Friday, 4 May 2012

Knicks Down And Bend

Story from Swish Vol.7 No.1

Knicks Down And Bend

John and his sister-in-law, Amanda, are both ex-school Heads and both have a penchant for hot bottoms. As you might have become aware in Spanking Pleasures last month, it looks as if John's daughter, Judy, might be in for a spanking yet. For the time being, though, Amanda is teaching John the finer points of indoor discipline in concert with her ex-pupil, Linda.

* * *

'Good heavens, she's humming up there!', John exclaimed in amazement as Linda moved around in the bathroom upstairs. Considering that between them they had given the sexy twenty-two-year-old a pretty thorough spanking, he couldn't believe it — but that, as Amanda saw it, was just John's problem. After all the boasting about how many girls he had caned, she was beginning to realise that until now he had lived in a world of dreams and hopes.

'Linda isn't a BEGINNER, dear, though she is quite capable of putting up a good imitation of one. Her nice tight bottom first tasted my cane four years ago. I almost had to tie her ankles at first, but I soon got her tamed. Before she came into my hands, though, she HAD been spanked, but by no means successfully. Bull-at-a-gate stuff — and girls hate that. You've never done that, John, have you?', she asked cunningly, while her brother-in-law quickly shook his head.

'Why, heavens, no', he bluffed, 'I always lectured them sternly first before they went over my desk. If they — herrumph! — failed to remove their panties, then it was necessary for me to do it for them'. — 'Yes, of course, I understand, John, but here, with Linda, we have a more domestic atmosphere. You will have seen that she has become accustomed to it — up to a point — but she still needs her coaxing. I think she is putting on a very brave face by humming up there now while she freshens herself up, don't you? One must encourage that. I suggest a very light spanking in an hour or two. One must find an excuse for it, of course'.

'Ah, yes', John replied vaguely. After his astonishing experience with Linda — who had played the coy one to perfection — his penis still thrust up in a hard stalk under his trousers, as Amanda could see. Perched on the arm of his chair as she was, she leaned sideways and brushed her fingers across it. — 'What a time you must have had with the senior Sixth Formers', she sighed, 'But I think that in a more domestic situation, we do not want to scare them off, do we? When Linda is ready for her second dose — say after tea — I think it best that you handle her as though she were a beginner like.... well... like any other girl of her age whose bottom needs attention'.

'Well, I say, yes. I have only formally caned girls before', John said self-excusingly, and while wishing fervently that he really had.

'Exactly, dear. For domestic spanks, the best posture is supposed to be across the lap, but I have never agreed with that. It is much better to induce the miscreant to straddle your thigh. I mean that you keep your legs apart and bring hers astride over one. The upper part of her body is then held down under your free hand. Naturally, one stockinged thigh comes close in between your own, and hence it cannot be said to be your fault, John, if in squirming — as she is bound to — she rubs it against your prick and gives you a hard-on, to put it crudely. That is surely her doing, is it not — deny it later as she may'.

'My goodness, yes', John answered chokily. — 'Good. I knew you would agree, John. The very first spank you give should be quite a firm one, but NOT an impersonal one, and by that I mean that it does no harm to caress a hot, naked bottom gently and soothingly for a few moments after you have given a last big smack. A little finger-tuning, I call it. You may even murmur to her — while ringing her waist and listening to her sobs — that you will not spank her so hard next time if she is good. Soothe her bottom with your palm as you speak and give her a little hug. Then move her off your leg gently and draw down her skirt in a very gentlemanly fashion, feeling her thighs up as you do, but not too blatantly. Tell her, sort of playfully, that the next one won't feel half so bad'.

'But she may feel so resentful.....', John began. — 'Not entirely, no. A mixture of emotions and thoughts, John, and that's what counts. That's what you will induce in her if you do as I say. Be both firm and gentle until she becomes used to it. No heavy stuff — especially on the second occasion when you find it necessary to spank her. The second spanking is very critical. Don't announce it beforehand. Take her entirely by surprise, swing her over, flip up her skirt and give her a first one or two through her panties and hold her over hard.

John swallowed. 'But.... but I don't think I could......', he murmured, but Amanda appeared to ignore him.

'After that second smack through her knicks, cup her bottom and glide your forefinger under her cheeks just enough to give a butterfly touch to her slit through her knicks. Don't do it blatantly, but just enough to let her feel it. Oh yes, she'll probably squeal out then, 'Don't do it!', and she will be referring to the touch-up, but as far as you are outwardly concerned she means the spanking.

'Ah......', John uttered. His prick was, if anything, sticking up even more by now into the cloth of his trousers. He gazed up at her with admiration.

Amanda suppressed a sigh. Men were so unsubtle. It really did take a woman to teach them how. — 'Your next words, John, should be to tell her that she has had it before and is going to again. You can cheerfully fib, too. Tell her that she didn't really struggle before. She'll yell that she did of course. Right — another SMACK! for that. Let's suppose she was standing and that you've bent her under your arm. Next, you rip her panties down and give her another. Then you CAN use a warning. Tell her to be quiet or she'll get a real one'.

'You mean only to give her a sort of medium spanking again?', he asked. — 'THAT, my dear, has to depend entirely on your judgement of her and of the situation. Medium to hard, I would say. Let her bare bottom really feel that mastering palm of yours until she's wriggling it redhot. She'll never confess it, but she'll want you to cup it firmly then. Do so. Lead her to the sofa doing so. Just as if you were comforting her afterwards. Indeed, utter some comforting words and bring her to sit on your lap and hold her strongly there. Keep talking softly — that's half the trick of it'.

'Good lord, yes!', John exclaimed, just as if he had suddenly thought it all up for himself. He could see the whole scene. The gates of Heaven were opening. If it worked. And Amanda seemed so certain that it would. — 'And then?' he asked.

Amanda knew what he wanted her to say. 'Poke her, darling — get her on her back', he wanted her to say, but that wasn't how it was done, or at least not in her rule book. It had to be a slightly longer process than that. A girl had to be made to feel that she had somehow melted into an act of ultimate naughtiness, and had not simply been mounted and plugged.

'Why, dear, then.......', Amanda begun, but at that moment Linda entered the room again and gazed at them hesitantly and enquiringly as she knew Amanda wished her to. Linda's pert cheeks glowed a little still and felt terrific. She had rinsed her face and done all her make-up again. Her blouse was neatly buttoned and her skirt smoothed down. Both fitted her very tightly, for John had filched Judy's old school outfit from her wardrobe and had brought it over. A striped tie dangled in the valley between Linda's prominent, firm tits. Her black stockings were taut again and banded tightly around her thighs, as John could see. There was an enticing two-inch gap between the hem of her black, pleated skirt and the tops of her sheer nylons.

'If you lived here — if this were your home, Linda — you WOULD be an obedient girl, would you not?', Amanda asked smoothly, getting up and walking to her. Linda knew exactly what was expected of her and bit her lower lip and hung her head. — 'Yes; yes I would; I would try', she answered hesitantly. — 'And just supposing that you were difficult sometimes, would you expect to be spanked?', Amanda asked.

Linda pouted. It was something she could do beautifully, and she did it as she looked past Amanda at John whose heart thudded though he did his best to appear nonchalant. — 'Yeth', she lisped deliberately, and felt Amanda take her hand. Little did John know it, but Linda's own pulses raced at that moment. — 'Well, Linda, we will just see if you mean it. Let's suppose you have just sworn at him and that you think you've got away with it', Amanda said, giving the girl a little push so that she slouched towards John and then stopped a few feet from him. Behind her back, Amanda gave a silent signal with her hands to John as if to say, 'Slowly — slowly!', and in fact it was with a great effort, suppressing his eagerness, that John rose and made as if to turn away from Linda towards the fireplace.

'What did you say?', he asked quietly with his back to her as if he weren't really too worried. — 'I said — I said you were an old sod and.... NEEE-OW!', Linda squealed realistically. Spinning suddenly about, John looped one arm around her waist, and rammed her full against him so that both Amanda and Linda thought he was about to kiss her pouty mouth. Perhaps John himself did, too, for a moment. Like many men, he wanted to break all barriers at once as her thighs and tits slammed against him, but the momentarily greater desire in him made him spin her around like a top and bend her over under his arm with such strength that Linda could not have straightened up even if she had wanted to.

Something broke in Amanda, too, at that moment as she watched John scoop up the back of the short, pleated skirt. — 'Wait, darling — let's suppose that I approve of this, in this instance. Hold her while I get her knicks right off', she breathed excitedly. Linda would react with perfection, Amanda knew, and she did. — 'Stop it, no! It's not fair!', she squealed as Amanda came behind her and scooped her tight blue knickers down to her ankles. — 'Oh yes it is, my pet — I told you that you would go too far one day. All right, John!', uttered Amanda, sitting back on her own bottom so that she had a perfect view right up under the tight, warm globe of Linda's bottom.

'Oh no, please don't let me! I'll be good, I'll....... YEEE-EEEEEK!' came from Linda in the next second to the accompaniment of the juicy smacking sound of John's broad palm up under her naked hemispheres. Even as his arm sprang up again, John made to give her another, but Amanda stayed him with a gesture and crooked her forefinger suggestively up under Linda's globe.

'You.... you didn't howl before', John uttered breathlessly to Linda, and almost forgetting his script. — 'Did, did, did!', sobbed Linda, twisting her waist helplessly in his strong, looping arm and then uttered a surprised 'THOOOO!' as his hand groped right under her orb and tasted the slightly oily lips of her quim in their nest of curls. — 'Stop it, stop it, it's naughty! Don't do it!', the girl sobbed.

'What? Of course I intend to spank you, young lady!' SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! sounded John's palm as he entered into it with excited enthusiasm, causing tears to squeeze into Linda's eyes, though she had had it often enough before in such circumstances. — 'YOO-HOO-HOO-HOOO!', she sobbed, her throbbing botty rotating deliciously, 'Oh, please stop him, please! It's not fair! YEEE-OW!' Her up-thrust hemispheres really glowed now. Amanda could see that he had laid it in rather harder than she had coached him to. A deep red had spread right over Linda's moon. John's face was just as flushed. Amanda's hand shot up in silent signal to him again. It moved slowly up and down, and John blinked at her and nodded.

Linda's black-stockinged legs quivered as he began then smacking her juicy young cheeks rather more gently. — 'BOO-HOOOl' she sobbed at each rhythmic descent of his hand, but her cries were noticeably quieter now and — to John's utter delight — she held her hips steadier.

'You see what a good girl she can be, if she tries? Wait, John, I think it best to have her knickers right off', Amanda breathed. This wasn't what she had told John at all, but the moment was too good to miss. — 'Oh NO! You mustn't! YEEE-EEEEECH!', screeched Linda as simultaneously her most intimate garment was deftly worked down over her high heels and John's hand came down in a much heftier and warming SMACK! on her heat-blazoning cheeks. This time, however, his palm did not bounce off but stayed, allowing his forefinger to feel right under the glowing orb to the now oilier crevice of her furry nest.

