Victorian Values

Story from Janus 123.

Victorian Values
by John Undermeyer

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

* * *

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Am I not to be told my fault?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zero Tolerance

Story from Privilege Plus 09.

Zero Tolerance
by John Undermeyer

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. She was fit for eight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Sabbath

Story from Janus 75.

Sweet Sabbath
by John Undermeyer

IT WAS AN ART they had taken years to perfect. Now they practised it one Sunday in each month, beginning around late afternoon. From then, deep into the night, they relished the joy of it. They called it Sweet Sabbath.

On the day, they locked up their home. It would stay that way until Monday's dawn. Gate-bolts slid to electronically, house-blinds were dropped, telephones set to tape-record, the bedroom flooded with light.

Early in the afternoon she slipped into a bikini: that was part of the game. Then — at an agreed signal — she unclipped the top and let it fall to the carpet. Pushing the bottom part downwards with both thumbs she stepped daintily free of it and left it lying. She released mother-of-pearl combs from her temples and a mountain of chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders, the sweet-scented ends lightly brushing the deeply-inclining small of her back.

She was naked woman in glory, the perfect example of how plenty of money, plus a life of fresh-air and exercise, can produce a lovely woman oozing with wholesome energy and sensual allure. Almost 30, she still looked in her early twenties, helped no doubt by the disciplines imposed by her yoga master.

She heard a cane slamming into the bolster of their bed. Soon she would be tucked into that bolster, hugging it, ramming her knees against it, digging it with her chin, working her nails into the ends. God, she would hurt, but then the sweetness would begin to course through her body, flowing in her blood, running to the extremities, igniting even her mind.

Afterwards he would want her, roused by the caning and hungry to have her in his arms. She would give herself to him through her hurting because that was the way she knew, the way he wanted, the way that brought total consummation to them both.

There had been an understanding between them even before they married, expressed not so much in words (although they had talked about it) but in feelings and behaviour. In everything else he humoured her but in this one thing she submitted willingly and completely. Because — she reasoned — everything had a price and this was how she paid for the way she lived, enjoying all that his money could buy.

Today she found no love in herself for him — at least, not yet. It would come, she knew from experience, but now she felt proud, disdainful, haughty. She came to the bedroom tossing her head, streaking open fingers (they were incredibly long and delicate and could express devastatingly inviting gestures) through her hair to sweep it back off her pale face. She had taken the staircase fast, and this, combined with what she knew lay ahead, made her breath deep and tremulous.

She refused to look at him but walked to the end of their bed and stood soldier-like, arms to her sides. Her breasts could have been Renaissance marble, they looked so firm and opalescent. Her tummy was adolescent-flat, her waist yoga-trim, her legs taken from a Degas ballet-girl.

She stood on tip-toe and raised her arms skyward, stretching to show him how her skin glowed, her eyes shone and the lights glinted in her hair. Then she lowered herself slowly and deliberately on to their mattress. He pointed the cane at the bolster. She reached out for it and raised her narrow hips to tuck the roll of kapok beneath them. That left her delicate, downy and unblemished bottom-cheeks higher than the rest of her body, which lay draped like white silk on either side.

There — she seemed to be saying to him — that's a performance for you. You want to cane me? See if I care. See how unmoved I can be by your stern manner, your broad, bronzed arms, even your honey-coloured stick brandished so like a conductor's baton.

He growled in his throat: there was a price for this insolence. She dared to flout her courage before him, challenge his role as master? No matter. Out of the strong came forth sweetness. She looked sweeter than honey, he felt stronger than a lion. 'You are in a state to be loved?' he asked her, hiding the tiny sense of pique, making sure she could not hear it. 'You have taken your pill when you should: there is no reason for me not to go ahead?'

'None whatsoever,' she replied in taunting tones, distant, chilly, with a hint of contempt just audible in her cultured voice. It was as though someone else, not herself lay prone on the bed, waiting to undergo this trial. Except that it was not to be a trial: to her it was a practice, a ritual, a command performance in which she was the translucent star.

This was theatre, and her movements, her performance, were all. He would not miss a single motion of her body, purse of her lips, spread and gesture of her hands, curl and grimace of her mouth, blink and glare in her eyes. He needed to see proof that she hurt, she must demonstrate how she suffered as his cane fell. The show was vital to him and he would cane for as long as she could sustain the act.

She wanted to arouse him, to show how — gradually, gracefully — he could melt her sugar and raise it to boiling-point in her body She responded vividly to his first stroke which he laid at the very high-point of her buttocks. It was a sharp and unexpected blow and she spread-eagled herself, her limbs expanding like a four-pointed star, toes turning inwards, legs snapping together again, hands electrified for a second then re-grasping the bolster. Look at me — she seemed to be telling him — see how my body adores you, drink in my softly-moulded rear-parts as they spasm and writhe, for they were made to be whipped.

He wanted her to be demonstrative, to try to dodge his blows, for then he had an excuse to cane her harder. Her hips bucked to one side, jibbing at his carefully aimed stroke. He had hit hard; her cheeks squeezed bitterly, her muscles drawing them both together and sucking them in tightly, pulling at her tummy muscles at the same time. This helped kill the ache, but it also helped her absorb the fire, drive it inwards deep inside her body and there convert it to hot, longing sweetness. She could do it; over the years she had learned how to make the syrup run.

Her head turned angrily and she caught his eyes with her own. Fury made them lasers but he stared her down. Again she challenged his ardour, tossing her hair, curling her lip, raising her upper body as he drove down his stick. Movements like these transformed his ire to a heavenly distillation, encouraging him to cane harder.

He flicked his wrist powerfully an instant before the stick struck her beautiful buttocks. When she felt the stronger strokes she cried out, but mingled a taunting, teasing sound into the cries of pain. Hidden in the protest was a signal of assent: you may do this to me; you may hurt; you may exhibit your mastery And she must convert the sting his wand imparted into honey-sweet desire, distil liquid silver from his strokes.

Imagination would aid the transmutation. She saw herself as a giant-sized snake, all coils and curls, trapped in a tree-fork at the mercy of a mongoose, its sworn enemy, as the furry creature barked and bit at the helpless reptile. The bite of the cane elicited the jerk of the body in instant reply.

The two perfectly symmetrical, white and dimpled segments of her bottom rose up from the bolster then fell flat again. They were created for punishment. What other part of her could envelop his springy wood, indent to its blows, judder as he struck, then clench and squeeze to absorb the fire-brand effect?

One of his special pleasures was to see her thighs open. The game at this point was a kind of hide-and-seek; she knew what part of her he wanted to see — what special area his eyes would seek. She rolled sideways as her legs opened to hide herself from him. Denying him her treasure made him all the keener to seek it and his cane reflected the need by falling harder.

She twisted, turned, bared her teeth, flashed her eyes, stretched out ten pencil-slim fingers each with a crimson-painted nail. Move, move, move, his mind silently instructed her: I have not yet seen that part of you which it is my right, as your husband, to see.

