The Tutor

Story from Roue 05.

The Tutor

The girl's buttocks huddle inside her navy knickers, the pants plumped out ripely across her bum-cheeks, stress lines in the blue fabric pulling up and out from where the knickers tuck between the tops of her thighs at the back, the elastic of the legs running round below the undersides of her cheeks for a little on either side of her bottom and then curving up and across her buttocks to her hips, leaving the soft lateral folds under each bum-cheek to deliniate the plumpness where it meets the smooth skin of her upper thighs.

The knickers are a little faded, the knap worn more or less smooth by much washing, and on each cheek, at the high point which might be called the crown, there is an area which is slightly more faded still than the remainder of the originally dark material, the lightness in tone at these two places serving to highlight them and seemingly add fullness to the rotundity of each firm cheek. Or, to the eye given to fond imaginings, these highlighted summits might appear to be the result of a slight thinning of the cloth, the thinness spreading tantalisingly across those twin high points and covering such an area as might well be the favorite aiming point of a cane or a strap, so that it might be imagined that the supposed thinness itself was due to the frequent application of some such punishment to those very places.

This idea might be given weight by another feature of the girl's bottom, because on each cheek, where her knickers part company with the undercrease of her buttocks and sweep up across the curves of her bum leaving a little of her cheeks bare on either side, a fresh-looking roseate hue glows warmly along the margins of her knickers. This blush spreads even to the very tops of her thighs where they border her bum-cheeks, and its cause has clearly been the application of a sharply smacking palm.


To a knowledgable eye, and not-withstanding the little-girl impression made by the slightly too-tight knickers, this is a girl of at least sixteen, indeed probably seventeen, whose hips have softened in their outline and whose bottom has filled out a little beyond the capacity of the faded navy blue knickers to adequately cover it, at least with any modesty. And it is just such a knowledgable eye which loiters with a certain proprietary interest upon this young lady's knickered bottom.

This interested eye, pale blue-grey, runs to and fro, up and down, lingering especially upon the newly-spanked cheeks where they nudge out of the confines of the knickers. Then, as if half-satisfied, the man with the blue-grey eyes turns his glance down to the exercise-book upon his desk, following the neat lines of handwriting and noting irregularities by underscoring in red. The man clears his throat as if to speak. The girl standing nervously facing the wall starts at the sound, and her bum-cheeks squeeze closer together, emphasising the line running up between her cheeks as she nips her bottom in.

'English grammar,' says the tutor, and the girl stiffens her legs and seems at once all attention, though she dares not turn her face away from the wall. She seems to be strung-out and nervy, as if the two simple words herald some fearful happening. They do. She is hopeless at English grammar.

'Infinitives.' says the tutor. 'What exactly is an infinitive Sarah?'

'Um — mm — I think they're verbs sir.'

'And I think you're half right Sarah, which probably means you've been half listening. However; in this homework of yours — tell me, do you have anything specific against infinitives?'

'S-sir?'

'Is there lurking within you such a loathing of infinitives that you feel compelled to ill-treat them?'

'Er — I — I'm not sure wh-what you mean sir.'

The tutor resists a smile and teases the girl a little more. The fat succulence of her snugly-knickered bottom tantalises him in his turn. But all in good time.

'Let me put it another way Sarah. Can you think of anything which you should not do to infinitives, and I have in mind our last English grammar lesson?'

The girl winces mentally. She too has in mind her last English grammar lesson.

'Sir — I — I think they shouldn't be — um — split?'

'Bravo! So will you kindly explain why, in this homework, you have split two perfectly inoffensive infinitives?'

'Sir?'

'For example: 'When I've been naughty in class I sometimes have to be punished. I have to usually take my knickers down for this.' And, 'When I've had my bottom smacked, I have to always stand in the corner.' Now then Sarah, how do you explain these lapses?'

Sarah fidgets awkwardly, quite at a loss. She is terribly conscious of her bottom's vulnerability, and is well aware that it is about to suffer retribution. Even if she knew what her tutor was talking about she doubts that it would save her. Her bum-cheeks tweak involuntarily at the prospect of further punishment, but even more dreadful is the utterly humiliating nature of the homework she is expected to do. It seems to her that it is all part and parcel of her uncle's promise to her that she '— would learn that big ideas don't make big girls, and she would be taught that she wasn't nearly so grown up as she liked to suppose.' She feels her face flush with embarrassment, hearing the humiliating things she is expected to write about read out in her tutor's mocking voice. And even worse, she doesn't know where she has gone wrong. She knows only that infinitives oughtn't to be split; what a split infinitive looks like she hasn't a clue.

The tutor lets her think about it. He watches her fidget again, and savours the resilient quiver of her plump cheeks as she moves.

'So you have no explanation?'

'N-no sir. I — I'm sorry —'

'Very well then.' His voice carries the promise of a fate sealed. He adds insult to the threat of injury. 'Subjects and objects,' he says.

Sarah cringes inwardly and clings pathetically to her raised skirt.

'In the sentence; 'I have not done my homework very well, and will have to take my knickers down for being a naughty girl,' what is the subject?'

'Er — I think it's kn-knickers sir.'

'And what is the object?'

'Um — 'me' sir? I mean 'I'?'

'No. The object is to teach a silly little girl a lesson, and also to encourage a more dilligent attitude towards homework.'

The girl realises that she has been 'taken down' another peg by the little joke. Her bottom trembles as she shifts her weight nervously again and her bare thighs press defensively together. She feels the snugness of her pants cuddling close around her already tender bottom. She doesn't need to be told what's next on the agenda for 'taking down'.

'Do you agree, Sarah?'

'I — I — I don't know sir.'

The man gets up from his chair and clears some books from his desk.

'Come here.'

Sarah knows better than to argue. Still clutching her skirt at her waist she turns from the wall, her eyes avoiding her tutor's and cast demurely down to the floor. She follows his gesturing hand obediently and stands with the front of her thighs just touching the chill wood of the edge of the desk-top.

Standing behind her, unhurried and quietly confident of his authority, her tutor runs his hands around her waist, freeing the lower edge of her blouse which she has childishly tucked into the top of her knickers, slipping the snug-fitting pants down off her hips and over the plumpness of her cheeks, which bounce free of the under-size pants, hot-looking and delicately hued with an uneven crimson tint. The back of his hand brushing across her warm bum-cheeks makes her shiver very slightly, a tremor which does not go unnoticed.

'Bend over.' He says it calmly, matter-of-factly.

Nervously Sarah bends forward at the waist then sinks her tummy down onto the hard desk-top.


Her panicky eyes follow him as he goes to the hook beside the tall cupboard and takes down a slim crook-handled cane. He walks round behind her as she lies unhappily over the desk.

'Legs out straight now. This isn't your first time Sarah.'

Dutifully she straightens her legs, her bottom plumping up as she does so, and an experienced eye casting a glance over the girl's obediently offered bottom would be able to confirm that this is indeed not the first time that a cane will have caressed those round and pinkened nates. On each bared cheek, in a position corresponding approximately to that which the more faded areas of her knickers previously occupied, a faint and indistinct tracery of palest mauve blemishes the otherwise crimson skin, the discolourations arranged in short, roughly parallel lines, closely spaced athwart the tight cleft of her bottom.

This ephemeral evidence shadows the pink, spank-smarting glow of Sarah's bum and invites the touch of enquiring fingers, prompts the tutor's memory to recall the day before when the same cane which he now brushes coolly against her bare thigh bit stingingly across these same quivering cheeks. The inquisitive fingers trace over the fading weals and find only a suggestion of unevenness, and the shadows of Sarah's yesterday-caning are indeed hardly more than shadows.

His hand strokes intimately across the warm, toasted cheeks and Sarah's legs sag a little as she presses her soft thighs together and nips in her buttocks.

He pats the firm, smooth flesh almost fondly and then touches the cane once across the backs of her thighs. It quivers as it hovers for a second and then it flicks waspishly across the very tops of the girl's legs.

'Ooh!' She sags even more and her knees bump against the front of the desk.

'Legs straight now Sarah! I won't tell you again!'

Sarah shoves her legs out straight and her bottom fattens again. Her lowered knickers slip down a little further and the smarting cane-marks colour rapidly at the top of each thigh an inch or so below the under-crease of her buttocks.

'Now stay like that!'

The cane swinging nonchalently from his fingers, he walks round the desk to pick up the exercise book with the red ink corrections in it.

Her bottom lip clamped between her teeth as she winces still from the sting, Sarah sneaks a hand back and kneads tentatively at the top of one thigh, her indrawn breath hissing past her teeth as she screws her pretty eyes half-closed. Her tutor turns back towards her and she snatches her hand away out of sight.

The book in his hand, the man counts mistakes. The half-naked girl keeps her legs stretched straight out behind her, her bare bottom meekly positioned across the uncomfortable edge of the desk.

'Twelve mistakes Sarah. Twelve, in one piece of work. What have you to say for yourself?'

Sarah can't think of a thing. She tries, but there's no excuse. She's just useless at English Grammar, just as she's useless at almost everything academic.

'S-sir — I — did my best sir. I tried, honestly, but —'

The cane swooshes quietly as he swings it to and fro beside his leg. Sarah tails off, mesmerised by the oscillating cane.

