Albert Higginson strikes back – full text of the story

Story from Janus 47.

Albert Higginson strikes back
by R.T.Mason

ALBERT HIGGINSON, staring intently, made muttered sounds of stern disapproval. It shouldn't be allowed; it was disgraceful; it was a pity there wasn't some kind of law against it. One might ask, if it upset him so much, why Albert had to look. He could have been doing something else, various things, rather than staring so intently out from behind his bedroom curtains. And if the sight angered him so much why was he using his bird-watching binoculars, to magnify and clarify every detail?

What Albert was gazing at with such concentration, such rapt disapproval, was his resently-new neighbour, Melanie Halford – Mrs. Melanie Halford – 23-years-old and very comely. He was gazing at her rear view as she hung out washing; more specifically he was gazing at the tight seat of her jeans.

They were tight, skin-tight like an exceptionally well-fitting glove, over ripely rounded haunches. So tight that at 30 yards with good binoculars, or at a closer distance without their aid, one could clearly discern the hem-lines of her brief knickers underneath and indeed the indentation where the strengthened gusset ended. They additionally fitted with an extreme degree of snugness into the deep cleft of those ripe – some might say over-ripe – buttocks so that when she bent over, as at regular intervals one must when hanging out washing contained in a basket at one's side, there seemed a fair chance that the blue denim would split asunder.

And if Melanie Halford's jeans and their contained ripe bottom were not enough there was also what was being hung out on the line. As usual several scandalously brief pairs of knickers, of the same brief type that she was at present clearly wearing; knickers so brief that they would seem more suited to a baby's bottom than Mrs. Halford's own ripe specimen, and in a variety of indecent shades: bright red, mauve and blushing pink today. Albert's eyes, through the sharply-focused glasses, drank it all in – the knickers, the bottom, the jeans – with mounting indignation.

And the answer to that question: Why did he have to look? was simply that he had to. Albert's hot, outraged eyes were drawn to this spectacle in the next-door back garden as by a powerful magnet. And being retired he could make sure that on the three morning a week when young Mrs Halford regularly hung out washing he was here behind the curtains with the lenses of his binoculars freshly polished and at the ready. He had to look because of course it was such a prime example of everything that was wrong with the country, the nation, Britain in the 1980s. Permissiveness, Women's Lib, loss of restraint and respect, lack of discipline and self-control, the breakdown of family life as well quite possibly. It was all there in Melanie Halford's blatantly flaunted bottom and those disgustingly scanty knickers.

And it wasn't as if she only flaunted her rear in the back garden where such as Albert Higginson behind his curtains could observe it. Oh no, she was quite prepared to offer it to the public view on the main street, that indecent bottom in its drum-taut jeans, swinging and swaying for all to see, and nothing less than a public disgrace. Albert knew because he had seen. He had in fact on more than one occasion followed that blue-jeaned rear, at a discreet distance, the sight so powerfully mesmeric that it had drawn him from his planned route to the corner shop all the way in the opposite direction into the town centre.

Albert had found himself following, his eyes riveted, and the sight had been so disgraceful that although prepared to stand the shock himself he felt a desperate urge to cover the view from younger elements, boys and youths, who were around. Was there any wonder that the nation's youth was in its present parlous state with such brazenness in the streets of respectable towns?

Not that Mrs Melanie Halford was the only example of this moral degradation, though she was certainly a prime one. There were many, many more. Thousands, it seemed. You had only to go into the town centre to see for yourself. Albert knew because he did go and see for himself; very frequently. To observe and to be scandalised and shocked. His eyes would again be drawn as if by some evil force. Young girls, probably truants from school, housewives, even young mothers pushing prams, all content to freely flaunt their backsides in those shamefully skin-tight jeans. And if they weren't wearing jeans it would be a skirt that was equally buttock-snug, frequently of some ultra-thin white material as if designed to display everything.

Yes, Albert Higginson, at 62, spent a good deal of his time being scandalised and as far as girls' and ladies' bottoms were concerned it was largely of his own doing, as he deliberately sought them out so that he could once again feel that familiar surge of moral indignation. Bottoms weren't the only thing Albert found wrong with the 1980s, he in fact found most things wrong, his general verdict being, naturally, 'things weren't like this when I was a lad'. But bottoms did have a very special place in his hierarchy of iniquity, perhaps because nowadays a woman's bottom was something that was free to be blatantly flaunted and in those far off days it certainly wasn't – and it would have been 'dealt with' peremptorily at the first sign of any backsliding.

'I know just what that young hussy needs,' Albert would hotly inform Dorothy, his wife, after a session at the bedroom window.

What she needed, of course, as Dorothy would know, for she had heard it many, many times before, what Melanie Halford's ripe bottom needed in Albert's estimation was 'a good whipping'. The cane, or a riding crop, her husband's belt – or, one may be sure, Albert's belt.

Dorothy would say 'Yes dear' but she did not have Albert's all-consuming interest in the subject. Dorothy agreed that the country was going to the dogs and it certainly wasn't like the good old days; but paradoxically they were better-off.

'Not morally, we're not,' Albert retorted. 'But certainly those youngsters are better off, never done a decent day's work in their lives, most of 'em, but still able to drive about in their cars and go down the pub every night. And let their womenfolk saunter about in a state of utter disgrace.'

Albert always got back to his favourite subject. His own morals were quite secure; he and Dorothy regularly attended church on Sunday mornings – with a handful of other, mostly older, citizens. The almost empty church was another example of what had happened to the country. And why didn't the vicar speak out against the state of things? Instead of his wishy-washy sermons?

Why didn't he make some bold statement about women's morals (and of course their bottoms in skin-tight jeans)? The vicar was a moral coward, another example of the way things were. 'Yes, Mr Higginson,' he would meekly say when Albert took him to task. 'But it is very difficult.' Albert got excited by the vicar – but not in quite the same way as he got excited by Melanie Halford and her bottom. And all those other bottoms paraded around.

'She was out there again this morning,' Albert informed Dorothy when she came back from the shops. 'Bloody scandalous!'

Albert did not swear, not what you'd call swearing and 'bloody' was certainly as strong as he got. But that young woman drove him to strong language.

'I suppose she's got to hang her washing out, Albert. Oh dear, my feet are killing me.'

Dorothy Higginson could not really understand Albert's fascination with the subject. She didn't approve of these young bits of girls with their handbags seemingly full of money but, well, Albert did go on rather. If she had known to what use Albert's bird-watching binoculars were put while she was at the shops Dorothy Higginson would have been more than a little shocked.

'That bloke should take his belt to her,' stated Albert, meaning Gary Halford, the husband. He shook his head, picturing such stimulating action. Dorothy said 'Yes dear' and poured the tea.

Albert ruminatingly drank. He realised Dorothy didn't have his own concern about such matters. It wasn't really Dorothy's fault, it was simply an example of women's weaker nature and one reason why they needed a firm hand. Something that that Mrs Halford clearly needed. Albert sipped noisily. That woman was like a red rag to a bull to him. His greatest, supreme, pleasure would be to be in a position to do something about it. To deal with her.

Reflectively he rubbed his nose. There had been something else this morning. After observing the washing hanging he had gone into the front room. There had been a car outside next-door's that he couldn't recall seeing before. Happening to go again into the front room 15 minutes later Albert had this time seen a young fellow get in and drive off. He had seemed to come from next door...

Albert made it his business to know other people's business as far as possible and he knew that the husband, Mr Halford, would be out at work. He had a job at that newfangled computer firm and his car wasn't there. And so if this young chap had come from next door he had been to see her. He could be a relative, or some sort of salesman. But on the other hand – well, certainly Albert was prepared to believe anything of her, especially with those jeans an open invitation.

'I think I'll have a walk out,' he said. 'Get some baccy.'

Walking was conducive to thinking and all of a sudden Albert was having some heady thoughts. What if something was going on, right under his nose? Wouldn't it be just the chance he had dreamt of ever since first seeing her out the back parading her bottom in those jeans and hanging out those obscenely scanty items?

Albert walked briskly, not to the nearby corner shop but into the town centre. His pipe tobacco was a couple of pence cheaper there and as well there was always much to occupy his eyes. All those disgraceful females. But this morning Albert wasn't really concentrating on the bottoms around him; his mind was running on, thinking out various possible ploys, subterfuges. He just might be able to do something about all these young hussies. Or one of them at least.

* * *

Albert's nose was indeed pointing him in the right direction. Something was going on next door. Albert's 'young fellow' had knocked and entered a few minutes after the washing had been hung. Melanie had greeted him somewhat equivocally.

'Oh God, Trevor. I told you not to come round here in the daytime. These blasted neighbours, they've got eyes like hawks.'

Not very welcoming words perhaps but at the same time Melanie was permitting him to push her up against the hall wall, his body hard against her, his arms around her, one hand enthusiastically groping that bottom which regularly sent Albert's temperature soaring; and then his tongue in her mouth to stop further words of protest.

Melanie sucked on the tongue, making moaning sounds of pleasure, and then broke her mouth away.

'I'm serious, Trev; you don't know what it's like, especially with these old fogeys. They've got nothing better to do than mind someone else's business. There's this old bloke next door for one. He's always eyeing me.'

Trevor Wilmot, 29 and who was a salesman, gave a laugh. 'He probably fancies you. He's probably dying to get his hands on this fantastic bum.'

Melanie giggled and squirmed at what Trevor was doing to her bottom. Then protesting but not too strongly, she agreed to go into the lounge.

Melanie had met Trevor Wilmot four weeks earlier at a party and just didn't know how she'd got into this, but a harmless lunchtime drink at a pub and then a drive in his car and, well... It was Gary's fault really, she was stuck at home all day and he mostly didn't want to go out in the evenings. She knew she shouldn't do it and had strong guilt feelings. That was why she wouldn't let him go up to the bedroom, it was in the lounge, on the sofa. Somehow that didn't seem as bad as doing it in their bed.

Protesting still, in the lounge Melanie nevertheless slipped off the skin-tight jeans and then the very brief knickers (pale blue ones). It was really dreadful but at the same time overwhelmingly exciting. Afterwards, of course, the excitement was, for the moment at least, gone and you still had, more strongly, the guilt feelings. You also had, and more strongly, that fear of busybody neighbours.

Melanie repeated, more vehemently, her pleas that Trevor must not come round to the house; but when you are 29 and fancy-free, enjoyment of pleasure and the satisfaction of simple basic desires can be paramount. (Albert Higginson would have had something to say about that.) So although Trevor said a dutiful 'OK', there he was the next morning again ringing the door bell.

