Delight in store

Story from The Roue 02.

Delight in store

Claire Hepworth walked slowly down the aisle between the hair-care and make-up counters, closely scrutinizing each of the dozen or so female shoppers in turn who were examining the displayed items. None of the women, intent on their selections, paid Claire any undue attention, though they might have experienced some trepidation, had they known their innocent perusals were being analysed by a store detective.

Suddenly, Claire came to an abrupt halt, her pale-blue eyes fixed on a very attractive redhead standing close to the make-up counter. Claire appraised her from some twelve feet away. She placed the redhead somewhere in her early to mid-thirties and, judging by her simple, yet smart attire, probably a middle-class housewife. The weather outside was very warm and the redhead wore only a thin, white cotton dress, cinched at the waist by a tie belt. The thinness of the cotton dress clung in a very revealing fashion to the woman's buxom figure, and Claire noted the fullness of the large, heavy breasts, tapering to a passably trim waist, then flaring out into wide, very womanly hips. And her bottom, it was breathtakingly curvaceous, firm, yet with that bounciness that makes a large bottom appear so deliciously enticing when it wobbles. Claire could well imagine what it would look like when totally bared, like a huge split peach with a ripe, moist, sweet-tasting centre.

However, Claire was not only watching the ravishing redhead because she found her to be most attractive. No. Claire's instincts were roused, and she felt sure that before much longer the woman would take something from the display and secrete it inside her shoulder-bag, the flap of which just happened to be open. And, sure enough, after watching for a few more seconds, Claire's vigilance proved successful, for the redhead surreptitiously palmed two items from the display and dropped them inside her shoulder-bag.

Got you! Claire thought triumphantly, a wicked smile creeping onto her sensuous lips. Then, wasting no more time, she quickly approached the redhead and placed a restraining hand on her arm. The redhead turned, startled, fixing Claire with a surprised, perplexed look.

"It's not your lucky day, dear," Claire said, not even attempting to hide the pleasure this apprehension brought her. The redhead opened her mouth to protest, but Claire silenced her by continuing, "I'm a store detective and I saw you take two items from this display and place them inside your bag, obviously having had no intentions of paying for them."

For a moment the redhead looked as though she might panic and try to run off, but then she shrugged and sighed. "All right, I admit it. So what happens now?"

Claire pondered momentarily. "Well, I should take you upstairs to the manager's office and let him call the police, which is the usual procedure. However..."

The redhead glimpsed a thread of shiny hope and said quickly, "Yes? Look, I've never ever done anything like this before. I just don't know what came over me. If it's a question of... well... money..." She left the offer of an obvious bribe unspoken.

Claire made a show of considering the prospect of accepting a bribe, but then shook her head slowly. "No, I'm afraid not. You see, I'm a firm believer that crimes like this shouldn't go unpunished. Now, do you agree you do need to be punished? I mean, if not, you might just do the same thing again..."

The redhead was becoming obviously a little impatient, and she couldn't see where all this was leading. She gave a slight, yet distinctly exasperated sigh. "All right," she admitted, "so I deserve to be punished. So what do you suggest?"

Claire smiled. "Well, I was brought up to believe that naughty girls should be spanked..."

The redhead had to exercise great control over the pitch of her reply, not wanting to attract the attention of the other shoppers. "Spanked?" she said incredulously. "You must be joking, I've never heard anything so ridiculous..."

Claire raised her eyebrows.

"Isn't that better than going to court on a shop-lifting charge? You are married, I take it... what would your husband say? Have you thought of that?"

The redhead obviously hadn't from the expression she displayed.

"But... well... it's... so..."

Claire shrugged. "Well, of course, it is entirely up to you..."

The redhead thought quickly, her lovely features wrinkled by indecision. "Oh, all right... but when, where?"

Claire took a note-pad and a ballpen out from the breast pocket of her smartly-tailored jacket, scribbling her address quickly, then tearing the page off and presenting it to the redhead. "My address... let's say you're to be there no later than eight o'clock tonight, shall we?"

The redhead sighed resignedly. "Oh, very well... it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Luckily my husband is away on business, otherwise I don't know what excuse I could make to get away..."

