Saturday, 28 January 2012

Approved School Report

Story from Blushes 01.

Approved School Report

The following letter, addressed to the department of the Home Office responsible for Approved and Industrial Schools, formed part of a report submitted by the then Chief inspector of Approved Schools in Warwickshire, which as an insight into the conditions obtaining in such establishments is illuminating; as an exposition of the kind of double-think with which the administrators of approved schools – or one of them at least – approached the matter of corporal punishment, it is, to say the least, revealing. For anyone interested in verifying the authenticity of the document, it may be found under the reference: HO 45/14545 at the Public Record Office.

Kenilworth Training School

Model Rules
Chief Inspector of Reformatories
(C.P. in girls under 16)


In May last there was a serious revolt on the part of the girls at this Reformatory – Dr. Norris went there and found the girls entirely out of control, and as the situation looked ugly, he – ordered an obstreperous girl of 15 to be whipped on the posterior (under the skirt).

That action had good effect, and things have since quietened down.

Corporal punishment in the past was not forbidden by the rules in force at the school, though the Managers strangely enough did not appear to know that it was in the power of the Superintendent to inflict it. I think Dr. Norris was perfectly right to adopt the course he decided to take.

(Other correspondence in the file reveals that "there were a number of other whippings on the day in question.")

The question now arises whether C.P. on the posterior is to be allowed in this school in the future. In the Model Rules it was decided that the only C.P. in schools should be on the hands – not exceeding three strokes on each hand with a light cane or tawse.

Dr. Norris agreed to this rule at the time, though he says he always felt doubtful whether it would be possible to maintain it in dealing with certain classes of girls. The managers are unanimous in asking permission to keep their existing rule, which leaves the Superintendant the discretion as to the infliction of light and moderate C.P. (whether on the hands or on the posterior).

The two lady inspectors (Dr. Whitlock and Miss Wallis) hold that all C.P. of girls on the posterior is objectionable and ought to be unnecessary – and I believe this is the view which would be commonly held, except possibly by some of those who have had the actual management of unruly girls.

There is no doubt that the task of controlling difficult girls such as one finds in our reformatory schools – especially when they become hysterical – is a very difficult one and baffles even the wisest of women. It is possible that women of exceptional type might be able to tackle the problem without resorting to C.P. at all, but women with such qualities are rare and are not often found in our schools. We must do the best we can with the staff we are able to command, and give them such support as they need. The Departmental Committee gave special attention to this question, and came to the conclusion that the discretion to inflict C.P. must be given to the Superintendant, though they are silent whether it should be inflicted on the hands or the posterior. I presume that they intended to leave it to the Superintendant's discretion also as to method. It must also be remembered that girls over sixteen can be sent to Borstal, and that it is in the case of the younger girls that the difficulty arises.

If this policy is accepted (the appeal of the Managers for retention of the old rule), having regard to recent happenings, I think it would be unwise to refuse the application of the Managers, and if it is made clear that no C.P. on the posterior may be inflicted without the sanction of the Chief Inspector, frequent or improper recourse to this method will be prevented.

It seems to me better to alter the rule rather than, when serious trouble occurs, to contemplate the possibility of the staff or the Inspector authorising punishment contrary to the rule.

I should prefer, however to keep the framework of the new rule rather than to adopt the present rule and I would suggest the following draft. This has the advantage of not mentioning specifically whipping on the posterior, which might give rise to adverse comment by those who are not familiar with the circumstances and leaves the chief Inspector the responsibility of prescribing the conditions under which it may be administered.

Rule 21

(3) C.P. should be used only as the last resort when all other methods of maintaining discipline have failed and its administration shall be subject to the following conditions.

C.P. shall be only of light and moderate character and shall be inflicted on the hands with a light cane or tawse as prescribed by the Secretary of State – not exceeding three strokes on each hand. If in cases of grave breaches of discipline the managers think it necessary to adopt any other form of punishment the previous sanction of two chief inspectors must be obtained.

S.W.H. 24.7.23
(Various signatures are appended.)

Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it! The background to the events described above will no doubt be interesting, and may add to the reader's delectation as he conjours up a vision of the way things were, when a girl consigned to such an institution was considered eligible for 'Whippings' – and on the 'posterior' too – and not much fear of recriminations after the event, if the attitude of the Inspectorate is anything to go by.

The school at Kenilworth was known as the 'Warwickshire Girls' Reformatory School'. It's inmates numbered between fifty and sixty, all of them in the charge of a Principal and various mistresses and 'mistresses in training'. That the Inspector thought little of the quality of these ladies may simply have been the result of his 'male chauvinism' in the days when there was no such thing as a 'liberated' woman – certainly he had superiors with accounts of other punishments meted out at the same time – if the one caning thus mentioned is then deemed to have been a reasonable response to the unusual situation in the school, then plainly no exception could be taken to other canings administered for the same reasons. Clearly the Chief Inspector is no fool!

Reading between the lines, therefore, and picking up hints from other documents having a bearing on the incident, what we have is a report from the worthy Chief Inspector putting a respectable face on the wholesale bare-bottomed caning of an unspecified number of teenage girls, the whole affair prompted and overseen by Dr. Norris, in the performance of his enviable duty.

The girls who were to be caned would presumably have been locked into a suitable room – if they were 'rioting' they would have needed to be kept under control – and on the 'divide and conquer' principle would have been dealt with one by one. A picture can be imagined of the school's Principal, accompanied by her mistresses, mounting 'snatch squad' raids into the locked room whilst the door is guarded by other mistresses, emerging with their first choice of 'victim' – the women had been threatened with physical violence by some of their charges, so they would have been in an unsympathetic frame of mind, – and then marching a probably protesting, struggling girl to the separate room where the canings were to take place in the presence of the inspector.

If the girl's bottom was to be the chosen location for the application of the cane, she would surely have been bent bottom-up over some suitable piece of furniture. Her dress would have to have been hoisted up while the Doctor, no doubt maintaining a severe and professional countenance, looked down upon a pair of knickers covering the wriggling, protesting buttocks that he had ordered to be thrashed.

The girl's pants would have been yanked down in a trice, galvanising her into more violent protestations, and then the cane would have been produced.

The girls slept in dormitories, a dozen or so to a room. They were provided with a uniform; two dresses, two sets of underclothing, stockings, shoes; and according to their behaviour at the school were allowed to wear belts of varying colours, aspiration to which was controlled by a system of 'Merit Marks'. A silver belt meant a girl was a proper 'Goody Two Shoes'; blue or red belts were for those whose conduct had been less exemplary. Marks earned could be taken away for, 'Disobedience, insolence, stealing, lying, bad language, quarelling, bad work, bad habits' – whatever they were – 'bad conduct generally and careless breaking of crockery'.

An architect's report, included in the file, describes certain areas of the building as 'lacking sufficient natural light' – it was a gloomy place in other words – and it isn't difficult to imagine the scene into which the visiting inspector walked – a late Victorian building, dimly lit, forbidding – and raucous with the voices of teenaged girls running riot!

Dr. Norris, who seems to have been a man to stand no nonsense 'ordered an obstreperous girl of fifteen to be whipped on the posterior'. This girl (according to other letters in the file, initiated by the same incident) was a 'well built girl' who seemed to be one of the ringleaders. She was to be whipped 'under the skirt'. Under? Well, without the benefit of its protection, presumably, so that it must have been turned up to afford access to the girl's 'posterior'. Other documents state that there were 'a number of other whippings'. There is no reason to suppose that these other punishments were any less severe or traumatic for the girls involved than was the whipping of the 'obstreperous' ringleader, nor indeed that they were not carried out at the same time and in precisely the same way. We may suppose the writer of the letter – the Chief Inspector – to be citing one particular punishment as something of a test case. From the tone of his letter it is plain that the good doctor's action met with his approval, so he would not have thought it necessary to overburden the consciences of his no hesitation in recommending that the girls there should be kept in their places, and with the utmost firmness.

The building was made up of a central block, with two wings appended on either side, within which the girls and staff were accommodated, the whole surrounded by a high enclosing fence, with access and egruess controlled by the porter, who resided in the Porter's Lodge at the gate.

There is no record of what number of strokes were given, but since three strokes on each hand, making six in all, was the prescribed 'dose', in the interests of efficacy, the Doctor would probably have ordered the maximum number to be administered to the bottom presenting itself unwillingly before him. (If he was quelling a riot, he certainly wouldn't have wanted to seem less than determined.)

Six strokes it is then, applied by the Principal. Embarrassment caused by the girls' behaviour, which must have diminished her self-importance as well as her standing with her employers, would have prompted the Principal to have laid the cane across those eminently deserving buttocks with all the strength that a vengeful woman could muster. How the girl must have howled and pleaded, how she must have jerked and swerved her hips as the cane bit viciously into her 'well built' bum! How the inspector must have watched the wretched miscreant's squirmings with all the satisfaction of knowing that he was quite within his rights to have the girl caned, this girl and all the others yet to be brought in, and how he must have enjoyed the whole ennervating experience. One after another the girl's would have lain on their bellies across the bench and wriggled and blubbered – six strokes each, and what with comings and goings, fetching and sending away, the inspector might have stood for a whole hour while the procession of young bottoms was caned under his auspices, and under his very nose!

So much then, for the incident itself, but what are we to make of the Chief Inspector's enthusiasm, in his report, for the exercise of authority that had consequences so painful for the girls? His readiness to support Doctor Norris might, it is true, have been prompted to some extent by loyalty for his staff – 'In his position, I should have acted in exactly the same way, and felt that I had done no more than discharge my duty in doing so!' With regard to the opinions of the two women inspectors. Dr. Whitlock and Miss Wallis, he is scathing in his suggestion that people who haven't actually had to deal with 'unruly girls' – he is clearly addressing himself to the two ladies – oughtn't to express their opinions on matters they don't know anything about. So far as the staff of the school are concerned, he has no regard whatsoever for their ability to manage girls; indeed his opinion of women in general seems to be a very low one.

A clue to his 'enthusiasm' is to be found in his suggestion – a suggestion that was, in fact, adopted subsequently – that the Chief Inspector – he himself, in other words – should be left to decide whether or not girls should be caned on their 'posteriors' in future. Given that he would want to be seen as being at least as concerned for the smooth running of the schools in his charge as the good Doctor, it seems likely that he would want to take the opportunity, should it present itself, of seeing at first hand the effect which a well-applied cane would have on the bared buttocks of an unruly girl, particularly since the authority to get her knickers down would have come from him, and him alone.

