The New Riding Whip

Story from Janus 68.

The New Riding Whip
by Michael Burntwood

HER upper body was pressed against the steering-wheel, and her dazzlingly pretty face gaped aghast through the windscreen. She had hit something! After several stunned seconds she straightened up in the driver's seat, suddenly pale beneath the suntan which still lingered from those fragrant weeks in the Greek islands. Strands of golden hair obscured her wide, vividly blue eyes, for her head had jerked forward at the collision. Shakily, feeling faint, she pushed the hair back from her flawless forehead and opened the door of the brand-new Jaguar. Stepping out on long, lissome legs she stretched her lithe young body and smoothed the rucked-up skirt over her slender hips. Then, with tingling nerves and a sick feeling of dread, Alicia Thornfield walked to the front of the gleaming vehicle to inspect the damage.

The wheelbarrow she had driven into lay crushed and splintered on the broad gravel driveway, but this was not what the girl was staring at. The offside wing of the Jaguar was shockingly defaced by dents and scratches, and the headlamp and the blinker were smashed! The awful sight made her inhale deeply, pushing her tip-tilted breasts against the sheer silk fabric of her blouse.

Desperately she turned and looked around for someone to blame for this disaster, for the fool who had put the wheelbarrow there, right where it shouldn't be, in the middle of the drive into which she had just turned the car. In the distance she observed Rogerson, the gardener, hurrying towards her shaking his grey-haired head; and even then the mettlesome young woman's full red lips curled with distaste to see how his startled gaze roamed over her bare legs beneath the tight skirt.

'You damn well ought to know better than to leave your stupid barrow here!' Alicia shouted, stamping her foot in fury and fright. Even to the unimaginative gardener she looked petite and doll-like, almost unreal in her perfection of feminine shapeliness. It could have been that French actress, Bardot – re-formed and scarcely 21 again – raging at him beside his employer's distressingly damaged vehicle. The agile figure was daintily trim, little-waisted, with breasts like apples quivering under translucent silk, the trim thighs succulent – her legs smooth, sun-browned stems more lovely than the loveliest bloom in the orchid-house from where he had hurried on hearing the distant crump. To the gardener, she looked rather like a flower herself.

But the aloofly alluring nymphet face, achingly pretty, was red and twisted now as she screeched at him, scattering the soft, honey-gold hair about that perfect head.

'You silly old bastard, I've a sodding good mind to... to...'

'Ooh, dear,' said Rogerson, dragging to a stop. 'Ooh, my, Miss Alicia. Your stepdad won't be too happy when he sees what you've done to his new car!'

'What I've done, I've done?' the girl wailed. 'How was I supposed to know that bloody wheelbarrow was here? It was your fault. I was looking at the rose-bushes when I drove in.'

'With respect, Miss,' ventured Rogerson, 'Sir Robert told me to leave it here when he called me to the orchid-house. And anyway, there's plenty of room on either side. If you'd been lookin' where you should've been...'

'Shut up!' she shrilled. 'Fix it, do something useful! Before he sees it, too!'

The gardener shook his head, well used – as were the other servants – to the stormy temper of this spoiled, succulent slip of a girl; a temper remarkably similar to that of Sir Robert, her stepfather, with whom he had just been discussing orchids. Uncomfortably similar, the man thought, and almost smiled.

'Ain't nothing I can fix, Miss,' said Rogerson. 'That'll need a crash repair job down the garage.'

'Oh, you're absolutely hopeless!' Abruptly the girl swung round on her heels, and the man caught his breath at the sudden sight of her tightly-compacted little rump wiggling roundly beneath the clinging skirt as she hurried up the broad stone stairs to the entrance-door of the stately, ivy-smothered house.

As Alicia hastened to the temporary sanctuary of her room, cold spurts of dread pulsed through her, which quickly heated to panic that made her heart bump. She had borrowed her stepfather's car on one of those reckless impulses of hers, believing him to be away. Certainly he would never have allowed her. After all, she had a car of her own – but it was a lot more fun to drive a brand-new Jaguar than a three-year-old VW Golf. And, damn it, he'd obviously come back while she was out on the road and, assuming his car to be in the garage, was pottering about with his wretched orchids! Now Rogerson would blurt it all out. It was only a question of time. She decided to escape on her horse, Athos, for a few hours until her stepfather's anticipated wrath had cooled. Just in case, dreadfully, he took it into his head (and hand!) to do to her again what he'd done last week or so when she'd broken one of his ugly antique vases in an outburst of pique! The very thought of that made the girl squirm.

In her bedroom Alicia hastily stripped off her day-clothes and scrabbled in the cupboard for her riding-gear. As she leaned forward to work her ankles into the narrow jodhpurs she paused, catching sight of her bent-over bottom in the cheval-glass mirror. The plumply-curved mounds, scarcely covered by the flimsy lace panties, were still marked with two pale pink stripes on the silky skin where the buttocks swelled out from the tops of her pretty thighs. Marks from that excruciating caning he had dared to give her last week! Faintly swollen, slightly raised, they tingled as her fingers touched them. This ghostly tingling returned the girl to her urgent need for haste, and she quickly straightened, hauling up the skin-tight breeches...

'How could that wretched girl run straight into a barrow when there's room for at least ten cars?' Sir Robert was exclaiming, dangerously red in the face as he surveyed the crushed wing of his coveted Jaguar. At six-feet-three and shaking with rage, he made a daunting sight. Some thirty years ago he had boxed for the University and rowed stroke in their best 'eight'. Now in his fifties, a handsome-featured man who had not only retained the hair on his head but most of its sable colouring, he stood straight and powerful, protesting his ill-fortune in an operatic baritone. Ordering the gardener to arrange for the car to be mended at the garage in the village, he stalked off towards the house, determined to have a serious chat with his seemingly incorrigible stepdaughter.

He strode into the spacious hallway and paused, breathing harshly in an effort to control his fury as his hot glare settled on the umbrella-stand, which bristled with brollies and sticks. From it he selected a smart new lady's riding-whip, which he angrily swished through the air. Then he walked through to his private study at the back of the house, thwacking the thin crop against the palm of his hand with a thoughtful but determined expression. Picking up the internal telephone he rang the housekeeper, Mrs White, and asked her to tell his stepdaughter to come down immediately.

Mrs White smiled grimly as she walked up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the corner of the building. At her approach the door flew open and Miss Alicia dashed out, dressed for riding in those skin-tight breeches which hugged across her eye-catching buttocks and so tantalised the male staff. The young mistress was also wearing a white blouse, and calf-length boots on which she wobbled away towards the back stairs, clearly anxious not to be seen.

'Miss Alicia!' the housekeeper called. The girl froze in her tracks, and when she turned her face was flushed and her lovely blue eyes looked feverish. 'Sir Robert would like you down in his study, please.'

'I-I have to take Athos out for his daily exercise,' the girl replied as nonchalantly as she could. 'Tell him you haven't seen me, okay?'

'Your stepfather knows you're in, and was most insistent that you come down at once,' intoned the housekeeper with a somewhat malicious smile: like most of the domestic staff, she had more than once been on the receiving end of this beautiful, willowy girl's temper. 'By the way,' the woman added, 'I noticed that Sir Robert took your new riding-whip from the hall stand. It's in his study with him. I expect you'll need it later, when you go riding.' With that Mrs White swung round and clomped away, scarcely concealing her excitement and pleasure at what might well soon be happening to that spoiled, slender young beauty within a very short space of time.

As Alicia retraced her steps miserably towards the main stairs, unconsciously she let her hands smooth over her narrow hips and backwards across her pert, pouting seat. Through the drum-taut fabric of her breeches she felt again the still-swollen stripes across her compact bottom. This wasn't her lucky week at all. She had got the cane only a few days before, despite her age of almost 21. Now it looked horribly as if she might be in for a taste of her own riding-whip! In a helpless gesture of defiance she tilted her dainty chin and pulled back her shoulders, strangely satisfied at how the buttoned-up blouse tightened across her proudly high-nippled breasts.