The cane stops swooshing and stretches itself lightly across both reddened bum-cheeks, nuzzling up under the plump outward swell. An experienced eye would note that the cane has presented itself to that fleshy lower area of the girl's buttocks which are unblemished by the faint traces of her earlier caning. It would see that between the lateral creases at the tops of her legs and the downward extent of the almost faded weals there is just sufficient room for perhaps a dozen tightly grouped cane strokes. The cane titilates the smooth, blushing cheeks with little condescending taps. The girl twitches and squeezes her nates together in nervous anticipation.

Her tutor enjoys the moment, letting her wait, seeing the involuntary flinching of her bottom and savouring the silky-satin touch of the cane against her still-smarting skin. His voice is as calm and unhurried as ever.

'Now then Sarah, we have a little rhyme for occasions such as this, haven't we?'

Sarah nods with quiet desperation. It is a piece of doggrel she knows by heart, its stupid verses having been caned into her at least twice a week ever since she was first sent to her 'crammer' after failing dismally in her G.C.E. exams. She feels the cool touch of the cane trembling against her tender bottom and wishes fervently that she'd been more attentive at school. The cane flicks stingingly up under her defencelessly elevated bottom and she gasps through moistly parted lips.

'Haven't we, Sarah?'

'Oooh — y-yes sir. I — I'm sorry —' Her eyelids begin to prick and she feels the very first tear squeeze out between her eyelashes. The smart in her bottom, and above all the utter humiliation of having to let him take down her knickers and treat her like a naughty girl is too much for her to bear without crying. She struggles against the dragging weight of her misery and forces the first idiotic words out.

'B-bottoms up is the —'

The sprightly cane swooshes stingily across the fatly rounded underside of her bottom, reaching around both cheeks with its admonitory finger.

'Ooooh-ooogh!' Sarah shoves out convulsively with her legs and the desk scrapes a fraction of an inch forward. Her bottom snatches its blushing cheeks together and her hips wriggle tentatively from one side to the other.

'Bottoms up is the what, Sarah?'

'Nnngh — the — the golden rule!'

'That's right.'

Swhack!

'Ooow! Oh — n-no — !'

'Go on Sarah.'

'Oooo — f-f-for girls who will not l-learn —'

Swhitt!

'Oough! Owwooo — !'

'Will not learn — ?'

'A-a-at school! Ooh, s-sir, please —'

'That's right Sarah. And — ?'

'S-sir — And kn-knickers down — nmmgh — is what's re-required —'

Whack!!

'Oooooow-oooh-hooo — !'

The girl squirms helplessly against the desk, her thighs drifting apart unheeded and then slapping back together again as she tries in vain to wriggle the sting out of her smarting bottom, She weeps wretchedly, her tears splashing onto the polished desk-top. Her bottom is reddening furiously under the plumpest, out-swelling curves.

The cane is placed quite deliberately across the two quivering bum-cheeks and Sarah flinches even as it touches her burning skin.

'Go on please —'

The telephone on the desk rings startlingly.

Whack!!

'Go on please Sarah!'

Sarah worms her hips frantically and gasps out the next few words, the telephone's ringing drowning her panting voice.

'Ooh-oooo — of — of naughty girls who h-haven't tried — !'

Tucking the cane casually under his arm the tutor picks up the telephone and puts it to his ear. Sarah's crying sounds suddenly louder in the silence of the phone bell's cessation. To a casual observer it would seem inconceivable that the girl's sobs would not be heard by the caller.

'Good evening,' says the tutor.

Sarah's naked bottom still trembles as she lies weeping across the desk. Breaking the rules she reaches back with both hands and rubs gingerly at the tender, reddened places low down on each buttock, her knees sagging lower and lower as she attempts to alleviate the burning sensation.

'I see. Very well, I'll tell her you'll be picking her up.'

The tutor covers an ear with his hand and listens with difficulty.

'Yes, yes, that's Sarah — pardon?'

Hearing her name Sarah tries to stifle her sobs enough to hear what's being said, but her gasps continue in irregular spasms nevertheless.

'Yes, very naughty I'm afraid — eh? No — no, the cane — fine, about thirty minutes then — 'bye.'

The phone clatters back onto its cradle.

Sarah snatches her hands away from her bum and pushes her legs straight in a panic. She isn't allowed to rub her bottom, and the punishment might be an extra couple of strokes across her legs. She clamps her hands together under her chin and prays that she hasn't been observed.

'Your uncle —' says the tutor, 'to say that he'll be collecting you from here, so you needn't meet him as arranged.'

Sarah gurgles an unintelligible reply. She stretches her legs out as straight as she can, her firm and already well-punished bottom pushing up pertly, the cane marks a blaze of stripey crimson across the lower curves of her bum.

The cane descends unannounced around the tops of her thighs, and then again as she pulls her knees up and they bang against the desk. She can't help herself. She clutches desperately at her legs with both hands and squeals wretchedly. 'Naughty little Sarah — we mustn't rub our bottom, must we eh?' mocks the tutor. 'Now then —'

The cane taps insistently on her bright pink buttocks.

'Legs straight Sarah!'

It takes another sharp little flick across the lower part of her thighs before Sarah will do as she's told.

'Now carry on —'

Sarah heaves in a deep breath, trying to steady her voice.

'An-and bottoms b-bare —'

Swhipp!!

'Oooow-oooh — no, please!'

Whack!!

'Ooooogh! Mmnnngh!'

'And bottoms bare —' coaxes the tutor.

'Oooo — b-bottoms bare are just the th-thing —'

Thwack!!

Sarah dissolves into a fit of sobbing, her whipped bottom writhing frantically. He waits, knowing that she is near the end of her tether. Several minutes pass before she can force herself to push her bottom back up into position. She weeps dismally, the sting in her poor bum vying with the utter humiliation of being caned at all. The dreadful, belittling words of the stupid poem by far the worst, making her seem a complete fool even in her own eyes.

The cane touching against her sore buttocks makes her shiver, even though it merely rests there for a moment. It taps impatiently, exciting the sting in her buttocks again.

'Now where were we — ? Ah yes — bottoms bare are just the thing —'

Unprompted, Sarah gabbles out the rest of the line.

'For swishy canes to smack and sting —'

Thwappp!!

'Oooo-ooow! S-sir — please sir — p-please — !'

'So naughty girls —'

'Unngh — so n-naughty girls like —'

Whack!!

'OOW! OOOGH!'

Sarah's knickers finally complete their descent to her kicking ankles. Her thighs slide apart and she rears up then thumps back heavily onto the desk. Her secret little places lie revealed and abandoned to view as she blubbers, and then, desperate to complete the stupid lines, she blabbers on.

'So naughty g-girls — oooh-ooo — like m-me must try, or g-get —'

Thwack!!!

'Oooooo-ooh — plee-please!'

'Or get what, eh? Or get what?'

'Unn — nngh — g-get the c-cane that m-makes them —'

Whack!!

'— CRY!! OOOOGH! OOW-OOO!'

The last stroke cracks hard across her tossing bum-cheeks. She gasps and pants and her bottom bounces in anguish, the vivid cane-marks brilliant crimson and quite covering the lower half of her bum. He leaves her to it, her weeping going on unabated for three or four minutes. The cane goes back on the hook and he calmly seats himself at his desk again.

Sarah gets her sobs under control at last. Exhausted with her crying she lies slumped across the desk, her tear-streaked face hardly more than a foot or so from where her tutor thumbs idly through another exercise-book, sparing her barely a glance.

He ignores her for several minutes, then his matter-of-fact voice mocks her patronisingly.

'So — you'll make a better job of your homework next time Sarah. Won't you my dear?'

'Mmmngh — y-y —'

'Yes, of course you will. Now then kindly stop watering my desk and go back to your corner.'

Sarah levers herself up from the chill desk, catching at her skirt as it slips down and pulling it back up to her waist as she knows she's supposed to, her glossy pubic hair nestling sweetly at the bottom of her faintly rounded tummy. A tear still rolls down her pink cheeks as she looks wretchedly at her tutor, seeing his eyes on her but too miserable to care. She turns away and shuffles to the corner, her faded navy knickers dragging around her ankles.

An experienced eye, watching Sarah as she stands in her corner, staring through misted eyes at the blank wall, would see that without having to be told she has retained her hold on her hitched-up skirt, though the under-slip cascades in lacy folds down over her hip on one side, spilling its creamy frivolity across the upper part of one buttock, the contrast with the cool linen making her bottom seem all the more aglow with inner heat.

An experienced eye would also note that the fresh cane-marks are grouped precisely up under the plumpest part of the girl's bottom, the spacing so arranged that hardly any of the lateral lines overlaps any other. The experienced eye would know that, caned as she has been, and in those particular places, sitting is going to be one luxury which the girl will not be indulging in for the rest of the evening at least.

The tutor raises his eyes from the books upon his desk every now and then, less to check that Sarah is still properly installed in her corner than to gloat over the extremely rewarding view of a grown-up girl with her faded navy knickers at her ankles who has been well punished, and with all the humiliation attendant upon such a childish chastisement. Therein, more than anything, lies the satisfaction. Soon, indeed a few minutes earlier than anticipated, footsteps sound on the stairs outside the door.

Sarah's uncle taps tentatively on the door panels. In her corner the girl shivers dejectedly, and risks a glance over her shoulder. Her tutor gets up to open the door and takes the short detour necessary to slap her several times across the backs of her bare thighs.

