Lessons For An Errant Wife

Story from Janus 43.

Lessons For An Errant Wife
by R.T. Mason

A bright shaft of afternoon sunlight slanted across the Headmaster's office to highlight the blonde bowed head of a girl seated at a table at the side of his large polished oak desk. It was 4.15 and the raucous clamour of departing pupils had now died away, leaving the school largely deserted except for a few masters, like the Head, holding a detention.

The brightly lit head remained bowed as its owner continued, unhappily, to write over and over: I must endeavour to do very much better. James Wescott, fiftyish, tweed-jacketed, looked momentarily up from the papers he was marking and experienced a pleasant glow of anticipation. She was an extremely attractive pupil. She was also a very special pupil. And his instructions were to make her life very unpleasant indeed. Her name was Carole Wright.

The reason she was very special was that although she at present was not wearing a wedding ring Carole Wright was married. She was also 22, though she looked no more than 17 in the school uniform and with her blonde hair tied in two girlish bunches with red ribbons. Carole Wright in fact was a young married lady who had not been behaving very properly.

So she had to be punished. Being a schoolgirl again was that punishment. This was her first day, getting kitted out with her uniform in the morning and starting at Mr Wescott's school after lunch. A lesson of English with the Head had conveniently brought her this detention. Carole was to attend school for two weeks. They were to be two weeks that she would not forget for a very long time.

'How many have you written?' he queried.

The blonde head was raised to give a view of the slightly flushed face. A softly pretty face, full-lipped, sensuous. That tied in with what Mr Wescott had been told by his friend Adrian Farnworth who had brought her to him. A sensual appetite which had been indulged outside the confines of marriage. Unfortunately for Carole her young husband had found out.

She bit her lip. 'Forty-six, Mr Wescott.' It was still difficult to accept that this was happening.

'Get on with it,' he growled. 'You'd better learn to write faster than that, my girl.'

When she had done 100 he would tell her to stop. Then he was going to cane her. James Wescott savoured the thought. Girls were normally off-limits for the cane.

None of the other pupils knew the situation. Her new form mates had simply been told that she was attending while she spent a short stay with her uncle. A couple of members of staff had been told, Mr Gatting, Games Master, for one, but that was all. When the idea had been first suggested James Wescott had been doubtful. Could a 22-year-old pass for 17? But when he saw her it was clear she could, especially once they'd got her in the uniform and with her hair done in those schoolgirl bunches.

Adrian Farnworth had said, 'Young Carole has got to have a very unpleasant two weeks.' Well, James Wescott could see to that.

He got up from his desk and walked round to look down: at the blonde head, the slim shoulders in the white school blouse, the hand wearily repeating its boring message. Mr Wescott's own hand reached out to sharply pinch the lobe of a pretty ear. Carole gave a squeak of pain.

'How many?' he kept hold of her ear.

She let out another yelp. 'Pl...please! Oooh! Eighty... eighty-six. Sir. I think.'

Mr Wescott gave a final tug at the ear and then went to sit down. 'Stop writing. And come over here.'

The pretty face was quite red now, with an apprehensive look. Carole got to her feet and came hesitantly forward. She had a very nice shape, firm good-sized tits pushing out of her white blouse on either side of the school red-and-grey striped tie, and with the very short grey pleated skirt showing a good six inches of shapely bare thigh. Her skirt was in fact deliberately several sizes too short and the white knee-socks Carole had on were normally only worn by the younger girls.

She stood uncertainly at the side of the Head's desk, blinking in the face of a hard stare.

'Now I'm going to cane you, Carole.'

As the blue eyes rounded in fear he added, 'The cane on your bare bottom. That's what naughty girls need.'

'No!' she blurted. 'You can't... not that.'

'You'll very soon find out that I can, girl. And if necessary I'll bring the Deputy Head in here to hold you down whilst I do it. Please remove your skirt.'

Carole's eyes looked desperate. No one had mentioned the cane before. But she knew she was in no position to argue. She had been forced to accept this whole ridiculous humiliating affair, it had been either that or have Bob get a divorce.

'Come on,' Mr Wescott barked. 'Get it off. It shouldn't be a problem. You've had enough practice by all accounts, taking your clothes off for every Tom, Dick and Harry.'

Carole bit her lip, and an even deeper flush suffused her delectable features. It hadn't been like that but there was no point in arguing. Her hands went to the button which fastened the waist of the skirt. Blushing, she slid it down. Underneath were neat white nylon knickers tight over her hips and rounded buttocks.

'Put it on the desk. Now take off the knickers.'

She tried not to think about it. Tried to shut out the fact that she was standing in front of Mr Wescott with his stern schoolmasterish gaze keenly on her, missing nothing. Carole told herself again that she had no option as she forced her hands to slide down the knickers. She stepped out of them. One hand came quickly across to cover her blonde bush while the other was left holding the bunched-up briefs.

'Put them on the desk,' Mr Wescott instructed. 'And then stand up straight. At attention. From what I hear of your behaviour, Miss, modesty is a little out of place.'

With an effort Carole made herself stand with her hands at her sides. This was simply diabolical – but presumably that was what they wanted, to humiliate her. Her bottom lip started to tremble.

'Good. Stay like that, at attention, whilst I finish these papers. Then I shall cane you.'

Carole stood there, in blouse and tie and white knee-socks and the sensible schoolgirl shoes and nothing else, while Mr Wescott got on with his marking. From time to time he glanced up – at Carole's flushed face and at what she was being forced to display below her waist. It was desperately horrible and it seemed to go on for ever. At last the Headmaster shuffled the papers into a neat pile at the side of his desk.

'Ever had it before? A nice whippy cane on that bottom?'

Numbly Carole shook her head.

'Good. You'll find it most stimulating. Not perhaps the stimulation that you're used to but stimulating nonetheless. It really gets those nerve endings jangling, as you'll see.'

Mr Wescott had been clearing one side of his desk and now got up. 'Bend over, Miss. Lie yourself across the desk. Knees nice and straight and stick your bottom out.'

Carole felt as if she wanted to be sick. 'Look...' she gasped.

'Get over it! Or I'll have Mr Matthews in here holding you.' There was a long curved cane in his hand now.

Carole stepped forward and bent over. How could they do this to her. The shaft of sunlight had moved round and was now on Mr Wescott's desk, momentarily dazzling her as she lay across it. She closed her eyes, the shiny surface warm against her cheek. Her fingers clutched at the edge. With a shiver of terror Carole felt the cane laid across her bare bottom, pat-patting the soft flesh. She held her breath.

CRACK!

The breath burst from Carole's mouth in a yell of anguish. The cane had zipped in across the full meat of her bottom like a glowing hot poker. A red blur of pain exploded in her head as her pertly rounded rear performed a frantic dance. Its pale soft flesh was now decorated with a tight pair of rapidly reddening tramlines.

'No!' she yelled. 'NO!' But as the words gasped out there was a second CRACK! biting in half an inch below the first stroke.

Mr Wescott's voice, somewhat breathless with effort and excitement: 'You will, my girl. You'll take six.'