The Chief Inspector's wily assessment of the likely reaction of the public, were it to become common knowledge that girls were being caned on their bottoms, is interesting, not least because it demonstrates his awareness of the sexual implications of such punishment methods. After all, on what other grounds would the public be expected to object, if not on those of morality? Equally interesting is the complete omission, in his report, of any explanation as to why caning on the buttocks should have been considered in any way a more severe punishment than caning on the hands. Certainly it is seen to be so, both by him and Dr. Norris, yet a cane can be applied with as much force to a hand as to a girl's bottom. Could it be that in the minds of the two inspectors, and implicitly in the minds of their superiors, the caning of girls on their bottoms rather than their hands is indeed a more severe punishment precisely because of the sexual implications? What other explanation could there be? No medical or physiological reasons are advanced, such as the greater resilience of female buttocks to canings as against the capacity of a girl's hand to withstand punishment, yet the noting that whipping a girl on her bottom is a greater punishment is clearly in the Chief Inspector's mind, despite the objections of two lady inspectors and the expected opposition of the public to such methods of punishment!

Seen in this light, it would seem that only two explanations of the Chief Inspector's enthusiasm for bottom caning are logically possible, and bearing in mind the subsequent endorsement of that gentleman's views by his superiors, one or both of these explanations must hold true also for those who later proved to be in agreement with him, though whether they themselves would have realised the implications so far as their own motives were concerned is doubtful.

The first explanation, being in mind that the people concerned would not for one moment have thought of it in such clear cut terms, is that caning on the bottom was seen as a more severe punishment because it required a girl to submit sexually – sexually because of the part of her anatomy involved, and it's necessary nakedness – to punishment, the additional severity being in the girl's own intuitive realisation that she is being forced to be sexually submissive, particularly in the presence of a man. If so, and taking that logic a stage further, a yet more severe punishment would be administered if the girl were made to strip stark naked, irrespective of how hard the cane were applied. Can it be that it was the intention of the Chief Inspector and his superiors to punish girls by forcing them to be sexually submissive? Presumably not, at least on a conscious level. Yet that it must have played some part on an unconscious level seems inescapable when the only other logical alternative is put.

That, whether consciously or not, the Inspectors and their superiors themselves saw bare-bottom caning as being more severe than hand caning because of their own appreciation of its sexual connotations. That, in other words, the Inspectorate thought of it as more severe simply because the idea of taking a girl's knickers down and whipping her naked buttocks was sexually arousing to them.

Remembering that the people involved in making the decision – and apparently including the two women, who, I would suggest, intuitively recognised the sexuality implicit in bottom caning of girls and therefore saw it as being either too severe a punishment or simply an indulgence of the sexual tastes of the men, who were in favour – all regarded caning on the bottom as the more severe punishment. In the absence of any physiological excuse for bottom caning – and none was presented – one, or both, of the foregoing reasons must be the decisive factor. If anyone can offer a logical opposition to that argument I should like to hear from him – meanwhile we are left with the conclusion that Dr. Norris, the Chief Inspector, and their superiors were all in favour of caning their girls' bottoms chiefly because it was an exciting idea, so long as they could get away with it! And as for the Chief Inspector, he, it would seem, provided himself with ample opportunity to consider the question of his own motivations in the field, as he first sentenced girls to caning, then, presumably, witnessed their tearful, squirmy-bottomed receipt of the same, and all with the blessings of the Home Office, Parliament, and the unknowing populace of the country.

Friday, 27 January 2012

Taken In Hand

Story from Swish Vol.7 No.1.

Taken In Hand

When the Colonel comes to stay!

* * *

"He's been a friend of your father's for years", Wendy's mother told her as they waited the arrival of a visitor whom Wendy told herself she couldn't care less about. She knew only that he was Colonel Carrington and had just arrived back from India. He would be as dull as ditchwater, she told herself, but even so she had made herself up nicely, just as her mother had. A trim, grey skirt sheathed Wendy's round bottom, matched by a pearl-grey jumper that left her unbrassiered breasts bobbing beneath the wool. Charcoal-shade nylons and grey high-heeled shoes gave her a very fetching air, as her father had remarked before he went off to meet his friend at the station.

It must be said that Wendy's mother, Adrienne, matched her daughter's attractiveness. At forty-one, her bust was as firm as a much younger woman's and showed prominently beneath a pale pink blouse which barely concealed the jutting pallor of her tits. Her skirt, secured around a commendably narrow waist by a broad belt, was of matching shade, and – like her daughter – she affected dark stockings. Her husband liked them. Adrienne had no illusions about the sexiness of bared thighs above darkly-banding stocking tops. Neither she nor Wendy every wore skirts below the knees, and Adrienne's legs – though plumper – were as finely-turned as the slimmer delights of Wendy's.

"Is he married?", Wendy asked, rather for the sake of saying something than out of curiosity. – "Yes – he married for the second time a couple of years ago, dear. He has two stepdaughters of about your age. No – I tell a lie – one is twenty-two, three years older than yourself. I hear he is very strict with them".

Wendy said "Oh?" in a disinterested sort of way, though the phrase stuck in her mind. – "More than Daddy?", she wanted to ask, but didn't. Wendy's secret – if it could be called that – was that she knew her mother submitted sometimes to the cane. Once, just once, she had seen it lying on the bed over a pair of her mother's black panties, and wondered if she had been meant to see it – if it were a symbol, a message. Many times, through her bedroom door at night, she had heard the steady swishing of the cane and a whimpering, moaning sound, but her mother always seemed bright and alive in the mornings and never complained.

Several times her father had said to her, "You need the cane, my girl", though never confessing that he actually had one. Even though he said it sternly, Wendy would simply sit back, cross her legs and poke her tongue out at him cheekily. Three times only, had she been spanked, gritted her teeth and trying not to howl as her bottom grew hotter under the descending palm. Just as her mother didn't complain, though, neither did Wendy. She had carried her stinging proudly until it had died away into a refulgent glow all over her nether cheeks, making her panties seem tighter around the firm halfmoons so that her bottom felt more prominent.

The visit was all rather strange, anyway, Wendy thought, for the Colonel's arrival had been announced at short notice and her father was due to go away on a business trip the next day and would be away for a week. – "Oh well, he'll be all right in the guest room", Adrienne had said comfortably, and when her husband had said, "You will see to everything he needs, my love", she had replied – all too comfortably, Wendy thought – "You know I will, dear – everything".

As so often with visitors, one moment one is waiting for them, and in the next several hours seem to pass quickly. The Colonel was straight out of the book, Wendy thought – tall, a trim moustache, sunburned, and with a clipped voice. About the same age as her father. He showed them photos of his wife and her daughters. Lillian, he said, was eighteen and Felicity twenty-two. They were all shapely and attractive.

"They are coming on well, James?", Wendy's father asked, making her wonder slightly at what he meant. – "Very well, dear boy; discipline where it counts, y'know. Tawse-training, I call it. Had to have one made out there", the Colonel had replied. It was a word Wendy had never heard before and when she went out in the garden with her mother to gather some flowers, she asked her, "Whatever is a tawse?"

"Shush, darling", Adrienne replied, throwing a glance over her shoulder towards the house. – "I only asked!", Wendy said crossly. – "Well, it's a sort of strap, a broad one and...." But she was interrupted by the appearance of the Colonel, and her voice trailed off. Wendy, however, had her back to him and did not realise his presence, coming as quietly as he did across the lawn. – "Eh? You don't mean that he....", she began when her mother gave her a warning look and Wendy turned to see him. Bending over as she was at that moment, her pale thighs showed distinctly above her dark stocking tops, and – to his distinct pleasure – the Colonel even caught a flash of her black nylon panties where her halfmoons bulged cheekily.

"I brought one with me. Forgive me for overhearing. I will show it to you later", he remarked and politely took the flowers that Adrienne had cut, his glance wandering to the bulbous splendour of her tits and the womanly curving of her hips. It had been fifteen years since he had had the pleasure of sweeping a fine cane across her naked bottom while Adrienne's husband attended in turn to James' own first wife. Quite a night that had been. He wondered if Adrienne remembered.

Adrienne did, and blushed. It was the one and only time she had ever been caned in the presence of another woman. She hoped that James wasn't going to be too indiscreet about it.

Wendy didn't answer, but felt a strange quiver run through her. The Colonel had a dominating personality – that was for sure. She felt even smaller than her five feet six in his presence and wondered for the first time what it was going to be like with her father away. Even her mother seemed a little overawed by him and – in an irritating way – almost skittish in his presence. It wasn't until her father had departed that Wendy knew why.

The three of them had dinner quietly and then settled in the lounge for coffee. As soon as they had finished, the Colonel excused himself, went upstairs and returned gravely to lay on an occasional table a thick and supple tawse. Then, much to Wendy's wonderment and faint annoyance, he turned down the volume on the TV. "This, my dear Wendy, is a tawse", he said quietly, "Some refer to it as a tamer, some as a trainer, and others as an admonitory instrument for wayward females".

Wendy gulped and stared at him. Her mother seemed about to start up from her armchair and then sank back, saying rather weakly, "James – I don't think...." – "Why? Is there a misunderstanding here? Are you not both disciplined?", he asked. – "Well, no, James – look, I think we had better....", Adrienne began nervously.

"Discuss it privately? Of course – if you prefer. Wendy, you will excuse us? I shall not be long", he answered gravely and bent and took Adrienne's arm so that to Wendy's total astonishment her mother allowed herself to be drawn up. – "J...J...James...", uttered Adrienne feebly. – "Upstairs", he said firmly, and Wendy gazed at both of them open-mouthed as her mother – not even casting a glance over her shoulder – allowed herself to be almost sheepishly led out of the room.

"Mummy?", Wendy wanted to utter. Her mouth opened but no sound came. The door to the hallway closed. It was crazy – ridiculous! She got up and stared down at the heavily coiled tawse, reached to touch it, and retracted her hand. What on earth was going on?

"James, please – not now", Adrienne was saying in an urgent whisper as they turned to mount the stairs. His arm looped her waist as she spoke, and then his left hand descended very slowly to pass around the plump globe of her bottom, feeling the ridging of her panties through her skirt. – "You were always a little hesitant at first, Adrienne – that was one of your many charms", he murmured. Feeling blatantly right under the weighty orb of her bottom, he urged her leg up to take the first step.

"James, she will hear!", pleaded Adrienne weakly, but the firm cupping of a male hand there always weakened her. The rich plumpness of her half-moons pressed down on to his palm as they ascended slowly. – "Has she not been caned, then?'', the Colonel asked in mild surprise. – "No, James, of course not – well, not yet and.... oh, please, no!" Adrienne murmured piteously as she found herself being propelled into the main bedroom. Powerless to resist, she felt the hem of her black skirt being drawn up slowly as she was pressed towards the bed, his fingertips tasting the tight spanning of her suspender straps and the plump glory of her thighs.

