Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker

Story from Janus 06.

Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker

SWISH!!

The cane descended in a blurred arc on the soft white buttocks poised over the edge of the bed. There was a moment's pause, then a white line appeared in the centre of the flawless cheeks, immediately to be replaced by a vivid red weal, split only by the deep division of the bottom.

At the same time, a gasp of astonishment at the intensity of the pain escaped the lips of the pretty sufferer, to be followed by a loud wail; for this was the very first time that this particular bottom had felt the firm smack of discipline. Relentlessly, the second stroke followed the first, an inch or so below and exactly parallel. The sweet rotundities clenched together, as if seeking comfort from each other, where none was to be found. This time Monica, (for such was her name) let out a loud and pleading yell.

'OWWWW! Oh please Simon, PLEASE No more NO MORE. I can't stand it.' But evidently Simon was not to be swayed by such heartfelt pleas for, waiting only until the tortured cheeks had relaxed, he delivered another well directed stroke just below the first two. This time her stockinged leg kicked up, and she tried to rise from the shameful position of pain, but a firm hand in the centre of her back held her in the humiliating posture.

'Oh no OH NO NO! PLEASE NO MORE! I can't bear it.'

'You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party,' he replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long yellow cane.

'But I love you Simon, how can you hurt me so much?' For answer, he laid a particularly firm stroke across the lower curves of her bare bottom, and she screeched in agony; the tears shot out of her eyes and wet the bedcover. He seemed unmoved by her misery and continued to apply the stinging correction.

She twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting fiery rod and her naked buttocks opened and closed in a most engaging manner as they tried to find some relief from the fierce pain of the chastising cane, but without success. At the same time her feet beat a tatoo of anguish on the floor, even though her knickers, which were around her knees, hampered her movements.

But then a strange change began to come over her; the screams gave way to groans softer, yet deeper, and her frantic boundings became more regular and rhythmic, and her bottom seemed to rise to meet the challenge of the cane. He recognised what was happening, and began to change the strokes to a more rapid rate, but much gentler now and directed low down at the centre of her soft bottom.

"Oh darling,' she breathed huskily, 'don't stop now, it's such a wonderful feeling. What's happening to me?'

"Oh Simon. I'm coming. OH I'M COMING. OH! OH! OH! OHHH!'

* * * *

Well, it's a pleasant fantasy which I often have, and I expect others do too, and why not. But I think it is fantasy none the less. The idea that severe pain applied to the soft bare bottom of a pretty, but unwilling girl, for the very first time, will result in instant climax, seems to me to be very unlikely. Nevertheless, in a life dedicated with single-minded purpose to getting pretty round bottoms across my knees, for the mutual delight of a good spanking, I have quite often seen girls brought to climax solely by the studied, application of the bottom discipline; but this happy outcome has only been achieved after quite lengthy preparation and initiation. In my rather extensive experience, this delightful dénouement can only be reached via careful and cunning stages, and certainly not by sudden and unexpected severity; indeed anyone who tried it is more likely to end up in the Sunday Papers.

However, it is obvious that many of us desire nothing so much, as to get a lovely and willing bottom across our knees for a prolonged and thorough spanking; yet many find it difficult to locate and initiate a happy 'victim'. As I have spent the greater part of thirty years in this delightful sport, perhaps my experiences may be of some assistance to likeminded smackbottomists who have not been as fortunate as me.

I first developed this taste in an unexpected fashion. When I was about fifteen, I was very keen on horse riding, and during the summer holidays, when I was free from my housemaster's all too ready strap (but that is another story) I used to go riding nearly every day. It was during the summer holidays, that I had as my regular riding companion, a girl who was the daughter of the local vicar. He was friendly with my parents, and this was probably why we were allowed to go off together unescorted. No doubt, we were thought too respectable to get up to any mischief. How wrong events were to prove that judgement to be.

The girl, whose name was Alison, was a year older than I, and she was strikingly beautiful. She had long blonde hair, vivid blue eyes, and a wide sensual mouth. But it was her body which caused me to fall instantly and completely in love with her. The sweet swelling breasts, the narrow waist, enchanted me. But what occupied my attention and all my thoughts, was her adorable bottom. From the narrow waist, it flared to the surprisingly wide hips, and the round cheeks seemed to me like the two halves of an apple, laid side by side. As we rode together, I used to ride slightly behind her, so that I could watch this divine object. Encased in tight jodhpurs, which were growing too small for Alison's widening dimensions, the broad behind rose and fell, opened and shut, in time with the rhythm of the canter. As for me, this delightful sight produced certain changes, which were particularly inconvenient on horseback.

It was our habit to stop in a deserted woodland glen, at the end of our outward journey, to rest and eat our picnic. It was here too, that I first learned of the unpredictability of women, for instead of laughing at me, as I feared, she threw her arms about me, and kissed me hotly on the lips. This was the start of her slow but steady seduction of me. Each day she allowed me to progress a little further. First to caress her over her clothes; then to fondle her soft bare breasts; at last (with something of a struggle) to unbutton and draw down her straining jodhpurs. Beneath, she wore pink satin knickers reaching to mid thigh, where the tight elastic pinched into her soft flesh. These she stubbornly refused to allow me to remove, but I was content to run my hands over the satiny surface, paying particular attention to the astonishing rear swellings. So things continued for the next couple of weeks, with me unable to make any further progress towards my dishonourable objective.

One day, she did not turn up for our daily ride; however, she appeared the following day as usual, but without any explanation. I noticed, as we rode along that she seemed uncomfortable and stiff in the saddle, unlike her usual fluid and graceful movements, which so fascinated me. When we came to our usual secret stopping place, she flung her arms around me, with extraordinary passion, and to my astonishment, began to cry bitterly. Eventually, the reason emerged.

'Daddy whipped me yesterday.'

'Good gracious, whatever for?' I asked, with a curious feeling of excitement.

'I told a lie, and he got very angry.'

'What did he whip you with?'

'Oh, a horrid old cane he has.'

'On your hand?' I asked, hardly daring to breathe.

'Oh no. In my...' she hesitated. 'On my bottom; it's always on my bottom.'

'Tell me about it,' I encouraged gently. I knew her family were strict, but I had never thought of this.

'He got terribly cross when I told this little fib, and of course I denied it and things just got worse, and then he sent me upstairs to "get ready", and I know what that means only too well. I said I was too old to be treated like a child, but it was no use, his mind was made up, and I went miserably off upstairs. The routine is always the same. I have to put two pillows on the end of the bed, and then take off my skirt and let my knickers right down to my knees. Then I have to go and stand in the corner and think over my crimes. I stayed like that for about ten minutes, and then I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and I began to cry with fear. He came into the room, tapping the beastly cane against his leg.

'Well, my girl,' he said, 'perhaps this will teach you to tell the truth. Get yourself across the bed, and try to take your whipping as befits a great big girl like you.' I begged and pleaded with him to let me off, but that only made him more angry. 'Get down at once, girl, or it will be the worse for you. Do you want extra strokes?' So I lay over the pillows at the end of the bed. He pulled the hem of my slip right up over my back, as if I wasn't bare enough already. Then I felt him lay the rod right across the centre of my behind.

'Are you not ashamed of yourself, a great big girl like you. Having to lie in this disgraceful position, in such a state of undress, with your knickers down, and your backside bare, just like a naughty little child? Well, we shall see what a good dose of the cane can do to teach you that liars of any age deserve to be well chastised.' All the time, he was tapping the cane against my bottom. Suddenly, I felt the cane lift, there was a hiss, and I felt this incredible pain across both sides of my bottom. I shrieked and kicked, and tried to kick, but he held me down, with his hand in the small of my back. Before I could regain my breath, the cane swept down again and again, and I was lost in a blurr of agony. It is impossible to describe the feeling; it is like someone drawing a red-hot wire across one's flesh; it is simply not possible to believe that it is feasible to endure so much pain; but it is, all six strokes of it. And you have to lie there, and submit to it, for there is nothing else you can do. It was so painful that I don't think I had the breath to start weeping until he had finished.

'Perhaps you will learn that I will not tolerate any daughter of mine being a liar, and next time you feel the devil tempting you, remember how you look now.'

'With this, he left me, to take Evensong.'

I listened in astonishment to her story, which had come out in a breathless rush. I put my arm about her, and tried to comfort her, but at the same time, I felt extremely excited, at the thought of this beautiful girl actually having to take down her knickers and have her divine bare bottom properly caned.

'Poor thing,' I said, with every appearance of solicitude, but feeling a hypocrite at the same time. 'How could he be so cruel to my lovely Alison.'

She came into my arms; soon her jodhpurs were down, though she winced as I pulled them over her broad sore buttocks. Nor did she make any protest this time, when I gently drew down her silky pink knickers. The sight that met my eyes remains clear to me today, and indeed, virtually determined the pattern of my life in the future, though I didn't know it then.

The skin of her bottom was like satin, perfectly white, and almost translucent. In extraordinary contrast, the six weals stood out like red gashes, their edges sharply raised. Three of the weals were placed in perfect parallel, across the centre of the orbs, one more just across the lower curve of the bottom, and the fifth at the junction of the cheeks and the plump upper thighs. But the last had been layed diagonally across the other strokes from the top of the left hip, to low down on the right thigh; where it transected the other cuts. I concluded that her father took considerable pride in his handicraft. (I was too young to know the real reason, of course).

Muttering false words of sympathy, I kissed gently down each etched line of agony, feeling the heat with my lips. She began to utter little cries, which at first I took to be due to pain, but they soon turned to groans of pleasure, obvious even to some one as inexperienced as myself. Soon we found ourselves fondling those forbidden parts, and it was not long before we entered our mutual heaven. That was the start of it, and each day we galloped to our secret hiding place, for me to caress and adore the scarred cheeks. But as the marks faded I noticed that our ardour was not quite so great as on the first occasion. Moreover, I missed the rosy glow in her cheeks. I determined to see if it were possible to bring it back!

I began to find fault with her laughingly, and to pretend that I was cross with her. One day, I taxed her with not loving me enough.

'You are very fickle,' I said, 'I am beginning to think that your father is right, and perhaps you need a good spanking from time to time to keep you in order.'

I had determined to retreat, if this produced what would now be called a negative response.

'Of course I love you,' she said, pouting slightly, 'but if you doubt my love, I suppose I had better let you prove it.' I was again surprised by her response, but delighted to seize the opportunity.