She became a small sun-lizard which, knowing itself in peril, whipped its body this way and that, darting from stone to stone, nervous and fearful, seeking succour under a rock. But she could not find succour: where could she hide but under the crisp white sheets, and she knew better than to attempt that.

Neon flashed in her mind. She clenched the bolster in both hands, tears making the cotton damp and clingy. Lancing pains shot from her buttocks down through her thighs and calves to the soles of her pretty feet, making them curl and her toes spread.

She wanted to go on until she could transmute the pain no longer and she could tell that that point was coming. She had given a consummate performance. Her legs had splayed and she had brought them tightly together again. Her thighs had gaped and she had squeezed them shut. Her bottom had seethed and she had felt the energy inside rise and bubble like boiling milk. Her small fists had drummed on the bedclothes, her ankles reflecting the action as shock tingled in her feet, and her head had twisted and turned from side to side, making deep folds in her thick chestnut hair, strands of which were stuck by tears to her alabaster cheeks.

Her azure eyes had flashed hate at him, her mouth curled in a pain which was mingled with contempt. She had sunk her teeth into the bolster to smother her cries and yelps which otherwise would have rent the air. And slowly, inexorably, the pain had, like a Canaan miracle, transformed itself into sugary sweetness and was seething through her fibres in an unquenchable stream of energy.

Suddenly she could act no longer. She flung herself off the bolster, wriggling frantically up the bedclothes towards the top of the bed, kicking her legs, grasping the sheet, facing him, eyes brimming and — at the same time — pleading: 'Enough dearest, let it be, no more, no more!' The honeycomb was full of vital syrups and running inside her.

His blood raced like wild waters as she turned over on to her back and lay open before him, offering herself totally. He dropped the cane; punishment was over. But her performance was not over — they both knew that. She must keep moving; it was part of the agreement, and it would have been impossible for her to be still: now was the time to move into her most persuasive role.

What a moment or two before had been helpless spasms must slow and become controlled again, changing without any perceivable interval into sensuous, even voluptuous beckonings. The turbulence inside her must be made evident in her rising and stretching to raise his ardour higher. Where before she tossed and turned to escape his whipping, now she must switch to willing, welcoming motions designed to draw him down into her embraces.

This was the hardest part of all: to wrestle against the hurt, to sense the sugar-sweet feeling and allow desire to take its course. She worked to forget the pain and know only the urgency of passion, and the effort gradually but inevitably suffused her body with champagne.

What in the beginning had been agonised twisting under his discipline became a delightful ferment under his strong, tanned and embracing body. Precious juices, freed by their exercises, cascaded through them both. His body effervesced in response to her caresses and encouragement, her glass was filled and cohesion between them became complete. Their bodies and minds would continue to brim over for hours. He dimmed the lights to complete blackness. They closed their eyes and together dissolved into the dark. Sweet Sabbath had begun.

Love's Rough Justice

Story from Janus 102.

Love's Rough Justice
by John Undermeyer

Time was, when a man could hang for stealing bread. But what if a beautiful woman could bear anything but his death?

THE Welcome Home Tavern was a favourite mooring for sailors. At almost every tide some newcomer humped a studded sea-chest up the inn's crooked stairs. Sailors made the place exciting. We never became used to their weird tattoos, missing eyes and legs, scarred hands and matted pigtails, and when they told of their adventures they mesmerised us.

For a few yards of ale, spiced with cloves and warmed with a glowing iron, they would entertain the table. But tonight we dined without Jack Tar. This was Saturday 24th April 1743 – our friend Doctor Timothy's birthday.

We finished the eggs, trout, jugged hare and mature Stilton. The port circled the table several times. We were all in our early twenties; all the marrying kind. The talk was lewd but mere bravado: only the Doctor had enjoyed a woman and none of us had a wife.

We laughed with, and thought what we would do to, the serving maids. But our dreams were of a mistress more highly-born. As high as the raven-haired, slender-figured Lady Katherine Tovey who lived in Plimpton Manor with her irascible father, Lord Joshua.

An only daughter, her mother ran off with Lord Joshua's younger brother when Katherine was ten years old. So shocking an event could never be kept secret in Longfield. But it had happened a decade past; Lady Katherine was now 20.

Gossip held that she inherited her mother's rebel nature but it was hard to believe when you saw her smile. When men stood agape, devouring her face and figure, she stayed all the time silent, unwilling to look them in the eye. Her father never knew her mind and watched her constantly.

Doctor Timothy wiped his spoon and tapped loudly on the table. He had a story for us and by the way he laughed we knew he had saved it for tonight. We settled down and, satisfied all were listening, he took a red, wet mouthful of Taylor's Reserve and began.

I was fortunate last week (he said) to be at Plimpton Manor. I am not often called there but Mrs Babbington, the cook, had an ague and Lord Joshua sent for me to examine her. I did so, and was riding off, when a mighty shout pierced the night.

In less than a minute I was back in the main hall. I saw Osric, the butler, with two other servants wrestling to hold an intruder. I was struck, at once, by the colour of the stranger's hair: it was straw-gold. The rest of him was formidable: well over six feet tall, his body in proportion, and he looked – until I threw myself into the fray – that he might win.

We struggled for several minutes and I received some unpleasant cuffs. Then Osric produced a pistol. Feeling this at his temple, the stranger knew better than to fight on. It was not until we had him bound to a chair that we breathed easily again. We stood close to him, gradually regaining some composure, until Lord Tovey hurried down the stairs.

A pace behind him came Lady Katherine, dressed as if she were going out. She wore all black: riding boots, high-necked dress tight at the waist and hanging to the floor, boots, cape and gloves. With one hand she was taking off her hat; the other still held her horsewhip. She looked tense and milk-pale.

Reaching the tied man Lord Tovey began an interrogation. The story that emerged astonished us all. The prisoner had come for one purpose only: to collect Lady Katherine. A pair of horses were tethered nearby. They planned to elope.

Her father whirled upon her, furious and frightened. It was as if history would repeat itself. I understood how terrible that would be for him. The girl glared back, defiant and unflinching. Yes, she meant to leave. Her father's regime, her own wilfulness and clandestine meetings with Christian (whom I guessed was the stranger) had made up her mind. She could not wait to be far from Longfield; wanted never to see Joshua again.

But his Lordship had other suspicions. He flung back her cape. Tied to her waist was her jewel box. He cut it loose and opened it. A pile of precious stones sparkled in the firelight. This was the truth of the matter: not elopement, but robbery. Could she not see, he raged at her, that she was the victim of a plausible rogue? The thief's interest was not in her, but in her fortune. He meant to ride to the edge of Longfield, steal the gems and make off.

Vehemently Katherine declared this was a lie. She loved this blond fellow and her love was returned. Her affection for him was easy to believe seeing his handsome face, square jaw, and full head of curls. But for the man: his ardour was doubtful and neither her father nor myself believed in it.