'Face the corner — and do as you're told!' he says brusquely. Sarah wriggles helplessly as the smacking hand stings her legs. She clings on to her raised skirt with both hands and gasps involuntarily at the smart of the three casual spanks.

She hears the door open, and her uncle's quiet voice. She trembles at the indignity of having to let herself be seen as she is — a naughty little girl, knickerless and with the evidence of her so-recent punishment shamelessly on display.

Her uncle's eyes wander lasciviously over the hot glow of her bum and note particularly the stripey crimson of her lower cheeks.

'Been a bad girl again, Sarah?' he mocks.

Sarah stammers her reply.

'Y-yes uncle George.'

'I see. Well then, its early to bed for you tonight my girl!'

The two men discuss the tutor's fee for the week. A cheque is signed. Sarah can think only of her poor, punished bottom, and the punishment still to come. Early to bed is a euphemism which holds no mystery for her. She tries to remember where she last saw the hairbrush — she's bound to be sent for it just before bed-time at nine o'clock. She tries to think what on earth she could have done with the nasty, stingy thing after Uncle George had finished with it last night. If she can't find it, she'll probably get the strap instead — and on the bare!

'Pull your knickers up, Sarah,' says her tutor off-handedly.

Obediently Sarah stoops and retrieves her worn school knickers, the kind she is made to wear all the time, and she drags them gingerly up and over her bottom.

'Oh, and the weekend's homework is trigonometry. Book three, page ten.'

'Y-yes, sir.' She lets her short skirt fall down to cover her tender bottom and turns to face her uncle and her tutor, her pretty face clouded by a look of hopelessness. If there's one subject she's worse at than English Grammar it's trigonometry.

'And we'll see you here again on Monday at two o'clock sharp.'

Sarah nods despairingly, and knows that she'll be a very lucky girl indeed if by half-past two her knicks haven't already parted company with her bottom.

Her uncle ushers her to the door, one hand patting intimately up under one pert and well-punished buttock. Almost in a panic she strives to remember what she could have done with that hairbrush —.

A German Holiday

Story from Janus 24.

A German Holiday
by R.T. Mason


It was really hot and somehow Julie hadn't thought of Germany as being hot, not like this. She should perhaps have studied that guidebook a bit more before coming here to stay with Margit but with her exams taking all her time she hadn't. Anyway on this sweltering July afternoon, her first day here, they were at least in the right sort of place: a sandy beach on a lake where Margit's father had driven Julie and Margit and Margit's friend Grete after lunch. Julie slipped off her dress under which, like the two German girls, she was already wearing under her bikini.

Margit looked, her eyes rounding, at the pretty English girl's figure. In her good but rather stilted English she said, 'Oh my! Quite a stunner, is that what you English say?'

Julie blushed. Then Grete, who had slipped round behind her, added, 'And look, Margit! Her bottom is especially charming!'

The two German girls laughed while Julie's blush deepened. Her bottom was shapely but she would have preferred it to be somewhat smaller – like Margit's or Grete's in fact, for they too had now slipped off their dresses.

Margit, putting her dress neatly on her beach bag, said, 'You will be very popular, Julie. You know that German men are very fond of girls with charming bottoms!'

The German girls laughed again. 'Especially Herr Friedrich!' said Grete.

'Oh yes,' agreed Margit, 'certainly Herr Friedrich!'

Something was said in German, which Julie didn't understand, causing more laughter from the other two. Then they all ran into the water, Julie wondering vaguely who this Herr Friedrich was.

Julie had arrived the day before, for a month's stay with Margit Kirchner. The visit had been arranged through a colleague of Julie's father who had got to hear of the Kirchners' wish for an English girl to improve their daughter's English. Julie herself spoke hardly any German but that was not seen by the Kirchners as a disadvantage, as it would force Margit to use the English language. So it had been agreed, Julie and Margit had exchanged letters, and directly after the finish of Julie's A Level exams she had flown to Munich, there to be met by Margit and her parents in the family Mercedes.

It was Julie's first visit to Germany and her first meeting with either Margit or her parents but from the beginning they had all seemed awfully nice, giving her an enthusiastic welcome into their rather lavish home. And Margit herself, 18 like Julie, blonde, blue-eyed and pretty, and with a self-assurance which the English girl at once envied – yes, Julie was sure they'd get on very well indeed.

The first morning had been spent in a quick tour of the town with Margit and her friend Grete, and it had already seemed very hot by mid-morning. Margit had smiled at Julie's query about the weather.

'Oh of course it is warmer than your English weather. But don't worry: this afternoon we go to a beautiful German lake.'

And here they were. They splashed about in the cool refreshing water, both German girls displaying powerful swimming styles which Julie couldn't compete with. Then they came out, dried themselves, and lay in the sun which, after the cool water, was no longer quite so unbearable.

The two German girls already had well-developed tans: Margit, the blonde, her skin golden-honey in her brief emerald-green bikini, now wet and taut; and Grete, slightly taller than Margit, with short curling dark hair, whose darker brown limbs were shown to advantage in a trim pink two-piece.

Julie in contrast, what with exams and a longish spell of typical English weather, had not yet seen much of the sun and her skin was still pale – as she was self-consciously aware. But pale or not it was very shapely in the brief sky-blue bikini, the bottom half of which in particular was slickly tight over her swelling haunches.

Indeed the spell of energetic activity in the water had caused the brief elasticated material to ride up off the swell of Julie's bottom cheeks to catch in the cleft of her backside. She reached behind her to adjust it, remarking as she did on her own pale skin tone.

'Don't worry,' said Margit, 'you will soon be brown.'

She turned over and sat up, then unfastened her bikini top and took it off. Her firm medium-sized bare breasts were honey-brown like the rest of her, their brown nipples semi-erect.

Julie blinked. Her rather shocked expression brought a smile to Margit's face. She stuck out her breasts. 'Do you like my – how do you say – my tits?'

Julie coloured. 'That is not really a very polite word.'

'No? Well, breasts, then. Anyway you must take off your top as well to get a tan.'

Grete had already followed Margit's example to bare her own brown breasts. Julie sat up and looked anxiously around. There was no one else near, the beach deserted except for a couple some way off. She didn't like the idea but she would seem silly if she refused to follow the others' lead.

'Come on!' encouraged Margit, her eyes on Julie's bikini top which clearly contained breasts larger than those of either of the other two.

Flushing slightly, Julie reached behind her. The top came off. Julie's breasts were indeed bigger than either Margit's or Grete's, round and full and jutting firmly out, their paleness accentuated by the quite large reddish-pink nipples.

Julie had never had her breasts bare in public before. And what made it worse, due either to embarrassment or having just had them in the cool water, was that her nipples were fully erect. Sticking out like fat pink thumbs.

Margit gave a low husky laugh. 'Look Grete! I think Julie has been thinking sexy thoughts!'

In some confusion Julie lay down, turning on her stomach again, the full breasts flattening under her. For something to say she said 'Who's this Herr Friedrich?'

The two German girls started giggling.

* * *

Herr Friedrich, it turned out, was a private tutor who saw both Margit and Grete in a number of subjects – including English – where it was felt extra work was needed. He visited their homes for this purpose and Julie saw him for herself the very next day.

Margit had made a face at breakfast, then said, 'Unfortunately, Julie, it is my bad luck to have to see Herr Friedrich this morning, at 10 am. Perhaps you would like to sit in the garden while he visits. Then you can get more suntan.'

As it happened Julie was still feeling a bit raw from the previous afternoon when she had spent rather too long in the sun. She had applied liberal quantities of oil to herself to ease it but her breasts especially were pink and sore and she had left her bra off under her dress. So more sun today did not sound like a good idea, but anyway there were plenty of nice shady spots in the Kirchners' quite extensive garden. 'Don't worry about me,' she said.

Herr Friedrich arrived promptly at 10 in his Opel and Julie had a glimpse of him before she slipped out into the garden: a middle-aged man with the sort of serious look behind his rimless spectacles that you might expect of a German schoolteacher.

She sat under a big spruce tree for half an hour reading her book, then decided she needed to go inside to the bathroom. The Kirchners had a downstairs room which they mostly used during the daytime but Julie, forgetting this, automatically went upstairs, as if at home, where in fact the Kirchners had a second bathroom. Then on the landing she rather lost her bearings so that she found herself going along the corridor which had Margit's room at the end of it.

The door to Margit's room was slightly ajar and she could hear Herr Friedrich's voice from the other side, speaking German. She couldn't resist looking through the door crack. Margit was standing in front of Herr Friedrich who seemed to be sternly lecturing her on something. Julie realised she was evesdropping and was about to move away when Margit looked up and said something to which her tutor said 'Ja!' And Margit then went to an upright chair placed in the centre of the room.

She stood close behind the chair, then bent herself forward from the waist, over the chair back, until her blonde head was down in the seat. Her two hands reached down and gripped the front chair legs near the floor. In this position of course Margit's bottom in her flowered white summer dress was thrust firmly, almost obscenely, up and out. Julie realised her heart had started beating rather rapidly and her mouth felt dry.

Herr Friedrich had watched this performance with a stern but impassive expression. He now took a step forward and with one movement grabbed the hem of Margit's full skirt and flipped it fully up, as far as it would go so that it now descended like a bell over Margit's lowered head. Julie could not prevent an audible gasp (fortunately not heard in the room) because it was just such a shock, like a blow in her stomach.