Carole had no idea how she took them, her mind giving up registering detail after the first two and seeming to float helplessly above the intense shocking pain as the cane repeatedly struck down. But six it was. Six nice bright red double stripes on the taut rounded bottom cheeks. When it was over the pretty young housewife could barely stand up and her face, red and blotchy and wet with tears, really did look like a 17-year-old's. As for her bottom it felt as if a thousand wasps had been at work on it.

Somehow Carole managed to put on her skirt and knickers, and then her blazer. Outside, humiliating school satchel in hand, she crossed the deserted yard on tottery legs; then made for the bus stop. Still ringing in her head was Mr Wescott's parting shot.

'I hope that'll give you something to think about, young lady. For your information I shall be giving you a dose of exactly the same medicine every afternoon that you're with us.' This had been accompanied by a sharp slap to her stinging bottom as she went out.

A quarter of an hour to Mr Farnworth's house, or 'Uncle Adrian' as Carole had been told to call him. An unpleasant quarter of an hour with, it seemed, all the other passengers staring at her, and the youngish bus conductor joshing her about her short skirt. Then the few minutes' walk to the house. Horrible Mr Farnworth's house, whom she had to stay with for these next two weeks.

Carole rang the bell. A smiling Mr Farnworth opened it. If it wasn't bad enough to see his grinning face there with him was Mr Mannings as well.

* * *

It was Mr Mannings who had organised this whole diabolical plan. He was the solicitor Bob had gone to when he found out that Carole had been going round to her boss's house at lunch times and not just for a cup of coffee. In blazing anger he had gone to the solicitor demanding an immediate divorce. But Mr Mannings had persuaded Bob that perhaps he was being too hasty. Why not give her one more chance, but punish her for what she had done.

Carole certainly didn't want a divorce. She had simply been having a pleasant fling on the side. Mr Brightling's attention had been very flattering and it hadn't needed a lot of persuasion to get her to say yes. For a couple of months life had been utterly fantastic, doing it with Mr Brightling at lunch time and that proving to add an extra dimension to her nights in bed with Bob. Then of course Bob had found out. Carole had been desperate, losing the security of her husband and marriage being the last thing she wanted.

So she had been eager to agree to any alternative. What suave, smooth-talking Mr Mannings had come up with had been this way-out idea of going back to school. A friend of his was acquainted with the Headmaster of a small, old-fashioned boarding school for girls, a rather bleak institution particularly favoured as a dumping-ground for unwanted stepdaughters on account of its relatively low fees, lack of leniency and optional holiday boarding facilities. Why not send Carole to stay with Mr Farnworth for a couple of weeks and attend Mr Wescott's school?

Mr Mannings had smiled his professional solicitor's smile as Carole and Bob sat in his office.

'Your dear wife has behaved irresponsibly and childishly, Mr Wright, so why not treat her as a child? Two weeks in a short schoolgirl's skirt and carrying a satchel to school. She won't enjoy that one little bit. And we can ask Mr Wescott to make life a little, ah, hot for her.'

Carole had flushed. It sounded pretty sickening but not as bad as Bob getting a divorce. It never entered her head that making life 'hot' for her could possibly include the cane across her bare bottom. Now as she returned from that sickening first afternoon here was Mr Mannings as well as Mr Farnworth, both grinning at her as she stepped into the hallway.

'I thought I'd drop over and see how you were settling in,' Mr Mannings told her. 'My, you do make a cute schoolgirl, don't you!'

Carole gritted her teeth. She didn't know whom she hated most: Mr Mannings who had devised all this or that Mr Wescott who had just thrashed her with that dreadful cane. Not that 'Uncle Adrian' was much better. That visit with him to the school outfitter in the morning had been truly beastly. Forced to strip in front of the two men and then have them try the various items of ghastly schoolgirl clothing on her.

'How did you get on, dear?' inquired Mr Farnworth. He was the same sort of age as the other two, fiftyish, and was obviously getting a real kick out of this. There was a Mrs Farnworth but so far Carole hadn't seen much of her.

'Bloody diabolical!' she spat out. 'He could be reported for... for what he did.'

'You mean the cane, dear?' asked Mr Farnworth mildly. 'Oh no, it's perfectly legal. And you did agree to it as I understand.'

Mr Mannings' eyes were shining. 'Of course she did. Let's have a look, Carole. Let's see if our friend has left any marks of his handiwork.'

'No!' Carole gasped. But they simply grabbed her and dragged her into the sitting room. And then 'Uncle Adrian' held her arms while Mr Mannings got her skirt off and then yanked Carole's knickers down to her knees. She finished up face-down on the carpet with Mr Farnworth holding her shoulders. A hand, Mr Mannings', stroked Carole's bare bottom.

'Oh my, he certainly has left his mark. Or should I say marks.'

Carole kicked her legs but was helpless. She could feel hot tears of humiliation in her eyes. The hand lightly smacked her bottom again and again while the two men laughed. Then they let go of her. Carole rolled away, grabbing at the lowered knickers.

'You... you bastards!' she hissed.

'Now, now,' admonished Mr Farnworth, now sitting in an armchair and watching keenly as Carole got her clothes back on. 'We may have to remember that before bedtime, eh Charles? I should say coarse language in a schoolgirl calls for a slippering.'

With shaking hands Carole put the skirt back on. She was trembling all over and her breath was coming in half sobs.

'C...can I go upstairs?' she managed.

'May I go upstairs please, Uncle Adrian,' Mr Farnworth corrected.

Carole forced herself to say that. 'Of course, my dear. Got some homework to do I expect?'

Both men thought this a great joke. Mr Mannings smacked her leg as she went out. Upstairs Carole threw herself on the bed and burst into tears.

Half an hour later there was a knock at the door. It proved to be Mrs Farnworth. She was younger than her husband, quite pleasant-looking, and was carrying a cup of tea on a saucer with two little biscuits. Carole, still lying on the bed, sat up. Her face was red and puffy from further outbursts of tears.

Mrs Farnworth told her to cheer up. 'No use crying over spilt milk, and from what I hear it has been all your own fault. There's much too much of that sort of thing nowadays, married girls running around and doing just what they want. I think it's a disgusting way to carry on – in my day you would never have dreamed of it. It's all wrong! So you can't complain.'

Carole took a sip of the warm tea and said nothing.

'Did Mr Wescott really cane you?'

Blinking at the memory Carole nodded. Mrs Farnworth shook her head. 'Well, maybe that's what's needed.'

Carole certainly didn't feel hungry but a little while later when the dinner was ready she had to go down and sit at the table with the others. Carole was ordered to eat up every scrap that was put before her – just like a little child. Forcing herself to keep eating she thought she was going to be actually sick, but somehow managed to avoid it. 'Uncle Adrian' playfully suggested it might be a good idea if they got a high chair for Carole's use. They might even put a bib on her in case she made a mess. Struggling to finish Mrs Farnworth's casserole, Carole said nothing. There was always the chance that Mr Farnworth was serious.

After dinner that gentleman said that if his wife didn't mind he and Mr Mannings would take Carole out to the pub. 'Give her a little airing.' Oh God, what has he thought up now, Carole wondered, for it was unlikely that the visit was being planned with her enjoyment in mind.

This proved to be the case as Carole was banished to a children's parlour, Mr Farnworth telling her that young girls weren't allowed in the bar. She had to sit there with a bag of crisps and some lemonade, in her too-small schoolgirl uniform, with two young children and their parents eyeing her wonderingly.