"NO!", came Adrienne's little whimper, but her obedience through all the years held, as James knew it would. Limp as a doll she allowed herself to be bent over the side of the bed as he scooped her skirt up to her hips, "OH!", uttered Adrienne weakly. Her head and shoulders sank as his hands toyed masterfully with her nylon-sheathed bottom and then, with no further hesitation, peeled her panties down to her knees. Adrienne, if anything, looked more beautiful than ever to his view, the bared hemispheres that inrolled so deeply were much plumper now. Adrienne quivered and bit her lip as he sensuously massaged her globe and delicately parted the big, springy cheeks for a moment before taking the cane down from the top of the wardrobe where Adrienne realised her husband had left it in wicked readiness.

"She... she... she'll hear!", Adrienne whimpered softly into her cupping hands. – "Be QUIET, woman!", barked James who took a long moment of contemplative admiration for her offered orb before raising the cane....

Dry-mouthed downstairs and with her ear pressed to the door into the hallway, Wendy heard her mother's first gritting squeal just seconds later. – "Mummy?", she wanted to call out, but again no sound came. – "THOOO-AH!", she heard next as a second strike of the cane seared across Adrienne's naked, bulbous glory, making her fingers claw into the bed cover.

"No! Oh, NO!", Wendy whispered to herself frantically and stepped back from the door. What was he doing? Why was her mother not screaming or rushing downstairs? How could this possibly happen in their own house? It couldn't! – "NEE-AAARGH!", she heard next, though the swishing of the cane itself did not come to her ears. Adrienne's now already-scorched bottom rotated madly. James was giving it to her much harder than her husband often did. Perhaps Adrienne knew why – perhaps for that very reason a glinting of tears rolled down her cheeks.

"NOO-HOOO! Oh, James, please!", she sobbed as he allowed the last searing bite of the cane to sink in, feeling his penis throbbing stiff at the sensuous display of her rolling, reddened bottom cheeks.

"Very well, Adrienne, but your bottom needs further treatment. I shall attend on you later. Get on to the bed, lie on your tummy and lie still. It is patently obvious to me that discipline has not been as fully extended in this house as one would have wished. I shall return later. Get your knickers right off and wait for me!"

"J...J...James – please!", whined Adrienne as she slithered forward on to the bed, spreading her ample legs as she did so and displaying the rolled lips of her quim blatantly to his view. James, however, had a more immediately appointment. Striding to the door and nimbly taking the key from inside the door, he closed and locked it to a despairing whimper from Adrienne who hid her face in one of the two pillows and had a bleary, tummy-squirming memory of what had happened on that night long ago when James and her husband had caned two of them until – as James had triumphantly announced – their madly-rotating bottoms were 'cock-ready'.

Wendy heard her mother's faint, beseeching cry and retreated further back into the lounge as James descended. As the door opened and she saw the cane, he was still holding, her jaw fell. – "Look.... Mummy.... she....", Wendy began and then swallowed as he closed the door and loomed over her. – "I have seen to your mother, Wendy, and I gather from her – much to my surprise – that discipline has been lacking in your respect", he uttered.

"WHA-AAAART?", Wendy choked. A panicky feeling seized her and she made to run past him, to evade him and reach the door, but even as she did his arm swung out and took her own in her passing so that with a shriek – and quite caught off balance – Wendy found herself slung almost willy-nilly over the soft-rolled arm of the chair that her mother had vacated.

"NO-WOH!", Wendy shrieked. She made to lever herself up, but all in a flash the Colonel's strong hand that held the cane bunched down into the nape of her neck and held her over, kicking, as with the other he swept up the back of her miniskirt and bared as delicious a bottom as he had ever seen. – "Don't you DARE! Mummy! Mummy!", shrieked Wendy as the same hand ripped at the fragile waistband of her panties and ripped them down to below her stocking tops.

"Young LADY!", barked the Colonel, "You will be quiet! If this is truly going to be your first taste of the cane, then I can only declare my utter astonishment that such a delectable orb as yours has not been bared for it before this. If I am to put you into training, then so be it. First, though, let us have you still!", he growled and with that brought a "YAH!" of outrage from Wendy as his free hand cupped her bared cheeks as boldly and as inquisitively as he had her mother's.

"You.... you.... you... you! Mummy! MUMMY!", howled Wendy who was so neatly and strongly held over at both ends, with the upper half of her body slumped over on to the seat of the armchair. The Colonel ignored her struggles. He had experienced it all before at home, though things were much-changed now, and would be soon enough with Wendy, when she learned. Pressing the ball of this thumb gently between her springy, tight nether cheeks, he held his fingers under her where he could feel the gentle rasping of her pubic curls and the succulent moisture of her cunnylips.

"Mum...Mum...MUMMY!", Wendy squealed desperately again. – "No, my dear your mother will NOT come down until I have dealt with you. That is for certain – just as certain as your adorable bottom is going to burn its way into such future delights as you will experience. It is for me, seemingly, to initiate you into the world of obedience, submission and pleasure", uttered James who so quickly brought his hand out from under her bottom to glide the cane from his neck-gripping one, that Wendy had but a second to buck her naked hips rebelliously before he brought it cuttingly into her tight, creamy halfmoons, bringing a shrill howl from her....

And Wendy's 'training' continues in our next...

Thursday, 26 January 2012

The Newcomer

Story from Janus 64.

The Newcomer
by Andrew Grantham

'THANK YOU, Mr Johnstone.'

Anne-Marie smiled at the landlord of the old, converted house where the 20-year-old student had taken up a tenancy.

'Call me Paul,' he invited the blonde, putting her portable TV down on the rather battered sideboard. 'We've something in common, you see. I went to the same university myself ten or so years ago.'

'Really?' Anne-Marie's big green eyes widened as she looked at the large-framed young man with the clear blue gaze and the trusting face. All alone in a big city for the first time, she suddenly felt that she had a tenuous link with something. A link with what, she didn't exactly know, but at least it was a start.

'Can I make you a cup of tea?' she asked, grateful for his friendliness.

That's very nice of you.' Paul Johnstone sat down in a large, overstuffed easy-chair. Anne-Marie was aware of his intensive gaze sweeping over her body and lingering on the stretched denim curves of her bottom as she bent over a large box to unpack the kettle and teacups.

The girl was rather small-made, but very nicely put together. Her breasts, shapely and firm, caused the tight tee-shirt to stretch and outline her sharp nipples. She would never have got away with wearing it at home. Likewise, the tight faded jeans clearly showed the outline of her skimpy panties beneath.

Anne-Marie had led rather a sheltered life in the country, but now she was 20 and free, determined to break out of that shelter, even if she was a little unsure as to how to do it.

As she straightened up, her mouth gaped open and she gave an involuntary gasp. She had not noticed the vase before, standing on the floor by the hearth. There were no flowers in it though it was full of canes of varying lengths and thicknesses.

'The previous tenant,' exclaimed Paul, jumping to his feet and rushing towards the hearth. 'He and his young lady were into corporal punishment in a big way.'

Anne-Marie nodded dumbly, mesmerised by the sight, as her landlord took a long, whippy, crook-handled wand from the cluster. It sounded like a rattle of applause as it was withdrawn. Memories of something which had recently happened to her came instantly flooding back.

Paul glanced quickly at his new tenant. Her blonde hair framed elfin features in loose curls. Her eyes were wide and she moved pretty, ringless hands to clutch at slender, shapely arms.

'I don't suppose you've ever been caned,' he remarked casually, whirring the instrument through the air.

'Er... yes... I have actually,' confessed the girl, much to Paul's surprise. 'At college last term.' She hesitated and bit her lip, not quite sure whether to continue. 'One of the lecturers...' She started shuffling her feet, one ankle crossing the other, making her hip bone jut forward. 'He shouldn't have, of course — but I... didn't report him or anything.'

'That was very decent of you,' said Paul, but Anne-Marie did not see the gleam in his eye. She still could not take her own eyes away from the rattan collection. Punishment for enjoyment! It was just like one of the stories in that magazine which had been passed around college.

She coloured as her landlord continued. It would have been bad manners to interrupt. Anne-Marie listened, her tongue flicking nervously over her lips as Paul told her, 'It was quite popular amongst the students — as a 'fun thing' of course. Very grown-up and all that. Apparently you felt lovely after it.'

The blonde experienced an electric thrill in the pit of her stomach. Being caned at college by that nice lecturer had been quite an experience and had not been at all bad really. It had been over a bit quickly — perhaps too quickly, if she was honest. Of course it had been a private matter between them, nothing to do with the college, but it had taken care of an internal report that might justifiably have caused problems for her.

Paul detected the slight agitation in her manner and guessed that he had touched a nerve. Immediately he suggested that he take the opportunity to 'initiate' her into CP for pleasure, so to speak. He wouldn't hurt her of course, it would be just enough for her to experience it. Make up her own mind, as it were. See what the fascination was all about.

'I don't know that I ought to,' she said demurely, staring down at the badly worn carpet and swaying slightly from the waist. She had been in a number of the college plays and had developed a range of expressions which she drew on from time to time. She knew very well what she was doing.

Anne-Marie had taken a fancy to the intelligent, sophisticated male and she wanted to appear very adult and worldly. It would not do to appear too eager, but she had to accept his offer before it was withdrawn.

'I'm not taking my knickers off,' she told Paul suddenly. There! She'd agreed.

Paul told her that would be quite all right. He understood.

Her young heart thumping, the blonde nervously slipped the jeans down her slim legs and then sat down to remove them completely — just as she had at the college last term when everyone else had gone home. She had been frightened then, but it was a much different feeling now.

She let Paul position her so that she was kneeling on the easy-chair with her tummy over the padded arm and the palms of her hands on the floor. Her heart was now pounding. At college, it had all been over so soon. She didn't want it to be like that again, but she had to conceal this from him. 'I'll probably ask you to stop, I expect,' she said softly.

Paul cleared his throat and nodded. 'Of course,' he said. 'I understand.'

The handsome house-owner admired her cute, rounded bottom. The snow-white panties clung tightly to the contours of her cheeks, which thrust invitingly up towards him.

The first few strokes were gentle, playful almost. Then, Paul began gradually to lay it on a little harder.

Wrupp! Anne-Marie tasted a stinging blaze across her bottom. She yelped and looked at Paul almost disbelievingly as he pulled her panties up with his left hand, so that most of the material disappeared into the cleft between her buttocks. That left him a lot of sensitive, bare flesh to work on.

Another swishy flick. A cry of pain. The girl's eyes screwed up and watered with the penetrating hurt. Her hands flew off the floor and gripped the back of the chair tightly.

The thin wood attacked her scorched posterior yet again. 'Stop it, please!' blubbered Anne-Marie, but Paul pretended not to have heard. He was sure she wanted more.