What was revealed seemed even more shocking. Under her dress Margit had on just a pair of brief, completely transparent, pink nylon knickers. Her bottom was effectively bare, startlingly white through the transparent knickers against her honey-brown thighs. It was evident at least that when sunbathing she did not remove her bikini bottom.

Behind the door Julie was sweating. She knew she shouldn't be watching like this but the fascination – the horrified fascination – was just intense. Feeling a little faint she saw Herr Friedrich now firmly insert his thumbs into the waistband of those skimpy knickers and draw them down, half way down Margit's thighs. He then said something in German, not so sternly as before, while at the same time his hand took hold of Margit's bare bottom, squeezing first one pale cheek and then the other.

Then he walked over to one of Margit's cupboards, reached his hand in and drew out – a cane! A long thin whippy cane, the sort they use in boys' schools on difficult pupils, or used to. It was something Julie had never seen before – and never dreamt could be used on a girl. But now...

Cane in hand, he walked briskly back and stood to one side of the immobile, obscenely bending Margit. He patted the cane lightly across the bare bottom as he got himself in just the right position. And then he simply swung it back and brought it whistling down squarely across the centre of Margit's bare white buttocks.

Margit didn't cry out but gave a choking gasp. It was matched by a simultaneous involuntary gasp from the watching Julie, for as the cane swished down, juddering into Margit's soft flesh, it was almost as if it had landed on Julie herself. She gave another gasp at the imagined pain where now a distinct red stripe was clearly visible across Margit's bottom.

Margit herself, still gripping onto the chair legs, squirmed her bottom while Herr Friedrich waited. When she was once more still he raised the cane again and brought it slashing down for a second time. A second crisp THWACK!... horrendously jolting into Margit's bare bottom.

There was another grunting gasp from Margit, another desperate writhing of the buttocks. Julie felt dizzy. It was like an awful nightmare, yet riveting to watch.

But feeling sick or not she couldn't leave, just had to watch as Herr Friedrich's cane continued to whistle down onto Margit's unprotected bottom. He gave her eight in all. Through it all the German girl didn't cry out once or relax her grip on the chair legs. Just a grunting gasp each time the cane bit in, followed by a silent writhing of her buttocks.


When he had finished Herr Friedrich put the cane down, then reached his hand out to stroke the red-striped bottom, speaking softly to Margit in German as he did so. Then he took his hand away and Margit stood up, red-faced, her hair in some disorder. She pulled up the skimpy knickers, then pushed her skirt back down into position.

Julie at last crept silently away and out into the garden, to sit down again by the spruce tree. Her heart was pounding and she also had the feeling of being rather moist between her legs; because the startling scene, awful though it had been, had also been sexually arousing. She couldn't help imagining what it would be like to be bent over that chair, like Margit. It would be sheer torture, and dreadfully humiliating. But also the thought had an undeniable element of sexual excitement.

A little while later Margit appeared in the garden – with Herr Friedrich! Julie scrambled to her feet, feeling a hot flush.

'I want you to meet Herr Friedrich, my tutor,' said Margit, her voice sounding quite normal.

In fact they both looked and sounded normal. It was almost impossible to believe that only half an hour earlier Margit had been bent over that chair with her bottom bare and Herr Friedrich had been vigorously caning it.

Herr Friedrich was charming, saying the usual things you say to a foreign visitor and suggesting that Julie might help him with his English – although this in fact was very good. As he talked, though, Julie was aware of his eyes going appraisingly over her – and more than once lingering at her breasts. It was only afterwards she remembered, with embarrassment, that she had left her bra off and he pretty certainly would have been able to see her nipples through the thin summer dress.

But as regards what had happened in Margit's room half an hour earlier – well, could it really have happened? Or could she possibly have dreamt the whole thing?

It wasn't a dream, though, or if it was she dreamt the same one the next day. After lunch this time, Margit saying, 'I must have an hour of work with Herr Friedrich, Julie. Please be patient.'

Julie knew she shouldn't but she couldn't help it. Going back into the house after Margit and Herr Friedrich had been together for a quarter of an hour and silently up the stairs and along the corridor towards Margit's room. There was no reason to suppose the door would be ajar again but in fact it was – possibly to allow some air movement in the heat.

Margit and Herr Friedrich were seated on the settee apparently going through an English text and today they were speaking mostly English. After a while Margit said something in German to which the tutor replied, 'English please, Margit.'

And then Margit said, 'I have as you know my visitor staying. Please I cannot stay too long. So if you wish to cane me it must be soon.'

Herr Friedrich answered, 'But of course I wish to cane you, my dear Margit. Yes, we will do it right away.'

And then what had happened the day before was repeated. Margit going to the chair and bending over it; Herr Friedrich flipping up her dress, then pulling down a pair of (today) transparent blue knickers. And then vigorously laying into the upthrust bottom with the cane.

Julie watched the cane descend five or six times and then crept away. She again had that feeling of utter shock tinged with excitement, which together produced a rather queasy sensation.

She didn't know what to think, it was just so unbelievable: an 18-year-old girl being caned like that – and apparently agreeing to it. Shortly Margit joined her in the garden, this time alone but again in seemingly good spirits which belied the fact that she had just received an undoubtedly painful bare-bottom caning.

That evening, after they'd visited Grete's house and were alone again, Julie couldn't help asking about Herr Friedrich.

'Yes, I have to see Herr Friedrich quite a lot. He is a very good tutor in many subjects. Grete also sees him and also other girls. He is now my tutor for two years. You ask many questions about Herr Friedrich, Julie.'

Julie had blushed. But really, she told herself, it was none of her business what Margit did – or any other German girl for that matter. But when the next day Margit had another lesson Julie couldn't resist again going back inside...

* * *

And this time... Whether Margit saw the door move, or glimpsed something through the door crack... In any event she suddenly stared directly across in the direction of the watching English girl. Then stood up and made for the door. Julie shot off – but not before Margit had opened the door and seen her disappearing along the corridor.

Julie didn't know what to do. She wandered about in the garden, just feeling sick. And shortly when Margit found her, the German girl's eyes blazing with anger, she felt sicker still.

Margit spat out, 'So, you English girls are spies I see?'

Julie tried to prevaricate but against the German girl's anger and her more dominant personality she had no real answer. She finally admitted that yesterday she had, accidentally, seen Margit being caned. (She couldn't bring herself to admit that she had watched it twice.)

'Oh, so you spy and see something awful is that so?'

Julie, squirming, again prevaricated. Margit insisted: 'That is so, isn't it?'

Julie had to admit that, yes, she did think being caned was awful.

'Oh you are so... so stupid, you English. You think the caning is awful but I know that in your English schools girls are permitting men teachers to, how do you say, fuck.'

Julie blushed. 'I... we certainly do not! And that... is not at all a nice word to use.'

'I know this word because Herr Friedrich tells me and I know this fact because Herr Friedrich tells me also. He has been teacher in an English school where he sees other men teachers are fucking the big girls.'

Julie decided to let that pass. Hesitantly she asked, 'But why... does he cane you?'

Margit pushed back her blonde hair. 'In Germany men like to cane girls.' She glared at Julie. 'Not as in England where they only want the fucking.'

Julie once more denied this ridiculous charge. But even if German men did like to cane girls why did Margit have to let him do it?

She finally got the answer, after Margit had calmed down a bit and Julie had repeatedly apologised for what she still insisted was not spying but simply an accident. The reason was that Herr Friedrich could apparently get a preview of the exam papers. If you were nice to him and let him do what he wanted – what German men liked, so she said – your exams could be made considerably easier.

Apart from anything else wasn't this cheating? Julie was unwise enough to mention this fact – which didn't do anything to further a reconciliation.

So things were inevitably a bit cool between Julie and Margit: but Julie at least felt a sense of relief that it was now out in the open and no longer a secret lurking between them. Margit told her she was to say nothing to Margit's parents – they apparently would not approve of Herr Friedrich's activities in that direction. This was presumably why he only came round when the elder Kirchners were out.

After lunch the two girls plus Grete went to the beach again; a prearranged trip with Grete's father taking them. They swam and sunbathed, Julie now having got over the slight sunburn, and as the beach was once more deserted they again all took their bikini tops off. It was all very like that first day except that now there was a certain amount of talking in lowered tones between the two German girls – in their own language.

Julie naturally wondered if Grete was being told about her 'spying'; but she decided the best thing was to try and forget it.

Grete's father called for them later (bikini tops having now been replaced) and in the car Margit said that probably they would go round to another girl's house that evening for a little party. Grete was going to confirm this and phone later.

The confirmatory phone call duly came and Margit and Julie went off after dinner on bikes. The friend Lisa was a classmate of the other two, a blonde, very German-looking girl. Grete had already arrived and there were to be just the four girls: and as Lisa's parents would be out they would have the house to themselves.

'Just four good friends,' said Margit. 'But of course we want no one else for such a special... er... ceremony.'

'What is the ceremony?' asked Julie. They were in the lounge and as Julie spoke Lisa switched on all the lights, then closed the curtains although it was still light outside.

'An important ceremony!' said Margit mysteriously. 'Do we have wine, Lisa?'

'Oh but yes!' Lisa went out and returned with a bottle of Rhine wine and four glasses.

'What is it?' repeated Julie, baffled.

