Saturday, 21 January 2012

Mother And Daughter - the story from Blushes

Story from Blushes 30.

Mother And Daughter

Tuesday, 19th of April. The clock in the Rover dashboard indicated 3.55. Elizabeth Mayfield reached to turn down the vanity mirror. Her face with the big violet eyes registered anxiety. She pursed full, red-lipsticked lips. Not looking at her husband she said, 'He' big.' Her voice low in wonderment — and fear. 'Enormous. Fiona...' Turning now to Derek. 'I can't bear to think. We should never have agreed.'

Derek Mayfield's eyes remained fixed on the road. The road leading away from Greentops Finishing School and its principal, Mr Philip Branton MA. Who was a very big man. Unemotionally he said, 'We didn't have a lot of choice, did we? Unless we wanted her kicked out. It'll probably do her good.'

'How can you be so callous.' Elizabeth squirmed her bottom on the car seat. Almost as if she could feel the cane across her own substantial but shapely hindquarters. 'He could kill her,' she breathed. 'He must be.... 20 stone at least.'

Derek's eyes remained to the front as he pictured Philip Branton. He blinked. 'Size is not a lot to do with it. A 10-stone weakling if he set his mind to it could certainly have a girl howling for mercy. And could no doubt also make quite a mess of her bottom. Branton won't be hitting with full force or anything like it. No one does.'

'It's all right for you. You won't be getting it. That poor girl.'

Derek gave her a quick look. A smile. 'Nor will you. I thought he was all right. I don't think he'll really hurt her. And it should make her stop and think. Would you want her coming home pregnant?'

Elizabeth said, 'Don't be disgusting.' The dashboard clock now said exactly 4.00. They were some 35 miles from Greentops Fishing School. Where the clock on Philip Branton's mantlepiece registered 4.04.

His clock was always slightly fast. Which frequently made a girl start when she glanced at it, imagining that she was late for her appointment. Mr Branton was a stickler for punctuality. It was in fact exactly 4 o'clock as his door opened to admit a nervous looking Fiona Mayfield. Exactly on time in spite of a last minute dash to the loo. A frenzied yanking down of her freshly clean white knickers and then perching her bottom on the seat. She felt desperate to pee but there was only a little trickle tinkling into the bowl. Nerves. Desperate, stomach-clenching nerves. She wiped herself and grabbed up her pants. Fresh clean ones taken 20 minutes ago from her drawer. A girl wanted clean knickers on if Mr Branton was going to.... Oh Christ! Closing his door quietly behind her. Oh Christ. She wanted to go back to the loo again, though of course nothing would come. But if she said 'Sir, I need to go to the loo' it would at least postpone matters for perhaps five minutes. But Mr Branton would not be pleased. And right now, of all times, was not the time to annoy Mr Branton. She came to an uncertain stop in front of his desk.

Philip Branton looked up from his papers. A very pretty girl, blonde, like her mother. A nice shape too, in the demure white blouse and grey skirt with white heels and stockings which comprised the more formal wear for girls at Greentops Finishing School. Slimmer than her mother of course who in her 39 years (worked out from data on Fiona's application form) had put on just a little weight. In the right places, though. Yes. But Fiona...

'As you will know, Fiona, I have had your parents here earlier this afternoon. That is always my practice, when I intend to cane a girl.'

A pause. To let that word sink in. Cane. Fiona opened her mouth. Clenched even white teeth. Closed her mouth again. A soft, vulnerable mouth that would shortly be opening in agony. A pink flush colouring her cheeks. Quite possibly, he thought, there might also be that sudden urge to visit the bathroom.

'Yes. Charming people. And your mother a very attractive woman.' Mr Branton leant forward slightly. 'I can tell you that they raised no objection. They agreed with me that a caning was very much in order. And certainly better than being expelled, as I am sure you will agree.'

Fiona didn't necessarily agree with that; being expelled might well be preferable. But she knew her parents wouldn't think that. Oh no. She had to take her medicine. Mr Branton was getting up. That heavy bulk that when you first saw him rather took your breath away. And you thought, wondered, hotly, fleetingly at least, what it would be like with such a bulk on top of you. If you were married or something. Not that Mr Branton was married. Though some girls said, whispered...

But Fiona wasn't thinking about that now. There was this other awful business. The reason why she had been summoned here at 4 o'clock. Mr Branton now round his desk and close, looming over her. His large hand taking hold of her arm.

'They agreed with me, Fiona, that a girl cannot be allowed to make liaisons with local youths. There is the moral aspect as well as the real possibility of extreme social embarrassment. Your dear mother would not be at all happy to find her daughter swelling up with an unwanted offspring. You can appreciate that I should have thought.'

'I... I didn't do anything,' Fiona stuttered. And she hadn't. She hadn't done much more than speak to him. And she was 18.

'That is a matter we can check of course. But what I am anyway concerned about is that the rule was broken. If one girl gets away with it all the others will think they can follow. That is why I am going to cane you. Now, have I caned you before?'

A rhetorical question. If he had Philip Branton would certainly have remembered. A gasped 'No!' from the shaking girl.

'Then the way I want you is kneeling up on the armchair. Facing the back. With your skirt raised to your waist. And of course your knickers down.'

His hand gripping Fiona's arm turned her towards the chair. The one incidentally in which her mother had been seated earlier that afternoon. A wailing groan from Fiona. It was happening. The reality of it now. She had tried not to think about it but couldn't help wondering. How it would be. Girls who had been caned didn't like to talk about it. Naturally. So you didn't know the details. Didn't really want to. Not until...

A brusque smack to her bottom. 'Get up, girl. Or you'll get it in a way you won't like. Upside down on the table.'

She climbed up, not daring to think what he meant. Kneeling on the seat. 'Open your knees,' from Mr Branton. And pulling her skirt up round her waist. A splendid sight. The virginal whiteness of knickers tight over youthful curves and roundnesses. The slim lines of white suspender straps gripping the tops of white stockings which themselves gripped the soft fullness of pale thighs at middle height. A young lady in her burgeoning prime. A delectable sight. A young lady also in some distress. Gaspy heavy breathing. Anticipation is a nerve-wracking thing. 'The knickers,' said Mr Branton's somewhat gravelly voice.

The knickers. Panicky hands fingering them down. Off of her bottom.

'Knees a bit wider,' advised the principal. 'And bend forward. Then place your hands in between your legs. Just below the knickers.'

Hmmm. Not a true blonde apparently. Not if what he could now see was anything to go by. For the position Fiona had reluctantly assumed was extremely revealing. The whole of a girl's business on display, and the bush of hair was dark brunette in contrast to the shining blonde of her head. Hmmm.


Mr Brantpn's hand. Suddenly there. His other hand in the small of her back anticipating perhaps that she might try to spring up. 'Keep still. I said we can check.'

'Nooo....' But the big fingers were opening her. He couldn't! But... 'Just relax. In a case like this we cannot... simply take a girl's word...' Those large, fat fingers... 'Aaahhhh...'

'Good. That's it. All right. Now then.'

He had let go of her. That shocking intrusion.... Fiona could still feel it although Mr Branton's hand was no longer there. Beads of sweat on her lip. How could he? It...


The cane. Oh God, the cane. 'Nooo....!' A mind-bursting pain across the crests of Fiona's firm buttocks.

'Keep in position, Miss. Won't take long.'


No! She couldn't. Gasping for breath. Her poor bottom on fire. Hot tears starting from the big blue eyes that were not quite as violet as her mothers.



At the time of the third scream Mr Branton's mantlepiece clock showed 4.20, 4.16 correct time. Which was what the dashboard clock in the Rover displayed at that instant of the third scream filling Mr Branton's sitting room.

'Did he say she was going to get it this afternoon?' wondered a fraught Elizabeth Mayfield. As the scream rang out some 50 miles away.

'I can't remember. Stop worrying.' Derek Mayfield's hand came down onto his wife's nyloned knee. 'Didn't you ever get it? When you were at school?'

Behind the violet eyes Elizabeth's mind focussed on things. Both recent and more distant. She hesitated, then: 'Yes.'

The hand slid up, pushing her skirt in front of it. To Elizabeth's bare upper thighs. 'You never told me,' he said. 'When? Where? Who?'

Elizabeth grabbed at his hand. 'Stop it. At my school. My finishing school. Like Fiona. Why, does it excite you? He really beat me if you want to know.'

She could still remember it all right. A vivid, clear memory. That was why when Mr Branton had phoned about Fiona...

Thursday, 14th of April. Mr Branton's mantlepiece clock showing 3.15 when Elizabeth had breathlessly entered his sitting room. A visit she had kept to herself, saying nothing to Derek or indeed to Fiona. A visit to plead with Philip Branton. A woman of maturer years but still stunning. A beautiful blonde come to plead; to throw herself on his mercy for the sake of her daughter.

But Philip Branton, though quite clearly not unresponsive to Elizabeth Mayfield's charms, had remained adamant regarding the caning.

In his sitting room now (Tuesday the 19th), with 4.25 showing on his clock, the sixth and final scream had just pierced the air. The scream came on top of gasping sobs. Four, five and six had, if anything, been harder than the first three. It was essential that a girl be made to feel it. That was after all the whole purpose of a caning.

'You can get down now,' he said. 'Stand. And keep your skirt up.'

She stood, gasping and sobbing. On the pretty legs that didn't seem to want to support her. Mr Branton delivering his post-caning lecture. Observing as he did so that striking contrast between what was below and what was on top. Elizabeth Mayfield, of course, had been just the same in that regard.

In the Rover Elizabeth said, 'It was the caretaker. He found out I was seeing this boy. I wasn't doing a lot but it was strictly against the rules. So... I let him do what he wanted. Cane me. On the bare bottom. Does that excite you?'

'Yes.' Derek's hand pushed back in between her thighs. 'You never told me.'

Elizabeth pursed her lips. She was thinking of the principal of Greentops School again. 'He's so big,' she breathed in the awe-filled voice.

Was Elizabeth Mayfield referring to Mr Branton's general bulk and the thought of his cane whipping down across poor Fiona's bottom? Or something else? That she herself had experienced. On Thursday of last week. Face down in the seat of that armchair.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

Victorian Values

Story from Janus 123.

Victorian Values
by John Undermeyer

Newly married Joshua Hardstone, aghast that his innocent young wife should have appetites of her own, uses the cane to teach her that 'Ladies don't move'.

* * *

I have been slow to marry, and my honeymoon is the more delightful because my wife is young – 20 compared to my own august 48. My age has brought respect, position and wealth, commodities a 20-year-old will come to value and I am sure, in time, Georgina will get to know and fall in with my ways. She is a good girl with (so far) only one fault – in bed she becomes fretful and discontented, I do not know why. I must take her in hand so she knows how life with me must be.

I wanted the first night of my marriage to be full of delight. I knew I had to respect my bride's innocence (she was an untutored virgin) and treat her with tenderness, remembering always that my own desires must be properly satisfied. She undressed in private and climbed into the honeymoon bed in night attire before I came into the room. I took off my clothes in the dressing room, making conversation to put her at ease. I do not deny my organ did the perfectly natural thing while I undressed – it rose stiffly, anxious for release, before I dropped my night-shirt over it. I extinguished the gaslight and the beams from a full moon shone through the net curtains, so I could see my way to bed across the rug-strewn floor.

Georgina met my first approaches with lowered eyes and shy smiles. But soon she gained confidence and when I kissed her, answered with closed lips. I opened mine, was surprised to find her do the same, and we kissed mouths agape. This continued for some time, then I had my first moment of shock – Georgina actually tried to put her tongue in my mouth. This was forwardness indeed! Could I be mistaken in thinking my bride was a virgin? No, for she had had few suitors and never been alone with any but me. I looked into her eyes. She seemed oblivious of her fault and renewed our mouthing – it showed a libertine's nature. Had I deceived myself? Was I, in fact, married to a wanton?

I am not an experienced man; my nature is reserved and I have never used a whore. I do not know how a girl should behave in bed with her husband but I am sure she should be meek, submissive and ladylike, and certainly not lead or be sexually too forward. My Lord Emanuel Curzon has written that during the sexual act 'ladies don't move' and in the brief exchanges I have had with married men they imply their wives generally lie prone during intercourse and are never hungry participants.

This, as you will gather and I came to find out, was not the case with Georgina. From early the first night she expected to do as much in the way of moving and inventing as I did. Open-mouthed kissing was only the start. She took off her night gown without asking. She offered her breasts, shaped like an Amazon's oval bosom with cherries in their centres which showed their enthusiasm for my attention by growing in size. And later, when I came to take her, she wanted me to spend more time at play with her entrance rather than conquer her.

I need not tell you a man can only hold himself in check for so long and that unless he is soon sheathed can spill his seed on the sheets instead of in that soft feminine place.

Were I to ejaculate before penetration then I should not be able to penetrate at all, for a member loses interest once he has delivered the milk. That is why I took Georgina quickly and at once.

