Gentlemen At Pleasure

Story from Blushes 21.

Gentlemen At Pleasure

'It was on the train down to Truro, a lovely run as you know on a nice day and this was a real beauty, blue skies all the way. Anyway as it happened I was travelling second class, don't know why, I rarely do, but if I hadn't...'

'George!' said Max sharply. George stopped, eyes querying.

'You're going on a bit, George. Could you come to the point?'

'Sorry,' said George who knew he did go on a bit at times. 'Well, it was the girl of course.'

At the word 'girl' the others immediately gave their full attention, because girls were a major interest of this little group assembled. An all-consuming, all-embracing interest it would not be too much to say. Young and softly nubile ones. Budding. George notwithstanding his rambling conversational manner was very much a member of the group with the same interests. So if he mentioned a girl...

The committee of the Guardians' Club, although this was not a proper committee meeting, just an informal gathering, at Max's place in a leafy and salubrious part of Sussex. No, not a committee meeting and not a girl in sight. There were a couple on the premises somewhere though. A Jane and was it a Samantha? Brought along by Alec and Algernon, but for general, er, consumption.

'Let's hear about the girl, George. Forget the incidentals,' said Algy.

'Oh really scrumptious. Absolutely mouth-watering. Blonde curls and a really divine sort of pouting mouth. Lips like ripe strawberries.' George could be lyrical as well as long winded. 'Just a little on the plump side I would say but that's how I like 'em. Oh yes, a real stunner.'

'On the train?' asked Max. 'By herself?' Oh yes indeed, George had their attention now.

'With this chap. Quite a pleasant fellow, very keen on stamps. He was telling me about his...' George stopped, aware of glaring eyes. 'Sorry. Yes, well, this chap. He had charge of her but the thing was he didn't seem at all keen on this. Quite remarkable when you consider what she was like. It seemed she belonged to a cousin or something and they had gone off to Australia or somewhere and so this chap had been left with her. Annabel her name was. And he wasn't keen. Having trouble with discipline, keeping control, that sort of thing. When as I gathered what he really wanted to do was get on with his stamps.'

George stopped for a breather. It was a remarkable tale and there was no doubt of their rapt attention. 'You should have got his name, George. We could have helped that chap.'

George smiled; the smug smile of a man who has a bombshell to deliver. A bombshell but a very pleasant one.

'I've got more than that,' he announced with a smirk of triumph. 'I've got the girl. Annabel. We can have her.'

A bombshell indeed. A moment's shocked silence, moments more of silent wonderment.

'George old boy,' breathed Algy finally. 'You really are quite a fellow you know.'

A little giggle from Alec. 'Have her? In the biblical sense maybe? Or is it old English?' Alec had not actually read the Holy Book recently.

'Why not!' enthused the hero of the hour. 'I mean that's all part of a girl's growing-up process, isn't it? And she's that age all right. Sixteen, just turned.'

'Do you know that, George?'

'Yes he told me. "Now she's 16 she's worse than ever. Thinks she's grown up." The young madam sitting next to him gave me a really delicious pout. It was all I could do to stop myself grabbing her and grabbing her knickers down there and then.'

'To smack her bottom,' said Max.

'Well yes. Or... well anything.'

'Is she, I wonder...?' mused Max. 'I mean this chap, could he have... er... sampled? Or anyone else? Do you suppose?'

'George doesn't know that,' said Algy firmly. 'I mean there's a limit to what you can find out on a train to Truro. Not unless you can take her into the loo or something and you can't do that when she's with this chap. We'll find that out soon enough. But George: when? And where? Because I for one can hardly wait.'

George said, 'He wouldn't have, not this chap. It's only stamps with him from what I could see.' And then he told them what he'd arranged with the chap on the Truro train. At some length and with George's usual asides and interpolations. But in the context the others were prepared to let him have more latitude than usual.

George's sister's place, not too far from Truro. For one thing this chap who had Annabel, lived in that general area, over the border in Devon, and there was also George's sister. Miss Emily Maidment. Who until not too long ago had been Deputy Mistress at quite a good girls' public school and although you might not necessarily think it to look at her Emily Maidment could be awfully hard on a teenage girl. Harder indeed than many men might wish to be.

It had been Alec's idea. 'If we let George's sister loose on her and tell Emily she's got a completely free rein, she can cane this Annabel just as hard as she likes... well, a day or two of that and the young person will be desperate to agree to anything.'

It certainly seemed an excellent scheme – although George himself had reservations about telling Emily she could cane 'just as hard as she likes', thinking as he was of Annabel's prettily pouting mouth and knowing what his sister was capable of. Max wanted to know exactly what Alec meant by 'agree to anything.' Alec of course had earlier that summer spent a fortnight in France, a small and select establishment in Normandy, and had subsequently spoken in awed terms of the amazingly knowing and willing 16 year old daughter of that household. Alec grinned at Max without answering.

* * *

George had the honour of fetching the young lady. The other three were naturally on tenterhooks. George's sister had professed unhappiness at her role and had tried to appear indignant: being used to break in an innocent young girl for four unscrupulous rogues who really should know better – and having her house used for this purpose into the bargain. But she had agreed to it without too much need of persuasion and they had not much doubt that in reality the idea appealed to her. For would not Emily herself be getting very much into the act?

Yes Max and Alec and Algy were on tenterhooks all right. George was quite a long time although he had warned them that he might be, it was after all a longish drive and this chap might keep him a while chatting or might even force George to admire his stamps. And if the chap was giving you his girl, or loaning her to you, clearly you had to show a bit of courtesy. Yes. But there was inevitably the thought that George might take advantage of the situation and go in for a spot of dalliance, of stopping by the wayside, in some leafy woods of similar pleasant venue and indulge in a spot of unscheduled preliminary handling, viewing. George had stoutly denied any such intentions but one could see that nonetheless George would be subject to very great temptation. That was why they had suggested that someone might go with George but he had vigorously refused the offer.

There were unfortunately no other girls in residence at George's sister's. Partly out of respect for Emily they had thought it proper not to bring any others along and also of course to be able to concentrate their whole attentions on this new Annabel. So there was quite a bit of sitting down and standing up again and walking to and fro and muttering about old George.

But eventually mid afternoon, here it was, George's Rover crunching up the driveway. A bit of a stampede for the front door. Yes here was George and here also this Annabel. A rush to open the car door – and not the one on George's side. Oh yes indeed. George had not exaggerated. She was exactly as he had painted, a truly delicious specimen of budding girlhood, attired in a smart school uniform. White shirt, red tie, plum-coloured jersey, a grey pleated skirt. The plum jersey showing the most darling bumps at the front and she did have the most gorgeous pouting crushed-strawberry lips.

Helped out of the car, with a no doubt innocent show of thigh, Annabel looked from one to the other. Had she been informed she would be staying with four gentlemen? Three in addition to this one, Uncle George as he was to be called, who had met them a week ago on the train and who had now driven her here. Who had also...

George seemed a bit pink in the face. 'A lot of traffic,' he observed. 'And of course one can't rush away from a fellow. I mean not just a quick in-and-out.'

They looked at George and then at Annabel. Could it possibly be what was known as a Freudian slip? George saw the ambiguity of his remark. 'I mean a fellow's house, you can't just go in and then come out again.'

'Oh quite,' said Max. Anyway there was no point worrying about Freudian slips, George was here and more to the point so was Annabel. The cynosure of all eyes, all thoughts.

She gave a shy smile and nodded that yes she had had a nice trip. The big blue eyes quite made your knees tremble. They showed no flicker at the fact that Uncle George hadn't quite told the truth. They had stopped, but Uncle George had said it would be their little secret, his and hers, and they would not tell the others. Uncle George hadn't stayed very long at all at her other uncle's, like he had said, and he had stopped on the way. In those woods.

He simply hadn't been able to resist if George had really meant to come straight back but... it was rather like a boy left alone in a sweet shop and promising not to touch anything. Sooner or later there is nothing for it, he has to stick his finger in. The sweet jar. And so... 'Better have a rest,' George had said. 'Very tiring, business driving.'

A nice peaceful spot in some woods, a nice sunny clearing and with that sun shining down George had thought it the most natural, sensible thing to suggest that Annabel do a bit of sunbathing. The big blue eyes had looked, questioning... and then she had obediently taken things off. Jersey and skirt. Shoes and socks. Tie and shirt. Quite devastating, almost impossibly so. George had felt quite faint for a moment. A thin tight white sleeveless vest with clearly nothing underneath except Annabel herself, and down below equally thin and tight white knickers. Oh yes, George had been quite overcome as he made her lie back on the car rug. The way the skin-tight knickers enclosed the young lady's person, especially that part of her person at the confluence of her thighs... George had not been able to take his eyes off it. You could see just about everything, at least in outline and then being so... well why not? Take them off,' he had said. 'Let the sun get properly at you. And the vest...'

