Saturday, 31 December 2011


Story from Blushes 03.


Katie's return from her weekend away brought home a girl who, in her quiet, watchful, almost respectful manner, might have been an entirely different person from the rebellious-spirited teenager who had departed so cockily on the previous Friday evening. Collected at the station early on Sunday evening, she humped her one small suitcase into the back seat of the car and then sat beside her uncle in the front for the fifteen minute drive to the house. She was subdued, careful not to initiate conversation yet unusually polite when spoken to, looking for the most part through the windscreen but paying attention in an almost studied way when her uncle made casual observations and asked questions of her about her two days at Grogmore House. She kept her hands in her lap, her pleated skirt dipping down between her thighs as she nervously interlaced her fingers and untangled them over and over.

Once at the house she asked to be allowed to change out of her uniform, but her uncle said he wanted to see her in his study – she could take her luggage upstairs and have a wash but she was to come straight down again. Katie didn't argue – even that was odd; in the normal way she would have stamped her foot and insisted upon having her own way. Instead she lugged her case up the stairs and into her bedroom, dashed some water on her face and appeared in the study looking fresh and pink cheeked. Warily she stood just inside the door with her hands behind her back – not slouched impudently against the doorframe as she might ordinarily have presented herself, had she presented herself at all, but standing demurely upright, her feet together, her eyes watchful but without the bright challenge about them which had so frequently been there of late.

"I understand you had a little set-to with Mr. Warrender, Katie. Is that so?"

"Er – yes." She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, looking embarrassed.

"I further understand that you came off somewhat the worse. Hmm?"

Katie said nothing, though her rueful expression confirmed her tutor's telephoned report. Her uncle twirled his finger in the air.

"I think I should like to be allowed a glimpse of the battlefield. Perhaps you'll show me."

"P-pardon –?"

"Turn round, Katherine, and show me your bottom."

A week ago such an instruction would have been greeted by a derisive giggle – this evening Katie's skirt slipped obediently up over he hips and her long-ago discarded navy knickers brought back into service on the advice of the tutor to whom she had been sent, were peeled rather reluctantly down off the impudent pertness of her buttocks.

Even from across the room, the swathe of cane marks underscoring the roundness of her bum cheeks was very evident. Enthralled at the sight – one he had never seen before, although he had often enough imagined it in moments of vengeful frustration – Katie's uncle gazed at the still reddened marks whilst a grin, perhaps of triumph, spread across his face. Peeping shyly over her shoulder – before this past weekend she hadn't ever allowed any man to see her naked bottom – Katie watched him anxiously. Leaving her just as she was – and why not – to reflect on the events of the past couple of days, Katie's uncle opened the brown envelope containing Mr. Warrender's written report which he had sent home with the girl.

"Disobedience, disrespectful language, unhelpful attitude – six strokes of the cane, eight strokes of the cane" – there was a list of the canings Katie had earned herself, and at the end of the report, the laconic observation: "Katie has chosen to do it the hard way; perhaps she will have a different attitude next time, should you find it necessary to send her back." No explanation of how the man had managed to deal with the girl, nor, indeed, of how he had even got her to stay within range whilst he got her knickers down. But there, in all its punished glory was the evidence of his achievement – Katie's unhappy little bum insouciant as ever but autographed now by the man who had whipped the cockiness out of the girl. The very sight was enough to stir one to suppose that if it could be done by Mr. Warrender, then it could be done by anyone else, provided they were equally determined. And Katie's uncle was determined. He was, however, going to cheat, aware that it might not be that easy.

"Katie – you may as well know that I mean to resolve this matter of your previous mis-behaviour in this house, by which I mean that I insist there is to be no repitition of it."

Katie turned her bottom away and stooped to pull up her knickers, a flicker of the old resentment showing in her face.

"Leave them where they are! Being bare-bottomed is something you're going to have to get used to from now on."

Uncertain of herself, though plainly on the verge of rebellion, Katie's fingers slipped slowly from their grasp on her knickers and she stood up again, her skirt falling across the tops of her legs.

"Hold your skirt up, Katie. Modesty is something you're going to have to forget about for the time being."

Katie thought about that. The whirring cogs were almost audible as her hands dallied with the pleats of her skirt, then, in a way that seemed to say, "well, alright, if you insist – but don't expect me to take much more of this –!", Katie's little pubic nest made a belated reappearance, snuggled demurely between the tops of her legs. Her uncle sensed the advantage he had been enjoying slipping away; he would have to play his ace.

"Did you notice anything while you were up in your room, Katie?"

Katie considered the question suspiciously.

"No," she said, cnallengingly.

"Behind the door?"

"No. I don't think I looked behind the door."

"Then I suggest you do go and look."

Uneasy, Katie looked at her uncle for several seconds before she turned away, reaching for her knickers again.

"Leave your knickers, Katie" said her uncle patiently.

With a glance over her shoulder that said "This is positively the last time I let you bully me into this kind of thing." Katie let go of her pants and went brusquely out of the room.

"And hold your skirt up."

"Christ!" said Katie under her breath, peevishly yanking up her skirt up round her hips before realising that he could no longer see her anyway. A minute later she was back, her cheeks pale and her eyes defiant – but she was holding her skirt up.

"Well?" asked her uncle quietly.

"What's that for?" she demanded, though it was a demand tempered by caution.

"I should have thought you'd have learnt what canes are for in the last few days, Katie. They're for whipping naughty girls' bottoms."

"My bottom?" Her skirt drooped across her tummy as she forgot about holding it up.


"You're goin' to cane me?" She looked both indignant and frightened at the same time.


Katie's skirt fell back to its full length.

"I won't let you cane me! You're not allowed to cane me!'

"I thought you might say that, Katie –" He studied her carefully, trying to judge the degree of her resistance exactly, "– there is always the alternative of course – or rather, there are two alternatives."

Katie stared at him, her cheeks colouring rapidly.

"What alternatives?"

"The first is that you behave yourself impecably –" she said nothing, but it seemed to her uncle a vain hope that she might consider that option anyway, "– or you'll be sent back to Mr. Warrender."

Katie seemed to shiver at the mention of that gentleman's name, but she rallied at once.

"I won't go! I will not go!"

"I think I could arrange things so that you did, if I wanted you too."

"You couldn't. You couldn't make me go back there! I wouldn't do it!"

"I could sell your pony."

Dumbstruck, Katie stared at him with her mouth sagging wider every moment.

"You wouldn't! You pig – you can't sell Brucie – he's mine!"

"He's mine, actually, and yes, I could sell him."

Panic stricken, Katie began to blubber protests.

"I could take you away from Ferndale and send you to the comprehensive –"

"All my friends are at Ferndale –!"

"Ferndale is expensive, Katie dear."

"But – but –"

"I could decide that a girl who didn't think she ought to behave herself properly – and that she shouldn't have her bottom caned if she didn't – simply wasn't nice enough to go to ballet lessons –"

"Oh, no –!"

"Or to her friend's house in Scotland for the holidays –"

"Oh –!"

"Or to gymkhanas – not that there would be much point, without a pony –"

Katie's tears began to roll brightly down her cheeks. Her lips moved, but soundlessly. Her uncle realised that he had won her over to his point of view.

"Katie –"


"Katie dear – pull your skirt up again – and come over here."

With leaden steps and slow, Katie came, her tummy uncovered again and her knickers slipping further down her thighs with every fateful step.

In the matter of the options her uncle had outlined, Katie had realised that by far the safest so far as her bum was concerned was that of being well-behaved – 'impecably so', as he had put it. And she had tried – oh, how she had tried, but never having had any practice in being well-mannered, polite and respectful she had found herself falling far short of the required 'impecability'. She had in consequence, been getting some practice in the taking down of her knickers, blubbering apologies, wriggling her bottom around whilst the cane stung it's naked vulnerability, and acting in general just like a thoroughly well punished naughty girl would whose uncle had had enough of her misbehaviour. It had never ocurred to her to plump for the other option – a return visit to Mr. Warrender, the tutor who had sent her home a changed girl after a weekend's 'course of tuition.' The very thought of that dreadful two days still gave her butterflies in her tummy.

Those butterflies were taking flight as she lay nervously in her bed, listening to the clock in the hall downstairs striking eight o'clock. Sunlight was still streaming through her bedroom window – she had been sent to bed at half-past seven, a ridiculous time for a girl of her age, but something she had of necessity got used to in the past week or so. She lay with the cover pulled up to her nose and looked out of the window at the rustling leaves of the trees outside, and did it because if she didn't she would have to look instead at all the things in her room which inevitably reminded her of how much her life had changed since her uncle had taken up the cudgel – the cane, actually, in his case – in the cause of re-educating his potentially delinquent charge.

Chief amongst the reminders scattered about her bedroom was that wicked, frightening cane, dangling with passive malevolence on a hook behind the door. How she hated it; the dismal, bum-twitching "click-click" it would make every time the door was opened or shut, the way it greeted her in the morning, just sitting there waiting for it's opportunity to whip across her squirming buttocks in retribution for some piece of misbehaviour or other, and some evenings, like now, when it seemed almost alive and actually to know that soon it was to be taken down and swished across naked, trembling bum.

There were other reminders, too; a wardrobe which had once held pretty, grown-up dresses and feminine clothes and underwear, these days containing instead cut-down – or rather cut-up school skirts and gingham frocks, their hems hardly low enough now to cover her bum even when she stood up perfectly straight, leaving her thighs bare for virtually all their length and her knickers underneath on display whenever she so much as bent to scratch her knee. And those knickers! Pairs of navy-blue school pants – knickers she hadn't worn for three terms at least and which she'd supposed must have been thrown away long ago, now resurected and there in the wardrobe, the only items of underwear she was allowed, and all of them faded and pulling at their seams, especially now that she was having to stretch them over her filling-out hips – none of them fitting her with any degree of modesty, all too snug between her legs and round under her bum-cheeks, and wearing-out the faster now by virtue of their being pulled up and down, on and off, more often than knickers, in the normal way, were ever meant to be.

So Katie stared out of the window rather than have to be confronted by all those reminders of her sadly changed circumstances, knowing that at nine o'clock, less than an hour away, she would be getting a visit from her uncle and would be crying herself to sleep again that night.

Her bed was warm and the house was quiet – Katie watched the trees branches swaying in light breeze and slowly, despite the likely outcome of her uncle's nine o'clock visit, she fell into a half-sleep, troubled by confused recollections of Mr. Warrender's house, seeing again and again the steep stairs up to his attic room where she'd been sent, protesting tearfully, to be given her punishments, all canings, all on the bare bottom, all indelibly imprinted on her memory – and at the time, on her bum! She saw, as if from some point outside of herself, her young body being stripped absolutely naked – she had been too embarrassed to tell her uncle about that – and herself being spreadeagled, legs stretched wide, wide apart, and the cane whipping across her bottom while she struggled helplessly, unable to do anything to avoid the cane, while her cries grew louder and her bottom more violently agitated with every stroke.

