Home from Home

Lucy had been taken away from home now, and was living with him, so now there would be four. He sat up at the attic window, looking out over the late autumn colours, seeing beyond the almost leafless branches the white walls and red tiles of Fairleigh. Twice a week, so Lucy had said. And now there were four. The sky looked heavy, and sodden with rain. The white walls were luminous against the overcast. So that would mean eight. Eight times a week, on average, now that there were four. The rain began to patter, quietly at first, then more insistently, trickling down the small glass panes and distorting the distant image. So that would mean that tonight, perhaps even right now, the probability existed that one of the four might — might be —. Statistically speaking, that was.

He filled his pipe from his pouch. The rain trickled down the glass. The rain might have been tears. The tears might have been Amy's, or Susan's, or one of the other two, that plumpish girl, what was her name? Or the other one, the dark haired girl. The pretty one. And it might be right now.

The pipe remained unlit. The realisation came, that he would have to go there. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day. But he would have to go.

* * * *

'Good evening.'

'Evening.' He looked surprised, Mr Hawkins. His waistcoat was undone, his hair untidy, his eyes had a rheumy glaze to them in the afternoon light. He waited, suspiciously.

'I was just passing.' The lie plopped unconvincingly into the space between them. Ossie stood patiently on the step, the red-polished stones uneven under his feet.

'I see.' Clearly he didn't see. His wariness was a tangible thing. 'D'you want to come in?'

'Well, if I may.'

Mr Hawkins stepped to one side, saying no more. Ossie wiped his feet self-consciously on the mat, then followed the spare figure through the gloom of the hall.

The kitchen was warm. Pots simmered on the vast cooking range.

'Smells good,' said Ossie.

'Sit down,' said Hawkins.

They sat opposite each other, across the width of the scrubbed whitewood table. Hawkins' eyes never once left Ossie's.

'How c'n I help you?' he said at last.

'It's really only a social call,' said Ossie. He watched the disbelief harden in the other man's stare. 'Well, business too, I suppose.'

'What kind of business?'

Ossie felt uncomfortable. He'd never lied well. 'I was wondering whether we'd be seeing any of your charges at church in the near future. I notice they've not come of late.'

Hawkins' eyes flickered. 'Didn't think it a good idea. Too many busybodies around here. Poking their noses into other people's business.'

Ossie took the hint.

'You come about Lucy?' asked Hawkins. It worried him, that was plain.

'No, not really. Why?'

'Then what have you come for? To tell me you're goin' to make trouble? You're a fine one, you are. Letting a girl of her age live with you like that.'

'Like what?'

'People are talking.'

Ossie could imagine. 'My housekeeper lives in. You know that perfectly well.'

'Yes. People wonder about that, too.'

Ossie could see he was getting nowhere. 'Well, I haven't come to make trouble, as you put it. As a matter of fact, I intend to take no action regarding the matter.'

Hawkins' eyes looked more shifty than ever. He couldn't think of anything to say.

'Lucy will continue to live with me,' said Ossie. He watched Hawkins closely. 'And as for you, well you can continue to live as you choose.'

'How d'you mean, live as I choose?'

'I mean that although I did express certain opinions as to your methods of running this establishment, I've decided that, well, perhaps it's your business alone. Perhaps I was a little hasty.'

Hawkins watched him for a long, empty moment. He wasn't taken in.

'What's the price?'


'What's your price? People like you don't do favours for people like me. What d'you want from me for keepin' quiet?'

Funny. Ossie had thought it would have been much more difficult, but here was this man just asking him what he wanted. No beating about the bush, just 'what d'you want?' He screwed up his nerve and forced himself to come out with it in a business-like, man-to-man way.

'I understand from Lucy that it wasn't just her who — who was punished.'

'What's that lying little bitch been saying?' growled Hawkins.

'Nothing. Simply that the others who live here are also — um — caned. From time to time.'

Hawkins' eyes drilled relentlessly into Ossie's. His voice was a rasp. 'So? Maybe they are, and maybe not. What's that to you?'

Ossie focused on the bridge of Hawkins' nose, not quite meeting his stare. He squeezed the last, transparent truth out from between his lips before his nerve failed him. 'I'd be interested to see how it was done, that's all.'

Ossie watched the slow smile spread lop-sidedly across the other man's face.

'I see,' said Hawkins, the irony heavy in his mocking tone. 'So our local do-gooder has a taste for it, eh?' He leaned aggressively forward, his elbows sharp against the table. His voice was a lewd, obscene simpering. 'And how would you like to see 'em, eh? Like to see 'em wriggling, would you? Like to watch 'em squirm, eh?'

Ossie found he couldn't speak. He had simply to listen. Hawkins' mocking voice whined on.

'Oh, they squirm, y'know. Their little bums twitch and wriggle like ferrets in a sack. Did you know that?'

Ossie found his voice at last.

'Is it a deal?' he asked hoarsely.

Hawkins laughed. 'Yes. It's a deal.'

'And I can come, say, a couple of times a week?'

'Got a big appetite, haven't you, for a bloke who found it "loathesome" a week or two ago?'

Ossie ignored him as best he could. 'When shall I come?'

Hawkins smiled, and made a big-hearted gesture. 'Come when you like. Tomorrow? 'Bout seven?'

'Yes, all right. I'll come tomorrow.'

'Right then. I'll tell the wife to expect you.' Hawkins looked suddenly very cheerful.

'No. I'd rather you didn't. I don't want any fuss on my behalf.'

Hawkins grinned. 'Suit yourself.'

Ossie stood up, the chair grating on the tiled floor. 'I'd better be getting back now then.'

He turned and went out into the long hall. Hawkins followed him. At the door Ossie turned back and spoke quietly to him.

'Look, if it could possibly be arranged, I'd rather the girls didn't know that — that I was there. I mean, just at this stage.'

Hawkins nodded, the smile still on his lips. 'I'll see what I can do. But I can't promise, see?'

'O.K.' Ossie twisted the latch of the door, opened it, then turned back again. 'Which one will it be?'


'I mean which of the girls will you be punishing tomorrow, when I come?'

Hawkins considered for only a moment. 'Annie,' he said, 'More'n likely.'

'I see. And what's she to be punished for?'

Hawkins laughed again. 'How should I know. She hasn't done it yet!'

* * * *

Ossie arrived at seven.

' 'Bin waitin'!' said Hawkins.

'Sorry. I thought we said seven o'clock.'

'Don't matter. It's Annie's 'bin wettin' 'er knickers, not me.'

'Oh dear. Poor girl.'

Hawkins led the way round the back of the house and down through the garden in the darkness. 'You're a funny bloke,' he said. 'Can't wait ter see the little tart get 'er arse whipped, then you get all sympathetic 'cause she's bin kept waitin' for it.'