Oh no George had certainly not told the whole and absolute truth to his fellow Clubmates. But then as they say all's fair in love and war and matters regarding delicious young girls.

'Where's Emily?' Max now inquired, eyeing the delicious morsel somewhat hungrily. George was getting her bag out of the boot, relieved that Annabel had not blurted anything out. You could never really tell with young persons, they were not always completely reliable. 'She's got to meet Emily,' added Max, looking around.

She had indeed. It was Emily who was going to cane the daylights out of Annabel, so that she would come pleading for help and sanctuary. Which, at a price, they would provide. 'Emily!' called George. 'We've arrived you know.'

Shortly that good lady appeared, smiling and welcoming. Not at all a frightening prospect, for Emily Maidment could be most charming when she felt so inclined. But on the other hand... She took Annabel's arm and led her in. Upstairs to show her her cosy room and then down again. 'We'll have some tea now, I expect you're feeling thirsty. Some nice home-made cake? And then of course we've got to get down to business.'

Business. Had the young lady been appraised of that aspect of her visit? It rather seemed not. Her uncle had been preoccupied, as usual, with his stamps and Uncle George, well, Uncle George had been preoccupied with other things. Both en route and on the car rug in the woods. So it did come as something of a shock when after tea Emily – Miss Maidment to Annabel – appeared in her academic gown and in her hand a long and lissom cane. A sight that had struck terror into many a one such as Annabel at that well-known school whose name is perhaps best not repeated here.

Annabel, fortified with cake and lemonade, looked with alarmed eyes. What was going on here? Emily Maidment's voice when she spoke was scarcely recognisable as that of the friendly hostess at the tea table.

'Right, young lady, let's have some action, shall we? A little dose of what you've apparently been needing for some time.'

No, Annabel could not believe her eyes – or her ears. 'What... what?'

'My name is Miss Maidment, Annabel. Kindly use it when you address me.'

To stress this point the cane whipped in and sliced across Annabel's calf. Sock-encased but nonetheless a telling stroke. A shocked and outraged yelp. Annabel did a little hopping dance.

'Get your knickers off, Annabel. Pull your skirt up and then get up on that stool. And do it immediately or I shall get one of the gentlemen to take your knickers off for you.'

They were none of them far away as this drama began to unfold in the old panelled hall. Keeping a distance, letting Emily take control but certainly not far away. Watching, listening, intently.

'Ple...please,' protested the exquisite young thing. 'I haven't done anything.'

'You have done a considerable amount, you defiant, unruly creature. Your uncle has listed a whole catalogue of offences and is at his wits end with you. Well I, young lady, am certainly not at my wits. Oh dear me no. Now get those knickers off!'

Annabel looked desperately round, for Uncle George chiefly who when he had wanted something earlier had been so nice and friendly. George, though, had slunk away and was not now immediately in evidence. He was not far away, he certainly wanted to see Emily cane Annabel's bare bottom but he did not want to be the object of her pleading – when she might get the idea of threatening disclosure. Annabel could see Max though. 'Please!' she cried in that direction. For to be ordered to take her knickers off. To get the cane.... was just about the most sick-making thing.

'I'm sorry but Miss Maidment is in charge here, my dear. She had great experience in girls schools so I think we can safely leave matters in her hands.'

'Off!' barked Emily once more.

Awfully reluctant hands went up under the skirt. 'Right off!!' commanded that authoritarian voice.

'And now lift your skirt right up. I have some pins here.'

Oh dear, could this be possible? Annabel's knickers were off and her skirt was being pinned high up above her waist.

Oh my, oh my! Four pairs of hot male eyes absolutely feasting. Hands had come across in front to protect her privacy but undue modesty was surely not called for at this juncture.

'Take those hands away; place them on your head,' ordered Emily who in spite of what she had said was not a spoil sport.

Oh dear, oh dear! Just look. At that. Face red and hands on blonde head now but it was not the prettily blushing face they were all gazing at. George of course not for the first time but that had been more than an hour ago and he was as eager as the rest.

Just look! You could actually see... well, in girls that age of course you not infrequently could. The central fisure peeping in its bushy grove. They looked... and looked.

'Turn round,' commanded Emily when she felt they'd spent enough time looking at that. Turn and get up on the stool.'

Was this any better Annabel's front view not now on show but of course her bottom was. Her bare bottom and all those men... Not to mention the fact that the stool hurt her legs.

'Just stay there like that and don't move. Think of the error of your ways, my girl. I shall be back in 10 minutes and if I find you have moved an inch I shall cane you three time as hard.'

Emily strode up the broad staircase. Max quickly signalled the others over, out of earshot of the kneeling girl. 'Right, let's get this organised. George, you go and tell Emily to make that 20 minutes. That'll give us five minutes each. Five minutes of, er, friendly private chat with the girl, get her settled down etc before Emily starts on her. Ok? The rest of us go into the drawing room. I'll keep time. OK? Who's first then?'

Alec went first. What a supreme delight! A consoling, reassuring chat with the young person who is kneeling bare-bottomed on the stool with her hands on her head and who knows she's about to be caned – in this case for the very first time. Naturally when a fellow is having this chat his hand will be doing its bit to reassure that part of her that is about to be dealt with. And what a part this Annabel has! She is a little plump perhaps as George has observed, just a little. Especially this darling bottom. Firmly resilient. Trembling slightly as you handle it. As you give each cheek a little jiggle.

'Is she going to hurt me?' whispered Annabel, that thought pressing even more heavily on her mind than what Alec's hand was doing. 'I'm rather afraid she is.' Alec experienced a sharp thrill of pleasure – and dug two fingers in between the tops of Annabel's thighs.

She gave a high-pitched squeak. At the prospect, of the fingers.

Twenty minutes of this and Annabel was already in something of a state. Because in fact rather than reassuring her they had made matters worse. The consoling hands at her bottom – not to mention elsewhere – had got her all hot and bothered. She was feeling almost sick with fright when once again there was the sound of Emily's firm tread on the oak stairs.

'Right, young lady. Had a good think about your behaviour, have you?'

It was all too much. Annabel began weeping.

'Get down off there now. Stand facing the wall with your legs astride the stool. Keep your hands on your head.'

'No!' the desperate young thing blurted. 'I can't... you.... can't... Aaaoooouuhh!'

The cane without warning had sizzled in across that darling bum. Oh God! She stumbled down, almost falling, her legs stiff and clumsy. Struggling astride the stool. A really awful position to be in when you had no knickers on and your skirt was all pinned up. The four men, the four Guardians, all out in the hall now. Hovering, eager-eyed, just out of range of Emily's cane arc. Almost unable to contain themselves.

Emily gave them a quick look. A schoolmistressy look which possibly spoke of overgrown schoolboys. And then was turning her attention to the quivering Annabel.

Crack!...

'Aaaaaiieeeeee!'

Sharp intakes of breath from the watchers. Emily could really lay it on. It fairly made one wince. Poor Annabel clearly in a frantic state, her mind, her stricken bum, seemingly unable to comprehend what had happened. The bum dancing and clenching, with a nice red stripe coming up.

'Keep still, Annabel!' Emily's voice sharply cutting through the tense still air.

Crackk!...

'Aaaaaaaeeeeeoooowwww!'

* * *

'Oh dear me. It quite made a chap shudder. That Emily!' Max's voice contained both awe and admiration; also the clear feeling that he himself would not have wanted to be in young Annabel's position. He took a sip of his g-and-t.

There were the three of them in the drawing room: Max and Alec and Algernon. Emily was busy in the kitchen or somewhere. George? George was with Annabel. Up in her room, that is. As regards anything else one would have to be a fly on the wall or something. George had insisted that it was his right to be first and in spite of being a long-winded blatherer George could be insistent. The others had wanted to draw lots.

'That George,' said Alec with a shake of his head. 'And he was an awful long time getting her here. When I go up I'm going to have a jolly good talk to her about that.'

'Doesn't make much odds now, old boy,' said Max. 'Although of course I should like to know.' He raised his gaze to the ceiling. 'I wonder exactly what he's at right now? With the state she was in after old Emily had done with her you could imagine she'd be pretty, uh, complaisant. Hmmm. And there's old George getting first bite at the cherry. So to speak.'