And then there was the other thing, which she knew her uncle must have sanctioned, must have arranged with the tutor beforehand or surely he wouldn't have dared do it to her; which had left her confused, bewildered and still humiliatingly spreadeagled when he had finished with her and then simply told her to get herself dressed and be back in the schoolroom in five minutes, with never a word of warning about saying nothing, which meant he must have had permission or surely, surely, he just wouldn't have dared!

A sharp "clickety-click" dragged the sleepy girl back from those troubling recollections and into the present with a tummy-flipping jolt. Her eyes snapped open to see the cane swinging behind the half-open door, her uncle coming into the room, his hand reaching out for the cane. Her heart pounding, the butterflies running riot inside, Katie's mind was a maelstrom of protesting, rebellious thoughts, but the one thing uppermost in that kalidescope of emotions was the certain, inescapable knowledge that whatever the price she had to pay here, she was never, never going back to Mr. Warrender's frightening house!

Pale-faced Katie slipped blearily out from the warmth of her bed and stood timidly beside it, her pyjamas rumpled and her hair straggling across her face. The button at the waistband of the pyjama pants was unceremoniously slipped undone and the trousers slithered to her ankles. Her top was simply rucked up high under her breasts and a little nudge in the small of her back had her toppling clumsily across her bed, face-down, her feet still tangled in her pyjamas, her hips lifted by strong hands and two pillows stuffed under her tummy so that her bottom was plumped out across the edge of the bed. The cane whipped across her bum: "Hands behind your back!" Her wrists were held as she gasped with the sting of that first stroke, and then her caning began, twelve strokes to come, the first one not counting, and the pink-flowered coverlet blurred behind a mist of tears as the regular "swhitt-swhitt" of the cane whipped Katie's quivery bottom into just the kind of lewd, provocative undulations that must have prompted Mr. Warrender to overstep the limits of his brief, and which the girl might have made some effort to subdue had she not been too busy crying to look over her shoulder at the unusually absorbed gleam in her uncle's eyes.

Thursday, 29 December 2011

A Matter Of Communication

Story from Uniform Girls 32.

A Matter Of Communication

A big girl in thin football shorts. As the seawash sprays against her, it is apparent that she is wearing little else, save a simple cotton teeshirt. She holds a brightly-coloured triangle of fabric in each hand. The offshore wind has ruffled through her hair, but her recent exertions have given her a glowing healthy sheen upon her bare young limbs. The Island Master sits a few feet away, on an old wooden bench. Dee is undergoing instruction. And she is achieving very little success. As yet.

He checks her stance. 'Feet together, young lady. Stand up straight. Hands by your side. Hold your stomach muscles in. Pull your shoulders back. Come on. Sort yourself out! You will not be slovenly in MY presence!' Susanne jumps to attention. In her hands she grasps the two brightly-coloured triangles of fabric. 'Now face the sea and send your message, young lady.' She turns, so that she looks out towards the soft blue rolling sea. The Island Master is watching her intently. Watching her strong healthy limbs being buffetted by the crisp breeze, rippling through her thin tee-shirt. She raises her arms. The tee-shirt pulls away from her shorts and he sees the thin band of smooth girlish flesh exposed to the wind and the seawash. The salty mist lights up the thin light-coloured fuzz where her bottom curves begin to jut out. 'No. No. No! That is NOT right. You know that is not right!' She turns to face him again, arms by her side, coloured scarves dropping from her fingers, a look of exasperation written across her young face. 'It's no use. I just can't remember.' She shrugs her shoulders. The Island Master's anger is ignited by her attitude. He rises to his feet. 'How dare you! How dare you, young lady! You WILL learn. I promise you. I have excellent ways of teaching the likes of you!'

The seawash is turning to rain. The man wraps his heavy coat around him. But Susanne has no protection. She awaits his orders, and then scampers ahead of him, back towards the Master's Cottage, the rain now soaking her thin clothes, and her windblown hair. 'Wait for me in the front room,' he shouts after her, watching her delightfully-rounded bottom bobbing as she runs, the wetness of her tight shorts ensuring that every subtle intimate curve of her bottom is outlined for his consideration. He follows her over to the building, takes off his coat and hangs it behind the kitchen door. With the heavy door locked and bolted against the intruding bad weather, he turns up the hissing gas fire. And then he joins his young charge in the front room, ready to teach her a lesson she will remember.

'Please. Can I go and get dry?' she asks him. He shakes his head. 'You'll soon get dry. Physical exercise. That's what you need.' She pleads with him. 'But my tee-shirt. It's wet and cold...' He interrupts her. 'Then take it off, young lady. Take it off. And hurry up about it...' Susanne hesitates for a moment, wondering whether he was offering a suggestion or issuing an order. He repeats his words, making it quite clear. 'Take your shirt off!' She drops her coloured scarves and quickly tugs the sodden fabric up over her head. Her young breasts are firm, hardened by the wind and the coldness of the rain. The little rosy-red nipples are standing erect and proud. He walks into the kitchen and returns with a towel, warmed over the hob. 'Rub yourself dry. And hurry up about it.' She turns away from him, coyly, as she dries her upper body, the soft fluffy towel gently warming, soothing away the coldness and the damp. Of course, her shorts are still wet, still dripping, and her legs feel cold. Thank heavens it's warm in the house. He removes the towel from her clutches. She still looks so very pink. A glowing silky texture to her skin. 'Now. We must begin our lessons... again...' He takes his place, sealed on the old sofa by the side of the room. 'Stand up straight! Feet together. Keep still.' Susanne is out of breath with the exertions. Her bobbing breasts rise and fall. She finds it difficult to control her breathing. 'Arms and wrists in a straight line. Come on! You know the drill.' He hands her the coloured scarves. 'Now face me, and send the message 'C'.' She turns full square, so that he can see her clearly. She lowers her left arm, right down in front of her, the scarf dangling between her thighs. Her right arm she raises high above her shoulder. 'Good. Good. Now send the message 'A'.' Susanne keeps her left hand low and lowers also her right hand, until her wrist is level with the waistband of her shorts. The Island Master nods. 'Good. So you can do it, can't you. If you concentrate.'

'N' is the next letter she is given. She hesitates, staring at him. 'Come on, young lady. Come on... ' She lifts both arms, as if describing a cross. 'No. No. No! You stupid child!' She is corrected and shown the correct sign. 'Now do it again. Come on.' He persists, repeating each letter. Over and over again. ' 'E' is the opposite of 'C'. Now do it. 'C' with your left arm raised. 'E' with your right arm raised.' The Master orders her to repeat the four letters he has told her. C-A-N-E. She looks worried, attempting to remember his instructions. She immediately gets it wrong. 'No! 'C' not 'E'! You stupid child!' He stands up. 'Go to your room and revise! I shall test you again in one hour from now!' Suzanne quickly takes her leave, scampering along the hallway, her pretty breasts bobbing as she runs, her bottom, still encased in damp shorts, wobbling as she moves.

The man pours himself a stiff drink. He smiles to himself. These young recruits! They're all the same, these days. No application. No powers of concentration. Not until he applied his own very special methods. They always worked! The last girl had been just as bad. Slightly fat, and well-rounded. Melanie had been her name. She really had problems learning Morse code. Until the Island Master sat down with her and made her learn each letter. Then it really was quite easy. He sat down, on his old settee. And young Melanie was placed across his knee. Minus her skirt and knickers. And then each letter of the alphabet was tapped out across her bottom. Gently at first, just to remind her. Melanie would repeat each letter. And all dots or dashes spoken incorrectly were immediately pointed out to her. Forcibly! By the firm application of a smooth hairbrush across her blushing bare cheeks. Before long, poor Melanie had been beating out a distress signal with her bare toes against the flooring, as the man had been drumming certain other letters into her bare bottom. And between the dots and dashes there were yells and squeaks and ooohs and aaaghs... Melanie was word-perfect within the week. Each and every letter of the alphabet had been drummed into her. The rosy hue of crimson which adorned her bottom cheeks for the remainder of her stay was enough to ensure absolute perfection and full marks when it came to the final test.

He had devised a simple and perfect memory aid, employing a thin whippy cane and a round table-tennis bat. When a 'dot' was required, the bat would be applied, prompting a rounded rash of pain upon the victim's poor bottom. And when a dash was required, a line would be provided, courtesy of the cane. By the combined application of the bat and the cane, any letter of the alphabet could be spelt out. SPLATT! Melanie would shriek in response and then shout out the answer. 'Dot, sir, dot...' SPLATT!! Another impromptu yell. 'Another dot... OH Sir!' CRACKKK! That wicked cane would whip down and wrap itself around her upended bottom curves. Aggggh! 'What is it, Melanie? What is it?' She would drum her feet into the ground, desperately trying to rid herself of the sting of the bamboo. 'It's the cane, sir,' she would sob, loudly, until realising that he didn't require that answer. CRACCKK! 'I know it's the cane, you stupid girl!' She would sob away, and wriggle around across his knee, desperately trying to concentrate. The Island Master's lessons were always very energetic. Very tiring. And very effective. He even fancied young Melanie had lost a little weight when she finally skipped aboard the weekly ferry link to the mainland. But now, the problem was Susanne. It was time to make her work.

The girl had found another pair of shorts and a loose-fitting blouse. She was sitting on her bed, cross-legged, absrobed in the Semaphore Primer. As he entered her room, she stood up. 'Right, Susanne. Let us see how much you have absorbed.' He told her to remove her shorts. Earlier in the week, the instruction would have met with protest and refusal. But Susanne now knew better. Blushing pink, she quickly slipped them down, lifted them away from her bare feet and placed them on the bedclothes. 'And your blouse, young lady. Be quick about it.' He ensured there was nothing to get in the way of a period of intense instruction. And on this remote island, there was certainly no need for false modesty. 'Stand up. Feet together. Take hold of your scarves...' He stood by her side, the cane quivering in his hand. 'Now send the message as I instructed you.'

Susanne shivered as she saw the cane. She knew how and why it would be used. Any where. Her bottom was still tender from the exposure to the rain and wind. That cane would really hurt. Really bite into her tender flesh. She raised her arms and attempted the letter 'C'. It was wrong again. 'Bend over,' he told her. She sighed, and touched her toes, the scarves still wrapped around her hands. CRACCKKK! The cane sped down. She yelled as the pain shot through her, urgently wishing she could soothe the pain away. 'Stand up. Now send the message again...' This time, she got the first letter right. But then the 'A' was wrong. Again she was ordered to touch her toes. Again, the three feet of thin flexing bamboo whistled down and across her bottom cheeks. She shrieked, her feet pounding the carpet as she danced a little dance, right there in front of the Master. She was told to stand up. To compose herself. And then it was back to the message. C-A-N-E. Finally, after many cane-strokes, many tears and much exertion, the message was correct. Young Susanne had learned at least four letters. There were only 22 other letters to go. And then the numbers. And the special signs as well!