The garden seemed endless. They stopped beside the shed. Something flapped almost in Ossie's face. 'Pigeons,' said Hawkins.

They went through a double door of wire mesh. The birds cooed and rustled in the dark.

' 'Ere y'are.' Hawkins showed him a roughly rectangular opening in the wooden wall. Ossie looked through, seeing the other half of the shed illuminated by a single hurricane lamp.

'That's my workshop.'

'I see. Do you — I mean, do the girls always get punished in there?'

'Nope. This is specially f'your benefit.' He laughed, coarsely. 'Be a bit cold for 'em in there, in the winter, see? Wiv out their little knickers!'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'I'll go an' fetch 'er then.'

Hawkins went out through the wire mesh doors and back up the path. Ossie waited, his mouth seeming unusually dry. He heard them coming down through the garden. They passed within a few feet of him. Ossie heard the girl's breathing, short and sharp, as if she'd been crying, Hawkins' heavy tread following resolutely behind. He stood back from the bright opening, not wanting to be seen. The girl came precipitatedly through the door, as if propelled from the rear. Her face was flushed, the cheeks rosy, her eyes looking tearful and puffy.

Hawkins latched the door behind him. Ossie saw the wicked length of the supple cane he carried. The girl started to weep.

'Shut up,' said Hawkins. 'I ain't touched yer yet.'

Her voice sounded timid, trembling with anxiety. 'Mr Hawkins, I haven't done anything, honestly! I don't need whipping again, honest I don't.'

Ossie couldn't see her face now. From the back she looked even more attractive than he'd remembered.

'Get across there.'

Ossie's stomach fluttered. Annie protested, Hawkins took hold of her arm and thrust her face down across the littered work-bench.

'Mr Hawkins, please! I'll do it, you know I will. You don't have to whip me!'

The cane swished and splatted viciously across the backs of her thighs. She squealed desperately and tried to struggle away from his grasp.

Her short yellow dress fluttered up across her back. She twisted away to her right, the cane slashed hard across the plump swell of her white cotton knickers. Ossie could see the twitch and pinch of her buttocks under the thin material. Her sobbing, choking cry sounded pathetic and helpless in the still night.

'Let's 'ave these off yer then,' muttered Hawkins. His rough hands clawed at the knickers, Annie clamped her thighs together and tried to hang on to them with her free hand. Something ripped, her pale, bouncing cheeks appeared above the tight cling of the elastic waistband, the knickers slithered to the floor.

Ossie, shocked, saw that the lower part of her bared bottom was already crossed and recrossed by a tracery of pale, mauvish lines, concentrated in darker, bruised splotches up under the swell of her buttocks. Frantically she tried to squirm her helpless bottom away, out of reach, but the sibilant swish caught her full and square across the crown of one cheek. The flesh juddered under the impact. Her breath heaved into her chest. The cane landed again before she'd drawn breath enough for the first, pathetic yell.

Hawkins held her without apparent effort, and caned her wriggling backside with vicious enjoyment, his face twisted into a grinning leer as he whacked repeatedly at Annie's struggling buttocks. The wretched girl writhed her hips violently from one side to the other, but always the singing, smacking cane caught her. She yelped, sobbed and finally blubbered, and all the while she gasped pleas and promises, kicked her legs, and squirmed her naked belly in the sawdust and debris scattered across the bench. Her buttocks flamed in dozens of scarlet weals, and quivered unceasingly as the muscles flinched and tightened and clenched pathetically together.

Ossie's face was a tight mask, his mind a turmoil, his eyes fixed upon the spectacle in an unblinking stare.

The cane clattered noisly to the boarded floor. Hawkins stood back, while Annie still wriggled weepingly face down on the bench.

'I'll be good!' she whimpered with every other gasping breath, 'I'll be a good girl! I will, I will!'

Her whipped and tender bottom trembled fitfully as she clasped hopelessly at her ridged and reddened cheeks, yet seemingly dared make no move to get up.

'Yer'll be a good girl then will yer?' grunted Hawkins.

'Yes, oh, yes, yes. I'll do anything, only please Mr Hawkins, don't cane me no more!'

Mutely, matter-of-factly, trying to demonstrate her willingness, Annie pushed with her toes so that she was further up onto the bench and then spread her legs apart, her thighs parting wider and wider. So eloquent was the silent helplessness of the gesture that Ossie's breath caught in his throat. He saw Hawkins glance warily towards his hiding place, his face clouding. Then, with a hefty smack which cracked painfully down on the inside of one spreadeagled thigh, he growled at the half-naked girl.

'And we'll 'have none of your larks you little tart,' he said, and Annie, surprise in her face, stared round at him and stuttered in her confusion.

'B-but I th-thought...'

'Shut up!' Another smack stung the inside of her thigh and she snatched her legs together with a startled squeal. 'Now get back up to the 'ouse afore I give y'another dose!'

Annie scrambled down from the bench, her dress descending and covering the tender fireyness of her bum cheeks, and she scuttled past Hawkins to the door, bolting through it and scampering up the path. Ossie heard her sobbing breaths as she passed within a few feet of him. A great sigh escaped his own lips, as if of tension at once released. He found himself shaking, his hands still trembling as Hawkins let him out of the side gate and grunted a barely civil goodnight to him.

* * * *

Lucy was downstairs somewhere, he could hear her clattering a broom against some unprotected woodwork. Mrs Pope, his housekeeper, was away visiting her sister, and wouldn't be back until late.

Ossie stared out of the upstairs window and watched the thin haze of smoke curling up from the distant chimneys of Fairleigh. The recollection of Annie's caning, of Hawkins' awkwardness as the wretched girl had meekly offered herself to him in the way that she'd obviously been taught, set the familiar train of thought working again. If Annie 'knew what she was there for', then, perhaps Lucy too had been one of Hawkins' conquests. It certainly left room for speculation.

He crossed the room to the cupboard up against the wall and opened it, taking out the smooth, supple cane which Hawkins had sent over, unasked. Amy, the girl who had brought it wrapped superficially in a single sheet of brown paper, had stared wide-eyed at him as she'd stood nervously in his porch and offered it up to him with both hands. As soon as he'd taken it in his own hands he'd known what it must be. Now, he slipped it silkily across his palm, and then smacked it smartly down the length of his thigh. The smart nipped quite sharply and he winced as he felt the twinge. The picture of poor Annie's naked and squirming bum floated before his eyes, and he tried to translate the discomfort in his leg into terms of what it must have felt like to Annie as the cane had whacked again and again across her already punished cheeks. His imagination failed to give him more than an inkling of what she must have suffered.