Max looked at his watch. The other three of them had drawn lots and Max had won so he was next. They had agreed on an hour each this first day. George had had 35 minutes now.

Alec grinned. 'He might be telling her a nice bedtime story.'

They all laughed. Somewhat frustrated laughs though. It was frustrating sitting there waiting. But still, you know it would be worth it.

A Fireside Chat

Story from Blushes 06.

A Fireside Chat

Three ducks in echelon angle their stiff-winged flight up a chimney breast; a silver framed photograph looks blankly and obliquely across a small suburban sitting room; a television newscaster delivers his uninspiring account of the days happenings – silently, because the sound knob on the television has been turned down – and he smiles a half-convincing goodnight into two million homes. Ignored by these silent witnesses, a frantically sobbing girl blubbers pathetic pleas for "n-n-no more, please – please, Uncle – ooogh!"


In a fender-guarded hearth, a knight in brazen armour watches po-faced and clutches his fire-tending implements, unmoved by the tearful girl's plight as she tosses her head back an instant after a solid-sounding slap rings loud in the curtained room. Blonde hair dashes across flaming cheeks which have been heated as much by breathlessness and humiliation as by proximity to the hearth and its glowing coals; "I don't think you've had quite enough yet!"

The final word coincides with another firm slap and the girl snatches forward across her guardian's lap – whom she calls "uncle" because he prefers her to – impelled by the sudden thrusting of her toes against the floor.

Halfway down the girl's scissoring thighs, a pair of navy school knickers cling to her legs. Rucking and then stretching as she kicks in near panic; "I'll decide" – Another stinging spank, "– when this naughty little bottom's –" another one, just as hard – "had what it needs!"

The girl's flinching, jerking bumcheeks shiver from the impact of what might be their eightieth or ninetieth smack; twenty or more bum-reddening spanks later those crimson blotched buttocks are squirming uncontrollably and her sobs and pleadings have become squeals of helpless anguish; "Get up!"

A knee thuds on the floor; black school shoes scuff their toes against the carpet and groping fingers clutch at the drooping navy knickers. The girl kneels between her uncle's knees with tears rolling down her cheeks; her buttocks still quiver as she drags her pants up, hoping against hope that a spanking is all the punishment she's to be given this evening. Her uncle still holds her green tartan skirt up to her waist; his words dash that forlorn hope;

"Leave them where they are, Rachel!"

"Oooo!" the knickers 'sloosh' down her legs again. Practised fingers slip the fastening on the skirt's waistband and it unfolds from around her hips. Pale maiden-hair catches the light; Rachel squeezes her plump, damask-skinned thighs together and licks unconsciously at her lips. "Come on then!"

"Please –" a sharp and unexpected slap stings the side of her leg. "Ooow!" The naked buttocks tweak together then bob apart; slender, fumbling fingers yank at a blouse button whilst other hands loosen the tie at her neck. The knot is pulled loose even as Rachel is tugging at the next button up. The narrow end of the tie flicks her cheek as the knot comes undone; the tie 'whisks' from under her collar and another slap whacks against the same thigh.

Rachel tugs at the third button while a small pot of enormous significance is taken down from the mantel-piece.

The third button comes undone and instantly the one next above it pulls out from its buttonhole too. With a robust bounce Rachel's tits spring into view as the "helping hands" wangle the last button free. "Knickers right down!"

The girl pushes her pants down to knee level and they rest their thick navy folds across her calves. The blouse is yanked up over her head, her hands having to go with it, trapped by the still-fastened cuff buttons. "Stupid!"

One button is unfastened but the other doesn't survive the impatience of Rachel's uncle's fiddling; it drops unheeded to the carpet and the girl's hands float up towards her head, which is where hands have to be when they are not to be allowed to interfere with further proceedings. "Turn around!"

"Please – please!" But she turns, stumping round on her knees, catching another bum-jiggling smack on her left cheek as she comes sideways on. "Over –".

"Please –!" with her knees close together, Rachel bends forward until her elbows are touching the floor; her hands are still on her head, her tender-looking bottom sticks up helplessly. But not enough – "Come on Rachel – do it properly!"

She hollows her back; her spanked bottom tautens into a tighter bent-over curve and juts up under his very nose. Rachel's tears dampened cheeks flame with the natural result of this last humiliation. Fingers press sideways at her inside thighs; she swallows a nervous gulp and inches her knees as far apart as they will go, her knickers stretching taut between her legs. The faintly heard sound of the top being unscrewed from the pot makes the girl gulp again: "Oh please – please don't –!"

Her eyes widen suddenly; she breaths in at the touch of the expected yet still startling chill; "Ooooh-no-no-no!" Then again; she screws up her eyes and gasps. When she opens them again her cheeks are blushing almost as vibrantly crimson as is her still-smarting bottom. "Turn around!"

She straightens up from the floor and bumps around on her knees, her hands still on her head, her breasts wobbling as she turns, their nipples stiffening all at once without apparent reason. He is crinkling a plastic-enveloped packet.

"Open". She puts out her tongue for the small, insignificant seeming pill; the taste of the jelly is still on his fingers. She crunches the pill between her teeth and pulls a wry face at the tang which it and the jelly leave in her mouth.

"You're supposed to swallow it, not bite it." The packet rustles again. "You'd better have another one". For once he is patient; she's still learning.

She opens her mouth again and gulps and swallows until he's sure it's gone down. "Right, you can get up."

Rachel gets to her feet, inelegantly; her knickers slip slowly down her calves. Every stitch of clothing she has on is now at ankle level or lower; knickers, socks, shoes. He holds out his hand for her knickers, not needing to tell her. She lifts one foot then the other; the pants catch for an instant on the buckle of her shoe before she can surrender them. "Upstairs, my girl! End of your bed, pillows under your tummy, face down. Shoo!"

Rachel "shoos", her bum wagging behind her, buttocks hot and bothered-looking. She looks back nervously from the doorway and then scampers upstairs.

By the time she is settling herself across the end of her high-standing bed, Rachel's cheeks are wet again with fresh tears. She stuffs the pillows tightly under her tummy and stretches her legs apart until she can feel either edge of the rug at the bottom of her bed under the toe of each shoe. Footsteps sound on the stairs. She spreads her feet wider until the muscles in her thighs and calves are taut. She hollows her back and tilts her bottom up so that she'll be as humiliatingly positioned as possible when he comes through the door ready to be given the rest of her "punishment" without further fuss. Against all the omens she hopes that he'll do no more than make her disgrace herself on the tips of his tantalising fingers; the facts are, though, that since her sixteenth birthday these "end of the bed" punishments have been somewhat stiffer. Rachel crosses her fingers when she'd much rather be allowed to cross her legs and holds her breath in case that was the sound of an unzipping fly –

Crisis

Story from Roue 05.

Crisis

The bedroom was dark, the only light coming through the gap in the door where Debbie had left it ajar on her way downstairs. Jenny lay in her bed, the blankets up over her face so that only her eyes and the top of her head showed, and listened to the distant and repetitive sound of a palm smacking rythmically against what was undoubtedly Debbie's bottom. The regular smacks ceased, and Jenny caught the sound of her sister's voice raised in tearful protest. There were some bumping sounds, and then the smacking started again, the noise somehow different. Sharper. More painful sounding. Debbie's muffled sobs confirmed the analysis.

The bumping would have been Debbie having to kneel up on the chair, having first dragged it to the middle of the room. The crisper sound of the smacks would be the strap, whacking across Debbie's helpless bum. The sobbing was self-explanatory. It really was a dismal thing to have to listen to.

The more so because Jenny was only too well aware that for her it was only an overture. Debbie was getting it now, and by the sound of it she was getting a really good whacking, but Jenny's sympathy for her sister was tempered by the inescapable fact that when the sounds of Debbie's spanking eventually stopped, then it would be her turn.

Jenny snuggled miserably down under the bedclothes. She listened intently, her hands tucking involuntarily between her legs, feeling at the same time the warmth of her body and the pathetically insubstantial material of which her pyjamas were made, a thin mixture of cotton and some man-made stuff. She couldn't help stroking a hand experimentaly around the curve of her bottom as she lay half on her side. She could almost feel the texture of her skin. It reminded her unavoidably of how much she'd feel the strap when it cracked across her bottom. She shivered, and not from cold, and strained her ears to catch any clue which might filter up from the lounge below.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realised that the monotonous rythm of the strap across Debbie's bum had ceased. She heard the lounge door, and the sound of Debbie's crying drifted mournfully up the stairs.