The three German girls exchanged conspiratorial smiles as the wine was poured out. Margit held up a glass. 'Julie, to your... er... what is Aufnahme, Lisa?'

'Initiation,' translated Lisa.

'What?' exclaimed Julie, taking an offered glass.

Margit's face, as she looked un-blinkingly at Julie, had a flush of excitement. 'Yes, the initiation for Julie. We are going to let you see how the cane feels. On that so charming bottom.'

Julie almost dropped her glass. The three German girls were standing round her, smiling, like cats with cream. 'What..!' she gasped.

'You have shown yourself to be so curious about our German habits and so we will show you. Like good hosts. So will you please take down your knickers.'

Lisa suddenly had a cane in her hand – exactly like the one Herr Friedrich used. Red-faced, Julie gasped, 'You... you must be mad!'

'Oh please, Julie. There is no need to say that. We will remain friends of course. But you must please cooperate.'

'No!' gasped the now alarmed-looking English girl.

But Grete and Lisa grabbed her arms. Julie's glass fell to the carpet making a mess but not breaking, as she yelled, 'Let me go!'

She struggled to free herself but was impotent in their grip. 'Don't be silly, Julie,' said Grete, laughing. 'It won't hurt too bad: and we all get it from Herr Friedrich.'

They dragged her to the table and pulled her face-down across it, holding her arms stretched out. Margit pulled up the full skirt of Julie's knee-length red dress and the other two held it bunched around her waist. Underneath there were tight pink nylon knickers. The English girl let out a desperate yell as she felt someone's – it was Margit's – hands go in the waistband of the knickers and yank them down.

She kicked her feet but made no contact. Then she felt her knickers down round her knees.

'Oh my!' said Lisa.

Julie's bare bottom, full, ripe, writhing with her frenzied movements, was a magnet for three pairs of eyes. 'Hold her firmly!' rasped Margit, now with the cane in her hand.

And suddenly Julie felt the most awful mind-boggling pain as the cane came down, squarely across those full ripe buttocks.

'Aaiigghh!' her head reared up and she let out an ear-piercing gasping yell.

The buttocks, now with a red stripe across the centre, had gone into a wild writhing, but the upper part of Julie's body was held fast by Grete and Lisa. Margit, eyes gleaming with excitement, brought the cane whistling down again.

'Aaeegghh!' Another awful yell, another desperate squirming of the injured bottom.

'Oh Julie,' observed Margit, 'You make a noise like a baby. You must learn to be brave, like German girls.'

She brought the cane cracking down again. There was the same frenzied cry. 'Aaeeooogghh!'

Julie did not learn to be brave. Margit gave her six more and there was a similar desperate yell after each one. Towards the end the yells were mixed with a more continual sobbing.

Afterwards, when Julie had tearfully pulled up her knickers, Margit said, somewhat breathlessly, 'Now we're all the same. How do you say – all in the same ship. You have been caned like a German girl. But we are still all good friends of course.'

She held out her hand to Julie but the English girl angrily ignored it and turned away. The whole thing had been just diabolical – and quite unbelievable.

Margit put her arm round her. 'Oh please Julie. Your first time I think is perhaps a shock, but you will soon think it is really nothing. But Julie, you must learn to take it bravely, like a German girl, and not cry like a little baby.'

* * *

Later that night, about an hour after Julie had gone early to bed, there was a discreet knock at the bedroom door. It was Margit, in her dressing gown. She quietly closed the door and came over to sit on Julie's bed, smiling down at her.

Perhaps not surprisingly there had been a rather strained atmosphere between them since Julie's caning. The 'party' had broken up soon after the caning – which had obviously been its only point – and Julie and Margit had cycled back, Margit attempting conversation but Julie refusing any more than monosyllabic responses. Cycling in any case was a bit painful after what had been done to her bum. She went to bed early, telling Margit's parents she had a headache.

The ache in fact was somewhere else. Not so much in her bottom any longer but still very much to her pride. The very thought of what had happened, of the girls holding her down while Margit caned her bare bottom, was psychologically excruciating.

She was lying awake, her mind unable to think of anything else, when Margit came in. The German girl settled herself on the side of the bed. In a husky voice she said, 'We are still good friends of course, dear Julie.'

It was something she had said more than once since the caning, without getting what she evidently considered an acceptable answer. Previously there had been mere grunts; now Julie said, 'I'm not used to being caned by my friends.'

Margit gave a low laugh. 'Oh Julie, it was just a caning between friends. You may cane me if you wish. But now as you are unhappy I come to comfort you.'

She stood up and unbelted her dressing gown. Underneath she was nude – that firm honey-brown body with the white section at the hips. In the half light Margit's eyes had an excited gleam and also, Julie saw, as the German girl pulled back the covers and slipped in beside her, her nipples were firmly erect.

The next moment Margit was all over her, her wet mouth on Julie's mouth, her hot tongue pushing in. It was such a shock – yet another that day – that Julie's breath was taken away. By the time she had recovered the German girl had opened the front of Julie's nightgown and her hand was pawing at those full breasts.

'Margit!' gasped Julie, when she at last was able to pull her mouth away.

'Oh, we must be best friends now, we two!' breathed Margit, her fingers greedily at one of Julie's nipples. As Julie tried, unsuccessfully, to push her away she added:

'Really it was quite fortunate that you spy on me and see Herr Friedrich with the cane.'

'What?'

'Yes. You see it is Herr Friedrich. Since he first sees you he finds you very beautiful. And so... he is therefore most eager to cane you.'

She added, with a low laugh, 'With Herr Friedrich it is always the same. With any new girl he will not be happy until he canes her!'

Of all the shocks that day this was perhaps the one to cap them all: sufficient indeed to cause Julie to momentarily stop struggling with the amorous and aroused Margit – aroused without doubt by her earlier caning of the English girl. Margit took immediate advantage of the pause. Her hand went down and then up inside Julie's nightgown.

There was a sudden gurgling gasp from Julie as the hand purposefully caressed her.

It had all been really too much for her and this on top of everything else was the end. She tried to stop Margit but by now everything seemed to be like a dream, and her struggles were at best weak and ineffective. Margit duly accomplished what she wanted. In a very short time Julie, her head in a whirl – out in space – was gasping and rhythmically jerking her body...

Afterwards she lay still – drained, stunned. Margit looked down at her, smiling. 'Ah, so you English girls at least have passion!'

Julie made no reply. Margit lay down with her, her mouth close to Julie's ear and her hand playing with one of the English girl's still aroused nipples. In a husky voice she murmured, 'I think perhaps you see Herr Friedrich in the morning.'

* * *

'Aren't you hungry?' Margit wanted to know at breakfast time. Margit herself was tucking into salami and ryebread and coffee as if she'd been starved for a day or two.

She whispered confidentially to Julie, 'It is the passion that gives me the good appetite!'

But Julie, passion or not, did not feel hungry at all. Well, how could she when there was the thought of that meeting at 10 o'clock – with Herr Friedrich.

At first the suggestion from Margit had just seemed ridiculous – and it had seemed even more ridiculous for Margit to think Julie would agree. But Margit's voice had got that hard edge again as she said, 'Herr Friedrich says he must have you; and we really must do what Herr Friedrich wants, Julie. He has a certain authority, you know.'

And when Julie insisted that it was out of the question Margit, while still caressing Julie, simply put the screws on.

'You do not want the bad report home, Julie, I am sure. For instance your parents would be most unhappy if they are told you are behaving very badly and all the time are fucking many boys.'

Julie had gasped, 'You couldn't do that!' – but she wouldn't have wanted to bet on it.

'Of course I will not need to,' said Margit. 'Because you are going to be sensible. It will be no worse than what we did at Lisa's house. And think what pleasure there will be for Herr Friedrich!'

And so it looked as if Herr Friedrich was going to get his pleasure. But that didn't mean Julie felt like eating breakfast.

He arrived, in his punctilious German manner, exactly on time. Margit's parents were again out.

'Good morning, Herr Friedrich!' said Margit. 'It is another lovely day! And here is your lovely English student to meet you.'

The lovely English student came forward, cringing.

'Ah yes, Miss Julie Smith!' His eyes glinted behind the spectacles. 'We meet again and I am to teach you a little of the German language, I believe. That will give me great pleasure.'

'You may use my room of course, Herr Friedrich,' said Margit. 'And I shall go and sit in the garden.'

'Very good!' said the tutor. 'Shall we then go up without delay?'

Julie was wearing her red dress and underneath just bra and knickers. (Margit had said, 'It is hot so you do not need a petticoat. Also Herr Friedrich is not liking the petticoats...') Trying not to tremble she went up the stairs – acutely conscious of Herr Friedrich close behind her swaying buttocks. Then along the passage – where she had crept to watch Margit – but now with the German tutor literally breathing down her neck. Into Margit's room.

He stood close in front of her. 'So my dear young English lady, I am to teach you something of our German language. And also perhaps, a little of our German customs? One of these I think which you no longer have in England is discipline. Discipline for the young people – for young ladies such as yourself. Am I correct?'

Blushing slightly, Julie said, 'I think we still have discipline.'

'We shall see then,' said Herr Friedrich. 'Fraulein Kirchner informs me she has persuaded you that I enjoy some authority here. Is that so?'

Julie bit her lip. Then, 'She has told me I... I should do what you say.'

'Oh excellent! Well that is discipline, is it not? To do what the person in authority says. Let us see then if you can comply. A small test. Will you please take your clothes off. All of them. Except, shall we say, your shoes.'