Claire smiled. "Eight o'clock, then... oh, and what's your name, by the way?"

The redhead was now blushing slightly, the somewhat embarrassing facts of this bizarre situation suddenly dawning on her. "Wendy Palmer," she said rather too quickly, a further display of her sudden nervousness.

Claire enjoyed the other woman's obvious embarrassment. "Very well, then, Wendy... until later, then..."

Five minutes past eight found Wendy Palmer nervously seated on the settee in the living room of Claire's flat. Claire was fixing them both a drink at the drinks' cabinet, and she crossed to Wendy, handing her a gin-and-tonic, then sitting down beside her.

"Do you do this... often?" Wendy asked, taking a sip from her glass. She was very grateful for the drink, hoping it would steady her nerves.

Claire smiled. "Oh, yes, whenever I catch an... attractive woman shop-lifting, I always offer her the same alternative I offered you..."

"And do most accept?" Wendy inquired.

Claire nodded. "So far every single one of them has... accepted."

Wendy gave a puzzled frown. "But why do you do it?"

Claire laughed. "The answer to that is very simple, Wendy... I enjoy spanking beautiful women's bottoms."

Wendy blushed at this most forthright reply. "Oh... I see."

"Their bare bottoms..." Claire added.

"Oh!" Wendy's blush intensified by fiery degrees and she squirmed in her seat, suddenly very conscious of that part of her anatomy which now seemed very exposed, even though she was sitting on it. She took another quick sip of her drink to fortify herself. "Does your remedy for shop-lifters work?" she inquired tentatively.

"Work?" Claire said, raising her eyebrows curiously as she sipped her own drink.

"Yes, you know..." Wendy hesitated a moment. "...do these spankings prove effective in deterring women from attempting to steal things from the store again?"

Claire chuckled. "Oh, yes, I'll say. People think of a spanking as being a punishment solely for children, but it isn't. Oh, no, it's a very fitting punishment for a great many wrongs committed by women. For example, imagine the vast number of hypochondriac women who visit their doctors several times a week, wasting valuable time those doctors could be donating to patients who really are sick – not to mention the staggering cost of drugs prescribed, which these stupid women take needlessly! Now, if those same doctors were to put those women across their knees and give them a jolly good smacked bottom... don't you think that would really cure them?"

Wendy considered this hypothesis carefully. "Well... yes... I suppose you've got something there..." She giggled suddenly, the drink relaxing her to such an extent that she almost forgot her own particular predicament. "Sorry, but I couldn't help visualising all those weeping females coming out of doctors' surgeries throughout the country, ruefully rubbing their smarting situpons... with cheeks glowing remarkably healthily – all four of them!" She giggled again, finishing her gin-and-tonic.

Claire giggled with her. "Yes, it certainly would be a sight worth seeing!" She then noticed that Wendy had finished her drink. "Would you like another?"

Wendy pursed her sensuous lips. "Well, I shouldn't, but yes, please, I wouldn't mind."

Claire smiled at her, relieving her of the empty glass, standing up and crossing once more to the drinks' cabinet. Wendy watched her, for the first time, realised just how attractive the other woman was. She possessed a superb figure, not as ample as her own, but, then, Wendy had always considered herself to be too overly well-endowed in the breasts-and-bottom department.

Claire returned, handing Wendy her replenished glass and once more seating herself beside the shapely redhead. She suddenly placed a hand on the fullness of Wendy's thigh, feeling the button of a suspender-strap beneath her palm.

"I'm so glad you're beginning to relax, Wendy," Claire said.

Wendy didn't attempt to move her thigh, in fact she was enjoying this unexpected contact with the lovely store detective. She even shuffled a little closer in her seat. For the first time, when their eyes met, Wendy didn't shyly avoid the other's gaze, but held it, looking deeply into Claire's, suddenly glad she was sitting here, in the company of a beautiful woman who soon – oh, yes, please, soon – was going to spank her like she was a naughty child.

It was almost as if Claire read her mind because she then said, "You better finish that drink soon, young lady... because I hope you haven't forgotten the reason why you are here..."

Wendy gave a wanton pout. "Oh, how could I? Are you going to smack me... hard, Claire?"