'WHOO-HOO-HOOO!', squealed Linda. Her hips squirmed madly as his fingertip caressed the rolled lovelips and then the upper part of her body suddenly went limp — rather to John's dismay. Had he overdone the spanking? But Amanda had got up and put a finger to her lips. — 'John, I think you had best deal with her on your own. I'm going upstairs to have a bath. Now, you be a good girl, Linda'.

'BLUB-BLUB-BLUB!', came softly from Linda. Amanda quietly made her exit, not winking at John as he expected her to, but leaving it to him. Linda waited expectantly then, though he did not know it, and felt herself moved sideways awkwardly, so that with a moan and an upward jerk of her hips she was suddenly plonked down on to John's lap, feeling something like a hot, hard poker under her heat-swollen bottom.

''t!' she sobbed, hiding her face in his shoulder so that he could take any meaning from her words that he wanted. — 'Shouldn't spank you? I must if you're naughty, mustn't I?' soothed John, insinuating one hand up to her hard tits whose nipples poked through the blouse. Linda gave a little start as he did, but then buried her face deeper and uttered mewing, babyish sounds as his fingers slid down into the vent of the thin garment and found the silky, palpitating flesh beneath.

'Shouldn't I?' he repeated in a choky voice. Linda wriggled petulantly. His thumb was brushing across her perky nipples. She could feel the crest of his stiff prick nosing up through his trousers between the seared cheeks of her bottom. — 'I s...s...s'pose so', she admitted. — 'Well, then — kiss and make up?', John husked. For a long moment he thought she would not move, but slowly Linda raised a faintly tear-streaked face to his. — 'Only a likkle one', she murmured, but then an insensate thrill ran through John as her peachlike lips parted and the pink tip of her tongue peeped out hesitantly to his..........

But John has got to train himself too, as you'll discover next month.

Thursday, 3 May 2012

The Other Side Of The Tracks

Story from Janus 40.

The Other Side Of The Tracks
by Andrew Grantham

SALLY looked out of the window of the Assessment Centre. At the bottom of the vegetable garden ran the railway line back to the city she came from. A train, made up of several diesel multiple units, clattered past and temporarily obscured her view of two teams of schoolgirls playing hockey.

'Hockey!' snorted Sally. It's not as much fun as playing hookey!'

'What are you on about?' asked her room-mate dreamily.

Rose lay on her bed smoking a cigarette made up of substances definitely not provided by the Imperial Tobacco Company.

Tall, blonde Sally didn't reply to Rose's question. Instead, she sniggered as a big, busty sixth-former got herself caught up in an opponent's hockey stick and fell headlong into a patch of sticky mud.

The girls playing hockey on the field across the railway lines were not from the council-run Assessment Centre. Far from it, they were all pupils of High View College, a private boarding school for girls. It was ironic that the two establishments were so close and yet worlds apart.

It had been that way for years. The Assessment Centre had formerly been a remand home — a grim reminder to girls at the College of their good fortune in life. Now it was simply a reminder, no longer grim. It was merely a place where naughty girls got sent to. No girl from High View would ever be sent to the Assessment Centre. The discipline imposed by the Headmaster and his staff saw to that!

'I'll bet they're all snooty, stuck-up bitches,' scoffed Sally.

Rose finished what she was smoking and joined her friend at the window. The blonde girl opened it. 'That pot stinks the place out!' she complained.

Sally had many vices, but smoking pot was not one of them.

Bleary-eyed, the red-haired Rose surveyed the couple of dozen girls in white shirts and navy blue pleated skills expending their energies on the playing fields.

'Jolly 'effin hockey sticks,' she snorted. 'I can think of better ball games to play than that, can't you?' she sniggered, digging the other girl in the ribs.

'Hey!' exclaimed the taller girl, suddenly noticing the referee. 'I wouldn't mind playing with him. He's a bit of all right, he is!'

'Yeah,' agreed Rose. 'He's a fit-lookin' feller all right.'

The two teenagers watched the college girls enjoying themselves. A psychologist might have said that Sally and Rose were envious of the other girls' freedom and at the same time jealous of the fact that when God had shuffled the cards, the females on the other side of the railway line had come up with the trumps.

'I've never seen a posh school before,' remarked Rose.

'Nor me,' said her room-mate. 'The one I went to.' Here Sally paused and laughed. 'When I went to it that is, was a council school. It was all horrible glass and concrete. I hated it!'

Rose mumbled her agreement. She seemed to be miles away. She returned to her bed and lay down.

Sally maintained her vigil by the window. There was precious little else to do. Tomorrow, they would be taken to court to learn of their fate. They both expected to miss a custodial sentence, but only just!

Her high, firm breasts pushed against the window panes as her big blue eyes devoured the young man in the track suit on the field. Her lip, however, curled in contempt for the girls who had had a better start in life than herself.

Sally was in fact quite a pretty girl, except when her lip curled; which it did quite often. She was inclined to blame everyone else for the fact that she had a petty crime record. Everyone, except herself of course.

She never questioned the fact that she had been the only one in her class to be in trouble with the law. Her parents were decent, hardworking people who had been too lenient with her and Sally had taken full advantage of their leniency.

'There's no graffiti on the walls!' she suddenly realised and shouted out to Rose.

Indeed, the old walls of the school were covered in ivy and not in painted slogans.

'Why don't we go over and write something, then?' drawled Rose, running a hand through her dark red hair. It was only a half-hearted suggestion, but Sally's eyes positively gleamed at the thought

'Yeah! Let's!' she exclaimed.

If anyone had said to her that she was like a silly schoolgirl, the blonde would have slapped their face, or worse!

'Come on, Rose!' she cried, clapping her hands. 'Let's sneak out!'

Rose, still a little high from her joint, propped herself up on her elbows and nodded. 'Anything you say,' she agreed.

Sally kept her eyes on the establishment that was so near and yet so far away from her whilst she turned things over in her mind.

'It's the start of a new term,' she thought out aloud. 'There'll be lots of new faces around. Nobody will know who we are. Besides, nobody here is going to bother us for the rest of the afternoon. As long as we get back in time for tea, we'll be okay.'

'Count me in,' said the redhead lazily.

'There's just one thing,' frowned Sally, looking down at her baggy sweater and patched jeans. 'We can't walk round that posh school in these clothes, can we?'

'No,' agreed Rose without offering any suggestions herself.

Sally clicked her fingers. 'I've got it!' she shouted. 'We'll make for the changing rooms on the edge of the playing fields. There'll be plenty of smart uniforms hanging up there to choose from.'

Rose suddenly began to take more interest. 'And watches!' she pointed out. 'I'll bet those well-off girls will have left quite a bit of jewellery in their pockets. We can hide it somewhere and come back for it at some time. Even if we are put away tomorrow, it's only going to be for a short time!'

Sally sniggered. 'They'll all blame one another. That'll be a laugh.'

Rose got up. She was dressed almost identically to her friend. The only difference was in the colour of their sweaters. The red-haired girl wore grey and Sally's was dark brown.

The blonde girl opened the window and poked out her head. As she thought, the drainpipe was in easy reach. She was used to climbing up drainpipes in furtherance of theft so it was no hardship for her to go the other way for a change.

Soon, both of the inmates of the Centre had their feet on the ground and, under cover of bushes and trees, they ran to the bottom of the garden. The fence that met them was made of old railway sleepers and it presented no challenge at all.

'Watch out for 'effin trains!' warned Rose. 'I don't want to end up as mincemeat!'

The girls scurried over the metal rails and crawled under one of the wire strands that bordered the High View College playing fields. Now, they were in a completely different environment and somehow they felt the change Even the grass smelted heavenly from the recent rain.

'Nice 'ere, ain't it?' smiled Sally.

They hurred to the changing rooms which were no more than wooden huts on the edge of the field. The blonde looked all round to make sure they hadn't been spotted and that there was no one inside before they went in.

'Take your pick, Rose,' declared Sally, sweeping her arm around to indicate the array of uniforms carefully hung on pegs.

Laughing and giggling like the schoolgirls they were going to pretend to be, they tried on all sorts of blazers, skirts and socks before finding anything that fitted them.

'All this gear is tailor-made!' Sally informed her friend, trying on a brown-and-yellow striped blazer. 'It must cost the earth for their parents to kit them out.'

Rose laughed as she looked at her colleague from the Assessment Centre. 'I'll bet your boyfriend wouldn't mind seeing you right now,' she told her.

Sally laughed as she looked at herself in one of the full-length mirrors. The brown pleated skirt was halfway up her shapely thighs and her bust pushed out the tight cotton blouse. The striped yellow-and-brown tie was askew and the white socks were down around her ankles.

'Actually, my boyfriend gets turned on by girls in school uniforms,' she confided to her friend.

'A good job he's not here then,' smiled Rose. 'He might want to put you over his knee.'

'Huh!' snorted Sally. 'Fat chance! I'm not into that sort of thing, thank you very much!'

Rose had managed to find clothing more her size, but it did not have quite the same effect on her as the attire borrowed by the blonde.

'Let's see what we can nick,' she grinned.

'Wait!' warned Sally. 'Someone's coming!'

Quick as a flash, the two hid behind a door. A member of the staff walked in, a stout woman of the tweeds and brogues brigade. She strode purposefully towards the showers, obviously looking for girls hiding away from the physical activity going on outside.

Sally and Rose took the opportunity to make themselves scarce, although the red-haired delinquent complained about missing out on the loot. Sally assured her they would get it on the way back as the girls would be on the hockey pitch for another hour at least. Also, on their way back they would find some paint and write on the nice clean walls!

They walked into the main building and only just managed to keep their feet on the highly polished parquet flooring. Their first test came when a formidable-looking mistress walked towards them.

She pointed at Sally. 'Fix your tie, girl!' she ordered and strode on her way.

Instinctively, Sally did as she was told and the pair of intruders carried on with their inspection of the old school.

'This place is even older than my gran!' joked Rose as she looked up at the paintings of former heads and benefactors lining the oak-panelled walls.

Suddenly Sally clutched hold of Rose's arm. 'Listen!' she hissed. 'Can you hear what I think I can hear?'

Rose nodded, a smile on her face. 'Someone's getting a walloping!'

The unmistakable sound of wood on flesh came from a nearby room, the door of which was partially open. They peered round and their hearts stilled at what they saw.

In fact the first thing that met their eyes was the sight of a pink bottom already adorned by two red horizontal stripes. Its owner was bent over a large desk, her shoulders heaving with sobs and her panties caught up in her feet.