We were standing, clasped in each others' arms, both with our jodhpurs well down, and as I spoke, I was gently running my hands over the silky spheres, on which I had such dishonourable designs.

'Come my dear,' I said, assuming a tone of mock severity. 'Come, and lie across my knees, I am going to spank your naughty bottom well.'

She took up my bantering tone, like an unwilling schoolgirl, summoned for punishment. 'How could you be so cruel; you pretend to love me, and yet you want to hurt me.'

'It is because you have been so horrid to me, that I must chastise you. Over my knees at once, or I shall have to increase your punishment.'

With mock reluctance, she laid herself across my thighs, as I sat on the grass, pressing herself against my throbbing staff. I pushed back her blouse hem, to expose her wonderful bottom, in all its soft glory. As usual, I was amazed and enthralled by its width and sweetly rounded contours, with the long deep cleft between the close set cheeks. After I had admired this splendid sight for a few moments, I wrapped my left arm around her slender waist, and rather hesitantly began to smack the swelling posteriors quite lightly with my hand. At first she sighed slightly at each stroke, but then began to move her bottom in a sort of circular motion, but made no attempt to turn away from the chastising hand. I, for my part, gazed with fascination as her divine white cheeks began to turn, at first, a charming pink, and then a more vivid red. I was rather surprised to see how clearly the marks of my fingers showed on the delicate surfaces, immediately after each smack, before blending into the more general redness, which suffused her breech. Each time my hand landed, I exulted in the softness of the satin surface, and felt it becoming increasingly hot, under the continuing assault.

For her part, Alison's movements began to change from circular gyrations, to a much more vigorous back and forwards motion in time with the strokes. This caused her bottom to open and shut in a most seductive fashion. At the same time, although she had started to weep, her little cries turned to deeper and more breathless groans. Soon, she clenched her bottom cheeks together tightly, and began to utter a long continuous keening sound, which even some one as inexperienced as I was, recognised, and I at once stopped the rear tattoo. She lay gasping for a few moments, and then turned to look at me over her scarlet bottom, and said with a little smile. 'Now I'm rather glad I was a naughty girl!'

Afterwards; our lovemaking brought us rapidly to ecstasy and satisfied exhaustion.

There remained only ten days of our summer holiday left, but each day we hurried to our secret meeting place, and most days the delightful spanking episode was repeated. I knew when Alison wanted this, because she would commit some small fault, quite deliberately, in order that I would have an excise to put her across my knees and bare her lovely bottom for correction. We both went through the charade of pretended naughty girl being whipped for her own good, although, of course, we well recognised its true meaning.

At the end of the summer, we vowed to meet again as soon as possible in the Christmas Holidays; and I lived through the school term, with the picture of Alison's lovely round spanked bottom for ever in my thoughts. Alas for my hopes. When I got home, my mother mentioned that Alison had left with her family for Northumberland, where her father had taken a new living. I never saw her again. But more than twenty-five years later, I saw a picture of her in the paper attending a church conference; the caption stated that she was the wife of one of our more trendy bishops. I wondered if he adhered to the biblical injunction about sparing the rod!

Recruit For The Club

Story from New Blushes Vol.2 No.3

Recruit For The Club

Seventeen-year-old Debbie Lanford stuttered, 'I... I can't. I mean I've never...'

She was standing red-faced and trembling in the next-door neighbours' lounge. The Hollings. In front of Mr Holling who was sitting in the big armchair. Mr Holling was smiling good-naturedly. But he had just told her to take her knickers down. And then get across his lap. He was going to spank her bare bottom...

And in spite of that smile he meant it. 'Come on,' he urged. 'Or it won't be just a spanking. It'll be the tawse. That does sting rather. Would you rather that.'

She shook her head. Her blush deepening, if that was possible. As her hands reluctantly moved to slide up under her short skirt.

Mr Holling said, 'That's a good girl.'

* * *

The house next to the Hollings had not been vacant for long; hardly surprising as this was an attractive leafy middle-class estate in a pleasant market town within easy commuting distance of London. The newcomers had moved in two days ago. They were called Lanford, Steve and Jane, and seemed about the same age as Carl and Frances Holling who were in their late thirties. Carl had noted with approval that Jane Lanford was a good-looking, shapely blonde. And also there was a teenage daughter, about the same age as their own daughter Liz who was 17. That to Carl Holling was just as worthy of note as the attractiveness of her mother.

Carl Holling was not the only adult male on the estate to have noted that the new arrivals had a nice-looking teenage daughter. It would have been observed especially by others with daughters of about that age. Members of what was known as The Club. It was of course a very confidential club.

One of them, Ron Greenling, had happened to be in the corner shop at the same time as Carl yesterday morning, Sunday. There had been a discreet exchange. Outside and away from the possibility of being overhead, Ron was eager for news. Carl said her name was Debbie and he could confirm that she was joining the local school, which their own daughters attended. That was the extent of his current knowledge.

'But don't worry, I'll be working on.... er.... matters just as fast as I can.'

Ron said, 'Good! She's nice, isn't she! And I'm sure definitely in need of a little you-know-what. I can scarcely wait!'

Carl of course would be the one to progress the situation. He was the next-door neighbour but not only that, he was a writer working from home and thus would have more opportunity for day time contact.

The next day in fact provided an excellent opportunity.

It was a warm sunny day, as all of September had been this year, and after lunch, looking out from his bedroom window, he saw Jane Lanford and her daughter come out to sit in the garden chairs on their terrace. No doubt they had had a busy morning getting things sorted inside. Now they were in brief summer dresses and sandals. It was a Tuesday and Steve Lanford would no doubt have been off on the early commuter train this morning. And Carl's own Frances and daughter Liz were also conveniently out of the way. They had gone out for the afternoon, shopping: the new school term started next week and Liz wanted some new clothes. Altogether it was an opportunity that had to be seized....

He went down and stuck his head over the fence. Carl could be very charming when it was needed. Within five minutes he had Jane and Debbie Lanford sitting on his own terrace. On the garden table under the sunshade was a bottle of chilled white wine.

'This is awfully nice of you,' Jane said. 'It's exactly what I need. But only a mouthful for Debbie. We don't really let her drink yet.'

Debbie made a face, flushing slightly. 'Oh mum! I'm 17 remember.'

Carl grinned. Jane's white cotton dress was tight-bodiced with a full short skirt which left a good deal of her shapely bare legs on view. Debbie's brief pink-and-blue dress similarly revealed a good part of its owner's more coltish but equally charming thighs.

'Looking forward to the new school?' he asked. 'Quite possibly you'll be in Liz's class.'

The pretty girl pulled a face. 'Yes sort of. It's awful not knowing anyone.' She took a sip of her drink.

Carl smiled at mother and daughter. They really were both highly desirable. Debbie for The Club of course. And her mother... for the usual thing. A fuck. A nice afternoon fuck. He could feel his prick stiffening. Could he now, when he had scarcely met her? It might seem impossible – but somehow he had the feeling it was. His prick was telling him it was....

'Don't worry,' he told Debbie. 'I know they're all very keen to meet you. Look, why don't you come round again later when Liz is back...'

Yes. Later. Because for the moment the darling daughter's presence was a little superfluous. When what he wanted was intimate conversation with her mother. Intimate congress.

* * *

Jane couldn't believe it. Could it really have happened? She wanted to tell herself it hadn't, and it was certainly like a dream. But she knew it wasn't a dream, that was just the effect of the wine. No, it had happened. Also because of the wine of course. She had let Carl Holling fuck her. On that sofa in his lounge. In the middle of the afternoon.

Debbie had gone back into their house, to do some preparation work for school. The new school. Their host had said it was a good idea. In fact maybe he had actually suggested it? Yes, well it would be logical, wouldn't it. While he insisted that she stay. With that bottle of wine. Out on the terrace, and then inside. It would be cooler inside, he said. And then.... she couldn't really remember. Not the details. Probably her mind didn't want to remember, it was too awful. But he kept filling her glass. And then... well, she could remember odd bits. Just like a dream. On the sofa. His hand. Going up under her short skirt. 'I want to see if you're wearing knickers...' And then somehow... they were coming off... her knickers. She was trying to refuse but she had no control. A sense of having lost all control. The wine. His hand was there. At her pussy. Her wet pussy.... and then... it was happening. He was doing it to her. Fucking her. On top of her between her spread legs. One of her feet on the floor and the other up... yes, she was being fucked.

And then afterwards of course, when her mind did clear a bit and she was contemplating this awful thing that she had somehow allowed.... afterwards.... he was telling her about the other thing. This club. The Club. The group of them with their daughters. On the estate. A secret club. A disciplinary club.

He wanted them to join. Debbie. And Steve. So she would have to talk to Steve. Tell him. And persuade him, if that was necessary.

No, he said. Of course he wouldn't let anyone know what had just happened on this Tuesday afternoon on his sofa. Not a soul. If she would see about Debbie. And The Club.

* * *

'It's something they've organised because they think discipline is necessary,' Jane told Steve. 'For girls of that age. Because nowadays they don't get it in school. So..... they do it themselves. And, well, I suppose it does sound like a good idea. It's the fathers. And the daughters. Only not their own daughter. He said – Carl said – it's not possible do discipline your own daughter properly. And so it's someone else's.'

Jane and Steve were in bed. She hadn't been able to broach the subject before and it wasn't easy now. She was having to force herself. Her mind was still full of that awful business only hours earlier. On the Hollings' sofa. Carl Holling fucking her. And if she wanted it kept quiet – as she did! – then Steve had to join this club. With Debbie.

'What d'you mean, discipline?' Steve asked. His hand was sliding over her as they lay side by side on their backs under just a sheet. Sliding down to her pussy. She could guess he was going to want sex. A fuck. And she didn't want it, not after doing it with Carl next-door. Well it didn't seem she should, not right after. She slid her own hand down, to hold Steve's.

'Well, you know. Discipline. Ah..... spanking. And maybe also... I think.... strapping. If necessary.'

Steve said, 'You're joking.' His hand was sliding away from hers. Pushing in between her legs. To her pussy.

'No. Steve... I don't really feel like it... but no, I'm serious. And, well, I think maybe it's a good idea. If it's strictly private of course. Steve!'

He was getting on top of her. Despite her remonstrance's. Pushing her thighs apart. Getting between them. She felt the head of his stiff cock.

