Strange Vibrations

 Story from Roue 20.

Strange Vibrations
by Barry Roberts

He glanced over at her feeling certain that she was about to say 'I told you so.' She didn't – but the look she gave him rendered words unnecessary.

Ever since the first time Doug's second wife, Roberta, had met his daughter she had left him in no doubt as to her feelings regarding the girl's behaviour and the treatment she felt would remedy the situation. 'She's a wilful, spoilt brat,' she had told him once, 'and it's all your fault. You're far too easy with her. You give her an inch and she duly takes a yard. And what do you do? Nothing. If I had behaved like that when I was her age I'd have got a damn good hiding.'

The thought of chastising his daughter had crossed his mind on numerous occasions but the nearest he had come to punishing her in such a manner was by threatening it. 'If I catch you doing that again,' he had warned her often, 'I'll tan your backside.' The threats were always ignored and, when disobeyed, simply weren't carried out. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. Pocket money was stopped, curfews set, treats denied. Every form of punishment was employed except one – chastisement.

'Things'll change when we get married,' Roberta announced a week before the day of the wedding, 'I won't stand for any nonsense I can tell you. The moment she steps out of line she'll get a good hiding. If you won't do it then I will!'

Doug had decided not to get into an argument about it – thinking that they would cross that bridge if and when they came to it, although he felt certain that there was no 'if' about it – Linda misbehaving was a bridge that they would come to in no time.

On their honeymoon Doug agreed to his bride's suggestion that they confront Linda with the matter as soon as they returned home. He was far from happy about the situation but felt that, as it was something of such importance to his new wife, then so be it. 'Just don't expect me to hand out any of the hidings,' he told her. 'It's simply not me. I agree there are times when Linda deserves to have her bottom smacked – as long as you understand that if there's any walloping to be done you can do it.'

* * *

'...And so,' Roberta concluded her lecture of the girl as the three of them sat around the kitchen table on the day of their return, 'any further misbehaviour will be punished. Not in the way that your father has seen fit to 'punish' you but in the way that your mother used to punish you before she passed away; the way that all naughty children should be punished.'

Linda opened her mouth but was denied the opportunity to speak.

'I know that was a long time ago and that you probably consider you're too grown-up to be treated in such a manner at your age but let me tell you, I was thrashed by my mother until I was well past my twentieth birthday so, as you see, seventeen isn't too old to have your backside tanned.'

Linda took it very well, her father thought. There were no protestations, no tantrums. When her step-mother had finished the girl simply shrugged her shoulders, rose from the table and left the room. Perhaps, Doug mused, there would be no need for his new wife to carry out her threats after all. It was a thought, though, that he didn't have much confidence in. Sooner or later, he felt, Linda would do something that would warrant a spanking. He just hoped that it would be later rather than sooner.

* * *

'Okay, officer – we'll deal with it,' Doug told the constable.

'Very well, sir. You can count yourself lucky that the shop owner decided against pressing charges. If you ask me – what that girl needs is....'

'Thank you, officer – we'll take care of it,' Doug interrupted.

Roberta showed the constable to the door. 'Have no fear, officer,' she assured him, 'She's going to get exactly what you were going to suggest. Believe me – she'll be sleeping face-down tonight.'

The constable smiled. 'Very pleased to hear it, madam.'

'Well?'

'Well – what?'

'Go on then – say it. Say "I told you so". You said that my letting her get out of hand would result in her getting into trouble with the police before long. So come on – out with it.'

'I'm not one to gloat, Doug, but you have to admit I was right.'

Doug knew that she was. He was also fully aware of the fact that he'd failed as a father. If he had punished his daughter's disobedience with more severity in the past she'd probably have never strayed so far from the straight and narrow as stealing from the corner shop. He was angry with himself but far more incensed with Linda and when his wife announced that she was going up to Linda's room 'to make her pay for her crime' he put up no protests. She deserved it – it was high time she paid for her waywardness.

'I'll leave it to you, then,' he said.

'You not coming up?'

Doug thought awhile. 'I'm not going to do the, er....'

'I know, Doug – you've already said that you'll leave it to me.'

'Then – why....?'

'It's just that I think you ought to be there – witness it. You are her father when all's said and done – even if you don't act like it at times.'

The two of them climbed the stairs to Linda's room. They entered and shut the door behind them. The girl was sprawled out on her bed reading a magazine.

'You know why we're here?'

'S'pose so, step-mother,' Linda replied.

'I've told you not to address me like that. "Mother" will do. Now, come on – stand up – show a bit of respect.'

Linda threw the magazine to the floor and, giving a long deep sigh, got to her feet. Her stepmother sat down on the edge of the bed while her father took up a position by the wardrobe. Linda's arm was grabbed hold of and she was pulled over Roberta's lap. The woman gave the seat of the girl's tight jeans a couple of slaps and then said: 'No – this won't do at all. Stand up.'

She got to her feet and was given the order to take her jeans off.

'But....'

'Get on with it, girl. You wouldn't feel a thing through those. Come on – get them off!'

With all the alacrity of a snail on valium the girl obeyed and stood before her step-mother in blouse, tights and knickers – to be given the further command to remove her tights.

'Right, Linda,' Roberta said, shifting her position on the bed slightly and taking hold of Linda's wrist, 'come on – over you go.'

With more than a little deliberation the girl followed orders and lay across her step-mother's knee awaiting the chastisement. Her blouse was pushed out of the way to reveal a pair of skin-tight pink cotton knickers. Roberta looked over at her husband and back down at the seat of Linda's pants. She put her right hand inside the waistband of the garment and began to pull them down.

'Er... no, Roberta... I don't think that's necessary,' her husband commented.

'Look,' Roberta said, holding the knickers at half-mast, 'who's doing this – you or me?'

'You are, love – but it's just that I don't think there's any need for the girl's pants to come down, that's all.'

'Can we get on with it, please?' Linda's voice came from floor level.

'What harm can there be in taking her knickers down? You're being ridiculous, Doug. She's got to feel it.'

'You've had her remove her jeans and tights – that's enough. She'll feel it alright.'

'Look,' Linda said impatiently, 'take the bloody things down if you like – only get on with it, will you?'

'No, maybe your father's right – you should feel it. It's just that whenever I was spanked as a child it was always on the bare bottom. No, you can keep them up,' she announced, putting them back into place and pulling them up tightly around her teenage bottom. 'I'll just have to hit harder to make sure you get the message.'

Doug didn't know where she had got the practice in – but the spanking that she gave his errant daughter was certainly a thorough one. The smacks fell at a rate of practically one per second and the entire area of Linda's shapely behind was attended to. The girl winced as her bottom was warmed and let out a couple of yelps when the stinging hand of her stepmother landed with more severity. Not to be out-done by her husband's request for Linda's bottom to remain covered, Roberta concentrated more and more on the lower part of the girl's cheeks and the tops of her thighs where there was no protection. It was when Doug saw the redness forming on his daughter's lower buttocks – after about a minute and a half – that he intervened.

'Um... I think that's enough, dear.'

Roberta looked up at him. 'Very well – six more, okay?'

He nodded. Roberta yanked the knickers up as far as they would go and the material disappeared into Linda's bottom-crack leaving the cheeks almost entirely bare. She laid those last six whacks on with all her might and the girl was screaming for mercy at each one. Her bottom wobbled and contorted and finally, when it was all over, heaved gently.

Linda stood and adjusted her knickers before laying face-down on her bed.

* * *

'Don't you think that was a bit harsh?' Doug asked his wife as they made their way downstairs.

'Rubbish – did you see any tears? No. Next time she gets a good hiding it won't be with my hand – I can tell you.'

Doug sincerely hoped there wouldn't be a 'next time' or, at least, that if there was, it wouldn't be for quite a while. He knew that Linda had deserved her punishment but the whole thing had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He still wasn't entirely convinced that physical punishment was a good idea and the thought of his own flesh and blood, Linda – naughty though she was – receiving a tanning with the back of a long hairbrush (Roberta's suggestion) didn't appeal to him at all.

* * *

'Tell your father what you've been up to today!' Roberta yelled at a crestfallen step-daughter. 'Come on – out with it!'

Oh God, thought Doug, she's been up to her tricks again. Bet this ends up with Linda getting another hiding.

'What have you done then, Linda?' he asked the girl.

'Well....'

'Come on – I said I'd make you tell him, now get on with it, girl!'

Linda looked up at her father. 'I... I'm sorry, dad...'

'What have you done this time, Linda?'

'I... er... I was doing something in my bedroom....'

Roberta bullied the girl into telling exactly what it was that she was "doing" that had caused so much fuss – how she had been lying on her bed in only her bra using her fingers to some effect between her legs. Her father was disgusted with her. He had never thought he would ever actually want to see his daughter get a severe thrashing, but such was his anger that he said: 'Right, young lady – if that's an appropriate term for someone who indulges in such acts – get up to your room! Your mother and I will be up shortly.'

Linda left the room and plodded up the stairs. Roberta looked over at her husband, happy in the knowledge that perhaps, at last, she had won him over to her belief in the use of corporal punishment.

'I think this calls for your hairbrush, love,' he suggested.

They ascended the stairs and Roberta went into their room to pick up the hairbrush and, as her husband discovered when she entered Linda's room, something else.

'Where the hell did you get that from?' he asked, astonished.

'Bought it the other day,' she replied, giving the slender cane a noisy swish through the air. 'Just the job – don't you think?'

Doug didn't agree. A row broke out over whether Linda was to receive her just deserts by way of hairbrush or cane. Roberta's suggestion that a dozen-or-so smacks followed by six of the best with the cane wasn't met with her husband's approval and it was finally agreed that the cane would not be used on this occasion, but would be employed should Linda get into big trouble again.

Roberta laid the cane down on Linda's dressing table. 'It can stay here,' she told the girl, 'as a reminder of what you'll get if I catch you doing what you did any more.'

'Come on now, Linda,' her father said. 'Get yourself ready – I haven't got all night – I've got a darts match this evening.'

Roberta was clearly delighted with her husband's newly-found enthusiasm – a delight that was not shared by his daughter, he thought as he looked at the girl's miserable countenance.

Linda stripped down to her petticoat and her step-mother stepped forward to take the straps of the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Linda obeyed the order to lie face downwards on her bed and waited motionless in her matching white nylon bra and pants.

'I think we'll have them down – don't you?' Roberta said to her husband, feeling confident that he would agree.

'Er... yes, okay... take them down, love,' he replied.

Roberta walked around to the left side of the bed and, taking hold of the waistband of the tight knickers, dragged them down to Linda's knees. The girl buried her face in the pillow as her step-mother took aim with the wooden-backed hairbrush. It came down with a splat onto the bare skin of Linda's bottom. Down it came again and before long was beating a rhythm on the contorting cheeks. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'This'll teach you never to do anything so disgusting again,' Roberta growled as the hairbrush did its job. Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'Ow Owww!' Splat! Splat! 'That's it, my girl, yell all you like – I'm not stopping till you've paid for your badness.' Splat! Splat! Splat!

Realising that his wife meant it and beginning to feel a little queasy at the sight of his daughter's bare bum turning a bright red, Doug said: 'I'll... er leave you to it, then, love.'

'You going?' asked his wife holding the hairbrush threateningly over the chubby bottom of his daughter.

'Yes... I'll be off down the pub – you know – get a few arrows in before the match,' he answered awkwardly and disappeared.

Roberta stopped the spanking and went into her room to watch as her new husband got into his car and drove off. She returned to the girl who was still obediently lying on her tummy on the bed.

'He gone?' Linda enquired of her step-mother.

'Yes, he's gone.'

'Right,' the girl said, standing up and taking off her bra then bending over in the centre of the room, 'you can get to work with the fucking cane now – can't you?'

'You reckon you can take it on top of that whacking – it's very red, Linda – are you sure?'

'You know me, Roberta – glutton for punishment.'

Roberta laughed. She went over to the dressing table and picked up the cane, giving it a couple of strokes through the air. Linda bent right over as far as she could and gripped her ankles and Roberta stood to her left side with her left hand resting on the girl's back.

'Six – okay?' the woman announced.

'Yeah – come on, stop titting about – I'm dying for it – it's been so long.'

The cane came down forcing a gasp from the lips of the girl. Thwack! 'Yeoww!' Five more strokes cracked explosively across the crimson bottom, five more lines appeared across the cheeks and five more squeals were emitted by the naked girl.

She flopped face-down onto her bed and Roberta applied some cold cream to the well punished arse.