I dismounted from my ride to reflect on the joys of marriage but I could tell Georgina was exasperated and unhappy. She waited a few moments then began to nuzzle and stroke her body against mine in an attempt to renew proceedings. There is a limit to what a man can do and I was forced to suggest she keep her hands to herself. She moaned in dismay, but when I am done I am done.

'Georgina,' I said. 'I have done all a man can do. Let me rest.' 'But Joshua,' she replied, 'I have not... take pity on me. Revive your ardour.'

I had no idea what she meant, yet she persisted. At one stage, it grieves me to write this of my bride of one day, her hands actually went to my organ and she began to fondle me. I removed her hands and turned away, the better to sleep. Georgina I could sense, lay beside me tense and unhappy.

'Georgina,' I said after suffering her sighs for some minutes. 'If we are to have a quiet life together you must learn to be still. I need my sleep. I am master of the house and many years your senior – tomorrow I will take you in hand.'

Halt an hour after we finished breakfast the next day I carried my bride back to the bedroom. She was naked and weeping. You should not be surprised, for she had crossed me in bed, but I had greater reason to punish her than that. Last night after coupling I fell asleep and woke soon after to find the bed in motion. Georgina was playing with herself: I mean my perfect partner as I thought, had her legs apart and was dabbling in the entrance where I had recently deposited my seed. I was furious and vowed that in the morning I should thrash her.

Georgina rose cheerful and inclined to be skittish but I could neither forget nor ignore the night's indulgence.

'Eat now. After breakfast you will go to the bedroom and remove your clothes.' 'And you will come with me? I am keen to make more love... perhaps we can make it last longer.'

'This is not to make love! It is for you to atone!'

'But I do not understand... what have I done?'

'It is too embarrassing for me to discuss. Yet it is a grievous fault and needs a husband to flog it out of you.'

'Flog it out of me? Am I to be whipped?'

'You are to be caned my dear, to put it precisely. I have been to the garden and cut a bamboo. You will go over the breakfast table for your chastisement.'

'Am I not to be told my fault?'

'You do not need to be told what you did last night after I slept.'

'But Joshua, dearest, you do not understand... I had to do that...'

'Had to? What nonsense. I gave you my love. I was tender, thoughtful and made sure you were not distressed.'

'Not distressed no, but nor was I...'

Georgina stopped and hung her head dejected, deciding not to say the words in her mind; I could not think what she wanted to hide.

'Nor would you what? Not upset... I know that. Not ready to sleep? Why not?' Georgina got up from the table, bent onto one knee, looked up and felt for my hand. 'I will do what you say. I know what I did was wrong – there were reasons but they are no matter. I deserve correction and will accept it. I will undress at once.'

My naked wife enthralled me with her beauty. She has a slim, delicate figure. Her breasts as I have said are like shallow bowls, her waist is trim, she is delightfully flat across her stomach and abdomen and she curves out gracefully at the hips. She is a tall girl and her long legs flow enchantingly to petite ankles and pretty feet. She had not put up her hair and it fell onto her bare shoulders and partly down her back, a cascade of chestnut glory. I am fortunate to have landed such a prize, but wantonness must be curbed: I would not have her grow lascivious or lewd.

'I will not cane until I have made your fault clear. You are a young girl and quite innocent I am sure, yet in matters of the bedroom you are forward, not to say eager, wanting to lead where women must follow. I cannot prolong intercourse with you, for a man is not made to withhold his juices for too long; you must provide the receptacle for them quickly and willingly. That is all there is to it. Most important of all, you should not play with yourself I am surprised you do not know so much!'

'But Joshua, can a wife not share the pleasures of the marriage bed?'

'A wife submits and expects nothing except perhaps that she may conceive. Now stick your bottom out, dip your back and make ready.'

I had cut a sturdy stick, long enough to allow a full swing, thick enough to hurt and pliant enough not to wreak excess havoc. Pain and marks there would be but my conscience would not later call me cruel. I cracked the wand down in front of Georgina and it landed before her eyes; she flinched with terror at the noise and closeness of the blow. I stopped her looking up by holding her head; she was not to use her eyes to plead for clemency.

But now I had my desire, an obedient wife before me, her bottom bared for punishment, I did not know how to begin. I had never done such a thing and thought back to the times I'd seen a cane used – when it was applied to my own buttocks by my schoolmaster. I would not want Georgina to suffer as badly as that, the man was ruthless, but right now I needed some of his experience and skill.

Questions confounded me – how far back should I draw my arm? How much force is needed to cause moderate pain? How can I make the cane land where I want it to? I had to trust my own judgement, think it through, decide where to stand, find through trial and error the best way to balance my body. If I were to get every bit of the act right I must be patient and take plenty of time.

My feet were flat on the stone floor, the stick pointed at the ceiling, I knew I was the right distance from the table. Now I had to find the right stance. My shoulders would twist, I knew that, but how far? I lowered the rod to a fraction of an inch away from the bottom and drew back an inch or two, repeating the action to mark the spot I would hit. I focused on that spot, drew breath several times and lifting my arm high, brought it down in a wide loose swing. My fingers tightened round the bamboo in the air for fear it might be knocked from my grasp by the impact. I cannot describe the noise it made when it landed, not loud nor quiet, not a hard sound nor a soft one; all I know is Georgina's cheeks indented at the blow.

Her head left the table top, her mouth gaped, her eyes screwed tightly. Her cry came after she caught her breath, six or seven short ah's in rapid succession, followed by a long wail. I thought back to my boyhood at the hands of my teacher. The pain would have reached its climax by now and Georgina would know how terrible it was to be under the cane. But I could not let weakness get the better of duty, I had a wanton to curb and the sooner lessons began, the sooner she would understand her proper role.

My first stroke seemed to have been at the right speed and from the right height. It had landed near the top of her cheeks; I must try to get the second cut lower, and then proceed down the posterior, leaving lines one below the other until she displayed a pretty wash-board of stripes. Thinking how I had got it right the first time, I repeated the stroke, but giving my wrist a flick as I had seen the schoolmaster do to boys under his sway. My careful measuring paid off with a stripe dead across the centre of the cheeks. I noticed as I compared the two that the top line was turning from a white indentation to a pleasingly long swathe of pink. I had not wasted any of my rod but made sure it cut along most of its length.

Once more Georgina's head lifted from the table and her hands, which had been flattened on the top, clasped tightly, spread wide and stretched as if to try and let the pain flow out of her body. Her feet began to move, until she was running on the spot, toes twisting, showing me a pretty dance. I settled my hand on her buttocks to stop the jiggling as she gave a second howl. It was a good thing we had no near neighbours or they might have thought a poor girl was being murdered. It took me a full 60 seconds to land three strokes but the deliberation played off – all three had cut across the shadowy divide so both ovals were afflicted.

I paused to assess my girl whose erstwhile faultless pillows now showed what a well aimed rod can do. Anyone who looked would have known the stripes were hard to bear and indeed Georgina suffered the whole world to hear that she found them excruciating. Her bottom twitched even though my cane was in abeyance, the tip resting on the floor and I asked myself whether three upbraidings were enough to bring her to full awareness of her defects and convince her that her sexual role was a passive one. Perhaps they were, but another part of me exulted at the power I now possessed and was determined to use it for some little time yet. I would continue the thrashing, it was too pleasant a duty to forego too soon, but I would do so by standing on Amanda's other side, the better to ensure her marks would equalise.

I was not wise to change sides for I had to cane with my left hand which, since I did not have the practice, was difficult to do. I noticed at once I did not have the same power in my left wrist that I had in my right. Never-the-less I made a stroke and it landed well on untrammeled flesh. But I know from the mild way Georgina reacted that it did not carry half the power, not impart half the discomfort I would have liked. Georgina grunted and it was plain to me she was pleased and relieved I was using my left hand; the effect was easily bearable.

I thought carefully, wondering whether to cross Georgina and finish the last two with my right hand. Then I realised I could use my right hand to make a back-swing. I took care to aim meticulously, to stand feet well apart to allow my body to sway, and drove in hard. The back-swing made an uppercut into the lower part of the cheeks and Georgina was immediately up on her toes. I liked the feel of the delivery, impacting on softness and making it quiver. One successful back-swing encouraged me to try another. It would need to be another uppercut and I ordered Georgina to move her hips slightly away from the table. That made them protrude more than usual and I had a better target to aim for. Since it was the sixth – and last – swing and I did not feel I had by any means overdone the severity of my deliveries, I put all my strength into it. By pure chance, and to my considerable satisfaction, it landed immediately over one of the previous five, creating a doubling up effect, and it hurt so much Georgina nearly jumped out of her skin. She leapt up from the table and began to dance around the room crying oh, oh, oh, oh, and howling at the top of her voice. I did not know whether to be sorry for her pain or furious at her getting up but decided the best thing to do would be to let her dance herself to a standstill then remonstrate with her.

I put my cane on the table and waited. My wife of two days soon realised she had gone far beyond what was permitted behaviour and took control of herself. I thought it best to make her bend again.

'I will not cut you again, but get back over the table and ask me for permission to rise.'

'Oh please... please... I cannot take any more.'

'As I say, I have finished. But you must ask for permission to rise.'

Georgina bent and grasped the other side of the table, her buttocks stretched before me. I let my palm move tentatively over the trembling orbs, not rubbing in any way, but searching softly with my finger-tips for the welts. They were rising nicely, twin edges of uplifted skin, white in places but turning even as I looked to a more angry red. My earlier stripes were ruby-tinted already and I knew the others would soon attain that hue. I might have expected my wife to move her hands behind her in protest but she lay flat on the table, breasts and face crushed in a pool of tears which all the time grew deeper. Had my chastisement been so painful? Was she now so sore that she could not stir, but must remain the helpless recipient of my exploring fingers? Drawing their tips over the tramlines with a gossamer touch I felt the flames of desire flicker at first, then begin to burn more urgently, and it was not long before the first pulsing of hot blood found where it had to go and I began to be roused.

I had whipped Georgina to teach her to be more reserved, to play the female role and accept that during union she should have no will of her own. When the lion, king of the beasts, takes his queen, he does not ask for guidance or advice but mounts when ready and roars his way to culmination. I want to love a sweet, tender creature, compliant and passive – that is woman's true nature. Georgina must understand that and what better time to test if she has learned the lesson than now when I have a goat's need on me?

I slipped my hands beneath my wife's hips and round her shoulders, lifting and rolling her until she was off the table and had fallen against me, supported by my arms. I kissed her salty face, stroked the damp hair off her forehead and as I walked to the bedroom began to explain what was to happen.

'Punishment is over. Remember when we couple, your role is to submit. Now I am in the mood to take you. We arc on our honeymoon and I have you naked in my arms, the business will be over quite quickly then I will leave you to rest.'

Georgina said nothing and lay in my arms, not moving when I set her on the bed. I hurried to disrobe, my organ hungry to be buried and did not whisper or coax tenderly for I was driven by a pulsing root which I panted soon enough in its rightful garden. Georgina remained still and virtually silent – a properly bred Victorian girl; what more evidence did I need that she would behave properly from now on? It is true that there were some signs of writhing as I rode to my climax, but that was because her welts were being rubbed against the sheets. And if, in future, she moves only when her bottom hurts, who can blame her for that?

Wednesday, 18 January 2012

1966 and all that!

Story from Roue 23.

1966 and all that!

It was 1966 – that halcyon period when mini-skirts had come in, and stockings and suspenders had not yet gone out. Dedicated observers were treated to the sight of more white thighs and stocking tops than they were ever to see again.

Just such a dedicated observer was Mr George Jones, draper and pillar of the community in his small home town.

Mr Jones was sitting, as usual when the shop wasn't busy, in his office-cum-storeroom at the back. When not serving he always had plenty of accounting and bookwork to keep up, and was happy to leave his young assistant, Carol Summers, to look after the trickle of customers.

Carol had entered the storeroom to look for a type of cloth required by a woman who had just come in. She asked Mr Jones where the particular cloth was kept.

"It's up there, Carol. You'll need the steps," he told her, indicating the row of shelves immediately behind where he was sitting.

Mr Jones watched surreptitiously as Carol heaved the heavy mahogany steps just to the left of his chair and prepared to mount them. With her back to him and only a few inches from his side Carol was not aware of Mr Jones's interest in what she was doing. She was only 16, rather inexperienced in sexual matters, and besides she was concentrating on reaching the top of the rickety steps without coming to grief.

As the hem of Carol's mini-skirt passed the level of Mr Jones's eyes and continued upwards, his fascinated gaze was rewarded with the sight of two dark stocking tops out of which bulged the roundest, plumpest pair of teenage thighs a middle-aged member of the Chamber of Trade could ever wish to see.

As Carol reached the platform at the top of the steps her taut black suspenders hove into view, causing Mr Jones's eyes nearly to pop out of his head. But more was to come.

"I can't find it, Mr Jones," said Carol, as she searched the top shelf.