Lord Joshua signalled to me. Since my horse was saddled, would I ride to the troopers in Fairmile and bring an officer and cohort to take the burglar into custody? Let him rot in gaol, declared his Lordship. In a month he can be at the County assizes, before the circuit judge.

I was halfway to the door when Lady Katherine screamed. She ran to her father, hair flailing, and fell on her knees. 'Please do not call the troopers,' she implored him. Lord Joshua swore he would. The girl seized his hands, her lips pushing into his palms in supplication. Despite his fury the old man was embarrassed. But he forced back his pity and gave vent to his bile. Craven crimes had been committed: house-breaking, assault, abduction and theft. Possibly murder would have been next – who was to say Katherine would have escaped with her life? Someone must suffer: someone must pay.

Katherine was distraught and we were moved by her desperation. 'Can you not understand?' she cried. 'Robbery is a capital offence. With all of you to speak against him he must be found guilty. The judge will name the highest penalty. Christian will hang.'

We knew it was true. And, we began to muse, this blond Christian might well have meant to carry Katherine to his own home, there to make her his wife. If this were so, death was too severe a penalty. We had no doubt that even in this modern age, men went to the gallows too often.

Lady Katherine raised herself and begged her father to be lenient. If someone must suffer let it be her. Let her father bring her to heel. She would submit, be penitent and dutiful. She wrung her hands, beseeching forgiveness.

The old man blazed at her with his eyes. He turned to the prisoner and back to the girl. I could tell he felt some reluctance to be responsible for the fellow's death. Finally, after wrestling with his demons, he growled assent. Then, as if already regretting his lenience he roared, spun Katherine round and propelled her towards the stairs, a clenched fist and angry finger pointing her towards her bedroom.

When she had gone he turned back to the men. Osric and the others were to stand guard. The fellow must not be released. Perhaps, if Katherine was properly repentant, there could be a reprieve. But for now he must wait. Turning then to me, his Lordship bid me follow him upstairs. In the mood he was in it were well to have a doctor present.

I climbed the wide, creaking staircase a pace behind him, thinking as I went that if our destination were Katherine's bedroom, what should I do? True, I was a medical man, but I was of Katherine's generation and (unless she were ill) would never be allowed near where she slept. Yet I said nothing, but followed her father's clattering boots until he stopped at a door, paused fractionally then charged in, motioning me to follow.

The room was gloomy, with narrow windows that needed wash. Across one wall stood a giant four-poster surrounded by heavy curtains, open and tied back. The counterpane was embroidered damask, the sheets linen. Two goose-feather pillows were piled by the headboard. It looked old but comfortable. I wondered when the mattress had last been aired.

Six candles struggled to give us light. But there was light enough to see what I wanted to. Lady Katherine lay stretched on the bed. The outdoor clothes she had been wearing were strewn across the floor, her boots and stays slung on to a chair. She was naked and had not dared to slip beneath the covers. She knew that to appease Lord Joshua, she must not hide.

Her face was buried deep into a pillow and she had the cover clenched between her teeth. Her hands either side of her head also grasped pillows, kneading slowly, indicating her helplessness. When she felt us gazing she crushed her pelvis into the mattress, anxious to hide that part of her which I was most eager to see.

Her long black hair spread like silk across her back. Candlelight caught the upthrust of her buttocks which, I am sure, she squeezed tight in an attempt to feel more modest. From her bottom she flowed into trim thighs and slender legs. She was lovely, and she was weeping.

Lord Joshua motioned me to the far side of the room. I was to stand and observe but say nothing unless spoken to. I made myself inconspicuous, happy just to look. Katherine lifted her head, whimpered and began to tremble. I saw that her father had found her riding crop, which she had left on her dressing table.

He wasted no time. Katherine was prepared and the sooner it were done the better. He walked to the edge of the bed and satisfied himself that the girl was properly submissive. Then, deliberately measuring the distance between himself and that beautiful pale bottom, he clenched the whip handle tightly. The candles flickered, I caught myself licking my lips, Joshua took a deep breath. Katherine had only one thought in her mind – the prisoner downstairs.

Joshua's arm drew back. Nothing could stop what was about to happen. Lips tight, he drove the whip down. It travelled those few feet in a fraction of an instant, before burying itself into her delicate flesh with a sound like a wet cloth on stone.


From that moment, in the silence before the cry, it seemed that everything which had taken place, every move made, every word spoken, every thought in every head was pure dream.

The thief's arrival, the fight, Katherine's pleading and submission: it had been seen through stage gauze. It was vague, hazy, indistinct, not defined, not real. Certainly not real. It was too comfortable and unimportant to be real. It was mummery; actors in a play; nothing like life.

Only Katherine knew about life – life was intolerable. All her fine thoughts, imagined love, willing self-sacrifice, her unquestioned offering of her bottom to the whip – all this was folly. More: it was madness. Nobody who knew would do this. A stroke from a riding crop across naked flesh – only that was real. And that was so real, it was unbearable. Only one thing mattered after that. Only one thought burst into the mind. Only one desire, one desperate aim, one purpose.

She must escape; rise up and fly; soar like a bird into the sky, to freedom, to blessed release from pain. Her pain could not be imagined. It was comets colliding. Sunbursts in the night. An age before birth and after death. Arrows in the heart. Worse than childbirth. She could not bear the hurt that took her, never mind the hurt to come.

Katherine knew that if Lord Joshua faltered for a second she would leap from the bed. She could not bear another stroke. No matter that her Christian would dance on a rope. She would let him – nay, want him to, rather than allow the agonising horsewhip to lash her bottom again.

But before she could rise, before she could slip out from beneath her punishment, the second stroke came down. The whole room was awake now. The candles blazed like permanent lightning. The walls shrieked in silent suffering. Lord Joshua and I moved into a new dimension. We were dead creatures, with no notion of truth. Only Katherine knew truth: fierce, vibrant, searing, forever indelible on her mind.

I know why. Katherine did not rebel. Because as the third and fourth strokes came down she stopped wondering why she offered her bottom and remembered she was saving a man's life. So instead of twisting to escape the fierce lashes, she rose into them. She grasped the bedclothes and seemingly pushed her bottom up to actively greet the descending whip. She must overcome pain, and the fear of pain. Her punishment was simply justice, suffered to prevent a fatal injustice.

However deep the fire burned it would eventually be over. She would rise from the bed, walk to the window and, in time, be comfortable again. But if, instead, Christian was punished: the thought was worse than even this...

No matter that her face twisted like flames as she fought to be brave. She could bear to writhe under the biting crop. Tears were nothing. Cries and howls were a passing affair. The air sang, the breath left her body, the twin mounds of her bottom shivered as they absorbed the strokes. It was nothing compared to the rope that broke a man's neck.