It was only after the third stroke and resultant screech that the two uninvited observers realised that it was a man who was wielding the cane.

The chastiser was tall, athletic, in his mid-thirties and he was very good-looking.

'Stay still, Miss Jones!' he admonished the stricken girl squirming over the top of the desk. 'You only have one more to take, but if you persist in moving about, you'll get more!'

A chill came over Sally. The sight was absolutely awful yet, at the same time, it was utterly compelling. Something inside her wanted the poor girl to get more as the teacher had threatened.

Miss Jones managed to control herself and her angry, pained bottom shuddered to stillness, although her cheek muscles were obviously tightly clenched.


The cane sank again into the soft cushions of her rump. She yelled out aloud and waggled her rear end from side to side.

'Pull up your knicks and off you go!' ordered the teacher.

'Yes, Mr Bridges,' was the tearful but eager reply.

It was at this moment that the two inmates of the Assessment Centre chose to leave. They chose to, but they didn't actually make it. Roughly, they were pushed into the study by the tweeds and brogues mistress they had seen in the changing room and inside they tripped over each other.

'These two girls were peeping around your door,' explained the matronly woman. 'They must have been watching you cane the Jones girl.'

Miss Jones, her face buried in her hands, quickly left the scene.

'Ere! What's the game, you bitch!' demanded Rose, her natural hostility to any kind of officialdom rapidly rising to the surface.

'How dare you speak to Miss Russell like that!' roared the man who had just laid the cane into the meaty bottom of the recently departed Miss Jones. He yanked the two girls to their feet by the collars of their blouses and shook them like two rag dolls.

'Piss off!' shouted Rose.

'- - - - off!' hissed the blonde, coming out with the full Anglo-Saxon expletive.

'Oh, Mr Bridges!' shrieked a shocked Miss Russell, putting a large hand to her mouth.

'I've a good mind to smack both your faces!' hissed Mr Bridges. He quickly, however, brought himself under control. 'Instead I'll give you six of the best — the very best, I assure you!'

The two girls struggled in his grip and even aimed kicks at his shins. However, he solved that problem by letting go of their blouses and twisting their ears instead.

Sally suddenly stopped struggling as realisation came over her. They were supposed to be pupils of High View College. If it was found out they were from the place across the railway lines, they would be unceremoniously handed over — with a full report of their loutish behaviour and foul language. Their assessments would be rapidly altered and they would be incarcerated at the court hearing for sure. It was better to grin and bear it. Okay, so they would certainly be baring it, but it was hardly likely they would be grinning!

She managed to convey the message to the other girl with a few whispered words and Rose, too, gave up the struggle.

'I'm sorry sir,' whimpered Sally, looking at Mr Bridges with wide, appealing eyes. She could turn on the charm whenever she wanted to.

'No doubt you are!' Mr Bridges was not impressed. 'But your sorrow will not stop you from getting the six of the very best I promised you!'

The girls looked at each other. They hadn't bargained for anything like this. They were out of their depth with this kind of discipline. There was certainly no such thing as corporal punishment at the Assessment Centre!

Which was the lesser of the two evils? A very painful dose of the cane with a sore bum for a while afterwards, or several weeks or even months in some kind of a penal establishment. There really wasn't any choice!

'Perhaps you would be so good as to wait outside with one of these er young ladies, Miss Russell,' smiled Mr Bridges grimly.

'Yes, Headmaster,' said the big lady smugly.

Sally's eyes widened. So the dishy bloke was actually the Headmaster of this posh place. She had never had a Headmaster like that. She had never had the cane either!

A dejected-looking Rose was led out by Miss Russell, leaving Sally alone with the Headmaster. She felt absolutely helpless. She didn't even go to this silly school and yet she had to pretend that she did. It was going to be a painful pretence!

The blonde knew it would be a waste of time flaunting her obviously nubile body. Mr Bridges was going to use the yellow crook-handled cane lying on the desk top, no matter what she did.

He started off by giving her a sharp lecture about all the things a young lady should be and not be. One thing a lady should definitely not be — and that was foul-mouthed!

'You won't forget this in a hurry!' he promised, taking up the cane.

Sally was sure she would never forget it!

Mr Bridges tapped the shiny desk top with the tip of the cane. Eyes downcast, Sally took a few paces forward cursing Rose under her breath. It had been her silly idea in the first place! She was glad she had someone to blame, other than herself.

She lay across the surface, her arms outstretched in front of her, her feet steady on the carpet and her bottom poking up in the air.

Sally was frightened, although she did her best not to show it. There hadn't been many times in her young life that the pretty blonde had been frightened, but this was one of them. Her knuckles showed white under the skin as she clutched the edge of the desk.

Mr Bridges, the cane tucked under his left arm, began to bare her bottom. The so-short skirt had ridden so far up already, he merely had to lift it out of the way. Her briefs were so skimpy, they were little more than a snatch patch.

She jumped at the sensation of his warm hands on her flesh. For any other purpose the sensation of male hands down there would be very pleasant, but not for what she was about to receive!

Very delicately, the Headmaster eased her panties over her rump and he let them flutter down to her ankles. For all that Sally was an experienced young woman of the world, she felt strangely embarrassed.

She tensed and waited.

Mr Bridges took time to get his mark and his stance correct. Sally jumped several times as the cane tap-tapped on her offered globes, seeking the perfect range. She had already witnessed just what he could do with the cane and she knew he was going to lay it on much harder for both herself and Rose than he had done for the errant Miss Jones.

Sally heard the cane whistling down for what seemed like ages before she thought her bottom had been bisected by a red hot wire.

'Oooohhh!' she cried out.

Her plump, ivory cheeks shuddered and she wondered where her breath had gone to. A red stripe instantly lit up her pale bottom.

'I don't have to tell you to keep still, do I?' questioned Mr Bridges.

Sally shook her head and buried her face in the sleeves of the striped blazer.



Sally's head jerked up as the second stroke of the expertly wielded cane struck home. She started to cry. Her bottom seemed to be making frantic efforts to minimise the pain and discomfort.

'Keep still!' warned the Headmaster.

Sally had a sudden urge to kick off her panties and run away. Then she remembered the menacing figure of Miss Russell who would be lurking outside, no doubt savouring every sickening sound that came from the study. There was just nowhere to go!



Sally screamed and twisted violently. Her bottom blazed with fire.

Mr Bridges viewed with great satisfaction the contorting arse that still had three more stripes to bear.

The sleeves of Sally's 'borrowed' blazer became sodden as the tears flowed unremittingly. She had never known her body could be in such agony. And the awful torment was still only halfway through.

Still, how much worse was it going to be for Rose. She would be able to hear the explosive cracking impacts of the cane upon her bare buttock flesh and all her screeching and shouting, and still have the awful punishment to bear. At least whilst the redhead was getting it, she herself could rub her hands over the inferno that was her battered bottom.

The fourth slice of cane stopped Sally from thinking about the girl waiting her turn outside. Her piercing shriek echoed around the study and the jellied mounds of her bottom showed up her suffering.

Sally's throat was dry and sore from yelling. Ever-increasing waves of hurt seemed to engulf her all over. Her shoulders shook and so did her bottom.

'Keep this still!' ordered Mr Bridges, prodding her buttocks with the tip of the cane. Even that hurt!

Desperately fearful of getting extra strokes, Sally concentrated hard on keeping her bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over her arse, she managed it. But not for long!


'Ay-yee-aagh!' roared Sally.

She began thrashing about with her head back and her eyes clamped shut. Her arms were rigidly extended and her fists tightly clenched.

Her crimson, castigated bottom humped up and down frenziedly. She could hardly believe such an awful thing was happening to her.

'This is the last one coming up,' said Mr Bridges. His voice betrayed the fact that he wanted to carry on and give her much, much more.


The cane again found its mark on the bottom that squirmed and floundered over the desk top.

'Yarrooohh!' roared the tortured delinquent. Her feet bicycled in the air.

Mr Bridges had used all his energy in delivering the final stroke to the cheeky blonde. She had most certainly deserved the thorough hiding he had given her and he hoped it would be a salutary lesson to her.

Keeping hold of the cane, he crossed the carpet to the door and beckoned a trembling Rose to enter.

'Oh God!' cried the red-haired girl stopping in her tracks.

Sally, her body shattered with the punishment it had absorbed, still lay sprawled over the desk, sobbing her heart out.

Rose screwed up her eyes as she surveyed her friend's backside, ablaze with fiery red criss-crossed welts.

Mr Bridges stood in the doorway and permitted Miss Russell a quick peek at Sally's bum. Her smile showed her satisfaction.

'I suppose these girls think they are the first ones ever to cross the railway lines to see what they can thieve,' she whispered.

Mr Bridges nodded. 'No doubt they do,' he said quietly. 'They aren't the first and they certainly won't be the last!'

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

The Soreness of a Finishing School

Story from Roue 10.

The Soreness of a Finishing School

Mrs Caroline Storey recently unearthed fragments of her grandmother's diary. The diary recounted tales of canings. Caroline was naturally intrigued; for her husband often finds occasion to chastise her. Those canings her grandmother wrote of, when a young lady at finishing school, apparently caused similar sensations to the ones undergone by Caroline's own naughty bottom.

We are grateful to Mrs Caroline Storey for submitting the following extracts of this diary, extracts describing incidents which must make every young lady's bottom squirm with discomfiture.

* * *

October 23rd., 1905
I had not wished at all to come to a finishing school. I should have been quite content to allow my elder sister to show me the arts required of young ladies. Alas, that is not it appears 'the thing', and so here I am, isolated in the depths of Sussex. I can but hope that the establishment will prepare me correctly for the high society in which my mother desires me to take my place. And yes, I wish it too. To go to the balls in town, impeccably dressed, with those handsome young men... Indeed, my sister Rosamund has described so vividly to me the night long dancing she has met with in Vienna, and the charming young cavalry officers.

Such wonderful happenings must remain, alas, but a dream during my period here. I resolve to be industrious at the classes. What the future will then hold in store for me, I can only look forward to with delight.

I must admit that this establishment is not entirely uncongenial. Some of the other girls are perfectly to my taste in female companionship. However, they have warned me that I must beware of the strict discipline enforced by the school's mistresses. For the first day, I thought the girls must be joking and teasing me. "Are we not young ladies here?" I enquired. One girl laughed, saying that no, that young ladies are what the mistresses are teaching us to become.

This afternoon, I saw some evidence of what I had been told. Alice and Jane, two girls most elegant in their deportment and sweet in their manner, had their knuckles rapped with a ruler. The offence was that of chattering together in the sewing class. It was humiliating for them. Their faces were as red as their hands, and I believe their fingers stung exceedingly. I endeavoured to look away to spare them further shame. The punishment seemed quite unfair and unnecessary. The embroidery which they produce is exquisite, and they chatted merely because they had already finished the pieces for the day.