Alicia was all too aware of her stepfather's rages. Since her mother had passed away almost three years ago, she had lived alone with him and three servants in this old mansion from which he controlled his companies. All through her teens, Alicia had been high-spirited, but it wasn't until after her mother died that her stepfather began to treat her more like an irresponsible girl than a young lady. She did concede, however, that the physical punishments he had begun to mete out were usually her own fault. Alicia appreciated the continuing luxury of living in this large house with servants, and hadn't made any serious efforts to get a job. After a year at university she had become tired of studies, and defiantly stayed at home. Her stepfather wanted her to accept work in one of his companies, but she had declined; and, after several vain attempts at persuasion, he had become angry and informed her that as long as she was living under his roof without contributing to her own upkeep, she was to obey him and accept his discipline. Meekly, yet sullenly, Alicia had agreed to his terms.

As the girl moved with increasing trepidation towards the combined library and study where Sir Robert worked when at home, the breeches seemed to cling extra tightly to her hips and thighs. Alicia liked them like that, enjoying clothes which presented her figure to advantage. At the door she paused, breathed deeply, yet again, and raised her knuckles to knock. Then she lowered them, and realised she was trembling.

On the other side of the stout mahogany door the incensed step-parent paced impatiently about as he waited for his errant young charge to appear. His gaze wandered around the room with its well-stocked bookcases and fine old oak panelling, finally coming to rest on the supple riding-whip he had placed prominently on the large, leather-topped desk. For a moment he mentally pictured Alicia's girlishly sleek-skinned flanks, and experienced a somewhat guilty, steadily-rising excitement. The whip had been a gift to the girl when he had bought Athos for her; and he had always thought how exhilarating it would be to use it on Alicia's truly attractive bottom. Her bare bottom as naked as that of her horse! Sir Robert squared his heavy shoulder and couldn't suppress a sigh, very much aware of the particular quality of pleasure such thoughts gave him. It was a heady feeling akin to the intoxication afforded by champagne, only more so!

Last time, some ten days ago, he had made her bend over this same writing-desk. Alicia had been wearing a ridiculously brief skirt, which he considered frankly indecent. Furious as Sir Robert had already been on account of the girl's clumsiness, the riveting sight of those round, packed-to-bursting rumps and silky thigh-backs had flooded the man's senses with a great glow of well-being; of supreme anticipation! He had turned up her skirt and uncovered a pair of deliciously-shaped buttocks encased in pink nylon knickers with a pattern of small flowers and a lace edging. He had been in something of a daze as he picked up the cane and delivered ten crisp whacks across that gorgeous rear, remembering only that the girl had complained with sharp aaaooauuuches and oowwws, though probably more loudly than she had reason to, for in his rapt condition he had not hit hard.

After the caning Alicia hadn't wept much, but had snifflingly promised him to behave better in future. In the intervening days, however, Sir Robert had found himself secretly hoping that his beautiful 20-year-old stepdaughter would revert to her true nature. And now, sure enough, with this inexcusable 'borrowing' and damaging of his Jaguar, the wilful girl had played straight into his more-than-willing hands.

Now he began to positively savour the imminent encounter. As Alicia had protested at how, during her caning, the desk-edge had bit into her hips at the front, he now decided to have the girl lying across the arm support of the leather-clad sofa. Thus she would have her hips raised higher, which would prevent her from attempting to stand up between the strokes to rub her bottom as she had tried to do before.

At the uncharacteristically timid rap on the door the big man stiffened more tensely in his brown gardening tweeds, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.

'Come!' he barked.

The door crept open and Alicia stepped into the study. In her riding-habit, with well-polished riding-boots, her slender figure was indeed a fetching sight to behold. He always enjoyed seeing her in that costume, with white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck, and tight khaki breeches snugly contouring her buttocks, thighs and hips. On horseback, with helmet and jacket on too, she always caught the eyes of the spectators. On this occasion, though, he was to be the sole spectator; and he intended it to be a spectacle very much worth the watching. Sir Robert's heavily handsome features hardened, and his eyes were like flints. The only gestures which betrayed the excitement he felt were the way his fingers pushed through his white-flecked hair and his firm, grave mouth twitched at the corners.

'Shut the door, Alicia,' he said quietly. Blushing, and in increasing dread, the girl obeyed. She took a few steps forward and then her eyes grew round on seeing her own flexible plaited riding-whip on the desk over which she had sprawled that last dreadful time.

'I-I'm sorry about the car, honestly I am,' she said. Her voice trembled. Demurely she held her eyes downcast, then dared a glance at him from beneath long eyelashes.

'Being "sorry" simply isn't enough, Alicia,' her stepfather rapped. 'You blithely take my new car without permission – that, in itself, would have been offence enough to justify how I now intend to deal with you.' His voice grew in force and pitch, so that each word made the girl flinch as if from a slap. 'But you then, through sheer wanton recklessness, drive it into a barrow and have the gall to try and put the blame on the gardener!'

Feeling increasingly apprehensive, panting with growing agitation, Alicia was shifting her weight and fidgeting as she tried to find a way out of this appalling scrape. She had a genuinely guilty look on her face now, and did her best to avoid his angry glare. But her flinching gaze only settled again on the riding-whip.

'Look at me, young lady,' he rasped. 'Raise your head and look me in my eyes when I'm talking to you!'

Alicia's neat white teeth showed as she bit at her lower lip and glanced up at him from under wet, trembling lashes. Tears had appeared in her large blue eyes. 'Please, father, I've said I'm sorry,' the girl implored. 'It will hurt so much!' Desperately, Alicia tried another tack. 'Look, I'm almost 21 now! I-I'll pay for the damage somehow, but please don't use that on me. I'm a grown woman now, I'm...'

Sir Robert towered above her as she wheedled and wept. The very sight of that graceful young woman with the honey-gold hair, enchanting face and wringing hands might have melted the heart of a less imaginative man. But Alicia's stepfather's imagination was too strong to deny his heated mental images the fulfilment of reality. He swelled his great chest, lifted his strong-jawed head higher, and picked up the girl's own riding-whip.

'Alicia,' he intoned gravely, tapping his broad palm with the springy shaft, 'I have already told you that you have no one to blame but yourself for the predicament you are in – and you will pay in the manner I have chosen.' She gasped as he moved around the desk towards her. 'Get over there to the sofa,' he instructed, almost softly now. 'I want you across the arm support with your feet to the floor.'

Instinctively, Alicia turned to obey. With hands clasped to the seat of her smartly-tailored breeches she moved most unwillingly to the sofa, daring to hope that he would at least let her keep her breeches on. She had used that new leather switch quite often enough lately when riding Athos. It stung even him, so she was well aware of its whipping quality. The trim young woman stopped close to the arm support and cast a pleading glance back at her stepfather, searching for words that might stop this happening. None came.

'Take your breeches down,' came the command.

'No, please!" Alicia's voice grew shrill as her hands flew to the waistband of her pants – not to release it but to hold them in position.

'Take them down, or I shall do it for you!' His voice was implacable, and she could hear him breathing harshly.

'Oh. No. No-o. Please, stepfather, let me keep them on!'

'Do as I tell you, Alicia,' he ordered, and the young lady knew there was nothing else for her but to obey. Wretchedly she fumbled with the buttons, five on each side of the drum-tight breeches. She undid them slowly, clumsily, fingers trembling, till the side-splits fell open. Yet still she held her breeches up. When Alicia glanced imploringly at him, she saw him taking the leather whip from the table, and quickly averted her eyes. Glowering, yet inwardly elated, Sir Robert stepped up behind his quavering stepdaughter, thwacking his palm with unmistakable intention.