'Jenny?'

That was Aunt Harriet calling from the foot of the staircase. Aunt Harriet called again impatiently. With the utmost reluctance, and forgetting her slippers, Jenny slid out from under the bedclothes and padded apprehensively down the stairs.

Aunt Harriet was standing in front of the crackling fire, her face turned towards the television set which squatted atop a cabinet in one corner of the room. Aunt Mary was clicking away at her knitting and Uncle Tom was pretending to be interested in the television news. Something about a crisis in Suez. Debbie's bare bum looked hot and tender, the same bare and punished bum which Uncle Tom was pretending not to be interested in while the wretched girl gasped strangled sobs and wobbled uncomfortably as she knelt on her hard wooden chair. Her pyjama trousers were bunched around her knees and her bare thighs glowed here and there with a warm crimson hue. The strap was lying across the arm of Aunt Harriet's favorite armchair. Jenny felt herself atremble with panicky anticipation.

Aunt Harriet's cool eyes flicked towards Jenny, who was still hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

'Well shut the door then girl!' she said brusquely, and then she turned her attention back to the television. Apparently as an afterthought she added, 'And get your pyjama pants down!'

Aunt Mary seemed not to have heard, while Uncle Tom made a quiet sighing sound which was a little difficult to interpret. Only Jenny heard it, standing as she was a mere twelve inches from her adopted uncle's elbow. Her tummy twisting into knots, Jenny pushed the door closed and then darted an apprehensive look at her aunt, who didn't seem to be taking notice any more. And then, as she knew she'd have to, she risked a glance at Uncle Tom.

A tiny, friendly smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Her loins seemed to have become liquid and she found that she couldn't look away. The smile made her more certain than ever that he knew about her secret excitement every time she was punished in front of him.

'It's the Prime Minister,' piped up Aunt Mary.

Uncle Tom allowed his attention to be drawn to the flickering grey image on the screen. Her insides a confusion of emotions, panic and the odd thrill that Uncle Tom was there to see her get her bottom tanned again, Jenny hooked her thumb under the elastic waistband of her pyjamas and inched them down. The air on her belly and her bottom felt slightly chill as the pants slipped lower to a point midway down her thighs. She dared not look, but she knew Uncle Tom's eyes were on her.

She let her pants go and straightened up. Her pyjamas slithered to the floor and she hid her flourishing little muff of curly hair behind her hands. Mr. Eden, on the television, seemed not to have noticed, possibly because what he was saying about the business in Suez was rather important. Certainly it held the attention of Aunt Mary and Aunt Harriet. Uncle Tom seemed less absorbed. His hand nudged against Jenny's bare thigh, and then his fingers stroked gently and teasingly up the back of her leg.

'They're sending the troops in then,' said Aunt Harriet to no one in particular, and Uncle Tom's hand disappeared as if by magic.

'Oo-oer,' said Aunt Mary, and clicked her needles vigorously.

A moment or two later Uncle Tom's hand brushed Jenny's thigh again, then tapped insistently. Jenny tried to read the shapes of the words his lips were silently forming, darting quick, fearful glances at Aunt Harriet every few seconds. She couldn't understand what he wanted to say, but his bright eyes on her modestly covering hands and his furtive sideways nods helped her to guess. The thrill of her vulnerability flickered tantalisingly in her tummy as she hesitantly, almost submissively, unfolded her shielding hands and put them behind her back.

Mr. Eden faded from the screen. Aunt Harriet brought her attention back to the matter in hand and Debbie's weeping subsided to a few sniffles every now and then.

'Right! You –' Debbie's tender bottom bounced to the 'Smack!' of a smarting spank, '– get yourself out to the kitchen and put the kettle on.'

Debbie squealed in a rather muted way and scrambled down off her chair. She scurried out of the door, dragging her pants up as she went.

'And you –' Aunt Harriet's finger beckoned, '– across the back of this chair!'

Jenny stooped to retrieve her pyjama pants and she hoisted them up enough to allow her to walk. She shuffled to the chair and stood behind it, about to bend over its high back.

'Kneel up on it stupid!'

'Ooh – s-sorry.'

Her knees felt uncomfortable on the hard wooden seat, and her bum felt very naked and defenceless as she leaned forward over the chair-back and grasped the legs. She seemed to be very precariously balanced, as though any sudden move would have her toppling over. She looked sideways out of the corner of her eye and found Uncle Tom's gaze resting eagerly on her bare, elevated bottom.

The strap dangled impatiently in her aunt's hand while the girl arranged herself, then –

'Now then, keep still –'

Thwack!!

The leather snapped stingingly around the curve of Jenny's young bottom and then snaked sinuously back ready for the next stroke. Jenny bit her lip and screwed up her eyes as the sting spread across her bum.

Whack!!

'Oooh – oow – !!'

Crack!!

'Oooooow –'

She couldn't help it. The stifled cries sneaked between her lips and her bum-cheeks trembled as she tried ever so hard not to wriggle her hips. 'Keep still' meant just that – or else!

Thwack!!

Jenny felt the sobs come bubbling up in her throat.

'Ooooh – ooh – hoo – !'

Whack!

'Oooooo – ooogh!'

'D'you think this will fit, dear?'

'Pardon?' said Uncle Tom, attention elsewhere.

'Debbie. Do you think this jumper will fit her?' repeated Aunt Mary.

Whack!!

'OOOW – OOO!'

'I should think, so,' said Aunt Harriet.

Smack!

'OOH – OOO – HOOOO!'

It was quite ridiculous, and so off-hand that it was utterly humiliating for the wriggling girl up on the chair.

The next stroke hissed smartly across the backs of her bare thighs.

'AHHH – AAA –'

Aunt Mary held up the half-knitted jumper and Aunt Harriet took it, considered it, and pulled a wry face.

'Could be wrong though,' she said, and held it up a little higher.

'I suppose we ought to try it up against her and see.' said Aunt Mary.

'I suppose so,' said Aunt Harriet, and promptly took herself and Aunt Mary out to the kitchen to accost Debbie with the unfinished birthday present.

Jenny was left to weep her tears, still poised over the chair-back, and the tears rolling heavily down her flushed cheeks blinded her to the fact that her uncle had left his chair. Warm, soothing fingers comforting her stinging bottom took Jenny completely unawares.

'There, there –'

The smarting sensation in her bum fused suddenly with that same, yearning feeling which she'd had in her tummy before. The hands grew bolder, more intimate, brushing gently between her legs teasingly. Jenny gasped great gulps of air between her sobs and found herself squirming back onto the insulting fingers. The thrill in her loins bubbled closer and closer to that magic sensation which she had hitherto only known snugly tucked up alone in her warm bed – the thing that happened when she thought of Uncle Tom's eyes on her the last time she'd been punished in front of him – while her own guilty fingers had tormented her to that beautiful, heavenly release.

'Never mind Jenny,' coaxed a faraway voice, 'When you come to stay with us, I'll never smack your bottom without making it really nice afterwards – alright?'

'P-pardon? S-stay with – ?'

'Us. Me and Aunt Mary. Next week, and until Aunt Harriet gets back from Canada next year.'

'I-I didn't know she was going –'

The touch lingered, teased, and suddenly it happened. She almost collapsed with the frantic pleasure of her coming. And then Uncle Tom was back in his chair, Aunt Harriet was saying, 'Keep your behind up child!' and the strap was flicking waspishly across her well-strapped bottom again and again.

Jenny wriggled and blubbered obligingly – not that she could help it anyway – and yet all at once it actually seemed bearable. When at last the two tender-bottomed girls were sent scampering upstairs to bed, to Jenny the future, like their two punished bums, seemed rosy indeed.

Uncle Arthur

Story from Whispers 06.

Uncle Arthur

Her mother said she was to call him Uncle Arthur, Mr Dibley sounded much too formal. Linda didn't see why: he was Mr Dibley and he wasn't her uncle, he was their lodger. Her mother said, 'Try not to be so awkward, Linda; Arthur is very much one of the family now.' Linda made a face, but didn't answer.

Mr Dibley, Uncle Arthur, was OK, pleasant enough, friendly. Maybe too friendly, maybe that was why deep down Linda didn't like him. He had a way of slapping her bottom in a 'friendly' manner. Linda didn't appreciate her bottom being slapped but it was difficult to say much without seeming silly. Her mother of course had got very keen on Uncle Arthur Dibley.