The next slashing stroke to her stinging-hot bottom caused the girl to try to shoot upright. Paul however pushed her down with one hand, whereupon she stayed down. He raised the other to deliver a near-vertical stripe to her left buttock.

Anne-Marie squealed and kicked her legs wildly as the muscular young man continued to cane her, one cheek at a time. With each whistle and crack of the descending cane, she squirmed more and more. It was beginning to hurt like hell. Then, just as she thought she could stand no more, Paul stopped. It was over — she had done it!

The thought crossed her mind that she just might have been taken for a ride in the first place by her charming landlord. Still, despite the flaming hurt in her seat, she did feel very grown-up, as if she had crossed a bridge or joined a select group... and she was starting to tingle all over.

* * *

Leaving Anne-Marie rubbing her burning bottom, Paul returned to his own flat carrying the vase of canes. There was a big beam on his handsome features.

As he walked into the lounge, a young red-haired woman busy at the ironing-table looked up. 'Judging by your face, she obviously fell for the bait,' she remarked with a laugh.

Paul nodded. 'She was a push-over,' he told his live-in girlfriend.

She carried on with her chore. 'I just can't understand why these young students fall for that softening-up story about the canes being left by a previous tenant,' she chuckled. 'You're going to get a knee in the groin one term, you know!'

Paul linked his fingers through hers. 'Ten years ago, my darling, you fell for the selfsame opening gambit — remember?'

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

Grandma's Rocking Chair

Story from Fessee 5.

Grandma's Rocking Chair
By Paul Blakeney

Susan and Roger stood outside the pretty country cottage which for so long had been home to her grandparents. It was a lovely English summer day and the quaint cottage garden, which grandfather had spent so many years tending with loving care, was looking at its best.

The air was thick with the rich smell of the blooms and the whole garden, dominated by grandfather's pride and joy, his prize winning roses, was ablaze with colour in the bright sunshine.

For Susan, standing there for the first time in ten years, the memories it brought back to her were overwhelming. She had spent so many childhood summers staying at the cottage and she had so many happy memories of harvest-time and blackberry picking and picnics in the meadows with fully laden hampers.

But her most vivid memory was of the last time she stayed at the cottage ten years ago when she was 21 and those few fateful weeks she had spent with grandma and grandpa in the summer holidays.

She was at University then, her parents had gone to America and rented out their London home. She could have stayed with friends but she needed money and grandma and grandpa had said Mrs Jenkins needed an assistant in the village grocery store for the summer weeks. She could stay with them and earn enough money for a holiday in Greece before returning to University.

How perfect it all seemed! She so loved to spend long summer days in the country she had no hesitation in accepting.

But times change, children grow up and the 21 year old girl who went to live with her grandparents that summer was quite different from the little girl who had visited them before. Her grandparents found their favourite grand-daughter, who they loved to the bottom of their hearts, had grown into a self-centred selfish wilful young woman who they found extremely hard to handle. Until, that is, grandpa had started to take matters in hand with some old fashioned timeless and well tried remedies....

And it was chiefly the memories of grandfather's remedies which he had practised so vigorously on her bottom during that long hot summer ten years ago which were flooding back to Susan now and making her tremble as she stood on the doorstep of the white cottage with her husband Roger and watched him insert the key in the little front door.

She had never really forgotten the extraordinary events of that summer of course. How could she? In many ways it had changed her life. If it had never happened it would have been unlikely, for instance, that she would have married Roger, or indeed Roger would have married her. She might have remained the same selfish, vain, self-centred person for the rest of her life. But in the passage of the years she had perhaps pushed the memory of the events to the back of her mind. Now, returning to the cottage for the first time, the details of grandpa's punishments were becoming as vivid as if they were happening now.

She had been thinking of little else for the last few days, ever since her mother had broken the news of grandma's will to her on the telephone.

'She's left you a half share in the cottage. 'To our favourite and only grand-daughter because she spent so many happy times here' the will says. Isn't that nice? And oh yes at the end she's also left you her rocking chair, apparently it was the express wish of grandpa that you should have it. I think they mean the one on the kitchen parlour. There's no other explanation of why they want you to have it although it's the only piece of furniture she has specifically left to anyone. I don't think it's worth anything you know, as far as I remember they bought it second hand themselves. Rather extraordinary. Did you say something darling?'

Susan could not say anything in reply at first. The news of the gift of the rocking chair had so jolted her she was speechless.

'Er, I don't think so. I may have done, perhaps I did,' she stammered in confusion.

But clearly in her mind she saw a vision of herself kneeling on the rocking chair, her bottom stripped bare and lifted high in the air awaiting her punishment from grandfather's cane.

After putting the phone down she went upstairs to her bedroom and lay on her bed recalling the events of that summer in detail and the more she thought, the more she remembered of how the punishments came about, of the boys in the pub, the row with grandma and grandpa and the sessions on the rocking chair.

She remembered she kept a diary and dug it out of a box in the loft and, yes, there in black and white were the dates and times and details of her canings:

'JULY 4: Grandfather caned me again today on the rocking chair. As I write this my bum is still stinging but I am still going to see the boys down the pub on Saturday and go to the disco with them no matter what grandpa says. A girl's got to have fun while she's young, grandpa is just behind the times.'

SUNDAY JULY 8: Twice in a week and real stingers tonight. I don't think I've ever seen grandpa so angry when he lectured me. I must admit I howled like a baby when he caned me but I couldn't help it. Grandma has just bought me a cup of milky chocolate to help me sleep but I don't think there's much chance of that. My bum feels like I've sat on a hornet's nest.'

The same night after the telephone call from her mother she told Roger about the will. He was delighted at the unexpected bequest and suggested they look over their new property at the weekend. She tried to put him off – another weekend perhaps – but nothing would dissuade him and she could think of no valid reasons for not going, so it was agreed.

For two days Susan was in turmoil, strangely withdrawn. Every spare moment when Roger was out she got out the diaries and re-read them recalling fresh memories. How many times had she knelt on that rocking chair? It had seemed only a few but perhaps it was obviously more. Some of the punishments she had simply forgotten.

Saturday came and they packed their bags to stay the weekend at the cottage. As Roger drove his powerful Granada, which came with his executive job, through the country lanes Susan remembered more and more, recognising the countryside, villages and meadows where they had enjoyed picnics. The sun was shining just as it had always seemed to be shining when she was young.

She hadn't visited since grandfather had been taken ill. He was sent to hospital and never returned. Grandma had stayed on in the cottage for a while but later went to live in a home. Susan regretted now she had not visited them more often after that fateful summer. Perhaps she had taken the canings too much to heart. Grandpa probably had every justification to cane her the way she had behaved. Looking back now and reading those diaries she was a tart little madam. Roger would certainly never have been interested in such an immature little girl and it was only a year or so later she had first met him.

'Why exactly have you been left the rocking chair?' Roger's question broke her reverie. She had never told Roger before about the chair and its purpose. She remembered grandpa saying 'This is between you and us. I won't tell anyone not even your mother, if you don't.' And she certainly hadn't told anyone. It wasn't the sort of thing you rushed back to University to tell your friends about.

And it was one of her only secrets from Roger.

There had been no need to tell him up to now of course but she loved and respected him more than anything in the world. Perhaps he ought to know as her husband and in any case she hated lying to him. She took a deep breath and began telling him the story of that summer as he drove the powerful car through the country lanes towards the cottage.

Now standing outside the cottage Roger noticed her fingers were trembling as he inserted the key in the lock. He had to admit he was rather surprised that the memory of the events which took place ten years ago was still having such an obvious emotional effect on Susan. He had listened to her story with an amused detachment at least at first although he could not deny that as she told her story the image of his beautiful wife kneeling up on the rocking chair pushing out her gorgeous bared buttocks to be punished was arousingly erotic.

Susan was the most fanciable woman he had ever met. Blonde, with stunning looks and clear light blue eyes, she radiated class and style. Roger was proud to boast that having such a beautiful woman on his arm gave a powerful boost to his ego. She not only looked gorgeous with an almost perfect body, she radiated taste and style. She was, as the Americans he dealt with in business would say 'One classy dame'. And her devotion to him was absolute. She was in no doubt that Roger was the best thing that had ever happened in her life and their love, driven by intense and passionate sex, seemed to grow stronger every day.

Roger pushed open the green front door of the cottage and as Susan stepped inside it was as if she was stepping through a time zone. Inside, the cottage was almost exactly as it had been ten years ago. The staircase, with the red floral patterned carpet, rose abruptly in front of her.

The familiar black wooden beams of the ceiling ran across the open lounge to the right. By the side of the front door, ticking loudly in the quiet air, was the old grandfather clock. Susan was surprised to hear it still going, then she remembered Mrs Greenaway had been coming in and cleaning once a week to keep the cottage tidy in case grandma returned.

The rooms were tiny, slightly smaller than she remembered, but it was the smell which really brought the cottage back to life for her. It was an odd mixture of mothballs, floor wax, garden vegetables, must, pastry, leather and blossom drifting in from the garden outside. She had forgotten the smell but tasting it again now it was as if grandma and grandpa were in the room with her.

She walked past the stairs and down the step to the kitchen parlour, closed off by a wooden door. She pushed it open and walked inside, her heart thumping, just as it had been when she had been summoned from her bedroom ten years ago for an appointment with grandfather's cane.

And there, resting on the stone floor, by the fireplace where it had always been, was the rocking chair. It looked so innocuous, so ordinary unless you knew the purpose to which it had been put, but Susan was staring at it as if every moment she had spent kneeling on its' cushions was running through her mind. For three days she had read and re-read her diaries imagining this room and recalling as much as she could of every detail of those canings. But now, with the rocking chair in front of her, she had no need to close her eyes and dig into her memory. She could remember as if it was happening to her all over again. And for the first time she really felt the anxious fluttering in her belly and the tingling anticipation in her buttocks as her body recalled the nerve wracking moments before the canings began and the stinging smart as the cane left its fiery red imprint across her cheeks.

'Is that the chair?' asked Roger from behind her.

'Yes,' she said walking forward and tentatively touching its soft cushions. One cushion was tied by four ribbons to the seat of the chair and another, with the same silky yellowy green colouring was attached to the upright bars at the back. Over the top of the chair there was an extra rectangular cushion which acted as a head – or as Susan remembered – hip rest.

As she fingered the material lightly she remembered how she had climbed onto the chair under the stern gaze of grandpa. She hadn't told Roger everything in the car, only how she had been caned on the chair and what for – staying out late and throwing herself at the rough boys down the pub.

Within days of arriving in the village she began gaining a reputation for being fast and was seen disappearing into the woods with first one boy and then another. Of course she hadn't gone all the way, it was a game to her, she loved to tease the boys, they were so thick compared to her clever University friends. But to the sex-starved boys in the village pub, who had little to look forward to except a life of labouring and drudgery, just putting a hand up the skirt of such a gorgeous creature or fondling her naked breasts was a pleasure they could boast about for weeks.