Julie turned crimson. Speechless at first, she then managed to gasp, 'I... you can't! You just can't ask me to do that!'

'It is nothing: a simple test. Fraulein Kirchner and the other girls would think nothing of it. Also Fraulein Kirchner tells me that if you are not co-operative a most unfavourable report will be sent to your parents. So let us have no more of this foolish and undisciplined behaviour. Please remove your dress. And then the undergarments.'

It was outrageous... and unbelievable. But there was the thought of her parents getting some awful statement about her. It would be blatantly untrue of course and they couldn't possibly believe it. Nonetheless for them even to get it would be an awful shock. And there was her father. Last year he had had a heart attack. They had said it wasn't serious, but even so...

She looked pleadingly at Herr Friedrich. 'Please! Please don't ask me that!'

The eyes shone behind the rimless spectacles. 'It is only a test. And I do ask it. It is a simple test of discipline.'

And so there was nothing for it. The full-skirted red dress had buttons down the back to the hips. She reached behind her to the buttons. Fumblingly, one by one, she unfastened them. Looking away from the intently staring German she pulled the top of the dress off her shoulders and arms, then down. And stepped out of it. Underneath she had just the matching pink nylon bra and knickers, the bra light and the knickers semi-transparent except for an opaque insert at the rounded bulge of her pubis.

Herr Friedrich's gloating voice. 'Most charming, Miss! And now also the scanties, please.'

She could feel beads of perspiration pricking her skin. It was hot in the room though there was a slight draught from the window and the slightly open door. But the perspiration was due to something else: being here like this and having to submit to this man's whim whatever it might be. She felt a bit faint. His funny dated expression 'scanties' stuck in her mind, going round and round. Scanties... flimsies... frillies... It would be laughable except...

She put her hand to her face. In spite of the heat it felt cold, and damp. And then with a feeling that it wasn't herself doing it but someone else, both hands went behind her. To the strap of her bra. She unfastened it. The bra came off and, unseeing, she dropped it to the floor. What was next? Oh yes, her knickers. Her hands went down.

The knickers seemed to stick, the tight nylon clinging to her moist skin. But they came down all right. Down to her ankles and she stepped out of them, almost falling over as she did so.

The room seemed to be going round and round a lot. But Herr Friedrich was there, close now. She was vaguely aware that she was nude. His hand on her arm. And then both hands on her bare breasts. She didn't try to stop him – again there was the feeling that it was happening to someone else. His fingers manipulating her nipples caused them to respond though, as they became fully erect.

His voice, silky, caressing: 'Good! Very good, Miss Smith! Now you learn to accept; to submit. That is very good...'

His hand slid behind her to her bare backside, taking hold of one full cheek, fingers reaching deep into the moist cleft. 'And now I think a little of our German discipline. A little taste of the cane on this splendid backside.'

And then she was bending over that chair, the one she had watched Margit bend over. But she, Julie, unlike Margit, was nude except for her shoes. She bent right over, under Herr Friedrich's forceful hand, her head down in the seat and her hands down to grip the front legs of the chair.

And then there was a sudden sharp, searing, breath-stopping pain. In her bare up-thrust buttocks. And then instants later, as breath came back, she heard a gasping shrieking cry. A cry of that English girl, Julie Smith, bending made over a chair in a bedroom in a little German town. And very far from home.

And then a second sickening, breath-stopping pain. A third... a fourth... Each followed by the desperate cry of that English girl who had no choice but to submit. A fifth... a sixth... but by then you had lost count and they were merging together and the English girl was sobbing more than crying out...

At last the caning had stopped. She was still over the chair-back, still sobbing. Not the cane now but the German tutor's hand on her bare backside: stroking and caressing the tortured red-striped cheeks. And also slipping, as if by accident, in between her legs. It was a further indignation which she had no choice but to endure, like the humiliation of the vicious caning, the hand coolly, appraisingly, going wherever it wanted. Because she had no option but to submit to this man.

The hand at last was removed and his voice said, 'Right: stand please! Stand upright!'

She stood, holding the chair-back to control her trembling. The room and Herr Friedrich were all blurred because her eyes were full of tears.

'Good, Miss. That was a nice little lesson to begin with. But with someone such as yourself who has clearly had no discipline at all – your silly crying out makes that plain – we obviously have much work to do. What I think we will do therefore is have a regular session at my apartment – each day of the week, to begin tomorrow. You can reach it with ease on your bicycle as Fraulein Kirchner will tell you. We shall say, I think, 9.30 am; that is a time when I shall be free to deal with you. Is that understood?'

The only answer was a fresh outburst of tears. She could not believe this was happening to her; that she had no power to resist him whatsoever...

He moved from facing her to stand close behind, and his hands came round under her arms and cupped her breasts. He squeezed them.

'You have a good figure, Miss Smith, but one which certainly needs more discipline. It is for instance certainly not as firm as the bodies of Fraulein Margit and Fraulein Grete. What it is needing is the discipline of exercise to firm it more. And therefore I propose to place you in the hands of an Athletics Instructor. We have a very good man here, Herr Lehmann, who before was an instructor in the Army and is now an excellent trainer of girls.'

'Herr Lehmann is most commendably strict: he is not using the cane on his girls but, rather, a horse-riding whip. Wait: excuse me, in more correct English, a riding crop. Yes, the riding crop is most effective in keeping a girl, as you say, up to her mark.'

'So I shall take you to Herr Lehmann tomorrow after I have had my own session with you. He will start a programme of hard exercises plus running, etc. I think as you are on holiday you have much free time which can most profitably be used in this manner. Yes, Miss Smith, I think together Herr Lehmann and I myself can use your time most effectively. It is three weeks more you have with us, I think. With that time we can, I assure you, do very good work.'

The hands which had been squeezing her breasts all this time, gave a final squeeze and were removed.

'So that will all commence tomorrow. For today you have had now a little rest and we will now resume your discipline with the cane. Please do get back down in position over the chair as before.'

As in a dream she complied, gripping the legs of the chair again and presenting the full globes of her already red-striped rear. She heard Herr Friedrich say, 'I shall give, I think, another ten.'

And then once more the sickening, searing pain, the feeling that her buttocks were on fire.

A Stradled Miss

Story from Blushes 47.

A Stradled Miss

The fact that it was her own fault did not help one little hit. She had complained to Mr Summers that she thought it was the instrument itself that was wrong. That is why she was making such a hash of her lessons. The soft eyes, hazel haired young woman had often repeated that the violin itself did lend to her ability and natural talent to play the fiddle. Then he had made that awful, unbelieving threat. Right here in this brown study of a room. When he had told her that she lacked a natural discipline, she had not understood. Then he had painstakingly told her that his idea of discipline was something of a personal nature, and had even gone on at some lengths regarding the lack of discipline in young people today. She had not considered herself one of the 'young people' because she was more than twenty years of age.

She was slightly shy and this gave her an added piquance of her softly contoured face. Her eyes were trusting of anybody in authority and her whole being was geared up to being a violinist. Sadly, the fiddle on which she practised and took her lessons belied the ability that she thought she possessed.

Mr Summers was a past master with a violin and he had produced some beautiful music from their very instrument that she had complained about.

Although it seemed fair that he should expect something similar from her, she could not understand this new theme of his. He had shown her he was angry with her excuses and that was when he had told her that she was not too old to be disciplined. The remark had left her with burning cheeks. The very deep feeling of shame that he had invoked by making such a suggestion had caused her to writhe at the very thought. And he had increased the tension in her body when he had explained what he considered proper methods of discipline.

She tried not to visualise the scene which his lecture had summoned to her mind. Surely he was trying to frighten her into making greater efforts. He could not mean that he considered her a pupil to be actually disciplined. Some of his younger pupils, yes... but not her... not now she was twenty years of age. She had to purposefully surpress the very picture of her lovely young body being placed over his lap and her panties down so that he would be able to see her bare bottom stretching so that his hand could actually spank her.

All the time that he had been speaking to her, she had held the violin as though it was something with which she could protect herself with... and yet this was the very instrument that had been the cause of him making the astonishing statement that she needed discipline. Vicky had never been naughty in all of her life and so the question of discipline had not arisen. The thoughts now riding high through her system was that there was no way she was going to let him punish her on her bottom... covered or not. It was unthinkable. That afternoon he had patted her bottom when she had passed him to leave the room. That in itself had been awful. She did not like him, or anyone else for that matter to touch her like that. It was a very intimate part of her body, she felt, almost as intimate as the soft lips between her legs. She should have told him there and then, on the spot that he had no business patting her dress where it covered her rounded bottom. Yet, and here was the rub, one did not address oneself to Mr Summers in such a cursary manner. He was not the type who one could speak to like that.

But the following week when she had turned up he had patted her bottom again as she had walked through his front door. This was not to be habit forming, she felt and she would tell him so as soon as they were alone.

As she entered the study where she practised, she saw the instrument case... he invited her to open it... her eyes opened wide in amazement... it was a real Strad... the King or Queen of violins. Almost reverantly she picked it up and cradled it gently...

'You have been complaining about the age of the instrument you have been practising with... now let me hear you prove that you can do better with a master instrument.'

He had called her bluff... she made the same hopeless mess as she did when she was playing with the broken down instrument.