'Strangest reason for getting married I've ever heard,' Linda commented, her words muffled to some degree by the pillow on which her head was resting.

'But I love him, Linda.'

'Perhaps you do – but I know of something that you love more.'

Roberta gave her step-daughter a playful smack on her rear-end then returned to the creaming of the girl's buttocks. Her hand slid in between Linda's legs which parted automatically. With her left hand smoothing the lotion over Linda's bottom, her right was now sending electric sensations through the girl's body as it performed a very experienced massaging of the private regions.

'You're a bad, bad girl,' she said as her left hand lightly spanked the stinging cheeks of Linda's bottom. 'Fancy playing with yourself – you know that's my job.'

The New Riding Whip

Story from Janus 68.

The New Riding Whip
by Michael Burntwood

HER upper body was pressed against the steering-wheel, and her dazzlingly pretty face gaped aghast through the windscreen. She had hit something! After several stunned seconds she straightened up in the driver's seat, suddenly pale beneath the suntan which still lingered from those fragrant weeks in the Greek islands. Strands of golden hair obscured her wide, vividly blue eyes, for her head had jerked forward at the collision. Shakily, feeling faint, she pushed the hair back from her flawless forehead and opened the door of the brand-new Jaguar. Stepping out on long, lissome legs she stretched her lithe young body and smoothed the rucked-up skirt over her slender hips. Then, with tingling nerves and a sick feeling of dread, Alicia Thornfield walked to the front of the gleaming vehicle to inspect the damage.

The wheelbarrow she had driven into lay crushed and splintered on the broad gravel driveway, but this was not what the girl was staring at. The offside wing of the Jaguar was shockingly defaced by dents and scratches, and the headlamp and the blinker were smashed! The awful sight made her inhale deeply, pushing her tip-tilted breasts against the sheer silk fabric of her blouse.

Desperately she turned and looked around for someone to blame for this disaster, for the fool who had put the wheelbarrow there, right where it shouldn't be, in the middle of the drive into which she had just turned the car. In the distance she observed Rogerson, the gardener, hurrying towards her shaking his grey-haired head; and even then the mettlesome young woman's full red lips curled with distaste to see how his startled gaze roamed over her bare legs beneath the tight skirt.

'You damn well ought to know better than to leave your stupid barrow here!' Alicia shouted, stamping her foot in fury and fright. Even to the unimaginative gardener she looked petite and doll-like, almost unreal in her perfection of feminine shapeliness. It could have been that French actress, Bardot – re-formed and scarcely 21 again – raging at him beside his employer's distressingly damaged vehicle. The agile figure was daintily trim, little-waisted, with breasts like apples quivering under translucent silk, the trim thighs succulent – her legs smooth, sun-browned stems more lovely than the loveliest bloom in the orchid-house from where he had hurried on hearing the distant crump. To the gardener, she looked rather like a flower herself.

But the aloofly alluring nymphet face, achingly pretty, was red and twisted now as she screeched at him, scattering the soft, honey-gold hair about that perfect head.

'You silly old bastard, I've a sodding good mind to... to...'

'Ooh, dear,' said Rogerson, dragging to a stop. 'Ooh, my, Miss Alicia. Your stepdad won't be too happy when he sees what you've done to his new car!'

'What I've done, I've done?' the girl wailed. 'How was I supposed to know that bloody wheelbarrow was here? It was your fault. I was looking at the rose-bushes when I drove in.'

'With respect, Miss,' ventured Rogerson, 'Sir Robert told me to leave it here when he called me to the orchid-house. And anyway, there's plenty of room on either side. If you'd been lookin' where you should've been...'

'Shut up!' she shrilled. 'Fix it, do something useful! Before he sees it, too!'

The gardener shook his head, well used – as were the other servants – to the stormy temper of this spoiled, succulent slip of a girl; a temper remarkably similar to that of Sir Robert, her stepfather, with whom he had just been discussing orchids. Uncomfortably similar, the man thought, and almost smiled.

'Ain't nothing I can fix, Miss,' said Rogerson. 'That'll need a crash repair job down the garage.'

'Oh, you're absolutely hopeless!' Abruptly the girl swung round on her heels, and the man caught his breath at the sudden sight of her tightly-compacted little rump wiggling roundly beneath the clinging skirt as she hurried up the broad stone stairs to the entrance-door of the stately, ivy-smothered house.

As Alicia hastened to the temporary sanctuary of her room, cold spurts of dread pulsed through her, which quickly heated to panic that made her heart bump. She had borrowed her stepfather's car on one of those reckless impulses of hers, believing him to be away. Certainly he would never have allowed her. After all, she had a car of her own – but it was a lot more fun to drive a brand-new Jaguar than a three-year-old VW Golf. And, damn it, he'd obviously come back while she was out on the road and, assuming his car to be in the garage, was pottering about with his wretched orchids! Now Rogerson would blurt it all out. It was only a question of time. She decided to escape on her horse, Athos, for a few hours until her stepfather's anticipated wrath had cooled. Just in case, dreadfully, he took it into his head (and hand!) to do to her again what he'd done last week or so when she'd broken one of his ugly antique vases in an outburst of pique! The very thought of that made the girl squirm.

In her bedroom Alicia hastily stripped off her day-clothes and scrabbled in the cupboard for her riding-gear. As she leaned forward to work her ankles into the narrow jodhpurs she paused, catching sight of her bent-over bottom in the cheval-glass mirror. The plumply-curved mounds, scarcely covered by the flimsy lace panties, were still marked with two pale pink stripes on the silky skin where the buttocks swelled out from the tops of her pretty thighs. Marks from that excruciating caning he had dared to give her last week! Faintly swollen, slightly raised, they tingled as her fingers touched them. This ghostly tingling returned the girl to her urgent need for haste, and she quickly straightened, hauling up the skin-tight breeches...

'How could that wretched girl run straight into a barrow when there's room for at least ten cars?' Sir Robert was exclaiming, dangerously red in the face as he surveyed the crushed wing of his coveted Jaguar. At six-feet-three and shaking with rage, he made a daunting sight. Some thirty years ago he had boxed for the University and rowed stroke in their best 'eight'. Now in his fifties, a handsome-featured man who had not only retained the hair on his head but most of its sable colouring, he stood straight and powerful, protesting his ill-fortune in an operatic baritone. Ordering the gardener to arrange for the car to be mended at the garage in the village, he stalked off towards the house, determined to have a serious chat with his seemingly incorrigible stepdaughter.

He strode into the spacious hallway and paused, breathing harshly in an effort to control his fury as his hot glare settled on the umbrella-stand, which bristled with brollies and sticks. From it he selected a smart new lady's riding-whip, which he angrily swished through the air. Then he walked through to his private study at the back of the house, thwacking the thin crop against the palm of his hand with a thoughtful but determined expression. Picking up the internal telephone he rang the housekeeper, Mrs White, and asked her to tell his stepdaughter to come down immediately.

Mrs White smiled grimly as she walked up the stairs and along the corridor to the room at the corner of the building. At her approach the door flew open and Miss Alicia dashed out, dressed for riding in those skin-tight breeches which hugged across her eye-catching buttocks and so tantalised the male staff. The young mistress was also wearing a white blouse, and calf-length boots on which she wobbled away towards the back stairs, clearly anxious not to be seen.

'Miss Alicia!' the housekeeper called. The girl froze in her tracks, and when she turned her face was flushed and her lovely blue eyes looked feverish. 'Sir Robert would like you down in his study, please.'

'I-I have to take Athos out for his daily exercise,' the girl replied as nonchalantly as she could. 'Tell him you haven't seen me, okay?'

'Your stepfather knows you're in, and was most insistent that you come down at once,' intoned the housekeeper with a somewhat malicious smile: like most of the domestic staff, she had more than once been on the receiving end of this beautiful, willowy girl's temper. 'By the way,' the woman added, 'I noticed that Sir Robert took your new riding-whip from the hall stand. It's in his study with him. I expect you'll need it later, when you go riding.' With that Mrs White swung round and clomped away, scarcely concealing her excitement and pleasure at what might well soon be happening to that spoiled, slender young beauty within a very short space of time.

As Alicia retraced her steps miserably towards the main stairs, unconsciously she let her hands smooth over her narrow hips and backwards across her pert, pouting seat. Through the drum-taut fabric of her breeches she felt again the still-swollen stripes across her compact bottom. This wasn't her lucky week at all. She had got the cane only a few days before, despite her age of almost 21. Now it looked horribly as if she might be in for a taste of her own riding-whip! In a helpless gesture of defiance she tilted her dainty chin and pulled back her shoulders, strangely satisfied at how the buttoned-up blouse tightened across her proudly high-nippled breasts.

Alicia was all too aware of her stepfather's rages. Since her mother had passed away almost three years ago, she had lived alone with him and three servants in this old mansion from which he controlled his companies. All through her teens, Alicia had been high-spirited, but it wasn't until after her mother died that her stepfather began to treat her more like an irresponsible girl than a young lady. She did concede, however, that the physical punishments he had begun to mete out were usually her own fault. Alicia appreciated the continuing luxury of living in this large house with servants, and hadn't made any serious efforts to get a job. After a year at university she had become tired of studies, and defiantly stayed at home. Her stepfather wanted her to accept work in one of his companies, but she had declined; and, after several vain attempts at persuasion, he had become angry and informed her that as long as she was living under his roof without contributing to her own upkeep, she was to obey him and accept his discipline. Meekly, yet sullenly, Alicia had agreed to his terms.

As the girl moved with increasing trepidation towards the combined library and study where Sir Robert worked when at home, the breeches seemed to cling extra tightly to her hips and thighs. Alicia liked them like that, enjoying clothes which presented her figure to advantage. At the door she paused, breathed deeply, yet again, and raised her knuckles to knock. Then she lowered them, and realised she was trembling.

On the other side of the stout mahogany door the incensed step-parent paced impatiently about as he waited for his errant young charge to appear. His gaze wandered around the room with its well-stocked bookcases and fine old oak panelling, finally coming to rest on the supple riding-whip he had placed prominently on the large, leather-topped desk. For a moment he mentally pictured Alicia's girlishly sleek-skinned flanks, and experienced a somewhat guilty, steadily-rising excitement. The whip had been a gift to the girl when he had bought Athos for her; and he had always thought how exhilarating it would be to use it on Alicia's truly attractive bottom. Her bare bottom as naked as that of her horse! Sir Robert squared his heavy shoulder and couldn't suppress a sigh, very much aware of the particular quality of pleasure such thoughts gave him. It was a heady feeling akin to the intoxication afforded by champagne, only more so!

Last time, some ten days ago, he had made her bend over this same writing-desk. Alicia had been wearing a ridiculously brief skirt, which he considered frankly indecent. Furious as Sir Robert had already been on account of the girl's clumsiness, the riveting sight of those round, packed-to-bursting rumps and silky thigh-backs had flooded the man's senses with a great glow of well-being; of supreme anticipation! He had turned up her skirt and uncovered a pair of deliciously-shaped buttocks encased in pink nylon knickers with a pattern of small flowers and a lace edging. He had been in something of a daze as he picked up the cane and delivered ten crisp whacks across that gorgeous rear, remembering only that the girl had complained with sharp aaaooauuuches and oowwws, though probably more loudly than she had reason to, for in his rapt condition he had not hit hard.

After the caning Alicia hadn't wept much, but had snifflingly promised him to behave better in future. In the intervening days, however, Sir Robert had found himself secretly hoping that his beautiful 20-year-old stepdaughter would revert to her true nature. And now, sure enough, with this inexcusable 'borrowing' and damaging of his Jaguar, the wilful girl had played straight into his more-than-willing hands.

Now he began to positively savour the imminent encounter. As Alicia had protested at how, during her caning, the desk-edge had bit into her hips at the front, he now decided to have the girl lying across the arm support of the leather-clad sofa. Thus she would have her hips raised higher, which would prevent her from attempting to stand up between the strokes to rub her bottom as she had tried to do before.

At the uncharacteristically timid rap on the door the big man stiffened more tensely in his brown gardening tweeds, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.

'Come!' he barked.

The door crept open and Alicia stepped into the study. In her riding-habit, with well-polished riding-boots, her slender figure was indeed a fetching sight to behold. He always enjoyed seeing her in that costume, with white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck, and tight khaki breeches snugly contouring her buttocks, thighs and hips. On horseback, with helmet and jacket on too, she always caught the eyes of the spectators. On this occasion, though, he was to be the sole spectator; and he intended it to be a spectacle very much worth the watching. Sir Robert's heavily handsome features hardened, and his eyes were like flints. The only gestures which betrayed the excitement he felt were the way his fingers pushed through his white-flecked hair and his firm, grave mouth twitched at the corners.