'Oh no!' gasped Melanie – but nonetheless let him in. 'You can't!' she breathed – while once more allowing herself to be persuaded into the lounge. 'NO!' she pleaded – as, like yesterday, the jeans and knickers came down again.

All this was most unfortunate because today hidden in the greenery at the end of the garden, was a figure Melanie would certainly have recognised. He could not be seen but he could see. The unseen watcher had excellent eyesight for one of 62 and moreover the eyes were aided by quite powerful binoculars. He could see and he could see clearly. Albert Higginson trembled. He had trouble holding the glasses still. What he was observing bore out everything he had ever said about the country's standards, about young women nowadays. Above all about this woman...

What Albert could see was almost too much, it was a major effort to keep the glasses trained on it; but summoning all his reserves he did. Sweating, he watched until it was all over. Then, with next door's lounge deserted he crept back out, through the gate and into his own garden. Inside he told Dorothy that yes, he would fancy a cuppa. A nice strong one. Albert felt weak.

Naturally he couldn't tell his wife anything of what had happened, it would be too much for her; and besides he now had to act, and act alone. Albert shook his head to ward off that feeling of weakness, and the strong tea helped. He got heavily to his feet. There was no point hanging about, you had to strike while the iron was hot. Firmness and decision, that was what was needed, that was what made the country great in the old days. Albert told Dorothy he was going out for a wander round.

Melanie gulped when she saw him at the front door. She hadn't known who could be ringing the bell at 11 o'clock in the morning although there had been a fleeting thought that Trevor might have returned for something. But Mr. Higginson from next door was the last person she expected to see. Rather stiffly he asked if he could come in.

Melanie produced a quick smile and stood aside to let him enter. Albert had not actually been this close to her since somewhat formally shaking hands when they arrived two months ago, but he was used to the effect of being close, having viewed her so often through his binoculars. She was pretty, you had to admit that, with short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes; a soft full mouth whose pink lipstick was at the moment somewhat the worse for wear following her session with her earlier visitor.

A sensual and indulgent face, Albert thought. There was also a full, firm bust, frankly displayed in a pink blouse. Down below were the long legs, the full flanks, that bottom that he was so familiar with. In skin-tight jeans, of course – though 20 minutes earlier they had not been in those jeans, they had been...

'Yes, come in,' she said brightly. 'I... uh... I'm sure we should see more of each other. I mean being next-door neighbours.'

Melanie was leading the way into the lounge, ripe bottom going tick tock. Inside, she had a quick glance round, checking there was nothing... What the hell could the old codger want? He sat down, stiff and upright on a chair. Why couldn't he relax, it was like he was going to make some official announcement.

Albert cleared his throat. No point hanging about. 'Mrs Halford, I have... er... a most grave matter to take up with you. A most serious complaint, in fact. The fact is, Mrs Halford, we cannot have this respectable street used for... er... scandalous and indecent behaviour.'

'What!' Melanie's voice expressed genuine shock; but immediately she felt an electric tingle in her skin. All over. A tingle that said Oh God! 'What?' she said again, this time not so loud, not so shocked. 'I don't know what you mean.'

Albert Higginson's face was red with excitement as well as indignation. 'I think you do, Mrs Halford. Oh yes, I think you do.'

Melanie was now flushing pink as well. God!! 'Look...' she said desperately.

'No, you look,' continued Albert. 'I shall naturally feel it my duty to take the matter up with your husband when he returns this evening. To tell him he must put a stop to your behaviour immediately. Mrs Higginson has a delicate heart condition and also is a very sensitive woman. But apart from that we simply cannot have this pollution in our midst.'

'No,' blurted Melanie sharply. 'No, you can't tell my husband.' Gary would kill her, or divorce her; Melanie wasn't sure which was worse. She couldn't have him knowing. 'Please...' she begged.

Albert felt an urge to lick his lips but refrained from doing so. It was typical: behaving in this utterly scandalous way and then whining when she thought she was going to be found out. She deserved to have her husband told, and that spineless character deserved to know just how his wife had been carrying on. But on the other hand if Albert told him that would be the end of his own involvement; there would be nothing else in it for Albert Higginson, whereas...

Calmly, or as calmly as he could under the circumstances, Albert stated his terms. Terms he had already decided on; terms under which he would consent not to inform Mrs Halford's husband. She went red, her eyes wide.

'Take it or leave it,' pronounced Albert. 'That's what a young woman would have got in my day, and that's what you should have had long before now.'

There wasn't a lot of choice. Not really. Swallowing hard, Melanie nodded her very reluctant agreement.

* * *

Albert didn't have a riding crop but they were readily obtainable. Whereas a cane was not so straightforward to come by nowadays – another clear sign of the times. He could have used his belt, he had used a belt in his younger days, on an errant niece, but he rather fancied something a little more, well, formal, dignified. A riding crop definitely appealed to him. It had style and it would also undeniably produce a very painful sting.

The price, when he went to the local saddlers, caused Albert to raise his eyebrows. Quite evidently the proprietors were making a scandalous profit, but then what else could you expect nowadays. Albert gave the saleman a piece of his mind but paid up. It would be worth it. Oh yes, it would certainly be worth it. Back at home he had a few very satisfying practice swings in the privacy of the bedroom, then hid it in the coal shed. The next morning, with Dorothy off on her regular shopping expedition, Albert took his new purchase next door, hidden under his jacket.

Melanie was in a state approaching panic and had been ever since Albert's shock visit of yesterday. She had no idea how he knew; surely it wasn't simply peering in the window because she would have seen. Except that... The lounge faced the back garden which was very private, and not overlooked. Maybe they should have gone upstairs. More to the point, she shouldn't have allowed it at all. She had known she shouldn't, and now... If Gary found out...!!

Melanie at least had been able to get Trevor on the phone, to tell him on no account to come round again. Something awful had happened.

She waited with baited breath. A riding crop!

The knock at the back door duly came. Feeling sick Melanie got up and went to let him in. Mr Higginson reminded her of a rather fierce grandfather when she was young: a pinkish face and white hair, and sort of staring eyes. He had something under his jacket and Melanie knew all too well what it would be. She had her jeans on as usual. She could have worn a skirt, but you can lift a skirt. Whereas with jeans... No he wouldn't do that; he couldn't. Melanie had resolutely dismissed the unthinkable possibility that he could make her take them down.

She led the way into the lounge. What did you do in such circumstances? 'W-would you like to sit down?' she hesitantly offered.

Albert Higginson's pink face had a healthy ruddy hue. 'I've not come to sit down, young woman, as you know. Let's get down to business. Kindly take down those disgracefully tight trousers.'

Melanie gulped. The riding crop had now appeared from under his coat. It looked absolutely horrific. She weakly shook her head. No, not with her jeans down. No, he couldn't.

'Take 'em down,' Albert growled. 'You had them down yesterday as I recall. Come on, snap to it. Then get bent over the arm of that sofa.'

Melanie gave Albert a sick look. The horrible old bugger was evidently intent on humiliating her as well as dishing out punishment. She looked in those staring eyes for signs that he might not mean it – but there were none. He meant it all right. Melanie's blue eyes did some rapid blinking: it was almost enough to make you cry. Her hands went to the button of her jeans.

The zip slid down, releasing the strain on the tight-stretched denim. A wedge of pale flesh and a strip of mauve knickers appeared. Looking fixedly at the floor Melanie wriggled the jeans down and off her bottom. Albert's eyes glistened. Released from the jeans' constraint Melanie's bottom seemed even bigger, more lascivious, and there was a great deal of it on show for the skimpy knickers were exceedingly brief, no more actually than an apology for an under-garment; not really what you would call knickers at all, not in terms of that wobbly bottom.

In front the transparent mauve nylon clearly showed a well-developed bush of blonde hair, some of which indeed escaped from the tight-stretched material on either side. Albert looked, and then quickly looked away. The whole spectacle was truly lewd and disgusting.

'Get down over that arm,' he ordered gruffly.

Melanie shuffled forward, jeans halfway down her full thighs. She gave Albert a pleading look. 'Please; not too hard. I can't stand pain.'

She got down as instructed. She had never felt more fearful in her life, every nerve-end taut; because you never knew, he could be some sort of nutter with those stary eyes, a real sadist who would just slash it down with all his force and keep on slashing it down. Melanie pushed her face down into the cushion, in an ostrich-like effort to make it all go away.

But it wasn't going to go away. Albert gazed at the offered-up bottom, scarcely able to believe this was happening. The full thighs, the voluptuous spread of the bottom, the skimpy nylon briefs. Indecency personified, and it had fallen to Albert to be the one to hand out some retribution. It could almost be an act of the Almighty, Albert being chosen to stem the tide of 1980s rampant wantonness. He swished the crop through the air. And then he brought it slicing down across those globe-like buttocks.

Albert wasn't a real sadist, of course, he didn't want to inflict actual injury but he did want to inflict real pain; a stinging shock that would clearly show her the error of her ways and create an aversion to them. From the desperate gasping yelp that came from the sofa's seat it would seem he had done that. At the same time the wanton bottom went into some contorted writhing movements that were extremely lewd but nonetheless further evidence that real pain had been inflicted.

The crop had struck across the ripe lower curve of Meianie's buttocks which were half bare, on either side of the brief strip of nylon. Across those bare slopes, and through the transparent nylon in between, could now be seen a vivid red stripe. Yes, Albert had presumably inflicted pain all right.

The initial shocked cry had been followed by yelps of 'No!' and '****ing hell!' and 'No more!' Albert, his blood pounding but doing his best to keep calm, growled, 'Stay down there. Don't move.'

'Don't move' was perhaps asking a bit much as he slashed the crop in a second time. Melanie did move, in particular her stricken bottom, but she stayed down spread over the sofa's arm. That first stroke had been truly horrendous, enough to make her feel she might be physically sick, and the second was equally dreadful; but they were bearable, just, and if she attempted to get up the old bugger might get incensed and go really berserk with it.

She kept yelling out though, and begging him to stop, but the old bastard didn't stop until he'd given her six, by which time Melanie really was getting desperate. Her poor bottom was red hot, as if someone had held a glowing chip pan against it. The pain was just unbelievable. She wasn't crying but there seemed to be an awful lot of moisture in her eyes.

Struggling to her feet, both hands pressed to her glowing rear and blinking rapidly, Meianie groaned, 'Bloody hell! You nearly bloody killed me.'