October 27th., 1905
These last few days have passed quite pleasantly. I find that I gained much from having had a French governess, for my command of the language far exceeds that of the other girls.

Needlework I dislike, but I fancy that the master was not displeased with my efforts in the drawing class. He is a man of, I think, about fifty years, and has somewhat of a corpulence. Yet he appears a good man for all that. There is, however, an incident which has marred my pleasure here, and has caused me to comprehend that I must indeed be on my guard.

Today I was out walking in the village with several companions. We looked in the shopwindow of the milliner, and wished that we might wear the beautiful hats which were on sale. A mistress, Miss Rochester, had accompanied us. She is young, sometimes high-spirited, and at first seemed more like a friend than a watcher of our moral conduct. How wrong we were! Suddenly, on the other side of the square, I spied a young man. He was gazing directly at us, but it seemed that his eyes lit especially upon me. I found my cheeks flushing up. When my companions moved, I remained still. I did not wish to lose my modesty, yet I gave what I hoped to be a demure smile in his direction, for really he was an exceedingly handsome young man.

My friends told me later that I had stood enraptured for a whole minute! I blushed on hearing this. How could I have behaved in such a foolish fashion! To the girls, it was a joke, and they have been continually teasing me about that young man. Miss Rochester, however, did not find the matter amusing in the very slightest. Indeed, she made her feelings quite clear to me. It was she whose hand I suddenly felt upon my arm, rousing me from my dream-like state. She informed me, somewhat crisply, that as I was but recently come to the school, she would let this incident be but a warning to me. However, she added that any further such immodest behaviour and foolishness would merit a severe caning.

I could not believe my ears. A caning? Was it possible? I became conscious of my drawers against my lower regions, as my companions assured me that most certainly a caning was possible! Dark-haired Emma, a pretty girl, was even willing, upon our return, to relate to me the tale of her own chastisement and the pain she had suffered. I had no wish to hear of it. The very idea of physical punishment makes me shudder, and while I write, I still feel a terrible awareness of my delicate nether regions.

A cane! I have naturally heard of such instruments of chastisement, but never have I come into any more intimate contact with them. My mother is a gentle person. She is the image of pure womanliness. My father loves his daughters too much to punish them in such a horrid manner. Such instructions must have been passed to our governesses, for we received no threats of that nature. When a child, there was the occasional slap against my legs, but no more than that.

All the girls here, though, have not come from such homes. It might be because they have been brought up with brothers in the family. Ruth, a friend of mine here, informed me that her mother frequently smacked her bottom when it was bared, and Elizabeth spoke of her governess employing a birch.

I believe I shall not sleep easily tonight. Indeed, I am beginning to feel almost delirious. Before me still moves the face of that young man. Oh, dear, I do not know what is to become of me.

November 2nd., 1905
I determined that after the conversation with Miss Rochester I should maintain control of myself. I thought it would be possible. Sadly, I am beginning to learn the hard way. I must surely be as stupid and thoughtless as she asserted. Oh, why can I not drive that man from my mind? I feel that my affection for him is going to cause much trouble. Indeed, that trouble is already starting. I do not like to think of the consequences.

Today, as I sat in church, I spied him only a few feet away from me. Despite myself, I had already gleaned that his name is 'George', and that he is home from Oxford University.

I tried to maintain my face averted from his direction, but then I glanced and saw between him and Ruth a secret smile being exchanged. The intimacy in that brief look stabbed my heart. Whether it is more because I desire the young man's affections myself or because my friend has kept the secret from me, I do not know.

My bottom twitched against my drawers, as I sat on the hard pew. I was longing to stare at Ruth and George more closely, but the memory of what had been promised my poor nether cheeks stopped me... for Miss Rochester was at the end of our pew. I felt as if she already wielded a cane in her hand and was waiting for the moment to strike me with it. It would hurt my tender flesh very much, that I assumed, but I must needs confess that my dread of a caning is now mixed with a slight measure of curiosity.

That is a foolish thing to write. Truly, I do not know what kind of creature I am turning into – a thief even! My face reddens as I note this down.

When Ruth was out walking, I searched her cabinet. In it was a locket. It was inscribed by George Markham and contained a lock of his curly brown hair. In a frenzy of jealousy, I stole the locket, and it is with me even now. I do not know if Ruth has observed her loss. She could not mention it, without terrors heaping upon her head. At the moment, she is preoccupied by other matters. Her mother has sent a new corset. When she is laced into it, I must admit Ruth's form looks truly womanly. She tells me, however, that the tightness of the corset causes her much discomfiture.

Today, I received a letter from Rosamund. Her waist is how so tiny one can but imagine how uncomfortable must be the lacing which makes it so. It is 17 inches! What torment we ladies must go through to make ourselves look the mode. I wonder if we are glad we suffered, when we reap the prize of our hands being taken in marriage. If my husband should be as handsome as George though... Oh, dear! How this locket is weighing upon my conscience. If Ruth had told me herself about George, I do believe I should now be bearing no grudge.

November 4th., 1905
I wish that I might die of my shame, and of the pain which accompanies it. The stings in my posterior cause my writing to be so uneven.

My downfall came about during the deportment class. Why had I not returned Ruth's locket? My envy made me cling on to it. There is a wickedness within me. I even believe that perhaps I deserve what I have suffered. No! The pain is too great. Retribution herself cannot be so cruel.

We were being shown how a lady must conduct herself when out visiting. She must stand, unless requested to sit, and should hold herself in an upright manner, never portraying any signs of weariness. Miss Bingham praised my posture. Indeed, all was well until we were told we could leave the room. In my haste this morning, I had failed to tighten the locket's clasp correctly. It fell to the floor before Miss Bingham. Fortunately, I was last to leave the room, so neither Ruth nor others who might tell her witnessed the event.

Miss Bingham retrieved the locket. My cheeks blushed exceedingly, while she carefully examined it. She asked if it was mine. I fell into a state of confusion. Which crime would be considered the more awful? To steal, or to own such a love locket? I said that the locket did belong to me. I felt a surge of pride, for I was thus protecting my friend, Ruth. Miss Bingham stared at me. I sensed she knew I was lying, but I tried to retain some composure.

She locked the door of the classroom, and from a cupboard on the wall, she produced a long thin cane. My lower regions palpitated with fear. I could not justify my possession of the locket. Miss Bingham forced me into confessing that it was not in keeping with a young lady's modesty to carry such an object of desire.

How I quaked and trembled! The swishing of the cane was truly nightmarish.

I was ordered to bend across a desk. Every detail is so horrific that I must write it down to unburden myself. There is no girl whom I can tell, especially Ruth. My conscience burns as furiously as my bottom. I can think of no means of assuaging either.

I held on to the desk as if my very life depended upon it. I was sure that otherwise I might jump up and incur yet more wrath. I knew that I was about to undergo a most painful ordeal, but I was unprepared for the full shame which awaited me. How my heart sank, when I felt Miss Bingham's hands upon my dress and petticoats. She pinned them securely around my waist. She seemed to stare at my drawers for an eternity. I was so ashamed at being exposed so intimately. My drawers are, furthermore, plain and unfashionable, with their open flaps at the back, and not a touch of lace or embroidery. Mama considers them suited to a girl of my age. Sometimes, I think she does not realize quite how old I am, but that is by the by.

There was a hideous swish through the air and then a crack! My cheeks convulsed as the cane fell right across them. Much to my shame, I screamed out, for it hurt so. Harshly, I was told I was not a child and must take my punishment without complaint. I tried to obey.

Swish! Crack! The noise made by every stroke of that cane will never erase itself from my mind. The instrument fell twice across the same line, and then Miss Bingham caused it to criss-cross over the stinging area. I was crying and sobbing, but it brought me no pity.

My drawers flapped apart, and the vicious bamboo cut into my bare feminine flesh. I was appalled. The smarting was unbearable, but there were no means of escape.

I do not know how many strokes I received, but it was no small number. The whirl of pain caused me to collapse. Feebly, as I raised myself, I was confronted by a stark choice. Miss Bingham said she would deliver six more strokes of the cane, with my drawers pulled off, or – and here her eyes bored into me – I could tell her the truth!

I stumbled over my words. The pain of the rising weals on my bottom made me succumb. I confessed that I had lied. Worse: I admitted that the locket belonged to Ruth, and said I would return it surreptitiously so that she would not suspect that anyone knew of her secret. Miss Bingham appeared satisfied and permitted me to adjust my dress and depart. I rushed straight to my bed-chamber so that I could collect myself before joining the other girls at tea.

I felt like an outcast with my terrible mission of returning that locket. I could not explain that I had only a little earlier been chastised. I sat on the hard bench, trying to hide my agony. The girls gave me puzzled glances, for I was quiet, though normally I believe I am considered to be a talkative girl.

I avoided company afterwards and I have come to bed much earlier than usual. My nightgown rubs against my burning bottom. I find I must lie on my side, fanning the gown away from my sore skin.

November 7th., 1905
The last few days have been torture. The smarting from my bottom is much eased, and the weals have become bruises, but it is not that which causes me such anguish. It is Ruth. I am aware that the mistresses are watching her movements like hawks, and yet she is ignorant of these observations. I have discovered when she and George meet – it is during the afternoons which are our recreation periods. We are allowed to wander freely in the school's grounds. They occupy a large area of field and woodland, and consequently a mistress thinks nothing of it, if she does not come upon a particular girl easily. Ruth makes use of this opportunity to escape into the arms of her George.

Have I no honour? It is my duty to warn Ruth, but I cannot. It is all the more painful, for, in other respects, we are such close friends. She is very dear to me, and yet I am letting her walk into a terrible chastisement. Indeed, I find myself wanting her to be punished for her luck and deception over George!

November 9th., 1905
My mind and body are so restless, I know not what to do with myself. Today, the Headmistress, Miss Gibson, caught Ruth and George walking in the fields together. Now, at this very moment, Ruth has chosen to confide in me, because I am her closest friend. She has told me she is to be punished in public on the morrow. I feel as if it is my own posterior upon which the strokes should fall. Indeed, it seems almost as if that is the case.

Ruth informed me also of her relationship with George. If only she had done so before – before I was filled with anger and jealousy, desiring my revenge.

Before she left me this evening, she shed a few tears. I comforted her, while my own nether regions pulsated with fear and guilt.

November 10th., 1905
I wish that the earth might swallow me up. After Ruth's horrific punishment, it was to me she came. I rubbed soothing cream into her raw reddened skin. I was filled with hypocrisy and torment, for I was so much a cause of what she had suffered, and is still suffering. I long fully to comprehend my own feelings.