'Shut the door, Alicia,' he said quietly. Blushing, and in increasing dread, the girl obeyed. She took a few steps forward and then her eyes grew round on seeing her own flexible plaited riding-whip on the desk over which she had sprawled that last dreadful time.

'I-I'm sorry about the car, honestly I am,' she said. Her voice trembled. Demurely she held her eyes downcast, then dared a glance at him from beneath long eyelashes.

'Being "sorry" simply isn't enough, Alicia,' her stepfather rapped. 'You blithely take my new car without permission – that, in itself, would have been offence enough to justify how I now intend to deal with you.' His voice grew in force and pitch, so that each word made the girl flinch as if from a slap. 'But you then, through sheer wanton recklessness, drive it into a barrow and have the gall to try and put the blame on the gardener!'

Feeling increasingly apprehensive, panting with growing agitation, Alicia was shifting her weight and fidgeting as she tried to find a way out of this appalling scrape. She had a genuinely guilty look on her face now, and did her best to avoid his angry glare. But her flinching gaze only settled again on the riding-whip.

'Look at me, young lady,' he rasped. 'Raise your head and look me in my eyes when I'm talking to you!'

Alicia's neat white teeth showed as she bit at her lower lip and glanced up at him from under wet, trembling lashes. Tears had appeared in her large blue eyes. 'Please, father, I've said I'm sorry,' the girl implored. 'It will hurt so much!' Desperately, Alicia tried another tack. 'Look, I'm almost 21 now! I-I'll pay for the damage somehow, but please don't use that on me. I'm a grown woman now, I'm...'

Sir Robert towered above her as she wheedled and wept. The very sight of that graceful young woman with the honey-gold hair, enchanting face and wringing hands might have melted the heart of a less imaginative man. But Alicia's stepfather's imagination was too strong to deny his heated mental images the fulfilment of reality. He swelled his great chest, lifted his strong-jawed head higher, and picked up the girl's own riding-whip.

'Alicia,' he intoned gravely, tapping his broad palm with the springy shaft, 'I have already told you that you have no one to blame but yourself for the predicament you are in – and you will pay in the manner I have chosen.' She gasped as he moved around the desk towards her. 'Get over there to the sofa,' he instructed, almost softly now. 'I want you across the arm support with your feet to the floor.'

Instinctively, Alicia turned to obey. With hands clasped to the seat of her smartly-tailored breeches she moved most unwillingly to the sofa, daring to hope that he would at least let her keep her breeches on. She had used that new leather switch quite often enough lately when riding Athos. It stung even him, so she was well aware of its whipping quality. The trim young woman stopped close to the arm support and cast a pleading glance back at her stepfather, searching for words that might stop this happening. None came.

'Take your breeches down,' came the command.

'No, please!" Alicia's voice grew shrill as her hands flew to the waistband of her pants – not to release it but to hold them in position.

'Take them down, or I shall do it for you!' His voice was implacable, and she could hear him breathing harshly.

'Oh. No. No-o. Please, stepfather, let me keep them on!'

'Do as I tell you, Alicia,' he ordered, and the young lady knew there was nothing else for her but to obey. Wretchedly she fumbled with the buttons, five on each side of the drum-tight breeches. She undid them slowly, clumsily, fingers trembling, till the side-splits fell open. Yet still she held her breeches up. When Alicia glanced imploringly at him, she saw him taking the leather whip from the table, and quickly averted her eyes. Glowering, yet inwardly elated, Sir Robert stepped up behind his quavering stepdaughter, thwacking his palm with unmistakable intention.

'Let them down to your knees,' he ordered, noting with further quiet pleasure the hem of her blouse and a nylon garment in green and white through the slit-opening. Defiantly, desperately, Alicia continued to hold her breeches up.

'Please, father,' she begged, 'i-it will hurt too much. You know I'm still sore...' The girl increased her sobbing, frantic to be spared this punishment which she had dreaded from the moment the car had hit the wheelbarrow. Her face was red and swollen from the tears, and she felt utterly ashamed. Yet, in an act of obstinacy which marked her character, she continued to tug up the breeches as high as she could. And, because she was at the same time bending slightly forward, the fabric stretched very tightly around her protruding, deliciously apple-shaped behind. It was an enticement impossible to resist. Sir Robert raised the switch and let it swish through the air to land with a dull swat right across where the cloth was the most taut.

Alicia let out a shrill yelp. The smart was perfectly atrocious. She felt it penetrate in stinging waves even through her breeches, and at once she jumped to the side, half-turning her back away from him.

'Are you ready to obey me now?' asked Sir Robert harshly, raising the whip again. The lovely girl whimpered, hesitating only a moment more before she pushed the breeches down, unveiling a pair of the flimsiest green-and-white chequered knickers with a narrow lace edging around the thighs. Then she turned with a deep sigh, face glittering with tears as she looked beseechingly at her stepfather, the khaki riding-breeches wrinkled around her knees in a most humiliating manner. 'And the knickers, please.'

This time the proud girl gaped. 'No!' she exclaimed. 'You can't mean...?'

'But I do mean, Alicia,' the big man retorted, feeling the glowing within him enhance to a quiet radiance. 'You will pull your knickers down so that your buttocks are entirely bare.' As if to underline his instruction, he lightly tapped the bare skin of her thighs below the knicker-legs. 'Now!'

Slowly, as if resigned at last to her fate, Alicia put her thumbs inside the elastic round her waist and sobbingly stooped to pull the scant protection down. With the globes of her buttocks thus starkly bared, and desperately shy in case he might see her exposed front, she quickly bent over the leather chair-arm and stretched herself out on her tummy, legs slightly apart and dangling down, hiding her face in her open hands.

Seeing his stepdaughter bent submissively across the sofa with her bare bottom uppermost, Sir Robert yielded to an irresistible temptation to examine more closely Alicia's enticingly attractive buttocks. So gorgeously curved they were, with flinching muscles in the springy flesh. It was a perfect bottom, like some succulent peach, pushed high by the arching of its owner's supple spine to receive its well-deserved chastisement.

'It's your flagrant disobedience which has merited this thrashing,' Sir Robert now summarised in low, even tones. 'You must learn responsibility for your actions, Alicia.' He stood to one side of her prostrate body, noting with great satisfaction how her buttock-muscles tensed and jumped under the silken flesh. Flexing the riding-whip, he raised his arm. 'As you soon will be 21,' he told her, 'I have decided to be more strict with you than before. On the last occasion you received ten. Today it will have to be fifteen.'

'Please,' she gasped. 'Please, you can't. I-I still have marks from the cane; you know my skin is so sensitive... Aaaaowwwch!' Alicia had hardly finished her protest when a hissing in the air was followed by a crisp smack and her complaining shriek of pain from the ferocious sting the riding-whip caused as it smote smartly across her naked, flinching bottom. The thin, flexible leather at once recoiled and landed again below its first mark, though not quite so hard as the initial blow. Involuntarily the girl stretched her body rigidly and her arms shot forward as her feet lifted from the floor. For several seconds she lay stiffly horizontal, whimpering as she fought to absorb the pain.

'Put your feet down, Alicia,' he told her sharply. 'I want your bottom bent tightly over.'

In a mist of anguish and embarrassment Alicia did as bidden, thrusting her knuckles into her mouth as if biting them would prevent her from yelling out for the next stroke, and the next.

As Sir Robert swung back the riding-crop, warming to his enviable task, the oppressive weight of day-to-day business problems seemed to lift from him, to be replaced by a heady sensation of glorious release. The sound the crop made as it whipped through the air, the feel of its meaty impact on those so-sweet pillows of flesh, were like elixir to his soul.

Whiissh- SPLACK!

'Uuuhuuu,' the girl sobbed, wriggling her so very vulnerable bottom in a rage of pain and humiliation. Through the raspings her body made as it bucked and threshed against the leather chair-arm she remembered something her stepfather had said when he had beaten her before, that she ought to be grateful as long as she could atone for her transgressions in this way, because the alternative might one day be prison and public disgrace...

Sswiish-whack! Even as she cried out, she shuddered at the thought of being locked away in a shabby cell. Instead, it seemed, her own elegant, expensive riding-whip was scoring another burning mark diagonally across her left buttock, and the last inches of the switch etched a far more painful stripe across the back of her right thigh.

'Aaaghh, please – please NO!'

Ssswiiish! That smack came too soon after its predecessor. Alicia had scarcely time to release the shrill yelp which accompanied it, before the doubled smart in her bottom forced her to emit a shrieking, gasping, unintelligible croak.

For a few moments Sir Robert paused to allow his quailing stepdaughter to catch her breath. The man's eyes glowed with the pleasure of a connoisseur being richly satisfied as he surveyed those round, ripe rumps now striped and crimsoning. He was in heaven! Sucking in air he again poised his hand high above the seductive target and brought the riding-whip whistling down.

Ssssplaatt! A new stripe burned across the resilient girl-flesh just below the crown of her rippling cheeks, and again Alicia emitted a cry of anguish. And then, like before, while she was squeezing her thighs hard and clenching her buttocks, she received another screeching stroke immediately after, lower down in the tender bottom-skin near the tops of her shuddering legs. Alicia gave a gurgling cry and squirmed violently, wrenching her semi-nude body and removing her scorching buttocks from the target area.

Sir Robert paused as the following stroke was about to descend, then bent and grasped Alicia's left arm and forced her back into position over the padded leather support while the miserable girl pleaded and wept.

'P-p-please, stepfather – please, no more. I c-can't take it...' Alicia blubbered.

There are eight more to come, Alicia,' he told her harshly. 'You're old enough to be brave and take the punishment you've earned, without making so much fuss! If you turn your bottom again I will add more strokes!' For a few moments Sir Robert let his stepdaughter rest. She had never in her life been thrashed so severely, but the lesson would be salutary. In the brief break, as her sniffles subsided and her sweet young body settled, he savoured anew the uniquely intoxicating sights and sounds of the whipping, the girl's mews and groans, and the feel of the pliant riding-switch so light and lively in his grip.

Stretched across the arm of the sofa, Alicia welcomed the pause. She tried to relax and make her body go limp, pressing her knuckles to her lips as she waited for the thrashing to resume, very much aware of her stepfather standing close behind and breathing hard as he regarded her red-striped, twitching, wincing bottom. Then he again, slowly, raised the switch – aiming at the pinkened tenderness where Alicia's thighs swelled lusciously into the half-globes of her pertly provocative, temptingly-patterned behind.

Hwissh-thwack! The riding-whip sped down and struck accurately across the creases which marked the undercurves, forcing fresh shrillness from the girl's lips; and while her buttocks were still trembling from the impact the switch fell once more, a little higher up, flattening the flesh and making her whole bottom wobble.


Alicia gasped and cried, raising her hips as if to meet the next stroke on its journey down, but her stepfather deliberately waited until she was again lying prone with her belly pressed to the chair-arm before he swept the whip down. The stroke made its authoritative crisp report and a new red mark showed how the whip had hit across both her thighs immediately below the clenched buttocks.

Wailing and blubbering as she was, Alicia was by now doing her best to prepare herself for the pain each time the springy whip bit into her smarting flesh, and the sheer physical tension caused the muscles of her crimsoned bottom to move in flinching and twitching movements by themselves. She began to feel a sense of pride in not crying out when the riding-whip struck into her flesh.

The next followed almost at once and hit right across the tops of her bare half-moons; and this time only a stifled moan left her mouth, though she could not prevent her hips from jerking up and down. Alicia further began to find that the pang of the smacks was not unendurable – or so she was able to convince herself. There was of course no question about the fact that he was punishing her most severely, and she had to weep because the tears helped to alleviate the stinging pain and made it possible for her to submit. The repeated twinges which shot through her bottom when the riding-whip landed to decorate her skin with still another red-glowing stripe, caused her to blubber – though much more quietly now, and this blubbering helped her to keep the position in which her stepfather wanted her.

Sir Robert had been counting the strokes in his head, but now he started to grunt them out loud. When Alicia heard 'Twelve', she began to feel relieved. And then, at last, she heard him counting 'Fourteen' and 'Fifteen'. For at least a minute afterwards, as she continued to lie across the leather chair-arm feeling her bottom throbbing hot and sore, tears coursed down Alicia's pretty cheeks, and all that could be heard was the gradual slowing of his grunting breaths and her own soft snifflings.