'Let them down to your knees,' he ordered, noting with further quiet pleasure the hem of her blouse and a nylon garment in green and white through the slit-opening. Defiantly, desperately, Alicia continued to hold her breeches up.

'Please, father,' she begged, 'i-it will hurt too much. You know I'm still sore...' The girl increased her sobbing, frantic to be spared this punishment which she had dreaded from the moment the car had hit the wheelbarrow. Her face was red and swollen from the tears, and she felt utterly ashamed. Yet, in an act of obstinacy which marked her character, she continued to tug up the breeches as high as she could. And, because she was at the same time bending slightly forward, the fabric stretched very tightly around her protruding, deliciously apple-shaped behind. It was an enticement impossible to resist. Sir Robert raised the switch and let it swish through the air to land with a dull swat right across where the cloth was the most taut.

Alicia let out a shrill yelp. The smart was perfectly atrocious. She felt it penetrate in stinging waves even through her breeches, and at once she jumped to the side, half-turning her back away from him.

'Are you ready to obey me now?' asked Sir Robert harshly, raising the whip again. The lovely girl whimpered, hesitating only a moment more before she pushed the breeches down, unveiling a pair of the flimsiest green-and-white chequered knickers with a narrow lace edging around the thighs. Then she turned with a deep sigh, face glittering with tears as she looked beseechingly at her stepfather, the khaki riding-breeches wrinkled around her knees in a most humiliating manner. 'And the knickers, please.'

This time the proud girl gaped. 'No!' she exclaimed. 'You can't mean...?'

'But I do mean, Alicia,' the big man retorted, feeling the glowing within him enhance to a quiet radiance. 'You will pull your knickers down so that your buttocks are entirely bare.' As if to underline his instruction, he lightly tapped the bare skin of her thighs below the knicker-legs. 'Now!'

Slowly, as if resigned at last to her fate, Alicia put her thumbs inside the elastic round her waist and sobbingly stooped to pull the scant protection down. With the globes of her buttocks thus starkly bared, and desperately shy in case he might see her exposed front, she quickly bent over the leather chair-arm and stretched herself out on her tummy, legs slightly apart and dangling down, hiding her face in her open hands.

Seeing his stepdaughter bent submissively across the sofa with her bare bottom uppermost, Sir Robert yielded to an irresistible temptation to examine more closely Alicia's enticingly attractive buttocks. So gorgeously curved they were, with flinching muscles in the springy flesh. It was a perfect bottom, like some succulent peach, pushed high by the arching of its owner's supple spine to receive its well-deserved chastisement.

'It's your flagrant disobedience which has merited this thrashing,' Sir Robert now summarised in low, even tones. 'You must learn responsibility for your actions, Alicia.' He stood to one side of her prostrate body, noting with great satisfaction how her buttock-muscles tensed and jumped under the silken flesh. Flexing the riding-whip, he raised his arm. 'As you soon will be 21,' he told her, 'I have decided to be more strict with you than before. On the last occasion you received ten. Today it will have to be fifteen.'

'Please,' she gasped. 'Please, you can't. I-I still have marks from the cane; you know my skin is so sensitive... Aaaaowwwch!' Alicia had hardly finished her protest when a hissing in the air was followed by a crisp smack and her complaining shriek of pain from the ferocious sting the riding-whip caused as it smote smartly across her naked, flinching bottom. The thin, flexible leather at once recoiled and landed again below its first mark, though not quite so hard as the initial blow. Involuntarily the girl stretched her body rigidly and her arms shot forward as her feet lifted from the floor. For several seconds she lay stiffly horizontal, whimpering as she fought to absorb the pain.

'Put your feet down, Alicia,' he told her sharply. 'I want your bottom bent tightly over.'

In a mist of anguish and embarrassment Alicia did as bidden, thrusting her knuckles into her mouth as if biting them would prevent her from yelling out for the next stroke, and the next.

As Sir Robert swung back the riding-crop, warming to his enviable task, the oppressive weight of day-to-day business problems seemed to lift from him, to be replaced by a heady sensation of glorious release. The sound the crop made as it whipped through the air, the feel of its meaty impact on those so-sweet pillows of flesh, were like elixir to his soul.

Whiissh- SPLACK!

'Uuuhuuu,' the girl sobbed, wriggling her so very vulnerable bottom in a rage of pain and humiliation. Through the raspings her body made as it bucked and threshed against the leather chair-arm she remembered something her stepfather had said when he had beaten her before, that she ought to be grateful as long as she could atone for her transgressions in this way, because the alternative might one day be prison and public disgrace...

Sswiish-whack! Even as she cried out, she shuddered at the thought of being locked away in a shabby cell. Instead, it seemed, her own elegant, expensive riding-whip was scoring another burning mark diagonally across her left buttock, and the last inches of the switch etched a far more painful stripe across the back of her right thigh.

'Aaaghh, please – please NO!'

Ssswiiish! That smack came too soon after its predecessor. Alicia had scarcely time to release the shrill yelp which accompanied it, before the doubled smart in her bottom forced her to emit a shrieking, gasping, unintelligible croak.

For a few moments Sir Robert paused to allow his quailing stepdaughter to catch her breath. The man's eyes glowed with the pleasure of a connoisseur being richly satisfied as he surveyed those round, ripe rumps now striped and crimsoning. He was in heaven! Sucking in air he again poised his hand high above the seductive target and brought the riding-whip whistling down.

Ssssplaatt! A new stripe burned across the resilient girl-flesh just below the crown of her rippling cheeks, and again Alicia emitted a cry of anguish. And then, like before, while she was squeezing her thighs hard and clenching her buttocks, she received another screeching stroke immediately after, lower down in the tender bottom-skin near the tops of her shuddering legs. Alicia gave a gurgling cry and squirmed violently, wrenching her semi-nude body and removing her scorching buttocks from the target area.

Sir Robert paused as the following stroke was about to descend, then bent and grasped Alicia's left arm and forced her back into position over the padded leather support while the miserable girl pleaded and wept.

'P-p-please, stepfather – please, no more. I c-can't take it...' Alicia blubbered.

There are eight more to come, Alicia,' he told her harshly. 'You're old enough to be brave and take the punishment you've earned, without making so much fuss! If you turn your bottom again I will add more strokes!' For a few moments Sir Robert let his stepdaughter rest. She had never in her life been thrashed so severely, but the lesson would be salutary. In the brief break, as her sniffles subsided and her sweet young body settled, he savoured anew the uniquely intoxicating sights and sounds of the whipping, the girl's mews and groans, and the feel of the pliant riding-switch so light and lively in his grip.

Stretched across the arm of the sofa, Alicia welcomed the pause. She tried to relax and make her body go limp, pressing her knuckles to her lips as she waited for the thrashing to resume, very much aware of her stepfather standing close behind and breathing hard as he regarded her red-striped, twitching, wincing bottom. Then he again, slowly, raised the switch – aiming at the pinkened tenderness where Alicia's thighs swelled lusciously into the half-globes of her pertly provocative, temptingly-patterned behind.

Hwissh-thwack! The riding-whip sped down and struck accurately across the creases which marked the undercurves, forcing fresh shrillness from the girl's lips; and while her buttocks were still trembling from the impact the switch fell once more, a little higher up, flattening the flesh and making her whole bottom wobble.


Alicia gasped and cried, raising her hips as if to meet the next stroke on its journey down, but her stepfather deliberately waited until she was again lying prone with her belly pressed to the chair-arm before he swept the whip down. The stroke made its authoritative crisp report and a new red mark showed how the whip had hit across both her thighs immediately below the clenched buttocks.