'How old are you?' inquired a little boy of about nine.

At least it could be worse Carole told herself, forcing down crisps which she didn't want any more than she had wanted dinner. Very soon, though, it did get worse as Mr Farnworth and Mr Mannings came in from the bar bearing glasses of beer and bringing two acquaintances with them.

'Here she is,' announced Mr Farnworth. 'My niece Carole. Stand up, Carole, and say hello to these two gentlemen.'

What Mr Farnworth had in mind soon became apparent. A little spot of humiliating embarrassment. 'Just between the four of us,' he confided, 'Carole's been a naughty girl. Had to have the cane at school this afternoon. Not working properly. So right now she's got some nice red marks on her bottom.'

Mr Farnworth was speaking quite loud enough for the couple with the children to hear. Carole cringed. One of the two newcomers, a fat man with a red sweaty face, said, 'I wouldn't mind watching her get that. Eh Jack? On the bare was it?'

'Oh yes,' replied Mr Farnworth. 'I told the Headmaster that he would have to deal strictly with her otherwise she might get really out of hand. Actually if you two are interested she's got to have a slippering before bed tonight. Bad language. Why not come back and view the proceeding?'

Carole felt like sinking through the floor. Naturally the offer was enthusiastically taken up. On the drive back Carole had to sit wedged between the two visitors in the back seat. The fat man's creepy hand was squeezing her thigh for most of the ten-minute drive.

Back at the house Carole was told to go up to her room and put on her pyjamas and then come straight down again. Her pyjamas were thin blue cotton, short-sleeved and with three-quarter length legs. They were very tight-fitting, designed to show off her trim shapely bottom and the firm thrust of her breasts, and even the fine shape of her legs. The pyjamas were meant for the privacy of home of course, not for wearing in front of four horrible older men whose only interest was in tormenting her. Not for the first time today Carole found herself bitterly regretting those lunch-time dalliances with Mr Brightling. On quaking legs she padded down the stairs.

A chorus of raucous masculine approval greeted her. They were sitting in chairs and on the sofa all facing a leather-covered stool which was set out in the middle of the room. On the stool was a man's brown leather slipper. Through the remarks and laughter Mr Farnworth told Carole to stand facing them by the stool He called for silence.

'Now Carole, are you sorry for using that dreadful language?'

Carole bit her lip. She had only said 'bastards' but she nodded meekly. Four pairs of eyes were riveted to her choice form.

'Let's hear it then.'

Carole forced the words out. 'I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I used bad language.'

'Right. Very good. But to make sure you remember that you're going to get the slipper. Drop your pyjama trousers please.'

Carole hesitated, looking from one intent face to another, the four men forming one group. Mr Farnworth got to his feet.

'Come on, young lady, let's have you! Young girls must learn to jump to it when they're told to do something. Get them down!'

Trying to close her mind to it all Carole slid the trousers down. There was a wolf whistle from the fat man. 'Oh just look at that!' from the other visitor. Mr Farnworth, the slipper in one hand, took hold of Carole's arm and pushed her down on the stool with her legs, and her bottom, facing the three seated men.

She could almost feel the four pairs of hot male eyes boring into her bared bottom, searching into every intimate curve, every little declivity. In a way it was almost a relief when the slipper cracked down for it broke the tension of having to just kneel there, on show. In other ways it wasn't a relief of course for it hurt like hell, a vicious splat making Carole yell out and writhe her bottom in automatic reaction.

She tried not to jerk her rear, but to keep it still and to keep her legs tight together as the slipper proceeded to rhythmically crack in, but this proved a difficult task. The slipper stung so much that she couldn't keep still. Her primly closed knees were jerked apart in what had to be a revealing manner; but there was nothing Carole could do about it.

Mr Farnworth kept it up, egged on by the other men and in particular by the fat one, Mr Larkins. When Mr Farnworth at last stopped the fat Larkins said he wanted to have a go. Carole quickly scrambled to her feet and with a scared look at Mr Farnworth dragged her pyjamas up over her glowing bottom. Please God, don't let them all do it, she prayed.

For the moment anyway her prayer was answered. 'Not I think tonight at least,' said Mr Farnworth judiciously. 'She's only just arrived and I feel responsible. But she is staying two weeks. Perhaps later. Eh Carole?'

Carole shivered. Soon afterwards the two visitors were driven home, but there was time enough for Mr Larkins to help himself to several groping feels at Carole's bottom. He simply could not have been more blatant about it. When Mr Farnworth returned he gave her a knowing look.

'That Bill Larkins really seems to fancy you, my dear. Yes, very keen. Actually I'm not sure that hitting you with a slipper is all he wants to do to you. If you get my meaning. What do you think, you're very experienced in those matters? I bet you'd rather like it, eh? He said he'd like you to stop over at his place one night.'

'No!' Carole gasped. She could just imagine being in the clutches of that lecherous fat man.

'Uncle Adrian' smiled and slapped her bottom. 'I don't think it would be a bad idea at all.' But surely he was just being nasty.

At this point Mrs Farnworth brought in that archetypal childhood drink, a mug of cocoa. Carole hated cocoa but she was made to drink it all up nonetheless.

'Make you grow up into a big girl,' quipped Mr Farnworth and her tormentor gave her another brisk slap across her tight pyjamad bum. It was now 10 o'clock. 'Long past schoolgirls' bedtime,' according to Mr Farnworth.

'Ca...can I call my husband, please?'

Carole had only been here a day but already it was a nightmare. Perhaps if she asked him nicely Bob would relent and let her come back. The thought of two whole weeks of this was – well, it was unthinkable. Mr Farnworth gave her an owlish look. Feeling desperate Carole repeated her plea, this time adding the ridiculous 'Uncle Adrian'. She had a sudden feeling that if she could only speak to Bob now he would say yes.

Mr Farnworth, after portentiously considering the matter, gave his assent. He didn't go out of the room, though, but sat down opposite Carole as she began dialling. It was a funny feeling dialling her own number from this place because although she had been here less than 24 hours it was now almost like another world. She felt like crying and when she heard Bob's voice the tears did well out.

He sounded aggressive. 'How are they treating you? Giving you a rough time, I hope.'

'Darling, please!' Carole had difficulty in making her voice work. 'Please let me come back. I... I can't take it here.'

'What d'you mean you can't take it,' Bob growled. 'You haven't even been there a whole day yet. It sounds to me as if they're doing a pretty good job. So that when you do come back in two weeks you'll think twice every time you feel randy.'

'No! Please! You've got to let me come back!' Tears were streaming down Carole's face. 'I... gaa... nngghh...'

Whatever else she was going to say was lost in a series of convulsive sobs. Mr Farnworth moved swiftly over to sit next to Carole on the sofa. He took up the phone.

'Mr Wright? Adrian Farnworth here. Glad to speak to you. As you can hear Carole is a little emotional at the moment. She is finding her reversion to schoolgirl life somewhat unpleasant, but naturally that is the object of the exercise. I certainly would not recommend curtailing her visit.'

'I wouldn't dream of it.' Bob Wright's voice sounded bitter. 'I want her taught a proper lesson.'