At length Sir Robert put the riding-whip back on his desk, almost with reverence, and for a while he stood back and examined, with silent admiration and a profound satisfaction, Alicia's red-patterned, comely young bottom. The fawn jodhpurs had slipped down round her ankles and the green-and-white knickers were wrinkled below her knees. There were stripes all over her shapely posteriors, and also a few long red marks across the backs of her thighs.

'All right, Alicia,' he said, his voice a little tired now after the elation he had experienced. 'You can get up now. I hope that you will always remember this lesson. It wasn't really to use it like this that I bought this riding-whip for you.'

Alicia struggled to regain her feet and composure, pushing herself exhaustedly up from the sofa-arm. For a moment she held both hands to her face to wipe off her tears, before realising that she was displaying herself to him in front. She quickly stooped and pulled up her knickers, yet scarcely seemed to care that the breeches were still round her feet.

'Yes, stepfather,' the girl sniffled. 'I will try to behave, honestly I will.' She looked down meekly then added, almost saucily: 'I-I'm so sore now, I don't know if I'll be able to take Athos out for his exercise today.'

Sir Robert smiled, then frowned with some effort at the tearful girl who looked so vulnerable and charming in her white blouse and skimpy panties with the rest of her clothing down around her legs. A far cry from the normal, proud and bossy Alicia.

'But you had better,' he admonished her. 'That horse needs his run, and a sore bottom doesn't hurt a great deal more because you are sitting on it. Pull up your breeches now, then go and wash your face and get along to the stables. You know you like riding Athos.'

Alicia couldn't resist a furtive rub at her bottom-cheeks before bending and tugging the jodhpurs back up her legs, fingers fumbling as she re-fastened the five buttons at each side. The breeches felt even tighter now, perhaps because she was more sensitive where they fitted closest! At least, she sighed, her punishment was over.

Half an hour later the girl hurried away to the stables feeling very much better. Her stepfather had appeared to be in an excellent mood and had patted her – still somewhat painfully – on her behind when she had come back to fetch her riding-whip from his study. Indeed, so relaxed did he seem, Sir Robert hadn't even forbidden her to use her own car or to visit her friend after dinner.

In the cobbled yard that smelled of horses and hay the groom, Hubert, helped her to saddle Athos – who still was too young to stand still when the leather encumbrance was put on his back. After Alicia had checked the length of the stirrups, she led the fretful stallion out into the field and climbed somewhat stiffly into the saddle while Hubert held him.

'Be careful now, Miss Alicia,' cautioned Hubert, patting the horse's flank. 'Athos isn't too safe yet. Remember what your stepfather often says, that if you have to use the riding-whip, then do it gently and with very light taps.'

The old groom simply could not understand, and nor would Alicia have been able to explain to him, why she allowed her horse to race away in such an uncontrollable manner. Nor why as Athos surged into a gallop with almost slack reins and his shapely rider bumped up and down in the saddle, shrill little squeals could be heard from Alicia all the way into the distance.

Bedtime for Amanda

Story from Whispers 02.

Bedtime for Amanda

'It was the car first — attempting to drive it through the gates on her own after I've only given her two lessons. And then...'

'I know,' Vivienne admitted. She knew, too, about the pack of cigarettes I had glimpsed under Amanda's bed, though she hadn't — to my relief — asked me what I was doing in there while she was at her bridge club. Had she done so I suppose I would have said something flip like 'Baby-sitting', though at coming up close to seventeen within the next two months, Amanda wouldn't exactly qualify in that category despite those baby-blue eyes and the knicks that invariably matched.

'She's your daughter — not mine — it's up to you Viv', I said and made my voice sound like the tolling of a bell. 'When we're married...', I began, but she cut me off.

'Martin, you don't understand. It wasn't I who used to discipline her'.

Restlessly she got up from the sofa and peered through the Venetian blinds into the darkening street, saying, 'She should have come home by now'. I wasn't listening to her so much as viewing her. Those bulbous rear cheeks — still as firm as they had been when she was Amanda's age — showed clearly through the seat of her dress, as did the ever-stirring, upsweeping lines of her panties beneath.

She is always trim is Vivienne — stocking tops dark-banded and flesh-tight, the rims peaking up against the tugging of taut suspenders, dabs of misty perfume front and back below the circling of her suspender belt. Superb legs for a thirty-six-year old. The finished and perfected package, in fact — arse-proud, as I had once crudely called her.

She has kinks, has Vivienne. Once I knew about the two slim canes that had always seemingly been at standby (one in her wardrobe and one in Amanda's) there were no more barriers of misunderstanding between us. I learned her ways and the hesitantly trickled-out confessions of her early training.

Vivienne likes to be cane-flicked: likes and hates, I should say, but she still submits to it. There were times, it seemed, when she used to be allowed to choose between a scorching, submission-producing sixer and being circled.

If the latter phrase is a mystery to you, then it was to me also at first. Vivienne had been put into ultra miniskirts even before they became fashionable. Very tight they were when rolled-up waisthigh, she said. For 'circlings' (and I've never thought it the classiest of terms) she had to do the roll-up first and then remove her panties. Her tie was next loosened, dangling in two striped strips, and the buttons of her blouse unsnicked until her positively impudent young tits were also on parade.

'I had to walk around in a circle being flicked', she would say. The rest of the details were harder to gather from her, but eventually during our courtship I managed it. After five minutes of such 'flicking', a bottom that was flickering with tiny flames had to be presented for attention. I gathered that the taunting, stinging cane had completed its work by then.

'It was bad afterwards?', I had first asked her cautiously. I had snaps of Vivienne from all those years back that she had given me. Not a pocket Venus — she was already too long-legged then for that, her bottom a perfect peach, and most of it yielding to the enquiring lens when she wore a bikini bottom that seemed to be two sizes too small for her.

'Dunno', would come a girlish giggle from her at that under-worded question. I knew and she knew that she wouldn't just have walked away afterwards, rosy-bottomed and with twinkling legs. Enquiring hands would have done their soothing best while she sobbed. At the least, at the least. Then the sofa or the bed — I'd figured that — bouncing and gasping and clinging limpet-like as she still did when I mounted her myself, as if by her very body gestures she was proclaiming the ultimate submission to the cane and to the mastering male.

'In any event the cane corrected you', I said on that particular evening when Amanda was once again late. There was a bizarre touch in my remark that neither of us missed. That Amanda had been caned was news to me. Perhaps it accounted for the over-pert swinging of her hips sometimes — a mark of a girl who has taken what she must and emerges slightly proud of it, and awed by it.

'Tomorrow I'll take her in hand a bit', I said when Amanda had finally appeared and flipped up to bed. 'Martin, yes, but not too hard. It's bridge night for me tomorrow', Vivienne said, as if the latter event were relevant. It was, of course — for me.

A girl who has been caned can often sense when it's going to happen again. She tends to glance sideways at one and to slouch a bit, putting one foot before the other in an awkward way, self-consciously, and Amanda did just that on the following evening when her mother had departed, trailing wisps of perfume as she went.

'It's about the car, Amanda', I said as she made to exit to the kitchen to set herself up a fridge-cold Pepsi. She stopped as if I'd pulled on an invisible cord around her waist and then came back with laggard steps to where I sat.

'What?', she asked. I almost grinned at the subtle impudence in her tone. Maybe that was her intention. I had a sudden feeling that if I drew her down upon my lap and very, very slowly rolled up her loose top she would sit mute, and then wait for my cautiously-weighing hand.

'And other things', I said. 'You know already, Amanda, you know already. It can be here or upstairs — I don't mind.'

I hadn't specified what 'it' was, but Amanda knew. 'No, please, you're going to cane me, I know you are!', she blurted. Even the affected note of hysteria was false, I thought. Her nylons shimmered black as Vivienne's most often did. Her suspenders would be just as taut.

'Upstairs, Amanda', I said, my voice as crisp as a fresh packet of Smith's. 'I said, upstairs', I repeated. The word seemed right for her already. She stared at me, compressed her lips, but already she had learned that mutiny is followed by the bounty of the cane.

She swallowed at that and uttered a huge sigh that didn't impress me at all. Nor right then did it appeal to me. Later it might, but she would be mewing then, not sighing. First things first.

I made her go up on her own. It was deliberate. The ever-haunting moment of waiting: that's important; then waiting to hear my approaching footsteps, and the first sight (after how long?) of the cane. But it was the first sight of Amanda that threw me. Defiantly or not she had gone into the main bedroom where Viv and I enjoyed our romps and where the cane for her came into play. Amanda must have heard her mother's muffled squeals sometimes. Her skirt was off and her panties, too. Neatly placed on a chair they were, but my glance in that particular direction didn't last for more than a millisecond.

Amanda stood in profile to me, both hands clenched underneath her mouth as if she were already trying not to cry. Her pubic foliage decorated the alluring little hump beneath her tummy's subtle swell. Her bottom looked like a studio 'portrait' of a peach. The slightest movement of her hips and I glimpsed her nether cleft. More body language, I thought.

'Not in here, Amanda', I said. There was provocation in plenty here, and I knew it. The cane snicked forward, catching her on the side of her bottom and she squealed and jumped, saying, 'But I thought...' and then gathering up her two discarded garments and holding them coyly in front of her as she oozed cautiously past me and wiggled along to her own bedroom. In a well-formed girl, their bottoms cheeks don't jiggle at that age: they just look more enticing.

Something stiffened, surprising me. Already? Her suspender belt was black — not trimmed with vulgar red. Her stockings were so taut and flawless that they looked as if she had grown into them rather than merely put them on. Such immediate arousal in my own lower parts tended to give me the edge of sternness that is needed. It covers — as might be said in a side whisper — one's own embarrassment... or sometimes just plain joy.

I closed the door behind us. One should always close the door. Amanda edged towards her bed and stood uncertainly. 'Bend,' I said, 'bend properly, Amanda.' There was no evident surprise for her in this event. It had happened before, and probably in this selfsame room with its single bed and two white units, one on either side. There was a red, slatted chair and a wardrobe. An old Teddy Bear, never cuddled now, slumped in a corner, glassy-eyed.

Amanda's arms reached down and then her fingers spread. The tips just touched the surface of the bed as though she were delicately balancing herself. I nudged her legs apart with the cane's tip. Her bottom — that most impudent of rumps — looked peachy and superb. Superbly cane-able, I thought. My hand moistened slightly on the slender, whippy cane much as I guessed my predecessors's must have done.

'You're not dipping your back, Amanda', I said. It was as if we had done it all before — as I had plucked old words that lingered still upon the air from last summer or the year before.

'I didn't — I didn't scratch your car much', came her plaintive murmur. Her hair clouded down appealingly. If there were a gold medal for back-dipping, Amanda would positively be on the shortlist. Her cleft orb was suddenly the centre of my universe. The curl-fringed puch of her below her peach was just a bonus — at that moment, at the least.

My trousers stretched the more. I felt she knew that and expected it, but didn't turn her head to peep. She doesn't turn her head because she knows, I thought, and whistled in the cane — an act of pure male vengeance on that thought.

'Whee-ow!', came Amanda's cry. That pink streak — that pink streak that I confess I gloried in — brought her cry to a high pitch.

'You've forgotten what it's like', I said. 'Forgotten', I had said. Would she respond to that? But mulishly she didn't, wouldn't, couldn't, and the walls still held their secrets well. 'You position well', I wanted to say, but to have praised her would have been unthinkable. Much later possibly, I told myself, and after I had 'circled' her, if only Vivienne kept her bridge nights up.

Apart from one throbbing sob, Amanda was mute in the waiting seconds that followed. I gave her about eight and then... 'Feee-oowww!'. Her note was more high-reaching then, though not so loud, I noticed, as might disturb a querulous neighbour. I had placed the stroke exactly an inch below the first. The 'three-barred gate' was imminent. Her hips waggled a silent appeal and then — legs taut — were still again. 'Ooooh-wer!', she then sobbed at the next Hooo-wiittt! and her appeal was so blatant, so devlishly girlish, that I gave her ten long seconds to wait for the next.

Then the fourth lifted her, and it was meant to. Under her bulb it swept, bringing her trim high heels off the floor and bringing with it, too, a whining cry of 'No! Oh, no!'

'Yes, Amanda', I said, and my voice was nicely flat as well. 'But, but if I...', she began. 'If you what, Amanda?' 'Nothing... YOW! Oh please don't! Aaaah!'