'Stop! Stop! For heaven's sake stop,' he put his hands over his ears as though to blot out the cacaphony of noise.

Vicky nearly burst into tears at the helplessness that filled her very soul.

'Now come here Vicky,' his serious tone instructed her to stand next to him.

No. She was not going to let him carry out the threat he had made last week. Not that!! She did not want to do it and so she was not going to let him do it. There was something sinister and forbidding about his angry tone now.

'What do you have to say.'

There were many things that Vicky wanted to say, but Mr Summers had his hand up her dress!!

She would have to raise an objection... in a minute. The trouble was the fact that she was wearing ankle socks and therefore her legs were bared so his stroking and investigating hand came into contact with her smooth skin! In a minute, when he stopped speaking she would tell him that she was not prepared to take this sort of treatment... his hand inside her brief white knickers actually feeling the smooth skin of her tightly clenched bum cheeks.

She was shuddering the uncontrollable tremors of deep shame. This was the unthinkable happening. And all the time he was explaining to her that this was the part of her body that needed the discipline.

Her bottom had done nothing wrong!! Why should that be punished? Not a question to be asked out loud or course, but she desperately ached to move away from that investigating hand.

'Mr Summers,' she choked. 'I am not prepared to have my bottom spanked. I am too old to be smacked on my bottom and I do not think you should be doing this.'

It was very properly said and she had spoken resolutely. The trouble was that she had been standing next to him when she had started to make her formal protest but by the time she had finished, she was neatly stretched across his lap and her dress was already raised above her waist!

'Mr Summers,' her voice was more urgent now and exasperated with a sense of fear. 'Please... no... please... Mr Summers,' the tone of her voice was shaded with a rising sound of surprised shame.

Her brief white panties were being eased down her body and now they were stretched tight some half way down her thighs and the bottom that she had thought so precious and private was openly on view to his eyes and what was worse, she could feel his palm smoothing out imaginary creases from the perfect smoothness of her tightly clenched cheeks.

'Mr Summers... please... I must insist... owww... ahhh...'

This was too awful for words. Not only the shame of exposure but suddenly there was the introduction of stinging anguished pain. Vicky realised that all her thoughts that she was too big to be spanked had been a pure waste of time. Mr Summers was doing the impossible and unthinkable. He was bringing his hand down onto the bared cheeks of her shapely bottom and he was making it sting... what was more he was increasing the agony of her humiliation.

This was hateful. It was demeaning and stripping her of modesty and dignity. She had to keep her legs pressed tightly together too... it was getting worse by the second because the hot skin where his hand landed was raising in heated temperature and the sting was transforming into very real pain.

'No... ahh... please... it hurts too much... my bottom... please Mr Summers... I'll try harder... lots harder... please... no more... yeeooow...'

Vicky punctuated her protests and complaints with involuntary kicks of her feet and Mr Summers was treated to a view of his special pupil that no other person would ever hope to see.

Soft nates that had been so smooth and creamy white were now exhibited in stark contrasting red and that red was getting deeper and deeper each time his hand laid across her bottom to teach her the rudiments of what discipline was all about.

His left hand had to press down firmly on the small of her back and she struggled fitfully.

Vicky would never have believed that such pain was possible. She was not sure which was worse, the pain or the shame. But to have to be placed so squarely over his lap whilst he spanked her was something she could never have imagined. She had thought that it would be painful but nothing like this had entered her mind. It was a full explosion of various emotions. The shame was awful, the stinging hurt was impossibly expressive and never ending, and there was too the fact that she was actually over his lap, like a naughty girl revealing the full exposure of her naked bottom not only to his eyes but also the full treatment of his able spanking palm.

When he had reduced her to tears he released her. There seemed to be no protest left in her now. He directed her to her seat and insisted that she sit there, dress fully hoisted and with both nates fully exposed so that when she sat down she was showing off the cheeks that she once thought so private and precious.

All those silly thoughts were banished. Vicky was still responding to the shameful agony, the degradation and the reminder too that if she had to be disciplined, it would be by the medium of going over his lap. It would forever be a terrible reminder of the distress that her body could be subjected to if ever she thought herself too precious to have to bare her bottom for a real good old fashioned spanking.

An Educational Purpose

Story from Blushes 15.

An Educational Purpose

'You said nothing about this aspect before, Mark', Anthea said to me with a tinge of primness in her voice such as I had not heard hitherto.

Dammit, the trap of female illogicality had sprung on me again. For several mouths I/we had been planning a series of seminars for girls which we intended to hold in the house. It was big enough for it, after all. Apart from anything else we had three bedrooms going spare. I had retired from the Headship of a school to enter with considerable enthusiasm into the project, and almost everything was by then decided, right down to the curricula.

Almost everything, that is, except apparently the subject I had just brought up. Privately I thought of it as 'advanced education'. Publically there was virtually only the term 'discipline' to fall back on. Not only had I just used the latter in conversation with Anthea but had made the evidently major error of showing her my oldest and favourite cane. It had a thirty-degree bend to it just over halfway up. Some thirty young, bare bottoms before that, it had been straight, but I preferred the slight bend now. It offered up a better angle of approach.

'Discipline has no less an educational purpose than anything else we have been discussing, Anthea', I said patiently. She had always seemed to me to have an open mind on most subjects, but on this one she was closing up.

'And you imagine that I would collaborate in that?' she asked. Her voice didn't exactly rise to a squeak, but it did sharpen itself rather in its passage across her tongue.

There's no answer to that, of course, but I ventured a mild one by saying, 'Frankly, dear, it never occurred to me that you would object. In that sense I mentioned it only as an afterthought, and thought to show that...' - '...That thing, as well?' she sneered. A flush rose in her cheeks. I didn't know why. It seemed to me a very odd reaction from one I had lived with these past five years, though we had - for tax and other purposes - never entered into formal marriage.

My ire rose as quickly as a certain part of my anatomy had sometimes done when I was employing the very instrument that lay across my lap. Did that occur to her, and was she jealous of it? We had long agreed, I thought, that jealousy was a dire waste of emotion. Besides, Anthea was good in bed. My mistake was to equate that with the idea (quite imaginary on my part) that certain extra-mural activities of the kind I had in mind would eventually tingle-up a possibly latent interest in her.

Her sneer sharpened up my defences. 'It is not a thing, Anthea, but a cane. It's purpose...'

'I don't want to hear about it! If you intend that sort of thing, Mark, then you can count me out. I simply don't want to be involved in it, you understand? It's an outrage to a girl's modesty. It's...' But I cut in on her then. I don't mind lecturing, but damned if I'll be lectured to. There was no more enforced 'exhibiting', I said, than there was in the voluntary showing off of half naked bottoms on a beach in summer. That sort of thing, I said, but it got me nowhere. The altercation merged into a proper row. The row became a blazing one, and finally Anthea grabbed her car keys and went. Just went. And so quickly, I noticed, that she left her front door key lying on one of the side units in the kitchen where she usually dropped it on coming in.

It was then that Susan came down, light-footed as ever. I judged that she'd heard the beginnings of a row and tactfully stayed out of sight in her room until the front door slammed.

'Daddy...' she began. 'Don't call me that', I said, 'you don't have to, and I'm not.' There was too much of an edge in my voice, but that was Anthea's fault. The term was one that Susan had grown into, on and off. She had only been twelve when I moved in. In part it had got to be a habit with her. It didn't matter anyway, I said then apologetically, but then the obvious struck me.

'You heard what we were rowing about, I suppose', I said. 'Yes', she said and her voice was in the millimetre bracket rather than the centimetre one. I ventured then my next remark which I swear I never intended to make. 'And you agree with your mother, I suppose?'

Susan turned away from me then and fiddled with the leaves of a plant on the windowsill. 'She won't be helping you much, then, will she?' she said without looking at me.

'I guess not', I replied, but then a small door opened in my mind and all of a sudden I got a different image of her. In a way, you get so used to seeing someone that finally you practically don't. Not in any detail, anyway. But with that details began to emerge, and I suppose I began with her ankles and then meandered up to her calves, all of which I could see as well as the engaging dipping of the backs of her knees. Her skirt was grey and it isn't a skirt I am ever likely to forget. It hugged her bottom closely, sweeping under her cheeks slightly before it assumed its relatively brief hang again and dipped its hem down to just above her knees.

Susan's hips were good already then. If I were to say 'graspable' it will probably sound greedy, but that is certainly, what they were. And if I had taken a tape measure to her waist I doubt if I could have tracked out more than twenty-one inches.

My next sentence came as unrehearsed as any that day, but certainly the intervening silence appeared to invite it. 'And you wouldn't be able to help', I said. The question mark I inserted was so faint that it practically curled up on the carpet and died instantly. 'Because I don't know anything about it - that's what you mean', she said, and dug a smallish tapered finger quite unnecessarily into the earth from which the plant stemmed.

'It isn't hard to learn', I said. I heard myself say it. It was that sort of statement - not one I would have signed in Anthea's presence. That cane lying still across my lap did it. It occurred to me then that Susan hadn't even blinked at the sight of it, but then I explained that to myself by thinking that she had overheard the whole conversation. 'Making them take their knickers off, indeed!' Anthea had exploded.

'I dunno', Susan said. I can't remember having felt breathless before, but I did then. 'I'd pay you, out of the fees, as if you were a teacher', I replied. I was telling her that she could learn, and she knew I was, and she knew to the very bend in that cane what I was talking about. There was a stillness in the room then. It broke only when I got up. It felt like a century had passed when I got up, but it was probably no more than fifteen seconds.