Wednesday, 28 December 2011

Woman In Need

Story from Janus 56.

Woman In Need
by Andrew Grantham

'I'M SORRY it didn't work out,' sighed Helen as she twisted her head to locate the zipper at the side of her black pencil-skirt. 'We just weren't compatible.'

'We saw eye to eye on one thing,' David reminded her.

His ex-wife looked up at him and smiled. 'There's a lot more to marriage than having your bottom smacked, however nice that may be.'

'Yeah,' agreed David. 'We had some good times though.'

'Did we?' sniffed the pretty brunette.

David opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. The marriage had been a mistake, a disaster even. He had of course been infatuated by Helen's youth and beauty and he hadn't bargained for her tempestuous nature.

She was a fine-looking young woman. Her body curved into a narrow waist, then flared to hips that filled her skirt just tightly enough before descending to long, well-proportioned legs.

'I can't interest you in a good caning or a good strapping, I suppose?' he asked her.

'Don't be an idiot!' she snapped. It was typical of her. 'My backside would be covered in marks for ages. Another time maybe.'

Her skirt came down her nicely-sculpted legs and she stepped out of it. The tops of her thighs and her behind were covered by the bottom of her white, lace-frilled blouse.

David licked his lips. She still turned him on, even though it had been some time since their parting. Helen stood upright, her shoulders back and the curves of her breasts pressed firmly against her blouse. Her dark tresses caressed her shoulders. She well knew the effect she was having on him.

'Are you going to spank me or not?' she asked petulantly.

David made himself comfortable in the straight-backed chair.

'Get down!' he instructed her, his heart fluttering slightly. 'I'll make your arse dance for you.'

Helen took a few paces forward and allowed him to position her over his lap. She chuckled as she deliberately pressed herself into his crotch.

David raised the hem of her blouse and lifted it clear of the small of her back. Helen's firm, voluptuously curved rear was tightly packed into a skimpy pair of red polka-dotted briefs.

He had to carefully control his breathing as he placed a thumb in each side of the elasticated top. Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, he turned the panties down as far as her knees and inside-out at the same time.

Helen's bottom was breathtakingly beautiful. The twin globes might almost have been made by a master craftsman. A long, narrow valley separated the unblemished cheeks.

David ran his hand over the soft, velvet texture of their skin. Helen flinched a little at his touch. He thought how odd it was that a young woman with a bottom that was perfection itself should take great delight in having it soundly trounced.

'It's not the first time you've seen my bum,' goaded Helen, her voice coming from close to the carpet. 'Get on with it!'

'Okay, Mrs Whatever you call yourself these days. You want your arse to get a good hammering. That's exactly what it will get,' he promised her.

David's left arm came around her trim waist to reduce the wriggling and writhing which was sure to come. He wasn't about to mess around with polite little slaps. She was really going to get it – which was only what she wanted anyway.

He raised his right hand with the palm horizontally open. Then, it accelerated towards the target – Helen's right buttock.

There was the crisp, sonorous sound of flesh striking flesh and Helen gave a grunting gasp. David smiled with the certain knowledge that his very first slap had hurt her. It was something of an achievement because the young brunette had a high threshold of pain when it came to receiving blows on her rump.

The left buttock received a resounding slap almost immediately. Helen moaned and writhed upon his knees.

David settled into a nice easy rhythm, his hand cracking down like a moderately regulated piston. As he peppered her bottom with stinging blows he somehow felt as if he was, in part, obtaining retribution for all the anguish and upset she had caused him whilst she had worn his wedding ring.

When he rested his hand on her glowing curves after each downward swing he could feel the heat radiating out of them.

Helen turned her head and looked at him through a veil of black hair. 'You're really laying it on this time, David,' she gasped. 'Is it because of tomorrow?'

'No,' he told her, shaking his head. 'Do you want me to stop?'

'Carry on,' she ordered, turning her head back.

The spanks rained down and her backside grew hotter and more scarlet. Every blow produced a gasping intake of breath. Her bottom muscles tensed and churned under the onslaught.

David slowed down but each slap was still stingingly severe and Helen's magnificent orbs shuddered every time his hand fell.

She began to pant heavily as pain filled her body, almost to overflowing. Her delightful bottom wobbled and jiggled, shook from left to right and rose and fell under its ordeal.

'Had enough, Helen?' David asked eventually, as his hand again rebounded from her springy buttocks.

'Yes. Stop now, please,' she begged.

David admired the all-over red glow from her scorched situpon. He had certainly done a good job on it.

Helen got to her feet, her pretty features screwed up in evidence of the nerve-tingling pain that still had to die away. She clutched tightly at the cheeks of her posterior as she tried to soothe the raging smart.

'I hope my bot gets better by tomorrow,' she laughed.

* * *

The following afternoon, unseen by his ex-wife, David watched as Helen posed for photographs outside the Registry Office with her new husband. He permitted himself a smile. The new man in Helen's life would no doubt keep her happy between the bedsheets, but he knew that his ex-wife would come knocking on his door whenever she needed her bottom attending to.

Tuesday, 27 December 2011

Zero Tolerance

Story from Privilege Plus 09.

Zero Tolerance
by John Undermeyer

In tomorrow's courts the guilty are caned immediately after the sentence. As Selina's Guardians listen to the punishment they lose patience too.

* * *

The judge pronounced sentence and Selina hung her head and wept. Her Guardian, sitting in court, squeezed Laura's hand – his wife had been beside him throughout the trial. He said in a deeply satisfied tone:

"She's to be caned... and not before time! If she'd been raised properly, had her parents been strict with her, it wouldn't have come to this."

"Don't speak ill of the dead," the woman squeezed back. "Think of your own girls, both as well-behaved as you could wish."

"Thanks to the rod. Which, in Selina's case, was not applied long enough. Or hard enough. Well, there is time enough to make amends."

"Let us go down. We may be allowed to attend the punishment. Then we'll take her home, where we can keep an eye on her."

"You'd better keep me away from her. You know what I'd do!"

"Why keep away, Geoffrey? I have no quarrel with discipline."

Laura smiled, showing even teeth. She was younger than her husband by sixteen years and patted his arm soothingly as they stood up.

* * *

Geoffrey and Laura arrived in the disrobing room and the doctor moved to them.

"I shall be watching carefully as Selina takes her punishment. I shall stop the caning if it is more than she can bear."

Geoffrey's face assumed a not-if-I-can-help-it scowl. Damned do-gooder! But a moment's thought convinced him this quack would stop nothing. If he did, he'd have to admit he'd misjudged how fit Selina was, and he couldn't see him admitting that. When the doctor left them Laura said,

"I'll inspect her when we get home. Make her show herself to me. If they haven't given her enough, you can do the court's work for them."

* * *

Selina was in the cubicle with two nurses who she knew would strip her if they had to. One nurse peered out at a tall, thin man, his black clothing making him easy to spot. He could have been a dancer, except he was too old. In evening dress he could have passed as an orchestral conductor, except he had no music in his soul. And he was humourless – a memo when he was being interviewed noted he never smiled.

He moved to a door at the far end, flipped a switch and went in. Neon strips filled the punishment room with eye-blinking light; it reverberated off the distempered walls leaving not a hint of shadow. On a board facing the door hung three canes, in full view to frighten prisoners, for they prompted the thought, could he possibly break one on me? The doctor told him Selina was in peak condition so there was no reason to do less than his best. He touched the padded table where she would lie and his hand moved to the wooden bar. With her feet under the bar, her buttocks protruding well out and her legs spread she would see him and he would see all of her.

The thin man took down a cane and, grasping it tightly, tapped it a few times into the palm of his hand, sucking his teeth with a feeling of grim satisfaction. Once he had grasped the lethal wood and flashed it through the air to loosen his wrist, his mind took on a set that meant he could not be lenient. Legs placed carefully apart, he would hold her gaze for a good ten seconds. She would tremble, see him draw a deep breath, raise his arm, tighten his lips, sway back on his feet, and swing in.

His duty was to extract the full penalty. He thought of the number of strokes he must administer. Eight, the judge said; it was more than enough, he could create a masterpiece with eight strokes, an array that would have the girl at the pitch of pain, mouth agape, eyes wild, salt tears cutting runnels down her ashen cheeks.

The nurses came into the punishment room, a naked Selina walking between them. The thin man looked up, directly into her eyes. She dropped them but he continued to stare, taking in her body. Small breasts for her age – the court documents told him she was nineteen – trim waist, flat around the abdomen, attractive legs, dainty feet, she was a dish to carve carefully. He looked back at her face, which was damp with weeping. She was better-looking than most girls he had to cane – women like her normally were given less fearsome sentences – but then he knew this judge and expected to be asked by him afterwards for details of the whipping.

The nurses walked Selina to the couch, turned her, took her shoulders and laid her back on the padded surface. It was too short to lie flat, her buttocks dropped off the edge, but they took her feet and bent her back on herself, knees over breasts. When her buttocks were at the high point they grasped her ankles and drew them under the bar, hooking it with her heels. Now her centre parts were spread before the thin man; bottom, anal sphincter, bush, and the almond cushions of her vagina. The nurses indicated a metal bar behind the girl's head and told her to grasp it.

The doctor came in and took her pulse. He set his hand briefly on her brow, then moved to where he could see what was going on but wouldn't be in the way. Geoffrey pushed in, and was eased back by the leaving nurses, who explained he wasn't allowed to witness the event, but could wait in the disrobing room. The thin man moved to face Selina, his black form framed between the creamy pillars of her legs. Lifting the cane, he flexed it with both hands before her face, and she howled out loud as he knew she would. Now, my weeping beauty, he thought, let me survey my canvas.

Her skin was firm, pale, and quite flawless. It was as if her flesh was upholstered in the most lovely creamy satin, without the slightest hair or mole to disfigure the scene. It would mark wonderfully. Eight strokes. Eight whippy cuts, all soundly placed. The picture would be different then, and no less attractive in the eyes of the judge, the doctor, Geoffrey and Laura, or the man in black. He paused for some twenty seconds, breathing steadily, and Selina's heart began to race as she saw him step back, eye her carefully and raise his hand for the first stripe. Only when she sensed the stick begin to descend did she look away, screwing up her face. A split second later it fell and she felt searing pain across her trembling flesh, pain which took only an instant to double, redouble and redouble again.

It was the noise that dismayed the doctor. Of course he knew the girl would cry; he'd yell himself if the cane cut across his bottom the way it had cut over hers. But the shriek rang round the bare walls and the room being small didn't help to disperse it. It had occurred to him, since he'd sat through canings before, to bring ear-plugs, but they might spoil his judgement. Though he was sure Selina could take eight strokes, he must listen to her properly and all the time, to know how much she was affected. At least her uncle would hear she was being brought to account. The man in black lowered his arm – he might have been an automaton for all the emotion he showed.