Wailing and blubbering as she was, Alicia was by now doing her best to prepare herself for the pain each time the springy whip bit into her smarting flesh, and the sheer physical tension caused the muscles of her crimsoned bottom to move in flinching and twitching movements by themselves. She began to feel a sense of pride in not crying out when the riding-whip struck into her flesh.

The next followed almost at once and hit right across the tops of her bare half-moons; and this time only a stifled moan left her mouth, though she could not prevent her hips from jerking up and down. Alicia further began to find that the pang of the smacks was not unendurable – or so she was able to convince herself. There was of course no question about the fact that he was punishing her most severely, and she had to weep because the tears helped to alleviate the stinging pain and made it possible for her to submit. The repeated twinges which shot through her bottom when the riding-whip landed to decorate her skin with still another red-glowing stripe, caused her to blubber – though much more quietly now, and this blubbering helped her to keep the position in which her stepfather wanted her.

Sir Robert had been counting the strokes in his head, but now he started to grunt them out loud. When Alicia heard 'Twelve', she began to feel relieved. And then, at last, she heard him counting 'Fourteen' and 'Fifteen'. For at least a minute afterwards, as she continued to lie across the leather chair-arm feeling her bottom throbbing hot and sore, tears coursed down Alicia's pretty cheeks, and all that could be heard was the gradual slowing of his grunting breaths and her own soft snifflings.

At length Sir Robert put the riding-whip back on his desk, almost with reverence, and for a while he stood back and examined, with silent admiration and a profound satisfaction, Alicia's red-patterned, comely young bottom. The fawn jodhpurs had slipped down round her ankles and the green-and-white knickers were wrinkled below her knees. There were stripes all over her shapely posteriors, and also a few long red marks across the backs of her thighs.

'All right, Alicia,' he said, his voice a little tired now after the elation he had experienced. 'You can get up now. I hope that you will always remember this lesson. It wasn't really to use it like this that I bought this riding-whip for you.'

Alicia struggled to regain her feet and composure, pushing herself exhaustedly up from the sofa-arm. For a moment she held both hands to her face to wipe off her tears, before realising that she was displaying herself to him in front. She quickly stooped and pulled up her knickers, yet scarcely seemed to care that the breeches were still round her feet.

'Yes, stepfather,' the girl sniffled. 'I will try to behave, honestly I will.' She looked down meekly then added, almost saucily: 'I-I'm so sore now, I don't know if I'll be able to take Athos out for his exercise today.'

Sir Robert smiled, then frowned with some effort at the tearful girl who looked so vulnerable and charming in her white blouse and skimpy panties with the rest of her clothing down around her legs. A far cry from the normal, proud and bossy Alicia.

'But you had better,' he admonished her. 'That horse needs his run, and a sore bottom doesn't hurt a great deal more because you are sitting on it. Pull up your breeches now, then go and wash your face and get along to the stables. You know you like riding Athos.'

Alicia couldn't resist a furtive rub at her bottom-cheeks before bending and tugging the jodhpurs back up her legs, fingers fumbling as she re-fastened the five buttons at each side. The breeches felt even tighter now, perhaps because she was more sensitive where they fitted closest! At least, she sighed, her punishment was over.

Half an hour later the girl hurried away to the stables feeling very much better. Her stepfather had appeared to be in an excellent mood and had patted her – still somewhat painfully – on her behind when she had come back to fetch her riding-whip from his study. Indeed, so relaxed did he seem, Sir Robert hadn't even forbidden her to use her own car or to visit her friend after dinner.

In the cobbled yard that smelled of horses and hay the groom, Hubert, helped her to saddle Athos – who still was too young to stand still when the leather encumbrance was put on his back. After Alicia had checked the length of the stirrups, she led the fretful stallion out into the field and climbed somewhat stiffly into the saddle while Hubert held him.

'Be careful now, Miss Alicia,' cautioned Hubert, patting the horse's flank. 'Athos isn't too safe yet. Remember what your stepfather often says, that if you have to use the riding-whip, then do it gently and with very light taps.'

The old groom simply could not understand, and nor would Alicia have been able to explain to him, why she allowed her horse to race away in such an uncontrollable manner. Nor why as Athos surged into a gallop with almost slack reins and his shapely rider bumped up and down in the saddle, shrill little squeals could be heard from Alicia all the way into the distance.

The Rumour

Story from Janus 52.

The Rumour
by Michael Burntwood

MOST girls at our school like him. Some have a crush on him and there are those who never seem to cease talking about him.

Mr Brisson, our Art Master, is tall and slender and very handsome to look at. Some girls in the classes he takes prefer to rest their eyes on him during lessons instead of occupying themselves with boring schoolwork. His wavy hair is dark brown and he has a tiny moustache, which a lot of us teenaged girls dream of feeling against our skin if he once would kiss us. But then there is the rumour.

Nelly and I learned the truth about that rumour in a hard way. We did not know that it was more than a rumour. In our school a girl never complains about the way he sometimes taps her on the seat of her skirt. The girls like that little touch of his hand. Some girls blush, but they don't move away, hoping he will do it again.

The rumour is quite exciting and tells that he once took two 17-year-old girls across his knee and spanked them, for having made obscene drawings and caused quite a commotion by showing their masterpieces to classmates. But not even the girls in his class know if he really did do that. The truth is a deeply-hidden secret between the three persons involved.

Nelly and I came to learn that Mr Brisson actually is capable of dealing with naughty girls in the way such girls deserve. Now we would truly have preferred it to be a secret from us too, if what happened was the truth behind that rumour.

I don't think anyone could imagine my feelings while I was sitting there on that hard chair nervous and miserable, watching the sight in front of me. On the chairback behind me my skirt was hanging and if I looked down, which I mostly did, I could see my tie bulging over my breasts which felt taut and sensitive inside my white blouse. Below the hem of my blouse I saw my navy blue knickers and the bare strip of skin between them and my nylon stockings, above which tight white suspenders stretched from the stocking tops up under the legs of my faded and now somewhat outgrown knickers. My legs were trembling, so I had to hold them with my hands on my knees and I was too ashamed to look up. I felt more naked without my skirt on than I would have done in the showers and I was frightened. I wished I could close my ears in the same way as I shut my eyes, so that I wouldn't have to hear.

In front of me was my best friend Nelly. It was her voice that I heard. Sometimes she had her face turned towards me and sometimes she was looking away. Nelly is one of the prettiest girls in the whole of our school, with long curly blonde hair and an oval face with big blue eyes. She has a cute little nose and rather small pouting lips. But this was not how I saw her now. When she turned her face in my direction it was contorted. Her cheeks were flushed and tears dropped from her eyes. Wailings, squealing sounds and cries came from her mouth.


Nelly wasn't sitting up, as I was. She was lying down. Her shoulders and head were close to the floor and she had her hands on the parquet floorboards for support. Her long shapely legs were pendulating up and down. She was stretched out across the lap of our Art Master. Her tummy rested on his thighs.

Mr Brisson hadn't asked her to take her skirt off, as he had me. Nelly had hers on because she was wearing her school uniform with the pleated skirt, whereas I had chosen that day to dress in an almost pencil-tight quite short skirt in the same colour, but which they didn't like me to wear at school.

Nelly's skirt was turned up round her waist and her navy blue knickers were not where knickers are supposed to be. They were pulled down to barely a few inches from the backs of her knees. She was wearing knee-length white socks, not stockings, so her thighs were bare except for where the knickers encircled them.

It was Mr Brisson's flat palm which was causing her to make all that heart-thumping noise. He was spanking her naked bum with resounding slaps and his intention was to make her regret the commotion that she and I, or to be more correct, I and she had brought about during his lesson. There was double proof that he was doing well. First the blubbering cries from Nelly's mouth and secondly the ever-growing bright red patches across my friend's well-rounded and very cute, now wobbling and flinching girlish bottom.