'You're counting, Amanda. Did you ever count?'

'No, yes, no — no, I didn't, no, ah, please!'

'But we're only beginning, aren't we — only beginning? All right then, turn around, Amanda — right now, please and hands behind your neck.' And snivelling she turned, she slowly turned, my eyes travelling down deliberately between the junction of her thighs, and she blinked back tears and thrust her titties forward through her top. An offering?

'You want a drink?', I asked, adding immediately, 'Don't move. Just tell me what you want'.

'Y...y...yes, please. My Pepsi and...' But I didn't wait for the 'and'. Was there a lightning flickering of her eyes to my straining crotch? It didn't matter now, perhaps. I was out and back in a moment with the cane. I made her drink from it, standing as she was standing, and damned cute she looked — I give her that. She swallowed, gulped, swallowed again. I saw her eyes go to the red chair where I'd laid the cane. The moment was irresistible.

'In a moment, Amanda, in a moment', I said.

'Oh, but couldn't you... I mean... well...'

'Take your top off then', I said. We were both duelling, but I held the longer rapier. The challenge was deliberate. She knew it was.

'All right'. It was a small 'All right', but it counted in every direction we could both think of. I laid the near-empty can on the top of her unit and watched commandingly as she peeled it off and shook her hair. Her tits were melons waiting for just one more summer. The perky buds were ripe with promise, cherry-shaped, not pointed as I'd thought.

'I haven't finished with you yet, Amanda — you know I haven't.' 'Oh, but please, my bottom...!' 'Is hot?', I finished for her. I moved towards her with deliberation, watching to see if she would start back, but no movement came. Telegraphing the movement of my arm, I extended it around her hips, bringing her nipples to rub against my shirt and very slowly caressed around, beneath, her bulb. She flinched.

'Don't flinch, Amanda', I said sharply.

'But my bottom...' 'I said, don't flinch, Amanda'. 'Yes, yes, all right, I'll try'.

My fingertips had urged where fingertips should not have done, depending on your point of view. The questing tips were explorers in her throbbing realms. Her legs stiffened but she didn't jerk.

'That's better. You have to learn, don't you?', I asked. There was a mute nod from her at that. 'But... but if you cane me again...'

'Not tonight. That was your starter only, Amanda. Sunday. Your mother will be out next Sunday afternoon, won't she?'. I was insistent, pushing her. A modern throwing down of the gauntlet, if you like. Still caressing her hot nether cheeks, I looked down deliberately between us. There was quite a lot to see on either side. My fingers had not fled the nest as yet. 'Yes', Amanda mumbled. 'And what?', I asked. 'Wh...wh...wh...what you've just done. I s'pose it's because I've...'

'It's because, Amanda — just because', I said. There didn't have to be a spoken reason and she knew that well enough. 'You understand?', I asked and she nodded, looking down as well, her stockinged legs quivering slightly as my hand at last trailed down her thighs, and she too felt its stickiness. All messages received and understood.

'All right, you can dress now', I told her. That surprised her, I believe, though maybe my next sentence didn't. 'Turn round again, bend over and show it to me again', I said. The edge of lewdness in my words probably didn't escape her as she half reluctantly obeyed and, as she did, I looped her waist and gave her pink-striped bottom a hard smack!

'Wow! What... what was that for?', she wailed, and received another for interrupting, this bringing a gritting wail from her of high surprise. 'Now dress', I said, and watched her do it mutinously, turning away from me as she lifted each leg to draw her tiny panties up, lips pouting broodily and in dismay. I took her hand then (one should often take their hands) and led her out, feeling her bottom with a boldness that her own mood of submission encouraged, and she knew it did.

My hand was becoming even more inquisitive when we reached the foot of the stairs and, with a sudden strain of panic in her voice, Amanda said, 'I want to have a bath'. 'Go on', I said. I let her go without a sound. She had only just finished doing all the mysterious things that females do in the bathrooms when Vivienne returned.

'Amanda's all right?', she asked. Her eyes were querulous, and I said, 'Yes, of course she is'. We both knew what her question held. Moving back to the foot of the stairs she called out, 'Are you all right, Amanda?', and maybe my heart missed a beat for a moment at that, but a cheery voice came down, 'Yes, I'm all right. Going to bed now — goo' night', and then the closing of her door.

'I'm tired', Vivienne said. The very air had tremored for a moment, but was still again. 'Sure. You go to bed. I'm just going to read for a bit', I said. She gathered up her bag, was gone. I heard her door close — gratefully! My turn to sigh then. I picked up a book, lounged in a chair and read. In fifteen minutes Vivienne snored. She really snores, I mean. Odd, that. Maybe I'll tell her about it, but not yet. A small explosion would never wake her, as she often says.

I read a little more and listened. Snoring still. I got up and clicked off the lights. Amanda would be curled up and not sleeping yet, I knew — her bottom tingling still a little bit, and thinking, thinking, thinking on.

There was no sound from behind her door as I turned the knob. She appeared at first to be asleep and did not stir. A nipple showed above the sheet's white edge, her face turned sideways to the wall. Her hips shifted a little as I looked. More body language, yes. I took off my shirt and tie and other things, drew down the bedclothes gently, saw her nightie rucked up to her waist.

Her head didn't move. Her lips did, just. 'Is Mum asleep?', she asked. I sidled in beside her and she stirred her hips again. 'Yes', I said simply. It was as if a conversation, once rehearsed, was being repeated. I turned her chin. Her eyes looked blankly into mine.

'You know why I have to cane you?', I murmured. My hand found pouting lips between her thighs, a rasp of curls and silken skin.

'Yes' Amanda said, and 'Yes' again, and moaned and twisted in the lulling dark.

The cane can be quite ruthless, yes, of course, but so can women, too — at any age...

Fancy man

Story from Swish Vol.6 No.4.

Fancy man

I didn't really fret about Mum and Dad getting divorced. There had always been rows and they never really got along. No really bad faults on either side. Just one of those things. Anyway, I was seventeen and my sister, Susan, two years older than me, so no 'howling kids' were affected by it. We went on seeing Dad in his other house. Things evened out pretty well.

Up to the first year, anyway. Then Mummy began going out more, for which I didn't blame her and one evening asked, tentatively, if we minded if she brought a friend home. We got the message immediately, without her saying it, that the said friend was male and I thought it rather cute and touching she should ask. Of course, we didn't mind – in fact got worked up with curiosity about him. It wouldn't be fair to stay in all the evening that he was visiting – Susan and I decided – so we got ready to go out and just 'paid our respects' to him for a few minutes when he turned up.

"He's not bad", Susan remarked as we left. – "No, not bad at all", said I. He was forty-five or so – a couple of years older than Mummy – and very much what I call the City gent type, even down to a neat, military-style moustache. Well-spoken and polite – about, but also secretly likes. It doesn't come often nowadays.... but that phrase, entering my mind as it did, was one I was to remember in quite unforeseen circumstances.

Phillip, as he was called, became a regular visitor, not only in the evenings but at weekends, so that we got to know him better – or thought we did. Susan and me, I mean. He had a good range of conversation, though he could get a bit boring when he talked about discoveries being made in quantum physics and astronomy, which I didn't understand, but then he would switch and talk about books and novels and even poetry, and Mum would listen to him fascinated. You could tell she was hooked.

Then one evening he suddenly asked Mummy, "Do the girls wear stockings? Not tights, I hope? Tights are unhealthy and very constricting". I gulped a bit. Susan looked at me, mouth open. – "Why, I'm not sure. It depends....", Mummy began and then looked at me first and asked, "Do you?". – I shrugged. "Depends what I feel like", I said, "– same as Susan", I added for her. He didn't say anything but the next night he opened his briefcase and took out a very flash, small carrier from a posh West End boutique.

"There you are", he said to me and Susan as if we'd waited all our lives for this, "Six pairs of black stockings for you each. No more tights. I don't like you wearing tights". There was a bit of silence, though we dutifully said thanks, and it was obvious that the Dior nylons were the very best. – "We don't always wear black, of course", Susan said a bit apologetically. – "I realise that, Susan, but indoors I shall prefer you to". His voice was a bit sharp as he said it. – "Ah", I said, or some sound to that effect. – "Bloody cheek!", Susan said when we went upstairs and put them on. – "Well... it's not important", I said feebly. I kept mine on to go out in. Delicious, sleek and tight-fitting, they were. I liked them. Susan stayed in.

I got back at about eleven thirty that night and the house was pretty quiet. It occurred to me then that little by little we had all started to go to bed earlier at weekends since Phillip was around. When he was staying over, I mean. – "Well, time for bed", he would say and even Mum would go up meekly. Susan didn't always, though. As I passed her door I could hear a faint sobbing. Oh dear, I thought, there's been a row. I like to keep out of such things until they've cooled down, but I had to go in and see her. She was lying on her bed like I'd never seen her – in her jumper, black stockings, shoes.... and nothing else. Her face and body were turned to the wall and her lovely pale bottom wasn't. It wasn't exactly pale, I mean. Looked more like strawberries and cream with deep pink splotches over it. And she was snivelling – like she was fifteen instead of twenty.

"Hey!", I said quietly and closed the door. Realising it was me, Susan sat up more quickly than I thought she could with an obviously hot bottom like that and said, "He... he... he sp....spanked me!" – "Phillip?", I asked. Silly question. I sat on the side of her bed and the thought went through me – uninvited – that she looked pretty sexy in her black Diors and matching suspender belt with her navel twinkling, not to say her well-bushed pussy. Her skirt was flung behind a small white folding chair. I couldn't see her knicks.

"Wh...wh...what for?", I stammered. – "He st...st...stung me.... oh!", was all the reply I got. I didn't immediately ask her any more. It should really have struck me as a bloody outrage. I should have said something else. Don't know what came over me. I drew her face into my shoulder and made hush-baby noises and stroked her hair. – "T..t...took my p..p..panties off, he did", Susan sobbed. I felt a tingle go through me. – "Did he... did he spank you hard, then?", I asked. She nodded blindly. I didn't feel any actual tears on her cheeks against my shoulder. – "D...D...Daddy never did", she whimpered. – "No", I said vaguely, "but... but what did you DO?"

"I cheeked him – that's what he said. CHEEKED him – at MY age!" – "Oh... well... didn't Mummy try to stop him?" I asked. – "Huh! No, she didn't. Of course, she didn't see it. He was crafty about that. Followed me up to my room and I yelled but he p...p...put his hands up my skirt and just yanked my panties down. Oh honestly, Jane, it was AWFUL – you can't imagine. He put one foot up on my bed and bent me over his knee and...."

"I bet you kicked", I said helpfully. – "Kicked! I yelled, too, but he said if I did he would give it to me harder – and, oh, how his palm blasted in! He kept my skirt up all the time, and then...." – "What?", I asked. I held her tighter. – "Oh, shut up", she said pettishly and pushed away and sat up with her legs coiled under her. "If... if he does it again....', she said, and like many people she never finished the sentence. We'd both had spankings before – not fierce ones or anything – but not with our panties off. – "What... what did he do.... I mean what did he say afterwards?", I asked, all agog.

Susan stretched her legs out against my back and flung her arm over her eyes and wiggled her hips a bit. – "I'm going to sleep", she said sullenly. – "O.K. Well, put your nightie on at least", I said and went out. Struck me that she was playing up a bit. With me, I mean. The way she hadn't answered everything and the way it obviously hadn't stung her the way she tried to make out. When I was undressing and thought about it more, it was almost like she had been boasting about it. Made me think all right, though. I'd have to be careful if things were going to get like this. Phew.... VERY careful. I knew what a large male palm on my 'globe' felt like, but not on my bare bum, thanks.

Cautious is as cautious does, though, and if you try to be too careful you fall into it. First of all, Susan had a row with Mummy the next morning, but it didn't help. "It was only for your good, Susan", she got told vaguely and stamped her foot (yes, really!) and rushed out. I wanted to ask Mummy if I was going to be spanked, but it seemed a daft question. I fell for it three days later, on a Sunday, when we were all together and Phillip suddenly asked me, "You haven't got stockings on, have you?"

I blushed. He wasn't supposed to be able to tell that. Mummy coughed and said nothing. Susan said "Oh!" and walked out of the room. – "Yes, I have, why?", I asked. – "Jane, you are NOT to fib. You have a thin skirt on and I can see no sign of suspender clips", he said and stood up in the living room. Kerrist, I thought, he looks THAT closely? He was right, anyway. – "Now, listen", I said defensively, "I'll wear what I.... NO! You dare! Mummy!"