The breath had left Selina's body and she sucked it back in again to let forth a prolonged wail. She had known when the judge passed sentence that the punishment was serious, but nothing could have prepared her for the stroke she had just taken. Her haunches juddered and she felt the bar press on her ankles; then there was only blackness and she heard herself crying, a baleful protest that she could be stripped, laid out and forced to take the worst this fiend could deliver.

But she had to know what the beast was doing, and opened her eyes to see his arm sweep across the distance between them, gathering speed, fast enough to make the air sound, too fast for her to follow. A second streak of fire broke across her white pillows and began to eat deep down, gnawing its way to her centre. She was too distraught to know it but the blows had marked both cheeks. Every stroke was being used to best effect.

* * *

Geoffrey, outside the door, stood up as the second great cry burst from Selina's lips. He turned to his wife and what passed between them was akin to an electric shock. Hurriedly she rose, kicked off her shoes, took his hands and pulled them down by his sides, moistening her lips urgently as she whispered:

"Yes, dear. She feels it now! You would have shown her too, if her wretched boyfriend hadn't kept her out of the house."

There was a third shriek, and the young wife shivered, whispering, "Listen... she feels it! Her bottom has taken three and she's on fire."

Her breath tight, the woman lifted her face and crammed her mouth against his, at the same time moving their locked hands until they nestled in his crotch. He gasped, and she felt the thick, blind snake stir, knew that blood was flooding the stem and in moments would engorge the purple crown.

She had watched it happen when they lay naked in bed and she knew, too, both their heads were filling with memories of how they made love after the man had administered the cane. He was always rock hard, she was always wet; hungrily they tore at each other, shedding their clothes as they moved to couple. There was no foreplay; none was needed. He could not wait to erupt inside her and she could not wait to receive him, her succulent vagina gorging on his urgency.

The man moved to shut the disrobing room door. There was a key in the lock and he turned it. There was a bolt and he threw it across. A fourth cry reached them as Selina was caned again and the couple threw themselves on each other. She had his belt undone instantly, he hauled up her skirt, underpants were torn down to knees, her panties were kicked across the floor. She leapt, her arms round his neck, legs round his waist, clinging like a monkey to a stick. There was a bare table in the room and moving with a hobbled quickness he sat her on it. She spread her legs and chewed hungrily at his mouth. He munched back and while their heads writhed and twisted, and their tongues filled each other's mouths, he lowered one hand to his cock and placed the engorged purple mushroom against her love-lips. There was no pause in their kissing, no acknowledgement he was at the gate, she wrapped her hands round his head and gnawed. Sure he was rock hard, he clenched his buttocks and punched his way home. She was more than ready and the sluicing walls welcomed him. Upwards he thrust, hungry to have every part of his cock inside her, bucking and shoving lest some of his base might remain outside. She wriggled him in, right up to his hilt, locking her heels, spurring his arse, saying 'more, more', because she wanted all he could give and would have been willing to take his balls too if she hadn't been youthfully tight, or either of them had thought it possible.

When every part of him was encased, when she was as full of him as she could be, the battle began. He pummelled her, she tore at him. Harder and deeper he drove, faster and more cruelly she spurred his buttocks. They were locked, piston into cylinder, mutually ruthless in their search for a climax.

* * *

Back inside the ante-room Selina was lost to hope. A sixth vivid weal, slammed across both cheeks, made the doctor signal for the man in black to pause. Stepping forward he made a close examination of Selina's buttocks. He noticed an involuntary flinch. The nerves in the tightened skin were frayed and stretched. White ridges were rising at the sides of the first three strokes and he knew it would not be long before all eight weals pulsed in unison, tramline edges forming which would catch on even the most silky panties and hurt the tender flesh. He was tempted to touch, but it would only make the girl buck more. There was swelling which would turn to bruising, but he could still see unmarked flesh – she could safely be given the remaining two.

"Strike the white parts if you can. It might be too much if you cane over weals already placed. I know you sometimes like to give the last two over previous marks. Don't do that... instead cover the white. It will mean she recovers more quickly. And anyway, I like to watch how accurately you lay them on."

The man in black said nothing, but when he whipped-in for the seventh time it was to strike parts of Selina's bottom which bore no marks; it seemed he could easily find space between the weals. If the doctor thought he was being merciful, Selina had no inkling of it. Her pain was at a pitch where it could not be any greater, although logic said extra strokes must make it so.

* * *

Her final cry penetrated the door just as Geoffrey came to the hairspring of his crisis. His hips jived, his head flew back, his mouth opened in a silent howl and he erupted into his mate's soaking channel. He jived again, again, again and four times spunk ejaculated into the wetness his wife had prepared for him. He was ahead of her, as usual. She spurred him with her heels, avidly answering his pelvic thrusts. A whipping made him quite beyond control and in the early days of their lovemaking she had not been able to keep up with him, letting him empty into her and only afterwards asking to be brought off. But she had learned to be quicker, and now, heels spurring, thighs wrestling, pelvis pounding, she rode herself on his stationary, but still thick, weapon.

"Stay still. Let me ride you. You come so hard when the whip is used. You want girls to feel it, don't you? Feel it hard!" And as she kept him hard, she started to come, a deep warm flooding, which made her open wide and gasp with delight at the wonderful, repetitive pulsing that resounded in her anus and made her feel so good.

He stayed firm as she bucked for more, but there was no time. Selina's caning had stopped and they'd soon no longer be alone. At Laura's nod of consent, her husband pulled out, although she was half done and he still hard. Pulling at her skirt she scooped her panties into her handbag. He hauled up his pants and trousers, pushing at his shirt, fastening his belt. She unbolted and unlocked the door. The tidying up process was completed a fraction of a second before the man in black appeared, the cane still swinging on the wall. He did not look at or talk to them, but hurried past, taking the stairs two at a time.

They waited to see if the doctor would emerge, but only the sound of blubbering came from the room. Slowly, making themselves seem concerned, they edged in.

The doctor was helping Selina get to her feet, and Laura went forward to take the girl in her arms. Geoffrey turned to the doctor.

"You found no cause to stop the caning, then?"

"No. She was fit for eight."

"We're taking her home... she can travel by car?"

"No medical reason why not. Won't be comfortable, of course. I'll see if I have some cream you can use before she dresses."

Geoffrey moved so he could see Selina's bottom. She was draped weakly against Laura, face buried in her shoulder, arms clasped round her neck.

"Hush, darling," whispered the aunt. "You feel it, don't you?"

Geoffrey caught his wife's smile, then dropped his gaze to study the naked buttocks. Yes, it had been well done. Eight crimson stripes, French-blind parallel, tumbling from the hillocks, down over her curves, the last stripe ending just above the sulcus. Both cheeks were equally covered and he could see button-bruises, four on either side, where the tip of the cane had whipped in. Geoffrey was surprised the crease between buttocks and thighs had not been attended to – he might amend that when he got the girl home.

Chastisement had been carried out by a master. Not surprising, he thought, since zero tolerance meant many offenders were caned and it would be strange for the professionals to be less than skilled at the job. Geoffrey felt himself stir down there – the well-whipped bottom of a pretty girl was the greatest aphrodisiac he knew. He must get Laura to take plenty of Polaroid pictures before she put Selina to bed – they could study them while they got down to some unfinished business...

Monday, 26 December 2011

Pounds of Pain, Pounds of Pleasure

Story from Februs 25.

Pounds of Pain, Pounds of Pleasure
by Jean Philippe Aubourg

Catherine had just finished setting out the cups when the doorbell rang. She looked down at the coffee table before turning to glide down the hall. Everything was just right. Four cups, saucers and spoons, no sugar bowl, a jug of skimmed milk and definitely no biscuits.

She opened the door to find Joanne on the front step. She was beaming broadly and looked stunning in a black polo-necked sweater and matching slacks. 'Hi!' she smiled.

'Hi! Come on in. You look pleased with yourself!' said Catherine as Joanne slipped past her and into the living room.

'I certainly am, and I've every reason to be. I can't wait to show you. But,' she added, casting an admiring glance at Catherine in her white blouse and black pencil skirt, 'maybe I shouldn't be too confident.'

'Now, we have to wait till the others arrive,' Catherine scolded her good-naturedly. 'They won't be long. Sit down and I'll fetch the coffee.'

She had barely returned to the living room when the doorbell rang again. Setting the pot down for Joanne to serve herself, she went to answer it. A few seconds later and she returned, followed by a plump but still very attractive brunette in her late twenties, wearing a floral print dress underneath a lightweight black jacket. She also wore a slightly worried look but still smiled when she saw Joanne. 'Hello,' she said, 'how are you Jo?'

'Great Amy, just great. How's things with you?'

'Oh very hectic, very busy.' The conversation was light but there was no disguising the trepidation in her voice. She slipped off her jacket and accepted the cup Joanne had poured for her. The blonde girl was in the act of pouring one for Catherine when the bell chimed for a third time. The hostess returned to the front door and the sound of another female voice soon floated up the hall. As it grew louder it was soon accompanied by its owner, a small and youthful blonde of about nineteen. 'Hi!' she called as she saw Joanne and Amy, who had by now found an armchair and sunk into it with her coffee.

'Hello, Kelly,' they chorused. 'Great to see you again,' added Joanne. 'Glad you decided to stick with us. Especially after last lime.'

'Well, I think I got something out of it, even if I did end up a bit sore. In fact I know I got something out of it. I've lost...'

'Ah-ah, Kelly!' said Catherine sharply. Joanne and Amy reinforced her words with stern shocked looks. 'You know the rules, not until we've had coffee and we're all together'.

'Sorry,' said Kelly meekly, 'I forgot. I'm new remember.'

'That's okay,' said Joanne, 'but you may be even sorrier. We shall see.' And she grinned as she took another sip of coffee. Kelly giggled nervously, slipping off her denim jacket and folding it over the arm of the remaining chair, before taking the cup offered to her and sitting down.

The four women chatted and drank for about fifteen minutes, the conversation light and inconsequential. But to a fly-on-the-wall there would still have been something in the air, an apprehensive atmosphere, as if the little group was waiting for something to happen. And it was.

Catherine finally set her empty cup on the table. It was the signal they had all been wailing for. Three more cups were drained and joined Catherine's. 'Right then,' she announced. 'Time to see how we've all been doing this month.'

Catherine and Joanne stood up eagerly. Amy and Kelly followed suit, although both a little less enthusiastically, a worried smile passing between them. The other three stood in the middle of the room as Catherine skipped out and up the stairs. A few moments later she returned carrying a set of bathroom scales. She set it down two feet in front of the coffee table. Then she began to unbutton her blouse.