'Watch that language, young woman,' warned Albert primly. 'Or I might decide to double the dose.'

It had been a truly exhilarating experience for Albert. To be actually doing this thing that he had so frequently dreamt of; to deal with a young woman in this proper traditional way, as young women had routinely been dealt with in the good old days. The only way to properly bring a young female to her senses.

Albert had a heady feeling that somehow now all of those young hussies obscenely parading their rears about the town centre could be dealt with like this. This marvellous crop could be used on all of them. For the moment he forgot the key fact that he would need to have some hold on them before they were likely to allow it.

He gazed at the squirming, moaning Melanie with some satisfaction. 'How does that feel then, my girl?'

Melanie made a face. 'I told you. You bloody... I mean you nearly killed me.'

'Oh no,' said Albert, sitting heavily down in a chair. 'You'll not come to any harm. That's what that part of you's made for: a good solid whack now and then. That's the only thing a young woman understands. Now pull those trousers up.'

Melanie, still groaning, commenced dragging the tight jeans up over her abundant flesh.

'And why can't you and all the rest of you wear something decent for once? Why've you got to go parading around showing the shape of your backsides all the time? It's not decent. In my day young women had a bit of decency and self-respect.'

Melanie was still rubbing her bottom. 'Everyone wears them, Mr Higginson; and they're meant to be tight.'

Albert produced an angry barking sound. 'No one that I had anything to do with would wear them. Oh yes, my girl if you belonged to me I'd very soon have you toeing the line – with that whip across your backside every day if need be.'

Melanie was now sitting on the sofa – somewhat gingerly in view of the state of her bottom. She rolled her eyes. Albert considered what he had just said. It touched on an area he hadn't really considered yet, up till now all he had been able to think of was this morning. But now he did think about it...

'We haven't finished, of course. I don't suppose what I've just given you will be enough to properly curb your ways. Oh no; you'll need a repeat – and more than one.'

Melanie uttered a shrill despairing, 'No! You can't!'

But there was no answer to Albert's. 'You don't want me to tell that husband, do you?'

Melanie moaned 'Oh Christ!' but half under her breath. She seemed to be shuddering. Albert produced a grin of satisfaction. 'How about making a cup of tea then? Or is that beyond the scope of you young woman nowadays?'

* * *

The next morning Albert was again round knocking at his next-door neighbour's. It really was convenient that Dorothy went shopping so frequently – most mornings – but if you didn't have a car there was a limit to what you could carry, especially at 62. Albert anyway didn't want a car, walking kept you fit and active. Dorothy, who had to do the shopping, would have liked a car and they could afford a small one – but that, naturally, was simply another example of female weakness.

Melanie nervously opened the door to her visitor. She was in jeans and blouse again. She could have put on a skirt but, well, what was the point, if he was going to do what he did yesterday. She led the way into the lounge, her heart thumping. The thought of that crop again was diabolical, but fear wasn't the only thing making Melanie's heart go bump, bump, bump.

Melanie's bottom had stung like mad for quite a while after awful Mr Higginson had left but gradually it had eased. And as the sharp sting in her bottom lessened so she began to realise that shock and horror wasn't all she was feeling. It had been diabolical but at the same time the thought of it was exciting. To be forced to bare your bum like that – or at least take your jeans down – for that stern old man and have him whip it with that riding crop. It was horrendous but it was also a real turn-on.

The feeling of being turned-on had increased and by the time Gary came home Melanie was feeling really steamy. She grabbed him as soon as he was in the house and, rubbing herself up against him, suggested that they go upstairs. This was a shock to Gary, Melanie was never like that when he got home. She had given him a hot, sexy kiss and informed him, 'I'm feeling randy!'

And randy Melanie had definitely been in the bedroom. Lewd and disgusting, Albert Higginson would undoubtedly have said even though it was her own husband. But lewd and disgusting or not, he, Albert, had unwittingly been responsible for that behaviour.

So something of that feeling of sexual arousal was present now as Melanie led Albert Higginson into her lounge; something indeed akin to the feeling with which she had earlier led Trevor Wilmot into that same room. This feeling, of course, was overlaid with the vivid memory of that stinging, biting pain. It had been just about the most painful thing Melanie had ever experienced. All in all it was not surprising if her heart was thumping like the clappers.

'Please don't use that bloody thing again,' she pleaded.

'Watch that language,' ordered Albert sternly. He placed the riding crop on the sofa. Albert had, as it happened, been giving that very subject some serious thought. Melanie's bottom, with her jeans down, had been a very powerful sight. Lewd and disgraceful, of course, but nonetheless almost overwhelming. Albert had experienced an all-but-unstoppable need to put his hands on it – and on those so skimpy salacious knickers. Naturally Albert couldn't resort to overt fondling or groping but that need could be legitimately satisfied if instead of using the riding crop he spanked.

'You need a taste of that whip every day the way you've been carrying on,' Albert pronounced magisterially. 'But I could make it easier on you. I could make it a spanking today – though next time I daresay it'd have to be that whip again.'

Wide-eyed, heart still pounding, Melanie digested this new dimension. Albert Higginson was quite red in the face.

'It'd have to be with your knickers down, of course,' he added gruffly.

You dirty old bugger, Melanie thought – but naturally didn't say that. A spanking would not – could not – be as devastatingly painful as that crop; and though she didn't doubt it would be for his own titillation the thought of being over old Mr Higginson's lap (presumably) with her knickers down and his hand splatting down was... well, it made her heart thump even faster.

'No,' she said. 'You can't.' But not very convincingly.

'Rather have this riding crop?' Albert asked. He took hold of it and whipped it through the air – twice. There was only one answer to that. Melanie said, 'I think you're awful,' but started taking down her jeans.

'And those things,' instructed Albert. He had sat down on an upright chair. 'Those things' were this morning a respectable white in colour, but they were as brief and skimpy as ever – for the simple reason that Melanie didn't have any other sort. Albert could have taken them down himself, once she was over his lap, but that way he wouldn't have been able to see. And though Albert would never have admitted it, he did want to see and be shocked in the same way as with all those bottoms in tight jeans. If they hadn't been there Albert's life would have been quite empty.

Melanie didn't turn away as she obediently slid the knickers down. Albert's eyes were hot and glazed. Utterly disgusting, he told himself and it was a sign of her utter wantonness that she could calmly stand in front of him like this and take them down. The fact that he had told her to do so naturally was beside the point.

He looked, stared, drinking it all in, and then said 'Come here', his voice almost a croak.

Melanie's bare bottom over Albert's lap was almost too much. The lewd yet frighteningiy attractive object seemed bigger than ever, huge. Melanie wriggled it, getting in a more comfortable position, and Albert thought he was going to have a heart attack. He told himself to keep calm, this was indeed a stern test of his will power. He raised his hand and brought it down. Albert's head swam. His hand on the living flesh, stinging it. Hot and firm yet resilient. He brought his hand down again. The sensation was quite beyond description. The wanton young woman made a moaning sound.

* * *

'Was she hanging out again this morning?' Dorothy inquired, not really interested but knowing it was of great interest to Albert.

'Uh no,' said Albert distractedly.

Dorothy was making the tea after getting back from the shops. 'I'm surprised she has so much washing, being only her and him. But young people nowadays can afford so many clothes, not like when we were young.'

Albert wasn't really paying attention. He was seeing again Melanie Halford's bottom over his lap. Seeing it getting redder and redder. Feeling the most wonderful sensations in his hand as he spanked it stinging hot. And hearing her making that gasping sound. Afterwards she had made him a cup of tea. Sitting on the sofa she had seemed quite contrite.

'Have I got to have much more of this, Mr Higginson?' she had asked, batting her eyelashes at him.

Albert had said Yes he thought so. She had said, 'I'm not going to see that chap any more, Mr Higginson. It's all over.'

'Well you still need some more,' Albert had told her. 'You haven't nearly paid the price yet.' Seemingly Melanie had accepted this, saying only, 'I'd rather not have that awful crop, Mr Higginson.' To which Albert had gruffly retorted, 'You'll have to have some more of both.'

And Melanie Halford hadn't argued. Clearly, Albert thought, his hard-line treatment was just what she needed and she was accepting it. Perhaps she knew that she needed it. Albert would have been more than a little shocked if he had known the young woman found it exciting as much as anything else.

'Albert, are you listening?'

Dorothy's voice broke sharply into Albert's reverie of Melanie Halford's rear which had fallen like a ripe plum into his hands. He said a distracted 'Yes'.

Presumably he could stop her wearing those scandalous jeans now – if he really wanted to. But Albert knew he wouldn't. He would go on making angry noises but that was all. Because he knew that even though he might now be smacking it bare and whipping it he would still want to spy on it through his binoculars from behind the bedroom curtains.

'Albert!' exclaimed Dorothy.

Albert said yes, he had heard everything she had said. He wondered if he would go round next door again tomorrow. He didn't want her to think he was some kind of crank. Or a Dirty Old Man. People could get funny ideas.

An English Girl in the Middle East – the story prepared by Alex Birch

Story from Janus 36.

An English Girl in the Middle East
by R.T.Mason

Marilyn Birling, aged 24, stepped off the plane and the heat hit her like a solid wall. At least that particular concept of the Emirate was confirmed; it was very, very hot in a way that had to be experienced to be believed. By the time she had completed the short walk to the airport building she could feel herself perspiring under the crisp white linen blouse and skirt, the latter a full calf length out of deference to local sensitivity.

Her husband, Bob, met her in the airport lounge, an emotional greeting for them both, for Bob had been out here for four months, by far the longest time they had been apart in the five years of their marriage. Now he had got an apartment sorted out, Marilyn would be here with him for the rest of his three-year appointment. After that, who could say? At least they would have a sizeable nest-egg for the future because these Middle Eastern contracts certainly paid well for a qualified engineer.

"God that heat!" she exclaimed when they were sitting in the airport lounge after that first emotional reunion, necessarily restrained for Bob had warned Marilyn that excessive public displays of affection were frowned upon.

It was pleasantly cool inside after the searing heat she had just encountered and Marilyn gave thanks for the air-conditioning. Under her demure white skirt Marilyn was wearing nylons, not pantie-hose, and she could feel the cool air now blowing pleasantly on her bare upper thighs. The nylons were for Bob's benefit. She knew they really turned him on and she was anxious to ensure that her husband was functioning at his maximum potential once they were alone, though after a four month absence such additional stimulus was hardly necessary.