Mr Farnworth reached down and squeezed one of the sobbing girl's thighs. 'We are at one on that, Mr Wright. Rest assured that we will teach her a proper lesson.'

He put the phone in its cradle and turned to Carole. 'That was a most unfortunate emotional outburst, my girl. A very schoolgirlish outburst and as such needs dealing with in the appropriate manner.'

Adrian Farnworth dragged the still sobbing Carole over his lap and then pulled down the pyjama bottoms which not long earlier had been down for the slipper. Carole's rear was still somewhat pink from the attentions of that item but the pink was soon transformed into a nice bright red again as 'Uncle Adrian' firmly and repeatedly applied the hard palm of his hand.

* * *

It was a very long two weeks for Carole Wright, certainly the longest two weeks she had ever spent. Because she was made to stay the full period in spite of repeated, usually tearful, pleadings. There was Mr Westcott's cane every day in detention after school, and on a number of other occasions as well. There were also other unpleasantnesses at school, quite a few of them thought up by the Games Master who was one of the few other people there were aware of Carole's true status. Cross-country running; hockey games on muddy fields with big strong girls who had been instructed to play very rough; exhausting special sessions in the gym which made Carole think her heart was going to collapse; and frequently a nice cold shower to round things off.


At home there was 'Uncle Adrian' doing his best to keep everything on the boil, and succeeding very well. Mr Mannings had only stayed overnight but he visited again a couple of times to help out. Uncle Adrian also invited other of his friends to assist in the training. Several times he held a little party in which Carole, sitting on a stool in the centre of a group of middle-aged men, would be quizzed on some subject or other she had had that day at school. Failure to satisfy her quiz-masters would result in instant retribution. On a tender rear that was getting more tender all the time. Sometimes she thought that her mind was going to explode.

If all this wasn't enough there was our friend Mr Larkins. Fat, red-faced, piggy-eyed, creepy-handed Bill Larkins. Carole was continually threatened with the impending prospect of being made to spend one or more overnight stays with charming Bill. 'A change of scene is just what you need,' said Mr Farnworth. Even just one such visit would have been quite sufficient to deter a girl from further extra-marital dalliance for the rest of her life.

'Didn't Half Hurt'

Story from Februs 41.

'Didn't Half Hurt'
A Short Story by J. E. Roberts

It was sheer naughtiness that made Liz and me start husband-swapping. You see, the men can't tell us apart because we're identical twins.

We got the idea while shopping, so we went to the nearest loo and swapped clothes over and under the cubicles. It was a real hoot when we emerged as each other. Then we exchanged secrets about our mates and worked out every detail, giggling like Angela Brazil schoolgirls planning a dorm rag.

The whole thing worked like a dream – and something of a dream it was too, each being unfaithful without the men having a clue what was happening. I knew all about Ted's hobbies, about what food he liked best, about what he'd say when he walked in and about his work problems. I recall saying, 'Is Stanford (his boss) still giving you trouble, darling?' and the thrill of getting a response that showed he had no idea what trick we were pulling.

He was different from Tom In his love-making, much rougher at limes, though caring and considerate as well. Afterwards, he said, 'You were very lively tonight!' I was flattered, but I wondered if Tom was saying the same thing to Liz.

We continued this once a month for ages, before something went wrong. As soon as Liz rang and suggested that very evening for husband-swapping, I sensed it was a bad idea. It wasn't the best day for me because Tom and I had tickets for a pop concert, but Liz was unusually pushy, so I agreed. I went to her house, swapped clothes and reluctantly forfeited my ticket.

When Ted came in that night, I knew my hunch had been right. His face was grim. 'You know what you've got coming,' he said. 'Go upstairs and get ready.'

Ready for what? I thought, hut could find nothing to reply.

'Why are you waiting?' he thundered and I scuttled upstairs. It certainly didn't look as though we were about to make love. But what else could I be getting ready for? What could be wrong? Should I have been ready to go out? Liz had said nothing. My heart was beating wildly.

Obviously she'd tricked me somehow. What could it be that she hadn't told me about? What had I got myself into?

I didn't have long to wait, before I heard him turn the door handle. As he strode in, he stopped, astonished.

'Why aren't you ready?' he shouted. 'That's another six smacks on the bottom – the bare bottom, remember!'

My eyes seemed to glaze over. So that was it! I thought of Liz enjoying the pop concert with Tom, while I had to bend over to take her spanking! And I didn't even know what it was I was supposed to have done to deserve it!

It must have been something pretty heinous, because he didn't look at all in the mood to discuss the matter rationally.

I felt sick. 'What do you want me to do?' I stammered.

'We've been through all this before, Elizabeth!' he said, quietly. 'That's yet another six smacks for being unco-operative! Anyone would think you'd never been spanked before!'

I was astonished. All this time, he'd been spanking my sister and I knew nothing about it. Tom would never have laid a finger on me. I still didn't know exactly what to do, but I'd got the general idea, so I turned to face the end of the bed, put both hands under my skirt, put my thumbs in the waistbands of my knickers and tugged them down. Miserably, I bent over the bed and reached back to pull my skirt up.

It looked as though I'd done more or less the right thing, because he seemed mollified. 'That's better!' Ted muttered. 'But not quite right – as you know full well!

Are you just trying to make me more angry? If so, you're succeeding, woman!'

I sighed. 'Another six smacks?' I asked and he nodded.

I was desperate, as I'd no idea what he was expecting me to do and the extra spanks were mounting up. And because I didn't know what it was all about, I couldn't try to argue myself out of it. Then I thought, I'll play up to you.

I gave him my most meaningful look, as though I understood everything, and told him, 'I want you to say it. I want you to use the power of words. I want you to describe exactly what you want me to do, every little detail. That's my right, isn't it? Don't I have a right to a request before execution?'

It worked. 'You can put those knickers back up again for a start, woman!' he said. 'Haven't you learnt yet that I'm the one that takes the panties down round here? Now try to behave for once. Turn and face the dressing table, put your hands on it, arms straight, head up. Arch your back a little, legs straight, stand on tip-toes and stick your backside out. That's right.'

My skirt fell back, partly covering my behind. I caught my breath, as he lifted it up and gently placed his left hand on my back to hold the skirt in position. I turned my head to him. 'Not too hard, darling, please!' I said.

'Getting worried, eh?' he said, with a grin. 'That's because you know you've really got it coming this time! Face the mirror!'

I'd never seen him like this before. He'd always been so courteous, so quiet, so kind. As I looked round at him, he seemed more attractive than ever. Yes, I could certainly understand what Liz saw in him. There was something of the Heathcliff in this softly-spoken architect. I could imagine him out on the moors, calling for me. I'd always suspected that Cathy wanted Heathcliff to thrash her.

And now I wanted Ted to thrash me. I wriggled my behind in encouragement, as my heart beat faster, not hi fear this time, but in mounting excitement. It's funny how things turn out.

What was it about him? Was it his determined tone? Was it his angry frown, making him look all eyebrows? Or was it the masterful way he raised his hand over my almost defenceless rear?

In the mirror, I could see him bringing his hand down with a resounding crack across my right buttock. It was a great shock to me, for I'd no idea it would hurt so much. I leapt up, clasped my behind and shouted, 'Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!' in little staccato yelps.