Before the punishment ended all Katherine knew was that her body was a great light, incandescent in the gloomy bedroom, a torch that burned to save Christian's life. When her father and I left her she continued to shine, face deep in her pillow, tears soaking the feathers, struggling to still her body, grateful that she wept for an incomparable cause. When she looked from her window at dawn she wondered if the sun had come out watery in sympathy for her tears.

Lord Joshua's fury spent, he ordered the prisoner released and escorted to his horse. Christian must never return to Longfield. If he did, Katherine would pay and the second thrashing would be worse than the first. The flaxen-haired adventurer disappeared and whether he will return remains to be seen – I rather think he might. Because I know you will agree, gentlemen (the Doctor's eye went round the table fixing us all) greater love hath no woman.

The story was at an end. Doctor Timothy stretched, drew his fingers through his hair and scratched vigorously. He banged his spoon again on the table: who the devil had the port? – pass it at once. Then bid the Landlord refill the decanter.

Our dinner at the Welcome Home Tavern ended late but we left sober enough to find our homes and climb the stairs to bed. Under the sheets, each thought of Katherine. Each saw in his imagination the woman whipped to save her love.

It would not have surprised the Doctor to know that lying awake that night, each of his companions pictured a perfect young lady's incandescent bottom and held it in his mind. Then each took his own incandescent candle in his hands. And gently, unhurriedly, with long, firm strokes, each put out the light.

Girl In The Frame

Story from Janus 94.

Girl In The Frame
by John Undermeyer

I WONDER if you know the magazine Artlife? It's a monthly effort, mostly about painting and sculpture and often reviews exhibitions at London's private art galleries. I'm the editor and not long ago I was looking rather urgently for a piece to lead my next issue.

As editor I frequently receive calls from gallery owners, so I was not surprised to hear from Fiona-Jane McCullum. Fiona is a Scot d'un certain age who owns a well-known gallery in the vicinity of Berkeley Square. She is careful about the work she shows, so when she rings I pay attention to what she says and usually attend her previews.

This time the invitation was especially intriguing. She was showing work from a school led by her elder brother. You will understand that by school I do not mean a place of education. I mean, rather, a group of artists who have joined together, in this case in one place, because they share a similar outlook and philosophy. They are conducting — as they like to put it — a search for some artistic truth.

'So you want to introduce me to the McCullum School?' I chuckled down the phone.

Fiona explained that her brother was the head of a group of young artists who lived in a large house in Cornwall. I would subsequently discover that Douglas McCullum was a middle-aged man, very well-built, with a huge head of hair, a full-set beard, rosy face, black cheery eyes and a disposition for good claret. He was rarely out of his smock which was besmeared with paint from his brushes, palette and hands. His companions were a group of young men and women who were experimenting with certain painting techniques. Every summer they spent a fortnight in London exhibiting their work and naturally they used Fiona's gallery.

'The preview is next Monday and I believe you ought to be there...' Fiona told me.

'All very well,' I said, relieved at the prospect of hopefully being able to fill a looming hole in my next issue. 'I've certainly had some good copy and pictures from your past exhibitions. But I must say...' I paused because I had to put this delicately, '...the McCullum school is not one I am familiar with. And — as you know — I'm not one who enjoys strange or outlandish experiments in oils...'

'No more am I!' Was Fiona's tart riposte. Then, more pleasantly: 'You'll see some very good work, I promise. It's impossible to describe it on the telephone, but it's stimulating work. I'll say no more now... just come. OK?'

The phone went down. I knew Fiona never hung rubbish so I went along, although I had not the least idea what to expect.

The viewing had a most unusual effect on me which I shall describe as best I can. Fiona met me at the reception table with a grateful smile, a slim catalogue and a glass of well-chilled champagne. After the usual kisses and how-are-yous she said, 'Take your time. Enjoy what you see; you may even give your readers a surprise or two in next month's issue. But don't leave without speaking to me again.'

She urged this last sentence on me in a way that convinced me that I would be missing something if I slipped away without saying goodbye. But I was not ready for what I finally saw.

You will know, if you know Artlife, that most small galleries in Mayfair, Chelsea and Soho rarely show work that depicts the human form in all its natural realism. Blobs, anomalous patches, large indecipherable shapes and other oddities often litter the walls. But far from distorting and rearranging its figures, this school depicted them with skill, grace and beauty. I began to be impressed. I was looking at really gifted life-drawing and painting and there was an overall feeling of passion about the work. It evoked incense and could have been thought of — in a certain sense — as worshipful.

Most of the paintings were of young women, or young couples. There were a few landscapes; one in particular caught my eye. It was a huge house, perched about 500 yards from the edge of a sheer cliff, the walls of which plunged some 500 feet into what I later learned was the Atlantic. I was to discover many strange facts about this house, not the least of which that it had been built 'back to front'. You approached it through a long drive of close-planted pine trees only to be confronted by the rear. The front aspect gazed (as in this picture) out over the sea.

The paintings were accomplished in a palate that moved from pale greys to indigo, via all the shades of blue. The predominant colour was that of incense smoke when burned from a stick. The figures (as I say, mostly girls) were willowy and mysterious. There were sprites, wood-nymphs, huntresses, dancers, tall, slim, arms and legs stretched to fine points, bodies poised to throw a javelin, reach for a plant, catch a bird in flight or pull a star out of heaven. There were girls in pirouette holding a wand or torch or standing on tip-toe preparing to dive into a lake. Mostly they had bird-like necks from which bent pale, bashful heads sprayed about with long shanks of flowing hair.

All the images were naked. Breasts were the shape of saucers or shallow wine bowls, arms and legs were taut and trim, waists dissolved into a boyish narrowness and tummies were hard and flat. The beautiful slender legs had (so it seemed to me) been elongated slightly and melded into feminine thighs then into firm, tight buttocks. And here was the strange part. The buttocks appeared to be sucked in at the cleft, their muscles clenched tight, utterly closed — indeed squeezed together almost vehemently. The cheeks were like two parts of a glass marble which had been split, melted, then when molten, pressed together again. Strength, fitness, vitality and vibrant youth were all present but so also was pain. You may feel it strange for me to say that these fairy figures conveyed vibrant pain. I too found the sensation rare. I can only assure you that after long and careful appraisal I became convinced it was so.

You are, I am sure, familiar with Rodin's The Kiss. A similar erotic rapture suffused virtually all the paintings from this strange school. Young women lay naked, their heads in the laps of young men, their sinuous arms wrapped adoringly around the legs of their seated masters. Figures twined sensuously with a quality which reminded me of the old love-carvings in the Tantric temples of India. Some poises carried the hint of yoga. There were echoes of Degas's ballet girls, though without their pumps and tutus. There was certainly the discipline and spirit of the ballet exercise class. One naked girl was poised high on a tightrope, a paper umbrella in her hand. Another danced on a high wooden bar. All the work left me — and I will confess it unashamedly — with a feeling of spirited, singing sexuality.