Claire arched one carefully-plucked eyebrow, benefitting Wendy with one of her wickedest smiles. "Oh, yes, you naughty girl..." And, suddenly relieving Wendy of her drink, she added, "...I'm going to spank you very, very hard... so hard that you are going to blubber like a baby and plead with me to stop spanking you!"

With that, she stood up, took Wendy's hand, hoisted to her feet and, before the startled redhead knew what was happening, she was tipped over Claire's shoulder with surprising ease, the sexy store detective displaying astonishing strength for a woman! Wendy, her shapely legs wildly kicking, suddenly found herself almost upside-down, but it wasn't an untoward position in which to find one's self because it gave her a chance to smack Claire's bouncy buttocks – which she did with both hands!

"Hey!" Claire cried, the smacks raising the temperature in her shapely nether regions. "I'm supposed to be spanking began!" And, flicking up the hem of Wendy's tight dress, she began to belabour the giggling redhead's pantie-clad bottom with extremely hard smacks, causing the huge twin-mounds of wobbly flesh to jiggle deliciously in such close proximity with Claire's face. It didn't take long for the most experienced spanker to win out, and soon Wendy forgot all about smacking Claire's bottom – she was far too busy waving her hands frantically as her fat bottom began to feel as if someone had sat her down on a cooker's hot-plate! But this was only the beginning, because Claire then carried her from the room into another room – the like of which Wendy had never, ever seen before!

It was bare except for a solitary upright chair, a contraption that resembled a vaulting-horse and, suspended from hooks on one wall, a variety of swishy, crook-handled canes; large, leather paddles; and two Scottish tawses, each possessing three, wicked-looking tails! To poor Wendy these all appeared like the accoutrements to a veritable torture chamber and, with mounting panic, she suddenly wondered just what she had got herself into! But she was not left in suspense for long, because Claire carried her across to the collection of smacky weapons, selected a large black paddle, and carried her across to the upright chair. She was then set down on her feet, but for only a moment, and the very next thing she knew she was being drawn effortlessly down and across Claire's accommodating lap! Wendy now began to struggle, reaching back to protect her very vulnerable bottom which, because her dress was now well up around her waist, was scantily protected by her thin nylon panties. But Claire was quick to grab her wrist, forcing her arm up her back so that further struggles would only prove extremely painful, and then, in one swift blur of motion, Wendy felt her panties being yanked down clear to the dark tops of her sheer seamed stockings!

"Oh, please, Claire!" she almost sobbed, now that her large wobbly bottom was completely bare. "Oh, please, just use your palm, I won't be able to sit down for a week if you use that thing on me! What will my husband say? How will I be able to hide the damage from him? Oh, please, Claire – pleeeeease doooooon't!"

Claire laughed, these pleas like music to her ears, her eyes widely fixed on the vast, creamy expanse of the delectably fat bottom wriggling over her knees. It was very fetchingly dimpled, and the delightful crevice, which separated those bouncy cheeks, was devinely deep, dark, and extremely inviting. She hoisted the now almost hysterical redhead even further across her knee, nearly swooning as she watched that delicious split widen, the cheeks spreading, so that Wendy's pink little anus and the juicy lips of her sex were plainly evident! This all served to whet Claire's appetite and she couldn't wait any longer, raising the wide-bladed paddle high above her, casting a shadow across Wendy's sumptuous backside, then bringing it down with all the force she could muster!

THWACK!

Even though Wendy's bum was extremely expansive, the paddle covered both huge mounds as it swiped down with almost unbelievable impact, splaying those great fleshy buttocks even more widely, causing them to bounce and wobble like two enormous jellies! And how the unfortunate Wendy shrieked! But all to no avail for, no matter how loudly she screamed, Claire continued to tan her relentlessly, and all Wendy's lewd bum gyrations were useless in the attempt to evade the flailing paddle as it spanked her fat, opulent backside mercilessly!

After five minutes over Claire's lap, nobody would have recognised Wendy as being formally a haughty, middle-class housewife in her mid-thirties... for she was now just a blubbering baby with a very sore bottom, her beautiful face all blotchy and tear-streaked, with her mass of red curls dangling before her.