'Not so stoical this time, Elizabeth!' he said, grinning triumphantly. 'You'd better get used to it. I've hardly begun and remember you've an extra 18 this time!'

'You've a stingy palm today,' I explained.

'Worse than last night?'

'It certainly hurt me more than it did last night,' I agreed. At last I'd said something that pleased him, for he grunted and smiled.

I realised I was going to have to do a lot better, if I were not to give myself away. At first, I thought, if Liz can take it, so can I. But, as I put myself back in my so-vulnerable position, I had doubts about Liz: could she really take it? Had she called me that morning out of mischievousness? Or was it a panic measure to get out of a punishment she richly deserved?

I didn't have time to think about it any more, as I had to brace myself for a whole series of smacks, first on the right cheek, then on the left, then in the middle, then lower down. What a hard hand he had! I'd never thought of him before as the athletic type. He was a pen-pusher by trade, wasn't he? How was it he seemed to have the muscles of a coalminer? He knew how to wallop a girl's rump all right.

My only respite was half-way through, when he paused to take down my knickers – right down and off, making me raise each foot in turn. Now my last defences had gone; nothing was between his stingy palm and my tender skin. I made little soundless gasps and watched my own agonised expression in the mirror. Then I started yelping, then ouching, then howling, then begging him to stop.


Eventually I had no choice but to sing out loudly. He paid no attention and carried on as though I'd not moved.

I found out later that he and Liz have what they call a safe word and that if I'd only yelled out, 'Maureen O'Hara!', he'd have stopped at once. Well, silly old me, why didn't I think of that? I mean, 'Maureen O'Hara!' is the natural thing to yell when your backside's getting blistered, isn't it? When I asked her why she hadn't told me that beforehand, she said she thought I'd have used it too early. Gee, thanks, Sis.

Too right I would. I was starting to think I couldn't hold back the tears or stay in position, when abruptly he stopped. Relieved it was over, I got up to rub my sore backside, when he said, with what seemed to me a touch of gleefulness, 'Now the extra spanks! I think we'll do this differently, Elizabeth. First I'll want all your clothes off.'

Soon my shoes, skirt, blouse and bra were piled on top of my knickers. The bastard, he might have reacted, as my breasts fell into view. I twirled round to let him enjoy my nakedness, but all he said was, 'The slipper!'

He gave me a clue where the slipper was, by pointing to the door; otherwise I'd have assumed it was in the bedroom, which seemed to me the natural place to keep a slipper. I rushed downstairs to search in cupboards and drawers, desperate that our little ruse would be found out, with goodness knows what consequences. At first I crawled under the windows and hid behind curtains, but I got flustered after a while so I just let the neighbours have an eyeful.

I was taking so long that he yelled, 'What's keeping you?'

'I'm in the loo!' I lied. 'Can't a girl go to the bathroom when she needs to?'

A grunt, in reply. I flushed the loo, to cover my tracks and kept searching in likely and unlikely places.

Eventually, he said, 'Hurry up! That's another six spanks for keeping me waiting!'

I thought as hard as I could. Where would you keep a slipper, if not in the bedroom? I'd looked everywhere. Then I remembered the shed. It was a warm summer evening so I just draped myself in a sheet, dashed out there and pulled open a drawer, rather less carefully than I should have done. The drawer came out. Rulers, canes, tawses, straps and even a birch fell across the floor.

My covering slipped off. Mouth open, I stood naked and looked at the clutter; for once, I'd found a part of my sister's life that I knew nothing about. Then I noticed a diary among the debris. Day after day was filled with entries like, '25 hairbrush bare OTK', '5 mins hand knickers DTK + 6 cane bare bed' or '30 mins corner jeans bedroom + 40 large slipper (jeans 10 knickers 10 bare 20) stairs + 12 tawse bare touching toes.'

The longest entry said, '8 mins hand (1 min skirt 2 mins knickers 5 mins bare) OTK + 15 mins corner hallway hands on head skirt in view door + 24 spoon (12 knickers 12 bare) washing machine + 15 mins corner kitchen arms folded bare in view side window + 10 paddle bare step-ladder + 6 riding-crop naked desk + 20 mins corner library naked no view could rub' and added, in very large letters, 'DIDN'T HALF HURT!' I wondered, what did OTK mean?

Each page included a delicate drawing of herself in a different pose: using a handmirror to look at marks on her bottom; or lying on a bed, with her rear end raised by pillows and a look of indignation in her eyes; or bent over Ted's knee, waiting apprehensively for that first spank.

I noticed immediately how the sensitivity of her drawing offset the subject-matter. For example, one picture showed what I imagine was the two of us, though even I had to guess which was which. One of us stood in the corner, sticking out her behind and staring apprehensively at a cane on the wall. Was she meant to be me, as I'd never been caned?

Next to her, in another corner, was her twin, facing the other way, with one arm shading her eyes and the other hand holding her skirt round her waist. Her knickers were crumpled across her knees and the cane was in its place on the wall, but broken. You may guess what her backside looked like.


And, as for the riding-crop didn't-half-hurt entry, that included two silhouettes of identical nudes, leaping about, clutching their behinds. I suppose I should have been horrified; yet to me, those drawings put spanking in a new light. Her work spoke not of violence or cruelty, but of love, passion, and fulfilment. It reminded me of that unexpected feeling of Wuthering Heights in those moments before Ted started my spanking.

On the fly-leaf she'd written in large, flowing letters, 'Sex means spank and spank means sex' and underneath, there were two of us again, drawn from the rear view, one twin trying to look at her bottom over her left shoulder and the other ditto over her right shoulder. One bottom was marked 'SEX' and the other 'SPANK'.

I realised then why she'd been so insistent that we swapped that day: she didn't like keeping a secret from me. She wanted me to be a part of it all.

I was jolted out of my reverie, as Ted shouted from above, 'Elizabeth! Where's that bloody slipper?' It was his most irate tone of voice so far. More worried than ever, I slammed the book shut and put it back in the drawer.

But what could I do? There was no slipper there – nor in any of the other drawers. Time was running out. At last, I looked up and there it was, hanging on the wall, with a nail through its sole. Relieved, I grabbed it, covered myself and left the rest of the spanking paraphanalia all over the floor. (Liz got spanked for that later – serve her right, I say.)

When I got back to the bedroom, he was standing, arms folded. I gulped. Now I'd found the slipper, I'd got to find the courage to take it. I took as long as I could to fold the sheet neatly on the bed; then I bit my lip and tried to remember how encouraging I'd found my sister's drawings.

'Will you never learn to hurry up?' he said. 'Another six will bring the spanks up to 30 – a nice round number.' He decided to put me over his knees this time, which made me feel very awkward and humiliated, though I suppose I must have deserved it for whatever she'd done.

What was the sole of that slipper made of – concrete? Solid oak? I looked at it afterwards and it was just an ordinary leather sole, but it really hurt, as it thumped down again and again on a backside that was already sore enough, thank you. I kept wishing he'd use his hand instead. I hadn't realised a slipper would be so much more painful than a hand.

I found out later that the hole had been drilled in it to make it hurt more – I don't know why it has that effect, something about the law of physics, apparently. And I had to take 30 whacks with it! I'd had more than enough after the first six.