The school met for evening prayers as usual. Ruth's chair was that next to mine. Her face was a deathly white, and she clutched my hand for support. Everyone was about to leave, when Miss Gibson rose. She summoned Ruth to the front, to the surprise of the other girls. Her crime was read out, but I was so overcome, I did not hear the words, save that the punishment was the alternative to expulsion.

Ruth was bent across a chair. Her skirts were lifted by a maid, who then handed a cane to Miss Gibson. The school stared silently at Ruth's drawers. They were of fine and delicate linen. Miss Gibson unlaced them, exposing the rounded buttocks of my friend.

Ruth trembled as the Headmistress raised her arm with the full length of the cane quivering above the vulnerable bared nether regions. The maid clasped Ruth's shoulders, keeping her still. There was an almighty crack! The cane bit into Ruth's bottom. "Seven more to come!" Miss Gibson announced, and then the cane was speeding to its target once again.

How Ruth suffered the humiliation of being dealt with in such an undig-position and in public, I do not know. The cane cracked down against her, bringing tears to her eyes. It made me flush with shame. I closed my eyes. I could not bear to watch any more.

When it was over, the maid tightly laced up Ruth's drawers over the welts which were rising from her posterior. Ruth could barely walk, and as we were told to go, Miss Gibson herself took Ruth's arm and led her out. I believe that she had not intended to punish her quite so severely.

The ghastly punishment causes me to shake. Ruth felt at if she was on fire. As I soothed her bottom, I could see the raw cheeks tensing together, making her wince. Yet, when my fingers stroked tenderly over the curves, I was suddenly aware of a strange excitement, and so was Ruth. I blush even more as I think of it. I must resolve to become virtuous and to ignore these feelings. I must also erase the envy in my heart. It is most assuredly a sin, as is all that I have done on its account....!

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

The Colonel

Story from Februs 34.

The Colonel
A Short Story by Matthew Silk

Steve and Avril stood in awe looking at the impressive Queen Anne style mansion before them. It could have come straight out of the pages of Country Life. Avril felt the breeze blow through her blonde permed hair. It really was a beautiful English summer afternoon, just perfect for naturists.

They stood for a moment listening to the quiet of the countryside. In the far distance they could just hear the sound of shouting and splashing round a swimming pool.

'Sounds like they're having fun. Come on,' Steve said.

Avril held Steve's hand. He was ten years older than her, a tall, strong bronzed man, with a fit athletic body he kept toned in the gym.

The house was surrounded by a high old brick wall covered with climbing roses. They walked through a large cast iron gateway with two carved stone lions on either side. A brass nameplate announced: Eden House.

On both sides of them were formal lawns with statues of naked women with neat polished buttocks, but the rest of the grounds were hidden by high trimmed yew hedges.

They crunched across the gravel to the white front door. Steve squeezed Avril's hand encouragingly then rang the brass bell.

It was opened by a small wiry woman in her fifties with her greying hair tied tightly in schoolmarm fashion. She was completely nude. Avril recognised her immediately from the statues on the lawn behind her.

'Come in,' she said in a clipped upper class accent closing the door behind them. 'The Colonel is expecting you. I'm his wife, Barbara.'

She held out her hand. They both shook it feeling a little awkward being clothed while she was naked.

They followed her neat buttocks down the polished wooden corridor. The house had the atmosphere of faded riches. Portraits of landscapes and military men hung on the walls in gilt frames and the rooms were furnished with antiques, mostly in need of restoration.

They stopped in front of an oak door and Barbara knocked. There was a muffled sound from within. She opened the door and ushered them in.

'Charles, this is Steve and Avril.'

The Colonel rose from his desk in a thick cloud of acrid cigar smoke. He was a squat portly bear of a man with a wide moustache tinged with nicotine. Grey arid ginger hairs covered his flabby chest and large belly. He was also completely nude.

'Come in,' he boomed, 'take a seat.'

His wife withdrew while the Colonel sat his ample bottom down heavily on his leather chair and opened their file on his desk shrouding them both in smoke.

Avril looked round the study. It had a shabby, lived in feel, like the Colonel. The floor was covered in a thread-bare turkish carpet. Bookcases lined the walls.

There were also dozens of photographs. In one above the mantelpiece she saw the Colonel, much younger and slimmer, standing with an African tribal chief who was holding a long bullwhip. Next to him were a line of village girls, their hands on their bottoms, all grinning. Below the picture the same whip, frayed and tatty, was draped across two brass hooks.

'So you're both naturists,' the Colonel said examining them.

'Yes,' said Steve. 'Avril has been a naturist most of her life and introduced me to it.'

'And how did you find us?'

'I saw your advert in a naturist magazine.'

Steve could remember it now: 'CP NATURISTS. For those who believe in tile freedom and equality of naturism backed by the discipline of corporal punishment. For obvious reasons adults only.'

'Good,' puffed the Colonel. 'What about the CP?'

'Ah. I introduced Avril to that.'

'Is that right m'dear?' the Colonel looked straight at Avril for the first time. His sharp blue eyes were friendly but seemed to pierce through her.

She nodded nervously. She had never told a living soul before what she allowed Steve to do to her.

'Ever been spanked in front of other people?'

She shook her head firmly. 'No.'

'Pity,' the Colonel growled contemptuously. 'You would not think yourself a naturist if you only ever took your clothes off at home by yourself would you? Why should you think CP is any different?'

Avril felt rebuked and blushed under his glare.

'When was the last time you were spanked m'dear?' The Colonel's eyes were kind again.

'Er, about a week ago.' She fiddled nervously with her fingers on her lap embarrassed by having to confess her secrets. 'And when were you last caned?' he persisted.

'Er, longer, about a month, I think.' She looked at Steve for confirmation and he nodded.

'Hmm,' the Colonel snorted disapproving again. 'You should know exactly. "Six strokes across my bare bottom. June 17. Sir!" Like that. And sit up straight. I don't like slouchers in my study.'

Avril straightened her back while the Colonel closed the file and took another puff on his cigar.

'Right, let me tell you about us. Naturism and CP have always been my twin passions. It seems to me they are quite closely related. Both believe in truth, openness, being honest with ourselves, overcoming our inhibitions and being treated equally. It doesn't matter if you're a duchess or a dustman everyone is treated the same here.'

He leaned back expansively. 'We are a community. We believe naturism and discipline are not just pastimes but a way of life.

'Outside in textileland you are taught to conceal everything, keep yourself separate, distrust others. Every day brings a confusing debate on how much you should expose of yourself. Here, it's different.

'Here, because everyone is equal, everything is shared, nothing is hidden. When you break the rules you will be whipped in front of everybody with the beestinger.'

He swivelled round and directed Avril's eyes toward the whip above the mantelpiece. 'That's the beestinger m'dear,' he said proudly. 'Let me introduce you.'

He walked over to the wall and reverantly took down the heavy leather whip from its hooks and brought it over to Avril.

She took it and held it while he stood over her. It was thick but soft to hold. The leather was brown and frayed and had been stitched and patched in places. Tufts of hair protruded from the end rather like the hair in the colonel's nostrils.

'The beestinger's been leaving his mark on bottoms for more than 50 years m'dear. He may look old and soft like me but don't be deceived, there's still life in the old dog yet!'

He winked as he took it off her and returned it reverantly to the hooks on the wall.

'Right, let's get you undressed. I'll explain the rules as I show you round.'

'I was going to ask you about the rules. Have you got a copy?' Avril asked.

'No m'dear.'

'Then how do we know if we have broken them?'

'When you are bent over in front of the whole camp and the beestinger's thrashing that pretty little backside of yours m'dear. That should provide you with a jolly big clue.' The Colonel guffawed loudly leaving Avril feeling foolish.

He led them to changing rooms where they put their clothes in lockers. As they emerged the Colonel looked Avril up and down, inspecting her before giving a grunt of approval.

'Hmm, trim little thing aren't you? A bit like the wife. I like that. Rather sexy.'

Avril didn't know what to say.

* * *

He led them outside into the bright sunshine. The Colonel stomped across the lawns, his stubby legs pounding the ground. Avril imagined he would have sex in the same short, vigorous manner.

He led them to the swimming pool where there was much shrieking and laughing. About a dozen people were standing in a circle throwing a large ball to each other. A petite older woman with short dark hair dropped it and everyone shouted: 'Third time, third time.'

Blushing and grinning she waded into the centre of the circle and picked up a floating flip flop.

As the crowd cheered she swam over to the steps and climbed naked and dripping out of the pool. She walked up to the colonel and curtsied. She was about Steve's age.

'Colonel do you want to spank me?' she asked smiling.

He beamed at her. 'On this occasion m'dear I shall reluctantly decline. However I am sure my friend here will oblige.' He pointed toward Steve.

'Certainly,' Steve said eagerly taking the flip flop from her offered hand.

She led him down the side of the pool and climbed up to the top diving board. She placed her feet on the edge as if she was going to dive. Then she bent over, confidently stretching to clasp the back of her ankles with her hands keeping her legs straight.

'She has to take 12 without falling into the pool,' the Colonel explained to Avril.

She looked up at Steve. Avril had never seen another woman bending over for him before. He looked impressively fit and masterful standing over the woman.

He raised his arm high and spanked her hard. The flip flop made a solid whapp sound as it connected with her behind and her head bobbed up in surprise. Her fellow swimmers were delighted at the effect on her and chanted 'one.'

Steve took careful aim and spanked her again. The woman's knees bent slightly in response, the slap of the flip flop on her rear reporting like a pistol shot across the water.

Steve now found his range and she began to shift uncomfortably with each fresh smack. Her face coloured and her grin began to look forced. The swimmers cheered Steve on as they sensed her growing unease. Steve, invigorated by their support, took deliberate aim and spanked her even harder. She wobbled, her hands slipping slightly on her legs as her toes scrabbled for balance on the edge of the board.

Steve swung his arm swiftly down again, spanking her where her cheeks were already red. She swayed forward almost toppling. It was desperately close but she clung on.

But Steve sensed his victory and quickly spanked her again, allowing her no respite. This time he got her. Her hands broke free from her ankles and skimmed up the back of her legs tipping her forward off balance. She let out a despairing cry as she toppled over the edge and plunged ignominiously into the water with a loud splash. The crowd erupted with whooping shouts of triumph.

The woman surfaced, swam to the side and climbed back up to Steve dripping wet and blushing with the humiliation of her failure. He ordered her curtly to bend over again.

'Give her six extra this time,' the Colonel shouted. 'And if you fall this time m'dear it's the birch.'

The threat concentrated her mind. Despite a number of wobbles, she managed to take all 18 with impressive resilience. When it was over she gratefully grabbed the flip flop and dived into the pool rejoining the others who applauded her all the way back.

The Colonel gave a shuddering sigh of pleasure and gave Avril a lecherous look. 'Nothing like a spanking for stirring the loins eh? Pity she didn't fall though. I was looking forward to giving her a good birching. Come on. I'll show you our birching tree.'