I began to wonder how much of this exhibition I dared illustrate in Artlife for many of my readers are fastidious and all believe in art with the utmost good taste. This work was tasteful enough but it was also seductive. The beautiful people in these scenes were sexual beings. Men had the faces of Creek gods. The girls possessed an allure, a startling preternaturalness unsullied by the trendy hairstyles and knowing glances of big-city life. Their faces were open and smiling, their eyes innocent and happy, their poses inviting inspection and admiration. At first I was impressed; then, falling more and more under their influence, beguiled; finally, although I would never admit it in my own publication, I was aroused.

One canvas, showing a young woman reaching to pluck an apple from a high branch, her body stretched so that every curve and crevice could be seen in its ultimate definition, reminded me of Enobarbus's description of Cleopatra: 'She makes hungry where most she satisfies.'

When I found Fiona again I was ravenous to know more about the McCullum school of art. The gallery-owner looked at me teasingly over the top of her half-rim spectacles. When I raised an eyebrow to encourage her to explain, she broke into a taunting grin and drew her tongue along her teeth as if to say 'Think what you'd have missed if you hadn't come'.

'You'd have to be nerveless not to catch the scent,' was what she actually said. 'Evocative, isn't it? I'm glad my brother has been willing to put his more successful efforts on show.'

We were walking towards the back of the gallery where a roped-off staircase led to the floor above. On the scarlet cord across the first step hung a notice: PRIVATE. Viewing only when accompanied by a representative of the gallery.

'Since you are clearly enjoying yourself I think perhaps I can take you upstairs. There is a second exhibition which I show only to those I am sure will genuinely appreciate it.' It was clear as she re-clipped the red rope behind us that I was to be shown something the general visitor would never see. When we reached the upper gallery it was poorly lit but Fiona turned up a series of dimmer-wheels to full brightness and I caught my first inkling of why this room was for trusted patrons only.

The canvases were much larger than those below and the figures on them fully lifesize. These pictures could most certainly not under any circumstances be reproduced in Artlife, although no doubt the majority of my subscribers would have been fascinated.

The first showed a giant room which might once have been the dining hall of a stately home but was now quite unfurnished, with whitewashed walls, uncurtained windows and uncarpeted floor. The windows gazed towards that familiar clifftop, then out into the sea. Two figures formed the centrepiece. One was a girl in her twenties, fully naked and bent like a hairpin. She was high on the points of her toes. Her legs, shut so tightly they seemed to form a single stem, streamed upwards in a smoothly curving line taking in her calves and thighs. At the top of her legs, pushed proudly in the air, was the most perfect bottom. It stuck upwards almost defiantly, tight, round, tantalising in its invitation, smooth, curvaceous and beseeching attention.

This gorgeous dome of dimpled flesh swelled outwards then curved into a complete 'U' turn, stretching downwards now, the outline of the totally bent spine melding into long slender arms which flowed sleekly towards hands and fingers that strained to her toes. The longest finger of either hand just touched the tips of her tilted feet. It was the 'bend-and-touch-your-toes' position par excellence.

By this time Fiona had left me alone and was signing some papers at a large desk at the end of the room. I had not noticed her going, so closely was I studying the picture. The girl's head was tucked hard into her knees. Her inverted breasts pressed firmly against the front of her thighs. Her long, smoky hair fell across part of her face, touched the floor and spread outwards from her feet like spilled wine.

Toes and fingers were stretched to the limit. I peered to study what could be seen of her features. She was serenely pretty; her eyes, painted sapphire, were wide open and sparkling, her small mouth pouting in what could have been — in a different kind of picture — a softly blown kiss.

The second figure was a young man of about the same age as the delightful girl. He was dressed as if for the ballet, but planted firmly on the soles of both feet. He wore a haughty, imperious look, and his head was held straight and stiff as he stood to one side of the tip-toed enchantress looking at her with a mixture of mastery and worship. One hand was fully outstretched and then I noticed a third hand entering the picture from the side of the canvas. This hand was passing our ballet dancer a crook-handled cane.

You may legitimately ask if there were weals on the bottom of this upturned girl and I must report there were not. But studying the face of the dancer, and the eagerness with which his fingers stretched to reach for that whippy, offered wand, I could not doubt that had this picture represented the same scene but thirty seconds into the future, there would most certainly have been four, perhaps five, finely-ridged tramlines on that unblemished skin.


I moved to the next large frame which was a portrait picture showing head, shoulders and part of the upper torso, trimmed just below the breasts. It was a girl, and as I looked I saw that she was the same maiden who stood bent doubled over on the previous canvas.

Light caught the top of her head and the long silky hair which was strewn in glory all about the sides of her sweet face, framing the high-boned cheeks, covering completely both her ears, falling in wanton abandon across part of one eye, then down over both shoulders. Most of her hair vanished behind her back, but another lock led the viewer's eye to the most delicate, up-tipped and brazenly erect nipple.

This, I realised, was the painting of the same girl, some five or ten minutes after the ballet dancer had accomplished his task. I was looking at a portrait of sorrow and grief, of misery and distress, of shame and self-pity, of irredeemable remorse and very vibrant pain.

Down each youthful, downy cheek there still trickled a wet channel of tears. The eyes had clearly been streaming only minutes before but now they shed their brine slowly and irregularly as a melting icicle drips in a bleak and wintry sun. Yes, this was the winter of her discontent. A storm had burst between the moments depicted in the last canvas and this. In the unshown interval the cane had been utilised and laid aside, and the girl allowed to rise and stand upright.

The artist had captured the baleful and humbled look in her almost shuttered eyes. He had not missed the way her tears had glued together her erstwhile separated eyelashes. A bulging pearl of brine was balanced on the lower rim of one eye whilst her other gazed wistfully, having just blinked away — or so it seemed — the droplet that was now coursing towards one side of her pert and pretty nose.

Her nostrils, I noticed, shone at their openings with glittering albumen and I asked myself whether it was right to show a perfect portrait with a runny nose. Yes, I counselled my critical mind. When a woman weeps as copiously as this there can be no doubt that the nose must shed its liquid too: this was only a post-punishment truth. The painter had conveyed this passion so eloquently that in my transport I was moved to feel for my kerchief, so that the penitent might wipe away the offending evidence of distress. Even had her face been dry, one could still clearly have seen the girl's preoccupation with sensations that possessed her whole consciousness.

Those lips, which (as I told you) in the last picture might have suggested a softly blown kiss, were now turned down bitterly at both comers. They parted slightly in the centre and I could tell, so acutely was the scene depicted, that the girl was breathing through her mouth. No doubt the nostrils were partly unable to take the air. Tears had run across her mouth and left a shimmering and wanton track of dampness on both lips. There were even one or two now hanging perilously on her heart-shaped chin, just waiting for the next heave of her breath to shake them on to those glowing breasts or into her dishevelled and dampened hair.