I really didn't want to watch, but I couldn't avoid hearing the loud, sharp slapping sounds when his hand time and time again met Nelly's bouncing bottom-cheeks. These noises and the sounds from her lips set my nerves on edge in the most alarming way.

I and my contemporaries are well aware of how a spanking makes a girl's bottom sore, but I would gladly have changed places with Nelly if I had been allowed to because I knew I was not to be let off with a mere spanking. I had to sit there and wait for my turn. Before Mr Brisson had started to punish Nelly he had sent me to open a cupboard and take out a long ugly-looking cane, hard and shiny and frightening. That cane was lying across my thighs waiting to be made use of when Nelly no longer was an object for his attention. I had to sit there apprehensive and scared and very envious of Nelly, who was to be let off more lightly than I. Of course my best friend had cause to blubber and wince like an eel, as she did. When I at times furtively glanced at them, I could see that her appleformed very girlish compact little bottom was red like stoplights, but thinking about myself I wished for him to go on a few minutes more.

Her spanking came to an end and it was much too soon.

Whining and with her knickers below her knees now, Nelly stood up and Mr Brisson sent her to stand in the corner. She was not allowed to pull her knickers up, but he said nothing about her skirt. She didn't have to hold it up as girls sometimes must, to be made really ashamed.

What afterwards happened to me I would rather not tell. To girls of seventeen a spanking doesn't mean so much, it's more embarrassing than painful. A caning on the contrary is something quite else. That was what I was going to get. I disliked having to stand up and hand that lithe instrument to him. His eyes were looking me over and it was awful, because I didn't have my skirt on. It is truly humiliating to have to stand as I had to. I didn't know where to put my hands. My blouse ended above my belly-button and I knew his gaze was directed below that level. Even when I closed my eyes I could feel him staring at me and it made me very nervous. It was a relief that my navy blue school knickers weren't of the see-through kind. But I had goose-pimples on my naked skin at the tops of my thighs. It would surely have been less shameful if I hadn't been wearing nylon stockings and a suspender belt. My cheeks were hot with blushing.

Mr Brisson stood up and grabbed my arm right below my shoulder. He led me to his chair, which he turned round. He ordered me curtly to bend over its back. I had never been told to do so before, but I was trembling with fear and knew there was no way I would dare to disobey him. The position he wanted me to take would make me arch my bottom up for him to cane. At that moment there was just one thing I longed and prayed for, and that was to find some way out – that a miracle would happen so that I wouldn't have to feel that horrible cane across my bottom.

There was one thing I could be sure of and that was that I would not find a way out. I hated the cane at school and I hated the cane at home. The pain was terrible and the marks on my bottom stayed for many days before they started to fade.

I was on the verge of tears, but I knew I had to obey. I cast a swift glance at Nelly in the corner. She was standing there with her legs apart and her knickers round her calves, blue against her white socks. She was still rubbing her eyes with her knuckles because she wasn't allowed to rub her smarting bottom.

My knees were weak as I bent over. With clumsy hands I clasped my fingers hard round the edge of the seat. The top of the back-rest dug into the upper fronts of my thighs and I was aware of Mr Brisson moving round behind me to stand close to my left side, cane in hand. Nelly was still whimpering faintly.

The anticipation was absolutely dreadful. I closed my eyes and my body was trembling. My knickers stretched taut across my bottom which felt so exposed and vulnerable, and I prayed that he would let me keep them on. The cane was going to hurt much more than his hand had hurt Nelly. But in despair I felt his cold fingers coming up inside my blouse at my hips and waist. He inserted them inside the elastic waistband and I fidgeted and the first tears wet my cheeks. Such things do not take long. In a few seconds only, my knickers had been pulled down to mid-thigh, baring my bottom. I sobbed in desperation and to stand properly I had to move my feet apart and backwards to keep my balance. It was now that I became aware of how uncomfortable it was to have to bend over the back of a chair like this. Its wooden top edge now pressed hurtfully into my tummy, making me stand on the balls of my feet to alleviate it. Fearing the worst and feeling very precarious, I had to listen to him.

'I'll give you ten, young lady,' Mr Brisson declared sternly. His words naturally added to my despair and desperately I pleaded for leniency but to no avail. Instead I felt his left hand pushing down hard on the small of my back as his booming voice admonished me.

'I told you, it will be ten,' he repeated. 'I'll count them myself Jeanette, so you don't have to. Just don't fidget too much because if the cane doesn't hit where it is supposed to teach young girls to behave, it will not count,' he said pedantically, but I could hear the pleasure in his voice. 'Be still and don't clench that nice little bottom of yours.' He paused tapping me with the cane across my buttocks. 'You ought to know by now that it hurts less if you are relaxed.'

There was a pause again and the cane wasn't touching my skin any more. And then he continued, 'Now this is number one.'

WHAAACK! The swishing sound before the cane hit my flesh was too short a warning.

'Aaaoooouuuh!' I squealed and pressed my thighs together scissoring my calves as the pain seared through my bottom. Just as the first stroke always does, the shocking scorching sting came as a complete surprise and made me realise I had forgotten how awfully it hurts to be smacked or caned. And a caning always hurts far much more than a spanking.

'Number two now, Jeanette.'

That same vicious whistling sound... 'Yyyeeeooooww!' It really did hurt down there close to my thighs, but I forced myself to stay still.

'Number three.'

'Oooouuuch!' The cane struck straight across the middle of my buttocks but not so hard this time.

'Four, Jeanette.' I didn't like the sound of his voice.

There was a pause of waiting first and then it fell.

'Aaoooouuh!' This one hit me lower down and stung wildly. My bottom jerked a lot and I started crying for real.

'This is five.'

'Ooouuuch!' Higher up and it didn't hurt so much, but I still couldn't help yelping out. I sobbed and panted, hoping I would be able to take them all without fuss.

'And now this is six.'

The cane really stung this time. It felt much worse. I screamed out and my cheeks were suddenly wet with tears. The pain in my bottom was maddening. My legs were quaking and the chairback felt sharp against my tummy.


Faintly through my blubbering cries I heard, 'Seven'. And this was the stroke I had feared all along. The cane whipped across my thighs above my stocking-tops, blazing like the devil. Involuntarily I pushed the chair forward and my position was now even more awkward and uncomfortable.

'Eight now.'

I kicked both legs upwards as the cane struck again across the tops of my thighs, singeing my skin. My legs are so much more sensitive than my bottom and I detested getting such revealing weals there.

'Nine, Jeanette.' His voice sounded calmer and unaffected, as if this was just a job he had to do. He was punishing a 17-year-old girl for her own good. But I cried of course and for the third time the cane bit sharply into the flesh on the back of both my thighs. The chairback cut hard into my stomach at the same time, but I didn't care about anything except the need of a fire brigade for my burning bottom.

'Ten, now.'

'Ooouuuch! Ooooh! Oohhh!' Thanks anyway, I could have said. I got it across my bottom this last time, like a crackling flame. I cried and cried. My whole bottom was so hot and sore. I knew it was over and my feet found the floor. Mr Brisson held my arm, helping me to stand up.

If he had wanted, I would have promised him anything at that moment if he could guarantee that I would never be caned again. I felt sure he had been terribly strict with me. I knew my bottom and thighs bore many angry smarting weals. Those marks on my thighs meant that I couldn't wear shorts or a bathing-suit or even my gym outfit until they were gone. There was to be no visit to the pool for me this week and I would have to find some excuse for the gym lessons too.

Mr Brisson didn't allow me to pull up my knickers. He sent me to join Nelly in the corner and Nelly was ordered to lift her skirt and hold it bunched up around her waist at the front. He wanted both of us to stand there with our bottoms on display for his own pleasure and our salutary humiliation.