Claire was highly delighted with her handiwork, but not so delighted to stop her from hoisting Wendy up once more, displaying that same, astonishing strength so unusual in a beautiful woman, carrying her over to the piece of equipment that so resembled a vaulting horse, and placing her face down across it. In a trice Wendy's wrists and ankles were tightly secured with leather straps, and her widely-spread, bright-scarlet backside was thrust up at the ceiling in the most provocative angle imaginable!

"There, my girl!" Claire laughed. "Now it's the cane for you, my fine lady!"

"Oh, please, Claire, no more! Please, I'll do anything – but don't give me any more! Oh, God, no – my poor arse won't stand it!"

Claire returned, brandishing the whippy length of rattan, taking a stance alongside Wendy and measuring the cane across that inviting spectacle of ripe, wobbly rump. She loved the way those fat cheeks twitched to the touch of the cane's tip, and the way they tightened as she brought the cane back, anticipating the fiery agony that would all too soon be streaked across them!

Swisssh – THWACK!

"Owwwwwwwwww!"

Wendy screamed and pleaded, wriggled and writhed, but her broad hindquarters could not elude the chastising rod as it smote her rump with amazing accuracy! But then it was all over and Wendy sagged almost lifelessly over the horse. Her welted bottom was now even more widely spread and, unable to hold herself back any longer, Claire buried her face deep into that moist, fleshy core her lips and tongue busily active.

Wendy was now moaning as spasms of ecstacy suddenly oozed through her and, beginning to grind her sex against the horse's cushion, she just managed to say, "Oh, Claire that was dreamy... like all your fantasies are... tomorrow let's do the one where I play the bossy traffic warden... pleeeeease, Claire... H'mmmmmm..."

Exertion mansion - photo story

Excellent photo story from Janus 32.

Exertion mansion



The label on the large manilla envelope said BALFOUR-COMPTON INTERNATIONAL: MR BALFOUR ONLY. He opened it to take out a typewritten dossier.

Miss Sandra Taylor:

Born 19 March 1965, Chelterfield, Glos. Education: Chelterfield Comprehensive School. Parents: Mr Ronald William Taylor, draughtsman; Mrs Linda Janet Taylor, housewife.

In July 1983 ST (then aged 18) came before Chelterfield Magistrates Court where she was found guilty of shoplifting. A young BCI operative, Miss Julie Bradley, was attending the court to note possible suitable subjects for Mr Balfour's Project and formed the opinion that ST was worth investigating; she accordingly made contact with ST afterwards. Miss Bradley, two years older than ST, was able to gain the latter's confidence and her opinion that ST was suitable material was soon reinforced. Shortly thereafter ST, who had already left the parental home, was invited to move in with Miss Bradley in her BCI-owned flat in Bristol.

ST was also found a job with a BCI subsidiary, as clerk/typist, although her skills were initially somewhat minimal. Covert observation was maintained on the subject both at her workplace and by Miss Bradley who also introduced, under the guise of personal friends, other trained BCI operatives. The relationship with Miss Bradley especially became close and she was able to get a detailed picture of ST's background.

ST apparently had a history of shoplifting going back over three years and had been apprehended and cautioned on two previous occasions. She had also at one time been passing stolen cheques. Dr Alan Southfield (BCI Personnel Psychologist), one of those introduced to ST, formed the opinion that the girl was basically weak, and had been led into her act of unlawfulness primarily by bravado and the need to impress peers. This theory was born out by the fact that her need to shoplift etc apparently disappeared once the association with Miss Bradley was formed.

Basically, as in so many of these cases, there would seem to be a complete lack of discipline or adult direction in ST's background; certainly there seems to have been none in the parental home or at her school. Dr Southfield has stated (see annex) that discipline and a certain amount of corporal punishment are likely to have a salutary effect on this individual at her present age (19), preventing any possible backsliding in the future. From all the foregoing ST would seem to be a very suitable subject for Mr Balfour's Project.