My mind went back to the pictures I had seen downstairs. I remembered how I had been convinced that the buttocks of so many figures had been clamped fiercely tight. How the cheeks of so many bottoms had been held so hard, tension shrieking in each half of the glass marble. Here was the explanation. Expectation. Expectation of corrective pain. Immediate expectation of the bite of the cane. Fear of that searing bamboo sting.

I retraced my steps a few paces to look at the first picture again. Here was the impish mistress, bent double and stretched tight, on the point of receiving her punishment. I hurried to the second canvas. Here was the penitent after the deed had been done. I could only surmise how many strokes of that proffered wand it had taken to reduce the girl to the tearful state in the portrait. But I could not doubt that the cane had been laid on with a will. I looked once more at the downcast eyes which seeped soft salty water.

I lowered my gaze to the breasts, one of which was partly covered by her hair, the other quite naked. They were so beautifully firm, I thought it unlikely they needed support from even the daintiest bra, and I imagined how adorable those breasts would be to caress. How telling, too, that the secret caning of that peach of a naked bottom had brought both nipples to a state of rigid wakefulness. Surely, even when she made love her nipples could not attain that length and hardness. And they had been painted with such realism that I was almost tempted to lick the canvas and make a complete fool of myself.

Both of these adorable mounds showed traces of how the young lady had wept, for there were glittering beads on her breasts and their tracks ran down from her eyes, across her cheeks, to pause at the chin then topple over and bedeck her upper body. The streaks showed how they had fallen. Yet there was the purest and most moving poetry in the face from which tears were still slipping. Not a trace of resentment could be seen on it. There could be no doubt, I concluded, that the ballet dancer had mastered the skills of whippy rattan and given this forlorn young upstart such a sizzling bottom that simple words could not express all the nuances of her feelings.

I was on the point of moving to the next canvas when I heard the sound of people mounting the stairs. These, too, must be special guests, I thought, for Fiona had stressed that only a chosen few were invited to this first floor, and could even then only come if accompanied by a member of the gallery staff. But no member of staff was present. Instead there was a giant, rust-bearded merry-eyed Father Christmas of a man, and beside him a slim, long-haired and very attractive young woman.

Fiona-Jane was on her feet and hurrying forward to greet the newcomers. 'Douglas!' she whooped. 'How good to see you. And you too, Clarissa.' She flung her arms round the bearded man's neck and dotted him with kisses. Then she drew back and shook hands with the girl. 'I wasn't expecting you till next week. You said you couldn't come to the preview.'

The big man was clearly Douglas McCullum, head of the school whose paintings had so captivated me. But it was Clarissa I was studying. Surely I knew this girl? The face was so familiar; the sapphire eyes, the flowing locks of hair, the mouth that pouted slightly as though she were blowing a kiss. I looked at the portrait of the weeping woman again. Of course. They were one and the same. It was Clarissa who had touched her toes, been caned, and was painted again with the unfakeable proof of her tears.

She walked towards me with a delicate outstretched hand and a truly lovely smile. 'How do you do?' she asked. And without waiting for my reply (which may have taken a few seconds, I was so surprised at this meeting) she went on, 'I see you have been studying me on canvas. Don't I make a wretched spectacle?' With a most affecting little giggle.

'You must have been hurting terribly...' I began in an attempt to show sympathy but she brushed my embarrassment and condolences aside. 'Yes, my bottom was burning, and I did cry hard as you can see. But isn't the finished result a superb painting? It was my friend Dominic who painted it. We had the canvas and everything else ready. Then Dominic gave me the cane and we hurried on to get the results into paint. What do you think?'


Her voice was girlish and cultured, and her face was so cheerful, and she was obviously so pleased that Dominic had captured her tears and shame, that I simply could feel anything but pure wonder. 'I tell you what I think. I think this work is so good I am going to buy the picture.'

Weeping Clarissa now has pride of place on my living-room wall. Whenever I look at her the frisson starts inside me and images of her under the cane run riot through my mind. She would not stay silent, I am sure of that, for her expressive nature would not allow her to suppress her cries and gasps. Nor, I feel, would she wish to deny her witness the delicious satisfaction of seeing her full response to discipline. I gaze at her watery eyes, her downturned lids, her tear-streaked face and naughty, uptilted, elongated nipples and remember her smile when we met. And there is another chapter to her story.

Douglas McCullum has invited me to the big house in Cornwall, overlooking the cliffs which plunge into the Atlantic. As editor of Artlife I am potentially his most influential advocate. I am to be allowed full freedom of the house and to watch the artists at work in their various studios. Clarissa is to be painted again, this time by another artist. I have commissioned the picture especially. The subject? The same as before, of course, because I cannot see too much of this beautiful girl.

Douglas has made me a promise which I look forward to in great anticipation. Clarissa will be painted with the tears once more coursing down her cheeks. And I will be allowed to watch. Not just while the portrait is being done. But during her trial and preparation when she is to be awarded a full dozen strokes of the cane.

A Room With a View

Story from Janus 90.

A Room With a View
by John Undermeyer

MY SISTER, Penny, is 23 but could easily pass for 19. She married her boss, Robert, who is twice her age and divorced, with two teenage sons who live with their mother. We told her not to do it. We said that in ten years' time or so, when Robert lost his vigour and she still needed regular sex, she'd be sorry. She went ahead anyway.

Two months later I married Gus.

'You don't understand,' Gus said to me during our engagement. 'Penny married Robert because he's experienced.'

'Experienced at what?' I asked, and Gus looked at me as though I'd just been found under a gooseberry bush.

'At lovemaking, Dopey. Penny had a few men of her own age and they left her unsatisfied. She thought she'd try a one-night stand with Robert and he kept her going till morning. She had no idea it could be so good.'

It occurred to me to ask Gus how he knew this but I realised Robert must have told him. At that moment the man himself came into the room. He was tight-lipped, ashen, and clearly in a rage. 'I have sent your sister upstairs,' he said to me. 'I do not intend to explain why. I am sure Penny would not want anyone to know what she has done. But I 'm going to punish her.'

Robert was long and thin like a pencil and twice as sharp. He ran his own business and everyone who worked for him agreed he was decisive and immediate in everything he did. Here was ample proof!

'No need to explain things to us, old man.' Gus turned to stare out of the window. 'We're only weekend guests here, after all.'

'Thank you, Gustavius.' Robert looked at me pointedly. 'Now if I might have a word with Gus alone...' he began.

I realised I'd better leave the room. Three minutes later Robert appeared in the hall. He had the most evil-looking crook-handled cane in one hand and he took the stairs two at a time without giving me a second glance. No sooner had he disappeared than I felt Gus touch my shoulder.