Nelly held her skirt up with both hands, but as my skirt had been taken away I didn't know what to do with my hands. I desperately wanted to clap them to my bottom in order to soothe the smart in my skin, but I knew Mr Brisson would be angry if I did. At first I crossed them in front to hide the patch of fluffy hair between my thighs, but as my tummy was turned away from him I had no reason to do so and I felt silly holding my hands like that. So I put my arms down by my sides and after a while I let my fingers play with the suspender straps in front of my thighs just to keep them occupied.


I was still sobbing, but Nelly had calmed down. While we were standing there I soon found to my surprise that I didn't feel ashamed at all, as girls are supposed to do when they are sent to the corner. Instead I was thinking about our Art Master who was the only person in the room to see us. I thought he must be feeling satisfied with his efforts. He was looking at two very dejected 17-year-old schoolgirls whose sorely smarting bottoms showed unmistakable signs of a treatment of the kind which has always been prescribed for the bottoms of troublesome teenaged girls. Oh, but it hurt!

Ten or fifteen minutes later we were allowed to dress and leave. Walking home, Nelly and I didn't talk very much. We were both certain that the rumour was true. We promised each other never to tell anyone about what had happened to us. Possibly there would be a new rumour spreading amongst the girls at our school. But we were never going to talk about the old rumour or comment upon the new one concerning Mr Brisson and ourselves. Any girl who wanted to could find out for herself about Mr Brisson's remedy for naughty girls.

Questions and more questions

Story from Janus 57.

Questions and more questions
by Michael Burntwood

Gymshoes pattered over the varnished wooden floor of the gym hall. The netball match had started. It would settle the question, which team was to be appointed to play in the school championship final against the winning team from the fifth form heats.

Long-legged sixth form girls were running up and down from one side to the other following the ball, eager to do their best to win the game and on Parents' Day belong to the team which would show the younger girls that sixth form young ladies as always are the best.

One of the teams was dressed in dark blue leotards and the other wore white sleeveless vests tucked into brief running shorts of shiny red nylon. Today, however, it seemed as if there was something wrong. Miss Hampton, the gym teacher, had to blow her whistle to break the game from time to time.

Again the shrill tone from her whistle sounded within only the first minutes of the match. The game stopped and surprised girls stared at each other in bewilderment. An explanation came when Miss Hampton pointed her arm at one of the girls in a leotard.

Sighs of vexation were heard from several of the players in both teams. The player who had now once again caused Miss Hampton to stop the game was a slim-waisted blonde girl, the only one with a pageboy coiffure. She belonged to the blue team and was dressed in a leotard which seemed to have been outgrown at least a year ago. None of her chums was particularly amazed because they knew that Madelaine, for one reason or another, quite regularly became subject to their teachers' displeasure.

'That was the third time, Madelaine, that you deliberately aimed to hit Lorna with the ball. I can't understand why you are more interested in attacking Sonia and Lorna than doing the best you can to help your team win. It's unfair to them that some of you are fighting all the time. I suppose you and Lorna and Sonia for some reason are on unfriendly terms and can't concentrate on the game. So we will have you three sit down on the bench and keep quiet. Then the rest of the girls can play this game according to the rules. To make the teams even, Carolyn can play for the whites.'

Madelaine, Lorna and Sonia looked sullenly at the teacher and glanced tight-lipped at one another. Then they very sulkily sat down as they had been ordered to, and Miss Hampton signalled for the game to recommence. Slender-built, lissom girls started to run across the floor, following the ball from one side of the hall to the other, calling out with excited voices. But it hardly came as a surprise when, only a couple of minutes later, the whistle blew again and there was a new break.

Girls in both teams now became annoyed because the signal had nothing to do with the game. There was no reason to stop the attack the white team was making towards the basket on the blue side. Though they were now sitting on the bench, the three girls were also the cause of this latest interruption. They had caught the attention of Miss Hampton as they were trying to push each other off the bench. The teacher was obviously more angry this time. In a very harsh tone she ordered the girls to stand up. Exchanging angry glances, the girls obeyed.

The scolding that Miss Hampton bestowed upon the miscreants finished unexpectedly. She sent the three 17-year-old girls to stand in the corner, and to stop them scuffling she ordered them to clasp their hands on their heads. When the girls had obeyed, Miss Hampton turned back to the teams and, clearly irritated, blew her whistle to start the game again.

The players, occupied with the game, did not care at all for the three unruly girls in the corner, even though something quite out of the ordinary had occurred. On very rare occasions it had happened that a girl had been put in the corner during a gym lesson. In the sixth form it had perhaps never happened before. But the girls chasing the ball were totally engaged in the game and going all out to win. Their young bodies in tight-fitting gym outfits flew across the floor on long teenaged legs, firm breasts bouncing and round buttocks jouncing above lithely-tapering thighs.

At times, when the game was stopped, some of the panting girls glanced at the three lanky figures in the corner. Gazing at their backsides and noticing their well-rounded bottoms, they would have welcomed with ill-concealed spitefulness the sight of reddish tramlines marking the skin on the nether halves of the three girls' trim buttocks. Buttocks which Lorna, Sonia and Madelaine were displaying, as the leotard Madelaine had on, and the brief red shorts Sonia and Lorna wore, had ridden up because of their raised arms.

Most of the girls blamed Madelaine for what had happened. There were those, not only in Madeline's team, who had plans to show her what they really felt about her disturbing the game. They surely would know what to do when they returned to the changing room to shower and put on their school uniforms once more. Madelaine could expect to get slaps from hard hands or wet towels on her thighs and buttocks, till she had smarting blemishes on her bottom and the backs and fronts of her long, shapely legs.

The game had not proceeded for more than another five minutes before there was a further outbreak of disorder. Madelaine pinched Sonia's right thigh. Perhaps she did it harder than she had intended. Perhaps Sonia yelped louder than she had cause to. Miss Hampton's whistle stopped the play. Red-faced with anger and looking extremely stern, she turned to the girls in the corner in time to see Madelaine put her left hand back on top of her head. In the harshest tone she demanded an explanation, while the other girls on the floor stared, noticing that Sonia was rubbing her thigh with one hand. Very severely, Miss Hampton held her eyes fixed on the guilty-looking schoolgirl's down-tilted face.

'You are really the most incorrigible girl I've ever had, Madelaine,' she expostulated. 'Now go to my room and wait for me there. You can sit on the chair by the door – and don't you dare do anything else. I'll deal with you after the game. And you, Sonia and Lorna, sit down where you are. I'll have a talk with you when the others are changing.'

Even Madelaine was forced to blush as she trudged alone out of the gym hall with all the girls' eyes upon her. She sat down moodily on the chair in the gym mistress's small room. On the other side of the door, the game started again. She could hear the sounds from the girls. They were however unusually quiet and had good reason to be low-voiced. All were aware that they had better be on their best behaviour. Miss Hampton had already been provoked far enough and would hardly stand for any more nonsense today. None of them wanted to tempt their teacher to resort to still stricter methods in order to maintain her control.

Madelaine now felt far from happy as she sat fidgeting on the hard chair. If she could imagine anything that Miss Hampton had in store for her, she felt certain that it would not be something nice. Her lips were closed and her eyes downcast, as if she were studying her gym shoes. She held her long legs stretched out, her heels resting on the floor and her hands nervously moving up and down along her lithe, silk-skinned thighs.

It was not the first time Madelaine had been in Miss Hampton's room. She had been there before, but never in fear of being punished. It was awful to sit there and have to think about punishments. Shivering, she remembered what other girls had said about a girl who had been taken into this room for some mischief. She recalled what she had heard about where to look. She did not want to turn her eyes in that direction but could not withstand the temptation to check if what she had been told was true.

One look, a mere glance, was enough. It was true. It was there on the second shelf from the top. She could see part of it sticking out. It was the crook-handle end of it.