Carol's failure to find the cloth was no real surprise to Mr Jones. He knew it wasn't there. But past experience had taught him in the few months that Carol had been working for him that the best possible view of her nether regions was afforded when Carol was having to reach and stretch for an item which was proving elusive.

"Have a really good look, Carol," he instructed her. "It ought to be there."

Obligingly the plump young miss bent forward as far as she could, searching the shelf thoroughly, thus causing her brief brown mini-skirt to ride up at the back and reveal the sauciest pair of black nylon knickers Mr Jones had ever dreamed of, never mind seen. So small were they that most of the diaphanous material had slipped enchantingly into the crevice between Carol's ample buttocks. All pretence of working gone, Mr Jones stared transfixed at the sight before him, watching his pretty young assistant's cheeks wobble and jostle each other as she shifted the position of her feet.

It's absolutely disgraceful, thought Mr Jones disapprovingly. Why virtually the whole of her bottom is bare and she seems quite oblivious. This young lady needs taking in hand. Of course it doesn't matter, a respectable married man like myself seeing her like this – I am quite unaffected by it – but what if young men and boys caught sight of this display?

And so it was that a plot was born in the mind of Mr George Jones, to bring retribution to this shameless young teenager, and in particular to that part of her anatomy which she was most shameless about displaying. Mr Jones approached the task he had set himself in the disinterested light of a town councillor and churchwarden who felt it his moral duty to show this naughty teenage draper's assistant the error of her ways. The fact that the methods he proposed to adopt were somewhat devious was beside the point. One sometimes had to be a little underhand to achieve a desired result.

Every day Mr Jones went out promptly at 12.45 to have lunch at the Conservative Club, leaving Carol to mind the shop. She'd already had sandwiches in the storeroom before he left.

Over the next few weeks Mr Jones took to leaving the petty cash tin unlocked on his desk, and occasionally he left the lid open to reveal the cash contents within.

Gratifyingly, after a while he found that on his return the odd ten shilling or pound was missing. Carol was raiding the till.

I thought as much, he mused disapprovingly. Dishonest as well as shameless. And this conclusion confirmed him in the rightness of what he was doing. This young girl must be punished, and punished severely, for her own good.

On the day of the final baiting of the trap, Mr Jones made use of a small hatch at the back of the storeroom which gave onto a lean-to kitchen beyond. The hatch was never used and it was usually blocked by various packages and bolts of cloth. Carefully removing some of these and opening the hatch, Mr Jones placed on the ledge a camera with built-in flash. He then lowered the hatch to the level of the camera and built-up a camouflage of cloth around it so that only the lens and flash were not covered. Carol would never notice it, and even if she did she wouldn't suspect anything.

Next Mr Jones placed his wallet, ostentatiously bulging with banknotes, on a table near the hatch. A photograph of Carol at the petty cash box would not be nearly so incriminating because she no doubt would have cause to use it quite legitimately.

Then this eminently respectable citizen announced to his teenage assistant that he was off to lunch.

In fact he doubled round to the back of the shop, cautiously let himself in at the back door and took up a position at the hatch, finger on the button and right eye glued to the viewfinder.

It was so deliciously simple. Carol wandered into the storeroom, noticed the wallet, decided that with all that he'd never miss two, and was just in the act of extracting them when the flash-bulb popped and a certain naughty young teenager's misdemeanours were immortalised on celluloid.

Mr Jones's righteous indignation was a miracle to behold. But he showed his charitable side as well. He was convinced there was good in Carol, and he shrank from ruining her life by reporting her crime to the police. Before taking that irrevocable step he would like to give her a chance.

Carol's heart leapt at this escape from disaster. "Oh, thank you, Mr Jones, I'll never do it again, truly I won't," she cried.

"Don't misunderstand me, Carol. I'm not saying that you are not going to be punished. Merely that I will punish you myself, and that no one else will know about it. Of course," he added with silky menace, "if anyone else does get to know about it, this photograph will go straight to the police and you'll be up in court."

"Of course, Mr Jones, I'll do anything you say. I'll stay late, and clean the shop, and do the books for you," volunteered this contrite young teenager.

"That's not entirely what I have in mind," replied Mr Jones. "You have behaved like a naughty little girl and I intend to punish you like a naughty little girl. I'm going to chastise you on your bottom. Kindly bend over the table."

Nervously and reluctantly Carol leant over the low table and gripped its far end. Her own far end, meanwhile, came automatically into view as her short skirt followed the forward movement and parted company with that section of her it was intended to conceal.

Mr Jones pulled up a chair behind the bending miscreant and took stock. He recalled that he had once wanted to become a medical student, only his father couldn't afford the fees. He had always been fascinated by the subject of anatomy, he assured himself, and only poverty had prevented him from studying it in his youth. That and the fact that Mrs Jones was not given to displaying what charms she had, even when they were first married.

Now, thought Mr Jones, was a golden opportunity to make up for those deprivations and use Carol as a guinea pig for pursuing a purely scientific interest in the human body.

Carol's position had had the effect of plumping her already ample bottom into yet broader proportions. Quite amazing, thought Mr Jones. You'd never realise looking at her fully clothed how well-developed she was.

Carol was wearing the same tiny black knickers Mr Jones had seen several times before, though not, as now, at a range of about six inches. The material had inevitably in the stretching movement almost disappeared into the deep and fascinating cleft between the buttock cheeks. Mr Jones made a decision. In the interests of science they would have to come down.

With palpiting heart he inserted his fingers into the elastic at the top of the wispy garment, and slowly pulled it down, leaving it forlornly at mid-thigh.

This was a wholly new experience for Mr Jones. Having had a strict upbringing and an unaccommodating wife, he had never seen a bare female bottom in his life. Now a plump, white, wobbling pair of naked buttocks was literally staring him in the face.

With the removal of the knickers Carol felt the cool air playing around areas where the cool air normally doesn't play. She may not have been very experienced, but she knew that a 55-year-old man was looking at parts of her no man had ever seen.

Carol tried desperately to squeeze her cheeks together, to blot out this blatant display of her most intimate regions. But it was no good. The lowness of the table meant that her back was hollowed, and her plump, girlish buttocks were outthrust lewdly, obscenely, a few inches from Mr Jones's eager face.

That estimable draper approached his medical studies systematically, starting at the top. His eyes ran from the small of Carol's back, down to where her cleft began, then onwards and downwards to a tuft of dark hair, and then to a delightful pink object that was peeping bewitchingly from between Carol's thighs. She could feel his breath falling somewhat unevenly onto this specially sensitive area and blushed unseen at the shame of it. She would never be able to look Mr Jones in the eye again, knowing that he had gazed uninterrupted and at close range at every square centimetre of her – well, that bit of her.

Mr Jones suddenly became aware of certain striking physical manifestation which had unaccountably overtaken him while he had so laudably been filling in the gaps in his education.

He remembered his mission. "Now Carol, I am going to punish you with this," he said sternly, reaching into a drawer for a wicked-looking tawse he had thoughtfully placed there beforehand, having purchased it in a mood of now justified optimism.

Carol gasped as she looked round at the instrument of her impending chastisement. She was a dull-witted creature – witness her somewhat bovine compliance with Mr Jones's lengthy inspection of her bare bottom – but she knew she was in for a very painful experience indeed.

"Now Carol, I want you to stick your bottom right out as far as it will go, and I insist that you hold that position without fail. If you don't I shall simply add on more strokes." Having acquired a taste for observing the feminine physique at its most intimate, Mr Jones wished to keep up the good work while he applied the tawse to Carol's tender bottom. Her cheeks were so very full and plump that it was only when she pushed her bottom out to the limit, that she looked her 'very best'.

As before Mr Jones began at top, where Carol's bulging haunches expanded riotiously from her waist. Rhythmically, remorselessly, the tawse rose and fell in that draper's store-room, while a pretty young draper's assistant wailed and wriggled, pleaded and gasped, as her fat and wobbling bottom was subjected to the punishment of its life.

There was no one to hear – Mr Jones had shut up shop – and her employer and tormentor was free to express on behalf of society as a whole the indignation he felt at modern girlhood, at the deceit and the shameless exhibitionism of which it was guilty.

As he thrashed his way slowly down Carol's helpless bottom Mr Jones's attention was focused on those parts which had awakened in him feelings of which he had not believed himself capable.

His sense of outrage redoubled. How dare she, he thought. He'd teach her to flaunt herself like that in front of him, provoking innocent married men by her teasing ways. The tawse whipped time and again across the soft, sensitive undercurve of her wobbling cheeks.

"Stick it out, Carol," he commanded, as she tried to close her cheeks to protect her most sensitive parts. Carol was understandably slow to respond.

"Right, miss, we'll soon settle this. Take off your knickers, lie down face upwards on the table and raise your knees."

Compliantly Carol did as she was told. "Now Carol, I notice from close observation of your, er, bottom and thighs that you are rather too plump for your own good. Exercise is what you need, and I'm going to see that you get it."

The exercise Mr Jones had in mind for his naughty young teenage assistant was what you might call an upside down bicycle ride, minus the bicycle. Carol was made to place her elbows on the table, to raise her forearms vertically, and swinging her hips upwards into the air to support them on her outstretched hands. In her distressed condition she had some difficulty in achieving this posture and Mr Jones thoughtfully helped her by placing a hand on her bottom so that the exercise could begin.

"Now Carol, I want you to keep up a bicycling motion which I think you will find is excellent for slimming purposes. I shall stand here in front of your, er, er, bottom, and correct you if I feel that you are slacking."

By standing at the edge of the table Mr Jones was able to look down at Carol's upturned buttocks as they heaved and gyrated in front of him. Her undignified position, and the scissor motion of the legs which he was making her perform, caused an even more dramatic revelation of her girlish secrets than before. Worse still, as she peered disconsolately up between her raised knees, all she could see of her employer was his face staring intently downwards, enriching his knowledge of anatomy.

The ceaseless motion of those pumping teenage legs reminded Mr Jones by its very provocation of the course of duty on which he was embarked. Carol's plump bare thighs and bottom were spread out before him like a banquet, and their indecent wobblings and squirmings began to produce in him ambiguous emotions for which he decided she must suffer.

How dare she tempt and tease him like this. "Carol, you're slacking," he rapped out, bringing the tawse down vertically so that the end snaked painfully down the inside of her rounded thigh. Carol gasped and redoubled her efforts.

Her bottom was already crimson from the attentions of the tormenting tawse, and Mr Jones decided that her still-milky thighs merited some punishment of their own where they spilled ripely from her dark stocking tops. Accordingly he raised the tawse to shoulder height and brought it down wristily on the fullest and fattest part of her upper legs.

In vain Carol complained that "it hurt", in vain she whimpered and sobbed and begged him to stop. The continual pedalling motion of her slimming exercise was causing her buttock cheeks and upper thighs to move independently of each other, continually shifting their juxtaposition, drawing the eyes of her master towards the centre of her attractions, and thus intensifying his determination to punish her, and punish her and punish her. For Mr Jones this mischievious young teenager, wriggling so seductively under the sting of the tawse, embodied the temptations he frowned on, and the thought of the good he was doing to himself, to her, and to the world in general by covering every inch of her hind-quarters in a painful coating of crimson lent him strength in his resolve.

Sometimes he would take a breather, and Carol would look pitifully at him. "Please, Mr Jones, don't whip my bottom any more. It's so sore."

"I'm sorry, Carol, but I am to be the judge of when to terminate your punishment. Certainly your thighs and bottom are very red and sore," said Mr Jones, leaning over her spread-eagled rump and studying it closely. "But I don't think you have sufficiently learnt your lesson yet. I think we will try another position which will enable me to reach certain areas which have not had their full share of punishment."

Weepily Carol rolled off the table and stood in front of her employer. "I think you had better take your skirt off, Carol," he told her.

Carol unzipped her little mini and let it fall, while Mr Jones pulled up a chair and sat looking at her. In contrast to the bright red of her backside, Carol's rounded stomach and the front of her upper legs were still virgin white, except for the luxuriant dark bush of pubic hair which was affording Mr Jones a good deal of interest.

"Now Carol, your last job is to brush the stairs very thoroughly. I want you to start at the top and I shall be behind you as you work your way down to see that it's done properly."

Carol fetched the dustpan and brush from a cupboard, her big red bottom wobbling charmingly as she walked towards it. Then she climbed the stairs, with that conscientious task-master, Mr George Jones, two steps behind her all the way.

The alternate parting and closing of her heavy bottom cheeks as she raised one leg after another, the stretching and relaxing of the gluteal fold where bottom met thigh, the wobble of the punished female flesh, all combined to make Mr Jones wish the stairs went a lot higher. But he pulled himself together and set his half-naked teenage assistant to work.

Of course the position required for brushing the stairs forced Carol again to disclose to the world, or at any rate to Mr Jones, what were once her private parts. It also had the effect, as she bent to her task, of throwing her swollen buttocks outwards in just the kind of way Mr Jones found most provocative and worthy of chastisement.

Slowly they worked their way down the stairway. Every missed piece of fluff was rewarded with several smarting whacks with the tawse, and when there were no stray bits she received a few more for dawdling.