The others looked at her for a second. Then Joanne crossed her arms and pulled her sweater over her head. Turning it the right way out, she dropped it on the floor, then unbuttoned her trousers, kicking off her pumps and rolling the slacks down her long tanned legs to her ankles. Without a hint of self-consciousness she stood up again in just her white bra and panties.

By now Catherine was similarly attired, her blouse and skirt folded on the arm of the sofa. Her underwear was expensive, a matching black set which encompassed her pert breasts and well-tanned thighs.

Amy and Kelly had paused longer than the other two, but were both now almost undressed, Amy unbuttoning her dress and slipping it off her shoulders. Her figure, when revealed in her bra and panties, was voluptuous, large breasts filling the lacy cups to almost overflowing, her ample thighs stretching out from the high cut of her knickers. Kelly, stripped of her sweat shirt and jeans, was the smallest of the quartet, although her bust was disproportionately large compared with her short legs and tight little bottom.

All four women stood in their underwear and regarded each other for a few seconds. Joanne rested her hands on her hips, her shoulders thrown back with confidence. Amy seemed fearful, her hands rubbing up and down her bottom cheeks through her panties, but almost as if she were not aware she was doing it. Kelly twisted her hands around each other in front of her, staring down at her bare feet most of the time and only glancing up occasionally.

They all waited for Catherine, who had gone to the mahogany sideboard. Opening a small side-drawer she took out a black hard-covered notebook. Returning to the little group she began thumbing through it till she found the last entries. Each page was divided in two, with one of the girls' names at the top. A set of figures was written in columns under each.

'You lost the most last time,' she said to Joanne, 'so I guess that means you go first this time.'

'My pleasure,' Joanne smiled back from under her mop of blonde curls. Without hesitation she stepped onto the scales. The others peered over her shoulders as they gathered around her.

'Oh my God!' exclaimed Amy, 'how did you do that?'

'I don't believe it!' said Kelly.

'Hmm' muttered Catherine, 'seven pounds off. I think most of us will definitely be feeling your hand pretty soon.' And she wrote the weight in Joanne's column in the book.

'Now you, Catherine, you were second last time,' said Joanne as she stepped off the scales. Catherine handed the book and pen to her before taking her place. Once again the others crowded round to see the result and were equally impressed. 'Five and a half pounds' said Joanne, 'so close yet so far. Never mind, better luck next month.' And she wrote the figures in the book.

'Now me, I suppose,' said Amy. She sounded grim, as if she were not looking forward to this or what was likely to follow. Nevertheless, she stepped onto the scales and three pairs of female eyes peered over her shoulders. A few seconds later and six eyes widened in shock.

'Three pounds ON!' exclaimed Joanne.

'Oh Amy, I am sorry for you!' said Catherine.

'What's going to happen to her?' asked Kelly, looking away from the dejected Amy and straight at the others.

'The rules are very clear,' Catherine told her ominously. 'Not only is she probably going to finish bottom of the heap, she's gone so far as to put weight on. I'll fetch the cane.'

'Hold on,' said Amy, 'let's just see what this skinny little madam's score is before we start settling debts.' She stepped off the scales and Kelly took her place. 'Three pounds off,' said Catherine as she wrote it down. Kelly got off the scales feeling almost too guilty to look Amy in the eye.

Catherine closed the book and put it on the coffee table with the pen. Taking up the scales she disappeared out the door and back up the stairs. The other three waited nervously for her return. 'Never mind,' Joanne said to Amy, 'I'm sure it won't be so bad. And it'll probably just be this time.'

'I'm sure it will,' replied Amy glumly, her hands fidgeting in front of her. Catherine came back carrying a thin yellow cane about two and a half feet in length. Amy regarded it ominously and propped if against the side of the sofa. Then the hostess picked up a dining chair and pulled it in front of the fireplace. 'Your seat madam,' she said to Joanne, waving at the chair with mock solemnity.

'Thank you,' she replied sitting herself down, her hands resting palm-downward on the tops of her bare thighs.

'Now then,' said Catherine taking up the notebook again, 'Who's first?' She consulted the figures just entered. 'Oh me!' And she giggled as she put the book back down. Walking to where Joanne sat, she stretched her elegant limbs and bent herself over the blonde girl's lap.

'How much will she get?' Kelly asked Amy as they stood contemplating Catherine's upturned bottom.

'Four and a half minutes of course' said Amy. 'The calculation is simple – start with ten minutes and take a minute off for each pound you lose. Catherine's got away pretty lightly – not like I will.'

'Has your watch got a second hand Kelly?' asked Joanne. As she spoke she began to roll Catherine's panties down her legs to the tops of her thighs. The redhead wriggled as her bottom was bared.

'Yes it has,' the little blonde answered, 'do you want me to keep time?'

'Of course – just give me the nod.'

'Okay' said Kelly, raising her left hand to look at her wrist. 'Ready – steady – GO!'

Joanne had raised her right hand and now it came smacking down across Catherine's right buttock with a resounding crack. Catherine squeaked, then squeaked again as her left cheek was slapped.

Joanne set up a rhythm, spanking one cheek then the other, keeping a brisk pace. Kelly looked up from her watch and found she was fascinated by the red glow which was spreading from the tops of Catherine's thighs to just below the small of her back, as Joanne expertly used her time to cover every inch of Catherine's bottom. Her victim began to wriggle and groan as the pain and heat intensified.

Suddenly Kelly remembered she was supposed to be the time-keeper for this punishment. She checked her watch and was relieved to see she was just in time. 'Twenty seconds,' she announced. The effect on Joanne was to make her intensify the slaps, bringing cries of genuine distress from Catherine. 'Five seconds... four... three... two... one... Stop!' With one last spank right on the wire and right in the centre of Catherine's bottom, Joanne finished.

For a few moments Catherine lay across Joanne's lap, getting her breathing under control again. Joanne rubbed the mounds of flesh she had just been mistreating, obviously much to Catherine's relief from the way she was soon sighing. But she was only allowed a couple of minutes of this treatment before Joanne stopped and lifted her back on her feet. 'Time's up,' she said, as Catherine clumsily hauled her knickers back up, 'next please!'

The book was reopened and Kelly realised it was her turn. Gingerly she approached the waiting lap. This would be her second spanking. At the last meeting she had got her first from Catherine, not too hard because she was new. She imagined Joanne's would be much harder.

She stretched herself cat-like over Joanne's strong lower limbs. The feeling of the smooth flesh against her belly was a strange and not unpleasant sensation. She spread her arms out automatically to catch her weight as she went forward, her palms sinking into the deep soft carpet. She gave a couple of little wriggles to make sure she was exactly where Joanne wanted her, flicking her head from side to side to shake her long blonde hair away from her face.

Kelly lay quietly awaiting her fate for a few seconds. Then she felt Joanne's left arm lie gently across the small of her back, as it had with Catherine. Kelly managed to stay still but could not hold back a shiver when Joanne's right hand smoothed over the seat of her knickers. A second later and the hand was in the elastic of her waistband, then the flimsy garments were being pulled down. Her bottom was being bared.

Instinctively she lifted her hips to allow her knickers to be drawn down her thighs, to rest just above her knees. The prickling of her wiry little pubic hairs against Joanne's smooth bare thigh was the oddest sensation. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself.

The uncovering of her bottom had clearly had an effect on the others, who had watched in silence as Kelly was prepared for sacrifice. It was Catherine who broke the tense atmosphere. 'You lost three pounds Kelly' she said, consulting the notebook. 'That means seven minutes of spanking. I'll keep time.'

Kelly giggled, even though she found nothing even remotely funny about her situation. She flinched again as Joanne rubbed her naked cheeks. Then her hand left her bottom and Kelly knew it was lifted ready to fall.

'Heady – steady – GO!' called Catherine. A micro second later and Joanne's hand landed smartly across Kelly's left buttock. She heard the impact first, gasping as the breath was knocked out of her, then she felt the pain. It was sharp, a piercing sting, very centralised in the flesh of her bottom. She barely had time to take in the full effect before her right side was given the same treatment. This time Kelly could not help giving a little yelp as Joanne's hard slap hit home. Kelly wondered if she would be able to take seven minutes, but pinioned over Joanne's lap there seemed little she could do about it.

The spanking continued and Kelly found herself gritting her teeth and flexing her arms and legs against the pain. Her little moans became louder and louder, and she wriggled and squirmed. Her fingers clenched and unclenched with each slap, dragging through the fibres of the carpet. Through the haze of emotions she could hear the comments of the other girls behind her. 'Lovely bottom... beautiful little thing... don't know why she needs to diet... let's just be glad she does!'

* * *

Kelly could not help wondering herself why she got talked into this. She worked with Amy and had been out for a few drinks with her one night. After a couple she had told Amy about her failed attempts to lose weight for her forthcoming holiday. The drink had loosened Amy's tongue and she pulled her closer, then told her about 'this fantastic slimming club' she was a member of. Kelly had not believed her at first, but when she repeated the story sober the next day she realised Amy had been telling the truth. She was still not completely convinced but there was a part of her that was curious. She came along to see if it was true, and had been flabbergasted to witness Joanne spanking both Catherine's smooth pale bottom and Amy's chubby cheeks. She had wondered aloud just how painful it could be, so Catherine played the good hostess and showed her. Then her weight was recorded for reference at this month's meeting.

Now, just as she was beginning to curse herself for not losing more weight in the last four weeks, she heard Catherine's voice above yet another heavy slap to her unprotected rear. 'Seven minutes! Time's up!' And as suddenly as it had begun, the spanking stopped.

Kelly did not know what she was supposed to do now. Stand up? Joanne was not trying to push her off her lap yet. Try to reach round and rub her scalded bum? She did not think she could manage that without losing what was left of her dignity. So she settled for lying where she was and trying to compose herself. Then she felt Joanne's hand on her bottom again, this time with a gentle stroking, just as she had done to Catherine, and Kelly found it infinitely soothing. 'Excellent' Joanne said, 'you did really well for a spanking virgin. Didn't she girls?'

'Oh, she's a natural, no doubt about that,' said Catherine. 'I just hope you didn't smack her too hard and put her off for good.'

'Seeing me get the cane might do that,' said Amy hopefully, 'I do you think we should postpone...'

'No way!' declared Joanne, 'you do not get away with it like that! Get across my lap now!' And Kelly felt herself being lifted back to her feet. As she got upright she dragged at her knickers to cover herself up, imagining her bottom must be twice its normal size after the abuse Joanne had given it.

She felt Amy behind her and stepped out of the way to let the brunette take her place. Kelly watched entranced as Amy stretched across Joanne's lap. The stout thighs and bottom cheeks seemed to spread even wider in this position than when she was standing. Joanne certainly had a wide enough target area to aim at. Just as well, since Amy was going to have to take thirteen minutes of a spanking which Kelly now knew was going to be anything but gentle. She rubbed her bottom at the memory, wincing at how tender it still was. 'Do you want to keep time again?' It was Catherine and she was talking to Kelly.