I gritted my teeth, gripped his left knee and told myself I was getting my just deserts for fooling two men at the same time. That's the funny thing about being spanked, you just have to lie there and take it, so you feel as though you're colluding against your own bottom with the man who's walloping it. That poor old bottom of mine, being punished for all my sins – and my sister's as well!

Those 30 spanks seemed to take forever because they went so slowly. Sometimes he'd make me wait for more than a minute before bringing the next one down, so I was thinking, 'Get on with it, man! Get it over with!'

And often, when I finally did get it, the smack took me by surprise, so that I was yelping and wailing and unable to stop my naked body from leaping about. He held onto me and kept up a running commentary – you know the kind of thing:

'This one is going to be harder than the last, but if it hurts, let it, Elizabeth, because you know you deserve it and you know I'm only doing it because I love you blah blah blah.'

As the thirtieth whack resounded round the bedroom at last, I suddenly realised what OTK meant. This was the first time I'd ever been put OTK – and my bottom had taken such a pounding that I wasn't likely to forget it. I've since heard Ted going on about how a man has a duty of caution when spanking a novice. He wasn't very cautious with me! Seldom can the phrase 'serve you right' have been more apt. Sore and sorry for myself, I stayed OTK for a little longer: there I was, a thoroughly spanked young woman, with no one to blame for it but myself and my twin.

Ted was very cheerful afterwards, as well he might be. I had a funny feeling I knew what was going to happen next, because I was pretty randy myself and I'd had ample opportunity while OTK to work out that he was well ready for me.

Gently he lifted me up and put me on my feet. Then I suddenly wondered if I'd have to stand in the corner instead. While he stared at me in the pause that followed, probably deciding what to do with me next, I resigned myself to 30 mins corner bedroom hands on head bare in view window or whatever he chose.

But then he started treating me like a princess. He leapt off the bed, knelt to kiss my hand and said, 'You took that beautifully, my dear. It was your best ever.' That made me feel quite smug.

He waited on me, made me coffee and vanished downstairs, to cook quite an elaborate supper. As I examined my marks in a hand-mirror, I could hear him singing away in the kitchen. Eventually he swept in, with trays of food, and we ate supper in bed.

Finally, we put the dishes on the floor and turned to each other for a memorable, long-drawn-out love-making. It's funny that, when he'd been walloping me, I'd have given anything to get him to stop, but afterwards, I was so glad he hadn't. I don't know what the pop concert was like, but I can't imagine it was better than that.

* * *

Next morning, before I left, I filled in Liz's diary for that day, '10 mins hand (5 knickers 5 bare) dressing table + 30 slipper with hole in it naked OTK + supper bed.' Then, because Liz and I both went to art college and have similar styles, I drew a picture of what I could see in the mirror while the slipper was at work: my mouth wide apart, my eyes wide open, my fists clenched and my bared bottom like two red hillocks in the distance, hit by an earthquake. Furthest away was an angry Ted, his arm in both an upward and a downward pose. Underneath I wrote, 'DIDN'T HALF HURT' and added four exclamation marks, to make sure Sister Dearest understood what I'd been through.

Now Liz and I regularly change partners. When I start to miss Tom, I return to him; and after awhile, when I deserve another bottom-warming or two, I visit Ted, sometimes for as long as a month. It all seems to work well enough.

Wet weather

Story from Roue 12.

Wet weather

Thursday afternoons at St. Angela's are usually a lot less tedious than the rest of the week. You see we have games period from 2 until 4pm when all girls who are fit have to play one of the recognised sports. Mary Andrews and myself, Brenda Homes had both been to the school nurse, Miss Rubens, that morning and obtained 'games excuses' – Mary has a sprained wrist, and I have a bad cold, caught last weekend when I was out in the rain without my mackintosh on. As we could not play hockey we had to watch the first XI hockey team play St. Audrey's. St. Angela's need all the support they can get as St. Audrey's are very experienced even though their average age is only 17 as opposed to our average age of 19.

Time was getting on as we hurried past the Art room and Music room heading for the changing rooms. We had both been in detention from 1.15 until 2 o'clock taking up our dinner break. We past a line of girls from form 6A waiting miserably outside the Headmasters study, facing the wall with hands on their heads. They were all wearing their games kit and their short pleated bottle green games skirts had risen up to show six pairs of bottle green cotton knickers. I knew only too well that those very same knickers would soon be lowered to feel the dreaded cane bite into the tender skin about 6 times each. I presumed that they had been caught misbehaving whilst changing for hockey.

We hurried on around the corner - walking not running - I must add as running in the school corridors is forbidden, past the assembly hall and gym and into the changing room. I hurried to my peg and lifted off my bottle green gaberdine mackintosh and slid my left arm into the check lined sleeve, and struggling a bit, I got my right arm into its sleeve. The gaberdines waterproof lining rustled delightfully as I drew it up over my shoulders and did up the four pairs of buttons to my neck and secured the belt tightly around my waist. The green check lined hood hung from the neckline of my gaberdine, and I raised it up over my school hat and fastened the tying cords securely under my chin. From my locker I took my pair of size 7 black rubber boots with their three inch heels, removed my flat heeled school shoes, and struggled to slide my legs into each boot as they are very tight fitting around the leg.

From my gaberdine pocket I produced my bottle green woollen gloves and put them on, securing the waist tabs of my gaberdine over the gloves. I had no intention of getting a worse cold than I had already!

I glanced quickly in the full length mirror, straightened out my belt and pulled it in even tighter to emphasise my neat waist, and turned towards Mary, expecting to see her also wearing her gaberdine and rubber boots. However she was standing waiting for me still only wearing her school shoes and no gaberdine!

"Aren't you going to put your gaberdine and boots on?" I enquired, "You know what happened to Cynthia Barker last week when she disobeyed the rule about wearing your gaberdine and boots when watching games."

"Yes, I know all about that - she got 4 detentions from Mr. Pink - the silly old fool. I'm prepared to risk that, after all it's such a beautiful sunny day for the time of the year. I don't want to wear a heavy sweaty gaberdine on a day like this. And I hate those black rubber boots, why do they have to be so tight on the legs, and have a high heel?"

"Oh I don't mind them one bit. In fact I love the high heels - it makes me feel good after wearing our stuffy old 'sensible' shoes, and as for the gaberdine - well that's not so bad either if it keeps me warm and dry."

"Yes, you should have worn it last weekend when you were at home shouldn't you - then you wouldn't have got that cold." Mary quipped with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

However hard I tried I realised that I wouldn't get Mary to see sense and change her mind, and as we hurried out of the changing room door it was already 10 past two and the game started at two thirty. Suddenly we stopped in our tracks as we heard a voice boom out "ANDREWS where do you think you're going? Come back here AT ONCE!"

It was Miss Davies the Gym mistress who had shouted out of the window of the sports store. She must have heard the whole of our conversation, and now Mary was really for it! Mary walked forlornly back into the changing room and I followed close behind. Miss Davies stood beside a row of girls gaberdines and clothes with her hands on her hips and legs apart.

"Andrews, what is the meaning of this, why are you disobeying the school rules?" she asked in a sharp voice.

"......Please Miss, I'm sorry Miss, it's such a lovely day Miss, that I thought...."