Linda's father had disappeared long past: Australia the last time they had heard anything but that was years ago. Mrs Chapman had been taking in a lodger for some time but had had unfortunate experiences. Mostly gentlemen who were hard up and couldn't pay, or making an awful mess in the house. Arthur Dibley was not like that at all. He seemed to have plenty of money for one thing, he was very neat and tidy, and also charming and attentive to Linda's mother. Ideal, Mrs Chapman thought and told all her friends that. Within a few weeks they were on first name terms: Arthur and Monica. Arthur Dibley of course was some years older than Linda's mother: he could be 60, Linda thought, whereas she knew her mother was 39. But still...

It was just about a week after they began using Arthur and Monica that Linda's mother came up with that Uncle Arthur business. Linda just couldn't bring herself to say it. That night when he said 'Goodnight Lin,' she said 'Goodnight' but followed it with a mumbled sound which if you were hard of hearing just might be taken for 'Uncle Arthur.'

He got to his feet and said, 'Come and give Uncle Arthur a goodnight kiss then.' Linda flushed. She had never kissed him before just as she had not called him Uncle Arthur, but she could hardly say No she didn't want to. She went reluctantly over. He put his arms round her, pulling her close, and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek.

Then he said, 'Let's hear you say it properly, Linda.' She had to say it. 'Goodnight Uncle Arthur.' 'That's better,' he smiled, and one of those big hands came down and squeezed a cheek of her bum through her thin skirt. Her mother must have seen if she wasn't too intent on the TV because Linda's back was facing her, but she didn't say anything. Uncle Arthur chuckled and gave her bum one of those slaps he was so fond of.

The whole thing made her go hot and cold all over. Five minutes later up in her room Linda was still trembling. That wet kiss on her cheek but even more having her whole body, her tits, her tummy, pressed hard up against him like that; and his hand squeezing her bottom, jiggling it. She shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling that Mr Dibley — Uncle Arthur — had done something to her. It wasn't anything, she told herself, a kiss and a hand jokingly on her bum; forget it. But she couldn't.

The next night was the same. She had to kiss Uncle Arthur goodnight and he got those arms round her again, like an octopus. Hands feeling her trim shape and then one down onto the riper swell of her 17 year old bottom. When he had finished she was gasping. Uncle Arthur gave his low chuckle. 'Not shy, is she?' he said to Linda's mother. 'I bet she's not shy with that boy: Stanley, is it?'

Monica Chapman kept one eye on the TV screen. 'Oh take no notice, she has her funny moments.'

Uncle Arthur chuckled again and his hand came out — to smack that seemingly irresistable rear. Linda felt a flush of anger at his referenced to her boyfriend. What was that to do with Mr Dibley? Her mother must have said something to him and that was a bloody cheek; but when she mentioned it the next morning she was told not to be so sensitive. 'I really don't know what you've got against Uncle Arthur, Linda.'

The real bombshell came on Friday afternoon, two days later. It was right after school, just her mother home with Uncle Arthur still out. 'Wonderful news', Mrs Chapman said, her face flushed with excitement. 'Uncle Arthur is going to be your guardian. And he's going to put a substantial sum of money in the bank for you in trust. Aren't you a lucky girl!'

Linda was speechless — but after a bit did manage to find some words. What did being a guardian mean anyway? 'Being responsible for you,' her mother told her. 'Like a proper uncle, or a father.'

'I don't want him as an uncle or a father,' Linda said hotly. 'I don't!' Her mother told her not to be so stupid. Arthur Dibley was very well off and didn't she realise how lucky she was that he'd taken an interest in her? Other girls would jump at such a thing.

'Well I don't want it!' Linda flared, for some reason close to tears. Monica Chapman went red in the face. 'Linda, he's putting £1,000 in the bank for you,' she hissed.

When Arthur Dibley got back he had a bottle of champagne and was all smiles. 'How about a kiss for your new guardian!' She tried to squirm away but couldn't. There was that hand having a quick grope at her bottom again. She said she didn't want any champagne.

Uncle Arthur's eyes hardened. 'I think you and I should have a little chat, Linda; especially now I'm responsible for you. In some ways you've got a bit out of hand.' Her mother joined in. 'She has. She needs a firm hand but I just haven't had the time.'

After they'd had the champagne, Linda reluctantly taking a sip, Mr Dibley said he thought he and Linda should have that chat. 'Come on, my girl. Up to your room.'

It was the first time he'd been in there — unless he'd been nosing around when she was out. It was a real invasion of her privacy and she felt hot and angry. He sat heavily down on her bed. 'Now Miss, we're going to have some discipline from now on. One thing is that boy Stanley: you're seeing too much of him. A girl your age should be at her studies not gallivanting out.'

'You can't stop me!' she blurted out defiantly.

Perhaps Uncle Arthur had been hoping for that show of defiance. He got up and grabbed her, pulling her slim but firmly-breasted body close against him. His hand was immediately at her bottom through the school skirt. His voice was excited.

'If you can't obey, Linda, I shall have to warm this bottom up. Take your knickers down and give it a good tanning. That's what you've been missing.'

She struggled and squealed. It was obvious that that was what he had been wanting to do all along. She yelped out, perhaps ill-advisedly, 'You wouldn't dare!'

Uncle Arthur might be 60 or so and look fat but he was also stronger than she was. He got a grip round her waist holding her two arms in with one hand and the other... It was reaching up under her skirt. Groping up the backs of her thighs... And then on her bum in just the tight white knickers. 'No' she squealed but she was helpless to stop him. After groping about at her knickered seat his hand went further up, onto her hip. He was grabbing her knickers down, first one side and then the other.

She let out a high-pitched desperate squeal, loud enough to be heard downstairs. Monica Chapman's eyes widened, her lips pursed... and then she gave her concentration back to the TV screen. Linda had been getting out of her hand. Upstairs Linda's knickers, despite her struggles, were down round her thighs... Arthur Dibley's hand was hungrily roaming.

'Just you be warned, my girl. Or I'll make this bum so hot you won't want to sit on it for a week.'

He grabbed her skirt up round her waist at the back and then still holding her close against him delivered a few sharp smacks to the bared cheeks.

Then he let go of her. Linda thought she was going to collapse in a heap on the floor she was so devastated. Somehow her legs continued to support her. With tears blinding her eyes she grabbed at her lowered knickers.

Uncle Arthur went out. She flung herself down on her bed and began sobbing. It was impossible to believe what had happened. That man had had his hand on her bare bottom. Groping it. Spanking.

The next day as it happened was the school dance and naturally she was going with Stanley. That certainly had always been her plan and Uncle Arthur couldn't stop her. That was what she said to her mother in the morning, when he was out. 'He can't stop me.' Mrs Chapman shrugged her shoulders. 'He's your guardian now, Linda, and so you would be sensible to listen to him. Anyway you have been seeing too much of Stanley.'

'I am going,' Linda insisted, half afraid the tears would start again at any moment. She hadn't mentioned what had happened last night up in her room, it was almost too dreadful even to think about. Perhaps it had been a nightmare...

Uncle Arthur in fact was out when it was time to get ready and maybe she could sneak back in without him knowing. He might still be out if she didn't stay late because Uncle Arthur had a club he went to on Saturday evenings. But she was going, Linda told herself. For one thing there was her super white silk dress that she had only worn once before.

She put on white stockings and the new suspender belt she had got. Also her best, rather sexy, white French knickers. The dress had very narrow straps at the shoulders and that other time she had worn it she had a bra on but the straps had shown. She decided not to wear a bra. She slipped on her white high-heeled courts. In her full-length bedroom mirror the outfit looked really super. For the moment she could forget the horrors of Uncle Arthur. She put on some of her scent and a little pink lipstick. She went to get her coat. Then there was the sound of someone coming in downstairs.

Like a brick hitting her Linda realised it was Uncle Arthur. Through the half open door she could hear he was talking with her mother... And then he was coming heavily up the stairs. In a blind panic she looked round but there was nowhere to go. Suddenly he was there, in her room, seeming about eight foot tall and three foot wide. A gleam in his eye, his large face pink, with excitement. He closed the door behind him.

'Well, well, young lady. We are' all done up and looking tasty. Like a proper little trollop in fact.' He came close. 'And what's this?' His eyes had caught the fact that she had no bra on. 'What is this?'

His hands came up and grabbed the slim straps and pulled them down over her shoulders. Linda's pert tits were suddenly nude, but only for two seconds as Uncle Arthur's hands took hold of them.

'Got them all ready for that young Stanley to play with, have we?'

The room began to go round and round as his hands squeezed her bare tits. The nightmare was back, worse than ever.