As he entered her Steve said, somewhat breathlessly, 'You mean that Carl... and the others... get to deal with Debbie. And I do... one of their daughters....?'

Jane said yes. As Steve began to fuck her. As only hours earlier Carl next door had fucked her.

* * *

'Don't worry,' Mr Holling says. 'It's strictly private. You don't need to worry about that. No one outside our little circle knows. Not a whisper. And of course the same goes for you, Debbie. Not a whisper to anyone. Well, I'm sure your father has already stressed that to you. Not that you would want to, I'm sure. I mean, taking your knickers down for a spanking, it's not something a girl wants to tell everyone about, is it?'

That was true of course. It was certainly true. You certainly wouldn't want to tell anyone. But...

Debbie is in the Hollings' lounge. Standing in front of Mr Holling who is sitting in the armchair. She is here to take her knickers down and have her bare bottom spanked. Can she be dreaming this? She would dearly like to think so. But she knows she isn't. It is Thursday afternoon, two days after Mr Holling invited Debbie and her mother round for that glass of wine. And now, after tea, she has been told to come round again. Only this time by herself. She has been told what for. It didn't seem believable what her mother told her. But it is evidently true. Mr Holling is clearly ready to do it. To take her over his lap. And spank her bare bottom.

Because there is this club. A disciplinary club. A number of girls. And their parents. Their fathers. That is what Debbie's mother has told her. Her own father will be involved too. But not to spank Debbie, he will deal with some other girl. It is a club devoted to discipline, because you don't get it at school these days. And this afternoon... is her introduction to this club.

'Come on then,' Mr Holling urges. 'Don't hang about. Or do we want more than a mere spanking? The strap. That can sting a bit I can tell you.'

No, Debbie certainly doesn't want the strap! And so... does she have any choice? It doesn't seem like it. Her hands reluctantly reach up under her short red skirt. For her knickers. This is really awful! Her hands fumbling to pull them down. They are a bright blushing pink. Which at this moment exactly matches the colour of Debbie's face.

'That's it!' Mr Holling's voice encouraging. 'Not so difficult, is it? And now come here. Over my lap...'

She does it. With the pink knicks now down off the cheeks of her bottom. Stumbling forward. Mr Holling takes her arm. Pulls her down. She half falls over his lap. And then his hand shockingly on the bare flesh. On the ripe bare curve of her bottom. The touch is electric...

The touch is electric too for Carl Holling. As it generally is when you get your hand on a pretty girl's bottom for the first time. The hot, smoothly pliant flesh. He caresses. For some long, sensuous seconds. Her twin ripe rondures above the thighs held in the lowered nylon knickers. She is making whimpering sounds.

And then spanks. Cracking his hand down hard on the left cheeks. She gives an explosive yelp, her bottom jerking. His hand splats down on the other cheek. Then the left one again, further down on the undercurve.

Each stinging smack brings a shuddering yelp, as he continues in a measured cadence...

* * *

Back in her own house Debbie's mother asks, 'It was alright, wasn't it, darling?' A bit anxiously, because of course she is the one who has got Debbie into this.

Debbie says, 'No it wasn't. It was awful.'

And it was of course. Well naturally, at 17 and if you haven't had anything like that before. Over a strange man's lap with your bottom bare. His hand caressing your bare bottom – and then cracking stingingly down on it. Dreadful – though at the same time maybe exciting in an awful way.

And there is the other thought. That what she has had is just the beginning. There are these other men in The Club. Debbie has been told she is going to have to see them too, it is not going to be only Mr Holling. And another awful thought as well. There will be more than just that spanking. That was awful enough, but there is going to be as well the strap. Also on her bare bottom!

Yes, Mr Holling, smiling, told her that when he had finished the spanking. When she was standing before him on trembling legs, her face bright red and with the hint of tears in her eyes, and her knickers still halfway down to her knees.

'It does sting a bit. Well, a lot I suppose is more accurate. The strap is for when it's felt you need something a bit more severe. You won't be getting it all the time. But there will have to be a couple of introductory sessions. To introduce you to it.'

So no, all in all, it is definitely not 'alright.'

'Oh darling, I'm sure it wasn't too bad,' Debbie's mother says. 'And I know it is going to be beneficial. Now you're going to have a chat with Liz, aren't you? I know that will reassure you.'

Yes, Debbie is going to talk to Liz next door. Who of course has been in The Club for, well, how long? Debbie is not sure she wants to discuss things with Liz. Or anyone.

But first her dad wants to speak to her. Steve Lanford is still a bit bemused by The Club. He has never heard of anything like it before – well, not seriously anyway. Carl next door has told him there are five others, including himself. Five fathers with their daughters. Steve and Debbie will make it six. And it seems they have a rotating schedule. So each parent gets to deal with all the other girls. It's all a bit mind-boggling. It means that Debbie will be in effect passed round to five different men. Poor girl! But on the other hand he will get a go at all those five other girls. Well that's not bad, is it!

What is perhaps even more surprising is that Jane knows all this and seems to approve. Amazing really! But then, who knows how women's minds work?

Anyway he has a word with Debbie. Up in her room. To gauge at first-hand her reaction. She says it was really awful. Hmmmm.... no doubt – but he wonders if perhaps it was also a bit of a turn-on. And also he'd like to know some details.

How exactly... Holling had her. And was it just... the spanking? No.... No... ah.... groping...?

Debbie doesn't want it, but he insists on a look at her bum. He makes her take her knickers down and then bend over the bed. Well he is very much a beginner in this. A beginner member of The Club. And he is going to begin with that Liz next door. She's nice. A nice looker, with a tasty shape. That should be fantastic. Not that her bottom will be any nicer than Debbie's... he pats the recently spanked flesh...

* * *

Two days later it's time for Debbie's second introduction. The tawse this time! Her mother knows what is in prospect. Jane bites her lip. Well a mother does feel for her dear daughter and she is all too well aware of her own major role in this. She reassures Debbie as best she can. 'I'm sure he'll do it so it doesn't really hurt, darling.' Etc. Debbie doesn't believe this. Not at all. She feels like bursting into tears just at the thought of it.

This time Carl Holling wants her dressed differently. He specifies a pretty dress, with stockings and a suspender belt instead of the white ankle socks she had on last time. 'Does she have any white stockings perhaps?' he asked her mother. Jane can imagine that the requested outfit is for his own titillation. Be that as it may she sees that Debbie is dressed as required.

'Lovely!' he applauds when Debbie appears at the appointed time. 'Quite delightful!'

The session is to take place in his lounge again. This time it is evening, after supper, and Debbie notices that the gas fire has been lit, even though it is not cold. Again there is no one else here; Liz and her mother have gone out, to leave Carl alone with his visitor.

And that fire; does it signify anything? Indeed it does. Mr Holling explains. When he gives a girl a tawsing he likes to have her bottom already warmed up. With a preheated bottom there is less chance of the leather cutting the tender flesh.

He shakes his head. 'Of course it does also mean that the tawse stings more. On a warmed-up bottom. But you're a big girl, aren't you Debbie dear? I'm sure you can take it very bravely.'

Debbie gives a little cry of fright. She certainly isn't feeling brave and doesn't want to be. Isn't there any way she can avoid this dreadful ordeal! Anything would seem to be better than that horrendous wide leather strap which is lying ominously on the table. Anything!

And that is something else. Debbie has had a chat with Liz now. About this club. The Club. Liz has told her a few things. She said it's not so bad once you're into it. But you have to learn how to make it easier for yourself. Some of them will give it to you really hard – but you can make it easier. What did Liz mean? Debbie tried to get her to spell it out but she wouldn't. Just laughed. And then wanted to go and talk about something else. Giggling, she said she would like to be spanked and strapped by her own father. That would be really exciting...

But what did Liz mean about that other? She didn't mean fucking did she? Debbie is not quite as innocent as she seems in that regard. She has fucked a couple of times. A boyfriend at her other school. Her mother doesn't know this, she would be very shocked if she did.

But anyway Debbie can't very well say: Look I really don't want this. Anything else. Yes anything! Yes a fuck if you want! No she can't say that. Well she can't really say anything. Except plead that she really doesn't want this. And Mr Holling isn't going to take any notice of that.

'Come on, Debbie dear. Girls in The Club have to have a tawsing now and then. So take your knickers down and then tuck your skirt up. And stand with your bottom to the fire. Nice and close. To get that pretty bottom really warm. And then I want you up on the chair. Kneeling on the seat...'

 

 

 

Was it awful? Oh yes you could say that. You could certainly say that. Debbie afterwards could hardly stand up. Her legs wouldn't support her. And she could only with difficulty pull her knickers back up, her hands didn't want to work. Coordinate!.... as for her poor bum... well it felt like raw meat...

Back at home Jane Lanford pursed her lips. 'I'll make you a nice hot drink, darling. Just try and forget it; it's all over now.'

But it wasn't all over, was it? No, it had all scarcely begun! Debbie burst into tears....

Her dad said he thought he'd better have a look. Up in her room. Debbie protested, as she had after the spanking. She didn't want him looking at her bottom, and in particular after the tawsing. But he insisted. Well, Steve Lanford was on a learning curve too. He had now given Liz a first spanking. It had been most enjoyable. Headily exciting... and he had got an enormous hard-on. He had rather got the impression that Liz might have quite liked it too, in spite of making a lot of noise. And now, well, he needed to see what a bottom looked like after a tawsing. To judge how far one should go.

Poor Debbie! He had her over his lap as he sat on the side of the bed. Her skirt up and her knickers down. His hand lightly touched the still hot flesh.

Debbie gave a whimpering yelp. Into her head came what Liz had said, that she would really like her own father to do it. Debbie whimpered again. The fingers were probing... and caressing... and she thought of the other thing too. About making it easier. She was going to have to talk to Liz again. Right away! She couldn't take another whipping like she'd just had...

Downstairs Jane was doing the washing-up. While thinking of poor Debbie of course. She had asked Carl to please not do it too hard. This morning. He had come round and she had made him some coffee. And... she had let him fuck her again. Well, she had tried to refuse but he had just laughed. And said, 'I know you really want it.'

Two Daughters Dealt With

Story from Janus 36.

Two Daughters Dealt With
by Simon Banks

Well, what do you do with a 17-year-old daughter who has got to the stage of telling you, her father, that she's old enough to do what she wants? And what she wants includes staying out at night to all hours with God-knows-who. And not just one such girl but two. Two close friends both still at school: Elaine Baxter and Tracy Watson.