Marilyn looked around the airport lounge. A fair number of Europeans, one or two Africans, but mostly Arabs, men and women, the men in both native and western dress but the women all in some sort of voluminous garment completely concealing their shape. 'I wonder what they wear underneath' she thought to herself. Perhaps the younger ones wore fancy nylons, even scanty silk briefs? Were there still harems, she wondered. One thing was certain – it was going to be very different from Surrey!

Different... exotic... even scary? She gave a little shiver.

The nylons and the pink lacy suspender belt fastening them were indeed appreciated. Bob made her keep them on, plus her white patent leather high-heel shoes – but nothing else – when they made love virtually as soon as they reached the apartment. It was wildly exciting, this strange exotic place and, of course the abstinence occasioned by those long weeks apart.

In truth not a 100% abstinence by both partners because Marilyn had been screwed once while Bob was away but that was a guilty secret she didn't want to think about now.

After sex and a quiet cuddle she got up, stripped off those few remaining items of clothing and went for a shower. Still dripping, Marilyn went to the fridge and took out a can of beer. Towelling down, she sipped the beer while critically gazing at what she saw in the full-length bathroom mirror. Quite tall, 5'9", and well endowed in the bottom and boobs department but her waist and belly nicely trim and taut. In a few years she might have to watch those. She made a face. It was an undeniably pretty face; good bones, her mother said, also a soft full mouth and big blue eyes, all in the frame of that thick, curling shoulder-length blonde hair.

Suddenly she stopped the towelling and self-admiration, to look for the first time at what she had unthinkingly taken from the fridge.

"Bob," she called through to the bedroom, "This beer. Isn't alcohol supposed to be verboten here?"

* * *

He had laughed and told her no one worried about that, not in private at least. And that was what the other expatriates told her too, the other English women out here with their husbands and the one or two American girls. Don't worry about it, they'd said, you can't do it in public obviously but otherwise go ahead, everyone here enjoys a drink.

Well they ought to know, she thought. Anyway there was everything else to think about; this new exotic town, half still in the Middle-Ages, half ultra-modern air-conditioned, all under that implacable blazing sun. There was also their house-warming party.
Bob had arranged that they would give a party for the various friends he had made since coming out here and the second Friday after Marilyn's arrival had been set as the day. This early date barely gave her time to get organised so there was no time to worry about the business of the legality of alcohol. Inevitably there was going to be plenty of it at the party; beer, wine, spirits. A friend of Bob's was arranging all that.

There were around 20 people, just about filling their smallish apartment. Europeans and locals, the latter all in western dress including the two women. Marilyn had met virtually all of them already, at other parties and informal get-togethers, and the party went very well. There was one little incident, though, when it was getting rather late and possibly a number of the guests had had too much to drink. One of the men caught Marilyn alone in the kitchen.

His name, if transpired, was Dr. Ahmed Kareem and he was one of the few people Marilyn had not met before. He was in his forties, stockily built with a heavy moustache. He came up behind her and said, in accent-less English, "Congratulations on a wonderful party, Mrs. Birling," then he put his arm around Marilyn's waist.

With a nervous laugh she twisted away but then two firm hands grasped her bottom, a cheek in each hand through her tight blue silk dress.

She gasped. "Do you mind!", she said angrily, struggling loose and assuming he'd had too much to drink, though he seemed sober enough as he then firmly pushed her into a corner.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Birling, I merely wished to satisfy myself as to the firmness of that beautiful bottom. A compliment in fact. Turn round, please, for a moment."

"You've got to be joking!" Marilyn spluttered, shocked at the effrontery of a man she didn't know expecting her to stand still while he groped her at will.

He was still trying to get her to turn round when someone walked into the kitchen. Dr. Kareem desisted but whispered in her ear, "Some of you English ladies are very haughty. I say this in spite of being your guest. Sometimes I think you all need, what is your expression – taking down a peg."

Then he left her alone. Weird man, she thought, but he could go after some other girl's bottom if that turned him on. A bit later she noticed he was taking flash photographs of certain guests, apparently as mementos of the occasion, but soon after he came up to Marilyn and Bob saying he had to leave. He seemed in a good enough mood, courteously shaking both their hands. She decided not to make Bob angry by telling him about the incident, assuming it was all finished.

But of course it wasn't.

Two days later she got a phone call in the morning after Bob had left for work. It was the creepy Kareem saying he had something important to discuss which was best not done on the telephone. Marilyn rolled her eyes and grimaced, then told him she was very busy. Kareem insisted. He was an important official, he said, and the matter was very pressing. So most reluctantly, and a little fearfully, Marilyn invited him round.

He didn't immediately try to grab her, as she'd expected. Instead when he'd been invited to sit down he took a thick envelope out of his pocket. It contained a sheaf of photographs which he laid down on the coffee-table. Pictures taken at the party. Various people, including Bob and Marilyn, in typical party attitudes, all with drinks in their hands.

"Good photos, eh?" he grinned, as Marilyn looked at him quizzically.

"All strictly illegal though. The government of this country views such goings-on in a very strict manner. Do you know the penalty for such transgressions, Mrs. Birling?"

Marilyn had indeed heard accounts of what could happen, before she came out. You read it in the paper from time to time. That was before Bob and everyone told her everyone drank. She began to tremble with fear.

Dr. Kareem continued remorselessly, confirming her worst fears, "The cane, Mrs. Birling. The cane – applied in a manner which, I am sure, to an English person would appear most savage. Even though you British have your own tradition of the cane in many of your schools. But I can assure you, Mrs. Birling, this is nowhere near the same! Tell me, Mrs. Birling, when you were a naughty schoolgirl did you ever receive the cane on that delectable bottom of yours? That bottom you were so primly hiding the other evening?"

Marilyn began to sweat with fright. "Look, this... this is getting a bit ridiculous. No of course I didn't get anything like that at school and everyone knows that drinking goes on among the ex-pats here, and that it is accepted."

"Oh no, Mrs. Birling. Not so, not at all. The fact that visitors to this country break the law does not mean that it is accepted. Our law is infrangible. Indeed, our government is increasingly keen, if it can catch transgressors with incontrovertible evidence, to make an example of them. Shall I tell you what a woman such as yourself, giving this kind of party, might expect?"

Marilyn did not want to hear, but he told her all the same, his fleshy mouth relishing the words with an all-but-theatrical effect.

"A lead filled cane, Mrs Birling. A cane with has had hot lead poured into the end to give the tip a nice heavy weight. Then the rest of the cane is reinforced. It does an awful lot of damage to a female bottom. You could be given anything up to twenty strokes by one of the female prison officers. Your bottom completely bare, of course, and two other officers holding you down over a caning bench. I guarantee you, Mrs. Birling, that after that you would not be able to sit down for two weeks. I doubt you would wish to hold any more alcohol parties after that!"

Marilyn jumped up and strode in agitation to the window. Outside, at the corner, a goat was rooting in a rubbish bin. It was definitely not Surrey but a very foreign and very frightening country. She tried to keep her voice steady.

"I-I don't know why you are telling me all this. No one is going to see those pictures. I-I don't know why you took them."

All at once he was behind her, breathing in her ear. "The reason, dear lady, was that you are clearly not a woman who is prepared to be co-operative unless a little persuasion is exerted. So therefore if necessary I can send them to the relevant government department. I would be commended for doing my civic duty. And then, Mrs. Birling, I'm afraid both you and your husband would be severely dealt with. Most severely I think you will find."

Marilyn felt herself on the brink of tears. She suddenly felt a little faint. "I-I don't know why you are being so... so beastly." she stammered.

She felt his hands on her waist. She thought she really did know what he wanted. he wanted to screw her, just as Bob's boss back home had done. Two weeks after Bob had come out here, Mr. Moorcroft had taken her out to dinner and then back to his place for coffee and that's where it had happened. "Just what a lonely young wife needs when her husband's away," he'd whispered while pulling down her knickers as they lay on the sofa. But it had just been one time and she'd been so ashamed of what she'd done. But it was obvious the unpleasant Kareem wanted the same and equally clear that she would have to give in. She felt the tears welling in her eyes as, at the same time, his two hands slid down to cup her bottom. Caressing the soft cheeks most insistently.....

"What I want, Mrs. Birling, is this lovely bottom," he whispered, his hot breath in her ear.

Marilyn made a forlorn moan that sounded like "Nnnngggghhh" and then began to cry.

"What I am going to do is warm it up a little. Nothing compared to what a prison wardress would give it, of course. I am not a sadist, Mrs. Birling. But I do love to tingle a pretty woman's bottom, with the cane and also with the strap."

Marilyn could scarcely take in what he was saying. "Nooo" she said weakly, trying, with a sudden lurch, to twist away from the mauling, groping hands. But the hands would not let go and the horrible smarmy voice of this hateful man continued as he casually groped her bottom.

"Be sensible, my dear girl. Take my advice, I know what our prisons are like and I fear that caning your bottom is not all the guards would do to you. And don't forget your dear husband – he would be severely punished too. For him maybe as many as 50 strokes."

She stopped struggling. What was the use? She felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her body. His hands went to the zipper at the waist of her beige calf-length skirt and in a few seconds it was pooled around her feet.

Underneath, Marilyn was wearing brief pink knickers, plus those nylons with the straps of the pink lace suspender belt crossing firm, full thighs. With her cream-coloured blouse and her white high-heeled court shoes she was an enticing sight. The liquid brown eyes of Ahmed Kareem roamed greedily over her body. His voice was now thick with excitement and there was no hint of doubt or hesitation in his fierce tone.

"A lovely sight, Mrs. Birling. Now I want you to take the panties down yourself. Let me say you are not getting the cane or the strap today as I don't have them with me so I shall save those pleasures for later. So today I will be content with spanking your bare bottom. So now do as I tell you and slip your panties down."

He had backed off and was now sitting on one of Marilyn's upright chairs. His smooth olive complexion was distinctly darker than when he had come in. Marilyn's face was bright pink. She was trembling all over. She mumbled, "Now look...."

But she knew there was no way out. No one was due to come round that morning and, even if someone did, it would only delay the inevitable because with those pictures in existence there was nothing she could do. She couldn't possibly get them from him physically – and anyway there would be negatives. Trying to blank everything out, and looking away from him, she forced her hands to go to the waistband of her brief nylon knickers.