He let go of her. Shaking, beginning to cry, she pulled the straps back up. Uncle Arthur had gone to fetch a chair which he placed close in front of her and sat down on. His face now red rather than pink, he said quietly, 'Take your knickers down, my girl. If you've got any on that is. I imagine you were planning to take them down for that boy.'


She stood immobile, stunned by what he had just done. 'Take them down, Lin. Or I shall do it for you.'

Her hands went up under the brief silk dress. Her brain wasn't really functioning but somehow her hands knew what they had to do. The sexy knickers came down. 'Now lift your skirt. Let's see you.'

Again her hands knew they had to obey the hard, firm voice and her brain too, though it desperately wanted to go away and hide somewhere, it too knew there was no choice. He was her guardian. Forms had been signed which said he was in charge of her. He could discipline her if he wished. He could do it how he wished.

'Higher. Get it right up.'


Blinking away the tears she held it high. Uncle Arthur's eyes greedily on her brown bush framed by the white satin suspender belt. She stared straight ahead, trying to blot out what he was seeing. There was a creak as he moved the chair forward slightly. When he spoke his voice was thick, intense.

'Girls your age, Linda, need protecting from themselves. Otherwise they get into all sorts of trouble. That's why I'm going to give you a good spanking now, to bring you to your senses. Turn round and get over the bed. Part your legs.'


She was bent over with her forearms on the bed and her bottom up over the end and her legs wide apart. Uncle Arthur still sitting on the chair but close up, virtually between her legs. He said afterwards when he pulled her up and held her close, as she shook and sobbed with the shock and shame, not to mention the stinging pain in her spanked bottom, he said he had done it in that way, in that position, so that it would shock her. Get some sense into her head. And he would use that same position in any further spankings he had to give her.

'She does need a firm hand,' Monica Chapman said in a low voice. It was 11 o'clock that same night and Arthur Dibley as had become his custom in the last week or so had crept silently into Monica Chapman's room and then into her bed. He grunted assent as he got on top of her. He might be 60ish but he was still an active, vigorous man. Tonight he was even more vigorous than usual. Monica Chapman could guess why, but still, Linda did need a firm hand.

The Cellar

Story from old Blushes.

The Cellar


When the telephone in the study upstairs had rung, it could hardly have done so at a worse moment — that is, from young Bab's admittedly self-centred point of view. Those particular bits of 'self' around which her perception of sensation had been obliged to revolve for the best part of the last twenty minutes were those that she would have much preferred to have kept tucked demurely away inside her knickers, except that the said knickers had been demoted — by 'Uncle' Basil — from their duty as preservers of a girl's modesty, and when the phone rang were serving instead as a half-mast token of surrender a little above the level of Bab's knees.

Basil had excused himself from the proceedings down in the cellar with no more ceremony than a patronising pat to the girl's hot and bothered bottom, and she had been abandoned, panting frantically on the very brink of one of those embarrassing happenings that Basil called 'being a good girl', which could hardly be sillier really, because they only happened when she was brought down here for being a bad girl.

Now, several minutes after Uncle Basil disappeared up the rickety stairs, Babs snuffles miserably and brushes a tear from her cheek. Her shoes and socks apart, and discounting her knickers which are contributing nothing to the maintenance of her modesty in their forlorn station just above her knees, Babs is quite naked. Her vest lies rumpled on a spindly-legged chair together with her blouse. Her tie is draped over the chair back and her skirt is upstairs somewhere, probably on the study floor. Her cheeks are flushed and her lip pouts unhappily, as though the renewed onset of weeping is but a smart slap or two away.

The certain knowledge that the requisite slaps will most certainly be forthcoming just as soon as Uncle Basil returns makes her bottom tremble faintly at irregular intervals, and the equally unavoidable certainty that he will insist on beginning again, coaxing, teasing and spanking her by turns until she humiliates herself by doing what she was on the very verge of doing when the phone rang despite the smart in her bum; or perhaps even partly because of it — she really doesn't know — makes her knees go to jelly and her pouty bottom lip pushes out yet more disconsolately.

Upstairs, Basil is writing a name into his diary — "Ann — oh, Anne with an 'e'? Fine, at eight o'clock? OK. Thanks Reggie. And I'll come along to you afterwards — for a drink — alright? Good." He chuckles conspiratorially "And I'll give Babs your regards. I dare say she'll remember you." His chuckle becomes a smile as he listens briefly. "Yes — you interrupted me, as a matter of fact." He laughs again, "Such are the perks of guardianship." An eyebrow raises whimsically. "Hmm? Well, what about next weekend? I'll be gone all day Sunday — Babs will be here, of course. OK, Sunday it is. Speak to you about it later. 'Bye."

Downstairs, Babs hears a 'clump-thud-bump' as Basil leaves the study which has her thighs pressing uneasily against each other, squeezing and relaxing by turns for several moments in unintentional imitation of the little semi-static dance she was performing a few minutes earlier to Uncle Basil's expert coaxing. Bab's bum-cheeks tweak together as her uncle's footsteps approach the door to the cellar, and then they soften reluctantly as the sound passes like summer thunder into the distance. Each firm, full buttock is warmly crimsoned around the sitting down bits, and finger-shaped blotches extend round her flanks and down the upper parts of her legs almost to the level of her pulled-down pants. Overlaying this tender-looking redness are perhaps eight or nine roughly parallel marks which clearly do not result from the same application of palm to bottom that produced the generally well-punished look of the girl's unfortunate bum. A cane has visited these youthful cheeks, and very recently.

Renewed clumping from above prompts a sudden straightening of the girl's posture, bottom pushing out saucily behind and impudent breasts bouncing just the once as she pulls herself up to her full height.


She looks up and over her shoulder and catches sight of a pair of brown brogue shoes on the upper stair, hears the click of the latch and the well-oiled side of a bolt. She stoops and picks up two weighty books, which she has to do with both hands together. Balancing the one on top of the other, she lifts them in front of her face and places them on top of her head. Trembling, she slides the books forward and back until she finds the point at which they will sit in equilibrium. Basil's footsteps approach and stop directly at her back.

"Well now, we'll just have to start again, won't we, eh?"

His hand pat-pats up under her buttocks. They jiggle a little, each cheek in its turn, and the books try to slip sideways. Babs reaches up with both hands — the books are too thick to be held together by the span of one of her small hands; she has to hold each separately lest they should slide apart and fall. Uncle Basil seats himself on a stool at her side, his knees either side of her legs, her bottom convenient to his right hand and the warm, smooth downward sweep of her belly convenient to his left. Upon her head, Pilgrim's Progress, topped by an unabridged edition of Crime and Punishment, occupy both her hands still, which is, after all, the books' sole purpose. Hands which are kept busy above head-height cannot interfere with other hands as they spank and stroke and smack and coax and slap and slip between nervous thighs.

"Uncle Reggie sends his regards by the way," observes Basil, nudging the girl forward a fraction to get her in exactly the right position.

"Oooh — oh dear," says Babs warily as she shuffles the required half inch.

"Yes. He was wondering whether you might be in need of another lesson."

"Oooh. Urn — I-I don't really th-think —"

A loud, echoing report as Basil's hand cracks across Bab's nervous bum-cheeks cuts short whatever it is the girl is trying to say. She squirms her bottom desperately, feeling the heat of her earlier punishment returning instantly.

"I told him you were. Euclid has never been your strong point, and Reggie knows an awful lot about that sort of thing, you know."

"Oooo —" Babs remembers her last geometry lesson only too well, although she might have been forgiven for thinking it was actually more to do with anatomy.

"He's coming on Sunday."

"Oh — but — but —"

Basil smacks the impudent cheeks casually but firmly.

"Come along, Babs. Stick it out. That's it my pet."

A solid spank makes Babs start so that Pilgrim's Progress slithers dangerously backwards and Babs squeals as the tenderness in her bottom is re-kindled in earnest.

A second meaty slap sees tears starting from under her eye-lashes. She wriggles her hips and swerves a little aside and Crime and Punishment tilts perilously as Babs reaches down to give her bum, a frantic, illicit rub, and suddenly the book topples from her head and thuds to the floor.

Her startled gasp and wide-eyed look make this minor piece of clumsiness seem a desperate misfortune. Pilgrim's Progress is caught only just in time, but already the damage has been done.