What do you do if you are their fathers?

At least you can put your heads together, which is what Steven Baxter and Michael Watson, both in their early forties, were doing in the Pig's Head over a pint. Something had to be done, but what? It had been building up for a while but last night was the end; when both men had waited up till after 1am before their daughters finally came in. And where had the girls been? 'Just out, Dad,' had been Elaine Baxter's answer. While Tracy had advised her father, 'Don't worry, Dad. I can look after myself.'

'We've got to do something,' said Steve Baxter. He wiped the beer froth from his moustache.

'Yes, but what?'

'Actually, what they both need is a good caning.'

That was probably right, Tracy's father agreed, but where were they going to get it? Certainly not at school, not the way schools were nowadays. 'And, well,' admitted Mr Watson, 'I don't exactly fancy caning my own daughter.'

Steven Baxter took a swallow of beer. He felt the same: he also couldn't really see himself caning his own now shapely and decidedly nubile Elaine. It wouldn't seem right somehow, though he'd be quite happy for someone else to do it and inject some sense into her.

He looked up as the thought suddenly came to him. 'There is an answer of course. We could swap. You cane Elaine and I could cane young Tracy.'

Michael Watson's eyes gradually widened as the sheer beauty of the idea sunk in. It was the obvious answer.

'Steven Baxter! I think you've hit on it! That's it!'

Steve Baxter grinned. 'Parental approval will not be a problem!'

'You're bloody right it won't!'

There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot, when the offence was still fresh in the offenders' minds. It was decided therefore that the next day, a Saturday, would be ideal. For one thing on Saturdays both wives would be out shopping, for the presence of wives could well weaken the hard resolve that this called for. And obtaining the necessary instruments of chastisement did not present a problem for after leaving the pub they went round to have a chat with old Jack Crabtree, a retired village schoolmaster.

That gentleman duly produced a pair of nice whippy rattans. It was about time, he said, that these two mementoes of his teaching days saw some action again. The three men laughed. To the two girls it was all going to come as a very nasty shock.

* * *

Elaine Baxter first became aware that something was up when after breakfast her father told her he was taking her over to the Watsons'. Elaine, a very pretty blonde young lady with a well filled-out figure which this morning was on show in a tight pink T-shirt and equally tight blue jeans, opened her blue eyes wide.

'I'm not seeing Tracy this morning.'

Her father simply said it was not Tracy she was to see but Mr Watson.

'Whatever for?' asked Elaine.

'You'll see,' said Mr Baxter. 'But whatever he does or tells you to do you can be sure he's got my authority.'

That made it even more mystifying but she could get no more out of her father. When they reached the Watsons' house in Holden Avenue there was an equally mystified-looking Tracy waiting.

'What's this all about?' she wanted to know.

She got the same 'You'll see' which she had also earlier got from her father. Very shortly Steven Baxter was driving back the way he had come; his passenger now not his daughter but the equally attractive Tracy Watson.

'What is this all about, Mr Baxter?' she asked yet again when the two of them were inside the Baxters' sitting room. 'Is it some kind of joke?'

Steven Baxter gave her a thoughtful look. She was an attractive young piece all right; a gaminely pretty face framed by chestnut hair cut short, while down below, her figure, fuller than his own daughter's, curved in all the right places in her pale blue sleeveless top and full black skirt.

'No, it's not a joke, Tracy. It's about Thursday night. Your and Elaine's gallivanting about.'

'Oh that!'

'Yes, that. And for that, young Miss, you are going to have the cane. On your bare bottom.'

She looked... and a pink flush gradually suffused her cheeks. 'You – you've got to be bloody joking!'

'Not joking, Tracy. And please don't use that language. It's going to be six strokes of the cane. Six with your knickers down on your bare bottom. That's the basic. I shall then want you to tell me what you were doing on Thursday night and who you were with. If you refuse then there'll be some more of the cane on that no doubt pretty bottom.'

Tracy's face was now crimson. 'No way! That... this is just ridiculous. Look, if you try anything I-I'll tell my Mum.'

Mr Baxter laughed. 'Your mother's got nothing to do with it, Tracy. This is being taken care of by me and your father. And for your information he is right now going to be dishing out the same medicine to Elaine. So, if you'll remove that skirt. And then slip your knickers down.'

'No!' she blurted. 'I simply refuse!'

'Take your skirt off!' he growled. 'Or I'll do it myself. Or would you on the other hand like to be sent to an Approved School for six months? Parents unable to cope with juvenile delinquent, etc. You could quite easily, you know. And at those places they can cane you twice a day.'

This was a bit of Steven Baxter's own imagination but it sounded good. Or correspondingly horribly bad if you were the naive and gullible Tracy Watson.

'Look...' she pleaded, 'isn't there... something else?'

'No. The cane. Your Dad and I are both quite adamant. You've got to be taught a lesson.'

Tracy looked at him... then up at the ceiling. Then down at the floor. And then at last, cowed by his truly adult supremacy, her hands went to the waist of the black calf-length cotton skirt. Pops were unpopped. The skirt came down and she stepped out of it. Underneath, her ripely rounded hips and bottom were in a skimpy pair of brief blue knickers under transparent tights.

'Now take the tights and knickers down.'

'Look... this is just awful!' Her voice was cracking.

'Take them down!'

Tracy hesitated again, then turned her back but was sharply told to stay facing Mr Baxter. Reluctantly the tights came down, to mid-thigh, and then even more reluctantly the brief knickers were slid down off the rounded hips. There was a well-developed bush of black hair which she covered with her hand.

'This is simply awful!' Tracy wailed again.

'I know,' he said. 'It's meant to be. Now let's see: let's have you over the arm of the armchair, shall we?'

Tracy hobbled over to the chair and Mr Baxter pushed her down so that her hips were up on the chair arm and the upper part of her body was down in the seat. The twin globes of Tracy's succulent rear were thrust sharply up to present a bewitching target.

Steven Baxter pushed one creamy flank. 'Open your legs.'

'No!' protested the half-muffled voice.

'Yes! This is a punishment, remember. And the more unpleasant it is the more you'll think twice about your behaviour in the future.'

He placed her feet as far apart as the lowered knickers and tights would allow. It was a revealing position of course and Tracy knew it. She gave a groaning wail of embarrassment.

Steven Baxter now had Mr Crabtree's cane in his hand. He gave it an experimental swish through the air, then tap-tapped it across the crests of the pouting bottom globes. There was an apprehensive hiss from Tracy. The cane was raised...

THWATT!

It struck with juddering impact, momentarily sinking into the soft resilient flesh before springing out again. 'Aaaeeeooohh!!' Tracy's anguished yelp resembled the cry of a cat in heat, her hands coming automatically back to clutch at her burning bum which now displayed a bright red double-edged stripe.

Mr Baxter whipped the cane lightly across the backs of the clutching hands. 'Hands away, or you'll get extra ones. Come on!'

The hands were reluctantly removed; the jerking bottom became somewhat less agitated. Again the cane was raised and whipped down.

THWATT!.. Once more it bit sharply in, an inch lower than the first contact line. Another banshee yell from Tracy and a renewed frenzied dance of her ripe round bum. From the depths of the chair seat there came desperate cries.

'Stop, Mr Baxter! No more! You're killing me...'

Steve Baxter drank in the splendid sight of the now doubly-striped bottom, relishing his power over the nubile half-naked teenager. 'You're getting six, like I said.'

THWATT!.. 'Aaaoooowwch!!'

He had laid the third into the exact curve where bum cheeks became fat upper thighs, a splendidly tender region which produced a correspondingly desperate reaction from young Tracy. How that must have hurt her! He waited until her violent motion had subsided somewhat, and then went back up to the full crest of the bottom for the fourth.

THWATTT!...

She seemed to be sobbing how.

The final two Mr Baxter put on in a nice cross, top left to lower right and vice versa. A cross on top of three transverse shots, although he wasn't quite as accurate as he had wanted to be with the last of the six strokes. Then he let the cane fall to the floor. The girl's bottom, twitching and writhing, was an impressive sight and it was clear he'd done an excellent job. Gasping and sobbing, Tracy made no attempt to get up.

He reached out to pat the red-striped bum. 'Come on, it's over now. At least it is if you're sensible.'

He pulled Tracy to her feet, then put his arm round her. She was a nice kid, or had been until this recent bout of wildness. The sorrowful chestnut head reached his shoulders and her tear-stained face was pressed into his shirt-front, quickly wetting it. A bit further down a pair of firm full tits were pressed in as well. Very pleasant. Steve Baxter patted her back, then one hand slid down to likewise pat her bare bum. At which she flinched and gasped.

'Going to tell me about it now?' he asked.

She made a sound like 'Nnngghh...'

Mr Baxter backed towards the armchair, taking Tracy with him. He sat down in the now vacant seat, as he did so twisting her so that she finished up face down – and bottom up – over his lap. His left hand held her while his right slid softly and caressingly over the now heated bare bottom.

'You're going to have to tell, Tracy; otherwise I'll just have to continue your medicine.'

There was a silence and then, intermixed with sobs, it came jerkily out. They had gone to the disco where these two fellows had picked them up and taken them out in their car. Two young reps it seemed. According to Tracy's halting account nothing much had happened. So were they planning to see them again, Mr Baxter wanted to know?

'Y..yes...'

'No! Definitely not! You understand?'

She was silent. He gave the bare bottom which he had been stroking a sharp smack. 'Understand?'

'Y..yes,' she said, wincing.

The hand resumed its caressing. With a sniff Tracy said, 'You... you're awfully mean, Mr Baxter...'

* * *

A little later Michael Watson arrived with Elaine. The two men had a brief private word. It seemed that things had gone just as well at Holden Avenue as they had at the Baxters' house. Mr Watson went off with Tracy leaving Steven Baxter alone with his daughter.

'OK?' he asked. 'Had a nice little lesson then?'

Flushing red, Elaine made a face.

'Let's see,' he told her. 'Slip down your things.'

Elaine tried to refuse but her father insisted. Reluctantly she slipped down jeans and knickers, as she had earlier reluctantly slipped them down for Mr Watson. Her bottom bore six transverse red stripes, not the same pattern as Tracy's, but the effect would have been very similar.