ST has accordingly been prepared in the normal way for a disciplinary visit to the Mansion. She has been told that her employers are very pleased with her work and her present temporary position can be made permanent; she can also expect promotion in the near future. The one factor which has first to be resolved is the matter of her background: Magistrates Court etc. She has now been intensively orientated regarding this, by Miss Bradley, Dr Southfield, and others.

The major thrust of this orientation has been the direct connection between the lack of discipline in her background and her brushes with the law; the need, if she is to continue in our employ, to make a demonstration of repentance and a willingness to accept physical discipline as a token of this. Finally she was given a general outline of what would take place during a visit to the Mansion.

As part of the usual carrot-and-stick approach ST was informed of the problems she would face if she could not see her way clear to cooperate. (Termination of employment unfortunately necessary for any reason; loss of BCI-owned flat; inability to get another job because of background and lack of reference from present employer; also, obviously, loss of her present friends and social life; loss of everything in fact.) Reports of Miss Bradley and Dr Southfield (annexed) make it clear that ST is, sensibly, willing to co-operate. Both are of the opinion that ST will form an excellent subject.

Note. The matter of return visits to the Mansion (if so required) has not yet been raised with the subject.

End of dossier on Miss Sandra Taylor. Detailed reports, Annexes 1-6, attached.

Mr Balfour had studied the dossier and the additional papers the evening before, over a brandy, and he now merely glanced through it to remind himself of a couple of points. He felt a slight quickening of his pulse. It was almost 2.30, the time the girl had been given for her appointment, though as usual she would be kept waiting outside for perhaps 20 minutes, to increase her mental tension. He replaced the documents in the envelope, then got up and took his binoculars over to the window.

The garden, where the girl would be put through her paces in the first part of the session, was as always slightly unkempt. One or two of his aides had more than once suggested doing it up or indeed carrying out the operation at another venue. BCI did not lack for salubrious properties both town and country, in the UK and abroad. What they could not appreciate was that this was the spot or as close to it as he was likely to get. This rambling property on the northern edge of London was exactly what he wanted, a very close resemblance to the place he had known as a boy. That actual place could not be used – even BCI money could not buy that – because it was gone, bombed in 1943.

He put the powerful glasses to his eyes and focussed, on the familiar tree, the expansive grass, seeing in his mind some of the girls who in the past had gone through their paces on that spot. Where this Sandra Taylor, now waiting wonderingly outside, would shortly be. He saw the longish limbs bending and stretching... and responding to the cane. He felt again that heady tingle of anticipation.

Moving away from the window he put the binoculars on the table and picked up his cane. It hissed seductively as he swished it through the air. In a short while it would again be in use. Sandra Tailor: another case for his Project. It had been going for three years now – his own very private campaign of disciplining wayward youth. Wayward young girls, in fact, for Mr Balfour's interests did not extend beyond females in the 16 to 20 age bracket.

Young females with still lanky limbs and slim torsos, and usually cheeky faces. Girls who should have been disciplined at an early age but because of present day lax standards hadn't, and consequently had fallen into delinquent ways. Tender-fleshed girls sadly in need of discipline and the cane. Mr Balfour's driving aim in life nowadays was to see that they got it, before it was too late.

The interest had always been there but for many years he had not really had time or opportunity to indulge it. In those years he had been building up Balfour-Compton and that itself had been such a consuming interest that everything else – even the alluring images of teenage girls – had been obliterated. But with that work accomplished, and BCI established as a major multinational, its hold on him had diminished. There was no longer the challenge, the need to press on. And it was then that this other interest, largely dormant over all those years, had blossomed out. The timing was correct, for now he possessed all the necessary facilities to indulge it.

Mr Balfour's Project: that was the rather prim title given within the organisation to what was now his life's consuming interest. It was kept very much on a 'need-to-know' basis, limited to one or two of his top aides, with more junior operatives who were involved in various aspects having a correspondingly more limited view of what went on. Some of the background work was performed by people who had remarkably little idea of the final result. Originally it had been 'Project for Wayward Girls' but that far too descriptive term had been conveniently, and circumspectly, shortened.