At last Mr Jones felt that Carol's lesson in good conduct and morality could be suspended, at any rate for the time being. Ever-solicitous in her interest he announced his intention of applying cold cream to the tender parts, which included the entire area from her stocking tops to her suspender belt. For this Carol was made to go back over the table and present herself, with legs apart, for treatment.

Yes, I should certainly have been a doctor, he thought, as his searching fingers, slippery with cream, massaged and probed, rubbed and insinuated.

The climax to all this laboratory research was that Carol suddenly came with an unexpected shudder, and Mr Jones decided that perhaps things had gone far enough for that day. There was always tomorrow, and the day after that........

And so Carol's salvation and mortification were over for the moment. She and Mr Jones found that she really was all the better for regular punishment, though the funny thing was that those lovely chubby thighs, and that wobbling girlish rump never seemed to get any slimmer, despite all the upside-down bicycling she had to do.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

Sam Ramsey serial, Ep.2. "Sarah by the Sea"

Story from Februs 27.

Sarah by the Sea
by Ramsey Stratton

Episode 1

Sarah was a few minutes late arriving in the dining room, and Mary was already seated at a small table in the window looking out onto the sea, an open bottle of white wine in the ice-bucket beside her.

'I'm sorry – I always seem to be late!'

Mary smiled and jumped up. 'No you don't: anyway, I was early.'

They hugged. 'It's great to see you.'

And it was. One of the few pleasures on these business trips was the chance occasionally to meet up with old friends, and Sarah had known Mary for a long time, since they had worked in the same branch for a year. They weren't particularly close, but Mary was very good company, and after a few drinks she could be wonderfully indiscreet about mutual acquaintances in the large enterprise for which they both worked.

'Well, Sarah, tell me everything!'

They smiled at each other again, and fell almost immediately into their usual bantering style of conversation. Within a few minutes, Mary's obvious pleasure in seeing her, the wine, the glorious light glinting on the sea outside, all began to lighten Sarah's mood. It had been a grimly stressful day; but the evening promised to be fun.

Sarah looked around the dining room. The summer was coming to an end, and the small hotel wasn't very busy. There was an elderly couple at one table; a small family group at another; the only other diner was a rather good-looking young man dining alone, on business too, perhaps. She saw with amusement his eyes rivetted to the back of the young waitress as she walked towards the kitchen slim, a blonde pony-tail, white blouse, a short, very tight, black skirt, beautiful legs, and rather sexy, strappy black sandals. From behind, she looked as if she should capture any man's eyes.

And then the waitress paused by the dessert trolley, and half turned. With a sudden start of recognition, Sarah realised that it was The Girl.

It had been about five months before, just after Easter, when she was last in this seaside town. There were a few hours free the afternoon she arrived, and Sarah had gone to the little lane of boutiques in the old town looking for a summer dress. There was a favourite shop where she had bought clothes before, and she had picked a handful of dresses to try on. At first, she was the only occupant of the communal changing room. Then an extremely pretty young girl had walked in. They exchanged smiles, and somehow (or so it seemed in retrospect) a sexual charge built up as they undressed and redressed in front of each other. At one point, the girl – rather unnecessarily – removed her bra to try a dress on, as if flaunting her pert breasts to the older woman, and Sarah found herself smiling appreciatively at the girl. And then – afterwards, she couldn't at all understand why – it happened. Sarah turned her back to the girl, and bent right over to pick up her own clothes, knowing that her small lace knickers would ride up. And as they did so, they would expose the unmistakable marks across her slim bottom still clear from the night before, when Adam had caned her so painfully, so excitingly...

The girl had obviously seen, for she had gasped slightly. When Sarah had straightened and turned, they looked straight into each others eyes. Nothing was said while Sarah quickly slipped on her own dress; but as she left, she had spoken quietly to the still half-naked girl, 'One day, you must try it'.

Sarah had often thought of that encounter since, and wished... Well, what did she wish? She didn't quite know. Though more than once, she had masturbated deliciously fantasizing about The Girl.

* * *

And now, here was the same girl again, unavoidable. A jumble of thoughts rushed through Sarah's mind. Would the girl recognise her? Was this going to be horribly embarrassing? Had Mary noticed her shock? Was she...

The waitress was coming over to the table now. She saw Sarah, and her eyes widened in surprised acknowledgement: and then the two women, older and younger, hesitantly smiled at each other.

'Are you ready to order?'

The meal passed in a daze. Sarah managed to join in with Mary's cheerful gossip; but all the time her mind was on the girl, intensely aware of her physical presence as she served the food, from the fair down on her arms to her pretty feet, from her straw blonde hair streaked by the sun to the shape of her breasts beneath her blouse. 'This is absurd,' Sarah thought, as she poured more wine, 'it's positively adolescent...'

After dessert, Mary excused herself. The girl approached the table with the coffee cups.

'Hello again,' said Sarah, and looked at the girl who held her gaze. 'Can you help?' she added quietly, 'I'm thinking of going to a beach tomorrow afternoon if the weather holds. Is there an especially nice one near here?'

The waitress looked at Sarah, smiled and paused. Then, 'I'm free after lunch tomorrow: I could show you if you like...'

'That would be lovely, really lovely; I'd like that a lot.'

'We could meet up opposite the bandstand; you know it?'

'Yes, I know where you mean.'

'It will be a quarter to three by the time I can get off.'

'That's just fine. I'll pick you up in the car then.'

Mary was a long time returning; when she did, she glanced at the girl now busying herself at the table with the family party, and said, 'Well, I hope I gave you two a chance to make a date. Yes? Oh, don't look all innocent, Sarah. You've been going gooey-eyed over her all evening; and when you've not been looking at her, she's been eyeing you up.'

'Oh no. I mean, yes. Oh God, I didn't realise I'd been that obvious. Mary, if you ever say a whisper about this.'

Mary grinned at her. 'Don't worry; there are some things I don't gossip about. I'm only jealous: she's gorgeous.'


'Oh yes, she's just my type.' Sarah must have looked startled.

'Don't act so surprised! You mean you've never guessed after all this time?'


'Hey ho! Well, if it's going to be true confession time, let's at least get another bottle of wine and sit in a corner of the lounge with it.'

So they did.

* * *

As Sarah drove up, the girl was waiting. She looked even prettier, simply dressed in shorts and T-shirt, her straw-coloured hair loose.

'Wow! Cool wheels!' There was a touch of mockery in her voice.

Sarah had a small white French convertible; the top was down in the hot late summer sun.

'I know, I know: it's a silly indulgence. But the company pays for most of it.'

'I'm teasing. It's great.'

'Where are we going?'

'Drive out of town on the coast road going south; then I'll show you.'

'I wasn't sure you'd turn up.' Sarah was flustered. 'You know I don't even know your name. I hope you don't think I do this sort of thing all the time. I...'

The girl smiled. 'It's OK. Don't worry. And I'm Anna.'

As Sarah drove, they began to talk. Anna was a student, back home for the holidays, working in the hotel as she had done the last two summers to earn money before going back to university. Sarah knew the university town well, and they talked about the place, about Anna's course, and the sorts of music and films she liked, about her friends and her particular boyfriend there. Meanwhile, they left the main road, and drove down a twisting lane, then along a rough track, and parked on a piece of scrub land near the top of the cliffs, next to the only other car.

'It's a bit of a scramble. Do you mind? It's worth it,' said Anna.

The path down the cliff was indeed very steep in places; but the cove at bottom was beautiful, and almost deserted. A young couple, presumably from the other car, were at one end of the small beach; Anna and Sarah waved to them, then wandered to the other end, and settled down, hidden away behind low rocks.

They sat without talking for a while. Apart from the splash of wavelets at the edge of the sea and the squawks of the gulls, it was completely silent. The sun was very hot.

Anna slipped off her things, revealing a small white bikini, spread out her towel and lay on her front. Sarah gazed at the girl for a while; her back was very slender, like a dancer's, tapering to a very narrow waist, accentuating the curve of her hips, which tapered again to perfect legs. Sarah felt a stab of mixed envy and desire, sighed, unbuttoned and shrugged off her dress, and spread out her own towel.

They lay next to each other talking quietly. Sarah reached out and touched the girl's arm.

'You are so pretty.'

The girl gazed steadily into Sarah's grey eyes, then lowered her head and gently touched the hand on her arm with her cheek.

* * *

Anna sat up. 'The sun's still really hot.' She put her hand on Sarah's back. 'You'll burn.' She felt in her bag, and got out a small bottle. 'Let me.'

Sarah felt a squirt or two of cold liquid on her shoulders, and then the girl's hands, massaging the lotion in gently but firmly. The hands were expert, soothing and relaxing her muscles. Minutes passed.

'Hmmm. Where do you learn to do that?'

'Shhh. Just enjoy.'

The hands worked their way very slowly downwards. As they worked, the shoulder-straps of Sarah's swimsuit were slipped down, until her back was exposed to the waist. The hands continued stroking and kneading. Sarah had always liked having her back caressed, but this was heavenly. After more long minutes, she suddenly found herself getting aroused and very wet.

'Turn over.'

Sarah hesitated.

'Come on. No-one will see us.' Anna grinned, 'When I last looked, those two down the beach were getting well into each other!'

The older woman lay on her back, and the girl bent over and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth, and their tongues explored each other. Then the gentle hands pulled down the front of Sarah's swimsuit, exposing her breasts, and the girl moved down to suckle the already hard dark nipples, and shocks of pure pleasure stabbed though Sarah's insides. While lips worked on breasts, a caressing hand wandered slowly, so slowly, down towards her stomach, insinuating itself under the swimsuit bunched around her waist. And then... and then the fingers were running through the hair at her groin, until they found her centre, now aflood with her own wetness, and began to circle her throbbing clit.

More kisses, more intense, passionate. Sarah groaned; the girl began to lick again at her nipples and the fingers began to strum more insistently, faster, until (the end came very quickly) she gasped and an intense orgasm washed over her. She wrapped her arms tightly around the girl and held the blonde head against her breasts as she came down. After a while, she felt the girl move away from her, but Sarah continued to lie with her eyes shut feeling little aftershocks of pleasure.

'That was... wonderful.'

Sarah opened her eyes to find Anna kneeling by her head, quite naked, the bikini now by her side. The girl's eyes seemed wide and a darker blue; her small pink nipples hard; she was breathing fast. 'Lick me,' she said, and she shifted one knee across Sarah so that she was kneeling above the woman's face, and then she lowered herself slowly. Sarah lifted her head a little and, tasting another woman for the first time since she too had been a student, she licked the girl's nether lips, and teased out her clit with her tongue. Sarah's hands reached up to caress the girl's firm breasts. And in a few minutes, Anna mewed and moaned and came hard on Sarah's lapping tongue.

* * *

The girl lay on her side, still naked, one knee drawn up slightly. Sarah sat up, hugging her knees, looking down at her. It wasn't at all how she had fantasised it would be, when she had frigged herself thinking of that encounter in the changing room. She had imagined taking charge, being in control, even dominating The Girl. But that girl had been an empty cipher. The real Anna was funny and clever and charming and delightful – and had been the bold and demanding one, taking the sexual lead. Which was surprising and thrilling. But now, as she drifted towards sleep, the girl looked so vulnerable. Sarah was awash with mixed feelings; she wanted to cuddle the girl gently – and to fuck her senseless. She smiled at her own turmoil: she hadn't felt like this for a very long time.

* * *

'Shall we go?'

The sun had lost its heat. They slipped on their clothes, and made their way back to the car, helping each other up the steep path and then holding hands the rest of the way.

'We can get something to eat on the way back, and go to my place. The family are away on holiday, lucky sods, while I'm slaving at the hotel.'

So they stopped at a supermarket and bought pizza, lots of salad, ice-cream, and a couple of bottles of white wine already chilled. Well supplied, they drove on to a neat modern detached house at the far edge of the town.

In the hallway, Sarah pulled Anna into her arms and kissed her hungrily, her hands running down her back and clasping her bottom. The girl responded passionately, and then broke away, laughing.

'OK, look, we can either eat first or fuck first; but quite honestly I'm starving.'

Sarah, amused, went to have a shower, while Anna put the pizza in the oven. The women lingered over the meal in the kitchen, sitting close on the corner bench, with Sarah occasionally stealing caresses; they got quietly drunk, and giggled as they fed each other ice-cream, and kissed sharing mouthfuls of wine.

'Come and see my room.'

They went upstairs to the girl's room, which Sarah was surprised to find very ordered and rather plain, decorated with a few art prints rather than the usual youthful array of pop posters. Anna chatted on for a moment, explaining the photographs of friends and family on the pin-board. Then she threw herself down on the bed and pulled Sarah beside her. Suddenly she asked,

'Do you remember what you said when we were in the changing room?'

It was the first time either woman had actually mentioned the moment again; but it was imprinted on the girl's consciousness too.

'I mean, you said that one day I should try... I should try...'