'Oh, yes, okay, if you want me to.' And she looked at her watch, noting how many minutes it was before noon, then waited for the second hand to reach the top. 'Go!' she called, as it ticked onto the figure twelve. Joanne's raised hand splatted down onto the centre of Amy's broad bottom. Amy gasped at the impact and Kelly gasped at the shock waves which rippled through her cheeks and thighs. Joanne's palm cracked down again, a little more to the side on the right this time, then a sharp blow to the left followed very quickly.

Kelly watched in fascination. Joanne was not holding back and Amy began to roll, squirm and moan. 'This is for all those cream cakes... SLAP... and french fries... SLAP... and mayonnaise... SLAP... which you couldn't resist,' lectured Joanne as she punctuated her sentence with hand spanks. 'What you need Amy is... SLAP... discipline. And since you clearly have no... SLAP... self-discipline, it's up to us to... SLAP... give it to you!'

Amy was gasping for breath by now and Kelly wondered if she could take almost a quarter of an hour of this treatment. But she was not crying for mercy or release and was making no attempt to escape Joanne's clutches. Did she not want to lose face in front of the others? Or did she honestly believe she deserved this punishment for letting herself down with her diet?

Kelly returned her attention to her watch and concentrated on the minutes ticking by rather than Amy's growing discomfort. The seconds seemed to hang forever and she thought it might never come to an end, but eventually she was able to call to Joanne and Amy that there were only fifteen seconds to go, then ten, and five, and finally she called 'stop – time's up!' bringing Amy's torture to a temporary end.

All four of them seemed to relax, not just the pair who had been doing all the work. As with Kelly and Catherine, Joanne began stroking Amy's bottom, which Kelly now saw was a mottled scarlet over almost its entire surface area. Sniffing sounds were coming from Amy's other end, but these gradually subsided as her body stopped twitching.

'And now the part she's been dreading since she weighed herself this morning.'

Kelly turned to look at Catherine. 'The cane.' The redhead strode to the sofa to pick up the thin rod.

'Does Joanne give her that as well?' asked Kelly, as Catherine flexed the supple cane between her hands. She had never seen one before and was fascinated yet also horrified by it.

'Well, Joanne will get to give her the cane, yes,' said Catherine, 'but so will we.'

'Us?' stuttered Kelly, not understanding at all.

'Yes, all of us. She gained three pounds so each member of the group gets to give her three strokes, it's a shame she chose the month you joined to let her diet go to pot, or she'd have got away with six. As it is she'll get nine.'

'Nine! Oh my God, I don't know if I can!' This was Amy, by now being helped to her feet by Joanne.

'If you're capable of eating enough to gain three pounds, you're capable of taking nine with the cane! Just think of all that extra padding!' said Joanne, landing another not too playful slap across her bottom, bringing another yell of shock from her. 'And I'll take those, if you don't mind!' And she seized Amy's panties, dragging them down to her ankles and giving her no choice but to hop out of them if she wanted to stay on her feet. The redundant underwear was lobbed onto an armchair and Joanne stood up and turned the chair around. 'Over,' she curtly instructed Amy.

The brunette looked forlornly from one to the other of each of the women in the room. Tears welled in her big green eyes. If it had been up to her Kelly would have snapped the cane in two and hugged the poor girl for all she was worth. But it was not up to her, it was up to Catherine and Joanne, and all Amy got back from them was stony-faced severity.

Realising she had no choice Amy turned to the chair and leaned awkwardly over the back rest. She placed her hands on the seat then shuffled her legs apart till the small but significant bulge of her tummy rested on the wooden strut. Kelly heard her sharp intake of breath, then she was still and silent, her red bottom glowing like a beacon to guide them to their target.

'You may as well start since you have the cane,' said Joanne to Catherine.

'Thanks, Jo, I think I will.' And Catherine stepped boldly up to Joanne's left. She took a careful grip on the cane just above the crook handle then lined its length up across Amy's rear. Kelly saw Amy twitch at the contact and thought she detected a whitening of the knuckles of her right hand which she could see grasping the seat. 'Ready?' Catherine asked her. She only nodded in reply and the cane was drawn back about two feet.

For a second all four women held their breath, then there was a swish as Catherine swung the cane down. A loud crack echoed around the room and Amy let out a choked 'aah!' as it made its mark squarely across her cheeks. Catherine raised the cane again and Kelly saw the vivid weal, red and getting redder; right along the centre of her bottom from cheek to cheek. Then the cane landed again, a little lower this time. As it was lifted Kelly saw how the mark started off white, then came to match its neighbour in colour. The cane flicked down again, above where the first strike had landed, giving Amy three clear tram lines.

Catherine stepped away from the bending girl and held the cane out to Joanne, who took it with a smile. Kelly guessed this was bad news for Amy, and she was right. 'The three most important things to have when you're dieting' said Joanne as she took up Catherine's former position, 'are willpower, willpower and willpower.

'Unfortunately, my girl, you have none of them'. And the cane whipped diagonally across Amy's bottom, from left to right, top to bottom. She gave another gasp. 'So you must learn it!' And with a flick of her wrist the cane landed with a diagonal slash opposite to her first attempt. 'Or you'll only find yourself right back here next month!' And Joanne finished off her set with a particularly nasty stroke which travelled the conventional distance, straight across Amy's bottom and almost on top of one of the marks left by Catherine's cuts.

So far Kelly had just stared at the punishments being handed out. It had not really dawned on her that she would now be expected to used the cane herself, so when Joanne held the handle out to her she just stared at it for a few seconds. Then she regained a little of her composure and took it.

It was of course the first time she had ever held one, and at first she was impressed with the smoothness and polish of the texture. It was so thin it seemed too innocuous to be able to cause any pain, but the six vivid lines across Amy's bottom were testament to its powers. Standing in the spot she had seen Catherine and Joanne stand, she put her hand right in the bend of the crook. 'No no, not like that,' remonstrated Joanne immediately, 'hold it further up, away from the handle'.

'Why do I have to do that?' Kelly asked dumbfounded.

'Because, its the only way you'll be able to aim it properly. Look, hold it out in front of you,' Joanne went on in a somewhat exasperated tone. Kelly detected a wry smile playing across Catherine's beautiful lips as she stretched her arm out. 'You'll notice it's not completely straight.' The cane did indeed have a slight kink in it. 'So in order to land it properly you'll have to angle the bend against Amy's arse, and grip it higher up so you can shorten the length, otherwise it could go up, down or even round as you swing it. And you're meant to be caning her big fat bottom, not her hips or thighs.'

Kelly moved her hand and turned the cane around as instructed. She had no idea if it would make it any easier to use, but it seemed to keep Joanne happy. She pulled her arm back till it was level with her breasts, then held her breath, concentrated on her target and flicked her arm down.

The effect was electric. She managed to land the cane across both Amy's buttocks, although it had landed diagonally and she had been aiming straight. She had not meant to hit her friend particularly hard either, but the flexibility had proved to be stronger than she allowed for, and she could only imagine the sting as the cane landed. Nevertheless, Amy sucked in her breath but there was otherwise no reaction.

'Good, now again,' Joanne encouraged her. Raising her arm again Kelly looked at the part of Amy's bottom where she wanted the cane to land, then swung it down. This time it was much closer to where she had aimed, and a little harder. Amy let out a groan and clutched the seat even tighter.

'Once more and make it a good one,' said Catherine. 'Remember she'll thank us next month when she's lost weight.'

'Thank us, and probably spank us after this,' added Joanne. 'If this doesn't make her lose more than the rest of us, nothing will. Still, all in a good cause!'

For some reason, the prospect of Amy turning the tables on them all in a month's time excited Kelly beyond reason. Lifting her arm a little higher she lashed it down with more force than before, bringing a startled cry from Amy and gasps of surprise from Joanne and Catherine. 'You meant that, didn't you?' said the latter. Kelly just grinned and nodded then handed the cane back to her as Amy stood up, tenderly pressing her fingers into her abused flesh.

The others dressed in the living room but Kelly took her clothes to the bathroom, partly because she wanted to use the loo, but also so she could take a good look at the damage Joanne's hand had done to her bottom. The sting had become a pleasant warm tingle and she found much of the initial redness she imagined must have been there had also faded. To her surprise she found she was a little disappointed at this. As she stood with her back to the bathroom mirror, her knickers back around her thighs, she traced a horizontal line across both cheeks with her right index finger, exactly where she imagined the weal of a cane would go. Then she turned and looked at her figure full-on, her hands on her hips. She decided she was not in such bad shape after all. Of course she would carry on coming to the meetings to make sure she stayed that way. But she certainly did not need to lose that much weight. In fact maybe before they got together next month she could do with gaining a pound or two.

Sunday, 25 December 2011

Lessons For An Errant Wife

Story from Janus 43.

Lessons For An Errant Wife
by R.T. Mason

A bright shaft of afternoon sunlight slanted across the Headmaster's office to highlight the blonde bowed head of a girl seated at a table at the side of his large polished oak desk. It was 4.15 and the raucous clamour of departing pupils had now died away, leaving the school largely deserted except for a few masters, like the Head, holding a detention.

The brightly lit head remained bowed as its owner continued, unhappily, to write over and over: I must endeavour to do very much better. James Wescott, fiftyish, tweed-jacketed, looked momentarily up from the papers he was marking and experienced a pleasant glow of anticipation. She was an extremely attractive pupil. She was also a very special pupil. And his instructions were to make her life very unpleasant indeed. Her name was Carole Wright.

The reason she was very special was that although she at present was not wearing a wedding ring Carole Wright was married. She was also 22, though she looked no more than 17 in the school uniform and with her blonde hair tied in two girlish bunches with red ribbons. Carole Wright in fact was a young married lady who had not been behaving very properly.

So she had to be punished. Being a schoolgirl again was that punishment. This was her first day, getting kitted out with her uniform in the morning and starting at Mr Wescott's school after lunch. A lesson of English with the Head had conveniently brought her this detention. Carole was to attend school for two weeks. They were to be two weeks that she would not forget for a very long time.

'How many have you written?' he queried.

The blonde head was raised to give a view of the slightly flushed face. A softly pretty face, full-lipped, sensuous. That tied in with what Mr Wescott had been told by his friend Adrian Farnworth who had brought her to him. A sensual appetite which had been indulged outside the confines of marriage. Unfortunately for Carole her young husband had found out.

She bit her lip. 'Forty-six, Mr Wescott.' It was still difficult to accept that this was happening.

'Get on with it,' he growled. 'You'd better learn to write faster than that, my girl.'