The way he stepped towards me told me everything. I turned from him and he tried to grab my arm. I was out of the room like a bolting rabbit and through the kitchen into the garden. I didn't think he'd try anything there. Silly me. I'd forgotten about the shed. "No!", I screeched at him over my shoulder, for he came out almost as fast as I had done. – "MUM!", I yelled again, but no help from that quarter and, worse, I saw Susan peeping down onto the garden from her bedroom window. Oh, bloody hell, I wasn't going to let her see! I ran for the shed and tried to get inside and lock it before he reached me. I didn't.

Didn't get there quite in time, I mean. I got it half closed and then he sort of hurled in and slammed the door himself. It was darkish in there, too. – "No, you don't! No, you don't!", I screeched and tried to back up and nearly fell over my father's old sawing horse. – "You make THIS sort of noise, Jane, and you'll get a dozen – you HEAR me?", he demanded and grabbed my wrist. – "No, don't – no, don't", I heard myself pleading and then uttered a more muffled shriek as he spun me round and in the gloom very adroitly and bent me over – yes! – over Dad's sawing horse.

"YEEE-OW!", I screeched. With one well-practised grab of his hand, up came my skirt – baring me to my hips – and with a sense of total disbelief I felt his hand go into the back of my tights and my blue nylon knicks and draw them very decidedly down. – " WHOO-OO!", I gasped, for his foot went into the loop of them then, just below my knees, and by pressing with it he snuggled them to my ankles and gave me such a big smack on my naked cheeks as made my mouth open wide before a yelp came up from my throat. Bloody hell, it burned! I wriggled my hips crazily, tried to get up, but his free hand clamped me down so that I was doubled right over.

"Now, Jane, THIS is discipline, and I mean you to have it. You want twelve like that?" – "NOOO-NOO-NOOOO!", I sobbed, tightening my hot bum and very, very much aware of all he could see. – "Very well, Jane, I will reduce the score to six and I'll count the one you've just had among them. Five only to come – IF you stand up and take your ridiculous tights and knicks right off, then your skirt". – "NO-WOH-WOH! Susan didn't!", I squealed incautiously and heard him laugh. Yes – LAUGH!

"Oh yes, she did, Jane – whatever she might have told you. After the first two she did. Now.... OFF with them, young lady, or else! I mean it! If you really want a full dozen...." – "N...n....no, I don't!", I wailed. I knew he did mean it. Shamefully, as his hand slowly released me, I unbent shakily and, blushing like mad, stripped off to my blouse, keeping my back to him. I felt naked and practically was. I didn't know whether to stand or bend over. – "D...d...don't spank me", I said and hated saying it. It didn't do me any good.

He didn't make me bend. Standing sideways to me he put one hand under my chin and held my face up level. I stared at the dark wall. "A good mark for that, Jane. Your sister wasn't so obedient – but she will be. Now – move your feet apart and stick your bottom out. Come on, now!" – I wanted to blurt "Huh?", but instead, I gulped and obeyed. It was a funny position. I felt rude. – "For a good mark, Jane, you get a light spank only. Remember that always. Will you?".

With his hand tight up under my chin I couldn't really answer. I made a hissing noise through my nose. He took it as consent. In the next second his free hand gave me a sharp quick stinger that made me straighten and bounce forward. "YEEEK!", I gritted, though to tell the real truth it wasn't half so bad as I thought. My cheeks burned, though, and tightened. – "Position again, Jane – as before – stick it well out", he soothed. – "It st...st...stings me", I whined.

"Only a little. You know it doesn't really hurt. Would I hurt you, eh?" SMACK! – "YEEE-OUCH!", I gritted. The way my botty stung already, the second made the flames burn hotter. My cheeks squeezed tighter and my eyes blurred. – "HO-HO-HO! Please!", I sobbed. He was implacable. I know I could have twisted my face away, but I didn't. Something stopped me from doing so. 'Discipline' he calls it now.... HUH! I pushed my botty out more delicately for the next one, but he wasn't having that. – "More, Jane", he ordered me and I blinked and bit my lip and did, having to keep my feet and knees bent inwards a little.

"NA-HAAAAR!", I gasped at the next for it was really hard – a full stinger that sent flames and onrushings of fire right through me. I really did straighten up, and with my chin still firmly held. "OOOH-WOOO-WOO-OOH!", I sobbed and worked my bottom all about to try and shake the heat off. You can't, of course. It's best to draw it in by tightening your flaming cheeks. He gave me a long minute, though, to recover from that one and me softly blubbing all the time. When I finally and cautiously pushed myself out again for the next, he said quietly, "Good girl" and gave me a really light one so that I didn't even jerk in.

In fact, much as I was really burning up that first time, it still felt a funny one, like an URGING smack, I'd call it – almost mischievous. "There's my good girl", he said all amidst my muffled sobs and gulps, "You are going to be good, aren't you?". I closed my eyes. I knew I was going to get a hard one if I didn't say now. As far as I could do so, I gave a little nod. It might help, I thought. How naive could I get! I got a blaster. "NEE-OW-OOOOH!", I squealed and in that moment he spun me round and held me tight against him. I mean tight. I could feel something hard jamming up against my bare tummy through his slacks.

"GOOO-GOOO-GOOOO!", I sobbed. My stockinged legs worked this way and that. My bottom felt truly cherry-red hot. I wanted to plunge it into cold water. I wanted anything but this. "Stings, stings, stings!", I choked. – "Shush, darling, yes, I know", he soothed and stroked the back of my hair. Well.... first he stroked the back of my hair but then his hand wandered down gradually (the other arm ringed tight around my slim waist) and finally cupped the throbbing, glossy cheeks of my bum. That made me wriggle more, but since I could only work my hips I was in a real fluster.

"Take it easy now – take it easy", he murmured. – "I c..c...can't!", I sobbed. I made a feeble attempt to push away with my hands, but I didn't get away. That something of his, hard and long as I could feel it was, started to throb. – "Easy now, easy", he kept saying and kissed my forehead! – "Hey!", I wanted to gasp, but you can't do everything at once. He kept me like that for a whole two or three minutes in the dark shed until the stinging receded and a warm glow took its place. All the time his hand was soothing round and under my bottom like it never ought to have done – but truth to tell I knew I wanted it there. The same big palm that had spanked me was comforting me, and I was to learn gradually about that, too.

"You didn't squeal half as much as Susan", he said. That was supposed to mollify me. Actually it did a bit. – "I s'pect you sp...spanked her harder then", I snivelled. – "No, I didn't – exactly the same way as you", he said, and somehow I knew that was true and that she hadn't gone over his knees at all, the lying little so-and-so! – "You've a lovely tight bottom for it – you know you have?", he asked. I shook my head wildly and hid my face into his shirt. I didn't want to know, and he shouldn't be holding me like this. His forefinger was right under my..... Well, it was. Then I really gave a squeal, for the tip of his finger – right under my hot bottom – brushed suavely across my pussylips.

"D..d...don't", I stammered feebly, but I wanted to giggle instead of cry. My tummy felt all swimmy. – "All right, Jane. Put your panties on again, but NOT those tights. No more tights to be worn ever – you hear me?". He released me then and as he did I pushed my skirt down quickly so that he couldn't see my quim. – "All right", I mumbled, and wondered why I wasn't screaming the place down. But then Susan hadn't been QUITE as outraged as she might have been. Had we really been conquered so easily? I was soon to find out!

Kitty

Story from Roue 02.

Kitty


Solly packed up for the day. He put the heavy wooden shutters up at the windows and wedged the loose one into place with a piece of wood. He unplugged the sewing machines and pulled the black-out curtain across the interior door. On the way upstairs he passed Mrs Evans, who rented the first floor flat from him.

'I hear they copped it in Devonshire Street last night,' she said in her rather too-loud voice.

Solly nodded, the sadness on his face an almost permanent fixture these days. 'Getting too close for comfort, isn't it?' he said mournfully. 'You off now then?'

'Yes. And if there's another raid tonight –'

'Yes, I know. She'll be welcome, of course, don't worry my dear. I'll take care of her.'

Mrs Evans touched his arm briefly, kissing him lightly on the cheek, then checked in her handbag for her key and went out, pulling the curtain across the door behind her though it wasn't yet dark.

Solly went up to his top floor rooms and set about making tea, then he sat by his window and gazed out across the rooftops of Whitechapel, and even from his restricted vantage point the extent of the damage the bombs had done in the last few weeks was painfully apparent. He watched the balloons floating like bulbous pigs over the docks and all up and down the river, until it began to get dark. Occasionally he heard the sound of Kitty moving about downstairs. Her voice from behind him took him by surprise.

'Hello,' she said.

Solly turned in his chair and saw her in the doorway. She looked as pretty as ever, her hair permed in wavy curls, her dress smart and tight at the waist.

'Can I come in?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Want the light on?'

'No, not specially. Do you?'

'Yes, I've got something to show you.'

'Well, we'll have to draw the curtains then.' He stirred in his chair, but she walked over and reached up for the curtains, her small breasts outlined against the light from the window as she stretched. The heavy curtains swooshed together, and he heard her go over to the door again.

She clicked the light on, and stood there as if she were the keeper of some considerable secret. He knew her well enough to be sure that she was going to tease again. She wanted him to ask her.

'Well now,' he said, 'what, could it be that you would want to show me?'

He looked her up and down, and his tailor's eye quickly lighted upon the one thing that was out of place. She was wearing silk stockings, in these times, and it stood out a mile.

She followed his eyes and saw that he'd discovered her secret.

'Want to see?' she asked, pretending to be demure, yet at the same time managing to excite him simply by her words.

Solly took his time answering, not wanting to seem too eager.

'Well, I s'pose you're going to show me anyway, aren't you?'

'Yes.' She pulled out a chair from under the table and stepped up onto it. Her dress came to just below her knees. Her face seemed to be alight with excitement. Little by little, and with an expression of girlish devilment, she slipped the full skirt of her dress slowly up her legs, the light shining on the sheer silk, and then, impishly, she reached the level of the tops of her stockings and stopped.

'D'you think I look nice?' she asked, sweetly innocent.

'Delightful,' said Solly.

She smiled, obviously pleased, and treated him to another inch or so. The tops of her thighs looked soft and succulently smooth.

'Girls ought to look nice, don't you think?' she prompted.

'Of course, my dear.'

The edge of the dress crept upwards again.

'But they have to have nice clothes to look nice.'

Solly followed the slant of her conversation well enough. The slightest suggestion of pink peeped teasingly out between the very tops of her legs.

'If I could have nice clothes –' She smiled again, not quite so innocently.

'Where did you get the stockings?' enquired Solly conversationally.

Kitty's pretty lips took on the faintest suspicion of a pout. 'I'm not sure I should tell you. You might not approve.'

Solly raised an eyebrow.

'Well actually a very nice boy gave them to me. A soldier.'

'And what did you give him?'

Kitty smiled sweetly again, evading the question by not answering.

'Does your mum know?'

'Heavens, no.'

Solly permitted himself another teasing smile.

'What're you grinning at?' demanded Kitty, lowering the dress an inch.

'Well I was just thinking what your mum would say if she found out.'

Kitty dropped her dress altogether.

'You wouldn't tell her would you? I mean, you wouldn't split on me?'

Solly steepled his fingers in front of him, his elbows on the arms of his chair.

'Depends,' he said.

'Depends on what?' She sounded a tiny bit worried.

'On this, and that.' It was his turn to tease.

'What does that mean?'

'Nothing,' Solly said mildly.

Kitty looked down at him suspiciously, until she had to let the cheeky grin spread over her face.

Solly knew that Kitty thought she'd worked it out. No more need be said; it was as good a point as any to terminate the conversation. Only somehow he didn't think Kitty had quite got it right.

* * *

The warning sounded a little after ten o'clock. Without any particular haste Solly went around the flat opening doors and windows, which was supposed to let the blast through, then he went downstairs and waited for Kitty who was filling a flask in case the raid went on all night.

At last she appeared, and as they went together down the stairs the far-off drone of aero-engines hurried their descent to the cellar.

They sat on reasonably comfortable though makeshift beds, the naked electric light failing to coarsen Kitty's youthful features despite its harshness. After a while the tension eased, there having been not the slightest sound of bombing so far.

'Probably cloudy,' said Solly. 'Can't find anything to bomb.'

'Yes.' Kitty's eyes fixed on his, the faint, impudent smile flickering again.