He put the cane away again, unwilling to commit himself to its use. At least not yet. He cast around in his mind for something suitable, and thought of the thick leather strap around the big suitcase in the boxroom. He went up and threaded it out through the loops and came back downstairs, giving it a couple of smacks across his hand on the way. It stung quite smartly, a couple of dozen strokes ought to make a nice impression on a girl's bottom.

Lucy heard him coming down into the hall and the broom stopped its clattering. She stood self-consciously and eyed the strap with a look of nervous understanding that made the thrill leap inside him. She already knew she was to be punished. Now she knew how.

'Now then Lucy...'

She preceded him to the study, glancing back once as she went, her short yellow dress, the uniform dress she'd been wearing when she'd first arrived, the same kind of dress young Annie had been wearing when... the dress pleated and tucked halfway up the backs of her young thighs, its looseness somehow emphasising the neat, plump girlishness underneath.

Ossie stood before the window and laid the strap carefully over the back of a chair beside him.

'You know why you're here...' he began.

Lucy nodded, her head lowered, eyes downcast, her breasts pushing against the soft rutched folds of her dress.

'But first, I'd like you to tell me something.' He paused, her eyes looked up into his, questioning.

'I'd like to know — and you can be completely honest with me now Lucy — I'd like to know if, while you were at Fairleigh, anything — well, if anything unusual, of a personal nature I mean, happened.'

Her eyes seemed not to understand.

'Between you and Mr Hawkins I mean.'

And now she seemed to get his meaning.

She nodded slowly. Then she looked at the strap, at Ossie's hands, at the one in his pocket, playing with loose coins.

'I'll do it f'you too,' she mumbled, her voice eager to please, though thin with nervousness.

'No, I didn't...'

She pulled her dress up slowly anyway. The soft satin of her bare thighs gleamed faintly in the light from the window, the white cotton knickers cupping sweetly under the soft thrust of her mound, her tummy sloped smoothly down under the waistband of her knickers.

Ossie let her do it, the simplicity of her willingness quite breathtaking. Her knickers slipped down her tight belly, her navel winked demurely, a wisp of dark hair appeared at the apex of her thighs.

'No, I don't mean I want you to — to do that. It was simply a question that's all.'

'B-but you don't have to strap me, do you?' she asked quietly, 'I mean, I know I have to be punished, but...' she inched her knickers down a fraction more, and her eyes said the rest.

'Now Lucy, we'll have none of that in this house!' He was quite startled by her brazenness.

'But Mr Hawkins used t'let us off a whacking sometimes, if we...'

'That's enough Lucy!'

'...if we let 'im 'have us, nice an' obedient like, an' didn't make no fuss about...'


The girl stopped but the faintest, slowest gyration of her hips showed that she hadn't given up hope of averting the imminent punishment yet.

Ossie was suddenly angry with her, angry that she should dare to try to bribe him so lasciviously, and angry that she'd so nearly succeeded. Beside his foot was a low stool. He shoved it towards her with his foot.

'Turn round,' he demanded.

Lucy turned, but peered back over her shoulder.

'Now get across that stool.'

She lifted her dress at the back. Her knickers cut across the lower part of her two full checks, neither quite down nor up, her bum cheeks pinkly succulent and pouting prettily. Unasked she slid her knickers partway down her thighs.

'Which way up d'you want me,' she asked, her voice low yet with a hint of impudence.

Ossie cracked the strap briskly across her bare thighs, she yelped, and hopped away a little to one side.

'The right way up for a good hiding!' he said. 'For the whacking you obviously deserve, you impudent wretch!'

She knelt on the stool, the marks on her thighs blossoming a bright crimson. Then she arranged herself properly, tummy across the top of the stool, legs out straight, bottom raised slightly and offering itself as a tempting target. She was obviously well aware of what was required of her.

He thrashed her soundly, her naked cheeks soaking up the sharp, stinging whacks, her hips bouncing as she squealled lustily. When he'd finished he parked her, still weeping, in a convenient corner and paced up and down the room trying to get his sudden need for her under control. This time he'd won, but what about next time. He peered out of the downstairs window, ignoring her quiet sobbing as best he could, seeing the thin smudge of smoke about the trees which all but hid the red tiles of Fairleigh. And for the first time he began to have a little sympathy for Hawkin's predicament.

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

The Tables Turned

Story from Justice Vol.2 No.39

The Tables Turned

Charity could never understand how the younger girls surrendered themselves to her whenever she caught them out and insisted that they report to her room after lessons for what they knew would be six of the best across their young posteriors which she, as senior prefect was permitted to mete out.

She accepted that it was all part of the instilled discipline of the school and even when she was a fourth former she had been put to the same tests, but certainly not with much frequency. Even now as she studied the rounded nates of a luckless fifteen year old girl, she saw how the naked orbs seemed to twitch slightly and the two cheeks pulled tightly together as though to diminish their size hoping the cane would not have so much to whip down upon.

Charity raised the cane and then whipped it down, not too hard but with sufficient strength to make the girl hiss tightly; she gave the customary half a dozen and then told the girl to get her knickers up and not to be caught again. The red faced girl was more angry at the buzzing sensation of pain on her bottom than actually hurting, and her pride had taken a bit of a knocking too.

Although Charity had been punished by the head prefect in her own younger days at the school, it was not until she was fifteen years of age and her own body had started to develop very quickly, that she had sensed a strangely sweet response to the sizzling heat on her bottom, and this had surprised her.

With the initial inception of her puberty, there had come a deep awareness of the odd unexplainable thrill that her body responded to when the strokes had been laid across the cheeks of her backside.

She did not try to allude herself when she realised that this sensation was purely sexual and she exploited it to the full. She made herself remain absolutely still whilst the cane was being applied to the bared area of her buttocks and although the experience was painful, she had to be candid about her own reaction of strangely thrilling heat that pulsated through to her very core.

With her introduction to being head prefect, the days of the cane on her own bottom were over and she was now enpowered to deliver the crisp stripes to other girls; but the early experiences and her own response to them had never left her mind.

Sometimes she would visualise herself baring her bottom and that it was she who was touching her toes, but the thrills never returned, and how could she ask her best friend to cane her, it would be too weird and Fiona would never understand the deep pangs that were gnawing her insides.

It was the weekend in which Charity had reported a whole class for being unruly and she reported the fourth form horrors to the headmistress herself. Reaction was swift and certain because the headmistress had "housed the whole lot" and that meant loss of freedom to visit town or to go to the sports fields. Instead they were to stay in their houses at the school and write numerous texts and lines.

Charity was not the most popular girl among the fourth form.

In all civilised society, Sunday afternoons are considered times for rest and relaxation, and this was no exception as far as Charity was concerned. She lay on her bed, and she lay there with her eyes closed.