She took the knickers down to her nylon tops, exposing her thick, light-brown bush, then had to hobble forward. He took hold of her arm and pulled her down. She was over his lap in the classic spanking position, head down and bare bottom up like some naughty schoolgirl over her father's lap – if fathers even did that sort of thing nowadays. Certainly Marilyn had never suffered this humiliation before. She had never even considered such a possibility.

She gave a suppressed gasp as a hand was suddenly at her smoothly bare bottom, patting and squeezing in a way that made her squirm. His left arm was gripped round her waist. Then the groping stopped. A slight pause. Then she gave a yelp as the first smack landed!

It really hurt, splatting down with all his force on the nearside cheek. The hot glow was still developing when, Splat! – the hand landed squarely on the other cheek. Marilyn let out another gasping yelp, her injured bottom squirming. It was still wriggling, and so were her legs, when the third hard smack splatted down.

The spanking seemed to go on for ever. It was extremely painful and desperately humiliating, the more so as after a few minutes she was in tears again, crying like a baby. A baby with a full-grown, slightly over-sized and now bright red bottom that was wildly jerking and twisting on Kareem's lap in a vain attempt to alleviate the effects of that stinging right hand. She was in a state of severe shock.

When he had finally had his fill of her, he simply removed his left arm that was restraining her while continuing to deliver those excruciating smacks to her bottom and thighs with his right hand. Marilyn's own jerking and writhing slid her off his lap and she finished up in an undignified heap on her own carpet.

She lay there for a while sobbing heartily before slowly struggling to her feet. She then pulled up her knickers and her skirt. Dr. Kareem was collecting up his pictures.

"Very nice, dear lady, very satisfying. I find so many of you English ladies have the most lovely bottoms. Today, of course, was just my little appetiser. The main course will be with my cane and strap."

He left after forcing a tongue-probing kiss on the reluctant Marilyn. When the door closed she sat down and simply burst into tears once more.

* * *

She had recovered slightly by the time Bob came home in the evening but was still feeling nauseous and sore. She had entered a nightmare with no obvious end in sight. She tried to be her normal cheerful self but it was almost impossible. When it was time for bed she had to be careful because in the bathroom she saw that her bottom and the backs of her thighs were still distinctly red and blotchy-looking. She put on a nightie, something she didn't usually bother with.

In bed she found herself hot for sex, an escape from the reality of what had happened. Fortunately Bob was, as ever, ready and willing but he commented on her unusual degree of arousal. In truth, she felt quite desperate.

"What have you been doing? Reading sexy books all day?" he grinned as he pumped hard into her.

Marilyn bit her lip, thinking of tomorrow. When she had to see Dr. Kareem again, this time at his apartment.

The next morning at 10 a.m. she presented herself at Kareem's as instructed. She was wearing a blue skirt and blouse, brown flat-heeled shoes and was bare of any hose. He received her in a plush-looking lounge.

Flushed and close to tears, Marilyn blurted out the plea she had been rehearsing. "Please! Can't I persuade you not to do this and to give me the photographs? Can't I please appeal to your better instincts?"

He laughed loudly. "My better instincts, Mrs. Birling, tell me you have a most beautiful bottom, indeed one of the finest it has been my pleasure to become acquainted with. Perhaps, in a few years, it is plump enough to go slightly to seed, but right now it is perfect. That is what Allah has provided women such as you for, Mrs. Birling, to give pleasure to men. But first, before we commence let me at least offer you coffee."

Marilyn considered briefly then shook her head. There was no point in prolonging the agony.

She was made to take off her skirt and then her white nylon knickers, this time right off not just down. She stood miserably in just the pale blue blouse and her flat-heeled shoes as he came close. Two hands fondled Marilyn's sumptuous bare rear. They were more than impertinent, they were masterful.

"I am amazed, my dear, that your husband does not make better use of this splendid part of you. Caning a woman's bottom is one of life's most exquisite pleasures. How sad that he does not appreciate that."

Then her tormentor was going to a cupboard, to come back with a three-foot long, crook-handled rattan cane. Marilyn paled, her mouth dry.

Dr. Kareem held it in front of her then swished it through the air. "This is my instrument of pleasure, Mrs. Birling. My favourite instrument in fact. I also enjoy the strap but the cane for me is exquisite. I love the way it sinks into soft female flesh."

This couldn't be happening, Marilyn told herself. But then he flicked the cane against her bare thigh and the sharp stingy pain told her that yes it was happening!

"So let us get started!" he ordered. Marilyn was made to bend over the back of an upright chair, her head on the seat, her hands gripping the front rungs and her legs wide apart. She gritted her teeth as the cane tapped once then twice across her bare, out-thrust buttocks, and felt consumed by shame.

A pause, then, THWACK!..

Marilyn gave an anguished yell. The pain was murderous,a quite different order of magnitude from the spanking. Her stricken rear did a frantic dance as somehow she held onto the rung.

There was no let up in the sickening pain when THWACK!.. it landed again, like a red-hot iron searing her bottom. A second frantic yelp burst forth as Marilyn went into another bottom-writhing dance. And no wonder for he was caning her with all his strength.

He gave her eight in all. They were all the same, each one a mind-boggling flame which left its bright red stripe across her plump, pale flesh. The stripes extended from the crest of Marilyn's bottom to halfway down her thighs. Her nerves were shattered. When he had finally finished Dr. Kareem dropped the cane and ran his hand lovingly over her tortured flesh.

"That's the ticket, eh – as you English say – Mrs. Birling? That's how a young woman should be taught discipline. Bringing her to heel is, I think, your English expression."

It was over. Marilyn fought to control her sobs, and the fierce pain that throbbed and smarted through her nerve ends. Somehow she managed to struggle into her knickers and skirt again. Then, excruciatingly, she had to sit and drink the coffee she refused earlier.

Afterwards she had to stand and bend over a table. Kareem lifted her skirt and pulled her knickers down again. This is it, Marilyn told herself, now he is going to screw me. But he didn't, merely fondled her bottom again. Running his fingers lovingly along those red weals which now decorated her pale flesh...

Back at their own apartment Marilyn was like a zombie, not knowing what to do with herself. Her bottom was an unceasing throbbing pain mass. When Bob got home she realised she had not prepared dinner and they had to go out to eat. Sitting down was agony and Marilyn spoke only in mono-syllables. The caning still filled her mind and when it was time for bed she hardly knew what she was doing. It was then Bob found out what had happened.

She knew the cane marks stood out very much in evidence on her bottom and thighs and she had gone into the bathroom to undress, but, in her distracted state, she had quite forgotten to lock the door. Bob wandered in – and stood aghast.

She grabbed her clothes to try and hide her red striped backside but it was obviously too late. There was an awful scene, at the end of which Marilyn burst into tears and told him everything that had happened. The whole story.

Hearing it Bob felt stunned, as if someone had hit him on the head with a hammer. It was not credible, but it had obviously happened because there were the awful purpling-red weals on his wife's bottom and thighs to prove it. In the ferment of emotions that filled him, one quickly became paramount – an urge to go out and find the man who had done this to his wife and strangle him.

In fact Bob Birling hardly knew Ahmed Kareem. The man had come to his party as a friend of a friend and Bob knew little about him except that he was a local man. Then he remembered hearing that his friend had said Kareem had high government connections and that put a very different complexion on things.

Bob pictured briefly what Kareem had threatened: 20 strokes of a lead-filled cane across Marilyn's bottom and perhaps more than twice as many for himself. It was not an idle threat because everyone knew that such things did happen. And Kareem had photos. He could have the Birlings indicted any time he wanted. That murderous urge became tinged with a sudden tingle of cold fear.

Bob did not go out and look for Ahmed Kareem. Instead in the bedroom he took Marilyn over his lap and applied cold cream to her injured rear. As he did so other emotions running round his head were joined by another one. Sexual arousal. What had been done was sickening but, lightly rubbing his cream covered hand over his wife's ripe buttocks, Bob realised that in spite of everything it was also very exciting. He found himself imagining the scene, Ahmed Kareem wielding his cane....

"What are we going to do?" wailed Marilyn who had stopped crying but was still producing intermittent sobs.

Because, of course, Kareem hadn't finished with her. He wanted her to return in two days time. When Marilyn had pleaded she would still be sore he agreed to postpone it by a couple of days, but that was all.

"He-He'll just want to keep on doing this," she muttered.

Bob bit his lip. The murderous impulse had been replaced by a chilling reality. Like Marilyn, there was little he could do. The photos were an unbeatable trump card and Kareem was not going to surrender them until he was good and ready. So Bob and Marilyn could leave the country forthwith but apart from that there was no alternative but acceptance. For Bob to pull out of his contract now would be nothing short of disaster.

Unhappily, Bob spelled it out. "It's up to you," he said.

Marilyn got off his lap to sit gingerly on the bed. She looked bleakly at her husband.

He repeated, "If you want me to keep this well-paid job, you'll have to let him do it." He added lamely, "Perhaps after a short while the novelty will wear off....."

* * *

So it continued, the cane or the 18 inch long, three-tongued leather strap at least once a week. Marilyn and Bob didn't tell anyone else, though she found out that Kareem was caning at least one other English girl. They also stopped discussing it with each other but Marilyn came to realise that, although Bob must hate being in this position, having to let Kareem do this to her, that wasn't his only reaction.

She soon came to see that her husband was also getting turned on by what was happening. Not saying anything, but he always made a point of examining Marilyn's caned or strapped rear when she'd been to see Kareem, and then he wanted sex right away. For her part Marilyn found she was also ready for sex after a good caning or strapping. She told herself it was a way of forgetting what had happened, the only escape from it. She couldn't admit that she might possibly be sexually aroused after a beating. It would be entirely inconsistent with all her beliefs.

So it continued, for almost seven months, then one day, after he had not seen her for two weeks, Kareem asked if she wanted the photos back. Marilyn had sensed that his interest was tailing off but it still came as a shock. She had got into the habit of these visits and, although still telling herself she hated it, had in fact come to accept what was happening. She asked if this meant she didn't have to come any more.

He laughed and said she had earned her release. He gave her all the prints and the negatives and presumably she could have walked out there and then. But when Kareem suggested a strapping as one final au revoir, Marilyn meekly took off her skirt and knickers and bent herself over the chair in the usual way.

Marilyn, like her husband, had come to enjoy a love-hate relationship with Kareem's cane and strap. It still hurt like hell but there was now undeniably a sexual thrill to it. Primarily her thrill was in the act of submission, the basic one of bending down for him and baring her bottom. Marilyn felt that thrill both when she was gasping under the actual impact and also reliving it when she was in bed with Bob. Not having Dr Kareem to dominate her any more would, she realised, leave a gap in her life.