Solly thought he could read her mind, but refused to be drawn. Instead he waited for her to make the first move, which he knew she wouldn't be able to resist.

Kitty poured tea from the flask and sweetened it with saccharine. When they'd finished it she stood up unexpectedly and stretched theatrically.

'Looks like it'll be a long one,' she said. 'Might as well get some sleep, don't you think?'

Solly nodded. 'You can if you like. I think I'll give it a bit longer.'

'Suit yourself.' She eyed him innocently. 'I'll have to undress – if you don't mind.'

Solly didn't mind. He didn't offer to switch the light out either.

Kitty took off her precious stockings first. Then her dress and her slip. She made no attempt to conceal herself from his gaze. The pink, filmy knickers clung to her full hips, although not tightly, leaving room for the weight of her buttocks to wobble faintly as she moved, the material almost transparent and quite failing to hide the darkness of her pubic hair in front. Her legs were long and slender, the thighs firm and pleasantly smooth and soft-looking.

Solly watched, fascinated, and found his determination to do this his way, not hers, wavering.

She stood in front of him, clearly enjoying the effect she was having, and she turned her look of innocence into one of seductive naivety. She took no pains to disguise the obviousness of her words.

'It's a pity about clothing coupons and things, isn't it?' she said. 'I mean, I'm pretty, aren't I? And a girl like me needs good clothes doesn't she?' She moved her hips, suggestively. 'And a man like you – in your business –'

Solly recovered his composure as best he could. He edged the conversation back into the right direction.

'You're pretty enough,' he said. He hesitated before he took the plunge. 'And just a bit naughty, wouldn't you say?'

Kitty pouted. 'Just a tiny bit,' she admitted. 'Naughty but nice. Don't you think I'm nice?' She slowly pushed her hips out towards him, teasing at the waistband of her knickers with one provocative finger.

'I think you're at least as naughty as you are nice.'

'Yes. Nice enough to take to bed.'

'Oooh!' Kitty pretended to be taken aback.

'And naughty enough to need your bottom smacked.'

Kitty looked at him in a half sideways glance. After a moment she said: 'D'you know about that then?'

Solly did. It hadn't been quite what he'd meant, but it would do as a starting point.

'Yes, I know.'

'How d'you know?'

Solly smiled at the recollection. 'Because you aren't so grown up as you pretend to be when your mum takes your knickers down, are you?'

'What d'you mean?' Kitty lost some of her poise as she started to frown slightly. Solly thought it made her look even prettier.

'What do I mean? I mean that you sound much more like a little girl when you cry. The strap makes you cry, doesn't it?'

Kitty's bottom lip pushed out as she pouted again. 'A bit,' she confessed. 'Why, have – have you heard?'

'Yes, I've heard. And I may say that I approve, incidentally.'

'Oh.' She'd stopped teasing him now. She simply stood there in her bra and her knickers and looked rather crestfallen.

On an impulse Solly reached out a hand, inviting her onto his knee. She came to him, though dubiously. Her warm thighs pressed temptingly down into his lap, his hand slipped easily around her hips, brushing the silkiness of the knickers, then stroking the creamy texture of her thigh. His other hand wandered little by little up the line of her thighs in front. A linger teased briefly at the silky tuck of material where it hid seductively between the tops of her legs. Her eyes were big and soft, seeking his, her lips moist and inviting.

'Now then,' said Solly quietly. 'About this business of clothing coupons.'

She kept her eyes on his and eased her weight in his lap with a little lift of her bottom. The movement, the warmth pressing softly into him, made his throat go strangely dry.

'I'm not altogether sure that I ought to listen to you, you know,' said Solly. 'After all, there is a war on, and people have a duty to support the government, no matter how inconvenient it may be.'

Kitty looked at him still as if she knew he was only saying it for the sake of appearances. He stroked a hand up behind her back and the strap of her bra clicked undone. He eased the shoulder straps aside. Her small, firm breasts glowed almost luminous with the tender bloom of youth.

'Even more to the point, I can't help wondering what sort of trouble you might get yourself into if you can go out and about dressed to kill.' He patted meaningfully at her thigh again. Because we know you are a naughty girl, don't we Kitty?'

Kitty's tongue peeped out and moistened her lips, her eyes still on his. Solly came to the point as gently as he could.

'Now, just suppose I were to do what you want. Well then, you'd have to admit that in a way I might be responsible for leading you astray, in a manner of speaking.'

Kitty's voice was barely audible. 'Yes, I s'pose so,' she whispered.

'In which case, perhaps I ought to make myself responsible, in a way, for your moral well-being.'

Kitty's thighs parted gently as Solly's fingers invited themselves into the warm, damp nook between her legs. 'Perhaps,' conceded Kitty, meekly.

Solly's other hand, the one around her hips, played speculatively with the elastic of her knickers, slipping them partway down off the swell of her hips.

'And there's really only one way to do that where a naughty little girl is concerned, isn't there Kitty my love? We'd have to take her knickers down, wouldn't we, eh? And smack her bottom.'

Kitty's eyes lowered, away from his face. She seemed to be considering the possibility he'd so carefully suggested. Distantly, and so faintly as to give no cause for alarm, there sounded the crump and rumble of bombs exploding. Each of them more or less succeeded in ignoring the ominous noise altogether.

'Would you – would you help me then? Let me have things without coupons?' She looked up at him again. 'And would I have to pay?' she asked, driving the bargain while she could.

'I'd help you,' said Solly, 'but you'd have to pay – in a way.' He patted gently, pointedly, at the bare part of her hip. 'But you wouldn't mind that, would you Kitty?'

Kitty took a little more time, working it out again to be sure she'd got it right. Her voice was still a whisper. 'And – and if I paid – like that – you – you'd still smack me as well? Is that right? I'd have to be naughty, to pay – and then you'd smack me, for being naughty?'

Solly couldn't help smiling to himself at the way she'd talked herself into paying double for what she thought was a bargain. He'd have been content simply to correct her erring ways, taking payment in the pleasure of punishing her dear little bottom. But now, apparently, he was to be both disciplinarian and provocateur. He had to admit that the situation had its attractions.

'Yes, that's right my dear,' he said gently. 'That's exactly what I had in mind.'

He stroked her bare hip again, and insinuated his fingers under the waistband of her knickers, slipping them down a little further.

'And would – would that mean you'd help me? Give me clothes and things?'

'Yes, and some of the coupons other people gave me – 'er, lift up a moment, there's a good girl – well, if I didn't cancel them, I could give them to you for all the other things you might want.'

Obediently Kitty eased her weight up off his lap, letting him slip her knickers down properly, so that they clung gently to her thighs, her bottom bare against the coarseness of his trousers.

'So I could buy undies, and things like that? Shoes and things?'

'Yes, that's right. Now, just roll over this way sweetheart. That's right. That's a good girl.'

Kitty's bare breasts pressed against his chest as he persuaded her to roll towards him. Then, with an easy pressure of his hand against her shoulder, he coaxed her into lying across his lap, face down, her pert, naked little bum upturned cheekily over his legs, the knickers rucked prettily around the tops of her thighs. His hand rested lightly on the crown of one resilient cheek, the other inched her knickers a little further down and persuaded her thighs to part and admit his teasing fingers. Kitty spread her legs submissively as the tantalising touch sparked off a tingle of nervous excitement.

Then, the business in hand needing attention, Solly reluctantly stopped playing with her and slid his hand back up over the naked curve of her buttocks. He patted the bouncy cheeks, and curled an arm about her waist, pulling her into him.

Her voice sounded anxious, almost plaintive. 'You – you going to smack me now?' she asked, pressing her legs together as his hand toyed with the tender underside of her buttocks.

'Yes. Having second thoughts Kitty?'

He raised his hand and spanked her softly, once, her cheeks wobbling nicely as his palm landed.

'M-mum might be back any minute,' she protested. 'She might find us.'

Solly smacked again, still without any sting in it. 'I doubt it,' he said mildly. 'She won't come home while there's a raid on, will she?'

'Er –'

Solly smacked the soft, succulent buttocks once more, the impact sounding a little smarter, Kitty wriggled her hips anxiously. Solly's hand fell again, then, rhythmically, he began to spank both trembling cheeks in turn, pausing between each slap to watch the slow blush spread in vibrant tints of crimson across the underside of her buttocks.

Kitty complained with little gasps as the smart made itself felt, and her bottom cheeks began to twitch prettily in anticipation of each successive spank. Solly played with her, timing the slaps to catch her unprepared, spanking as she relaxed, stroking soothingly as her buttocks huddled together after each smack.

'Mr Gold-Goldberg – Oooch! it... it's hurting, Mr Gold – Oow!'

'Is it darling?'

He spanked again, hard enough to elicit a tiny yelp, and a quick, tormented wriggle from her bottom.

'Ooooh – n-no, please!'

'Now, now Kitty. If you're going to do all the naughty things you do...' He slapped again, making her bottom bounce cheekily, and her thighs squirmed tantalisingly across his lap, '...you've got to expect to get your bottom smacked, now haven't you, eh?'

'Oh! But I'm – OOW! – I'm not really n-naughty –' SWHAT!

Gradually but inevitably, Kitty began to cry, her weeping punctuated by pathetic, whimpering protests, and interspersed with sharp and desperate yelps as Solly's hand punished her writhing, reddened bottom with a series of stinging slaps, which had her defenceless cheeks quivering helplessly and her bare thighs scissoring energetically to and fro.

Slowly the rhythm of the spanking slackened, Solly slapping with just enough regularity to keep the smart hotly alive in her bottom, and his hand began to wander back between her thighs, teasing with insistently stroking fingers until the trembling of her bottom eased in intensity and the fresh, crimson glow pleaded for another good hard smack to re-energise the tantalising squirm of her hips. Her crying slowly subsided into a gasping, sobbing blubber, and, despite the occasional visitation of a loud and stinging spank, Kitty began to spread her thighs more eagerly, the pink and secret folds of her pussy pleading mutely for the exciting insolence of Solly's tormenting fingers. He teased her with alternating bouts of pain and pleasure, until she was gasping more for the caress of his fingertips than for cessation of her punishment.

At last, with Kitty pleading for it audibly and unmistakably, Solly swivelled around on the bed and rolled her over onto her back on the rough blankets.

He screwed her slowly and methodically, shoving her bit by bit up the slope into a vast and tumultuous climax. Kitty shrieking her ecstasy with utter abandonment into the echoing hollowness of the cellar.

Eventually, and very gingerly, Kitty slid out from under Solly and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at him with her big wide eyes, but said nothing. He could tell little from her expression. He waited, judging patience to be the best course of inaction.

When at last she broke the silence, Kitty's voice was still no more than a whisper. 'I didn't know I'd have to pay in advance,' she said, and smiled childishly.

'You know me,' said Solly, relieved that she seemed cheerful enough about it. 'Cash, in advance. That's the way to do business.'

Kitty looked dubiously at him. 'But how do I know you'll keep your part of the bargain?' she said. She stood up and retrieved her knickers from where they'd fallen on the floor.

'I will,' said Solly. You needn't worry about that.'

Kitty slipped into her knickers and stooped to pick up the thermos flask. The brilliant spank marks glowed hotly where her knickers didn't quite cover her bottom.

She poured out some tea and offered a cup to Solly. He sat up on the edge of the bed and drank it. Kitty made no move to get dressed, just stood half naked, sipping from her cup. She looked very thoughtful. Solly decided that she'd come out with it all in good time.

'Will I always be smacked?' she asked at length.

'Only when you've been naughty,' said Solly.

'And how will you know?'

'I won't. Not unless it's me who –'

Kitty smiled, making it unnecessary for Solly to finish.

'But that's not a problem,' he continued. 'I'll just kind of average it out.' He grinned up at her. 'About twice a week ought to be roughly right, oughtn't it?'

Kitty moved seductively, teasing him again. 'Yes, that's about right.' She couldn't resist what she thought of as a compliment, never mind that she was letting herself in for a couple of spankings a week. 'But anyway, that's not really what I meant. I meant, will you always just spank me, like you did tonight.' She turned away slightly, the cheeks of her bottom wobbling faintly under the knickers. 'Or will it be something else?'

Solly couldn't quite figure that out.

'How d'you mean?' he said.

'Well, mum uses a belt on me,' she said rather ruefully. He tried to follow her train of thought.

'I know,' said Solly.

'Well,' continued Kitty. 'I just wondered, that's all. I thought you might want to strap me too, you see.'