'Follow me,' he said, and proceeded to lead the way through Robert's big old house to the kitchen where a second set of stairs led up to what used to be the servants' quarters. When we reached the first floor Gus signalled me to keep quiet and we tiptoed to our bedroom which was immediately adjacent to the one used by Robert and Penny. On the wall to the right of the double bed was a large oil painting. Imagine my surprise when Gus motioned me to help him lift it down. Its removal revealed a wide pane of slightly dimmed glass looking straight into my sister's bedroom. The scene I saw through this window in the wall was tense and poignant and so shockingly intimate that I covered my face with my hands and tried to hide at first.

'For God's sake, Gus!' I breathed. 'Put it back at once. They'll see us!'

'No they won't,' he grinned. 'On their side this is nothing but a mirror. Robert told me about it when he first decided to buy the house. Showed me this too... watch.'

Gus turned a tiny dial which the painting had also hidden. As it clicked on we could suddenly hear Penny's voice through the wall.

'I'm so sorry, darling,' she was pleading in an urgent, breathless voice. 'I truly am. I love you with all my heart and wouldn't do anything to hurt you. But you were away in Denmark and Peter came to the house and we drank and ate and then drank some more and by the time I noticed the clock it was too late for him to leave. I didn't mean anything to happen...'

I clutched Gus by the arm. 'Oh no,' I whispered, 'she's been unfaithful to him and he's found out.'

'Certainly sounds like it,' Gus murmured back. 'I wonder how?'

I slowly uncovered my eyes and peered through the glass at my sister. She was stark naked and I felt a surge of envy at her slender young body, shoulder-length brown hair and pert little breasts. Five foot seven, elfin-like in expression, fragile and pale to look at now and desperately vulnerable as she gazed tremblingly at her enraged husband.

I studied her profile with its fine straight nose and lovely dimpled crescent beneath, which curved down to a ripely full-lipped mouth now open in dismay. She had a firm jawline and a neck as graceful as a sea bird's. I noticed Gus running his eyes down over her shapely-breasted chest. A groan escaped my sister at her husband's stern words, and her nostrils widened slightly. Then she dropped her head in complete submission.

'Why doesn't she refuse the cane?' I said to Gus, wondering at her silent agreement. He gave me that look which said simpleton, and I already knew the answer. Penny could refuse the cane but she knew she would be punished in one way or another. Robert could devise something much worse and longer-lasting. They were due to island-hop in the South Pacific this summer. Penny could forfeit that, and never know if Robert took someone else with him. He could easily make up an excuse to have a companion, to help keep contact with the office while he was away.

But right now he was pulling the dressing-table stool out from under the dresser. The seat had a satin cushion-top and was wide enough for two people to sit on. Robert lifted it with an audible grunt across the room until there was ample space around it, then he set it down and stepped back.

'Over you go.' His voice came clearly through the speaker into the room where Gus and I watched absorbedly. I marvelled at my younger sister's obedience. She neither protested nor resisted. There was a dignity in the way she knelt at the stool, placed her hands on top of it, then raised her slim hips and positioned herself so that her tummy lay perfectly central across the burgundy satin, letting her head and hands drop to the other side. Her flowing brown tresses tumbled forward, obscuring her face and brushing the floor.

I continued to watch through the glass, amazed at the strange beauty of the scene. Robert, tall and impeccable in his neat dark suit, stood back to look at her. I had no idea what he was thinking but he paused for a full minute while my naked sister lay perfectly still and silent over the stool, waiting with extraordinary passivity for her husband to begin his punishing work. Penny was presented so that her bottom faced the mirror and Gus and I could see it in all its glory. I was always known that my sister had a lovely behind, but it was Gus who put its perfection into words.

'I've never seen anything,' he murmured into my ear, 'that quite so invited the cane. I have admired botties in the aerobic class you go to. I have been attracted to botties on beaches and at your riding school. I have blinked at girls on ice-rinks and on the parallel bars. You have a lovely bot yourself,' he said diplomatically. 'But for sheer floggable perfection, for tight, perfectly equal halves of a heavenly apple, for the most seductive tennis-girl buttocks in the whole history of the game – this is the one. The perfectly adorable, cream-skinned, tight, tempting and totally unmarked bottom.'

'Quite nice, I suppose,' I said, not without a certain edge to my voice. 'It won't be so attractive when Robert's finished with it though.'

'Hmm... I don't know,' chuckled Gus and I punched his arm, half-amused, half-angry.

'You're just jealous, my love,' he said. 'You almost wish it was happening to you.' Gus moved close to me and fondled my bottom. I pulled away but I had to admit to myself that the whole scene was undeniably arousing. And partly the excitement came from secretly spying on Penny when she could have no idea that I was watching her. How embarrassed she could feel if she knew that my gaze was attached to her arched buttocks and my heart was pounding from the thought of the cane.

Gus turned to the mirror again and gazed through. 'Those cheeks are so beautiful I could almost let her off,' he said wistfully. 'It's almost a shame to bring a rod to them. It's as if Robert were about to damage a famous painting. Bring a hammer to Michelangelo.'

'Oh, shut up and watch!' I practically snarled.

As we now both continued to do, staring fixedly through the secret pane as Robert held the cane in his right hand, horizontally across his chest, and ran the palm of his left hand lovingly along its slender length. He did this several times: stroking the cane, caressing it, transferring the warmth from his fingers into the tenderising wood. After a few moments he stopped the stroking movements and began tapping his palm slowly, edging backwards as he did so, measuring his distance from Penny's tense waiting body. I was fascinated to see how the cane bent under pressure and now quivered in the air between taps as though it were truly alive and eager to perform its shocking task.


'That's about right,' said Gus in a tightening voice. He was riveted by the scene. I must admit it had me quite entranced, too, even though Penny was my sister. Or perhaps, because she was my sister – I just don't know. My feelings were so confused. The cane moved upwards till it pointed to the ceiling, and Robert stood on tip-foe. Then, faster than either of us could follow, it whirred through the still air of the bedroom and suddenly it was home.

Deep and solid it struck, sinking into Penny's fleshy bottom-cheeks. The noise of the impact sounded strangely metallic through the tiny microphone. Penny's arms and legs all moved and her mane of shining brown hair swished as her head jerked backwards.

The sounds of her pain rushed from her open mouth in breathy cries. Her feet – the soles of which were facing us – drummed on the carpet. Robert kept the cane pressed against her stricken bottom-flesh for about five seconds before lifting it away. It was then that I saw the furrow it had ploughed.

And still, and still, and still, she continued to react to that first bite of the supple cane.

Gus and I were standing close by the spy-window, transfixed by what was happening only feet away on the other side of the glass. I was holding his hand very tightly, and his was squeezing mine.

'I felt that in here,' I gasped. 'I hope she doesn't have to take too many of those.' I bit my lip in sympathy. Gus said nothing, but continued to stare intently at the scene. What a charge passed between our palms! How strange I felt inside!