It was all a bit of a shock to her grandparents when they heard the stories circulating the village about her, but they kept their peace and tried to be tolerant until the vicar came round and told them things had really gone too far and the girl needed taking in hand. She had laughed at grandfather at first when he confronted her and told her she needed a good spanking but when she was caught stealing sandwiches from the village shop for her current favourite boy grandfather decided it was time to act.

He went to see Mr Joyce, the local village schoolmaster, and came back with one of his spare crook-handled canes and that night an astonished Susan, instead of drinking down the pub, found herself bent over the rocking chair bare arsed with panties round her knees while her apopleptic grandfather, red faced with anger, delivered six smart stinging strokes to her timorously presented backside.

Perhaps he hadn't caned her hard enough that first time because she was soon out with the boys again but eventually she began to learn her lesson and came to respect grandpa. It was as if she grew up in those two months.

Grandpa was a real man, you could look up to and depend on. She could never after that have married a wimp. Roger was strong, he protected her, supported her, guided her. She needed a man like that, a man she could truly love, honour and obey, that was the real lesson grandpa had taught her with his cane.

As Susan rocked the chair back and forward she wondered how many other grown women, as she had been physically at least ten years ago, had been bent over and had their bare arses spanked to teach them a lesson. Perhaps more should... and suddenly a half-formed idea came to her which sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach and she heard a voice outside of her say to Roger: 'Shall I show you how grandpa caned me?'

A beam of sunlight was shining through the window lighting up the flecks of dust floating in the air which was now thick with erotic tension as husband and wife looked at one another. After a pause he said, clearing his throat: 'Go on then.'

She dragged the chair out into the centre of the room. Grandpa always did it rather ceremoniously as if to indicate to her the punishment was about to begin.

Standing in front of the chair Susan then began slowly to strip.

She had deliberately worn one of her best suits with neat jacket and tight fitting skirt because she wanted to show the vicar and Mrs Jenkins and any of the boys from the pub she might meet just how far she had come in the last ten years. They knew her as a wild and immature girl. Now she was an attractive and rich woman with an executive husband and £250,000 house. She wanted them to know how well she had done.

She slowly undid the buttons of her jacket and slipped it from her shoulders placing it neatly on the table. Then she moved her hands to the side of her hips and loosened the zip pushing her skirt and then her slip down her legs and stepping out of them. Next her fingers, with slow deliberation, reached to the tiny pearl buttons of her cream blouse one by one in descending order and with a shrug slid the silky material from her, placing it with the rest of her clothes.

For Roger the sight of his wife performing her striptease in broad daylight before him was unbelievably erotic. Anybody could have walked past the window at any moment but the daring nature of her strip only made it more arousing. She stood now in her underwear – white bra and pants, suspender belt and stockings – and paused slightly as if deciding how far to go. In the next moment she had made up her mind and pulled out a kitchen chair placing one stockinged foot on it, unclipping the suspender clips and rolling the stocking down her thigh in almost classic striptease fashion.

Then the other leg and the superfluous suspender belt was also slipped off.

She paused again, but once more carried on, her fingers reaching behind her back to unfasten the bra clips and her milky white breasts, their red-pink tips hard and erect, fell forward. She stood before him, her gorgeous body almost naked except for her white panties stretched across her hips, her long blonde hair resting lightly on her bare shoulders.

She turned to Roger and said: 'At this point grandpa would say something like: 'Right Susan, up on the chair,' and I would climb on.'

She gingerly put one knee on the chair seat holding onto the back to keep herself steady and then lifted the other leg from the floor. As his wife knelt before him Roger could imagine the scene 10 years ago. She would have been thinner then but looking at the magnificent sight of his wife's curvacious form now he thought he would prefer the present. Over the years her hips had swelled slightly, even though she had not borne children, yet her buttocks were still firm and trim and she exercised to keep herself in shape.

'As I knelt here grandpa would lecture me all about how I had let him down, how my mother would be disappointed, all that. He would go on for about five minutes. I remember I used to hate him for it. I just wanted to get the caning over with. Then eventually he would say 'right Susan over you go' and I think you will see now why he chose the rocking chair.'

She pushed her weight forward dropping her hands down the back of the bars of the chair. As she did so the chair slowly rocked backwards and the special quality of the chair for punishment became apparent. For as she went over so her head was taken down towards the floor and at the same time her buttocks were lifted into the air so that the soft underside of her buttock cheeks where they each joined her thigh were now raised up.

Now the real beauty of the chair became recognisable. For Susan's buttocks were not only raised high but they were still soft and relaxed because of her kneeling position. Ordinarily to raise her rear so high would have meant bending tightly over stretching and tightning her cheeks. By letting the chair do the work her body was simply tipped up and her buttocks kept their softly moulded shape.

The erotic image Roger had imagined in the car as Susan had confessed about the canings was nothing compared to the reality before him now as his beautiful wife with her gorgeous body lay bent over before him, her proffered behind simply begging for a hand to spank and redden the pale bum flesh. Apart from a few playful smacks to her bottom cheeks during lovemaking he had never spanked Susan but as he gazed at his 31 year old wife so submissively presenting her behind to him now he could not help thinking it was a sorely missed omission.

As for Susan, she had intended simply to show Roger the caning position she was made to adopt on the chair but as she tipped forward and the chair pitched her into this most vulnerable and submissive position it was as if she was really back in time ten years ago and she was about to be punished. The only difference was that instead of her grandfather, her husband stood behind her. Ever since she had read and re-read her diaries she had been in an emotional turmoil. She had no need of course to tell Roger about the rocking chair in the car. She certainly need not have offered to recreate the punishment or to have stripped. She did not have to kneel upon the chair or to allow herself to be pitched forward.

But now as she lay upturned and vulnerable in the chair she felt the same flutterings of apprehension in her tummy, the same tightening anticipation in her bum flesh. She had not planned this scene before her husband, it was as if something outside her was leading her on, a force which she was unable to resist. And this feeling was reinforced by another characteristic of the rocking chair which she had forgotten. As her weight was pitched forward with her head low down by the floor she was virtually unable to move her weight backwards. Nothing tied her to the chair and yet she was pinioned in position by her own forward tilting weight. Grandpa had known that once the chair tipped back it was virtually impossible for her to get up until the punishment was over.

And now kneeling in the chair in the same way she felt just as vulnerable and helpless and submissive before her husband. And that voice, which seemed to be dictating events beyond her control, returned again and she heard it say: 'Grandpa used to keep the cane in the cupboard by the fireplace.'

It probably wouldn't be there after all these years, Grandpa would surely have got rid of it, but as Roger put his hand inside the cupboard and felt the hooks round the side he pulled out the three foot long yellow cane which grandpa had 'borrowed' from the schoolmaster ten years ago.

There was no turning back now. Roger took the cane out and bent it between his hands, testing its flexibility. Then he whipped it a couple of times through the air, making the dust in the sunlight whirl upwards and he saw in the comer of his eye his wife's buttock cheeks involuntarily clench as he smacked the cane into the palm of his hand.

He took up position to the left of the chair in the exact spot where grandpa had stood. She remembered how she had always stared at grandpa's boots. But she looked up at her husband now and said: 'Grandpa always caned me bare arsed.'

He was shocked by her language which was quite unlike her. Putting the cane on the table by her clothes he reached forward and grasped each side of her white pants stretched across her cheeks and pulled them off.

Now she was totally naked before him. The beam of sunlight shining through the window warmed her back and illuminated the tiny blonde hairs on her fair skin. He placed the cane against her bum flesh, the two smooth pale mounds presenting a perfect target.

At that moment he would be the first to admit he did not know what had been going through Susan's mind in the last few days yet perhaps now he was beginning to understand. For three days she had been imagining herself bent over this chair before her grandfather. When he had punished her ten years ago she had been to all intents and purposes a woman and the discipline she had received had changed her life.

Buried inside her she knew that it was having the immaturity caned out of her which had made the difference and now she wanted to show Roger, her husband, that he too had the right to discipline her.

She was not attempting to simply re-live grandpa's canings but to show Roger he could take grandpa's place. It was BECAUSE she had been caned by grandpa that she felt Roger, her husband had an equal right to discipline her. And Susan, now feeling the light tap of the cane against her bared buttock was experiencing exactly the same mixture of dread and vulnerability as ten years ago when grandfather had stood behind her about to deliver another caning to her.

Roger took his time as she told him her grandfather had done. He glanced at the window. If any of the villagers walked past now, as they were quite likely to do if they saw his Granada parked in the drive, what would they make of the Saturday morning scene in the parlour? Susan, a mature young wife, stripped naked, kneeling on the rocking chair with Roger, her husband, standing behind her, cane in hand obviously about to give her an old-fashioned thrashing just like she used to get off her grandpa.

But Roger was not Grandpa and he felt a strong need to impose his own authority as a disciplinarian over her. He was being granted the same privilege – and it was a privilege – to punish her as her grandpa but he also wanted her to know his love-caning was not simply a re-enactment of her grandfather's punishments ten years ago but a second, separate caning happening now. He wanted her to realise it was him, Roger, caning her and he decided to make the first two strokes as hard as he could so that she would know from the start that he was in charge of disciplining her now.

Taking careful aim at the pale moons of his wife's behind he drew back the cane in the silence of the parlour and whipped it down through the dusty air across her white submissive cheeks.


The yellow wand cracked across the centre of her proffered rear. Susan let out a yelp and tossed her head back, at the same time wriggling her arse to try to absorb the smarting pain. As she did so she leant back in the chair pulling it on its rockers so that it plunged back towards Roger. But almost immediately the balance of the rockers threw it forward again taking Susan with it. Back and forward she pitched in a crazy motion with first her head raised and then her buttocks which now had a single red stripe glowing across the centre of her twin orbs.

Gradually the chair stopped rocking as she steadied herself once more, hardly able to believe she could have taken six such strokes so regularly from her grandfather. Just because she had volunteered for this punishment obviously did not mean her husband was about to treat her more lightly. He waited for her to stop clenching and unclenching her buttock cheeks and to be absolutely still on the chair again before raising the yellow wand high once more.


And once again her buttocks began their crazy backward and forward motion as once again the chair plunged and rocked on the stone floor. For three days she had been imagining being caned on the rocking chair. Now she had no need of her imagination. The two smarting stripes glowing and tingling across her bum were real enough.