For he was well aware that certain people thought he was a bit of a nutter, or alternatively simply an old man indulging himself in the sensual pleasure of caning young girlflesh. Whatever they thought, there was the basic fact that he was still Mr Balfour, all-powerful in the organisation. Aides and operatives, who in any case were all carefully screened before being engaged, would therefore simply do what was required to facilitate matters. To acquire and assess and process subjects for his Project. The number on Sandra Taylor's dossier was 263.

263 in just over three years.

He looked at his watch. It was approximately 2.50, so things should now be happening. One of his staff should just about now be opening the door on that girl, Sandra Taylor, who would have been kicking her heels outside for close to half an hour. No doubt a startled look; relief that something at last was happening... or more likely rock bottom apprehension?

Trembling slightly he picked up the glasses again and went to the window. This time he focussed on the 'hatch', that narrow window-like entrance onto the garden from which he knew they would emerge. Sandra Taylor and her Instructor for the session. The 'hatch' from which so many gangling girls had first appeared into his field of vision. No sign yet, no movement. His heart was pounding. And then there it was, the glass door being raised. A white tracksuited figure emerging, followed by another.


He peered intently. She was tall with a blonde thatch of hair. A squarish youthful face, the mouth full-lipped, sensual. A soft full mouth, petulant perhaps, the mouth of a girl who had been allowed to go her own way by negligent parents – though he knew he was thinking that with the advantage of her very full dossier. The Instructor was talking to her... and showing her the cane...

She was answering, the full lips parting, but she was not arguing; her demeanour, though hesitant, was receptive, submissive. The people who had liaised with her had done their work well, the girl had been properly prepared. Very occasionally one could reach this stage only to get a lot of unseemly argument, a struggle even. That was the last thing Mr Balfour wanted, the whole scenario was then spoiled. When it had happened there had been very serious repercussions for all concerned, for he was still Mr Balfour, the redoubtable architect of Balfour-Compton, a man who did not suffer muddling incompetents.

But this one, this Sandra Taylor, was going to be good, he could see that. Docilely she began the first stage, on-the-spot running, still in her tracksuit, knees up to the Instructor's chest-high cane. A brisk young pony, blonde locks bouncing. Mr Balfour licked his lips.

He stared, eyes fixed, not to miss a detail, for now came, in a way, the moment of truth. The initial ungarbing, the removal of the tracksuit. Now he would really see what he'd got, for the brief black leotard would hide nothing. The Instructor positioned the girl with her rear towards his window, so that when the tracksuit trousers came down...

Ah yes! A truly delicious rump briefly contained, or mostly not contained, by the tight black elasticated cloth. Below appeared long lissom thighs as the trousers were lowered. Trousers off and then the top. She stood to attention; skin-tight leotard, ankle socks and trainers. A colt-like form, tall and slim, all arms and long long legs. For Mr Balfour she was a vision; his exact type. He felt slightly faint, his mind running ahead... to when she was brought into the room. He then experienced overwhelming mental sensation.

The session continued with the now stripped-off girl kneeling upright on her heels, hands at her sides, a position of penance maintained in silence for some minutes, then a similar stationary pose, standing at attention. Dislocation from her standard perspectives. An involuntary twitch of one long leg brought the cane flicking across the pale innocent-looking thigh. Only a flick, a mere touch and nothing to what young Miss would be getting shortly, but nonetheless through the glasses Mr Balfour saw the soft mobile mouth form a grimace. A young lady with overly tender flesh, perhaps?

There was more running on the spot, knees high, long legs now bare with muscles flexing. It was hard discipline. The leotard was working up a bit on the girl's bottom... The running stopped, the Instructor spoke to her, moving in close behind. Then she was turned, to present her back view to the unseen watcher. He put the glasses down for a moment. His heart rate had zoomed up and it was fortunate he was still a fit man. He knew what he would see when he raised the glasses again and it always sent the pulse rate zooming. Which was why the young man was told to do it.

The girl's leotard had been pulled up, completely off her bottom so that it was a mere strip hidden in the cleft of the cheeks. Bare bottom cheeks facing him, she commenced to do bending exercises, legs wide apart. Gradually coming to terms with his heart-rate, Mr Balfour watched, eyes riveted.