When she had done 100 he would tell her to stop. Then he was going to cane her. James Wescott savoured the thought. Girls were normally off-limits for the cane.

None of the other pupils knew the situation. Her new form mates had simply been told that she was attending while she spent a short stay with her uncle. A couple of members of staff had been told, Mr Gatting, Games Master, for one, but that was all. When the idea had been first suggested James Wescott had been doubtful. Could a 22-year-old pass for 17? But when he saw her it was clear she could, especially once they'd got her in the uniform and with her hair done in those schoolgirl bunches.

Adrian Farnworth had said, 'Young Carole has got to have a very unpleasant two weeks.' Well, James Wescott could see to that.

He got up from his desk and walked round to look down: at the blonde head, the slim shoulders in the white school blouse, the hand wearily repeating its boring message. Mr Wescott's own hand reached out to sharply pinch the lobe of a pretty ear. Carole gave a squeak of pain.

'How many?' he kept hold of her ear.

She let out another yelp. 'Pl...please! Oooh! Eighty... eighty-six. Sir. I think.'

Mr Wescott gave a final tug at the ear and then went to sit down. 'Stop writing. And come over here.'

The pretty face was quite red now, with an apprehensive look. Carole got to her feet and came hesitantly forward. She had a very nice shape, firm good-sized tits pushing out of her white blouse on either side of the school red-and-grey striped tie, and with the very short grey pleated skirt showing a good six inches of shapely bare thigh. Her skirt was in fact deliberately several sizes too short and the white knee-socks Carole had on were normally only worn by the younger girls.

She stood uncertainly at the side of the Head's desk, blinking in the face of a hard stare.

'Now I'm going to cane you, Carole.'

As the blue eyes rounded in fear he added, 'The cane on your bare bottom. That's what naughty girls need.'

'No!' she blurted. 'You can't... not that.'

'You'll very soon find out that I can, girl. And if necessary I'll bring the Deputy Head in here to hold you down whilst I do it. Please remove your skirt.'

Carole's eyes looked desperate. No one had mentioned the cane before. But she knew she was in no position to argue. She had been forced to accept this whole ridiculous humiliating affair, it had been either that or have Bob get a divorce.

'Come on,' Mr Wescott barked. 'Get it off. It shouldn't be a problem. You've had enough practice by all accounts, taking your clothes off for every Tom, Dick and Harry.'

Carole bit her lip, and an even deeper flush suffused her delectable features. It hadn't been like that but there was no point in arguing. Her hands went to the button which fastened the waist of the skirt. Blushing, she slid it down. Underneath were neat white nylon knickers tight over her hips and rounded buttocks.

'Put it on the desk. Now take off the knickers.'

She tried not to think about it. Tried to shut out the fact that she was standing in front of Mr Wescott with his stern schoolmasterish gaze keenly on her, missing nothing. Carole told herself again that she had no option as she forced her hands to slide down the knickers. She stepped out of them. One hand came quickly across to cover her blonde bush while the other was left holding the bunched-up briefs.

'Put them on the desk,' Mr Wescott instructed. 'And then stand up straight. At attention. From what I hear of your behaviour, Miss, modesty is a little out of place.'

With an effort Carole made herself stand with her hands at her sides. This was simply diabolical – but presumably that was what they wanted, to humiliate her. Her bottom lip started to tremble.

'Good. Stay like that, at attention, whilst I finish these papers. Then I shall cane you.'

Carole stood there, in blouse and tie and white knee-socks and the sensible schoolgirl shoes and nothing else, while Mr Wescott got on with his marking. From time to time he glanced up – at Carole's flushed face and at what she was being forced to display below her waist. It was desperately horrible and it seemed to go on for ever. At last the Headmaster shuffled the papers into a neat pile at the side of his desk.

'Ever had it before? A nice whippy cane on that bottom?'

Numbly Carole shook her head.

'Good. You'll find it most stimulating. Not perhaps the stimulation that you're used to but stimulating nonetheless. It really gets those nerve endings jangling, as you'll see.'

Mr Wescott had been clearing one side of his desk and now got up. 'Bend over, Miss. Lie yourself across the desk. Knees nice and straight and stick your bottom out.'

Carole felt as if she wanted to be sick. 'Look...' she gasped.

'Get over it! Or I'll have Mr Matthews in here holding you.' There was a long curved cane in his hand now.

Carole stepped forward and bent over. How could they do this to her. The shaft of sunlight had moved round and was now on Mr Wescott's desk, momentarily dazzling her as she lay across it. She closed her eyes, the shiny surface warm against her cheek. Her fingers clutched at the edge. With a shiver of terror Carole felt the cane laid across her bare bottom, pat-patting the soft flesh. She held her breath.


The breath burst from Carole's mouth in a yell of anguish. The cane had zipped in across the full meat of her bottom like a glowing hot poker. A red blur of pain exploded in her head as her pertly rounded rear performed a frantic dance. Its pale soft flesh was now decorated with a tight pair of rapidly reddening tramlines.

'No!' she yelled. 'NO!' But as the words gasped out there was a second CRACK! biting in half an inch below the first stroke.

Mr Wescott's voice, somewhat breathless with effort and excitement: 'You will, my girl. You'll take six.'

Carole had no idea how she took them, her mind giving up registering detail after the first two and seeming to float helplessly above the intense shocking pain as the cane repeatedly struck down. But six it was. Six nice bright red double stripes on the taut rounded bottom cheeks. When it was over the pretty young housewife could barely stand up and her face, red and blotchy and wet with tears, really did look like a 17-year-old's. As for her bottom it felt as if a thousand wasps had been at work on it.

Somehow Carole managed to put on her skirt and knickers, and then her blazer. Outside, humiliating school satchel in hand, she crossed the deserted yard on tottery legs; then made for the bus stop. Still ringing in her head was Mr Wescott's parting shot.

'I hope that'll give you something to think about, young lady. For your information I shall be giving you a dose of exactly the same medicine every afternoon that you're with us.' This had been accompanied by a sharp slap to her stinging bottom as she went out.

A quarter of an hour to Mr Farnworth's house, or 'Uncle Adrian' as Carole had been told to call him. An unpleasant quarter of an hour with, it seemed, all the other passengers staring at her, and the youngish bus conductor joshing her about her short skirt. Then the few minutes' walk to the house. Horrible Mr Farnworth's house, whom she had to stay with for these next two weeks.

Carole rang the bell. A smiling Mr Farnworth opened it. If it wasn't bad enough to see his grinning face there with him was Mr Mannings as well.

* * *

It was Mr Mannings who had organised this whole diabolical plan. He was the solicitor Bob had gone to when he found out that Carole had been going round to her boss's house at lunch times and not just for a cup of coffee. In blazing anger he had gone to the solicitor demanding an immediate divorce. But Mr Mannings had persuaded Bob that perhaps he was being too hasty. Why not give her one more chance, but punish her for what she had done.

Carole certainly didn't want a divorce. She had simply been having a pleasant fling on the side. Mr Brightling's attention had been very flattering and it hadn't needed a lot of persuasion to get her to say yes. For a couple of months life had been utterly fantastic, doing it with Mr Brightling at lunch time and that proving to add an extra dimension to her nights in bed with Bob. Then of course Bob had found out. Carole had been desperate, losing the security of her husband and marriage being the last thing she wanted.

So she had been eager to agree to any alternative. What suave, smooth-talking Mr Mannings had come up with had been this way-out idea of going back to school. A friend of his was acquainted with the Headmaster of a small, old-fashioned boarding school for girls, a rather bleak institution particularly favoured as a dumping-ground for unwanted stepdaughters on account of its relatively low fees, lack of leniency and optional holiday boarding facilities. Why not send Carole to stay with Mr Farnworth for a couple of weeks and attend Mr Wescott's school?

Mr Mannings had smiled his professional solicitor's smile as Carole and Bob sat in his office.

'Your dear wife has behaved irresponsibly and childishly, Mr Wright, so why not treat her as a child? Two weeks in a short schoolgirl's skirt and carrying a satchel to school. She won't enjoy that one little bit. And we can ask Mr Wescott to make life a little, ah, hot for her.'

Carole had flushed. It sounded pretty sickening but not as bad as Bob getting a divorce. It never entered her head that making life 'hot' for her could possibly include the cane across her bare bottom. Now as she returned from that sickening first afternoon here was Mr Mannings as well as Mr Farnworth, both grinning at her as she stepped into the hallway.

'I thought I'd drop over and see how you were settling in,' Mr Mannings told her. 'My, you do make a cute schoolgirl, don't you!'

Carole gritted her teeth. She didn't know whom she hated most: Mr Mannings who had devised all this or that Mr Wescott who had just thrashed her with that dreadful cane. Not that 'Uncle Adrian' was much better. That visit with him to the school outfitter in the morning had been truly beastly. Forced to strip in front of the two men and then have them try the various items of ghastly schoolgirl clothing on her.

'How did you get on, dear?' inquired Mr Farnworth. He was the same sort of age as the other two, fiftyish, and was obviously getting a real kick out of this. There was a Mrs Farnworth but so far Carole hadn't seen much of her.

'Bloody diabolical!' she spat out. 'He could be reported for... for what he did.'

'You mean the cane, dear?' asked Mr Farnworth mildly. 'Oh no, it's perfectly legal. And you did agree to it as I understand.'

Mr Mannings' eyes were shining. 'Of course she did. Let's have a look, Carole. Let's see if our friend has left any marks of his handiwork.'

'No!' Carole gasped. But they simply grabbed her and dragged her into the sitting room. And then 'Uncle Adrian' held her arms while Mr Mannings got her skirt off and then yanked Carole's knickers down to her knees. She finished up face-down on the carpet with Mr Farnworth holding her shoulders. A hand, Mr Mannings', stroked Carole's bare bottom.

'Oh my, he certainly has left his mark. Or should I say marks.'

Carole kicked her legs but was helpless. She could feel hot tears of humiliation in her eyes. The hand lightly smacked her bottom again and again while the two men laughed. Then they let go of her. Carole rolled away, grabbing at the lowered knickers.

'You... you bastards!' she hissed.

'Now, now,' admonished Mr Farnworth, now sitting in an armchair and watching keenly as Carole got her clothes back on. 'We may have to remember that before bedtime, eh Charles? I should say coarse language in a schoolgirl calls for a slippering.'

With shaking hands Carole put the skirt back on. She was trembling all over and her breath was coming in half sobs.

'C...can I go upstairs?' she managed.

'May I go upstairs please, Uncle Adrian,' Mr Farnworth corrected.

Carole forced herself to say that. 'Of course, my dear. Got some homework to do I expect?'

Both men thought this a great joke. Mr Mannings smacked her leg as she went out. Upstairs Carole threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.

Half an hour later there was a knock at the door. It proved to be Mrs Farnworth. She was younger than her husband, quite pleasant-looking, and was carrying a cup of tea on a saucer with two little biscuits. Carole, still lying on the bed, sat up. Her face was red and puffy from further outbursts of tears.