'OK,' he said. 'That looks good! Pull them up.'

The two girls got together that afternoon, at Tracy's house. It was nice and private for her parents had gone out. Up in Tracy's room the girls commiserated with each other over their dreadful experiences of the morning. They told each other how really terrible their fathers were as they contemplated the prospect of no more late night discos and the fact that they wouldn't be seeing those two men again.

When they had said all this though, the fact remained that it had been a bit exciting, as well as painful. Awful but exciting at the same time. Because men were men and Mr Watson and Mr Baxter were both rather attractive in an older-man way. And having to submit to them in that very physical manner... well, the thought of it could undoubtedly make a 17-year-old female heart beat a bit faster. Not that they admitted this to each other.

'Do you think,' asked Elaine with a shiver, 'that they're going to want to do it again?'

'Gripes!' said Tracy.

* * *

In fact the two men decided, a couple of evening later in the Pig's Head, that a little reminder for the girls would be no bad thing. The short sharp shock had obviously been excellent and a second dose could only improve matters. Indeed they were both agreed that more doses could with advantage be handed out at regular intervals for although they didn't actually say so, each had found it a highly agreeable duty. For the second session, though, it was decided that the cane itself could be dispensed with. A sharp spanking would do.

It was not specified, the details were left open, but each of them privately decided such a spanking for the other's daughter would be more effective if it was delivered on her bare bottom with skirt raised and knickers suitably lowered

Tracy and Elaine were both this time given prior warning by their fathers of what was to take place on Saturday morning. There were looks and expressions of shock and indignation – while at the same time each felt a shiver of excitement. It was frightful but it was also an undeniably heady prospect, in a way as exciting as being asked out by those two men at the disco.

And indeed when the weekend arrived both girls prepared for the ordeal as if they were going on a date: washing their hair the night before and on the appointed morning having a bath and putting on some scent and blusher and eye-shadow and, in Tracy's case, some pink lipstick as well. And dressing in what they both considered to be their most glam outfits.

Furthermore both Tracy and Elaine decided that if they were going to be forced to reveal what was underneath their skirts, then boring old tights would not be good enough. So they arrayed themselves in eye-catching nylons and suspender belts, just like in those glamorous Sixties. Well, if you were going to be suffering the exciting indignity of having a man spank your bare bottom you had to be looking your best.

Perennial Detention

Story from Janus 12.

Perennial Detention
by William R. Scholes

CAROL WAS CROSS; she hated being kept in after school. She was scribbling away furiously — pages upon pages of poetry to be copied out — and if it was not finished within the hour she would just have to stay until it was done.

Until recently, for her particular misdemeanour she would have got the strap. Two hard cuts across each hand, very painful but it was soon over.

The movement in favour of the abolition of corporal punishment had not been popular with most of the girls. Bending over for a caning had not been enforced at school for some time.

The strap had never been treated lightly, but it had not been regarded with great gravity either by those who had wielded it or by those who received it. Previously, 'detention' — being kept in for an hour after school — had been given only for serious offences, now it was the penalty for almost every form of misbehaviour. The Headmistress and the Governors had given in to pressure from the abolitionists and had done away with all forms of corporal punishment.

Carol was still feeling aggrieved when she reached home.

'You are late,' Mother greeted her. 'Detention?'

Carol nodded. 'Well, you know the consequences,' Mother informed her.

'But it's different now — ', Carol started.

'Be quiet,' snapped Mother. 'You know the rules: detention at school — further punishment at home. No excuses, no explanations.' Carol gulped.

'Your father will be late home this evening so he will not be able to deal with you immediately after tea, but we can still go ahead with the other parts of the penalties. You will be confined to your room this evening, and of course, you will not get any supper.'

'But I was going to the disco,' Carol protested.

'Not this evening, you're not,' Mother declared.

'What about television? My favourite programme's on early tonight,' Carol asked hopefully.

'Don't talk ridiculous,' snapped Mother. 'You know the rules — confined to your room, except when Father calls you to his study.'

They ate their teas in silence. After Carol had washed up, Mother gestured: 'Upstairs — get into your pyjamas for when Father is ready for you.'

Carol slowly mounted the stairs. She undressed and put on her pyjamas. They were nylon and almost transparent. She only wore them for these particular interviews with Father; she always slept 'in the raw'.

Carol could not relax; she sat on the floor, she tried lying on the bed, she walked up and down; this waiting was murder! She missed not having any supper. She felt lonely and was afraid of what was coming. She cried a little, no sound, just tears. It was very late and Carol was just about to go to bed when Mother stomped up the stairs.

'Father has just returned, he will see you downstairs in two minutes — do not upset him by keeping him waiting, it will made things worse.'

Father regarded her sternly: 'I am very angry with you.'

Carol started to explain. 'But — '

Father raised his hand admonishingly. 'I do not want to hear. No excuses, no explanations. It's too late tonight — I will deal with you tomorrow.'

Carol was worried, another day of anticipation. She did not know what was going to happen to her exactly, but it was bound to be painful.

She was still in bed the following morning when Mother came up.

'Father has decided not to wait until this evening. He will deal with you before breakfast. Get your pyjamas on: you have five minutes to be in the study or the punishment will be doubled.'

Carol hurried into the study. There was a heavy chair standing in the centre of the room. Father was flexing a cane back and forth between his hands. Carol gazed at it with horror — not that one!

'We will use the No. 3 cane in future,' declared Father. 'You are older now and have outgrown canes No. 1 and 2. This one is much more effective.'

Carol was apprehensive, 'More effective' meant 'hurts three times as much'. No. 3 cane was over three feet long, and when applied with force and speed, flexible enough to follow the contours of the body yet with plenty of weight. A few weeks back he had given her three strokes with it. She had been wearing slacks and knickers but it had hurt attrociously.

Father gestured with his head. 'Bend over the back of that chair. I have decided to give you six strokes.'

Carol gasped, 'Six!'

Father plucked at her pyjama trousers. 'And you can drop those too.'

In a daze she allowed her trousers to drop round her ankles. She shuffled up to the chair and draped herself over the back of it, grasping the front legs halfway down, thrusting her naked bottom well up in the air.

Exposing her nudity to her father was the lesser of her worries. It was the heating she was dreading.

Mother bent over her grasping her arms and the upper part of her body in a firm grip.

The cane touched her lightly. There was a brief pause, a backwards flick then a loud swish. For a tiny fraction of a second there was nothing then a band of fire exploded across the centre of both cheeks and round her flank.

Carol jerked violently. Her cry was muffled; she almost choked. 'Not five more like that!'

Father took his time, perhaps ten or twelve seconds, and then the second stroke came slashing down about two inches higher. The third stroke was another two inches above that; not that Carol appreciated how nicely spaced they were; she only knew there was a perfectly intolerable band of hurt spread right across the upper part of her bottom. She was sobbing and struggling and striving without avail to remove her poor bum from the range of the implement that was tormenting her.

After the first three there was a slightly longer intermission while Father changed his stance. The fourth stroke came whipping down across the lower part of the target — just above the top of her thighs. Carol uttered a muffled shriek. The fifth stroke was just a little higher, and then the last one practically in the same groove. She was released. The whole area of both cheeks from top to bottom was one mass of blazing fire.

Carol crawled away to the bathroom. Eventually, somehow, she managed to dress and snatched some breakfast. She hurried to school but she was late. The form mistress who had already completed calling the roll snapped at her.

Carol flung herself on to her seat but rose hurriedly again with a parched cry, for her bottom was still intensely sore and tender. She had thought it might be less uncomfortable if she left her knickers off but now she was not sure that had been wise. The teacher glared at her again.

That was only the start of her troubles. The wooden chairs were not particularly comfortable at the best of times and now she found it impossible to sit still, neither could she concentrate on what she was being taught.

Eventually the teacher called her out. 'You have been a constant source of disruption today. You began by being late and ever since you have been fidgeting and also failing to pay attention. You will spend an hour in detention before you go home this afternoon.'

By that time the tenderness had abated to a certain extent; the sensations in her bottom had diminished from a savage pain to a constant tingling glow. Nevertheless Carol fretted considerably all through her detention.

When she reached home Father and Mother were there both looking grim.

'Detention?' Mother asked. Carol nodded glumly. She took her tea in silence.

After tea Mother said: 'You will get no supper tonight, and you will be confined to your room, of course — after Father has dealt with you.'

'Yes, upstairs and change — I'll see you in ten minutes,' said Father.

Despairingly Carol started to explain. 'But it was this morning's — ' she began.

'Silence,' snapped Father. 'I do not listen to excuses or explanations!'

Within ten minutes Carol timorously entered the study. The chair was already in position in the centre of the room. Father and Mother were facing her. Father was forcibly swishing No. 3 cane through the air.

'I find it difficult to know what to do with you,' said Father. 'Detentions on successive days... It would appear that the six strokes I gave you this morning had no effect.'

'You are too soft with her,' declared Mother. 'You ought to give her at least twelve.' Adding after a pause: 'Or perhaps twenty!'

Father appeared to consider. 'I value your judgement, my dear. We must ensure that she receives adequate correction, for her own good.'

'She must learn — the hard way, if necessary,' Mother stated.

Carol quivered. It was almost with relief that she heard him say: 'I hope I am not making a mistake but I will be lenient this time. I will only give you nine strokes on this occasion.'

Carol's relief soon vanished. Having experienced six strokes she realised what nine were going to mean.

'How many more times have I got to tell you about those?' asked Father touching her pyjama trousers with the point of the cane.

Carol dropped her trousers and, at a gesture, shuffled over to the chair and draped herself over the back. No sooner had she bent over than, without any warning, the first searing cut came slashing down across Carol's bare backside. She shrieked and tore herself sideways away from the chair, but the pyjama trousers entwined round her ankles impeded her. Mother had not been in position to maintain a firm grip, but Carol's pyjama jacket was torn right off. Father and Mother both grabbed her.

'Struggling!' declared Father.

'Attempting to escape,' added Mother. 'The penalty has to be doubled — at least.'

Father considered. 'Yes, defiance of this nature must be stamped on. We are only doing this for her own good, she should accept it willingly.'

Carol, naked and feeling very vulnerable, kept her lips tightly shut.

'But I will be lenient again,' she heard him say. 'We will just ignore that one and start again.'