'Yes, of course I remember that.'

'Will you show me?'

Sarah looked at the girl quizzically.

'Please. You can't imagine how often I've thought about that day, and wondered what it would be like.'

'Oh, I think 1 can imagine; I think I can.'

* * *

Anna came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Sarah was already lying naked on the bed, slim, dark, long-legged. If the girl was extremely pretty, it was a prettiness that might soon fade; Sarah's fine features had a more lasting beauty.

'Come and lie down.'

Anna lay on her front and Sarah straddled her bottom, so that she could massage the girl's back. She shared with the girl a talent for it, and Anna was soon squirming sensuously. Then Sarah moved down and massaged the girl's legs and thighs, and occasionally as she moved from the top of one leg to the other, she teasingly drifted her hands across the girl's increasingly wet core. Then she teased more with little kisses down the girl's back, finishing by parting her buttocks and tonguing her tight rosebud. Anna moaned with pleasure.

'Let's put this under you.'

Sarah put a pillow under the girl's hips to raise her bottom. Then she bent to kiss the girl gently on the lips, and to pick up the belt she had found in Anna's wardrobe – an old, worn leather belt that would sting a lot, but not mark or really hurt the girl. They had agreed that twelve strokes, serious but not heavy, testing but not unbearable, would make a proper initiation.

The girl turned her face into the covers and screwed up her hands. Sarah admired again the shapely back, the soft unblemished curves below; then the belt whistled down and struck hard in the middle of the girl's beautiful buttocks. A moment passed, and again the leather stung her rear.

'Ooh... aaahhhh.'

Sarah raised her arm again, and then the impromptu tawse bit down. She watched the girl's buttocks momentarily flatten, and then blush. A fourth stroke made Anna's legs kick up as if to shake away the sting.

The girl cried out again. There was a long pause as Sarah let the girl absorb the sensations. The next stroke was softer, but struck the back of Anna's thighs, and she yelped with surprise.

'Don't tense up; try to relax into it.'

The leather rushed down, full on the girl's reddened buttocks again. Another pause. Sarah reached out and stroked the hot patches, and her hand strayed between the girl's thighs, stroking the lips near her clit. Anna tried to move so that the teasing fingers would touch her centre, but after a moment, Sarah withdrew her hand and picked up the belt again.

The seventh stroke forced out a deeper moan, and Anna's eyes began to moisten. She raised her head, and for a moment the two women gazed into each other's eyes then the girl submissively bent her head again. An eighth, slightly gentler, stripe followed quickly. Sarah reached down again, and this time didn't tease, but rubbed the gill's wetness. Then she walked round the bed and made a new angle; a ninth time, the belt thwacked down, now at a diagonal across the other strokes causing the girl to yelp with pain.

A tear ran down the girl's cheek, her fists were clasping bunches of the bed covers, her teeth biting down on a corner of a pillow. But she raised her bottom again. Sarah stood by the side of the bed, now intensely aroused; her nipples tingled, her groin throbbing. She struck again, the fiercest blow yet – in her agitation, harder than she intended.

'Aaaaarghhhh... oh, Sarah, no...'

The woman dropped the belt and caressed the girl again, soothing the hot flesh. And between her thighs the girl was wetter yet.

'Turn over.'

Anna looked surprised.

'No,' said Sarah, 'we've not quite finished. But turn over.'

The girl did so, and Sarah climbed onto the bed, and turning toward the girl's feet, lowered herself kneeling over Anna's face. She could feel the girl's wet cheeks pressed against her thighs as Anna began to tongue her clit, mirroring Sarah's love-making on the beach.

'Lift your legs.'

The girl obeyed, raising her legs from her hips and Sarah caught them and held them vertically with one arm. With the other, she took up the belt again and struck out at the exposed buttocks. A muffled groan and sigh; and then the girl continued to lick and suck.

'The last one.'

A long final pause as the girl's tongue shot waves of pleasure through the kneeling woman. Then the belt descended once more. Not hard, but stinging the burning flesh with a band of renewed fire.

Sarah lowered the girl's legs as she continued to be sucked. She then slowly leaned forwarded and caressed the girl's body down towards her groin, and dipped her fingers in the wetness below. Moans in a different tone escaped from the girl, who raised her hands to play with the woman's breasts. Sarah's fingers, soaking from the girl's own moisture, moved on downwards, seeking the rosebud, and rimming round and round it. And then, as she felt her own orgasm mount, she pressed down, her finger penetrated the tight circle, and Sarah came spectacularly.

Later, not yet able to sleep, still aroused, her buttocks hot and throbbing and all the sensations nearby still amplified a hundred times, Anna begged Sarah to make love to her again. And the older woman fulfilled another fantasy about The Girl, gently drawing on Anna to masturbate before her gaze in the candle light until, at the end, she helped the girl come to a release.

* * *

The morning sun streaked across the bed. Sarah had woken first, not used to sharing such a narrow bed, and watched the girl sleep peacefully on, hair a golden halo on the pillow. Then she slipped out, found a wrap hanging on the back of the door, and went to make tea. A newspaper had already been delivered, and she sat in the kitchen reading. She would have to get ready for a business meeting later (Mary would be there, Sarah remembered with mixed feelings, and would be bound to pump her for details of how things went with Anna...). But for now, she had an hour or so to relax.

Sarah poured more tea and took it upstairs. Anna stirred, and looked around sleepily. Slowly she held out her arms to the other woman, and Sarah's heart turned right over and she bent towards the young girl and they hugged each other tight.

'You're a sweetheart.'

'You too.'

Silence. Hands strayed. Sarah's wrap fell open. Breasts touched.

'But what next?'

To be continued…

Episode 3

Monday, 16 January 2012

The Man With The Golden Rod - the story in two parts

Story from Janus 14.

The Man With The Golden Rod, part one
by Richard Manton

In January 1841, James Miles made headlines for the first time in the Morning Chronicle. When charged with excessive use of birch and cane upon the bare bottoms of girls in his care, the justices laughed the case out of court at Rochester sessions. Mr Miles went on from strength to strength, supported by disciplinarians, press, and the justices — traditionally allowed to come and watch girls under the birch. As late as 1897, his colleague, the Rev Marshall Vine, supported such disciplinary zeal. It was still customary to give 36-stroke birchings in reformatory institutions, Vine insisted. 'And I have done so,' he added proudly in his evidence to the Parliamentary Committee.

In our own time there is a groundswell of opinion, in the polls and in parliament, which favours the return of judicial chastisement. What would it be like? How would the system work? Is it quite as edifying as its supporters suggest? Perhaps before we give it our resolute support we should go back in time and recreate a day in the life of James Miles...

WOULD YOU change jobs with James Miles? Mr Miles was a real man with a real problem, a dedicated upholder of law and order in the England of our great-grand-fathers. Look on the bright side first of all. His job carried a reasonable salary of about £15,000 a year in modern terms. One of the perks was a fine house at Hoo near Rochester with servants and transport provided, not to mention a good kitchen and cellar.

Perhaps you might be put off by noticing that the pleasant house and grounds were surrounded by a high wall to keep snoopers out and to keep the delinquent young ladies inside. As the notice board by the porter's lodge would inform you, this was a very old-fashioned reformatory and James Miles was the master. All his care and trouble was expended on the 50 or 60 pretty miscreants in his charge. Nowadays some of them would have graced the upper forms of a comprehensive school but there were others whose ages ranged (in the case of Phyllis Blake) up to 29!

Before you refuse outright to have anything to do with such a post, rest assured that you will be supported by a willing staff of burly matrons, more than enough to deal with any rebellion among the girls. Look more carefully at the conditions of employment and at the girls. On any given day there will be several of them who will wince and draw breath sharply as they sit gingerly on those hard reformatory chairs. Do you wonder why? Perhaps you notice in the conditions of employment that there is a weekly retainer paid to you for inflicting chastisement. The going rate in the 19th century was ten shillings, which 150 years later would be over £20. Also, as Ronald Pearsall shows in Night's Black Angels, there was payment of half a crown — £6 or £7 in the 1980s — for many a whipping, birching, or caning given.

Are you worried at the cost of all the equipment needed in this new profession? Have no fear. As Mr Pearsall records, there were also 'out of pocket expenses' for such items as canes, birch-rods and whips which would get worn out by constant use.

Perhaps you might simply envy James Miles his prestige? His early achievements were reported in the Morning Chronicle and his powers of chastisement were the subject of an editorial in the Britannia newspaper. With lips pursed and birch raised over some recalcitrant reformatory beauty, he represented the might and majesty of the Law. His story found a place in fiction, as well as folklore, in Ron Rich's The First Victorian. Only the French — whom every decent Englishman of the day despised — suggested that the disciplinarians were having the time of their lives. Small wonder that books like Etudes sur la Flagellation, which blew the gaff on Miles and his kind, were rigorously banned in England. 'Le Vice Anglais' was how they described it in Paris.

The truth is that if James Miles fails to send you rushing out to join STOPP, then STOPP will probably have to manage without you.

Perhaps you would want to spend a day as James Miles before committing yourself either way. The morning's labours must begin after breakfast, for there are so many defaulters to be dealt with. You retire to your sunlit study overlooking the garden and await the first tap on the door.

Is it a coincidence that the first delinquent who comes in is also one of the most beautiful in your care? Why is it that the ugly ones never seem to incur so much retribution? In this case, Judith is quite a tall and graceful girl of 16. The light brown hair is worn in a sweep from her high crown to her shoulders framing the pale oval of her face with its clear fair-skinned features and hazel eyes.

You instruct her to lay her skirt on the chair and to present herself in stockings and tight cotton drawers. In this state you discover that she is not only quite tall but has long elegant legs which any glamour girl or beauty queen would envy. Pulling yourself together, you instruct her to lay her knickers on the same chair. Then Judith must face the chair and bend over it tightly with her hands on the seat.

Just before you attend to her there is some reformatory business to be done. You sit at your desk, quill pen in hand. Two or three feet in front of you is Judith's rear view. The long light brown hair has been braided into a pair of plaits to prevent it spilling forward as she stoops. From the rear you view the long graceful legs and seat. The black stocking-tops at mid-thigh, the elastic suspender arch at her waist and the suspender straps down each flank conveniently frame the area of interest. Perhaps you permit yourself a quiet smile of anticipation as you sit forward and familiarise yourself with the target.

Predictably, though you sit at your desk for half an hour, like the dedicated public servant that you are, you do not somehow get round to the paperwork.

'Bend over more tightly, Judith,' you say from time to time. 'Even more tightly still! No, don't keep looking round at the cane!'

Judith may be a demure and well-spoken young lady, the stuff of which pupil-teachers and governesses are made. But she has broken the rules and this time it is she who is on the receiving end. You rise and touch the bamboo across the pale oval cheeks of Judith's 16-year-old bottom. No smiles now, for your mouth is set firm and your eyes gleaming.

The sharp impacts of the cane ring out one after another across the nymph-cheeks of Judith's arse. Such a ladylike young backside undergoing so undignified a punishment! The silken whisper of stockings rises as her graceful legs squirm together. One knee jams frantically into the back of the other. The elegant ovals of Judith's bum-cheeks twist aside and there is a wild cry. Not surprising when you view the smarting willow-pattern of bamboo printed in fire on her behind. But you cannot permit such wriggling.

'Want me to take you back to the beginning and start again, Judith? No? Then bend properly. Up on tiptoe, forehead on the chair seat. No need to blush about it...'

So the caning continues. You no doubt pause from time to time to survey your handiwork. Then comes the dread utterance.

'Quite still, Judith! I'm not satisfied with your bottom yet!'

Naturally you are ready for your elevenses after such exertion. Fortified again, you turn to the problem of Sally or Sal. Here is a diminutive hooligan with a shock of henna-tinted hair, a high-boned impudent face with rouge on the cheeks, and dark defiant eyes. She and her two friends have been consigned to the reformatory for breaching the peace in no uncertain manner. Through the quiet middle-class street this pint-sized strumpet went bawling: 'I went out on Saturday night! I got into a fucking fight!' Sal was boasting, by the way, not complaining.

Do not imagine Sally in dress and petticoats. She was one for what Miles's contemporary Arthur Munby called 'working trousers' and what we should probably call jeans. Picture her in a black singlet, let us say, and a pair of tight faded blue jeans which show her sturdy thighs and bulging bottom rolling as she walks. The justices knew at a glance there was only one place for her.

As you escort her ahead of you to the study, you may well stare open-mouthed in anticipation at the swagger of Sally's fat young bottom in those tight jeans or 'working trousers.' In the study itself she has to undo the waist-belt and push her pants down below her knees.

'Lie bottom-upwards over the sofa-cushions, Sally!' you say humorously, exchanging a knowing look with her.

Clearly a fresh cane is called for, one with a vicious spring. And two more cushions under her belly to raise and swell the curve of Sal's seat. As you stand over her, you issue a warning.