The session continued: the deep side bends followed by a bare-bottomed handstand up against the tree; then she was face-down on the grass for the press-ups, the cane lightly whipping her legs to keep the knees straight; then squat thrusts. Not all girls could do these two exercises but Sandra Taylor made a good attempt at each, indicating there were muscles in those lissom limbs. And a malleable mind within that exciting frame. She could do them but each time the Instructor kept her at it until she could do no more, and collapsed.



Bending and stretching, on her back and side on the grass, one leg or both in the air under the stimulus of the cane, on the session went. Finally the hard running circling the lawn, bare thighs and bare buttocks pumping like pistons. There was no doubt, she was going all-out at it. The running as always signalled the end of the garden proceedings. He put down his glasses. She would now be brought inside. He stood, waiting...

She placed her tracksuit on the floor then stood before him, at attention, silent and submissive, the big blue eyes looking straight ahead. He registered her defenceless obedience. Close up now, he saw the soft upper lip beaded with perspiration. His eyes drank her in – the long, slightly trembling legs, the taut leotard. Quietly he told her to take it off.

She obeyed, then again stood straight and still in front of him. His eyes slid over this soft but firm youthful flesh, the patch of darker pubic hair. She stood quite still, not looking at him. Yes, they had done a very good job with her. He told her to get down on the floor. Cycling exercises.



She flushed slightly but did not argue. On her back she obediently lifted up her bottom and began cycling her legs in the air. He gazed, his eyes intent. It was a revealing exercise, in the nude a humiliating one it could be said, for a girl could have no secrets in that position. Mr Balfour's hot eyes did not miss a single detail.

When she was standing again he picked up the cane. He was ready now. He showed it to her and told her she was to get a severe caning. It was what she should have had years ago but it was still not too late. 'Do you accept that?' he asked.

'Yes Sir.' The voice slightly hesitant, the face a little flushed. The eyes still straight ahead.

He felt extremely stimulated.

'It will hurt. I shall ensure that it hurts because that is the only way for it to be effective.' His own voice now gruff, edgy with the shattering excitement.

The moment had arrived. The girl's soft flesh was to be chastised... like that time long ago.





He started caning her: hard stinging cracks with the thick bamboo, leaving bright red stripes, making her gasp and cry out. With his excitement mounting higher and higher he placed her in all his favourite positions, the cane all the time rising and falling, on the slim firm buttocks, on the sleek, well exercised thighs, both back and front. His blood was surging, his heart going like an express train. Transfixed in his need he pressed on.



Finally, with the girl against the mirror and watching the image other tear-stained face as he continued to cane the already red-wealed bottom, he reached it. His bursting excitement overflowing, cascading, a dazzling one-man firework display.

The need to cane abruptly stopped. He took the nude girl by the arm, turning her. He placed the cane to those soft full lips. Large tear-filled eyes looked at him... then quivering all over she kissed the cane. Yes, Miss Sandra Taylor had been properly taught what Mr Balfour wanted.

He sat down on the chair as the girl quietly gathered up her things and went out. He experienced that blissful feeling of release, of calm, of completion. Sandra Taylor had been very very good, he would definitely want to have her again. His eyes took on that glassy look which they did when he'd had a particularly good session. He was in a reverie. Seeing not the room but that garden long ago.

Not this garden but the original, when he'd been a boy of 16. And that girl, Cynthia, three years older than him on whom he'd had his schoolboy crush. Cynthia in the garden. He had known she went off to that big house twice a week, in the afternoon, and this time he had followed her, creeping in unseen through the tradesman's entrance.

Cynthia with that man, only a few yards from him.

The man had said something and she had slipped off her skirt and he had gaped, seeing for the first time her long slim thighs and tight navy blue knickers. The man took hold of Cynthia and simply yanked the knickers up, into the cleft of her bottom, so that her bum was virtually bare. Then she was bending over, touching toes, and the man had a cane in his hand and it was thwacking crisply down onto firm pale flesh.

That memory crystal clear over all those years, as though he was focussing in on it with his binoculars.

After the caning Cynthia and the man had gone into the house. And that was all he saw. He had walked home, unseeing. He had never gone there again, had never in fact spoken to Cynthia. So that was all, just the crystal clear memory.

Which now he had relived with 263 girls. In his Project.