Carol was soon in position again and Mother was firmly clasping her bare body. The cut that had just been inflicted had left a double red mark across the centre of both cheeks. The worst discomfort of the morning's beating has disappeared, but her bottom was very sensitive and the earlier marks were still prominent.

'You certainly laced into her this morning,' Mother said approvingly.

'That was nothing to what I am going to do now,' Father replied.

'Make sure the next nine strokes are all good ones,' Mother enjoined.

Father smiled grimly. 'I always do. Each stroke is given very deliberately and designed to achieve the maximum effect.'

This time Father worked from top to bottom. The first stroke landed a few inches below her hips. It was excruciating.

'One,' intoned Father.

'Good grief!' Carol gasped. 'Oh please! Not eight more like that — it's not possible.'

But it was; remorselessly, intolerably, unbearably, the number of strokes mounted. Two, three, four, five... The sixth landed just across the top of her thighs.

There was a pause. Father was changing his position again.

'No more, no more!' Carol pleaded in a whimper, but she knew there was going to be more. The full quota. 'Go on, get it over with,' she thought.

It could not hurt any more, she said to herself. But she was wrong.

The last three cuts, deliberately spaced, came whipping down diagonally across the previous six. It was murder! But at last she was free.

A short time later she was kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, gently bathing her tormented bottom with cold water, and reviewing what had happened to her.

Before the anti-CP movement had succeeded she would have had two hard cuts with a strap across each hand; painful but soon over.

Now she had endured two irksome hours' detention, had been confined to her room for two entire evenings and deprived of her supper twice.

On top of which she had suffered sixteen full-blooded, searing strokes of No. 3 cane across her naked backside. Why couldn't the abolitionists have minded their own business.

Carol thought ruefully that it was almost impossible to keep clear of all trouble at school, and Father had said he would 'not be so lenient in future.' The prospect was grim.

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.

Jane's Revenge On Roberta

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.4

Jane's Revenge On Roberta

"Come along Jane" said my mother, "take your punishment without all this fuss and get it over. Dick's been brave about his and I hope Charlie will be the same." Dick's tear-streaked face didn't suggest much bravery, and Charlie showed no more relish at what was coming than I did!

In addition to my mum and dad, there are four of us in the family — our elder sister Roberta who is twenty now and is soon to marry; then I and Charlie who are twins; and Dick the youngest at fourteen. As long as we could remember, Roberta had always annoyed the rest of us with her nauseatingly priggish good behaviour. She boasted that she had never been whipped by our parents because she respected and honoured them, whereas I and my brothers were always in trouble and often at the receiving end of the cane, and — in Roberta's opinion — deserving stern punishment for our bad behaviour.

The day before yesterday, a Saturday, mum, dad and Roberta had gone up to London by train to attend a flower show and after that to have a meal with Roberta's fiance Trevor Taylor and his parents before returning home by an evening train. I didn't take much to Trevor, but his parents were well off, so Roberta and mum and dad were naturally very keen for the marriage to go through.

Well, when they got back from London it did not need more than a glance in the garage from dad's eagle eye to see that his precious new car was not exactly in the position in which he had left it, and that the front offside wing was scratched and dented. There followed a nasty cross-questioning of us three by mum and dad, with Roberta smirking in the background, and it all came out. After they had left for London we had managed to find the ignition key. We had started the car and had driven it in reverse down the drive, and then backwards and backwards a few times before the inevitable happened, and Dick, when his turn came round, clipped the wing smartly against the garage door post, doing the damage that dad had been so quick to detect.

At least we hadn't taken the car on the road and we were given credit for that degree of restraint; but mum and dad were naturally hopping mad that they couldn't leave us three for more than a few hours without our getting into a scrape. As we had feared and expected, we were sentenced to a caning — Charlie and me to ten strokes each because, as the elders, we ought to have known better, and Dick to six as a reminder not to become involved in our pranks in the future. The punishments were to be inflicted the following evening, Sunday, at bedtime which would give us twenty four hours to reflect on our sins and think about what was coming to us. On such occasions the usual routine was for us to be given an early supper by ourselves, then to have our baths and change into pyjamas or nightgown, and then troop down to the sitting room where mum and dad would be waiting, as they were on the evening I'm writing about.

Dad had unlocked his bureau and had taken out one of his canes — a nasty three-foot rattan with a curved handle. Mum moved an armchair into the middle of the room. Dick was ordered to undo his girdle and let his pyjama trousers drop to the floor. (Nakedness was no surprise in our family as we all often went to a nearby sunbathing and nudist club in the summer, and we often went about the house without clothes as our parents have progressive ideas in this respect.) Dick, knowing the form, then bent over the back of the chair, while mum knelt on the scat of the chair and held out her hands so that Dick could grasp her wrists to steady himself. Charlie and I looked on, waiting our turn. Apprehensive as I was, I could not help but be interested to see the effect produced by such occasions on my brothers: they are both well developed physically, and so too am I, but the excitement of a caning showed itself in Dick and Charlie as boys in a way that was deeply interesting to me as a girl. Well, Charlie bent over the chair back, and his physical state was temporarily concealed. Dad beckoned to me and Charlie to stand in such a position that we could see every stroke as clearly as possible, for he wanted all stages of the punishment to make a lasting impression on us.

He raised his arm, and the cane cracked down crisply across Dick's bare buttocks, instantly making a straight pink line on the white flesh. "One!" called mum. Down came the cane again, about half an inch below the previous stroke. "Two!" cried mum. Dick stirred uneasily but uttered no sound. Dad, enraged over the damage to his precious car, was determined to evoke some reaction from Dick, and so the third and fourth strokes, each of which mum carefully counted, had more steam in them, overlapping the previous two strokes and making Dick utter a groan. Mum comforted him and bade him hold tight. Dad's fifth stroke was delivered with full force and a fresh groan arose from Dick's lips, but I could not help noticing that the look on his face was not only one of pain but also of excitement which the sixth and final stroke seemed to bring to a climax. As Dick released his grip on mum's wrists and stood up, I could see that he no longer displayed the physical evidence of excitement that had been so noticeable before the caning started. I guessed that the experience had not been altogether unpleasant to Dick, and this was confirmed when he gave me a surreptitious wink as he pulled on his pyjama trousers and came over to stand with me and Charlie.

Now it was my turn. As I've already told you, I didn't relish the prospect and mum had to coax me to take the punishment and get it over. Usually dad caned the boys and mum caned me, which was some consolation as Mum's canings were naturally not as severe as dad's. I backed away when mum told me to lift my nightgown above my waist and bend over the chair. Mum threatened to call in Roberta to help her if I made any more fuss. That was something I could definitely do without, so I yielded to the inevitable and draped myself over the chairback, and gripped dad's outstretched wrists to help me to hold myself still. Mum made Dick and Charlie draw near to see the effect of the caning at close range. The little brutes were of course delighted to do so, as my exposed position bent double over the chair with my nightie round my waist and my pink and shapely buttocks pointed ceiling-wards revealed moist, curl-fringed details of my anatomy that they were always keen to scrutinise!

Mum, not being so methodical and systematic as dad, applied the first four strokes one after the other at high speed with no pause between each stroke. The shock of stinging pain made me writhe like a cut worm, but I kept a firm grasp on dad who murmured words of encouragement to me to be brave. The fifth and sixth strokes were much more effectively applied by mum, who paused to count twenty between each stroke, and each time brought the cane down on the lines of the previous strokes, making me yell out and begin to stand up.

"Jane, bend down again at once," Mum said, "you've still four strokes to come!" "No, I won't," I said rebelliously, "I'm too old to be caned like this!" "Oh, is that so, my fine lady," said mum sarcastically, "it seems to me from your immature prank with dad's car that you are still quite young enough to be whipped and that you have really got to be made to feel the kiss of the rod if this punishment is to be effective. Charlie, call Roberta in to help me!"

Roberta was delighted to be called in. She had always loved lording it over us younger ones, and for her to take a hand in a family caning was a great treat to her. I'm well developed for my age, but Roberta, more than three years my senior, was much more fully grown, tall, well built and with fine 36-24-36 statistics. From that you can guess that she is much stronger than mum.

"Now, Roberta," said mum, "Jane still has four strokes to come, and I want you to make her really feel them. Your dad and I are sure that Jane is the ringleader in the car business, and as Jane has been trying to avoid her punishment it is all the more important that she should be genuinely sorry for her misbehaviour."

I realised that if I made any more fuss there was a risk that dad himself might apply the final four strokes to my long-suffering bottom. I certainly didn't want that, so I meekly pulled up my nightie and bent over the chair again, while Roberta eagerly took the cane from mum.

Roberta's first stroke was not very accurate, landing below the folds of my buttocks on the top of my thighs, and stinging abominably. God may have designed buttocks specially for whipping, but he certainly didn't intend thighs for that purpose! "Careful, Roberta," said mum, "make sure you hit her bottom only. If you hit her thighs you may break the skin." Roberta's next stroke was right on the fullness of my rounded posterior, and by now, despite the pain a pleasing sense of warmth was pervading me. Spontaneous contractions pulsed rhythmically through my buttocks and I had the feeling that the deep cleft between them was opening and closing with each contraction. It was only with great effort of will that I stopped their pulsing beat for I had a suspicion that Roberta, being no stranger to physical contact with the other sex, would guess what voluptuous sensations I was experiencing and would re-double her efforts to hurt me out of spite.

Roberta's next move was a shrewd one. She had stepped back a pace on my left side so that the silk-bound tip of the cane landed accurately and very painfully in the middle of my right buttock. She then walked round to my right side and made the tip of the cane land with devestating effect on the middle of my left buttock. My voluptuous sensations came abruptly to an end! A self-satisfied smile spread over Roberta's face. The bitch, I'll get even with her, I vowed to myself. My nightie was pulled down over my reddened and stinging bottom and I was made to stand beside Dick while Charlie took up his position over the chairback, with his pyjama trousers down, and gripped mum's proffered wrists.

Dad had been much impressed with Roberta's potential expertise in the handling of the rod, and wished to give her a chance of more practice. Roberta had always been dad's favourite, and she could never do wrong in his eyes. So he decided that he and she would take it in turn to administer the ten cuts that had been awarded to Charlie. Dad went to his bureau and took out his second cane which was just like the first one in length and weight. (Dad was very proud of his canes and took great care of them: sometimes in the evening when we were all looking at TV, dad would sit amongst us, puffing his pipe, and oiling and polishing his canes and rubbing saddle soap into the soft leather cat o' nine tails that he sometimes used for minor punishments.)