'You'll be coming here every morning, Sally, until the matrons are satisfied with your improved conduct.' Then the bamboo whacks across the fat little cheeks of Sally's bottom with a report like a ringmaster's whip. You punish Sal with the cane across the crowns of her buttocks and curb her impudence by applying extremely hard strokes across her lower, softer rear-cheeks. Or so you think. When you dismiss her, she is hardly outside the door before you hear her mutter, 'Fucking old creep!'

It is the work of a moment to open the door and summon her back. The matrons will aid the removal of Sally's pants if required. Kneeling tightly forward over the chair-back this time. Now the banter is obviously on your side.

'Morning and evening, Sally! Until we're absolutely satisfied with you! We're very hard to satisfy here!'

If you have a moment to spare from your labours, you may just catch the shrill sounds of your matrons being very strict indeed with Sal's cronies — Tracey, Mandy and the rest of them — in the adjoining rooms.

What a busy morning it has been! Now there is a stern knock at the door. The chief constable! The magistrates! Ah, you thought it was too good to last! Your foul secret is revealed! You see visions of arrest, public disgrace, and a prison cell! Have no fear. These gentlemen are your very good friends and they have come to lunch.

Nowadays they might be eager to spend lunch discussing the latest right wing proposals for the restoration of birching in the grand manner. In default of this, why not entertain your guests, as James Miles, by showing them your scrap-book. First would come your conditions of appointment — all those extra perks for birching and bambooing recalcitrant young ladies — doing well by doing good.

Then you will want to show them the newspaper clippings of your trial. Your trial? Yes, alas, you were once tried before the justices of nearby Rochester. The courtroom was crowded by the national press. You were front-page news in the Morning Chronicle. A few sanctimonious busybodies decided that you were enjoying your public duties too much. They hauled you before the court for 'cruelty' and 'indecency' in your use of birch and bamboo. Can you imagine such absurdity?

To be quite honest, the case gave you a few nasty moments but you need not have worried. For example, Mr Elwes, the legal brain of the prosecution, condemned you for having teenage girls held down while you thrashed their bare bottoms. The judges dealt with this nonsense in no time at all. As one of the older women insisted, she had never known a girl 'that did not struggle' under the birch. 'Then, gentlemen, I must apologise for introducing the suggestion upon this court,' said Elwes the Legal Eagle in humbler tones. The Morning Chronicle of 7 January 1841 reported him without comment.

You see? You need not have worried after all. The court heard that you once caned the bare bottom of a young woman of 28 while she was lying on her bed. There were girls of more tender years whom you tanned in the Schoolroom. (Ironically the same word was used for the place where girls were whipped in brothels.) The court really did not care.

Rather nervously, the girls began to admit under cross-examination that you were a kindly master. Oh yes? Were they perhaps too scared of the retribution awaiting them if they sank out of tune? More probably they preferred regular meals and an occasional sore bottom to the prospect of starving in the streets. So it was that Sarah Barnes, Charlotte Burton and the rest sang your praises.

The prosecution struggled on gamely, doing its best. You had birched the bare bottoms of girls between the ages of 16 and 28! Yes, yes, thought the judges impatiently. Of course you had. That was what the government paid you to do. Some of the strokes, said the prosecutor solemnly, made the girl scream. Of course, they had, thought the justices. It wouldn't have been a very effective punishment otherwise, would it? But, shrilled the prosecutor, the girls had been held down for their bare bottom discipline! Naturally they had, said the court. If you don't hold them, they wriggle.

So the astonishing trial at Rochester continued with the entire country following the details eagerly over its toast and marmalade next day. How did it end? Well that was truly unforgettable — and you are going to have a lot of fun telling your cronies about it at lunch time. First there was an ill concealed snirt-snirt! chortle-chortle! from one of the well-fed Pickwickian justices. Then the others began to join in. Soon the entire bench of them was rolling about, hooting and roaring till the tears ran down their cheeks. Funny? You bet it was funny!

It really was priceless, you see, to prosecute you for skinning a score of schoolgirl bottoms every week. In modern terms, it was like a tax inspector sending out a final demand and being prosecuted for demanding money with menaces.

So the portly justices laughed the case out of court. Birch the young sluts soundly, Mr Miles! Have the skin off their arses, sir! Go to it, by gad! Not that they uttered these sentiments. Instead they began to shout jokes to one another. The entire case foundered in great farting peals of mirth.

You were acquitted. But what did the country at large think about you? Did they condemn you? Were they indignant that you were being paid to have the time of your life while they slaved away in factory or counting-house? For the benefit of your guests you show them what the Britannia newspaper said about you after your trial. 'Wholly up to him to decide what degree of punishment,' said the Britannia in its editorial upon you. Archibald Sinclair in his 1857 Reminiscences, put more power to your elbow. 'First rate disciplinarian,' wrote Sinclair approvingly, 'never gives less than three dozen.'

Three dozen? Small wonder that the witnesses at your trial and the other delinquent lasses. Charlotte Burton, Sarah Barnes, Elaine Cox, Lisa Screese, and the rest, have the reputation of being the best disciplined girls for miles around.

If any of your guests entertain lingering doubts as to the legality of such punishments — and supposing it is now 1904 and you are a spry 90-year-old — you pull down from the shelves the great legal authority of the day. It is the sixth edition of Sir James Stephen's Digest of the Criminal Law, published that year. There on page eight, under the heading 'Whipping', you will find the ruling that 'the number of strokes and the instrument used are at the discretion of the person by whom the whipping is inflicted.'

True, there are one or two subversive types around who make snide remarks about your conscientious performance of your duties. There is a young man called Havelock Ellit. The foul-minded little cad actually insinuates that you are getting secret sex fun by caning the bare bottoms of Jane, Sally, Susan, Maggie, Judith, Elaine, Jennifer, Helena, Ann, Noreen, Mandy, etc., etc. Have no fear, Ellis's books are being prosecuted by the authorities who denounce him as 'a thoroughly filthy fellow.'

Lunch has restored your energies and you decide on an inspection of the girls at work. How about a stroll down to the stables on this sunny afternoon? There you will find a girl of 19 polishing the display of harness and mopping over the tiles. Though she goes by the newly-fashionable name of Angela, she is known by the reformatory contraction of Ange.

For some time you have had doubts as to whether Ange is pulling her shapely weight. She is a girl with a plumpish figure, well shown off by her singlet and those pale faded blue working-trousers, best described as snug-fitting jeans. She has a soft face, though her nose is pert, blue eyes, and a short razor-trimmed crop of light brown hair.

As you arrive, she is on all fours, mopping over the tiled floor. Prudently she keeps her head lowered to her task, the brown fringe falling over her forehead. The soft outlines of her face, her ears and her smooth young neck are revealed by her short crop. In the warm afternoon the singlet clings to her pale back and breasts. From the waist down one must imagine her full thighs and plump hips sheathed by something like a pair of pale blue jeans. Nowadays, under the tightly strained jeans-seat you would see the elastic outline of Ange's knickers — a pair of stretch-briefs arching up high and tight over each of her bum-cheeks. In those far-off times, they were not worn.

Therefore, you will want to take a long and careful rear view of her as she works on all fours. A few years more and Miss Angela is going to be a decidedly plump-hipped young lady! Just now she suits Victorian taste. A slight weightiness in her thighs draws your attention to her seat. Under the drumskin-tight jeans, Ange's buttocks are robustly full and broad. You inspect the area closely as she toils away self-consciously under your feared gaze. The stout central seam of the jeans-set is drawn deep and taut between the lower fatness of Ange's bottom-cheeks.

Is she really working to your satisfaction? As you study Ange's broad young backside, you are not entirely convinced. Well out of earshot there is the 'apple shed' where windfalls are pressed for cider. The power is provided by a young woman bending over a barrel which stands on its side. She then runs like a sprinter on the spot, working the wooden treadle, under which lie the apples to be pulped. What better exercise for a 19-year-old idler like Ange?

She may not be easily persuaded, but you have your way. So you contemplate Ange, arse-upwards over the barrel. Her softly appealing face is lost from view over the wooden curve and you can scarcely see the razor-trimmed crop of her light brown hair. Yet Ange's plump bottom-cheeks are straining those jeans dangerously tight, and they obsess you. You must not risk them splitting as she runs. The only alternative is to undo the waist and ease them down until they slip off over her ankles. Yes, of course, you will want to pause and study the bare bottom so tantalisingly offered.

The girl obeys you, as of course she must. Her trousers are now off. Then, at your second command, she begins her run, her plump young thighs working energetically. The slight extra sheen of pale flesh on Ange's naked bum-cheeks quivers like smacked jelly as she runs on the spot.

Your own trousers feel uncomfortably tight as you remember the words of Sir James Stephen. Ange's fate is entirely at your discretion. You will not, of course, be barbaric. Yet there lies the birch (three yard-long switches bound at the handle) which came from the Reverend Mr Vine's prison-farm. As you watch Ange, those running thighs and fattened young bum-cheeks, you recall that she was due for a tanning anyway. How convenient! You are entitled to give Ange's young backside the severest birching that even a boys' prison-farm allows.

Ange, of course, twists her face round in blue-eyed alarm and her legs go like pistons.

'A full prison birching across your bare bottom, Angela!' you say, warning her to brace herself for it.

Her protests are gasped and breathless as you measure the birch across the rounding and writhing plumpness of Ange's pale mobile seat-cheeks. Thrash! goes the triple-switched rod across her quivering backside. Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... THRASH! ... THRASH! ... SWISHHH-THRASH!

What an afternoon this promises to be! Ange's shrillness is making the rafters ring. Bottom upwards over the barrel she is going like a champion, legs pumping up and down at twice the speed. Ange's soft pale buttocks are dancing cheek-to-cheek, and it is as well for her that she cannot twist over on her hip. Thrash! ... Thrash! ... 'Push your behind right out now, Ange! Run faster!' ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Thrash! ... Lash! ... Thrash!

Perhaps you feel that all this is too much for 19-year-old Angela. And yet it seems you are wrong. You turn away for a moment to lay down your coat, for you are feeling immensely hot. While your back is turned, Ange's mouth delivers a loud and vulgar raspberry as she runs — surely a deliberate defiance of you? As you turn, she gives a cry as if suddenly terrified by her own brazenness.

'Very well, Angela! You know the rules! We shall commence the discipline again! From the beginning!'

Let us draw a curtain of decorum, as the Victorians themselves might say, over the remaining events of the afternoon in that apple-shed. It will be some while before you emerge and, as for Ange, she may prefer to remain there a time and even shed a tear or two of repentance before she emerges to face the world again.

But you are forgetting something, are you not? All that energy put into birching Ange, as well as caning Judith and Sally, is not merely a disciplinary exercise. It also earns you money. In addition to your £15,000 a year and your £40 a week as chastiser, today's three punishments have earned you some £21 at about £7 a time! It may not be as good as first prize on the premium bonds but it surely is more interesting.

Ah, you are wondering how the authorities know the amount due to you. After all, there are some dishonest fellows about who would claim to have birched half a dozen girls a day when they had done nothing of the sort. Naturally, you could be trusted to do your duty but there are some people, you know...

What could be easier than to tell whether the books are cooked or not? The justices' clerk arrives to pay you the day's dues. He does not need books at all. You call Ange, Sally and Judith.

'Slip your knickers off, Ange, and bend over the back of the chair... Judith, lie bottom-upwards on the sofa... Bend over the desk, Sally! Push your jeans right down!'

The justices' clerk, with eyes laughing and mouth rounded in admiration, can read the accounts exactly where you printed them with willow and bamboo. He cannot draw himself away. There is a favour he would ask. He has some apples for pressing. May be bring them? Is the shed free tomorrow afternoon? Might he borrow Ange? How can you refuse a man who is offering to do your job free?

A sceptical modern reader might begin to wonder about the motives of some Victorian upholders of law and order. The justices laughed prosecutions like that of Mr Miles out of court. But they did better than that. They actually supplied James Miles and his kind with the pretty girls whom he 'reformed' with such loving care. Indeed, the justices were eager to see chastisement enforced. They were even, it seems, prepared to bend the law so that a pretty girl with a shapely bottom might bare it regularly for the rod.

Impossible? Take a look at the tip of the iceberg in Richard Whitmire's Victorian and Edwardian Crime and Punishment. Among the records of Huntingdon gaol, for example, are details of girls sent to the reformatory by justices, sometimes with specified birchings. Julia Ogolthorpe is a pretty dark haired schoolgirl in the photograph on her record-sheet. For stealing a loaf at Grantham, they gave her five years in reformatory where, as they say, she might spend more time bending than sitting.

But surely these worthy gentlemen were only doing their job, weren't they? Take another look at her record. It is made out, announcing her summary conviction, on 5 January 1871. It also gives the date of her trial — which did not take place until 27 January, more than three weeks later. Whoops! The greedy justices wore thus able to choose girls for reformatory discipline for the next five years without waiting for such boring details as the trial, the evidence, and the possibility that Julia Ogolthorpe or Sarah Barnes or Sally Fenton might not be guilty. Of course, when the hearing took place, the justices were both judge and jury so there was no danger of getting the wrong verdict.