* * *

He led them across the lawns and down woodland paths until they came to a large oak tree in a clearing. It had spikes driven all round its trunk and a wooden board around the base. Four well worn paths ran away from the tree and at the end of each was a barrel containing birches.

'We have barbecues down here sometimes on summer evenings. But you can come down and stand by the tree anytime m'dear if you want your bottom warmed, there'll always be someone along to oblige. And there's plenty of hollows and bushes around where you can have a jolly good rogering after you've had your backside tanned.' He winked at her outrageously.

'Right, time to split up I think. We like new couples to separate, it helps them to mix in. Come on Steve, I'll show you the rest of the woods.'

They walked off and suddenly Avril was left alone. She moved away from the tree in case anyone thought she was wanted to be birched and 'rogered' and made her way back to the lawns.

There she watched a game of mini-ten, the naturist tennis game for half an hour. No-one asked her to join in so she moved away to a large group of male and female wrestlers on mats. She began to relax, happy to be left alone so she could just observe.

She left the wrestlers and saw Steve by the swimming pool so she moved away to watch a group of gymnasts unselfconsciously performing handstands, stretching and pirouetting on bars and mats.

Eventually she made her way round the back of the house and came across a volleyball game. The ball bounced toward her across a vegetable patch and nestled against a hedge. A tall Scandinavian girl called out to her: 'Can we have our ball back please?'

The other players giggled.

'Oh certainly,' said Avril, glad to be joining in at last. She stepped across the vegetable patch and picked up the ball. It was only after she threw it back she knew something was terribly wrong. The players were staring at her in astonishment.

At that moment the Colonel's wife flung open an upstairs window. 'Just what the HELL do you think you are doing,' she shouted.

'Those are my prize vegetables you have just trampled on you wretched girl. Didn't you see the sign?'

Avril felt a terrible gaping emptiness in her stomach and saw with horror a small sign in the corner of the plot with KEEP OFF clearly written on it.

'Report to the study at once.' She slammed the window shut.

Avril looked appealingly at the volleyball players but they shrugged and turned away. She began to walk towards the study feeling more naked and alone than she had ever felt in her life. She wished Steve were there to protect her.

She stood trembling in front of the oak study door, her heart pounding in her chest and knocked. The Colonel summoned her.

He was standing by the mantelpiece. 'Well, m'dear that didn't take long,' he beamed.

He sat down on a straight-backed chair facing her with open legs.

'You will be whipped at the tea rooms at 4pm. Barbara, you tell everybody. In the meantime, until they are ready for us I'm afraid I can't resist spanking that trim little backside of yours m'dear. Come here.' He slapped his thighs with his hands.

He was like a powerful magnet drawing her toward him. She edged forward until she was standing between his open legs his balls hanging down loose like two bells. He grasped her hand firmly and pulled her onto his plump hairy thigh, almost winding her. Instantly his other leg clamped her heavily across the back of her legs, rendering her helpless. His belly bulged out so far there was barely room for her to lie. She put her hand out on the carpet to steady herself but his hand slapped the back of her neck forcing her head down so low her nose was almost touching the floor.

He pulled her in toward him so his flabby stomach was pressing into her side. He rested his large podgy hand on her raised buttocks, his thumb pressed into the crevice between her cheeks.

He lifted his hand and spanked her with a stinging clap. She yelped at the sharp impact and tried to lift her head but his fingers dug into her scalp forcing her head down. She tried to kick her legs but she couldn't budge an inch, so tightly was she clamped.

'You're a real wriggler, like a little fish aren't you?' the Colonel said. He seemed to be enjoying wrestling with her as she struggled over his lap, rubbing her belly on his rough thigh.

The Colonel's hand clapped her again on the other cheek and then again and again, repeating the smacks with exuberance, building the heat. She squirmed and twisted but only succeeded in rubbing herself against him even more which made him grunt with pleasure. Nothing she did could prevent the heavy smacks of his hand stinging her burning bottom as she bounced and jiggled on his big hairy thighs.

The Colonel began to wheeze and puff like an old boiler, his stomach heaving against her, as his arm rose and fell relentlessly like a piston stoking up the fires hotter and hotter across her firm bouncing cheeks while she jerked and gasped and cried under the onslaught.

The ringing claps on her behind, his shouted orders to her to keep still and her begging pleas were loud enough to be heard across the lawns where people were already beginning to gather for her whipping.

He carried on, working up a head of steam until her bottom felt like a furnace his hand pumping and pounding faster and faster until at last he stopped and all was quiet apart from her shocked whimpering as she squirmed uncomfortably on his thigh, her behind ablaze.

His leg released her and she stretched with relief, but made no attempt to get off, content to lie where she was.

'Well you've obviously been spanked before m'dear. Good. That'll stand you in good stead for the beestinger.' He patted her bottom and grunted with pleasure.

He let her lie over his thigh while she recovered and then lifted her off and collected the beestinger from the wall.

'I'll make sure they are ready. Follow me in five minutes.'

He left her alone in the study, her bottom tingling from the spanking he had given her. Strangely, she felt less intimidated by him now he had spanked her than she did before. She spent the time looking at the pictures of the tribal girls grinning at the bullwhip. Why were they grinning?

* * *

She left the study and walked out of the back door and across the lawns. The grounds were eerily deserted and silent.

And then she saw them.

They were standing three and four deep in a wide circle outside the tea pavilion their buttocks of all shapes and sizes facing her. The excited buzz of their conversation hummed across the lawns becoming louder the closer she got to them.

They were tightly packed, too animated to notice her as she approached. She tried to find a gap but couldn't. She had to prise them against their combined weight. Eventually she reached the front and the bodies instantly closed behind her.

Inside the circle it was a cauldron of heat and loud expectancy. The picnic tables had been cleared aside except for one in the centre where the Colonel was standing with the beestinger in his hands.

He did not see her at first. She walked slowly toward him, feeling her perspiration pricking her skin, while behind her the crowd hushed as they realised this frail and vulnerable looking blonde girl was the one they had come to see whipped.

She stopped, wiping the sweat from her face. The Colonel turned round. 'Ah m'dear, you are here. Now before we begin I'd like everyone to have a good look at you as this is your first day. Walk slowly around the circle if you will.'

She just wanted to get the whipping over but, of course, he knew that. She turned, blushing self-consciously, and walked close to the crowd. She'd never faced such public humiliation before. Everywhere she looked someone was staring back at some part of her. The swimming pool gang were the worst. They smirked and rubbed their bottoms teasingly as she passed.

She looked in vain for Steve. Where on earth was he? He must be somewhere in the sea of faces but she could not pick him out. She desperately needed his support.

After two full circles of almost unbearable embarrassment under the intense examination of the crowd, the Colonel called her to him.

'The punishment you are about to receive m'dear is the same one anyone else here would get for the same breach of the rules. The property and grounds must be respected at all times. The fact that this is your first day should not lead you to expect any kind of leniency. Now get yourself over the table, legs inside the bench and feet nice and wide apart please.'

She scrambled awkwardly over the seat and rested her forearms on the hot table top, her bottom facing out, her cheeks drawn open. Her legs were pinned between the table and seat the rough edges of both pressed into her thighs and the back of her legs.

The colonel walked round in front of her and picked up a cigar from the table top.

'We have a tradition here m'dear. A whipping lasts as long as it takes for me to smoke one of my special cigars here.'

The crowd smiled knowingly as he lit the long fat cigar over her with great ceremony. He puffed it a couple of times to get it going and walked slowly behind her unfurling the beestinger with relish.

The spectators settled, her nervousness increasing as they quietened. They seemed to have edged closer in their eagerness to miss nothing. Wisps of aromatic smoke from the Colonel's cigar drifted over her as the hot afternoon sun beat down on her back. Even the breeze seemed to have stilled, creating a quiet intense calm.

She was aware of him steadying himself, unfurling and flicking the beestinger behind her. She tried to remain as motionless as she could but it wasn't easy.

There was a terrible pause in which nothing happened at all, then she heard the beestinger being flipped back and the fearful buzz of its descent as it hummed through the air. She was up on her toes, body taut even before it ripped across her rear, almost lifting her off her feet. She was bolted forward, her body thumping against the table only her trapped legs holding her back.

A thousand stings swarmed across her behind in deafening harmony, rising beyond her wildest expectations.

The swimming pool gang directly behind her whooped with delight as the beestinger's army of demons poured through her, invading every part of her, dancing through her in triumph.

She screamed and bucked helplessly in the vice like grip of the table while the Colonel stood calmly behind her, taking the occasional puff on his cigar, observing her.

When he judged she was ready he gathered the beestinger again. The crowd murmured in excited anticipation.

The whip hurtled down, streaking across her buttocks a second time taking her beyond her own control as she tried in vain to twist her torso away from its agony.

The Colonel strode around the crowd puffing on his cigar a gleam in his eye as he watched her tossing and turning on the table top struggling to free herself from the beestinger's vicious grip.

He took his time, knowing the weals were doing their work, discussing her with members of the crowd before taking up station behind her again. She braced herself grasping the table edge with her outstretched arms.

The heavy leather swooped down like some giant beast and slammed into her, whipping around her flanks, exposing everything within her to the outside. She heard people spontaneously applauding as she struggled to meet its demands.

Sweat trickled down her face and neck. The table was wet where her damp belly had slithered over it. Three thick welts, raw and swollen, clawed at her behind.

The beestinger lashed her again, spreadeagling her over the table, laying another band of agony across her rear. She cried out, opening her lungs, her arms, her legs... laying herself bare before them.

As she looked up she saw the Colonel's cigar was barely a quarter smoked.

Steve emerged from the wood with the woman from the swimming pool. Fresh birch marks were swathed across her buttocks and thighs.

He saw the crowd packed around the tea pavilion and heard the strike of the whip followed instantly by a woman's unrestrained soaring high into the trees. He climbed onto a bench and was amazed at the sight which greeted him.

Avril lay sprawled over the table, at least a dozen raw stripes slanted across her slim buttocks and thighs.

'Avvy,' he cried out.

An elderly gentleman in front of him turned round. 'Do you know her? I say you're a lucky chap. No-one knew who she was. She's a real little Peach. She's really showing us what she's made of now she's got the hang of it. She's certainly brought a twinkle back to the Colonel's eye. I haven't seen the old boy in such good form for ages.'

The Colonel was striding around the circle like a ringmaster, Avril's eyes following him as if mesmerised, totally absorbed by him. As he walked behind her, her bottom lifted in invitation.

The Colonel raised an eyebrow, smiled and stopped.

'Is that another invitation m'dear? There's no stopping you now is there? Very well.' He clamped the cigar between his teeth and swung the beestinger high behind her whipping it down in a looping arc across her backside. It seemed to cling to her for several moments before dancing back to its master, leaving her stretched and prostrate over the table, another thick band added to the others already covering her buttocks and thighs.