Madelaine bit her lip hard and rubbed her palms against the thin fabric of her leotard where it tightened across her narrow hips. She felt certain about what was going to happen. Miss Hampton would take that cane down. Then... in that very stern voice she sometimes used, she would tell her to stretch her left hand out, palm upwards... But... what if she wasn't going to cane her across her hand?...

Madelaine shuddered at the thought. Could there be any way for her to escape? All sorts of thoughts raced through her head.

Perhaps she could explain to Miss Hampton what had happened? Why she had been so angry with Lorna and Sonia. It would be embarrassing for her, but maybe just for once the truth would help. Seconds ticked away and became minutes.

Madelaine became more and more anxious, sitting on the chair, waiting for something she hated to think about, but which was inevitable. Unconsciously, she had put her hands in between her thighs, pressing them tight to her crotch. She trembled and felt cold, wearing only the thin, outgrown leotard. She would have liked to convince herself that she was the innocent, injured party, but she could not. It wasn't all the two other girls' fault.

Breathing rather fast, Madelaine straightened up. Through the door she clearly heard Miss Hampton's whistle sounding three times. Madelaine stiffened, sitting up properly on the chair. After a while everything became silent in the gym hall. One of the teams had won the match. Madelaine did not know which one. Then she heard the girls clattering away to the changing room. Cautiously she turned her head and looked across her shoulder at the door with its framed glass pane. She felt a cold shiver run up her spine – a shiver of fear that Miss Hampton was soon going to open that door and enter the small room. Her breath came in rapid gasps and her body rigidly quivered.

But all of a sudden there was a strange sound. A noise that set all her nerves on edge. She heard repeated dull slaps, which were followed by half-suppressed yelps from a girlish voice. Madelaine held her breath and listened intently, her cheeks growing paler. That sort of slapping noise was something she recognised. It had to come from a hand landing hard on tender flesh; the yelps were how a poor girl complained about a smarting pain which increased in her flesh every time the hand bounced up from the firm bottom, where it served the purpose of teaching the young lady how to behave.

Only after at least ten smacking reports did Madelaine become absolutely sure who it was. That was Lorna's voice she heard squealing and whining. The noise went on and on and that kind of sound did not make Madelaine feel more calm. She became acutely scared, for it was obvious that Lorna was not getting off lightly. Minutes seemed to pass before the spanking came to an end and the stomach-churning squealing turned into a blubbering wail.

Madelaine wrung her hands, feeling tears coming into her eyes and a heavy pressure inside her. In a way it was worse to have to listen than to be chastised herself. She strained her ears, hearing what must be Sonia's voice objecting plaintively.

'No... no-oo, Miss Hampton! I haven't done anything! It wasn't me! I don't know why Madelaine pinched me. Please. Pleeeease. Don't. Dooooon't. No-ooo. No-oo, Miss Hampton...'

Though Madelaine was scared, she could not stop herself. On trembling legs she stood up close to the door. Stealthily she raised a corner of the brown-and-white striped curtain and looked through the glass. She saw them in there near the wall to the left. Lorna was standing away from them, holding her hands to her tear-stained face.

Madelaine inhaled sharply and stared at Lorna. She could hardly believe her eyes. Lorna was 17 years old, as they all were. Yet she stood there so shamefully bared. She had her tight red nylon shorts right down and encircling her ankles, and was displaying her flat tummy and the dark triangle of her pubic hair. The lower half of her body was entirely exposed.

But Madeline's eyes almost at once turned away from Lorna, as she caught sight of Sonia, who was half-bent across Miss Hampton's lap. Miss Hampton was sitting on a low vaulting-box, clearly trying to make the eagerly-resisting teenaged girl lie down across her knee. She held Sonia's left wrist with one hand and the other was grasping the girl round her waist.

Madelaine flushed. Never could she have imagined that anything like this could happen to the girls in the sixth form. It was extraordinary. First, Miss Hampton had ordered them to stand in the corner. That was probably the first time ever that girls of their age had been sent to be shamed like that in front of the whole form. But now. This was much worse. Miss Hampton not only spanked girls who were 17 – she even pulled their shorts down and took them across her lap!

Madelaine saw how Sonia struggled in vain to be free. It did not take Miss Hampton long, for the gym mistress was strong. Madelaine almost pressed her nose to the pane of glass. Sonia was perched across Miss Hampton's lap and lay there with her legs floundering. She tried fervently to hold on to her shorts with her right hand, but a few slaps on her thighs made her obedient and the tight-fitting shorts were tugged down. And then Sonia became still, lying with her bottom up quite bare, prepared to be spanked till it was red all over.

The sound from the hard slaps could be heard more clearly now that Madelaine had her face close to the glass, and she could see with her own eyes how the arm was raised and then brought down, the hand rising high in the air and descending with sheer force. The sight of the rippling flesh starting to develop red marks from Miss Hampton's fingers and palm became too much for Madelaine. She closed her eyes. Panting, she slumped down on the chair in great anxiety, convinced that her own punishment was going to be no less shameful. Miss Hampton would certainly perform what she considered to be her duty and it would be on Madeline's behind, not on her hands. It was not much of a consolation to her that Lorna and Sonia were also going to leave school today with red and tender bottoms.

Further away, Madelaine heard the school bell sounding the end of the school day. Soon her mates would pour through the school gates, giggling and chattering and having nothing at all to worry about. With a deep sigh Madelaine wondered whether her chums, or at least some of them, really believed that she was not afraid of punishments. She was. Her bravado was only an outward act. She was scared every time she had to endure some kind of chastisement, whether at school or at home. Madelaine herself did not think any girl could be particularly brave when it came to having to pay for her misdeeds. A girl's bottom was sensitive and a cane so awfully whippy.

Half-paralysed by shame and fear, she stood up when the door was opened and then shut again. She felt too afraid and too shy to look up. She knew it could be no one other than Miss Hampton who had come in.

All her fears came true. Miss Hampton went straight to the wall with the shelves and stretched up her arm and took down the cane, before she turned to her. Madelaine did not want to look up. She glanced to the left and looked out through the window There outside, she caught sight of other girls fully-dressed, crossing the school yard in pretty navy blue uniforms, swinging their satchels, happy and carefree on their way home from school. Looking at them, she felt so ashamed and naked, standing alone in front of the gym teacher, clad only in her very tight, too-old leotard.

She heard Miss Hampton's voice but did not distinguish the words properly. The gym mistress's voice held no compassion for her. She was talking like teachers always did, about how schoolgirls were expected to behave. Teachers and parents always talked like that, but such words rarely inspired much interest from girls in their upper teens. She could not listen and she did not look up at Miss Hampton. Madelaine felt terrified and appallingly embarrassed, and she could not bear to look at the threatening cane Miss Hampton was bending between her hands.

The gym mistress angrily became aware of the girl's disinterest and suddenly swished the supple cane through the air, striking the outside of Madeline's left thigh with smarting effect. The searing, unexpected pain made Madelaine jump out of the way and let out a shrill, protesting yelp.

'I told you to bend over the end of that couch, Madelaine,' Miss Hampton repeated, pointing at the massage-bench alongside the wall behind the girl. It was high, covered in rather worn-looking brown artificial leather. On it was a cushion in the same material, but that looked almost new.

Tears were emerging from Madeline's eyes, and a whimpering from her mouth. She looked down at her thigh, rubbing the sore red mark on her skin with her left hand. Then, with a deep intake of breath, she slowly and with very short steps went to stand at the foot-end of the couch.

'Please, Miss Hampton,' she sobbed. 'It hurts. Please, don't use the cane. I... I have marks already. Daddy caned me at home the day before yesterday. That was why I got so angry. Lorna and Sonia teased me when we were changing our clothes because I still had those marks.'