Solly studied her pretty face, wondering where this was leading. 'Would you want me to as well?' he asked gently.

She seemed to consider her words carefully as she answered, though there was no trace of embarrassment. 'I might,' she said at length.

Distantly, carrying down into the cellar, came the sound of the all-clear, disturbing the intimacy of the atmosphere between them. Kitty seemed to pull herself together. She dressed, saying no more. Solly followed her up the cellar steps and switched out the light.

Back in his flat, Solly took stock. It all seemed to have worked pretty well. The remembered picture of Kitty's red and wriggling bottom kept him company as he went to bed. He took a book with him, not feeling ready for sleep yet. Downstairs he heard the telephone ringing.

It was some five minutes later that the tentative knock sounded at his door. It had to be Kitty: there was no one else home. He opened the door, finding her wearing only a nightdress and a nervous smile. She stumbled over her words as she apologised for disturbing him.

'That's alright,' said Solly. 'Want to come in?'

'Yes, please.' She followed him with anxious eyes as he led the way into his flat. He closed the door and turned to face her.

'Won't your mum be home soon?' he asked.

'No, that was her on the telephone. There's some unexploded bombs along Mile End Road. She's going to stay at her sister's instead of trying to get home.'

'I see. Well then...' he looked at her inquiringly '...you're welcome, of course.'

Nervously, from behind her back, she produced a slim, springy-looking cane. 'I – I couldn't find mum's strap,' she said. 'Will this do? It's a cane,' she explained, unnecessarily. 'One dad bought before the Army sent him away. It's n-never been used.'

Solly took the cane. It felt almost alive in his hand.

'D' you mean –?' He stopped, confused.

'Yes. Please. Will – will it hurt very much?'

Solly swished the cane through the air. It sang airily. Kitty almost jumped at the sound.

'I dare say it would smart a bit,' he said. He swished it again. The idea began to appeal.

Kitty backed away slightly, her hands behind her. 'An-and will it leave m-marks?'

'Marks?'

'On my bum. Will it make marks?'

'It could do.' Solly ran the smooth, silky cane through his fingers. 'It could leave marks that'd stay for a week, I should think, if I gave you a proper caning.' He studied her worried face closely. He spoke gently. 'Is that what you want, a good whacking?'

Kitty's bottom lip was trembling. She bit it impulsively. 'I – I think so,' she said, very quietly.

'You think so?'

'I – I mean, yes. Please.'

'Well –' Solly studied her face again, and realised that she was serious, though apparently frightened to death of the idea at the same time. Her motivation quite eluded him for the moment, but he did the sensible thing and decided that she'd probably come out with it when she was ready to. Meanwhile here, before his very eyes, was the delectable Kitty asking for it, and quite literally. The least he could do was give it to her.

His voice a blend of authority and coaxing, he said: 'You'd better come through to the bedroom then.' He indicated the door and ushered her towards it with a gesture of his hand.

Unsure of herself, her big eyes looking suddenly lost and rather desperate, Kitty preceded him into the bedroom, though not without a fearful backward glance as she went.

The nightdress looked to be of satin, and the bedside lamp illuminated Kitty's slim figure from within the room and shadowed the outline of her body on the shiny material. It occurred to Solly to wonder where she could have got it from. Charitably he put it down as being a pre-war frivolity.

Kitty stopped by the bed. Solly closed the bedroom door and then laid the cane across the foot or the bed. Kitty eyed it nervously, her hand fidgeting with the folds of her nightie. So distressed did she seem that Solly had to ask her, to be certain. 'Kitty, are you sure you know what you're doing?'

She bit her lip again. 'Y-yes. I mean, I think so.'

He gave her a moment to change her mind, then, his voice soothing, he said: 'Slip your nightie up then. Up to your waist.'

Her eyes on his, she did as he said, the sheer satin rippling in folds as she raised it slowly up the front of her thighs. The soft curls of her pubis gleamed enticingly in the lamplight.

'Now, across the bed.'

Kitty turned and prostrated the upper half of her body on the candlewick bedspread, her knees bending, her toes ruffling the pile of the carpet, the nightdress covering most of her bottom still. Solly slid a hand up her thigh and slipped the satin up to her waist. Her freshly punished bottom still glowed with a hot tenderness; the reddened cheeks blotched with a crimson blush, the soreness more evident under the plumpness along the lower line of her cheeks.

"How m-many?' Her voice trembled as she asked, making her sound childish and quite helpless.

Solly stroked the warmth of each buttock in turn, and patted, making them wobble faintly.

'A dozen, I should think.' He had no idea why it ought to be a dozen.

'Could – couldn't you make it less? Please?'

Of course he could. 'No,' he said. 'I think a dozen will be about right.'

Kitty sounded desperate. 'But – my bottom's already s-sore. Ever so sore, Mr Goldberg. I'm sure –'

'A dozen,' said Solly, more firmly.

Kitty's protest tailed off. She seemed to sigh softly, then she buried her face in the bedclothes and lay quietly, her saucy bottom smooth and inviting the caress of the cane.

He picked up the cane and stood to one side of her.

'Straighten your legs, there's a good girl.'

Kitty did so obediently, her thighs becoming firm and her toes digging into the carpet. Solly brought his arm down sharply, the supple cane splatting with a flat, smacking sound across the curve of both cheeks at once.

Kitty jerked, seemed to hover tremulously on the brink of rebellion for an instant, then, her hips rolling slowly to one side, she let her breath escape in a soft, sighing rush. Her knees sagged, almost touching the floor.

'Legs straight!' demanded Solly.

Kitty thrust her legs out instantly, the authority in his voice unexpected and frightening.

He gave her another stroke, a little harder, a little lower down, catching her squarely across the soreness at the bottom of her cheeks.

'Oow!' Kitty yelped in anguish. Her hands clutched frantically at her naked bum and she jerked her head up, staring at him with wild eyes.

Neatly avoiding her hands, he cracked another stinging stroke across the very tops of her thighs, a fraction of an inch below the faint crease that delineated the lower extremities of her buttocks.

Kitty yelled again, her bottom squirming away from the threat of the next stroke. She gasped frenziedly.

'Oh no, no! Please no!'

Solly thwacked the next one squarely across her quivering cheeks again. She jolted upright, her knees on the floor and her hands clutching pathetically at her smarting bum. Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she pleaded with Solly not to give her any more. Desperately she pleaded, and resolutely Solly ignored her. Patiently he coaxed and cajoled her back across the bed, made her slide the nightie back up to her waist, and pedantically insisted on straight legs and an obediently elevated bottom. The two nervous and huddling cheeks displayed their weals and Kitty sobbed quietly into the bedspread.

With painful slowness Kitty got the rest of her caning. Solly readjusting her after every stroke and, having persuaded her back into position, waiting until both flinching buttocks were kept satisfactorily still before administering the next stinging whack. Kitty wept piteously throughout, and skittered away violently each time the cane landed, only to be ordered back into position ready for the next one. By the time the twelfth stroke had landed Kitty was sobbing helplessly, her sobs interspersed by quiet, despairing whimpers, her whipped bottom quivering as she struggled not to leap to her feet and flee from the stinging cane.

Her caning over at last, Solly lifted her gently to her knees and then helped her onto the bed. She lay on her tummy and cried for a while, and then managed to compose herself sufficiently to dry her eyes. She even squeezed out a wan smile as she looked up into Solly's concerned face.

'I'm alright now,' she said. 'Sorry I made so much fuss.'

Solly brushed a last tear away from her cheek. She seemed almost to be apologising for her brashness in having asked him to cane her. He could detect no trace of resentment in her eyes or in her faintly rueful expression. All in all he was thoroughly confused. He couldn't understand the meaning of it all. This caning, a whipping she had apparently been determined that he should give her, and then her pleas for it to stop when it had only just started. Understandable, especially as she'd said she'd never been caned before, and yet when he'd persisted, giving her the round dozen slowly and methodically, desperate though she'd been in her anguish, him thinking that he understood her, she had clung on to her self-control long enough to take what he'd given her. Yet at any point she could have clambered to her feet and stopped her torment in a moment. So perhaps he did understand her after all.

And earlier, down in the cellar, when she'd asked if he might not always spank her, implying that she might prefer to be strapped – that surely must have had the same meaning. That she wanted him to punish her, but had been too ashamed or too shy or too innocent to say so. So that was it.

Solly gently pushed a stray lock of hair back off her face and looked and wondered. He thought he could see the logic of it now, though logic wasn't a word one would normally use in the same breath as one might say her name. She wasn't a logical person, more a creature of emotion, driven to do whatever she did by way of indulging the appetite of the moment. So now, at last, he felt sure he understood.

He smiled down at her on the bed, his smile edged with a certain assurance, now that he thought he knew.

Kitty pouted and dabbed gingerly at her uncovered bottom. He tickled her under her chin and drew a smile from her.

'You staying?' he asked.

Kitty looked dubious for a moment. She seemed not to have thought of it until that moment. Then she nodded, slowly. Solly could almost hear the gearwheels humming in her brain.

'But my bum's very sore,' she said quietly. 'I don't think we'll be able to – well, you know. I mean, I think I'll have to lay on my tummy –'

That hadn't been what he'd meant. The girl seemed determined to misunderstand him tonight. Her mind seemed to insist on interpreting everything he said in terms of sex. Still, never one to ignore a bargain. Solly rubbed some cold cream into her hot little bottom and then with a calm and self-satisfied smugness made love to her while she lay on her tummy and gasped and squirmed her frantic way to her second climax of the evening.

Afterwards, while she cuddled up to him in bed, they lay and listened to the sound of aeroplanes until the night sky was quiet once more.

Sleepily she stirred against him, her smooth, soft thigh slipping silkily against his.

'Mr Goldberg?' she said drowsily.

'Yes.'

'Mr Goldberg – you will keep our bargain, won't you?'

He grinned in the darkness. 'Yes, of course I will, why, didn't you think I would?'

'I didn't know. I kind of did and I kind of didn't. But I know you will now.'

'Of course.' Solly thought about that for a moment. "Er – how do you know, now?'

"Cos you'll have to, see.'

'Oh? Why?'

'Cos now you've given me the cane, well – if Mum got to see my bum – the cane marks I mean – well, then I'd have to tell her how they got there. See?'

'But – you asked me to do it. How would you explain that to your mother?'

Kitty snuggled more comfortably against Solly's warm chest. She spoke sleepily.

'Well, you know me, Mr Goldberg. As you said, I'm a naughty girl.' She cuddled an arm around his neck, her breasts soft against his arm. 'And naughty girls sometimes tell fibs, don't they?' A moment later she was asleep.

And now, at last, he did understand. The caning had been Kitty's insurance policy. He found himself smiling again at the illogicality of it. As if he'd have welshed on the deal she'd talked herself into anyway. For a blossoming little sex-pot she seemed to understand precious little about men. And the really amusing part was that it wouldn't matter a damn if she did show her poor whipped little bottom to her mum, because that had been part of the other bargain.

There were a few things that Kitty didn't know. She didn't know, for instance, that her mum had never actually been married to her dad, and neither did she know that in a month or so, after Solly had sold the business, they were all going to move down to a cottage in Wales – he, Kitty and her mum. They'd have the wedding just before they moved. That was one part of the arrangement. The other was that once Solly was legally part of the family he should do something about taking young Kitty in hand. Her mother wasn't so stupid that she didn't know what her little girl was getting up to behind her back with the servicemen home on leave, and she admitted that the girl needed a man's hand to steer her in the right direction. So the cane marks on Kitty's cute little bum were only a straw in the wind, she'd be getting plenty more if she didn't mend her ways.

Solly wondered what Mum would think if she knew the whole story. It didn't take long to work it out. Mum probably wouldn't let it worry her, Solly knew that she was only really marrying him for his money, and if she had to turn a blind eye occasionally then the price wouldn't be too high.

He stared up at the ceiling and worked it out, bit by bit. And then he started to smile. Kitty wasn't seventeen yet. As his stepdaughter she'd be under his jurisdiction at least until she was twenty-one. Kitty was going to get to know that cane very intimately indeed.

And then Solly began to laugh aloud. Because after all, the poor girl wasn't even going to get the clothes she so desperately wanted. In six weeks he'd have sold the shop. He'd be in the tailoring business no more.

Kitty stirred beside him in her sleep. She turned over, and her soft, hot bum cheeks brushed against his leg. Her future stepfather patted her paternally on the bottom, and then himself went serenely to sleep.