The old gentleman turned back to Steve. 'You've got to hand it to the Colonel. He's got an uncanny knack of bringing a girl out of herself. I thought he'd got it wrong when I saw this one; we all did. But look at her now, a real poppet. He knows more about these girls than they know about themselves.'

They watched the Colonel, the stub of the cigar in his mouth, parading around the circle until he was behind Avril again. He didn't wait for an invitation this time but whipped her again full square across her presented rear.

She arched round and saw Steve for the first time and grinned. She had nothing left to hide, nothing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed of anymore.

Monday, 30 April 2012

Burton Manor

Story from Janus 18.

Burton Manor
by R.T. Mason

Is Burton Manor a pipe-dream? Or a look into the future? Or does it perhaps exist now – tucked anonymously away in some remote corner of the country and quietly going about its business behind those impressive iron gates? Well, can anyone say – for sure?

* * *

THE SLEEK BLACK CAR comes to a halt, its way barred by the heavy ornate iron gates marking the end of this quiet tree-shrouded private road which a mile back turned off from the minor country road. The chauffeur gets out and goes to unlock the gates. Inside the car the lone passenger, a pretty young woman, looks out and sees on the left hand brick pillar of the gates a small unobtrusive sign: 'Burton Manor Training Institute. Strictly No Admittance.'

The gates are unlocked and opened; the chauffeur drives through, locks them after him, then continues along what is now a gravel drive closely enclosed by thick high shrubs: laurels, rhododendrons. The drive winds its way for perhaps a quarter of a mile and then abruptly opens out into the bright sunlight of this warm July afternoon. The car's passenger looks out with keen interest... and apprehension. In the open clearing standing silent in the sun is a large Victorian mansion, its windows staring blankly. It is Burton Manor.

For the car's passenger it is of course seen for the first time. Because one stay at Burton Manor is reckoned to be quite enough for any young woman. Enough, that is, to put her properly back on the straight and narrow path. And the shortcomings, the failings, whatever they may have been, which have resulted in her coming here, will then be very much things of the past.

This particular young woman? Her name is Jane Randall, a young married lady of 24 with an attractive figure, whose short blonde hair frames a pretty face: big grey eyes, pert nose, full-lipped mouth. And could this last feature be a clue to her presence here – a sign of possible sensual weakness, a propensity to say Yes when a married lady should say No? It is of course easy to see signs when one knows. Because Jane is here for the reason which most commonly brings young wives to Burton Manor. The indulgence in a little casual adultery.

It was a month ago that she was unfortunately found out. At a party when husband Bob inopportunely went into one of the bedrooms looking for his coat and discovered Jane being enthusiastically pleasured by another of the guests. Back at home there was the usual scene of marital aggro, during which a tearful Jane admitted having additionally done it a couple of times before with this character; and for good measure had also been serviced a few times by two others in the last two months as well.

Bob, after hitting the roof – not to mention sweeping to the floor, and tramping on, all the trinkets and knick-knacks on the top of Jane's dressing table – spoke angrily of divorce. Finally when the heat had dissipated somewhat they agreed to see a Marriage Counsellor. He interviewed them together, then saw Bob alone. 'She's got a certain weakness here but a short sharp shock can usually work wonders. A short stay at a Training Institute and she would come back with no desire at all for that kind of thing. If you're interested I could probably fit her in at Burton Manor....'

Bob, on further being told that Jane would not enjoy it one little bit, agreed. And Jane agreed when Bob informed her it was either that or he was going ahead with divorce proceedings.

And so the arrangements were made. Jane told her friends she was going on a Health and Beauty Farm for three weeks. And No she couldn't be visited there. Then the rather awkward farewell to Bob at the station; the train journey; and being collected by that sleek black car at that remote station. The drive, deep into the countryside, and finally... here she undoubtedly is.

* * *

The chauffeur parks the car and tells Jane she will be taken to sec the Principal. Shall we then, like a fly on the wall, follow her? Yes?

He rings the bell at the side of the large front door which almost immediately is opened by a man wearing a white jacket rather like a hospital doctor's. The chauffeur says, 'Mrs Randall', the other man says, 'Right: this way.' Jane enters – and the first thing she sees is a completely nude woman.

A pretty young woman in her early twenties with short curling auburn hair, standing pushing a vacuum cleaner over the white hall carpet... in the nude. Or at least that is what it first looks like to Jane. Then she sees that the girl is actually wearing a skin-tight transparent one-piece trouser-suit, buttoning up the front and quite obviously with nothing underneath. Her large pink nipples are effectively bare and so is the thick reddish-brown bush lower down. On her feet she has soft white slippers.

Jane can only blink. The girl glances up at her, then quickly down again and continues with her work. The man with Jane simply ignores the girl vacuuming and leads Jane along the hall and round the corner. Where just ahead of them, walking in the same direction as Jane and her companion, are two more women with another white-jacketed attendant. The two women are dressed exactly as the other girl. Tight transparent trouser-suits which Jane now has a rear view of: the full checks of their two bottoms jouncing rhythmically in the skin-tight transparent material as they walk briskly along.

Jane suddenly feels her skin tingling. Because across each bottom she can clearly see a series of parallel red stripes: quite evidently the marks of recent canings.

Halfway along the corridor there is a flight of stairs. The two girls and the man with them continue along, but Jane and her guide go up the stairs to the first floor. There, a little way off the landing, he opens a door for her and they go in. A large high-ceilinged room with a number of leather armchairs and a couple of coffee tables on a wide expanse of thick white carpet. The room is empty.

The man tells Jane to sit down and that the Principal will call her shortly. He goes out, closing the door. Then she sees to one side two doors with signs: Secretary and Principal. She must be in the waiting room.

Her head still in a bit of a daze, she goes to look out of one of the large windows... and very rapidly has another shock. Immediately outside is some sort of kitchen garden, with vegetables and fruit, and there are two young women working in it. The two are not dressed like the girls she has seen in the house; instead they are wearing sleeveless tee-tops (one of them is dark red and the other pink), knee-length white socks and tennis shoes. And that seems to be all – they are both bare-bottomed. On closer scrutiny that isn't quite all: they are certainly bare-bottomed but each is wearing a brief thong between her legs. They are matching colours: a red thong with the red tee-top, a pink one with the pink top.

And then, as Jane watches, a man approaches. Another of those white-coated men – but this one has a cane in his hand. He goes up to one of the women, says something and refers to a notebook which he has taken out of his pocket. The woman is obviously unhappy and shakes her head... but then goes with him over to a garden seat. And bends herself over the arm of the seat, presenting her bare bottom.

It is obvious what is going to happen now, and it does. The man proceeds to cane that full inviting rump, bringing the cane smartly down across the fullest part of those two ripe-looking cheeks.

He has given her four, and Jane is standing watching, transfixed, when behind her she hears her name being called. Startled, she turns round to see the door labelled Secretary open and a pleasant-faced middle-aged lady standing there. She at least is dressed in a conventional – even old-fashioned – manner, in a grey skirt and jumper.

'The Principal will see you now, Mrs Randall,' she says.

He is seated behind his desk and Jane's first thought is, at least he's not wearing one of those doctor's coats: he has on a tweed jacket and tie. A middle-aged thin-lipped man with hard alert eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Eyes which seem to look right into Jane.

He gets up, takes her hand in a firm dry grip.

'Mrs Randall. Yes. Allow me to welcome you to Burton Manor. You are coming to us for a little training, of course. Well, I'm sure we can do something for you. We pride ourselves here on being able to deal with even the most intractable cases.'

He leads her over to the window. The view is the same as that from the room next door. The first girl has gone back to her weeding. The white-coated man is getting ready to cane the second girl.

'Yes, a lovely afternoon,' observes the Principal. 'As you can see a couple of our ladies are busy in the garden. And one would seem to be about to receive a little correction. Ah yes...'

As he and Jane watch, the cane rises, then lands with a Thwack! which can be clearly heard from where they are, inside the room. There is now a distinct red stripe across the woman's bare upthrust rump. The cane rises again....

The Principal walks Jane back to his desk. 'Busy bodies and regular correction, you see, Mrs Randall. Those are the two priorities here at Burton Manor. Yes, two essentials for an individual who has, shall we say, strayed from the straight and narrow path. Would you agree?'

Jane makes a non-committal, not very happy, response.

'Anyway, you will shortly be given all the details when you have your interview with Matron. She will also issue you with the two sets of regulation uniform: the one you saw those girls wearing which is for work outside; and the indoor uniform which you may have seen girls in the house wearing. Both outfits are designed to be deliberately revealing of the wearer's body, and thus emphasise to her the fact that she is completely in our hands and can hide nothing from the staff here.'

His hand comes round behind Jane and, through her summer dress, takes hold of one cheek of her backside. She gives an involuntary gasp as his fingers reach deep into the cleft of her bottom and the hand then tightens on the enclosed flesh like a mechanical vice.

'Yes, young lady. Healthful work and exercise and a judicial use of the cane: those are the main components of our system here. And I think I can guarantee that when we've finished with you you will be a docile dutiful young wife whose only thought will be her husband's well-being. Yes, I think I can guarantee that.'

The hand still holding Jane's bottom renews its pressure. She shudders... and is already deeply regretting those moments of casual, illicit, physical pleasure.

Matron, in her office along the corridor, turns out to be an impressive-looking woman in a white knee-length tunic. Fortyish, she is close to six foot tall and well-built – she could be a Russian champion javelin thrower or something, thinks Jane, and definitely not the sort of woman to get on the wrong side of. Her face is quite attractive but has a stern expression, accentuated by her hair being pulled back in a no-nonsense manner. She greets Jane with a brusque 'Mrs Randall?', looks briefly in her record book, and then tells her to take her clothes off.

Not happy but equally not about to argue with this lady, Jane starts unbuttoning her pretty pink-and-blue flowered print dress. It comes off and so also does the pink slip underneath. A questioning look answered by Matron's curt 'everything!' Shoes, knickers, bra, nylons and suspender belt, all follow. Jane stands nude, acutely conscious of the other woman's unblinking gaze on that choice form which, as we know, has been enjoyed by a number of men besides Jane's husband.

Matron proceeds to take Jane's measurements – with a tape, and hands which seem to go just everywhere. And then Jane is told to lie on the couch which is over to one side of the room. 'On your back. And raise your knees with your legs open.'

A scarlet-faced Jane, her eyes concentrating frantically on the ceiling, feels hands intimately between her legs, checking, probing...

Afterwards, still nude, still flushing, Jane stands at the side of Matron's desk. She is looking through her record book... then looks up at Jane. 'Well, Mrs Randall, according to my notes men seem to be your problem.'