There were differences, of course to ten years ago. Then she would not have dared to defy her grandfather's authority. Once he had decided to punish her she had to submit to the caning. Now she could get up and call a halt anytime. Or could she? Although she had the choice and the stinging smart of the cane was more painful than ever she imagined it to be, she had no desire for the punishment to be over. She wanted it to go on. She felt a kind of relief that the emotional turmoil she had suffered over the last few days was being resolved. Far from thinking of getting up she was calmly counting off the strokes and thinking: 'Roger is caning me far harder than grandpa', whilst preparing herself for the next stroke.

For eight years she had kept the canings she had received from grandpa secret from Roger. Perhaps that was reason enough for her to deserve this punishment from him now.

He stood behind her, cane in hand, confident now in his authority.

'Arch your back Susan, push that lovely arse out.'

Instantly, she obeyed.

Tuesday, 24 January 2012

Sam Ramsey serial, Ep.3. "Confessions"

Story from Februs 30.


The tale of Adam & Sarah continues
Episode three of the serial by Sam Ramsey

Episode 1 * * * Episode 2

'Do you want more coffee?' Adam and Sarah were eating a companionable breakfast, she still in her bed, he (already dressed) sitting at the end of it; sections of the newspaper were strewn between them. He glanced across; she was looking dishevelled but very decidedly attractive. The top buttons of her night-shirt were open and he could see the curves of her breasts as she reached across to take the cup of coffee. He felt a strong flicker of desire, and a stab of regret. At other times, Sarah might have enthusiastically consented to a quick 'good-bye' tumble – but not today, Adam was sure, for of late she had shown an unusual sexual reserve.

Sarah caught his appreciative look and felt a pang of guilt. She knew that she had been rather distant with Adam recently, and part of her wished that things between them were back to normal. But her feelings were in too much turmoil for that. She realised only too well that it was absurd and self-indulgent and dangerous to be overwhelmed with a sudden obsession for someone little more than half her age. But these things are beyond reason.

Adam got up to leave, gave Sarah a quiet hug, which she returned warmly, grateful that he didn't press her for more. 'I'll be back about six on Thursday,' he smiled. 'Enjoy yourself when your friend comes to stay... be good!'.

Why did he say that, Sarah, wondered; did he suspect something? No, surely not. It was just one of those idle remarks...

'I will. Bye, love. Take care. Do drive carefully...'

'Bye. I'll miss you.'

* * *

Late in the afternoon, two days later, Sarah drove to the station to pick up Anna. It was a couple of months since that business trip, since the mad day when Sarah had gone to the beach with the young girl working as a waitress at her hotel, and they had made love by the sea – and then later, the older woman had introduced the young girl to the strange pleasure, the delightful pain, of submitting to a leather strap on her beautiful behind.

A wonderful diversion, Sarah had thought afterwards. Maybe she would tell Adam sometime, and he would surely be as turned on as he had been years ago when she had first confessed to having slept with a couple of girls when she was a student. But then she found she just couldn't get Anna out of her mind. It wasn't the sex, though that was a delight. And it wasn't the novel and unexpectedly thrilling experience of giving for the first time what she had so often received from Adam, and making the girl squirm and moan. There was something about the girl's beauty and vulnerability that had captured Sarah's heart. She was falling in love.

So, without saying anything to Adam, Sarah had visited Anna a few weeks later at the university where she was a student. They had gone out for a long lunch at a cafe bar, and talked for hours, easily and without reserve, as if they had known each other for years, finally parting late in the afternoon with a single chaste kiss. Then, ten days later, when Sarah was in a nearby city, they met up for dinner, and this time, unbidden and quietly insistent, Anna returned to Sarah's hotel and they made love again – very gently and tenderly.

Now, knowing Adam would be away for the better part of a week, Sarah had invited Anna to stay, and here she was, running down the steps from the far platform and flinging her arms round the older woman's neck, smiling into her eyes and suddenly kissing her full on the month.

'Hi! It's wonderful to see you...'

* * *

'It's going to be a cold night. Shall I light a fire in the living room?'

'That would be great... we could make love in front of it.' Anna grinned at Sarah, who reached out and squeezed her hand.

'You read my mind!'

They took what remained of their bottle of Chianti from the kitchen where they had eaten Sarah's pasta and homemade sorbet, then sat over the cheese for a long time. They went, hand-in-hand, into the sitting room. A large room, formed by knocking together two smaller ones; a comfortable, lived-in, room with slightly battered, well-used furniture, the alcoves lined with books, and some rather good modern artists' prints on the walls. An original Victorian fireplace was still in place at one end, and a log fire was laid. Sarah set about lighting it.

Sarah remembered that Anna had told her that she played the oboe in the university orchestra, and that music meant a great deal to her.

'Choose something, and put it on the hi-fi.'

The older woman watched as the girl walked across the room. Anna had changed after her journey, and was now wearing a dark patterned skirt that fell well below her knees, with an equally dark plain shirt in some soft material that clung and showed the shape of her breasts. Her long straw-coloured hair was tied back in a pony-tail. The effect was very simple, very beautiful. She was barefoot, which Sarah found strangely touching.

The girl examined Adam's large collection of CDs for a long time, suddenly serious. Eventually, the strains of a Haydn string quartet quietly filled the room – civilised, very human, intimate music. Anna danced solemnly back to where Sarah was sitting, and curled up at her feet.

* * *

A later scene. The music has changed, murmuring in the background very quietly. The fire now gives the only light in the room. And the room is quite hot, for the fire is more than the autumn night really needs. The girl is naked, lying on her back, her hands cupping her breasts, her legs spread. The woman is not yet fully undressed, her bottom still partly covered by very pretty, very expensive, lingerie. The woman's head is between the girl's thighs, tongue lapping at the girl's centre. The girl's head is beginning to toss from side to side. Her orgasm is mounting.

* * *

The two women are lying together, limbs tangled happily. Sarah reaches for the wine bottle. Empty.

'Time for some whisky, I think!'

She unwraps herself from the girl and fetches more drinks, and then hugs Anna to her again.

'That was wickedly nice!' Anna smiles, stretching her slim, pale body like a cat.

'Nice, but not wicked,' Sarah replies. Then, teasingly, 'Are you ever wicked?'

Anna giggles. And then her tone changes. 'I was wicked once, and in front of a fire like this one; I did something I really shouldn't have done...'

'Tell me about it?'

Anna sits up, hugs her knees, looks into the flames. Sarah sits beside her close, an arm round the girl's shoulder.

It was at Easter last year. I went off for a few days with my best friend Lizzie to a little cottage her family own in Wales. It was lovely; just the two of us, mostly working, revising for our summer exams. She'd arranged for her boyfriend, Giles, to come down at the end of the week with his friend Simon who I knew just a bit. So they turned up on the Friday, and we had a really good time the next day – a long walk across the hills to a pub for lunch and then the long walk back again; and later, when we'd recovered, we made a meal together, and sat in front of the fire, getting more and more drunk. Then it was inevitable, I guess...

Well, Giles and Lizzie started fooling around; and not to be left out I began snogging Simon who had turned out to be really nice. Giles half-undressed Lizzie and massaged her back; and Simon did the same for me and it was pretty blissful. And eventually... things just went on from there, like a competition between the boys to see how far we'd go in public. So if ends up with Lizzie and me more or less undressed, and with Simon shagging me while I'm watching Lizzie ride her Giles, and she kisses me as she comes. Wow! I'd never done anything remotely like that before and it was incredible.

If we'd stopped there it would have all been all right. But after we'd rested and drifted off in front of the fire for a while, I was still feeling randier than I think I'd ever felt before. Lizzie was very quiet and seemed out for the count, so there I was, between the two boys. And I couldn't resist. I knew Lizzie would hate it, but I started snogging her Giles all the same. And then Simon joined in again, and they both really got into it, and I lay there with two sets of hands and lips all over me, and I mean all over, which was heavenly. So after a while, I've come again, about the best ever, and then I am on my hands and knees with Giles taking me from behind while I suck off his friend. And that's when Lizzie woke and saw us.

She tried to be cool about it, but she never really forgave me or Giles... and so her two closest friendships soon came to an end, all for the sake of a drunken shag. Which was pretty bad of me, I guess. And what's really wicked is that there's a large part of me that doesn't really regret it...

* * *

'Well, you have been a bad girl,' Sarah teases, aroused. A pause. 'Perhaps you should be punished...'

There is another pregnant pause. They have hardly spoken again of that first night, when Sarah stung Anna's behind. That episode was initiated by Anna: but will she consent again, now she has experienced it once?

'Perhaps I should be punished...'

Another pause. They hold each other's gaze. Then Anna smiles and ceremoniously kneels before Sarah.

'Reach behind the books on the top shelf in the far alcove and bring me what you find there.'

Naked in the firelight, the girl rises and crosses the room. She stands on a stool, reaches up and her hand lights on something behind the books; she retrieves it.

'There are two more...'

Anna reaches again. Then she brings back what she's found and lays them on the low coffee table – a short two-pronged tawse; a whip with a dozen fine leather strands; and a light, springy cane.

'Now from that shelf over there... you see those two large dice? Bring one here.'

Anna does so.

'When I say, you roll the die. If it turns up one or two, I will use the whip. If you roll three or four, you'll be tawsed. And...?'

'If it's a five or six, I'll be caned,' the girl whispers.

'You understand perfectly,' Sarah laughs. Then, very quietly, 'Come here.'

For a moment, the two embrace, breast to breast, their arms tight around each other, kissing passionately. Sarah's hands press the girl's bottom; then, her voice taut with emotion,

'Roll the die.'

The dark red object skitters across the coffee table, bounces off the tawse, and comes to rest. A five.

* * *

Anna is standing, leaning slightly forward over the back of the chesterfield pulled in front of the fire. Her straw hair now hangs loose down her narrow back. Her bottom curves outward, thrust slightly towards the older woman. There are already a few very faint marks across her buttocks, for Sarah has flicked the cane a few times, lightly and playfully: the slight tingling stings and the erotic tension of the situation have excited the girl again, so when Sarah asks 'Are you ready to be striped?' Anna silently nods.

Sarah, her body flecked with beads of perspiration from the fire and the love-making, stands behind the girl, holding the cane in her hand. Since the day she spent with Anna by the sea, she has fantasized about the possibility of this moment, frigging herself as she imagined the girl first moaning again in submission and then being comforted and petted and made love to. The dark delight wraps itself round Sarah's soul, and she raises her arm...

Anna catches her breath as the first real lash bites into her buttocks. A moment of shock and then burning hurt runs through her. She steadies herself. When she is still, the cane descends again, harder, fiercer, and the girl cries out.

Sarah stands quietly for a moment, looking at the girl's beautiful back, curving down through her narrow waist, down to the swell of her buttocks, now marked by two hot lines. The cruel marks only accentuate the perfect shape. She feels a rush of excitement. Her nipples tauten.