To get Charlie into a better position he was made to stand up again while a second armchair was pushed up back to back against the first chair so that the combined widths of the two upholstered backs formed a broad base on which Charlie's bare bottom could be presented equally conveniently to both dad on his right side and Roberta on his left. By now Charlie had developed an embarrassing sign of physical excitement which he had to conceal as best he could with his hands until he was bending again over the chair backs.

This physical manifestation had not escaped the notice of mum, dad and Roberta, but no comment was made. Mum and dad were mainly keen to administer a just and well-deserved punishment and did not, unlike Roberta, mind if the person punished should at the same time derive a little harmless sensual pleasure from the experience. (Quite by chance I had discovered not long ago that mum and dad often indulged in private spanking games themselves and greatly enjoyed them, but they would have been greatly peeved if they knew that I had discovered their secret. How I discovered it is another story that I might tell you sometime. Their private spanking propensity all fitted in with the pleasure they obviously took in caning us three younger children. Roberta on the other hand, never herself having been caned, had no knowledge either of the disciplinary value of the cane nor of the pleasure one could obtain from it.)

Dad, standing on Charlie's right side, delivered his first stroke on the exposed posterior — a well judged blow which served temporarily to check the rhythmic contractions flickering across the firm hillocks of Charlie's flesh. Roberta smiled, gently tapped Charlie's buttocks with the tip of the cane to get her aim, and then raised it and slashed it down as hard as she could. A surprised and pained look spread over Charlie's face, for Roberta's stroke was as hard as dad's. Charlie's sensuous feelings abruptly faded!

Dick and I had to move our positions so that we could get a better view of proceedings as dad and Roberta swung away at their work. Charlie gritted his teeth and was given a little murmured comfort from mum as he gripped her wrists. Charlie shed a few tears but did not cry out. His compact, well-rounded buttocks became a dark shade of red as the succession of well-applied strokes from dad and Roberta filled up all the space on his bottom. Pain had wholly replaced pleasure on Charlie's face by the time the tenth stroke was reached, and when he clambered off the chair backs he had no need to use his hands to conceal anything!

Charlie pulled up his pyjama trousers and we three stood in a row while dad delivered his final lecture on our wickedness in tampering with his confounded car that had got us into such trouble. Mum cleared her throat as if to add something, and then relapsed into silence. Roberta gave a superior sneer and said that if we had modelled ourselves on her we would not have got ourselves into the scrape we were now in.

We trooped off up the stairs, rather stiffly as is always the case after a caning. As soon as we were out of earshot of mum, dad and Roberta, we crowded into Charlie's room and closed the door. Up came my nightie and off came their pyjama trousers so that we could examine and compare each other's weals and look at our own in the mirror. This was always a rather exciting ritual after each punishment session. Part of the ritual also was to anoint each other with witch hazel to allay the pain and reduce the swelling. Gently massaging in the lotion was always a lovely experience both for the massager and the massaged, and we all began to get quite worked up as you can imagine. Dick and Charlie spent a quite unnecessary length of time in examining the weals on my buttocks, and when they had finished with me I had had witch hazel rubbed into all sorts of places that the cane had never been near! But I did not stop them, as I must admit that I enjoyed it as much as they did. But we dared not go on too long in case mum and dad came up and found that we had not gone to our beds. But before we separated for the night I told Charlie and Dick that I was determined to get my own back on Roberta and that I had a scheme that I wanted to carry out the next evening, Monday, for which I would need the assistance of both Charlie and Dick. They promised to do whatever I wanted, as they were as keen as I to have revenge on Roberta. We went to our own rooms. I slept on my tummy, and I expect the others did too.

Monday dawned. Our bottoms had largely returned to their usual colour, apart from a few blue weals, and we could sit without discomfort, from which you can guess that mum and dad are not sadistic users of the cane. We went about our day's activities in the garden and house (it was school hols at the time), and all the while I savoured in my mind the revenge to be inflicted on Roberta. My scheme was based on the fact that mum and dad were to be out that evening having supper with friends, while Roberta was as usual sewing her trousseau for her marriage to Trevor Taylor later in the year. Roberta presided over supper and we three did our best to chat amiably with her to avoid her suspecting that something was afoot. After we had cleared the table and watched TV for a bit, Dick and Charlie, by previous arrangement with me, said goodnight to Roberta and went upstairs. I said casually to Roberta, when we were alone, that I had something special for her in my room and I asked if she would come up so that I could give it to her. She wanted to know what it was, but I said it was a surprise and that she must come up and get it as I couldn't easily give it to her downstairs. Roberta, suspecting nothing and no doubt imagining that it was something for her wedding, followed me up to my room. Everything went as planned. Roberta entered. The two boys, hidden behind the door, leapt out, slammed the door, locked it and pocketed the key. Roberta was our prisoner!

"What is going on, Jane?" said Roberta in a rage. "How dare you!" "You'll soon find out what is going on," I said, "and if you try and get away we three are quite enough to stop you. So just sit down and listen to what I've got to say." She allowed herself to be pushed into a chair while Dick and Charlie stood guard over her.

"Roberta," I said, "for years you have made life miserable for us with your priggishness, your overbearing attitude and your bullying. The way you took advantage of last night's punishment session was the last straw. If you had had any decency you would have refused to help in the caning of me and Charlie. You are always boasting that you have always been well-behaved and that you have never been whipped. If you had been soundly caned from time to time you would have been a much nicer person than you are now. But now we three are going to make up for it by giving you a spanking that you'll remember for a long time!"

Roberta's astonishment and rage at these words were a delight to behold. "How dare you!" she spluttered, "let me go at once. When mum and dad hear about this they'll give all three of you the hidings of your young lives!" "Oh, no, they won't," I said, because they are not going to hear about it either from you or from us. For a start, please lie face down on the bed and pull your skirts above your waist."

"Jane, you must be out of your mind! I'll do no such thing," she stormed. "Oh, no?" I said, "Perhaps you'll change your mind when I tell you that one night last week I saw you and Bev Holroyd necking in the back of his car up that dark lane — it was more than just necking or deep petting, it was all the way, judging by the state of your clothing. If Trevor and his parents got to hear about it, they would break off your engagement at once. And I know that Bev would be ready to confirm that he had been necking with you as he rather fancies you and he doesn't like Trevor one little bit!"

"You bitch, Jane," said Roberta with a scared look on her face. "You wouldn't dare to tell mum and dad and Trevor about me and Bev having a fling, would you?" "Oh, yes, I would and I will too," I said, "unless you take your medicine now and change your attitude to me, Charlie and Dick. Which is it to be? Either we spill the beans about you and Bev, which will mean the end of your wedding prospects with the well-heeled Trevor, or you take a good spanking from us and that will be the end of the matter."

Roberta thought deeply and realised that she was in a cleft stick, with the prospect of a shiny and fashionable white wedding disappearing in a puff of smoke. "You must give me an hour to think about it," she said. "That won't wash," I said, "mum and dad may be back before then. It's now or never." She saw she had no escape and began to drape herself face down on my bed after pulling up her skirt round her waist. Under her skirt she wore very thin expensive-looking tights and a pair of black nylon panties as the tights alone would have been too revealing for Roberta's modesty.

"Now, Charlie," I said, "I think we'll make a slight adjustment. Arch your bottom in the air, Roberta; and Charlie, push a couple of pillows under her middle to make her target area stand up well. It's up to you, Roberta, to keep your position without moving, as we don't want to use force by having to hold your hands and feet."

You may well wonder what instrument I planned to use for the punishment. I knew I couldn't get at Dad's canes as they were locked in his bureau; and mum had only a silly little toy cane with a blue ribbon tied in a bow at the handle — just for decoration and not use — which hung on the wall above her bedhead. My scheme was to start on Roberta's bottom with my clothes brush and then to finish with my little pony riding switch which I kept in my wardrobe along with my cap and other riding clothes. You may not think that the clothes brush would be much use for effective spanking, but perhaps you've never been spanked with one — I have and I know how it can sting! Mine is of polished mahogany, about a foot long and two and a half inches wide across the flat back of the brush end, with a nicely shaped handle to give a good grip. My pony switch is not one of those cruel lashes of tempered steel wire covered with plaited binding: it is simply a thin swishy cane about eighteen inches long with a small leather-covered knob at the handle end and a double flap of soft leather bound to the tip of the business end to avoid the tip of the cane splitting and doing damage.

"Roberta," I said, "you are going to get nine whacks with my clothes brush, that is three whacks from each of us, and then we are each going to give you three strokes with my riding switch, making a total of eighteen strokes. If you try to avoid it or make any fuss we are going to increase the punishment, and if we have to do that I can assure you that you'll regret it, so be warned!" The look of rage and apprehension on Roberta's face was a sight to behold!

I started by standing on Roberta's left side and brought the back of the clothes brush down on her nylon-covered posterior as hard as I could, producing a crisp smacking noise as it landed fair and square. The length and width of the weapon was such that a large part of the whole area of her bottom was covered with the stroke. Roberta's face creased in pain and exasperation, but she uttered no sound. To increase the suspense I walked slowly round to her right side and repeated the medicine: Roberta started to open her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. I walked back to her left side and gave her my third blow, and she could not suppress a low moan.

Now it was Dick's turn. Being the youngest of us, he had been most bullied by Roberta and he relished the chance to get some of his own back. He started on Roberta's right side. Being inexperienced, his first blow was not very well aimed or effective and it had no visible effect on Roberta. This won't do, I thought, so I made Dick take a few practice whacks at the cushion on my dressing table stool and shewed him how to use wrist work to achieve maximum speed of the brush at the moment of impact. While this was going on, the changing expressions on Roberta's face revealed her growing alarm. Dick resumed on Roberta's left side and shewed by the crack with which he brought the brush down on her shapely mounds that my instruction in technique had been effective. Dick's third stroke from her right side was just as good, and by now I guessed that Roberta's bottom must be tingling very warmly, although her underclothing prevented us from seeing the precise effects.