As she was entering the twilight world of half sleep so she heard her door open and before she could focus her eyes, she felt a cloth placed over her face to cut out her vision and then it seemed many hands grabbed her feet and wrists.

She started to struggle when it was too late, her face went from side to side in an effort to get the masking cloth from her face, but a hand had come down quite forcefully to keep the cloth not only on her face but also to gag her mouth. But her wrists and feet were well and truly held fast by too many fingers and she was powerless to move them because of the fanatical strength with which her cardinal joints were held.

She felt her wrists and ankles being bound with bandages or were they ties, school ties? At last, despite the shock and sudden awakening, Charity became very alive to the fact that she was secured to her own bed and she was secured most tightly so that she was powerless to move her limbs. She was still face up and the sense of helplessness took over her body completely. She responded to a shock wave of shame when she felt her skirt being eased slowly up her legs and this very act caused her to attempt to free herself from the bonding material of her ankles and wrists.

She tried to twist but the bonds held good. Soon the whole of her legs were bared and so were her school knickers. The insistent tugging of her skirt caused it to ride high until the smooth skin of her tummy was exposed and they were letting her know it by stroking hands, lots of hands over the indented area of her navel.

All the time, her gagged mouth made sounds of outraged protests and then she choked in her attempts as her knickers were slowly eased down her parted thighs. The shock was now of horror at what they were doing and soon, she was fighting back tears of dignity being molested as the knickers formed a tight line at her knees and the full exposure of her soft furry triangle of hair was being studied by the invaders of her room.

Now tormenting hands stroked up her thighs and one daring hand actually dipped into the soft intimate crutch to feel her pliable labia mouth. She swallowed the choking surprised reaction that the girls who had entered her room would dare do such a thing but the first hand was followed by others and some very gross liberties were being enacted with her crutch.

When they undid her blouse buttons she tried yet again to struggle and to her embarrassment her blouse was opened right up so that her smooth globular breasts were now shamefully exposed. These did not escape the fondling fingers and neither did her nipples as they joined in the stroking game of the hands that seemed hell-bent on enhancing her deep shame.

She felt the hands once again at her ankles and then with willing hands holding her, she felt her right ankle pulled right up to the top of the bed and this was secured next to her right wrist, but it was not until the left ankle suffered the same fate and was bonded next to the left wrist that Charity realised just how vulnerable her bottom was.

The knickers had been yanked right off and posed as she now was with her wrists and ankles being secure at the top of the bed, she was more exposed than ever and her bottom was very accessible for the intent of the vengeful youngsters in her room. She felt the first stripe swish across her bottom and then the other eleven strokes came in quick but not harsh succession.

She had made her own feelings known by trying to scream into the gag but it was a useless exercise and she had to stay there whilst the twelve strokes had been striped down onto her bottom.

Then she heard the door opening and just before the last girl left, she pulled the cloth from Charity's very red face, but the exciting girl could have been any one of a number because she too was covered from head to foot with a blanket so that her identity was a mystery.

That is how they left her as though they did not care who came along and saw the ripe roundness of Charity's buttocks with the thin lines across them and also the soft lipped sex as it helplessly stayed exhibited with the opening of her thighs and ankles.

Her fury grew by the minute as she struggled to get herself free, and she felt that they had loosened the bonds of her right hand just sufficiently to let her wrestle it free and then loosen the rest of her body.

It was not until she got to her small bathroom that the shock of what had happened to her flooded through her and she broke down and cried like a baby.

She bathed in very cold water and then went back to her bed to try and get the shock from her system; and the one thing that worried her most was the fact that her sex had responded in an excited manner, otherwise she would have needed to go to the matron for a sedative.

But there was no doubt that there had been something rather exciting when the little wretches had actually had the cheek to touch her between the legs, and she was still responding to that gross liberty as she felt the anger gradually leaving her body.

For the next few days she tried to see by any of the girls reaction which of them had carried out the daring assault on her body, but they were like clams and she could not honestly point the finger at any of them.

It was when she was in the showers during the times that was allocated for the senior girls to use the ablutions that her life was about to undergo a complete change, but also one in which she was to realise a full underlying ambition together with an emotional experience that was to set up the pattern of her future life.

Charity was alone and letting the warm water refresh her when she heard the door opening behind her and into the same shower came the tall, very attractive Liona, a girl whose skin was slightly brown, but perfectly shaped and who moved with the grace of a gazelle. It was difficult to place the finger on Liona's country of origin, but the lithesome beauty was now as naked as the senior prefect and Charity could not understand the strange shock that rippled through her.

The girl smiled and showed a perfect set of white teeth and Charity felt herself forcing her eyes away from the full naked perfection that was now in the cascading water area with her. Although Liona was only sixteen and a half years of age, eighteen months junior to Charity herself, there was a wealth of adult knowledge in her mind.

Her reading habits had included the set words of Freud and such masters of the sexual habits of the human body, and it was Liona who saw the pleasure in Charity's blush and the purposeful avoidance of the senior prefect's eyes from what any other person would have been pleased to look at openly and without embarrassment.

Liona automatically knew that the fair haired prefect was half attuned to her nearness and that there was a sexual response somewhere in Charity's make-up.

All the better, because Charity was a tall, shapely young lady with the fullness of a shapely body that most women would have given their right arm for.

Liona took the long handled brush from Charity and before the senior prefect could protest or ask for an explanation, she saw Liona rubbing the scented soap onto the bristles and then smilingly offered to scrub the white girl's back. Charity could only accept this welcome help and stood facing the tiled wall and felt the bristles scrubbing delicious thrill into her back from the shoulders all the way down to the rounded smooth cheeks of her bottom.

"You have a little mark; like a bruise here," Liona said and Charity felt the finger tips stroking over the shining wet skin of her right buttock. "It is as though something like a stick has struck you, but it is only just visible," she said.

Charity shivered with the hot little tingling thrills that swept over her bottom when Liona's finger tips traced the line of the light bruise.

"Is it... is it very noticeable," Charity could not understand the tightness of her own throat and the strangled sound of her own voice.

"No. I think it is because it is wet. It will probably not notice at all when it is dry." Charity let herself sink into the pleasure of having her back scrubbed and then the brush was discarded.

Hands were now soaping her body and when they covered the cheeks of her bottom, she hissed the breath into her lungs.

Liona knew she had been right so she soaped white smooth skin and watched as Charity, lost in the helpless response of her body involuntarily pushed those nates out to receive the carresses of the clever fingers. And the fingers soaped everywhere and very fully.