When Kareem had finished with the strap and Marilyn was getting dressed, he told her he had found someone else. He gave the name of a young American girl Marilyn knew vaguely; a pretty, shapely young blonde. It was ridiculous but Marilyn felt a pang of jealousy.

She went home with a mixture of emotions, Kareem having said he would still like to whip her occasionally and then groping her bottom as she walked out of the door. In her handbag she had the photos and also another man's name and phone number. A man Kareem said would love to meet her. A rich man and a real bottom enthusiast.

* * *

Marilyn did nothing for two weeks during which time there was no call from Kareem. She should have been relieved that it was all over but instead she felt a sense of restlessness. Several times she looked at the card Kareem had given her and each time she put it back in her handbag. Finally, one afternoon, Marilyn rang the number.

She met him by appointment in the private room of a restaurant, a tall distinguished looking Arab of perhaps 60. He had keen dark eyes and a soft voice which spoke with the assurance of wealth. After coffee he said he would like Marilyn to spend a weekend at his place in the country. There would be £500 before she went and another £500 afterwards if he was 'fully satisfied'.

Marilyn left without saying yes or no, her brain in turmoil. Her mind was racing with sexual excitement and when she got home she simply couldn't contain it. She lay on the bed and allowed her feelings to run wildly out of control. In bed that night, again with a sense of intense arousal, she told Bob. His penis immediately responded to this news.

Holding it, Marilyn whispered, "He wants the same as Dr. Kareem. It'll be caning and whatever else he punishes me with. I don't think he wants to screw me."

They then made love with a wild, desperate intensity. Afterwards after some minutes of silence, Bob said, "You can go if you want to. But don't tell anybody...."

Marilyn, lying on her back, shivered. Her thoughts went back to that day she had stepped off the plane and then that feeling of excitement in the airport lounge of being in a strange, exciting place. That feeling had been fully borne out in the involvement with Dr. Kareem which had explored new depths to her psyche.

The last few months had shown Marilyn Birling a new and exciting world. A world that might only just be beginning!

_____________
This story was scanned and prepared by Alex Birch.

By appointment

Story from Janus 49.

By appointment.
by Andrew Grantham















THE DOOR was opened by a very attractive young woman. Her long, paprika-coloured hair brushed her shoulders. She looked at the man with her big, green eyes.

'Pamela Martland?' he enquired.

She nodded.

'My name is Carter,' he announced slowly. 'I have an appointment.'

'Yes,' she croaked. 'Come in please.'

His eyes travelled down her body. Her white top was flat against her chest, indicating that she had little in the way of breastworks. Her hips however, straining her dark skirt, were wide and full. Her legs were bare, sturdy yet shapely, teetering on her red high-heeled shoes.

'We'll go in the lounge,' she said softly. Neil walked behind her, admiring the swing of her curvaceous hips under the tight skirt.

The visitor ran a very unusual business. He caned women for a living! Sometimes he strapped them. Sometimes he spanked them; but mostly he caned them.

Why did men want a complete stranger to chastise their womenfolk? He had found that some males could not bring themselves to administer CP. Some thought an outsider heightened the humiliation. Some men, like the seafaring husband of Pamela Martland, wanted the woman in their life attended to before they returned home.

Neil set his bag down on the rich, thickly-patterned carpet. 'Is anyone in next door?' he enquired.

'Er... no.' Her face flushed a little. 'Why?'

'In case they hear anything,' he smiled grimly.

The pretty young woman swallowed hard. 'Would you like to come upstairs?' she asked. 'You know what for.'

'I know what for,' he told her. 'Tempting though the offer is, I must decline.'

Her shoulders slumped.

'Strip off please,' he asked her, reaching down to his bag.

'Everything?' she cried, her eyes widening even further.

'Yes, everything,' he told her sternly.

She began to pull her top up over her head. Neil rummaged through the various implements in his bag before coming out with a thin, whippy cane. When he looked up, the woman was clad in only a pair of white panties and her red shoes. Her eyes were instantly transfixed on the cane.

Neil's own eyes lingered on her small, pointy breasts. Her skin was creamy-white with a sprinkling of freckles. Her thighs were full and fleshy.

'Remove your knickers and lie over the settee arm with your bottom poked up nice and high,' he instructed.

She hesitated, but when Neil swished the cane she immediately put her thumbs in the top of her knickers and then skinned them down.

Neil feasted his eyes discreetly on her pubic bush of red-gold fur.

She stood upright, tossed her knickers to one side and walked over to the settee.

Neil admired her round, chubby bottom. The slender rod would embed itself in the flesh and then spring back, leaving its tell-tale mark.

She took a deep breath and draped her body over the padded arm. Not quite satisfied, Neil put a cushion under her tummy.

'That's better,' he said softly. Then he shuffled his feet into position, and placed the cane across the crown of her bum. She flinched as the springy instrument touched her trembling flesh.

Unhurriedly and using the full force of his arm, he began to flay the plump buttocks so helplessly presented.

She let out a strident howl as stinging pain flashed to the terminal points of her brain. Now she knew why Neil had asked about next door!

'Keep still!' ordered Neil, reaching out a hand to steady her wriggling bottom.

'I can't,' she gasped.

'You'd better,' he warned her, 'or you'll get more!'

'That thing hurts!' she complained.

'That's the whole object of bamboo retribution,' he reminded her.

Her bottom stilled again, the milky flesh now traversed with a thin red line.

He raised his arm and then brought it down sharply. The swish was followed by a howl as the cane bit into the rich moons. In between these sounds came the unforgettable punctuation of the crack! Her legs waved in the air and she pounded the cushions of the settee with her fists.

'Oh God!' she gasped. 'I had no idea it was as bad as this.' Her voice was distorted by her suffering.

Her chubby bum-cheeks were violently squirming, bucking and contracting in a quite ridiculous performance. Neil thoroughly enjoyed the sight of her tortured nates humping up and down.

Quickly, he sliced the cane into her flesh once more, its arc a lightning flash.

'Yoweeagh!' yelled out the pretty victim as she felt the thin strip searing into her skin like a branding iron.

The third imprint sprang up across both sides of the long, deep cleft between her large globes.

Neil swung his arm again, the bamboo whipping, biting into the fleshy mounds.

'Aaghaghaagghh!' she shrieked. Each cry now was more agonised than the one which had preceded it.

Her head thrashed to and fro as her bum throbbed with burning pain.

Neil didn't wait for the sting and the throb to subside. He laid into her quivering bum cheeks for the fifth time. CRACK!

The young woman's shrill reaction was enough to waken the dead. She raised herself up, her body shaking violently and her small breasts bouncing about.

'Stay still,' coaxed Neil.

The redhead's striped bum mounds clenched tightly, spasmodically. Neil shifted his position.

WHOOSH!

CRACK!

The final stroke was delivered with all his force. It landed devastatingly across the existing ridges.

She went wild. The cane had inflicted a literally intolerable stinging upon her scorched globes.

Neil left her writhing and groaning as he put his rapier-thin rod away. 'I'll see myself out,' he told her. 'There's no need to get up.'

* * *

The redhead stood with the palms of her hands seemingly glued to her burning bum-cheeks, her whole body churning on the spot. Suddenly, into the lounge strode a strikingly pretty, dark-haired young woman.

'It was awful, Pamela,' gasped the redhead. 'Please don't ask me to stand in for you again.'

'Oh Ginny,' cried Pamela, taking her neighbour's hands away from her tortured behind. 'Your poor bottom's in an awful state!'

'It's how yours should be looking,' Ginny sobbingly reminded her friend.

* * *

Neil sat in his car, looking at the photograph which had been enclosed with Mr Martland's instructions.

Pamela Martland was a brunette. The woman who had passed herself off as the seafarer's wife had been a redhead.

Neil would wait a moment or two before knocking again on the Martlands' door.

Pamela had already earned herself four penalty strokes – and her knickers hadn't even come off yet!

Video Lessons

Story from Uniform Girls 38.

Video Lessons


The TV screen is blank as the video begins to roll. Just the fuzzy, flickering grey light. Then abruptly it starts, shaking a bit, a hand-held camera, and slightly out of focus, but it quickly adjusts. To show a close-up of a bed. And a girl's head, her face, framed by fluffed-up pillow and duvet. The pillow and duvet are in a pretty pink-and-white flowered pattern, bright and cheerful, as in a teenage girl's room perhaps. The girl's face is turned to the camera and she is awake, wide-awake. A pretty, rounded face beneath somewhat disordered short, auburn-brown hair. Her full mouth with its ripe pink lips is slightly parted and the big brown eyes are wide. With fear? Anticipation of something frightening she can see? There is only this close-up of the face, it is not possible for the viewer of the video to see anything else in the room. To see what the big brown eyes could be looking so wide-eyed at.

He shudders. The viewer of the video hunched in his chair before the screen. Unconsciously gritting his teeth. Not wanting to look but of course it is impossible not to. He knows the face of course. The girl with the pretty auburn hair and the soft, vulnerable mouth. Oh yes, he knows who she is.

The picture abruptly terminates, to be followed by the flickery grey light again. Is that all: that short piece of film? The video flickers on. Then... a voice from the blank screen. A man's disembodied voice: soft, caressing almost. The sentences spaced out.

'Sweet dreams, eh?'

'Isn't she lovely?'

'A man would be lucky to be snuggling down with that.'

A longer pause. Then: 'I wonder what Young Miss has got on under there?'

'Could be nothing, I suppose. Nothing at all.'

'Could be a girl's sweet pussy in there with nothing at all on.'

Another of the longer pauses. Then: 'I wonder if that sweet pussy had a visitor last night?'

'Mmm? Do you wonder that? If it had a friendly visitor?'

* * *

That is the end of the voice. Just the flickering grey light again now. Is that all? It is enough, more than enough. The short piece of film and then the voice, digging under his skin. He has stiffened at the voice. His hands gripping the arms of his chair in the darkened room. He recognises the voice as of course he knows the girl.

The silent flickering continues. And then... a picture again. His eyes narrow. His breathing is tight, raspy.


The girl again. But she is not in bed now, she is standing. In the doorway of a bedroom with the bed, that pretty pink-and-white duvet and matching pillow, in the background. The room behind her is brightly lit, throwing the girl into sharp focus. She is standing with her hands at her sides in a white baby-doll nightie of silk or some similar material which clings to her ripely rounded figure. The nightie is virtually transparent and her firm, prominent boobs are especially in evidence, their pink nipples thrusting out, full, swollen it seems. As if perhaps someone has been playing with them. Sucking them maybe.