"What YOU thought Andrews is of no consequence whatsoever. The school rules are made for your benefit and we are here to make sure they are obeyed. Now you will go and put your gaberdine and boots on this instant and return here for your punishment. What a pity you didn't listen to Brenda's advice, she really is so sensible."

I stood and watched as Mary hurried to her peg and put her gaberdine on, done up the same as mine and squeezed her feet and legs into her shiny black rubber boots. She was back very quickly and Miss Davies gave her a thorough inspection. "You're belt is twisted and your hood is not done up tightly - four extra strokes," she ordered. "Now bend over that bench and hold the legs the other side."

I moved my position slightly so I could watch as Miss Davies lifted Mary's gaberdine and folded it neatly up over her back followed by her green blazer and her box pleated gymslip. Her green knickers contrasted beautifully with the white of her thighs. I thought to myself that they would not be white for much longer!! Next Miss Davies put her fingers into the tight waistband of the knickers and drew them down to her knees where they covered the tops of the rubber boots.

"Fetch me one of your plimsoles please Brenda." Miss Davies requested, and I hurried to my locker and brought back my right hand white rubber plimsole. "Thank you Brenda, this will do nicely," she said as she flexed the shoe between her hands. "Mary, you will receive ten strokes for not wearing your gaberdine, ten strokes for not wearing your rubber boots, plus two strokes for having your belt twisted and two for not having your hood done up tightly. That makes a total of 24 stingers that you will get with Brenda's plimsole."

I stood back against a line of pegs with girls clothes hanging on them, my hands behind my back admiring Mary as she lay quietly over the rough wooden bench. I felt a thrill of excitement that I could not understand as I waited for Miss Davies to deliver the first stroke to Mary's bottom. I looked at Mary's white bottom and at my very own plimsole which Miss Davies suddenly brought smartly down on her right cheek. CRAACK! "EEOOW!" screamed a surprised Mary.

A bright red patch soon appeared where the sole of the plimsole had struck and this was soon followed by another CRAACK! this time to her left cheeks. "EEEEEOOW!" came Mary's reply. Again the plimsole struck Mary's right cheek and she responded with another "EEEOOW!" Miss Davies set up a steady rhythm of strokes alternatively to Mary's right and left buttocks. The howls of pain turned into continuous sobs and tears streamed down her face after the sixth stroke. I was able to watch as Mary's bottom turned from a milky white to a soft pink and eventually to a fiery red. Mary held onto the pipes for the whole punishment and managed to keep her legs fairly still. She knew only too well that Miss Davies would increase the punishment if she jumped around too much.

After the 18th stroke Miss Davies finished with Mary's bottom and delivered the remaining 6 strokes to her thighs. I must admit that I had really enjoyed watching her being punished and I could feel my cotton knickers were becoming very wet between my legs!

I was very glad that I had not been on the receiving end of my plimsole as Mary's bottom looked very red and sore as she lay over the bench quietly sobbing now. Miss Davies gave me my plimsole back and by the time I had put it away Mary had pulled up her knickers and straightened her gymslip, blazer and gaberdine and was standing up wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

"Let that be a lesson to you Andrews," Miss Davies said sternly. "If I ever catch you going out again when you should be wearing your gaberdine and rubber boots you will get double that punishment and so on until you learn. Now, quickly, be off with you or you will miss the start of the game - and you know what that will mean if you are late don't you?"

"Yes Miss Davies," I replied, "We will get our bottoms warmed up in the pavilion, I expect."

Miss Davies dismissed us with a wave of her hand and we hurried out of the door and along the road to the games field. It was quite awkward to run in the tight high heeled boots and I had to wait for Mary on several occasions as she found the tight elastic of her knickers cutting painfully against her sore bottom and legs. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I soon felt very warm as I ran along in my bottle green gaberdine done up tightly with the hood up, and I could see that Mary felt the same, as droplets of sweat ran down her face where her tears had been running only a few minutes before. Our gaberdines give off a very rubbery smell which is caused by the waterproofing of the garment, and this smell gets very strong as we sweat in our gaberdines. I could smell Mary's own personel gaberdine smell as we walked the final hundred yards to the games field. The sweaty smell of other girls excites me no end and I felt my knickers becoming damp again.

Luckily for us we reached the games field just before the bully off, and stood on the touchline panting for breath after our half mile run. There was quite a large number of supporters for both St. Angela's and St. Audrey's. It was immediately obvious which school each girl came from as all our St. Angela's girls were wearing their bottle green gaberdines and rubber boots, and all the St. Audrey's girls who had travelled with their team were wearing brown gaberdines with hoods up over their brown berets, and they wore knee length fawn socks and low heeled shoes.

There were also quite a number of men and boys from the local village watching the game, or to be more precise they came to look at the girls themselves. It's not really surprising why they were attracted as girls playing hockey show a lot of their knickers, especially as we have to wear such short games skirts. Also our breasts bounce up and down provocatively under our white blouses.

On show today were 11 St. Angela's girls wearing short bottle green pleated skirts, white blouses, bottle green cotton knickers and bottle green knee length socks and of course hockey boots. The 11 St. Audrey's girls wore brown gymslips with a gold sash over a white blouse, the brown cotton knickers, and also brown knee length socks and hockey boots.

St. Audrey's school is also very strict like St. Angela's with the frequent use of the cane and tawse, and Mary and I spent most of the game trying to spot the tell tale marks of the cane on any of the 22 girls thighs. It surprised us to see that ALL of the 11 St. Audrey's girls had fresh vivid cane weals on their thighs which were plainly visible to all the spectators, but we could only see five St. Angela's girls with marks on their thighs - perhaps our teachers concentrate more on our bottoms!

Despite the age difference St. Audrey's managed to beat St. Angela's by 4 goals to 2, and we wondered whether their caning just before the match was to spur them on to beat our older girls!

After the game Mary and I walked slowly back to school chatting and giggling in our usual schoolgirlish way. It was getting chilly now and we were glad that we had our regulation gaberdine mackintoshes on to keep us warm. We decided to take the long way back which took us past the store room near the boiler house. By this time we were larking around somewhat, and I ran into the store room and Mary followed, closed the door and turned the light on. I hid behind some boxes, but I could not refrain from giggling so Mary soon found me. She came up behind me and wrapped her arms tightly around my waist and gave me quite a hug. Slowly she released her grip and I felt her hands creeping upwards and gently she began to stroke my breasts through my gaberdine. I stiffened in surprise but gradually relaxed as she moved her hands in a circular motion, one on each breast.

I was becoming aroused and I felt that tell tale wetness in my knickers again! I turned around and boldly kissed Mary on her lips, she responded very quickly and we held each other in a strong embrace for several seconds. I moved my hands up to Mary's head and fondled the back of her head through her regulation hood, and she responded by stroking my head likewise through my hood. I moved my hands from her hood and stroked the back of her gaberdine and I could hear the waterproof lining rustling as I moved my hands about, and the delightful smell of her gaberdine mingled with the smell of her sweaty arms as we embraced each other again in a deep kiss.