"Just spread your legs, Charity," Liona spoke in a soft but controlled toned voice. Charity felt that she was lost in a pool of sweet passive erotica and she opened her thighs and then a gasket seemed to blow somewhere deep in her sexual make-up. Soapy hands stroked between her legs and made no pretence at touching the budding sexuality with a carressing fondness.

"Now, isn't that nice, Charity," Liona's soft purring voice asked.

"Oooooh yessss... yes... yes," she moaned and then thrust her bottom right back to show her acquiescent acceptance of Liona's commanding hand.

Liona continued feeling and stroking the young pussy flesh and watched how Charity reacted and the senior prefect was lost now in the whirlpool of the fullness of her rising randiness.

"Who put that nasty mark on your bottom, darling?" Liona asked the question in a demanding tone and Charity felt that she had become a victim of the shapely girl's whiles.

"It... oooh... please... do that some more Liona," Charity moaned as the middle finger flicked the hard clitoris deftly... "please.... oh yes, that really is so beautiful," she choked and then her bottom really did thrust back in acceptance and salutation to the fingers of the mistress.

Liona had both hands thrust between the older girl's crutch now, one feeling and playing with the excited hardened clitoris, and the other stroking round and round the tight seal of the full flesh ring of Charity's cunt.

"I still want to know who put that mark on your bottom," Liona told her.

As she was masturbated, so Charity gasped out the full story but as she made her moaning narration, she felt that the stroking of her pussy was adding a delicious attitude of all that had happened. She did not get to the fullness of her orgasm but she let Liona help soak the suds from her body and she also enjoyed having Liona help her dry her body.

Charity was certain that she had fallen in love! It was something that her inner soul had desperately needed to have another girl, an attractive girl to share her innermost secrets and it had to be a girl whom she could respect... and honour... and it had to be a girl who could turn her on by making her the victim of obedience and submissive behaviour.

She was not certain that Liona was aware of the full power of her own dominance, and Charity knew that once the girl realised the hold that she had managed to put on her then Liona was the type of individual and personality who would use her power to the very full and that Charity would be lost in every sense to the happy cause of enjoying a thrilling association with the younger girl.

With the inception of this strange affair, Charity found herself thinking all the time of the lovely Liona, and her body ached to have the coffee coloured beauty in her own room. Only Sundays could be termed as absolutely safe because there were no snooping teachers prowling round the dormitories and the girls were left to their own devices.

Charity had her own private room and this was as far remote from the regular four bedroomed dorms as it could be.

The girl who occupied the room next door to her was home at the week-ends so she was free to enjoy the privacy completely and as fully as she liked. On the Saturday she had sorted out Liona and asked her over for some tea which was quite in order for her to have in her own room.

Liona had said that she might try to get over and as the afternoon wore on, Charity was praying quietly for the girl to come. At long last, she heard the door opening and in walked the shapely Liona. Charity blushed her pleasure and sat up on the bed on which she had been laying. She wore white short-shorts and the whole length of her legs were bare and she only had a T-shirt on through which the semi hard nipples pressed to show their hardness.

Charity was surprised but happily so when Liona kissed her mouth and as they kissed so she felt hands slipping beneath her T-shirt to encompass the soft globes of her breasts. Thrills filled them and the nipples gorged hard very quickly.

"Nice?" Liona smiled as she broke her mouth from the fair haired girl's lips.

"Mmmmm... oh yes, Liona... very nice. I love the feeling you put through my breasts," she moaned in a state of surrendering herself to the teasing fingers stroking and squeezing her bosom.

"Take it off," Liona loved dominating this beauty and she did not remove her hands as the breasts tautened and then softened again as Charity raised her arms to discard the T-shirt.

"Push them towards me, Charity," the words were slightly more commanding now and Charity pulled her shoulders back and leaned towards the mauling hands of the strange girl.

"Now, stand up and take your shorts off," Liona removed her hands and the breasts showed the excitement flooding through them. Charity still blushed as she stripped off the shorts and then stood naked before the new mistress of her body and soul.

Charity laid on the bed when Liona told her to do so, and with the coloured skin beauty sitting on the bed and leaning over her, Charity let her mouth be tease-kissed again.

"I think you have a very attractive bum, Charity... very smooth and round... I would really love to spank it... but I would first have to hear you ask me very nicely to do so".

Charity was in a sweet world of thrilling sensations. Her eyes looked deep into the olive pupils of her sexual-mentor and she sighed in a contented state of acceptance.

"Yes... yes, of course... please Liona... please spank my bottom... spank it as hard as you like... tell me how you want me to be and I'll do it... then you must really let me know who is the real boss," she choked in her confusion and yet she tried hard to get into the full passive role that she knew this situation demanded. She did not have to read books to know how to make this more and more thrilling; she automatically guessed that she would have to adopt the pleading and begging part and nature did the rest. She felt the very real sensation of thrilling pleasure at being made to crave for a spanking.

"Turn over, my pretty Charity." Liona smiled and watched as the girl did so with indecent haste. She looked down at the soft orbs of Charity's backside and when she placed her hands on the soft smooth buttocks, she heard the happy response moan from Charity's mouth. Liona was very happy to feel the ripe moans and she warned Charity to retain a relaxed attitude.

"Please... please Liona... please spank my bottom... spank it hard," she gasped.

"Stay still naughty Charity... stay very still and accept your punishment which you know you have earned and deserve," she said.

Charity felt the sweet thrills now being rekindled as the hand started to spank down onto her bottom, she pushed her bottom up higher and higher as Liona told her to do so until she was raised high of the bed and the sharp sound of her bottom being spanked filled the room.

Heat poured like lava over her bum skin and she showed by her facial expression that although she was feeling the stinging sensation after each spank, she could not help but beg for the furtherance of the thrilling fire to get hotter and hotter.

"Is that nice, hey, hey spank... spank... spank... spank... tell me that although you have been naughty you really love having your bottom spanked hard."

"Aaaagh... yes... w... ow... sh yes I do Liona, lovely Liona... I love you spanking my naughty bottom, punish me for being so naughty... I know I have been very, very naughty... but I only misbehaved so that you would punish my bottom," she moaned out loud.

"And where is the cane that you use on others," Liona asked as she continued spanking.

"In... the... oh... oh... in the cupboard," Charity felt that the thrills were getting better and better. She had never realised that she would be made to enact such a strange role.

She lay there letting the heat of the searing spanking spread over her bottom... then she heard the cabinet cupboard closing and knew that Liona had discovered the cane and that it would soon be stripping the cheeks of her naked bottom.

"Stand up," and by this time Liona had become the harsh mistress of the rod, her voice was snapping, commanding and demanding.

Charity stood before the serious faced Liona who had stood there with the cane half bent between her two hands.

"Bend right over and touch your toes, young lady," Liona commanded tersely.