The baby-doll reaches only as far as the upper curve of her hips where it terminates in a fluffy hem. Below this are very tight, brief, matching pants. Sheer like the upper garment and tightly stretching over the ripe roundness of her Venus mound. The camera closes in. Focussing on her mound. The pants are so sheer that her auburn pussy hair shows clearly through, and sufficiently brief at the crotch that on either side a few curly hairs are uncontained.

The camera lingers on this intimate view and then the picture abruptly breaks off again. To be followed by more of the tantalising blank light.

He waits. For the voice. For the voice to probe again. Like a surgeon's scalpel. He could turn the set off but of course he can't. Shortly it comes:

'Wasn't that lovely?'

'Isn't she lovely?'

'Prime.'

A little giggle. 'Prime pussy.'

'And those really lovely tits too.'

'Yes, she's got something on now.'

'But maybe she's just put it on, eh? To be decent for the camera.'

'She really is lovely though.'

A longer pause. The talking has stopped perhaps. Then:

'But pretty girls can't be in bed all day, can they?'

'Even if they are having visitors.'

'Pretty girls do need... some discipline.'

'Now and then...'

* * *

His breath hisses out. The voice has stopped now, the screen is flickering silently. But from the teasing words there is not much doubt that it will shortly come to life again. To dig deeper under his skin.

Yes. Here it is. A view of the bed again. A wider view, you can see something of the room, white walls with exposed dark brown timbers. It is not in fact the same room, or the same bed at least. The duvet is different, a different pattern, brown and white. But of course his eyes are not on any of that, they are on what is central in the picture. Filling a good part of the screen. The girl.

She is bent face-down over the edge of the bed in a half-sideways angle to the camera. She is in the baby-doll and pants again but the former has been pulled up above her waist. To reveal fully the swelling curves of her ripe rump in the tightly-stretched pants.

There can be no doubt what is happening. Or has been happening. Because across the exposed flesh which swells tightly out on either side of the brief and half-transparent pants can be seen two cane marks. Two sets of bright red tram-lines.

The camera lingers on the view: the immobile girl; her obediently offered bottom. Then it cuts out. The blank flickering again.

Some seconds pass. Then the voice again:

'Oh yes. A little discipline.'

'If a girl has been at fault.'

'Disobedient.'

'Disobedient to a visitor perhaps?'

* * *

More blank flickering. Is that it?


No. The picture is suddenly there again. The same view. The same bedroom scene. But different of course. The girl's bottom more directly facing the camera. The brief pants have now been drawn down. So that what is facing is her completely nude bottom. And it is not only her bottom that is on view. In this position with her knees forward there is everything on view. A full view of her pussy. The pink slit in the auburn curls.

The picture cuts out. The flickering light. Running on. No voice this time. Then the picture again. The same view only now there is also a part-view of a man. His arm plus part of his torso. In a yellow sweater. His head is out of sight. But his hand... is at the girl's bottom. The girl who is in the same position with her pants down.

The hand slides over the smooth-fleshed buttocks... and then onto her pussy. Onto her cunt. The hand is there, on her cunt, as the picture breaks off.

And that is the end. There is no more picture, no more voice. The tape runs blankly on and on. Until it comes to its end.

* * *

Numbed, he got up to rewind the tape. Maybe he should watch it through again. Force himself to, to see if there were any clues to where she was. But there was anyway nothing he could do. And he didn't know if he could stand watching it a second time. Especially that last bit. When he had his hand on her.


The video had come by special delivery this morning. He had frantically opened the package to find the cassette and a brief printed note: Just to let you know she's fit and well. Indeed in the pink of health. What a lovely girl! A letter will follow, with details of what I want. When you've had a little more time to consider your foolish behaviour.

He went to switch on the light. When would that letter come? Later today? Tomorrow? Next week? It would depend on how long that character wanted to toy with him. Torture him.

It was two days now since Pam had been abducted.

* * *

She had been picked up from the office where she worked as a data processor. Picked up when she left work, at five o'clock as usual. Graham knew this because there had been the phone call in the evening. Telling him to be sensible. Pam would be alright as long as he was sensible.


Sensible of course meant accepting it. Not creating a fuss. Not going to the police. He hadn't gone to the police. For one thing the police nowadays, in 1995, were helpless in some areas. Nowadays people with power and influence could take the law into their own hands and the police would do nothing.

So Graham hadn't made a complaint. Hadn't reported that his young wife of only three weeks had been abducted. Even though he knew who it was. His name was Carling. Ronald Carling. Or that was the name he had used.

It was two weeks ago, almost at the end of their honeymoon at the seaside resort of Southcliffe. Graham and Pam had been in a pub on the front in the early afternoon, having a drink at the bar. The stranger had introduced himself and wanted to buy them a drink. A middle-aged man with glasses and a clipped military moustache. Ronald Carling he had said.

Graham had said, 'No thanks', rather curtly perhaps. He had already noticed the stranger eyeing Pam. His sharp eyes on Pam's slim but ripe shape in her pretty short-skirted pink frock. Mr Carling had tried to insist and Graham had repeated his refusal and said they had to go. They had left the pub, Graham conscious of Carling's eyes on Pam's rear view.


The next afternoon they came across him again when they went for a stroll along the promenade. Perhaps Carling had been on the lookout for them but he suddenly appeared.

'Hello. Remember me? Ronald Carling. How about that drink now?'

Graham said, 'No. Really. And we'd rather you didn't keep bothering us.'

Mr Carling has coloured slightly and then made the threat. Saying it wasn't a good idea for young people to be discourteous, impolite. When someone was trying to be friendly. His eyes had been on Pam, eyeing her tits in the brief sun-top. Then he had looked straight at Graham.

'You could regret being unfriendly, young man.'

He had gone on to suggest that if Graham didn't want a drink he could take Pam by herself. He was sure the pretty lady would like a drink, and sure she didn't want to be unfriendly.

Graham had a sudden hot vision of Mr Carling taking Pam off somewhere. In his car perhaps. Taking her somewhere and fucking her. That was what this man wanted, Graham could see it in his eyes. Or he thought he could. A nice juicy young piece that he had suddenly taken a fancy to.

Red in the face at the thought, Graham blurted, 'Fuck off!'


Afterwards Pam said, 'You shouldn't have said that. He was really annoyed. He might do something.'

Graham had been dismissive. The man was just some stupid character trying to annoy them. Pam said maybe she should have gone and had a drink with him. It wasn't worth making enemies. Not nowadays. She repeated: 'He might do something.'

Graham said, 'He wanted to... you know. Fuck you. That's what he wanted.'

Pam had coloured. 'Well, I wouldn't have let him. And maybe he didn't want that.'

Graham said, 'Yes he did. And you wouldn't have been able to stop him. He would have driven you out in the country and just done it. Taken your knickers off and just done it. You wouldn't have been able to stop him.'

Pam wouldn't agree. And she even spoke of going back out by herself, on the chance of seeing this Mr Carling again. To apologise for Graham's words and accept his offer of a drink. Graham indignantly refused to agree to this and they had a bit of a tiff. But maybe he should have agreed. Definitely he should have agreed, he thought now.

What was that character doing to her.

* * *

Pam had remained nervous at first. They had one more day at Southcliffe following Graham's stupidly (as Pam saw it) provocative remark, and she had been on tenterhooks all that day. Fearing some sort of action from Mr Carling though she didn't know what. But they hadn't seen him again. Back home the sense of apprehension had initially remained, because he could have found out where they lived: the town, and the little council flat that Pam had moved into just before the wedding and where now they were both settling into.

But there had been nothing. No sign to indicate that Mr Carling was going to pursue the matter and exact some sort of revenge. So gradually Pam stopped worrying about it. She had thought about it a lot at the beginning. Wondering if Graham had been right and the stranger had wanted to screw her. She had seen his looks of course, as Graham had, and it was certainly possible, likely perhaps. And it was true too what Graham said, that if he had really wanted to she couldn't have stopped him. He could have pinned her down and taken her knickers off and simply done it. Screwed her.

Pam knew that even if she had denied it to Graham. At 19, as she was, a girl knew it as a fact of life. Nowadays. 1995. Pam knew it in particular from Predent Insurance where she had worked for the last year. A girl found out there were certain things she couldn't argue with. Not if she wanted to keep her job. Graham of course didn't know about work. About that side of work. About her boss, Mr Forton. And he of course wasn't the only one at work.

No doubt that Mr Carling would have been the same. His eyes on her had said he wanted the same. And if he was going to cause trouble otherwise, Pam would have let him have it. Though not telling Graham because what was the point. Just saying they had a friendly drink and that was all.


Things were not greatly different back at work. She was a married woman now, Mrs Gilfield and now Pam Mercer, but that didn't change things. Not for Mr Forton certainly.

'How was Southcliffe?' he greeted her. 'But I suppose you didn't see it. I suppose you were in bed all week. Doing it continuously day and night for the whole week, eh?'

And then Mr Forton wanted it. Right away. When she was scarcely in the office. Wanting it there, with the door locked.

No, things were still the same. And with that and their new flat to occupy Pam's mind the thought of the importunate stranger quite quickly faded. He could be forgotten. Until two weeks later. Thursday evening, just after five o'clock when she went to her car in the car park. There he was. Smiling. Waiting for her.

With adrenalin suddenly flooding in her veins she thought of running, but didn't. It wouldn't do any good. If he had found her he was going to get her.


Breathless now she walked up to him.

'Good girl,' he said softly. 'Mrs Gilfield, correct? The new Mrs Gilfield. And she's going to come and have a drink with me.'

He had moved in close. His hands were unbuttoning her light coat. One hand sliding in lightly cupped Pam's pussy through her thin dress.

'Yes, young lady?'

'Y.. Yes.. Alright..' she stammered.

* * *

The note with that first video said he would receive a letter, but it is not a letter it is another video. A package by special delivery again the next morning which clearly contains a video. He feverishly opens it. This time there is no note, just the video tape. With his heart pounding Graham draws the curtain and puts the cassette in the machine. The grey flickering light again, but this time the voice starts almost at once. Mr Carling's voice.

'Hello, Graham. Can I call you Graham? Did you like the other tape? A lovely girl, isn't she? And so photogenic. And cooperative too, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear. That's good because it means we have no problems. Although we do have to have a bit of discipline, as I said. And of course showed you. Discipline is always good for a pretty girl. So I'm doing you, and pretty Pam, a service, aren't I?' There is a smug little chuckle.