Before James Miles was born, Edward Ward in his periodical The London Spy had revealed the eagerness of justices and their cronies to see a good display of birching and whipping upon the bare rears of young women. Some of the girls were in their 20s, others in their early teens, according to Ward. The chairman of the justices sat in the 'judgment seat' with a hammer in his hand. 'A woman was under the lash in the next room, where folding doors were opened so that the whole court might see the punishment inflicted.' Ward watched for a while and then went about his business leaving his judicial friends 'to flog on till the accusers had satisfied their revenge and the spectators their curiosity.' In our own time there are many voices urging the return of such punishments. What did Ward think, after watching them? 'I only conceive it makes many whores,' he said, 'but that it can in no measure reclaim them.'

Next time that the advocates of flogging in our own century hold forth, we might do well to remember Ward's remarks. To strip a girl for whipping, he observed, was the first step in making her a whore. When it was over, she regarded herself as one.

As James Miles, of course, you will not wish to hear such arguments. Your day is too busy. As you may recall, you have already tanned Judith, Sal, and Ange, as well as entertaining the local magistracy to lunch. Now the justices' clerk leaves, making Ange wince by an injudicious slap on her light jeans-cheek. You might almost think your day's labours are at an end. Would it surprise you to know that, for a dedicated public servant like Mr Miles, they have hardly begun?

Story from Janus 15.

The Man With The Golden Rod, part two
by Richard Manton

Writer Richard Manton (the pseudonym of a well-known novellist) continues his recreation of just one day in the life of James Miles, the factual Master of the Hoo Union Workhouse at Rochester, Kent during the 19th century. This compelling, obsessive yet authentic account, closely based on records of the time, takes one deep into the world of workhouse discipline for girls and raises many topical questions relating to right-wing moves to get corporal punishment put back on the statute books. Part one of The Man With The Golden Rod appeared in Janus 14.

WHEN, AS James Miles, you were acquitted at your trial, the justices were clearly on your side. Off you go, they said. Birch those young reformatory trollops long, hard, and often. Did you suspect that the justices had a vested interest in the verdict? No? What a trusting sort of chap you are.

The French revealed the truth in such Edwardian hooks as Etudes sur la Flagellation. England's rulers endeavoured to ban such books by prosecution and persecution. Not surprisingly, since the truth revealed applied to those rulers themselves.

Mr Miles was acquitted, we learn, so that the justices might continue to enjoy the sight of girls birched or caned on the so-called 'justices' nights'. Under a veil of Victorian prudery it was possible to attend an evening of tannings which combined striptease, moral self-righteousness, and sex as a blood-sport.

Nowadays, if the polls are to be believed, a substantial majority in the country would support judicial thrashings. Press reports in the Sun and the Liverpool Daily Post on 13 February 1976 revealed Tory MPs proposal to have girl delinquents judicially whipped 'with a birch, cane or strap'. On 10 November 1977 the Daily Telegraph reported how girls in care in Nottinghamshire were to be dealt with until the age of 17. Misconduct was to be punished by bamboo. 'Canings should be on the bottom,' read the instructions, 'always in front of witnesses.'

Papers like the Telegraph are rightly quick to report such stories prominently, thus warning us of the severities which a return to old-fashioned 'discipline' might involve. Yet, for all their enlightened and humane attitude which this careful concern for the subject doubtless shows, they can scarcely conjure up the scenes which a return to 'the good old days' would involve.

As James Miles you would welcome your guests to an excellent dinner, food and wine on expenses. Afterwards you would all retire to the punishment room — the Red Room as they called it at Hoo — prudently out of earshot of the rest of the buildings.

Picture a long stone-flagged room, gaslight glaring harshly on white-washed walls. The windows are high up and barred. At the centre of the floor stands the fixed square block over which each culprit kneels. Several feet to the rear are leather chairs for the witnesses. They take their places, Mr Miles removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. He tests a slender three-foot bamboo. It has a rapier's spring. Like a golfer practising his swing, he cuts the air a few times with a trial swish.

The first delinquent is led in. She is just the rebellious tomboy to make a disciplinarian's fingers itch. Elaine is best described as a shouting, striding youngster. Lank fair hair combed from a central parting lies loose upon her shoulders. Narrow eyes and thin mouth give the broad oval of her face a look of snub-nosed insolence. This sturdy young rebel boasts robust young hips and thighs.

The witnesses catch her defiant gaze with quiet smiles of anticipation, their eyes taking in her strong young legs, grey pleated skirt and white blouse. In modern terms it would be the kind of grey pleated uniform skirt worn short enough to bare Elaine's sturdy young thighs.

Her crime, it seems, was breaking the finger of one of your matrons. Just the offence for which the Tory proposal of 1976 advocates birching or caning girls 'guilty of inflicting bodily harm'. Yet Elaine returns the gaze of the portly middle-aged justices with a look of contempt.

It seems she cares nothing for the impending punishment. Hardly waiting for the order, she sheds her skirt and kneels on all fours over the block. The tight white cotton web of Elaine's knickers show her to be 'quite a big-bottomed girl in this posture'.

Despite more lurid suggestions of Mr Miles's involvement, it will probably be a matron who stoops over the block. Elaine's knickers are pushed down, and then she is positioned with meticulous exactitude. The pro-flogging brigade of our own day — MPs and public — would surely approve of such exhaustive precautions. It is, of course, left to you as James Miles to tuck up the tail of her blouse, well clear of the full pale cheeks of Elaine's bottom. Are you startled as she tosses back her fair hair, cranes round, and treats you to a burst of snub-nosed defiance?

Such girls as this were a puzzle to men like the author of Etudes sur la Flagellation — Jean de Villot. Elaine was facing — or perhaps about-facing — a full judicial thrashing with all the trimmings. Yet by her continued defiance and insolence she seemed determined to do everything in her power to make it worse. Later on we shall have to consider why — but put out of your head any mischievous old-wives' tales about the youngster 'enjoying it'. Next day she would scarcely walk without some discomfort or sit without a wince and a sharp intake of breath. What is so enjoyable about that? A blister on the foot could be more fun.

As James Miles, however, you introduce one more refinement. Elaine must call out the number of each stroke before receiving it. Would our present-day advocates of the birch approve the idea? If the girl fails or refuses to do so, she will get the stroke anyway. But it will not count towards the total of her punishment. By defiance she will merely earn herself more lashes of the cane.

So, as James Miles, you must now take the bamboo in your hand. You announce her sentence formally to the girl and the justices, assuring her in the manner of a bawdy sergeant-major that it will be with the bamboo across bare bum-checks. Then you order her to call out the number of the first stroke.

Now comes the biggest shock of all. The rebellious youngster, in a burst of foul-mouthed, four-lettered defiance, refuses to call out the numbers of the strokes. In case you have not got the message, she yells to the world that you are a bastard, and an effing bastard at that.

Tossing back her fair hair, Elaine cranes round at the witnesses. The broad oval of her snub-nosed face is still suffused with defiance in her narrow eyes and thin mouth. How she curses the well-fed justices. In the privacy of the punishment-room they smile back at her knowingly, showing her their amusement and delight in her predicament. They let her see them sitting forward in their chairs for a close-up of the subject. Mouths pursed and eyes bright, they survey the sturdily broadened cheeks of Elaine's backside in its present posture. Whatever the explanation of her vulgar impudence, she must have known better than to hope for a reprieve later on. When the justices have such a bare-bottomed tomboy over the block, all leniency is forbidden.

So Mr Miles gently and almost teasingly measures the bamboo across the full pale checks of Elaine's young bottom. For all her defiance, the youngster is gnawing at her lower lip apprehensively. Her hands are clenched desperately and her fifth-former's buttocks are tensing and shifting under the menace of the bamboo touch.

With all the time in the world, Mr Miles takes aim. Then, raising the cane, he brings it down with 'an ear-splitting smack' across the full pale cheeks of Elaine's bottom. She gasps at the smart and her bum-cheeks begin to arch and squirm. Mr Miles knows from long experience that the initial smarting impact of the bamboo across Elaine's adolescent behind will swell in intensity to a savage climax several seconds later. Expert that he is, he aims each stroke to coincide with that climax of its predecessor.

Naturally there is an electric tension in the room as the smack! ... whip-smack! of two more uncounted strokes rings out across Elaine's rear cheeks. This is accompanied by a gasping, a wrestling, and the strained creaking of the punishment bench. Surely the rebellious youngster must know as well as the witnesses that she will yell at the top of her voice for the first counted stroke, sooner or later. Only then will the official discipline begin. Incredible though it seems, she is actually trying to add to her punishment while she can still bear to.

To be fair to those who now advocate the return of the birch, they do not suggest flagellations on the Victorian scale. The Tory proposal favours 12 strokes, though the figure 18 has also been mentioned. The danger, of course, is where the punishment routine provides for an increase in the number as a reprisal for misconduct while the tanning itself is actually being given. Elaine's five years in the reformatory, under the old-fashioned law, would probably extend from adolescence to 18. One can well imagine the sort of discipline which the present law-and-order brigade might well want to administer to the bare checks of Elaine's strapping young tomboy bottom during such a period of detention.

Back to Mr Miles in the reformatory punishment-room back to the details which the pro-birchers would prefer you not to know....

After a number of uncounted strokes, the inevitable happens. A sizzling lash of the bamboo causes Elaine's sturdy young buttocks to clench frantically. As the impact swells, she tosses back her fair hair, cranes round at the witnesses in consternation, and yells out, 'One!'

The well-fed justices smile knowingly at this triumph of their power over her adolescent rebellion. The eventual submission of the victim is inevitable, but they prefer it when they have to wait. Mr Miles's mouth is set tight. The bamboo thrashes down with a pistol-crack report across the red cane-prints already branching across Elaine's backside. The sequel is predictable and easily imagined.

'Two! ... Three! ... Fo-o-o-ur! .... FI-I-I-VE! .... SIX! .... Please, not across there again! No! N-O-O-O! .... O-O-O-W! .... My BOTTOM! Oh, please count that one! Ple-e-e-e-ase! .... O-O-W-HOO-HOO-HOOO! .... SEVEN! .... E-E-E-Y-OW! .... OH, NO! NOT THERE AGAIN! .... AHH! .... EIGHT! .... NINE! .... No-o! Not there again! It isn't fair! .... Y-O-O-W! .... TEN!'

Does this sound-track show the unacceptable face of law-and-order? Remember, if the present proposal becomes law, much worse than this will be heard many times a day throughout the land. One can well believe that by this stage of the discipline, the fiery spread of Elaine's bottom-cheeks 'resembled a girl made to sit all day on a cruel thorn-bush infested by angry wasps!' However, those in parliament and the courts who support such proposals have considered all this and have decided that the type of punishment inflicted on Elaine and her kind is OK by them.

The rest of us, however, may wonder about the so-called 'healthy' effect of such reformatory discipline. By this stage of the tanning, Mr Miles is finding the front of his trousers uncomfortably tight. Small wonder that the French suggested he was having 'punishment fun' with Elaine. One can well believe that the lads from the adjoining boys' department would have risked their necks to reach the high barred windows on the outside. The master and justices were perhaps too busy to notice. Yet Elaine, as she craned round with eyes brimming and mouth howling, may have glimpsed the faces at the windows — wide-eyed and open mouthed, the lads' legs squirming to hold themselves high up as they peeped in on the scene. Healthy? Well, it beats jogging on the hard-shoulder.

So before we all go out and vote for the return of the good old system, let us consider some of the things it actually involves. Those who advocate it — without ever having seen it — give the impression that a reformatory tanning would he a clean, decent, thoroughly British occupation. Rather like a game of cricket with birch and rump — six strokes to the over. Stiff upper lip? If anything was stiff in the punishment-room it is not an upper lip.

Victorian hooks and magazines thrived on whippings, sport and imperialism. For instance, Miles was quite entitled to cane a girl like Elaine or Ange after breakfast, and then call her back for a second bambooing across her bare bottom after lunch. Were our ancestors shocked by this? Not a bit, it seems. The Captain, 'A Magazine for Boys and Old Boys', assured its readers that a second tanning an hour or two after the first was merely 'a second innings on a sticky wicket'. How England's upper crust chortled over the joke. One imagines the humour may have been lost on Elaine or Ange or Sal.

To begin with, the language in such chastisements as Elaine's is not at all the sort approved by the Viewers and Listeners Association for family entertainment. A vulgar young tomboy like Elaine, when stung beyond endurance, is apt to use terms you would not find in Jane Austen. After more than a dozen counted swipes of the cane across her bare bottom, even a sturdy youngster like Elaine is frantic from the lingering smart. Then there comes a wickedly-aimed stroke across the tender willow-pattern of bamboo already striping her backside. In a fury of anguish, Elaine twists her face round again, yelling, 'My arse! Oh, you bastards! You bastards!'