Charity did not hesitate but bent her superb torso and showed the other girl how she could offer her bottom in full display for the caning that she knew she would soon be getting.

Liona studied the reddened nates and let her hand feel the warmth of the beaten skin... then she smiled like a vixen and whipped the cane down hard to strip a liverish type of fire across the meatiest part of the tautened arse cheeks.

Two, three, four and five swishing sounds filled the room and each time the thwacking sound announced another fierce stripe across Charity's throbbing buttocks, so the bending girl yelped out and let the furnace of Liona's creating fire build up inside her body.

She took the six very well and then she was laying once more on the bed, her bottom writhing as it came into contact with Liona's hand which squeezed the blistering moons to help the fullness of the chastised skin to a new height.

Charity did not think that she would be able to respond to the fingers that now dipped between her legs but her sexuality spiralled like a rocket as soon as the sensitive spot was touched. It was like a fusing ignition caress that thrilled through to her very core.

"Ooooooh... Lionaaaaa... yes darling... yes, yes... yes... I love it, I love it... do it more and more and I will do anything to please you," she shrieked happily.

"Will you kiss my water-works."

"Yes... if you tell me to, I'll kiss you between your legs... happily... happily," she moaned.

"Then I think you and I are going to enjoy our week-ends together," Liona smiled as she took her own panties off.

Monday, 22 August 2011

Managing Mrs Burton

Story from Februs 22.

Managing Mrs Burton
by Darren Young

Paul Bartlett stopped typing to glance at his watch. Another ten minutes until his five o'clock appointment, time for a couple more paragraphs. No sooner had he resumed work at the PC when the silence was broken by the sound of a door bell. Again he halted but rather than irritation at this break in concentration he felt elated.

An early bird eh, mused Paul leaving his favourite chair in the book-lined study to walk across the tiled lobby. Opening the front door he was momentarily confused to find an elegant woman – his eyes made a rapid assessment – in her mid thirties.

'Mrs Burton?' Paul asked politely.

'That's right,' she responded. 'You look surprised, had you expected someone else?'

'I'm sorry... how rude of me, do come in,' Paul replied, rapidly recovering his composure and waving her into the pleasant Edwardian redbrick with a welcoming smile. 'The people your company sends are usually, er... rather different,' he added in partial explanation. 'Please, go on through to the study on the right.'

As she did so Paul continued his unspoken appraisal: a delicately-boned, attractive face, around five foot six tall, fashionably cut shoulder-length auburn hair, dark suit – stylish rather than trendy, high-heeled court shoes; all par for the middle-management course.

Yet again he was puzzled, surely the company had specified female junior ranks only in the contract? Still, no matter, he'd still an agreeable task to fulfil.

Once in the study he directed his guest to a upright chair by the window then resumed his former position at the desk. Mrs Burton sat straight, sedate and self-possessed, in marked contrast to the nervous, roundshouldered squirming displayed by previous occupiers of that particular seat.

Reprising his earlier smile of greeting Paul commenced a familiar rhetoric:

'You have a letter for me I believe?'

'Yes, of course,' she replied reaching into her bag to hand him a sealed envelope marked "confidential".

Opening it with measured deliberation he drew out a page of neat A4 headed with the Mitsuno International Corporation logo. Below were concise details of the bearer: Mrs Sonia Burton, 41, Deputy Human Resources Director.

Goodness, so much for his powers of perception. A year older than he was. She'd certainly taken good care of herself, that trim figure must have taken some hard effort in the gym. He read on, ah, this was what he'd been seeking.

'As part of the contractually binding procedure signed and agreed by the employee, Mrs Burton – having made serious errors of judgement and demonstrated a poor attitude to her superiors – is to receive medium grade corporal punishment from the Disciplinary Officer.'

He looked up, deliberately making eye contact which she returned unblinking. 'You know why you're here?'


'And you know what's going to happen?'

'I work in personnel, I know what the contract says,' she replied unflustered. A brief, tense pause followed, then Mrs Burton spoke again, this time her voice held a hint of amusement: 'I'm not what you envisioned am I?' So unexpected and forthright was the query Paul found himself answering before he'd time to think.

'Indeed,' he admitted, 'most people Mitsuno send tend to be Miss, or more likely, Ms. Usually junior admin, grades and, I don't wish to offend, average age about twenty-one.'

'Which I'm far from being,' agreed Mrs Burton evenly. 'But then you're not what I'd imagined either; how on earth do you come to be doing this?' This time Paul was better prepared. 'I realise that you're accustomed to being in charge, asking questions and expecting answers.' He stood up pausing to let her digest this concise evaluation. 'However,' he continued, in a firmer tone, 'Here, that's my job.'

Mrs Burton glanced down at the polished boards for a moment. 'Fair enough, I'll try not to forget the purpose of this visit,' her tone was ironic. 'But,' she added, looking up again, eyes twinkling, 'I'm still curious: professional habits die hard I'm afraid.'

Inwardly Paul struggled to suppress a grin. She was incorrigible. Usually he was lucky to get more than a few inarticulate mumblings from apprehensive filing-clerks, red-faced and fidgeting, anxious to avoid eye contact; get it over with and get out. Mrs Burton was proving altogether quite different; sophisticated, intelligent, personable, in different social circumstances just the type of woman...

Pulling himself out of this pleasant reverie Paul was careful to keep his expression neutral and voice measured. 'If you're skating on thin ice you might as well dance I suppose,' he sighed in resigned recognition of her persistence.

Mrs Burton's eyes followed him around the room as he spoke. She too was practiced at making personal assessments. Paul Bartlett looked to be around five-ten with the strong, slender build of a regular squash player.

Thankfully not some wimpish "new man", instead authoritative without being overbearing; educated but not arrogant. Brown eyes, unusual in someone with blond hair, and about the same age as herself. His clothes, like the slightly eclectic furnishings of the room, demonstrated an unshowy good taste. In her experienced judgement an altogether very pleasing package. 'Since you ask,' he continued bringing her sharply back to the present, 'I was a hack on the street of shame, pretty damn successful too, but a change in personal circumstances (a polite way to describe redundancy and my former wife running off with the boss) brought me here.

'New start, away from the maddening crowd, that sort of thing.

'I was doing quite nicely as a free-lance writer of erotic fiction for those various paperback imprints that have become popular in the past few years. Middle class pornography really, all text, no pics, supposedly written for women but usually bought by men.

'A couple of years ago Mitsuno decided to base its European HQ in the town, you don't need me to tell you they're by the far the biggest and most generous employer. A section of their massive publishing empire turned out to be the imprint I worked for – apparently acquired as part of an earlier takeover deal – I don't think they realised they owned it at first.