Mrs Farnworth told her to cheer up. 'No use crying over spilt milk, and from what I hear it has been all your own fault. There's much too much of that sort of thing nowadays, married girls running around and doing just what they want. I think it's a disgusting way to carry on – in my day you would never have dreamed of it. It's all wrong! So you can't complain.'

Carole took a sip of the warm tea and said nothing.

'Did Mr Wescott really cane you?'

Blinking at the memory Carole nodded. Mrs Farnworth shook her head. 'Well, maybe that's what's needed.'

Carole certainly didn't feel hungry but a little while later when the dinner was ready she had to go down and sit at the table with the others. Carole was ordered to eat up every scrap that was put before her – just like a little child. Forcing herself to keep eating she thought she was going to be actually sick, but somehow managed to avoid it. 'Uncle Adrian' playfully suggested it might be a good idea if they got a high chair for Carole's use. They might even put a bib on her in case she made a mess. Struggling to finish Mrs Farnworth's casserole, Carole said nothing. There was always the chance that Mr Farnworth was serious.

After dinner that gentleman said that if his wife didn't mind he and Mr Mannings would take Carole out to the pub. 'Give her a little airing.' Oh God, what has he thought up now, Carole wondered, for it was unlikely that the visit was being planned with her enjoyment in mind.

This proved to be the case as Carole was banished to a children's parlour, Mr Farnworth telling her that young girls weren't allowed in the bar. She had to sit there with a bag of crisps and some lemonade, in her too-small schoolgirl uniform, with two young children and their parents eyeing her wonderingly.

'How old are you?' inquired a little boy of about nine.

At least it could be worse Carole told herself, forcing down crisps which she didn't want any more than she had wanted dinner. Very soon, though, it did get worse as Mr Farnworth and Mr Mannings came in from the bar bearing glasses of beer and bringing two acquaintances with them.

'Here she is,' announced Mr Farnworth. 'My niece Carole. Stand up, Carole, and say hello to these two gentlemen.'

What Mr Farnworth had in mind soon became apparent. A little spot of humiliating embarrassment. 'Just between the four of us,' he confided, 'Carole's been a naughty girl. Had to have the cane at school this afternoon. Not working properly. So right now she's got some nice red marks on her bottom.'

Mr Farnworth was speaking quite loud enough for the couple with the children to hear. Carole cringed. One of the two newcomers, a fat man with a red sweaty face, said, 'I wouldn't mind watching her get that. Eh Jack? On the bare was it?'

'Oh yes,' replied Mr Farnworth. 'I told the Headmaster that he would have to deal strictly with her otherwise she might get really out of hand. Actually if you two are interested she's got to have a slippering before bed tonight. Bad language. Why not come back and view the proceeding?'

Carole felt like sinking through the floor. Naturally the offer was enthusiastically taken up. On the drive back Carole had to sit wedged between the two visitors in the back seat. The fat man's creepy hand was squeezing her thigh for most of the ten-minute drive.

Back at the house Carole was told to go up to her room and put on her pyjamas and then come straight down again. Her pyjamas were thin blue cotton, short-sleeved and with three-quarter length legs. They were very tight-fitting, designed to show off her trim shapely bottom and the firm thrust of her breasts, and even the fine shape of her legs. The pyjamas were meant for the privacy of home of course, not for wearing in front of four horrible older men whose only interest was in tormenting her. Not for the first time today Carole found herself bitterly regretting those lunch-time dalliances with Mr Brightling. On quaking legs she padded down the stairs.

A chorus of raucous masculine approval greeted her. They were sitting in chairs and on the sofa all facing a leather-covered stool which was set out in the middle of the room. On the stool was a man's brown leather slipper. Through the remarks and laughter Mr Farnworth told Carole to stand facing them by the stool He called for silence.

'Now Carole, are you sorry for using that dreadful language?'

Carole bit her lip. She had only said 'bastards' but she nodded meekly. Four pairs of eyes were riveted to her choice form.

'Let's hear it then.'

Carole forced the words out. 'I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I used bad language.'

'Right. Very good. But to make sure you remember that you're going to get the slipper. Drop your pyjama trousers please.'

Carole hesitated, looking from one intent face to another, the four men forming one group. Mr Farnworth got to his feet.

'Come on, young lady, let's have you! Young girls must learn to jump to it when they're told to do something. Get them down!'

Trying to close her mind to it all Carole slid the trousers down. There was a wolf whistle from the fat man. 'Oh just look at that!' from the other visitor. Mr Farnworth, the slipper in one hand, took hold of Carole's arm and pushed her down on the stool with her legs, and her bottom, facing the three seated men.

She could almost feel the four pairs of hot male eyes boring into her bared bottom, searching into every intimate curve, every little declivity. In a way it was almost a relief when the slipper cracked down for it broke the tension of having to just kneel there, on show. In other ways it wasn't a relief of course for it hurt like hell, a vicious splat making Carole yell out and writhe her bottom in automatic reaction.

She tried not to jerk her rear, but to keep it still and to keep her legs tight together as the slipper proceeded to rhythmically crack in, but this proved a difficult task. The slipper stung so much that she couldn't keep still. Her primly closed knees were jerked apart in what had to be a revealing manner; but there was nothing Carole could do about it.

Mr Farnworth kept it up, egged on by the other men and in particular by the fat one, Mr Larkins. When Mr Farnworth at last stopped the fat Larkins said he wanted to have a go. Carole quickly scrambled to her feet and with a scared look at Mr Farnworth dragged her pyjamas up over her glowing bottom. Please God, don't let them all do it, she prayed.

For the moment anyway her prayer was answered. 'Not I think tonight at least,' said Mr Farnworth judiciously. 'She's only just arrived and I feel responsible. But she is staying two weeks. Perhaps later. Eh Carole?'

Carole shivered. Soon afterwards the two visitors were driven home, but there was time enough for Mr Larkins to help himself to several groping feels at Carole's bottom. He simply could not have been more blatant about it. When Mr Farnworth returned he gave her a knowing look.

'That Bill Larkins really seems to fancy you, my dear. Yes, very keen. Actually I'm not sure that hitting you with a slipper is all he wants to do to you. If you get my meaning. What do you think, you're very experienced in those matters? I bet you'd rather like it, eh? He said he'd like you to stop over at his place one night.'

'No!' Carole gasped. She could just imagine being in the clutches of that lecherous fat man.

'Uncle Adrian' smiled and slapped her bottom. 'I don't think it would be a bad idea at all.' But surely he was just being nasty.

At this point Mrs Farnworth brought in that archetypal childhood drink, a mug of cocoa. Carole hated cocoa but she was made to drink it all up nonetheless.

'Make you grow up into a big girl,' quipped Mr Farnworth and her tormentor gave her another brisk slap across her tight pyjamad bum. It was now 10 o'clock. 'Long past schoolgirls' bedtime,' according to Mr Farnworth.

'Ca...can I call my husband, please?'

Carole had only been here a day but already it was a nightmare. Perhaps if she asked him nicely Bob would relent and let her come back. The thought of two whole weeks of this was – well, it was unthinkable. Mr Farnworth gave her an owlish look. Feeling desperate Carole repeated her plea, this time adding the ridiculous 'Uncle Adrian'. She had a sudden feeling that if she could only speak to Bob now he would say yes.

Mr Farnworth, after portentiously considering the matter, gave his assent. He didn't go out of the room, though, but sat down opposite Carole as she began dialling. It was a funny feeling dialling her own number from this place because although she had been here less than 24 hours it was now almost like another world. She felt like crying and when she heard Bob's voice the tears did well out.

He sounded aggressive. 'How are they treating you? Giving you a rough time, I hope.'

'Darling, please!' Carole had difficulty in making her voice work. 'Please let me come back. I... I can't take it here.'

'What d'you mean you can't take it,' Bob growled. 'You haven't even been there a whole day yet. It sounds to me as if they're doing a pretty good job. So that when you do come back in two weeks you'll think twice every time you feel randy.'

'No! Please! You've got to let me come back!' Tears were streaming down Carole's face. 'I... gaa... nngghh...'

Whatever else she was going to say was lost in a series of convulsive sobs. Mr Farnworth moved swiftly over to sit next to Carole on the sofa. He took up the phone.

'Mr Wright? Adrian Farnworth here. Glad to speak to you. As you can hear Carole is a little emotional at the moment. She is finding her reversion to schoolgirl life somewhat unpleasant, but naturally that is the object of the exercise. I certainly would not recommend curtailing her visit.'

'I wouldn't dream of it.' Bob Wright's voice sounded bitter. 'I want her taught a proper lesson.'

Mr Farnworth reached down and squeezed one of the sobbing girl's thighs. 'We are at one on that, Mr Wright. Rest assured that we will teach her a proper lesson.'

He put the phone in its cradle and turned to Carole. 'That was a most unfortunate emotional outburst, my girl. A very schoolgirlish outburst and as such needs dealing with in the appropriate manner.'

Adrian Farnworth dragged the still sobbing Carole over his lap and then pulled down the pyjama bottoms which not long earlier had been down for the slipper. Carole's rear was still somewhat pink from the attentions of that item but the pink was soon transformed into a nice bright red again as 'Uncle Adrian' firmly and repeatedly applied the hard palm of his hand.

* * *

It was a very long two weeks for Carole Wright, certainly the longest two weeks she had ever spent. Because she was made to stay the full period in spite of repeated, usually tearful, pleadings. There was Mr Westcott's cane every day in detention after school, and on a number of other occasions as well. There were also other unpleasantnesses at school, quite a few of them thought up by the Games Master who was one of the few other people there were aware of Carole's true status. Cross-country running; hockey games on muddy fields with big strong girls who had been instructed to play very rough; exhausting special sessions in the gym which made Carole think her heart was going to collapse; and frequently a nice cold shower to round things off.

At home there was 'Uncle Adrian' doing his best to keep everything on the boil, and succeeding very well. Mr Mannings had only stayed overnight but he visited again a couple of times to help out. Uncle Adrian also invited other of his friends to assist in the training. Several times he held a little party in which Carole, sitting on a stool in the centre of a group of middle-aged men, would be quizzed on some subject or other she had had that day at school. Failure to satisfy her quiz-masters would result in instant retribution. On a tender rear that was getting more tender all the time. Sometimes she thought that her mind was going to explode.

If all this wasn't enough there was our friend Mr Larkins. Fat, red-faced, piggy-eyed, creepy-handed Bill Larkins. Carole was continually threatened with the impending prospect of being made to spend one or more overnight stays with charming Bill. 'A change of scene is just what you need,' said Mr Farnworth. Even just one such visit would have been quite sufficient to deter a girl from further extra-marital dalliance for the rest of her life.