The cane descends again, biting agonizingly. The girl presses her body into the upholstered back of the sofa, her eyes smarting, her lashes damp. But she recovers and slowly offers her bottom again to the waiting woman. A fourth hiss of the cane, a fourth fiery kiss.

'Aaah! Sarah! Aaaaargghh!'

The woman drops the cane and stands pressed up behind Anna and hugging her close. A long moment passes. Then she holds the girl away from her a little and starts kissing her shoulders. A tongue traces slowly downwards, downwards; hands stroke the girl's back and reach forward to caress her breasts. Downward further; lips, mouth, cheeks, press against the girl's stripes, feeling the heat.

Sarah kneels, licking the hot flesh. Then her hands on either buttock gently stretch apart the cheeks, revealing the girl's pale rosebud. A tongue explores, teases, licks, penetrates. Anna sighs in a different way. A hand touches her wet centre.

Suddenly, as if recollecting unfinished business, the woman jumps to her feet.

'There must be two more...'

'I know,' the girl whispers.

The cane is retrieved.

'Down, sweetheart; on your hands and knees.'

The girl obeys, in the firelight, an image of submission, the line of her body perfect.

Another tormenting fiery stripe and the girl yelps. A final long pause. The woman prowls behind her, the tension palpable. The last moment must come, but not before every line and curve of the girl is fixed in her memory. Suddenly, fiercely again, a final cut – and whether by accident or design, it agonizingly cutting across the other stripes.

Anna bursts into tears, and kneels up, pressing her face against the standing woman's flat stomach, wetting it with her tears, as she holds her ravaged buttocks. Sarah strokes her head, murmuring endearments. The sobs slowly subside; and then Anna kisses away the streaks of wetness on the woman's skin and nuzzles down into the hair below. Sarah leans back on the sofa and parts her legs. She sighs deeply. The girl's tongue sets to work.

* * *

Anna stays another day. A day full of lightness. They talk and are silent together, joke and discuss serious issues, and walk into the city, where Sarah insists of buying things for the girl – a dress, perfume, music. They eat out early at Sarah's favourite restaurant. And then back to the house. They are in Sarah's bedroom, where Anna is trying on the new dress again.

'You need higher heels and a different bra,' Sarah says, opening a cupboard and pulling out drawers. 'Look through these, while I have a quick shower...'

When she returns, the girl is transformed. She is standing in front of the long mirror, balanced on Sarah's highest heels (black patent shoes that Sarah has only ever worn at home, for Adam's delight). Anna is wearing a black platform bra with cups that hardly cover her nipples, a g-string, and black hold-up stockings with lacy tops.

'I found these... I hope you don't mind.'

'No, you look incredible. An icon of sexiness. Adam would have a heart attack!'

'I found this in a drawer too,' the girl adds, more tentatively, and takes from the bed Sarah's vibrator. 'I've never used one. Are you surprised? Will you show me?'

Sarah is embarrassed for a moment and then laughs, sits on the bed, and grabs the girl and pulls her off-balance onto the bed and into her arms.

* * *

They are now downstairs again, in front of a fire. There is music, louder this time; old seventies numbers. The girl, still in her sexy lingerie, is kneeling between Sarah's thighs, but the vibrator has just been cast aside as the older woman recovers.

'Now that's what I call wickedly nice!' Sarah grins and rubs her hands down her body languorously.

'Good,' says Anna. 'I thought you just might be enjoying that... I sure enjoyed my turn!' Then a sudden thought. 'But what about you? What have you done that is really wicked? Fair's fair, since I told you my story last night...'

Sarah is suddenly subdued. 'I've never told this to anyone...'

'You know I'll keep your secrets.'

It's a few years ago now. Adam had been away at a conference, and afterwards I found he'd accidentally left under the seat of his car a local paper from the city he'd been in. And it was folded open at the page with all the adverts for massage parlours and so on. I just knew that he'd been to one. He'd done it before and I'd found him out and been really angry – though, if I tell the truth, there's part of me that found the idea rather exciting, when I pictured him lying there being sucked off by a girl he'd only just met. But this time I didn't say anything; I just seethed inside, and I used it as an excuse to misbehave much more badly myself.

About a week later, I was away on a business trip, and I knew that I'd be meeting up again with this youngish guy David who manages one of our small branches, and who'd made it pretty plain in the past that he fancied me. So this time, when he was entertaining me to dinner, I flirted back outrageously, and one thing led to another, and we ended up in bed back at my hotel.

Sarah is quiet for a moment.

'That doesn't sound so very bad to me.'

'Let me finish.'

Well, we fooled around for a long time; he was really slow and considerate, and great at oral sex, and I came wonderfully. And then, because I was still so cross with Adam and wanted to punish him somehow, when David wanted finally to come inside me, I turned over and... I asked him to... I asked him to take me that way. I mean anally.

And that was wrong because I hadn't let Adam make love to me like that for a long time even though he adores it – it's one of those things that doesn't get easier as you get older, and the last times had hurt too much in the wrong sort of way. Well, I don't know whether David was really experienced or whether it was beginner's luck, but he seemed to know exactly what to do, and he opened me so gently and filled me so slowly, and then moved in just the right way, and for the first time ever I came from anal sex. It was unbelievable. And it wasn't a one-off. We did it the same way again, even better, the next night.

Afterwards, I was able to teach Adam how to do it so as not hurt me, and we still sometimes make love that way, though, he never makes me come like David did. And I still feel bad that someone else has had what really should have been Adam's.

Anna kisses Sarah. The room is suddenly quiet. The girl quietly gets up, her heels clicking across the floor, and changes the CD. Then she reaches for the large red dice, and hands one to the older woman.

'Roll it, Sarah.' There is a note of question in the girl's voice. The two look at each other, Sarah's luminous grey eyes bright. There is a moment's stillness, and then she throws the die. A two.

The woman, naked, slowly fetches the many-thonged whip, kneels and hands it to the girl. Anna takes it and weighs it in her hand, and then seems to hesitate.

Sarah whispers, 'You can use it anywhere – on my back, on my thighs, even on my tummy and breasts... Where do you want me?'

Silence. Then 'Stand where I did...'

And Sarah leans against the sofa. After a moment, tentatively at first, and then with fire and excitement, the whip begins to fall.

Sarah squirms and moans. This is so different from being whipped by Adam, yet no different. She lets herself float into the sensation as the tips of the whip sting more and more of her body. She gives the last part of herself to Anna. And Anna too is wrapped up in feelings that grow in intensity as Sarah's discomfort grows. She does not understand; but her body melts. She wants to frig herself, she wants Sarah's knowing tongue in her arse again, she wants to whip Sarah.

Sarah cries out.

* * *

So, when Adam left his conference over a day early, and returned unannounced, that was the sight that greeted his eyes, as he quietly let himself into the house, sounds of arrival masked by the music.

A pretty young girl, straw-coloured hair down her back, stood in the very high heels, her breasts barely held by a tiny bra, her buttocks parted by the tiny thong of her knickers. Across her behind, faint but unmistakable, were the marks of a recent caning. She was agitated, breathing hard, aroused. In one hand, she held a whip, which was curling across his wife's thighs. A fine tracery of marks covered Sarah's back, extending oven to her breasts. She was grimacing, in pain, in pleasure, for the girl's other hand played between her thighs, frigging her fast. He recognised the signs; the woman was near her release. The whip swung again. Lighter, stimulating her breasts.

'Oh yes, ... just there.'

And again.

Adam coughed. 'I see that when the cat is away...'

(To be continued)

Monday, 23 January 2012

An Evening At Mr Holroyd's

Story from Janus 34.

An Evening At Mr Holroyd's
by R.T. Mason

ANGELA looked up at the clock. Half past six. 'I'd better get ready. He doesn't like me to be late.'

Bryan grunted but went on eating his dinner and reading the newspaper at the same time. His pretty 23-year-old wife got up and went upstairs, where there was shortly the sound of the shower running. Bryan, also 23, went on eating and reading as if oblivious to what Angela was doing, but he wasn't. He was well aware that it was Wednesday evening again and he knew what that meant. Of course there was no point getting excited, he had after all agreed to it. All the same it was not something you could easily ignore.

Just to prove to himself that he really didn't mind he shortly got up and followed Angela upstairs. In the bedroom she had just started dressing.

She gave a groan. 'Oh god, Bryan, you're not going to watch me, are you?'

Angela's shapely form was nude apart from a white satin suspender belt and a pair of black nylon stockings. She was holding a pair of brief white nylon knickers and, bending to step into them, her full breasts were pendant, the pink nipples slightly erect from the shower. Bryan felt a twinge of lust – mingled with the sharp pang that for two hours this evening his wife would be someone else's plaything.

Angela slid the knickers up the shapely stocking-clad legs and fitted them tautly over her quite full hips and bottom. She quickly took a matching bra and harnessed the bobbing breasts. As she did so Bryan reached for her.

'Ange: why not tell him you're ill or something. I... well I feel like... you know, bed.'

Irritatedly Angela pushed her husband away. 'Oh god Bryan! You know I can't. Look I wish you'd let me alone to get ready. Do we need the money or don't we? And if you're feeling horny save it up till I get back: you know it always turns you on to see me with some fresh red stripes on my bum.'

Bryan gave her a sullen look but did not stop his wife as she proceeded to put on a white schoolgirl blouse and a short navy blue pleated skirt, and then a red-and-mauve striped tie. She sat down at her dressing table and tied her shoulder-length hair into two bunches with red ribbons.

Bryan looked a bit sick. 'Whatever do you look like!'

She made a face in the mirror. 'Like a schoolgirl I suppose. And if you don't like to see it why watch?'

She had a final look in the mirror, slipped on a pair of black high-heeled shoes, and stood up. With her fresh complexion and soft full mouth Angela did look like a schoolgirl – a rather mouth-watering Sixth Former which was what she was supposed to be.

She turned to Bryan and put her arms round him. In a more conciliatory tone she said, 'Don't worry about it, darling. I mean it's not as if I was on the game, is it? It's not as if he was doing me. And we agreed we could really use the money.'

She kissed him. 'Look, I've got to go or I'll be late. I'll see you later, OK?'

Bryan said nothing as Angela slipped on a light raincoat and picked up her handbag, car keys and a straw boater with red-and-mauve ribbon matching her tie.

He watched her go out. There was shortly the sound of the car starting. He wondered whether to go out to the pub but decided he really didn't want to. He went downstairs and started to do the washing up.

These Wednesday evenings had been going on for six weeks now. It had been a real shock when Angela had first mentioned it, that her friend Jane Walters knew this man, etc, etc. And then Angela had said she wouldn't mind trying it, and after some discussion Bryan had agreed, as long as the bloke wouldn't be screwing her. After all it was Angela who would be getting that cane oh her bum.