'One day, out of the blue, two very serious little oriental men asked for a meeting. They'd looked at my stuff, which tends to involve a lot of S&M and CP scenarios – that's what the market buys – and wondered if I knew anyone that could help enforce their unique code of employment.

'It's worked wonders for company performance in Japan apparently but since it was untried in the UK they felt it prudent to subcontract the hands-on end, if you'll pardon the pun. As a former cynical hack I couldn't believe they were serious at first but on hearing how much the firm was prepared to pay I volunteered.

'Here I am, here you are and that's quite enough chit chat. Stand up please.'

Surprised by the sudden change of tone, just as Paul had intended, Mrs Burton was on her feet before she realised it. He continued to walk slowly around the room.

'A medium disciplinary punishment,' he intoned solemnly, 'unusual for a first offence, involves a spanking and a caning in that order. Understood?'

'Yes,' Mrs Burton's gaze remained unwavering, her voice steady but something in the way she ran her tongue across her lips betrayed the nervousness she'd thus far done so well to conceal. Consequences time, she thought. Too late to stop now. A nervous thrill, part fear, part anticipation coursed through her.

'Usually, Mrs Burton,' he continued, 'Mitsuno miscreants go across my knee for preliminary hand-spanking but since it hardly seems right to treat you like a recalcitrant 18 year old typist we'll do things a little differently today.

'If you would please hand me your jacket and be so good as to put that straight-backed chair in the middle of the room we can begin.'

Firmly back in control of events Paul allowed a further hint of steel to creep into his commands. Mrs Burton obeyed without hesitation, surprised to find a strange security in doing so. With an unfamiliar but not unpleasant feeling of surrender she slipped off the tailored jacket and handed it to him to hang up before moving the solid, hardwood furniture into position.

'Thank you. Now, kneel on the seat please, face the back and raise your skirt to the waist.' Did he sound as matter of fact as he intended? In truth watching this curvaceous, mature woman do his bidding was infinitely more arousing than chivvying any number of skinny youngsters into position. Mrs Burton knelt on the seat cushion as instructed. Someone else was calling the tune for a change, whatever happened next would not be her responsibility. With a mixture of relief and pride she carefully drew the hem of the just-above-knee-length skirt up to her waist, excited by the deliciously naughty sensation of revealing herself to a complete stranger. Paul wasn't disappointed by the view. Firm flawless buttocks surmounted long shapely legs. What's more, she was wearing stockings.

'Right, hands gripping the back of the chair please and get ready.' He stood parallel to her hips, and noted with pleasure how easy it was to circle his left arm firmly around her waist, inhaling an expensive perfume as he did so. With his right hand he tugged a pair of silky french knickers higher up onto her haunches. Wider and more rounded than those usually presented to him but by far the most tempting target he'd seem in a very long while. Mrs Burton turned to look at him, her pretty face still betraying no outward emotion. 'Is this it?' she asked struggling to stop her voice from trembling.

By way of reply he began to smack the scantily protected cheeks, following his tried and tested method of alternating from one to the other, warming up slowly. At first Mrs Burton remained rigidly in position as his palm cracked down. After a while he paused to observe her looking fixedly ahead, as if in a daydream, lips pursed, hands grasping the back of the chair in a tight grip.

By the time Paul halted for the second time Mrs Burton was becoming agitated. Her body jerked and twisted against his firm hold as her breathing audibly quickened. Paul resumed the spanking watching her nether cheeks pinken, feeling her futile gyrations become ever more animated. He was forced to grip her slender waist ever more tightly to maintain their respective positions. Little gasps, punctuating by cries of 'oww' and 'aah' left him in no doubt that the message was getting home.

Mrs Burton relinquished her tight hold on the chair, fluttering her hands behind her in a hopeless attempt to ward off further punishment. Twice he had to grab her wrists pinning the palms out of the way into the small of her back. Finally Paul gave vent to mounting exasperation.

'Really, Mrs Burton, I'm surprised at you, behaving like a teenager, you simply must keep still, I've hardly started yet.'

'I'm sorry, you're right of course,' she said meekly, 'I used to be able to take a routine spanking like this with ease but I'm rather out of practice.'

'You've been spanked before?' Paul enquired, surprised. 'Most of the girls I deal with have never received so much as a slap at home or school.'

'At boarding school in the early '70s we were still caned across our knickers; it only happened to me once, I got six for smoking and haven't touched a cigarette since.'

'And the spanking,' he pressed, intrigued.

'My husband used to like to take me across his knee for the occasional bum warming, as foreplay, not punishment.'

'You didn't, I mean it doesn't seem to fit the image of the modern professional woman?'

'I've had that argument with feminist friends,' replied Mrs Burton wearily, 'and the answer is that I prefer to keep politics out of the bedroom. The whole bloody point of feminism is being able to make my own choices. What are fantasies for if not to be lived out?

'A hot sensual smart to your rear end certainly livens up married sex but that all stopped when the sod left me for his young secretary three years ago. With an 18 year old just starting university you can see why I'll do doing anything to keep such a well paid job.'

'Everything except keep still and take your medicine,' corrected Paul with characteristic good humour.

'You could go a little easier...' suggested Mrs Burton archly.

'If you think you can talk me into letting you off lightly forget it. Someone in a senior position deserves a far sounder hiding than some silly little low paid trainee and that's just what you're in for. I don't intend wrestling with you for the rest of the afternoon but I do intend finishing the job Mitsuno are paying me for.'

With that assertion Paul strode across the room, collecting a second, identical chair which he placed back to back with the first. 'Bend right over the back like this,' he said gasping her wrists and positioning them on the seat. 'Hands supporting your upper body so they can't protect that bottom.'

He spent another couple of minutes positioning Mrs Burton to his satisfaction, silently marvelling at her aura of sensuality. 'Knees slightly apart for balance, skirt out of the way, knickers down to you knees,' he'd remember the erotic, tactile sensation of sliding the soft material over her hips for weeks to come, 'they weren't doing much to protect you anyway.'

'That's better,' he added, finally content with arrangements. 'Now since I'm wearing my palm out to no avail we'll complete the spanking with this.' As he spoke Paul crossed to a small cupboard in the corner of the study, opened it and produced an old-fashioned hairbrush. Mrs Burton, glancing in his direction, caught a glimpse and groaned a quiet protest.

'Oh, please, that'll hurt dreadfully, put me over your knee instead, I'd rather humiliation than suffering.'

Paul gently tilted her chin up to gaze directly at him.

'In that cupboard I've a collection of tawses, paddles and straps that can do a lot more damage than a simple Mason Pearson, so you'd be well advised not to complain and keep your delinquent backside still.'