Jane doesn't answer. Matron reaches out her hand and once more, as she has just done when Jane was on the examination couch, takes hold of her between her legs. 'Can't control this, is that the trouble?'

Red-faced and cringing, Jane can't think of any suitable answer.

'Really I don't know why some of you girls are so keen on them. Nasty aggressive creatures usually. Tell me, have you ever had a woman make love to you?'

Jane shakes her head, trembling and perspiring. Weakly she pushes the Matron's hand away. 'Please...'

Matron removes her hand and once more adopts a businesslike tone. 'Well, I can tell you that there will be no fun and games with men here. The only males you will find at Burton Manor, apart from the Principal, are the Attendants. And they all have strict instructions not to touch any of the women. Apart from with a cane, of course.'

Matron puts her record book away.

'Now, your uniform. Normally you wear the uniform trouser-suit indoors. However yours will not be available until the morning. It has to be a very exact tight fit and slight alterations always have to be made to the stock sizes. But there's no problem with the outdoor wear and you can wear that for the rest of today. In any case you will be having a session outside until supper time.'

Matron takes various items of clothing out of a cupboard: a number of sleeveless tee-shirts (in various plain colours: white, pink, dark red, pale blue); nylon thongs of the same colours as the tee-shirts; white knee socks. Also footwear – tennis shoes, white slippers, and black patent leather high heels. 'You wear these for inspections and at meal times,' she says.

There is also a transparent plastic raincoat and a plain brown tweed overcoat, for outdoors in bad weather. Matron tells Jane to try one of the tops on to check the size.

Jane, looking at the pile of clothes, stammers: 'Isn't... isn't there a bra?'

'A bra!' snaps Matron. 'Dear me, NO! You don't wear a bra at this Institute, young woman. Just the tee-shirt, if you please; and look sharp and get it on. Oh, and remember, you always wear a matching top and thong.'

Biting her lip, Jane pulls on a dark red tee-top which fits tightly over her full breasts, then slips on a matching red nylon thong which goes between her legs and between her buttocks, leaving the latter free for... well, she knows by now what they are left free for. She puts on a pair of white socks, then the tennis shoes.

'Good!' says Matron, looking her up and down. 'Very good. Now just one more thing before I call the Attendant to take you to your room. I'm going to give you your first caning: to get your training started.'

She takes a thin whippy cane from her cupboard. 'Just bend over the edge of the couch, please. Upper body and head flat on the couch. And legs nice and straight, with your bottom up. Yes, that's it. Now keep nice and still. You're going to get six.'

Matron might not in fact be a champion javelin thrower but she is certainly able to use that cane. Six times she brings it whistling down jolting force across the full meat of Jane's rear.

It is Jane's first caning at Burton Manor. In fact it is the first caning she has had anywhere. The pain when that cane lands squarely across her bare rump is absolutely diabolical. She yelps... and before long is unashamedly, uncontrollably, weeping. Matron nonetheless continues unhurriedly until she has finished.

When it is finally over she runs her hand reflectively over the weeping young woman's quivering bottom. Then rings for the Attendant.

* * *

Jane's room proves to be small and simply furnished: a single divan bed along one wall, a wash cabinet, a desk and chair. There are white curtains at the window, a white cover on the bed, and the floor has that same thick white carpet which seems to be everywhere.

'Any mark on it,' says the Attendant who has brought Jane here, indicating the carpet, 'and you pay for it.'

He gives a sardonic laugh and reaches out to squeeze Jane's bare bottom. 'You know what I mean, I'm sure.'

She squirms miserably away. Her bottom still stings dreadfully from those six cuts from Matron's cane. And she is also still ultra-conscious of the way she is dressed – just the tee-top with no bra and barely reaching to her waist, and the narrow thong between her legs. She may have been a bit promiscuous, but being virtually bare in front of this stranger in a punishment context is deeply shameful to her.

'No need to be unfriendly,' he says. 'Just warning you. If you're careful you can get away with no more than the scheduled corrections. But if you're not – well, you can easily finish up getting twice as many. And also find yourself being kept here for an extra period.'

Standing with her bare bottom facing away from him and her hands self-consciously down in front of her crotch, she asks, 'What now?'

'Outside. Work in the garden until supper time. And like I say, make sure you don't bring dirty shoes back in the house.'

In the garden she is given a trowel and gardening gloves and told to help another girl who is weeding the strawberry patch. When the Attendant has left the girl says, 'Hi! You're new, I suppose. I'm Cindy.'

She tells Jane what to do, then says they mustn't stay together as someone will be watching from the house. 'And we'll both be caned for too much chatting or malingering.'

They start working a few yards apart – just within talking range. Cindy, a pretty brunette of about 25, is not one of the girls Jane saw out of the window getting caned, for she is wearing a pale blue top and thong – but she also has been caned recently. She bears the distinct red marks of the bamboo across her full ripe bottom. She says she has only two days to go at Burton Manor. 'Unless I slip up and they add another day or two on. That's why I don't want to be caught talking.'

She says she's in 'for the usual'. 'Having a bit on the side and my husband found out, and someone told him about this place. Well, after three weeks here you won't catch me even looking at another man. Three weeks of being caned morning, noon, and bloody night!'

'How... how often do we get it?' Jane gulps.

'Haven't you got your schedule yet? They'll probably give you it this evening. Well, it can vary. What are you here for? Adultery?'

Quietly, Jane says, 'Yes.'

'Well, the usual is four times a day for that. Four sessions of six strokes each time. They view it as the most extreme transgression of our marital responsibilities. That's the basic but they can give you extra ones for almost anything they can think of.'

They continue weeding. After half an hour an Attendant comes along. Not the one who brought Jane out here – he was youngish, whereas this one is in his fifties. Ominously, he has a cane in his hand. He checks a notebook, then asks Cindy if she is down for any extra correction. She says, 'No Sir,' while continuing her weeding.

He turns his attention to Jane who has stopped work on his arrival. He asks who she is. 'New, eh? Well, you won't be on the list for any extra, but that's no reason why you can't have any. I've been watching you and there's been more looking around and dreaming than work. Look, you've stopped now!'

Jane protests but it doesn't do her any good. She is made to go over to a nearby garden seat. And made to bend over its wooden arm just like those two girls she watched out of the window. She emits a desperate yelp as the cane cracks down across the fullest part of her bare bottom. Three more anguished yelps denote the fact that she is given a total of four strokes before she is sent back to her work.

When the Attendant has gone Cindy says, 'That rotten bastard! But that's the sort of thing that happens all the time. You gave him an excuse, though, by stopping work when he came. I'm sorry, I should have warned you.'

They work for another hour and then it is time to go in and get ready for supper. Cindy has to change into the indoor outfit – the transparent trouser-suit. Jane, who doesn't have hers yet, will have to wear what she has on. They both carefully clean their shoes before going back in the house.

In the dining room Jane and seven other women inmates sit at one table. All except Jane are wearing their skin-tight, transparent trouser-suits and Jane notices that they are also now all wearing those black stiletto heels and not slippers. At another table there are eight Attendants seated.

At the end of the room there is a third, smaller, table also laid for a meal; and after the girls and the Attendants are seated the Principal and Matron come in and go to this. Their entrance is the cue for all the girls to stand, and at the same time the two girls at the end of the table go out and return with food on a hostess trolley.

'We all have to take turns serving,' Cindy whispers to Jane.

While the other girls remain standing the two with the trolley serve first the Principal and Matron, then the Attendants. Finally they go to the girls' table which is the cue for them to finally sit down. Afterwards the two serving girls have their meal.

After supper there are household chores – cleaning and tidying for an hour. Then an exercise session in the gym under the direction of Matron and two Attendants. All eight girls, wearing only thongs, are put through a schedule of running, vaulting, and general gymnastics which very soon has them all sweating and panting. Jane especially, doing it for the first time, finds it difficult to keep up but she and any other defaulters are kept firmly up to the mark with a sharp cut of the cane from one or other of the Attendants. Finally, exhausted, they are allowed to stop. A shower, and then it is time for bed.

The day is not quite over yet, though. Jane, in her room, is just about to pull back the bed cover when the door opens. It is an Attendant carrying in one hand a cup... and in the other a cane. It is a supper drink and it is also Jane's late night caning session. She has been given her correction schedule by Matron earlier, after gym, and as Cindy guessed it is to be four times a day: morning, after lunch, tea time, and late night. And the Attendant has come to give Jane the first of the late night ones.

Feeling close to tears again she does as he says: lies over the edge of the bed with her legs stretched out. The cane on her bottom is excruciating and well before the sixth and last has been delivered she is not just close to tears: tears are there, in abundance.

In bed and the relief of sinking into oblivion. But seemingly in no time at all the alarm is ringing. It is 6am. And ten minutes later an Attendant comes in to check that she is out of bed.

An early morning exercise session; a shower; then back to her room where her trouser-suit is now waiting. She puts it on (it is a skin-tight fit) with the 'help' of an Attendant; then the stiletto heels. Then breakfast. Followed by early morning inspection...

All eight girls are taken to that room outside the Principal's office. One by one they are ushered in for a five minute session with him. Jane has to wait till last; then goes in and stands unhappily in front of him. 'Stand up straight and stick your boobs out,' Cindy has told her. 'If he thinks you're slouching he'll give you an extra caning there and then.' Jane does her best but is desperately conscious of the skin-tight transparent suit which she is wearing for the first time. In a few days she will be somewhat more used to it but now...

The Principal's eyes run up and down the choice form which the tight trouser-suit reveals... the pink jutting nipples... the brown bush down below and then the cleft. While all the time he delivers a homily on proper wifely behaviour, the sanctity of family, and self-discipline.

Finally: 'Are you learning from your stay here, Mrs Randall?'

Cindy has told Jane that he always says this and the safest answer is simply 'Yes Sir'.

So Jane says 'Yes Sir'. The Principal says 'Good. That will be all then.' She gets a sharp dismissive slap across her bottom...

Outside, in the large room, an Attendant is waiting to take her back to her quarters. To administer her morning caning. She is made to lie over the edge of her bed as she did last night. She now has her trouser-suit on but the thin skin-tight material gives no protection whatever as the six flesh-juddering strokes crack down across her rump. And then... and then...

But surely we have now seen enough of Burton Manor to accept that three weeks of its regime will bring any errant wife to heel. She will go back home submissive and dutiful, and concerned only to please her husband; in fact desperate to do anything for him just so long as she does not have to return to Burton Manor.

And so three weeks from now (if she has not had a day or two added for some shortcoming) the sleek black car will again emerge through those ornate iron gates. And Jane Randall will be conducted back to that remote railway station, and from there back to home and husband. There will be tears of relief that it is over, tears of happiness to be back, and tearful promises that she will never, ever, again....