We can look forward to a good deal of this, if the new proposals become law. The supporters of official corporal punishment, like those supporting the capital variety, are apt to assure us that their method is quick and clean. That's great, as long as you're not the one who has to clean up afterwards.

The last phases of such a punishment are likely to be extremely undignified. A sturdy impudent adolescent girl, kneeling so tightly forward over the block, is not particularly well-placed to exercise psychological self-control under the cane. After a stroke wicked enough to raise goose-pimples, Elaine's tomboy bottom thrashes in a paroxysm of wild agony, and her lips scream profanities. The snub-nosed rebel turns the broad oval of her face to the witnesses, her mouth forming an 'Ooo!' of dismay at what she has so pitiably shrieked. She knows that such impudence qualifies for extra chastisement. Worse still, as her expression indicates to the judicial amusement of the witnesses, Elaine knows that in her present state the next smarting stroke may very well cause a repetition of her 'insolence', for which vengeance will be duly executed.

Supporters of the rod, of course, are quick to suggest that it would be 'different' nowadays. It's hard to see how. Certainly as one correspondent in the Daily Telegraph ('Caning of girls', 26 January 1976) pointed out, the female bottom would continue to be the target zone. 'After all, decorum has nothing to do with it, since the punishment is to be dished out by mistresses.'

That sounds fine until you read another report in the same newspaper on 25 May 1978, 'Home Office turns blind eye to lesbian warders'. And not just lesbian, in this account, but ladies with a taste for sexual violence. In one of its best exposés ever, the paper revealed how Anita Sasin, aged 22, alleged that she had been the victim of lesbian rape at Styal prison in Cheshire. The Home Office dismissed the allegation with customary smug imperturbability as 'Bizarre and untrue'. Unfortunately for the Home Office, Mrs Wynne Egerton, a senior officer at Styal, had the courage to disclose the true state of affairs in some female prisons. The Prison Department, she announced, 'turns a blind eye and retains in the service, staff who are known to be active lesbians, and even corrupt married women.'

So much for the soothing assurance that reformatory canings would be 'all right now' because girls like Elaine would be tanned by female officers. Just imagine two or three ladies of this ilk standing over the culprit as James Miles did, eager to let off some disciplinary steam. It will all be behind closed doors — and no questions asked afterwards. Even if the questions are asked, the Home Office will be able to tell us that the allegations are bizarre and untrue. Picture the scene, the culprit over the block and a good selection of canes in the rack. Can you imagine what would happen to the strapping young cheeks of Elaine's fifth-form bottom in the next half hour?

For the moment, though, you are still James Miles back in the last century. To Elaine's shrill and frantic protests that she can bear no more, you need only reply that she will be made to bear it away. No need to concern herself over that.

During the rest of the evening you ply the cane with the virtuoso skill of a concert pianist before your guests. Every 20 minutes or so, the door of the Red Room opens. One pretty miscreant leaves, rubbing her behind cheeks tearfully, and another is summoned. Sarah Barnes and Charlotte Burton may have praised your virtues at your trial, but that only makes you the more keen to instill a little virtue into them now. Perhaps you progress all the way up the age-range in your disciplinary zeal, all the way to flighty young women of 27 and 28.

Your guests depart, leaving you weary of arm and damp of brow. Time for a nightcap in your study and a quick count-up of the day's earnings. But, devoted public servant that you are, you cannot rest while duty remains undone. Surely when your time comes there will be a statue to your memory: 'James Miles, erected by the girls of Hoo reformatory'.

You have just recalled a sluttishness of behaviour by an impudent young woman of 25. You summon Jacqueline to your study. Under the short bell of blonde hair and fringe, Jackie has a pale sullen face, blue eyed and heavy jawed. As ordered, she is in white singlet and working-trousers of tight smooth denim. Long legs with trim thighs. The softness of breasts and hips suggests one furtive pregnancy.

You employ her in various casual chores first of all, which involve her in a good deal of bending over with her seat towards you. You decide her fate while pondering, in their skintight denim, the fattish cheeks of blonde Jackie's arse. All her sly attempts to seduce you from your duty fail. You are proof against such things.

Trousers and pants off, Jackie. Kneel on the sofa! Now kneel tightly forward over the padded back. Put your palms on the floor to take your weight. Such a pale plump pair of bottom-cheeks, Jackie! Why, you have escaped discipline far too long. I promise you, miss, my trusty bamboo shall soon alter that sad state of affairs! I shall send the matron in charge of your work a message to inform her that you will not be returning there tonight. In a moment, Jackie, the reformatory cane! Did you not guess it would be that when you were sent for? I do not believe I have ever had the opportunity to acquaint myself so well with your bottom before, Jackie! What a sluttish arrogance you must have showed as a shopgirl. Still, I can well understand why the customers were always asking for trinkets which obliged you to turn your back to the counter and bend to rummage in the lowest shelves! Keep that fat young backside of yours quite still, Jackie! No, don't tighten your seat-cheeks as I measure the bamboo across them. Disobedience will prolong the caning!'

A devoted public servant, it seems, knows no rest. And yet, if the French account is to be believed, there is a curious sequel to your busy day.

One morning, not too long afterwards, a party of girls in singlets and trousers is tending the garden outside your study window. Your desk at which you are working stands in the bay of the window, giving you an excellent view. Elaine is there, tightly clad in white singlet and working-trousers of smooth lavender-blue material which are very, very tight-fitting. The cause of this is partly the broad leather waist-belt drawing them in so narrowly. Also the trousers are really too small for her sturdy hips and seat. Indeed, from the rear, the outline of Elaine's well-filled seat is an almost perfect circle — across the back of her waist, out round the flanks of her hips, and under her buttocks.

As you work at your papers, Elaine takes her place at the flower-bed a few feet beyond the glass. She turns her back to you to begin her allotted task of weeding. You are bound to glance up from your correspondence occasionally at her sturdy adolescent buttocks straining the tight smooth trouser-cloth. Once, at least, she stares back at you over her shoulder, the lank fair hair from its central parting framing the broad oval of her face, the snub nose, narrow eyes, and thin defiant mouth.

Then she bends over to weed. By now you are having real trouble with your correspondence. You look up and there, three feet away, you are confronted by the sturdy thighs, the broadened young cheeks of Elaine Cox's fifth-form bottom once more. No one can truly blame you for leaning forward on your elbows and staring with lips tightly pursed at the view beyond the glass! The impudent tomboy is bending right over and, it seems, deliberately thrusting the spread-cheeked seat of her lavender-blue tight trousers in your face!

Understandably, you do not get round to your correspondence. Your lips are rounded with a sharp intake of breath and your eyes gleam at the smooth seat-cloth drawn splittingly tight as the youngster bends. Vulgarly filled and fattened by this posture are the strapping young cheeks of Elaine's bottom. You hold the paperweight in one hand and polish it vigorously but absent-mindedly. From time to time, the insolent youngster tosses back her fair hair and cranes round at you. She shifts a little but deliberately stays bending to confront you with her broadened young bum-cheeks, all morning long. Under the straining trouser-seat, Elaine's arse-cheeks are wantonly and suggestively parted by her posture.

Yet Elaine is deliberately idling, showing you that she has not pulled up a weed all morning. There can only be one outcome to this. At the end of the session, you summon her for a study-tanning.

'You're really in trouble this time, Elaine,' you say smilingly as you escort her in. The other girls stare aghast at her boldness.

Elaine on the sofa this time, kneeling tightly forward over the scroll at the end. Once again those trousers are beautifully tight over the cheeks of her sturdy young backside. Down come the trousers to her knees with Elaine's pants inside them. The afternoon lies ahead of you, the doors are locked, and no tales will be told afterwards.

Why did Elaine invite such retribution? She certainly did not enjoy the strokes. Mr Miles was the only man in her life, of course, and perhaps this form of undressing was the nearest thing to sex she could get? Perhaps his mind would turn to other things? Alas, there is no evidence that he even thought of it! Perhaps Elaine was angry on another girl's behalf. That might account for one incident but not her general conduct.

The likely truth is so obvious one overlooks it. Elaine was bully of the reformatory — like a gangland boss among humble cons. Instead of constant fights which she would one day lose, she held her authority by taking public discipline which other girls quailed at. Hence the incurring of extra strokes while she could still bear them — in order to display a more battered bottom! Hence the deliberate defiance of the master during the garden detail where other girls could see. She was one of those who, as the Telegraph put it on 15 October 1979, 'bare their weals with pride.' Like another problem pupil described by the same paper on 15 January 1976, Elaine 'enjoyed being caned and went back for more.' Like Mr Miles's fifth-form tomboy, this pupil too 'attacked teachers... disrupted classes, defied all rules.' What seems like incredible behaviour by a reformatory girl was all too credible!

Last of all, let us concede that there may well be a case for the return of judicial caning and birching. But certain questions must first be answered which are carefully not discussed in the press advocating it. In a democracy punishments cannot be restricted to one group. Therefore in a modern Miles reformatory there will, basically, be two types of offender. One is the defiant adolescent tomboy of Elaine's sort. The other — for the law in this area always extends to sexual immorality in the end — will be the promiscuous older woman in her middle or late twenties. For such a female, well-established in her waywardness, no other remedy could be appropriate. My story Lesley: Behind Closed Doors in Janus 13, described the case of one such girl.

If reformatories like James Miles' flourish again, readers of Janus may well be among the applicants to become master! There will be many more girls than Elaine and Lesley. Yet the questions which will have to be answered apply very much to their types.

1. Should offenders be sent to the reformatory for a set period and a set number of birchings or strokes? Or should their stay and punishments be decided by the staff there? The old law would require Elaine's presence until the age of 18. Would 6 or 12 months be sufficient for a promiscuous young wife like Lesley?

2. Should tannings be with or without witnesses? Elaine's strapping young fifth-form bottom will naturally get private study canings as well as in front of staff or other girls. Lesley, a liberated young woman, will suffer some humiliation if caned bare-bottomed before witnesses. To avoid this she must bend her urchin-crop and present her firm pale buttocks to her chastiser alone. A real disciplinarian will want to deal very strictly indeed with a trendy young libber who has ditched her marital responsibilities in order to sleep around. Is the risk of extra chastisement justified by saving Lesley a more public shame?

3. Should buttocks be clothed during tanning? Translucent tights over Lesley's bottom-cheeks will be torn by birch or cane. Lesley's black stretch-briefs — like Elaine's white ones — may impede the thrashing and conceal its effects from the person who gives it, which could be dangerous.

4. What punishment posture? Traditionally, Elaine would kneel over a block or lie on the sofa. Lesley's firm pale bottom-moons would be shown while she bent over a tall stool. Should this change?

5. What instrument should be used? Traditionally a birch for a tomboy, a cane or even whipcord on the bottom for an adulterous young wife like Lesley. Few angry husbands have a birch in the house!

6. Should the strokes be set before punishment? What incidents during chastisement require one to reduce — or increase — the number? Should a more absolute obedience be expected from Lesley under correction than from a youngster like Elaine?

7. Should tannings also be awarded and given by subordinate staff? If so, would Lesley or Elaine bend for the master's inspection and the tanning take place later? This guards against unsupervised discipline and ensures fitness for the ordeal. Yet it also ensures 24 hours of 'butterflies in the tummy' and a sleepless night for the young lady in question.

8. With up to a dozen years between age-groups, should severity of punishment differ? Do we accept that Lesley's experience of lovers, marriage, childbearing, makes her more maturely able, physically and emotionally, to endure severe discipline than even a robust tomboy?

Should her greatest feeling of humiliation be taken into account?

9. Would you find work in a reformatory for Elaine and the tomboys or work in one for Lesley and the libbers more rewarding? Try a simple test. You are offered one of two jobs. The way to one lies through a room to the left, the other by a room to the right.

To the left, young Elaine kneels over the block, stretch-briefs down, blouse tail pulled up. Tossing back her lank fair hair she cranes round at you with that snub-nosed insolence which has put her where she is just now. The full pale cheeks of her tomboy bottom are broadly presented. Cane and triple-switched birch lie close by.

To the right, 28-year-old Lesley bends tightly forward over a tall stool, with an air of peevish resentment. The straight fair hair, urchin cropped, is shaped close to her head from the high crown to the jawline. Her blue eyes are dismissive, her fair-skinned features firmly disdainful, her mouth and chin sulky as a spoilt little girl. The short white singlet ends at her waist. Lesley's stretch-briefs and tights lie on the tiled floor. Her long legs, trim from cycling and other exercises, lead up to the proud firming out of the pale moons of Lesley's bottom.

Desertion of marital duties is no longer approved of as 'a woman's right'. Birch and cane lie waiting, together with a short woven pony-lash. Parliament has reinstated Sir James Stephens's ruling. The number of strokes, the instrument used, the frequency of whippings, the removal of panties, will be entirely at the discretion of Lesley's chastiser. A year or two will reform her ways.

Do you turn right or left? The questions are academic. What matters is the answers — and the answers must be yours, aided perhaps by the example of James Miles, the Man with the Golden Rod.