I continued to move my hands lower and I knew I had come to her bottom when she flinched and let out a startled "OOOOH." I lifted the pleated back of her gaberdine and softly stroked her tight knickers covering her tender bottom. I just had to kiss those ruby red cheeks and thighs!! I turned Mary round and asked her to bend over a convenient table where I lifted her gaberdine up over her back once more, and felt under her blazer and gymslip and eased my fingers gently into the waistband of her knickers. She lifted her hips slightly so I could draw her knickers down and I noticed her bottom flinch several times as the tight leg classic drew over her inflamed skin.

I kissed each cheek tenderly and I moved my left hand down between her thighs and into her pussy. She squealed in pleasure as I stroked her clitty for the first time and she moved her bottom up and down in unison with me. Mary came quite quickly and I responded by gently kissing her red bottom all over, and at the same time she reached behind and managed to get her hand up underneath my long gaberdine, gymslip and blazer, and rubbed me frantically through my very wet knickers. I was already very excited, so I came very quickly and we collapsed in a heap on the table plunging our tongues deep into each others mouth in a frenzied kiss.

I was just thinking what a beautiful afternoon it had been, for me especially, when I heard a scraping noise and saw Mr. Archer the caretaker watching us from behind some shelves full of toilet rolls. (It turned out that he had watched our whole escapade, and had wanked himself off twice in the process!!)

"So this is your little game, is it?" He enquired as he walked out into the room. "Two naughty schoolgirls who love each other?.. Eh?.. Eh?"

We didn't answer, but hurriedly jumped up so our gaberdines would fall down and cover my knickers and Mary's bare bottom. He went on "....I'm sure Mr. Payne the headmaster is going to love dealing with you two. I would imagine a public caning and talking to in front of the whole school would be the minimum punishment for this offence. Wouldn't you?... Eh?... Eh?..... Come on answer me girls."

"Yes, Mr. Archer, er.. er.. I mean, No Mr. Archer," I stammered. "Please don't report us Mr. Archer, we'll make it up to you, we really will. You see Mary's already had 24 with my plimsole today from Miss Davies, and she lays them on really hard."

"Well now, since you mention it, I think we can come to some arrangement." He grinned broadly as he said this. "You will both bend over my table, raise your gaberdines, blazers and gymslips and receive 12 strokes of MY cane. What's that? - You didn't realise I had a cane? Ah well! Now you know don't you?"

We were entirely at his mercy at that moment, although looking back I feel it would have been better if he had told Mr. Payne, but then I don't think he wanted that at all! He produced a standard school issue crooked handle rattan cane from a locked cupboard and swished it menacingly through the air. SWISH! SWISH! SWISH!

"What are your names girls?" He asked holding up a pad and taking a grubby pencil from behind his right ear.

"Er, Brenda Holmes."

"And Mary Andrews."

"Form?"

"7B," I said with head bowed and in a quiet voice.

"Right, now lift your skirts and bend over the table, hold the bars on the other side, yes that's good. Now let me take your knickers down Holmes. My what lovely rubber boots you've both got on, and high heels too! Now then, if you make too much noise I will increase your punishment, and you will keep your bottoms still, understand."

I nodded my hooded head and I saw Mary do likewise, and I waited for the punishment to begin. It was obvious that this was certainly not the first time Mr. Archer had used his cane!!

"Holmes, you will be first as you have such a lovely white bottom just asking to be caned." I heard the cane swish through the air several times, and gritted my teeth in anticipation of the first stroke. However, when it came the terrible pain took me by surprise.

SWISH! CRAACK! "YEEOOW! AH! OOOOH!" I gasped.

"Be quiet Holmes that was only the first stroke you still have 11 more to come," he said with a hint of pleasure in his voice.

SWISH! CRAACK! "YEEEEOH! AH! OOOH!" I exclaimed once again.

"Holmes I will warn you once more. If you persist in making such a ridiculous noise I will take Andrews' knickers off and stuff them in YOUR mouth. That will quieten you down a bit.

SWISH! CRACK! The cane came down across both my cheeks again, and although the pain was getting greater all the time I managed to clench my teeth and only emitted a gasp of "Oooh!"

He delivered the fourth, fifth and sixth strokes to the backs of my legs which took me rather by surprise, but still I managed to refrain from crying out, although my eyes were wet, and the tears started to run down my cheeks.

SWISH! CRAACK! "OH!" ... SWISH!

"That's six strokes, Holmes. You're doing well now, see, you can take your medicine like a good girl if you try." He gloated over my bottom and touched it lightly with the cane which made me flinch each time. "What a lovely sight your bottom is now Brenda, 6 parallel lines, 3 on your cheeks and 3 on your legs. Those on your legs will show for several days when you bend down. Now for your final six."

I heard him chuckle in his funny way and huffles his feet back. Suddenly my bottom was filled with an incredible searing pain as he brought the cane down much harder than any of the previous strokes. SWISSSH! CRAAACK! "YEEEOOOW! OOOH! AAAH!" I screamed and screamed, forgetting his threat about gagging me.

"So Holmes, you want Andrews' knickers in your mouth do you?" And he went over to Mary and removed her bottle green cotton knickers and roughly forced them into my mouth. He couldn't get them all in, and he left her crotch piece very close to my nose. I became very excited as I smelt the soaking wet knickers that Mary had had on not so long ago. I almost forgot the punishment in hand as I wriggled my hips around the table with pleasure. I was brought back to reality as stroke number 8 met my bottom that was already feeling as though it were on fire.

SWISSSSH! CRAAAAACK! "MMMMMM!" I gurgled.

The final four strokes were delivered with great force, but I don't really remember much more than the continuous fiery pain which swelled up through my body with each stroke, then diminishing only a little before the next stroke descended and took me up to a higher peak of pain. Strangely enough Mary's wet smelly knickers seemed to take my mind off the punishment in hand, and I continued to twist my hips around on the table edge. After the twelfth stroke had landed right on top of a previous stroke on my legs, I came with a fantastic prolonged orgasm which made my whole body shake and quiver with pleasureable pain. I realised then that I had quite enjoyed the second part of my punishment with the knickers in my mouth!

Mary's punishment is a bit of a blur to me as I lay over the table still clutching the legs on the far side. The pain in my bottom and legs subsided a little and I stopped shaking after a while. I heard Mary screaming quite a lot which is not surprising as she was receiving her 12 strokes on top of her bottom already sore from the slippering she had received only a few hours before.

I felt my knickers being pulled down my legs and I responded by lifting my boots off the floor to allow them to be taken off and I presume stuffed in Mary's mouth. Certainly her cries were greatly muffled after that. She told me afterwards that she too was very excited by the smell and taste of my knickers which were soaking wet in the appropriate place. She didn't come like I did but she told me that she had been very close to it.

When the punishment was complete we were ordered to stand up and to straighten our clothes. Mr. Archer took our knicker gags out, but he would not let us put them back on - in fact he kept them for his own enjoyment.

So knickerless and still clad in gaberdines with the hoods up, we made our way back to the changing rooms, but our first place to visit was a toilet where we inspected each others bottoms in private. I was absolutely amazed to see the state of Mary's poor bottom when I lifted up her gaberdine and gymslip. Before it had been a fiery red all over - now it was still a fiery red but 12 deep ridges, now turning a horrible blue, marked her tender bottom and legs. I wondered what she would get from Mr. Walker when she reported to him before lights out for her punishment for talking after lights out last night..........