There is a pause. Is the picture going to start now? He dreads it starting because it is bound to be another exercise of sticking the knife in and twisting it around. But there is no way he can avoid watching. And Mr Carling knows that. It is not yet, though. There is more talk:

'I only sent you excerpts of course. Of that first video. You might not have wanted to see all of it. All the action. She was very good, though. Very cooperative as I say. So we had no problems.'

'But anyway, what you have now is my second effort. It's more complete, there's more continuous action. It's not fully complete of course. There is more action that I haven't sent. Action that perhaps you would not wish to see.' One of those smug chuckles again. 'You see I am a very sensitive person. I am concerned about people's feelings. Perhaps in contrast to yourself, Graham. With your rather rude dismissal of my friendly overtures. But I am sure you are learning. This film incidentally was taken by a good friend of mine who is staying with us here. He is very impressed with your Pam. Very taken with her.'

The voice stops at that point. Now the film will come. Graham tenses himself. Yes. The screen is abruptly flooded with colour. Dazzling at first, as his eyes focus...


Mr Carling is sitting in what looks like a cottage kitchen, at a large table covered with a check cloth. In tweed jacket and tie and with the light glinting off his spectacles, he is drinking from a teacup. At the same time Pam is standing in the corner of the room. She is wearing a transparent green plastic mac and it seems very little else. The mac reaches scarcely as far as her crotch and below that her legs are bare. And she seems pretty much bare underneath the mac too. Certainly she is otherwise bare above the waist for her nude tits can be seen. Below the waist there is perhaps something. White. Tight knickers, or equally tight and brief shorts. Pam is looking contrite – or apprehensive. Or perhaps both. She is standing holding the hem of the rain jacket, as if trying to pull it down to cover more of herself. She is watching Mr Carling.

He puts the cup down and beckons her. There is no sound, but he has said something. Pam is coming over and Mr Carling is getting to his feet. Wagging his finger. Admonishing her. Perhaps she has made the tea and it is not to his liking. Pam is saying something, with now a decidedly unhappy expression on her face. Shaking her head. And then bending over. Bending herself down over the check table cloth.

Mr Carling pulls the rain jacket up above Pam's waist. She in fact has on some sort of tight stretch knickers. In her bent-over position Pam's ripe bottom seems to be virtually bursting out of them. Mr Carling slides his hand sensuously over the taut seat of the knickers. And briefly in between Pam's thighs. Then he is going over to a cupboard. And taking out a cane.

Pam is going to be caned.

Yes. Graham holds his breath.

CRACKK...!

Squarely across those ripely out-thrust cheeks. Pam's bottom writhes and rolls. In eerie silence because it is clear Pam must have yelled out.

CRACKKK..!

This time the camera is focussed on her face, which as the cane slices in gives a silent yell of agony.


The caning continues, as Pam's bottom squirms and writhes. Now and then her head jerks up and then goes down again, with her left or right cheek flat on the table cloth. Graham is not counting, he couldn't bear to count, but there must be six or eight, each one zipping searingly into the straining seat of those ultra-tight knickers. At last Mr Carling stops. He turns to smile at the camera.

The film breaks off, to be replaced by the flickering grey light. And Mr Carling's voice.


'How was that? Took it very well, didn't she? Made a bit of noise, although you won't be hearing that. But apart from the noise, very good. Now we'll have another piece of discipline. This time harder to take because she has her knickers down. Her shorts and her little knicks down and her pretty bottom nice and bare. So definitely harder to take. Some girls, if you give it to them on the bare they're hopping up and down like a banshee. So let's see how our Pam manages, shall we? I hope you're enjoying this, Graham.'


The voice stops. The picture restarts. Yes. Pam over the table again, in the green transparent mac and now a pair of white shorts with little white knickers underneath but both of these garments have been pulled down close to her knees. Pam's bare bottom is fully facing the camera and she is in that knees-bent position of the first video. Which fully exposes her pussy to the camera. It is there staring at the camera, staring at Graham. He gazes back, transfixed, hypnotised almost. The spell is broken as Mr Carling's cane slices devastatingly in.

* * *

They didn't go for a drink of course. When Mr Carling confronted Pam in the car park and then took her over to his car. They weren't going to a pub for a drink, they were going to his cottage. He had a pretty cottage on the coast, not too far from Southcliffe in fact and that was where they were going. He was taking Pam off to teach Graham a lesson. A lesson in politeness and friendly behaviour.

Mr Carling told Pam this as they sat in his car. He had her coat completely unbuttoned now so that he could fondle her nice firm boobs. She didn't object to this of course. But the thought of being taken off scared her.

'I'm sorry,' she stammered. 'Really. About Graham being rude. He didn't... really mean it. And please don't take me off. It's not just Graham, there's my job. I have to be at work.'

Mr Carling said she could phone them in the morning. Say she was sick. She wouldn't be off for too long, a few days maybe. Long enough to teach Graham a lesson. And of course long enough for him, Ronald Carling, to enjoy her for a little while. Was that OK, he asked.

Pam said an unhappy, 'Yes.'

'Good. So let me have a nice kiss.'

Pam kissed him. She was going to have to cooperate. That way it would be easier and hopefully he would let her go earlier. So she made it a nice sexy kiss to show she was cooperating. The kind of kiss Mr Forton at the office liked. Well, the kind Graham liked too of course. Pushing her tongue right into Mr Carling's mouth.

'That was lovely,' he said. 'Now what about a really nice kiss.'

He grinned... and unzipped his trousers. Then pulled out his erect cock. Red-faced, Pam glanced nervously around. Knowing what he wanted of course. He wanted her to suck it. But they were over in the corner of the car park and there was no one around. No one to see. So she did it. Lowering her head and taking it in her mouth.

* * *

The cane was the worst thing. At the cottage. Definitely the worst thing. 'No! Not the cane!' she yelped. 'Not that. Please!'

But Mr Carling said she had to have the cane. He was going to send it to Graham. Video shots of Pam being caned. 'That's part of his lesson,' Mr Carling said. 'A nice painful lesson for him.'

Of course they could send shots of other action, Mr Carling said. Other action of Pam with himself and with Mr Mamforth, Mr Carling's friend who was staying with them at the cottage. Pam knew what action he meant and she couldn't possibly bear having that sent to Graham, not if she had any choice in the matter. So in that case... she had to take the cane.

It was really killing. On her bare bottom. Or with just a pair of skin-tight diaphanous knickers on. Making her think she wanted to be sick. Feeling like her bottom had been sliced in two.

'I've got to do it properly,' Mr Carling said. 'Nice and zippy. I don't want it to look as if you're not really getting it, as if we're just playing around. Otherwise it wouldn't be a lesson at all for our dear Graham, would it?'

Apart from that dreadful cane it wasn't too bad at the cottage. Apart from the cane and worrying about Graham. Pam begged to be allowed to phone him but Mr Carling wouldn't allow it. It would relax the tension, he said. And they couldn't have that. 'He's got to have his little bit of suffering.'

Poor Graham! There was nothing he could do except accept his lesson. And suffer. He would know he had no choice but to accept what had happened.

'He won't be silly,' Mr Carling said. 'He's a silly young man but he's sensible enough to accept it and not make a fuss. If he tried anything silly he might never see his pretty Pam again. I could sell her off, to Arabs for instance. They would absolutely love her. Or perhaps the German trade. How about that?'

Pam gave a little yelp of fright. She was sure Graham would be sensible. And he knew she was alright. Safe and sound. He was getting the videos sent to him.

* * *


The third video showed Pam playing Ludo with Mr Carling. It was different from the game as normally played though. It was strip Ludo. For Pam at least, Mr Carling wasn't doing any stripping off. But when Pam lost she had to take something off. She started off in her yellow dress, the one she had worn to the office the day Mr Carling had taken her. The dress came off the first time she lost a game. Underneath Pam had on a pretty pale yellow set of underwear: slip, bra and panties, a matching little suspender belt with her stockings. These items came off in turn one by one.

When she was down to just the little yellow pants Mr Carling took Pam over his lap and took down the yellow pants and spanked her bottom. Then he gave her a caning. Bending her over the card table with her hands behind her back. And slicing that cane zippily into her bare bottom.

* * *

That was the end of the videos. Mr Carling thought Graham would now have learnt his lesson. 'Oh I'm sure he has!' Pam exclaimed. 'Please!'

Mr Carling gave her a quizzical look. 'You're keen to get back then?'

'Yes! Yes! Well I... I love him. He's my husband... and we'd only been married for three weeks.' She felt a bit like bursting into tears. It really was a dreadful thing to have happened.

Mr Carling said sardonically, 'So you don't want to be sold to the Arabs? Or some German contacts I have?' Pam shook her head. This time the tears did start. But he was only joking. He said she could phone Graham. Tell him she could come back. If he had learnt his lesson.

So Mr Carling drove Pam back home, on the Saturday afternoon. She had been with him at the cottage for just over a week. At the flat she asked him if he wanted to come in, for a cup of tea. Mr Carling said yes, certainly. He would certainly accept their hospitality.

It was a little embarrassing of course. After Pam had given Graham a big, relieved hug. But it passed off alright. Mr Carling said he hoped there were no ill feelings. He intended to keep in touch. And he hoped to have Pam come and stay with him again from time to time. If that was alright. Graham said a somewhat unhappy 'Yes'.

They had the tea. It was time for Mr Carling to go. But maybe he thought Graham should have one more lesson. Not a video this time but real life action.

'Ah... you wouldn't mind if I took the lovely lady into the bedroom? For a few minutes. As we're all friends now.'

It was an effort but Graham managed a stammered, 'Noo... oo. That's OK.'

In the bedroom Mr Carling screwed Pam on the bed.

* * *

And then it was life back to normal. Back to the office for Pam on Monday. Her little enforced adventure was over. Although Mr Carling had said he was going to want to see her again from time to time. But for the moment it was back to normal. Apologising to Mr Forton for being off all last week. She didn't tell him of course, just said she's been ill.

'Maybe married life doesn't agree,' Mr Forton said. 'All that screwing you're getting every night is too much. Maybe we'd better put a ban on it. Mmm?'

Then of course he wanted it himself. In his office, with the door locked. Over the desk. Pam didn't object or argue. In 1995 you didn't argue with the way things were. Pam knew that. And Graham knew it too now. After his lessons.

THE END