Placing his left hand in the hollow at the small of her back he set to work, methodically whacking every centimetre of the broad buttocks with the well used wooden wonder until they turned from pink to a uniform crimson.

Mrs Burton reacted with a series of yelps, squeals and a good deal of undignified wriggling. Her face blushed red as her posterior danced under a steady stream of blows.

Satisfied that the upper reaches were glowing nicely Paul transferred his rhythmic attentions to the crease where buttock and thigh meet.

'Oh no, no, no, Yeow! no... oh pleeease stop, oh, my poor bum.'

Mrs Burton's sang-froid was rapidly deserting her and, as the facade of control slipped ever further she gave voice to a string of unladylike epithets.

Ignoring her squeals of protest, Paul continued his chastisement, causing the lushly rounded flesh to bounce and judder. Legs kicking wildly, her thighs involuntarily parted to reveal the deep dark crease between her blushing buttocks, anus and labia gleaming moist through the tight, fair curls. No longer in control Mrs Burton's sole concern became concentrated on halting the burning pain that seared every inch of her nates.

'Almost finished,' said Paul running his hands across the glowing orbs that radiated heat to the touch, fondling each buttock in turn, soothing and stroking, affording his victim an all too brief respite.

'I want you to count the final dozen out loud, please.'

Humiliation complete, Mrs Burton struggled to find her voice.

Whack - 'One, thank you sir,' she began without prompting.

Crack - 'Owww, two thank you sir.'

Slap - 'Three, ow, ow, ow, thank you... not my thighs, aargh, ten, yeow, thank you sir.'

With two final wristy humdingers Paul reluctantly deemed stage one complete. 'Get up please, leave your skirt and knickers exactly as they are and stand facing that wall with your hands on your head,' he instructed. Slowly and stiffly Mrs Burton complied, soundly spanked and perfectly obedient, lips wet and eyes brimming with unshed tears. As she stood, squirming from one foot to another, Mrs Burton was only too well aware of the spectacle she was presenting to Paul's unabashed gaze.

Knickers around her knees, bottom, which seemed to have grown in size, burning like a beacon. So much for her carefully cultivated executive image. What had she got herself into?

Paul spent another couple of congenial minutes observing her deliciously deshabille discomfort before relenting. 'Alright, now you can rub,' he said, a note of kindness in his tone.

Immediately her hands flew back to massage the hot, sore flesh, looking sadly over her shoulder at the crimson display. 'Thank goodness I didn't wear tights,' she observed ruefully, 'I'd never be able to pull them up over my poor tender bot.'

'Your poor derriere's not finished with yet,' Paul reminded her, 'you've still six with the cane to come.'

Mrs Burton looked dismayed, then, with an heroic act of self-control took a deep breath and steeled herself for the inevitable denouement.

'There's no point in pleading for leniency I suppose,' she observed sorrowfully, 'and since canings are traditionally on the bare these had better come off.' Down slid the panties, causing the cricket stump currently occupying the front of Paul's thankfully loose-cut chinos to become a tent pole.

'Blouse as well,' he heard himself saying, exceeding the Mitsuno disciplinary procedure by a mile and throwing caution to the winds. Paul stepped forward, carefully unbuttoned the white silk garment and slid it from her shoulders. Mrs Burton stood, gorgeous and unresisting – nearly naked in only stockings, shoes and suspender belt – the V at the top of her legs noticeably damp as her eyes.

'In which case,' she added, in a voice almost returned to its former strength but several octaves lower, 'there's precious little point in retaining this either.' Her bra joined the other items, freeing two full, erect-nippled breasts. Paul, standing behind her, gently cupped one in each palm, relishing their weight and warmth. Words were rapidly becoming redundant. An electric tension linked them like telepathy.

'Where do you want me,' she inquired huskily and Paul became aware that yet again the estimable Mrs Burton was in danger of resuming command, leading events from what was supposed to be a penitent position.

'Over the back of that,' he instructed pointing to a large well-upholstered arm-chair, 'grip the front legs, feet well apart, bottom right out. No need to count, just concentrate on keeping still. This is going to hurt, and I warn you, move and I'll repeat the stroke.'

His authority regained, Paul chose a thin malacca cane from the cupboard before taking up position to the right of Mrs Burton, now bent fully over the chair back as directed.

She waited, well-toned body taut with apprehension, sheer stocking-clad legs spread. Her still throbbing, sore bottom thrust out prominently, head down, breasts unfettered. A near perfect submissive pose, awaiting his will, unsure how and when this would all end.

Cruelly Paul flicked the cane through the air, watching the woman flinch at the sound. Mustering as much detachment as possible he methodically laid on five parallel stripes, striking hard into the already ravaged flesh, letting each lingering hurt sink in before delivering the next.

Every cut produced a shriek, frantic immodest weaving of hips and drumming of toes, but Mrs Burton, now completely mastered, somehow managed to maintain her stance, keeping some small shred of decorum as her curvaceous bottom was soundly whipped.

The final diagonal "gating" stroke caused loud cries of distress and floods of tears as it slashed a blazing trail across each of the previous marks on her comely posterior like the coda to an agonising symphony.

'Well done Sonia,' said Paul with perfect sincerity. 'You took that caning very well, now stay exactly where you are and I'll reward your fortitude with some cold cream.'

'Thank you,' replied Mrs Burton huskily, raising her make-up smudged, still damp face to attempt a smile, 'that would be lovely.'

Her scalding cheeks were a focus of physical suffering yet she felt energised and alive, simultaneously relaxed, purified and above all, aroused.

Searching the bathroom for the soothing ointment, Paul prudently pocketed a packet of condoms. If his reading of the runes was right Mrs Burton, a tingling warmth steadily spreading through her loins, was ready for a rather different kind of rod. Back in the study he rubbed the cooling balm into Mrs Burton's expertly-beaten buttocks. Wordlessly she pushed back her hips and thighs, opening to accommodate him. Soon moans of pain subtly changed in timbre as her first orgasm approached.

* * *

Two days later, Mr Kenyati, European president of Mitsuno, applauded politely as the meeting ended. 'An excellent presentation Mrs Burton, surpassing even your consistently high standards.' His deputy, soon to be if she did but know it director of human resources, smiled in acknowledgement before walking gingerly from the conference room. Strange, mused Mr Kenyati to himself, she moves just like a recently thrashed trainee, that can't be the case, senior managers are not subject to such strictures... But the thought was already fading as he turned back to check the latest revenue figures.

Another month further on, bottom shifting restlessly in the driving seat of her company car, the newly-promoted Mrs Burton takes a familiar detour, turning into a pleasant tree-lined road, making a beeline towards a detached redbrick Edwardian house. She is smiling. It's five to five...