Susan stood very still as I moved towards her. Whether it was a stillness of waiting or of apprehension I didn't know. I was behind her and I put my hands on her hips. I'd never done that before. But then I'd never thought of caning her before, nor even spanking her. 'Pay, me?' she asked and then added ultra-quick, 'I mean, what do you want me to do?'

'Susan, I'm going to have to cane you to teach you', I said. The world stopped then. I could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. 'No', she said and dropped her head. I put my hands on her shoulders. Girls are curiously manoeuvrable that way. Sixth formers in their last term certainly were. They had begun to lean by then what they came into my study for, and why their knickers were coming down. 'I don't think l want to do that', Susan said. She didn't look up. 'I didn't think I wanted to learn to swim once', I replied. It was the sort of remark that drops straight into the Silly Statements file, but when they're like that it often works.

'Didn't you?' she asked. It was a ten-out-of-ten perfect answer. When I began to move her slowly towards the chair her feet were laggard but not over resistant. They scraped, but that was all. I was used to that.

'I won't do it hard - not the first time, Susan. No, not there. Bend over. Just gently the first time, just gently'.

She said 'No', of course. Is there a girl born who hasn't said no? There had been times in the past when I had got the Gym Mistress, Miss Roberts, to assist me with some new girls. Her fingers were pretty deft, were Miss Roberts'. I pretended mostly not to see the subtle forays they made between pairs of twinkly thighs when she was authoritatively drawing down a pair of regulation blue knicks. Once a girl had had her 'tester', though - the first two sixers, one mild, one medium - Miss Roberts wasn't needed in the room. Whether she listened at the door and heard the pantings that occasionally ensued afterwards was neither here nor there. She got her benefits from those girls who also got a crush on her. At least that way they gained a dual experience in life.

Susan's bottom was sublime. I can find no better adjective for it. At a guess, she had already been tutored a little, and this to my surprise. As my hands first began rolling down her knickers, her right arm swept back - not fiercely, but querulously - but I thrust it firmly back and it offered no return. The half-moon creases beneath each of her youthfully-rearing cheeks were particularly marked, conferring upon them their full aspect of roundness. Her furrow had that particular depth that one becomes pleasurably conscious of when viewing slowly. Slung over the rolled arm as she was, her toes touched the floor some three inches apart. Not enough, but it would do.

An oddity was that, from that first moment on, I never expected the usual spillings of words from Susan. Not a single 'Don't!' escaped her. She was passive, though I will not say that she was not alert. Indeed she twisted her neck twice to try and peer at me as I stepped back and bent the cane. The angle of her view wouldn't allow her to see below my waist, I thought - which was perhaps fortunate. This was our first time, but I was already hard for her. I felt no conscience about that. She was showing it, after all.

I have read some ludicrous accounts of canings that 'go on for minutes'. Six strokes take about eighty seconds. The most difficult thing is to give a light-to-medium caning. It requires considerable control. In Susan's case each brought a sound rather like 'Mooo-eeee!' from her, but never did her voice rise to a screech. Almost irritatingly it sounded like a cry of victory on her part, and I knew then that she needed a harder caning, much harder, but not yet.

I knew, too, that it would have been easy to rip her blouse open - scatter the buttons and cup her hard young tits - as I raised her up afterwards. Her bottom burned into me, against the uprisen rod of me, in the moment before I bent and drew her knicks back up again. In its ascent, my thumb nosed into her furrow. My other hand, slipping around to the front of her, felt a nicety of curls.

A first sob escaped her as I turned her then, leaving her skirt still waist-high, but it was rather a breath-releasing one than a plaintive one.

'You can teach', I said, and I heard her swallow. Her eyes were hidden way below my own. 'I'm not sure', she replied quietly - very quietly. I only just caught the words. It was a strange moment - almost as if I had not caned her. 'You can', I said. We broke away then, for Anthea was knocking. She must have driven around - not really gone anyplace.

'Don't...' I began. 'No. I won't say anything', Susan murmured. We had moved into another compartment - neither of us perhaps the leader, but it had begun. It was the beginning of a love affair with the cane for Susan, and a different kind of one for me. It was two weeks before we had another opportunity, and I was careful not to caress her bottom, en passant, as it were. I had a feeling that she wasn't to be handled that way - or not yet.

An opportunity came when I had to make an overnight stay in Middlesborough, where I wouldn't exactly go for a holiday but I had a number of property deals to conclude. As it happened, Susan knew a girl there - one who had been to school with her and then moved - so she volunteered to come with me and, ostensibly, to stay with Marti, her friend.

I suppose it was by unspoken consent that I booked two single rooms at the hotel. A double one would have been blatant. 'Was Marti ever caned?' I asked on the way up to Middlesborough. I put the question in a casual 'by the way' tone, but Susan's antennae picked up the underlying message. 'A couple of times, yes', she said. We were driving to Middlesborough and her skirt was nice and short, the tops of her nylons showing, and sometimes a bit more.

'She could have dinner tonight with us', I said. - 'Or well, yes, or tomorrow', Susan said carefully. My hand brushed the sleek top of her thigh every time I changed gear. A call from the hotel arranged for Marti to come and see us the following afternoon. I fancied the afternoon - daylight through tall nylon curtains and a quiet room. 'You'll need another lesson first', I told Susan. It was a sort of open-code way of talking that we developed. She didn't answer; I didn't expect her to. There was a slight tenseness in her that I had to break.

'Shall we go up?' I asked her at nine that night after dinner in the hotel. There was a nod only and the lift received us. Leading her into my room was like the old days of escorting a girl into my study just after hours.

'You won't mind, with Marti?' I asked her. She shook her head, allowing me to lead her to the bed. She began to cry a little as I undressed her. It was in part an act and we both knew it. 'Some of the girls will be petulant', I said. I had her down to her stockings by then, lying on her tummy. And then I looped her waist suddenly, sharply, brought her ardent peach up and gave it a first smack! and 'Wow', she gasped.

I ran riot a little bit with words then. It was the sight of her - slim, curvy, suppliant. I wondered how many long months she had dreamed of a situation like this. 'I shall want you to spank some of the girls - just lightly - before you bring them into me', I said, and when her naked hips gave a little jerk (petulant or seeking, I wasn't sure), I said sharply, 'Lie still now while I get the cane'.

I took it from the wardrobe where I had hung a few things on arrival. When I turned she was still slumped on her tummy. 'Move back and push it up', I told her. The slow way she did it was pleasing enough. That merging of resilience and firmness in a girl's bottom is something one can never satisfactorily describe. It challenges, invites. 'This is going to be a harder one, Susan - you understand? I want you to learn', I said, but she didn't answer. A small, mutinous murmur came from her as I ran the tip of the cane up between those heavenly legs, forcing them to part more.

The frankness between us came so easily that it was hard to understand, and yet it happened. 'You're peeping it now, Susan; I want all the girls to learn to do that', I said, and she knew I was talking about her 'fig'. You will tell them to show their pouch, won't you?' I asked, and then swoo-isssh! and a short, sharp 'Nah!' came from her, followed by several wobbling sobs. It had bitten deep, that first one. I wanted it to. Her fingers curled in as she strove to contain it.

'Sometimes I talk to them, sometimes I don't. It depends on the girl', I said. Her back quivered, her face hidden in the duvet. I could hear her breathing - breathing and waiting. After a due interval I said quietly, 'Turn your toes in a little, Susan. Yes - good. When you cane a girl you will know what to say to her, won't you?' 'Yes - I... gwaar!'

The second was another whistler right across her furrow and almost overlaying the first. Her sobs came louder; her hips twisted more. A mournful 'Whoooo!' came from her and then, meritoriously, she was still - waiting and ready. Her black high heels lifted almost surreptitiously. Perhaps she was inviting me to sweep the next one in lower, and I did. Just under the bulge, and not the easiest stroke to place, but superb when it is performed properly.

Again her cry was as much one of victory as anguish, and for the first time a 'No-oooo!' came from her, but I ignored it. She meant me to in any case. 'Legs, Susan', I said implacably. Consciously or not she had drawn them closer together. 'You remember what I said about giving a peep', I told her, and she merited another for that which put a triple streak across the middle of her superb bum.

She began to break then, uttering a staccato 'No, no, no!' but I said 'Yes, Susan, yes', I said. She had to ride the course - I told her that, but I gave her a longer interval before the next two irradiated her cleft with seeking flames.

'All right', I soothed. I let the cane fall then and sat beside her, stroking her sleek back, down into the supple dip of it, and moving my palm over the pulsing heat of her apple just as one might stroke a filly. Her sobs went on for a while, of course, her nether cheeks tightening visibly until at last the greater surging of the flames died and she relaxed more, though still quivering, her orb ceasing to jerk as I fondled it.

'Get into bed now', I said. It was my bed, my room, but the bed was a double one. She crawled-clawed her way under the sheet as girls do then, the curl-fringed lips twinkling as first one leg and then the other was raised.

It was dark by then and I took my time, first putting the cane away, but then in the most deliberate way shaking my head and taking it out to lay it crosswise over the seat of an armchair. I needed her to know that it was immediately ready again. Cane-language, you might call it. I didn't hasten my undressing.