We saw that Robert had shifted slightly when delivering the stroke, and now he moved his feet back into place and slowly raised the quivering wand. Down it came, striking like a furious snake! Penny was still jigging about when the second stroke landed, only a hair's-breadth away from the first. I marvelled that Robert could be so accurate. Was it beginner's luck, or...? My thought was stopped in mid-track by Penny's cries bursting through the microphone. First a long, screeching 'Aaahhhhgh!' then by 'Oh, please... please...' Her head rolled to and fro, her streaked bottom lifted from the stool and shook vigorously, and her legs seemed almost to be cycling from the knees up.

Each time the whippy wood imprinted its shape into the full, fleshy softness of her buttocks, Penny's body became taut as a bow-string and I noticed how, in a completely reflex action, her pubis was working against the satin stool-top. It was a grinding movement, a thrusting-downwards of her centre point, squeezing and squashing her abdomen against its flat support in a manner more suitable to be seen by a husband than a sister. Which made me feel even more wicked to be secretly watching Penny receive her punishment for adultery.

This squashing, squirming rhythm stopped as the cane was lifted off and my sister's bottom tensed, still and fearfully expectant. The pain must have been gnawing like rodent teeth through the flesh of her buttocks, curvily silken flesh which had never before been even so much as touched by an angry spank, so far as I knew – never mind a hard, narrow, burn-producing cane!

I turned to Gus, who grinned at me sheepishly. I had caught him with his hand adjusting the part of himself that was never touched in public. I affected not to notice, then changed my mind and tutted disapprovingly.

'Sorry, darling,' he grunted softly. 'But you must admit your sister is beautiful. So much like you,' he lied.

'And Robert is being awfully strict, and I'm only human too,' I whispered, confessing my own weakness by clinging to him tightly. 'Oh, that bottom!' he moaned. Now sparks seemed to shoot through our clothes as we held each other. Four eyes lifted again to the glass. Whatever jealousy I had felt dissolved; we were as one.

Robert's first two strokes had been calculated, controlled, with a decent pause between them, and Gus and I expected that the punishment would go on as it had started. I had already assumed that Penny would get the statutory six – which, believe me, would have been a terrible punishment no matter how young, healthy and brave you were. But when Robert raised the cane for the third time and brought it swishing concisely down, he began a series of whisking raps to my sister's flinching, twitching bottom which followed one another as though he were conducting a fast-playing orchestra. Up and down! Up and down! And down again, again, again. The swift staccato cracks of the limber rod against Penny's jiggling buttocks were clearly audible through the tiny loudspeaker, as were her pants, gasps and whispers.

This absolutely new and different kind of punishment, lighter yet infinitely faster, left Robert with his hair falling over his face, his cheeks puffing, his eyes fixed like some pilot in a storm, his breath snorting as he flicked and tapped and flicked again as if he were almost toying with Penny, although it could not possibly have seemed a game to her. I saw – and heard – that she could hardly bear it.

At first Penny yelped and twisted at the stinging, whippy nips but soon she was writhing so energetically and spasmodically that she had to grasp the stool with both hands to stop herself from tumbling to the floor. This did not in any way inhibit Robert's spiteful wristy flicks. Gradually the turmoil in Penny's lovely young body grew desperate, and slowly but surely she wriggled herself to the edge of the stool and half tumbled, half let herself down on to the carpet where she lay kicking and twisting, rising a little off her knees and falling back, undulating like some primeval rippling creature. Moaning, whimpering and yelping as she begged her husband to relent and stop the constant rain of stinging cane-pricks, yet giving herself up to them nonetheless.

As Penny, naked and utterly vulnerable, jerked and twitched on the carpet, tears rolled oilily on her downy cheeks while she looked up at her husband, acknowledging that she deserved this relentless manifestation of his wrath, but pleading piteously for it to stop. Penny rolled a little nearer to the glass through which Gus and I so raptly watched this incredible spectacle. She was kneeling, her bottom up, three-quarters towards us, her face down and hidden when Robert finally stopped his nippy, zippy cascade which made my whole body quiver in sympathy with Penny's.

Gus gripped me tightly, his eyes glued to the deeply divided moons of Penny's hypnotically weaving bottom. There were two vivid lines where the first two cane-strokes had fallen, but the rest of her seat was covered in perhaps a couple of dozen red dots where the very tip of the cane had stung like a giant wasp, jab and away, sting and away, prick and away, each wasp-tail adding its own injection of venom into that previously pristine bottom.

The plain result was that Penny's buttock-muscles were working in a churning reflex action. Her cheeks clenched tightly, squeezing the cleft between them into a ruler-straight line. Then they relaxed, only to spasm tight again, squeezing the firm mounds together. Open and shut, open and shut. It was the kind of movement, jerky and uncontrolled, that I only experienced myself when Gus worked me to that zenith of perfection and I burst forth inwardly, yielding and grateful for his steady loving attentions. Indeed, I had previously had no idea that a cane could make a dainty feminine bottom like Penny's do what in my experience was normally inspired by the action of another rod altogether. And still the spasms went on! I guessed Penny was desperately trying to dissipate the wasp stings, though the appearance of her posterior contortions gave an altogether different and supremely erotic impression.

The jostling, bucking and contracting had a mesmerising effects on us both as we stood, highly aroused, with our noses against the glass. I think Gus would have liked my sister's lovely smooth bottom to go on clenching and unclenching like that, rhythmically gripping and ungripping, tightening and relaxing forever. Although I was becoming envious again of the rapt attention he was paying it I sensed that, like myself, he was wondering whether there was any pleasure now beginning to meld with the self-evident pain. I did nothing to distract his looking. I must admit that my sister's spongy undulations had a remarkable effect on me: I actually felt myself doing it too, clenching and unclenching my own buttocks – whether in sympathy or excited unison I could not be sure.

Finally Penny gained control, first of her stinging bottom and then of herself. She must, I am sure, have realised that although Robert had at first determined to show her no mercy, he had in fact been kinder with his flurry of wasp stings than if he had delivered six single, full-out strokes – and that the darting, nippy cane had stung, certainly, but not burned and flared deep and hard as it might otherwise have done.

We continued to watch through the glass, open-mouthed in a kind of wonder as Penny began to pick herself up, then walked slowly and penitently towards Robert, her head hung down and arms outstretched in entreaty, asking to be forgiven.

'I'll never do it again,' we heard her say in a tiny, plaintive voice, so alien to her normal bright confidence. 'Not even think about it, my darling Bobby. Not ever again, I really promise. I'm sorry... I deserved it all.'

It was then that Gus switched off the eavesdropping system and told me to help him replace the picture. As the adjoining room regained its boundaries he took my hand and, with a gentle yet urgent movement, reminded me of what I had earlier seen him adjusting. And later than that, after Gus had shown me visible evidence of how eagerly he needed attention, and I had sought tactile confirmation of his stunning firmness of purpose, another set of girlish buttocks began to clench and unclench, tighten and relax beneath him, and another feminine voice was moaning and whimpering, gasping and crying out...

I felt so pleased, and so naughty, that I do believe I deserve the cane.