'Yes, I know. They told me when I asked them why you were making such a disturbance. They have already been punished. Now it is your turn. Bend over and don't let me have any more fuss.'

Madelaine was reluctant to obey, but hard, unrelenting hands helped her. The leather cushion was pushed beneath her tummy and when Madelaine lay forward on the bench-top, her feet did not quite reach the floor. Her long legs were dangling in the air and a strong hand held her down. Madelaine had no option but to resign herself to her fate. Miserable and unable to resist Miss Hampton's demands, she felt her teacher's hands at the legs of her leotard, tugging them up. Shuddering, she gripped hard on the sides of the couch.

It was awful. She knew that most of her bottom had been bared. The leotard had been pushed up so high the cloth was cutting into her crotch. Miss Hampton yanked it even further. Her bottom had now been made completely vulnerable, and all that Madelaine could do to suppress the sound of her sobs was to press her face flat against the cool leather top. Any time now she feared that the cane would fall ferociously across its target. Her bottom tensed and relaxed repeatedly, the soft flesh wincing in expectation of her first-ever caning from the gym mistress. Madelaine knew what it would be like. She was only too well acquainted with the ways in which a cane could hurt. Experience had taught her more than she ever wanted to know about such things. She hated and detested being caned.

The sensation therefore came as no surprise to her. She had waited in anguish for at least a minute for the cane to whip into her soft flesh, and sure enough it did. The pain was the same as she had felt only two days before, when Daddy had used the cane that was kept at home solely for that purpose. Miss Hampton had aimed carefully and struck straight across the bare centre parts of her buttocks. The searing pain made Madeline's lips form a scream, but it never left her mouth. She succeeded in repressing it, but almost all the breath left her lungs and her hips heaved and wriggled.

The resilience of her bottom and the suppleness of the cane co-operated, and the teacher's implement recoiled smoothly from the stung and quaking flesh. A stripe of white across the pale skin marked the place, well below the tugged-up legs of her leotard, where the cane had made its brief visit, and within seconds it turned pink. The first tears of pain fell from Madeline's eyes on to the covered bench-top, yet Madelaine felt proud that she had not cried out.

The next two strokes were slightly less hard, although their cumulative pain and shock caused her hips to hump up and down energetically. But number four surprised Madelaine, as it really did hurt dreadfully. The scorching pain it caused very low down across her buttocks forced her to emit a plaintive cry and involuntarily she kicked up with both legs.

'I see you really felt that one, Madelaine,' said the gym mistress in a tight little voice. 'Perhaps that was just as hard as you get from your father. The rest will hurt like that one did. You have six more to come.'

'Oh no! No more, Miss Hampton! Pleeease! It hurts so awfully. Aaaaooouuch!' Madelaine shrieked as the very flexible cane whipped into the apple-curved rounds of her bottom for the fifth time, indenting another set of tramlines right above the previous ones. This time the smart made Madelaine snatch her body up off the couch, her visibly inflamed bottom performing a mad dance in the air.

The gym teacher's response was to order her to move forward on the bench so that her whole body, from head to ankles, now lay flat on its leather-covered surface, her long legs parted slightly and stretched out horizontally. Now Madelaine could not hold back her blubbering cries any longer. But as Miss Hampton made her wait in suspense for the next stroke, Madelaine tried awkwardly to induce her to let her off the rest of her punishment.

'Please, Miss Hampton. No more now. It hurts. It really hurts. I've learnt my lesson – I really have. Daddy was so strict, I'm already so sore. Please, Miss Hampton, please don't cane me any more!' At the same time she started to struggle and attempted to turn on her side to protect her buttocks.

'Oh no, Madelaine,' the teacher warned her, suddenly sounding spiteful. 'If you make a fuss I'll give you two extra strokes.'

Madeline's squeal this time was shriller when Miss Hampton's cane, to emphasise her words, landed with a loud crack, etching a blazingly painful red stripe across both her thigh-backs at least an inch below the crevice where the swelling of her buttocks began. Crying from the savage smart, Madelaine clung tightly to the end of the padded bench, dutifully submitting herself to Miss Hampton's unbearable discipline.

Now at last Madelaine realised how stupidly she had behaved. Instead of getting revenge on the two girls, she had made Miss Hampton more angry than she had imagined she could ever be. Never before had Madelaine been caned twice in one week. Once was more than enough – far more than enough. Sonia and Lorna had been lucky. They had escaped with a mere spanking. Of course a spanking was humiliating to a girl of 17, and still worse when she had been taken across the knee and had her knickers pulled down. But Madelaine would have given anything to have exchanged her punishment for the chastisement they had received.

Snivelling and sobbing, Madelaine tried to brace herself for the remaining strokes that were still due to her. She did not know how many more it was to be. She had lost count because of the pain. Had she been able to see her own bottom, she could perhaps have counted the number of strokes Miss Hampton had given her, for these marks were stronger and more livid than those left by the recent caning from her father.

The pause was over and Madelaine just had to cry out again when the cane scorched her soft flesh, almost too high up this time.

Again there seemed to be a pause, and Madelaine had a few moments' grace. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she could not stop weeping. The lithe cane rested right across her nervously trembling bottom, aligning itself for another stroke. Madelaine did not know that Miss Hampton was studying the marks her cane had already made in her skin. She did not know anything any more, only that she had been a very naughty girl and was now paying the price for her misbehaviour. The teacher seemed to be quite satisfied with the tramlined marks her instrument had produced on Madelaine's trim, girlish bottom with intent to make the culprit feel sore and remorseful. The girl still had to take a few more strokes, however, and she noticed a couple of areas where there were inch-wide gaps between stripes. Slowly she raised the cane again.

'There are only three more now, Madelaine. Try to be a brave girl and your punishment will soon be over.'

The three cracking whacks fell only five to ten seconds apart and Madelaine cried out, wailing from the pain each of them caused her in that part about which parents and teachers seemed to agree that girls possessed not only to sit upon.

Whimpering and shivering, Madelaine climbed off the padded bench and stood up straight when Miss Hampton told her to. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and the red, swollen tramlines across her buttocks ached and burned like fire.

Weeping, Madelaine was allowed to leave the room and weeping, she showered when she had reached the changing room. The water helped to ease the pain, but when she towelled she felt the soreness of the long, raised stripes. As she dressed, her thoughts turned from what had happened to what she had to face when she came home. Mum had asked her to hurry, but instead she was already at least half-an-hour late. She could not leave until she felt reasonably sure that people would not notice from her face that she had been weeping.

At home Mum and Aunt Doris would be impatiently waiting for her. Aunt Doris was busy making a new dress for Madelaine, and that was why the girl was expected home straight after school. Mum had reminded her once again as she had left for school that Aunt Doris was coming to try the new dress on for size. Madelaine sighed as she thought how life for a schoolgirl sometimes seemed to be so complicated. At home she would have to undress and stand between Mum and her Aunt in nothing but her underwear. Protests would be useless. Aunt Doris could not come back another day and Madelaine could not try on the new dress when she was wearing other clothes.

No knickers in the world could conceal reddish stripes decorating a pouting girlish bottom after it had been given ten sharp whacks with a school cane and on the bare too. There was also the weal across the backs of her thighs, which was not possible to hide at all. Mum and Aunt Doris were bound to notice the marks which still were red and swollen across her buttocks. Mum would almost certainly pull her knickers down to see everything. Then, amidst all kinds of exclamations, she would probably count the stripes.

There were going to be questions and more questions. How would Madelaine be able to find answers to all of them? No, Madelaine knew there would be no end to all those questions a Mum and an Aunt could put to a poor unhappy teenaged schoolgirl, whose bottom was still fierily tender after having just been dealt with by the cane. And why, oh why, didn't she live more than five minutes' walk away from school?