Charlie's turn followed, and he licked his lips at the pleasant thought of getting even with Roberta for the pain she had caused him during the whipping session in the sitting room on Sunday evening. He held the brush to Roberta's nose so that she could get a foretaste of it and then, taking up his position carefully on her left side, and using a wrist action which I envied, he brought the brush down on her bottom with a crack like a pistol shot. That really brought Roberta to life, I can tell you! She rolled off the propping pillows in fury and pain, and stood up, her skirt dropping down. "I won't endure any more of this," she cried, "I'm a grown woman now and this game has gone quite far enough!" "Oh, you think it's a game, do you," I said, "but we three don't agree with you. We'll give you the choice again — either you take the rest of the punishment with no more fuss, or we spill the beans about you and Bev. You know what that will mean — no posh wedding and bridesmaids and confetti and reception and honeymoon, and no easy comfortable life with a well-off husband. Instead you'll have to take a job to earn your living, and try and find someone else silly enough to want to marry you."

This struck home. Roberta knew she was cornered, and she could not face up to the prospect of losing Trevor and all that it meant. With a sour and baffled look, she began to pull up her skirts. "That won't be enough now, after all the fuss you've been making. Take off your tights and panties. We'd like to see how effective we've been so far, and we intend to make sure that the remainder of the punishment is something that you won't forget in a hurry." "I'll do nothing of the sort," stormed Roberta, "I'm not going to have these great louts gaping at my exposure!" "That's just what we want to do" grinned Charlie, "and Jane's told you what'll happen if you refuse." She saw there was no escape and, kicking off her shoes, her hands went under her skirt to peel off her tights and black nylon panties. She then lay down again on the pillows, tucking her skirt between her legs in the vain hope that she might be allowed to keep it there for protection. I yanked her skirt tail from between her legs and pulled it up over her shoulders. We gathered round her very handsome bottom to see the effects of our efforts so far.

Looked at from any angle, Roberta's posterior is a delight to behold. From the side it sweeps up in a steep gradient from the small of her back through a perfect curve over the crest of her buttocks and then down to the delicious folds marking the beginning of her thighs. Viewed from above the shape is that of a perfectly symmetrical pack-of-cards heart. Seen from her feet as she lay on the bed, it looked like the twin domes of an oriental mosque. But the sight that really held our attention was the blush of rosy pink that suffused the whole of her buttocks wherever the mahogany of the clothes brush had kissed her sensuous flesh. Only the inner recesses of the charming cleft that divided her bottom had escaped. I put my cheek near her skin and could sense the glow of warmth that arose from it.

"Now, Charlie," I said, "finish off your spell with the brush to complete the first stage." Charlie this time stood on Roberta's right side, and his second stroke was as effective as his first had been. The brush back cracked crisply on her bare flesh, the pink changed to a darker hue of red, and Roberta writhed. She writhed even more after Charlie's third, delivered from her left side. She knew better than to try and struggle or escape, but gritted her teeth and clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened.

For the riding switch we decided to alter the batting order, Dick to go first, then Charlie, and last it would be me for the grand finale — a pleasure that I anticipated with no little pleasure. As Dick was inexperienced, I put the dressing stool cushion down beside Roberta's face so that she could see it while Dick made several practice shots with the switch until he could be sure of getting the target every time. Roberta's expression while this was going on was a study!

Dick's first stroke with the switch, although delivered with enthusiasm, wasn't very good either as regards accuracy or strength, for the cane slanted across the mound of her right buttock and then down across the upper part of her left thigh. But it was enough to draw a squeal from Roberta and to imprint a thin red stripe across the area already pinked by the brush and to make a pleasing pink mark on the white of her thigh. We could see the muscles of her posterior flicker under the flushed skin as she tensed herself for the next stroke which Dick gave her from the left side. This was a much better effort: the cane whistled through the air and with a crisp crack a neat line appeared across the top of each buttock. Dick was now warming to his congenial task, and his third and final stroke, delivered from Roberta's right side, landed exactly on the line of the second stroke. Roberta squealed again, her hips lifted from the pillows, and her hands instinctively began to move from above her head as if to protect the area we were assaulting so vigorously.

"Keep your hands away, Roberta," Charlie cried, "or we'll double the whipping!" This was enough to make her snatch her hands back and grip the rails of the bed head to steady herself for the rest of her ordeal.

Charlie could hardly wait to take the switch from Dick. He swished it menacingly over Roberta's head to give her a taste of what was coming. Then taking up his position on her left side he landed a sizzler dead straight and exactly parallel to the line left by Dick's second and third strokes. Roberta didn't like this at all, and her squeak of rage and pain was quite comical. I'm afraid that Charlie, Dick and I just giggled, for we were thoroughly enjoying Roberta's discomfiture. Charlie's next stroke with the switch made another neat red line half an inch from the first; and his final blow, delivered from her left side, was a masterpiece. Instead of bringing the switch vertically down on her, he sliced sideways so that the weapon landed on the lower part of the curves of her buttocks just above the folds where the buttocks join the tops of the thighs. This was virgin territory that had escaped the attention of the brush back.

She began to move as if to get off the bed. "I warn you, Roberta," I said, "if you don't take the rest of the punishment from us you'll lose your precious Trevor. So keep quite still for the last three strokes which I'm going to give you. And just to show that you accept them voluntarily and meekly you can jolly well kiss the switch before I finish roasting your pretty pink bottom with it." Roberta angrily raised her head and kissed the rod, and then submitted herself to the final stage. I fingered Roberta's bottom and planned where my three strokes were to be placed. My first, from her right side, landed exactly between Dick's second and third strokes and Charlie's first. I then walked round, and gave my second stroke as hard as I could to land between Charlie's first and second. It was a real sizzler and must have stung her like anything. I stayed on her left side for my final stroke for I intended to land it between Charlie's second and third strokes. His third stroke, you will remember, was on the lower curve of her buttocks just above the fold where the thigh begins so I had to be very careful and accurate. As in Charlie's case, it meant bringing the switch sideways rather than downwards, so I placed the switch against her flesh on the chosen line in order to get my aim. As the switch gently touched her skin she shuddered and looked round to see what I was doing. What she saw did not reassure her. In readiness for the final stroke she tensed her buttocks and I could see her cleft close into a thin line.

I held the switch at full length with my arm straight and my eye firmly on the ribbon of pale skin sandwiched between the pink stripes on the lower curve. My arm swept out to my right, and when it reached its full extension I bent my wrist so that the switch was pointing backwards. Then I drove my arm forwards with all the power at my command (I play a lot of tennis and my forehand drive is pretty useful, though I say it myself) and as it approached the target area my wrist came into play and the switch landed with a crack like a rifle shot exactly on the chosen line. It was a good stroke, and one which mum and dad would have applauded if they had known anything about what was going on. A dark red line shewed itself at once and Roberta shot in the air with a howl and landed half on the bed and half on the floor, clutching her hands to her injured posterior, and with tears in her eyes.

"Let that be a lesson to you, Roberta," I said. "We've had our revenge. I'm sure that Charlie and Dick enjoyed it as much as I did." They nodded vigorous assent at this. "And remember that in future we expect your attitude to us to be very different from what it has been in the past. Do you promise to be nicer to us?" Roberta stammered a promise, but there was more than a trace of hostility in her look, which is perhaps hardly surprising in view of the cavalier treatment she had just had at our hands! "If you don't mend your ways," said Charlie, "we can still give you another whipping and you can't refuse to take it because we can still tell on you about you and Bev Holroyd, and you wouldn't like that, would you?" "Oh, very well, I'll do my best to be nicer to you," she said angrily, "though it's beyond me why I should be nice to you horrid creatures after what you've just done to me. What would Trevor say if he could see my bottom now?" "That's very interesting, Roberta," I said, "so you let Trevor see your naked bottom, do you — though perhaps it's hardly surprising as you let Bev enjoy the same privilege! I think it would be a very good thing if Trevor could see it now, and he would then know how to deal with you after you are married!" Roberta tossed her head angrily and said nothing.

Turning to Charlie and Dick I said "Be off, you two! You've had your fun, and I'm not going to have you playing the amateur masseur on your eldest sister's person. That's a job for me." The boys departed reluctantly and closed the door. I made Roberta lie again on her tummy on the bed with her skirt once more raised above her waist. The pink caused by the clothes brush was already beginning to fade, but the strokes of the riding switch shewed as a series of neat raised ridges, really quite decorative in their own way, although Roberta would not have appreciated it. I stroked her gently and kissed the weals. With my lips I could feel a glow of warmth radiating from her charming bottom. Then I administered some witch hazel which took away the string and after that slowly rubbed in cold cream. Already the pinkness and weals were disappearing. It was a sensuous experience which I was unashamedly enjoying, and I saw by the changing and softening expression on Roberta's side-turned face that she too gained pleasure from what I was doing. Her buttocks began to move in rhythm with my massaging fingers, and when I paused for a moment she made an impatient movement for me to resume my attentions. I made a mental note to try and find an opportunity to tell Trevor that he should have Roberta eating out of his hand if he gave her a good whipping whenever she needed it, but that he must follow up the chastisement with cold cream and hot love!

It was now getting late. Mum and dad would be back soon, and Roberta would have to be downstairs to greet them, so I helped her on with her panties and tights and kissed her good night as she left the room. As soon as the sound of her steps on the stairs had died away my door opened again and in came Charlie and Dick, grinning from ear to ear. "Jane," said Charlie, "why on earth did you pet and pamper Roberta like that after the punishment we had just given her?" I gaped in surprise. "How ever do you know what I was doing to Roberta after you two had gone?" I asked. "Oh, we did the usual thing," said Dick, "we stood on chairs in the corridor and looked through the fanlight above the door. We often watch you when you are undressing. It was great fun when you kissed her bottom and we saw how excited she got when you massaged her. I bet Trevor would have enjoyed watching!" Charlie said "Next time we get a beating from mum and dad, Dick and I will kiss your bottom for you and then we'll see if you start wriggling like Roberta when we rub in the witch hazel and cold cream and massage you. I bet you'll like that!"

"How dare you, you cheeky monkeys," I cried. "If I catch you at it, you'll be sorry — I'll get mum and dad to give you such a beating that you won't be able to sit down for a week."

Later, when I was tucked up snug in bed, I thought back with pleasure on the whipping we had given Roberta and wondered if there would ever be an opportunity to repeat it. I had certainly had my revenge on her, but in addition I had discovered new and very real pleasures in corporal punishment and so too, I think, had Roberta. My guess is that, soon after she and Trevor are married, she will begin to look for reasons for him to take a cane to her behind. After only one experience Roberta is well on the way to becoming an addict!