"Oh no — no, please —"

But Uncle Basil is not listening. Leaning forward from his stool he can reach the slender, crook-handled cane on a hook screwed to a timber upright. The tip of the cane shivers in anticipation as it is drawn back and held bottom-high, threateing the girl's flinching cheeks. Babs looks behind and knows that there is no way out of the mandatory three stinging strokes for dropping a book, but she blabs out her gasping, tearful pleas any way. Basil listens until she subsides into hopeless silence, then the cane swishes round. Babs jerk her hips forward, pubic swell thrusting onto Basil's waiting hand. Two more strokes arrive with hardly two seconds between them, and suddenly Babs is blubbering in earnest, snatching and clutching with her one free hand at the fresh weals already swelling around the undercurves of her buttocks.


Basil lets her calm herself, which takes several minutes, then he picks up the dropped book and offers it to her. Babs takes it tearfully and balances it again on top of her head. She holds the volumes with both hands, shuffles unwillingly back to her place between Basil's knees, and eases the contact of thigh against thigh so that Basil's eager digits can take up where they left off: she wants only to get it over with now, and with the slow, rhythmic application of Basil's right hand to her quivering bottom to help her along Babs eventually begins to shudder a little every now and then as she pushes forward onto Basil's busy fingers. Quickly now that she is on the way, her reluctance becomes co-operation, her to and fro-ing seems to be less a response to the continuing spanks than to the insistance of Basil's expert coaxing. Whimperingly she obliges at last, eyes tightly shut, knees bending, fingers loosing their grip on the books wobbling dangerously on her head. Pilgrim's Progress hits the chair and bounces to the floor.

Allowed to slip off the hook now that she has been a 'good girl' as required, Babs slowly collects her wits and keeps her face averted from Basil's smug expression, hands wandering automatically back to their place upon the crown of her head despite the absence of Pilgrim. She edges sideways as Basil gets to his feet but keeps her bottom pushing out obediently behind her, keeps her legs together and her back hollowed, and hears the faint, tinny sound of silver foil being torn apart. Warm hands pilot her to a position directly in front of the stool, and nudge her forward until her thighs are touching the cool wood. A gentle shove in the small of her back is the signal to lay her tummy across the seat. She holds onto the stool's legs with both hands and spreads her feet apart.

Basil's fingertips, slipped under her loins and lifting slightly, hint that she should be paying attention. Babs elevates her hips a little and for the umpteenth time begins to count the weeks 'till her eighteenth birthday. It seems a long way off.

Taking Her Medicine

Story from Blushes Supplement 24.

Taking Her Medicine


It was a large and luxurious hotel, living up to its name: The Grand. But then money was no real object for Mr Bellish, he could well afford to indulge himself. Having no money problems of course may not be everything — a man in that position can easily become bored with life without the central interest that making money provides for the rest of us. But George Bellish was fortunately not in that situation. He had his young companion. Joanna. His niece as he sometimes referred to her. 'Mr Bellish and niece,' he said at the lobby. 'We have two adjoining rooms booked.'

He might call her his niece and Joanna, at 19, was young enough to be that but she was not any blood relation. She was more or less his ward one could say though not strictly legally that either. But certainly George Bellish felt all the responsibility of a guardian: not onerous but a serious matter. Especially in these days when one can see all around the results of modern, less structured life. A complete abrogation of responsibility in other words, no sense of purpose, or discipline. This was the last thing he wanted to see in his Joanna. Mr Bellish guarded constantly against it. At his home in Wiltshire and also when, as now, they were on a short holiday. One had perhaps to be even more careful on holiday when the regime he had ordained at home could easily be replaced by the sybarytic cosseting of hotel staff.

But on the other hand the different, more cosmopolitan surroundings of a well-appointed hotel did offer extra opportunities for shall we say testing of his very attractive young companion.

'This seems pleasant enough,' he observed when the bellboy had disappeared after showing them their quarters: two pleasantly furnished rooms facing the sea on the second floor, with bathrooms en suite and of course the interconnecting door.

'Yes, Uncle George.' Joanna delicately testing her double bed with her most attractive bottom. She was a very attractive girl all over, from the top of her head of thick ash-blonde hair cut medium short to the tips of her toes, at present in white high-heeled courts. The distance between these two ends was some 5' 6" in her stockinged feet. They were — the stockings — just that. Mr Hellish abhorred the abominable tights which for some years had been almost ubiquitous. Even if stockings had not made something of a come-back he would certainly have had Joanna in them, with a nice suspender belt. That or simply bare-legged. The 5' 6" was composed of all the usual bits and pieces that 19 year old girls have except that with Joanna one could say they were Jaguar components rather than run-of-the-mill Ford. A pert-nosed, full-lipped face; and the rest slim but nonetheless well-rounded wherever it should be. As was of course especially evident when Joanna had no clothes on.

Perhaps George Bellish had this in mind, to be refreshed by this sight after the mildly tiring drive down. 'I should take a shower,' he observed. Meaning, as his young companion knew, Joanna rather than himself. She smiled and stood up. 'Yes. Should I unpack first perhaps?'

Mr Bellish didn't feel there was need for unpacking at this moment. No. He wanted to see Joanna. In the shower and out. Before and after. And not only see her. There was something else. One needed to get into a routine right away in strange surroundings.

Joanna, standing, was already unfastening, unbuttoning. Obediently. 'And perhaps we can walk on the front afterwards. Before dinner.' Her big blue eyes with a shine to them. Excitement. And also apprehension. A girl may in a way be used to something but that does not mean... that it doesn't cause... a little shiver. The thought. Because taking her clothes off... usually means.

Discipline for one thing. A disciplinary session. The sight of Joanna unclothed seemed to send Mr Bellish — Uncle George — reaching for... his cane. Or a similar item. Joanna tried not to look at Mr Bellish who had sat down in the armchair and was undoubtedly looking at her. As blouse and skirt came off. And the rest: slip and bra and knickers. Suspender belt and stockings last of all. Sometimes he would make her keep them on. While he went to get the cane. Her peripheral vision said that Uncle George was getting up. Coming towards...

Standing with her knickers in her hand and the stockings still on. Mr Bellish patting her bare bottom. 'Not putting on any little extra ounces, are we, Joanna dear?' His hand smacked: a meaty splat. 'Second helpings of pudding perhaps?'

Joanna said a sharp 'No!' Her weight was a constant nine stone, give or take a few ounces.

The hand splatted again, causing a heavy judder of the undeniably firm flesh. George Bellish didn't really think there was any extra weight on this splendid shape but it paid to keep a girl on her toes. His other hand came up and rubbed across Joanna's pert breasts, taking in the soft pink nipples. Her breath hissed out in a sibilant. 'Ooooh.'

'I don't know, Joanna. I don't know. I wonder if you are putting on just a little. And with rich hotel food... Should we perhaps have you on a diet whilst you're here? Bread and water. And some nice big spoonfulls of healthy cod-liver oil for vitamins!

'No! Please...' she squealed. The trouble with Uncle George was that you never knew when he was joking or not. The most outrageously awful things could turn out to be for real. Like the first time he said she was going to get the cane across her bare bottom. He couldn't mean that. So she had thought.

'We'll see,' Mr Bellish said. He rubbed her nipples again. They were firmer now, beginning to stick out. 'Actually I rather like the idea of cod-liver oil. It is good for you. Perhaps we could get someone to bring some up...'

'No...ooo...' she breathed. But Mr Bellish had that look in his eye. He gave the pretty tits a final fondle — Joanna's nipples were right up now — and slapped her bottom. 'Get your stockings off and have your shower.' He was sitting down. Picking up the phone.

'Nooo... oooo...'

'Get in the shower, Joanna!'

Joanna obeyed. Shoes and stockings and suspender belt off and walking with that lovely sway of her bare bottom to the bathroom. Behind her Mr Bellish was talking to the desk. She tried to close her ears. But he was asking...

* * *

A polite knock at the door. 'Noooo....' Joanna breathed again. 'I'll be sick,' she had said a few minutes earlier. 'No you won't be sick,' was the answer. 'I'll hold your nose. A person can't be sick if someone is holding their nose.'

Joanna was in her dressing gown: sea-green silk, knee length and fastened with a sash. Nothing underneath. She had had her shower and she hadn't been caned. Because Mr Hellish had got this other diabolical idea. Cod-liver oil.

It was a waiter. In a short white jacket; middle-aged, sort of Italian looking. And carrying... a bottle... and a big metal spoon. Mr Hellish let him in and closed the door. Began explaining. Joanna tried not to listen but of course she was listening.

'My niece may have some trouble taking it. So... if I hold her while you...'

The waiter was going to give it to her. He was grinning, and nodding. Joanna felt herself sweating, her face scarlet. She shook her head. 'No. I... can do it.' Although she doubted if she could actually take a spoonful of that awful stuff. But anyway Mr Bellish didn't want that. He was going to hold her, he repeated.

'Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there.' It was happening. Mr Bellish behind her pushing Joanna's hands down into the hip-high pockets of the dressing gown. The sash almost immediately came loose, undone, and the dressing gown slid apart. 'No!' she squealed seeing the gown opening, but it was quite possible that Mr Bellish wanted it to happen. He was in that mood. Making her show her tits to the waiter while he fed her this awful stuff. She tried to close her arms together, in the pockets. Mr Bellish grabbed them. Pulled her arms — and the gown — apart. Her tits... and everything else. Her pussy. The waiter's eyes were almost coming out of his head. Mr Bellish let go of her arms and grabbed Joanna's head. Her nose... and her mouth. Forcing it open. 'Come one,' he rasped to the waiter. 'Two good spoonfuls.'

It made her gag. The dreadful oily fishy sensation filling her mouth. She spluttered... but Mr Bellish held Joanna's head back with a firm grip on her nose and forced open her mouth. She had no option but to swallow. There was no thought now for the fact that her gown was gaping wide, exposing her tits, her pussy, to the eager-eyed waiter. 'And another one,' dear Uncle George said.

The big brimming spoon came up again. Tipping into Joanna's open mouth. Some of it was spat out, onto the waiter's nice white jacket, but most of it had to go down. Uncle George let go of her. Joanna grabbed at her mouth. She was gasping, tears in her eyes. A strangled cry and then a stumbling, half-blind dash to the bathroom, the dressing gown trailing out behind her.

'You really didn't take that very well, Joanna. A rather indisciplined performance. Do you agree with that?'

Joanna swallowed and bit her lip. They were in the dining room. A table for two over in the corner with a view out onto the front. Mr Bellish had ordered. Joanna had half expected he might continue what he had started with the castor-oil. Order bread and water for her, to continue her humiliation. To make her cringe as she sat here. It was the same waiter, the one a little while ago in the room oblingingly spooning that gagging stuff between her lips. But Mr Bellish hadn't done that; he had let her choose.

'Don't you agree, Joanna?'

'I couldn't... help it. I just couldn't.' She could still feel it in her mouth. 'I was going to be sick.'

'But you should have done better. It's no answer to say you couldn't help it. It is simply weakness, isn't it?'

Joanna mumbled something. But there was no point in showing dissent; that would simply make it worse.

'I think we're going to need a little taste of the cane, my dear.'

Joanna rolled her big blue eyes. But it was no more or less than she could have expected. Mr Bellish — Uncle George — had caned and strapped her for less than this. At times for nothing at all. She squirmed her bottom on the chair.

'And I'm going to ask the waiter to do it.'

Joanna blinked. She wanted to scream out. That Uncle George just couldn't humiliate her in that way. But screaming in public, in a hotel dining room, would be a terrible offence. Her cheeks had gone bright red. A hissed, whispered, 'Please...'

Mr Bellish said, 'I shall ask him to take your knickers down and make sure you really feel it. Right after dinner I think.'

The waiter was coming over with the soup. Joanna fixed her eyes on the patch of dazzling white table cloth immediately in front of her. Seconds later the soup plate was placed there. That hand holding it had spooned caster-oil into her mouth... and was now going to be wielding Uncle George's cane. Because he meant it, it wasn't a joke. Uncle George was in one of those awful moods when he would do impossibly awful things to her. Things that were done in the name of discipline. He meant it. He was saying it to the waiter.

'After dinner if you're free I'd like you to come up to the room again.'

Joanna glanced up, face scarlet. Her eyes met the waiter's. He smiled. He was no doubt remembering her bare tits and pussy, and the strangled cries she made as that stuff was poured between her forced-open lips. And he was no doubt wondering if there was going to be something else like that.

* * *

Mr Bellish didn't beat about the bush. As soon as the man was in the room he told him. 'I want you to cane my niece for me. She did not behave at all well earlier. All that struggling and spluttering. Getting it on your jacket in fact. She needs a caning. And I don't really like caning her myself.'

That wasn't true; Mr Bellish was quite happy caning her and he did it often enough. He simply wanted the extra humiliation of her being caned by the waiter. 'Can you do that?' Mr Bellish asked.

The waiter looked confused but as the meaning sunk in his expression changed to one of excitement — as well it might. 'Yes. Of course.' He had a slight Italian accent. He was wearing an informal sweater now, not the white jacket. 'Yes. Of course,' he repeated looking hotly at Joanna.

She was wearing the same dress as in the dining room: form-fitting pale green jersey-knit material. But Mr Bellish had made her take off the slip and bra she had had underneath. Now Joanna had only a brief pair of bikini knickers under the dress. Their outline showed through; as did the outline of her bare nipples.

'I want her to really feel it. Can you cane her really hard?' Uncle George's voice was dispassionate, as if he were discussing how he wanted his steak done. The steak, though, was Joanna's bottom.

The waiter nodded, eager-eyed. 'Whatever you say. Young girls these days need some discipline, yes?'

'Yes they do. Joanna, lift your dress. Right up. Over your head.'

She was standing by her bed still not fully able to believe Uncle George would go through with it. But disbelief or not he was handing the cane to this man. 'Lift it, Joanna.'


The stretchy material came up, rather like skinning an animal. Inside-out and up over her head and raised arms. Her body trembling, nude except for the tiny bikini pants. Her bare tits sticking out. 'Now lie over the bed.' Mr Bellish's voice heard from inside the green-lit tent of the dress. 'Lie over the bottom of the bed.'


She was down on the bed and someone was pulling her knickers down. It was the waiter. Mr Bellish had gone to sit in the armchair, she could tell that from his voice. It was the waiter's hands on her, tugging her knickers down across her knees. Her bottom was bare and she could sense the waiter drinking it in with his hot eyes. And relishing the thought of the cane.

'Give it to her then. I want you to hurt her.'

Uncle George from across the room, his voice dispassionate as ever. A little pause... Joanna readied herself...


THWATTT!

Her cry was muffled in the bed cover. The man had done as instructed; it was as bad as any Mr Bellish himself had ever given her. Like a knife slicing into the ripe crests of her buttocks.


THWATT!

Almost on top of the first one, and just as bad. Joanna opened her mouth to bite into the bedspread. Her face was wet. She was dribbling, or crying. Or both.


THWACCKK!


After four of them Joanna felt her dress being pulled down. Not right down, just to her waist. Her bottom was still bare: her red-striped quivering nates. But she could see now. The man. As Mr Bellish turned her face sideways. His hand came on her burning bottom.

'All right, Joanna dear? You're all right, aren't you?'

She made a sobbing sound. Yes she was crying.

'It's not finished yet, my dear. You've got to have some more. But I have to go out. I've an appointment to see a gentleman. I shall leave you here with Mr Tardelli. You're to do exactly what he says. Agree to whatever he tells you. Is that clear?'

What? What...? Joanna made another sobbing, choking sound. Her poor bottom felt red hot. And she was to have some more. Was that what Mr Bellish was saying? More of the cane.

'What...?' she managed. But he was going out. The door closing behind him. She was here alone with this man, the waiter. Mr Tardelli, Uncle George had said. As if to bring this home to Joanna he now sat down next to her on the bed, where Mr Bellish had sat. His hand came onto her bottom; like Mr Bellish's had.

'Your Mr Bellish says you are to have some more, Joanna. You heard him say it.' His voice was nervous, excited. As if he could scarcely believe this. The hand was fondling her bare bottom. His fingers sliding down in underneath.

Joanne gave a yelp... and the fingers pushed firmly in. Hard in between her warm thighs. 'I think you need something else as well as the cane, Joanna. Mr Bellish told me he thought you needed it.'

'No!' she yelped, all at once aware that he wasn't only talking about the cane.

The fingers came away. He smacked her still-hot bottom. 'Yes Joanna. First some more cane. And then something else that a young girl needs, eh?' He was all at once grabbing at Joanna's lowered knickers. Pulling them on down. Off over her struggling feet.


'Yes. First the cane,' he repeated. 'And then that other thing!'

* * *

Mr Bellish was away about an hour. When he got back Joanna was still lying on the bed, sprawled on her front. The light was off and the curtains closed. Without switching the lights on he went to sit on the bed next to her. Joanna's skirt was halfway down her thighs. Her knickers were lying on the carpet still. Mr Bellish's hand slid up under the skirt, to her warm bare bottom.

'Come on,' he said softly. 'Time for bed.' His hand gently caressed. 'You can come in my bed tonight.'