The deciding factor had naturally been the 20 quid a time that Angela would get. But although he had agreed to it you couldn't be expected to enjoy it. Especially during the actual two hours each Wednesday evening. When she got back, though, with those red stripes on her tail, well that was funny, he hated it but at the same time it turned him on.

* * *

It didn't take Angela long to drive to Mr Holroyd's, a quarter of an hour. As usual she felt the excitement welling up as she got closer. She had never been caned before, not before Mr Holroyd, had never really thought about it until that day her friend Jane told her what she did one afternoon a week. And had then asked if Angela would like to try it: Mr Holroyd was looking for another girl and Angela was his type. It had seemed just an impossible thing at first but then after thinking about it it hadn't seemed quite so bad. If that was all he wanted.

So she had plucked up courage and finally broached the subject to Bryan. She had persuaded him to let her try, and it had started. She had been really scared at first, and as she had thought, it hurt like hell. But at the same time she found it stimulated and excited her – although she hadn't told Bryan that.

At Mr Holroyd's she parked the car and then wearing the light coat and carrying the hat walked up the driveway. At the back door, hidden from the street, she put the straw hat squarely on her head and then, heart beginning to thump, rang the bell.

It opened almost immediately. 'Ah, Miss Simmonds. Yes, I was expecting you of course.'

Simmonds was her unmarried name, and it seemed to take her further than ever away from her married status, even in a way that was rather liberating. Mr Holroyd said using that real name added potency to it. He was sixtyish and a bit like schoolmaster although Jane said he was a retired civil servant. The eyes behind the spectacles were bright as inside the back porch his rather bony hands unbuttoned her coat. The hands pulled the coat apart and Angela gave a little gasp as he took hold of both breasts through the tight white school blouse.

'Yes Miss. Reliable reports tell me you have been seen out with boys. Young louts, I've no doubt, who've been allowed to maul your body and get you all hot and excited, is that it?'

'No Sir!' gasped Angela, flush-faced. It was almost as if she were 17 again, and all this was for real. He sounded as if he really meant it. Not that it had ever happened, not like this.

'My sources, Miss Simmonds, are most reliable.' One of the hands left her breasts and slid down and up the front of her short school skirt. Fingers lightly touched the bulge of her pubis through the tight nylon knickers. They moved spider-like.

'This, Miss. Boys getting this all excited. Is that correct?'

', Sir,' She felt herself trembling.

'Turn round, Miss.'

She was breathing really fast now.

With her back facing him Mr Holroyd lifted the bottom of the coat and Angela's skirt. His hand took a firm hold of one nylon-clad bottom cheek.

'So what we will do, Miss Simmonds, is give this part of your anatomy a warming up. In fact I intend to warm it up so much that you will not want to sit on it for some time to come. That is the best antidote I know for randiness in a Sixth Former.'

The hand gave her bottom a sharp pinch and then a slap. 'So get into the sitting room, Miss: and get yourself ready. Look sharp!'

With a mixture of dread and excitement Angela went smartly into the room. She knew what she had to do and she also knew what she was going to get. It would hurt like bloody hell but at the same time she knew she would in a way enjoy it as well as hate it.

Angela took off the coat and the straw hat. Unfastened the skirt and stepped out of it, and then slid down the knickers and stepped out of them. She was nude below the waist apart from the suspender belt and stockings. Mr Holroyd standing in front of her now had the cane in his hand.

'Yes Miss: girls who get hot between the legs need their bottoms hotting up, I'm afraid.'

A gasp from Angela as the cane whipped out and slashed into the side of her thigh, stinging like a wasp.

'Get over, Miss. The usual position.'

Obediently Angela stood at the back of an upright chair and bent forward and down so that her arms and head were down in the seat. And her own bare seat was sticking prominently out, ripe globes awaiting the sharp kiss of that stinging cane.

It was unceremoniously raised, and then brought swiftly down: THWATT! squarely across the ripe rump.

'Eeeooowwhh!!' Angela's yelp of agony was no way contrived. It really bloody stung! As it always did.

THWATT! A second awful stinger landed not far from the first line of impact. Another agonised yell and a frenzied writhing of bare buttocks.

THWATT! 'Aaaoowwch!!' The third was where Angela especially hated it: just below the lowest curve of her rump at the very top of her thighs. She wriggled and desperately clenched her buttocks in an attempt to dissipate the awful pain.

Mr Holroyd, eyes glinting and erection in full flower, waited for the girl to get still. He loved to get a girl's bottom really wriggling, like a fat pale fish on a line. THWATT! 'Aaaooowww!!' The fourth landed on the full fat undercurve and produced another bout of splendid bottom-writhing.

Another pause... and the cane again raised. THWATT!...

He gave her 12 in all. That was what he usually gave her – after the first couple of times of course when she was still learning to take it and he had restricted himself to six. In his experience 12 was what a girl was prepared to take once she'd got used to it. Twelve good hard ones. And if they were spread out that was the time it took for him to be ready to break off. To call the session to an abrupt halt as he exited to the bathroom to relieve his by now brimming arousal.

Angela, her bottom blazing from those 12 red stripes, was briskly told she could stand up and pull up her knickers. The first part of the ordeal was over. As Mr Holroyd went out she pulled the tight knickers up over her hot bottom, causing it to sting even more. She thought of Bryan... and bed. She would really feel like it when she got home, she always did, but she had never let on to Bryan. She was pretty sure he'd hate the thought of that, her getting turned on by Mr Holroyd's cane. Although Bryan himself did of course.

She looked around the room, its activities hidden behind the heavy closed curtains. Jane came here on Fridays and got the same treatment. Jane also went to another man, Mr Warren, who wanted to have a go at Angela as well. But Mr Warren wasn't content with just caning, he wanted something else afterwards. Angela couldn't bring herself to agree to that, although Jane didn't seem too bothered. She didn't tell her husband of course. Not the truth.

Mr Holroyd was suddenly back looking a bit less intense than when he'd gone out. 'Haven't you started making the coffee, Miss Simmonds?' he asked.

Angela should have known although he hadn't specifically told her this time. Standing there dreaming, she had forgotten. She said 'Sorry Sir' and went out to the kitchen. She was still Miss Simmonds because Mr Holroyd hadn't finished yet. If things followed the normal routine there was still Punishment PT to come after the coffee. When, if things ran true to his quirky pattern, he would be addressing her as simply 'Simmonds'.

Angela had never told Bryan about the Punishment PT. All he knew was that she got the cane and also the strap to a certain extent. Punishment PT in fact usually took up quite a lot of the two hours Angela was at Mr Holroyd's and to account for all that time Angela said they sat and talked a bit. Well, Mr Holroyd obviously wouldn't be caning her for two hours non-stop, or she wouldn't be able to stand up afterwards. But she did not enjoy Punishment PT, which was why she didn't tell Bryan about it.

And yes, it was to be the same routine tonight. As soon as Mr Holroyd had finished his coffee he said, 'Right then, Miss. Punishment PT now!'

Angela knew what she had to do. Finishing her own coffee, she slipped off the high-heel shoes and stood up. Standing in front of him she took off the skirt again and also the tight white knickers. Once more she was in just blouse, suspender belt and nylons.

Mr Holroyd told her to get into position. Obediently Angela stood facing him a couple of feet from his chair, with her feet wide apart and her hands on her head. Mr Holroyd proceeded to give her another lecture, more lengthy this time, on her supposedly unladylike behaviour. As he sternly addressed her one of his hands failed to leave her alone...

Angela couldn't imagine that schoolmasters ever really did this, although Jane said that at her school the games master had groped girls whenever he got the chance. But anyway in Mr Holroyd's prelude to Punishment PT he always touched her while he spoke. As usual she simply tried to pretend he wasn't doing it, looking straight ahead and doing her best to keep still. At last the lecture ended and the hand was taken away. It was time to start the actual Punishment PT.

He had a set routine of exercises and as usual she had to go through them all. On her back on the carpet cycling her legs in the air was always the first; while Mr Holroyd stood over you with that wicked two-tongued strap, whipping it out at bottom and thighs if you didn't perform exactly to his requirements. The cycling was always pretty awful, not just because she could never do it to his satisfaction, but also because, with no knickers on, it was such a really awful position to be made to get into.

The cycling finally finished and then there were the others: deep knee bends; toe touching; running on the spot; high kicking. A nonstop routine which had Angela gasping for breath, punctuated at frequent intervals by sharp squeals as that strap snaked out. It was a performance which, as usual, Angela did not like one little bit. And which she would try very hard to screen out of her mind afterwards.

Mr Holroyd on the other hand found it highly arousing and it went on until he was again close to that brimming-over stage. Then the Punishment PT stopped, to be followed by a second caning session – four strokes this time – after which Mr Holroyd made another prompt exit. This time at least the evening's activities were essentially over.

* * *

Back home Bryan was sitting on the settee watching the telly. In an artificially bright voice she said, 'Hello: I'm back!'

Bryan didn't answer. Angela went to sit next to him, forcing a kiss on him. 'Bryan darling: I'm back! Don't you love me?'

He pushed her away. 'I don't want you going to the bloody bloke anymore.'

Angela bit her lip. 'Oh come on, Bryan: don't be silly.' She opened her handbag and took out the four £5 notes Mr Holroyd had given her for the evening. She handed them to Bryan but he simply threw them on the floor.

'I've had enough of it! You're not going there anymore and that's final.'

Angela picked up the money and, red-faced, put it back in her purse. He was bad-tempered at times when she got back but never as bad as this. He seemed really mean tonight.

In bed a little later they had intercourse. Bryan couldn't resist that in spite of his anger. When he had finished he got off her and lay on his back. Still breathing heavily he said, 'Promise you won't go there anymore.'

There was a silence and then in a quiet voice she said, 'OK. If that's what you want.'

She would promise but she didn't mean it. She would just have to go in the afternoon when Bryan was at work. It wasn't only the £20, she had got to be really aroused by it: exposing her bottom for Mr Holroyd and then that feeling of dread and excitement as she waited for the cane to land. Even the Punishment PT, which she wouldn't think about – well, especially that, really... the fact that she hated it yet he made her do it, that was what did it for her, made her tummy turn over.

That wasn't all. Just before she'd left Mr Holroyd tonight he had again said that Mr Warren was very keen to see her. She had hesitated and then finally, this time, said OK, she would see him.

She had agreed to go round to his house tomorrow afternoon. Mr Warren was younger than Mr Holroyd, in his forties, Jane said. And he was very dominant. Lying there next to Bryan and looking up at the ceiling, Angela shivered.

'So no more visits,' repeated Bryan. 'We don't need that bloody money.'

'OK,' she said. And then her hand reached out and her lips closed in, needing him again. So urgently.